She is down. Overwhelmed. Stretched too thin. Feeling too many emotions that just make her head swell. I want to give her a rest bit. I want to give her a break. I am giving Brit my “TUBE STEAK” blog to use as an energy boost or as a nap, which ever she prefers. For the rest of you out there, be thankful that Brit is even LETTING you read this.
Brit and I met while on the job. I won’t call it work, because it wasn’t. We sold high end Italian Ceramics. We couldn’t afford the ceramics we sold. Richies would come in and ask us stupid ass questions like “what pattern do you own?” (We made close to minimum wage. We couldn’t afford a $22 coffee mug.) So, I would lie. Every day I owned a new imported Italian ceramic design. Brit didn’t lie about it. “I have one of those.” She would point to the pattern of which she bought a chipped coffee mug from the damaged/sale table the week before. Brit is good like that. She won’t lie to make other people money.
At first the owners, who looked a bit like this:
Would keep us separated. Brit would be on duvet duty on the second floor. Duvet duty consisted of changing out the bed linens on the six plus beds that were located upstairs. Each bed had to be stripped from its décor, listed from bottom to top:
1) Dust ruffle
2) Fitted sheet
3) Top sheet
4) Duvet cover
6) 2 standard pillows
7) 2-3 Euro shams
8) 2-3 small throws
Each one of these items had to be taken off of the bed or removed from the insert and re folded into its original plastic-zip-protector baggie to look as if it had never graced a floor sample. YEAH, do that six times over and you might think that you are losing your mind. “Oh, but it sounds so easy!” you say. Well un-making and re-making a bed on the second floor of a non-air conditioned building in the middle of summer is like taking a Total Body Challenge at the Sahara. No, it is like doing the Iron Man Challenge in August at Vegas. No, it is like being Oprah’s bra while she is frantically shopping for high-end Italian leather handbags.
Anyhow, that is how the owners, would keep us separated. This “second-floor-switch-a-roo” only worked until noon, when the oldest owner would leave after having a glass or two of wine to head home to get her crunk on. Her daughter would file out shortly there after citing “lunch with friends” or “big boot sale” or “I’ve got a pot of chili going on the stove.”
“Can you gals close up shop?”
“Heck yes we can!” A sly nod between the two of us. Once the cat was away, BOOYA. Brit and I would break out the martinis and pretend to dust the ceramics until closing time a six.
All in all it was pretty coosh. The two owners were manic, on one emotional plateau one minute and then flying to another the next. We worked with a few crazy rich teenagers who were friends of the owner’s family. They were fun to watch come into work every day in a “crisis.” (MY HAIR, MY FRIENDS, MY TRIP TO MIKINOS!) Brit and I would nod, look at each other and nod again.
“Fucking rich whores!”
Those were good times. Brit and I became great friends. If we had never worked there we would have never met, and I would be so sad if we had never met. Even though I wouldn’t have known that you were out there, I would have had a hallow place in my life, where you should be. Brit, I love you. We all want you to be the happy, linen folding, martini sippin girl, with your Jerry Garcia past. Don’t let the world hit you too fast and make you change. Take a moment each day to remember what has come before. Dieci Soli.