Ma

The Chicago Bears won the NFL's Super Bowl XX by a whopping 36 points. I lived in Chicago at the time with Bears' Fan Husband and our three children.

The average Super Bowl game is about 3 1/2 hours long, start to finish. An NFL game clock runs for 60 minutes. And in that one hour the actual play time is much less. Teams have some "control” of the clock. For example a team ahead near the end of a game may use ‘run’ plays as opposed to ‘pass’ plays in order to ‘eat up the clock.’ Or a losing team can figuratively ‘slow the clock,’ in hopes of having sufficient time for scoring opportunities by always keeping the receiver in a position to easily step out-of-bounds, thus stopping the clock.

The Bears were a fun team to watch that season, especially that final game. Our older son, who was then 12 years old, was friends with a couple of brothers who were 11 and 13. The brothers' father, a high school teacher, recorded the Super Bowl game that day, as did many fans wishing to replay and enjoy the highlights of the event. The boys’ father then edited the recording, removing every moment of the game that was not actual playing time. And I don’t mean just editing out commercial breaks, but he also deleted timeouts, huddles, penalty calls, replay review time, official’s explanation of penalties, breaks between quarters, halftime/final two-minute warnings, clock running time between plays and any analytic banter by broadcasters. What he was left with was a crystal clean 15 minutes of actual play time, from the snap or kick of the ball on each play, to the end of the play as the player caught the ball, dropped the ball, was tackled, intercepted, stepped out of bounds or the play was whistled dead by an official.

It sounded good in theory, but what remained was something that was undecipherable. There was no lull or space to allow your brain to make sense of what you were viewing. The brothers brought it over to share with our son, Bears’ Fan Husband and me. We enjoyed a hearty laugh at the inanity of it.

***

My youngest grandchild is 13 months old. During the academic year, I am by his side for 7-9 hours, two days per week, while his parents are at work. Excluding his twice daily naps, I eat meals with him. I play with him. I tend to his every need. He has my full attention.

He’s smart, fast, and always on the move. I try to take advantage of the rarer times when he’s less physically active, like when he just wakes up or, when he begins to tire after two or more hours of constant movement. During these precious moments, I read to him, sing or do quiet activities. A recent favorite is when the two of us sit near his living room window and listen to city sounds. I whisper near his ear, “Listen. Do you hear the birds?” as I make an imitation of the bird I hear. He sometimes tilts his head, but otherwise is still. He is absolutely silent. When he hears the sound I’m describing, he beams and clenches his fists excitedly, but utters not a peep as he waits for me to describe the next sound.

He can distinguish the sound of a jet plane, a favorite of his. He hears the planes before I do, what with my 62 year old ears. He watches my eyes, waits for me to hear it and when he sees my eyes light up, I whisper, “Yes! I hear the airplane.” Then he lets loose with a long, “Oooooohhhhh,” as together we watch the aircraft pass overhead. I comment on its size, any visible lights and noticeable colors, but most airplanes are white or gray on the bottom, which is usually the only part we can see. His house is in one of the flight paths to Chicago’s O’Hare Airport. Sometimes between the sounds of planes, cars, birds, dogs, strong winds, the patter of rain, distant trains or emergency vehicles, I’ll talk of the towns from where the airplanes might be traveling, Richmond Virginia, New York City, Tokyo Japan, Frankfort Germany, Sydney Australia, and Timbuktu, Mali, are some names I mention. I tell him what the current weather is probably like and the time of day in the town. When he’s older I’ll point it out on a globe.

Last week he was darting about in his playroom as I was sitting on the floor near him, when he suddenly toddled over and put his head to my chest. It’s an unusual thing for him to do. I put my arms around him and gently held him as I leaned back against a cushion. He kept his head still on my chest. Concerned that he was ill, I felt his forehead to see if he was warm. His temperature seemed normal. “Are you okay?” He hadn’t stirred from his static position, when I noticed the concentrated faraway look in his eyes. Then it occurred to me that he was listening to my heart beating. I said quietly, “LUB dub, LUB dub, LUB dub.” He looked up at me and smiled. “Do you listen to Mama and Daddy’s hearts?” I asked. He said, “Dada.”

He understands only some of what I blather all day long. And while he loves to babble, he can only speak a handful of words. Mama, Dada, Bub-bub (bubbles), ball (ball), ball-ball (balloon), bye-bye and nahm-nahm (food). He and I depend on eye contact, facial expressions and hand signs for much of our communication. His joke is to put a piece of fuzz or scrap of paper in my mouth and say, “Nahm-nahm.” I reply with feigned shock, “No! That is not nahm-nahm. P-tooey!” He laughs and repeats the action, “Nahm-nahm.” I laugh and repeat, “No! That’s not nahm-nahm! Yuck!” We both laugh.

***

This past Christmas, we visited our older two grandchildren who live out-of-state. It was their school holiday break and our 7 year-old granddaughter, had a reading assignment. It consisted of thirty different ways or means of reading, of which she was to choose one each day. Each assignment required a minimum of twenty minutes time spent in the carrying out of it, for example, “read to your dog,” or “read to yourself, then describe what you read to someone,” or “read to a grandparent.” I helped her with her task during our visit. One day I urged her to select the “ ‘read’ a picture book” assignment. We looked at the drawings in the book, “Journey” by Aaron Becker and discussed the story the drawings imparted. We went through the book a second time, pausing on each page, saying nothing, just looking at the drawings. When we closed the book, she was silent, thinking, I guess. Then she told me that her teacher had told her that books with few or no words could still be challenging books, and also that anyone had the right to read a book and decide later that they knew a better way that the story could be told. 

***

I saw a great foreign film the other day on Netflix, a Japanese film titled “Departures” (beware if you look for it, for there is also a completely different series with the same title. My film features a cello player.) The film uses what the Japanese call ‘ma’ which mean emptiness or nothingness. For instance if I were to clap my hands the time between the claps would be the ‘ma,’ a pause, a breather, ‘nothingness’ time. There were scenes in the movie when, for seemingly no particular reason, it would break and show the main character, an adult man, playing his child-sized cello in some beautiful outdoor open space. The wind might be blowing tall grass around him, or a river might be winding its way nearby. Those breaks in the film’s story symbolized his ‘ma’ time, ‘ma’ necessary for him to properly absorb the job transition he was enduring (at least that’s my interpretation, but then I’m not a film critic.) Even though it wasn’t what you’d call an action-packed film, these breathers were a pleasant break for me, allowing time to think, to absorb, to digest.

Maybe the appreciation of ‘ma’ only comes with age? I don’t think so. I think even rambunctious, energized babies and chatty, imaginative children enjoy lulls, time for quiet, time to absorb, time to inhale, time to replay, time to discern, time to refine, time to think... nothingness time.

ooooohhh

ooooohhhh

ooooohhhh

ma

She'd Breathed Her Last

As soon as I pass the cattle feed lot, I slow to a cruise, well within the speed limit. There is nothing the town cops like better than handing out a speeding ticket to someone with a Privatopia sticker on their windshield.

I pass the Shell gas station and then the train crossing. There aren't many cars parked on the one-block main strip of this tiny town that includes a biker bar, take-out-pizza shop, a collectibles/antique store (open only on weekends), a small grocery mart, and an eye care store open only on Mondays and Wednesdays, because the doctor and assistants work in other tiny town locations on the other business days.

It is 2 p.m. and the storefront has just reopened. Even though they are only open the two days, they close and lock the door for one hour beginning at 1 p.m., so the three occupants may enjoy their lunch hour uninterrupted.

One of the occupants looks up from opposite side of the room, as I enter. She greets me by name and motions to her desk area.

-Ranell, have a seat. I'll be right with you.

She notices as I glance at the portable electric heater next to her chair.

-I get cold sitting next to the windows.

-The reason it caught my eye is that our furnace died yesterday and we have four portable electric heaters keeping the house warm until Wednesday when they'll install a new one.

-What? Two more days without heat? Oh my gosh! Can't they do it sooner? It's record breaking cold outside. Do you have a fireplace? That's awful. I mean, we keep our thermostat at 70. What's the temperature in your house now?

-We have a fireplace and luckily it's been sunny outside, and I've been baking a lot, so with the electric heaters we're able to keep the house around 66 degrees, but it's a little cooler at night.

-My furnace went out once, when my husband was hunting in Minnesota. I woke up in the middle of the night because I was so cold. I thought I must have left a window or door open. But when I got up I realized the furnace wasn't on. It was 3 o'clock in the morning and I didn't want to call my husband because what could he do anyway? So, I phoned the repair guy and he asked a few questions and talked me through restarting it. He had me take an emery board and flick the flint-thing- I mean, are you sure it can't be fixed?

-About a week ago she began to make noise, like a rattle. So, my husband took a look and decided it was a bad bearing. He called our furnace guy who came out and confirmed it was a bearing in the impeller motor or something. The guy tightened some clamp hoping it would minimize any vibration. The plan was to cross our fingers and hope she could make it until spring when we'd have both the furnace and air-conditioner replaced. We didn't want to put any money into fixing a twenty-year-old furnace. Meanwhile we got a couple of estimates and we waited. But each day she groaned a bit louder. Her rattle became constant, like she was fighting for air-

-Really? Was that what it was like?

-Yup. Then on Saturday evening and all through the night she struggled, waking us a couple of times with loud gasps. Then Sunday, mid-morning, she let out with a death rattle that shook the floorboards. My husband was standing beside the thermostat. I asked, "Is that it? Is she gone?" He nodded. She'd breathed her last.

-Whoa.

-So, anyway we feel fortunate that they'll be out in two days with our brand new, state-of-the-art furnace, featuring a high-efficiency two-stage burner and variable speed blower and with 14,000 more BTUs. And we are now eligible for rebates from ComEd and NiCor for our electric and natural gas use. AND we have a name for her already, Babs, short for "Bad-Ass-Bitch."

The door chime rings and in comes her next customer.

As I leave she looks up from her desk area where she sits with the new customer, "Um, Ranell, I was wondering, did Babs predecessor have a name?"

Artist's Rendition of Babs

Be My Valentine (Or Another Monster to Feed)

Like migrant birds, many of our mostly-all-retirees who own homes, here in Privatopia, are at their winter nests. As a result there were quite a few "no-show" bowlers without assigned subs at Privatopia's Women's Bowling League last Wednesday.

Our team of three bowled against a single bowler. My point being, that as a result of this lopsided bowling series, our team and the single bowler finished quite a bit earlier than usual.

When I left the house I'd told Faithful Husband that he could probably expect me to be home somewhat late, as I'd planned to stop at the grocery store  and gas station on the way home. Also, I wasn't certain if the official "scorekeeper" of the bowling league, for whom I was filling in, was due back this week or next week. If she was still away, I'd have to wait until all of the teams finished bowling and collect the scorecards before leaving.

"If things change, and it looks like I'll be home sooner, I'll call you," were my parting words. But, in a frantic rush out the door, I'd forgotten my IPhone.

The scorekeeper was indeed back in town and like I said, we finished bowling early. As I left the bowling alley, sans phone, I found myself concerned about the wind, drifting snow and frigid temperatures. "If the car gets stuck, I can't call for help. And anyway, Faithful Husband will be happy that I'm home early," were my reasoned thoughts.

I pulled into the attached garage, grabbed my bowling bag and headed to the door connecting to the house. As I placed my hand on the doorknob, I heard my husband's voice, "Alexa, play some romantic music." I heard the murmured reply of a female voice at the same time I heard lovely classical music wafting softly my way. I stood stock-still for a moment. Then, I quietly open the door to see Faithful Husband and tall, elegantly slim Alexa...

***

We are among the "chosen." Sometime last November we received an invitation from Amazon to request an invitation to buy a product- stop right here! Have you ever heard of such a thing? Okay, now this is not verbatim, but here is how I saw it:

Amazon speaking, "We invite you to request from us an invitation for the honor of purchasing our new product, Amazon Echo. Now this doesn't mean that we can actually guarantee that you will be among the chosen first to purchase this product, but only promise that we'll give it some thought and get back to you at a later date."

When I was a child, my now dearly departed mother used to use the phrase, "We got a live one." I discerned from her use of it that she meant someone who could be duped, easily duped, that is. I googled the phrase and find:

[Underworld]: a prospective victim of a swindle, esp. a wealthy, gullible person; one who can be easily taken in or exploited, esp. for money. (My mom had a thing for using "underworld or 'thug' language.")

Tall and elegantly slim Alexa

***

To quote P. T. Barnum, "There is a sucker born every minute."

***

Amazon Echo is a Bluetooth/digital speaker with a built-in voice control assistant.
"Take a look at this. I think this is interesting." I view the propagandized sleekly produced video which features a good-looking family of four, each chiming in with requests of Echo, named Alexa by Amazon:
Boy: Alexa, how do you spell Bogota?" Bogota is spelled B-O-G-O-T-A."
"The timer is set for 10 minutes beginning now."
"Taylor Swift playlist coming up."
Alexa responds with a complete current local weather report.

We've had Siri on our IPhones for two or three years. I found myself using Siri only occasionally back then, and even less as time went on. My Faithful Husband used either only slightly more often than that. We already own a couple of plug-in digital speakers for playing our digital music collections. So, why in the world would the two of us be interested in buying yet another product with the same purpose?

Faithful Husband, who is usually the more savvy of the two of us when it comes to making logical and wise purchases forwarded me the invitation to request an invitation.

Boy (doing homework): "Alexa, what is the capital of Colombia, South America?" Alexa: "The capital of Colombia, South America is Bogota." Boy: "Alexa, how do you spell Bogota?" Alexa: Bogota is spelled B-O-G-O-T-A."

Busy mother (in the kitchen): "Alexa, please set a timer for 10 minutes." Alexa: "The timer is set for 10 minutes."

Younger sister (lounging on the sofa):,"Alexa, play some Taylor Swift music." Alexa: "Taylor Swift playlist now playing."

Father (preparing to go outside): "Alexa, what is the temperature outside?" Alexa presents complete local weather report.

But, they couldn't fool me. I could already envision the fights as the siblings argue over their favorite playlists, the parents chastising the kids for using Alexa to get their homework done… well, you get the picture.

Yet as Faithful Husband pointed out that Amazon was offering it at a 50% price reduction ($99 instead of $199), and that he felt it was worth it for the speaker alone, I found myself agreeing that we should request an invitation for an invitation.

***

Now that we've used her for a while I find that Alexa is not perfect, but she is certainly fun to use.

With a built-in always-actively-connected microphone, Alexa can listen for her name from across the room. Talking to Alexa feels more natural than it ever did when I used Siri. When I'm typing at my Mac, I don't have to open a new page to research something, I simply ask Alexa to look it up. Anytime Faithful Husband or I discover that we are low on some food item or various household sundry it is  über-simple to ask Alexa to add it to our shopping list. She can play music from either of our digital collections with a nice 360-degree sound speaker.

But she's not perfect. She is still learning our voices and on rare occasion misunderstands us. She does not run on battery power and so isn't really portable. And you can't mention her name when discussing her or she will hear her name and interrupt what she's doing to address you. Like when I was typing this blog and asked Faithful Husband a question about having Alexa add mayonnaise to the shopping list and she promptly interrupted the music she was playing and replied, “Mayonnaise has been added to your shopping list.”

We both see potential for her down the road. And while I like Alexa, I would say that Faithful Husband is actually quite smitten with her.

But, like I foresee the problems likely to occur with the family of four in the video trying to share her use, I see potential for mishap with Alexa in the future. How far along will it be that instead of simply adding to our shopping list, we will be able to have said objects conveniently shipped directly to our home. Instead of "Alexa, add Valentine Chocolates to my shopping list," will I be able to say "Alexa, ship me a two-pound box of See's Assorted Chocolates in a heart-shaped box"  and have her reply "A two-pound box of See's Assorted Chocolates in a heart-shaped box will arrive on Friday before 6:00 p.m."?

So like that magic pulse, aimed at keeping us replete, that magic pulse that beats inside our Nessie (http://topeacenquiet.blogspot.com/2015/01/feeding-monster.html) so beats the promise that Alexa will one day readily accept our money in some frighteningly easy manner and my “one-click” purchases with Amazon will become virtually “click-less.”

***

Here are pix of the Valentine's dinner Faithful Husband and I prepared for ourselves. The romantic music list he was testing out from Alexa played in the background while we cooked.

homemade sourdough bread

salad with balsamic dressing

sides of bacon wrapped asparagus and twice-baked potatoes

steak broiled because it's too darn cold to grill outside

ditto for the lobster tails

chocolate mousse

A Cold Weather Recipe

I can't remember the recent social event I was attending here in Privatopia, but I do recall that one of my fellow home owners said to me, "Hey Rae, how is it over by your place? It must be like a frozen tundra over there."

I paused a moment to give measure to her words. She was an acquaintance, someone I didn't know very well, so it was difficult to discern her intent at conversation. Did she mean that my house did not have the beautiful view of a McMansion waterfront home? Or was I being defensive?

Recently I'd witnessed a fellow Privatopia resident say to a friend, whose home is located near the ski hill, "Well, it must be awful for you with the noise of that snowmaking machine and those bright lights that illuminate the ski hill." Or, the time a neighbor said to me, while visiting my house, "Oh, you don't have the open floor plan and expansive ceilings. How do you cope? I'd be positively claustrophobic."

Encounters like that are fodder for my blog. I'm beyond junior high school and it is no longer easy to make me envious, or to make me somehow feel inadequate that my possessions are not as grand as yours. Sometimes in such situation I have to suppress a desire to chuckle.

But, assuming the "frozen tundra" woman meant no harm, and remembering she lived in a cozy and protected vale-like area, I replied,  in my best Werner Herzog voice,

"Yes, well, our house is small and sort of set up atop a hill."

"So the wind can be quite unrelenting, 

especially during winter storms."

"Thank goodness we had new windows put in last year."

It seems to have paid off in a more tight and warm home."

***

I do not possess Werner Herzog's masculine voice, nor do I speak with a pleasing German accent. However, I can imitate his slow, deliberate, almost insistent cadence. And I can speak in a deadpan manner, practically devoid of emotion and with perfectly enunciated English.

I am a fan of Werner Herzog's films. I especially enjoy films in which he provides some of the narration. That voice, that gentle calming voice that absolutely demands you sit up and pay attention. That voice, that uncritical voice that makes you stop and think, and think again, long after you've absorbed the words.  That voice, that relaxed, softly predictable voice with its stops and pauses between sentences that seem to drive home a point harder than a sledgehammer. Oh, that voice.

***

When potential retirement loomed over us like an undefined cloud, I was having lunch with Reliant Husband in a diner a town away from our newly bought home in Privatopia. We overheard the townspeople asking one another, "Where will you winter this year?" "I can't wait until we are asked that question," I whispered to Reliant Husband, as dreams of exotic tropical destinations slowly danced in my head.

***

We had an amiable substitute on my Privatopia bowling team this past month, as one of our team is off "wintering" in Florida for a month. As we waited our turns to bowl, the sub asked, "Rae, will you be getting away anywhere this winter?"

"No," I explained "we made a quick trip to the East Coast to visit family over the holiday season. But, that's about it. We spend a couple of days each week with our new grandson. They grow so quickly. Soon enough we'll be able to take longer winter vacations, but right now he needs some time with us, and we with him-" I could feel myself making excuses about not taking flight like a “snowbird.” Yuch!

***

Reliant Husband and I have varying introverted tendencies that make it enjoyable for us to be somewhat isolated. We like to cross-country ski and snowshoe, not in crowds, but just the two of us. If I'm away bowling Reliant Husband will go out skiing alone. He also likes to putter about the house. I like to cook and bake. We both enjoy reading books or watching films. Neither of us use FaceBook.

In short, we both enjoy looking out of the back window at our "frozen tundra," a view that is both static and ever-changing. 

Two of Werner Herzog's documentary films come to mind as I gaze at my tundra, 1) Happy People: a Year in Taiga and 2) Encounters at the End of the World.

***

This week we returned from our two-day trip to the city to visit our grandson to find knee-deep mounds of snow surrounding our house. We temporarily abandoned the car on the road and began, in twilight, to dig our way back into our home. With the shovel we made it to the garage where Reliant Husband started up the snow thrower. He worked on the driveway and I attacked the deeper drifts with a shovel to make it easier for the snow thrower to do its work. We laughed as I reminded Reliant Husband of how Anatoly in Happy People arrives after a full day spent trapping to find his hunting cabin has had a tree fall on it, crushing part of the roof, snow is at least three feet deep on the remaining roof, a bear has torn open the windows, even though it knows full well there is no food to be had. And thus in the dark Anatoly, alone, must fix the cabin as he has nowhere else to go, no other alternative but to repair it so that he has a shelter in which to sleep. Our laughter makes the work go quickly and in one hour we're safe and warm in our-home-with-a-view-of-the-frozen-tundra.

***

All of my life I dreamed of retirement, a time when I could chose what activities I wanted, a time when I finally owned my time. And what better excuse to do nothing but the basics for a happy life then to be snowed in. What better reason to pick up a book you've always meant to read? What better reason to make bread from scratch? What better reason to watch, or re-watch a film? What better reason to write a story for a great-great-grandchild with whom you will otherwise never have contact? What better reason to dream during the day rather than at night when you are asleep?

All of my energy that is expended in a frenetic world of sometimes overwhelming activity and constant internet connection is slowly and deliberately repaired, rebuilt and restored, like Anatoly's cabin.

***

A Recipe for Winter Relish

How to relish winter? Well to begin with, put on layers of good winter clothing, jackets, balaclavas, gaiters, boots, hats and gloves, then don skis or snowshoes and head outside. Drink in the beauty that dazzles your eyes to near blindness and the crushing sound of complete silence that almost hurts your ears.

Now for as long as necessary, incubate your mind so that when you return home you will be instilled with energy to do more enjoyable things of your own choosing.

***

"Sometimes I sits and thinks, and sometimes I just sits…”

p.s. Just as I began to hit the 'post' button I looked up to see a majestic bald eagle over the tree in my back yard. - Sorry I couldn't get a photo in time!

Something to Laugh At (or: The Cost of Friendship)

Some years back, a female cousin of my husband told me a story of when she was new to parenting. The cousin, and her husband, had just purchased their first home in a new town and as a stay-at-home mom, she found herself bereft of friends, especially "mom friends." Out one day doing errands, she ran into a former classmate from her alma mater, Knox College. The classmate, like the cousin, was married and a new parent to a young, under nine-month-old baby and also, a "stay-at-home-parent."

"Oh, come and visit us!" begged the cousin's former classmate. "I'd be so pleased. And honestly, I could use the company right now."

A specific date and time were chosen. On the prescribed day the cousin packed up and toted her baby, and all of the considerable accoutrements necessary to traveling with an infant on a 20+ mile journey to visit a dear old acquaintance.

They had a nice visit, she remembered. They laughed and cried at their shared old and new predicaments.

The original plan had called for a mid-to-late-morning visit so the babies would be in their respective homes for lunch, and their all-important afternoon naps. But, heck, when you're having so much fun...

"Do stay for lunch! I have plenty of food for your baby. Does he eat chicken and carrots and applesauce and such? Great! I have plenty. You and I can have grilled cheese and soup. He can sleep on the drive home."

The lunch, extra time reminiscing with an old friend and sharing tips on parenting was most enjoyable, but all good things must come to an end. The cousin helped her friend clean up, then packed her baby and his regalia. Home they went. Of course, her infant son fell asleep two minutes into the thirty minute commute home. When she attempted to transition him from the car seat into the house he promptly woke, baby-refreshed and she was unable to coax him back to sleep. But heck, and so what!? It was worth an abbreviated nap to hook up with an old comrade, and more importantly, a possible new “mom-friend.”

She basked in the joy of the reconnection for a couple of days. "Isn't it nice to have a good friend so close?" she thought to herself. "Maybe we can find a baby class at some mid-way point that we can sign up for together. I think I read that the YWCA has a mother-tot music/movement class and that's about 1/2 way between our neighborhoods. Or, maybe the big new library has a story time for little ones? How fun it will be to have an old pal with whom to share with such experiences!"

A couple of days later her son took his morning nap, she stepped out onto the porch to retrieve the mail. "Oh how sweet!" she noted. "A letter from my friend! And only just yesterday I sent her my thank you note. This is looking really positive for me finding a 'mom friend,' " were her thoughts at the time.

Inside the house she quickly slit open her friend's envelope. She was confused at first as she looked at the contents. It took a minute, she confided to me, before her brain was able to make sense of it. Even then it didn't really make any sense at all. Inside the envelope was an invoice, an invoice for the jars, partial jars yet, of baby food her infant son had eaten a couple of days earlier, as well as her share of the soup and grilled cheese. "Oh, it must be a joke?" she thought. "I'll give her a call and we'll have a good laugh."

But, it wasn't a joke...

***

The story from my husband’s cousin popped back into my head when I saw the blurb about the 5-year-old British boy who parents were invoiced for "missing a birthday party." I'm certain you've seen it. It's been all over the internet and television news. Anyway the young boy's parents assented to his attending a birthday party, which was to be held at a ski resort. At a late moment they recalled that they'd previously agreed to the boy spending the same day with his grandparents. The grandparents trumped, so I say good for the parents' judgement on that matter. (I'm just saying ;) ) However, the boy's parents later receive an invoice from the birthday child's parents for what they termed a "no show" fee.

***

I don't get penny-pinchers, not these kinds anyway. How do you justify sullying an attempt at friendship, be it for yourself or for your child, with a request for money? And maybe I've watched one-too-many Judge Judys but I fail to see any basis, in law, for such an unreasonable and petty demand.

But what I really don't get, in this recent case, is the invitee's parents who then took the whole matter to the internet in a somewhat hostile manner, not as a laugh to be shared with the world. They were offended and angry, angry enough to include a photo of their 5-year-old son for the world to see, and perhaps as a lure for empathy. Apparently, currently, the way some people handle such matters is to look for on-line support. But come on, do you have to post a picture of your child?!

Better to be like my husband’s cousin and keep it as a funny story to share with friends and family.

Thinking back now, I cannot recall whether the cousin paid the invoice or simply ignored it. At any rate, I do recall that she recognized an all-important red-flag when she saw one and dropped any idea of developing a new "mom-friend" relationship with her former college classmate. 

It wasn't a joke… Oh but, indeed, it was!

Feeding a Monster

"Smoking is wonderful," says Bebe on an episode of the sitcom, Frasier.

"Bebe, what is so wonderful about smoking?" asks psychiatrist Dr. Frasier Crane.

Incredulously, she turns to look at him, "Everything."

She then replies, with a faraway look, as she slowly and passionately explains:

I like the way a fresh, firm pack feels in my hand.

I like peeling away that little piece of cellophane and seeing it twinkle in the light.

I like coaxing that first, sweet cylinder out of it's hiding place,

and bringing it

slowly

up to my lips,

striking a match,

watching it burst into a perfect little flame,

and knowing that soon that flame will be

    inside

    me.

I love the first puff,

pulling it into my lungs,

little fingers of smoke

filling me,

caressing me,

feeling that warmth penetrate

deeper,

and deeper

until I think I'm going to burst!

Then PHWHOOOSH,

watching it flow out of me in a lovely sinuous cloud

no two ever quite the same.

***

I don't smoke, but I find Bebe's description deeply amusing. And she’s right, habits can become sensual indulgences that excite, incite, stir, exhilarate, and enhance the anticipation, and later the memory, of a guilty pleasure. There is something about the habitual repetitions of simple movements that become an embodiment of the pleasure itself.

“Guilty pleasure” -the key word being guilty, indicates that you should, at the least, feel a modicum of contrition for your inability to deny your desire, be it a cheap romance novel, a tub of ice cream, slot machine gambling, online pornography, midday martinis, incessant video gaming...

at some point the boundaries, the guide posts we put up to keep ourselves in check begin to dissolve as we seek more and more pleasure.

Or, in my situation: a monster appears.

***

I wake up at my usual 6 a.m., even though I am physically in a different time zone. Weird, huh? I find myself in a house with, including myself, eight occupants, -six human and two “canis lupus familiaris,” you know, domestic dogs, all of whom continue slumbering. I mean, who wakes up before the dogs? Me, I guess. Our guest room is in a wing separate from the rest of the house. I amble to the kitchen, clutching my IPad. What I’m most interested in at the moment, what drives me to the kitchen, is my endeavor to find a cup of coffee. The last time I was in this home for an overnight visit there was a regular coffee pot sitting in the corner of the kitchen where my eyes now scan.  In its spot is a smaller version of what resembles my daughter’s Keurig coffee machine. I’m somewhat familiar with how that machine works, so I opt to give it a whirl. It beats me having to drive somewhere to find a brewed cup of coffee. I know that the local Starbucks is only a couple of miles away, but I also know that I will probably wake the dogs, and thus the entire household, simply by opening the front door to get to the car.

I follow the customary Keurig steps: turn the machine on, make certain there is sufficient water in the reservoir, insert a fresh pod, hit the button for the cup-size I’ve chosen, and heat milk in the milk frother (which this family owns -heck, they introduced me to frothed milk.) My efforts result, just moments later, in me sipping a cup of the finest coffee I’ve consumed in quite some time.

A bit later Usually Frugal Husband saunters sleepily into the kitchen and asks, "Where'd you get the coffee?" I nod toward the small set-up and urge him to give it a try, "It's just like Keurig, only better." Frugal Husband, a former Navy sailor, drinks only ‘black' coffee. He follows my instructions to operate the machine. He selects the larger of the cup-size buttons. Both of our “coffees” have a handsome amber foam atop, crema, I’m to find it’s called. Usually Frugal Husband samples his brew and declares it to be “pretty darn good.”

It turns out we are drinking espresso, mine with frothed milk added, making it actually a latte. A short time later our hosts waken and prepare regular coffee for us, from the old pot I remembered from past visits, the pot pulled from a covered ‘bread box,’ of sorts. But, come the next day, and the next, as I continue to wake ahead of the household, I chose to make my initial drink a cup of espresso with frothed milk. It is the beginning of my new affection for espresso-laced morning beverages. Usually Frugal Husband is equally intrigued by the espresso experience.

We contemplate using the gift cards we received over the holidays to purchase, what we consider to be, a somewhat expensive espresso machine. “Let’s sleep on it,” we decide.

***

On a recent return from a regular round-trip to and from Chicago, a minimum two-hour commute, I found it necessary to make a restroom “pit stop” at the half-way point, the Belvidere Tollway Oasis. As we stretched our legs and walked past the Starbucks I asked Usually Frugal Husband if he still carried the Starbucks gift card we used to share a few years back, before we retired from our respective workplaces.

“Yup, I have it in my wallet.”

“Should we get a latte or espresso?”

“You know, I just read that Starbucks has a new drink they’re featuring. It’s called a ‘Flat White.’ In fact, today is its debut. Do you want to try it?”

“Okay, but let’s check with the barista first and see the total funds left on the gift card.”

Usually Frugal Husband asks the barista for the balance. She scans the card and says, “You have twenty dollars.” 

Plenty of money, I think and thus order, “Two Flat Whites, please.”

“What size?” asks the barista.

“The smallest size you have.”

She busily prepares the drinks and shortly hands us one, “Here is the first one.” As she passes over the second she says, “That will be nine dollars and three cents.”

As Usually Frugal Husband hands her the gift card, we look at each other somewhat surprised. I snicker and stuff a dollar in the tip canister.

It’s been a while, maybe three years or so since we’ve ordered coffee at Starbucks, and so somehow we’ve lost our immunity to shock at Starbuck’s prices, four dollars and fifty cents per cup of coffee Flat White. As we walk to the car we laugh at our naïveté.

But, as we sip our drinks on the road, it is evident to both of us that this ‘Flat White’ is clearly a winner. The very next week on our round trip from the city we stop again at Starbucks for two “FWs,” as they are properly called. And again we thoroughly enjoy them. “Do you think we could make FWs at home?” asks Usually Frugal Husband.

***

Two days later the door bell rings. It’s Mike, our regular UPS delivery guy, with a package. Usually Frugal Husband and I open it together. He hands me the separately boxed Aeoccino Plus milk frother, part of the ‘bundle’ we’ve purchased, “You take care of this,” as he proceeds to open our beautifully boxed, Nespresso Pixie Carmine Red. I look at my husband as he holds the boxed machine, “That’s a nice name. We’ll call her Nessie, for short.”

“Welcome,” says the card, “By choosing Nespresso, you join a passionate, global community of coffee lovers. There are many advantages to owning a Nespresso machine, and delicious coffee every day is just one of them.”

The sleekly produce material accompanying the machine is just a tad too slick and I feel a tiny chia seed-sized pit in my stomach. What have we gotten ourselves into?

The previous day I’d done my Flat White research and felt confident I could make a drink close in taste to Starbuck’s. Usually Frugal Husband cleanses the new espresso machine, three times as recommended. “Did I just hear Nessie say, ‘Make me pure and pretty!’ ?” I ask. Usually Frugal Husband chuckles as I rinse and prepare the Aeroccino frother. 

We clean of a corner of the kitchen counter top just for Nessie and the Aeroccino. She is pretty, I think. Petite and slender, like many women wish to be.

Oh, and did I tell you, Nessie requires special bottled water? None of that stuff from the kitchen faucet for her. It reminds me of one of my grand-dogs who drinks bottled water from a special, stainless-steel, anti-bacterial bowl, due to her allergies. Did our Nessie come with special built-in sensitivities?

Nessie also requires occasional ‘descaling,’ sort of like I just got from my biannual visit to the dentist. We’ll have to purchase a special kit to aid us in Nessie’s biannual cleaning. 

With our pre-heated ceramic cups at the ready, I press the power button on the back of Nessie’s head. Her cup-size selection buttons immediately pulse to life, like two hearts beating in tandem. An additional light emanates from her abdomen. In 25 seconds she has fully regenerated, as her now-steady lights indicate. I could swear I hear her say softly at first, then more urgently, “Feed me.”

“Do you hear me? I said ‘Feed me!’ ”

Nessie arrived with a colorful assortment of pods, so I pick one up. “Lift the lever, you imbecile!” she cries out. I do so and gently place the pod inside her gaping mouth. She garbles, sounding much like me when I try to talk to the dentist when her hands and tools are in my mouth, but I can make it out: “Duh! Now close the lever, Nitwit.” I do so and hear her guttural sigh of satisfaction as I press the cup-size button on the left.

In a few seconds I have a perfect, and I do mean perfect cup of espresso. I follow the Flat White recipe and add, not frothed, but densely foamed and heated whole milk in exactly a two-to-one ratio. I pause a moment to enjoy the beauty of the beverage, the white, amber, tan and chocolate-brown colors combining as if a work of serpentine art. And like Bebe noted, I think, “no two ever quite the same.”

I carefully carry my FW art-in-a-cup to the kitchen table where I pull up a chair. I venture a sip, closing my eyes to give my whole being over to the experience, mindful consuming they call it. I make a purr, like a cat, as I allow my mouth to observe and absorb the aftertaste. “A perfect Flat White!” I announce

“Really?!” asks Usually Frugal Husband, “Is it really as good as Starbucks?”

“Every bit,” I promise as he hastens to prepare his own espresso.

***

In a couple of days we’ve whittled Nessie’s initial assortment of pods down to half. She’ll We’ll need more, so we place an initial order for 200 pods. 200!?

“How long do you think 200 will last us?” I ask. Usually Frugal Husband projects about ten weeks, if we ration ourselves to one a day each, five days per week. No more of this two per day indulgence we’ve been allowing ourselves. We’ll drink regular coffee a couple of days per week.

We drive into town to purchase six gallons of ‘special’ water for Nessie. When I received the confirmation email that Nessie’s 200 pods are on the way, I felt a relaxation come over me. Funny, I hadn’t realized I felt any strain until the tension began to ease, knowing that the monster's food was on the way.

“We’ve created a monster!” I wailed to Usually Frugal Husband.

“Yes, but look at it this way,” he reasoned, “It costs us about 75 cents per cup to feed her, a lot cheaper than four-fifty per cup we were feeding Starbucks.”

***

I am not having espresso, espresso is having me.

Our bundle packet

Media that feels too slick

Nessie's own corner

Beautiful expresso crema

Feeding in a pod

An after and before pod, (notice Nessie's teeth marks on the left)

"…no two ever quite the same"

This ad appeared on my computer (shortly after an FW search) ;)