A Girl Likes Feeling Special

Pink & Orange vs. Green & Brown
In East Milton square, two competing caffeine establishments coexist directly across the street from one another. Whether they know it, or like it, or not, they share parking spaces. I’ve been in the neighborhood visiting my family intermittently this summer, and I’ve worked out a nice routine. I walk early in the day, then get a cup of something and about half an hour of alone time for journaling.

Anyway, I’m caffeine clean these days, so I lean toward the herbal tea options at Green and Brown (G&B). On the other hand, when I’m on the buzz, I prefer the taste of Pink and Orange (P&O). Especially iced, with cream and excess artificial sugar.

But just for today, I’m caffeine free. One day at a time.

I haven’t been in this particular P&O yet, but I’ve frequented their twin brother a few blocks away in West Quincy. I’m quite familiar with the chain, so I know the drill:
Walk in; get a nose full of hot grease and powdered sugar.
Wait in the rat maze line and look at all the pretty sprinkly things (coated in aforementioned powdered sugar).
Try to make sense of the news channel, the one with four increasingly unsettling crawls on the lower third of the screen.
Funny, a sprinkly thing got ordered and I only came in for the caffeine.
Pay; grab the stuff, leave.
By the way, pick up a straw and a napkin on the way out the door.
Yeah, thanks, NEXT!

Because “thank you” has too many syllables, and there’s an even longer line now than the one I waited in. Besides, with the pink, the orange, the powdered sugar in the nostrils, and the four crawls on the TV, and the carbs I didn’t mean to order, I’m too distracted to recognize perfunctory treatment right away.

This isn’t a relationship; it’s a one-morning stand. The whole atmosphere is set up to get us in and out quickly, leaving a little more money behind than originally intended, about a buck and a half at a time. It’s just capitalism, and it works; I get the buzz and the carbs, they get the cash. Effective, but by the time I’m taking the first sip, I’m feeling a little dirty and vaguely roughed up.

I’m gonna hate myself for this in the afternoon.

Across the street, it’s a whole different vibe. When time and space for journaling are scarce, G&B is far more subtle about seducing me to spend more. For one thing, G&B has the real estate: tables, chairs, newspapers, Wi-Fi, non-verbal invitations to hang out and write for as long as I want. With the music and dim lighting, I feel like the prettiest girl at the prom, even in my gym clothes.

G&B: Psssst, hey, Blondie! How you doing?

LMH: (looking around to make sure this graying, but still dark-haired girl is the Blondie in question. I am!)

G&B: Yeah, you, Blondie. Wanna be my mermaid?

LMH: (blushing, yet articulate, because I can’t resist a sense of irony.) Huh? (Noticing the logo on my cup) Oh…..OH! …………………. (inhaling deeply) Mmmmmmmmmmmm. Is that coffee bean aroma you’re wearing?

G&B: Of course, I knew you’d be here, and I know what you like. By the way, how about this song?

LMH: George Harrison? A cover, though. Sounds good. Really, sounds good. I like this. But you knew that.

G&B: Get comfortable, Blondie. You can sit in this nice warm brown chair. Or, maybe a table is better for writing. You’re in for a treat; wait till you hear the rest of the CD. How’s the drink? I’ll be right here if you need anything else. Anything, Blondie.

Ah, the green, the shades of brown. Earth tones. So inviting, so back to nature. So cavernous, quiet, serene, even with the caffeinated clientele. Anyway, they’re way over in that other part of G&B; I’m over here, all cozy with my tea and my notebook. I can’t even hear what they’re ordering – I’m writing, smiling, nodding my head, and just loving this music.

So, several songs (and a few pages) later, I must have this CD, available right here in G&B, who happily accepts Blondie’s credit card.

LMH: Oh, and won’t my Nana love it if I bring her one of those nice muffins?

G&B: Coming right up. That’s $14.95. Thank you. You come back, Blondie. I’ll keep your chair warm.

LMH: Of course. You know I’ll be back, and you know what I like.

I won’t regret it until the bill comes. Maybe not even then.

Word Geek

About 6 months ago, as I was surfing around the classifieds in Poets & Writers, I found a poetry challenge. Use the following 6 words in up to 3 poems: anteros, crippled, spindle, staircase, threshold, and whirligig. The deadline was firmer than my will to submit anything, so it came and went, but not before I scratched out an attempt.

As a word geek, I don’t allow myself to use a word until I’ve done my homework, so that meant some quality time with Merriam Webster to look up anteros. Well, in case anyone was wondering, anteros means anterior. Okay, not being one to put a dictionary down prematurely, I proceeded to look up the other five words too, just to make sure I had a handle on all of them. Good thing, too, because whirligig’s definition painted a picture in my mind. That’s just good writing, and not just for a dictionary, either.

“Spindle” really got to me, too. Aside from the meaning, it’s just fun to say. Go ahead, pronounce it a few times. Spindle, spindle, spindle. Admit it, you enjoyed that. It’s an underused word, so it was generous of the poetry challenge people to include it.
Anyway, here goes.

Best Man
By Lissa M. Hanson

“No Anteros! Dammit, anteros!”
The first crippled words Daddy whines
After the stroke spindled his brain.

But Anteros? Might he mean Auntie Rose?
For decades, I eavesdropped to catch the whispers, and
Studied the curling snapshots;

As a young bride, she seized
His teenaged heart.
He blushed and turned his face away
As she descended his grandmother’s staircase
Carnations and babies’ breath in hand,
To join him, no, her groom,
His spike-haired uncle.

On the threshold of the makeshift altar,
Her dress – the palest pink – a
Floating whirligig
About her hips, around her belly.
And he, with the ring in
His borrowed breast pocket
Wordlessly carried out his duty.

Beginning

I’m tired of playing hide and seek with the writer I’m supposed to be. Ever since my parents taught me the alphabet, I’ve wanted to write. But like everyone with “real world” responsibilities, I frequently get distracted from the projects I start. Then, when I carve out time for writing, well, I don’t know where to begin. Focus tends to expand a subject, so today I’ll focus on the upside.

So far today, here’s my gratitude list: My husband made it safely to work; my kids are doing what they need to be doing, where they need to be doing it; the car dealership under-promised and over-delivered, which meant only a 45 minute wait to get my mom-mobile back. Then, on the way home, I heard one of my favorite songs, “Unwritten,” immediately followed by another one that’s crept into my heart, “Collide.” As I pulled into our driveway, a butterfly visited me. Maybe it was the same one that flirted with my shoulder a few minutes later when I was watering the tomato plants. Finally, the ache in my posterior reminds me of yesterday’s highly effective workout.

As a pathological optimist, I don’t measure a glass half full or half empty. A glass with anything in it is still something, which is better than nothing. And an empty glass is ready to use. Besides, we’ve got to start somewhere.

And here is the first post to my blog. Let the crickets begin….