Ohmigod, There’s Tar in My Hair
And other assorted adventures.
We went surfing on Saturday at a spot just north of the university. Offshore, oil seeps up through the cracks in the ocean floor and washes ashore. Along the beach bits of tar
. . .
People who leave their bags on the table in a busy coffee shop while they are off somewhere else, doing only they know what, are not nice people. Just because you bought a cup a coffee, doesn’t mean you own the place, mmkay?
. . .
I went to the post office to buy stamps and mail a package. It’s only a few blocks away, so I’m something of a regular there. Small towns are like that. I stood in line with all the cranky people. It was a long line, so a little crankiness was not entirely misplaced. I finally got to the window, gave up my package and bought my stamps. Behind me, impatience. Meanwhile, my sharpy pen made a desperate break for freedom. I foiled it. The postal clerk drew his own sharpy pen. Sword fight. It was a draw. I picked up my receipt, stashed away my stamps, and went on my way.
. . .