Lie Lashes

            I didn’t go to the food bank on Saturday because I wanted to work on my English paper, but I didn’t get started on it until the late afternoon. Still, if I had gone to the food bank I would have spent the rest of the day writing about it so it did benefit my essay not to go. I copied ideas into the text from my hand written notes until I reached the seven page limit, then I read it through and edited out the superfluous stuff to make room for more jotted thoughts. By the end of the day there were still another twenty-one pages left to copy and less than three full days left to finish the paper.

            Because I didn’t ride down to the food bank I also didn’t go to the supermarket, even though I was out of fruit, except for canned peaches. Next Wednesday is the beginning of my annual fast and I need to finish up all the meat that I have. So for dinner I pulled out the two tubes of ground meat (one of beef and one of pork) from the food bank that I’d had in the freezer for a while. I steamed them till they were thawed and then made a chilli with onions, cayenne, paprika and some dried chilli pepper flakes. It turned out pretty good.

            Less than half an hour before the liquor store closes it occurred to me that I hadn’t bought my Saturday and Sunday cans of Creemore, so I rushed out, only to find that they were out of Creemore until Monday. That hasn’t happened for years in my experience. I asked one of the liquor store staff for the recommendation of a Creemore equivalent but he didn’t know. He asked a colleague, who said any lager would be comparable. That’s not true, but there was no time, so I bought two cans of Mill St. Organic Lager. It was okay, but it wasn’t as good as Creemore.

            A woman ahead of me had false eyelashes that could have used as weapons. There’s a super power you don’t see. A person could shoot their eyelashes like porcupine quills or rockets, or they could be so long and razor sharp they could cut someone’s throat or each lash could be a stretching tendril with a deadly grip or each one could be a little viper.

            I watched a couple of episodes of “Leave It to Beaver”, one of which brought back memories from my own adolescence.  In the story, some of Wally’s friends had begun to shave once a month and so he was jealous and borrowed his father’s safety razor so he could tell them that he was shaving too. His father found out though because he had so many cuts on his face when he went down to dinner. It reminded me of when I borrowed my father’s electric razor. I don’t know exactly how he found out but my father was insanely meticulous and it would have been almost impossible to put anything of his back exactly the way he’d left it. Maybe he saw blonde whiskers that didn’t match his black ones. Anyway, he wasn’t mad, as I recall, but somewhat amused. On my next birthday he bought me my own electric razor.