A Human Touch

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A mom, dad, and two little boys sit down at the table next to me.

The dad is kind of serious looking. Dark hair, tall, broad shoulders, scanning the room with an empty stare, completely unaware of the breakfast discussion that is happening right next to him.
Mom is feisty. She has the rough and tough mannerisms of a mom who is raising two boys and has been away from the female race long enough to lose joy in picking out the perfect muffin. "Whadya want to eat? Come on? It's not that hard... just pick something." She points to something in the pastry case for herself and orders without truly looking.
The little boys, probably eleven and nine, are dirty and sweaty, fidgety and totally bored. It's Saturday morning and although they aren't sporting a baseball uniform, I'm quite sure she has just scraped them up from some park and put them in the car against their will. I think she's put the husband in the car against his will for that matter too. And there they sit, distracted and totally uninterested in pastries, muffins, and one another. Their faces say, "Saturday is for sports, for hobbies, for guy stuff... not these stupid muffins and family talk time."
Three men. Three islands.
Any minute I expect her to stand up, slam her hands on the table, grab the attention of the men in her life and say (with a fiercely threatening voice that makes you think she might not cook ever again or that she might pull her girl card and cry right there in front of God and everyone), "WE will enjoy this *&*$%^* breakfast as a FAMILY whether you want to or not!"
But she weathers the silence with grace and patience and somehow she draws everyone in with a series of questions and jokes.
Suddenly they are talking. The three islands are talking. This woman is amazing.
I think to myself... if I had been her I would've spewed my venom at them for their lack of interest and for making me do all the emotional, conversational work. I might have clamped my lips shut in a passive aggressive protest of their little care and concern for me and my family breakfast plans.
"Poor me. My boys won't talk to me. I'll show them." And then, as only a woman can do, I would make them endure my brutal silence as punishment for not loving me well. But she didn't do any of those things. She didn't get her feelings hurt. She didn't retreat. She didn't punish them with her silence. She fought for her children's words. She won a small victory.
an aside:
This mom showed me that no matter what your child is: boy/girl, shy/personable, angry/happy, interested/uninterested; a diligent effort to emotionally engage your children, will, more than likely, pay off.
Now, the conversation is marked by the laughter of these two little boys and the dad's full attention.
And me?
Well, I am the creep sitting at the next table watching them... but in my defense I am a very happy creep who just witnessed a mom being a really good mom. And I am relishing in the moment of this ladies victory.
Of Course...
This is all ruined when the nine year old kid, who, by the looks of his wild impulsive eyes suffers from some form of attention deficit, grabs a rock from the fountain behind him and throws it.
I'm not sure what it hit, but it ricocheted, it's path of destruction eternally long and it was loud enough that the entire restaurant stopped and took a collective breathe.
The morning was, yet again, ruined.
The dad instinctively grabbed the son by the leg in anger. The mom shot straight in, "What are you doing? What are you doing? Why would you do that?" People's eyes bore into them. All four of them. The dad's grip tightened. His stern look was debilitating even for me.
It stemmed from embarrassment of course. That's what I'm learning. A lot of times we parents are reactionary. What deserves a normal- don't do that- turns into a swift and militant response when the kid is 'doing that' in front of lots of people and we find ourselves cringing.
Inevitably this response, though, leaves the child embarrassed. And this nine year old followed protocol.
He looked down at his legs and his eyes burned with tears that he kept sucking back. I watched his whole body sink and deflate as his little brother stared at him. In his mind, I guess the whole world was staring at him. He kept his head down like a dog who had been scolded and wouldn't make eye contact with anyone. He went to his own universe. And they to theirs.
Mom acted like nothing happened, but the tension came all the way over to the creepy girl's table and I was as stressed as she was.
The mom did as many moms do. She tried to make it better. Tried to talk to the little boy and ask him questions from across the table. But he wasn't buying, he wouldn't raise his eyes above table level. Dad tried to smooth things over by talking to mom, laughing about something terribly not-funny; he was keeping the pep in the deflated family breakfast trip, but he was failing miserably too.
I had written the rest of the story in my mind. They will leave. Mom frustrated- which always leads to tears. Dad frustrated- which sometimes leads to throwing the towel in and making the rest of the day a "personal day" as Ryan calls it. Big brother either smugly satisfied that the blame could all lie on his counterpart or angry that that his counterpart ruined the morning. And little guy... hurt and angry, embarrassed, would spend his Saturday sulking.
I was all torn up. It was like watching my own reality show except no one won any money and they all ended up going back home empty handed. I freaking hate reality shows. I scolded myself. Why do I watch them? They came so close. I stopped watching and went back to writing my book.
The Touch
And then it happened. A human touch.
Something came over the father's face. His countenance changed.
He turned his body towards his son who was sitting one bench over. He put one arm around his shoulder, another under his knees, and with one big swoop he lifted the little boy up, put him directly on his lap, wrapped his arms around his chest, and bear hugged him. He whispered into his ear and kissed his cheek. He held him there. Not letting go. And there they sat. In the middle of a busy restaurant. A shamed nine year old boy. In his dad's lap. A grown man. Putting himself aside. A human touch.
It was one of the most beautiful things I have ever seen a dad do. Ever.
And, in one moment, that human touch redeemed the entire morning.
The boy, of course, fought it in the beginning. Still sulking. Head down. A little scowl. But the longer the dad held on. The longer he hugged. The more this big, strong, grown man whispered into his little boys ear... you could visibly see it, the wall of shame and defense began to crumble. The embarrassment was left on the other bench. The little boy let go of the anger, came out of hiding, and felt safe again. Loved. Liked, even.
I no longer felt creepy. I felt honored. I found myself with tears burning my eyes as I watched what grace looks like. Grace with skin on it. And I found myself, in that busy restaurant, sitting in my own father's lap as he hugged me, told me I was beautiful, told me to forget about what happened, told me he loved me. I fought it, of course. I wasn't even sure that I had done anything to make me feel like I needed to be lovingly taken back into the family (like throwing a rock that made a whole restaurant stop and gape) ... still, I had an overwhelming sense that I needed it. Right then. Right there.
I squirmed a bit and felt way too grown up for what was happening. I suppose I'd much rather be left alone to sulk. I tried to get my shoulders free. But that whisper. Leave me alone, I'm the one who screwed up and everybody knows it. But that kiss. A feeling of annoyance. Please just stop. But that gentle squeeze. A denial. But that acceptance. A rejection. But that hug... the one I didn't want... right there in the middle of the restaurant...
intimately, strongly, lovingly I was swooped up unto my father's lap
before I knew it, I was smiling
I am loved.

Thank You

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dada.jpg

My dad, mom, and sisters at dad's promotion ceremony in March.

My sister Melissa and husband Tim

It's ironic to me that we celebrate Memorial Day with a day off.

We're eatin' our hamburgers (in Texas they end up tasting a little extra salty as the wrath of God bores into us with the heat of hell and our sweat taints the taste of every good thing), drinking our lemonade, and enjoying a day by the pool as if this is a huge tribute to men and women, past and present, who have sacrificed for our country.
This Buds fer you Dad!
Tim, I'm sending a hot dog of remembrance your way! Erik, every memorial day shopping sale I take advantage of today is done so in your honor! Grandpa and Uncle Bill, thanks for Nam... cannonball!
It's like we're saying:
"Dear Military: Thank you for protecting our gift of freedom. We shall appreciate you by giving ourselves a day off! Congratulations us, we have just scored a four day weekend."
If it were up to me, my Aunt Lizzy, and Benjamin Franklin, everyone would be required to attend a memorial service today. Then we would all attend an American history lecture followed by a documentary on the beauty of freedom (I would then require everyone to feel grateful for freedom.) Then we'd all sing the Star Spangled Banner together with our hands over our hearts, tears in our eyes, and no funny business going on to the side. And finally, we'd end up babysitting for military wives so they could spend a day at the spa. Oh yeah... and the spa, of course, would be free.
In a perfect world.
Truth is, unless you have someone in your family who is in the military, today is probably just another Columbus Day.
Growing Up
I'm a little dorky when it comes to patriotism and the military.
I will always remember being in the eighth grade at the Texas State Fair and hearing the Army band begin to play the national anthem. In my little heart, time was standing still. But the people around me didn't even hear it. They didn't even stop. I was dumbfounded. What's wrong with these people? Aren't they American? Have they no respect? I was sure Benjamin Franklin was appalled and I secretly apologized to all military and true patriots, past in present, in my heart and got on the midway ride. I have prayed many prayers like that since then.
Dear George Washington and Franklin Roosevelt (and Teddy for that matter), OK, and General Norman Schwarzkopf and General Colin Powell, and Uncle Bill:
Forgive us for being ungrateful punks. And can I just say a special act of forgiveness on behalf of the people who can't sing the national anthem. I mean, what kindergarten did you people go to? We are sorry for all the times we have not voted, not sent letters to a soldier in Iraq, and not gone to a Memorial Day service. I am especially sorry that I did not give away my box of thin mint Girl Scout cookies this year to the kid collecting boxes for our troops. I'm still feeling really guilty about that one. And we really are sorry for all of our peers who can't sing the National Anthem... I mean that really gets me.
I grew up in a military family. My uncle Bill was a 'tunnel rat' in Vietnam. My grandpa served two stints over there and my mom says, after that, he never played the piano anymore. My dad is in the reserves serving as a chaplain. He was just promoted to Full Bird Colonel; he's been in my whole life. My uncles, on both sides of the family, all served active duty until they retired. One uncle was in charge of completely grounding all aircraft for a fourth of the country on 9/11... he's the tunnel rat uncle. Growing up, I had cousins living all over the world. Japan, Germany, Hawaii, and every place in between. Now, I have cousins in the military. And my sister married into the army; her husband just got deployment notices for April 2011. Afghanistan.
It will be his third deployment since he graduated from West Point seven years ago.
So I am not sure if the family history is what made me cry my eyes out when I first heard Lee Greenwood sing, "I'm Proud to Be an American" or what, but I was one choked up little fourth grade girl who couldn't understand why everyone at the laser light show on Stone Mountain that night wasn't bawling their eyes out. Were they not proud to be American? You'd think I was birthed on the steps of the Washington Monument the way my heart beats patriotism, but I wasn't. I was born in Albuquerque. That wasn't even a real state until 1912. I barely got in.
Ryan says I'm a dork about it all, but I can't help myself. I put my hand over my heart during the Star Spangled Banner and I sing with furry. I cry every time the end of the parade comes and Vets are all piled into the back of a flatbed waving their American flags. And, to this day, I thank men and women in uniform for their service- which Ryan says is really embarrassing- as only old people do this.
I admit. I am from a generation of people who don't quite get into "thanking men and women in uniform," but I am old school. I still think it deserves a thank you. And I still think it means a lot to a person in uniform.
America
I don't believe we are the best nation in the world; some last great hope for humanity.
I'm pretty sure there are positives and negatives to every nation (some far, far greater or worse than others). But I do believe our nation's story is uniquely built upon freedom. And even though the founding fathers were far from perfect in their attempts to implement this (slavery), and we have fallen short since then (Trail of Tears, child labor, women's suffrage, Arizona's new law [too soon?]) we are one of the few nations in all of history that has stood the test of time and progressively moved closer and closer to true freedom for all people.
That freedom- to write my own opinions in this blog, to choose a religion, a school, a job, a family, to choose peace or violence- my ability to be free comes down to the scores of men and women who decided a long time ago that individual freedom was worth defending and protecting.
And today I thank them.
Truly, from the bottom of my heart, thank you.
To those of you who take care of the kids, pay the bills, work two jobs, and have dreams at night about whether or not your husband is safe... thank you.
To those of you who have moved all over the world, learned new languages, and represented our country in the best possible way as you served in the military... thank you.
To the medics, like the one we met a few weekends ago at Sea World, who pick up the broken and care for them like they are your own kids, your own parents... thank you.
To the little boys and little girls who Skype with a parent, write them cards, and pray each day that your dad or mom comes back home safe and sound... thank you.
To all the families who have said good-bye to your husbands and wives, moms and dads, sons and daughters. For those of you who have mourned at the site of a folded flag. For those of you who carry the darkness and pain of war with you; you who long for the day when you will see your hero, when you will see your baby again... thank you.
To my brother-in-law Tim, who studied hard, got his doctorate, and wants to serve in the military until they kick him out... thank you. Your passion for public service is amazing. Your compassion for those you serve, whether American or Iraqi's, is beautiful. Your commitment to your calling is honorable.
To my sis, Melissa. God I want you home so bad it hurts. But you are such a strong like stinker and the way you love on the women at your base and the lifelong friends you are meeting is inspiring.

To all of you who serve: thank you.

War
In a perfect world, a twenty year old would not be given a gun and my cousin would never utter the words, "mom, they've turned us into a killing machine." In a perfect world there would be no threat of nuclear weapons (or nuclear stockpiles for that matter). Dialogue and compromise would cure all things. And civilians would never die because of a bomb gone wrong.
But our world is not perfect.
Until the day comes when peace reigns... I pray for peace. For the end of all wars and all violence.
But until that day comes... I am forever grateful for the men and women who choose to defend my safety, my freedom, my home.
So from one girl who still cries during the national anthem and thanks people in uniform...
for what it's worth...
thank you.

5,000 Feet Above Dallas

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Ever heard of Prescott, Arizona?

Yea, me neither.
It sits two hours outside of Phoenix, nestled in the mountains, 5,000 feet above Dallas.
And from what I can tell, I'm sorry Chicago, but it is the windy city. I've never seen wind so fierce or birds so brave. Every time one takes off, the mother in me hurts for the poor stupid bird. They don't make it very long, but they sure do try. I guess even animals have to test their boundaries.
Back to Prescott... it is beautiful here and the people are particularly kind and hard working. The rugged west is growing on me.
Last weekend at the SeaWorld San Antonio show I met a group of guys (and one gal) who just finished basic training at Lackland Air Force Base. They stood up front through the whole show and made me nervous. Are they here because they like the music? Or will they, at any minute, die laughing? Nine years in and I still battle the voices of insecurity. But they just looked so stinkin' intimidating with their crew cuts and reserved, respectful mannerisms that I wasn't sure what to make of them. They stayed for the entire show. And when we ended with the song Hope Now, they linked arms and sang it together. One guy had tears running down his face.
They waited in line forever, and of course I have a special love for military people, so I gave them as many hugs as I could :)
As I started talking to some of them they told me about boot camp and how they'd go back to their barracks each night and listen to Hope Now. They told me about their families and where they were going to be stationed. And as they started to walk off the last guy came up and asked if I would sign his program for his mom. He had been waiting patiently, quietly, for everyone else to go. He told me his mom was a huge fan of our music and had always wanted to see us in concert. I asked if she was at the show and he told me she didn't live around here, but that this would make her day. He said he hoped one day she'd be able to see a concert because it would mean a lot to her.
"Where does she live?" I asked him.
"Arizona."
"We just played a show there last weekend outside of Phoenix! Bummer. I think we are playing there again soon, but I'm not sure where."
"Well most shows are in Phoenix, but she lives in Prescott."
Prescott. I've seen that name. I know I have.
"Hold on."
I went and found Richard (our new drummer) at the merchandise table and he looked up the show for the coming weekend.
Prescott, Arizona. Sold out.
I was so excited I almost fell over. My little heart was overflowing for happiness. Not because I was sooo happy that this person would get to come and see us in concert, as if I were blessing her with the gift of seeing Bono or The Beatles, but I was so happy that I could give Jeff something to give his mom. Because any guy who waits around for an hour to have you sign a CD for his mom living thousands of miles away, means he really loves his mom and longs to do something special for her.
I ran back to the table and told him. "You're not going to believe this. Of all the places in the world we could be playing next weekend, we are playing in Prescott, Arizona. And your mom will be on my private guest list."
Two hours outside of Phoenix, nestled in the mountains, 5,000 feet above Dallas and San Antonio.
His mom wrote me that evening. I've highlighted the parts that made my heart soar:

"Hi, I am Myra H., mother to a very excited Airman Jeff H., stationed at Lackland AFB in San Antonio. He told us you were in concert at Sea World San Antonio today and that something very special happened when he talked to you. What a huge blessing and answer to my prayers of the last few days. Jeff did not know of my prayers to be able to go see your concert at the Heights Church in Prescott .

To tell you the truth, I was planning to bug the snot out of KGCB’s morning crew Steve and Dave when they have the contest starting Monday morning for the tickets to the concert. I am on leave of absence from work due to a recent surgery, so money is a bit tight right now. I have been praying, asking PAPA GOD if the contest was the way for my husband and myself to go to the concert that He would make a way. And then we get the call from Jeff this afternoon. WOW is all I can say."

This story reminds me that the Holy Spirit is real.

To me, that was not just a lucky, random conversation. I was tired. It had been a long day. The military guys were at the end of the line... the line that I assumed had been cut off already. I was slightly annoyed that there were still more people... I was so tired. I was ready to go and take care of Annie. But something moved inside of me and I felt such love for this group of guys who had been singing their hearts out. And something about this one guy pulled me in. I felt the urge to talk to him.

That urge, I believe, is what the Christian church calls the Holy Spirit. The part of God that is alive and active and moving inside of our hearts and our lives. Calling out to us in that still small whisper. Speaking to us. Moving us. Prodding us. Convicting us. And moving our spirits to take care of and love those around us.

Looking back, I didn't know it was God. I just felt the desire to talk to this guy. If it were me, I would've gone backstage. But in that moment, it wasn't me. It was God putting a different thought into my heart.

I truly believe the Holy Spirit put this desire in my heart to have a conversation with Jeff. I believe it with everything inside of me. Not fate. Not chance. Not a random coincidence. But God himself who loves his children and longs to give us the desires of our hearts. There was a reason.

And that reason was to answer the prayers of Myra; a mom recovering from surgery, tight on money, touched by our music, and praying quietly to her God that he would help her win a contest so she could spend a night listening to music that uplifts her soul.

And God answered.

Myra and David will be our special guests tonight at the Tenth Ave. North, Addison Road concert. We bought her flowers. :)

Cell Block D and Other Craziness

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It has been quite a bizarre week.

The Slammer
On Saturday we played our first ever Sea World gig. There is something magical about playing across the street from Shamu and across the way from sea lions who can clap their hands and dial numbers on the telephone. To take a deep breath before you hold out a long note and swallow the stench of baby fish, Shamu's dinner, is just... special.
So one of my family member's came out to the show and we spent some time catching up. She told me her husband loves reading my blog. I was flattered. I love knowing that men read this thing. Cause seriously this isn't a mommy lovin'- cupcakey-girly-pedicure blog. This is serious business for all kinds of people. So, men unite, don't be ashamed that you read a blog called "Cupcakes, Sprinkles, and Other Happy Things."
"He's in prison."
"Did something really stupid and he's there till the end of the year. And I send him your blogs and he loves them. So do his cell mates. They crack up reading them. Then they showed them to some other guys in there. And now, the guard prints the blog and puts in on the community bulletin board for everyone to read."
OH MY GOSH if I had a dollar for every time I heard that I'd be a freaking millionaire :). Y'all, congratulations, this blog has real street cred' (credit) now! I'm so stinking excited to have real live prisoners reading the blog! Welcome!
So I asked her if I could give Kevin and the guys a shout out. And she said sure. So here it goes:
What's up "Cell Block D boys!" That's my name for you. My cell block D boys. Hi! What the heck are you doing in prison? Seriously? One life, that's all we've got. And you're spending it in matching outfits? That's what my grandma did to me and my sisters growing up and I know it's God awful. Matching outfits= social suicide.
You gotta get out of there and be a good dad to your little girls and little boys. Be a good man for your wife or your mom. Do something for yourself that inspires you and makes you happy. Something that makes the world more beautiful. And while you're waiting to do all that, be good to yourself now. Read a book. Go to chapel. Pray. Work hard. Don't fight. Seek peace. Eat your vegetables (Do they give you good veggies in the slammer or do I need to bring you some?). Don't give up on yourself. Keep trying. Don't make me come down there...
You don't need a sermon from me. I just want you to know I believe in you. I believe in who you can be and I believe in the goodness that is within you. I believe God knows you, loves you, forgives you, and wants good things for your life. Me and Him (I'm speaking for God now :)) we believe in you. And maybe you need to be reminded of that today.
I'd kill to be in prison for a few weeks. OK, I would not actually kill, so please don't actually kill, but you know what I mean. To have some down time. Time to think. Re-asses. Read. Pray. Write. Time to learn discipline and to figure myself out and to seek forgiveness for all the ways I've screwed up and to dream about my future, to remember what I love about myself and about the world. Sometimes I wish for a bit of a standstill so I can go there... that place you can only go when you are alone and have everything taken away that distracts you.
So in a way, whether you want it or not, you are there. In that place where dreams spring up and the past is laid to rest. You are there. Don't take your gift for granted.
Bonzo the Bird
So for years now I've gotten Christmas cards from Aunt Betty. They are always signed, "Love Aunt Betty, Uncle David, Bonzo the Bird, and Wally (the dog)."
Stop right there. If you know me, you know I detest pets. I just do. I know that makes me hated by PETA and by mostly everyone in my family who treasures their pets more than they do most of my cousins. But, I don't know, I just have never loved having a dog lick me or a cat leave hairballs on my bed. We had a cat growing up. We named her Kitty Baby. I gagged for an entire hour after having to clean her cat litter. And while I liked her little rough tongue licking my hand and her deep purr, those did not outweigh the animal hair, cat litter, and general upkeep that I detested so much about her. And dogs? Well, they just steal my thunder. They are way too smart and emotional and needy. I'm the girl... I get to be emotional and needy. Not them. But there they are licking and smelling like Shamu's dinner and getting their nasty dog drool all over me; and I swear there are people in my family who'd stop to question who to save first in a fire: me or the dog?
Anyways, I come from a family of pet lovers and I am quite sure God put me in this group of pet lovers to teach me a lesson about acceptance and patience and some other profound things that I haven't figured out yet.
So after we play for Shamu and his peeps we make our way to Mobile, Alabama for a show and after the show I spend a few days with my aunt, uncle, grandma, grandpa, and mom. And I should've figured it out by now. I mean, if Bonzo the bird makes the Christmas card, then he is a bonified member of the family, right? But how much of a pet can a bird really be?
Let me tell you people, a bird can be a very amazing pet. That thing flew all over the place like a little rabid monkey and I thought my mom and I might have a heart attack as he grazed the area where Annie was sitting. Bonzo drinks milk from the glass. He eats people food. He gets zurbers on his belly from my Aunt Betty. And he sits on my uncle David's shoulder as he works from home. He has nap time. And if you leave him in his room for too long, he gets mad, and starts jabbering away until you pay him some attention. He needs more attention than the dog.
And really, there is no point to this story except to say that I always assumed Bonzo was a poised, quiet, shy little bird who stayed in a cage in a corner looking quite exotic.
Nope.
That thing gets out. It FLYS across the living room. It cuddles. And drinks milk from the glass. And oh my Lord that bird scared me to death. I spent two days with a bird and a dog who are more human than animal. For a non-animal lover, that adds up to a bizarre week.
The flight home
The flight home for Annie and I was just a nightmare. I've become an American Airlines Platinum snob. I'm used to getting whatever seat I want and being bumped to first class. I'm not a diva about much in this world, but I have flying with a baby down to an art form (instead of a torture routine that tortures me and everyone else around me) and that all depends on getting the good seats in the front of the plane. But this time we were in a little prop plane and got moved to seat 16b. Two rows away from the bathroom at the back of the plane. I was disgusted and reveling in my airplane snobbery and true shock that people had to live this way at the back of the plane with the nasty smelling bathrooms, when Old Man River walked on the plane.
He looked like he was straight from the Appalachian Mountains. With denim overalls, a long sleeve button down flannel shirt, a straw hat, a silver beard so long and overgrown that there were probably birds nesting inside it; and with his oxygen tank in one hand and a cane in the other, he started hobbling our way. "Great, I'm gonna get stuck next to old man river back here," I thought to myself.
Note to self: when you are being a snobby diva you should never think those things because they always come true.
Annie was still running a fever from the day before (though the doc said she could not have gotten the fever from the bird, I had all sorts of theories about the safety of her sharing air space with the bird and now with old man river) and she was battling yet another ear infection. I was already dreading the flight.
Mountain man, who must've been 90 years old and flying to his own funeral, sits down directly in front of us and promptly turns on his oxygen machine. It beeps the entire flight. And I'm no "worst case scenario" type person, but there is something about a constant beeping on an airplane that makes a crash feel immanent. Like the beeping at the hospital. I don't care if your just there to have an appendix taken out, that little beeping that happens next to the bed stirs up all sorts of dread. When I had my tonsils out, I came to hearing that thing beeping fast, and I was sure something had gone terribly wrong and that I was in the process of dying. Turns out I was just about to throw up and rip the stitches in my throat all out... still, the beeping didn't help.
So old man river beeps through the whole flight and when the pilot announces 30 minutes till we land he starts getting restless. Nervous like. Twitching his fingers and rocking back and forth and I wanted to tell him, "Look buddy, this is not the proper way to handle your anxiety, you are making things way worse on yourself." But there was no time. He was already throwing up. And it was getting all in his poor little beard. And for the next thirty minutes he pukes and pukes and pukes until we touch down in Dallas.
Those poor birds.
Starbucks
I'm having quite a time trying to narrow down the bizarre stories from this week, but I think I will end with this.
As a former Starbucks employee I know that the companies goal is for Starbucks to be "Your third home" Family. Work. Starbucks. You are supposed to learn customer's names, memorize their drink orders, and welcome them like your little sister, big brother, or wise grandpa every time they walk through the door. This, Starbucks says, should feel like a place of warmth and community.
Sometimes you want to go where everybody knows your name. And their always glad you came... you wanna go where everybody knows your name.
That kind of deal. Cheers for the masses.
The thing is, I've started going to a new Starbucks and the customers take that invitation a little too far for me and I am left wondering, "Do I commit or do I stay far away from you people?"
I ended up there two mornings ago at 6:00 as I found it impossible to sleep after feeding Annie that morning. So at 5:45 I made myself get out of bed, get dressed, and go to Starbucks. The first thirty minutes or so, I was all alone and the world was perfect. But then a man came in and plopped down next to me. Pet peeve. If there is a whole empty store or theatre or whatever, please don't come sit right next to me. But there he was, about 60 years old and 400 pounds, breathing very heavily, and right up in my space. Then 3 girls come in after a run. They are sweaty and way too giddy for 6:30 in the morning. The man next to me says hello to the girls by name. They get their drinks and pull up a table right next to him and start to chit-chat.
My perfect morning was slowly slipping away.
Then come in three young police officers. They don't even have to order their drinks. The barista has them ready and sitting on the counter. They pull up next to the girls and start asking about their 5K from the previous weekend. Now there are seven of them, completely opposite groups of people, huddled together like they're about to have church. Then a few business guys come in, and sit across from the group... but not without first saying hello to everyone by name and inquiring about whether the police officers are going to be doing their motorcycle training today. Then three old men come in and take over the last table. They say hey to everyone and start laughing so loud as they talk about movies with one another that I can't hear myself think.
I have officially been ousted out of my personal space and thrown into this hodge-podge group of people who apparently are related some how. I feel like I am at an early morning family reunion.
And all of a sudden I thought, "Oh my gosh. Starbucks won. This is home. They all know each other. This is really creepy. Their families are all at home, still getting ready for the day, and they are here, they are members of a neighborhood Starbucks fraternity."
Just then one of the cops turned around and said to me, "Hey! We don't know your name. And look, if you're gonna come in the mornings you're going to have to contribute a whole lot more to these conversations."
I sat there with my blurry eyes, bad hair, and coffee breath and laughed a very awkward laugh. "You guys are here every morning?"
They all laughed. Some sort of internal laugh that I was not privy to. And I wondered... do I want you to love me or do I want to run far away from you? Their faces were so sweet and the randomness of the group so unique... but I couldn't help but think that it felt like a creepy movie about a secret society who ends up stealing people's minds or something else crazy.
I'm writing from a different Starbucks today. As of now, I'm not sure what to do with those people. Part of me wants to be there... where everybody knows my name.
Part of me thinks it's a bit insane.
But what would a bizarre week be without a classic run-in with Starbuckians?