Potato chips & unicorns, not gunshots

On a whim I took the kids to a Collective on Monroe. They love the baked oatmeal and the gluten free sandwiches, plus we were really low on groceries and hubby was working. We hadn’t been in a while and it just felt like the right thing to do. Super in the flow. It was unexpectedly crowded for a Saturday at 5:30pm; the sunny, spacious room with the high vaulted glass ceilings and walls made out of chic glass garage doors that all open air to flow in warmer weather was completely full; there was only one unoccupied seat: one of the big cushion chairs by the gas fire place, and no tables at all. I joked we could all squish on the pale upholstered chair, but in reality I knew it wasn’t going to work. So we headed to the backroom, which has darker lighting and an overall less social feel. It's populated with wooden rectangular tables crammed together like desks in a class room for college students and workhololics, executive coffee meetings and freelance writers who carve their wordy craft along side a latte, a dark roast or maybe a pour over light roast from Peru. With it being a Saturday, more of the congregants seemed to be gathered socially, although the joy factor appeared muted, as though everyone ran low on vitamin day, with an overdose on the news. Various congregations of people and individual humans to match the tables; some talked, some gazed at screens. Most held to-go cups, even while drinking in. In spite of or all the serious,  strained faces, my barista was sweet and super nice and he laughed wonderfully when he told me he’d have to charge me an extra dollar for gluten-free and I gave him a hammed up shocked look, just before asking for love, joy and world peace, as I typically do with my orders unless I get the order to shut up from within. Sometimes I think baristas are the over-educated angels of the world.

The kids and I saw one table, with a bleacher-like bench that ran against the wall on one side and a single chair on the open side of the table. The bleacher-bench had abundant room, so all three kids sat there and I sat on the chair across from them. It was awfully cute to see all three like that, but I eventually commandeered a chair from another table after being assured it was unneeded at its original station. My oldest daughter and I had a protracted thumb war that was as yet undecided when the food came, and we never actually finished it, but decided to consider it a shared win. I drank a decaf while the kids noshed on the food, and I ate a few bites. Some days I eat like a 400 pound man and other days I just nibble. I try to listen to my body. While we ate and goofed off, I scanned the place, as I often do, just taking note of the vibe and the people. Our nearest neighbor was a man with headphones in doing some work on a laptop. He seemed immersed in whatever he was up to and took no notice of us that I could discern. He seemed unphased by our relatively robust goofiness. Of course it was all chill and peaceful, but just not the quietest.

The gluten free sandwiches at Collective are accompanied by chips. Usually I have my kids  forego the potato chips because are just really unhealthy and one of the junk foods I think should be saved for extremely rare occasions. Like slightly less rare than the ones on which you’d drink gasoline. It’s not the fat or the salt - it’s something about what happens in how they are cooked that makes them nasty for you. At least I read that somewhere and I stuck. I should look it up again. I feel that even the firmest rules must be flexible if they are not to be broken in damaging ways though, and I try to listen for Spirit above even my own rules. It usually works out. I said, “You guys can go ahead and have the chips today, by the way. Just listen to your bodies and your intuitions, but otherwise, knock yourselves out.” My oldest daughter was visibly elated. “Really?” “Totally,” came my affirmative. It was like a pop in my mind to let them have them. That’s how it felt.

A moment later a loud pop blasted everyone’s ears. It sounded like a gunshot, but it was the sound of my daughter opening the bag of chips. But really it sounded like a gunshot. I just knew it was the chips since I heard the sound and saw my daughter’s facial expression at virtually the same moment. Our neighbor with the glossy white earphones and the laptop did not see her expression, or the abundant pile of chips that had exploded into her lap benignly and jumped from his seat. He looked up and went from startled panic to a jovial grin in a few seconds. “Oh, wow,” he said, looking at me, “I thought it was a gunshot but it’s a unicorn. I’m so relieved.” My daughter immediately said, “I’m so sorry,” as she appraised her lap where the explosion of fried potato slivers had landed, more like oily yellow coins than bullets. ‘Oh that’s okay,” said the man, “I have three kids of my own. And better potato chips than gunshots. You know, these days with the things you hear about…” “Yes, I said, “I am so sorry we scared you and definitely yes, potato chips and unicorns over gunshots. We need more peace and fun and laughter and fewer gunshots, for sure.” He nodded, with a thoughtful, wistful look in his eyes, far off, even. He said, “I’m actually a lawyer.” Now when someone tells me they are a lawyer I often mini-lecture them on how I hope they will be one of the good ones and to stand for integrity. But not with this guy. I could already tell his heart was extremely in the right place. “Thank you for bringing peace to your profession,” I said. I watched him receive that. It was a joy. He continued, “Well, I did work for the old president…not this president though. I don’t know what your politics are, but I assume you don’t approve…” I smiled, “I’m purple.” “My favorite color is purple,” said the man. I didn’t respond directly to his feeler about my opinion on Trump. I love Trump as I seek to love every other person alive the best I can and I think narcissists need to have less attention. It feeds them. Anyone who knows me for five seconds knows I stand for people being respectful, kind and loving - and badass when necessary. I don’t impose my path on anyone else. So instead of talking about about Trump, I told him about my daughter’s friends: How they are diverse in every way (she has friends of many different ethnic/racial/cultural/religious/sexual identities and they are all amazing people, with the normal range of flaws you'd expect from human beings figuring out life just after puberty in a cray-cray world.) I told him how they have petty issues like all teens, but work through them beautifully. I told him I think we just need to wrap our arms around the world with as much love as possible until we can hand the baton over to the next generation. I shared my view on considering myself politically purple:  "We need more synergy of opposites, ya know? We need ideas no one has even thought of up until now...options that aren't on the table yet." He nodded. I asked about his kids. It turns out he was taking either a kid or a stepkid to a Batmitzva in Madison, and just hanging out at the coffee shop til it's over. They're from Milwalkee. He has three kids, mostly older teens. By this time we'd finished our baked oatmeal and our gluten-free sandwiches. My oldest quietly opened the second bag...so intentionally it was actually silent. And I was so proud she didn't even eat the chips. As we got up to head out, the man asked the inevitable: “So why do you wear the unicorn horn? Are you celebrating something?” I answered, “I wear it when I feel like it for love, joy and world peace.”