seasonal musing.

Now's the time when you must carry a napkin with your drink, lest you leave a ring lingering.

questionable sanity.

I've extended my hours at the store for these dog days, and in doing so I've annexed the back-from-the-beach crowd, the folks that carry their money, which stinks of crustacea and coconut oil, in Ziploc bags, tucked in the crevices afforded by bikini tops and half-soaked sarongs.

They stumble in, squinting at the dim light of the indoors, astounded, perhaps, by the fact that it is no cooler in here, and I give them what they need: cigarettes, candy, and above all else, ice cream.

There is a bruise on my right perimetric palm that comes from trying to start scooping from a new container of ice cream, one that has not yet reached proper excavation temperature. My technique is this: insert, press, lever. Rinse, repeat.

I have worried about my customers' sanity, the level-headedness of ordering a flavor like coconut pineapple, or peppermint. I want to tell them, "You don't really want this. Let me make you a vanilla cone. I think that is more your speed. We both know you aren't going to finish that dish of creamsicle."

Then there are the people who cannot read our menu. The novelty of a sandwich shop has blinded them to our few choices: turkey, ham, tuna, egg salad. They order "the salami," or they request provolone. We are a simple store; this is a simple town. They are too eager to leave our simplicity behind.

The worst part of the job is, undoubtedly, the penny candy. I say here, for the record, that Swedish Fish, Tootsie Rolls, and the little abominations known as Sour Patch Kids, were never meant to be sold individually. The third child of the day who requests my counting more than 10 of any of these gets an approximation. I always overshoot.

Today I discovered the greatest and most wonderful part of my job. It has nothing to do with smiling faces or tip money: it is the coffee slushee. To create this nectar: take one scoop of instant coffee, add a small amount of hot water and stir. Add milk to desired coffee-tint, and fill the remainder of the cup with the sugary frozen Slush Puppie base.

The pleasures of this job are aplenty, the sweat on my brow at the end of the day not the least of them, but there's nothing quite like caffeine, sugar, and ice all rolled into one free drink to put all kinds of things in perspective.

three new cameras.

1. Kodak Brownie Holiday Flash with Kodet lens (details here). ca. 1952-53. It takes 127 film, so I probably won't be trying this one out until we can process it at home. Has a truly cool brown bakelite body.

2. Kodak Instamatic X-45, complete with one GE Magicube rotating box flash. ca. 1970s. This one has a Kodar lens. Takes 126 film. An interesting note on the shutter mechanism, from this site: The automatic exposure on this camera is achieved in a slightly unusual manner. As the shutter control is operated, a small aperture opens progressively in the CdS cell window. At the same time a disc containing a series of increasingly larger holes rotates behind the Kodar lens. When the correct size lens aperture is in place for the prevailing light conditions, the rotating disc is stopped and the shutter is allowed to operate.

3. Jiffy Kodak Six-16, Series II. My first folding camera. ca. 1937-42. Takes 616 film, so once again, I don't think it will be getting much use. Also has one totally detached viewfinder mirror, and a crack in the other viewfinder mirror (this camera has a separate viewfinder for portrait vs. landscape orientation). The folding mechanism is a big thrill, and the shutter release still works, so all is not lost. Has two choices for focus: 5-10 ft., beyond 10 ft.

how to frighten customers and terrify children.

Cosmically speaking, after a year or so of dramatically lethargic unemployment, generally good health, miraculous financial stability, and, really, not un-decent weather, I suppose I'm due for a little upheaval.

It's ramping up again. Three kids in the water in a week of rowing should have been an omen. The return of my acid stomach and Marc's recent health-adventures might have had something cynical to say about all of this placidity. Ten straight days of rain and wool in June were yelling together: "Duck!"

I was calmly rearranging ice cream in the freezer yesterday afternoon, humming along to You Can't Always Get What You Want on the radio, considering whether to have an egg-salad sandwich when the store emptied out following Lunch, when I was jolted alert by a scream from behind me. It was not a ohmygodhowhaveyoubeen scream, either. This was a full blown, mommywhat'swrongwithyou scream. I turned around, and the woman sitting at the counter with her five-year-old daughter, the little girl who just graduated from Kindergarten and then let out an ear-piercing end-of-innocence scream, this woman, she appeared to be having a seizure.

And I was, reluctantly, in charge.

Suddenly I was transformed into feigning-confidence superwaitress. I was delegating calling 911 to the cook. I was sending a customer next-door for her brother, the EMT. I was grabbing the horrified child as her mother involuntarily stiffened against her.

After five long minutes, the police arrived, and my brush with confidence and competence came to an end.

And later, in this small town of a couple hundred, I became the town-appointed gossip, as seemingly each and every resident felt compelled to stop by or call to see what all the fuss was about. By fuss, I mean three ambulances and two police cruisers, and when the emergency vehicles outside outnumber the booths inside, you know you've got big trouble in a little town.

I set a new low for tips earned yesterday, last night I stepped in a puddle while wearing my new shoes, and I'm considering donning a helmet for today's shift.

faster, pussycat! read! read!

My brother has promised Saturday delivery of a copy of the next volume of the Harry Potter series, so I'm trying to reread V.4 this week.

We had to choose between the demolition derby and my parents' house for this coming weekend. I tried to talk my dad into ramming some of his cars together for us, but it didn't fly. The derby will feature not only your traditional demolition, but also school bus demolition (a year-end special) and trailer races. I can only hope that this is a monthly or quarterly event, because we chose my parents'.

Since we'll be in town, Matt's trying to get us to go along to a Harry Potter party. We'll see. I'm not a big fan of magicians; I guess I'm too analytical to give up trying to guess the secret of each trick.

I've picked up some more hours at the store, now that rowing season has ended. Achieving preferred status among the Summer help was a dubious distinction, but I must admit it is nice to reaffirm my role in life as middle management.

I tried to take up origami, but my patience is no match for my motor skills.

get thee to your weblog.

I was thinking, just now, as I was cruising through the weblogs I usually read, about how great it would be if more people I know had weblogs. Hey, people I know -- remember back when Joe used to use his website for good and not evil? That was great. I started to think about how everybody who knows me in real life must feel about this weblog. I bet you wish I would write more often.

So how about it? You could cut down on the amount of e-mail you receive and send, since you will be ruling out those "what's new" and "here's what's new" messages. You have an easy audience -- me! You are (mostly) all more interesting than I am. Although I doubt any of you would have a story as interesting as this:

Two days ago there was a big flying bug in our apartment, and I was afraid to attempt killing it because I couldn't figure out how, we being sans-flyswatter, and so I just left it alone, and then, when I figured I could hit the bug with a magazine, I couldn't find the sucker. Yesterday I found it again, dead, in the bathroom light fixture.

You see how easy that was? I didn't even know what I was going to say when I typed, "Two days ago."

what i miss about living in the bronx, as discovered this past weekend.

1. chicken parmagiana.
2. the way the yooz pronounciation of "yous" is accepted seamlessly, as opposed to New England, where yuhz will always be awkward.
3. the anger outlet that New Yorkers have in their mayor, no matter who that mayor may be.
4. proximity of Manhattan, and all that comes with that proximity, including but not limited to everybody I saw Saturday night.

I'm looking forward to expanding this list, as I'm going back today to help with preschool graduation. Expect future entries such as:

5. the taste of paste
6. hugs with pudgy little paint-covered arms
7. the smell of sweaty three-year-olds