For Christmas, my one
friend from high school who runs an integrated homeless-domestic violence
shelter and her husband picked me up from the train station and gave me a ride
to our hometown, as they often do.
On the ride up, I got
the latest on the 1st employee she had fired, who had filed a
lawsuit: the woman had lost the case and decided to file an appeal, but that
probably won’t be addressed by the courts for another year.
“So
what’s she doing in the meantime for money?”, I was like.
“She’s
had a couple part-time jobs, I hear,” my friend was like.
“Yeah,”
her husband was like. “She works down at
the drycleaner sucking farts out of underwear.”
I then
joked that that wasn’t really a job, since she liked it and *she* paid *them*.
Also,
because of ice storms in that part of the state, power was out for a ton of
people over the holiday, which I said seemed like an inconvenience.
“But
no,” her husband was like, “It gives people a chance to focus on the true
meaning of Christmas.”
My
friend also talked a lot about breastfeeding her baby, and how unlike a lot of
other mothers she’s never had anyone come up to her when she’s breastfeeding
and tell her it’s inappropriate.
“How
could it be?”, I was like. “[her
daughter’s name]’s mouth covers the nipple, it’s all decent.”
Then I added, “She’s like a living pastie!”.
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