Ginger Krinkles (5 page)

Confession may be good for the soul, but wow, it is really bad for self-esteem. So I got fired, and “with cause” as they say. But V. Hickle offered me a lifeline to try to atone. I needed to put on my elf hat, so to speak, and try to do some good in this world. Maybe I could even do well by doing good, a schmaltzy campaign I had once done. Violet even reminded me of that and encouraged me to, “Generate goodwill with good words.”

If I had a million dollars I wouldn’t change my life that much. All I dreamed of was maybe if I became a better person, the logistics manager of the cosmos, She Who Must Be Obeyed, would allow me to stay in San Diego and not move back with my parents in Ohio. There aren’t exactly a lot of job opportunities for someone of my persuasion. Who was I kidding? I just couldn’t take the weather. Unless forced, I only go back to visit two days in early October because I’m equally petrified of tornadoes and getting trapped in a blizzard.

I shivered, just thinking about snow. Which reminded me about my perfect idea for holiday gifts. Simple, sweet. A number one, guaranteed winner. I don’t know why I never thought of it before. I felt like I was finally growing up. I congratulated myself. For the first time, I was excited about giving the perfect gift, and couldn’t wait to get started.

I decided to go through the motions of the life I wanted. I headed to yoga. I needed to strive for a slice of nirvana. Though my brain made it sound like life was getting on my last “nervana.”

I pasted a smile on my face and entered Yogasm. A gust of wind ushered me in. “Whoo, I hate winter,” I said, trying to be friendly. I wasn’t kidding, but since it was San Diego and about sixty degrees, it was meant to be a joke. The lovely sylphlike Serena folded her hands together at her heart space and tilted her head. “How can you hate what is?” I knew Lauri wasn’t there and boy did I miss her.

I headed into class. We started in a Child’s Pose, one of my favorites. Not to brag, I am pretty, pretty good at Child’s Pose. My hips rested heavy atop my heels as my forehead touched the mat, arms at my side.

“If aliens landed on our planet,” Serena said, “what would they find? If they found you, what would you share with them?” Her gentle soothing voice helped monitor our synchronized breathing. I universally love yoga teachers, they are so much better than the rest of us. “In, expand, through your stomach, lungs, and chest. Hold and savor the fullness. You have everything you need.”

Except a job. A place to live. A boyfriend.

“Open mouth exhale. Expel all the breath, out from your chest, lungs and bottom of your abdomen. Hold it, and feel the emptiness. You are empty. What is it you need?”

Hello. A job, a place to live, a boyfriend. I am oh-for-three.

As Serena took us on our journey, I realized I was even worse off than I feared. I was in a dangerous red zone. My best friend Lauri was pissed at me. My ex, who had some nerve to be mad at me (for not wanting to sleep with him again, as well as what he called my sub-par food service skills), was mad at me. It’s not my fault he doesn’t have enough cash to get another food truck. My sister Melissa was thrilled I was moving back home. “Perfect,” she told me. “You can help take care of Mom and Dad. They’re not getting any younger.” I can’t believe it, but my mom and dad were dreading my move back home more than I was. And that was pretty impossible.

If an alien landed and I was the ambassador, it would think I was a total hot mess. I needed to fix things. I messed up. From that point on, I decided to be, well, serene.

Serena’s soothing voice interrupted my thoughts. “Let it go, expel negative thoughts and energy and let your light wash through the class.” I smiled as we changed positions, tried to suck in my share of love from the universe, and exhaled to beat the band. We were in a Triangle pose, and the very bendy girl next to me was rubbing her cheek on her shin. Whatever. Then she started picking at her toenail, toe
quatro
, if you must know. I know I didn’t make a noise, but she must have felt my stare because she turned to look at me. And then went right back to her old-school pedicure.

I tried to look away. The drumbeats of the music did nothing to haul me back into my own universe. I saw her wince, “Ooh,” as she ripped of the top edge of her toenail. And flicked it between our mats. The curved little half-moon slice, with a speck of red polish on it, was actually closer to my mat. Her super relaxed hamstrings allowed her to closely inspect her handiwork. She could have licked her toe if she wanted to, and I wouldn’t have put it past her. She smoothed the toe with her thumb, and moved on to inspect the others. Her discarded clipping lay between us. I closed my eyes and tried not to think about running and telling Lauri. I thanked the universe for giving us grooming utensils and bathroom doors.

I could change. I wasn’t going to fulfill the destiny of my grandmother. I wrapped her sour-faced visage up in a cloud of white light. I didn’t know her suffering or what she had to go through. I could even feel bad for her that she didn’t get to know us, or let us love her. And as I stretched into a pretzel in the Eagle pose (arms and legs wrapped around each other, standing on one foot), I had a flash of my grandmother.

She had been brushing my hair and singing a song in Polish. She had smiled at me, and then squeezed my earlobes. Her dry bony fingers slid up to the tops of my ears and gripped the cartilage at the top before stretching the bit of skin there. She pinched it hard. The little me started crying and ran away. I forgive the child I had been for being scared, but, looking back, I think that was Busha’s version of being tender.

I pretended my
Ujjayi
ocean breath wasn’t a sob. My spirit was willing but I had a feeling my resolve was weak. A reel of images projected on the dark red of my retinas played highlights of my lowlights: people I had hurt; stunning, foot-stomping examples of my impatience, short temper, and snap judgments. It was time to change. I needed to shed the shadow of my grandmother. She wasn’t the grandmother I wanted, but she was the one I had. Maybe I was the granddaughter she needed. Like Serena said, you can’t hate what is.

Serena dabbed a waft of essential oil onto my third eye to seal the deal. I inhaled the tangerine sweet scent of hope. I relaxed as class ended. If life is 75% maintenance—work, oil changes, flossing, laundry, grocery shopping—that leaves only 25% for the good stuff, and that’s no way to live. I never said I was good at math, but it was time for me to rework that equation and discover the joy everywhere I could, especially during the maintenance phase. I fluttered my eyes open and began to roll up my mat. I looked over at the girl with the poor toe. “Great class,” I whispered. I gave her my best smile.

“You have a hole in your pants,” she told me, then stomped away. Wow. Being nice is super hard. For once, my meditation app made me laugh.
Pause … can you feel your toes?

Later that day, I called Lauri since I hadn’t seen her at the yoga studio, and begged her forgiveness for talking about her behind her back. “I was just messing around with Frankie. You know how I can get. I didn’t mean any of that.”

“I know.” She forgave me. Just like that. Because that’s how she rolls. “I just wasn’t in the mood,” she added. “Besides, you never really think anyone ever talks bad about yourself.”

“You should Instagram that.” I finally heard her laugh. “Meet me for dinner,” I told her. “I’ve got a great story for you.”

“I can’t.”

“You have to.”

“I’m busy. I’ve got to go. I’m not mad, honest. We’ll talk later.”

“Thanks.” I paused. “Love you,” I mumbled first, even though that was usually Lauri’s job.

“Love you, too.”

I called Melissa, next, still trying to hold onto that rainbow of love I was riding. “Not a good time,” she said.

“Are you crying?”

“No.” Click.

I called Frankie. “No worries. I’m not mad at you. I’m trying to make Tood Fruck work. Just chill out.” He brushed my apology off. “Stop talking. I’ve got plans tonight. See you at work tomorrow.” Wow. Everyone was too busy to even talk to me. Even my meditation reminder had forsaken me.

I was going to make everyone love the new me. Even though I had to move back to Ohio, I had some damage to repair. I knew just how to do it, too. Consider it my early Christmas present to the world. Fa la la la la, la la la la.

($1,630.00 New pair of yoga pants from Target)

According to my calculations, I needed at least four or five gifts for my friends, starting with Lauri and Frankie. My landlady, Olive; sister Melissa. All the rest of the morning I plotted out my strategy. Of course, the gift box itself needed to be pretty special. As my mom always said, “Ginger, we eat with our eyes.” True confession. She never said that, Lauri’s mom always said that, but I had always wished my mom had not only said that but practiced it. Unfortunately, my family operates out of the SOS cookbook, Shit On a Shingle. Sustenance, thy name is sandwich. Chinette was as fancy as we ever got.

The best thing about my kitchen is the apron a kinky ex-boyfriend got me. I love that apron. I put that apron on and twirled around like I was in some soft porn movie. There are tiers of ruffles that bell out from the waist, which I cinch in as tight as I can. It has alternating flounces of polka dots and cherries, for Pete’s sake, in a hanky-soft cotton fabric. I am ashamed at how much I love polka dots. And how different I feel with the donning of an apron. On Donner and Blitzen, I even started to sing. My kitchen supplies pretty much start and end with the apron. Time to call in the big guns.

“Mom, hey. It’s me. Ginger. I need Busha’s cut-out cookie recipe.”

“Who is this?” She asked. I held the phone away from my head while Mrs. Krinkles hooted in a most unChristmas-like manner and told my Dad. I could still hear her. “Bud! Ginger’s making Christmas cookies!”

I folded my arms and cradled the phone back against my ear. “You done?”

I could hear my mom rustling around, still laughing. “Let’s see, cookies, cookies, cookies. Oh, this is a good one, honey. But, are you sure this is what you want to start with? It’s a little tricky.”

“Really, Mom? Cookies? I think I can manage to figure out how to make some sugar cookies. Just because I technically don’t have a career right now doesn’t mean I’m a complete idiot. I do work in the food industry, you know.” I crossed my fingers when I said that last sentence.

“Oh, I didn’t mean that. It just takes a lot of, well, patience.”

“I have a big ol’ cup o’ patience right here,” I told her. I took a sip of my coffee. I wrote down her directions for the cut-out cookie recipe. I thought she’d never finish. I had to hear her drone on with little tips. I wasn’t paying attention, but did notice the last thing I scribbled down. What the? Chill dough for four hours? That can’t be right.

I made a list and checked it twice. “See, Ming. I’m getting into the spirit.” Ming was too, and seemed pretty happy shredding tissue paper. I took off my apron and went to the grocery store. I needed some basic ingredients. Oh, who was I kidding, I needed it all. Flour, sugar, butter. Vanilla, baking soda, baking powder. Powdered sugar, eggs, milk. My bag was full, shopping trip over. Forty dollars for the best presents money could buy, with the sweetest lovin’ from the oven. My friends were going to love these cookies. I could just picture the little beauties, buttery, creamy cut-outs of confection. The image glowed with filtered edges in a Martha Stewart-approved pyramid of perfection on a fancy china plate. I wasn’t going to give out cookies in a plastic baggie. I was broke, but not a total cretin. Yet. I felt so excited. And there was something else. I sniffed. I smelled a waft of hope. For the first time, I had a clue to what everyone else must be feeling. Maybe this—making cookies—would become my tradition. Maybe baking would become my Comfort and Joy. I hummed. I was pretty sure my grandmother never hummed.

“Excuse me, Miss. Would you like to donate to Casa de ChaChing?” I was in the check-out line at the grocery store. It wasn’t really called Casa de ChaChing. The new me reluctantly handed over a five. “Bless you,” said Doris DoGooder before turning to go shakedown some other shopper, also hoping for a chance at redemption and feeling like a fiver was as good a place as any to start.

“Gloooooooo …” The store’s speakers suddenly went turbo. I felt a flush of heat. The music rippled into my ears, and unearthed a memory of my mom singing in church. I sighed, wondering why the woman checking out in front of me felt totally justified to, “Oops, forgot my butter. Hold my place, will you?” as she took off. The cart behind pushed into me as we all waited, and the little kid in the cart stood up and for unknown reasons started to hit me in the head with his candy cane. That he had been licking.

“Ooooooooooriaaaaa …” The music got even louder.

The woman in front of me returned with her damn butter, and a carton of milk, and a six pack of beer. Nice. The cart from behind bumped me again. The mother, driving it, was on her cellphone, talking loudly about the presents she wasn’t going to buy her kids.

I hummed along with the next carol. Not only was my mother a terrible singer, and not only did she not realize it, she was a show off. “Ooh, look at me, I know all the words.” To every refrain. Even those tricky second and third stanzas. She used to jump up in church, as if she got brownie points from the Big Guy for being first in knowing the stand-up, sit-down, kneel, kneel, kneel routine. I winced as the song reached “sleep in heavenly peace,” remembering my mom’s version. My brother would do the Macarena during her seven-syllable slaughter of the last word. I unloaded my ingredients on the conveyer belt. Candy cane kid behind me needed a diaper change. Bad.

I left the grocery story and stopped off at the coffee shop next door. I needed to shore up to tackle my project, and try to regain what I had been sure was my newfound spirit of the season. Yay. Another line. I shifted my grocery bag and purse, and pasted a smile on my face as another holiday song started, perkily bleating about the “weather outside.” My mood was heading to the South Pole, but I was in the right place for provisions. I rolled my shoulders and took a cleansing yoga breath.

Who are all these people? And why are they in front of me? And why are they so happy?
In through my nose and out through my mouth. If you didn’t know what I was doing I could see how one may have thought I was being uber-impatient. My purse strap slipped off my arm and as I gyrated a little to the left to correct, a guy who had just picked up his coffee, reached out with the tip of his finger and slowly, as if he were deciding which nuclear bomb wire to disarm, slid the handle back up on my shoulder. He withdrew his hand, slo-mo and half raised his arm in the air, lest I thought he was a purse-snatcher. The right side of his mouth looked like it was thinking about smiling, but at the last moment decided against it.

“Thanks,” I said. I pulled the strap tighter, up and over my shoulder.
Marry Christmas
, I thought. I wanted to see what this guy looked like with a smile.

“You’re welcome.” He said. Long pause. “You have your hands full.”

“‘Tis the season,” I said, all proud that I had a bag full of baking goods with no hair removal product in sight. My salt vinegar potato chips were stowed securely underneath the bag of flour. No worries, they would still taste the same.

“You’re getting ready for it, I see,” he said.

“I love to bake.” Thankfully my pants did not burst into flames.

“And I love cookies.” He put his phone in his back pocket and took a sip of coffee. The music in that crowded coffee shop suddenly got louder. The Director in the Sky of this little romantic comedy wanted to make crystal clear, I was about to have “a magic moment.” You think he would have chosen a song I didn’t hate. Something not involving Burl Ives and snowmen. Snowmen make me so sad. Frosty. His
head
melts and his top hat bounces down the street, but “he’ll be back again, someday?” I felt my heart grow two sizes smaller. I was starting to get claustrophobic. My cute sweater with ironic snowflakes was shedding brown fibers like a molting yak, while cooking up my underarms. A trickle, like melted snow, dripped between my shoulder blades. I didn’t want to blow it. If you must know, my anxiety level was off the charts. Or as Lauri would say, I was being present in the now. I pretended I was a yoga instructor and sucked in my belly button all the way to my spine.

My turn. Flirt dammit. He was the right size, right shape. My Chief Hormone Officer went on full alert, pheromone exchange at the ready. I made my eyes twinkle, and I stood at attention. I’m pretty sure I made a duck face before coyly smiling at him. Good, he likes cookies. “Maybe I’ll have to make you some.”

He leaned in. “I’d like that.”

“What’s your favorite kind?”

“I’m sure I’d like whatever you make.”

I laughed. What Lauri would call my femme fatale laugh, as I flew too close to the sun. I exited the “now,” highly overrated if you ask me, and zoomed to Planet Happy Future. Oh, dear God our kids would be gorgeous.

And then I read the name on his coffee cup. Joe Noel. The barista had even drawn what looked like a six-point holly leaf with three berries next to it. He saw me glance down.

“Hi, I’m Joe.”

“Ginger.” I tried not to shut down. But the name Joe Noel was a deal breaker. I couldn’t bear the ridicule from my friends if we got together. It was exhausting even imagining fending off the insane Santa/Elf/Ho Ho Ho jokes that would ensue. Who wouldn’t know? Sadly. Who wouldn’t know? Up on the housetop, click, click, click. My heart plummeted back to the boring old stupid problem-filled now. Message received. He wasn’t the one for me, and there must be a lesson there somewhere.

“May I help you?” Saved by the barista waiting to take my order.

“Thanks for saving my purse,” I told Jolly ol’ St. Nick. I shifted my grocery bag. “Nice to meet you.” Joe Noel, of the super serious Botox-free furrowed brow and what appeared to be the thighs of Thor, turned out to be a walking Christmas carol. Joe Noel. If we got married I would be Ginger Krinkles Noel. No way. What, we could name our kids The First, or Joyeux? The universe had gone all out this time. If I ended up with a guy named Joe Noel our kids would all be born with pointy ears, and we’d end up moving to The North Pole. Not on my watch.

I turned my body away from him to face the counter and ordered my coffee. He got the hint and mumbled that I should have a good day.

“Happy Holidays!” chirped the barista. Probably the one who drew holly branches on Joe Noel’s cup. “Would you like to try our holiday ‘Chai Before Christmas Latte?’”

I shuddered. I’d rather drink bathroom air freshener spray, which is exactly what chai tastes like. My grandmother’s shadow chilled my bones. I stood up straight and smiled so hard I could hardly see. “No, thanks. Just a latte. Thanks! Merry Christmas! I love this song!” I picked up my coffee and couldn’t help but take a quick look around. He was gone.

I couldn’t stop thinking about him. He had been a kick-butt and take-names, strong silent type, à la Jeremy Renner in
The Bourne Legacy
, the best movie I didn’t understand. I had to call Lauri.

“You know, he was one poor shoe choice away from being a nerd. He looked like he probably enjoys
camping
.” I giggled. Lauri knew none of that mattered. Of course, I had already imagined a little X-rated rendezvous.
We had been trapped in the coffee shop.
I don’t know why, that’s not important.
He made us a bed out of huge burlap bags filled with coffee beans.
Scratch that. No one wants to bed down on burlap. The bags morphed into soft, white cotton, the kind that Mr. Oleson would have used as he hefted bags of flour at his mercantile on
Little House on The Prairie
. The kind of soft cotton that, ironically, is actually sold as flour sack dishtowels that you can buy at Crate&Barrel for six bucks.
We cuddled to stay warm. His just-the-right-amount-of-scruffy-whiskers-to-give-him-an-A+-in-testosterone introduced themselves to the crook of my neck. As if he couldn’t help himself he began …

“And what’s wrong with him again?” Lauri interrupted my imaginary kissing scene.

“His name. Joe Noel. Can you believe it?”

Long silence. I could practically hear my good friend shadow boxing with her own thoughts while trying not to say something. I pinched my lips and may have flared a nostril. Or two.

“Silent Night,” she finally said.

“Holy crap,” I agreed.

($1,580.00 Groceries, coffee, and don’t forget $5.00 donation—it still counts, despite spirit in which it was given.)