HAIKU 7

Jelly left on plate.

Pit bull in the china shop.

CRASH! Good-bye, dear lamp. 

Grand Mart

A "blue runner" purchased at Grand Mart

We used to have a Giant supermarket in our neighborhood. No more. The corporate fathers decided that our Giant was not profitable, so they closed it. We now have to drive three miles to downtown Laurel to the other Giant, which has a dangerous, hanky-sized parking lot.

Soon huge floral arrangements appeared on the sidewalk outside the abandoned store. Grand Mart was open for business. And a fine, albeit strange, store it is. Although Grand Mart appears to be owned by Koreans, over half the aisles are devoted to Latino foods and many of the cashiers are Hispanic.

The vegetables are, well, different. My husband, an adventurous eater, will try anything once. He buys something, often asking another customer, if he can find one who speaks English, to tell him what to do with the thing. If he can't find anyone, he'll bring it home and look it up in his book, Exotic Fruits and Vegetables. We've decided we don't care for jack fruit and that coconuts are too difficult to mess with.

Little stalls line the perimeter of the store. You can buy almost anything: kitchenware, underwear, bathing suits, shoes, watches, rice cookers, teapots. There's a bakery and a Korean/Chinese carry-out, owned by Mr. Sweet, who usually looks sour and grumpy. Mr. Sweet sells  noodles, vegetarian sushi, "shredded squids" and several varieties of kimchee every day of the week.  A sign advises: "No Chines Food on Wednesday!"

Other signs also mystify and delight. A month or two after Grand Mart opened, a sign appeared on the front door: "Special-move the tofu to the dairy section." Another sign still warns, "No flip-flop. No pet." My 7-year-old grandson spotted a customer leaving the store in the forbidden footwear. "Hey!" he yelled, helpfully, "She's wearing flip-flops!" Yesterday, a new sign has appeared---in fact, about 2 dozen identical signs were posted on the plate-glass window and in the entryway--offering a "$100 reward". It pictures the alleged shoplifter wheeling his cart brazenly out of the store. Some innocent shoppers are also caught in the camera's eye. The "perp's" head is haloed so that everyone knows who the bad guy is.  No other information is given, such as what you have to do to collect the reward.

My grandson loves Grand Mart's huge seafood section, with its tray upon tray of whole fish.   One day, he begged me to buy him a "blue runner" to take home. He wanted to cut it up himself, with Grandpa's help. The non-English-speaking man behind the counter offered to clean it, of course, but I said, "No, thanks. We'll take it home as is." Too many words. He looked puzzled. I said, "No clean." Still looking somewhat mystified, he nodded and wrapped it up. Once we got it home, Andrew and Grandpa slowly dissected it, both marveling at the  intricacies of fins, guts and gills. Then we baked it and minced it to order for Her Majesty, Georgina, the Cat of Cats.

Not This Again!

My sister--

the one who broke her left femur last November, two weeks before I broke my right femur
the one who never had osteoporosis, but just osteopenia
the one who was treated for her osteopenia with Fosamax
the one who was subsequently found to have a hairline fracture in her right femur
the one who had her right femur "rodded prophylactically" in December

yes, that sister

well, yesterday she fell while walking in Newport Park in Door County, WI,

and turned her hairline fracture into a "completed" fracture. The pain was
excruciating. It looks like the hairline fracture never began to heal after the rod was implanted.

OY VEY
OY VEY

What she and I and all of us in the Femur Fracture Friendship Group have to remember is that after a rod is implanted, healing takes a long time. It may even be delayed for months.  If and when new bone forms, the new bone bonds with old, brittle Fosamax-built bone. Furthermore, Fosamax stays in your system for 10 years.  Some of us will not live long enough to be rid of bones-by-Fosamax. 

OY VEY

A Bulldog Named Margaret

Back in the day, dogs ran all over the neighborhood. A cute French bulldog often came visiting because Mom gave treats to all comers. I called her "Margaret."

My dad asked, "Is that dog's name really 'Margaret'?"

"No, " I said, "we just call her that."

"But why 'Margaret?'"

"Because she looks like Margaret E.," I said, naming a well-known dowager-about-town.

"Oh, she does not!" exclaimed Dad, rather indignantly.

I saw him look at the dog again and suppress a smile.

Ai yi! Fate pays us back. Now I am a "dowager-about-town" and worried about starting to look like a French bulldog.