Crisp bills

One of the many delightful habits I gleaned from my husband is his preference for crisp bills over crumpled ones. "Do you have any with wrinkles, any with those annoying folds through the middle," he'll ask in the DQ drive-thru. "Ooh, hold onto that one, it looks freshly minted!"

You'd be surprised how you begin to look at money when the number in the corner is the least of your priorities. And the guilt you feel when passing off a dingy dollar on an unsuspecting recipient--worth ten Hail Mary's in my book.

Like all symbols of trade, be it beads, antiques, or what have you--the currency we use in our transactions speaks volumes about our intentions. I'm just glad I married somebody with the highest of standards, reflects well on me and I just stand beside him!

So at the YMCA last Tuesday, I took it sort of personal when garage-sale-girl didn't have change for my dollar. My third try at the vending machine, fresh out of my endless supply of quarters (I wish). I looked around, what were my options? I'd already overextended garage-sale-girl one week prior, she ran out to her car to grab me a diaper. Which, turns out, it was somebody else's baby I'd been smelling.

(Though the very next week I thanked God that I had it. Pampers, so much better quality than our generics from Target.)

How do I explain Amazon girl--large like many farm-bred women 'round here, but she definitely grew up in the city (our humble one). Outspoken, overly bold, crassly talking too loud about getting sloshed at the bar, night before. Her daughter, still one, a little jabberbox in the most adorable way, can't understand a darn word she's saying--too cute!

So when my dollar doesn't produce the goods at last Tuesday's vending machine, and GSG and Amazon both claim to be out of replacements, I say "No problem", and head straight to the front desk for four quarters. (Girl was sort of rude, causing a whole coin to jump out of my hand and land on the counter. Once she picked it up, she seemed much politer.)

It's two days later now, at the Y, and my dollar is the worst wear I've seen in forever. Not only has it been laundered at least twice (and I'm not talking dry cleaning) an entire edge is missing, the right-hand corner's ripped off!

Amazon must've known this would happen, me and my dollars. Before I could ask, she goes, "Here, use mine."

Are you sure you want this? I dangled it before her. She shrugged as if it made absolutely no difference.

Trade made, I settled down with my microwave popcorn, all-popped, some peanut butter M&Ms, and a cold Dr. Pepper.

GSG walks over, who I've kind of been ignoring, not about the dollar, or the diaper, just something told me she's annoying. She says, "There's something about popcorn that draws everybody in, isn't there?" I smile and nod, just glad to have finally found a seat at the Y that didn't drive me crazy.

I'm chatting with GSG about why I came to North Dakota, PhDs, and getting slightly offended (working girls!)...when my pop spills all over my popcorn. Takes me about three minutes to track down some towels, during which GSG joins Amazon's conversation about Sex in the City.

GSG has no problem being prude, though she didn't exactly call herself a Charlotte. "I've been watching the reruns on tv," she shares. "I get that Samantha has to be a certain character, but we'd still get the picture without having to see all those graphics." (I imagine she'd be a big fan of radio.)

Amazon pauses, but GSG isn't fazed. She continues to make her point, unapologetic. Then she asks Amazon, "Which one do you think you're most like?"

Snorting, "Um, hmm...I guess...oh, I'm probably a Samantha, when I was in high school I used to..."

I interrupt quite well-timedly, "Are you sure you're not Carrie?" She looks open to the idea. "I think you're a Carrie," I repeat to myself, gathering wet napkins and heading for the garbage.

Amazon suddenly changes her answer (wow, so gullible!) "I'm more of a Carrie, yeah I guess, because..."

She doesn't even have the words to follow "because" and leaves it open (such faith!) I walk past, admiring her long hair which extends to mid-back, "because you're smart like she is," I say as I pass her, loud enough for her to hear, but behind other people's mumbling.

She's now Carrie, a lifetime of whoredom nearly passed onto her daughter, perhaps she'll find she's a writer. Her conversation with mail lady's friend becomes much calmer, a new note of authority and self-respect in her stories. Maybe she won't be at the bar the following weekend, maybe she has some things to think about differently.

I won't be back to find out. My three pollywogs almost all graduated (2 guppies, one still a pollywog)...and those damn vending machines, insulting MY dollar. Maybe next fall, when we return for our lessons, enough time to forget, enough time to begin anew.