Thursday, July 31, 2014

RELIVING THE ADVENTURE



My old computer's memory is just about spent, so it is time to get rid of some of the paperwork I have clogging up the techno-file folders.  The lion's share of this computerized filing system belongs to the blog and the back-log of blog entries written and published but never stored anywhere.  I need to finish transferring this stuff to Cyber-Land, and I'm months and months behind in doing so.

While revisiting the madcap adventures I've had since January, it also appears to be a torturous exercise in futility and despair.  You see, these recent files hold the saga of my thesis being lost.  The first time it is lost, it isn't really a big deal.  My first reader, who is also my thesis advisor, hands me the edits and instructs me on how to proceed, albeit two weeks later than she receives the manuscript. 

The problem with this whole proceeding thing?  She fails to print out, edit, or even read the last 40 pages.  Seriously.  More than 31% of my entire thesis is missing … and my advisor doesn't even notice.  That tells me two things: Either my thesis is so good that she doesn't even realize she's 40 pages short in her reading; or, more probable, she didn't read bullshit.

My second reader, the one who was supposed to have it all read and set to go, the one holding up the entire production --  He doesn't even bother to read it.  Sure, my thesis arrived in plenty of time, two weeks to spare before the deadline, but he emails me back that there is no way he is going to read my thesis in 24 hours, as if that is MY fault.  Dude had two weeks.  Whose frigging fault is this?  More bullshit.

Printing out these tales of woe this afternoon while deleting computer files, I start reliving the nightmarish end of my last graduate school semester.  It was horrible; it was awful; it just about sent me to the insane asylum.

However, there are some rays of goodness in it all.  In between the ranting and the spitting and the pitch forks, I get to spend time with two wonderful women with whom I had, before this partnership, a casual, see-you-at-grad-school relationship.  Thanks to the power of good timing and bad advising, these two wonderful women rally around me and talk me off the ledge.  Okay, they talk me off the ledge more than once.  Truly, we rally around each other and talk each other off many ledges in the course of our directed study thesis writing fiascoes.  

Today while sorting and pitching, I re-read the tales of the coffee houses we invade, our preparation to present our theses and writing and research, our half-drunken practice session where I cannot decide what to read and suddenly open to the most gut-wrenching part of my thesis, and soon we are all bawling our eyes out.  I re-encounter the presentation and the dinner afterward, hanging around Salem Beer Works, and the rejoicing that goes on because we all presented, all three of us, even though only one of us has actually finished and had her thesis approved at the time.

Since then I've received my transcript and received my degree.  It doesn't un-sour the bitterness I hold against my second reader, an asshole of a creative writing teacher who is supposedly an acclaimed poet but couldn't "verse" himself out of a blank page if it bit his left ass cheek off and spit it back at him with completely written poetry carved into the buttock. 

The one thing reliving this adventure via my old blog entries has done, though, is remind me just how deeply I miss my thesis mates.  One has been very busy with her own family this summer, and the other has been off in Germany trying to have a vacation and finish her thesis all at the same time.  I've let my writing go a bit without their support.  Honestly, I've kept blogging and doing a little writing on the side, but anything thesis related has been off limits.  Today is the first day I've been able to open, let alone read, any of my thesis since I filed it in May.  I needed to walk away from it for nearly ten weeks, it was that horrifying an end to the entire experience.

When my writing mates can reconvene, we will get back together and do something wonderful.  A couple of the times when we got together, we couldn't write, physically were unable to, and once we even played with clay-like foam because writing our theses had reduced us to gibberish.  We were like newly-broken mental patients with every symptom except the drooling.  Okay, maybe I drooled a little.  I was reasonably rabid toward the end.

I wish my memory were as easily erased as my computer's.  I wish I could edit the last few weeks of grad school to be more satisfying and magnificent, to be full of the glee and cheer graduates are supposed to feel, to be able to walk across the stage instead of being told I'd need special dispensation because Asshole-Poet-Boy refused to do his job and because my advisor, though I respect her, claimed to have read my entire thesis when she really only saw 67% of it.

Whatever.  I'm over it now.  My degree is in my hot little hands and my thesis has been jettisoned to the techno-cloud.  The next time my writing mates call, I'll arrive with a fresh notebook and a new set of pens.  I have faced the files, and they didn't hurt.  Well, not much, anyway.  Like yanking a bandaid off without a second thought -- a quick intake of breath, a stabbing pain, but then instant recovery. 

I'm ready, ladies.  Text me; I'm truly ready.


Wednesday, July 30, 2014

TRIVIA WIN

Tonight I attend trivia.

This is not my usual night, not my usual watering hole, not my usual format, and not my usual team.  This is a small team made up of my daughter and son-in-law and their friends.

Luckily, tonight's rounds are inclusive of many, many things, and , since we are a ragtag organization, our team has just the right combination of knowledge base.  We finish with a score that is 5 points higher than the nearest team.

The win doesn't mean anything except that now we have to defend our crown next Tuesday, if we are available.  We also get some Harpoon Brewery sawg.

So next time you ask yourself, "Who the hell cares what famous actress shares her first and last name with Shakespeare's wife?", the correct answer is Anne Hathaway.  (I believe the 1500's Hathaway was older than The Bard and also knocked up at the time of the nuptials, but that wasn't part of the question.) 

Some day when you least expect it, knowledge like this might earn you a brand new drinking glass, a bottle opener, and a koozie. 

You're welcome.

Tuesday, July 29, 2014

HONESTLY TIRED

I'm going to be honest:

I AM TIRED.

In the last ten days I have walked/run two mud-filled 5k's, gone on several regular walks, attended trivia (a different one than usual), went grocery shopping at places other than Market Basket, swam at an impromptu pool party, headed into Boston for the Seafood Festival in the pouring rain, and moved around the supplies, furniture, and hundreds of textbooks in my temporary classroom.

Tuesday is full of all kinds of other activities: Drop the car at the mechanic, pick up a rental, then celebrate son's 21st birthday, which means I have to bake a cake and he has to get a haircut, pose for new license, get new license, have some cake, then go buy a drink (maybe not in that exact order).  Oh yeah, and I have to return the rental at some point.

On top of all that, the weather has been somewhat uncooperative.  Yes, it rained buckets on the Seafood Festival, but we've also had a microburst take out the tree behind the house, and I've been caught in four thunderstorms (not a fan).  Several of these storms spawned tornado warnings (and a tornado southeast of here that touched down in a shoreline community).  This unsettled weather makes me unsettled, and I don't like the clammy humidity that makes me sweat even when it's not that hot out.  I also discovered (as rain blew into my classroom) that the only way to shut the windows in the new room is to stand on the sill and ride the windows shut ala Spiderman on a glass elevator.

Oh sure, I still have several recent adventures to recount in the blog, adventures that I need to capture before they get lost in the jumble of other things, like sorting school files and getting ready for the class I have to take prior to school starting in a few weeks.  And there will be more adventures because I have a few more beach trips in me, I'm sure, and everywhere I go, crazy shit sticks to me like that rubbery white paste we used to throw at each other (and occasionally some geek would eat) in art class in elementary school.

But, in the meantime, I'm damn tired.  I'm thinking I have a day of snoozing coming on soon.  It should make for an interesting blog. Zzzzzzzz.  Seriously, you know me -- even when sleeping, I'm sure I can come up with something.  With my luck, the smoke detectors will all go off at the same time (has happened), or the neighbors will try having a hibachi fire inside their tent in the backyard (also has happened), or the auto repair shop will have a car fire and all the other car alarms will start beeping (also has happened). 

Like I said, crazy shit sticks to me, and, even though it makes me tired, it does make for a damn fine tale.


Monday, July 28, 2014

TRACTOR TRACTION

Question:  How many men does it take to rescue a ride-on lawnmower?

Oh, the trouble into which we get ourselves.  Oh, the lengths to which we will go in order to conceal the trouble into which we get ourselves.

I answer a phone call the other day from a friend.  Her voice isn't what I would categorize as frantic, but she is definitely worried with a tinge of anxiety peppered with a hint of desperation.  She would like to borrow my youngest for a quick chore, more of an assistance, actually.  Unfortunately, youngest is on his way to a weekend lacrosse tournament as a coach, and he has two minutes to get out of the house, hit the highway, and make his way to the rendezvous spot on the way to Stowe, Vermont.

This information does not appease my pal, so I urge her to clue me in; perhaps I can help.  It turns out she was mowing close to her garage when the ride-on mower rolled a little too far down a small embankment.  The tractor is now wedged on a concrete curb.

Before anyone passes judgment here, I will point out two very important facts:
#1.  The concrete is actually rounded, so it's more like a steep ramp;
#2.  This friend recently had her entire knee replaced and may have over-trusted the new knee just a tad.

Anyway, when she tells me the lawnmower has gotten hung up on the curb, I instantly worry that she means her front curb.  I picture her being tossed from an errant tractor, sprawled into the street within an inch of her life, and I am now the one in a panic.  Of course, I am not going to let on that I am upset for her, so I instruct her to stop trying to move the tractor and go do something else, have some juice or something, and assure her that I will be right there to help.  I rush Coach Boy out the door with barely a fond farewell, and rush even more to rip through the four miles that separate my home from hers.

As I round the bend near her driveway, I note that no tractor appears to be slipping down the short but steep area in front of her house, nor do I see the tractor teetering toward the road.  This means that she is not lying half-squished in the street.  Perhaps the lawn mower is on the other side of her house or at the bottom of her yard's good-sized hill.  Or maybe --

I pull into her driveway and see it.    Half-on and half-off the front curb by her walkway that leads to her door sits the tractor.  It seems like it should be able to drive right down the convex concrete, and this would be mostly true if it weren't for the mower blades.  The blades seem to be stuck on the paved part of the area.

I am as relieved to see that the situation is not dire as I am amused to see that the situation is not dire.

The sight of her predicament sends me into a fit of howling laughter, but only because I can tell she is probably not hurt.  The sound of my howling laughter brings my friend from behind her garage where she has been working in another part of the yard, obeying my suggestion that she leave the mower until I get there.  I am sorry for laughing, but my friend admits that this is the first moment she has smiled about the debacle since it happened nearly an hour ago.  Chalk up points for we optimists.

My friend would like to see some resolution before her neighbors get home.  If they see what has happened, they will probably do several things, not the least of which is berate her for trying to rescue the tractor while she is still recovering from knee surgery.  I can see from the position of everything that she has already managed to get the blades up as high as they will go, and that she has maneuvered the mower into a straight shot over the ramp-like curb. However, the curb's slope is stopping her from rolling the tractor the rest of the way over.  The front wheels are down on the driveway; the back wheels are up on the walkway above the curb.

We are intelligent women.  I have great confidence that we can solve this conundrum.

(My bad photography - Tractor is on the curved portion of this curb.)
After a couple of minutes of consultation, we agree that we need to lift the front tires to less of a severe angle and maybe, just maybe the rest of the tractor will follow, completing the trip over the curb.  My friend grabs some wood then says, "The mower is too heavy.  We might not be able to lift it."

Nonsense.  We are smart, strong women.  Oh, yes, and we don't want the neighbors to see this.  So we set about lifting the tractor's front end.  My first attempt does not go well.  It's not so much that the sucker is heavy (and, believe me, it is very heavy), but it's more of an awkward sense of where to support the machine so we can lift it.

The second attempt goes very well.  We manage to get one of the large pieces of wood wedged under the front tires.  Then, to cut down the drop the rest of the tractor will take, we add a second piece of wood to the first so that the tractor's descent will be less of an angle, hopefully high enough to prevent the blades from scraping again.

My friend sits on the tractor and starts it.  Slowly (like the Three Stooges going to Niagara Falls) the tractor moves its way forward, completely free, completely fine, none the worse for the wear.  Best of all, the neighbors (unless they read this blog) will never know what has happened.

We celebrate with tall glasses of ice water, then my friend heads out to continue mowing her yard and I head toward a luncheon date with a work friend.  Within a minute, we have returned equilibrium to the universe.  Except for my loud laughter when pulling into the driveway, no one might even suspect that there was ever anything out of the ordinary to start with, even though for us things like this are our normalcy.

Therefore, let's revert our attention to the original question:  How many men does it take to rescue a ride-on lawnmower?

Answer:  NONE because girls rule.

Sunday, July 27, 2014

DEMOULAS-MARKET BASKET DEBACLE

Whatever your thoughts might be regarding the Market Basket fiasco, I am certainly willing to concede that you have a right to your opinion.  (Of course, this isn't your blog.)

That being said, I suppose full disclosure will force me to admit that I am a former employee of both DeMoulas and Market Basket, and that I have worked for them three or four times in two different locations.  My late husband was taken under their umbrella when he got hired at a local country club, one of the DeMoulas' holdings, after his long-time job was lost when his former employer's company was seized by the IRS.  I went to school with one of the DeMoulas kids and have attended a party at their home.  My youngest has played college lacrosse against
one of the DeMoulas clan.

If you've lived in the Merrimack Valley, there's a superior chance that you know, are related to, have worked for or know someone who has worked for the DeMoulas family in some capacity at some point in their career.  A couple of my siblings put in DeMoulas/Market Basket time, as well.

Here's what I will tell you:  The company does right by their employees, or did, at least, until June 23, 2014, when the continued hostile takeover ousted popular CEO Arthur T. DeMoulas.

I'm sure you've all heard about us up here in New England.  The fallout from this fight has made national and, in some cases, international news. 
This fight isn't about wages or raises or working conditions or stock options or profit sharing or benefits.  It can't be -- This is a non-union, privately owned, family business.  But, and this is a huge point, make no mistake: This IS Big Business.  This is a multi-billion dollar corporation.

The incredible loyalty of the employees in 71 stores across three New England states speaks volumes to the way they were treated up until
June 23rd and the way they have been treated since.  The shockingly amazing loyalty of the customer base supporting the employees is unprecedented.

Many people think the employees should shut up and get back to work because the customers are being inconvenienced and other people are happy to take the employees' jobs.  My response to you people?  SHUT THE HELL UP.

No, truly.  Shut up.

YOU are part of the problem.  With attitudes like yours, we might as well go back to the days before there were labor laws and minimum wage and required breaks for people working six hours or more at a clip because some other sucker will come along and do the job for cheaper
or longer or faster.  Hey, why don't we just give all the jobs to the wave of illegals coming in, right?  Why bother giving insurance to people?  let's make them all work just enough hours to keep people uninsured and in poverty, right?  I mean, who cares?  Certainly not you.

Here's what I can tell you.  The new board brought in by the hostile takeover is made up of people who specialize in bringing companies to
their knees, liquidating holdings, and making millions per board member.  One of the new people is guaranteed $17,000,000 even if (and maybe especially if) the company falters and dissolves.  One of the CEO's is from Radio Shack.  RADIO SHACK.  Yup, let's put a multi-billion dollar grocery corporation at the mercy of the idiot who ruined Radio Shack.

My prediction if Arthur T. DeMoulas is not reinstated, or if his offer to buy out the corporation fails to come to fruition:  The new regime will claim all of this boycott as a tax loss, will sell off their holdings, will destroy three generations worth of hard work, and the Bad Cousin who staged the coup will walk away 4.6 billion dollars richer.

HE DOES NOT GIVE A DAMN ABOUT YOU AS A
CUSTOMER.

Do you understand?  He doesn't care about you or the workers.  He cares about money in his pocket. HIS pocket, not his cousins', not his children's, not his siblings', and most certainly not his customers' pockets.  HIS POCKET.

The managers this new regime has fired?  Life-long employees.  I worked with and for some of these people -- Rockwell, Lacourse... The warehouse people this new regime has fired?  Dedicated employees.

So, go ahead.  Go shop at the current Market Basket if that's the kind of person you are.  It's your right.  But please, unless you've worked for this corporation when it had integrity (before 6/23/14), unless you know
any of the fired people personally, unless you've ever worried about having a job or providing benefits for your family or, god forbid, your spouse gets sick and dies and the corporation offers you a life insurance payout anyway that wasn't in place because your spouse hadn't been with the corporation long enough -- Unless these things have happened to you, just shut the fuck up about the Market Basket debacle.

For the rest of us, SUPPORT THE BOYCOTT.  Please.  Stand up and show support for an ousted CEO who loves and respects his workers, his company, and his community, and they (and we) respect him in return.

(All pictures taken at Chelmsford Market Basket at noon on Saturday 7/26/14.)





Saturday, July 26, 2014

MUD PACK SATURDAY

Saturday is becoming Mud Pack Day.  Last Saturday I participated in the Dirty Girl Mud Run 5k, and this Saturday I am signed up for the LoziLu Mud Run 5k.

Lest you mistake me for an athlete, let me just say that I'm in decent shape.  If the Zombie Apocalypse were to happen, I would be able to outrun the zombies for a block or two.  After about 200 yards, though, zombies or no, I've had enough of running.  A zombie would have to meet me at the corner as it will have shuffled and caught up to me, and I'd be still catching my breath when it shimmies up next to me to bite my face off.

These two mud runs are for women participants only, all abilities levels and all shapes and sizes.  In short, it's my kind of health event.  I know that most of these events are self-prospering sponsors and that they are in it for the almighty dollar, but at least some of the money from both races will be going to cancer research of various kinds.  Besides, it's all about fun. camaraderie, some healthy stuff, and scraping mud out of my eyes, ears, navel, and scalp for days and days afterward.

I'll give you the lowdown on both races eventually, but for now I will say that there is no way my sneakers will make it home after this race.  I'll donate them to the recycled sneaker pile as I leave the Bolton Fairgrounds, knowing that not only have I made a difference but my footwear has, as well.

Happy Saturday, everybody.  Here's mud in your eye... or mud in my eye, as the case may be.

Friday, July 25, 2014

ADVENTURES IN KAYAKING



My sister and her husband have the brilliant idea of inviting me to go kayaking with them.  I love them for this because I have always wanted to try kayaking.  I've paddled a blow-up raft; loved it.  I've paddled a canoe; loved it.  I've paddled a row boat; loved it.  I've long suspected that I will love kayaking, too.  I also love them for inviting me because this means that they tolerate being seen with me in public, or, at least, being seen with me on a remote lake in the middle of the woods.  So, when they ask, I jump at the opportunity.

I plan to meet them in New Hampshire at a mid-sized lake that is an hour drive for each of us.  We make lists of what to bring, but my list is short because they won't let me bring anything, not even my lunch. 

A little side note about our family's penchant for list-making.  People think we make lists because we are OCD.  It is exactly the opposite.  We are DCO -- Disturbingly Careless Organizers.  This DCO condition has led my siblings and me to make lists, lots of them, to make sure we don't get sieve-brain and forget something important (like a child or two or three).  DCO has also made my siblings and me slightly OCD in our own ways, as well.  I guess that makes us the DCO-OCD List Maker Clan.

My sister and I phone each other to plan the meeting point as if we are Colonel Chamberlain strategizing how to hold on to Little Round Top at Gettysburg.  We bring up maps and websites and finally decide to meet in the parking lot of the Raymond, NH Wal-Mart at 9:30 a.m. 

I Mapquest the entire ride.  It looks like forty-five minutes for me.  I plan accordingly and give myself a ten minute buffer.  The morning of the trip, I set my GPS, expecting similar results.  Unfortunately, my GPS tells me I'm an hour away from the meeting spot.  Crap.  I've given myself fifty-five minutes.  If I'm going to make it on time, I'm going to have to haul ass.  I do the last minute list-check of everything I need, which amounts to sunscreen and a change of clothes in case I fall in the lake.  I also throw in a towel and a plastic bag in case I fall in the lake.  The camera stays home, though, in case I fall in the lake.

I hit some traffic, not much, though, for an early morning weekday of back road travel, but the trip is not without its quirks.  There are lights, possibly a mile or so apart, and after each light, the speed limit goes to 55 mph.  All of a sudden, just as I'm getting into the groove, the limit drops to 40 mph, and there's a traffic light.  Stop, start, repeat; 55 mph to 40 mph to dead stop.  I feel like I'm playing that old kids' game Red Light, Green Light only I'm playing it against the state of New Hampshire.  Worst part is that I seem to be losing.

Finally my GPS, who is Scottish comedian Billy Connolly, instructs me to turn right … turn right … TURN RIGHT.  I'm nervous because I suddenly see not one but two police cars cruising the parking lot where I am about to grab a remote space.  I pass the little strip mall to the right and pull into the massive parking lot to the left.  I see the large concrete building with the familiar blue sign on top, and I park at the end with the garden center, but I park way out.  I have a great spot and can see anyone pulling into the lot.

I text my sister to tell her I'm going to run into Wal-Mart and use the bathroom before we go kayaking.  If I can avoid peeing on a remote island out in the middle of the lake, that would probably be a grand idea.  I enter the store and immediately notice that it is set up like a warehouse, complete with extra high ceilings and large steel girders.  Unusual set up for a Wal-Mart, to be sure, but not exactly unique.  The Methuen store is inside an open warehouse, as well, except that one is a dump compared to this one.  I also notice that they have appliances and a few other things, and I marvel that this looks more like Home Depot than Wal-Mart.

I ask an associate to point me in the direction of the restrooms, and she politely steers me toward the front wall.  As I walk into the alcove, I see two water fountains with the clearly written logo and name LOWES. 

Lowes?  Lowes!  How the hell did I not notice that this is Lowes and not Wal-Mart? 
I immediately take out my phone and text my sister, "I'm parked at Loews.  Ooops." 

The only problem with this text message is that I am not wearing my glasses.  Unbeknownst to me, I text my sister, "Ik pRklrf Lodea.  Poops."  I quickly use the facilities then rush back out to my car to retrieve my glasses.  I make phone corrections and explain via text that the Lowes parking lot is the first big lot she and her husband will see when they pull into the plaza.  Wal-Mart is nowhere to be seen and is probably around the corner down the secluded street across from Lowes. 

The Lowes lot, as I discovered when I pulled in, appears to be the haven for the local police -- all two of them.  I'm leaving the car here for safety, security, and out of sheer laziness.  My kayak hosts arrive, carrying three kayaks on a trailer behind them.  We reorganize my few belongings from my car to their SUV, and we are off in search of Lake Pawtuckaway.

The trip to the lake isn't far from the rendezvous spot, and we discover that even though we arrive a little later than planned, the lot for the kayak launch is empty except for one car that is parked and one car that is down the short trail at the launch site's shore.  Before we even unload the trailer, we hear a loon, apparently a perturbed loon, screeching at the woman at the car on the shore.  We decide to carry the kayaks down ourselves, hoping to avoid pissing the loon off any more than it already appears to be.

Once we are all geared up and put in all three kayaks, I am pleased to discover that I can balance and paddle myself around pretty easily.  I am having a grand old time and an even grander one when my brother-in-law informs me that I have the paddles upside down.  Duh.  Oh, well.  First timer, right?  Thankfully my paddling improves once I have been corrected; I was afraid it might get worse.

The lake is huge.  When we were kids, our father brought us to Lake Pawtuckaway many times to swim at the small beach they have.  As an adult, I once boated this lake with friends.  I am surprised, though, that there are no motor boats out on the lake and that there are signs in many places warning against wakes.  Rocks protrude out of the lake like volcanoes in the Ring of Fire. I start wondering how we ever managed to tool around the lake tubing, or, perhaps, it was my imagination or I'm mistaken or my brain has just gone soft.

I have a terrible sense of direction.  As we pass the ledge where the rock climbers go, I note that it is to my right, over my shoulder, and that hopefully I can find it again if I get lost on the lake.  After all, I completely forgot to make note of where we came in or note any landmarks as I do when I'm driving. 

Paddling along, we decide to go left which means kayaking under a low, narrow bridge with lots of rocks jutting out of the water.  My sister insists that I will be able to navigate the shallows.  I'm worried.  What if I scrape the rocks?  What if I damage the rudder?  What if I lose the paddles?  And worse, what if I hit the embankment and make a total ass out of myself?  None of these things happens, and I make it through with little trouble. 

We start exploring the lake, easily losing our sense of direction as we go around islands and pass different campgrounds and the public beach where we used to go as kids.  Pretty soon we are out in more open water, in and out of inlets and coves, and getting ourselves completely and blissfully lost. 

Lunch time rolls around, and everything has been carefully packed in the watertight holds in the kayaks.  We pull up to an island that turns out to be part of the campground, and we secure a picnic table that's in an uninhabited site.  Sandwiches come out, snacks are passed around, and everything is going well.  Until…

The duck arrives. 

Oh, it's a cute little son-of-a-gun, but it is very bold.  It runs right at our picnic table with malintent (yeah, I know it's slang; sue me).  We shoo it away and it disappears into the woods for a second or two before returning, bolder and faster than before.  This happens two more times, then it returns with its pals.  Honest to goodness, we are being threatened by a duck and its homies.  We are being chased out by a gang of feathered waterfowl.  We finish eating, clean up all of our scraps and trash, and I successfully attempt to get back in the kayak without dumping myself into the lake.

My brother-in-law goes ahead of us toward the dam while my sister and I have kayak races to see who can get going faster.  I'm still having some trouble with this whole rudder thing, occasionally spacing out and turning the wrong way so that I come dangerously close to smashing into her as if we are on the bumper cars at Canobie Lake Park.  My arms need a rest, and I am too tired to join the dam adventure (not the damn adventure), so I watch from afar. 

When we all reconvene, I am rested and ready to continue around the lake, which is rather large for a novice kayaker.  This is when there is some debate about the navigational prowess of each one of us, and there is some trepidation about our ability to do anything more than paddle around in circles like the Flying Dutchman.  I insist that the rock face, which I can see off in the distance, should be to my left.  No one actually believes this because I usually cannot find my way out of a paper bag with a map and head lamp.  I'm insistent that this is true, though, and soon we hear the voices of beach-goers.  We are still up to more kayaking, but at least now we know where we are.

We are remarkably sociable for people who would rather be alone and not have humanity bother us.  We are what many outsiders label "Flypaper for Freaks."  If there's an odd or disturbed person in a crowd, that person will single us out and hone in on us with SCUD missile accuracy and velocity.  These episodes often leave us whining, "Why me?  Why is it always me?" 

On the flipside, my sister and I will talk to anybody and everybody: cashiers, passers-by, drivers at red lights, foreigners.  Heck, I'll bet we've even been caught talking to roadkill, so we should probably not wonder so much why weirdos gravitate toward us; we truly do bring it on ourselves.  True to our inner nature, we wave to and talk to everyone we pass -- campers, fishermen, canoeists, kayakers, boaters (who show up tentatively and quietly, leaving little to no wakes).  Who knows?  Maybe it is we who are the freaks and the rest of humanity is the flypaper.

Before we head in for the day, nearly four hours after we started, we cruise around the back side of the lake, scaring turtles off logs, sending a family of ducklings into the reeds, watching fish jump right up out of the water only to splash down again right near us.  When we get back to the canoe and kayak launch, someone is attempting to put a boat into the water.  I'm not entirely certain that this is the boat launch.  As a matter of fact, I'm pretty certain it's not.  We must wait and wait and wait as the two people attempt to put the small motor boat in.  Mercifully two other kayakers help the men get the boat into the very shallow, very rocky water.

While we wait for this scene to wrap up, we notice the loon, probably the one we heard screaming earlier before we unloaded the trailer, paddling near us in the water.  It lets my brother-in-law get within about six feet, and it never makes a sound nor shows any distress.  Lazily it moves into the reeds of a small tuft of island and positions itself on the edge of the dirt, watching us as if it couldn't care any less that we have invaded its space.  This loon keeps us circling the area for the entire time Frick and Frack attempt to launch their Gilligan's Island special.

Finally, it's our turn at the shore.  My sister and her husband leave me at the edge of the water to guard the remaining kayaks when they lug one to the parking lot and prep the trailer for reloading.  The young man who stays with the floating motor boat begins a conversation with me while a lit cigarette hangs from his mouth.  He is a former soldier, or so he says, who has served in Iraq and Afghanistan.  He is remarkably thin, almost frail, and I'm thinking that even with his military service vs. my limited judo experience, I could probably take him and have him face first in the shallows of the lake before his trusty companion returns to the boat from the upper lot.  He tells me all about his life in New Jersey and how he never wants to go back to New Jersey (and who could blame him because lord knows I don't ever want to go back there, either) and how he is divorced and how hard it was to put the boat in the water (yes, we watched you attempt it for nearly thirty minutes) and on and on.  Before we lift the last of the kayaks toward the short trail, I know more about this young man than I do about most of my own relatives, and I'm ashamed to admit it but I will, I swear I hear banjos playing the theme song from Deliverance while I wait alone with him.

Once we are all repacked and ready to go, we hit the road and head back toward Lowes, our accidental starting point.  On the way, we pull into a gas station mini-mart so my brother-in-law can grab something to drink and so that my sister and I can use the bathroom.  It dawns on us that we have not peed since well before 9:30, five hours earlier, and we're not sure we can wait the short trek back to the store.  We're fine, really, well, almost really. 

Inside the ladies' room, we erupt into a fit of giggles and suddenly realize we're going to wet our pants if we don't stop laughing and do what we're here to do.  We are still laughing as we emerge from the side of the building, probably attracting stares from people driving down the road with their windows open, but we're used to it.  That's how it is when we spend too much time together; everything is damn funny and we start acting like we're kids again.  Honestly, I don't know how the rest of the relatives, especially relatives new to our family, can possibly tolerate our nonsense.

In the parking lot of Lowes we exchange our fake air kisses and do the semi-hug thing our family does.  Sometimes we attempt to have serious goodbyes, but then we dissolve into our usual Gene Wilder-like "Good luck, Bart" repertoire.  In our family, no good-bye is too cheesy.  Ever.

Besides, this isn't really goodbye.  My sister and I will be meeting up with our two brothers and their families in Pennsylvania in a couple of weeks.  The trip is going to be fun, it's going to mean a lot of highway potty stops if we laugh too hard, and it's going to involve a cooler full of processed cheese, ice waters, and deli meat sandwiches.

Best of all, though, it's a trip that will generate a shitload of twisted fodder for the blog.  Another brilliant idea! So …  Let the freaks out -- the fly paper is taking a road trip; kayaks optional … this time.

Thursday, July 24, 2014

POST #700

I have a couple of blog posts in the works, and I am prepping to upload one of them when I notice something:

According to the blog data, I have 699 blogs in the bag.

I have been blogging every day for 699 days in a row.  Sometimes these are long posts; sometimes these are short posts; sometimes they're funny; sometimes they're serious. 

The flipside of all of this is that every day for the past 700 days, I have found something, no matter how short nor lengthy, to say.

According to the stats on the site, I am getting an average of 52 reads a day. That's astounding for a public blog with no self-promotion other than word of mouth or Facebook.

I am going to try and market some of these woeful tales eventually.  For the time being, though, I am still wallowing in the aftermath of doing battle over my thesis and the final deferral of my degree that took three years of constant motion to accomplish.

Today may be a short blog entry, but it's also a sweet blog entry.  Thanks to all of you, today means:

HAPPY 700, BLOG!

{We will resume our regular programming tomorrow.}

YOU PEOPLE TOTALLY ROCK! 

Wednesday, July 23, 2014

SUMMER OPTIMISM

My summer break is officially halfway over.  Well, it's more than half over because I have three mornings of classes coming up, I have to set up my new room in the new-to-us-but-old-moldy building, and I have about 20 young  adult novels I am supposed to read this summer ... but haven't. 

Yesterday I listed all of the impromptu things that I HAVE done.  In a few short weeks, I will be back to work.  Here is a list of the planned things that I have NOT done:

Gone through family photos
Cleaned files off my desktop computer
Sewn anything other than beanbags
Gone anywhere outside of Massachusetts or New Hampshire
Cleaned out my entire basement
Organized my work files
Sent any writing out to publishers
Built the computer desk I've had lying around for about 15 months
Taught my youngest to cook
Gone to dinner with sports friends
Taken the boat to the Harbor Islands
Ridden on Codzilla
Gone to the zoo (any zoo)

When I compare today's SHOULD DO list to yesterday's ALREADY ACCOMPLISHED summer list, I'm not too worried about the shift of balance between the two.  I usually see the end of the summer coming and try to cram everything into the few days before I have to go back.  This makes me crazy busy and crazy tired, and I convince myself that the summer has been a bust and that I haven't accomplished anything.

Actually, I've accomplished more than ever.  I've already done things this summer that I never thought I would do nor have the chance to do.  I guess that makes me the Optimist in this melodrama.  Alas, summer may seem to be waning, but look at it this way:  I still half of summer to look forward to!

Yay, me. 

Tuesday, July 22, 2014

SPONTANEOUS FRIENDS

I have the BEST friends.

This is the first summer in a very long time, possibly a decade, that I haven't had anything pressing to attend to.  No grad classes, no weddings, no driving kids around, very few if any sporting events to attend, no thesis to write, no broken bones (yet) or weird bursitis or pneumonia or any of the usual summer maladies.

My friends are my friends precisely because they can mobilize at a moment's notice.  So far we have executed (mostly) on the fly:  (Please put the word "Impromptu" in front of each option below)

Trips to the beach
Lunch in Boston
World Cup soccer viewing at bars
Lunches at local spots
Pool Party #1
Dirty Girl Mud Run
Verbal tangle with two idiot clerks at mall

(I'm sure there are more.)

Today is no different.  Why should it be?  The largest grocery store chain in New England is in the middle of nasty in-fighting amongst family members/sole stockholders. Workers are being fired left and right.  Employees of the chain's seventy-one stores gather for a rally in front of one of the stores, a store that my friend and I just shopped in a few nights ago, so we do what any slightly insane people would do: We go to the rally.

By the time we arrive on-site, the crowd swells to about 3,000.  We drive around the perimeter of the rally twice, the police allowing cars to get remarkably close (right along the yellow tape).  There are no spaces in the lot.  After our final pass, we decide to head directly across the street from the Market Basket store to check out the brand new Hannafords grocery store.  We oooooh and aaahhhh as we realize that the prices are comparable to that in our beloved Market Basket stores.  Yay!  New grocery spot!

On the way back through, we swing around to do another circle.  The crowd has gotten so large that we cannot patrol the perimeter, so we pull up one of the alleyways and miraculously find an open parking space.  We remain there, in the belly of the beast, so to speak, and observe a few politicians speaking.  We go into the near-empty store, the store symbolizing all of the protesters today.  The place is an absolute wasteland except for a couple of cashiers and a teenaged supervisor.

After returning to my friend's house, we opt to go for a 2+ mile hike -- in the area -- in the full-sun -- in the heat.  When we return, we suck down some ice water and I start on my merry way home.  Out of the blue comes the sound of my name being called.  The next door neighbor is attempting to get our attention because he wants to invite us over for a pool party.

I have my bathing suit top with me in the car at almost all times in case I get the urge to sit out and sunbathe with friends.  I reason with myself that a quick dip into the pool will feel great.  Four hours later, the neighbor's wife (also the neighbor) lets us help her complete a puzzle, we have talked and laughed for hours, and it's way past our dinner times.  I am sent off with a fair helping of some of the most delicious food I have ever eaten: a zucchini casserole, probably made from the neighbors' own zucchini, fresh out of their garden.

I finally return home 11+ hours after I left to go drive by a rally. 

Long live spontaneity! I truly do have the best friends ever.

Monday, July 21, 2014

THE BODY SHOP: EPIC FAIL

On Saturday I run in a 5k.  It's not a typical 5k; it's a muddy 5k, also known as The Dirty Girl Mud Run.  The story of the mud run, while interesting, will have to wait another day or two, but the experience does tie in with today's blog entry because of the smell.

That's right: The Smell.

First of all, the course is fantastic considering the sponsors have less than a week to pull it all together at a new venue.  Secondly, some of the course is a mile-long trek through the backwoods cross-country trails that are littered with tree roots and small boulders - a haven to twisted ankles and displaced knees -- with several mud pools built into the natural landscape.  The mud in the inflatable obstacles outside of this trail smells rich like loam or good old-fashioned mud pies; the backwoods mud smells like something emitted from the deep and twisted bowels of the earth. 

Right after finishing the muddy trail run, we hit not one, not two, but three man-made mud obstacles in a row.  The first two are quick: slide down into mud then crawl on your belly through the mud.  The third obstacle has a long waiting line because only six people can go at a time.  My running partner and I hunker in for a twenty minute wait.

Suddenly, I smell "it." 

My nostrils grab on to a beautiful aroma.  Never the one to keep my big trap shut, I announce, "Okay, someone here smells ... really good.  Like I am not even kidding.  Someone smells fantastic!"

It takes a moment before the embarrassed woman in front of me turns and admits that it is she who smells like spring flowers instead of disgusting, septic-y backwater (like the rest of us).  The woman names the scent and the store where she bought it. 

Sunday rolls around and the store, simply called The Body Shop, is open at the Mall at Rockingham Park (which is different than the Rockingham Park Mall, an older strip mall which used to be a regular covered mall located a spitting distance from the newer, chic-er Mall at Rockingham Park; apparently we ran out of mall names up here).  I convince one of my partners in crime to come along for the ride.

When we find The Body Shop, it is located upstairs in a well-positioned storefront.  We walk in, explain our dilemma to the sales girl, and she sprays out (onto a testing strip) the scent, or darn close to it.  I ask her how much the bottle of fragrance is, and she stops speaking as if she has been put into a stranglehold.

"Well, this one isn't exactly for sale."

Not ... for ... sale.  Wait.  I AM in a mall, and I AM in a store, and I AM shopping.  I thought these simple requirements (mall, store, shopping) would be the cornerstone of any good shopkeeper's business.

"You have to be a member of our club."

Say, what?  I am dumbfounded.  The clerk notices this.

She stammers, "Yes, only club members are allowed to make purchases on our products here..."

I'm sorry, Tinkerbell, are you speaking to me?  Still?  Because I totally lost you right before say what.

Suddenly, springing forth from the back room behind the counter like Hydra rising from the swamps of Lerna, a flamboyant young man joins the fray.  After berating my friend and me for not only being non-members of their club but for not even knowing that there is such a club, charming Hyrda-Dude announces that "Members of the club are our customer base!"

No, Hydra-Dude, I am your customer base.  I am standing in your store, cash in hand, asking for one large bottle of the fragrance with a spray diffuser for the top. Cha-ching, cha-ching!

The Body Shop product selection:  FAIL
The Body Shop customer service:  FAIL

But it's not over yet, no way, no how.  Hydra-Dude continues to lecture me about the finer points of marketing and direct sales to their unique clientele (members of their "club"), explaining the business as if I weren't the daughter of an advertising and marketing executive, as if I hadn't worked part-time in the advertising business for a while as a Girl Friday (assistant, for the young folk), as if I were exactly the kind of low-life customer their store didn't ever want to see shopping there.

Words are exchanged, mostly by the loud-mouthed, ill-trained, extremely rude Hydra-Dude who probably shouldn't be working with fragrances any more than a male pervert should be working at Victoria's Secret (not that any are - I'm just stretching a point here). 

Yes, my children, your mama made a scene.  Again.

My friend and I turn to leave the store, and, as we are in the doorway, Hydra-Dude and Tinkerbell scream, "HAVE A NICE DAY!" and roll into a loud laughing fit.

But guess what!  Guess who laughs last? 

I do.  I laugh last because I email the corporate headquarters to tell them what happened, where, and when.  Then I inform them that they don't know MY CLUB, nor are they familiar with MY CUSTOMER BASE, and I just wanted to return the favor ... you know ... before this goes to print.

The Body Shop shopping experience?  FAIL.  MAJOR FAIL.  EPIC FRIGGING FAIL.

The best part -- I will never shop there; I will encourage all of you never to shop there; and today I spend money at Bath and Body Works instead, where the customer service, I might add, at least on Sunday at the Mall at Rockingham Park is stellar, majorly stellar, epically frigging stellar.

Hydra-Dude and Tinkerbell, may YOU have a nice day.  (Snicker, snicker, snicker.)


Sunday, July 20, 2014

THE (TV) WATCHABLES

Okay, I'm tired. 

In the last week I've gone to lunch in Boston, kayaked Lake Pawtuckaway, attended a stellar pool party, and run a 5k through mud obstacles.  I'm not as young as I once was, folks. 

I'm exhausted.

However, I do find time and energy to watch "The Peacekeeper Wars," the post-series movie for the television show Farscape.  Don't tell me how it ends -- Part 2 is on tonight.

I don't watch a lot of television anymore.  Part of it is because I'm too busy (see above) and part of it is because I'm too tired to bother with it (see above).  Mostly I don't watch television because nothing is on but crap.  Sure, sure, you're all going to regale me with your favorite show and why I should watch it.  I'm not completely clueless.  I try and follow the latest and greatest TV talk amongst pals, and my Facebook friends have fascinating conversations about different shows.  I have friends who are in the  television/acting business, or friends of friends who are in the business.  I respect everyone's interest in television, I really do; it's just that most television doesn't suit my tastes any longer.

Any shows I watch are cable (non-major network) station shows.  I recently watched the Revolutionary spy show Turn, and I like Wicked Tuna and HGTV reality shows like Income Property.  Sometimes if I need a dose of campy fun, I might catch an old episode of Say Yes to the Dress, though the Atlanta version is a little over the top for my likes.

And yet Farscape is about as over the top as television could get, as campy as anything else ever on TV.  It's like Dr. Who on hallucinogens.  So Sunday I will do my best to catch part 2 of the wrap-up movie, and it had better not have a cheesy ending because I'm exhausted, and I want to make sure that my TV viewing time truly is time well spent.

Saturday, July 19, 2014

I HOPE TO BE A DIRTY GIRL

If all goes as planned today, a friend and I will be participating in the Dirty Girl Mud Run this morning. 

The partner charity of the Dirty Girl Mud Run is Bright Pink, whose mission is to encourage and educate women to understand the signs, symptoms, and risk factors of breast and ovarian cancer. 

I've had many run-ins with deceptive and questionable mammograms and breast ultrasounds, and, as my regular readers know, I've got the "gift" of Floyd the Enormous Uterine Fibroid, so I've been on the sidelines for years, skirting around the "what-ifs" and going toe-to-toe with specialists and tests.

I have many (TOO many) dear friends who've battled breast cancer:  Nina, Kim, Linda ... The list is almost embarrassingly long.  I wish there were no list at all.

Today I will be rocking the pink and rocking my Team Nina wristlet.  I will drag my long-time/lomg-distance pal Tara with me (if she can stand me for that long), and we will conquer the Dirty Girl Mud Run course at Amesbury Sports Park. 

If I survive (and even if I don't), I'm dragging my daughter to the LoziLu Women's Mud Run next Saturday at the Bolton Fairgrounds (if any ladies want to join us, we're in the 9:15 wave, no team name, but I'm happy to change that if you're in).  LoziLu's event is to raise money for kiddos fighting cancer.

I'm hoping all goes well.  I'll fill you all in on the details, but for now -- Wish us luck as we go forth and conquer mud.