Junk

     It's odd how I find a "junk drawer" (or basket in this case) such a comfort. It's this happy mix of memories, an embracing of the messy nature of life, and a truly great place to throw all that...well....junk...that just can't seem to find a home. So here is my junk basket. What's in this treasure trove?
     An old ski pass to Winter Park. Boy, what a goofy picture. We skied a lot that year and I actually started getting better at the bumps. On the Mary Jane side, when it's got some fresh snow, I meander through the trees near the top. There's not too much of a slope so the fresh snow slows me down just the right amount. And why the heck is there a whistle attached to the ring it's on?
     A pair of martini sunglasses. Why, every self respecting party-going girl needs a pair of these. I really like the lemon that hangs off one lens and the cherry off the other. Where's the olive, by jove? I wore these to a New Year's Eve party a few years back.
     To go along with the martini sunglasses, there's the impossible-to-find pair of snagglepuss fake teeth. Slip these in and you're a dead ringer for a cousin of the Clampetts. These were worn by my brother, John, at Noelia's graduation party. He dressed up as a cowboy (she was headed to U of Wyoming) and sang her a shady version of the school fight song, "Ragtime Cowboy Joe". Yeah, of course he did. He's my brother.
     And I know you're not gonna believe it, but I swear, it's true...there's also a potato gun in there. No, not a huge potato launcher. Silly. That's out in my garage. This is a "spud gun". You cram the front end of the gun into a potato. It takes a small chunk of potato into the barrel and upon pulling the trigger, it launches this tiny spudlet through the air to its certain victim. Louis and I bought them (yes, I have more than one, somewhere else, in another junk drawer in my house) to entertain a bunch of high school boys that were going to spend the night. They ran around in the dark, potato in one hand, spud gun in the other. In reality, they could be called "spud duds" as the piece of potato, at maximum launching distance, reached no more than a few feet. But it doesn't take much to entertain a bunch of goofy high school boys as long as there is lots in the fridge and they can fart with abandon.
     There are some CO2 cartridges that go with a fancy bike pump I used to have that fell off my bike one ride down the backside of Lookout Mountain. There's a few abandoned coins, an old phone charger, and three of Noelia's leftover senior pictures. There's even a Beverly Hills library card that I absconded from a friend that lived in Beverly Hills for a short while. I saw it in her purse one night when we were out. For some reason, the idea of going to the library in Beverly Hills made me laugh and snort and carry-on something fierce. Perhaps a few beers lubricated the situation, but I begged and begged her for it until finally she relented and let me have it.
     I've been digging down, pulling out one thing after another. And then I spot it. The most treasured thing of all in my junk basket. I know, the potato gun and martini glasses are pretty spectacular, but this, well this is truly unusual. In the bottom of my junk basket is.....drumroll please.....a remote control mouse!! It's a fuzzy, rather life like mouse on wheels. It has little beady eyes, some squat brown felt ears, and a tail that's a little too erect and too stubby to truly fool any self-respecting feline. But the real kicker is the remote. It's in the shape of a giant piece of cheese, the antenna sneaking out from the underside. The buttons are cute little circles with ridges that look exactly like....ritz bitz! Too cute for words! Delilah, my cat, is half entertained, half insulted for hours by this fake rodent, especially by high school boys who get bored with spud guns.
      So that's it. I guess as the saying goes, "What's one man's junk is another man's treasure." Or maybe, "What is one woman's junk, when looked at anew, becomes that same woman's treasure." Heck yeah!

Out of the Mouths of Babes

This post is in response to the Tootsie post by a fellow blogger. While in her classroom today, we got talking with the kids about how writers get ideas from other writers for ideas...so, point made!

I am always in a quandary about nail polish. On my fingers, I rarely wear it. On my toes, almost always. But it's a quandary because my feet, well.... they don't look so good. They are runner's feet. They've been abused by all the miles put on them. They are, simply put, not my best feature. So this is where the quandary comes in. If you polish the toenails of ugly feet, does it make them look better? Or does it simply draw more attention to those ugly feet so more people notice how ugly those ugly feet really are? This has always been the debate in my head. One day, I happen to share this internal debate with my first graders.

While reading aloud one day late in the year, I told the children to scoochie up close so they could really see the pictures. It was a warm spring day and I had some sassy capris and a new pair of black sandals, my toenails freshly painted. As the children came closer to hear the story, cute little Peyton was practically sitting in my lap. I start reading the book to the kids, encouraging them to read along, asking probing questions, doing all sorts of good teacherly strategies, when I look down and notice Peyton hasn't been paying attention at all. She's been sitting right there, front row seat, and has been completely distracted the entire time. What has she been looking at? My toes! My freshly pedicured cherry red toenails! I attempt to redirect her by dropping her name in the middle of the book. Momentarily it works and then, once again, her gaze drops down to my toes. After another attempt or two, I finally pause the book, my finger as a bookmark holding the page we were on.
I ask her, "Peyton, what on earth is so fascinating that you are looking at."
"Your toes. Your red, red toes."
I told her of my dilemma, about whether or not my battered dogs could really handle cherry red nail polish. I told her (and the rest of the class, now all of them also starring at my feet!) about how running was a great way to stay in shape but it was rough on my feet.
She looked up at me with her saucer brown eyes, and with all the love in her heart, she said in her slight lisp, "Mrs. A, your feet might look like hell, but the rest of your body looks faaaaa-buuuuu-lous!"
So there you go. Out of the mouths of babes. My feet do look like hell. Painted toenails or not. But for now, I'll just keep painting.

I've Been Thinking....

I've been doing a lot of thinking lately about aging. This is hard. Our world revolves around youth. And I am aging. My children have gone off to college, one is ready to graduate. I see wrinkles and age spots where they never were before. I can't sleep. Me, who has "always been a good sleeper" wakes up now for hours in the middle of the night. Though I workout almost daily, I have a little inner tube around my middle I've never had before. And my skin...it just h-a-n-g-s in places. I'm more distracted and easily forget and have to write lists for everything! It's not very glamorous getting older.

Surely, if our bodies and minds are slowly decaying, surely, surely, there has to be some benefits. I just can't buy into a God that would create us only to have vibrancy in our youth. So I've been doing a lot of thinking. I think we are created to have vibrancy in our bodies in our youth. Walking around proctoring tests these last two weeks has made me notice how absolutely beautiful children are. Their smooth unmarked skin, the satin shine of their hair, their sweet round faces. They grow up a bit to become juicy and curved young women or muscled, strong young men. But then life passes. We go to college, get married, have children. We tend to them instead of to ourselves. We worry. We have a little more money and eat a little better. We drink. A lot of beer but not enough water. Our metabolism changes. We get promotions and make more money which means more responsibilities. Not only are we now tending to our children, we are tending to increased demands at work and have even less time to tend to ourselves. It takes a toll. Life takes a toll on our bodies. 

But there has to be a flip side. Someone once asked me if I could go back to any time in my life and just relive it exactly the same way again, where would I go? After lots of thinking, I decided I'd rather just stay right here. In the present. In the learning of the day to day. I know so much more about being a human being now than I ever have in my entire life. I know more about being joyful, accepting my frailties, being kinder both to myself and others, about forgiveness and pleasure, how to really laugh at myself, how to yell a little less but embrace conflict a little more. I can appreciate the small things better than ever before. 

There is a sweet sadness about aging. I can never have that 'before time' again. But I can also embrace the journey that is life--all the learning still to do and all the ways it's so. much. easier. When you have the youth, the beauty, the physical strength, you lack the wisdom to appreciate it. When you lack the beauty, the strength, the youth, you gain the ability to see the how good it really all is--even in it's aged state. 

So, I've been thinking and I think it's really all about just savoring the moment, wherever in life that may be. 

A Limerick

Inspired by a limerick revolution happening at Thomson Elementary in celebration of St. Patty's Day....

There once was a girl that was spent.
Her get-up-and-go got up and just went,
With the best of intentions
To pen some inventions
To her bed she considered herself sent.

Distractions

Seeing that it is that time of year again...the season of testing, I thought I'd offer a few distractions for the weary test proctor:

How about a little manicure? 

Rub lotion all over your hands. Heavy, oily lotion. Rub your fingernails each individually, into the cuticle and the emerging hang nails. Give yourself a little hand massage, rubbing the fatty part of your palm and the outer fleshy part by the pinky. Squeeze each finger like a tube of toothpaste but give them a quick snap! at the end. Sneak a little lotion onto your wrists or even elbows. They'll thank you. Do this throughout the test. 

What students see? You wringing your hands with worry. They love and respect you and don't want you to worry. Result? They'll work harder. 

Try some balancing and core exercises to strength your abdomen and back. Stand on one foot and tighten all the muscles in that leg. The other leg appears to still be bearing weight but in reality is a few millimeters off the ground. Or how about little pliets to engage your glutes and inner thighs? It's all about small movements. Focus. Tighten. Release. Some tiptoe walking also is beneficial. It's almost skirt season, ladies. Those calf muscles will be toned and sculpted to look your summer best! 

What students see? Robotic movements that emphasize your inability to engage during the testing cycle. Students will become critical thinkers realizing that in no way can you answer any questions during the test.  

Could you make a list? Of chores to do? Ways to improve your house? Ways to improve your husband? Groceries to buy? Or how about reasons to go to therapy? Or avoid therapy? Or why you are who you are? Ponder and come up with lists. Gaze off and think deep and hard. Really reflect. A list (or two) is bound to makes it way around. 

What students see? A thoughtful teacher in a prayer-like stance wishing the very best from her students. A religious guilt will force students to go back and check their work IN THIS SESSION ONLY!

Consume large quantities of water. Take a sip. Wait ten seconds. Take a sip. Wait ten seconds. Take a long, slow mouthful and swish it around it your mouth until all the cold is gone. As the testing hour wanes, see if it takes less time for the water to go cold. Try this: see if you can get a bunch of water in your mouth, slowly lean your head back, and gargle but without making a sound. You have to be careful to only let one bubble up at a time. If you relax just a little too much, water will sneak down the back tube and a coughing fit will start. Which will then lead to a sneezing fit. Which will then lead to you having to blow your nose five or six times. Be careful if you decide to go with the water. 

What the students see? All that ruckus will be a sure signal to them to use all their test strategies like you practiced. All the clock checking and coughing will convince them you're sending them a covert message to hurry up--time's almost up!

This is a real win-win for students and proctors alike. Proctors are distracted during the monotony of testing and now have supple hands, strong core musculature, a list to make the world a better place, and are well hydrated. And students? Well, students work harder, become critical thinkers, go back and check their work, and manage their time better. Who can argue with that? 

A Yes-Girl

In the summer of 1979, I went on an adventure. I boarded a plane to Mexico City to live with a family for eight weeks. I was only fourteen. I didn't speak much Spanish, and I wanted more than anything to fit in. I decided right then and there, on that flight from Minneapolis to Mexico City, to be a yes girl. I would embrace adventure in whatever form it came!

When asked to go salsa dancing by the dorky cousin, I tried my best to keep my waist still and shake my non-existent hips. When offered a taste of sauteed caterpillars, I plugged my nose and chewed fast. When asked to sing "She'll Be Coming Round the Mountain" to my host sister, Monica's, English class, I belted one out. So, when Monica asked if I wanted to go to the Mexican Beauty Parlor, why would I say anything but, "Yes!" It was an adventure! 

After a hurried breakfast, we headed out to the busy streets of Mexico City. Monica and I had been heavy in the throws of a backgammon tournament over the last several days and at the time she was winning. She was taunting me with a devilish sort of grin in a Spanglish that I could mostly understand. "Ay, no te wooooory. Eet's jus' dat I am muy goood at Backgammo' and chu? Well, no tanto." 

Monica and I got along like spaghetti and meatballs. We just fit. We laughed about everything and never left each other's side all summer long. So there we were, bumbling down the sidewalk, the smell of diesel fuel bullying the air.  We meandered through broken sidewalks avoiding stray poles strangely broken off, street vendors selling baked goods or the famous chicle, little children singing, literally, for their supper, and of course, the sellers of the loteria, the state run lottery. We arrived noisily at the door of the beauty shop giggling and out of breath as only two fourteen year old girls can do. We were hushed as we entered by the stern matronly receptionist and after Monica chatted a moment with her in a Spanish I didn't understand, we were directed to some tattered, plastic covered chairs in a tiled-floor waiting area. Rancho music was playing a little too loudly for me to fully make out what Monica said except for the last part when she said, "Pero, no te preocupes. Lo hacen con mucho cuidado." (Don't worry. They do it carefully.) Whatever it was that they were gonna do, I remember my yes-girl motto and just smiled nervously. As long as I was with Monica, everything had to be okay. 

After a few minutes we were called to the back room behind the curtain. Behind the curtain. Why would we need to go behind a curtain? The beautician and Monica were having a conversation back and forth and then looked at me and said something about the "gringilla" (the little American girl). 

Monica said, "Si, ella tambien." (Yes, her too.) 

Monica took off her shirt and motioned for me to do the same. What in the heck were we doing? 

The woman started stirring a coffee can with a short wooden spoon and said, "Si, esta lista. A quien le toca primero?" (Who's going first?) 

I was relieved when Monica said she'd go first. The lady came over with the coffee can wrapped in a towel, dipped the wooden spoon in and came out with a thick sticky substance. I watched in complete fascination as the woman slid the hot substance over Monica's armpit. Monica winced a little at the heat. The woman smoothed the sticky substance out, blowing on it a bit. Then she patted a little, picked a little corner, said, "Uno, dos, y....tres!" At the moment of "tres", she ripped the substance off of Monica's now bright red armpit and a huge, "Yeooowwwww!" erupted from Monica, followed by a small smile. She proceeded to have the same done to the other armpit, the used wax making a little mound on a nearby table. 

"Don' woooorry, Leeeesa. Eet not hurt tooo bad." 

Waxing our pits? Is that what we're doing? I was just getting over the trauma of watching my friend scream in pain when I looked over to see the beautician getting ready for my turn. She simultaneously stirred the coffee can (which she had now put back on the heat) while pinching the used wax she had so mercilessly pulled from Monica carefully between the long painted fingernails on her middle finger and thumb. I couldn't take my eyes off her. Stirring, stirring, stirring. And then, quick as wink, she dropped the used wax back into the coffee can! My mind began to race. "Gross! Gross! Oh my goodness, if she dropped her wax back in, who else's has she dropped back in? What other person's armpit hair is in there mixed around and awaiting arrival on my virgin pits? I can't do this! I can't do this!" I look over at Monica hoping for a rescue. Surely she just saw what I saw and will figure a graceful way out of here. But instead, she just smiles and says, "Don't wooooorry, Leeesa." So, do I say no? No. I am the yes-girl. My motto was yes. So, I swallow hard, close my eyes, and feel the hot, dirty wax as it is smothered on my pits. 

It was adventure. A real adventure. I learned a lot. Especially to ask a few more questions before I said, "Yes." 

I Got Nothin'

I got nothin'.
Absolutely nothin'.
I don't wanna write about bike accidents or car accidents or accidents of the pee-pee kind.
I don't wanna write about stealing candy from the drug store or egging the neighbors or smoking in the backyard.
I don't wanna write about throwing crabapples at cars from my friend's roof or hiding from the police or skipping school to ride a bus downtown.
No stories about capturing baby raccoons and bringing them home or squeezing woodticks on the dog.
No stories about snowball fights ending in bloody noses or farting on siblings on long car trips or fish that died or escaped pet iguanas.
I just don't wanna write.
I can't think of nothin'.
Cause I got nothin'.
Nothin' at all.

The Carnivore

I'm not really a meat and potatoes kind of girl. I never have been. Many years of my life I spent being a virtual vegan--no animal products at all. It was motivated by wanting to live a healthier life style but also about a conviction that we can solve world poverty if we just stop using so much land to raise cattle and instead use it to raise grains. At that time in my life I was putting in a lot of miles running and cycling and my body finally said, "Enough!" After a torn achilles, several torn hamstrings, and a serous come-to-Jesus-meeting by my physical therapist about needing more fats and proteins in my diet, I cast all noble thoughts of banishing world poverty aside, and I became a carnivore! Oh lovely meat, how I missed you so! Steak and potatoes, hot dogs with relish, chicken thighs with the fatty skin baked on! Quiches with sausage and breakfast burritos with chorizo and BLT's stacked high. Life as a carnivore was glorious.

After my plummeting fall off the wagon of vegetarianism and my rampage through the meat aisles at Whole Foods, the pendulum finally came to rest somewhere in the middle. I am now at peace with my meat-eating ways. I am no longer a vegetarian. But I also do not fill my plate daily with meat. But on occasion, not truly very often, I indulge. And when I indulge, I savor every last morsel.

So tonight, what's for dinner? Beef! My plate sits before me with a lovely grilled ribeye (Laura's lean, to pander to my healthy leanings), some slightly crispy roasted fingerling potatoes with olive oil, fresh dill, and sea salt, and a red leaf lettuce salad with red peppers, green onions, a sprinkle of goat cheese,  and anjou pear slices on top. Once again proving a balanced life is better! Better tasting, that is!

 Bon appetit!

One? or Two?

Why is it that when I go to the eye doctor, I always feel like I'm about nine? Today, I accompanied Steve while he went to get laser surgery done to repair a torn retina. We arrived at the doctor's office a few minutes early, checked in, filled out the necessary paperwork, and took a seat in the waiting area. After a few minutes, we were called back. I decided to join Steve in the examination room prior to surgery. The assistant began by doing a quick vision test on Steve. You know the rigmarole. She handed him a black paddle and instructed him to cover his right eye and read the smallest line of letters he could make out.

"A...Z...G...E...3"

"Good. How about the smallest line on this screen?"

"F...B? No....D? I'm not really sure. I can read the O. That is an O, right? And then C. And 6. Or is that a G? Gol, I'm not really sure."

I sat there listening, looking at the letters, with both eyes squinting, and I began mouthing the letters at him. "No, you were right the first time. It was a B. B! Yes! You got it! Yes! It's an O! Good job. Keep going!" I go on like this for awhile, ever present with him during this "exam". I want to rescue him from the total embarrassment, the utter discomfort of not being able to read the letters. It's my duty to help him. We're gonna have to cheat. I can't let him fail. Finally my mouthing becomes whispering which turns into an full out-loud, "G! Yes, yes! It's a G! A G!"

The room stops dead. The assistant turns around and gives me dagger eyes. Steve looks at me with this, "What the hell, Lisa?" look. And then all of a sudden I become aware of my actions. Am I really trying to help my boyfriend cheat on his eye exam? Silenced and in shame, I sit back. I was only trying to help. I couldn't let him fail. And then I remember that we are well beyond the fourth grade and Mrs. Sands, my fourth grade teacher, is no where to be seen. I can rest easy. I am no longer nine.

My Mind Wanders

My mind floats free when I"m riding. The warm weather lured me into a hooky attitude and I snuck out of school by three-thirty. I was home, spandex on, tires pumped, water bottles filled, and off on a ride by four. Riding is the place where my mind wanders. The repetitive motion of my legs, the steady audible in-and-out breathing create a trance like state for my mind. It's meditative. I think of nothing and everything all at once. It goes a lot like this:

I'm cold. Should've worn a heavy shirt. No, it's okay, I just need to ride a bit and I'll warm up.

Did I pump the tires enough? One of them seems like it's rubbing a little. I better get it into the shop to have the full spring tune-up.

God, what a beautiful day. I'm so lucky to be out here. I feel so strong. That winter time on the spin bike has helped. I think this year won't be such a miserable transition to up my miles.

Whoa! Dog! There are a lot of dogs out today. I miss my Ringo. And I feel guilty. I feel so guilty. I am out here riding and I probably wouldn't be if Ringo were still here. I'd be walking him. But I do like the freedom. I feel bad to even say it but the freedom is, well, free-ing.

Oh good. I am warming up. I even need to pull up my sleeves. Is my blubber hanging over my shorts a little? I think so. Oh God. I can't really look but when I feel my stomach, it feels softer than it should. A little roll over the edge. Damn that extra slice of pizza last night. Why do I complain about the muffin top when I, without thought, inhaled that extra piece of pizza last night? I only regretted it. Oh well. Keep riding. That'll help.

The mountains look so beautiful in the distance. The snow-capped peaks with the sun sneaking through the clouds....I am giddy with the anticipation that summer is coming. I love summer. I love being able to be lazy and ride a hundred miles all in one day. Sleep in, leisurely drink coffee, peruse a magazine, enjoy a chapter in my book, and then, only when I'm ready, I go off and ride. All. Day. Long.

Oh look! All these backyards butt up against a park. Wouldn't that be a great place to raise children? I always wanted something like that for Louis and Noelia. When we'd have snow days, they would've been able to go out in the park, like an extended back yard, and build igloos and snowmen and tunnel. Louis used to love to tunnel. He'd sit out there in his little snowsuit, bring a bag lunch with a little thermos with hot cocoa. He'd even beg to spend the night out there and that's when I'd have to put my foot down. Or maybe join him? And in the summer, they could swing with friends, play a game of soccer or football, have a lemonade stand along the path, run with the dog....and then, all of a sudden, a sadness so overwhelming envelopes me. I can't breathe. I really can't breathe. I have to stop for a minute. Sadness about never giving that to my children. The perfect little life. The snowmen and hot cocoa and extended backyard with friends. I will never be able to give that to them. Ever. My chance is gone. They are grown up. Gone. Their father and I divorced. A strain of sadness is now so intermixed in their childhood that even the happy memories get intermingled with a nostalgia and doubt that they were ever truly happy memories. I am standing on the bike path straddling my bike and I am crying. Divorce sucks.

I manage somehow to get back on the bike, slow at first, and then the rhythm of my legs and breath bring me back to my meditation.

Life is so curious. I am so happy and so sad all at the same moment. Life is so good. My children are healthy and happy and growing into amazing and interesting adults. Stevie is my rock and I have a deep contentment about us. My job is equally satisfying and challenging.

But the sadness has a loud voice too. The failed marriage. The demons that continue to haunt. My father's death. The many ways I fall short. The continual disappointments. My insecurities that I pay too much brain rent to. The fears that hold me back.

Life is so curious. It is like a bike ride. It wanders and meanders and floats. Like my thoughts. On a bike ride. On a warm Tuesday afternoon.

Priorities

I made a New Year's Resolution this year to get more sleep. I decided it would be a priority--over exercise, over work, over laundry and a clean house. I knew the very best way to take care of me was to get enough sleep.

So that's what I'm going to do.

Right now.

Good night.

::::::slight chuckle here::::::::

The Bagel Deli

Five reasons to make your way to the Bagel Deli:

1. If you're a lox lover, this is the place to come. Lox, an onion bagel, a slice of tomato, cucumber, an olive or two and a few capers and you have a Sunday morning delight. Its deliciousness is down right redonkulous!

2. The people: wow! What an interesting assortment of people are seen on a Sunday morning. There are families with small children with their sippy cups and chubby legs. There are skinny little old ladies in swanky sweat suits with long gray hair and too much makeup, even false eyelashes, faint shadows of their younger selves. The old men reading newspapers with unkempt hair enjoying a second or third cup of coffee are always sitting in a booth or table alone. The 30-something lovebirds who whisper and giggle and only have eyes for each other. The successful businessman in his Sunday casual and his attractive wife with a child home from college in tow. A group of racuous couples sharing funny stories from their youth. The wait staff that move about swiftly, the kitchen staff that are shouting orders and racing about, the woman who owns the place taking names at the front and shuffling people in and out in a semi-orderly manner. All the people coming to eat. Busy, busy, busy.

3. One of the best parts of going to the bagel deli with Steve is the way we get to slide in a booth side-by-side. We always do, even if we're alone. We order coffee, eat our food, read a little of the paper, engage in chit-chat about the week's event or funny things about the previous day. I love how Steve will show his tender side with me: rub my back, hold my hand, touch my leg, tell me in his sing-song way, "I loooove you" all while we're just kind of semi-present to each other. It's this kind of non-communion communion. Bring a loved one with you and slide in the same side of the booth. You'll be amazed at how romantic a nosh it is.

4. The schmoozing.... there's schmoozing with the owner to get a table quickly. Talk, talk, talk. There's hellos and hands shaken on the way in. Chit chat and more chit chat. The, "How's your mother feeling?" and "I heard your daughter got into law school!" and "Congrats on the big win!" There's chatter with family that comes to join us for Sunday breakfast: Steve's mom joins us regularly and regales us with details about the grandchildren and her latest book group meeting and recent charity event. Smiles abound and the chat factor is huge in this friendly deli. Knowing that I need to speak at least five thousand words a day makes me feel right at home.

5. And last, but probably the most obvious reason: the bagels themselves. They are crispy on the outside, soft on the inside. So good.  And all the choices: everything and onion  and salt and potato, rye and pumpernickel and raisin and sourdough. So very good. 'Nuf said.

So, if a Sunday morning arrives and you're hankering a little Big Apple experience here in the Mile High City, I'd highly recommend a visit to the Bagel Deli. Bring your lover, order some lox and an onion bagel, schmooze a bit, and enjoy. You won't be disappointed.

The Coffee Gang

I am a person who thrives in rountine and yet every ounce of my being resists routine. I get bored. I get ansy. I crave change. And yet I know, if I just keep a routine, life is better. Maybe this is why I so enjoy being with Steve. Steve lives a routine, especially on Saturdays, that is highly predictable. Coffee at Kaladi's. Coffee with a group of friends that have been coming to Kaladi's every Saturday for the past number of years. When Steve and I first start dating, he told me about his Saturday routine. After awhile, I was invited to join in and meet the "gang". Ever since, every chance I get, I go to Kaladi's on Saturday too. I say it's because of the great coffee. (They do have the best latte in the city, hands down.) But really, it's about the cameraderie, the predictableness of the gang.

There's Anita, queen of the coffee gang, who got the whole thing started. She half Austrian, half Indian and critical of all things American. She's opiniated, hot-blooded, and incredibly loveable. Some how, she draws you in and tells you stories about her life you can't believe, all the while slipping in a critical opinion of a politician, fellow coffee companero, or her son. The two best things about Anita are her blueberry torte and her husband Ken.

Ken, husband to Anita, is an even keeled psychiatrist who sits proudly by Anita's side, occasionally shaking his head and smiling at his loose-lipped wife. The nuggets of wisdom that emerge from Ken fall seldom enough for me to really take notice when they do. He is a gentle, kind man that left to his own devices, would probably be a total bore. Hence, his marriage to Anita.

Then there's Nevin. Nevin is a five-foot-two Jewish guy who is as neurotic as George Costanza on Seinfeld. A devout bachelor, Nevin always has the same drink every Saturday morning, he is always there first to save the table, and he has a passion to polish rocks. (Yes, rocks! Turquoise to be exact!) But of all of the gang, Nevin is my favorite. Why? Because when discussing his failure with online dating one time, Steve and I told him of our success, and his response was, "Yeah, well of course Steve thinks eharmony is great. Steve won the fucking lottery, Lisa!" How could I not love a guy that says that about me?

Mike and Cindy are regulars at coffee too. Mike and Cindy. Cindy and Mike. They are inseparable. Mike is a tightly wound oil "land man" and Cindy is his sudoku-loving Chinese girlfriend. Not sure whether its a language proficiency thing, pure personality, or a cultural phenomenon, but Cindy almost never talks or engages in conversation at all. Mike does all the talking for the two of them but they are never apart. I mean never. Maybe it's true love or maybe it's just disfunctional co-dependency at its finest.

There's James, the british comedian. He's not truly a comedian, but he tells a lot of jokes that I find hilarious. Occasionally he'll sing a song. Occasionally I'll sing with him. He's jovial and just a helluva a lot of fun. After the death of his father, he started a non-profit to teach Alzeimers's patients how to play croquet with his organization called Jiminy Wicket. He's a truly good chap.

Julia is a sassy Russian woman who at times, can come to coffee looking a little ragged around the edges. I found out why one night when Steve and I went out dancing with her and I tried to match her shot for shot. I found out exactly how foolish I was later that night when I was hugging the toilet in Steve's hallway bathroom. She's beautiful. And she wants a baby. She announces that regularly. Even when you first meet her. I think that might be why despite her winning personality and her beautiful smile, the boys run.

Other regulars are JoAnn, an unhappy multi-millionaire and her boyfriend Peter who visits occasionally from Denmark. Jeffery, the well-heeled preppy real-estate developer and Norma, a Peruvian woman who interprets for Social Services in Denver.

They are all different, yet individually the same in their predictableness. I can always count on Anita to shock and Ken to smooth the ruffled feathers. I can count on Nevin to have a table saved and James to have a good joke for us. Julia will be there and so will JoAnn. They'll all be there. Every Saturday morning. All though I can't join them all the time, I know, if I'm available, they'll be there. Drinking coffee at Kaladi's. Every Saturday morning. It's a routine that works when I let it.

At the Cabin in Wisconsin

a hammock by the lake
swaying
back and forth
back and forth
the water laps the shore
small splashes, echoes of a gentle breeze's push
a foot dangling
over the side
a big toe
catching a drink

dragon fly buzzes
                buzzes
stops
breathes
waits
then off again

long blonde hair
craving a brush
messed by resting
on the swaying hammock

a day of pure laziness
in a hammock
by the lake

Spring is in the Air!

It's that time of year when you can start to feel it in the air. There's a certain warmth to the wind. A musty odor of thawing leaves. Small splotches of grass beginning to poke through. Sprinkler systems sputtering out their first spray of the season. Bully winter starts to soften  it's stance and allows spring to nudge its way in. Nothing makes me happier than spring!

For whatever reason, principals get a little fire drill happy in spring. Maybe it's because for months, the weather has been too unpredictable and our emergency readiness skills are waning. Maybe it's because they just want to give weary teachers a forced break to get out and enjoy a moment of much needed sun. Maybe it's just a weird ego trip that principals go on that gives them pleasure to watch four hundred children lined up silently, anxiously awaiting that bell that lets them know all is clear and they can re-enter the building. Whatever the reason, there are more fire drills in more schools in more cities in the months of March, April, and May than there are any other time of year.

It was a one of those days in spring when I was teaching 1st grade that the principal came around announcing that the entire school staff should be prepared to have a fire drill at 2:05 p.m. I readied myself--sunglasses out on my desk, emergency clipboard ready to go, math lesson perfectly timed to be cleaned up at the onset of the dreaded raging, "BZZZZZZZZZ!" I took advantage of a distracted child's comment during math to surreptitiously meander the conversation around to fire drill etiquette by a few well planted hints about emergencies. I was prepared to be far out on the hill alongside the north side of the building faster than my teammates. In the spring, when you don't have enough time to grab your coat, fire drills can be a bit tortuous. The sun shines but there's still a breeze and standing there with twenty five teeth-chattering, goose-bumped six year olds was not my idea of fun. If I could get there with my class first, there was a spot on the hill barely big enough for us that the sun hit just right and I knew it would be warm in the spring sunshine. Even if there was a slight breeze, it would still be warm. We had to be ready! We had to get there first!

2:05 on the dot. "BZZZZZZZZZZZZ!" The alarm sounded. Like dutiful little soldiers, my class lined up and marched outside in perfect step. I grabbed my clipboard and sunglasses and led the outside. Silent except for the muffled sound of tennis shoes on cement, we started towards the hill. Jeremy held the door for his classmates, Susana turned out the lights and closed the classroom door and joined the back of the line. No one said a word. No one dared to. We were out in record time and made it to the coveted spot of sunshine on the hill. We were grateful for the small amount of warmth it offered as we looked over at the other classes, children rubbing their arms and bouncing in place to stay warm. I had the class turn around and face the building, staying in their perfectly erect little line, demanding their silence when even a slight peep could be heard. I began the usual routine of calling roll, making sure no one was left behind in the bathroom or out in the hall getting a drink.

"Devynn?"
"Here!"
"Frankie?"
"Here!"
"Mario?"
"Here!"
"Sebastian?"
"Here!"

It was right after Sebastian's name that I heard a slight gurgle, then a sound like the hissing of air from a balloon. And then, a full out squeal, followed by other louder squeals, followed by an icy splash of cold water on my face, then a spray of water across my pants, my shirt, my hair. It finally dawned on me what was happening. In the same way that our beloved principal played out his spring fever with the fire drill, the city of Westminster celebrated spring with a test to the park's sprinkler system. Children were screaming, running amok. Students from other classes were squealing with delight at the sight. A few brave yahoos from other classes deciding to join in the fun and randomly go awol to dart through the sprinkler. We were like ants escaping from a stirred up anthill--complete and total chaos ensued!

Twenty-five-soaked-bodies and a flat-hairdo-for-me later, it was like herding cats to get the students reassembled. A few would join me, then race off again screaming. The laughing was uncontrollable, the squealing unmatched, the teeth chattering almost audible. When I finally managed to wrangle them all together again to do another roll call, we were standing in the shade of a big tree and our blue lips and goosebumps gave hint to physical torment we were under. Only a careful bystander would notice though. What everyone saw when they looked in our direction was complete and utter joy. We were full on belly laughing and only paused when the bell rang to give us the "all clear" signal. As we made our way back into the building, our line a little less erect, the students definitely not silent, I was reminded again--oh how I love spring!