I *Heart* Coffee. A Lot.

It's morning and my child is up before me. This is foreboding.

Coffee. Must make coffee. Quickly. Before I'm asked to wear a costume or build a tower or read a book or act in a puppet show or have a dance party.

As I pour the water into the coffee maker, I remind myself to use the plastic coffee filter contraption. Boy that was a big mess, coffee and coffee grounds everywhere. At least this morning I'm on the ball, I say as I fill the paper filter and slip it into the plastic thing.

Five minutes later, I hear my husband yelling, "Honey! You need to use a coffee pot when you make coffee!" I peek in the kitchen to see coffee covering the counter and dripping into the dishwasher that thankfully contains dirty dishes.

Pot. Right. My first accomplishment of the day puddles on the floor that I just mopped the night before.

"I didn't do it!" my son yells.

See. Everyone makes a mess, I tell my son trying to make a positive lesson out of a big stinking mess, a mess that my husband cleans because maybe he just wants to help but more likely he probably fears that I'll find a way to electrocute myself without my first morning cup of coffee which is why I now understand my mother-in-law's cup of instant coffee as she brews her morning coffee.

"I'll help you, Mommy."

I accept my son's offer to help make the second pot knowing full well that most parenting magazines, except perhaps those progressive ones that advocate old-school parenting techniques like that mom in New York City who let her 9-year old ride the subway home alone, most likely warn against letting your four-year old operate electrical appliances but "what the hell," I think, he can't do worse than I just did and anyway I stopped reading parenting magazines years ago after one featured this beautiful, famous mom who lives in the Bahamas wearing ethereal floor-length sundresses as she sends her boys to a private boarding school in London because how does that really help me be a better mom ...

... breathe ...

Morning thoughts shouldn't be so complex. Not without a cup of coffee.

Profile of a White Woman

Thanks to the Underwear Bomber, profiling is back in fashion. Which reminds me.

Seattle 1999. I’m living very cheaply with two fantastic roommates and have just finished up a work project. I have time. I have money. Which means one thing.

Travel.

I call a friend in Brighton to ask if she'd mind a visitor. She warns that if I come now, she won’t be at home for part of my visit - something about driving a bus from Paris to Baghdad to attend a women’s conference. Typical Alex. “But do come anyway,” she reassures me adding that I can always day-trip to London.

Except for the fact that it's winter, a trip to the British coast sounds lovely. And London! Parliament. Tower of London. Seeing "The Mousetrap," the long-running play by Agatha Christie, in London's West End. I'm a sucker for a British mystery.

I buy my ticket the same day.

Now, the recent cross-country trip that landed me in Seattle was a heavy one. Not only was my travel partner a drag, but I also carried with me nearly all my possessions. Photo albums and Chinese texts included.

This trip is going to be light. No luggage. I'll simply wear several mix-and-match layers. One small backpack will hold toiletries and underwear. (Contrary to what the Underwear Bomber says, you shouldn’t layer underwear.)

I approach the U.S. Customs agent at the airport all smiles and excitement. With passport and carry-on in hand, I expect to breeze through.

But a small problem arises. The several shirts I'm wearing are now bunching up in my armpits causing me to pick at them a bit.

The agent looks at me fidgeting and asks for my passport. He flips through and notices the collection of visa and exit stamps from different countries.

Agent: “You travel a lot.

Me: “Yes. I do love to travel.”

I pull at Layer #3 that's riding up my back.

Agent: “Where do you live currently?”

Me: “Seattle.”

I sing-song “Seattle” in Chinese "Xi-Ya-Tu." He's unimpressed.

Agent: “And where do you work?”

Me: “Well, I’m sort of in between jobs.”

I finger-quote the air when I say “in between.”

Agent: “So, you’re unemployed.”

Me: “Well, I wouldn't put it that way exactly.”

Agent: “And how did you purchase your ticket?"

Me: “With cash of course.”

I begin to explain my distrust of the credit card system, but he interrupts.

Agent: “When did you buy your ticket?”

Me: “A couple days ago.”

Agent: “A couple of days ago?”

Me: “Yes. I just called my friend and she said she’d love to see me. Well. Actually, she won’t be there for my entire visit. See, she’s going to be driving this bus through Iraq ... well, that's a different story ... but the point is ...”

I stop talking as he scribbles furiously in his notebook. The agent seems very interested in my story and wants to share it with his female colleague who joins us at the counter.

Agent: “So, you don’t have a job but at the last minute you bought a ticket to London with cash. Is that what you’re telling me?”

Me: “Yes, sir. Guilty as charged.”

He stares at me. I clear my throat.

Agent: “And what luggage are you bringing in with you?”

Me: “Just this small backpack.”

Marveling at my own resourcefulness that I had packed everything for a 7-day visit in a very small backpack, I smile from ear to ear.

He’s not.

Agent: “Would you please step inside the room behind me and place your backpack on the table.”

What is going on? Does he want packing tips? I really don’t have time for this. It isn’t until I’m asked to remove my bulky wool sweater revealing an embarrassing array of shirt collars that I began to feel guilty. Although for what, I haven't a clue. I'm just glad to shed some layers.

Through the glass walls I watch my fellow travelers moving unimpeded to their destinations, while I answer all the questions over again and watch in awe at just how detailed a search of a small backpack can be. (Hmph. I didn’t even know it had a secret pocket.)

After the female agent finds nothing in my bag or on my person, I ask what’s going on.

“You fit the classic profile of a drug mule,” she says matter-of-factly.

"A 'drugmule'?" I ask genuinely perplexed.

"Someone who carries drugs across borders for someone else," she explains now sounding a bit too condescending for my liking.

Me? Really? With my looks, all tall, thin, angular, pale with glasses and frizzy hair, I’m usually profiled as a liberal-vegetarian-PBS-watching kindergarten teacher. But a drug mule? Drug mules sound dangerous. Edgy. And look like Chrissy Hynde.

I divulge that I once declined an offer to carry perfume samples from Paris to Hong Kong and ask if that is considered "muling" as well. They seem incredulous that I would offer such information and tell me I'm free to go.

I sincerely thank the agents who, for the first time, seem caught off guard.

A Woman Under The Influence

Tonight I feel antsy. My husband has The Game on. My four-year old son is asking for Spongebob. And I need something else. Something.

I do/am many things, but I'm first and foremost a Mom. Which is great. I love being creative, silly, in-the-moment. I love making up games, songs, puppet shows and wearing costumes while dancing to classical music. I love it. I’m good at it.

But tonight I need some adult culture.

So, at the last minute, I decide to see a movie at the National Gallery of Art. “A Woman Under the Influence” with Gena Rowlands and Peter Falk filmed in 1974.

The decision is so last minute that I don’t have time to finish my bottle of Gourd, homemade pumpkin beer that my neighbor made. So, I pour the rest into a travel mug, kiss my husband and son goodbye, grab my Metro card and run off to the film.

I picked The Wrong Film.

“A Woman Under The Influence” is one hour and 55 minutes of dark, tortuous madness with powerhouse Gena Rowlands playing a mother of three who is, as described in the Gallery’s brochure, a “wife and mother struggling to tame her anarchic nature.”

Well, that’s one way to put it.

Another way is that she's a severely manic-depressive alcoholic whose complete psychic breakdown pushes her confused, rough, blue-collar husband (played amazingly by Falk) to have her committed to a mental institution.

But don't take my word for it.

I break the first rule of seeing a movie at an art gallery: Always sit near the aisle because there’s a chance, in some instances quite high, that it could suck. I’m just being honest.

But this movie doesn’t suck. Quite the opposite. Watching this mother’s quirky fun, especially the scene where the kids wear costumes while dancing to classical music, turn quickly into inappropriate behavior and eventually pure madness is painful.

The kids are frightened. Family members are unable to help. The husband says all the wrong things and just wants her to “be herself.” People in the audience are so uncomfortable I watch them squirm, particularly during the scene where she downs an entire glass of Seagram's 7.

The pressure on-screen isn't the only thing building. The beer I sneaked in has created so much pressure inside the travel mug that it goes off like a loud pellet gun when I open it.

"Oops. Sorry. It's just beer," I stage-whisper to the many faces turned my way. Artsy types can be so sensitive.

Another thing I don’t anticipate is how intense the beer would smell. And booze is probably the last thing anyone in the crowded theater wants to smell. It’s as if I’ve added a smell-o-rama feature to really ramp up the realism, to make my fellow theater-goers, already on an emotional precipice, physically repulsed as well.

The combination of the smell, guilt and disgusted eyes pinning me to my seat make it impossible to drink my beer. That and the fact that I am technically on federal property and technically breaking the law.

“But it’s homemade pumpkin beer,” I can hear myself explain to the federal guard.

I close the cap and wonder how much pressure has to build before the lid blows off in my bag. Will the entire theater point to me when the guard comes in, "It's her! It's her! She's the beer bomber!"

Suddenly and strongly, the only place I want to be is home with my son. All these thoughts attach themselves to the incredibly uncomfortable coming-home-from-the-mental-hospital-party scene that you just know isn't going to go well. I look down and realize I'm white-knuckling the arm rest. What the hell is next?

She’s gonna blow!

Finally the credits roll. The people around me leave immediately. My beer bomb doesn't explode. And I'm thankful that, at least for this film, I am a woman not under the influence.

The Costco Effect, Hong Kong & The Kindness of Strangers

My husband said it was crazy. So, of course, I had to try it.

It's all part of my Challenge Myself Campaign. And this time the Challenge is a trip to Costco, which may not seem like much of a challenge.

But instead of renting a car, as my husband and I usually do, I'd save that money and simply take a hand cart on the DC Metro to Pentagon City in Virginia, the nearest location, with my four-year old son.

The trip began smoothly enough. The Metro wasn't crowded. My son sat happily in the empty hand cart. And Costco wasn't teeming with Grandmas from thirty different countries engaged in some twisted version of an Olympic shopping event. Easy-peasy.

As usual when I'm feeling a bit too pleased with myself, things turn.

I soon fall under, what I call, The Costco Effect. The Costco Effect renders all cautionary voices useless. Logic and reason are no longer applicable. (Please consult my accompanying scientific graph for further study.)

Even my very level-headed husband came home once with an 8-foot high restaurant-grade shelving unit and a Little Giant ladder. Not so strange except for the fact that we are apartment dwellers who already own a ladder.

The Costco Effect.

For my part, I ignore a faint but stern voice warning me to perhaps not get everything on my list. "Umm, Girlfriend, maybe now is not the time to get a gallon of olive oil and a 6-month supply of laundry detergent."

Huh? Who said that? Ooo look. A quart of grade A maple syrup ...

The Costco Effect also skews one's concept of weights and measures. Every item I place in the vast expanse of the Costco shopping cart looks so tiny and light. And practical. We do use a lot of A-1 sauce, I reason.

The checkout sobers me up. I see my dilemma ride by on the conveyor belt. Two jars of kalamata olives. Two pounds of coffee. Four pounds of butter. A restaurant-size container of soy sauce. These all seemed like wise purchases a mere ten minutes ago. Now they taunt me.

My God. What have I done?

But there's no turning back. As I sign the receipt, the cashier looks at me with concern. Or maybe it's pity. It's so hard to tell those two apart.

I load everything into my hand cart, all 106 pounds. (I know the poundage because I added up every ounce, milliliter and quart and converted them to pounds -- a separate Challenge in my Challenge Myself Campaign.)

I watch as the back left wheel begins to bend outward under the weight.

"Don't you do it. Don't you dare break off."

I stare at that wheel, the wobbly, rickety wheel, and push the cart gingerly, inch by careful inch, past the receipt-checker person and out into the parking lot.

That's where it hits me. This is all so familiar. Haven't I learn this lesson already?

Exhaust fumes from a fleet of SUVs cloud my vision and suddenly the year is 1994. I am leaving Mainland China via a secured pathway into Hong Kong, still a British Colony, and everything I own is on a small, cheap wheeled cart.

I'm heading to my favorite Hong Kong hostel in the now demolished Chungking Mansions near the Tsim Sha Tsui Ferry, when a tiny pin holding the wheel on pops out. A thin, tiny, insignificant-looking pin puts the kibosh on all forward progress.

Luckily a stranger on that congested Hong Kong street gives me a safety pin. I MacGyver it into a makeshift pin that holds the wheel on long enough for me to buy a new cart. That whole "a chain is only as strong as it's weakest link" concept, as corny as it sounds, is so true. Back in the parking lot, my weakest link of a wheel is barely able to rotate, an important feature for a wheel to have if it's to be of any use.

It's decision time.

I could catch a cab and give up the Challenge. Or trudge onward pushing a 106-pound cart and a four-year-old who is growing tired and suspicious that we are not, in fact, on a secret scavenger hunt. Also we are now heading into rush hour on the Metro, a very different animal indeed.

“I don’t know if I can do it,” I say out loud in a deep slouch. My son looks up at me with his earnest, blue eyes, furrows his brow and says, "You can do it, Mommy!"

I shoot upright. Yes. Yes! I CAN!

I regret my decision immediately.

The weight of the cart makes turning nearly impossible. I execute ridiculous 5-point turns to simply steer the damn thing in and out of elevators and around corners. I swear to myself to never again take the advice of a four-year-old in matters of transportation.

To complicate matters to a stupid degree, the doors of the Metro cars are vicious. They close on anything that doesn't clear its path in time. Suddenly those annoying, half-audible recorded messages reminding me of this mechanical fact are decidedly pertinent. Personal.

The doors open. Passengers get off. I have seconds to get the behemoth of a cart and my son safely onto the train amid a crowd of commuters. Then it hits me. I can't get the cart over the gap between the platform and the train car.

"Doors Closing," warns Ms. Train Message.

Suddenly a man, weathered and bone-thin, jumps in front of me and lifts my cart high enough for me to board as I simultaneously push my son onto the train.

I touch his arm. Thank you, Mr. Stranger Sir.

I want to offer him the pound of peanuts from my cart. But he's already gone into the crowd. The cart creaks. The wheel bends further outward. But we are on the train.

Now we just have to find a way to get off.

Eight stops later at Columbia Heights I recruit a young man in headphones to help me and he graciously agrees. Everyone is being so nice. Several fellow travelers joke and commiserate with me about my Challenge. I wonder if residual remnants of The Costco Effect have infected those around me. Or maybe it's because I look so vulnerable, so out of place on a rush hour train.

I still have to walk about 3/4 of a mile from the Columbia Heights Metro station to get home. But there are taxis everywhere should that wheel decide it's had enough. And there's also my husband waiting for me in a pub with a tall pint of Guinness. (This is an actual picture at the pub. That's my husband, my child and my shoulder.)

But I did it. With the help of a very agreeable child and several strangers, that is. And I'm fine with that. I'm also fine with the fact that I spent more on Guinness to repair myself than I would've spent on a rental car. Money well spent, I say.

And anyway...

I did it.