How About Some Coffee?

I’m retired.  I’ve mentioned that on a number of occasions.  My most stressful decision most mornings is whether I want a Grande in a Venti cup or a Tall in a Grande cup.  You see, I like to have lots of room for milk and…ah…never mind.  You get the picture.  I am living a pretty much stress-free existence.  So, it is with some reticence that I must confess to occasionally losing my mind.  I’m afraid I had one of those experiences this morning.  Before I confess to my shameful behavior, let me tell you about all the effort I put into not getting into the way of those who work full time.

I never grocery shop, go to the Mall, schedule a maintenance visit, buy gas, go to Target, drive on Rockville Pike or try to buy tickets to anything on Saturday or Sunday.  I also never schedule a doctor’s appointment, during rush hour (so as not to be on the streets or take up a seat on the train).  Given that I have the entire week to do pretty much whatever I want, whenever I want, I confine my activities to weekdays and most often during mid-day.   I try to give the working folks time and space.    I think it’s only fair.  Even if the gainfully employed are not aware of my behavior, I think they would applaud it. 

I am not looking for a pat on the back, because frankly I don’t want to be out fighting the frenzied hoards for a parking space.  I think most retired folks feel that way, it’s kind of an unspoken agreement we have with those who are employed.  We amble through the Harris Teeter at 10:45 AM on Tuesday, stopping to examine labels for “salt content” and no one is the slightest bit annoyed.  We sip our Starbucks and stroll along like we have all day to grocery shop – BECAUSE WE DO! 

There is one catch.  There is one group of individuals who share this mid-day turf with us, and they are not part of OUR unspoken agreement.  By all indications, it seems they have no desire to make anyone’s life easier but their own.  These mid-day shopping, latte sipping, SUV-driving, Under Armor wearing, stay-at-homes do not share our magnanimous nature.  I know what you’re thinking.  Okay, when I observe their 2% body fat physiques, encased in what we used to call “lycra” -- I am envious.  I am.  BUT, is it really necessary for these interlopers to run over my toes with their $400 jogging strollers?  Do they really need to talk so loud on whatever the f__k that thing is in their ear?  And, while we’re at it, isn’t it dangerous to drive an Escalade with a Frappuccino in one hand while turning right on red and gesturing over your shoulder to your car-seated, dual DVD watching, toddlers?  Isn’t that too much multi-tasking? 

Okay, I’m getting dangerously close to sounding like a crank.  I am just setting the stage with events that led up to my “parking lot rage incident”.  I hardly ever visit the “tony” shopping areas that cater to young Mommies and their off-spring.  I don’t do yoga and I don’t even know anyone with a child under twelve.  Today I was nowhere near “Full of Beans” or “LuluLemon”; there wasn’t a Starbucks for miles.  (I know because I purchased my Pike Place Roast, Grande in a Venti cup, a good 3 miles away.)  I swear I was in a perfectly generic parking lot – in Rockville -- and not the Rockville now called North Bethesda.  It was well after 10 am.  I choose my parking spot carefully – one where the right side of my car ran parallel to a sidewalk.  I checked to see that there was plenty of room between me and the white line on the left.  Satisfied, I left my car for a few short errands. 

When I returned I was puzzled because I couldn’t see my car.  Could I have forgotten where I parked?  Momentary panic gave way to short-lived relief when I discovered that my car was dwarfed by a shiny black SUV.  This SUV was HUGE and it was crookedly parked in the spot next to me leaving about an inch between it and my driver side.  I studied the space between my car and the SUV.  Maybe an inch, I tried to squeeze sideways between the vehicles to reach my door handle.  Couldn’t do it, let alone open the door.  I looked around; I looked at the offending SUV.  It sure was shiny, clean – hmmm, garage-kept.  No dust marred its mirror-like side panels; no bird poop decorated its deeply tinted windows.  I looked down at the smear of pollen that had rubbed off my car onto my jeans.  There was no one around -- no mommies, no fellow retirees, noone.  What’s a girl to do? 

I walked around to the left side of my car, opened the door and threw my stuff in the back seat. I carefully placed my half-finished coffee on the passenger side floor and sat down; I looked at the console, cup holders and GPS wires that separated me from the driver’s seat.  I carefully raised my left leg (the one that was fitted with an artificial knee a few years ago.) and guided it into the driver’s side.  I was now doing a modified split across the console one leg on the driver’s side, one leg on the passenger’s side.  I carefully shifted my weight and raised my right leg for the pass over, hoping I didn’t lose my balance and impale myself on the gear shift.  Success!   I was now sitting in my driver’s seat.  I started the car and lowered the window – I could see my reflection in the glossy surface of the vehicle next to me.  If I inclined my head just a little, my forehead would touch this car.  The tinted window loomed above me.  My car began to cool off a little (even though I didn’t) and I reached over and retrieved my cup.  The window was still down and I took a sip of tepid coffee.  And then, my friends, I did it – I took the lid off the paper cup, reached up as high as I could and poured the remainder down the side of the SUV.  Some hit the window and those pesky grinds that linger in the bottom of the cup stuck quite nicely to the side.  I watched the coffee dribble down, leaving a little mocha-colored pool on the pavement. 

Shocking isn’t it, this overt act of “parking lot rage”, but -- strangely satisfying.  I backed out, careful not to sideswipe or even brush the offending vehicle in anyway.  My work was done.

I’m just saying…

Sounds of Summer

I know it’s only March (albeit an extremely warm one), but this day starts with the distinctive sounds of summer.  I awaken to the rumble of trucks carrying fragrant mulch, blowers, cans of gasoline and sharp spades to edge the beds.  I am motivated by the busy hum of mowers and the sunshine that pours through the kitchen window.  I put on my sweats, slip on my gardening gloves, and head out.  

First order of the day weeds, lots and lots of weeds – an incredibly invasive variety that I cannot indentify.  It grows in clumps and has little white flowers.  It rims all my beds, creeps up between the sidewalk cracks and invades the grassy areas.  I start pulling and get a rhythm going that doesn’t involve too much bending.  I work up a sweat, so I take off my hooded sweatshirt and tie it around my waist. 

On such a day, many are out and about; I’m bound to have company.  My first visitor is Joan with her dog Kerry, a sweet-natured greyhound who always looks somewhat forlorn. We talk weeds and mulch and nice weather and where she went to dinner the other night.  It’s a nice break, but Kerry is bored with our chatter and tugs on her lead.  She’s eager for the rest of her walk.  I begin again and start loading a large brown bag with debris, it’s half full and I’m not nearly finished.  In Mo Co you must put all garden/yard waste in brown paper bags for recycling.  The sun is warm and the drone of the yardmen’s blowers provides a soundtrack for my rhythmic weeding. 

Thom is my second visitor, eager to talk of his upcoming trip to Australia.  I'm happy to listen to the details, but I keep on working.   He trails along regaling me with the story of his plans to tour Melbourne and attend a friend’s wedding where the guests will be served straight from the “barbee”.  Thom is called away by his sister for a quick trip to the nursery.  I’m alone again – tugging and pulling and making some real progress.  I’m so engaged that I miss Bob’s delivery of two bottles of water (He knows how quickly I dehydrate).   When I spy the sweating bottles, I smile, stop working and take a long cool drink.  How kind he is – my husband -- he knows I won’t stop once I start working.  But he doesn’t fuss, he just brings water. 

I’ve filled an entire bag, and start on another.  I’m pleased with my progress and the dent I’ve made in what seemed like a never-ending stretch of weed choked beds.  Birdsong abounds, along with the shouts and laughter of the men working.  Snippets of conversation, in Spanish, drift my way.   I don’t understand, but the cadence is as soothing as the bird’s melodies. 

Thom is back from the nursery with flats of jewel-colored pansies.  I’m not ready for planting – I’ve yet to rake the beds and put down Preen (in a futile attempt to stave off future weeds.)  I fetch a plastic container of vinegar (I don’t like to use too many chemicals) and dribble it on the cracks in the sidewalk.  This should kill the weeds that resist my tugging.  I have another drink. Why does water tastes so good when you’re outdoors?

I stand back and survey my work.  Weeds are just about gone.  My modest garden has shrubs and plants collected from friends and family.  The forsythia started life as a small twig from my father’s yard.  A Rose of Sharon, nurtured from a cutting from garden club friend Alma, is still mostly bare.  Fat green buds dot my hydrangea stems and tiny shoots of Russian Sage, bordered by what will eventually be cone flowers, peep through the sparse mulch.  I remember the hot summer morning when neighbor Liz and I first planted it.  The lilac; azaleas; and a leggy camellia – all appear to have survived the winter.  It was a very mild winter, but still I’m grateful to be out in the warm sunshine.  My knee will ache this evening and my back may well stiffen, but my feeling of accomplishment makes it’s worth it.

I’m just saying…