>Triple Grande 140 Degree No Foam Cinnamon Dolce Latte With Caramel On The Whip

(In honor of my baby sister’s birthday, today. I love you, sweetie!)

The coffee shop is packed, as usual.
I shake the wind out of my overcoat as I scan the throng around the counter for the end of the line.
Spiky-haired, strategically pierced baristas dart back and forth behind pastry-filled glass in a symphony of efficiency, delivering my order in quick time.
Hurriedly stowing my change in the pocket of my coat, I pivot carefully to avoid sloshing, and silently thrill at the sight of an empty black tabletop just a couple of feet away. Sliding sideways between a pair of large men waiting to add cream and sugar, I reach the table, coming face to face with another equally thrilled patron. Our faces fall, in tandem.
“Oh, that’s ok, you take it.”, I offer, turning slightly.
He hesitates just a moment before setting his cup on the black lacquered surface. I hear the rustling of fabrics as I begin a new search.
“There are three chairs…” he offers, removing his coat to drape it over the back of one of them.
I look down at them. He is right. There are three.
I raise an appreciative smile to his statement of the obvious before placing my cup across from his.
“Thank you.”
I move the chair slightly to ensure I am out of the way of those at the next table, which is only inches away and fully occupied, before sitting. My overcoat parts as I cross my legs and bend to reach into the bag I placed at my feet. I sip as I read my list, doing a mental tally of the time required to complete my day.
In my periphery, the man continues to stand and though I’m not looking at him, I am aware that he is removing something sweet and gooey from a small, white paper bag. He sits the pastry, still nestled inside it’s wax paper sheath, in the center of the table.
A tug of my dangling foot draws my attention to the fact that the heel of my shoe is entangled in a swath of brightly colored fabric fashioned into a skirt and worn by a large woman attempting to squeeze between the tables. I grab for my shoe as she turns with a frown.
“Sorry”, I mutter sheepishly.
She reaches to loosen herself, gracing me with a smile.
“Oh, that’s ok, honey. This place is a zoo!”
“Join us?” It is the man speaking.
She looks around the crowded shop for just a moment before sighing, heavily.
“Well, sure. Why not?” Removing her coat requires more space than is available and I struggle to hide my amusement as a button from her sleeve slides into another patron’s hair and, as she turns to apologize, her ample hips threaten to upset our table.
“There!” She heaves a sigh as she swallows a chair.
We sip quietly.
“It’s my birthday.” The man, again.
“Really? Well, isn’t that nice!” The woman’s voice is louder.
Three pairs of stranger’s eyes meet at the pastry-filled center of the table.
“Anyone for cake?” he asks.
My eyes meet his in surprise, before seeking hers in question.
“Just a minute, honey.” The table sways, again, as the woman maneuvers to retrieve her large handbag. “My husband used to say I carried everything but the kitchen sink in this thing. Give me a second.”
An unsuspecting passer-by catches an elbow to the back as she rifles through the bag, industriously.
“There!”, she says again as she produces a single yellow birthday candle from the morass. Reaching for her napkin, she slides it over the wax before burying the tip of the candle into his pastry.

I steal a glance at the man whose face, again, mirrors mine, with large eyes, and the slightly parted lips of wonder.
The woman slings her gaze upon both of us in one movement before laughing, merrily.
“It’s your birthday, honey! Make a wish!”

Sunrise

The sun rises slowly.

As she bravely shows her majestic head,

she warms, first, the lowest and darkest parts of our landscape.

And, if I am present…if I pay attention, I can see the warmth build as it is accepted.

I can watch, and marvel, that the sensation becomes a living thing, all it’s own,

as she is joined in her efforts by those she has touched.

>Sunrise

>
The sun rises slowly.

As she bravely shows her majestic head,

she warms, first, the lowest and darkest parts of our landscape.

And, if I am present…if I pay attention, I can see the warmth build as it is accepted.

I can watch, and marvel, that the sensation becomes a living thing, all it’s own,

as she is joined in her efforts by those she has touched.

Unmade…

Fourth grade boys chase girls.

Hence, I spent most of the 4th grade running in large circles around the playground with a group of five or six girls who had innocently, yet proudly, dubbed themselves “The Cool Kids”.

Boys, being male, even in the 4th grade, found themselves strangely attracted to this group of girls with nothing to recommend them besides the braces their parents’ income had lovingly screwed onto their teeth, and a cool club name.

By the 5th grade, the boys had ceased their chasing, and had, instead, begun to study these strange creatures in an effort to understand what it was they had been chasing, in the first place. This reticence on the part of “older” boys is, in my opinion, what forces girls to resort to plan B. In my case, this involved make-up.

A couple of years ago, as I sat in the lobby of a big box restaurant, waiting for my sisters to join me for our monthly “sister’s day”, I was shocked, and admittedly fascinated, by the sight of a child no older than six parading back and forth in front of me, in full, glittering make-up, skin-tight blue jeans, and high heels. She held a fancy cellphone between her delicate, manicured fingers as she chatted with a friend while waiting for a table by pacing the clay tiles under our feet.

This was not my reality. In my time, a simpler time, mothers didn’t allow their girls to paint their prepubescent faces. But girls, being girls, are always able to find a way around an obstacle as simple as parental restrictions. My friend, Melody, and I scratched and saved to buy apple-green or sky-blue eyeshadow, and tubes of sticky, roll-on, fruit-flavored, lip-gloss that we then hid away inside our newly acquired and ever-present purses.

We left home pure, and freshly-scrubbed, and before the first bell sounded, we had completed yet another masterpiece. We raced towards homeroom, batting green and blue eyelids at one another, secure in the knowledge that we were cunning, and smart, and worldly, and beautiful!

I’ve since lost track of Melody. But, I know that wherever she is, she is painted. I know this, because I am.

Or, I was.

“Monday, Monday, can’t trust that day…”

As I finished dressing, I swallowed the handful of herbs and vitamins that constitute breakfast and reached below the vanity for my paintbox. Half bent, in full swing, I caught my image in the large mirror over the sink. I rose, slowly, and looked; really looked. And, I made a decision.

I closed the cabinet beneath the sink with a decided thud, turned out my bedside lamp, and left the bedroom, unpainted.

Today is the fourth day in a row that I have taken on the world clean-faced. Today is also the first day I began to wonder, “Why?”.

My wardrobe remains unchanged. It occurs to me that my middle-aged, unpainted face and wild, unkempt hair, may appear incongruous above my Vera Wang blouse, pencil skirt, and stiletto heels.

So, why?

As I walked into the office this morning, I had regained my spring…and my smile, sans lipstick. As I talked with clients, my leg still swung irreverently beneath the desk in time to our banter, and I worked it, sans mascara. All day, without the mask, I’ve felt strangely attractive and wild; more so than in a very long time….

Many different answers have pinged against the sides of my head since the question was asked:

I work in an office replete with people I have known for most of my life, most of whom come to work every day wearing the face God gave them. Why bother?

I subscribe to a blog, in which the writer presents herself fresh from sleep every morning. I am inspired by these images; their raw honesty, their bravery, and their beauty.

I am raw. I am fresh. I am coming clean. I am starting over.

I am happy.

>Unmade…

>
Fourth grade boys chase girls.

Hence, I spent most of the 4th grade running in large circles around the playground with a group of five or six girls who had innocently, yet proudly, dubbed themselves “The Cool Kids”.

I’ve since lost track of Melody. But, I know that wherever she is, she is painted. I know this, because I am.

Or, I was.

“Monday, Monday, can’t trust that day…”

I closed the cabinet beneath the sink with a decided thud, turned out my bedside lamp, and left the bedroom, unpainted.

Today is the fourth day in a row that I have taken on the world clean-faced. Today is also the first day I began to wonder, “Why?”.

My wardrobe remains unchanged. It occurs to me that my middle-aged, unpainted face and wild, unkempt hair, may appear incongruous above my Vera Wang blouse, pencil skirt, and stiletto heels.

So, why?

Many different answers have pinged against the sides of my head since the question was asked:

I work in an office replete with people I have known for most of my life, most of whom come to work every day wearing the face God gave them. Why bother?

I subscribe to a blog, in which the writer presents herself fresh from sleep every morning. I am inspired by these images; their raw honesty, their bravery, and their beauty.

I am raw. I am fresh. I am coming clean. I am starting over.

I am happy.

Sunday Best

“So, are you cooking dinner Sunday night?”

The question was random, at best.

“Uh…no. It doesn’t make much sense to do that for just the two of us. I stopped doing that a long time ago, just about the same time you stopped eating it…”

The expected, angled for, and, yet, still uncomfortable silence fell.

“What if I said I would be there? Would you cook dinner?”

It was a tradition I had insisted upon. One of the few. A Sunday night dinner, during which every family member actually sat in a chair at the dinner table until everyone had finished eating.

Good music played, softly, and all manner of utensils were in attendance, from salad forks, to dessert spoons. It was to be served family style, and southern, from it’s menu to the cadence in the conversation.

And, conversation was key. It was a time to catch up on the week and set the tone for the week to come; a bonding time, a loving time, one on one time, with no distractions.

Several different answers compete in my head, ranging from the acidly sarcastic, “Well, why didn’t you SAY so! Of course, I’ll slave over a hot stove for hours, as long as YOU are there.”, to, “Well, I don’t know, I kinda had plans…”, to what eventually stammered from my mouth on a wave of trepidation, “Ok”.

I seasoned the chops, and moved about the kitchen in time to personally chosen music piped in through the tiny speakers in my ears. I peeled potatoes, before chopping them into boiling water, and I searched my pantry for a known favorite; crowder peas.

As the song ended, I realized the telephone was ringing, and danced across stone tiles to answer it.

“Hey, whatcha’ doin’”, my oldest son always insists on knowing what I am doing before stating the purpose of his call.

“Cooking dinner, you?”

“Cooking…I’m frying chicken. I was wondering….do you dunk in the egg first, and then the flour, or the other way around?” Cooking questions are not unusual. All my boys cook. I insisted upon it.

“Wow! You are brave!” I said. “I don’t even fry chicken. Well, I will, after I’ve beaten it to a pulp, so that it’s flat, and I’m sure the inside will cook. And, of course, I spice it up and add a little parmesan. I’ve got that recipe. You want it?”

“No. I’ve got skinless breasts.” We paused to consider his statement. “Why don’t you fry chicken?”

“Because, I never get the inside done. And, besides, you can get good fried chicken most anywhere. It’s just easier to buy it…”

“Oh.”, he paused. “Well, Heather will be home in about an hour, and I have to have supper on the table. What if I cut them in half?”

A picture of my beautiful son, wrapped in an imaginary apron, filled my head. His face shone, like the sun, as his beautiful Native American girlfriend entered the house after a long day of crunching numbers.

And, I felt pride.

I felt success.

I felt that something I had insisted upon, mattered.

Years of Sunday dinners had left my son with an obligation to provide. And, as his love labored, he stayed behind and created an environment of caring and nourishment, with no thoughts to traditional roles, or pride, or selfishness.

Somewhere, there was a football game on television, but my son had shut off his TV, to strap on an apron and carry on a tradition of bonding and loving.

“Dunk once in the flour, then in the egg, and then, again, in the flour.” I said through my smile. “And don’t forget the salt and pepper!”

>Sunday Best

“So, are you cooking dinner Sunday night?”

The question was random, at best.

“Uh…no. It doesn’t make much sense to do that for just the two of us. I stopped doing that a long time ago, just about the same time you stopped eating it…”

The expected, angled for, and, yet, still uncomfortable silence fell.

“What if I said I would be there? Would you cook dinner?”

It was a tradition I had insisted upon. One of the few. A Sunday night dinner, during which every family member actually sat in a chair at the dinner table until everyone had finished eating.

And, conversation was key. It was a time to catch up on the week and set the tone for the week to come; a bonding time, a loving time, one on one time, with no distractions.

As the song ended, I realized the telephone was ringing, and danced across stone tiles to answer it.

“Hey, whatcha’ doin’”, my oldest son always insists on knowing what I am doing before stating the purpose of his call.

“Cooking dinner, you?”

“No. I’ve got skinless breasts.” We paused to consider his statement. “Why don’t you fry chicken?”

“Because, I never get the inside done. And, besides, you can get good fried chicken most anywhere. It’s just easier to buy it…”

“Oh.”, he paused. “Well, Heather will be home in about an hour, and I have to have supper on the table. What if I cut them in half?”

And, I felt pride.

I felt success.

I felt that something I had insisted upon, mattered.

Somewhere, there was a football game on television, but my son had shut off his TV, to strap on an apron and carry on a tradition of bonding and loving.

“Dunk once in the flour, then in the egg, and then, again, in the flour.” I said through my smile. “And don’t forget the salt and pepper!”

Love Me…Please!!!!

For almost a year now, I have subscribed to an online community of baby-boomers. I was drawn, originally, by the writing groups, one of which actually held writing competitions in which a published author critiqued pieces, constructively. I got really jazzed when she pointed up something she liked about what I had written, and though I never actually won “first prize”, I always placed…

As time went on, I began to explore the site more deeply and came to enjoy many other groups, which also offered me the opportunity to spread my wings. I would browse the questions, and delve into any subject I found of interest without thought to what someone might think, or expect. I have, over time, received many “kudos” and “friend requests”, and have come to know many people on varying levels.

Today, as I entered the site and browsed the topics, I found myself hesitant to answer a question. I was intrigued, and had a ready answer, but after I typed it, I hesitated. I found myself thinking, what will “they” think? In a characteristic reaction of rebellion, I posted my answer. But the question remains…

I have tossed it around all day.

This is what I have come up with…

I am a free spirit. In my “real” life, I am a “live and let live” kind of person. What you see is what you get. If you like it, that’s great! If you don’t, and decide to keep moving, then that’s ok, too. Our time here is too short to spend great amounts of time and energy on something as simple as human relationships. If you don’t like what I have to offer, chances are, there is someone more to your liking just around the bend, and I encourage you to keep walking. I’ll even show you the way!

A forced relationship, in which you feel you have to adhere to someone else’s standard isn’t real, and, thus, a waste of valuable time.

I have a couple of handfuls of friends, to whom, I feel real obligation, and many, many acquaintances, who I enjoy, but, from whom, I entertain no particular burden.

Over the last year, I have engaged in an exchange of ideas with people with whom I have in common a market share, and I have come to value them.

What I have discovered is that, on many levels, I value them as much, or more than. people I see, and speak to, and share air with, every day. With this esteem comes obligation, as in any relationship, and what they think of me has become important. I no longer participate in an open forum with a group of herded strangers. I have uncovered personalities. I am aware of expectations. I feel a need for approval….

I am, and always have been, a big fan of online communication. I love the way it takes down barriers and leaves just what matters….puts it out on the table for our consideration.

And, as I’m wondering why, after 47 years I am suddenly craving approval from a group of people I might not even recognize should I meet them on the street, I have realized there is a drawback….

This morning, I had a ready answer, and I hesitated. I know what these people think, but as I consider their viewpoints, I cannot study their body language. I cannot look into their faces and decide if they are serious or just feeling me out. I cannot read a smile, or feel a look of disdain….

I drive for a minimum of an hour to, and from work. This afternoon, as a sat, in my new-found quiet, waiting for opposing traffic to pass, I thought of a friend; fragile, unhealthy, brave. I tried to remember the last time I had called, just to tell her I love her, and my heart double-clutched…

In the last 24 hours, I have shared opinions, and “vibes”, and stories with hundreds of people I wouldn’t even recognize in a police line-up, and I hadn’t called her once.

We talked tonight, often at the same time. And, as she talked, I didn’t have to wonder what she really meant, or what her facial expressions might have been, because I knew…..

>Love Me…Please!!!!

I have tossed it around all day.

This is what I have come up with…

A forced relationship, in which you feel you have to adhere to someone else’s standard isn’t real, and, thus, a waste of valuable time.

I have a couple of handfuls of friends, to whom, I feel real obligation, and many, many acquaintances, who I enjoy, but, from whom, I entertain no particular burden.

Over the last year, I have engaged in an exchange of ideas with people with whom I have in common a market share, and I have come to value them.

I am, and always have been, a big fan of online communication. I love the way it takes down barriers and leaves just what matters….puts it out on the table for our consideration.

And, as I’m wondering why, after 47 years I am suddenly craving approval from a group of people I might not even recognize should I meet them on the street, I have realized there is a drawback….

In the last 24 hours, I have shared opinions, and “vibes”, and stories with hundreds of people I wouldn’t even recognize in a police line-up, and I hadn’t called her once.

We talked tonight, often at the same time. And, as she talked, I didn’t have to wonder what she really meant, or what her facial expressions might have been, because I knew…..

Lassoing the Moon

It stormed here today.

Not completely unexpected, mind you. But after several days without a cloud, one becomes hopeful the storm has passed.

For four days and nights, the weather was dry, uneventful, and the clouds separated, more than once, to reveal blue skies and multi-colored sunlight, as I allowed myself to be lulled into a place of anxious comfort.

Before the storms came.

And thunder rolled in the form of a sob that filled my head with sounds no one else could hear.

No one ever, really, lassoes the moon…