don't call me that.

the kid at the coffeehouse calls me ma'am. he smiles his school boy smile and shuffles his feet as he walks up to my table.

"are you done with that, ma'am?" he asks.

i want to say no--not no, i'm not done with that, but no, don't call me that. no i'm not much older than you, no i don't need your respect, no it's really not necessary. you know, it wasn't so long ago that i was just like you, pouring coffee and clearing tables, cursing the customers who left crappy tips, making five bucks an hour so that i could make payments on my first car.

i am ready to protest, until i remember it was that long ago and i am much older than him. when i was his age, he was drinking too much pepsi, playing nintendo all afternoon and riding his bike in circles around me. he was calling me buttface. i was calling him twerp.

now i am an independent woman who works 40 hours a week and owns her car.

i look up at the boy--his sweet, awkward grin and spikey, gel-caked hair, his shorts that go down to his shins and could wrap around two boys his size, and his beat-up, unlaced sketchers i want to tie for him--and instead of giving him a piece of my mind, i say, "yes, thank you," and take a final sip of coffee. i always leave a good tip.

seen:

who says we don't have seasons in southern california?

inspired:
it's too cold to go barefoot. you know what that means? wool socks!

lost:
i shouldn't be up at this hour.

found:
copyrightdavis.com combines flashy flash with scratchy sketches. also: some humor.

overheard:
"do you have a tube top?"

"hell no. do you?

"yes, two."

nonsequitur:
25 looms. my birthday is in 12 days. (apologies to those who mistook last month for the day. poor sentence structure.)

momentarily: