MURSE . . .

I'm in a different Starbucks today, writing tomes and tomes to some far-flung friends. How I miss them. Waiting for Mabel to be released from the dark confines of her student-less classroom (really, why would you make teachers sit in the dark for six hours, if there are no students to teach?!), I have opportunity to observe a whole different demographic.

The local high school is having their senior play this weekend; opening night is tonight. The girl working behind the counter seems to be some sort of drama club den mother -- every teenager that walks in wearing the show's t-shirt gives her a great big hug and asks for stage make-up advice. She flits about throwing out accents here and there, mostly of the British variety, and air-kissing everyone in sight. I envy her freedom and flair.

A teenage boy walks in, wearing sunglasses and carrying a purse. Yes, a purse. It's black patent leater, with white fur pompoms adorning its corners. He flits about the store, air-kissing the den mother, and heartily greeting the other staff behind the counter. He pays for his beverage with a shiny patent-leather wallet pulled from his pompom-ed purse, then flits out, throwing palm-kisses behind him.

I admire his freedom and flair, too. It is good to see young people able to express themselves, to not be shy, to be accepted by their friends. I wonder that this was not the case when I was in high school, and I am strangely proud of society for opening its heart to those formerly shunned and ostracized. But still, I am strangely disturbed ... for that was one ugly purse.

***

NOT C.I.A. . . .

But close enough ... do I dare attempt the State Department's Foreign Service Workers' Exam again? 10% national pass rate, y'all ....