Quince

Estas son las mañanitas
que cantaba el rey David...

There was no Spanish birthday song yesterday morning. No serenata from family or even Spotify. No elaborate party to tap in to our culture. It was more “Can I have my phone back? I didn’t get to talk to him all day yesterday. This day is turning out terrible!” There is still much to do for a fifteenth birthday celebration later in the afternoon, despite a plan for something low-key. I proceed to take pup out for a morning walk, carry on as usual.

But it’s not usual. It’s her fifteenth birthday. A decade ago, a decade, we vacationed in Mexico and a mariachi did sing Las Mañanitas. Inside of a McDonald’s. We were getting ice cream for the kids. Our friend found them strolling along the street, so he arranged the surprise. I held her, lanky five year old legs dangling past my knees as I propped her on my hip, her face buried in my shoulder while she covered her ears with her hands because it was too loud.

Last year, she came out on the other side of middle school. An entire 365.25 days (there’s that quarter again) and we’re at 15. One and a half decades of mothering a daughter and I can only think of hollering, “Well at least you don’t have an older sister getting married on your birthday like on Sixteen Candles!” as I walk out, holding the leash with a death grip so bucking bronco Dipper doesn’t yank me out the door. I have to remember though, I’m not fifteen. I keep my mouth shut.

It’s the day of her birthday and there is a quasi-plan. On our way to pick up a friend for a bowling outing, the plan changes. Again. It’s decided to hang out at our house. Stir-fry for dinner at home courtesy of Chef Dad because it’s her favorite and he’ll cook anything for anyone, but especially her. Cake at 7:00 because E is adulting and needs time to get home from work.

My mind races to think about everything fifteen will bring. 2024 fifteen is a long way from 80’s fifteen. Different issues. Different dangers. Too much for me to handle. Too much for her to handle?

On the drive back (then there’s driving!) from dropping off her friend, she says thank you. “The day got progressively got better. I had fun.”

“You’re welcome.”

She puts her phone back up to her ear (earbuds are lost—again) to listen to her music. When we get home, I go to the front yard to take out the black and white polka-dot birthday letters announcing her day to passersby. I realize we forgot to sing when she blew out the candles on her cake.

Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you…

Sips

Celebrating our twenty fifth anniversary, we made it to dinner half an hour before our reservation. On a Thursday night, it wasn’t as busy as we expected. We have only been to Mattie’s a few times as guests to an occasional wedding or other event, but never for dinner. Formerly known as Green Pastures, it’s well known for its pea fowl roaming the early 1900s southern farm home surrounded by stately live oak trees.

We head to the bar for a pre-dinner drink. The last time I was there, it was one of several dining areas. Pale, mint-green walls made for a cozy atmosphere. Votive candles nestled among the liquor bottles along the wall cast a lovely dance of light throughout the room. Bar tenders wore the speakeasy look and asked what we’d like to sip. My husband ordered the Old Fashioned, I had the Rosabella, pink and fancy in a chilled coupe glass. I’m a sucker for fancy drinks.

We took two of the velvet lounge chairs in front of the windows overlooking the quiet porch. Hot, sticky, summer nights haven’t begun yet, but we decided to stay inside. A couple sat at one of two tables, bar empty, save for the bartenders mixing up drinks for those dining. An empty table sat to my left. We leaned in to chat, sipping our drinks. I asked my husband if he preferred to sit at the empty table even though it was larger than what we needed. No one else would use it; we were the only people there.

He declined and we continued with our conversation. We took deep breaths contemplating what all has happened in twenty five years. A long time, yet not so long.

I set my drink on the cocktail table in front of me. Arranging the small bud vase with fresh flowers and votive next to my drink, I pulled out my phone to snap the mood. I am that person. I shouldn’t be, but I wanted a souvenir photo and who knows when we’ll go back? Hopefully sooner than twenty five years.

A glass shatters.

“Ooh, did you hear that?”

“What?”

I look toward the bar, but it didn’t come from the bar.

“Creepy…”

I look to my left.

Gasp.

“Ghost!” I say.

I look at the bartender, half expecting him to pick up a broken glass, but he looks towards us.

At the table where we considered sitting, a piece of the broken votive rocks back and forth. The candle flame flickers a bit before it goes out.

“Maybe the glass had a hairline crack and the heat made it burst,” my rational brain says aloud, dismissing my ghost theory when the bartender says, “It’s the ghost! Really, it is.”

But it sounded like it was dropped…

He makes his way to the table with a bar towel, methodically picking up glass shards and the spent candle as if it isn’t the first time it has happened.

“Well, maybe they or whatever ghost got a little upset because we didn’t join them,” I mutter, taking another sip. The hostess walks in as the bartender walks behind the bar and relays the story again. Ghost.

“Yeah, probably a hairline fracture in the glass…”

I check my watch. We pick up our drinks and make it back to the hostess station.

“Whatever you do, don’t follow us home,” I say to the empty looking table. “We’re going to dinner. It’s been nice meeting you and next time, maybe we’ll sit with you, just don’t break any more candle holders.”

A Quarter

A quarter of a century. How is it that many years already? A quarter of a century of my life spent teaching, mostly. Slightly less than half of my life. Half! Twenty five years of packing up classrooms and now a library. Shoving things in drawers, closets, cabinets, storage closets. The garbage because..can I just go home already?

I pack my car with high hopes. Planning over the summer so it won’t be so much work. I still can’t manage to do it though. Laptop. I’ll need it for my first day back.

A bag-o-books, this fall’s Lone Stars, the best reads for middle schoolers. I packed a stack instead of all thirty and will probably read two. Maybe three since one is more than half finished only because it’s an audiobook and these days listening is easier than reading. I have my own TBR tower at home I’d like to read.

A pink Keurig needs a deep clean (and a break). I dug out a broken down box from the recycling bin to carry it out. Somehow it’s dripping residual coffee from yesterday’s second cup.

The Wonder Woman spiral notebook with a pile of papers jammed in its middle gets stuffed inside the box too. Good thing the cover is plastic and I don’t care if the papers get coffee all over them. I’ll go through each one to figure out what to do with them. Keeping things fresh so I don’t forget-when days start blurring together-about what it was that needed doing but could wait until fall.

These days, years, I bring less home. Twenty five years and I’m still the last one out. You’d think I’d have this moving out thing figured out. Everything that needed doing got done. Another wave of a spiraling timeline makes me dizzy. Some day I’ll pack it up for good. I look over the clean space, uncluttered counters (mostly), tables, desks, and unplugged computers. Desk supplies hibernate in dark drawers along with framed photos.

I turn in my badge and keys. My much younger self winks back at me. Have a good summer, she says. We’ll catch up again soon!

8:30 p.m. Dreams

Where did the day go? It’s book fair week at work, so kids have been coming in and out buying posters, gummy bear-topped mechanical pencils, spy pens, everything but books. Money is tucked away in the safe. A short drive home feels endless. Pups greet me and so does a Taco Tuesday dinner in progress.

Before I have time to talk my way out of it, I change into workout gear and head off the Y for Body Pump. I’ve been going for years, three times a week, but once the pandemic changed all of the schedules, it has been hard sticking to that schedule. How did I ever go consistently three times a week? And the kids were younger? I vow to get back on track. Officially, the pandemic was years ago, but it sometimes still feels like last week.

On the way back home, police lights flash ahead on the freeway. Why did I even get on? Should’ve noticed traffic slowing down. Rush hour should’ve tapered off by now. My exit is up ahead. That’s where the lights are flashing. Can’t do anything but wait. Inching closer, I get into the exit lane. Everyone is moving to the left except for a few people exiting. An officer clears flat styrofoam boards from the highway, chunks flying behind cars that got ahead of it. I exit, grateful no one was hurt in a wreck.

I eat reheated tacos alone. The amped up outdoor leaf blower buzzes annoyingly. On and on with the occasional dog bark. It’s an oversized hairdryer of sorts, styling the backyard, freeing it of leaves and oak pollen that became embedded between blades of grass. When will it stop? I put away leftovers, toss dog toys in between for some play time, and get the dishes clean.

How will I relax this evening? Lights are on in the backyard. Everyone, including the dogs have been fed. Game night? A bit of journaling? Slice! I need to slice. Maybe I should take the day off? I just finished a 31 day writing streak.

Don’t do it! That’s how good habits die. It starts with one day and snowballs from there.

My laptop is open and I look through thirty three draft titles. As I mull around ideas, Dreams, by The Cranberries plays from the bedroom. Getting up, I retrieve my phone before my husband groans in complaint.

I haven’t even had time to relax! Or write.

An alarm is set on my phone for 8:30 p.m. I named it STOP ALL OF THE THINGS! It’s time to wind down. Get into pjs. In my current gym sweat state, it’s a shower first. Take out my contacts. Wash off makeup. Get the dogs outside one more time. Put them away. Make sure teen is ready for tomorrow morning…and I haven’t sliced yet.

It’s easier to skip it, but I don’t want a good habit to die. It counts as winding down.

Thought Bubbles

A few years ago, we watched a video during a staff development meeting. It was about not knowing what people are thinking and making assumptions about why they respond or behave in a certain way. What would pop over people’s heads if we could see their thoughts?

These are some of today’s bubbles hovering over my head.

2:36 a.m.

24 minutes before my normal 3:00 a.m. wide-awake-can’t-go-back-to-sleep time. The microwave door slams shut. Beeps. The door opens and shuts again. Whirs. Beeps. Open…

What in the world is she making? Clatter continues in the kitchen. Reeses barks. The back door opens. Shuts. He’s running around outside barking at whatever it is that called him out there.

I kick the covers off. Why didn’t I turn on the fan last night? Flipping the pillow over to the cool side, I put it on top of my head. Turn to my left side and hug it instead. There goes the microwave again.

Walking to the kitchen, the light is on. There’s a jar of Nutella on the counter. She’s still in her clothes from yesterday. What are you doing?

Stupid question. She’s clearly eating.

“I’m hungry,” she exclaims as she wrestles the plastic seal off a new tub of chocolate ice cream. Her makeup still looks fresh.

You sound like Grandpa warming his coffee when he comes to visit. You will NOT do this again. Be sure to clean up because I don’t want to walk into a messy kitchen when I get up in a few hours.

“I will, I will, I was just a ‘lil hungry,” she reassures me only as teens do.

I go back to bed and summon sleep. Come back, please, I wasn’t done with you yet. Another toss. Slow breathing. No covers except for tucking in my feet.

Bark! Bark-bark!

I must be the only person in the house hearing Reeses asking us to let him in. Waiting doesn’t help. I get up once again. The kitchen is dark. He pads back in but I’m not nice enough to let him upstairs to cuddle with her.

Back to bed. Breathe, breathe, breathe.

Did I Ask Too Much?: U2 @ Sphere Las Vegas

Did I disappoint you? Leave a bad taste in your mouth?

Yes, yes you did, but I don’t know who to blame. A bad taste in my mouth is an understatement. I was struck dumb. Numb. Speechless. What happened? I followed all of the directions. When my tickets didn’t load to my app, I contacted the ticket company two days before the event. I didn’t yell at anyone. I didn’t get drunk. I didn’t smoke something I shouldn’t. There was no tattoo I’d later regret. No zip lining in frustration from the Stratosphere.

We walked back to the hotel stopping for a drink along the way, but I didn’t want that either. I began drafting my email to customer service while we waited to order. Later, I got into my pajamas, tossed my sparkly tank over the top of a chair, worn for four concert-less hours. New boots didn’t have time to rub blisters on my feet.

I woke up at my normal Your-Brain-Is-Now-Wide-Awake time of 3:00-ish a.m., confirming it with a groggy one-eyed peek at the red lighted digital clock. I must have slept hard, I felt the morning ready to greet me. Ahh, different time zone, remember? It’s only 1:00. We’d just be getting back had we been there.

I flop back into bed feeling around for my eye pillow. I place it over my eyes and breathe deeply. Its soothing lavender scent is long gone. My brain props itself on an elbow wanting to talk. I need sleep! It presses with questions.

Can I change my flight? Will I get my money back? I mean, I did get tickets. But they didn’t work! Is E available to pick me up from the airport? I can find someone for a ride or just get an Uber. Are there tickets for Friday’s show or are they sold out? It doesn’t hurt to try. I’m too close not to go.

With or without you…

I’m hearing Bono sing. I can’t live, with or without you…

And I can’t live without trying, Bono!

Last year I was number 3,000 something in an online queue to snag a ticket for an interview with Brene Brown after he released his autobiography. I missed that one too. Tickets sold out in less than five minutes at a venue the size of a gnat compared to Sphere.

It could work out. Try it when the world wakes up. I mother myself back to sleep. Shush my brain. Go back to sleep, you can’t do anything until later. It’s fine. Weren’t you okay with not going in the first place?

Well, yeah, but that was before I bought tickets.

You’ve got to get yourself together, you’ve got stuck in a moment and you can’t get out of it…

Shhh…go back to sleep. Try again, later in the morning.

It’s just a moment, this time will pass…

Stuck in a Moment: U2 @ Sphere-Las Vegas

I’ve waited most of my life to see my favorite band. I’ve never been much of a concert go-er, but this one topped my list of things to do for a fulfilling life. My funcle lives in Las Vegas, no need to hunt down hotel bargains. However, once concert ticket x 3 is out of our budget since we also want a summer vacation. Plus meals, plus airline tickets…a solo trip is easier. A little.

I downloaded several ticket apps. Checked prices, sections, looked at videos people posted, how can I not make this happen? It’s Sphere, a planet-building emerging from the desert, with U2 inside. Ticket prices seemed to drop the day of the concert. If I get there, wait until the day of the concert, maybe…

My husband and 14 year old gave me a “meh,” when I asked if they wanted to go. I didn’t need much convincing to go without them. I booked a flight, made arrangements to hang out with my uncle, who is more like my older brother, and decided to wait on the ticket. People resell tickets all the time. If I don’t make it, there are plenty of other places and events to see.

…but I still haven’t found what I’m looking for

I arrived in Vegas on Tuesday, December 6th to attend the concert on Wednesday. I scheduled my return flight for Friday. I figured a mid-week concert ticket would be a easier to snag than one happening over the weekend. This was before I knew they extended their residency through the first weekend in March. And so goes the world of not being up to par with concerts.

Not being much of a risk-taker, and certainly not one who gambles, I gambled anyway and bought two tickets four days early. My uncle would go with me. Who goes to a concert alone? Worse, what if they’re sold out? My youngest brother is also a fan, and I kept him and my sisters updated on this trip since I booked my flight in October. We contemplated a sibling outing so we could rock out together. It didn’t work. Like taking family pictures, it’s hard to get everyone in the same frame at the same time.

I kept them posted on everything in real time, but told them I’d enjoy the concert once we were there. I prioritized presence, but everything leading up to it didn’t count.

It’s a beautiful day, don’t let it get away…

A beautiful night, anyway. We hike to the venue and figure out where to enter. I don’t know where to look. Do we take pictures in front of the massive orb or get in line and wait until after the concert? We decide to get in line. My heart wants to jump out of my body and I’m sixteen year old giddy. So many people! We’re in a portal about to board a mother ship to take (us) out of this place.

Tickets are ready and an usher directs us to another line even though it isn’t our assigned section. Scan. Scan. Scan. Scan. Small talk with people around us.

“We’ve waited for…”

“This is our second time…”

“We came all the way from…”

My barcodes are ready and I hold my phone up to the reader. The usher asks me to scan the second one. We try again.

ACCESS DENIED

“A lot of people are having this issue. Go to the service desk and they’ll get you in.” The usher continues scanning everyone else. Smiling at our line mates, we head to the desk to wait in another line. There’s more small talk with a guy who flew in a few hours earlier form Monterrey, Mexico. People are getting scanned or their tickets are getting printed.

Sleight of hand and twist of fate

Two young ladies make their way to the counter. “Are there tickets left?” The person helping us informs them it’s sold out. The lines have thinned. The deep U2 instrumental tones welcoming everyone have become louder as people found their seats. It starts soon.

My phone has stopped pinging.

I ping my sisters even though they’re probably already in bed.

I’m at a place called vertigo…it’s everything I wish I didn’t know…

Homecoming 2023

She makes a little yippy barky growl.

“I got asked to homecoming!”

I don’t have time to comment.

“And HE MADE ME A SIGN! But you won’t get it, so I’m not showing it to you.”

Wait. Brain uploads. I’m not sure whether I should ask questions, comment, shrug, or jump with excitement and scream. Regardless, the wrath of Queen Teen will be upon me. Off with my head!

I say “Congratulations! Were you expecting it?”

“No! And he made me a sign!” She makes that little yippy barky growl again, rounding it out with a squeal this time. “He put all of these cool things only I understand. You wanna see the picture?”

“Sure.”

I barely have time to process the image, on top of the fact that I can hardly see anything with my wonky middle-aged vision. I have to ask again. “Hold still this time and at least let me take a look.”

There they are, her little friend guy holding a sign asking her to homecoming. She said yes, and so begins the process…

Buying the tickets. “I don’t want to go to the game though, just the dance. But we need to buy the tickets now so they don’t sell out.” Poof, request granted.

“I need to shop for a dress, but I don’t want to go with you. I’m going with Ash and her mom.” Poof, request granted.

“We are going to the game so now I need a ticket for that.” Poof, request granted.

“I can’t walk in the sparkly shoes you have in your closet. I want Dad to take me shoe shopping.” Poof, request granted.

I ordered a boutonniere, picked it up, and took her for pictures with him before the big event. His mom drove them to dinner and the dance and I picked them up afterward.

After several messages and driving around the school several times I found them, along with other teen couples awaiting their parents’ pumpkin carriage rides home. I see them and she’s wearing his shoes. Her shoes dangle from his finger. They climb in the back seat and I don’t say a word.

On our way home, her little yippy barky growl with a squeal unleashes the evening’s events. “Did you see, Mom, did you see? My feet hurt, so he took off his shoes so I could wear them! He walked around in his socks all night just so I could be comfortable. He’s so sweet!“

Yes, I did see, but I didn’t tell her.

All Hallow’s Drink

Halloween B.C., before children, we figured out going on a date scored us a short wait time and a good table. In previous years, we bought candy, but no one showed up.

Twenty one years ago, I had a thirty day old baby boy. We lived in a new neighborhood and with that came expectations of handing out candy to cute little kids dressed in fun costumes. Except this Halloween, my boy cried all day. I had a defrosted bun-less veggie burger for lunch at 5:00 in the afternoon. I didn’t shower and I couldn’t calm this baby down. Then the knocking started. And more crying. Then a phone call from my husband announcing his car wouldn’t start. We ate out again and returned home to a bowl full of candy.

Later, we left candy on the porch with a sign for kids to take two pieces. E has been dressed as a frog, a bowl of spaghetti, a train engineer, a chef, Indiana Jones, Thunder Pickle (his own invented character). S. joined us as a Chiquita banana. Then they both asked for candy as Phineas from Phineas & Ferb with a rockstar, Harry Potter and a police officer, Jek-14 and a low-key ballerina, Minecraft Steve with a black kitty cat, a meme with a unicorn.

A quick dinner of chicken nuggets or pigs-in-a-blanket preceded early evening candy hunting. We couldn’t eat early enough before the doorbell alerted us to kids asking for candy as we tried heading out ourselves. The transition from giving to getting was always tricky, but always worked itself out.

As E grew up, his trick-or-treating morphed into a belated birthday party in the garage with friends, complete with pizza and bottled root beer. It also cost taking S. around the neighborhood while I handed out candy and made sure the pizza was ordered, paid, and delivered. The candy bowl now had a companion. E later took over it while I gathered S. and her friends, meeting them at the end of each street, an exasperated “Mom! Why can’t I just go with my friends? Without you?”

E’s garage parties have come to an end. S. has new friends. A few days ago, she also requested a garage party. Then she decided to take over candy duty because, as she explained, “I’m a little too old for trick-or-treating. It’s a little kid thing. I shouldn’t take candy from them.”

By Sunday, she needed a costume.

“What happened to letting little kids have their candy?”

“My theater friends want me to go with them. We’re all going together.”

This afternoon, my husband and I went to happy hour. S. went home with a friend with plans for trick-or-treating later. I sat on the front porch and attempted to git rid of all of the candy. Older kids loved my costume. S. didn’t comment when she saw me later that night.

Halloween happy hour might be our next tradition. Perhaps next year, we’ll also be the full sized candy bar house.

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