Marcy lives on a quiet street in a modest house bordered by similar looking homes. She\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s blonde, about my height, and though she claims to be forty-two she looks ten years younger. Her parents are both walking that ever-narrowing balance beam between living in their own home and moving to some kind of independent\/assisted living set-up, or maybe even to Marcy\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s house. Though she has siblings, Marcy is the principal care provider. \u00e2\u20ac\u0153It\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s easier on me.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d \u00e2\u20ac\u0153My brother lives too far away.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d \u00e2\u20ac\u0153My kids are older.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d One suspects she\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s always had this role.<\/p>\n
As I sat down at her breakfast table, Marcy said, \u00e2\u20ac\u0153I\u00e2\u20ac\u2122ve got a story to tell you.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d In front of me – a cup of too-hot-to-touch coffee and a blueberry muffin. Just like the first day I arrived to help her fashion new closets. She doesn\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t ask; she just gives. And her stories are told in much the same way. You can be having a laughter-induced epileptic seizure and she\u00e2\u20ac\u2122ll dead-pan on. Most people, myself included, play to the audience. If a line gets a laugh, it\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s expanded upon, but not Marcy. She\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s much more in control.<\/p>\n
As I sip my coffee, she begins:<\/p>\n
\u00e2\u20ac\u0153I was in The Christmas Tree Shop and \u00e2\u20ac\u00a6\u00e2\u20ac\u009d<\/p>\n
\u00e2\u20ac\u0153They sell something other than\u00e2\u20ac\u00a6\u00e2\u20ac\u009d<\/p>\n
\u00e2\u20ac\u0153Christmas stuff? Think of Pier One.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d<\/p>\n
\u00e2\u20ac\u0153You mean junk no one needs?\u00e2\u20ac\u009d<\/p>\n
\u00e2\u20ac\u0153You were with me? I\u00e2\u20ac\u2122m walking through the aisles with my shopping cart and I hear over the loudspeaker, \u00e2\u20ac\u0153If anyone has mistakenly grabbed the wrong cart, will they please return it to the Service Desk.\u00e2\u20ac\u2122 I think to myself, What dumb bastard would take someone else\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s cart<\/em>? Then I look at my cart, which should have been empty, but it\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s full. I was horrified. This woman must have been shopping for an hour.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d<\/p>\n I can’t leave out how hard I\u00e2\u20ac\u2122m laughing. As Marcy is talking, I\u00e2\u20ac\u2122m watching Diane gently wrestle the wrong grocery cart from my hands. Sometimes, when I\u00e2\u20ac\u2122m alone, and I\u00e2\u20ac\u2122ve latched onto the wrong cart, I keep it. I figure this is the only way I\u00e2\u20ac\u2122m going to leave this store with its \u00c2\u00a0veritable cornucopia of choices without the same six items I always buy.<\/p>\n Marcy continues, \u00e2\u20ac\u0153The last thing I want to do is return the cart and have anyone see me, so I sneak it back to the Service Desk and as I\u00e2\u20ac\u2122m walking away I hear, ‘Oh, Sally, there\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s your cart.\u00e2\u20ac\u2122 I walked right out the front door.\u00e2\u20ac\u009d<\/p>\n \u00e2\u20ac\u0153Empty handed?\u00e2\u20ac\u009d<\/p>\n \u00e2\u20ac\u0153I didn\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t buy a thing. That night after dinner I tried to tell my husband, Ken, what I\u00e2\u20ac\u2122d done, but he wouldn\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t let me.<\/p>\n \u00c2\u00a0He said, ‘Please, Marcy, I don\u00e2\u20ac\u2122t want to hear anymore stories.’ \u00e2\u20ac\u009d<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" Marcy lives on a quiet street in a modest house bordered by similar looking homes. She\u00e2\u20ac\u2122s blonde, about my height, and though she claims to be forty-two she looks ten years younger. Her parents are both walking that ever-narrowing balance … Continue reading