I’m not normally the kind of person who cares much about looking like a geek, because I’m so used to it and refuse to acknowledge the stares and whispers.
I was always odd and dorky as far back as I can remember, but this was more pronounced after I became a newspaper reporter and regularly did weird things, like knock on stranger’s doors late at night to ask them if they knew their neighbor was a serial killer.
Or run clumsily after public officials who dash out of meetings trying to avoid your questions about that missing money. (Yes I actually did this. And, yes, I run like a girl.)
Once you become accustomed to looking like one of the Marx Brothers or maybe bumbling Inspector Clouseau, you have lost all sense of shame, especially after you’ve had cancer and been forced to expose your naked flesh to any number of strangers wearing scrubs and white coats. As if that were a normal thing to do.
However, I will admit that I was embarrassed last night, when I sat at the dive bar that my daughter, Curly Girl, runs with my dopey little sewing box and a needle and thread.
Now, I really don’t recommend this for a number of reasons. First of all, dive bars are dark, which I assume is so the drunks don’t have to focus very hard.
And, yes, there are a lot of drunks, but they’re mostly benign and seem to enjoy congregating in herds. After all, no one in a dive bar is going to hand out A.A. literature or point out that you’ve been soused for the last five days in a row, unless you’re so far gone that the bartender won’t serve you anymore.
Anyway, it’s doggone hard to sew in a dark dive bar, especially if you’re old like me and have trouble threading needles, even in bright light.
But I was there because I love my daughter, who was tending bar last night. See, I recently bought her a knitted handbag in a thrift shop in San Luis Obispo. I knew she’d like it,, and it instantly became her favorite.
But,, tragically, the shoulder strap on the bag started…
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