Our Latest Addiction

Lately, the hubby and I have been enjoying a pot of coffee every few days. Pretty earth-shattering, huh? Considering that I used to make a mini-pot of joe almost every day at school, and Matthew does likewise at work, it shouldn't be a surprise that we both throw back a mug of it frequently in the comfort of our own home. Still, there's something kind of magical, kind of classic Folger's commercially about waking up to so great smelling grog. And speaking of grog, our current favorite has been a one-pound bag of Berres Brothers Decaf Highlander Grogg. (You can buy it on-line here.) It's a local bean company (well, the beans aren't local), so it already feels better knowing we're not buying from the big scary coffee monsters. The aroma alone this brew puts out is worth the price. Almost immediately, your kitchen will smell like a pancake house or Grandma's cookie-making. The flavor won't disappoint either -- we are often tempted to leave out the sugar, it's so sweet. (BB ought to be paying me for this...) Mmmmmm...

Anyway, drinking all this warm, brown goodness, reminded me of a little poem I wrote a few years ago at school. Just a moment of creative perspective.

Coffee Universe

In the midst of morning routine
I stir coffee in an oversized cup.
Froth resembles a galaxy twirling
Frayed edges
Bubbly solar systems adrift
Stars forming, merging, dying
Eons in seconds
The universe in my cup
And me, a god
holding a plastic spoon.

Laughing in Church

One of our culture's greatest enigmas is the difficulty to stop laughing once started while in an environment where laughing is a big no-no.

Scene 1: Standardized testing in 10th grade. Rows of desks in perfect lines anchored by pimply teens with their number 2 pencils dutifully filling circles. Someone, probably that smelly kid who lives by you, releases a tightly clenched "fwarp," and you can't help that your diaphragm jiggles instinctively with restrained laughter. What makes it worse is that A) no one else seems to have heard it, and B) your mind is somehow replaying the sound over and over so as to antagonize your guts and your ability to calm your breathing. Your face turns hot and the test in front of you is blurry through the tears in your eyes. The tired teacher in the front purses her lips at you and you regain your composure -- but only until you recall the sound yet again and have to bite your lip to keep yourself from falling on the linoleum.

Scene 2: Sunday church service. Your family of six arrives late to church and are forced to occupy the second to the front row of hard, glossy pews. During the reading of the gospel, your brother nudges you and points to a typo in the church bulletin. "Bring any unopened bags of poocorn to the pantry collection site." poocorn. You're a goner. The paper gets passed around until all four of you are repressing guffaws, heads bowed to hide from the all-knowing eyes of the pastor, and if it weren't for the rhythmic squeaking of the pew from your laughter, it might look like you were all experiencing a divine moment of humility.

Scene 3: Way past nap-time on a weekday. Your lovely daughter refuses to settle down for her much needed nap. She is wound up on sugar from a post storytime treat, and is probably overtired as well. You've given her clear instructions on what she needs to do in order to get out of her room: be quiet, lie in bed, close eyes, and got to sleep for two hours. She runs through her repertoire of excuses to get out: still hungry, needs more water, wants a different toy to sleep with, and finally, has to go poop. Dear Daughter then begins chanting, "Please can I go poop?" over and over again, in exactly the same tone each time. Sometimes it's a little louder, other times she sounds like she might actually drop it and go to sleep, but alas, she persists. "Please can I go poop?" "Please can I go poop?" "Please can I go poop?" -- and then the doozy -- "Peas can I go Ploop?" You let out a massive laugh that feels so good compared to the tension you had a moment ago, but you quickly stifle it so as not to encourage further "dialog" with a nap-needing girl. You resist the urge to give in to her pleas, knowing that doing so would be certain death to any chance of a civil evening.

This is my life. There's needs to be some sort of power cell (a la Monsters Inc.) that can capture the potential energy of repressed laughter. It feels so good because it's so bad!

A Bit from the Archives

I dug up a bit of writing from probably 6 years ago. This is something I wrote during class for an assignment I call "dada writing." The prompt involves the students writing a single word apiece on the whiteboard and then spending five or six minutes writing "anything" as long as they use at least one of the volunteered words on the board. The words that stuck with me were: obituaries, tortoise, and twirl. Et Voila!

I spotted my old Toyota in the obituaries. It had been a happy tortoise of a car, slow and steady always got to where we needed to go.
I learned how to drive in that car and impressed people because it was a stick shift.
I was happy that no one else had a car like it in town. Quirky as all first cars must be, the steering wheel shuddered at any speed over fifty. I could put the pedal to the metal and, with a encouraging cheer muttered under my breath, hope to make it up a steep hill without annoying people behind me. The flat dash was home to several Beanie Babies whose fur turned rust-colored from the sun. For whatever reason, the two front seats were always covered in fake sheepskin.
I sold it for a car six years younger and with a speedometer that went up to 140. But the Toyota had taken a tumble a week ago, lost brake fluid and twirled into a ditch just outside of Cass Lake. The hood flipped off and the roof caved in, nearly killing its passengers. Sweet revenge, I thought, after all the abuse it’s taken in its life. It is survived by photos after a nice wash, and by memories of late night trips home from work with no radio.

I still think of that car every now and then, mostly of any work I put into it, the two times some jerk broke into it and stole something of pawn value, and my driving lessons with Dad. I trembled at the end of each session in the industrial park, breathing a sigh of relief as I handed the keys back to Dad. And once we were outside the safety of the empty concrete jungle, how fast anything over 30 seemed! These days, I seldom feel "the need for speed," and I always keep in mind one of Dad's famous cheesy lines: you can always afford to pay attention. Thanks, Papa!