20: In Common...

I sat

in the running record session

Saturday morning

listening to the speaker talk about coding

how important it is to have a system

that means something

to every person who encounters the 

check marks

appeals

substitutions

omissions

insertions

the M, S, and V

I sang

"Wooden Ships" by Crosby Stills and Nash

in my mind

If you smile at me I will understand

because that is something 

everybody everywhere does in the same

language

I pondered

Do people think smiles are constrictive?  Like codes?

Or, do you find what you seek?

Write on,

b

14: More than words...

.......

this is all that is swimming through my writer's brain right now

focus

------

maybe -- well -- I could write about...

just commit already

****

I can't ** not tonight

.......



Write on,
b

3: Just the groceries and the pizza...

"You know what?  I think I'll just go grab our groceries and then pick up the pizza on the way home. They said, '25-35 minutes' until it's ready -- I can definitely do that."  My husband concurred; our pantry is bare.

After adding some hasty checkmarks to the You should buy... pad of paper hanging off the side of metallic fridge, I set my phone timer, tucked my phone into my purse, and hopped into our Jeep to make the five-minute trek up the road to Super Target.

28 minutes until pizza.

I parked in the first spot, pushed the first cart away from the neat rows just inside the store, and reevaluated my timer.  Better take 10 minutes off to cushion check-out and travel from the store.

The store's remodeling plan threw a wrench in my typical shopping strategy.  The chips were by the Dollar Spot; the freezer section by the candles.

10 minutes until pizza.

Olive oil.
Nutella.
String cheese.
Whole milk.
PEPPERMINT MOCHA COFFEE CREAMER.
Eggs.
Frozen pizzas.
Uncrustables.  Uncrustables.  Uncrustables.
Garlic bread?
Orange juice.
Cough medicine.  But they don't have orange-flavored syrup.  $12 on the grape is a gamble.
Eyeliner.
EYELINER.

(Enter heavenly strum-sounding alarm.  TIME'S UP.)

The second tier of my time-saving strategy included self-checkout.  I bagged the items by storage area at home and even made it to the final item with no additional 'hit the help button' stressors. Well, until, I had to hit the payment button.  Credit card, of course.  Let me just grab my wallet...

It's gotta be in here somewhere.  I just had it at lunch.  And then in the car on the way to get the guys. And then...

"Do you accept personal checks?"

"Yes."  Yes!!!!  Redeemed.  Perfect.

The guest services worker suspended the transaction and reentered the corresponding code at a different register to prompt the payment (Might I add, without scanning each item again).

"Here's the check.  Thanks, again, for saving the day."

"Can I see your ID?"

"Well, see, that's just it.  I must've taken out my wallet at home.  I DON'T HAVE IT."

"Well, without it, I can't accept the check."

"Well, that's perfect.  I just wasted a half-hour."

And there's my vanilla ice cream melting...there's the juice for breakfast...and the cough syrup which was the impetus for this trip anyway...all together in one nice cart that someone wearing red is now going to have to put back item by item in aisle 2 aisle 3 aisle 7 and then take the chips way over to the makeshift aisles by the Dollar Spot.  Which, would not be a fun job, but then again, it won't be fun walking out of this store without my groceries.

In the interest of full disclosure and absolute transparency, what flashed through my mind was the scene in Father of the Bride where Steve Martin's character, George Banks, rants in the supermarket aisle over the conspiracy between hot dog bun bakers and hot dog makers to con innocent consumers out of extra money by not making package sizes consistent.  I'm tired, just like he was, although the basis for my exhaustion has less to do with wedding planning and more to do with the fact that it is really just Friday night after a long week...

I bit my tongue and let go of the cart handle.  "Thank you."

Five minutes to get to the pizza place.


*****


"Hi, I have a pick-up order.  I also have one more question -- Do you accept personal checks?"

The overly made-up teenager behind the cash register tapped her contemporary's elbow, "Do we accept checks?"

"No.  Actually we don't.  Two days ago the owner made the decision to not take checks anymore."

"YOU DON'T ACCEPT CHECKS?"  George Banks.  GEORGE.BANKS.  "AS OF TWO DAYS AGO?"

"Well, no."

My eyes must've done something.  Could they see me envisioning the walk of shame into my house with no groceries and even worse, no pizza?

"I can ask the boss if you want."

"OK; that'd be super."

She traveled with the other teenagers behind the gargantuan silver oven to pow-wow with the owner.

"He'll make an exception.  Just this ONCE.  The total is $18.54."

Date.  Store.  Amount.  Amount in words.  Signature.  Riiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiip.

"Thank you.  I appreciate his exception.  My family does, too."

******

Can I please just have my groceries, too?



Write on,
b

14: Casserole comfort...

I transfer the rock-hard pound of ground beef from the deep freeze to the microwave already dreaming about what it would help us whip up for dinner tonight.  Defrost 6 minutes.  Next up on my mental recipe -- secure the two other frozen ingredients, green peas and tater tots.

Truthfully, I bank on cinched bags of next-to-nothing, and one quick foray into the bottom of the deep freeze confirms my predictions.  But, alas...who measures when making a casserole?  So I begin to brown the thawing meat with some minced onion and salt.  Turning the flame to medium and covering the pan to avoid splatters allows for some quick tent-building in the adjacent family room. At seven minutes, the timer reminds me to head back into the kitchen and a quick 'zhuj' to crumble the meat invites me to cut the flame, tip the pan to gather grease, and incorporate the cream of chicken soup.

Which by anyone's standards of home-cooking announces the arrival of comfort.  The gooey comfort that only accompanies condensed soup.

And maybe a homemade, partially baked cookie, too.

(Focus.)

So, all casserole recipes call for 'a greased casserole' which means the dish -- not the dinner.  We spray up the stoneware, glop the hamburger mixture inside, pat it into place with a wooden spoon back, and uncinch the peas.

Ooooh.  Not as many as I had imagined; which, I suppose is a blessing.  While I'm a pea-lover, my boys are on the fence...and my husband is decidedly against.  We'll approximate because for this team, less is more.  I lovingly lob more into the far left corner -- I'll be responsible for that portion.

Unselfishly, of course.

A quick shake a salt balances what could become the milquetoast middle -- that vegetable layer -- and then it is onto the casserole's crown -- the tator tots.  Which, my mom always told me, "I arrange mine across the top; they always look better that way."  So I do, too, because I like a pretty dish.  All the tater tots line up like little soldiers. Or squares on a hundreds chart.  I am by myself at this step, so I don't count.

Had I not been, I could provide you the exact number.  I'm guessing it to be over 150; so we will all have to be alright with my humble estimation tonight.  I use some clues from the related episode of "Curious George" to come to that conclusion.  I would be remiss if I skipped over one smallish detail: I am three tater tots short. I do what anyone would do to save a dish -- I add the next best thing.

Crinkle-cut french fries.  Three of them.  With seasoning, which gives me pause, but the pretty dish theory encourages me to proceed.

Oven ready, the 'casserole of casseroles' begins its hour-trip toward browned and bubbly.  We transition the orange and blue robot tent from the basement into the family room and rebuild it in the northwest corner beside the pair of leather club chairs.

With five minutes remaining, I pull the applesauce from the fridge and prepare two ramekins' full for two boys.  I dance around adding cinnamon because they do really love that, but the purist in me wins out and I serve it plain-jane.

Because that's how it best goes with tater tot casserole.  Traditionally speaking.

OK, my bias.

With one minute remaining, I fill four glasses -- assembly line-style -- with ice cubes and then cold water from the fridge dispenser.

Beep.  Beep.  Beep.

(#yay)

"Hey, gentlemen, the casserole's ready and the table is set.  LET'S EAT!"

Write on,
b

9: With a smile...

The Target worker with jet-black hair organized the tangle of signature red shopping carts spread left and right of us.  Just inside the humongous double entrance at SuperTarget after school, we stood, as if on display for the crush of shoppers.  The elder, beet-faced, clenched his teeth while the tears plummeted down his supple cheeks.  She smiled as if to say, I know that's no fun, while creating the neat cart trains that framed our stage.

We had stopped -- just like we do each Wednesday -- for a coffee break.  And, because SuperTarget knows how people like me operate, they tucked a Starbucks just inside the grocery side doorway. You know, so we could have our coffee break AND get the essentials for dinner and beyond.

I digress...

So, we walked in with a clear mission -- an old-fashioned donut from Starbucks for the elder; an Icee from the store snack shop for the smaller little; a few groceries. My natural inclination: Starbucks first.

"Oh, I'm sorry.  We are out of those donuts today.  Can I get you something else?"

Tears.  No; wails.

No; near panic.  

From him; from me.  At this point in the fit, I questioned our continued presence. We hadn't done our shopping yet...and tonight's dinner of french toast would be no good without the synthetic syrup we stopped to buy.

She smiled again while transferring two more carts to growing train.

"Do you think we could share some popcorn at the snack shop over here?  It is supposed to be really good..."

"Sure."

Yes.  Good.  Perfect.  Resilience.

We took the twenty steps to the register and practiced our order en route, "One small slushie; one bag of popcorn."  The friendly smile from the doorway returned to her post and stepped past the red slide and swing half-door that separated the food items from customers like us.

"Ohhh.  Thanks for being so patient.  Can I help you?"

Two little voices chimed in, one blue debit card came out, and I smiled back connecting with her brown eyes, warm and velvety.  It was then, she turned to bag our popcorn; it was then I saw what I would've spent minutes, hours, and days, avoiding...covering up...making up...you name it...had I been in the red shirt, in the snack bar, serving sugary, salty treats to kids with undeveloped filters and adults with racing minds.

And she did it all with a smile.

With a smile.

And with a pond of blue and green that drowned her left eye, temple, cheek bone.  

The scene from "Pretty Woman" revealed itself across my mind's movie screen: "Why do guys always know how to hit a woman right across the cheek?  Wham!  And it feels like your eye is gonna explode.  What do they do?  Do they pull you aside in high school and show you how to do this?"  

"Thank you for coming to Target.  Have a good afternoon."

With a smile.

Our eyes locked, I smiled back.  "Thank you.  Take good care..."

What I should've asked you is how I can help.  

I'm sorry I didn't ask you how I can help.

I know that's no fun...  You, my dear, are the resilient one.

Write on,
b

5: Word play and the girls...

Last night, after bath duty, footie jammies, and stories, I jumped into the Jeep, made my way past four houses -- no judgment: it was snowy -- and parked in front of Francie's house for small group Bible study with some of my favorite girls.

Inside the three of us melted into her gigantic brown leather sectional tucked into a sprawling corner of the family room.  Sunny overhead light cast a warm glow on the newest member of our group --- teeny-tiny Baby Maggie --- who now attends with her mommy; you know, so she can cluster feed before bedtime and we can jockey for who gets the next turn to snuggle her between snacks.

(I waited.  Patiently.)

As always, our 'let's settle in' conversation meandered through myriad topics and then landed decidedly on lactation.  Exhibit A was stealthily stowed under the mod-patterned hooter-hider her mommy wore on the other side of the couch...while Exhibit B (my other friend's baby) slept soundly in her crib at home.

Babyless me listened.

(And, remembered.)

F: "Maggie looooves to cluster feed.  Every night.  Time after time.  Seems like she's never full."

C: "I know!  Emma does that too!  Except she is LOSING weight.  My supply just can't keep up!"

Me: "So, what about lactation cookies?  Have you tried those to boost your supply?  I've had school friends say they really work."

C: "Lactation cookies?!?  I've never heard of such a thing!"

F: "Yep.  Those will do the trick.  I also bought some supplements on QVC -- and wow, they work. Like, I-M-M-E-D-I-A-T-E-L-Y.  If you know what I mean."

(Like taut beach balls...ouch.)

C: "Right now nursing is absolutely exhausting.  My doctor really wants to know how much milk Emma is getting, so he asked me to pump first and offer her bottles for measurement's sake. To do that, I'm pumping at least three times a day."

(I remember being hooked up at all hours to my pump.  Undeniably a labor of love.)

C: "And, I'm nursing.  Wherever; whenever.  I'm so tired of it all.  It sucks."

Me:  "Literally."

(Crickets.  Really.  Crickets.  Then, finally, a giggle.  And, a stare.)

Me: "Hey, that comment was low-hanging fruit.  Just waiting to be picked."

C: "Does your husband get your sense of humor?"

Me: "He has a degree in English."

C: "Ooooooh...."


Write on,
b

8:31 -- My magnet...

It's simple, really.

There's this magnet...it's bigger than me...it's connected to both my brain and my palette, and by extension, my wallet...and it draws me close earlier in the day rather than later.  It's sometimes my motivation for getting up as soon as my alarm rings instead of hitting snooze for the sixth time (even when an extra few minutes of sleep would be fantastically refreshing) or making a not-so-great choice (even when I know I shouldn't).

The magnet is my favorite place in the world: Starbucks.  The latter is my cautionary tale of the day.

I left at my new two-kid departure time -- 7:20 a.m. -- to embark on my half-hour trek to school.  As an aside, along with the new house came an uber-convenient Starbucks stealthily located on the right side of the road as I head south to get on the interstate.  Just like always, I played the contingency game as my car gently veered into the right lane in anticipation of the drive-thru turn about two miles up the road.

"Will the line be short or long?
If it is, what will I do?  
How many cars are tolerable in the line...?  
Do I have extra time to wait if it's packed? 
If I don't wait, can I stop somewhere else?
No, the next store isn't as convenient as this one; I'd have to get off the interstate and then get back on. "

The car keeps moving and the conversation progresses until I pass the bank, and the fitness club, and the car wash....until, finally, the skinniest view of Starbucks' parking lot becomes available.

It's Friday and it's busy with all those self-regulating, disciplined people who save a trip to the coffee shop for an end-of-the-week treat.  A quick gander tells me the long line doesn't hold much promise for my travel time window which diminishes by the second.  The small voice in my mind confirms what my eyes behold.  

"Skip it today, b.  You don't need it..."

But, do I listen?  Goodness, no.

I go ahead and make the right turn, idling behind the other 15 drivers jockeying in the same small space for their caffeine fix.  

Five minutes pass; no movement at my normally efficient shop.  Impatience steals a few cars ahead of me and the situation improves. 

"You should get out too."

But do I listen?  Goodness, no.  

A couple minutes later, I order my standard beverage in barista speak: a tall, nonfat, no-water five-pump chai; however, I watch the clock like a child in time-out. Its reprimand stings more with each passing minute.

At the window, I offer enough cash to cover the random 20-cent price increase and make polite conversation with Jessi, my daily drink giver.  "Here's your nonfat, no-water chai tea latte," she announces as it's thrusted out the swing-and-shut window.

"I'm sure she just didn't read the entire drink description," I rationalized; albeit one sip a mile down the road spilled the beans.  

"UH.  No spicyness...no sweetness...no gusto; only the faintness of milk.  I shouldn't have stopped, but I'm pretty sure I already knew that.  The line was long; the price was higher; this drink was a paler version of itself."

For a second, the magnet lost its power.

Write on,

b