Having a (Some) Gas at Starbucks

Having a (Some) Gas at Starbucks

I know, I know, everybody has gas. We know everybody has gas, we know we have gas, we just don’t want anyone else to know, especially if those anybodies include perfect strangers in a public place. Unfortunately, that aspect of our shared humanity can sometimes manifest itself at the most inopportune times.

Like yesterday. There I was sitting in Starbucks, being all writerly á la Natalie Goldberg and Julia Cameron. I sat in a large overstuffed chair, feet propped on a coffee table (of course, it was a coffee table, it’s in Starbucks), notebook and pen in hand, and scribbled to my heart’s content. I paused from time to time to sip from my grande iced café mocha, half-decaf, with whipped cream and then returned to the page.

Motown artists sang from the speakers above my head, Marvin Gaye, Stevie Wonder, Dionne Warwick, The Platters, but little distracted me once I started putting words to the page. A group of young men sat at the two tables to my left, but they didn’t make much noise because they were intent on their smart phones. After an hour, I checked my watch, and it was time to leave. I eyed the urn of bagged coffee grounds by the door and made a mental note to take some home for the garden.

I leaned over, gathered my purse, and put my notebook, pen, and book into my Barnes and Noble bag printed with The Grapes of Wrath cover. I remembered that my pink jeans tend to slide down while I’m sitting, so after I stood, I did a little discreet hiking up, and stepped forward to leave Starbucks. It was then that I stumbled, regained my balance right away, and the most inopportune time happened—to me, in Starbucks! I blanched, probably turned as white as whipped cream, put my face forward, and walked in a straight line to the door. No longer intent on their smart phones, those young men were laughing their heads off in the background. Anxious as I was to get the heck out of there, I decided no way was I leaving without the coffee grounds. I snatched up a bag of them, opened the door, and, head still forward, walked to my car, looking neither left nor right.

Mortified! Did I note that I was mortified? I was. I tried to explain it away to myself, as I did in the first lines of this blog . . . everybody has gas . . . blah, blah, blah. It didn’t help my sense of human frailty a bit.

I initially decided I would never, ever, ever go to that Starbucks again. What if someone happens to be there who was also there on that fateful day? Will they say, “Better not sit near her”? Will they step aside and wave their napkins in the air as I pass? Will they say, “That’s the old lady I was telling you about” and snicker and laugh and whisper as I saunter past them?

It’s possible all of the above could happen. Or it’s possible it might not. I likely will return to Starbucks, maybe even that Starbucks, but I’ll focus on being lighter on my feet, and because I do live in Central Florida, I will sit outside.

Let It Grow Its Own Way—Jade

Letting It Be in the Plant Kingdom

Hands Off! Water Off!

Near dead, rotting at the base, my jade plant was soon for the compost pile. I moved it to the covered patio with most of the houseplants before I left to travel north for what I thought would be a few weeks. There, it would be easier for my daughter to water by giving everything a quick dousing with the hose. I tucked the jade plant into a corner between two large pots so it wouldn’t get too much sun.

A few weeks morphed into two-plus months, and when I returned, it was obvious that the quick spray with the hose hadn’t happened often enough. Some plants were dead; others were shriveled and begging for a drink. I hoped saturating them with water would revive them.

Several were near enough the edge of the patio that summer rains angled into the edges and kept them hydrated. Not so the ones that were on a shelf away from any encroaching moisture. The jade plant was still tucked between the two larger pots, each of which contained desert-dry soil and wilting foliage. I was shocked at the jade plant’s appearance. It was thriving. It had tripled in size; the leaves were plump and green and nowhere were any signs of plant funk. I had read that jade plants didn’t need much moisture and here was my proof.

I’m conscientious about watering, so after I had my dry epiphany, I knew the jade had to be moved away from anything I watered regularly. I placed it on a table by itself and am now conscientious about not watering it. Every week or two, I give it a good drink and some fertilizer to keep it well fed. It’s growing so well that I had to repot it.

Jade has been difficult for me to grow because for the most part, it doesn’t need me, and it doesn’t need my good intentions. It’s hard wired in me that everything—especially growing things, plants, people—must have water and have quite a bit of it. I’ve been wrong. Jade does need water, but in precious small amounts. To keep it healthy, when I’m fertilizing and watering other plants, I must leave the jade alone. The jade plant does not need me for much, so I often must step aside and simply watch it grow.

Jade brings me up short every time I have to step aside. It reminds me that not everything or everyone to which I’m connected—people, my kids, my sisters, my friends—need me and my constant efforts in their lives to water, fertilize, trim, or repot. At times, yes, I can offer a drink or a bite of food or my perspective—if I’m asked—regarding a new or different pot or placement nearer or farther from the sun.

Just as with the jade plant, I must step aside and let people be, let them grow and function on their own. When I’m needed for that drink or food or philosophy, I can sense if it’s the right time because most often I will be asked. The rest of the time, I have to let jade and people grow their own way.

Whitney, Amy, and Amy Ride with Me...

Crowded Car

Whitney Houston and Amy Winehouse

Sing to Me This Morning

“Bittersweet memories, that is all I’m taking with me . . .” Whitney Houston’s voice filled the car as I drove to the store this morning. I’ve been so judgmental of Whitney Houston and didn’t mourn a moment when she died earlier this year. All I could think of was the wasted life, the wasted talent, the wasted opportunities. All that judgment fell away as I listened to her sublime voice. I realized in a heartbeat that such an expressive voice can only come from having experienced deep loss, deep pain. And I began to forgive and to see her experience that pain, because I’ve experienced deep loss and pain in my life as well.

I put the car windows up and increased the volume until Whitney and her voice were the only presence in the car. I allowed myself to feel what she felt, to wish love to those who I have left and who have left me, to know that I would always love them.

Those few minutes in the car opened my heart to the reality of so many lives, that we all suffer, but we suffer in different ways. We all blow it and waste so much, but in different ways. To be fully human, I need to recognize that reality in everyone, the rich and famous and talented, too.

It’s probably no accident of the cosmos that the next song was by Amy Winehouse and that I found some compassion for her as well.

As I drove home, I recalled Amy Lee of Evanescence. Because Amy’s family once lived across the street from us, I am one of the few who know that Amy’s sister died at age four. Amy’s expressive voice carries that anguish in many respects and I hear it and feel compassion for her, for anyone who suffers.

We all will have great moments of joy in life, but we also will have great moments of loss and suffering. Looking beyond the glitz, the glamour, the wealth, and all the trappings of fame, I was able to see the human aspect of Whitney, Amy, and Amy during my morning drive, because there are people in my life that I, too, will “think of every step of the way.”

  

Creating Your Own Travel Mercies--And Rest Stops

Boots, Bucket, and Skirt—

The New Travel Essentials

My new travel essentials will help prevent a different kind of accident.

Jumper cables? Check. Portable compressor? Check. Extra oil? Check. Spare tire? Check. Something to drink? Check.

Stuck on the side of the road for a few hours?
You might need more than jumper cables.

Boots, Bucket, and Skirt? Previously, no check. After a recent blow-out on I-95? Check.

Surprise! Even good tires blow out. Who knew? I do, now.

Think you’re good to go if you have the minimum safety devices in your car? Think again. A few weeks ago, I had a blowout on I-95 about 40 miles south of my home, so I spent about 90 minutes waiting to be rescued. It’s my worst nightmare to be stuck on the side of an interstate, so I pulled way off the road, into the grassy area beside the highway.

Any farther off the highway, and I would
have been in the pond.

The Florida Highway Patrol dispatcher did little to alleviate my fears when she advised me to stay in the car and keep my seatbelt on so I wouldn’t get thrown from my car. Nor was I comforted to find out that the Road Rangers don’t work on Sunday—the day I was traveling. During my waiting time, I figured out that by staring at the rear and side view mirrors intently enough, I could prevent any vehicle from veering to the side and smashing me. That worked quite well.

My super stare kept these vehicles away from my car.

I had a full tank of gas, so I could run the air conditioning and keep cool. I also had a drink, so I wasn’t thirsty. I had the opposite problem. When I started for home, it was morning, so of course I had coffee. We know what happens about an hour after that cup. That wouldn’t have been a problem because I was supposed to be home, but I wasn’t home. A quick glance outside showed no trees, no place to hide, no place to pee. There was no way I was going to walk to the exit, even though it was close. I wouldn’t even have a seatbelt to protect me from errant vehicles.

Sometimes, there is simply nowhere to hide.

What to do? What could I do? I waited and waited and waited. By the time I arrived home three hours later, my bladder had swelled to the size of a beach ball. I resolved to never put myself through that again.

I have added a few things to the must-carry items in my car. If I have to pull off the road and there are no trees, I will have a long skirt. That will hide everything. Because highways are not the best-groomed areas of nature, I will have boots. That way, I will avoid ants and snakes. The bucket? We women know what happens when squatting to pee. The stream spreads everywhere and pretty soon we’re a wet mess. I now carry a bucket.

I’ve got my bucket, my boots, and my long skirt. I’m ready for drive time!

Stalker in the Compost

Celery Is Stalking My Compost Pile

Celery: It’s a perfect food to add crunch to potato salad and chicken salad. After it’s sautéed, I most often use it as part of stuffing ingredients. Snack food? No! If I want to floss my teeth, I have some white thready stuff in my bathroom cabinet designed for just that purpose. Unlike when I take a bite or two or three of a celery stalk, I can pull that floss right through my teeth, minus the gouging, and tugging. And floss is not green.

I can’t call celery a vegetable, even though it is, because it’s mostly water, with a hint of a green tint. Not what I’d call a nutrient-dense food, a 12-inch stalk has ten calories, one of them from fat, no protein, a few carbs, a bit of fiber, negligible vitamins A and C, and negligible calcium and iron—one percent of your daily value, and that one percent is a surprise. It’s not true that chewing celery burns more calories than the celery itself contains. It that were the case, I’d start chewing Lindt truffles.

Celery is a part of excellent soup stock, but I have a household of two most days. One of those never eats soup and Central Florida’s mild winters mean soup days are rather low in number.

I buy celery for a sauté or the aforementioned potato or chicken salad. After I use a few stalks, I put the remainder in the crisper drawer, along with my good intentions to use it . . . soon.

Soon doesn’t come soon enough, and when I next need celery, it’s on its way to becoming compost. The parts that aren’t brown and gooey are as limp as the noodles in that soup for which Andy designed the label. My good intentions turn to guilt when I realize I’ve wasted yet another clump of celery. It’s a few dollars at most, and I am guilty of wasting other things; however, the celery is particularly distressing because I have never used a whole head of celery. I sometimes think I should use what I need, skip that whole refrigerator, brown limp goo phase, and toss leftover celery directly in the compost pile.

Will it grow, or will it turn to more compost?

It’s that time again. I cleaned the fridge last night and found yet another green gooey mess. It was headed toward the compost, but I recalled a recent article on growing celery from the ends. I cut the end and put it in a bowl of water near a sunny windowsill. It’s May in Central Florida, far too late to start a cold-season vegetable, but, hey, I have good intentions. Maybe I can plant it in the semi-shade once it starts growing. If it fails, there’s always the compost.

I'll Take the Love

Mother’s Day, Capitalism,

Consumerism,

and Love

Journaling is something I do that helps me work through my feelings. It often moves me from one emotion to another, just the act of writing changes things, as it did for me this morning. I wrote the following in my journal this morning:

“[Future-son-in-law] is coming this weekend to get some papers and if [one of my daughters] doesn’t have to work, she’ll come, too. That will be nice for Mother’s Day. I know it’s a Hallmark holiday—a created one—but I still want to be honored that day and it hurts when I am not and it’s just like any other day. How can I celebrate my own self and my years of mothering and honor what I’ve done? If I want that so much, am I willing to give it to myself? To provide some high-fives, some extra appreciation?

“Can I look at the things they [the kids] do every other day to honor me? Can I say okay, why do I want special recognition one day when really—I get it throughout the year? I imagine many moms would trade my day-to-day interactions with my kids for their rare moments of being honored.

“I have fallen prey to capitalist sentiment for this holiday—and that’s the plan of merchandisers—if you don’t spend and do X, then your Mom is ‘less than’ those moms who are lavished with gifts and dining. And Moms—you see what is available for those kids to buy—you see where you could be taken for dinner—you see the jewelry from that foul smooch jeweler, the flowers, the chocolates—if your kids don’t get all of those for you, then you’ve failed. So be sure to feel bad on Sunday if your day doesn’t begin with coffee and a long-stemmed rose brought to your room, on a tray, followed by breakfast, lunch, and dinner at your favorite restaurant after which you’ll return home to be feted with mounds of gifts. And—why not? A red carpet should be rolled out for you pretty much wherever you go that day, and violins should play unobtrusively to sweeten the atmosphere as well.

“Maybe you should be carried aloft on a sedan chair, like the royalty you’re supposed to be, if not, then certainly rose petals should grace your path.

“I know this has moved to the absurd, but in our culture, the absurd sells—it either makes you feel magnanimous as the giver, or deficient if you aren’t the receiver.

“After exploring these elements of a greeting-card, jewelry-store, fine-dining Mother’s Day, I’ve changed my mind. A handmade card, a day in the garden, and a walk on the beach will be just fine.”

Spring Hang-Ups

Putting It On the Line

I love to hang clothes, sheets, towels, and even undies on the clothesline. It looks so friendly, homey, cozy, and in the case of some of those undies, brave. I’d rather spend an hour hanging clothes than 20 minutes editing and proofreading a boring book, even though those 20 minutes net me more income than any savings I get from less use of the dryer. It’s a simple, rewarding pleasure, and the scent of air-dried laundry is one of the sweetest that exists. Another of life’s little blessings to cherish.