![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
mallorys_cameraThe Little Store is having one last spurt of fabulousness before it sinks into the black and icy pond that is retail in January. I always enjoy it when I have tons of customers – the ching-ching-ching of the cash register, sure, but aIso because short, intense, friendly interactions with strangers are my favorite types of interactions in the world, and when the Little Store is busy, I get to have a lot of them.
Yesterday was a grey day, and cold, so mostly I kept the doors shut. This is a strategy that works well for me. Santa Homer is out there spreading the word through joyful alarum and people who are motivated to open a door are people who are motivated to buy.
Just as it was getting dark, a couple walked in, German hippies, both very tall with faces that reminded me of what Mr. and Mrs. Potato-head might look like if they'd both read Pinocchio's bestseller, How To Become A Human Boy In Ten Days.
They walked around the store several times frowning and speaking to each other in German. Finally the woman paused in front of a black and white pitcher.
"Can I help you with something?" I asked.
"Well, the thing I'm looking for looks like this – same pattern – but it's round –"
"Ah, yes. That's a chili pattern by Lotus International. I really liked it. Kind of post-modern – black and white with a few extremely red chilis. But it never sold very well for us – people who are into chili pepper ceramics are into kitsch, you know. And this is definitely not kitsch. Anyway, the pattern never sold for me, and evidently not for the manufacturer either. They discontinued the line. We still have a few pieces."
"The thing I'm looking for is round," she repeated.
"I know what you're talking about," I said.
In fact, I think the whole pattern is hideous and I couldn't imagine why I had bought it after I got it home from the Gift Show. In particular, the cookie jar – it was that she was after – was hideous, so hideous in fact that I was hiding it in the front window, using it as a prop to hold up a mask.
I brought the piece to the counter.
"Yes, that's it," she said with a sigh. And then she told me her story: she'd been in the store the last time she'd come to the States, two and a half years ago, and for some reason this particular cookie jar had stayed in her mind. Had stayed in her mind so much that she'd dreamed about it three times. In her last dream, she was stuffing her father's cremains into it.
And the very next week, her father died.
That was six weeks ago.
"So you see," she said with a grimace, "I had to come back for it."
"And this is why you came to the United States?"
"Oh, yes."
I gave her a deal on the cookie jar.
In other news, I continue in my caustic – some might say toxic – mood.
All I really want to do is slash and burn.
Not exactly sure why. Could be something as simplistic as brain chemistry that goes askew beneath the constant grey of December skies.
Or maybe I'm just homesick for Mars.
Or maybe I have borderline personality disorder.
Oh sure, if you ask me, I can list all the reasons I feel this way – so-and-so snubbed me so fuck her; whoever complained how bored he was (implication: I bored him) so fuck him. But really, these aren't reasons, these are justifications.
Whatever it is, I don't feel like dealing with it right now. So I'm packing up my feelings and putting them in a box on the back shelf of the closet. I'll fix them when I have more time.
Yesterday was a grey day, and cold, so mostly I kept the doors shut. This is a strategy that works well for me. Santa Homer is out there spreading the word through joyful alarum and people who are motivated to open a door are people who are motivated to buy.
Just as it was getting dark, a couple walked in, German hippies, both very tall with faces that reminded me of what Mr. and Mrs. Potato-head might look like if they'd both read Pinocchio's bestseller, How To Become A Human Boy In Ten Days.
They walked around the store several times frowning and speaking to each other in German. Finally the woman paused in front of a black and white pitcher.
"Can I help you with something?" I asked.
"Well, the thing I'm looking for looks like this – same pattern – but it's round –"
"Ah, yes. That's a chili pattern by Lotus International. I really liked it. Kind of post-modern – black and white with a few extremely red chilis. But it never sold very well for us – people who are into chili pepper ceramics are into kitsch, you know. And this is definitely not kitsch. Anyway, the pattern never sold for me, and evidently not for the manufacturer either. They discontinued the line. We still have a few pieces."
"The thing I'm looking for is round," she repeated.
"I know what you're talking about," I said.
In fact, I think the whole pattern is hideous and I couldn't imagine why I had bought it after I got it home from the Gift Show. In particular, the cookie jar – it was that she was after – was hideous, so hideous in fact that I was hiding it in the front window, using it as a prop to hold up a mask.
I brought the piece to the counter.
"Yes, that's it," she said with a sigh. And then she told me her story: she'd been in the store the last time she'd come to the States, two and a half years ago, and for some reason this particular cookie jar had stayed in her mind. Had stayed in her mind so much that she'd dreamed about it three times. In her last dream, she was stuffing her father's cremains into it.
And the very next week, her father died.
That was six weeks ago.
"So you see," she said with a grimace, "I had to come back for it."
"And this is why you came to the United States?"
"Oh, yes."
I gave her a deal on the cookie jar.
In other news, I continue in my caustic – some might say toxic – mood.
All I really want to do is slash and burn.
Not exactly sure why. Could be something as simplistic as brain chemistry that goes askew beneath the constant grey of December skies.
Or maybe I'm just homesick for Mars.
Or maybe I have borderline personality disorder.
Oh sure, if you ask me, I can list all the reasons I feel this way – so-and-so snubbed me so fuck her; whoever complained how bored he was (implication: I bored him) so fuck him. But really, these aren't reasons, these are justifications.
Whatever it is, I don't feel like dealing with it right now. So I'm packing up my feelings and putting them in a box on the back shelf of the closet. I'll fix them when I have more time.
