Edamame, Greasy Hair, & Bushy Eyebrows

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Some days you can’t help meeting people you don’t want to meet in this life or any life. It’s not that they are carrying a virus, although, it’s possible. I look for visible signs such as greasy hair, a foul body odor, dirty fingernails, hair growing out of ears, eyebrows being used as a comb over, and people who eat with their mouth open from a to-go bag of roasted

I can the first question, “What’s wrong with dirty fingernails?”

“Are you serious?”

“I think so.”

Another question, “What’s wrong with growing my eyebrows long? “Sir, I applaud your attempt at a comb over, but most people have a visible forehead.”

“Sir, I applaud your attempt at a comb over, but most people have a visible forehead.”

A statement to instruct me, “Washing your everyday dries it out, it robs hair of its natural oils.”

“And, when was the last time you washed your hair?”

“Can I check my iWatch. It keeps track of things like that.”

“While you’re checking, see if it tells you the last time you showered. Do you mind stepping farther away?”

Another statement, “Edamame is good for you. Especially if it’s loaded with sea salt, chili powder, and garlic.”

“Do you mind swallowing your snack before speaking, you’re spraying it over those next to you.”

“Why is everyone moving away from me?”

“Take your wth the guy with the greasy hair and foul body odor.”

These characters agreed to be in the blog, to help me show how easy it is to have a bias and let our bias get in the way of discovering the person. Granted, I had to buy pizza for the group and more edamame for the edamame guy.  We all have habits and behaviors others may not like. But, all of us want to be accepted and loved for who we are. I’d go on, but I want to try some edamame and hear the greasy hair guy’s story.

 

I Don’t Understand – No Entiendo!

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There are things I don’t understand. Many times I accept the explanation of experts. How does electricity work? I don’t care. I do care it works. Where does my bodily waste go and how does it get there? I don’t need to know. I’m happy it gets to where it is going. How do they grow coffee? I don’t know. I’m happy they grow it and I get to drink it. Why does asparagus make my urine smell? Pass the citrus spray, por favor. But, I still like roasted asparagus. Enough of these trick questions. Don’t let them keep you awake tonight. Here is a truly puzzling question:

Why do some people stop talking to each other when they are angry when the only way to resolve their issues is by talking?

Here’s how the conversation goes or doesn’t go.

“I’m angry with you.”

“Okay. I’m angry with you too.”

“You are so, so, so … I won’t say it, but you know what I’m thinking.”

“I know what you are thinking and you better not be thinking what I think you’re thinking.”

“Well, I’m thinking it and I’m going to keep on thinking it. What do you think you’re going to do about it? I know what you’re thinking and don’t you dare do it.”

“That’s it. I can’t take any more of what you are thinking and they way you are thinking it. I’m not only not going to think about you. I am not going to speak to you.”

“Perfect. When are you going to start? Oh cute, zipping your lips like a first grader. I can do that too. Before I do that, I am not only not going to think about you. I am not going to speak to you. And, I will not take Lil Bitty out for a walk when it rains.”

She clutches her heart, “Don’t bring Lil Bitty into this. She’s innocent.”

“Collateral damage.”

“Well, Lil Bitty won’t lick your face when you’re sad.”

“Come on, you know I like it when Lil Bitty licks my face when I’m sad.”

“And, I like it when you rub my feet.”

“What were we fighting about?”

“I dunno. I think it was about some dumb question the guy who writes this blog wrote.”

“Hug?”

“Hug!”

“Kiss?”

“Mmmm, kiss!”

It stops here readers. It’s a family blog.

Arguments. Keep speaking. Most of the things we squabble about don’t stand the test of time. Forgiveness heals. Love heals. And, if you have to move on, it’s possible to forgive and move on.

 

 

 

The Tomato Heist & Really Tough Love

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Joey Giamano’s dad owned Giamano’s Pizza and Bar. A warehouse separated Giamano’s Pizza and Bar from the tenement building where I lived. You’re probably wondering where is Ray going with this boyhood story – you in the last row, turn your iPad off, quit staring at your iPhone.

It’s Joey’s story. Joey and I are the same age – that is, if Joey’s alive. Chances 60-40 Joey’s not with us any longer. Joey never went by Joey. He was always Joey G. I believe he started using Joey G because he couldn’t spell his last name. He told me once, it had too many vowels. He goes, “You know it like the stuff that makes you go to the bathroom.”

I said, “You’re talking bowels or vowels?”

Joey G said, “Bowels, vowels it’s all the same.”

Now you must be getting an inkling of Joey’s intellect.

Here’s where it started to go wrong for Joey. My salvation was the grace of God and a dad who, after he gave me tough love (that’s what they call it these days); except it wasn’t the kind of tough love they talk about these days. It was really, really, really tough love. Lesson delivered. Lesson received. Oh my, was it ever received. I think it still hurts.

One lazy July afternoon, Joey and I were tossing rocks at a telephone poll in front of Giamano’s Pizza & Bar – this is what kids did before the Internet. It was harmless fun until a rock accidentally hit a passing car. Throwing rocks helped me to … did you think I was going to say become a pitcher? No, they help me to think that there had to be more to life.

Well, Joey G’s dad, Rocco Giamano, opens the door. I never saw Rocco without a full white apron with sauce stains. He calls Joey G, and said, “Joey G, we’re running short of fresh tomatoes. I want you to go to the store (it was 50 yards down the street) and get me a basket full. Tell the Beak to put it on my tab.” The Beak was Aldo

He calls to Joey G, “Joey G, we’re running short of fresh tomatoes. I want you to go to the store (it was 50 yards down the street) and get me a basket full. Tell the Beak to put it on my tab.” The Beak was Aldo

The Beak was Aldo Mangi. We all had big noses, but Aldo’s nose was something else. Hence, he got the nickname, The Beak.

Joey G said, “Pop, Aldo is way over there (Joey’s pointing at Aldo’s store). I’m in the middle of a game with Ray. Can it wait?”

Rocco wiped his pizza sauce hands on his apron and said, “You don’t get your bleep moving (only he didn’t say bleep) I”m gonna kick a field goal and you find yourself landing at the Beaks.”

“Okay, okay, I’m going. Can I take Ray?”

“I don’t care if you take Goldilocks, get me my tomatoes.”

Joey G turns to me, “Listen up. We’re going steal Aldo’s tomatoes from his garden in back of his store. He won’t miss anything.”

“I don’t know Joey G.”

“You chicken or something?”

That did it for me in those days. You could live with most things, but being called chicken was not one of the things you could live with. I agreed to go on the tomato heist.

We snuck into Larry Z’s garden. The problem is that Aldo is not in the store. He is in the garden. I said to Joey G, “We got to leave before Aldo sees us.”

Joey G doesn’t say anything. He grabs three ripe tomatoes and starts throwing them at Aldo. One of them catches Aldo smack on his clean white shirt. Joey G, throws the fourth one and takes off. Aldo runs after him only stopping after he spots me on the ground. He grabs hold of me and marches me home. He and my dad talked. They shook hands. I do not want to go into the details of tough love. Let’s say, I could no longer pal around with Joey G. Joey G was no longer welcome in the house.

Joey G was in juvenile detention when I graduated from high school. He got out when I enlisted in the army. He was in the state prison when I graduated from college. That’s the last I heard about him. The moral of the story is don’t toss ripe tomatoes at Aldo. Hey, that’s the best I could come up with on one cup of coffee.

I’m grateful for parents who made me walk a straight line. Grateful they knew who was a good influence on me and who was a bad influence on me. And, I am grateful after receiving tough love, I still felt loved.

 

Life Is Good & So Is My Frittata

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Important research. The outcome of my research may stop global warming, the Israelis and Palestinians might join forces in whacking a pinata, and the NFL may go the whole season without a concussion, player being arrested, or suspended for taking performance enhancing drugs.

No, my research is not funded by any PAC, It is not funded by the government (any government). I am self-funding my research. How much am I spending on my research, you ask? It’s a personal thing. Let’s just say I’ll still be able to drink my Coke Zero at night, munch on hot air popcorn, fill my car with gas, and go frequently to Starbucks.

“Enough, Ray. Cut to the chase. Read the last paragraph. Wake me when you start summarizing.”

I said, “Whoa, the last comment was particularly nasty. You sound like some of my former students. Have a little faith I’m talking important stuff.”

Here is my question: How many days a week do you go to the grocery store?

When Babe and I were raising 5 daughters we went one day a week. There were seven of us, not counting animals, friends, and relatives dropping (note relatives are not necessarily friends. In case my relatives are reading, of course, I always consider you a friend. Do you think they fell for it?).

Now, I go to the grocery every day. I live alone. I cook for one. I’m not meals on wheels and bringing my gourmet concoctions to the neighbors. I know every counter clerk on a first names basis. Think of the things I have to deal with when I go grocery shopping.

Linda the clerk says, “Is that it, Ray. One jalapeno? Eight cents? You’re paying with your Mastercard?”

I said, “I needed a jalapeno for my taco.”

Next day. I get Linda’s checkout line. She says, “I can’t sell you the bulk ginger, Ray.”

I respond,

“Why?”

Linda said, “You didn’t put enough ginger in the plastic baggie to register a weight.”

I said, “Do I get it for free?”

Linda rolls her eyes, and casually glances at the number for security, “Sorry, Ray.”

 

 

That afternoon, I’m back at the grocery. I’m in the mood for a frittata. All I need are two eggs. I don’t want a frittata tomorrow or next week, only tonight. I hear a voice, “Ray, can I help you?” I turn and look. It is a guy with the name tag, Joe. I don’t know Joe. Joe knows me.

“How do you know my name, Joe?”

“Everyone here knows you, Ray.”

Am I considered dangerous? Am I on the grocery store watch list? Am I being tracked by an unknown grocery GPS they slipped into my credit card? Or, am I paranoid? I not sure of the right answer.

Joe speaks, “Let me guess, Ray. You don’t want a dozen eggs. You don’t want a half dozen eggs. You want two eggs.”

Am I that predictable? “Can you help me, Joe?”

“Fraid not. Your best bet is to the buy the liquid eggs. They’ll be good for five years, don’t think about the expiration date. We only put that on there to make people toss them out and buy fresh. Don’t tell anyone our secret”

“It’s in the vault.”

I take my liquid eggs to the checkout stations. The only one with a short line is Linda. She’s waving at me. I enter her line.

“Long time no see, Ray. It’s been three hours. You get everything you need?”

“How about a life, Linda?”

“Let me see. Did you check aisle four?”

I’m grateful I have a store, HEB, where everyone knows me. And, I can get what I need when I need it. Grateful for large and small things in life. Life is good and so is my frittata.

 

 

Female Wisdom & A Haircut

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I started today with good intentions. I start every day with good intentions. Good intentions and a good cup or two of coffee help keep planet Earth on its axis. I’m doing my bit. I can use a little help, por favor. Especially when my good intentions create chaos.

What was I thinking? I should have asked a daughter for advice – too proud. I should have asked one of the women in my neighborhood for advice – I was fearful they wouldn’t let me leave until they fried a batch of chicken – I don’t eat fried food. I know now, I needed female wisdom. I should have let go of my pride and my fear of fried chicken. Most of the guys I know have not heard of female wisdom. I mentioned it to a guy at the Y and he said, “I had two of mine pulled out four years ago.” My species is no help. Now, I should know better, five daughters and Babe. Six women, a female dog, a half dozen female guppies, four female cats, and two female gerbils all tried to teach me female wisdom. Most of the guys I know have not heard of female wisdom. I mentioned it to a guy at the Y and he said, “I had two of mine pulled out four years ago.” My species is no help. Now,”Ray, why did you need female wisdom?” Obviously, this question is from one of my male readers.

Most of the guys I know have not heard of female wisdom. I mentioned it to a guy at the Y and he said, “I had two of mine pulled out four years ago.” My species is no help. Now, I should know better, five daughters and Babe. Six women, a female dog, a half dozen female guppies, four female cats, and two female gerbils all tried to teach me female wisdom. Most of the guys I know have not heard of female wisdom. I mentioned it to a guy at the Y and he said, “I had two of mine pulled out four years ago.” My species is no help. Now,

I should know better. Six women, five daughters and Babe, a female dog, a half dozen female guppies, four female cats, and two female gerbils all tried to teach me female wisdom. Most of the guys I know have not heard of female wisdom.

“Ray, why did you need female wisdom?” Obviously, this question is from one of my male readers.

Here’s what happened. I decided it was time for a haircut. I also decided to change hair stylists. I like to change hair stylists every two to three haircuts (at this rate, I’ll be traveling up to Austin to get my hair cut). Here’s where female wisdom would have guided me, if I’d been wise enough to ask for it. I made an appointment with the hair stylist who has the booth next to the stylist I dropped. I hear my daughters screaming, “Dad, what were you thinking? Do we need a power of attorney?”

As soon as I entered the salon, my ex (stylist, that is) said, “I’ll try to squeeze you in, Ray. You didn’t make an appointment.”

I said, “I did. I made it with Maria.” Another faux pax.

“Maria? Maria?” (Note, I refuse to write what she said next – this is a family blog). My ex stormed over to Maria and it began. I am an innocent bystander to arms waving. My ex grabbed a hairbrush and was restrained by two other stylists. Maria crouched behind her chair with one of those haircutting wraps covering her head.

Another stylist came over to me and said, “You started all this. Get out of here and don’t come back.”

“What did I do? I changed stylists, that’s all.”

“Oh, men. You have no clue,” she said.

I left without a haircut, but with the free wisdom I had no clue.

Getting multiple perspectives is a good thing. No one has all the answers, male or female, rich or poor, and every other descriptor you want to apply. That is a lesson life has repeatedly taught me. Listening is a good thing. And for a guy, listening to female wisdom is a very good thing.

 

 

The Gift

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I love my birthday. I love Christmas. I love surprise gifts. I enjoy giving gifts and seeing eyes light up. And, I enjoy receiving them as well – except for the one’s I re-gift. I don’t like to re-gift too often because my memory may trick me and I’ll re-gift to the giver. A wrong re-gift has all the makings of a relationship disaster.

When I give a gift, I think about the person to whom I am giving a gift. I want to make it special. When I can’t think of something special I fall back on a reliable, can’t miss, hit a homerun everytime gift: A Starbucks gift card. It’s only failed me once when I mistakenly gave it to a friend who later told me she only drinks herbal tea. I told her Starbucks sells herbal tea, she gave me a look that said she doesn’t do Starbucks and, “This relationship is over.”

Kids under the age of 12 are pretty easy to please. Once they hit the teens, God help them, and God help me in the gift buying department. If they have an iPhone, I gift an iTunes card. Oh, my backup? A Starbucks card.

Is a Starbucks card the answer to all problems in life? I’ve got to think more about this possibility. Maybe I’ll give myself a Starbucks card. No, I already have the app on my iPhone and collect stars. Here’s a question for you. I collect Starbucks stars, I have lots of them. Are they still stars if the iPhone records them in some form of cryptic code? If they are in cryptic code, are they real stars? I think I’ve had one too many cups of coffee this morning.

 

I began this blog talking about gifts. Each of us is a gift when we give the gift of ourselves to others. Our gift to others takes on extra meaning when it is received by a grateful heart. The more we give the gift of our self to others, the more we discover our true mystery and destiny.

Outsmarted by a Bird Brain

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Who’s smarter, a sparrow or me? Obviously a sparrow. Who’s smarter, mourning doves or me? No trick questions, it’s the mourning doves. Who’s smarter, hummingbirds or me? Again, I come out on the short end of the stick. I could keep this quiz up for a half dozen more species, but the answers are all the same.

Did the Federal government fund this study? It is obviously important. If birds are smarter than a guy with a doctorate, the defense department may consider them to pilot jets or guide drones. Imagine a pigeon doing clandestine work for the CIA. You can’t? Think of a grackle sitting at the IRS reviewing taxes. Costs go way down. Think of a blue jay heading up border security. We won’t need a wall. What about hummingbirds carrying encrypted messages in their long bills. WikiLeaks is finished. The possibilities are endless.

Do I hear a question: “Ray, what did you have to drink before you wrote this blog?”

I confess I added freshly squeezed lemon juice to my filtered water. Maybe it was almonds I put on my salad. Or, the flaxseeds I added to my Greek yogurt. There has to be a simple explanation for my birdbrain rationalization.

Here is my reasoning why birds are more intelligent than me.

  1. I buy them food.
  2. I put the food in four different bird feeders if you count the hummingbird feeder as one of the feeders.
  3. I make sure they have enough food to eat every day.
  4. I’m thinking of having an app designed so they can order ahead and pick up their seed at the to-go window.

What do I get out this arrangement? They wake me up at 5:30 a.m. It doesn’t matter if I want to sleep a bit longer. They turn up the volume letting the entire neighborhood know it’s breakfast. Perhaps I’ve discovered a reason my neighbors are adopting cats from the shelter.

I watch the birds fly in and out of the feeders (I really, really, really need to reexamine the direction of my life). They invite their friends to the feeding fiesta. Now I know how workers at an all night burger joint feel.

As foolish as it sounds, I like feeding the birds. I am grateful for their visits. I get much more out of their company than I give to them. I can’t help myself, I am a nature lover and believe every species is sacred.

What’s More Dangerous than Piranha?

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Question: What is more dangerous than being tossed into a locked, fenced pen with six hungry, mean looking, drooling, barking pit bulls?

You in the last row. What’s that, Piranha? Cold, cold, cold.

I see you, stop waving your hand as you have an electric circuit running wild. “Walking down a gang-infested street with $100 dollar bills pinned to your clothes? Cold, cold, cold.

I see you didn’t read your assignment. I loaded the PDF online. What’s a PDF? What’s online? You want to run for Congress when you grow up? It appears you’re ready now.

You by the window with the smirk on your face, I did. You sure? I apologize class. I loaded the wrong PDF online. The one with the answers to the final. Close your computers. Shut off your tablets and iPad. Okay, everyone gets an A.

The answer to the question: Being forced to attend a university committee faculty meeting. I attended a meeting and barely survived. Do you know what it is like to sit with six egos so big they make you feel claustrophobic? I was gasping for air.

I decided to watch the dynamics. The first item on the agenda was the approval of minutes. They fought, they banged on the table. They demanded words be changed. They said I didn’t say that when everyone knows they did. I started to write out a power of attorney. They looked violent. When one professor stood up and placed his two hands on the table and bent toward a colleague and screamed, “You are an imbecile. No wonder I can’t stand you,” I began composing a living will.

I started to write out a power of attorney. They looked violent. When one professor stood up and placed his two hands on the table and bent toward a colleague and screamed, “You are an imbecile. No wonder I can’t stand you,” I began composing a living will.

When one professor stood up and placed his two hands on the table and bent toward a colleague and screamed, “You are an imbecile. No wonder I can’t stand you,” I began composing a living will.

Forty minutes to figure out if the minutes were okay, forty minutes. The chair said, “New business.” A committee member blurted, “What do you mean ‘none of my business.’ The chair said, “I said new business.” “Why didn’t you say so the first time?” snarled the committee member.

My preset chime went off. I looked at the group, “I apologize. I have another meeting on the far side of campus. I’ll read the minutes. Great meeting. A wave. A deep breath. I escaped.

Yes, I did have another meeting. Yes, it was on the far side of the campus. It was with the elliptical machine.

Listening and trying to understand is a big part working well with anyone. Some are born with the skill, most of us have to practice and practice and practice. It’s worth the effort.

Postal Service?

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I put it off. I put it off. I put it off.

“What did you put off, Ray?”

No, I filed my taxes on time. I paid the balance on my credit card. I went to church. I can’t call my mom or dad, they’re in heaven with Babe laughing at me. I’ve checked off all the biggies except for one. If you’re standing, brace yourself against the nearest wall. If you’re sitting, grasp hold of the sides of your chair. If you’re reading this while you’re driving on I-35 during rush hour in Dallas, Austin, or San Antonio let me know before you go any further, I want to advise the state police of a multi-car pileup.

“What is it? It can’t be that bad, or can it?”

It is. I have to go the U.S. Post Office. The dreaded black hole of the American living experience.

There, I admitted it. My pulse, normally low because I frequently work out so I’ll be fit in times of emergency, like having to go to the Post Office, has risen from 51 to 125. I feel as if my heart is engaged in aerobic exercise.

Why am I going to the Post Office? I have 700 reasons. One of my 401K accounts started this robust year at $2000. That’s not much. I forgot about the darn thing. It was one of Babe’s accounts. It’s now down to $700. I thought the economy was robust. According to the 401K manager, the previous manager made a big investment affecting many accounts betting that sardines were the next beef. I can see it now, I go to MacDonalds and say, “I want a big mac, supersize the sardines, por favor. I’ll have a seaweed salad on the side.” I’m closing the account, maybe after taxes, I’ll get $300. I plan to donate it to Southwest Airlines for a round trip ticket to Vegas. Problem is, I have to send my request via certified mail.

I won’t waste your time telling you the Post Office’s self-service machine wasn’t working. I won’t waste your time telling you there were six stations but only one postal employee working. I won’t waste your time telling you I’m at the back of the line and standing on the other side of the double glass doors. Lo siento, (Spanish for I’m sorry), I wasted your time. Thanks for letting me vent. Better than going postal.

So you get an accurate idea of what occurred when I reached the head of the line and step to the counter, I’m writing the actual conversation between the postal employee and me in Italics. I write what I was actually thinking but didn’t express for fear of being arrested or sent to the back of the line in bold.

Excuse me sir, I did not call you to the counter.

Are you for real?

May I stay here because I’m next.

No. I’m going on break and another postal service agent will be out shortly.

Service agent? Don’t get me started with oxymorons. 

Back you go. You don’t have to go back to the rear of the line. Good thing, the line is out of the building. The postal service is on your side. He grabs his cash box and goes behind a solid steel, bulletproof door.

They’re on my side? What does that mean? All I want is five minutes or less. Hey is there anyone alive back there behind the bulletproof door? Should I turn and start a chant. “We Want Service. We want Service.” A voice whispers, are you nuts? 

Five minutes later, a woman comes out. No nonsense, I can tell by the four teardrop tats under her eye. She glares at me. I smile back. She doesn’t smile. I hear the magic words, “Next.”

It’s me. It’s me. I feel so good. I turn and look at the poor fools waiting and wishing they were me. I saunter up to the counter. “I need to send this letter certified mail.”

She picks it up. Holds it to the ceiling light. I want to shout, I’m TSA approved. does that count for something.

She says, “Does this contain any explosives, liquids, bombs, hate literature, WikiLeaks, support for global warming, anti-gun literature, or a Russian flag?”

It’s less than a sixteenth of an inch thin. The heaviest thing on it is your fingerprints.

It’s only a one-page letter, ma’am. 

She says, “Wrong answer. One more wrong answer and you go to the back of the line”.

Images of kindergarten rush through my mind. Why didn’t I learn to behave in school. It’s karma or the reincarnation of Miss Borchers.

Her hands are on her hips, old west style. I don’t see holsters, but one can never tell. She says, “I don’t like to repeat questions. Now give me the answer.”

Think Ray think. You’re good under pressure. You can do this. No I don’t have to take a leak. That wasn’t it. It’s warm in here. I wish it were cooler. I’m going to take a wild guess. No.

“Close call, sir. I was ready to ship your butt out to the street.”

I’ve got to go online and check out the USPS applications. 

She weighs my envelope, “How much do I owe you?”

“You don’t owe me anything. And, I don’t appreciate the pickup line.”

She’s certifiable. 

She holds my letter with both hands, a death grip. Here stare bores a hole in my temporal lobe. She says, “Where is your completed card to send this certified mail? Do you have one?”

“No?”

“Wrong answer. The cards are in the lobby. Please fill one out and go to the rear of the line.”

I take my letter. Women in line are tearing up. I see an old man popping angina pills. I’m thinking I don’t need the money. Then I hear her voice.” 

“You’re on camera. Your photo will be posted in every post office in the country as a hostile patron. We’re watching you.”

 

 

There’s More Than Coffee at Starbucks

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I enjoy my morning coffee. I like a rich dark roast. I like my coffee as it is, no add-ons, no sweeteners, nada, I also like the dark roasts at Starbucks. It’s why I budget half my income to enjoy my caffeine habit.

A neighbor told me Dunkin Donuts’ coffee was better. According to my neighbor, a jelly donut improves the flavor of any drink. But, better than Starbucks? It’s like comparing my mom’s homemade Italian meatballs with the meatballs at Subway. Granted, I never tried the meatballs at Subway. Here’s my thinking. I’ve never stuck my finger in a live electric socket to see if it hurt. I’ve never told a state trooper to get lost when he asked for my license, registration, and insurance. I don’t jump in the shark tank at Sea World to try to help a shark floss. There’s a potential market, shark floss. There are things you don’t do because you already know the outcome. I will not try Dunkin Donuts coffee, MacDonald’s coffee, 7-11 coffee, or any coffee with added flavors. Okay, I admit, I hold a coffee bias.

I need my coffee. I need a topic for today’s blog. I can get both at Starbucks. I walk in the door, my backpack slung over my shoulder. I hope it doesn’t throw my spine out of alignment because I want to look cool. I hear a barista yell, “He’s back.”

What does this mean? I take it as a compliment. They’re happy to see me. From the expression on their faces, it most likely means the opposite, Please, please, please have enough dark roast. Please be hot. Please taste fresh. Don’t give him a card to fill out. Turning my name tag around. No, I’ll take Shelly’s, she’s off today. You’re a guy. Maybe he won’t notice.

I use my iPhone app to pay for the coffee – love those stars. I get a runner’s high when I see them going into my cup. It’s like I’m in first grade, where I seldom got stars and now I’m making up for it. Soon, I’ll have enough to get a supersized iced coffee. Honestly, am I this naive? I let Starbucks convince me collecting stars are important? The only thing I collect now is the lint in my navel and occasionally between my toes. Why do I keep coming back to Starbucks when I can brew it more cheaply at home? It’s not the baristas. Sorry Starbucks, it’s not the coffee. It’s not the background music. What is it then? Could it be their breakfast menu – NOT. It’s the people. Stories come at me twice the speed of light. There are a half dozen stories waiting for me. I sit down at a corner table to write my blog. Sometimes life works out and everything falls into place.

I’m watching a guy, come in, he blows by the baristas like he owns the place. He walks straight to pick up counter and picks up an espresso cup. He ordered ahead off his app. I prefer to wait in line and have the baristas stare at me while I try to get my order perfect, “Venti, dark roast, no room, don’t tilt the can. Don’t half fill it from one tin and a half from the other.” Good thing I have a great memory.

The guy takes a tiny sip from his espresso cup, extending his pinky with the 10K gold ring. From the neck down, he looks like Tony Soprano. From the neck up, he looks like my uncle Carmen past his prime. My dad said Uncle Carmen was the favorite because he was the youngest. Uncle Carmen bragged at Christmas dinner, Thanksgiving dinner, every wedding or funeral women fell in love with him. They couldn’t help themselves. Uncle Carmen’s first, second, and third wives didn’t buy his being an innocent bystander in his many trysts. He claimed he couldn’t help himself, he was easily duped and willingly succumbed to female charms. This is all true about Uncle Carmen.

Think of a ballplayer past his prime. You’ve seen some of “names” on DWTS. Here’s the deal with the strain of my species Uncle Carmen and the guy next to me represent. They think they still have it when they’re past prime. They wear expensive, Italian loafers. Beige linen pants and an off-white silk shirt to impress the ladies. If that doesn’t work, they wiggle their solid gold pinky ring. If that doesn’t work, they order an espresso in a small espresso cup and sip it slowly while holding their pinky askew. The guy next to me is no Uncle Carmen, he doesn’t have the Calabrian nose. I’m going to call him Faux Carmen.

I’m judging. Smart money is on match.com, okcupid.com, or something coming out of that genre. I’m relating this in realtime:

He’s checking his large sized, latest version iPhone.

He’s texting.

He’s reading a response text.

He’s texting.

He’s checking his emails.

Now he’s scrolling.

Can I get arrested for stalking? Don’t answer that.

I’m tempted to check the FBI’s most wanted list. Is there a bounty on this guy?

He’s putting his cell phone away. He’s looking out toward the parking lot.

Two cars pull in.

He’s smiling. No, he’s beaming.

He’s standing up, sucking in his stomach, Here’s another hundred on my hunch.

He waves toward the door. 

My eyes follow his eyes. Every guy in Starbucks is staring (it’s a guy thing – thousands of years of programming). Mastered to the point where the guy pretends to not stare but stares. Do any guys really believe they can get away with this move? Go directly to jail. Do not pass go. And, you have no get out of jail cards.

She slowly wiggles and jiggles her way across the room. They should check your ID at the door at Starbucks. 

She’s standing in front of him. Looking up into his face. 

He stretched his arms out wide. Evidently, they know each other.

She throws her arms around him.

He wraps her in his arms.

Tío Paul, todavía eres muy guapo (Uncle Paul, you are still very handsome).

Mi hijo de Dios. hermosa (my god child, you are beautiful).

I leave Starbucks with a story and a lesson. I’ll come back again for a story, but I’ll pack my judgments away. They’re usually wrong.

 

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