The Other White Milk

First thing in the morning, I like to make a cup of chai. I get the kettle boiling and take out my blue, United Way mug. It’s bigger than any of my coffee cups and has What Matters printed across its girth.

I have become a fan of Tazo Decaf Chai. It’s not as good as the real thing, black tea boiled with ginger and Indian spices, but it’s pretty darn nice for something that comes out of a beige and yellow box. Along with clever copy on the virtues of Tazo Decaf Chai, the box has a diagram showing how steeping the bag for five minutes will provide the best results. I don’t look at these instructions any more even though I pretty much follow their steps.

This morning, after my tea bag had steeped its requisite five minutes, I lingered for a few seconds over the nice aroma rising from my countertop. Then I grabbed a bottle of milk out of my fridge door and poured.

Thick white liquid with small, crumbly chunks came out of the pint-sized bottle.

What the hell?

Organic blue cheese dressing. Its pint-sized bottle shape and color was almost identical to the pint of half and half stored right next to it.

How could I be so stupid? I thought to myself.

Why didn’t I look before I poured? What was the matter with me? The dressing was in a glass container. The milk was in a plastic bottle. They had different colored labels. Different colored caps.

That was initial scolding I gave myself. Then I went on to blame myself, to shame myself for WASTING. Certainly, wasting is a sin, right? So many people live without the luxury of Tazo Decaf Chai. I’m on a tight budget and really want to be conscious to put everything I have to good use. What was I going to do about this now?

I was angry at myself. I was despondent….And yes, I was still thirsty for my morning chai. I took out a teaspoon and clanged it around the inside of the cup. The tea took on the right sandalwood color. Then I thought about the small chunks of blue cheese breaking apart at the bottom of the cup. No way was I going to drink this concoction.

And then I started to laugh. I looked at the picture of the Guernsey cow on the bottle of dressing. Oh, this is pretty funny, I thought. An easy mistake to have made. I stirred my experimental cocktail again. By now, some oily bubbles seemed to have formed on the surface. I’ll just put the kettle up to boil again, I decided.

I laughed some more as I poured my first cup of the day down the drain. It’s not supposed to be good to cry over spilt milk, but it seemed perfect to laugh over discarded chai (with two tablespoons of organic blue cheese dressing).

Forgiving yourself, then laughing about a mistake is no small thing.

View from the Back Seat

The other night, I agreed to go out with a new friend to partake in his circle’s longstanding tradition of Red Beans ‘n Rice Mondays. I love Cajun cooking, swamp inspired two-steps, and almost any good excuse to hang out in a welcoming kitchen sharing wine, opinionating about recent columns in the New York Times, and swapping stories about things we’ll probably never do again, but are glad we did that one time.

When he picked me up, he explained that his daughter Zoe would be driving to his friend’s three flat located less than two miles away. I was then instructed to – excuse the junk (and there’s always junk, right?) -- slide into the back seat.

Wow. This was different, I thought. I couldn’t remember the last time I had looked at a driver’s side headrest from this vantage point. I felt a little disoriented. Ah, there’s the seat belt. I noticed the seat belts in the back came out of the crease between the back cushions and bench instead of from the door as it does in the front.

I really couldn’t say much. I couldn’t tell Zoe when to flash her turn signals. That was her father’s job. I couldn’t change the radio station. Too far to reach. Also too far to reach, there’d be no purpose in trying to re-direct the vent. The air it’s supposed to divert probably wouldn’t find me way back here anyway.

Backseats, I mused, were reserved for kids and old people. I remembered backseat pastimes I used to play during family road trips when I was growing up, looking out the window to count the number of red cars on the way to the cottage or raising my arm, hand balled into a fist, and pumping it up and down until I could get a trucker to honk his horn. And being carted around when I get old, when I get too near-sighted or too hampered by shoulder pain to steer with authority (And Lord, take away my keys when my judgment fails), I didn’t want to think about this.

Okay, the back seat view is not exclusive to eight year-olds and octogenarians. I remembered that wealthy people sit in the back seat when chauffeured around, and taxi rides usually involve this view, but neither thoughts dispelled my notion that sitting in the back seat was an exercise in losing control.

Did Terragusto close down?

We passed a wonderful neighborhood Italian restaurant where I noticed the lights were off. Oh yes, I remembered with relief, they’re not out of business. They’re just closed on Mondays.

“I think we might need a parking permit when we get to your friend’s house,” I echoed quietly, having just observed parking signs along the route that I might not have noticed from the driver’s seat.

There’s the Tiny Lounge, I said to myself, spying the local haven for martini aficionados, and the Southport Grocery and Café, famous for their vanilla butter cream frosted cupcakes. The awning bearing its name was tucked in between other buildings and could have easily been missed. I’ve always wanted to check these places out. Hmm. A large CVS sign. I think this pharmacy is open 24 hours. Without needing to focus my attention on the white Camry changing lanes too often, I noticed several under the radar landmarks in my neighborhood as if for the first time.

Sitting in the back seat, relaxing and enjoying the ride is no small thing.

Gratitude Gallery

Practically every night, before I go to bed, I sit on my meditation cushion, and I write a few things in my gratitude journal. I have been keeping a gratitude journal for years. My current volume has a glossy hard cover of kaleidoscope colored geometric shapes that closes around the pages. It’s like a book that turns into a gift box I have to open when I’m ready to write something.

My entries can be pretty simple. Last night, I wrote that I was grateful for the wonderful leftovers I got to eat for dinner (courtesy of a friend who made a terrific meal the day before). I wrote that I was grateful for the funny and philosophical book I’m reading now and the fact that the humidity dropped and reading it for two hours at the beach was absolutely blissful!

Recently, I started a Gratitude Gallery. I decided to collect thank you notes that people had written to me. Right now, I am keeping my gallery on top of my refrigerator.

I have a card from the family of a dear friend who passed away a few months ago, thanking me for joining them in a special night of reminiscing. Phyllis sent me a handmade thank you card because I took time to meet her for tea and brainstorming about her job situation. I have a card from Rosie, thanking me for going to the library for her when she had back problems. (I was grounded for months because of a broken foot, so I know what it’s like not being able to get around.) I just love the post-it note thank you Donna gave me. I stuck it on a folded index card, so I could display it with the others. I performed a task for a group gathering at the last minute because someone didn’t show up. When I returned to my seat, I saw that Donna, who was coordinating the program, had left the post-it with “Thank You” and a hand-drawn heart for me.

My gratitude journal invites me to remember how the world is better because different things are in it, and my gratitude gallery reminds me that the world is better (at least for a handful of others) because I’m in it.

I like to see these thank you cards. I hope my collection grows and grows. (I’m sure I’ll find a bigger space when the top of my refrigerator is full.) First of all, when I see these cards, I think of my better self, the thoughtful or considerate part of me. But they are reminders of something even more important.

When I see these thank you cards I recognize that I have successfully surrounded myself with people who appreciate me, people who appreciate me and who have taken the extra step to tell me. And that’s no small thing.

Coming Clean -- A Newer, Kinder Clean

I had procrastinated long enough. It was time to clean my office. My office is the only room in my home where I close the door, where I feel the need to close the door.

Okay, since the thought of perusing files, then filling bags and throwing them out, not to mention shredding tax returns from 2002, seemed too overwhelming, at least, I decided, I could clean my desk.

I have file cabinets in my office, but somehow I seem to prefer using the real estate of my desktop for things I want to get to quickly or papers I’m not sure what to do with yet. That pretty much encompasses everything in my known (office) universe.

The first level of cleaning involved actually reading my papers and asking myself whether I needed the record any more. Critically examining something before throwing it away and glancing at it at in order to categorize it and place it in its to be filed stack are two very different operations.

Slowly, I made progress. Papers made their way to a folder or to a garbage bag. Business cards found their alphabetical neighbors and were slipped between their corresponding tabs in my card file. As I started to see more of my desktop’s wooden surface, I noticed I became more and more anxious. Why wasn’t I feeling happier or more accomplished?

There’s a foreboding sort of feeling that comes with “clean.” Clean is the ultimate reminder of the ephemeral nature of things. As soon as something can be declared “clean,” it is understood that from that point on, it can only become dirtier. Sometimes, nothing has to happen in order for a perfect state of clean to degrade. All that’s required is a change in perception. If you just look at a clean room, or clean wall, or even a clean piece of paper long enough, you will start to see imperfections, blemishes, marks. Hell, I thought, my newly cleaned desk doesn’t have a chance

It’s still worth it, though, right? I tried to convince myself that the effort was valuable, even beneficial. But I felt sentenced to some kind of future failure. Inevitably, I would not be able to keep my desk clean.

To a large extent, I pondered, we think of a physical space as clean because we can’t see anything on it or in it. But when it comes to our conscience, we think of it as being clean because nothing is hidden. I started liking the idea of adapting this definition of clean to my desk.

If I viewed the contents of my desk every day and pared down my papers enough so that I knew exactly what took up any space -- if I didn’t hide anything from myself, wouldn’t that be clean enough? Making consciousness my new metric for a clean I could keep is no small thing.

Sweat

I hate sweat.

It stains your clothes.

It makes you look like you just got out of the shower.

It makes you feel like you need a shower (another one).

It weighs down your eyelashes.

It makes you want to wipe down your face with a dew rag, and I hate dew rags.

It tickles and distracts you when beads of perspiration form around your neck and zigzag down the entire length of your back then careen down into your crack.

It smells.

It gets into your ears or mouth.

It makes you slippery. It makes you not want to hug people (and hugging is good).

It makes you want to tie your hair back into a pony tail, and hell, even with a pony tail, you can still tell that you’re sweating.

It makes the waistband of your pants feel especially prickly.

It becomes the focal point of your attention even when you have plenty of other things you could pay attention to.

So, this afternoon, it was 90 degrees in the shade kind of hot. My toes were sticking to each other and sticking to the soles of my sandals. I was watching Black Joe and the Honeybears play to a crowd at the Sheffield Garden Walk. The back of my shirt had become a wet magnet. The crowd around me was probably, on average, 20-25 years younger and they didn’t seem to be sweating. (Did I mention the fact that sweat is even more awful when the people around you aren’t getting their share?) I was thinking about how much I hated sweat. Then the slightest of breezes wafted through the stagnant air, spreading out against my back, touching every centimeter of wetness, opening and cooling every over-heated pore.

God, I love sweat!

Having an automatic cooling system is no small thing.

Giving Yourself Permission

On weekend mornings, I like to pick up a Take-a-Hike scone at the Bleeding Heart Bakery and walk over to Fellger Park and eat it slowly. Fellger Park is a small corner park, size-wise. But I see it more as an incredible, magical play lot. It’s equipped with benches for moms and nannies; swings, slides, small tables for make believe tea parties, a red locomotive that doesn’t go anywhere (ah, but I imagine sitting in it affords the greatest views), and a tree shaped sprinkler that can cool down any munchkin during a summertime heat wave. The ground is also made out of that wonderful spongy material that seems to forgive falls and the effects too much enthusiasm can have on a kid’s skin.

Last Saturday, from a bench there, I overheard a sweetly intimate father-daughter conversation. A three year-old blonde girl, frail build, wearing glasses, was looking very circumspect at the fountain tree and the gleeful scurrying other kids were making directly into the path of the water.

“Dad,” she asked. “Can I go in?”

“Yes,” he answered.

She didn’t move. She just watched the other kids more intently.

“Dad,” she repeated. “Can I go in?”

Her cheeks were tender and pink, like the insides of a bunny’s ear.

“Yes,” he repeated.

She thought quietly for a bit then posed the question differently:

“Dad, will you go in with me?

“I didn’t bring my bathing suit,” he replied. “So I won’t go in, but you can go in.” He squeezed her hand and tried to reassure her. “You can go in.”

She stood still for a while. A four year old boy, stripped down to his underpants, raced, screaming by her, wet strands of his hair plastered against his freckles as he beat a circular path under and around the fountain. Then the coast was clear again.

I think she was about to ask her father yet one more time, but instead took a sigh and walked slowly to the edge of the puddle made by the cascading water.

She didn’t run underneath the stream. She raised one foot, white gym shoes still tied pristinely, and stamped it down with all her might, making the water splash upward, droplets of spray tickling her legs up to the hem of her shorts.

For now, this was enough. Maybe next week, she’ll run her hands under the waterfall or step in barefoot. I was so proud of her.

Giving yourself permission to get wet is no small thing.

The Simplest Celebration

The closest brown line stop is about 6 blocks away. I take the el several times a week to go downtown for concerts, or for work. Sometimes I walk to the station. Sometimes, I confess, when I am short on time, I drive to a place about ½ block away and park.

Yesterday, at around 5:30, I drove to my stash parking spot as I was hurrying to meet a friend for a 6:30 concert. I was carrying a folding chair and a small tote bag with my water bottle and a bag of corn chips when I made it to the turnstile, transit card in hand.

NO ENTRY.

The read-out was clear. What’s the problem, I wondered. Rattle. Rattle. Rattle. I heard an el train passing overhead. I hoped it was going northbound, and I still had the chance to catch the next train to the Loop.

My transit card needed to be charged up, I realized, so, wrestling with my concert accessories I managed this transaction at the kiosk as quickly as I could then executed a fast swipe against the card reader at the turnstile and pushed myself up the stairs. And there are lots of stairs! I started to hear the familiar rattle of an approaching train as I went up, but I couldn’t see the platform.

Oh please, please, please, I mumbled to myself, let me get on this train.

I felt my stepped-up pulse in my throat. I was grabbing the banister to help me pull myself up the last few steps. By this time, I could definitely tell the approaching train was on my side of the platform.

I emerged from the stairwell just in time to see the train slowing down, stopping just a few feet ahead of me. I started running. Not one of my stronger suits. I reached the last car just as the doors closed and the train started to pull away.

Still tussling with my folding chair and tote bag, breathing heavily, I watched, resigned, as the train started down the track, already anticipating how discouraging the view of its rear window would look as it started to pick up speed.

It moved about 30 feet down the track, then stopped. The doors opened.

Could this be for me? I thought. I managed to get a little energy moving and scampered a few more steps until I reached the last door on the last car. I walked in and the doors closed behind me.

I felt like I had just won the lottery. I must have had the biggest, most irrepressible, Cheshire Cat grin on my face. These trains just don’t stop once they shut their doors.

Everyone on the car smiled back. I was positively gleeful and I must have just beamed with gratitude and surprise. A smile is the simplest celebration. And a bigger blessing was seeing how my good feelings changed the mood of everyone around me. Inviting a train car full of strangers to smile is no small thing.

Lemons and Limes

A slice of lemon or lime always seems to freshen up a glass of water or soda. When I was at a local restaurant the other day and ordered a club soda, the waitress asked if I wanted a lemon or a lime in it.

I had never given the choice much thought. They’re both citrus. A little bit of acid that wakes up the taste of a pretty much tasteless beverage. What’s the difference?

I decided to do a little research.

Lemons/Limes

Carbs 9.32g/11g
Sugars 2.5g/1.7g
Fiber 2.8g/3g
Fat .3g/.2g
Vit C 53.mg/29mg


Looking at the official food factoids suggests some differences. I was surprised to learn that lemons have more vitamin C than limes. But a chemical analysis didn’t really address the difference for me.

After more research, I discovered that lemons come from trees that can grow up to 30 feet tall and limes grow on shrubs that might reach 12 feet high at best. Lemons seem to have originated in northwestern India and southern Italy and limes were first cultivated in southeast Asia. Limes have a denser flesh and a similarly sized lime will be heavier than a lemon. Lemons are oilier. With regard to which is tarter and which is sweeter, that seems to be a subject for debate. Lemons generally have more sugar, but sugar content alone does not mean sweet. There is also myriad varieties of limes, some sweeter than others, and almost as much variety in taste buds.

They smell different. This is my first observation, although I am not sure what words I would use to describe their unique fragrances. Before eating or drinking anything with a lemon or lime, I would smell their aromas, like calling cards, announcing their impending arrival. Lemons smell clean, bright, sharp. Limes smell more complex, flowery. I seem to prefer lemon flavoring in some things like still water, green beans with olive oil and tarragon. I prefer lime slices in gin and tonics or tomato juice.

A lime is not a green lemon. It is different in ways, perhaps, I can’t explain. I am glad, most times though, I have the choice. A spritz of lime tastes like nothing else, wakes up a drink like nothing else, disarmingly confuses my palette like nothing else (Is it sweet or sour?). A lime in my hand feels like nothing else. A lime splits open to a knife and garnishes a plate like nothing else.

Loving the lime-ness in a lime is no small thing.

My Electric Toothbrush -- Unplugged

Several of my friends have expressed an almost religious fervor on the subject. Maybe they’d seen my somewhat frayed-bristle, six-month check-up, dentist issued, Oral B in my bathroom. “How could you still use this old thing? You really have to get an electric toothbrush. You’ve got to get into the 21st century.”

Then they’d go on to expound on the virtues of their favorite brand. Everyone seems to have an opinion on the subject. And I can really appreciate many of the arguments for buzzing your way to a gum happy, whiter smile, but -- As I understand it, the rapid movements allow the toothbrush to remove plaque AND loosen up mouth crud in those nasty tight spaces between teeth as brushing with a poor lazy arm could never do. Electric toothbrushes can actually help remove coffee stains and, hallelujah, can help remove bacteria that cause bad breath. (The way my friends extolled the incredible properties of these devices, I almost concluded they might slow down global warming as well.) A stat I read on some Internet health site said they reduce gingivitis by 6% over manual brushes, leading to a 17% reduction in gum bleeding. Pretty impressive, I’d say. Some oscillate. Some vibrate on a “sonic” frequency, I learned. Oh wow, I thought, like having nuclear submarine technology in my mouth. Cool beans.

I bought myself a start-up model, a two-speed, battery operated number where you could change these half-sized toothbrushes whenever they got worn out. I brush twice a day, about two minutes at a time …and I’d like to think my mouth wants to thank me.

Truth is, though, many nights, when I brush my teeth before going to bed, when I stumble into the bathroom and make faces at my reflection in the mirror, I squeeze a dab of toothpaste onto my SpinBrush, and I don’t turn the damn thing on. Not even on low-speed. I look at myself in the mirror, and make the motions the old-fashioned way: Up. Down. Up. Down. Or faster. Up-down-up-down-up-down. Or, around-and-around-and-around. Now counter-clockwise. Around-and-around-and-around. How far back can I go?

I love to hear the sound of the brush against my teeth. I could never hear this on either oscillating speed. I like to hear how the sound of the brush changes when the motion I make with my arm changes. I like thinking about cause and effect when I do this. How a simple action can change so many things, intentionally or not, before the action is completed. And, that’s no small thing.