The Faint Smell of Slightly Burnt Popcorn

I grew up in the 70s and 80s. My mom listened to Barry Manilow on the radio, drank Tab, which came in a tall glass bottle, and ate popcorn every day for lunch. Growing up she would make the popcorn in a pan with hot oil on the bottom. Then, air poppers became the rage, which is how I remember my mom most vividly. A bowl of air popped popcorn and a bottle of Tab. Poppers eventually gave way to microwaved popcorn. Once early on, mom over cooked a bag in the microwave. It smoked and burned and set off the smoke detectors in the house. For years the microwave smelled like burned popcorn. Barry, Tab and popcorn, all remind me of her.

Mom has since moved onto Michael Buble, Diet Pepsi and Smart Pop, but she is essentially the same girl. I look like her and my daughter looks like me. Although neither of us developed her love of soda, we both love popcorn and have an open and expansive taste in music.

I am partial to cheese popcorn, movie theater popcorn, and the half, partially opened, slightly burned “old maids” at the bottom of a bowl.

- Life Unexpected - 

It has been a rough few weeks and months. I started a new job, and “I have never felt so new in my life,” as one of my new colleagues so eloquently commented. At work, kids are in crisis, they can't communicate and I am falling behind on paperwork. I get bombarded with emails and others' priorities.

The last weekend in October, for the first time, I turned off my work email alerts and had a joyous weekend in DC with friends. 

I actually have ceased reading most emails altogether. I got my unread emails down from 1,700 to under 400, and now a week later, it’s back to 598. I’ve been unsubscribing to as many as I can, but it still takes time.

Also in October, a friend died suddenly and unexpectedly, leaving a family grieving a loss. A minister is resigning, leaving a beloved community in pain. Feelings have been hurt. A daughter has been to specialists for gastrointestinal and cardiac issues. Another daughter is applying to college and making life decisions. My grandma was not cared for, as she should have been, and lies in bed weeping, unable to wipe her nose, adjust her position or feed herself with two broken arms. A dear friend is struggling with major depression. Another shared a new breast cancer diagnosis and is afraid.

I tell my spouse I need help. He responds telling me to ask him, not tell him.

Still, life goes on. Birthdays. Kids in plays. Concerts. Classes. Dinners. Dogs. 

For work, I am trying to get my CDL so I can drive students to their community trips. It is a multi-layered, complicated process. I’ve gotten my fingerprints cleared by a federal database, had a physical, taken a school bus safety class on Labor Day weekend, and have checked out a bus three times to take the test. All three times, a student has been in crisis.

Yesterday, Halloween, I took my sheet of paper with the dates of all my screenings and tests that have been completed. I waited at the DMV to check in. I waited to get my picture taken. I waited until my number was called. It was a practice in patience. No cell phones are to be used at the DMV.

When my number was called and I approached the desk, the back of the form was incomplete. My employer hadn’t dated and signed the back of the form. The woman checked with her supervisor, no go. I returned the van. 

I also, the same Halloween, returned a heart rate monitor, sat while tears rolled down the face of a friend, and sat while my mom expressed frustration and disappointment, and grandma wept and repeated, “Can you believe what happened to me?”

Before heading home, to log into my work email, take notes, record minutes and let my teams know what my planned schedule is for the next two weeks, I stopped by a local foot rub place.

For one hour I laid on a low massage table bed. The place was sparsely populated, thanks to Halloween. It was quiet and dark. He started at my forehead, moved to my scalp and then covered my eyes with a small towel while he continued down my body. He smelled faintly of slightly burned popcorn. It was then I allowed myself to cry.