Step 5. Just put yourselves to bed....we're landscaping.

As many of you know we've been toiling in our landscape hell for about a month now.  I think it's my penance for rushing that old lady at King Soopers last Spring.  This has been years in the planning, but usually we'd look out back while holding cups of coffee and say something like, 

"We really need to do something about the yard."

"Yeah.  It's horrid."

"It's beyond horrid."

"But if we start it..."

"...then we'll have to finish it.  And we could..."

"ride our bikes instead and then go..."

"swimming with the girls.  Or hiking. Then I guess we could do..."

"anything.  I'd even play Candy Land for 5 hours straight instead of work on that."

"I'd rather take a shovel and hit myself on my bare pinky toe multiple times instead of work on that."

"Oh yeah?  Well I'D ______________________", (fill in the blank with anything else heinous that you would rather do than landscape).

And that would pretty much be it.  But 3 years at our house and we started to feel really silly. And I began to feel that deep down "farm-girl guilt" surface.  My farm-girl guilt is worse, (I've been told) than Catholic guilt.  Good thing I was raised Christian, otherwise it would be an unbearable combo. I get a pang of this all throughout my easy suburban day.  You have neighbors within walking distance?  You should feel guilty about that and bake them things simply because you can.  You have a museum and zoo that you can take your kids to?  You'd better go 3 x a week and fully maximize the educational possibilities when they are ages 1-5 and then once a week during the summers after that.  You don't have to feed 100 plus baby calves before 7 a.m.?  You'd better get up and CREATE chores.  Any chore will do.   You have a bike that didn't get ran over by the feed-truck twice?  Well, you'd best get up at 4:30 a.m. to ride it.  The list goes on and on.  I like to think I'm passing a healthy dose of this guilt down to our first generation suburb girls, but it never seems enough.  Making the bed seems to pale in comparison to oh, say, bailing a field of hay all night in tag-team shifts.  

So I'm definitely THAT mom.  

The one who says utterly annoying things like, "DO YOU KNOW HOW LUCKY YOU ARE?  Do you know what WE did as kids?  Do you know what GRANDPA did when he was a kid?"  Even everyday tasks; like going to Target and passing the shoe aisle is a trap.  One of the girls voiced that she liked those sparkly shoes and it prompted the tirade:

"Guess how many shoes Grandpa had as a kid.  Guess!"

"Um, five?", one of the girls asked timidly.

And I shouted gleefully, "No!  TWO!  TWO PAIRS of shoes!  One for church and funerals and one for work and school!  We don't need any more shoooooooooooooooooooooooeeeeesssss!"

So. The farm-girl guilt was surfacing like a raging river over our nasty, useless backyard.  It finally broke sometime around May.  And now it's hit our house in the following steps.

1. Sprinkler system (a cruel joke of a phrase).

2.  A lot of dirt to level our fun-house tilted yard.

3. 13 tons of rock.

4.  7 tons of pea-gravel.

We are currently half-way through step 4.  One day into step 3, Aaron suggested we rent a bucket loader of some-sort which would load and haul the rock for us.   Farm-girl Katie nearly flipped her John-Deered capped lid.  

"WHAT?!?!?!?  WHY?"

 "Oh, I don't know.  Because I like my back and want to keep it in TACT."

"It builds character!!!!

 "Do you NEED your character to be built?  Besides.  Your dad used a tractor."

 "Yeah, but...but we still had to lift a bunch of things...that got hot in the summer and...they were heavy."

 "I'm telling your Dad that you're against agricultural technology."

 "But...but...sometimes it's good to do things the old fashioned way!  I mean, won't it be nice for the girls to SEE us doing this and when we're done, we'll know that WE did it OURSELVES?"

 "Well, I think I'm the one doing most of the 'old-fashionedness', so anytime you want to grab a shovel, go right ahead."

Ouch.  But he was right.  The first night I was overwhelmed and pretty much just busied myself planting things.  But this was just the right insult to motivate my inner Rose (my mom's name--the ULTIMATE FARM WOMAN).  By day 5 I was hauling like nobody's business.  I was even RUNNING the wheelbarrow to and fro.  Granted, this was because I had mistakenly told Aaron to have the NEXT order delivered by 2 p.m. that day and it was 1:45 and I still had 8 more wheelbarrow loads to haul, but that's beside the point. 

My triceps and character are more than built.  Aaron has declared that unless things drastically change, or "we are homeless and living on the railroad, I am never, ever going shovel any more 1 and 1/2 inch river rock"  Amen, my honey. 

But I have to say.   I think it's been a good lesson for the girls. They've seen and done some serious WORK.  FAMILY TEAM WORK.  They've seen me nearly tip a full wheelbarrow over and Aaron dart across the yard to save it.  They've witnessed us getting bruised, battered and sweaty and come out victorious.  Once Bella even marveled, "I can't believe that some day I will be as strong as you, Mama," which was just so, so nice (especially since I was making odd grunting noises mixed with whimpers to get the wheelbarrow over the ramp).  And BONUS!!!  I've gotten really good at making smoothies and iced coffee at about 2 p.m. when we all want to just lay and lap up the garden hose. 

And Aaron, at 10 p.m. the other night, when we had JUST quit, and we were trying to get the girls to bed said,  "You know.  I have a deeper understanding of your childhood.  And your parents. I mean there's work to be done.  And we are going to do it.  It's not always butterflies and UNO." 

Which was promptly interrupted by the girls shouting in unison down the steps, "DADDEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!  We're ready to REEEEEEE-AAAAAAAD!!!" followed by giggles and something being thrown down the steps.  

"COMING!"  Aaron put his open pitcher of water down that he'd been guzzling over the sink, turned and started toward the steps and added,"But I'll bet they were sure happy when you guys were old enough to put yourselves to bed".   

The next afternoon, it started alllllll over again.  The sounds of rock against shovel.  When the mailman drove by and asked, "Are you crazy?  It's 100 plus degrees!  I took my sweaty cap off and shooed him with it, while maniacally shouting back, "Yes!  I AM crazy! Why don't you just do your job?!?!?!??   And quit bringing us pool maintenance catalogs!   Ha-Ha-HAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!" We were ready though.  I had taken the leftover coffee from the day before and already frozen it as ice-cubes for just that purpose. So crazy.  Yet, so smart.

Oh, and let me tell you what I'm working on for tonight:

Step 5. Teach kids to put themselves to bed. 

 Do you need a hat that will keep the crazy mama sweat out of your face for YOUR next farm-girl guilt inspired project?  

http://www.zazzle.com/cranky_mamas_truckers_cap_hat-148680492173474790

http://www.zazzle.com/cranky_mommys_coffee_hat-148589827951753621

http://www.zazzle.com/cranky_iced_coffee_tshirt-235736070281876184?rf=238059376856533572

They aren't your TRUE friends.

Over the Spring season of my job...that is my second job as Bicycle Safety Educator, and not my first (Mommy to three kids, Gabby, Bella and Aaron), I've developed a love-hate relationship with my coffee-maker.  Even though it's not as pretty as our old one, it got too creepy to think of it as a man.  Men just don't anticipate female needs as well, and when I would shower it with praise, it felt a little like cheating on Aaron.  So I named her "Chloe" and that was that.

Chloe has gotten me through some rough times.  I programmed her to start chugging early on those cold and snowy bike rodeo days.  And she'd always be there to have a little somethin' somethin' at the end of the day that I could pour over some ice in a tumbler and pretend I was a character from Mad Men.  My impressions of the characters are particularly funny since I've never seen the show.

But there have been days that Chloe has let me down.  Days I SWORE I programmed her and she deliberately DEprogrammed herself just to spite me for not cleaning her in three months or something equally as trivial.  Days that she begrudgingly participated in our symbiotic relationship (her supplying me with what is undoubtedly my equivalent to Meth. and me showering her with praise in furtive whispers, early in the morn so as not to wake our girls), only to curse me later in my car.

You see, Chloe is not the only passive aggressive friend in our house.  We have another spider in our tangled web: "Zoey"--my fickle travel coffee mug that is GUARANTEED NOT TO LEAK.  I am convinced that the two of them plot against me on a nightly basis after I go to bed at 1 in the morning. 

I imagine the conversation going something along these lines:

"Pssst.  ZOEY!"
"WHAT CHLOE?"  I'm drying! (in the counter-top dish drainer) What do you need?"
"Just wondering.  Did she clean you tonight...I mean, really take the time to CLEAN you properly?"
"You know the answer to that.   Did she clean you?"
"No.  And I hate the way she punches my buttons and slams my lid because she's in a rush.  No thought whatsoever as to what we might need or want."
"What are you thinking?"
"How about I deprogram myself and you spill all over her work bag the first sharp corner she takes."
"I'm in.  I'll really soak her hat, scarf, coat and gloves since it's supposed to snow tomorrow."
"Sweet.  Goodnight, Zoey.  It's nice having true friends."

And that is that.  I did 5 schools this spring and this happened at least once at every school.

I'm almost done with work.  I have only a few odd days left here and there.  But I realized this morning that over the last few months, in addition to neglecting sleep, laundry, exercise, and at times my family; I've most certainly neglected my friends.  And not the coffee-providing ones.  My true friends.  The ones I miss talking to at the busstop.  The ones who tell me they like my fugly haircut.  The ones who have seen my babies grow.  The ones who listen to me vent.  The ones who laugh at my inappropriate humor.  The ones who's kids I adore and who make me almost cry when I see that they've lost another tooth.  I miss them.  I miss being there for them.  Baking for them.  Cheering them up and cheering them on.

How did I come to this realization?  I spent 3 minutes having an in-depth conversation with Chloe this morning.  Three minutes talking parent strategies to an inanimate object.  It's time to bake some muffins, and get back to my peeps.  Fellow Mommies, let's unite!!  School is almost over, life if busy, projects are due, work is pressing, but take some time today to show your true friends how much you love them.  Put it on the top of  your "to-do" list or your "calendar"...which if it's like mine, its undoubtedly stained with coffee. 

Your own personal "Zoey"

The Cranky Tanky

Be a friend, minus the crank.

Puke Jail and the Family Pop-corn Bowl

As many of you know, I've rejoined the working force.  Well, sort of.  I teach bike safety at area Elementary schools.  This is one job that is exploding with fun on a daily basis.  Unfortunately it is also oft times exploding with germs.  Sometimes I see the culprits, sitting criss-cross applesauce next to me hacking and sneezing or picking and chewing, while my team-mate, Julia teaches up front.  Othertimes, it's more anonymous.  Like I put one of our 15 bikes in the van at the end of the day knowing that at least 200 kids touched the handlebars and I shudder.  I loves the kids, but geez.  Some of us as parents are just not doing our jobs when it comes to personal hygiene.  And this comes from a woman who doesn't shower on a regular basis if it means an additional cup of coffee or two more miles on my bike or forgetting to check Friday folders until Monday morning. 


Being a mom definitely makes you less of a germaphobe in some ways, but more of an overkill one in others.  For instance, I can't stand when kids hack all over themselves and their neighbors, but I still will accept a full body hug from said child if I think it will boost their confidence.  I take that hug and then I bring the infestation home to my own family who are blindsided by the sheer amount of nasties the first two weeks of every work season.  I got it last week and it finally wormed it's way to Bella. 

As far as it went, it was pretty mild.  Bella is at that age where she can mostly make it either into "the bucket" (um, which also coincidentally doubles as the family popcorn bowl) or the bathroom across the hall.  Many years ago, however, we were not so lucky.  I remember hearing a few coughs over the monitor, and the next morning when I went in to wake Bella up, walls were coated.  Literally coated with puke.  I swooped Bella up, ran to the bathtub and put her in the bath while simultaneously throwing up myself since I was then pregnant with Gabby and "morning sickness" took on new meaning that day. 

Now it's old hat.  Like every parent on the second or third night of a bout, we wait at night in a semi-state of sleep for the inevitable sound of coughing, the door being thrown open, the lid of the toilet thrown up and a fire-hose of whatever is left in her emaciated empty-fevered belly.  I do a lot of laundry, use an inordinate amount of bleach wipes and that's about it.  The only real drawback to our girls being sick now is that it puts us all into "puke-jail".  Puke-jail is similar to what young moms refer to as "nap-jail".  Which is when you'd really like to be outside or at the park or at the grocery store or anywhere but IN YOUR HOUSE, but you can't because your child is napping.  And that is precious time.  You don't want to ruin it, but sometimes it limits your social arena.  You find yourself waiting for the garbage trucks or postal carrier just so you can open your door and wave to a grown-up and feel like you got some human connection. 

Puke-jail is the older mom's burden.  Your kids are in the over 6 range and life is definitely a lot easier than it was with babies those first few years.  Loads of self-sufficiency, yet they still love you and think you are the best at Just Dance 2 (don't feel bad...I really am). When puke-jail hits, it hits hard.  Suddenly your travel ban is back in place.  You fear walking to get the mail two doors down because even though your child can MOSTLY make it to the bathroom, it's not a given.  And you haven't forgotten what that can be like. 

So on a gorgeous spring day, 3/4 of our family is stuck in puke jail.  I encouraged Aaron to go for a ride with a friend after surviving a nasty business trip this week.  There is no need for ALL of us to be here.  Recently Bella floated her pale, ghost-like self down the stairs.  It was a pathetic effort, but an effort nonetheless.   She made it to the landing.   I carried her fiery, little twig body over to the coach, re-wet her washcloth, grabbed the popcor...I mean PUKE bowl and turned on Wallace and Grommit.  I brewed myself another pot of coffee and am ready to settle in...at 1:25 p.m. 

"Thanks, Mama."
"You got it, baby."

Puke jail isn't so bad.  In fact, at this age it's kind of nice. 

http://www.zazzle.com/cranky_mommys_puke_jail_medicine_tshirt-235578882770981756

Full Fat Mocha in a Maternity Dress

Sometimes you need to find just the right "power mommy" look for a school function.  Conferences, parent-teacher nights, concerts, etc.  Usually my "power mommy" looks includes, flip-flops, old jeans, may-hap a jacket, a scarf or a fleece hat.  Sometimes I might wear them all at once if the weather cooperates.  Last week, though, I needed to pull out all the stops. 

Thursday January 27th was our school's 9th annual Oral Interpretation Festival.  "What's that,"  you ask? We-he-hell, let me tell you.  It's when you round up as many kids as possible to memorize and recite poems on the local high-school stage with a microphone and spotlight.  This was not an easy task.  Last year I merely volunteered when Bella participated.  I helped at a few practices and a little at the show.  This year I was running it.  All of it.

I knew I would be facing some participation challenges when I got blank or petrified stares in the classrooms back in December when I went to hype up this event.  I quickly had to improvise from saying, "Raise your hand if you like to perform in front of a crowd," to "Raise your hand if the thought of doing this makes you so nervous you'd like to throw-up," and even certain teachers raised their hands.  It was sort of like rounding kids up to go in for a voluntary trip to the dentist on a stage for all the world to see. 

But in the end I got (begged) about 30 kids grades 1st through 6th to "come join the fun!".  And overall, it was fun. I got to know the office staff quite well, and became an expert at all things Shel Silverstein. Plus I got to use the phrase, "The microphone is your friend, but it's the kind of friend that doesn't want to be touched or licked."  How many times in your life will you get to say that? 

We had practices, I made announcements, designed programs, called parents, and on the Monday before the event I felt totally on top of things.  By Tuesday I still felt very positive, but had some misgivings about my overall preparation.  By Wednesday afternoon I was sitting in my car at Costco crying. As it turns out, I was paralyzed with indecision estimating how many cookies and lemonade I'd need to buy and from where.   I began to question my entire math upbringing which made me question why I thought I could handle putting all of this on to begin with.  And now since it was an odd 65 degrees out the last week of January, I was beginning to sweat and panic. I quickly put the windows down, took a few deep breaths and steadied myself.  I didn't want everyone walking by with their jumbo crates of toilet tissue and pita chips to hear some crazy, sweaty woman crying in the Costco parking lot.  What would they think? 

"Oh, how sad she forgot her Costco membership card."
 Or, "Oh, how sad.  That woman is stark raving mad.  Well, at least I haves me some pita chips."

I grabbed my to do list that had now been scribbled on, slashed, burned and redone 50 odd times that day, flipped it over and called the friend that I thought would most be able to answer my cookie conundrum.  She texted me 15 minutes later but by then I was already rolling.  I had that epiphany that we mommies usually have after having a good cry fest in any assorted parking lot.  I could do this.  I would have the right amount of cookies and lemonade more importantly I knew exactly what I would wear.  Anyone who doubted the show's impending success would "live to regret it" as Gabby had taken to saying quite a lot lately. 

By Thursday I had it all under control again.  I went for a bike ride, colored my hair and laid out my outfit.  I decided to wear a former maternity dress my sister, Lynette had given me.  This sounds just wrong I know, but to my credit, Lynette's thin, she got it in her first trimester AND it's quite stylish.  Lynette and I both giggled that with the right belt and jacket it could serve as the perfect sassy dress for a non-pregnant woman.  This show deserved just that type of sass for just that type of non-pregnant woman.  You can check the link below if you don't believe me. 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iCQ9pDb9QKs

See?  You totally can't tell it's maternity. 

Anyway, the show was a success.  Several moms stepped up to help, the kids were cute and I only momentarily panicked 5 or 6 odd times. After the show, people enjoyed an average amount of cookies (which will be increased next year) and lemonade with happy faces.  Families finally milled out, Aaron took the girls home and I cleaned up.  I ate leftover broken cookies, drank a few glasses of lemonade, but the last thing I did at 8:30 at night was to stop and get myself a celebratory cup of coffee with the remnants of a Christmas gift-card.  I'd been saving it for a special occasion.  This was it.  Putting on a flawless school event, while simultaneously  boosting the confidence of our youth!   I ordered a small FULL FAT mocha because after all, I was wearing a maternity dress.  It's not like I didn't have the extra room.


http://www.zazzle.com/cranky_mommys_full_fat_mocha_bag-149300036952628766?rf=238059376856533572

"The laundry moved. The LAUNDRY MOOOOOVED!!!!"

Summer time is here and that means 3/4 of our family has no schedule, no set bedtimes, nothing to do, nowhere to be and the concept of time has melted into one ambiguous lump like those creepy clock pictures by Salvador Dali.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Persistence_of_Memory

I love it. My girls love it. My husband loves it for us, but we all feel horribly sorry for him that he still has to adhere to the rules of the real world when we do not.

Gabby who has a heart of gold says almost every morning, "Poor Daddy. Why does he have to go to work in the summer?". Bella, the realist, will reply almost every morning, gesturing frantically in the air, "Because he has a JOB, Gabby. He has to work for us so we can do all the fun stuff!" Rightfully said, my dear.

But life as we know might be ending. I have a real, honest to goodness INTERVIEW coming up. It's a part time dream job, so I'm actually really crossing my fingers to get it. I know I can do it while still continuing to be the happy over-caffeinated mom my family is used to. So last night I went for a mountain bike ride with Yeti Jen and then we went suit shopping. This is truly the blind leading the blind. We delighted in the fact that we had sweaty helmet heads and I still had elastic lines on my belly and legs from my shorts and here I was trying on a suit.

I have not tried on a suit in 10 years. I blatantly told this to the very kind sales woman who took us on as kind of a project. It worked. I found the perfect suit and now I just have to get my self ready in a happy way and not go all Annette Bening from American Beauty where she slaps herself for being so weak after doing an open house. "I will get this job today. I will get this job today."

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SS06JvtlAc8

Anyway. I get home late to find that our precious girls were having a sleep-over together in the basement, or "Horror Land" as they like to call it. As far as basements go, I think it's pretty sweet. It's finished, has plenty of room for two bike trainers, a treadmill and a partridge in a pear tree. As far as they are concerned, though, the balance ball is haunted and there's a creepy amount of spiders "and their babies who are waiting to eat us!".

Nonetheless, they made it all night. But this morning I awoke to the sound of baby elephants charging up the stairs...which is unfortunate since I tend to throw dirty clothes down the stairs and sometimes that makes for a treacherous run. I heard, running, giggling, screaming, then thuds, and more running. By the time they got to me, they were panting and Bella screamed in my sleepy ear "Horror land was scarier than ever!!!! THE LAUNDRY MOVED!! THE LAUNDRY MOOOOOOOOOOVED!!!!!"

"Yeah, Mama!," Gabby continued. "It chased us up the stairs!!! You should take care of it today! Wight now!!! Get up!!! Do that laundwy...and make us bweak-wast!"

My interview is tomorrow. I've got a full pot of coffee brewing because I have several things to do to get ready. But perhaps, I could throw in a load of laundry or two. Because even though we all giggled, I did peek down the stairs and I half-way believed them.

http://www.zazzle.com/cranky_mommys_home_brew_laundry_tshirt-235387200796354522

...As to Get the Prize

My grocery shopping skills have now officially been finely honed to an elevated art-form. Like most things in my life, this is out of necessity. The majority of my day goes something like this:

1. Ridiculously long "to-do" list.
2. A silly short amount of time in which to complete this list.
3. A debate in my head between my slothful angel and my over-achieving angel as to whether I'll finish or not.
4. The phrase crazily uttered aloud "Oh, I'll finish it alright. I have plenty of time."
5. A cup of coffee frantically made, spilled on my shirt and swallowed too hot to fuel my efforts in order to put the U.F.C. smack-down on my slothful angel.

Repeat steps 1-5 at least 3 times a day and viola (or "vi-oh-lah" as my daughter would say). There is my day.

Grocery shopping is usually squeezed into a window of 25 minutes. Enough for some, but not nearly enough for me. As mentioned in an earlier blog, I have my list organized by aisle/peripherals of the store and coupons stapled in order according to that list layered on the top left corner.

I have also learned to leave my cart and run for the item down one aisle and doing a mad sprint up the next back to abandoned cart to save time on wheeling the cumbersome beast to and fro. Occasionally I have dropped a can here or there and twice I've run into people--literally slamming my full body weight against someone with only a loaf of bread or a bag of 2% shredded Kroger brand Mexican cheese to cushion the blow. Most people just hear my flip-flops slip-slapping and they move to the side in horror.

I know all the "fast checkers" and which baggers can handle my frantic pace. I always compliment them on how fast they are as I'm wiping the sweat from my brow and unstapling my coupons. They always seem to want to get me out faster as if I have a fever of some sort. And perhaps I do. It's called, "You are gonna be super late to pick up your half-day Kindergartner, you slow, slothful, tortoise of a being."

Gabby gets out at 11:40. Today I did all sorts of things that I didn't necessarily have to do until 10:45 a.m. Setting myself up to lose, is apparently what I do best...I mean, in a way, it really does make me work smarter and faster. But the level of stress is just insurmountable at this point and somewhere between the grapes and the hummus, I often wonder to myself, "Is THIS really how normal people function?" the answer to that is always a resounding "No," in my case, but that's beside the point. Why not just take Gabby with me? Well, here's a quick why. She does great in the store. Really great. In fact, sometimes I get really creative and we play Grocery Bingo with homemade cards and all that jazz (slothful angel got pummeled that day). But mostly, I am painfully aware that this is my last few months with her as a morning Kindergartner. From here on out, she will be lost to full day school. We will not have our afternoons of lunch, playing out back, cozy reads, mid-afternoon hot cocoa/coffee dates, Go Fish-a-thons, park walks, bus-stop tree climbs, just the two of us, trying to make up for those first two years that our entire family ignored her because Bella talks all the time.

I just don't want to waste that time with her at the store.

Any way. Everything was going as planned until I spent more than my self-allotted time per section on the bars section. You know, Cliff bars, Kashi, Luna, etc. It's a science. Price, flavor, protein content. My five minutes turned into seven and before I knew it, I was doing the Homer Simpson squeal of fear and surprise as I glanced at my watch and saw that I hadn't even made it to the check out and it was 11:31.

At 11:33, I was trying my hardest to be a good listener to the bagger who was telling me about the blizzard of 06' when she worked at the Pepsi Center, AND Wendy's, but secretly my slothful angel was riding a unicycle around my head celebrating it's victory, tooting for some reason a clarinet. But still. I knew it took only 5 minutes if I hit every green light (which of course I WOULD) to get to Gabby's school. If I could do my trademark full-cart sprint out the store to my car, I could still make it work. I grabbed my receipt muttered a thanks and had just started to get my cart a really rocking, when it happened.

A 90 year old woman in a motorized wheeled cart moseyed out right. In. Front. Of. Me. Right in the middle of the aisle that surely is big enough to stay on the right and get passed on the left by people like me...moms mostly. Hmmmm. Just like a bike path. But there she was, right in the middle. My end of the game hail Mary shot had just been deflected. Three minutes. It took three minutes to go from one end of the check-out stands to the front door. Her hand was not all that steady and it kept slipping off the go button. So here I was tailgating a 90 year old woman in her motorized grocery cart and several times I almost rear-ended her.

Up ahead now at 11:38, I can see the opening to the store. I try to nonchalantly whip around her and gather up my full speed again, only to almost run into the assist-a-ride Arvada bus that she was destined for. As I bank a hard left to get around the back corner, I catch just out of the corner of my eye, a car that was crossing behind the bus--the car that would undoubtedly hit me, run me over and bring my untimely, inpatient death. I come to a screeching halt--almost forcing my sweet 90 year old friend to rear-end me (ironic, isn't it?) and there go my bagels and bananas that are stacked precariously on top of a bag. Off the side, rolling...under the bus. Then I hear a familiar voice.

"Nice, Macarelli. Real nice."

It was my friend Michele and her 4 1/2 year old daughter heading into the store--they had been witness to it all.

I didn't even really have time to justify my actions.

"I...uh (scramble for the bagels, grope for the now mushy bananas destined for banana bread)...can't (pant, pant) gotta get...Gabby!" I wave frantically in the air back at them, throw the groceries in the back, run the cart back around the bus at the entrance, see my old friend scowl at me from the motorized lift. "Sorry! Have a nice day!" (pant, pant,)

I test our Subaru's all wheel drive on the way to the school and believe it or not, roll into the parking lot, groceries spilling all across the back, at 11:41. I race up and Gabby comes running to meet me happy as a clam.

"Honey. I'm sorry I'm late."
"You're not late, Mama. (wrinkles up her freckled nose like it's gross to even think about) Let's play." She drops her back pack, smiles at me and heads off to the monkey bars.

I drop onto the grass, like I just finished a race (and let's be honest, I did) and then I see it. Coffee stains all down the front of my shirt. I have no idea how long they have been there. Did I get them at breakfast? Did I have them at the bus-stop? The grocery store? Or did I chug from my travel mug while I was driving 75 mph in a 25 mph zone without even being aware of my actions? I decided it didn't matter. Because I did it. I finished it. I got there. And now she and I had the WHOLE afternoon to be together. Do most people my age literally race a 90 year old in a motorized cart? Probably not. But I needed to get that prize.

*1 Corinthians 9:24. Do you not know that in a race all the runners run, but only one gets the prize? Run in such a way as to get the prize.

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The "score of the century" Up and Dies a Fast Death

About a year and a half ago, my husband delighted in showing me "the score of the century"--which was an add in a magazine for a sort of coffee of the month club with the added bonus gift of a sleek, sexy looking chromified coffee maker. "Can a coffee maker look sexy?", you ask? Well, yes it can. I doubted the merits of this program, and worried about getting sucked in to paying inordinate amounts for crappy mail-order coffee when we can pay inordinate amounts for reasonably good coffee right here at our local store, but he insisted I was missing the point.


"No! You are missing the point. We only order the first batch to get the coffee maker and then I cancel our subscription. I already have the first possible day you can cancel marked on my calendar on my computer at work. Trust me."

I knew he undoubtedly DID have it marked on his calendar, but I still questioned the quality of the coffee maker we'd be getting. As it turned out, I was wrong. Sort of. For a year and a half, our pretty little honey did all we hoped and dreamed. What was more, my husband delighted in pointing out the same coffee maker at all of our friends' houses:

"See? Everyone who is intelligent has done the exact same, intelligent thing."

I loved to hear her chugging away in the morning. I loved her filters--even the efficient looking cone shape. I loved how easily I could fill the glass carafe without spilling it all over. I loved everything about her...until the day she just up and died.

Without warning one morning she just gave up her caffieneted ghost. No notes of goodbye or reasons WHY she was leaving us, she just did. Perhaps we just used and abused her too much and she aged too fast. Perhaps she was flawed to begin with and we ignored the warning signs. Whatever the reason, I awoke after a late night staying up doing laundry, packing lunches and finishing an all important Law and Order only to hear my husband calling up the stairs as he left for work, "Bye Honey. Oh...and I think the coffee makers broken."

I jumped up quick at this. "Wait. WHAT?"

"Yeah, I went to make coffee this morning and nothing happened. Okay, bye!"

As the door closed, I felt oddly abandoned. That entire conversation happened too fast. The death of a friend isn't usually dismissed so cavalierly. I had to investigate for myself.

Five minutes later after pressing buttons, unplugging and replugging, tapping, shaking, begging and pleading, there I was morosely stirring my International Mayan Chocolate Lover's instant Delight. Hmmm. "Delight" is a strong word. After drinking it, I knew why they were trying to subconsciously force my enchantment. Standing there in front of my friend's corpse, I felt accused and dirty.

"You left me no CHOICE!" I hissed to her. "No cho-o-o-oice!"

Three hours later I was feeling the affects of my withdrawal. I forget exactly what I had planned for the day but it was a LOT. There was some volunteering, some painting, some driving, I think we went to gymnastics, but I can't be sure. It was all a blur of sleepiness. I had no time to go get a NEW coffee maker which was what I wanted to immediately after I half-heartedly drank my International Mayan Chocolate Displeasure.

Aaron, on the other hand was feeling none the worse. He has access to copious amounts of coffee at work. I was actually contemplating where I could go to get some free coffee. Even going back to work now seemed a good possibility. "I'll bet the teacher's lounge at the girls' school has it. Perhaps I could just sneak...".

Believe it or not, three days later I finally brought the brand new baby home. After much research on Amazon, some coupon rustling and four phone calls to Aaron from Bed, Bath and Beyond, we found a replacement.

This time I've dubbed it a "he". I have yet to name him, but he is undoubtedly masculine and not nearly as a pretty on the eyes. Not even six-pack abs Men's Health magazine masculine. More like someone that comes over and breaks your plant-stand in two minutes by walking, masculine...and sort of hairy. Either way, I giggled as I walked into Bed, Bath and Beyond with my cup of coffee from the coffee shop. I'd held out so long and I just didn't see me making an educated decision without some positive, alert reinforcements.

So the next time your "score of the century" coffee maker goes out, don't feel bad about going through the drive through. I will never get those three days back. And although everyone around me treated me the same after, I can't shake the feeling that I may have done something inappropriate during my time of mourning and caffeine alienation.

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