Ms. cin’s scarf, autobiographical

The always impeccably dressed Ms. Cinderella did a load of blacks last night (laundry, not the oppressed minority.)  Brought them in, sorted them, hung the delicates up to dry. 
Among these delicates drying on a hanger in her front non-closet was her favorite black knitted shrug with the long black heavily fringed scarfy things that wrap around her neck and shoulders for warmth and also inconveniently fall into toilets, sinks, and wet puddles on the playground when she keels forward in convulsions of laughter and tears during Wednesday morning duty with the erudite and witty Sister del Sorro.
Cinderella understands the brooch as a concept yet does not put her mastery of the subject into practical application.
As it was a tad chilly this morning, she grabbed said shrug from the hanger in said non-closet on her way out the door in the early morning twilight to perform her job of adolescent psyche artiste.  She passed her day delivering the great wisdom of language and life she accumulated over the last close to four decades of her existence on her planet. 
In an even more stunning display of talent, she then remained in her studio until 6:30, interacted with the moderately literate (poverty is a harsh mistress) suppliers of her artistic medium,  discussed her (their progeny’s psyche artiste)  unfortunate shortcomings as an educator and human,  and pledged upon the life of her beloved 27 year old cat and her collection of vintage spike heeled patent leather pumps that she would give up any semblance of a personal life and fully commit herself to: writing grants to enrich the learning environment ; reading and heeding bourgeois, judgmental teacher manuals written by pompous condescending know -it -alls (who must be right due to the slightly too warm, syrupy, sticky, ooey gooey  superiority baby boomers and middle school administrators vehemently express during mandatory “book club” roundtables); scrubbing, sweeping, organizing, and polishing each surface, shelf, student, and paper clip within her jurisdiction;  devising, designing, and implementing the latest technological advancement/classroom management/character development hoo-ha;   remaining an educational website surfing, smart-board mastering, quiz grading, thematic unit planning, fear induced book clubbing, self-flagellating, hair shirt wearing insomniac martyr until their mouth-breathing, pencil breaking, paper shredding, gum chewing, ass grabbing, 92 IQ having sack of skin, bones, and stink makes the A in her class they know he would make if she wasn’t picking on him/her because “He/she’s shy.”
So in between these titillating and satisfying conversations and searching for the perfect wiggle dress at to go with the positively delectable black calfskin d’Orsay pumps with the crimson embroidered Chinese silk covered 5 inch spikes she won on e-bay, she took a few short walks around the perimeter of the school.  As it was still a tad brisk, she took her favorite black knitted wrap to block the cold.  Three or four times, wearing the fringy shrug, she passed through the halls crowded with parents desperately seeking a dose of the dumb ass shit curing pixie dust they’re convinced all teachers keep hidden in the deepest, darkest recesses of their least organized file cabinet (just behind the six pack of King Size Snickers and the fifth of Jack Daniels.)
For thirty whole minutes, wearing the shrug under bright fluorescent lights, she stood in the cafeteria directing parents to their desired destinations.  Through the office she passed; not once, not twice, (yes, wearing the favored black outerwear) but three times to go out to her car to pretend to look for something she needed to avoid being bothered by anyone at that particular moment.
6:30 came. 
“You ready to go, Sis?”  Del Sorro, her comadre, asks as she enters Cinderella’s now- devoid -of- miracle- cure seekers room (not, previously, were the academically and professionally subversive conversations held by these women  in between parent conferences, dress searching, and human avoiding, mentioned.  Those are for another time.) 
She pulled on and wrapped around her favorite black knitted scarfy shrug with the long fringe; packed up “her” laptop computer; grabbed her car keys out of and threw her cell phone into her butter soft, olive green leather memorably beer stained grand canyon of a handbag, and left the building with her sister from a different mister.
Plans were made. 
Parents and students were wished a pleasant evening. 
She drove home in the yellow Volkswagen bug with the bee-yotch sticker and the dash vase full of fake orange and yellow wildflowers she bought 3 years ago with her wedding/honeymoon deposit refund.  She stopped at the Korean liquor store on the way home for a cheap bottle of Pinot Noir.
She got home.  She fed the cats the frugally conserved last third of the last of three cans of Friskies’ salmon pate purchased at a convenience store during the previous week’s ice storm.  Cats swirled and whined. One side of her favorite black knitted scarfy shrug fringe fell into said Friskies’ salmon pate.  She picked a piece of pate out of the fabric and threw the beloved garment into the living room to rescue it from further salmon pate stench infection.  It landed on her blond wood 1960s sewing box. 
She poured a healthy share of pinot into a glass with a faded green and red image of the Virgin Mary that had once housed a prayer candle.  She grabbed three candles from her ice storm stash, placed them in the mismatched ceramic candlesticks by the TV and on the coffee table and lit them. She retrieved her glass of wine from the kitchen.  She took a relief giving sip and   looked towards the living room.  
 Against the soft light of three white candles and a 40 watt reading lamp with a beaded shade, a strange line of dull faded black erupted from the tips of the lush and nubby black fringe.
She panicked; terrified that she had damaged her beloved shrug due to her lack of ability to find any of the 10 lingerie bags her former roommate, Mer, had left when she, unfortunately, moved out. 
She managed to regain her composure long enough to reach for the garment to see if it was fixable damage.
What she felt was rougher than the soft fabric she had come to expect.  She untangled the interloper from the mass of black yarn.
“Jesus Fucking Murphy! 
She stared at the cloth in her hand.
“I was wondering where my black cotton thong went.”

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