All my travel mugs passed before my eyes

Thought I must be gonna die! It was a seriously bad dream. The mugs were all a-jumble in a cheapo blue storage crate from a Dollar Store.  The oldest wasn't  from the Conoco station at Broadway and W. 15th in Edmond, Oklahoma. There were earlier primitive versions that were supposed to cling to the dashboard before the invention of cupholders. Lots of  blue mugs with advertising logos and leaky lids, the gimmees and freebies. School fundraiser cups with kiddie drawings encased in plastic. Expensive stainless steel ones that got just as moldy as the freebies.

There is the box being lifted down from the shelf, mugs glowing with a mildly radioactive twang. My reading material must be cockleburs in the jammies of my REM sleep. Put all those possessions out there on the front lawn--even the travel mugs. Everything must go.

© 2012 Nancy L. Ruder

Sitting in the Chinese fire drill row

It's so my colors!  Received this Dakine beach/tote bag as a birthday gift from a dear friend to use on my trip to meet Grandbaby O.  I could put everything in it--purse, notebook computer, Kindle, progress reports to be written, snacks, Simon the Genius in My Basement even. When the fellow passenger on the shuttle from Park 'N' Fly going to the terminal realized he'd forgotten his wallet at home, I could give him a sad, commiserating little smile and hug my perfect bag a bit closer.

My wheelie suitcase slid nicely into the overhead bin for row 12, and I settled into the skinny middle E seat.  A pleasant fellow had the aisle seat.  For a long time it seemed the window seat might stay empty.  Ah, wouldn't that be a treat?

The last minute passengers arrived to take the A and B seats across the aisle.  The petite pretty hippie chick sat by that window.  Her boyfriend, a 6'6" blond guy with rasta hair and a black Labrador service dog folded into the B seat.  The dog's head hung over the seat in front, just an inch above the pony-tail of a young Barbie coed. The dreadlocks hung over the seat in back.

Finally boarding is an AARP couple.  The woman wants to wedge a large piece of luggage up into the overhead bin, but is too short to see the bin is already overflowing.  A chorus of frustrated passengers who got up at four a.m. chants, "It won't fit, it won't fit, it won't..."  She squeezes into the middle E seat in the row in front of me after taking her carry-on to the back of the plane. Then she pantomimes instructions for her spouse to sit in the window F seat next to me.  His hearing aid isn't working.  The pleasant man and I exit row 12 so the elderly fellow can enter the row.

Two flight attendants have arrived to arrange a move for the rasta and his dog.  No, he's fine.

"Well, I've never seen the airline seat a service dog in this row."

No, he's fine.

"The service dog cannot sit in the aisle."

No, he's fine.

"The service dog will block the beverage cart."

No, he's fine.  The dog will sit on the rasta master's lap.

"No, I've NEVER seen the airline seat a service dog in this row."

The pony-tail is rolling her eyes.  The AARP man is searching for his seatbelt.

A trade is arranged so the rasta and his dog can sit in the bulkhead aisle, but he won't go without the hippie chick.  Another trade is arranged.

Meanwhile, the AARP man is waving the head end of his seatbelt in the air like a snake-charmer's puppet show, but cannot locate the tail end.  The flight attendants want the AARP man to move across the aisle to the seat vacated by the rasta dog since the plane has pushed away from the terminal.  That means the pleasant man and I will have to get out for AARP man to exit.  He stands up, and I reach under his butt to fish the tail end of the seatbelt from beside his seat.  Why, just lookie here!  We can strap you in now, sir!

"This must be the Chinese fire drill row," says one attendant, with a barely perceptible strain to her smile.

The first beverages are served without rolling over the service dog.  The AARP man is proud that his wife found this better flight to speed them toward Boise, you know where the football field is blue, where their daughter is expecting twins, but they may have an eight-hour layover in Portland.  This is an improvement?  PDX is a nice airport, but I wouldn't want to camp there.

After my nap things are surreal and groggy.  The AARP man's wife pantomimes emphatically that he should get out and walk in the aisle so he won't be stiff.  Swell.  The pleasant man and I exit the row so he can go on a march.  The flight attendants take our beverage orders.  This time the pleasant man and I both ask for coffee,  fresh, steaming coffee.  No sooner are the cups on our tray tables than AARP man wants back in.  We put our tray tables up, and pleasant man steps up.  I burn my tongue on the coffee and spill on my fabulous new tote bag.  My shoulder tremor is acting up.  I stand up and bump my head on the overhead bin, spilling coffee all over me.  Fresh, steaming, black coffee, but at least I'm going to Portland where coffee is major and attire is minor.

AARP man is back in his seat waving his seatbelt puppet.  He is reaching down beside his seat against the window wall for the other end.  He comes up with a very scraped wrist bleeding profusely onto his shirt cuff, and still no seat belt.  His wife freaks and pushes her aisle neighbor out of the way to go running down the aisle for assistance.  I push the Call button.  The flight attendants come.  One goes to get the first aid kit.  She returns with iodine wipes, and warns AARP man that the iodine stains.  We get the wipe package torn open and the wound cleaned with AARP's wife supervising from the next row.  The wipe goes into my coffee cup along with two bandaid wrappers.  I buckle AARP man into his seat and tell him to run cold water on his cuff before it goes into the washing machine.

Swaddling and bouncing a fussy Grandbaby O is going to be a piece of cake by comparison to the flight.  And, true, "Chinese fire drill" wasn't the most P.C. thing for a flight attendant to say.  Maybe Keystone Kops would have been better.





© 2012 Nancy L. Ruder

Amendments regarding bubble printmaking

Bubble therapy participation should be limited to folks of any age who know the difference between blowing into a straw and drinking from a straw:

1. The same kid who regularly gets his head stuck in the sleeve of his art shirt went home from school with a
2. Blue tongue today because he didn't get the memo about how to use a drinking straw.
3. The art teacher tried to pinch his straw before the soap/paint mix got in his mouth, but her reflexes are slow.
4. Much as it is a bad manner, it is a very successful practice for this skill if your child blows the wrapper off the drinking straw everytime you go to McDonalds.
5. And then you can make a straw wrapper snake.
6. As a Learning Experience/Opportunity For Growth, getting a mouthful of soapy paint will quickly convince you not to do that again!

Bubble therapy should be closely monitored for folks of any age who can't tell if their straw is submerged in the soapy paint:

1. If you can't hold the straw down into the soapy paint in the hummus container you will get blue freckles.  Are you a blueberry muffin?
2. Make sure you aren't going to lose your damage deposit by accidentally redecorating the walls of your apartment!
3. Dad has redecorated several walls using his electric toothbrush.  In the move we lost his rechargeable toothbrush.  This is just as well.  Dad would turn it on at arm's length and spray minty fresh Colgate 360 degrees.

Coffee therapy is a highlight in Dad's life.  He only gets to drink coffee if I bring him a cup.  After his bad burn from spilled scalding hot coffee last fall his caregivers won't take that risk:

1. Dad's tremor makes it difficult to reach out and grasp the styrofoam cup, or to set it back on his wheely tray table.
2. Dad becomes a crazed addict whenever he gets a whiff of java.
3. Grabbing your coffee cup and trying to sip the hot liquid while lying flat on your back during a Depends change = BAD.

Basic checklist:

1. Sit up for coffee
2. Blow out for soap
3. Practice "opposites" work
4. In/out, hot/cold, sit/recline

© 2011 Nancy L. Ruder

Headless Sherman and extra-inning Reds

My Ohio roadtrip highlights reel includes a child jumping out of a car wearing her softball uniform. She was hurrying into Pickerington, Ohio's own Planet Coffee with her dad. I was stunned by her fabulous candy cane/barber pole knee socks. I was so envious!

Neither the Cincinnati Reds nor the Chicago Cubs had such awesome socks. I loved watching boats and barges on the river beyond the stadium as our game went into extra innings.

Planet Coffee has another claim to fame. A statue of General William Tecumseh Sherman stands near the coffee shop patio in this strip mall. Sherman is missing his head. The statue is nonequestrian. Why is it there?

I've got to give Ohio credit. It sure provokes a lot of Googling for trivia answers. Turns out the real General Sherman was born not far from Pickerington in Lancaster, Ohio. Maybe coffee shops in Lincoln, Nebraska should have headless statues of General John J. Pershing or perennial presidential candidate, William Jennings Bryan.

Back home in North Texas we've had odd rainbow sherbet skies in the evenings. Three dips--lemon, orange, and lime, but no waffle cones. It takes many days to reset myself after a roadtrip. The questions raised on a good trip keep me searching for many stay-at-home months.


© 2009 Nancy L. Ruder

If you brew it, they will come

Dateline: Iowa--This could be the best Halloween story of the year. The economy, presidential campaign, and natural disasters have given us so many terrors that we've reached catastrophe overload. We are desensitized, and feeling pretty helpless to make a difference.

Enter the field of screams from stage right. Can't you see Mrs. Olson with those Folgers' fangs? I vont to dwink your coffee and hang upside down all night until my brains are cooked. [Not that this resembles any college student sons.]

Each morning I drink several mugfuls of coffee, then add my used filter full of grounds to the worm bin. I'm not all that awake, and I've never checked for boiled bat brains in the filter.

Cedar Rapids, Iowa used to seem like the safest place on earth. Powdered non-dairy creamer seemed like one of life's most frightening aspects.

Sending my best wishes to this unfortunate woman who had to endure rabies shots. I hope she got to watch one of Kevin Costner's better movies in the treatment room.

CEDAR RAPIDS, Iowa (AP) _ It wasn't just the caffeine that gave an Iowa woman an extra jolt after she had her morning coffee. It was also the bat she found in the filter.
The Iowa Department of Public Health says the woman reported a bat in her house but wasn't too worried about it. She turned on her automatic coffee maker before bedtime and drank her coffee the next morning.

She discovered the bat in the filter when she went to clean it that night. The woman has undergone treatment for possible rabies.

Health officials say that the bat was sent to a lab but that its brain was too cooked by the hot water to determine whether it had rabies.

© 2008 Nancy L. Ruder

No Worms Left Behind

I'd almost forgotten about the Maxwell House Home For Wayward Worms in the coffee can on the bathroom counter. It's been a rough week for me, but how have my twenty-four intrepid volunteer vermicolonists fared?

Dumped the contents of the miniature bin out onto a tray to take vermiattendance. Of the two dozen original worms, I accounted for twenty-three. Found a few worm cocoons, too, so some worms have been staying out past curfew!

© 2008 Nancy L. Ruder

24 Worm Bin Salute

This is an update on the coffee-container miniature worm bin started on June third. The twenty-four brave worm volunteers entered their habitat just two weeks ago. They've received four coffee filters with coffee grounds, a few grapes and strawberries, and a blender puree of tough asparagus ends. Then they were completely forgotten for a week.

You know what can happen when the office administrator takes a week off. The copy machine starts pleating every document, before sending it into Toner Netherland (Retrieve Misfeed From Sector 8! Retrieve Misfeed From Sector 8!). The scanner and fax start imitating the copier. The phone system gets in cahoots with the security system to send false alarms to the Fire Department.

So, it seemed wise to check back with the worms. What a bunch of Dilberts! I dumped the contents of the Maxworm House can into a tub, and did a quick roll call. Twenty-two worms showed up. They were anxious to get back to their cubicles once they learned the meeting room lacked a tray of donuts, but seemed otherwise healthy. Maybe they still have employer-sponsored health insurance and a 401(k).

Dumped back in, I have to wonder about the two missing worms. Were they out on the loading dock for a smoke break? Didn't they get the memo? Were they hanging out in the handle of the plastic coffee container? Were they tweaking their resumes? Were they no longer employed at this location?? Yikes! What if they are disgruntled?

Checked the Word Detective to learn about the phrase "in cahoots":

... As a synonym for "conspiring with" or "collaborating with," "in cahoots" carries a loose, folksy tone that nicely softens what might otherwise be regarded as paranoia..."Cahoots" is a classic early 19th century American coinage, largely unknown outside the U.S. The origin of "cahoots" is a bit uncertain, but it can be narrowed down to two possible roots, both French words. The American scholar John Bartlett, of "Bartlett's Quotations" fame, felt certain that "cahoot" came from the French "cohorte," meaning "company or band." The Oxford English Dictionary, on the other hand, theorizes that it came from the French "cahute," meaning "cabin," reasoning that to "be in cahoots with" was to be as close as two people sharing a small cabin.

Not surprising that twenty-four worms sharing a small coffee container might experience a loose, if organic, paranoia. Hey, dudes, mellow out. No more coffee grounds for you.

© 2008 Nancy L. Ruder