Rocket Fanta

"Wife! Where is my coffee cup?" Jameson shouted up the stairs.  He was heading to campus to register for the next semesters classes and was delayed due to lack of mobile caffeine.

"The coffee cups are in the cupboard where they always are. Are you even looking or do you want me to come down there?"  Parked on our bed with my foot elevated and computer in my lap, the thought of walking down the stairs wasn't pleasant.  To say I had to walk "downstairs" was kind of a joke, anyway. Our bedroom was in the loft immediately above the kitchen in the minuscule apartment we'd moved into.  We were short on space but large on extra cash; 8 more months of Lilliputian living space.

"It's not here and I need to go drop off Grey's tuition statement before I register."

I made my way down the curving staircase.  Twelve mismatched steps and no spills, this was turning out to be a banner day!  My mobility in the 4.2 pound moon boot had  improved greatly, but it was still annoying. Opening the kitchen cupboard I turned to Jameson, pointed and said, "Uummmm... here."

"Ugh," he pushed back from the counter, "Not those. The one I use to go to class."

"Oh.  The travel mugs. You should have said 'travel mugs'. Those are over here," and I opened the cupboard over the stove.

When I was in my early 20's and would go clubbing with my friend Elizabeth (ironic much?), I'd listen to songs and sing what I thought the lyrics were.  Rocket fanta instead of 'rockin' the casbah', you can curl your own hair instead of 'you can go your own way' and my favorite: don't call it a comeback, I've got big ears instead of 'don't call it a comeback, I've been here for years' by one LL Cool J.  Island life was mocking me by keeping things lost in translation.

Our island time was just under the 8 month mark and I'd started selling our excess wares. A DVD player, cooler, some island chairs, beach umbrella and travel coffee mugs. The day before I'd been waiting for a student while sitting on the retaining wall of the apartment complex across the street. I was selling 2 reams of printer paper for 15 bucks. OK, not a gold mine but I wouldn't have to pack it and take it back to the States.  While staring at my thighs shaped by too much chardonnay and not enough cardio, I looked up as a couple of girls walk by. I say girls because of the lack of jiggle in skirts so short and tight that I'd consider them to be Spanx and would wear them under a suit when on a client site.

Mental Checklist: Google Jillian Michaels work-outs for geriatrics.

Sigh... I used to look like that.  I also used to think Vanilla Ice sang 'alright stop, cohabitate and listen'.  My buyer walked up breaking my self-pity party.

"That my paper?" asked my buyer.

"Indeed."

"Top. I need these. Gonna pound later," and then he handed me money.

WTF? Am I so old I can't follow the colloquialism of an early 20's dude? Or, is it punk?  Wait - do they say kid now?

"I'm guessing you're happy to have this paper,"  I said pocketing the money.  "I don't know how many pounds it is, but we've only opened this one package so you've pretty much got 2 full reams."

He laughed.