The Custard Is Always Worth It

The sunshine and thermometer readings brought out the crowd tonight at our local custard shop. Once in the line, however, we all were surprised by the wind. It slid through our clothing and engulfed those who had braved the night in shorts. I was grateful I grabbed my oatmeal stocking cap before I left. Even if because psychologically, I'm sure the furry ball on top adds extra warmth to my head.  

As we waited impatiently in the queue, I observed my fellow customers:

• shuffling,
• jumping, 
• dancing,
• complaining,
• retreating, 
• cuddling, and
• swaying

to prevent the cold from seeping into our bones, which had warmed up during the day.

Whatever action they chose to battle the chill, their wait was worth it. The custard is always worth it.

I Have a Snooty Sniffer

I'm not one of those people who has an extraordinary sniffer. I think it's average. I'm not one of those people who travels back in time to moments from my past that waft into my mind flaming memories of my childhood. My sense of smell seems to be more simple while at the same time, it's picky.

I don't wear perfume. I prefer unscented soaps. But when it comes to candles and essential oils, I feel my nose dons a particular snootiness. Odors are either adored or hated in moments of presenting themselves. My nose's particular palette likes things woody. Cidery. Piney. 

In the fall, as I was preparing for hygge, I went searching for deliciously scented candles to provide winter evening coziness. It was then that I stumbled across the perfect candle, Walden Woods. After hearing the candle creators' story, which included being made locally and sharing a passion for writing, I was sold even more.

Each evening this winter, their scent swirls around the living room, bringing my heart and nose small, simple smiles. Today, even though spring seems to be sneaking more and more into each day, I purchased a couple more because I think my hygge and my nose need them. 

Car Window Poetry

The highway's
black surface and
white dashes
pull my eye
forward.

Fighting this
optical illusion,
I turn my head right.

Winter ground.
Golden stalks
jutting from the black soil.
Tracks of plowed lines
making patterns where
green will sprout.

Turning my head back center
my eyes encourage
my hands to stretch
for the white and gray
batting that's escaped from
my grandmother's pillow
and floats across the sky.

All this contrasted
against the blue
shows me that
Mother Nature
is ready to
share spring with us soon.

Quality is Important: An Allergy Shot Tale

Once a week, I get allergy shots or immunotherapy. I receive one injection in each of my upper arms. In my left arm, I receive a tiny amount of trees and grasses. In my right arm, I receive an even smaller amount of dust, dust mites, and mold.

Two weeks ago, I reacted to my dust, dust mites, and mold shot. The skin on my arm grew hot and pink. And itchy. I had a large spot, approximately the size of a cider donut, for almost five days. Since starting treatment, I haven't reacted, so this response was new to me. Luckily the reaction didn't grow in size, nor did I have other symptoms.

Since then, I've returned to my allergist's office twice. The nurse who was administering injections today is my favorite. She's friendly and kind. She always admires the tattoos on my arms. Her touch is gentle and kind.

We've had longer discussions about my symptoms and health since I reacted two weeks ago. Today I gave my favorite nurse a little feedback on her rapport and ability to inject me with a foreign body in a manner that doesn't feel invasive.

She smiled and said, "Hey, that could be a thing. Giving nurses injection reviews."

I replied, "I'd give you five stars."

Her smile widened. She started the timer for 20 minutes, the required period patient must wait at the doctor's office to ensure you don't have an anaphylactic reaction, and said, "Thanks."

Then I walked back to the waiting room and heard her call the next patient who also would receive a quality injection and a little bit of tlc too.

English Burst my Language Bubble: A Repatriation Poem

Bom dia.

Namaste.

Ahoj.

Hello.

For two years, I floated in Portuguese.

Tudo bom? (How are you?)

Tudo bem. (I'm good.)

Each morning 

when I entered my school campus in Brazil, 

the security guards and I 

exchanged these smiley greetings.

For four years, I zoomed around India.

Bus. (Stop.)

Bus. Bus! (Stop right now because this is the shop I want to visit.)

Each day 

as I buzzed 

around Mumbai in a rickshaw, 

I knew I needed to lean forward 

so I could see out and tell

the rickshaw driver 

to stop as he approached my destination.

For four years, I dined in Prague.

Dobrou chut' (Enjoy your meal.)

Na zdraví. (Cheers.)

Each day

as I ate lunch 

or enjoyed a Friday Happy Hour with my friends,

we wished each other well

as we shared food and time

together.

Outside these small moments,

I lived in a bubble.

Understanding some.

Using the Google Translate app on my phone.

Reading labels.

Making guesses.

Language became background noise

when I didn't have enough.

I lived in an English language bubble.

Choosing when it formed.

Choosing when I popped it.

Six months ago, 

English burst my language bubble.

My return to Chicago

popped it.

Some days, I hear

the everyday conversations 

of families at the grocery store

about which aisle contains 

an ingredient for tonight's dinner.

These are the moments living 

outside the bubble 

guides joy into my heart.

Some days I hear

families in disagreement

over big topics.

Or I turn on the car radio 

where I'm greeted by 

the weekend's violence.

These are the moments living

outside the bubble

my head feels overwhelmed.

My language bubble

wasn't made of gum so

I can't blow one again.

Instead, it was like a soap 

bubble floating into

the air.

My language bubble burst.

Target Tales #1: Hand Sanitizer Search

Target Tales are stories or poems from my observations of and interactions with fellow shoppers at the retail store Target. 

"It's NOT here," shouted a woman with a voice that's seen a lot of whatever she was looking before.

"What???" questioned an older gentleman.

"I said, IT'S NOT HERE!"

I continued down the central aisle and found the source of the loud shouting, I mean conversation—an elderly couple, pushing a cart down the handsoap aisle.

"But it should be by the soap. It's hand sanitizer. Jenny told us to buy it," said the older gentleman.

"I know Bob. I heard her, too, but we can't buy it if it's not here."

Hand sanitizer was my Target list too. The hand sanitizer was hiding at the end cap of the hand soap aisle.

As their conversation continued, I tuned out and stared at the options in the bins before me. Small travel-sized bottles. Blue goo and green too. A peach variety and original unscented. I wanted to choose a scented sanitizer but decided on the generic unscented one. Why this choice? I thought ironically; the hand sanitizer would probably be the products that held the most significant number of germs on them in the entire store, with so many people picking bottles up at Target to combat the recent Coronavirus U.S. outbreak and its news coverage. I decided unscented was the best option because selecting it involved the least amount of touching the bottles.

The woman saw me and her back straightened.

"Bob. That lady over there has some."

"What?" called Bob.

"I said THAT LADY OVER THERE HAS SOME BOB," hollered the woman.

The couple shuffled over to the hand sanitizer and additional hand soap aisle.

I smiled at the couple as they moved closer to me.

The woman smiled back.

She looked up and down and noticed that there were only travel-sized bottles.

"Bob, they only have those tiny bottles. We need big ones."

"Why? We can just buy a bunch of those small ones."

At this point, I asked, "Do you need some help?"

The woman said, "No, you aren't wearing a red shirt. You don't work here."

I replied, "You're right, I don't, but I'd be happy to help you."

"Thanks, but no thanks. You've got places to go," as she turned back to discuss the bottle-size dilemma, Bob.

I smiled, and although I had no place in particular to go, said, "Well, then have a nice day."

They didn't reciprocate the farewell because, at that point, Bob had asked her what I asked his wife. 

I hope they found the big bottles of hand sanitizer for their peace of mind and Jenny's too.

Heartbreak Has Somehow Made Me Into a Runner

Somehow over the past six weeks, I've become a runner. When I say become a runner, I mean I run three times a week because that's what my Couch to 5K running app says I should do. Today I completed training week six. Today hurt. My calves were cramped. My thighs felt like jelly each time my foot struck the treadmill. Regardless of the discomfort, I was determined to complete week six.

My running commitment stems from wanting to put a bad breakup behind me. Last time I was training for a 5K race, my heart was broken. This heartbreak shredded my desire to run. At the time, I couldn't do much at all, let alone run.

As athletes know, actually let me change that, everyone who's breathing understands, our heads can be our highest obstacle to overcome. Not the blisters. Not the thigh chafing, but our minds. Grief. Depression. Anxiety. Worries. Doubt. Fear. To name a few capitalized hurdles, move into our paths.

When I started running again six weeks ago, I knew it would be challenging. This week was the most challenging so far for a couple of reasons. The first is obvious. There are just longer periods of time you have to run. The second was my mind. The last time I trained for a 5K, I quit after week five because that's when my heart was broken.

I procrastinated in actually going to the YMCA to complete today's session, but eventually, I was in the car and on my way there. As I walked into the fitness room, I followed my usual routine. Over the years I've noticed following routines help me to feel at peace. Having this calm headspace would prepare me for today's longer distance. Thus, my headphones went into my ears. I pressed play on Miranavator's Spotify playlist. I grabbed two towels and sprayed one with disinfectant before picking a treadmill. Then I turned on TBS so I could watch FRIENDS on mute with captions.

As Monica delivered the worst speech ever at her parents' 35th-anniversary party, I began to feel the smooth, shiny scars on my heart. I noticed they were there. In the past, those scars created physical hurdles I couldn't overcome. So I acknowledged them. I acknowledged my calve cramps. I acknowledged my jelly thighs. And I kept running. Today those scars are what helped me to overcome my physical pain. Those scars will continue to heal and running may be one way to help those scars fade. Here's to week seven.