If it’s snowing at WordPress and winter is nigh, Jesus and I are having birthdays. I share my birthday with Ann Coulter, December 8th, and my birthday is also the day that guy shot John Lennon. While Ann Coulter is biting the head off of a chicken at her fete, my birthday is more subdued. I wait at a bus terminal attempting to go to my favorite place to dumpster dive. I like hitting the craft store and Dollar Tree, because everyone knows Dollar Tree is so damn expensive these days. Maybe if I’m lucky I’ll even meet up with my would-be lover again. One day I headed for the Beyond part of Bed, Bath, and Beyond to scavenge through their brightly spray painted trash when a chunky transient made his suite by asking if he could touch my boob. I declined his romantic gesture and hurried away, but at least at about 37 I still attracted homeless Don Juans.
It is dusk by the time I make it to the craft store and I fumble through the garbage using my tablet for light. In the end I find a few ornaments, one a clay snowman. My mother would have loved this, I think, with a slight pain that vaguely reaches above my subconscious before it’s gone. The memories of that other Lisa.
When inside Dollar Tree, some stocking woman asks if I paid for the stuff peeking out of my book bag. I sigh, hating her, opening my bag and telling her I got the stuff from the craft store. I added, “In their dumpster, actually” in an icy tone. Did she apologize? Hell no.
Later that evening, I’m in a bar drinking Sundrop and listening to trivia. It’s too cold outside to wait a half hour for the bus. The bar has “hell” in the title, so of course it’s warm. On the muted TV, John Lennon is being canonized on ESPN, the sports channel.
The bartender must have thought , ” poor cat lady,” my dollar bag of cat litter sitting by my seat like a the badge of my permanent virgin state. One of my cards is declined, and before I can pull another, she gives me my soda on the house. Happy birthday, indeed.