sparkledame

Phlegm

“Ma’am, are you sure you need to buy seven bottles of cough syrup? Don’t cha want to leave some for other customers? It’s winter, everyone is gettin’ sick.”

Susan was incensed. How dare this shop clerk give her attitude.

“There is tons of dry cough medicine left, but I need the wet cough syrup. I have an issue with phlegm.”

“Phlegm? Best way to deal with phlegm is to hack it up and spit it out,” the clerk said, looking at Susan like she was from outer space.

“Well, not for me. My phlegm is different. I can choke and die on mine, so I can’t cough it up.”

The clerk stared at her.

“That will be $94.92 please. Debit or credit?”

“Debit.” Susan answered, glaring at the clerk, whose name tag read Emili.

“Is your name really spelled like that or did they make a mistake on your tag?” Susan asked.

“My name is really spelled like that,” Emili answered, her face devoid of emotion.

“Happy Holidays Ma’am.”

“Yes, Happy Holidays to you too.”

Emili spelled with an i was one of the more ridiculous things Susan had seen lately. The younger generation was nuts, just nuts.

At home Susan added the cough syrup to her bathroom closet. She now had 63 bottles. Not bad, but not quite enough. She would need 97 bottles to get through the winter.

Out of nowhere Susan coughed: a wet, phlegm-filled cough. She heard the phlegm swishing around in her lungs, sounding like hundreds of goldfish swimming in a bowl.

She un-packed a new bottle of couph syrup and took a swig, like it was whiskey.

Since it was bright outside she decided to put her head in the sunshine for a few minutes, the vitamin C would boost her immune system. Pacing back and forth in the backyard wearing her black puffer coat, she tried calming herself:
You’re okay. It’s only a little bit of phlegm, don’t worry.

“Susan, are you alright?”

It was her new neighbor, Ed. He had just moved in a few months ago. A divorcee with three cats. Three.

“I have a phlegm-y cough,” she answered.

“I hate phlegm. I prefer dry coughs.”

Finally someone who understood.

“I almost died once from choking on my own phlegm, I was seven years old.”

“That’s terrifying,” Ed said.

“My parents were having a dinner party. I went downstairs in my pink flannel nightgown and told them: ‘I’m scared. I can’t breathe. There’s stuff in my chest.’”

“And what did your parents do?” Ed asked, leaning on the wire fence.

“They said: ‘Oh Susan don’t be silly, that’s just phlegm. Cough it up and spit it out.’ And then my dad lit a joint and put on his favorite Cat Stevens album and they told me to go back upstairs. I stayed up all night trying not to cough, terrified that I would choke and die.”

“That’s the saddest story, I’m so sorry.”

“Thank you. How are your cats doing?”

“They’re pretty good. The oldest one, Jo Anne, is almost blind now, but she still gets up to hijinks. I don’t know what I would do without them.”

“I’ve never had a cat, but I like them. They’re quirky.”

“Yep, they’re characters alright. Listen – if you ever need help while you’re dealing with phlegm, just knock on my door, I don’t want you to be scared.”

“Thank you Ed. That’s the kindest thing anyone has ever said to me.”

“No problem. See ya later.”

Susan tilted her head back, letting the mid-day sun warm her face, tears running down her cheeks.

Tiny Homes

My friend lives in a tiny purple house.
She’s always there with a cigarette in one hand, a glass of wine in the other, saying something sarcastic and tossing her head of dark curls back as she laughs.

Her tiny house is kind of like I Dream of Jeannie’s bottle, with that circular couch covered in velvet pillows. Except her cushions have needlepoint cases – which she made herself – that say things like, “Fuck You Very Much.”

Because my friend is so tiny she can no longer wear her favorite silver rings, so I wear one of them every day.

I miss seeing her in person, I’m too big to fit into her house. But every night before going to bed I look at her – her house is on my corner table – and I say something like:

“Hey, I miss you. In the few months since you’ve been gone the world has become an even bigger shit show – really, everything is fucked.”

Sometimes I think:
What if I open her I Dream of Jeannie purple house? Would she come swirling out in a plume of pink smoke?
Then she yells at me:
“Girl get it together, I’m not fucking swirling out, I’m DEAD, remember?!” And a Smiths song blasts at full volume:
And if a double-decker bus
Crashes into us
To die by your side
Is such a heavenly way to die

I yell back:
“I know you’re dead I’m not an idiot, Jeeze Louise. I remember our last conversation. You were crying while telling me how much pain you were in. I said let me talk with your doctors you need more pain meds. I don’t want you suffering.”

The last thing you said to me was:
“My nurse is here, I gotta go. Love you.”
And I said:
“Love you.”
Then two days later you were dead & before I could say “pouf” you were cremated.

I don’t think I’m going to sprinkle you anywhere. I’m going to keep you on your little alter: there’s a photo of us together, a lovely painted postcard that I took from your office, some rocks from the beach outside your house and a few other mementos.

I like looking over at you. We can chat anytime.

Photo Credit: Pinterest, Country Living Magazine

Advice from your beloved grandmother

Don’t worry about the floral arrangements at your wedding, no one will remember them. They’ll either be too drunk or too bored and busy scrolling on their phones.

No one cares if you have spider veins on your legs and if they do care they’re a total freak and you should run away from them immediately.

Red flags are red flags. They are not pink flags, they are not orange flags; they are a warning. If you choose to believe they are aubergine and not red, well, that’s on you.

Just because you regularly buy yourself flowers doesn’t mean that your partner shouldn’t occasionally buy you flowers too. They don’t get a free pass.

Having pets is great. Cats and dogs are lovely creatures, but they are not children. Mother’s Day is for mothers of humans, you know, those messy little people who throw their dinner against the wall and have tantrums in the middle of Duane Reade.

You don’t have to be in a relationship to be complete. Also, there is no complete, it doesn’t exist and never has. This whole “you complete me” thing is pure Hollywood vomit.

Manifesting things takes a lot of work. If you want to make a visualization board first, go right ahead. But please know that staring at images and words on a board is just staring, it’s not actually making anything happen.

You don’t have to go to every Sunday night dinner. Negotiate. Two out of four per month is plenty. They are not your family, they are his or hers or theirs. Plus, they will enjoy having the freedom to gossip about you.

If you plan on having the kind of sex that can get you pregnant, then please make sure your partner is Pro-Choice. It is insane to let a penis – that is attached to a man who hates women – inside of you.

If your partner gets upset when you want to travel with your friends without them, then you probably ignored an early red flag.

Two hundred dollar face cream is just the patriarchy laughing at you. And if the face cream company is owned by a woman named Jelilah who harvests the ingredients under a full moon at her organic farm, it is still just the patriarchy laughing at you.

Sincerely & with love,
Your beloved grandmother (who would appreciate a handwritten note every once in awhile so that I know you can still write cursive)

https://www.instagram.com/gramparents/?hl=en. created & curated by
Kyle Kivijarvi

Triggering

“November first and there’s snow on the ground. It’s the beginning of winter. It’s not literally the beginning of winter, but you know what I mean. Time to take down the Halloween decorations and put up the holiday sparkle.”

“Can hardly wait.”

“Let’s buy new lights for the front of the house, strings and strings of lights. Maybe the glittering shrubs will help take our mind off what’s happening in the Middle East. It’s just so upsetting isn’t it?”

“Totally.”

“We need a new holiday theme. Last year we decorated in silver and blue, this year let’s do pink & gold ~ it will be beautiful. Maybe the tree will help take our mind off what’s happening in Ukraine. It’s just so upsetting isn’t it?”

“Horrible.”

“I’m thinking of doing something different with my hair for the holidays. Maybe streaks. What about pink and gold streaks to match the tree? You know, just for fun. I mean the world is so grim these days. Grim. Have you read about Congo? Apparently there are 6.9 million displaced people there. How is that even possible? Anyway, I think a few streaks will lift my spirits. It’s absolutely exhausting to read about all this suffering.”

“I know right?”

“Everyone on Instagram is posting upsetting stuff which is so triggering. It’s like bringing up all my old trauma. I mean I don’t have really really bad trauma, but my parents did get divorced when I was 11. Could they have picked a worse time? It really fucked me up.”

“So selfish of them.”

“I’m just out here trying to live my best, most authentic life and this constant negativity is getting me down. It creates a toxic environment. I mean is there even one positive thing going on right now?!”

“Taylor Swift is dating that cute football player.”

“OMG you’re right, I totally forgot. They’re so cute together. I bet she’s going to marry him. I can hardly wait to see her wedding dress!”

(Photo source: Nelly Checo, Pinterest)

Candy Corn

Walking around her neighborhood, Mirany was struck by the quiet. Where was everyone? It was like the morning after a very tidy apocalypse, all traces of humans gone.

But the creatures were out. The Weston’s one-eyed cat Henry was perched on his favorite blue Adirondack chair. Squirrels were already in play mode – like a group of sugared-up children, chasing each other around a giant oak.

Mirany liked squirrels, she collected them. Not real ones of course, not taxidermy ones, but little knick knack squirrels: a pair of brass squirrel candle holders, a porcelain squirrel, a hand painted squirrel with it’s mouth full of acorns and a few other objects. But she didn’t want to collect too many squirrels, she didn’t want to become that woman: dusty house crammed with collectibles, old green shag carpeting, corduroy recliner covered in crumbs, kitchen shelves crammed with Entenmann’s coffee cakes.

The autumn leaves were their most vibrant saturated selves. Mirany loved the pumpkin hued shades the best, but that didn’t mean she loved pumpkins. No. In fact she was suspicious of those who drank pumpkin spice lattes – had there ever been a more revolting beverage?

Parked ahead was a vintage Volkswagen camper. Peeking into it she saw two young people, maybe early twenties, curled up together under a Pendleton blanket. Very sweet. Until it’s not sweet and their young love blows up in their smooth, wrinkle-free faces.

A couple of goth-y crows squawked at her from a sad looking tree, it was practically bare, just a few leaves dangling from its branches. Mirany thought of Alfred Hitchcock’s movie “The Birds:” what if the crows attacked, gouging out her eyes and eating her eyeballs for breakfast. She crossed the street and quickened her pace.

Still no one else out and about. How odd. Mirany tossed a few pieces of candy corn in her mouth. She loved candy corn. She loved candy corn so much that at Halloween she bought it in bulk from Costco so she could eat it year round. But she had rules, Mirany had candy corn rules: she was allowed only seventeen pieces per day.

Somehow there were still a few glorious flowers blooming – “global warming flowers” Mirany thought to herself. She liked the giant coral ones, they were practically as big as her face. Mirany wondered if the owners of the house would mind if she took one. She decided that flowers really were God’s work and that she was allowed, quickly plucking one and hiding it in her cardigan.

What a lovely morning.

https://www.etsy.com/ca/shop/folkloreaesthetic?ref=shop_sugg_market

Good Hair Day

Do you remember that time you met me at the Greyhound bus station?
It was meant to be a surprise, but I saw you through the window before you saw me.
And what a sight you were, such a beautiful young man.
In that moment you were not the wild bad boy that everyone knew you as.
You were expectant, hopeful.
Smoking a cigarette, your eyes scanning the windows.
Smiling when you finally saw me.
Such an intimate moment, so sweet and revealing.
I was a little flustered to see you and grateful that I was having a good hair day.
You took my bag and we started walking back to your apartment.
It was late May and the air was soft, it felt like little feathers tickling our faces.
We were quick talking, frenetic, like the romantic leads in a 1930’s movie.
You were not accustomed to women disagreeing with you, arguing their point, making you work for their approval.
But you loved it.

Just For Show

“What is the point of coffee table books?”

“They’re beautiful.”

“They’re ridiculous.”

“What are you actually upset about? This can’t really be about my coffee table books.”

“Yes it is legitimately about your stupid, expensive books that you never even open, it’s all just for show.”

“First of all, I do occasionally open them. Second of all, what if they are just for show? Why does it bother you so much?”

“Because it’s superficial. Just like those big fall planters you bought to put outside our front door. They’ll be dead in less than a month.”

“Yes they’ll be dead in less than a month but they make me happy. They’re colorful and they remind me that even though our world is fucked, there is still beauty.”

“It’s kind of frivolous.”

“You mean I’m kind of frivolous. Enjoying beauty doesn’t make a person shallow. I would argue that a person capable of appreciating beauty, is actually a person capable of feeling and thinking on a deeper level.”

“I don’t agree.”

“You don’t have to. But if my books and planters bother you so much, you also don’t have to stay.”

“Now you’re just being a drama queen.”

“Not at all, I’m dead serious. This is who I am, it’s who I’ve always been and it’s who I’ll always be. Your criticism is ugly and I don’t do ugly.”

https://www.paigegoesposh.com/post/decorating-with-coffee-table-books

J + D

I’m walking in my favorite forest. It’s not a forest forest, it’s a city forest, but still, it makes me happy.

I see a heart carved into a tree, with the initials J + D Forever. I see many more hearts carved into many more trees and I wonder if any of the couples are still together. Did some of them marry? Adopt a dog? Visit Italy? Have babies?

I wish there was a couple update on each tree, to let us know how they fared:

Jess & Maria fell in love, married and adopted two cats. Maria had five affairs before asking Jess for a trial separation. When Jess found out about her infidelity he said: “you’re kidding me about the trial right? I mean we’re obviously skipping right to the divorce part. And by the way fuck you and I’m keeping the cats.”

AND

Mike and Robert fell in love, then out of love, then in love again and this continued for three years. When they had used up all of their therapy sessions – the ones covered by medical insurance – they called it quits.

AND

Tara & Finn are still together. They live next door to each other in a duplex and share a silver Prius and a grey Schnauzer named Marty. They can’t decide if global warming makes having a baby selfish. Would it feel like welcoming a child into the apocalypse?
“So sorry about the fires, earthquakes, heatwaves, droughts, hurricanes, tornadoes and ice storms. But we hope you thrive and live your best life little one!”
Tara has frozen her eggs until they can reach a decision.

I’m trying to remember if I ever carved my initials into a tree when I was young. No, I don’t think I did. Though there were some really cute early romances and I wish I had taken photos, (this was pre-cell phones), because my God it would be fun to look at my fashion & boy choices.

Instead of carving initials into a tree I would play the game True Love. Not sure if it still exists, but this is how you play it:
1. Write your full name + the full name of your potential love interest on a piece of paper.
2. Below the names write True Love.
3. Now the math begins: How many letters do your names have in common with the letters in the words “True Love.”
Example: Mary Ellen Brett + Eric Shields
T – 2
R – 3
U – 0
E – 5

L – 3
O – 0
V – 0
E – 5
Total: 10 + 8 = 108%
Oh My God, Eric Shields and I are meant to be! We are 108% matched together!

True Love was an early version of the dating apps. If you liked someone and you scored only 68%, it would give you pause. Although like any other red flag, we probably ignored it.
🚩

A

I’m wearing your silver knotted ring as I drive your skull and bones cardigan to the cleaners.

“Smoke. Smells like smoke,” says Tina, the owner of the dry cleaners.

“I know, I know, I’m sorry” I say.

“Smoke, so much smoke. I’m going to cough. Why are you suddenly smoking?”

Jesus. Here we go.

“I’m not, this belongs to my friend.”

“Tell your friend not to smoke,” Tina says grimacing.

“I can’t tell her, she’s dead. This was one of her favourite sweaters and her husband gave it to me. He also gave me her beautiful ring, see?” I say, dangling my hand in front of her.

“Sorry she died. Lung cancer right?”

“Umm, no. Anyway, how long will it take? Can I pay extra to put a rush on it?”

“No, no. No rushes on smoke items. Smoke items are very very hard. Next Friday.”

Sighing dramatically, Tina started writing up a receipt.

“Your friend died too young. She should have taken vitamins. Do you take vitamins? I take 18 vitamins every day and I haven’t been sick in fifteen years. No COVID, no nothing. Perfect health.”

“I’m glad you have perfect health,” I say, wanting to throttle her.

“You have very dark circles under your eyes, you need more Vitamin C. Here, eat this orange,” Tina said, pulling an orange out of nowhere like a magician.

“Oh that’s very kind of you, but I’m okay. Thank you though.”

Glaring at me, Tina made a clicking sound with her mouth.

“Dark circles is just the beginning, then doctor appointments every week, you’ll see. But if you take your vitamins you’ll live a long life. You won’t be dead like your friend.”

Oh My Fucking God.

“I appreciate you trying to help, it’s just that right now I’m feeling sad, I’m missing her. I’m just trying to get through this.”

“Ah yes, you’re hanging on by a thread, not a good feeling. Look at this black thread – see how it’s frayed? It’s about to break, that’s how you feel right?” She ripped the thread in front of me.

Why Universe? Just why?

“Listen, you’re a loyal, longtime customer and your friend died and I feel your bad energy. So, I’m going to give you something to help with the sadness – give me your hand.”

Oh no.

“Hand, your hand, open your hand” she said, making the weird clicking sound again.

I gave her my hand, palm open.

Jesus Lord Please Help Me.

“These look like candy, right?”

“Yes, they look like cinnamon hearts,” I answered.

“Well they’re not, they’re medicine hearts. The recipe is an old one, passed down from my great, great, great-grandmother.”

“Oh wow, thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Now, these are powerful – no monkey-arounding with them. Take one heart every morning at exactly 9:00 AM for seven days. Do NOT miss a day.”

“Okay, got it. What do they do exactly?”

“Well, first you’re going to feel weird, a little out of body. So no driving for two to three hours after taking the pill. Then you’ll notice that your heart feels strange – don’t freak out: your heart is stitching itself back together with the broken thread. Your sadness will be quieted. By the end of the week your sadness will be sitting in the nose-bleed seats, not the front row – if that make sense.”

“It totally makes sense.”

“Good. I see you next Friday, here’s your receipt. And don’t forget about the vitamins: if you want to get old and beautiful like me, you need all the vitamins.”

“I won’t forget. Have a good day.”

Back in the car I start crying, then laughing. Then crying and laughing some more. That was such a trippy scene, like something out of a movie. I want to text you about it, to describe Tina and the medicine hearts and the orange. But then I remember that you’re dead. And that just makes me laugh harder: like Mary Tyler Moore in the episode where she’s laughing at the clown’s funeral.

Photo of Andrea & I, taken by our mutual friend Pam. Late 1990’s I think. Andrea died on July 7th 2023. This story is dedicated to her.

Shiny Happy People

Driving to the flea market last week, my chest suddenly felt like it was being crushed.
Like a giant garlic press was squeezing my heart.
Was this some type of new panic attack?
Maybe it was Panic Attack 5.0, the latest version.
I had anti-anxiety pills with me but they wouldn’t help, this was something different.
But what?
Ah, I know what this is, of course:
It’s loneliness.
I’m lonely.
I’m really fucking lonely.

During this revelation Cher was playing on the radio.
“Do you believe in life after love?” she sang.
Yes, yes I do Cher.
Then again I don’t really understand life or love, so there’s that.
Listening to her sing reminded me of my old Cher Barbie doll whose nails I had painted bright red. Her beautiful long hair had somehow ended up horribly snarled, forcing me to cut it into a 1920’s bob, a hairstyle that didn’t suit her at all.
I had ruined Cher.

Despite feeling choked with loneliness, I made it to the parking lot where I applied gobs of lip gloss.
I figured super shiny lips would distract people from my sad girl aura.

Why is it that when you feel lonely every fucking person you see looks ridiculously happy? Like they’ve just won the lottery.
The flea market was packed. A DJ played while trendy couples and cute families checked out vintage cameras, 1970’s polyester dresses and home-made $25 hot sauces.
They were all smiling and laughing.
Literally every single person – even the kids – were vibing like they were on edibles.

Why am I the only one here alone?
I usually have no problem with going out solo, but today it was getting to me.
“It’s a cruel, cruel cruel summer…” Bananarama sang in my head.

Crushing loneliness makes me cranky and I soon found myself critiquing everything I saw:
Like enough with the crochet stuff. It was a bad look in the 70’s and the 90’s and it’s a bad look now.
Also, why are so many people selling vintage tea cups filled with soy wax? Why is that a thing?
And what about all those play-dough looking earrings in the shapes of strawberries and mushrooms?
Just stop it already.

I spotted a few cool vintage dresses, but I was unable to get to them due to the hoards of euphoric shoppers crowding me out.
Nevermind, I had plenty of vintage dresses.
Plus the main reason I had come to this particular flea market was to check out a cute bakery I’d seen on Instagram. Their cakes were magical-looking, like they were decorated by artsy fairies.
Soon I too would be euphoric and no longer lonely, because I would have cake; cake solves all problems.

But to my horror, the bakery wasn’t there.
Checking their Instagram I found they were doing a pop-up at a flea market in the west end.
The west end? They may as well be in the U.K.
Driving across Toronto from the east side to the west is a torturous journey, one I made only for emergencies.
Did this bout of garlic press squeezing my heart loneliness qualify as an emergency?
Actually it did. But I just couldn’t face the traffic.

Then – pouf! – I saw a florist stall outside the flea market tent.
Next to cake, flowers were the best soul-soother.
I bought myself an obnoxiously large bouquet, then walked my shiny lips back to the parking lot.