Hi Disco people,
I’ve spent the last couple of days slowly making my way out of a depressive episode that was inspired, probably, by the approach of winter, the approach of the election, and the fact that we’re still living in a pandemic. I think I should try to accept my emotional experiences more than I try to justify them, but it is validating to hear a therapist say that all of these elements are hard on a soul.
Sunday is Día de Muertos, as well as the end of daylight saving time. I’m celebrating one by setting up an altar and cooking the two foods that remind me most of my deceased grandfathers (biscuits and gravy, and pecan pie), and softening the blow of the other by putting up string lights.
Unrelated to both, I also plan to cook a huge pot of beef stew. We don’t usually prepare meals with meats in this home, but I figured having something dense and meaty and heavy and comforting on election week might be helpful. Heck, might make a second pie for it, too.
I’m nervous about what will happen no matter how it turns out. But, we’ve done what we can for now. Just gotta hunker down, simmer that mirepoix, and take care of ourselves through the weekend.
The woman in plum, part II
This is part II of a three-part fan fiction story about going to Applebee’s with Phyllis from The Office. If you haven’t read part I yet, get the juicy narrative here.
His name was Derek. He had a free-weight routine and no pets. He’d been working at the Scranton Applebee’s for six months.
These were the things I knew about our server long before we’d ordered our half-price apps. Phyllis had a mix of nonchalance and potency that kept a person at attention when she was in a curious mood. When our server circled back with our second round of Adioses and paused to take our order, Phyllis hooked him with her passion for high school and college sports.
“I was a linebacker on my high school varsity team,” Derek told Phyllis, proudly. “‘Til my car broke down and I couldn’t get to practice.”
“I had a cousin who played football in college,” Phyllis said, sipping her blue juice. “What size shoe do you wear?”
“Huh?” said Derek.
“Maybe you could have his old gear,” Phyllis said, looking over at me with big, agreeable eyes as if she were hoping I would contribute the opinion that yes, Derek certainly should take her cousin’s gear as soon as he could get his hands on it, and tell us his measurements while he was at it.
“Hey, Derek?” I said instead. “Would it be ok if we put your football career on pause just long enough to get an order in?”
“That’s a good idea,” Phyllis said. “We need to order before happy hour is over.”
“There’s still three hours left,” Derek informed us.
“You’ll get to meet my husband before then if you’re lucky,” said Phyllis, winking at Derek.
I wasn’t sure what that meant, and as much as I wanted to make a night of it in Scranton and stay to find out, I knew Jake was probably halfway through his nap and that I needed to get the show on the road.
“I’ll have some boneless wings with mild sauce and a side of ranch, and — potato skins?” I looked at Phyllis.
She nodded. “Yes, we’ll split the potato skins, extra sour cream, Derek. And I’ll have the boneless wings too. Hot.”
“Ranch or bleu cheese?” Derek asked her.
“Both, please,” she smiled flirtatiously.
As I watched Derek take our order expertly by memory, his hands in his pockets instead of holding a notepad and pen, I had no doubt in his alleged six months of experience at the Scranton Applebee’s. Although Phyllis was coming on strong, Derek kept his cool, whatever was there of it to begin with, by giving noncommittal and ambiguous responses to everything she said. After he vowed to “get that right in,” he glided over to a wall-mounted computer screen beneath one of the big televisions, tapped it a few times with his middle finger, and disappeared into the kitchen.
“It’s too bad the redhead’s not working,” Phyllis said once Derek was gone, her drink to her lips.
“You don’t like him?” I asked, nodding at the doorway through which he’d disappeared.
“Nah, I’m just having fun with him,” she said, smiling her mischievous smile.
“But, are you and your husband really open?”
Just then, there was a crash in the kitchen, and a tall man in a red t-shirt — a cook, perhaps — stormed out, throwing his Applebee’s branded baseball cap on the floor before leaving the building.
Phyllis disregarded my question and watched out the window as the man got in his car and drove away.
“I hope that doesn’t affect how quickly we get our food.”
To be continued …
A song for you
Two Columbian sisters sing about being a cloud.
Thanks for reading. Stop by next week to see if Derek remembers both dipping sauces.
xo
Katya