Page 11 of Maid of Dishonor
I know Carter is asking because he’s amused rather than because he’s invested in the fate of my plant babies, but I update him on everyone anyway. They’re all looking good, other than Albert.
Stan the Man—named after the legendary Cardinals player Stan Musial—is my baby fiddle-leaf fig tree. He lives in the corner of the small living room in the basement apartment I rent. Yadi—named after Cardinals catcher Yadier Molina—is a jade plant, and he lives on a stand by the kitchen window. Then I have two snake plants, one big, one small. The big one is named McGwire after former Cardinals player Mark McGwire, and—because I’m petty—the small one is named Sosa after Sammy Sosa of the Chicago Cubs, McGwire’s rival in the home run race of 1998.
Mark McGwire won, of course. Because the St. Louis Cardinals are the best.
Once I’ve told Carter about my plant offspring, I perch on the edge of my little sofa, and Carter switches the subject.
“Well, I was going to come over this afternoon after camp so we can figure out this whole wedding thing. Is that okay?”
“Yeah, of course,” I say. Like I’m going to say no? I mean, there’s exactly nothing impressive about my little basement apartment, but he doesn’t care, and I love having him around.
“When do you get done?” I say. Three days a week, Carter helps coach a baseball summer camp. It’s a good way for him to pick up some extra money during the summer, since his job as an elementary school P.E. teacher doesn’t exactly make him rich. Mine doesn’t either, for that matter; I teach first grade at the same school. We get paid for nine months of work, but that salary gets spread over twelve months. I don’t love it.
“I’m done at two today,” he says, and I nod.
“That’s fine; just come over then. Oh, and shower first!” I add before he can hang up. “You reek to high heaven after these things.”
“High heaven?” he says, and I can hear the grin in his voice. “Really?”
“The highest heaven,” I say, grinning too.
“Got it. So I shouldn’t come over and rub my sweaty self all over you and your furniture?”
Uh,yes. Do that.Please.
But “Definitely not” is what I say instead, because I feel like I should probably ease Carter into my eternal love before we move on to things like…rubbing.
“Okay, I’ll be there after. See you then.”
We hang up, and I just sink back into my sofa a bit, looking around.
While it’s true that there’s nothing particularly impressive about my little apartment, I still love it. I’ve done everything in my power to make it my own. Winifred, my landlady and the owner of the house, is an eighty-two-year-old woman who can’t do stairs anymore. Since she’s renting the space out and she can’t really come down anyway, she told me that as long as I let her know first, I could do any painting or wallpapering I wanted.
I, of course, immediately went out and bought several different shades of yellow to try. I ended up choosing a warm, bold yellow for an accent wall in my little bedroom, as well as a softer, buttery yellow for the kitchenette. The rest of the walls stayed white, but I still put color wherever I could—bright blue throw pillows for the gray couch (not to mention more blankets than one person ever actuallyneeds), a salmon-colored kitchen table (that I painted myself, because DIY was definitely the cheaper option there), and other colorful odds and ends wherever I could fit them. Then there are a few pictures on the walls—including one rare one of me and my dad, who’s hard to capture on camera because he’s frequently out of town on business and he hates having his photo taken—and a couple floral art prints. The whole place is an eclectic mishmash of colors and textures and materials. I put down rugs, too, because Winifred’s basement is rocking some truly awful beige shag carpet.
My style isn’t for everyone, but it for darn sure is better than beige shag.
Especially since I’m not entirely certain the carpet was beige to begin with? I think it was probably just a sort of off-white color at one point. But with the rugs and everything else I’ve done, the overall effect of my space is a sort of vibrant, inviting symphony of colors and textures. I love it.
My mind jumping back to Winifred, I head upstairs to see what she’s doing. Though she’d probably never admit it, I know she gets lonely; I think it’s part of the reason she converted her basement into a livable unit in the first place.
“Wini?” I call, unlocking the basement door and stepping out into her hallway.
“In here,” she calls from the kitchen, her voice loud and gruff as usual, due to her partial hearing loss. I round the corner to find her with one hand deep in a bag of snack-size candy bars, the kind you buy at Halloween. I grin as she gives me a stern look.
“I had a bit of a sweet tooth,” she says reluctantly, and I hold my hands up.
“No judgment here,” I say, still grinning. “Anything with caramel in there?” Chocolate actually sounds excellent right now; a sign that I’m likely PMSing.
“I do believe so,” she says, the barest hint of a smile perched on her lips. “Now, tell me, young lady,” she says as she pulls out a few candy bars for me. “Are you coming with me to the speed dating event this evening at the nursing home?”
Speed dating.Speed dating. The grumpy old lady in front of me wants to gospeed dating. And it’s not the first time, either. She’s constantly trying to set me up with the men around here.
“Sadly, I am not,” I say with a sigh, trying not to smile. The Good Lord never put anyone on this earth as delightful as Winifred Williamson. She’s almost always grouchy, always honest to a fault, no filter whatsoever. Who wants roommates when your eight-two-year-old landlady can regale you with tales of dating gone wrong?
“This week had better be better than last week,” she says loudly, making her very slow way to the kitchen table. I follow her. “I wish old Boris would stop asking me out”—she smooths one hand over her fluffy hair and turns red at this, making me think she might actually be enjoying Boris’s affections—“and then I thought this week I might make a list of men you’d like. They’re not all members of the nursing home, you know. That’s just where it’s hosted. Lots of other people still come.”
“Oh, no,” I say—an effort in futility—before sitting in the chair next to hers. “You don’t have to do that.” I already visit the nursing home once a week; I don’t want to pick up dates there, too. Wini doesn’t know this, though, so I add, “I’m not really looking for anyone new right now, anyway.”
