I’ve been taken to task for my bloglessness. What can I say, I’ve been busy, hm, posting pictures of pastry on facebook. Not much of an excuse, is it? But look:
That’s not just any pastry, it’s hamantaschen, and as a class it holds a large, sticky space in my childhood memory cache. Hamantaschen is Purim food–triangular like bad boy Haman’s three-cornered hat. It comes in two forms, cookie and pastry. The cookie kind is hard to find here. The pastry kind simply doesn’t exist in goyische Seattle. But that’s the stuff, people. With a sweet poppyseed filling. Ohhhh yeah.
Well, you never get over your childhood favorites, do you? I still love Lucky Charms too. It is my curse that, unlike hamantaschen, Lucky Charms are easy to come by and therefore must be resisted. I do try to follow the advice of my current guru Michael Pollan and “Eat food. Not too much. Mostly plants.” And those cunning little marshmallowy hearts, moons, stars, clovers, diamonds, and new red devils are so many wonderful things but not, alas, food.
So an old buddy from my hometown, recently rediscovered on that other site that sucks up all my blogging time, offered to send me a box of poppyseed infused Jewish crack. Other flavors too. I sat on the front porch for days waiting for the man in the brown shorts to show up with my stuff. When he arrived he looked a little concerned when I fell on the box and ripped into it like a ravenous animal, but hey, Purim only comes once a year.
Another activity that has kept me from Xanga is visiting the library repeatedly, hoping to pick up the Warriors book that Little Bit has been waiting and waiting for. We put it on hold weeks ago, and we’ve been tracking our progress through the hold line. Yesterday we’d made it to number one on the list, but still the book had not appeared on the hold shelf. Disappointment ensued. Don’t get between LB and her Warriors.
Today I stopped in again and had a confusing and unpleasant interaction with another patron.
Before I tell you what happened, I want you to know that I don’t have a big issue with door holding. When people hold doors for me, I say “thank you.” If they sail through the door and fail to hold it for me, I open it myself. Whatever. If there’s someone behind me when I go through a door, I hold it for them. Common courtesy, right?
Well today, distracted by thoughts of Warriors and hamantaschen, I failed to notice that someone was behind me. I went through the door and let go of it. Let me assure you it was not an elderly, disabled, or pregnant person behind me. Nor was it a mother maneuvering children and strollers. I would feel bad in those cases. But it was a young (20’s, I think), able-bodied man, unencumbered by even so much as full hands. Fully capable of pulling the door open all by himself. So I didn’t fret. But he did.
When he walked in, he said “Mfdb sklmn bdd door.”
That’s what it sounded like to me, anyway. I’m not sure what nationality the man represented, but his accent was thicker than poppyseed filling.
“Sorry?” I said, giving him a chance to express himself more clearly.
“Mfdb sklmn bdd door,” he said.
“I’m sorry, I can’t understand what you’re saying,” I said, regretfully. Sort of.
“Yes, you can pretend,” he said, huffily, before stalking off to the stacks. How come he could say that clearly?
So I felt rather peeved. Where did this guy get off, griping that some woman didn’t hold the door open for him? Then I felt chagrined. I had neglected my basic human door-holding responsibility. Then I moved to feeling uncertain. Perhaps I’d misunderstood the whole thing, and he was making incomprehensible complaints at me about something else. But what? What could I have done even more egregious that letting the door close behind me?
And damn it, the Warriors book still wasn’t there.
Luckily, I came home just in time to greet my smiling children, returning from their day of learning and fun. And then the man in the brown shorts arrived with the hamantaschen, and also with some new cd’s I’d ordered. And now I’m digging the Derek Trucks Band and posting pastry pics, so screw the dude at the library. It’s all good.