Tuesday turned out great

The low brake fluid warning started flashing on my dash screen, and I decided that one is probably important—nothing like the meaningless low washer fluid, tire pressure, or "Service A now 3702 miles past due."

I’m more naturally a night owl than a morning lark. In the world of self-help, real estate sales gurus, or do-better spiritualism, meaningful mornings are held up as morally superior to sleeping in and staying up late.

In Gary Keller’s book Millionaire Real Estate Agent (MREA)—my personal real estate bible and truly the only book you need to be successful as an agent—he says you have to be up, fed, exercised, and at the office ready so that you can spend every day from 9–11 on your phone prospecting for new business.

I spent the first five years of real estate feeling so much shame and guilt for not meeting the primary commandment of Keller from the MREA. It never really mattered how much I sold; I still felt bad and lazy because I couldn’t consistently make my mornings the “power hours” they were supposed to be.

It’s just super easy for me to stay up till 3 a.m. and get up at 10 a.m. I’m roundly mocked by most people for my natural rhythm. I’ve been told that instead of sending emails late at night, I should use the schedule function so my emails will go out at 8 or 9 a.m.

I’ve stuck to my guns on this one for a couple of reasons. First, if someone gets an email from me at 8 a.m. Monday morning, they will probably assume I’m awake and working. Worse, if first thing Monday morning they get 13 progressively animated emails from me about my new idea, all at once, they will probably assume I’m crazy.

If I want to get up early—and I always want to get up early—I will book the earliest possible appointment to force me up and at ’em. I do this hoping the morning obligation will help me get to bed earlier. It does usually work. When the alarm goes off, I tell myself, “If you get up now, you can go back to bed just as soon as you’ve taken care of whatever is so freaking important that it couldn’t wait till a decent hour.”

I was 30 minutes late to the mechanic, which is a perfectly acceptable amount of time to be late, especially if you show up in your wheelchair.

Heading home in my wheelchair, I was going against traffic. I always told my kids about the importance of riding their bikes with traffic because people making right turns tend to only look at oncoming traffic.

Sure enough, there was a guy waiting to turn right at the first street I needed to cross. I knew he did not know I was there, so I gave him a little shout: “HEY MAN,” and scared the bejeezus out of him.

When he saw me in my wheelchair, his shocked fear face turned into an “I’m so sorry” face as he backed out of the crosswalk. It was hilarious! I got to do it three more times on the ride home. I’m thinking about making a hobby out of it.

By the time I got back home, I didn’t feel like going back to bed—even though, according to the deal I made with myself, I totally could have gotten right back in bed and not even felt bad about it. Sometimes I do, but mostly I won’t.

In the afternoon, I got to hang out with Grandma Mary again. This time we were running errands. First stop: Miracle Ear. Grandma went back into the office and left me in the lobby to wait. A gentleman came in and said he was early but couldn’t stand waiting in the car with his wife.

The receptionist said, “Name verification,” in her East Indian accent. I didn’t understand what she wanted. I could tell the guy didn’t either. He said, “Huh?”

In your typical inside voice, she said the same thing. Again, no comprehension. He said, “I’m sorry, what did you say?” Then she shouted, “WHAT IS YOUR NAME?” He said, “Oh, Karen Rogers. No need to shout, my wife’s the deaf one.”

That was when I remembered I was sitting in a hearing aid store. It was hilarious. What a treat.

Next stop was the health food store. It’s a little family business in Mesa that Gram has been shopping at since the ’90s.

I had severe asthma as a kid. My trigger foods were corn, apples, and peanuts. Your basic brown bag lunch would send me to the ER. I can’t even tell you how many times I was rushed to the hospital while turning blue between the ages of 2–16.

But while I was year by year growing out of my asthma, Gram had the bad luck of growing into hers. In the ’80s, the only place you could get rice cakes and almond butter was the health food store.

My introduction to the health food store was with Gram. I hated going to the grocery store because I couldn’t eat anything. She had food allergies too. She told me we were going to the health food store because they sold food we could eat. I was so excited, but then we got there and I discovered I was still allergic to foggy apple cider and corn chips—even if they were blue.

Now that you can get all that health food at every grocery store, her health food store is more about vitamins, supplements, shakes, and essential oils.

The gal tending the store today must have been in her early 80s. I stood in front of an essential oils end-cap while Gram and the gal searched the aisle for her secrets to health and longevity.

The display had a list of 30 various benefits and attributes of their oils. The list ended with "kosher, non-GMO, gluten-free." Off the top of my head, I added "non-dairy, cage-free," and wondered why they stopped. There were easily another 30 things they could’ve added to that list.

The funniest essential oil supplement on offer was a bottle labeled “Hair Skin Nails,” next to bottles like Cinnamon, Cumin, and Apple Cider Vinegar. My dad explained to me that those pills were probably meant to help your skin, hair, and nails. He’s probably right, but it’s funnier to imagine those gel caps full of the essential oils squeezed from hair, skin, and nails.

The checkout process was a lot of fun to watch. To start, the gal asked Gram for her phone number to track her points. Gram started, “360…” The lady cut in, “Is this long distance?” It just got better as the gal got Gram to help her figure out the tap-to-pay payment process.

I got to Mom’s around 4:20, expecting to find them home from her radiologist appointment.

At the appointment, he explained that she has several tumors in her hip socket, pelvic crest, and femur that have grown, causing small and painful fractures.

She has tumors in other places as well, but those are not causing her any pain at this point. They are hoping they can kill the tumors in that part of her leg so the fractures can heal, and she will be able to walk without any more pain.

She will go back Monday next week so they can create the cast to deliver the radiation directly to those problem areas. Once that’s made, she will begin a 10-day radiation treatment. Then she will have her second infusion of the new chemo.

After the doctor’s appointment, they stopped at Pita Jungle for dinner. They have been three- or four-nights-a-week regulars over there for years. It was always fun going to dinner with them because all the servers would stop by the table to say hi and tell me how much they loved my mom and dad.

My parents loved them too and tried to use everyone’s name. Mom would ask Dad, “What is our girl’s name?” and he would pull out his phone to consult his list of Pita employees.

They got home in a great mood around 6:30. Mom told me she was so happy to do something that made her feel normal. It was really sweet. I started telling them about my day with Gram as she settled into her chair and fell fast asleep within a few minutes while my dad roared with laughter as I recounted my trip to Miracle Ear.