Still, at 10:35am

I sit in Mountain Crest Park as George runs around sniffing the ground, enjoying the unseasonably cool weather we’ve had. With temps in the 70’s, I wear a light jacket to ward off the cool wind and sit with the sun on my back. The noise of the wind drowns out most of the noise around me, muffles the noise of the city, so that I sit in a frozen, still spot where events happen quietly around me, like a TV with the sound on mute.

Far away across the huge park, a jogger runs silently, bobbing up and down with every step. The tops of cars are visible as they pass to the south, but even they are quiet. Only the faint hum of the distant freeway reveals we are in a city.

Trees rustle and move in the wind around me; so do the doggie disposal bags hanging from the dispenser on the fence. My silhouette’s shadow on the cement shows my hair flying in the breeze.

Birds chirp from the tree by me. The gate of the dog park clanks as someone enters. George grunts as he finds a really special scent. Dog tags jingle as a new dog runs by.

Kids play silently in the faraway playground. Hundreds of houses lie in quiet rows on the foothills to the west, and tall red mountains tower above them, watching. A lone mountaintop, taller than the rest, hangs onto its last blanket of snow.

Only a few miles away, people are furiously working, in offices and factories and buses and casinos. Thousands of tourists are oohing and aahing and losing money in loudly clanging slot machines. Above us all, thundering jets crisscross the sky, heading to the East Coast, or West Coast, or Hawaii, Asia, Europe.

But here, in this moment, all is still.

Miss Cool

I’ve mentioned before that Starbucks is a place to meet people – to hook up, to have a first date, to scope out potential mates. And this week I saw what I think could be a first date. After all, it makes sense to go to Starbucks for something like that. If you meet casually for coffee, there’s no pressure to dress up, no pressure over who pays (because it’s inexpensive), no reason to stay too long, and no pressure for a goodnight kiss or invitation to “come back to my place” (unless it’s a really successful date).

I saw the woman first – she walked in, replied to the Starbucks’ staff’s greeting, then sat in a chair by the wall without ordering. Obviously she was there for a purpose – she wore a tight shiny purple top, a tight black pencil skirt, and super-high black pumps with ankle straps. Unusual attire for 8:30am. She caught my eye because she strutted in like she was hot stuff. I didn’t agree with her own assessment of herself – her two-tone hair prevented her from looking classy. How can you think that black hair with a layer of blonde on top looks good? I’m not sure what look she was going for.

About thirty seconds after she sat down, a man joined her. He wasn’t dressed to impressed; he wore jeans, black sneakers, an untucked shirt and a baseball cap with his sunglasses sitting on the brim. They got their coffee and then sat at a table for two. On the way, he got a nice long look at her butt.

The reason why I thought it was their first date was because of the way she talked. Non-stop, loudly, importantly. And he sat with a half-smile on his face, not at all annoyed. Surely it was nervous talking? In the middle of her rambling, a few words floated over toward me. “Porn.” (Or I guess she could have said “corn” but that is less likely.) “No f—king way!” (Immediately I was impressed at her use of adjectives.) “He would call me all the time and they had to trace his calls!” (She obviously felt the need to show how desirable she is.) I also heard “water fight,” “white trash,” “pregnant,” and “a lot of drama.” The latter described her to a T, but I’m not sure if she was aware of that. All of this was stated while she tossed around her Cruella-colored hair with importance, flashing her smile and gesturing constantly – she even winked one eye at him one time to illustrate an especially cute point.

So who am I to judge? No one. And I shouldn’t be so harsh. She was happy, and the guy seemed happy, so who cares. She was friendly and animated – the only true fault I could find was her loud overuse of the f-word. Everything else could be forgiven. After all, from her vantage point I’m probably that weird curly-haired woman who sits at Starbucks all the time with her dog and always orders the exact same thing and wears sweatpants (It’s because of the dog park!) and needs to get her roots touched up.

In the interest of journalism (it’s all in the interest of my writing, I swear) I stood up and looked out the window after they left, trying to see how their date ended. They walked together across the parking lot to her car, where they spoke for a minute and then hugged goodbye. A hug. Hmmm. Maybe it wasn’t a first date after all. At least I know no one got lucky.

Seeking LVHWM

I didn’t realize that Starbucks is a pickup joint until this week, when I saw a man make a move on the woman in front of him in line. From where I stood waiting to pick up my iced venti Chai Tea Latte, I first noticed the woman when she walked through the door in her tight jeans, super-high-heeled black leather boots and tight, low-cut blouse. But she wasn’t overly sleazy, she was just dressed in the stereotypical “Las Vegas Hoochie with Money” style that is so prevalent, especially in Summerlin. She wore too much makeup, her hair was colored and straightened; she wore big jewelry and had manicured hands that are used to regular appointments at her local spa. The Vegas Hoochie with Money dresses fairly well but has no class – that’s what sets them apart. They fill the hottest Las Vegas clubs and restaurants where people go to be seen.

Anyway, of course I checked out her clothes, as women do, and suddenly I heard the man behind her in line ask if she was on Facebook. She flashed him a collagen smile, and they confirmed that they had probably seen each other there sometime. Obviously they are the types who collect Facebook friends as status symbols.

The man was another Las Vegas stereotype – the Las Vegas Super-Cool Guy. His jeans fell perfectly onto his expensive leather dress shoes; his shirt was just tight enough to show the line of his pecs caused by his daily gym workouts. His hair was overly styled – probably took him an hour and a half cup of hair gel – and he had a fake tan. The Las Vegas Super-Cool Guy doesn’t age well, because years of tanning and an overly cheesy smile tend to cause deep wrinkles.

These two Vegas types aren’t stupid; they just put image and money far above education. And by the way, don’t worry – if you’re reading this, you’re not one of those types. They wouldn’t waste precious grooming time reading about another person’s thoughts. It’s all about them.

Starbucks might as well have been a Club that morning, judging from the hardcore pursuit that happened by the stack of Chocolate Madelines and Petite Vanilla Scones. The woman turned to place her order, and Super-Cool Guy took advantage of the opportunity to check out her butt; she turned to speak to him again, so he got to check out her cleavage before turning his gaze back to her face. She turned back and forth between the Barista at the register and him several times, causing a sequence of eye movements – Face, Butt, Cleavage, Face, Butt, Cleavage, Face. He was in heaven.

It was time for the woman to pay, and Super-Cool Guy said, “I think I should buy coffee for two this time.” His cheesy swagger was so confident I almost laughed out loud. He had already caught me looking at them a couple of times, but I’m sure he thought I thought he was Super-Cool, instead of Super-Funny. The woman allowed him to pay for her coffee while I picked up my drink at the counter, and as I walked past to leave he was digging into his back pocket to give her his card.

They were humorously perfect for each other. Watch for them next time you are in a Las Vegas club – I’m sure you’ll see them. And if you’re single, consider Starbucks as your next mate-seeking location. I have proof that it can be successful!

Encounters

Going to the dog park, and sitting at Starbucks as often as we do, presents George and me with many opportunities to happen upon interesting people. And this week we had three interesting encounters.

At the table next to us at Starbucks early in the week, a girl and her grandfather sat waiting for a meeting. The girl, in her early twenties, was dressed in business attire, her hair smartly styled, and the grandpa wore a t-shirt and baseball cap. I typed at my computer and tried to act like I wasn’t paying any attention, but I noticed that there was an important vibe to their Starbucks visit that day. And sure enough, soon a young man came in the door, dressed in a tan military uniform, and they introduced themselves and sat together at the table. I listened while she told the recruiter all about her background, including a story about wanting to be a dentist since she was five years old. Every now and then the grandpa interjected with an anecdote from his military days, sometimes which related to the conversation but most often did not. The interview ended, they all shook hands, and after they left I sat and wondered what would become of this girl whose important moment I had witnessed, but who I would never see again. Her enthusiasm for her future put me in a good mood.

Later in the week I happened to speak to a man at the dog park whose dog was named Cowboy. Cowboy may look like a normal Yorkie, but in fact he is a seasoned traveler with his own passport. He and his owner will be going to Italy for a few months, and I couldn’t help but be envious of Cowboy, who has been to the Caribbean twice already. Now that I think about it, he did strut around the dog park with an air of self-importance.

The third encounter happened at home instead of at the park or Starbucks. One morning George followed me to the front door when I planned to walk outside and get the mail. I opened the door, and about two feet in front of me, hovering motionless in the air at chest-height, was a hummingbird, staring straight at us. He stayed in that spot for about 20 seconds, just looking at us, as if he had been waiting there for us to come out and play. I love encounters with nature.

I think a week that includes a caring Grandpa, a motivated young woman, a Globe-trotting Yorkie, and a feisty hummingbird is pretty good, don’t you?

Motivation

At the dog park on Sunday morning, I watched a group of older men form in the soccer field that stands between the park and the middle school nearby. It was 8am, and slowly the team members arrived, most already dressed in random, mismatched soccer uniforms, their movements slow in the early morning quiet.

One of the men took a solo lap around the field to warm up; another did toe-touches by the farthest goal. They greeted each other while nearby a few women set up lawn chairs, an umbrella, and ice chests.

I sat on the bench with George and wished I had the motivation to get up early and exercise. Sure, I do get motivated sometimes, but the least small thing will get me out of the notion. For example, right now my bike riding is on hold because I’m angry at my bike. I had gone on an early ride recently, with my new bike that seems to be temperamental, and in the middle of an intersection when I stood to increase my speed, the gear slipped and I almost had a huge crash. I don’t know how I didn’t fall to the ground, but I did end up with bruises and a horribly stiff neck the next day.

Motivation to exercise should be in my blood, because I have some extremely athletic family members. My half-sister runs marathons, and so does my cousin Dan, who even moved to a new city just to train in the best location possible. And my Uncle Jim used to get up super early every morning – no matter how early it had to be – just to get a run in before work every day. He's in his late 60's now and plays on a hockey team with his son.

When I performed for a living, I stayed in shape because my job gave me exercise every day. And boy, was that nice. Now I take a ballet class now and then, or walk George for a couple of miles, or ride my bike when it doesn’t piss me off. But I sure wish I were one of those athletic types who doesn’t feel slightly out of place when wearing cycling gear.

There is another dog park nearby where recently I saw a group of senior citizens running a 5K race. I happened upon the finish line, where one at a time a runner crossed the finish to the spattered applause of a couple of race workers. I couldn’t help but be inspired by these motivated seniors – they obviously were out there for the personal accomplishment, not for the glory!

I have professionally-fitted running shoes, a new bicycle, drawers of ballet tights and leotards, and if I dig hard enough I might find my old rollerblades. But still I sit at the park and just watch the other more motivated people run by in their jogging gear or sweating out on the soccer field nearby. So if any of you see me sitting there, would you please tell me to get off my a--?

Early Morning Play-by-Play

Laguna Beach, CA, August 30, 2009

6:15 am Alarm goes off; hit snooze.

6:20 am Get out of the snuggly bed and notice the sound of the waves coming from the open window.

6:35am Discover that the hotel’s complimentary breakfast room is still locked. Head to Starbucks, not at all disappointed.

6:40am Order a hot chocolate and vanilla scone, and notice that all the customers at this hour are older men. This must be the local’s hangout? There are no tables and no restroom – obviously a tourist town where they don’t want the beach bums using their restroom!

6:45am Walk along the boardwalk back to the hotel, past four people playing volleyball (at this hour?!), one man doing jumping jacks, and a sanitation worker who is emptying the trashcans in preparation for this summer’s last August weekend. See a white fluffy dog who looks like George, on a leash by the still-closed lifeguard tower.

6:50am Find a table at the hotel’s beachside restaurant, closed and deserted, except for two workers who are opening all the umbrellas and wiping down tables.

6:52am A flock of seagulls who had been sitting far down the beach, camouflaged among the piles of seaweed, suddenly take flight and head south along the coast.

6:58am Notice that the waves are calmer than yesterday, but they still form long, perfect curls of water as they crash in waves the length of two football fields.

6:59am Take note of the people on the beach at this time: A man is standing at the edge of the surf with his dog and keeps gesturing toward the waves with his arm, encouraging the dog to get in the water. The dog looks at the water, then at the man, and then he barks - it’s just too cold. Farther down the beach is a lone fisherman. He hasn’t caught anything. Three older Asian women are taking their morning walk on the beach with shoes in hand.

7:00am Think how nice it would be to be able to include a walk on the beach as your daily morning routine.

7:07am The first surfer arrives, climbs aboard his surfboard, and heads far out, past the huge waves.

7:15am Get up to take a photo of this fabulous morning location, and have a nice conversation about photography with the Spanish-accented man who had been hosing down the patio.

7:16am See two swimmers far out in the water, their black arms (in wetsuits) arcing above the water like distant fish. They swim out to a buoy and the turn back toward shore.

7:18am The surfer catches a great wave and rides it for about five seconds before it overtakes him. The fisherman re-baits his hook.

7:19am The hotel workers move to the beach to prepare the private beach area for their hotel guests. They begin pounding stakes into the sand which will hold the ropes and signs that say “Private Beach.” (We sat there yesterday and had drinks and lunch delivered to our chairs. It was nice, but I think I prefer the freedom of having our own blanket and umbrella out in the middle of the action. Being behind a rope, while luxurious, has a sort of animals-in-a-zoo quality.)

7:22am The swimmers head out to sea again. One stops midway and treads water. A man with a camera squats at the edge of the water, setting up the perfect shot.

7:25am A man jogs by with his dog, a black lab who patiently trots by his master, who runs barefoot in a sprightly torso-twisting trot. (When they get nearer, I realize it’s a woman.)

7:26am Two people walk down the concrete steps and sit at a table nearby.

7:28am Spot a lone swimmer far out from shore. Where did he come from? How long has he been swimming? Make a mental note to work out more.

7:34am Notice a dolphin swimming along shore, surfacing now and then in a fluid arc. He surfaces again, in another location. Are there more than one? Watch longer, until suddenly two dolphins jump out of the water side by side, in perfect unison, like at a Sea World show, but infinitesimally better. A few moments later, four or five can be seen at once, their fins black against the sun’s morning glimmer.

7:40am A huge black dog on a leash forces his owner to stop so he can dig. He digs frantically and then they move on. Farther down the beach, he stops again to dig in another spot. And then another. Wish George were here to dig, too.

7:41am Decide to turn off the computer, because deep down, computers and beach vacations don’t mix.

7:41am Look up for one last thing to write, and see the surfer far out past the waves. Others have joined him by now, but he sits on his board alone, slowly bobbing up and down, staring out to sea.

Pay no attention to the girl by the window...

The Starbucks near my workplace does not have a drive-through, so I am forced to go inside, which I don’t really mind. The Summerlin area of Las Vegas is more upscale, and I am always intrigued by the people there. I stand in line and survey the group inside or those sitting outside under the huge shade trees with their perfectly groomed dogs. They are always well-dressed, often in business suits reading the morning paper, or sitting in groups wearing expensive jogging suits and rewarding themselves with an after-workout iced coffee.

Lately I’ve been watching two thirtyish men who always sit at an outside table by the window. I first noticed them about three weeks ago on a morning that was already 90 degrees at 7am. The man I’ll call “Bald Guy” was talking and making emphatic gestures with his hands. His sleeveless t-shirt bared tattooed arms and dark glasses sat atop his bald head. The guy across the table from him (I’ll call him “Ball Cap Guy”) was sitting in rapt, eager attention, wearing a backwards ball cap and a black t-shirt. But their un-Summerlin attire wasn’t what caught my attention; they had books on the table between them, and as Bald Guy spoke, Ball Cap Guy furiously wrote notes in the margins of the book in front of him.

They must be taking a class together, I thought, but then I noticed that the books in front of them weren’t identical, so they probably weren’t studying. And it sure looked like Bald Guy was lecturing or teaching something to Ball Cap Guy. Luckily their outdoor table was outside and perfectly positioned by the coffee pick-up window, giving me every reason to stand right next to them by the window. I moved closer and tried to see the text on their open books, hoping they would think I was looking at the stack of New York Times newspapers against the wall.

Maybe they’re doing Bible study, I considered, but Ball Cap Guy’s book didn’t look like a Bible. I tried to look at Bald Guy’s book, but he had moved a sheet of paper over it. Ball Cap Guy’s margins were getting full, and he turned a page and began to write a sentence in large capital letters above the text on the fresh page. This was my chance! I craned my head, trying to get a better view, so I could read the movement of his pen as he wrote. By this time, I didn’t care if they caught me; I was too curious. Bald Guy’s hands punctuated wildly as Ball Cap Guy wrote carefully, “God helps those who help themselves.”

So it was Bible study of some type. Mystery solved. I moved away from the window and picked up my Venti Iced Chai, thinking about what Ball Cap Guy had written. No matter what your religion, it’s a good motto for us to remember. A reminder not to just sit by and wait for things to happen. You have to get out there and make your own luck. Give yourself the opportunity for good things to come to you. They sure as heck won’t come when you’re sitting at home with your butt on the couch.

The next time I saw Bald Guy and Ball Cap Guy, they were sitting outside, far away from the building under the trees. Maybe I need to think about a different platitude, such as Curiousity killed the cat? Or Mind your own business?

The Ritz

After my time in NYC and CT, Lance and I had a nice visit in Indiana. And my hometown in Indiana is about as far from Vegas as you can get. Bible Belt vs. Sin City. Stretch limos vs. pickup trucks. Backyard sprinklers vs. the Bellagio Fountains. And this contrast is refreshing, allowing me to recharge my batteries, relax, and reprioritize.

My hometown has a population of 3500 people, and my old high school gymnasium seats 5,000, showing the importance of basketball in Southern Indiana. The town is situated in green rolling hills among expanses of corn fields, ponds, and winding two-lane highways. Amish buggies occasionally bump along the roads, and men on tractors often block highways until they turn off toward a field with a friendly wave.

When I am back home in Indiana, I like to immerse myself in the culture. One way to do this is to go to breakfast at the local diner. The Ritz Motel has a small restaurant that serves breakfast and dinner, with specials listed on a dry erase board by the kitchen. Lance and I ate there this week during a thunderstorm, and between bites of slightly dry scrambled eggs and sausage links, I jotted down the conversations of the people around me, most of whom were men in overalls or work clothes. The first phrase that drifted over to me was “same sex marriage,” which naturally caused me to perk up my ears and intentionally eavesdrop. I also heard:

“…climb in a hayloft and fall asleep.”

“…on the prayer list at church. And they’re just the cousins of someone she knows.”

“…tractor…”

“The corn grew overnight this much!”

“…football…”

“…just called and said all the lights went out. Their power is out.”

“…put a can of mushroom soup on top of it. I think that would be good.”

“…a little smart car. Look at that little goober.”

“Gotta go mow a field of hay directly.”

“We’re gonna have wheel meat – you know – meat that comes in a round loaf.”

I don’t think we could have been any more immersed in the local culture than we were that morning. But we did try to do even more. We sat in on a jam session with local musicians at a Saturday morning farmers’ market. We caught fish off the pier over my uncle’s pond. Lance killed a snake for my Grandma and later helped set traps for the mouse we saw skitter across the floor of our cabin guest room. We planted flowers at Grandma’s, played ping pong in my uncle’s garage, and took morning walks to the mailbox with two overeager hound dogs. Oh, and who could forget Lance getting spit on by an old man at the farmers’ market who had bad aim with his chaw of tobacco. (I told Lance it was his initiation, but he wasn’t amused.)

It was a great three-week trip, and now I’m back home with George and headed back to the daily grind, which seems less of a grind after being gone so long. George is curled next to me as I type this, and my suitcase lies still packed on the floor next to me. Back to exploring my own local culture…

On the train

Would it be possible to be a professional people-watcher? I write this on the train from New York City’s Grand Central Station to New Haven, CT and am reminded that people-watching is half the fun of travel. I sit and study the man across the aisle from me. He is a businessman in a fuchsia and yellow striped tie and is eating a bag of Doritos while reading a newspaper. There’s a chewed pen sticking out of his shirt pocket and beads of sweat are on his brow. His shoes are perfectly polished.

The man behind him has his laptop appropriately on his lap and all I can see is his face above the seat as he types. Every now and then he grins at the screen.

Farther down is a white-haired woman whose hair is in two buns behind her ears. She reads through pink glasses and wisps of hair keep falling in her face. Her hand brushes them back repeatedly.

The rest of the train is a sea of foreheads and hairlines sticking above the seat backs. A group of businessmen is having an animated conversation at the far end of the train car, and every now and then a hand flies above the seats to accent a point. The train noise drowns out their words but their foreheads are smiling.

A moment ago the conductor took my ticket and nicely answered my questions. He wore a blue uniform and a sharp blue hat. Does he like his job? He seemed to.

Scenery is passing in a blur: rock walls, a glimpse of tombstones on a hill, air conditioners jutting from apartment windows.

The man by me tilts his Doritos bag and pours the crumbs into his mouth. The white-haired woman turns a page. Am I as mysterious to them as they are to me? I sit with suitcase and water bottle, my red hair the only red in the mass of head tops. I wear sensible traveling shoes and a new ring I bought in Midtown Manhattan and I constantly scribble in a notebook. Do they know I write about them?

A day for all of us

Working on my computer at Starbucks this week with George panting under the table, I overheard an interesting conversation at the table next to me. The portly man sat alone with his coffee by the entrance, talking on his Bluetooth, looking like he was talking to the air. “Yeah, it took me forever but I finally found a Mother’s Day card,” he said, shifting his flip-flop foot onto the chair next to him. “I mean, how can I find a good card for her when two days after Mother’s Day I’ll be telling her I’m divorcing her?” Interested, I tried not to look like I was listening. He continued complaining, adding that he had finally found a card that said a simple “Happy Mother’s Day,” without any extra sentimentality.

I wondered about this mother who in just three days would find out that her life was changing. I wondered how old their kids are and how this divorce would affect them. I hoped that this Mother’s Day would be extra good for her, so she could have one last good day with her family before her world crumbled.

Mother’s Day has become a day I prefer to ignore. My mom passed away nearly ten years ago, making the day an obvious smack-in-the-face of what I no longer have. And since we don’t have children yet after years of frustration, it’s also a day that emphasizes the fact that I am not a mother. I hate it.

I do, however, have one “child.” George. And there is no doubt that I am his mommy. He follows me everywhere, wants attention, cuddles with me, and sometimes is ornery. He has to be fed, disciplined, educated, and loved. At night he lies against me and lets me pick him up like a baby, limp in my arms while he’s sleeping. My doting on him may be annoying, but I don’t care!

The man next to me outside Starbucks still talked on his phone, but after a while his voice softened and got quieter. “I love you,” he said before he ended his call. Aha, I thought. Now I knew why he was going to leave his wife. So for all I knew, maybe the divorce would be a relief to her, after his lying. Even after he’s gone, she’ll still be the Mother. And that’s going to be more important than “Wife” for her family in the long run, isn’t it?

About five years ago my husband gave me a Mother’s Day gift of a large wooden park bench that I had wanted for our front yard. “But I’m not a mother,” I had told him, confused. “It’s a Future-Mother’s Day gift,” he had replied with a smile. That bench still sits outside our house, waiting.

But on this Mother’s Day I will try not to be sad. It can be a day to celebrate great Mothers we’ve lost; it can be a day for the single mothers who are soon to go it alone; it can be a day for Mothers who wait. What the heck – how about Mother Earth, too. Here’s to all of us.