Church Crown


This, according to The Wire, is a hat worn to church on Sundays.

VIP. Drinks on me. Imagine rolling onto the Maury set fresh off the Amtrak or Greyhound. Rollin’ like a pimp. After all, probably there are no direct flights to Scranton PA.

Excuse the nonsequitur. Welcome to my world. This morning started off pretty crummy. Cranky children moving around as if walking through the shallow end of a swimming pool. I wish we had a pool.

I dropped the midgets off borderline late for school. I hate that, so many other parents in the same situation, all with our cars navigating the round about and trying to be patient while each vehicle expels its children. Each child is appropriately bundled for an arctic adventure so their movements are slow, tedious, and don’t forget the backpack/lunch bag/swimming gear.

Then I drove to work. Do I need to elaborate? Ok. Imagine a sea of beige walls, beige desks, beige people. Khakis. Neutrals. Soft greys. Soft whirr of printers, photocopiers and muffled phone conversations. Footfalls on carpeting. Sometimes there’s a waft of coffee in the air. At noon time, various foods. We don’t have a break room on this floor, so everyone eats at his or her desk.

I wish we could have pets here. Some industries do allow that. But as we are already a lightning rod for all that’s wrong with the govt today, heaven forbid we should have comfort at our office (Even a 1.9% salary increase was denied. This means the longer I work here, the less money I make). I read an article years ago about prison inmates and one of them interviewed talked about the annual New Years Eve party. He said it was a no frills affair with barely any merriment, because even though the budget was available it would be unseemly for them to have a happy time. This mentality annoys me. Soon I will be an old woman with nothing but beige-coloured memories to keep me warm at night.

And according to my mother, these days of my life are the glory days. I might have mentioned that before. I repeat it now because I find that difficult to believe. Besides me being simultaneously bored and busy, bank and insurance commercials tell us regularly that our best years happen upon retirement. Should I believe my dear mother, or society? Decisions decisions.


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