The Great Escape to Starbucks: Part 5

Taylor and Me Spring 2006

Taylor and Me Spring 2006


Playing Author- at -Starbucks would jumpstart my writing career! Not to mention it would prevent me from “going Edna.”  Unlike the mom in The Awakening, I wouldn’t walk into the sea (or worse, jump off the dam at Percy Priest Lake.) To be less dramatic… if I gave writing my best shot, I’d at least avoid sinking in the proverbial pool of regret.
So it was settled.  Wednesday mornings during June and July I’d write at the Belle Meade Starbucks.  By immigrating to that side of town, I hoped the natives’ charmed lives would rub off on me.  Some say getting published is a crap shoot.  I wanted to increase my odds.  All this and I’d be back home before my teenagers rolled out of bed!
That first Wednesday of Summer ’06, I gave my kids and pets the slip.  Coasting out of the driveway, I was hopeful.  I felt like a real writer at last.  I would enjoy the thirty- minute drive, listening to NPR without Cole trying to crank up 107.5 The River. But before I was out of the subdivision, I heard rumblings in the back seat.  Relentless as ever, my very own A Team– my entourage of Angst– had camped out in the car. Like the imaginary companions that followed the Russell Crowe character in A Beautiful Mind, they started their usual banter:
“Sooooo Miss WannaBe, you really think you can write something that hasn’t been said before?  Something funny, smart, and… this is really rich…helpful.  Your life is just so happy now, isn’t it?  You who swing from spiritually hopeful to dazed and confused.  You who say you love your life one minute, then wail, “I’m destined to be alone forever!” the next.  I mean, come on…you are, after all, a little out there.  Dreaming of moving your kids to the Cotswolds…then to Ireland…then to Italy?
And what happened to your Martha Stewart phase?  The English teas on your front lawn?  Reading your kids bedtime stories with a British accent as if you’re still doing Noel Coward plays?    Dressing them in velvet capes and knickers so the Christmas cards would look like the perfect little family?   What kind of mom leaves her kids in bed to run off to Starbucks?  And what’s up with Belle Meade?  Think you’re too good for your Donelson ranch, hey?  Remember the Green Hills guy who said he’d pick you up for a date, then laughed: ‘Now where exactly is Egypt…I mean Donelson?’ They won’t even let you drive down West End if they check out your bank account. Stop pretending …”
“Yeah, well I’ve had enough of your crap!” I snapped.  Stuffing them in the glove box, I drove on. Though they had bullied me since elementary school back in Kentucky, even they couldn’t ruin my morning.
The sun was shining and I was wearing something Starbuckish—a white eyelet skirt—a must- have for the season—a Lauren tank, and flip flops topped with grosgrain bows.  I was toting my new vintage straw purse.  I was driving my new car— sporting new tires.  Things couldn’t be better.
That is …until I turned off of West End into the shopping center parking lot, cut the wheel too close, and ran up on the curb to the horror of Starbuckers who were reading The Tennessean at the outside tables.  I prayed I hadn’t burst my new tires already.  Not sure if I should apologize to the onlookers for the scare or depend on their goodwill that no harm was done, I hid behind my Jackie O glasses and sprinted by them.
Once inside, I was relieved to learn that no one could have heard my wheels squealing as I took the curb– not over the voice of Sinatra crooning in surround sound.  He was smooth, sexy…LOUD.  Despite my habit of denial—especially when I plan something, am on a mission, and refuse to be denied– I may have conceded to myself that writing amidst all the noise would be daunting.  But rather than face this fact, I had to deal with a bigger dilemma.  Only two tables were vacant and the line was long ahead of me.  Should I save one of them with my laptop considering it wasn’t mine and I couldn’t afford to have it stolen?  Especially since technically, I had hijacked it already?  Maybe better to hope the people ahead of me were grabbing their coffee on the run.
Better keep the laptop with me.  But then again, everyone there seemed so sure of the protocol… and of themselves.  They ordered quickly, efficiently—no holding up the line by hunching over the counter, fumbling for money while a laptop swung off one shoulder and a purse swung off the other.  Not to mention that even after I got my order I’d have to add half-and-half, then sweet-and-low to my coffee—possibly creating another clumsy scene with a bulky computer in tow.
To lay it down or not to lay it down—that was the question.  Did I mention that one of my favorite books is The Hamlet Syndrome: Overthinkers who Underachieve?  My mind was stuck spinning—like the wheel that spins on the computer when a new screen is loading, making you wonder if you should wait a minute longer or reboot and cut your losses.
But if my mind was bogging down, my feet were boogying.  I got into line, then walked out of line, then took two steps back toward the line, then balked– causing the guy behind me to bump into my back.  (Obviously he never learned the Driver’s Ed rule about the hazards of tailing someone too closely.)  Though annoyed, I swung around quickly to apologize for cutting him off.  Forgetting that my laptop extended almost a foot past my shoulder, I almost took out the guy’s Grande at the table beside me.
Enough already.  I had to lay down my burden.  (Mind you, Dells of yesteryear were not exactly lightweight.)  And this was Belle Meade for goodness sake.  Why would anyone there need to steal a laptop?  Lucky for me, right beside the guy with the salvaged Grande was a vacant table.  I wasn’t crazy about sitting so close to the counter and all, especially since I could only get to Starbucks once a week and I wanted a perfect experience, but it looked really roomy.   I hung the laptop on the chair, waited in line, and stepped up to the counter: “I’d like your largest coffee with a shot of chocolate, please.”
While the young, hip guy (probably a doctoral candidate named Rufus) taking my order  didn’t correct me, he edited my request as he shouted it to the girl behind the espresso machine:  “A Venti with a shot of mocha.”   Making a note to self to avoid future faux pas and learn the lingo, I grabbed my coffee and cinnamon scone and skulked toward my seat.  Though I shot an apologetic smile to the guy whose Café Americana I had almost capsized earlier, he frowned, then looked down through his bifocals at his USA Today. I needed to get to work anyway.
When I reached my chair, my face reddened again.  On the left corner of the table there was a handicapped sticker.  I knew it looked extra wide (the table, not the sticker which was the size of a post-a-note), but who knew back in ’06 that coffee shops allowed extra space for wheelchairs?  I thought that was just a bathroom thing.  Oh well, that settled it.  I moved to the table near the window.  I love the sunshine anyway.  Upon attracting the stares of people who wondered why I’d trade one handicapped table for another one, I reached the second table to see the same exasperating sign on it.  I decided with no other tables available, I’d just have to use it anyway.  Hadn’t two women been sitting there—both perfectly mobile—when I first came in?  And wouldn’t the same unspoken rule apply here that says it’s ok to use a handicap stall in the absence of a handicapped person?   I sat down, unpacked my laptop, and started her up, ready to begin this very piece and my virgin voyage of writing that summer.
I typed two paragraphs.  Then I was flashed a warning I’d never seen: “Save all work before losing.”  Apparently my battery was going down.  I found the electrical cord the computer guy from work had showed me how to use but realized I had zoned out during his demonstration.  Frankly, it didn’t register I’d ever need to plug it up.  When I saw people working on laptops, they were always unplugged.  Like songwriters on Austin City Limits, isn’t unplugged the best way to perform anyway?  Not once did Carrie Bradshaw use an electrical outlet.  How could her long legs in hot pants encircle her laptop as she wrote on her bed if there had been a cord to negotiate?  Reality had struck  again.
I  plugged up and rebooted.  Then I noticed the sun was now coming into the window so brightly that I couldn’t read the screen.  I needed to move again—back to the only table left—the other handicapped one.  Again, I attracted scrutiny.  Even though I thought I had locked my insecurities in the car, somehow they were there waving at me from the table by the window I’d just vacated. Making sure that I felt like such an imposter…
The girl who sat at home watching Brady Bunch while all the popular kids were at the first big party in 8th grade.
The girl who paid her sorority dues by eating mac and cheese or sausage and biscuits every night in the dorm because she knew how hard her mom worked to send her money for college.
The girl who took her young kids to the Renaissance Fair to teach them how to shoot bows and arrows.  She had learned the skill and joined the college archery team—all to please her dad who had no sons to take hunting.  Maybe her dad couldn’t teach her kids archery because he died when they were babies—and maybe it would have been nice if their dad had been around more to teach them such skills.  But surely she could do this. As a teenager, she had practiced on a target in her backyard. Because she was double jointed, the string would pop the inside of her left arm which steadied the bow every time she’d pull back and release, but she’d keep at it until her arm bled.   Finally it would all be worth it when she impressed her kids by hitting a bull’s eye and then helped them do the same.  Apparently shooting a bow wasn’t like riding a bike. She had forgotten how to hold the arrow tightly against the bow.  Unable to get even one shot off, she grabbed the kids and headed for the car, ashamed and angry with herself.
The girl who forgot to show her daughter how to put the car lights on high beam the day of her driving test.  Though Taylor passed anyway, she said she knew she should have brought her dad with her instead.  And the girl knew it, too.
The girl who was so busy talking in the stands at her son’s middle school football game that she mistook a boy on the opposing team for Cole.  Forgetting the home team wasn’t wearing white and only seeing a boy wearing her son’s #20, she thought it surreal that her son had intercepted the ball and was dashing through the defensive line as they dove at him but missed.  For a confused moment, she thought, like Willie Loman, that her Biff’s time had finally come.  Though she lunged forward, thank God she caught herself before screaming his name.  As everyone around her asked why she looked so shaken, she realized her mistake and played it off:  “I just wanted one of our players to stop that #20.”She wasn’t about to admit she was inwardly screaming wildly for the wrong boy on the wrong side.
She already felt stupid enough for asking the coach at the start of the season where she should buy pads and the rest of the “outfit.”  Even worse, she had later slipped and, flashing back to her own ballet and tap days, had referred to his uniform as a “costume.” When it came to sports and “men things,” she’d always felt inept–knowing as much about tying a necktie as she did about buying a jock strap.
She’d had a 4.0 as an English major and held a Masters degree.  She’d been Head of the Department for over twenty years, taught college courses, and was a reader for the national Advanced Placement English Literature Exam  She had led school groups and traveled to a dozen countries numerous times.  She stayed in touch with friends and former students scattered all over the US and abroad.  She had raised her kids with the exceptions of every other weekend and Tuesday nights since they were two and five.  She and her sister had been the executors of her dad’s and grandmother’s estates.  They had planned their dad’s funeral, and while still in shock, each gave a speech about what he had meant to them.  But despite all of this,  when friends teased her with blond jokes, she sometimes took them seriously.  Because while she always seemed to give others slack, she spent so many years trying to be perfect.  The girl who even at four or five couldn’t wait to be grown up— because grownups were in control.  They weren’t blind-sighted.  They were in charge of their lives.  They didn’t have to depend on anybody.
But for all her trying to be grown up, to “arrive,” to have it all together and live happily ever after, she could never completely shake feeling like a little girl inside.  She might go months or even a year or two thinking she’d outgrown that powerless child and she’d outrun those childhood bullies, but sooner or later they always showed up.  That girl had always shown up.
From Magical Thinking to Wretched Retreating
No matter how hard I had always tried, sooner or later a single embarrassing moment could send me into the corner, feeling that’s exactly where I belonged.  The slightest mistake could inflate and then translate into a life of failure.  Who was I to think I had anything to offer?  I was an impostor on so many levels.  It was 2006 and again, in that moment in Starbucks, the A Team reminded me I wasn’t  good enough.  I’d never been pretty enough.  I’d never felt loved enough. At least not for long.
The monster I had always feared and hated most was the feeling of rejection. I’d always wanted the inner security and outer radiance of a woman who is loved.  Not just desired, but cherished somewhere by one man.   For ten years I’d tried dating services, set-ups by friends, even eharmony, but I couldn’t make myself attracted to someone I didn’t find attractive—even if he was a nice guy.  Nor could I make someone I was attracted to be attracted to me—at least not for the long haul.  In school I had studied hard, made good grades, and got a job.  I had set goals and reached them.  But getting the right guy wasn’t the same as getting the right job.  I realized I couldn’t control when– or if– I’d find The One.  Thus I started heeding the advice of those who claim that just when a person stops looking, her prince arrives.  The advice that says God will provide what—or in this case, whom—we need just when we need him.  The advice that says rather than sitting around waiting, I should use the time to work on developing the very qualities in myself that I desired in a mate.
So focusing on personal growth, I’d tried new things– traveling with total strangers, learning a new language, discovering a latent talent.  I found I could paint and entered an art show.  I learned I love ballroom dancing and “muddin’” (4-wheeling in the rain).  I tailgated at Titans’ football games and joined the Nashville Film Circle.  Some of my closest friends became people who seemed at first so different from me–like a group of guys and girls who were coaches at my school.  We spent four summer vacations in Florida together—them reading Friday Night Lights, me reading An Italian Education.   I was the world’s oldest bridesmaid in two weddings of twentysomething friends, where I danced all night long at both receptions—not to mention their bachelorette parties.  I sang bad karaoke when my sister and friends surprised me with a limo on my fortieth birthday.
And I hired a limo for my daughter and her friends when she turned twelve.  And I took her to Europe and back when she was sixteen–introducing her to beloved Italian friends–showing her the world from the top of the Eiffel Tower to the peaks of the Italian Alps.   I stretched us both in new ways, and I carried on with familiar traditions. I continued hosting Thanksgiving, Christmas, and Easter dinners.  I settled into the life of being a single parent—a rare breed at the conservative Christian school where I taught.  Some days I thanked God for all the good stuff in my life.  Other days I felt despair over the bad.
I looked around at the Starbucks crowd.  Half-serious, I had called them “my people.”  I was as educated as they were.  For years I’d driven to their side of town for restaurants and movies my side of town couldn’t offer.  In fact,  I’d laughingly shot back at those who gave me a hard time about driving across town:   “Money might determine where I live.   It might determine where I teach.  It might determine where my kids go to school.  But it WILL NOT determine where I drink my coffee.” But that first Wednesday, it felt as if it did.
(to be continued in Part 6, the final chapter…Starbucks in Reality)
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Imposter (Pt 4): I’ll Take One Muse Please

Volvo in remission--sighted at J. Alexander's in Bellmeade, 2007

Volvo in remission--sighted at J. Alexander's in Bellmeade, 2007


I’d found the key to my success.  For years I had read books there,  graded papers there, even people –watched, hoping to meet Mr. Right there. Many a weekend when my children were with their dad, I had treated myself for an hour or two at Starbucks, sinking into a deep purple velvet chair and sipping on a White Chocolate Mocha.   I’d peruse (ok, cruise) men who were deep in thought, clicking away on their laptops, wondering if one of them could be a cool, intelligent author at work.  Yet ironically, I had never written there!
Come to think of it, once in Starbucks I thought I’d been given a definite sign that my first book would be published.  I had given the book proposal to the VP of a major publishing house.  He was going to look it over and pass it on to one of his chief editors.   Imagine my delight when I looked up from grading papers to see Jonathan the VP smiling at me.   He introduced me to the man with him, one of the very editors who would critique my book!  They were there to discuss a book deal with a writer—a single mom with a sense of humor—kind of like me.  Jonathan had given me a copy of her first book, and I had liked it.
As one who constantly jumps the gun at figuring out when and how God answers my prayers and as one who has taught literature for much too long, I see signs—foreshadowing– everywhere.  Surely seeing this woman who had signed with “my” publisher was a sign.  Surely this meant my book would be published as well. My selective memory forgot all the “signs” I had already misread.  How many times had I announced to friends I was sure I’d found “The One” only to have them ask, “Again?”
One of “The Ones” was my doctor at Vanderbilt.  Before the days of Travis Stork of The Bachelor fame, I hoped my GP would give me a rose.  Handsome, smart, and most of all, caring, I actually looked forward to seeing him, regardless of whatever physical affliction brought me to his office.  He would always take my hands in his, look at me through dark brown eyes, and ask me how I was really doing.  Aware of my constant depression and angst, he always gave me hope—not only of my being “cured” of my melancholy personality one day but also of his being the cure himself.  I even had a sign confirming he would eventually ask me out.  I saw him in the very place (actually one of many places) I think I may find my prince—the bookstore.  While Davis Kidd—the bookstore of Green Hills steeped in tradition and associated with old money—was another of my favorite haunts in those days, seeing him in our Book World, a Barnes and Noble clone not far from my home in Donelson, seemed to be too good to be true.  He was big city Barnes and Noble material—hipper and more egalitarian than Davis Kidd—and he was smiling at me. While the conversation lasted all of five minutes, I took it as a sure sign of our future union.  This delusion continued through a tetanus shot, poison ivy, and strep throat caught from my kids, until the visit where he walked in wearing… a wedding ring.  I left his office and took five flights of steps rather than the elevator so no one would see me crying.
I realized after seeing the writer with her/my publisher and editor in Starbucks but later seeing no book contract of my own, that I must have misread yet another sign. Maybe all roads didn’t lead to Starbucks, but then again…maybe it wasn’t about the plot I saw unfolding that day—a writer discussing a contract—that mattered.  Maybe it was the setting that made the difference.  At Starbucks, something special must be in the air.  The joke has always been that fertility is linked to something in the water. Wouldn’t it then follow that if books are brain-children of their authors, maybe there’s something special in Starbucks’ not-so-average-joe?
Having lived in Nashville the past twenty years, one thing was for sure.  Any book of mine would have to be conceived and born in either the Green Hills or Bell Meade stores. I don’t mean to be a snob or to act ugly.  But for the whole thing to work, it can’t be just any Starbucks.  It must be the real deal—certainly not the only one at that time close to my home in Hermitage.   (I didn’t have the heart to tell my students that I was not impressed when they brought Starbucks cups to class.  I knew they most likely got their Machiatto by way of the drive-through, a red flag that our local store was a sham.   The whole purpose of a real Starbucks is to enjoy the inside ambiance—the big- city- feel one is really paying for.  If all one wants is the name brand coffee, he can get that at Target.  But even for those who ordered inside that first Starbucks in Hermitage, the vibe wasn’t cool.  What could one expect?  That Starbucks was book ended by Andrew Jackson’s birthplace and Hooters– two shrines to good ole boys—the boys I would gladly drive across town to escape.)
To write on the cool side of town I’d need a laptop, an appropriate car, and an alibi.  And just recently, I had cleared the first two hurdles.  I had a laptop, even if I got it in an unconventional way. Still unable to afford one (the first thing I had planned to buy with my first book’s advance), our Tech Guy loaned me a Dell Pentium.  While his condition was that I take it to a school-related conference and then return it to him promptly, I decided to kidnap it for the summer.  Possession is 9/10s of the law as they say, so if he wanted it back before school started, he’d have to come and get it.    I told myself that as a Chuck Norris fan, he’d enjoy the challenge, and as an old friend with a big sense of humor, Mike would forgive me in the end.  That cleared my conscience.  I would not write this book as I had my first—deprived of summer sun and banished to my desktop in the basement. (It’s a wonder I hadn’t developed scurvy from Vitamin C deprivation.)   I felt like Prometheus UnBound—no longer fettered thanks to my wireless router—unleashed to follow my dream at Starbucks.  But I wouldn’t have to make a run for it. God had also provided new wheels.
Although my Volvo station wagon was really the perfect vehicle for venturing across town and across the tracks, my children had never been impressed.  They had been brainwashed into thinking the Suburbans, Yukons and Escalades on our school parking lot were the true status symbols.  When I tried to explain the superiority of old money to new money and that while we had no money, Volvos are the car of choice in Green Hills and Bell Meade, the fact that our car was a 1990 model even began to bother me despite my calling it “vintage” and “classic.”  It became a moot point anyway when we received the sad diagnosis that the Volvo had a fatal illness and had to be confined to the garage. Thankfully a friend offered her 1990 Honda until I could afford another car.  I was grateful for the loan, but because the car’s paint job had worn off down to the primer, I worried that I looked too much like a dealer to wheel up and order a latte.  So for six months I had taken a total hiatus from Starbucks. But the Summer of 2006 was going to be different.  While I still couldn’t afford a BMW, a Lexus, or a newer Volvo, I had bought a Nissan Xterra at auction.  Though I wasn’t crazy about the word “Xterra” on each side and it was an older model, it was affordable, sporty, and had been named the “Car of the Year.”  It wasn’t new, but it was new to me.
Clearly I now had the tools of the trade.  I had a laptop and a SUV—both making me Green Hills ready.  But there was still the biggest roadblock of all barring me from setting up shop in a better zip code.  Could I really just go sashaying around Starbucks leaving the kids HOME ALONE?  I’d seen the movie and abandoning them to write seemed selfish…and dangerous considering my son, Cole McCain, and Macaulay Culkin have much more in common than alliterative names.  And to be honest, before I could justify leaving home to write, I had to deal with my Mom Guilt over writing during the summer at all.
I had always considered summer sacred—a time to make up for being a working mom. Being home with my kids in the summer allowed me more time to show–not just tell— them they are my top priority.  As a teacher’s kids, they see me give the first fruits of my patience and energy everyday to my students ten months a year, leaving me dragging by the time my second shift started with them after school.
In the summer my kids and I could catch up on movies—not just the Blockbusters in theaters like Pirates of the Caribbean, but the classics at home.   My daughter and I popped Raisinettes and munched popcorn while watching Fried Green Tomatoes and The Breakfast Club.  My son and I watched Jaws I, II, III, and IV very time they were on, as well as King Kong and Godzilla. While we never felt all that sorry for the giant fish or lizard, we were always outraged and sad when Our Boy Kong had to defend himself against the National Guard from the top of the Empire State Building.  It must be a mammal thing.
Quality and quantity time with the kids in the summer paid off in more than knowing The Best of Will Ferrell and every episode of King of the Hill by heart.  Cole and I could play Nintendo, and Taylor and I could take off for the mall in broad daylight.  We could all eat at Cheesecake Factory on a weekday afternoon when there wasn’t a wait.
But in those days summer seemed to be the only time to launch a writing career—Lord knows there was no time during the school year—what with so many papers to grade; a prom and 20s/Victorian/ Career Days to plan,; ACT workshops to teach, not to mention my own kids’ activities which had included band, drama, chorus, football, cheerleading, wrestling, and soccer.  The first time a fresh crop of students turned in essays and expected them back the next day graded, I set them straight fast: “Sorry, my Super Teacher cape is at the cleaners.  No can do.”   During the school year, I do good to dig out the pets from beneath the debris of books, backpacks, field trip permission forms, sports gear, and dirty clothes.
So in an effort to appease my Mom Guilt, I decided to write my second book at home. The Starbucks thing would just have to wait—at least until the kids were away at college.  I became the reclusive Johnny Depp character from Secret Window who, in an effort to write his book, stayed in his house day and night in his pajamas and a robe.  While this seclusion saved on the wardrobe budget,  I just wish Stephen King had warned viewers not to try this at home. Then again, I guess he kind of did when the character went insane from all the solitude. My problem was I almost went mad for lack of it.
Granted, I now had a laptop and wouldn’t have to compete with MySpace for “my space.” But in a moment of Déjà vu, I recalled measures taken the first time around to insure the kids slept as long as possible.   I would do anything to postpone Taylor’s blaring James Blunt from her iTunes and Cole’s cranking up cartoons from the kitchen bar.  My day started with paranoia as I tiptoed through the house, hating even to flush the toilet.  I cringed at the clinking of my coffee spoon or the clanking of my garbage can lid, terrified I would wake them. A crisis situation arose on any day I discovered Cole had taken a portable phone to bed with him the night before.  I had to retrieve it fast– before telemarketers called and set into motion my maternal duties.  This maneuver took the agility of cowboys in old Westerns who had to avoid stepping on dry twigs that would alert the Indians.  To approach his bed head on, I had to brave land mines of Legos, video games, DVDs, and Nintendo magazines which covered my son’s floor.  Sometimes I chose instead a back door approach.  With the sophisticated stealth of Tom Cruise in Mission Impossible, I entered his room from the kitchen door and climbed up the back of his bed to the top bunk.   That way I could hang upside down and slip the phone from his hand.
The neighborhood kids had also upped their game.  Writing at the dining room table meant I could meet them at the front door before they had a chance to knock.  So on mornings I forgot to silence the phones, they resorted to prank calling.  Sometimes the anonymous voice that asked for cookies sounded like  Saturday Night Live’s Land Shark; others it sounded like South Park’s Kenny.  Once they rescued their comrade from behind enemy lines, Cindy the Writer was body-snatched by Cindy the Mom.
It’s funny how teens revert to the feeding schedule of infants.  Every two or three hours they expected to be fed.  But unlike babies, teens don’t nap—at least my two didn’t at 13 and 16. Keeping them full and busy was not easy.  Just about the time I’d write two or three paragraphs, the voice of the little girl in Poltergeist would say in my head:  “They’re B-A-C-K.”  My son, already bored, would want to move the troops inside. Explaining I couldn’t deal with the noise, I’d send him with his friends to the garage, telling them they should fix it up into a cool clubhouse.  When that soon became old, they’d sneak into the basement and play Nintendo, watch Comedy Central, or check out Taylor’s MySpace.  Then she’d scream and they’d laugh.  Whether moving out or in, in or out, they always left the door open behind them.  When I had enough of killing flies and steering them away from The Chappelle Show, I’d send them to Cole’s PlayStation, hooked up under our second story deck by a web of extension cords.  Or I’d tell them to go ride their bikes. When really frustrated with all the interruptions, I’d want to tell them all to go climb a tree, but I never did—mostly because the previous summer my son climbed a tree, fell, and spent six weeks in a cast.
But even if I got my chief ducks, the kids, in a row– even if my son wasn’t trying to be funny (like when I’d ask what he was doing and he’d call back, “Jumping on the trampoline with carrots up my nose”)–or even if my daughter wasn’t trying to be social (like when she’d ask to go swimming with friends and borrow the car),  my other ducks would break rank and begin taking flight.  It’s a little known fact that golden retrievers hack up hairballs just like cats do.  With a golden and a Persian, I was often interrupted with janitorial tasks—not to mention the times my dog would sneak meat from the neighbor’s garbage despite the fact it makes her sick… every time.
After fighting the good fight to stay home and write, I heard again the Sirens’ call of Starbucks.   Surely Starbucks was the answer.  Although Taylor could drive, she didn’t have a car yet. My kids and pets couldn’t find me there.   But memories of disasters that had happened while I was home with the kids became pop-ups on my mental screen.  The time as a two-year-old my son went seeking toilet paper after he pooped and found it– my white living room curtains.  Or the time as a three-year-old my daughter walked across freshly painted kitchen cabinet doors that had been laid flat to dry in the sun.  Ok, so they were no longer toddlers and Taylor could keep an eye on Cole.  But who would keep an eye on her?  Though normally quite level -headed, she had covered that same head with Clairol’s Midnight Black #36, leaving her hair the color and texture of a Halloween witch’s wig.  I loved The Addams Family as a kid, but I didn’t want my daughter passing for Morticia.  Not really into the Goth thing, she was as upset as I was.    Maybe, on second thought, I was right in thinking I couldn’t spend the summer in Starbucks.
But then again, couldn’t there be a compromise? Maybe Starbucks could act as my muse—my inspiration.  If I could write there just one day a week, I could get a shot of creativity strong enough to keep me going for the next seven days…
(to be continued in Part 5: The Great Escape)
Cole's waterproof cast

Cole's waterproof cast