HALLOWEEN HOWLING (OF THE WIND)

Happy Halloween!

Hopefully, all of the scary stuff is happening Monday, while I type this on borrowed time.  Yes, I still have electricity ... for now, and, yes, I still have Internet ... for now.  I am, however, one of the few still hooked up to Thomas Edison and beyond.

The winds associated with leftover storm Philippe have caused wind shears strong enough to knock several tractor trailer trucks off the highways or onto their sides.  At least one such incident blocks a highway in Portland, Maine, and another one has caused a hazmat situation with a fire that has shut down the highway near my house.

Schools have been cancelled, businesses are closed, and people who are out driving around are probably about as unsafe as those of us huddling inside our homes waiting for tree limbs to impale us.  We are seeing winds steadily blowing well over 40 mph with speedier gusts.  Some areas are seeing winds between 70 and 96 mph, hurricane force, to be sure.

I have done the housekeeping things between last night and this morning: laundry and dishwasher have been run and done.  The air conditioners are still in the windows, which was helpful during the night when it was too windy and rainy to open any windows lest my house flooded, but now it sounds like every gust is going to rip the heavy units right out of the windows for me (and toss them carelessly onto the lawn and onto the patio two stories below).

Sorry, kids, but unless I can get to the store on Halloween right after work (if the school has power by then and if the stores have power restored by then), there will be no candy at my house for you.  Don't bother.  If I make it to the store before 5:00 for Trick or Treating, I'll leave the light on.  Otherwise, I'll be the mean old lady who huddles in the dark for two hours until it's all over.

So, happy Halloween, anyway.  With any luck at all, Monday is the worst of it, and Halloween will bring us back to normal, or as normal as ghouls and costumes and candy can possibly be.  For now, though, the only howling going on is thanks to Mother Nature ... that witch!

PURPLE BOX AND PICTURES

{A real text conversation between my daughter (She) and me (I).}

SHE:  Where are you?

I:  Running errands.  Why?

SHE:  Are you stopping at CVS?

I:  Wasn't going to.  Why?  (I'm thinking she needs toilet paper or something.)

SHE:  Never mind.

I:  No, really.  What do you need?

SHE:  Forget it.

I:  Okay.  (Long pause here.)  (Lots of guilt sets in.)  (Damnit)  (Ten minutes later...)  I'm at CVS.

SHE:  I need dry mop pads for the Swiffer.  Not the wet ones.  The dry ones.

I:  I don't know what they look like.

SHE:  They're purple, I think.  Purple box maybe.

(I go into the store and locate the household goods aisle.  They have Swiffer pads for the dry mop and Swiffer pads for the wet mop, but the dry ones are green, and the wet ones are purple.  I take a picture of the green box and text it to her.)

I:  The green box says "dry."

SHE:  Let me see the purple ones.

(I take another picture, this time of the purple box.  People are staring at me then walking away.)

SHE:  Yes, purple.

I:  But you texted the dry ones.  They say they are wet.

SHE:  No, they're FOR the wet one.  They're not wet.  Some are wet.  Maybe those aren't wet.

I:  Are you SURE?!  They clearly say WET.

SHE:  Yes.  Please buy the purple.  They're dry.

I:  Okay.  Swiffer brand or CVS brand?

SHE:  I don't know.  Send me a picture...

WAITING A LITTLE LONGER

I have occasion during my busy weekend to sit and wait for someone to return to a nursing facility.  On any day this might be fine ... okay, it's not really fine on any day because I look like a creeper wandering around trying to pass time.  I am exhausted after work, a little irritated that the person is not even on-site, and bored out of my mind.

In my wanderings, I pass some decorations.  The festive atmosphere is kind of nice, certainly more than I've done at my own home or in my classroom, so I snap a picture (without being too creepy).  There is also a pumpkin decorating contest that has just culminated, so I snap a picture of that, too.

Finally, when I am just about to leave a note for my pal and jump ship, she shows up.  I only have about five minutes to spare now, not the hour I'd planned, so I have to rush through my visit.  It's not so much because I have any place to be as it is that dinner is being served, and now I'm in the way.

No matter.  My time spent wandering the decorative hallways inspires me to start planning my own seasonal decorations.  Besides, it's almost time to start decorating for Christmas.  Sorry.  I know, I know; I'm as bad as a retail shop.  Get through Halloween first, right? Soon, though.  Like waiting for my pal, I'll have to wait a little longer.

WHATEVER WE WANT. GOSH.

Long week.  Looooooooooong week. 

In my brain I understand that it is, technically speaking, no longer nor shorter than most weeks, but my body feels like it has been wrung out, wound up, and spit out.  After being at work, an observation at work, a long meeting at work, and an afternoon of arduous errands that includes standing around waiting an hour for someone to show up, I want my first free weekend in over a month to be full of a whole ton of nothing.

On the way to pick up dinner (yes, another round of take-out), one of the radio's satellite stations is alternating between old school music like the Drifters and more modern and progressive selections of anything heavy metal.  Really heavy.  Heavy on the heavy. It's rather entertaining, this old school/new school approach.  Sometimes the station plays the old version of a song plus its updated version right afterward, such as "I'm Not Your Stepping Stone" first by the Monkees and then by the Sex Pistols.

Driving down the road toward the sub shop that is halfway to the next town, my youngest and I are having a conversation about our day.  He is taking a much-needed evening off to stay in and relax.  I am spouting off about the crammed week I've had between work and errands.  Suddenly, a song comes on I've never heard before, but it fits my present mood perfectly: Demolitian 23's "Same Shit, Different Day."

After we pick up dinner and head back toward the house, we are both in better moods.  Finally, the day is starting its denouement.  As we turn off the main road to the side road that cuts over toward our house, the radio is blasting White Stripes "We Are Going to Be Friends," otherwise known as the theme song to the movie Napoleon Dynamite. 

Of course.  After all, what are we going to do with our Friday evening off (finally)?  Whatever we want. Gosh.

THEME DAYS AT WORK

Red Ribbon Week is an anti-drug theme week designed to raise awareness and also to foster community spirit at our school.  I wear a flowery shirt with brightly colored capris for Tropical "Lei Off Drugs" Day.  Two other theme days we've had so far involve a space theme and dressing like a decade.

I don't own any space-type stuff.  I suppose I could've gotten a hat, suit coat, a super-long scarf, and pretended I was Tom Baker's Dr. Who ... except that I have always been more of a Red Dwarf fan and Farscape fan.  Instead, I take two old glow-in-the-dark space satellite decorations right off the wall and make a headband.  Add in a silver shirt, gray pants, some silver cloth clogs, and I have Theme Day costume #2.

For Decades Day, I channel my inner Jackie O.  Of course, I go old school: pencil skirt, 3/4 sleeve sweater, pillbox hat, white gloves, pearls, cat glasses; very Jackie Kennedy before that whole crawling across the trunk fiasco in Dallas.  The somewhat horrifying part of this ensemble is that only the accessories are costume.  The clothing is stuff I wear on an everyday basis.

Tomorrow is Superhero Day.  This is a tough one because I am not into superheroes.  I go to the store in search of my favorite superhero, except, of course, that I've no idea what I'm doing and I am beholden to none.  I suppose I could say that I liked Green Hornet when I was a kid, except that he rarely took out any bad guys; it was always Kato (who was Bruce Lee).  I was madly enamored with Kato.

I spend a good ten to fifteen minutes in the store, circling the table of superhero gear.  There's one more place to look, though: the back wall display.  While perusing the possibilities, I come across a perfect shirt, a shirt to which I can relate, a shirt with true superheroes on it.

So, folks, I don't remember what tomorrow's official tagline is.  I just know it's Superhero Day, and I will have the best superheroes of all.  Everyone else can be Batman, Superman, Supergirl, Wonder Woman, and anyone else Marvel-iscious.  I will proudly sport my new superheroes t-shirt: Chip and Dale's Rescue Rangers.

HALLOWEEN HAIKU

Continuing from
The blog I wrote yesterday
This happened today:

Kids wrote poetry.
We were going for the rhyme,
But they said, "Oh, LOOK!

We can write haiku!"
"Halloween HAIKU?" we asked.
"Yes, we'll write Haiku."

So, the lesson changed,
And they wrote Haiku instead
Of rhyming rhythm.

Yes, it all worked out.
Some poetry was written,
Poems were syllables

Written on pumpkins
Made out of orange paper.
Then, the class ended.

EARLY HALLOWEEN

Wednesday is Halloween for one of my classes.

My friend and I teach this class only once a week.  It's more of an academic support than an intervention because, to be honest, I'm not sure how much of a numerical impact we are having on the students. 

Not yet, anyway.

We won't see this group together again until after Halloween, so Wednesday is our day to get into the spirit (so to speak).  We'll enjoy some lightly eerie e.e. cummings, write on gold-colored pumpkin paper, and read poems from a book I've had since I was the same age as the kiddos in our charge.  We'll even throw in a short video and some instrumental Halloween-type music.

It's too bad so many kids are allergic to so many things.  It would be nice to share with them a little Halloween trick-or-treat, too.  Okay, so it would be nice if I could have a little treat.  Seriously. The upside, though, is that Halloween (for real) is only a week away, so this kicks off seven days of anticipatory celebration.

Those who know me also know what happens next: post-Halloween means some furniture moving and some box hauling from the basement because November means Christmas gets set up, hopefully on or around Veteran's Day.  I like pre-mixing my holidays, which is why Wednesday is going to be so much fun. 

Bring on the early-Halloween, kids.  I'm ready.

SIPPING WINE AT GOLFLAND

There's a small wine shop a few miles from my house that is located across from the old Western Electric megaplex.  The shop shares the building with a pizza place that has been there for as long as I can remember.

Recently, a pal and I stop by the wine shop for a quick tour of some Spanish wines, along with some free tapas and paella.  The wines are being served by a young woman who is standing inside a somewhat dilapidated open-air shack.  To some people, this venue would be a turn-off.

I am not "some people."

This old, beat-up, open-air shack is a staple from my teenage years.  The wine shop is located at the site of the former Golfland USA Miniature Golf Course, a favorite hang-out where if you shot a hole in one on the last hole (through the motorized windmill), you won a large cheese pizza from the on-site shop.

During the Spanish wine tasting, my friend and I take our bowls of paella and sit on the rickety, worn-out, brittle wooden benches that are still at the golf course.  This whole experience is nostalgic and depressing all at the same time.  The grass is still landscaped and trimmed, which is creepy since the rest of the place is completely abandoned.  The reality that it is abandoned is made even creepier by the fact that most of the holes and the lights and the statues are all still completely intact, minus the electricity and water features.

It's a shame, too, because the place isn't in horrible shape, despite being closed for years.  While sipping tempranillo and eating rice, it's easy to imagine Golfland USA being opened again -- it really is in that decent condition.

I don't see it happening, though.  Western Electric (AT&T, Lucent, and everything else it has been) is long gone.  Sure, there are some businesses in the old building, but it's well-past its heyday, much like the mini-golf course.  Such a shame, though, to see a fun family place no longer making memories.

GASSY NEIGHBORHOOD

I live in a gassy neighborhood. 

No, no, no; it's not THAT kind of gassy.  Somewhere in the area of the pizza place down the street there is a wafting smell of natural gas.  No one seems particularly interested in it, so we just go about our business.

Today I am at a Choral Arts event in Brookline.  The church is fascinating in architecture and stained glass windows, so I head outside before it starts to take some pictures.  Much like my neighborhood, there seems to be a faint aroma of gas.

Suddenly, two fire engines pull up, and several firefighters come flying out.  A squat man toddles out of the church and flags down the firefighters, saying, "I'm the one who called!  I'M THE ONE WHO CAAAAAAAALLLLLLLED."

Much like the sidewalks near my house, this neighborhood so far away also has the phantom gas pains with no other symptoms.  After pacifying the little man, the fire engines pack up their firefighters and head on down the road.

When it's time to leave, I cannot smell the scent anymore.  Apparently, Brookline is a little classier than my neighborhood; Brookline only gases a little bit. 

SLICE OF HISTORY WITH A SIDE OF LUNCH

There is something about the old mills.  It could be the brick, the architecture, the history, or the ghosts, but I find them fascinating. 

Today, before attending a grand wine tasting at one of my favorite shops, a friend and I meet for lunch.  We know that the grill near the wine store isn't open yet, but the tony place down the street opens at 11:30.  Or so we believe.

We arrive, park around back, and try the door to the restaurant.  It's locked.  This happened last time when the staff forgot to unlock the front door, so my friend and I enter the mill building and walk in through the wide-open indoor entrance.

No one acknowledges us at first, and then we are told that the place isn't really open for another ten minutes.  Instead of being invited to sit and wait, we are told to go back into the lobby.  This is awkward as two women are already at the bar with glasses of wine in their hands, happily sipping away.  Private party?  Special guests?  Or people just waiting for a table like we are?

No matter.  There is a little breakfast/lunch cafe inside the same building, so we go there, instead.  We have a fabulous lunch (BLT with avocado) then figure we should probably hit the ladies' room before heading to the grand tasting.

Now, I know I've written about this little gem of a building before, but I am not so sure if I sent pictures from inside the glassed-in atrium.  The building is an old mill, the Davis and Furber Machine Company.  Over a hundred years ago, the Schofield brothers brought their new and improved carding machine to the woolen industry, partially smuggled over from England and completed from memory in nearby Newburyport.  Supposedly, this machine shop (eventually Davis and Furber) housed the
original carding machine, at least for a while, and was the authorized parts maker for the area and beyond.  The Stevens and Marland families also got themselves involved in this whole mill business, and then the Suttons and Osgoods got their hands into it.  After passing through many hands and having an extra partner, finally this particular mill fell into the hands of George Davis and Charles Furber.

The machine shop produced machinery and replacement parts for mills all over the country (or, as big as the country was at the time).  Perhaps the original carding machine is now in the archives of the Lowell Mills Historical Park; I'm sure I could find out.  There is an original Schofield carding machine at Old Sturbridge Village, and Henry Ford may have brought THE original one to Dearborn, Michigan, with him when he got his hands on it.  Ford had ties to this area, too, though, so maybe, just maybe that original machine is somewhere closer to my home than it is to Detroit.

I don't know, truly.  However, what I DO know is that I am staring at this wonderful slice of history while sipping Earl Grey tea and eating a BLT with avocado.  Very little in my world is cooler than this is right now.  After we finish eating and on our way back from the ladies' room, my friend and I let ourselves into the atrium and poke around.  We snap some pictures, then head on our way to the wine shop.

The cafe experience is hard to beat, though.  It's not often that a mill-lover like I am gets a chance to soak in the flavor of the local history.  Oh, yeah, there's a machine and some pictures in the Acadia Mill Building in Methuen where the teacher store is located.  Oh, and my doctor's office is in an old mill building that was once home to Pacific and

Wood Mills, makers of uniforms for American troops.  My daughter lived in the old Washington Mills.  We used to drive past the old Milford Cotton and Woolen Manufacturing Mill as kids, and, before that, we lived near the Saxonville Mills.  My great-aunt used to take us fabric shopping at the old Cranston Print Works Mill, too.

All right, all right.  I'm starting to see where my fascination comes from with these old mills.  Anyway, today is a slice of enjoyment: A slice of history with a side of lunch

LYING ABOUT GRADING THE TESTS

I lied, okay?  Sometimes I am just too tired to tell the truth. When the students ask me, "Did you grade the tests yet?" I answer them with excuses:

The last test just came in on Tuesday.
I've gotten through most of them, but the writing portion is taking time.
You'll get the grades back in a day or two.
Almost done.

The truth of it is -- I haven't started correcting the tests yet.  After seven days, I have not even had a moment to sit down and look at the tests.  Well, see, now I'm lying again.  As of school today, I had not graded any of the tests.  As of Friday evening, the objective portion of about 100 tests is close to being finished.  I am almost to grading the final section (the writing portion) of the test. Almost. But, it's reasonably late, so they won't get done.  Yet again.

I'm so sorry.  Not only is work a total shit-storm, but I have a life outside those walls.  Yes, really. A LIFE.

Students don't believe that teachers have lives outside of the classroom.  This can be proven by all the times we run into our students in public and they say things like, "You drink the same gin as my father," and "You buy groceries?!?!" and, of course, my personal favorite, "Old people like you should NOT wear bathing suits unless it's pitch-dark outside."

Anyway, after some sleep I should be able to tackle the writing portion.  I don't know, though.  It IS the weekend.  Maybe I'm lying again.

MONSTERING THE TRAIL MIX

It's no secret that I am addicted to Target's Monster Trail Mix.

While visiting with my son's family in North Carolina, we make a stop at Target to get a few items.  I immediately gravitate toward the snack aisle and the Monster Trail Mix.  I could get a huge tin of the stuff, or I can get small, individual packets in a large bag.  My son claims he is not a fan of Monster Trail Mix (imagine my horror!), so I decide against the giant tub of it and settle for the packets.  After all, I should be able to eat some of it on the plane home, right?

Wrong.  I forget two important things. 

First of all, the TSA agents at Logan Airport (from where I depart) demand that I declare all food, ALL food, ALL FOOD!!!!!! as I pass through security.  I don't have any food as I know they will make me declare (and hand over) all food, ALL food, ALL FOOD!!!! I assume that Charlotte-Douglas Airport will insist on grabbing my snacks and food, as well.

Second of all, Monster Trail Mix has peanuts in it.  If I open a bag on the plane, I could potentially kill someone.

However, there is NO WAY I am leaving Monster Trail Mix behind, so I devise a plan.

The first thing I do is hide two packets of Monster Trail Mix in my pocketbook.  I'll eat it at the airport, if necessary.  Then, I hide a couple of packets in my luggage.  I am TSA pre-check, and I've yet to have my suitcase torn apart, even by a dog that may or may not smell Monster Trail Mix.

The last thing I do is put the remaining packets in a small Target bag, along with the paper receipt, and put that bag inside my carry-on personal item, which is a canvas bag about the size of a cloth grocery bag.  If anyone wants to know about my food, that person may take the bag out and see two or three snack-sized baggies of Monster Trail Mix.  Even if those get confiscated, I have multiple more packets hidden amongst my puzzle books and unmentionables.

I am pleased to report that ALL of the Monster Trail Mix makes it back to Boston ... but, not all of it makes it officially home.  Yup; I eat a packet, maybe even two, on my twenty-minute ride home from Logan airport.

Dear TSA security: My stomach thanks you!

SHRIEKING ESPN REPORTERS, OR HOW TO SOUND LIKE AN AMATEUR

Not to make light of the situation, but really, ESPN, what the hell is the matter with you?

Celtics player Gordon Hayward snapped a leg in his season-opening game for the team.  Granted, anytime someone snaps a leg (bone), it's a little hard to watch.  However, calling it graphic and gruesome and telling people they should be prepared just to watch the replay?

What the ... Jeezusmaryandjoseph.  Do you frigging morons NOT have children?  Have you NEVER played sports?  Did anyone ever let you out of your glass bubble to, oh, I don't know ... go outside ... ever ... in your lifetime?

Granted what happened to Hayward is tragic from a team stand-point.  He just signed an outrageous contract, and now the Celtics are getting bullshit for their investment.  I'd be crying, too, over that financial hit.  But, calling the video nearly unwatchable and graphic?

Dudes, I've suffered more graphic and dramatic injuries while rollerskating.  I've had surgeries that pale the impact of the television feed from the game. I've seen more sickening footage during the opening credits of Wide, Wide World of Sports  (that frigging "agony of defeat").

You want to see horrific injuries and hear bones snapping?  Watch rugby.  Watch arm wrestling.  Watch UFC.  The only graphic Celtic bone-crunching I've seen is in Celtic football.

I agree that Hayward's injury sucks eggs, and nobody wants to break any bone, especially a bone that is directly attached to one's wallet.  But, please, ESPN, when it comes to New England sports, could you please get a frigging hold on your damn selves?  The video of Hayward's big fuck-up is no more horrifying than your persecution of Tom Brady during Deflategate.  Get. A. Grip.

Your "reporters" are about as full of integrity as the pile of dog crap I saw on the sidewalk last week: Dried up and smelling faintly of manure.

Personally, I hope Gordon Hayward recovers in a matter of weeks and is back on the court. 

Judging from my own stupid injuries (a foot broken in three places during judo randori and duct-taped together so I could finish the match; another foot cut in half on the top of a metal ship mast hidden in the sand at Craigville Beach; a sliced-open forehead during a game of Tag from running into the motor blades of a boat parked at my neighbor's house ... I could go on and on) though, ESPN, I gotta assure you: There is not much that is graphic about a tall guy busting his ankle while wearing thick socks and high-top sneakers running down a basketball court. 

That's just called "another day at the office."  Grow a set and stop shrieking like a bunch of amateurs ... unless, of course, that is exactly what you are.

FRANKEN-REDDISH/PURPLE-PLANT

I bring in my plants because the temperature takes a nosedive.  All summer and into the fall, my plants have been outside enjoying fresh air and sunshine, so I expect total depression and some faltering health amongst the plants.

I am wrong.

I have  plant that I rescued a couple of years ago from the WalMart "We're Gonna Die and We're 90% Off" rack.  Since then, the damn thing has grown like, well, the weed that it is.  All of the time I've had it, the plant has been green.  Suddenly, during the summer, it turned reddish purple.

According to the plastic name plate that has been stuck inside the plant since I bought it, this is a red ardisia plant.  However, it has never produced any red berries, and the leaves don't seem to match up to the images I see on the Internet.  Perhaps someone recognizes this plant and can enlighten me.

In the meantime, it has only been twenty-four hours since the plants have been back inside for the first time since last spring.  My Franken-Reddish/Purple-Plant has already gone from a sprawling outdoor plant to a climbing-crazed monster that seems very happy in its walled indoor world.

Please, though, if you can identify this plant for me, that would be terrific.  I can usually only grow mold, so this is all very exciting, and I'd like to be able to say proudly, "Hey, I can grow ------!"

TUMBLING TEMPS

This morning when I leave for work, it is warm and breezy.  According to my phone, it is 74 degrees outside.  According to my car, it is 68 degrees.  Either way, it's mighty warm for this time of year.  But, during the workday, something happens.  By the time I leave work at 3:30 p.m., it's chilly -- somewhere in the vicinity of 54 degrees.

It feels great.

We are slated to have one chilly day on Tuesday, and then the temperatures will soar into the mid-to-high seventies over the next several days.  I'm not taking my air conditioners out just yet.  It's still too early.

Tonight, though, I turn on the heat for a few minutes, just to make sure the furnace is going to kick on when necessary.  The morning is slated to be about 34 degrees, and I will probably kick on the heat for a short time again when I get out of bed ... after sleeping in the ice chamber of a room that includes an open window and a fan.

Ah, the cool weather -- here for a second then gone again as summer takes one final swing at all of us.

I know, I know.  Part way through the fall, I'll be wishing for winter.  Halfway through the winter, I'll be wishing for spring.  Halfway through spring, I'll be begging for summer.  It's a mad cycle that continues on and on.

It's this cycle that drives the New England Brain.  It's the cycle that allows us to blast the heat in the morning and crank on the a/c in the afternoon without ever missing a single beat.

HACKING UP AND JACKING UP MY EGO

So ... I posted the other day about my credit card getting hacked, and I received a bizarre email response via Google+.  Someone offered to hack into all of my accounts, all of my school grades, all of my students' grades, and all of my emails, etc...  She offered it up like it's a great service!

I'm thinking maybe I wasn't clear about my blog post.  Just to set the soon-to-be-hacked record straight, I didn't enjoy having my credit card invaded.  It was a great discomfort and resembled somewhat of a proverbial proctol exam.

Look, kid, while I appreciate the offer, my personal grades were/are fine, and I'm happy to leave my transcripts intact.  As for my students, they're doing just fine, as well.  I don't need my email hacked nor anyone else's, for that matter.

And, as I mentioned in my original post, I'm POOR. 

P-O-O-R. 

I don't own my car nor a house nor any bonds nor mutual funds.  Your best bet at my credit cards is probably Dress Barn, maybe Macy's, and occasionally Kohl's when I get the 30% off coupon.

I just don't get it.  How did I become such a delectable target?  What the hell is wrong with people that they would aim so low on the financial totem pole?  Okay, then.  Hack me up.  When you don't get anything out of it but a used car and some cheap knock-off sports jerseys, you'll figure it out.

In the meantime, though, keep those excellent Google+ comments coming.  They're doing wonders for my ego.

LONE PIPER FROM THE WRONG COUNTRY

Although I don't have a chance to attend the local Oktoberfest, I do get to enjoy watching people head down the street on foot from the satellite parking lot that just happens to be in the industrial park across the street from my house.  My weekend is too packed to make it down to the actual venue, but I do have a few moments to vicarious listen to the frivolity wafting through the trees and past the old mill buildings.

(I know - crappy picture - but there really is a bagpiper on the loading dock.)

As I am outside packing up my car and getting myself ready for a day of misadventures, the German music is suddenly interrupted by the sound of bagpipes.  Around my neighborhood, the sound of bagpipes means one of two things: a wedding or a funeral.  Occasionally, bagpipers set up on the steps of the Catholic church at the end of my street.  If it's on a weekend, it's a wedding; if it's on a weekday, it's a funeral.  This is Sunday.  It must be a wedding.

But, I am wrong.

I follow the sound to the industrial park across the street.  Standing by himself on a concrete loading dock is a lone bagpiper.  He is serenading the people parking in the satellite lot as they trek two-tenths of a mile to the brewery down the hill.  It's a shorter walk than the mall during holiday shopping hours.  Still, apparently, it must be good business to hire entertainment for all those terribly weary people who have to hoof it around the corner.

I'm not begrudging the brewery.  I like the bagpipe music, though it's somewhat eerie that this poor guy is just kind of standing there piping, being pretty much ignored by the Oktoberfest revelers.  It's a little weird, though.  I'm thinking maybe an accordion player or a small Oompah band might be a better fit. 

That's just me, though.  It's probably just my mindset that I should be singing along to Roll Out the Barrel or She's Too Fat For Me if there is an Oktoberfest afoot.  Somehow Scotland Forever and Loch Lomond don't have the same effect with the smell of bratwurst filling the air.

PAYING MYSELF TO DE-CLUTTER

During the summer, in the course of de-cluttering my life, I came across a heavy winter coat that I have not worn since a winter outdoor college lacrosse game (my son's game, not mine) two years ago.  I tried it on to see if it still fit; it did.  I reached into the pocket and found $35 cash.

Score.

Today for school, I am debating what to wear.  Now that my tiny closets are less cluttered and most of my clothes are on accessible racks, it's super-easy to pick out outfits.  It's a little cooler today, so I'm thinking maybe a jumper with boots.  But, as I stall and hem and haw, I realize that time is getting away from me.

Instead of dressing for success, I reach for a pair of cargo pants that I haven't worn since last spring.  They're clean, look pressed, and I can throw on some shoes without socks.  Life is good.  Best of all, the pants still fit.  This is an awesome development (since last night I tried on a pair of jeans that didn't fit nearly so well ... or at all). 

After getting myself dressed, I check to see if the side leg pocket will hold my phone.  Hmmmm, there seems to be something in there.  Could it be...?

Yup, I find more money.  Not much.  Under ten dollars.  But, still.  Clean money - laundered along with the pants the last time I wore them.  Thank goodness that pocket was snapped shut.

Okay, so I worked on cleaning and organizing this summer, and I worked much harder than $45 worth (or, as this case may be, less than $45 total), but I am still feeling pretty good about myself.  Not only did I thin out my clothes and belongings, I paid myself to do it.  Score!

HACK ATTACK

One of my credit cards got hacked.

This is the second time this has happened to me.  What shocks me is that the company didn't think it necessary to contact me for weeks.  Unfortunately, this is the same credit card on which I charged my airline tickets.  Fortunately, those charges seem to have gone through with no problem.

Seriously, though.  It isn't the hundreds of dollars of charges from tool companies that tips off the credit card company; it is the $1 charge to eBay.  Thanks, credit card company (she says facetiously).

I have a second card with the same company.  When I call them this afternoon to straighten it all out (I kill the card instantly), I decide to have the customer service rep check the second card.

"There are some charges that we have questions about." Shit.  "They're from February..." February?  Fuuuuuuuuuck, dude.  Could you have notified me just a little SOONER?!?!

Turns out those charges are valid, after all.  My second card is solid.

I decide that I should probably check my bank credit card, too, since it was my bank ATM/debit card that had some fraudulent action on it when I cut it up a year or two ago.  (I never replaced the ATM/debit card.)  I call the bank service number and am stuck on hold, and stuck, and stuck, and stuuuuuuuuuuuuck.

Turns out that credit card is solid, too.

But, here's what surprises the shit out of me:  I.  Am.  Poor.  POOR.  Poor, people.  I don't own a flaming THING, not even my car, and my bank account is really, really, really tiny.  If you're going to hack someone's credit card and you don't want to be caught right away, you should probably hit someone who holds a giant balance.  Between the credit cards I own (and occasionally use), including store-based credit cards, I carry a plastic-based debt of maybe $2,000.  Maybe.  That's across the board.

Of COURSE I'm going to notice (as will my credit card company) if someone starts wracking up a balance.  I rarely carry any balance. What I do carry is cash.  I deal exclusively in cash for my daily and weekly needs: groceries, gasoline, wine...  Every bill I pay is done using a check.  I very rarely use the internet for anything credit-card related, and I will do so even less now.

To you cyber-thieves, I guess I should apologize.  I mean, NICE TRY, for real ... again, anyway.  I'm sorry I am poor and broke and owe so much student and parent loan debt that you honestly are hacking up the wrong card.  I'll work harder on that whole "make more money" crap so we can both enjoy a better lifestyle.

MY BROTHER AND THE REESE'S PIECES DISASTER

Dear Younger-But-Not-Youngest Brother:

(North Beach - See our shadows?)

I had a blast with you last weekend when you drove four-plus hours (after the ferry ride across the upper part of Lake Champlain) to run an errand that is less than a mile from my house.  I enjoyed all the laughs, the food, the wine, the gallivanting around between Maine, the beaches of New Hampshire, Newburyport, and our old home town (still my home town). 

I especially enjoyed that you brought snacks!  Holy crap, dude, MONSTER TRAIL MIX!  There is very little in this world that is better than Monster Trail Mix. 

Oh, sure, I made refrigerator chocolate chip cookies in an attempt to out-do you, and I bought gooey cupcakes that accidentally fell over upside down in the container, but still.  The best part?  You also brought along Reese's Pieces.  Now, I'm not much of a fan of Reese's Pieces, but while you were eating those suckers, I was stuffing my fat hand into that bag of Monster Trail Mix like I was headed to the gallows at any given second and picked my last meal ... of Monster Trail Mix.

Of course, the hilarious part was when you lost one of the Reese's Pieces in my car.  You were afraid it would melt into the front passenger seat and leave a stain.  Not to worry.  My car seats are Scotch-Guarded against such disasters.  But, then you admitted you were also kind of concerned that the errant Reese's Pieces candy might melt and make it look like you had some kind of weird pooh stain on the sitter portion of your jeans.

Well, Brother, I am pleased to admit two things.  The first thing that I am pleased to admit is that you did not have any type of brown chocolatey-peanut butter butt freckle on your pants, at least not that I could tell.  I wasn't really looking because that would be weird and because, to be completely honest, we got laughing so hard chatting in the car that I totally forgot about the situation.

(No pooh for you!)

The second thing that I am pleased to admit is that when I left work today, two full days after your departure, I FOUND that blasted Reese's Pieces pellet right in the middle of the floor on the passenger side.  It was mixed in with all the schmutz we brought into the car during our rainy morning scenic adventure, the one we took right before you left.

So, Little Bro, no worries about anyone else in my car accidentally sitting in a half-melted candy and being butt-tattooed by the Reese's corporation.  Even though it has been exceptionally warm the last couple of days, I found that little candy bastard fully intact and in no way, shape, or form missing its outer shell nor inner gunk.  I know you, though.  You probably worried at every rest area and again on the ferry home: Do I have a brown spot on my derriere?  Do my jeans look like I didn't stop driving soon enough?  Do I need to be considering adult diapers so soon in my young life?

It's okay, Kid.  Candy has been rescued; crisis has been averted.

Oh, and HAPPY BELATED BIRTHDAY!  I figured since the card wasn't quite as funny as usual, embarrassing you with a semi-truthful blog would do the trick.

I BLINKED

I blinked.  Swear to gawd, that's all I did; I blinked.

On top of blinking, I cannot explain it because the days and nights have been ridiculously warm and humid, so much so that the air conditioners have been going pretty much nonstop for several days.  It's just like July around here.  I know next April I will be begging for this weather, but right now, in the heart of October, I think it sucks.

So, I am shocked when I am driving and realize that the leaves are starting to turn.

Honestly, I understand, at least intellectually, that it's the correct time of year, the correct season.  However, we haven't really had enough cool weather to make a dent in our wardrobes.  Short sleeve shirts and capris with sandals, or dresses with bare legs and open-toed shoes are still the survival outfits.  I still have dual fans operating on both sides of my classroom, and it is painfully obvious to us all that the conditioned air units are not on all throughout the day.

And yet, despite nature's obvious denial, autumn seems to be here, anyway.

Do the leaves change color down south even when the temperature hovers in the 70's and 80's all winter?  Inquiring minds want to know.  I am so used to the leaves holding off until the nights get seasonably chilly, that I am amazed at the color we have already, despite the lingering summer.

All I do is blink and October arrives.  If I could just whisper some magical mantra and bring on October temperatures, my life (and my fall wardrobe) would be perfect.  I am soooooooo ready.

ROAD CONSTRUCTION STRIKES AGAIN

My brother is visiting from New York this weekend.  In the midst of the things we have to accomplish before we can have some down-time, we make plans to connect with my sister and her family in Southern Maine -- guaranteeing us down-time because the plans will be solid and in stone.

Let me just admit right here that traffic, as of late, has not been my friend.

We are sailing along on I-95 north, just past the Hampton tolls, when traffic slows to a crawl. Southbound traffic is moving, but we are going nowhere.  We debate getting off the highway, but, to be honest, there's no place to go on this stretch of the road, and we need to get off the interstate at the first exit OVER the bridge.  There is no other easy way to get over the river except by the big bridge, so we stay the course and slug along at 20 mph.

Ahead of us we see flashing lights.  Must be an accident, we figure.  After all, it's Columbus Day weekend, and all of the leaf-peepers are making trips north to see the foliage.  The odds of someone doing something stupid while driving increase exponentially during leaf-peeping season.

Nope.  It's construction.  CONSTRUCTION.  The middle of the day on the Saturday of Columbus Day weekend, and the brilliant state of New Hampshire has suddenly developed M-ass-achusetts-itis: Working road details when totally NOT appropriate.

The best part is that the construction isn't even really on our side; it's on the southbound side.  This is where we notice that traffic on the other side of the highway is now suffering worse than we are, as we have now gone from 20 mph up to about 45 mph and climbing.  Southbound isn't moving at all.  The traffic is stopped dead.

After a mile or two, we start snapping pictures.  The traffic is deadlocked for miles and miles and miles ... as far as the eye can see, and continues this way from Greenland, New Hampshire, to our exit in Eliot, Maine, and beyond.  This is a distance of more than twelve miles.  Stopped like a parking lot at the mall during the holiday shopping season, no one is moving.

There is one state police car in a turn-around between the north and south lanes, but desperate people are starting to defy the law and turn around on the police access points, as well.  By now, though, we are back up to warp speed on the northbound side.  We sail by these hapless souls knowing full-well they cannot in mere seconds safely go from zero to eighty in a mini-van full of children.  In a horrifying attempt to escape the gridlock, someone is going to die.

We don't know the full extent of the disaster.  We go home via the beach and through Newburyport, never hitting the highway again.  Those people might still be there, sitting in construction traffic, for all we know.  Either way, we escape, narrowly, with minimal inconvenience, and arriving to see the family in Maine only ten minutes late.

FESTER THE STINK

My real reason for visiting the zoo is not to play the Poop Match Game (as reported on yesterday's blog) nor to experience Stinky Saturday nor to witness the cross-country tournament.  My real reason is far simpler.

Festus.

Festus is the Corpse Flower that plans to bloom soon ... at least, according to the zoo.  My friend and I think differently.  We are no experts, but we spent a week going to Boston every day after work to see the previous blooming corpse flower, Morticia.  We missed her blooming and her smell by mere hours due to an unusual hot spell that fall.  We know the signs of a soon-to-bloom Corpse Flower, and Festus isn't ready yet.  He hasn't shown the signs. Back when Morticia bloomed in 2012, Festus was just a tiny baby of a plant.  Now he is all grown up. And so, we visit and we wait, and we wait and we plan.

I'm not entirely certain that I want to smell Festus when he opens.  I've smelled rotting animal before, and it brought on hours of dry-heaving.  However, there is a certain sense of closure we can grant ourselves once we know the truth and once we've smelled it for ourselves.  So, we continue to watch Festus and plan a visit or two more.

Bloom on, Festus.  Wait for us, if you can, but bloom on, kid.  Maybe we'll play the Matching Poop Game until you see fit to grace us all with your stink.

POOP IN THE ZOO

Today my friend and I take a trip to the zoo.  We do this on a bit of a whim and with a mission.  (More on that mission in a future blog.)  There are two things that we do not know.  The first is that there is a cross-country meet going on around the zoo's perimeter, so there are tons of cars and giant buses for the cross country meet hogging up the zoo parking spaces.  We find a space over a mile away.  Unacceptable.  I bang a u-ey, drive back, and find a parallel parking spot much closer.

The other thing we do not know is that it is Stinky Saturday at the zoo.

We are at the zoo maybe ten minutes, if even, when we come upon a table with a young zoo worker setting up a display.  There are pictures and there are plastic and rubber piles of poop.  Yes, it's the match game!  We must match the poop to the animals that produced it.

Now, in a case of full disclosure, I have seen bear scat several times.  Fresh bear scat.  FRESH.  Fresh, as in, the bear pooped that stuff out recently, maybe even as recently as right before I arrived.  Bear scat looks like Silly Sand.  Giant Silly Sand.  For those not in the know, Silly Sand existed in the 70's and was pretty much colored wet powder that acted like wet beach sand, and we were supposed to create sculptures with it.  I'm not feeling so artistic with bear pooh, though.

I tell the girl, "This one looks like bear poop."  I point to the rubbery example.

"It's too small," she replies.

"Yeah, but it LOOKS like bear poop."

"But bear poop would be larger--"

"Look," I say, interrupting her, "I've seen bear scat, and that's exactly what it looks like."  She very politely but firmly tells me that, well, apparently I am full of shit because my shit-matching is wrong.  Wrong on so many levels.  Admitting defeat, I move on.  "The one looks like bloody kidney beans ... Either that or someone ate at Chile's last night."  It's a different color than the others, and the bat is the only nocturnal animal out of them all.  I am correct.  Bat = Bloody kidney beans.

My friend matches every single poop correctly.  She is the Poop Winner.  She is Princess of Poop.  Ten minutes into our visit (her first to this zoo), and already we are showing our areas of expertise: Shit.  This is when all those days of feeding our kids weird textures and colors of food and changing diapers pay off.  With all of our degrees and training, apparently we are the Doctors of DooDoo.

HEADREST IN PEACE

Until a few months ago, I owned a car with incredibly uncomfortable headrests.  Well, they were uncomfortable until someone showed me how to take them completely out, spin them around, and put them in backward.  Then, I had comfortable headrests.

Today my teammate and I have to go off-site for a three-hour training session.  The place where we are going is only down the street, so we could walk if we wanted to, except that it is downhill the whole way there.  That means that it will be uphill all the way back.

Forget it.  We're driving.

Like me, my teammate recently replaced her car.  Her newer car is a Prius, the exact model I wanted until I snagged myself a steal of a deal on a sedan.  (I'm still happy with my financial decision, but I have not warmed to the car itself... at all.)  I am anxious to ride in the car, and I find it quite nice.  My sister has a Prius very similar to this one, except she has the shorter model.  My teammate's Prius is the larger, wagon-like model.

The first thing I notice in my teammate's car is that the drivers' seat is way up -- waaaaaaaaay up --- close to the steering wheel.  Unlike my sister, who is tall and fits in her Prius quite nicely, my co-worker is short and sits near to the pedals.  I also notice that she fits under the headrest and resembles a starship pilot all tucked neatly in as if waiting for hyperspace mode to kick in.

I'm not going to lie: it's kind of cool, kind of like driving along with Han Solo.  Or, maybe, Yoda.

(Not my teammate's car, but a close second.)

After our three-hour off-site training, we drive back up the long hill to our school of origin.  In the parking lot, my teammate announces that she loves the new car except for the headrests.  I tell her the trick from my old car about turning the headrests around backward.

"I wish I could just get rid of them," she says.  "I can't see over them, and it's like driving blind on the highway."

Riding with my tall sister in her Prius, I never noticed this problem before because I've always been a passenger, but my teammate is correct.  The Prius has giamundo headrests.  They're practically the size of seats themselves.  No problem, I assure her.  I've got this.  We short people need to stick together.

I press the nearly imperceptible buttons on the bases of each, and I yank out the headrests from the back bench seat -- all three headrests.  She needs the front done, too.  Out comes the passenger one, and, after repositioning the seat, the driver's side headrest follows suit.  All in all, five headrests have been removed and thrown into the large, cavernous back, left to roll around like errant body parts.

I won't see my l'il buddy until Tuesday, but I'm anxious to know how her commute goes and whether or not she can safely change lanes without sheer terror when driving on the highway.  I'm not ashamed to admit, either, that I wonder if she hits hyperspace mode and gets home in half the time it usually takes her.  Now that her starship has been overhauled, she should zoom right along.

AUTUMN SUMMER SKY

Summer continues to hang on by the skin of its teeth, and with it comes some spectacular sights.

When the autumn temperature pushes ninety, the morning sun rises blood-red and large in the sky.  Everything is deep orange, washing out many of the colors but adding a vibrant green to the slowly fading lawns.  The red sun is so large and so low in the sky in the morning that it almost looks like an alien planet invading the skyline.

The hot days and cool nights confuse the bogs and the ponds.  Driving through the state forest in the morning resembles driving through fog machines in a horror movie.  I half-expect a Yeti, a werewolf, an ex-boyfriend, or perhaps Jamie Lee Curtis's Laurie Strode to jump out at my car and scare the living shit out of me.  Of course, the fog is far more enthralling than frightening, but it is still creepy-cool in the post-dawn early morning.

The best part about fall-summer days is when the cold seasonal air combines with the unseasonal warmth, producing spectacular sunrises and sunsets.  On my way to work, I glimpse the sky through the still-covered trees.  I pull over in the middle of the street (I check -- no one is behind me) and snap a picture -- nothing fancy.  About a quarter of a mile later, I pull over on the side of the road and snap another picture -- also nothing fancy.

I truly wish the pictures could make a dent in the beauty that is my commute to or from work.  For now, my cell phone camera will have to do, which doesn't say much.  The weather is supposed to stretch into next week, though, so I should get a chance or two to redeem myself.

THE ANSWER IS ...

For my daughter's birthday, some of us head to a restaurant for wings and nachos and all kinds of crazy stuff.  The meal is decent and the company is stellar, but the trivia we play on the tablets is vicious.

First, we play trivia against each other.  This is good because my daughter's friend wins first, and then I win.  Somewhere in the middle of the trivia game, another person joins us, someone named Eck whom we cannot see anywhere in the room.  It is obvious from the score that, unlike our band of sisters, this person must be sitting alone ... or should be.

But, our little circle of friends will prevail.  We won't let Eck beat us -- not until we are ready to move away from the game.  Perhaps we will opt out and leave him playing all alone (adult version of Ding-Dong Ditch); perhaps we will all answer the questions but only use one tablet.

Wait a second, though.  Here's a question I can answer:  "Beowulf is the oldest existing English..."

"Poem!"  I yell at my screen.  "Poem, poem, poem, poem..." And this goes on for a bit while the computer decides whether or not I can wager a guess then turn it into a score.

In the end, we beat Eck for one game out of three or four.  However, we don't intend to waste my daughter's birthday trying to figure out who the game-playing, dateless, super-competitive person is in the room with us. 

Leftover wings are packed up and handed around the table, then, after splitting a huge piece of cake and an enormous glob of ice cream, we say a silent good-bye to Eck (who is still playing trivia by him or herself) and head home.

By the way, the answer is "epic poem."  Boom.

ONE DAMN LANE: STORY OF ARRIVALS AT TERMINAL E

Saturday night is my big trip to the city.  Yessiree, I'm going to have a nice, relaxing evening at Logan Airport, doing puzzles and playing on my phone while I casually wait for my daughter and her friends to arrive via Aeromexico from Mexico City on their way back from Cabo.

About ninety minutes before I actually have to be there, I double-check to make sure that I can find the parking garage section that is closest to the international terminal.  I've only parked at the outside mini-lot for that terminal before, and I am unfamiliar with the Terminal E part of the garage.  Before I hit the Logan site, I check the Aeromexico site for the flight status.

Damnit!

The flight is running thirty-five minutes early.  Shitdamnfuckmylifeandhellinahandbasket, I have to get my ass in to the airport.  Sure, sure, sure; they still have to clear customs, but there goes my relaxing down-time (and possibly beer time).  I quickly check the garage map and make sure I know where I am going, then I check Logan's ETA for the flight.

Boston still lists the flight as arriving at 9:35.  Bullshit.  I trust the Mexicans on this one.  After all, they managed to keep the airport intact after three earthquakes in several days.  I'm getting my fat ass to Logan.  No problem.  I'm only twenty minutes out.

Until I hit Somerville.  Some dumbass politician has granted roadway work crews the brilliant idea of doing road work on a Saturday night.  Saturday night!  Jesusmaryandjoseph, probably the busiest night of people trying to get IN to the city, and they're working on the inbound side of 93 at the Sully Square interchange.  One lane.  That's how many lanes are open on the highway into Boston.  One.  Damn.  Lane.

Stupid fucks.

I sit and I sit and I sit and I sit and I sit and I sit and I sit in that traffic for forty-five minutes.  Now I am panicking because if my daughter texts me upon arrival, I cannot respond.  It is illegal to text while driving (although I am technically parked at the moment), and there are cops standing around everywhere getting paid ridiculous amounts of money to do a flagman's detail on a Saturday night in the city.

Finally, I break free, clear the underpass, and fly two lanes over to the right, cutting off an eighteen-wheeler (sorry -- I never do that -- it's rude and it's slightly suicidal) to make the 1A exit for the airport.  Once inside the tunnel, my car makes a horrid sound like it has been hit by gunfire.  I must assume that I have run over a rock and that it shoots out through the wheel-well.  Oh, well.  Hope I don't crack anyone's windshield behind me.

I bomb through the tunnel like I'm not even terrified of how close to the wall and the traffic next to me that I am, channeling my inner Arie Luyendyk, spew out at the East Boston fork, then fly three lanes back to the left across the busy airport access road so I can pull into Central Parking.  Following the signs first for Terminal E then going up five stories past full floors, I search for the terminal elevator and park within spitting distance of the doors just as my phone pings.

It's 9:03.  My daughter texts me the plane has just landed and they are waiting to be waved in.

Once inside the terminal, it takes me a few minutes of confusion and disorientation to realize that I am on the departures floor and not the arrivals floor.  No problem; that's what escalators are for.  Luckily, there is zero chance of being at the wrong gate.  Customs will feed every international passenger through the same set of glass doors.  I check the board.  Three planes have arrived from far destinations within the last hour:  Germany, England, and Mexico.  I join the masses waiting at the guardrail.

A few sun-kissed people come through the doors, but mostly they are tall, determined, self-assured passengers, many of whom are blond.  Ah, the flight from Frankfort.  This group is followed by tired looking people in sweaters and coats, jockeying tired tots in prams, many of whom have shocks of red hair.  London; definitely London.

Finally, after about thirty minutes, a stream of happy, relaxed, tanned people meanders through customs.  Aha!  The people who are not operating on backwards time: Aeromexico.  I greet my daughter and her pals, and, just like that, we are back to the car in the garage inside of ten minutes.

We hit a little bit of traffic on the way home, but I point across the bridge and sneer at the construction on the other side. "One lane," I tell them.  "One.  Damn.  Lane."  Quickly, Boston fades behind us and the road opens before us.  "Now," I say, "Tell me about Cabo."  And they do.

GOLDILOCKS OF THE LIBRARY

Apparently, I am Goldilocks of the Library.

I find myself with a few hours of study time and a chance to do work while my sister attends a meeting at a nearby library.  I need a good spot to correct papers, but I've never been here before, and I need to explore.

The first thing I notice is that the place is smaller than I am expecting.  It seems like much of it is set aside as private meeting rooms, which is fine except that it is a public library.  I go all the way upstairs, see a quiet study room but decide it's kind of like a windowless closet with a table and chairs, so I skip that. 

I spot a table by a window, but it is surrounded by computer work stations.  There is also a table by the elevator, but I figure that means foot traffic, so I move along.  I go all the way downstairs to the children's room to check out their collection.  The room is tiny, or seems so compared to my town's library children's room, and there is no place to work.

The main floor is very busy but has a room full of books and computer stations and long work tables.  It seems too distracting, so I go back upstairs and seek out the table I saw first by the window.  It is still open.  I spread out my stuff and discover that I have a lovely view of the river and the street and buildings below. 

Yup.  This table is just right.

Until a young couple appears, stands by my table, then pushes up against it.  They pretend to be looking out the window.  It is a fabulous view, after all.  However, they do not go away for a few minutes.  Oh.  Ohhhhhhhh.  They want my table.  Well, tough crap.  My papers are strewn everywhere, and they can bite me.  They're not getting my just-right table with the just-right scenic vista.

After working for over two hours, I head downstairs to the main floor.  My sister's meeting will end soon, and I don't want to hold her up by being in the middle of a stack of papers.  I wander away from the bustling reference room toward a large window with many taped-up broken glass panes.  A large red bench is positioned in front of the window, and behind the bench is a brown vinyl chair.  There are more brown chairs nearby along with a quartet of blue vinyl chairs.  Plenty of seating choices, so I plop down in the brown chair near the bench and the window.

Yup.  This chair and this view are just right.

In the stacks near me I hear a man and a woman chatting over books.  They sound very much like a they are employees restocking books.  The conversation turns to taking a break.  The woman wants to sit down. 

"Oh.  Someone's sitting there."

"What do you mean someone is sitting there?  In the chair?"

Next, I hear a "Harrrruuuuumph!" followed by "I'm sure we can find you a chair in the LARGE PRINT section!"

For fucks sake, lady, there are seven other chairs identical to the one I am sitting in, all within spitting distance, plus there is the giant red bench.  Honestly, lady, sit the fuck down somewhere.  Anywhere.  Just not in my lap.

Nope.  She wants MY chair. 

I stand up to see if her name is on my chair.  Nope.  I check out the entire chair -- no name plate for her.  I sit back down again.  As soon as I know she and her cohort are out of sight, I get up, abandon the brown chair, and set up shop in one of the still-unoccupied quartet of blue chairs mere feet away.

When my sister's meeting ends, I leave the library behind me.  I've corrected two sets of papers, found a just-right table, a just-right chair, and had a just-right afternoon.

Apparently, I am Goldilocks of the Library, and the other bears ... patrons ... will celebrate my departure by sitting at my window table and resting in my brown vinyl chair.  Have at it!