HURRICANE ROMBAMA

Ah.  Another day, another flooding rain squall.

Shark off the port ... er ... PORCH

We are recovering from Hurricane Sandy and its remnants.  I have to say that my favorite picture so far didn't make yesterday's blog, but I'll find a place for it today.  It's from Brigantine Beach, NJ, and it's the stuff nightmares are made of, which is why I am so fascinated with the image.  It gives new meaning to the old SNL bit about land sharks.

The worst damage I encountered was a huge tree across route 28 on my way to work.  There was one lane going around it, so it was all good.  From what I hear, though, other parts of my town are virtually shut off and shut down.  I had a hard time grasping that until I tried to drive home from the next town just a short while ago.

I mean, honestly, I was minding my own business (truly, I know this is a unique concept for me, but I try to embrace civility every once in a while), when the skies opened up… again.  Hard to believe after Hurricane Sandy that there might be one more drop of moisture in the clouds, but it was as if someone turned a faucet on.  No matter how fast the wipers went and how slowly my car went, I couldn't see a damn thing out the windshield.  I tried to get a glimpse of the right side of the road, a white line perhaps, and that was all fine and good until I noticed that the right side of the road was a roaring brook.  Suddenly this roiling water spilled into the road, and before any of us driving knew it, we needed kayaks to go much further.

I managed to crawl and swim home, both the car and me doing a decent imitation of the doggie-paddle.  By now the rain had let up, and I managed to get into the house without melting ala Wicked Witch of the West.  I started typing this blog entry, innocently intending to jaw about the car-canoe saga, when a friend just south of here IM'ed that she had to shut down her computer … because of a storm … yet again.

So I looked at the radar.  I know I shouldn't have, but those who know me also know that I have expanded cable for one main reason (sports are the second reason): The Weather Channel.  Yeah, Jim Cantore and I have a thing (he just doesn't know about it).  Holy … Mother … Of … God … what in the hell was all that RED and PURPLE and… was that a band of downpours or a huge thunderstorm?  I could only assume since my pal shut her computer completely off that we were in for a doozy of an electrical storm.

Luckily, it was a fast mover.  Perhaps it knew that the mere appearance of it on the radar sent panic waves akin to Orson Welles' 1938 broadcast of The War of the Worlds.  It was a storm that was all-surrounding and completely unwelcome after the pounding we already took (which was mild compared to our neighbors just south of New England).  I couldn't help thinking that this huge purple-red-orange-yellow-green radar splotch that brought such disdain and angst was just like the upcoming election, which is also rapidly becoming an entity non grata.  Like the recent bizarre weather, I just want the election to be over.  I'm at a point where I don't even give a shit who wins anymore; I just want them all to shut up, fall into a crevice, trip into an active volcano, or get sucked into outer space. 

If we could just have one day (one hour, perhaps) when the candidates are required to shut their humongous mouths for an entire twenty-four hours, no ads and no debates and no public commentary, we might find the strength keep paddling.

Until then, hand me an extra oar for my kayak.  If any of those politicians get close enough, I'll pretend they're Jersey land sharks and smack the holy hell out of them.  It may not impact the election, but after the last two days I've had pre/during/post Hurricane Sandy, it'll be worth every droplet.

PS.  Happy Halloween to Satan and the other guy running for president.  Doesn't matter who is who - at this point, they're sadly but completely interchangeable.

HURRICANE PICS

Stolen from my FB friends and their friends and their friends' friends...

Hampton NH - North Beach at high tide around noon 10/29

 

Brown's (the greasiest restaurant at the beach, BYOB) in Seabrook, NH

 Via Brian in the Philly area (from 10/28)

 

Space view of the storm (how ironic posted by Star Trek actor George Takei)

 

The calm before ...

The storm!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

C's view of the storm, and ...

Lady Liberty having a fashion moment in the high winds.

Stay safe, everybody.  Posting before the electricity cuts out (or the Margaritas kick in).

 

SANDY'S A-KNOCKIN'

Supposedly we are getting a big storm.  We've heard this before.  All hype and no "Cripe!"; All chat and no splat; All drama and no trauma; All jack and no shit. I don't know what to believe anymore.  It's like this storm has turned into the election: Either Sandy or the local radar is full of crap.

Just in case, I do have food here and I did make extra ice.  I did bring the candles and extra candle holders up from the basement.  I did move some boxes away from the only leaky wall downstairs, too.  I have clean laundry, reading material, and flashlights strategically located for quick retrieval.  Both cars are facing out, and hopefully the fence and the neighbors' cars will break any falling branches from the tree overhanging the driveway.  The liquor cabinet is stocked in case I need it, for medicinal purposes, of course.

And now, we sit. 

At the time of this writing, there is no rain; there is no wind.  As a matter of fact, it is eerily silent. I haven't heard a train nor car go by in hours.  There is no work to go to because school has long-since been cancelled for the day. 

With any luck at all, we'll all be laughing about this tomorrow.  Maybe I'll be able to drive to the coast and get some pictures - Last time this happened, giant clams washed up all over North Beach like hundreds of alien pods covered with brown lasagne-like seaweed.  Until then, hunker down, cover your valuables, and pray the Internet isn't down too long.

See you on the other side (of the hurricane - Let's not get too melodramatic).

FAMOUS PEOPLE WHO REPORTEDLY DIED OF VENEREAL DISEASE (AND THE TASTELESS COMMENTARY I HAVE ABOUT THEM)

 Christopher Columbus:  He gave diseases like Smallpox to the natives of the New World; they paid him back by infecting him and his entire crew with Syphilis, which they then spread to the entire known world, prolific buggers that they were.

George Washington:  Proof that a cold-water dunking in the Delaware and ill-fitting false teeth weren't his most uncomfortable maladies; first post-Articles of the Confederation president, beat Bill Clinton to the presidential cigar trick by centuries.

Napoleon Bonaparte:  Probably should've kept his hand in his jacket and his pecker in his pants, he reportedly died of arsenic consumption, the common treatment at the time for syphilis.  No wonder he had that pained expression in all his portraits.

Franz Schubert:  Gifted 19^th century musician and composer, probably should've kept both hands on the keyboard; his nocturnal fantasia chamber music apparently was too effective in the … um … chamber.

Scott Joplin:  Composer, pianist, and the King of Ragtime made his living playing piano in bordellos.  Is this really a surprise?

Casanova:  An early condom wearer (sheep guts tied on with a pink ribbon), he probably should've just stayed away from sheep altogether.  His last words were, "The lights are dimming in the baaaaaahhck."

Leo Tolstoy:  Less time writing War and Peace and more time reading Planned Parenthood pamphlets may have saved this author's life (and the rest of us a shit-load of required reading).

Ivan the Terrible:  See, now if he'd been Ivan the Pretty Good or had a tongue like Gene Simmons, it probably would've kept him from becoming infected; enjoyed sex with anyone and everyone; probably responsible for spreading syphilis to animals, including fish, across the entire Eurasian land mass.

Nietzsche:  Ironically enough, this VD victim claimed, "That which does not kill us makes us stronger"; went completely insane from the effects of venereal disease rotting his brain cells and became a famous professional philosopher.

Henry VIII:  And you thought he chopped off his wives' heads because he was bored with them; Pissed off he got syphilis (probably from one of his royal guardsmen), Henry proceeded to spread it around like peanut butter in mouse traps then decapitate the witnesses; PS - He wasn't grossly obese - he was big-boned … or so the ladies claimed.

Hitler and Mussolini: Oh great, so you're telling me WWII was a result of VD?  Gives new meaning to the concept that Mussolini was just Hitler's "back-door man."  Ew.  Just ew.

Shakespeare:  Poor bastard - It was bad enough he married an old cougar he impregnanted by accident, but VD, too?  Look, he wasn't Edward de Vere, Francis Bacon, nor Christopher Marlowe; he was a very naughty boy with a wandering wicket; apparently he knew exactly what it meant to be the guy with the "spongy, rude-growing cod piece."

SHOPPING FOR SANDY

My Pre-Hurricane Grocery List:

Bottled water (a case … just in case)

Milk (half gallon)

Ziti (Gotta have burner-ready food if power goes out)

Spaghetti (yeah, I know it's pasta just like thin, long ziti - sue me)

(Oh, look! Fresh pita bread!)

Pita bread

(Damn, now I need tahini.  Circle back to the end of aisles 1 & 2.)

Tahini (Joseph's brand because the Joseph's guy is filling it into the case)

Tabouleh  (Joseph's brand because now Joseph's guy is blocking access to other brands)

(Oh, look!  Carnation Instant Breakfast.  Double back to end of aisles 1 & 2 and grab another half gallon of milk, not even bothering to think I will have to drink it all if the electricity goes out.)

Toilet paper (speaks for itself … well, not literally.  Imagine the cracks it could make about my ass.  Get it?  Cracks? Ass?  Ass cracks? Hello?  Is this mic on?)

Paper towels (something's going to spring a leak if/when the rain starts)

Steak tips (and sirloin burgers and already-cooked chicken - Apparently when the storm hits, I'm hosting a BBQ.)

Reese's Peanut Butter Cups in a Halloween-sized bag (For the "children" ... the "children" … the "chillllllllllllllllllldrennnnnnnnn."  Oh, fuck it, it's for me.)

Fresh veggies (to go with the "Halloween" candy that won't make it to trick-or-treaters)

Ice cream (to make Carnation Instant Breakfast shakes that my ass truly doesn't need)

Dishwasher gel (all this eating is going to generate dirty dishes)

(Shit.  I forgot the bread.  Back up a few aisles.)

Bread (Wait a sec.  I already have whole-grain white bread at-- Oh, look!  Honey wheat!)

(At the end of the bread aisle and the produce aisle is the bakery.  Now I'm all discombobulated, so I must buy two cannolis.  I understand they aren't Tripoli cannolis, but they're here and they're calling me, so I must have them.  Now.  Right now.)

Cannoli with chocolate chips

Cannoli without chocolate chips

(It really doesn't matter one bit whether or not the cannolis have decorative finishes like chips; those damn cannolis will be lucky to make it home.)

Okay, Frankenstorm, I'm ready!  But you'd better hurry.  I've already devoured or broken into just about everything I bought today.  I'll also have to shut off the outside lights (and maybe even the inside ones, too) as the Halloween candy has already been relegated to Pre-Halloween status and seems to be disappearing at an alarming rate.  Maybe Mother Nature will cover me and send Hurricane Sandy to cut the power.  After all, if I'm not ready now, I never will be, and it'll make me look like less of an a-hole if the front light is out on Wednesday evening when "trick-or-treat" really means "I ate all your damn candy, now bugger off!"

THE MONSTER IS COMING!

Another Halloween in New England, another monster approaching.  In school we just read "The Monsters Are Due on Maple Street," one of my favorite episodes of The Twilight Zone, and, like the monster approaching the coastline, it's all about mass hysteria.  Stores will be mobbed, bottled water will be wiped out, and there will be a run on odd canned foods like Spam and mixed vegetables.

Right now the only hysteria I am feeling is whether or not my cellar will hold up.  That and whether or not my furnace will ever be fixed.  (I don't necessarily mean as in "right this second" but more as in "my poor landlord has to pay the plumber to come out yet again and re-fix the same problem yet again, and may be facing a new furnace on top of everything else they have going on" kind of way.)

The monster to which I am referring is, of course, Hurricane Sandy.

Days ago, only one local weather person (a woman, God bless her sensibility) claimed the storm would be coming; every other station created models and followed research that said the storm was going out to sea somewhere near the Carolinas.  We New Englanders have not been lulled into foolishness by these spaghettified radar ribbons of possibilities known as "Storm Tracks."  The minute we hear, "Tropical depression in the Caribbean," we buy anything and everything from milk to snow shovels, even if it's only rain coming.  (One really never can be too prepared.  Look at last Halloween - I rest my case.) 

I have to take the morning off tomorrow due to an unavoidable appointment.  Before I go back to work, I think I'll hit the grocery store and stock up on some staples, like toilet paper, milk, and Halloween candy (sugar will be essential should I need to bail).  I don't need batteries because I keep those stocked year-round, just in case, but I might consider buying some matches for important things like lighting the gas on the burners to the stove should the electricity shut down.

It's all about timing.  If I get to the store while most people are working, I might make it out alive.  If I wait until the afternoon or, worse even, the weekend, I will be in lines that make the women's bathroom at a sporting even look like child's play, lines that make Black Friday at Best Buy at 3:00 a.m. look like nothing more than a small gathering of ten thousand friends.

Therefore, apologies go out to my co-workers: I will certainly try to be back by lunch-time, but my survival of and comfort level for the next few days far outweigh sitting in meetings all afternoon.  If you don't hear from nor see me by 12:30, send out the search party because it means I've fallen victim to the Sandy Hype.  Or I have been spaghttified.  Or I am shoveling snow.  If I'm not there, feel free to start (and finish) the meetings without my exceptional, smart repartee.

TACO CHIP LIBERATION ARMY RIDES AGAIN

Cheetos, especially the flamin' hot ones, are being banned in schools in several states.  While I'm not completely against the ban, as we probably should be serving kids healthier lunches, I'm not certain I'm for it, either.  Isn't this the land of choices, the land of rampant consumerism?  Home of the free and land of the brave?

When I was in high school, the administration took away Doritos.  No world of a lie: They banned taco chips.  This ban didn't directly affect me as my daily lunch staples were Yodels and a white milk (whole milk, of course, none of this sissy low-fat shit like I am addicted to now), but my friends were all die-hard Dorito-eaters.  My heart broke for them and their chip-free lunches.  Never mind that their hands would never be dusty-greasy orange ever again.  This was about freedom!  This was about liberty!  This was about … this was about … school lunches …. and … um …. chips …. and…. What the Hell -- We were in high school.  It didn't have to be about any-damn-thing.

To combat this terrible lunch injustice, we formed a secret organization that would do things like distribute fliers and paint the giant rock with our slogans.  We gave ourselves clever, politically incorrect names like Paco Taco and Enrique Take-a-Lique, and we called ourselves the Taco Chip Liberation Army.  We even had our own newsletter, cleverly copied by a sympathetic teacher during his planning periods, a teacher I promise NEVER to "out" as a TCLA secret operative (See, Mr. W?  I promised to protect your identity, Chuck, you ole freshman English teacher at West Junior High who then moved up to teach at the High School, ole buddy, ole pal.)

There was nothing like finding the rock (a boulder near the school entrance) freshly painted by some sports team only to paint it over with "Free the Doritos! Signed, Taco Chip Liberation Army."  The best part of our day happened the morning after re-painting someone else's artwork, and watching their deflated faces as they realized the Taco Chip Liberation Army had struck again.  Yes, we were evil and we were crafty, but most of all, our parents hated us and didn't give a crap where we were until all hours of a school night, so we were able to pull off subversive tricks such as this.

Eventually the school caved to our demands and threatening tactics and brought back Doritos.  Or maybe someone had simply forgotten to order them for a few weeks.  Either way, TCLA soon faded into distant memory.  Plus, the ringleaders graduated a year ahead of the rest of us.  Even though taco chips were liberated, I still ate Yodels and milk for lunch.  I figured we'd never get as much press as Patty Hearst nor as much notoriety as the SLO (Symbionese Liberation Army), anyway.

Currently, someone wants to start this crap all over again by banning Cheetos.  Cheetos!  People, Cheetos, you know, the cheese that goes CRUNCH!  Eventually they'll come for the Cheezits, the Wheat Thins, the Fritos, and maybe even Townhouse Crackers.  I wouldn't put it past them to go for the Ritz and the Sociables, too.  If we don't stop them now, eventually they'll take down the whole snack aisle and we'll be left with nothing but raisins and trail mix with dried apricots, and I doubt very much anyone will form the Dehydrated Plum Liberation Army.  You never know, though; I suppose it could happen. 

PRE-ELECTION TERZA RIMA

The campaign ads all make me sick

They clog the TV night and day

They're full of bullshit rhetoric

Politicians - Crap they say

Doesn't make me want to vote

But, damnit, I will, anyway

They lie, they cheat, and they emote

Pretend to cry and claim they care

Everything - They sugarcoat

But, citizens, please be aware

Come the Wednesday honeymoon

(Watch the TV if you dare)

Realization happens soon

You find out that your polling work

Just elected one more goon

Another politician jerk

Stuck in office four long years

With his plastic glued-on smirk

And all your dreams and all your fears

Quickly swirl around the drain

As you dissolve into tears

And slam the wall against your brain

Accept the country's horrid fate

Until election year again

FETA CHEESE AND COFFEE

Feta Cheese.  How can something taste so good and smell so gross?  I have some feta cheese open in my kitchen, and I'm eating it by the chunk (if you can call the crumbly blobs of it chunks) while I run around doing chores.  Suddenly I head back into the kitchen and realize it smells like dirty gym socks.  Feta Cheese.  I just don't understand it.  How can the nose and taste buds have such a serious disconnect over this?

I suppose it's a lot like coffee.  Coffee smells good; coffee smells great; coffee smells fantastic.  But coffee tastes horrible; coffee tastes hideous; coffee tastes like dirty gym socks would if one were to be stuffed into your mouth.  When I worked at Dunkin Donuts (not nearly as glamorous as the ads make it seem, believe me), I tried coffee every way one could possibly take it: black, with sugar, with cream, with cream and sugar, half and half (that's half coffee half milk), and then there is the infamous black light half and half max, which isn't some weird sixties light trick but rather half high-test, half decaf, half cream, with extra sugar.  Okay, I just made up that name, but I used to have a regular patron at DD who ordered his coffee that way.  Seriously - why bother with the coffee, man?  Just tear open a can of condensed milk and be done with it.

Feta cheese, though, I'll bet would be good on just about anything:  Rice Krispies and feta with milk, peanut butter and jelly with feta, spaghetti and meatballs with feta (which actually sounds really, really good and is probably already a staple in more progressive homes than mine), onion rings and feta (yup, another one to try), and maybe even feta frozen yogurt.

I know feta cheese looks a lot like colicky baby vomit and smells like it, too, but feta cheese is delicious.  It's just one of those foods that no one would try unless forcefully coerced.  Like pig's feet and tripe and brains and liver and Shit on a Shingle.  (Okay, I will admit to having a bit of an affinity for SOS growing up when my WWII-vet dad would wax poetic about mess hall food and force us all to eat it like it was Delmonico steak.)

Hmmmm, maybe, just maybe, if I put feta in the coffee, I might like coffee.  Feta may well be the key to the universe as we know it.  Explains why the Athenians were great thinkers and the Spartans were great fighters. Then again, it may be the most effective weapon we have next to mustard gas, so maybe the Greeks didn't actually hide inside that Trojan horse after all.  Maybe they shoved it full of feta cheese, and the Trojans were forced to open the gates because of the stench. 

Maybe they were actually Fetanians and Homer got it all wrong in the Iliad.  He was probably drinking coffee when he wrote it.  

BUG INVASION

There's an invasion going on around here!  It's some kind of alien insect plot to take over the world.  The stink bugs and the ladybugs have banded together to cause mayhem, and they are doing a fine job of it.

The stink bugs have invaded my workplace.  I don't know if it's because I'm in a construction zone or because my room faces the woods, but these damn bugs cling to the window screens like monkeys to tree limbs.  Until recently, the windows didn't even have screens, so when the students see the stink bugs all over the windows, I usually just flick them away into oblivion … the bugs, not the children.  Occasionally a stink bug will wander into the classroom.  When this happens, even fearless smart-alecks jump onto desks and shriek like old women at a Josh Groban concert.  They know if anyone steps on, smooshes, or otherwise touches the bug, the smell will knock out nasal passages for miles.

The ladybugs have invaded my house.  I came home from work several days ago to find about a dozen of the charming little insects bouncing around from one surface to another, and flying around errantly as if this place were some kind of tropical playground. I believe that most of them have either been shooed outside or have simply keeled over from lack of attention.  There's nothing more depressing than stepping on the tiny shell of a dried up ladybug and hearing that teeny crunch underfoot.  One fell from the ceiling onto my hand while I was typing the other evening, and I damn-near jumped out of my own skin.  The poor little creature clung to my hand for dear life, and I, being the kindly sort, opened the front door and gently blew on it, encouraging it to fly.   To fly.  I said, FLY, you little shit!  Finally, I flicked the damn ladybug out into oblivion.  There's still one cavorting around, warming itself on the lampshade, hiding in the drapes, and basically being a little fucker by driving my nuts when it zooms by (which it did this second as I typed this sentence).

My friends are also bemoaning the insect invasion, particularly from the stink bugs.  It could be that we are seeing more bugs because of the incredibly mild winter we had last year.  It could be that we're just noticing them more for some reason.  Or it could be a cyclical thing, like the Great Gypsy Moth Invasion we had decades ago that caused perfectly sane people to wrap tin foil around tree trunks like strange, shimmering European Speedos. 

Maybe it's a precursor to a larger scale invasion, though.  Maybe, just maybe, these little buggers are taking over our homes so their larger, mutated brethren can take over the world!

It could happen.  I mean, it is an election year.  If that doesn't bring out the lowest and most voracious insects with their pinchers and stingers, not much else will.  Which leaves me one final question:  Out of the two major presidential candidates, which one is the ladybug and which one is the stink bug?  Don't let your brain go all buggy over it - After all, it's more of a rhetorical question.

PIE THIGHS

I went to the gym today.

This shouldn't be big news, but to me it is.  After several weeks of being in recovery mode from various ridiculous diseases and conditions, I have finally made it back to the Y three times in the last few weeks, doing exercise, cardio, weightlifting, and trying a couple of classes. 

As anybody who regularly reads my blog also knows, I am recovering from a broken ass cheek.  Okay, it was a pulled muscle or some such, but it felt like a broken ass cheek to me.  This I got from running on something other than the treadmill; I ran the tar track behind my old junior high school, the same track I couldn't run in seventh grade without hacking up a lung.  Cut me some slack - I'd never had gym before and never had to run the 600 before, so I started out at a sprint.

But I digress (like that's a surprise).

Taking exercise classes at the Y is a crapshoot.  I know this because I've done it for years.  I've also taken cardio-kickboxing at a real gym and spent a few years attempting judo and being tossed around as one of the Olympians' dummies before they went off to wherever it is they went off to -- Athens, Sparta, Corinth, and Megara.  (Note to self and others:  When scouting a new sport, try not to sign up at the Olympic training center, if you can avoid it, unless you don't have a fragile ego or, in my case, no ego whatsoever so it doesn't matter how much of a dumbass you look like).

(Shit, I digressed again.)

Classes at the Y are run by really nice, interesting people.  There's the cute little young'un with the soft voice who suddenly goes all Werewolves of London when the doors close, screaming like a possessed drill sergeant and scaring the piss out of the participants.  If she wants fifty squats, you might want to give her sixty in case she's still hungry.  There are two muscle conditioning teachers, one who has an obsession with squat jumps (talk about pulled gluts … no, maybe we shouldn't), and one who still thinks it's the 1980's and loves to grapevine and clap, reminding me that even the Marcarena has seen its last day.  There are also the two Pilates teachers, one who tortures us to roll into balls, and the other who thinks The Hundred is closer to The Hundred and Eighty.  But I'm kind of stretching the truth here.  You see, yes, these instructors really do these things, but they are truly effective trainers, they show up, they work as hard as we do, and I wouldn't trade any of them.  Well, maybe the Grapevine Lady because I can't dance to save my soul.

(Where the hell was I going with this, again?  Oh yeah, the gym.)

At my age, exercising is a necessary evil and an adrenaline rush.  Sure I eye the defibrillator somewhere around the middle of the class to make sure help is nearby, and sure when I'm out walking or running (a little bit) alone, I usually leave my phone behind and try to stay on main roads with a decent amount of traffic in case I keel over and need immediate medical assistance.  But the feeling I get when I leave the gym is one of triumph - I am winning the war on aging just a teeny bit, or so I wish to believe.

When people can't believe my age, I hope and pray it's because they think I look younger and not because they are in complete disbelief since they thought I was at least ten years well-beyond the number I've shared.  I ran this experiment yesterday at the bar with some work buddies, gauging their reactions when I fessed up that yes, I am over thirty.  (Okay, they got the real number, not the one divided by pi.)  I felt pretty good leaving there, and I don't even care if they were completely shit-faced, laughed behind my back, or high-fived each other for pulling a fast one on me.  I was happy, and that's pretty much what exercising is about.  Oh, that and flab.

(What the … honestly, can you say "space cadet"?  Sure you can; I knew you could.)

So, in conclusion, I … um … went to the gym, blah blah ass cheek, blah blah judo, blah blah werewolves dancing the Marcarena, blah blah old age, blah blah pi.  Pie?  PIE?!  With that thought, folks, I am going to find some sugar and undo all of the great things I sweated to do in the first place.   

(Christalmighty, one of these days I'm going to stay on topic.)  (No, I'm really not.)

LET THEM (TRY AND) EAT CAKE!

A piece of thirty-one-year-old cake from Prince Charles and Princess Diana's wedding is going to be auctioned off next month in Beverly Hills.  The cake has been "preserved," which probably means someone stuck it in the freezer and it's all ice-burnt to shit by now, but I'm reasonably certain that won't stop the festivities. 

Other then the obvious whackos and zealots, who else would be interested in a piece of royal wedding cake?  Should we tell bidders that the wedding didn't last?  That the bride bit the big one?  That Mr. Big Ears married Camilla the Commoner after the fact?

It is almost as surreal as OJ Simpson auctioning off the knife he used to commit two murders.  Didn't anyone, like maybe his lawyer, advise him against doing this since he hid the knife all this time and claims he did not actually kill anyone?  A jury of his peers already assured the world the that the gloves didn't fit; certainly someone would clue him in that producing and selling the actual murder weapon might not be his brightest strategic legal move.  What is it with people in Beverly Hills?

If the auction house had a brain in their marketing department, they would sell the cake and the knife as a matched set.   

 

HOW I BUSTED MY ASS

Thursday is gorgeous.  It is in the sixties, bright sunshine, clear blue sky - the kind of day that makes hooky sound tempting.  I decide when I get home from work, alas - I did not play hooky - to take a long walk, maybe even try running. 

Before I even embark on the tale, let me file two disclaimers: #1 I recently had another bout of pneumonia and I am starting to think my lungs cannot continue to recover fully from having the same infection so often, and #2 my butt muscle still hurts from when I pulled it running uphill through a thunderstorm at Salem State in August.  Swear to gawd, it really does, especially when I'm driving.  Every morning when I get to work, I try to get out of the car and my left butt-cheek at the top of my thigh hurts like it has a searing hot knife running through it.  I have decided that work gives me a pain in my ass.

I start walking, circumventing the gas station so I don't get distracted by Gas Station Attendant Man waving to me and saying, "How are you, my dear" as I plod on by in my spandex.  I walk around, down the street, behind stores, across the park, and find myself at the track.  Let me be perfectly honest, I assumed there would be junior football practice or soccer or field hockey or some other after-school activity that might prevent me from actually being able to use the track.  ("Too bad, so sad, no jogging today!") 

            There is no one on the track except a little old Asian woman, who stares at me over her shoulder with a scary evil eye as if I am a malcontent with intentions of robbing her or worse.  (Maybe she's the same lady who endlessly ran the track at Moakley Stadium in South Boston all those years ago during lacrosse games.)  I walk halfway around the track, put my sweatshirt and water bottle down, and start running.  I make it one full way around the track, lapping Asian Scary Woman in the process, and feel a slight twinge in my left ass cheek. 

            I decide to walk one turn around the track to see if it gets worse.  By the time I am back to my water, my thigh is moaning a little bit, but I am determined to run, so off I go again, another turn around the track, lapping Asian Scary Lady one more time.  I am three-quarters of the way around when I suddenly feel a ripping sensation, an agonizing pain in my ass.  I walk a few steps then finish my run to the bench, determined not to let any onlookers (the town offices and a school oversee the track) witness my Jog of Shame.

            At the bench, I grab a swig of water then do some make-believe stretches.  Surely this stupid butt muscle crap can't still be happening.  It has been about seven weeks since the original injury.  A pulled muscle … right?  As I am trying to work through the gripping, twisting, tightening pain, I begin to frightfully wonder, What if my butt never recovers?  What if my thigh muscle is weak forever?  Oh my God, I BROKE MY OWN ASS.

            I force myself to walk two and a half more miles, going way beyond where I should have before turning around to trek home.  I cut back through town, avoiding the frozen yogurt shop where some of my students might see me (seeing me is scary enough; seeing me in spandex could leave permanent scars on them), and checking out shop windows to see possible dresses for the weddings I have next fall (yes, I admit it, I actually liked the draped dress in the window, the one with the crystallized top like a shiny and torturous modernistic breast plate).  By the time I begin the descent that leads to my street, my damn gluteus maximus is in paineus maximus.

I limp to the house, start gathering laundry (my next big adventure), and crawl into the shower … when … the phone rings.  That's right, the old Let's Wait Until She's Covered With Soap, Shampoo, and Water Before Placing That Call  trick.  Walking home I saw the medevac helicopter on a low flight in the direction of the nearest hospital.  It flew over me on its way to Boston when I was standing in front of the house, and judging by the height of my landlord's home, I can honestly say that the helicopter was maybe one hundred feet over my head.  So when the phone rings and I am covered with soap, my mind goes right to the medevac and to my kids and to The Dark Place. 

I rapidly shut off the water, jump out of the tub, wipe my hands on a towel, and grab the phone.  "Hello!"  I yell into the phone.  I am greeted with silence.  After about ten seconds, why I am still holding the line open I've no idea, I hear, "Hi, this is Ben from the Epilepsy Foundation ---"  My finger slips across the button, but it hits its mark.  CLICK.  Is he even kidding me right now?  There is conditioner in my eyes, the shower curtain is flying all over the place, and there are soap bubbles all over my cordless phone.

A few minutes later, I am clean, dry, and my ass cheek is still screaming at me, but I convince myself this is what exercise is all about; this is progress!  I eat pasta and drink milk and think healthy thoughts of how great my ass cheek will look if it ever, ever stops throbbing.  I continue with this delusion for about, oh, sixty seconds (okay, I go about three hours) before heading to the bathroom in search of drugs.  Four hundred plus milligrams of Naproxen later, I decide that the only way I'm going to feel any better is with a frozen pomegranate acai margarita.

Exercise for the body is a wonderful thing, and suffering for health is truly noble, but the way I figure it is that Man created self-medication for a reason and God created pomegranates, so there must be something to it.  Besides, all this thinking is getting to me.  Quite frankly, it's a pain in my ass.

IT'S GETTING HOT IN HERE ... NOT

Okay, I think I've had it.  

My last apartment had a furnace that would set off all the smoke alarms the first time it came on for the season, and it would fill the basement with smoke.  Once a year the fire department would be there - every fall - like clockwork.  I also went through two hot water heaters.

My current townhouse has gone through two hot water heaters, too, and the furnace has broken down no less that twenty times since I moved in.  It was re-set the other day, but it has since shit the bed yet again.

Now the question remains:  Do I continue to bother my landlords to find a way to fix the furnace, or do I throw in the towel and admit defeat while crowning the a-hole furnace "Winner"?

I FEEL THE EARTH MOVE UNDER MY FEET

I am sitting at the kitchen table, grading papers and minding my own business, when I notice the noise from the townhouse next to me.  It sounds like there is a whole parcel of kids jumping around having a hootenanny, and the floor starts to shake so hard that the walls are even creaking.

There is a grumbling sound as bodies smash around on the other side of the wall, and the noise and movement are more violent than I'm used to.  I briefly wonder if perhaps this isn't children but some kind of escalating domestic dispute.  I stand up, walk into the den, and put my ear against the wall.

As quickly as it starts, everything ceases.  It is eerily silent next door.  I suck in my lower lip and wonder if everyone is okay in the adjoining townhouse or if anyone is dead on the floor because the entire house is now completely still.  I am mulling over the thought of maybe going over, knocking on the door, and making sure everything is all right.  Or maybe I should go get my landlord and make him check it all out.

I decide that it's probably better to pretend I'm dumb.  I will be the Sgt. Schultz of neighbors: "I know NOTHING!" 

It isn't until my friend calls me ten minutes later that I realize what the noise was and what an idiot I am.

SHE:  Did you feel the earthquake?
ME:  Earthquake?  What ... oh ... OHHHHHH.
SHE:  Oh what?
ME:  Oh ... nothing.  It's just that I thought my neighbors had been murdered.  Glad to know it was just a normal seismic event.

The epicenter is about ninety miles north of here, right where my sister is attending  a meeting.  When I finally reach her, she says wryly, "Well, that's one way to get people to join the committee.  We can tell them they'll feel the earth move."

I've only experienced one earthquake before, and it was a minor-sized roller.  I lived in a basement apartment, and the floor wavered as if I were suddenly walking on a small wave.  It was kind of cool, a strange yet unforgettable feeling that I found neither perplexing nor worrisome.  This one, though, was a shaker.  I didn't care for this one so much.  I will say this - I have no desire whatsoever to experience anything like that on a larger magnitude scale.  You people in Cali are freakin' nuts in your heads.

By the way:  October 17th, 1989, this exact day 23 years ago, was the earthquake in California that stopped Game 3 of the World Series between Oakland and SanFran.

I'm just saying.

ANOTHER DAY IN PARADISE

I am infatuated with the guy who pumps my gas.  No, no, no.  Not in love with the guy; just infatuated. 

When I stop to get gas, he smiles and greets me and says, "How are you doing, my dear?"  I know as I admit this that every feminist whacko out there is rolling in her Jimmy Choos or her Army/Navy military-issue camouflage steel-toed shit-kickers, because lord knows there isn't a feminist in the world who would be caught dead wearing sensible shoes.  But, damnit, I like the way he talks to me.  I like that he calls me "my dear" and not "dearie."  It takes decades off my actual age with that simple greeting.

Before he even starts pumping the gas for me (which I also like), he says, "Another day in Paradise, right?"  It doesn't matter if it's sunny, raining, snowing, or whether flowers are blooming or bombs are exploding or the sky is falling.  He is happy, everyone should be happy, and since we all apparently woke up breathing this morning, then it truly is another day in Paradise.

Sometimes when I drive by the station he spots my car, smiles, and waves.  If this happens first thing in the morning on my commute to work, it makes my whole day better.  No matter how rotten a morning I'm having, regardless of the disasters that have occurred even before I leave my driveway, if the guy who pumps my gas waves to me while I'm sitting at the light, I know my day is going to be fine.  It's like being knighted for the day:  "I hereby dub thee Another Day in Paradise … by osmosis!"

Now before you think I'm having some kind of mad affair with the (presumably) married gas station guy, let me point out that he calls all of the female patrons "my dear," and he exclaims to everyone that it's just "another day in Paradise."   And yes, if I'm truthful, I have seen him wave to other cars.  I know in my heart that he isn't a one-vehicle kind of guy.  He's very altruistic with the sharing of his good mood, and I deeply I admire him for that.

But if I'm going to be really, really truthful, he is the man all women wish they could find:  He's handy, he's attentive, he's flirtatious without being crude, he knows what women want and need, and he is willing to do all the work and with a smile on his face.  With gas prices where they are right now, he may well be the guy with the Midas touch.

I just had him fill the gas tank this morning; I think I'll go drive around for a few hours and hours and hours.  If you're looking for me later, I'll be at the station parked at the pumps.  You can't miss me - I'll be the one blushing while handing over my credit card.