Monday, December 31, 2018

2323 to 2019

2323.  This is my magic number.

This post right here, right now, is blog post #2323 since I started writing this blog 2, 323 days (6 1/3 years) ago.  It has been wonderful up to this point because this is my daily writing journal, and readers get a chance to see inside my skull, deep into the shady recesses of my brain and twisted mind.

I never intended to write memoir -- it flung itself at me when my grad school mentor absconded to another part of the country, and I was left with one reliable thesis first reader and one irresponsible asshole of a second reader who kept me from walking at my own graduation (thankfully, an amazing second reader stepped forward at the last minute).  By the way, I still hate that motherfucker and hope his entire world collapses onto him someday, leaving him poetry-less and story-less and professor-less and sad and pitiful.  Yes, I am THAT petty.

I would like to take 2019 into another direction. 

My four or five unfinished fiction manuscripts have been sitting patiently, whispering to me every so often, begging the question: Why do I keep trying to piece together a memoir in which I've lost total interest?  My life really isn't that fascinating; it's mundane and typical. 

No one gives one crap about mundane and typical anymore, not even this gal.

I'm not one to make New Year's Resolutions, especially not public ones, so this will be a semi-resolution, more of an unbreakable promise to myself:

2019 will be the year of the novel.

I am going to cut back on blog-posting to probably once a week, and I will dedicate the one-to-three hours a day that I normally spend on the blog to working on the manuscripts I already have in progress. 

I sincerely hope you'll all stay with me for the ride.  Secretly, you're probably all pleased, anyway.  Oh, thank goodness, I don't have to pretend I read her blog every damn day.  I know, I know it's true because I feel the same way ... often.

So, here's to 2323 and to 2019.  Let's see in a year if I've been as true to myself as I've been to all of you.  Happy New Year -- see you in a week or so.

NEW YEAR'S EVE 2018

New Year's Eve

A time to reflect on what losers we are or to believe, most probably fallaciously, how our lives will be different and better 365 days from today.

We'll be thinner, healthier, friendlier, richer, more patient, less angry...

EPIC FAILURES AHEAD.

I learned years ago not to put too much stock into New Year's Eve, whether those expectations have to do with the night itself or with the entire year behind or ahead.  That's the kind of pressure that makes people unstable.

Here's what I'd like to promise myself for 2019 --

Spend more time on myself and by myself and for myself.

Travel more - with gusto and with an adventurous spirit.

Embrace family -- even those who don't want to be embraced (tough -- you've been warned).

Call out people who are assholes right to their faces when it happens (not hours later when I'm calmer).  [This one should scare a shitload of people.]

I also have one more promise to myself and to readers that will post on my blog exactly two hours after this one does.  Some of you may have seen it by the time I share this link (and that link) on social media, and some of you don't care ... and that's okay, too.  

2019 is by me, to me, for me, and about me.  Come along for the ride ... or don't.  My care-meter is off when it comes to the masses and their opinions.  If that sounds about right to you, too, I'll toast you tonight, tomorrow, and all year long.  We can check in together on the eve of 2020 and see how far we've come.

Sunday, December 30, 2018

THE FINAL DAYS OF CHRISTMAS, #6-12

The Final Days of Christmas, #6-12

Day #6 = St. Egwin of Worcester - A guy who lived in the late 600's, a bishop known for protecting orphans and widows, and famous for crossing the Alps without water (duh).  He prayed for water because he was thirsty, and apparently water sprang forth from a rock (his lucky day or snow started melting - either explanation is entirely plausible).  Egwin also supported the sanctity of marriage, so I suggest that we all eat cake today, preferable white cake with white frosting.

Day #7 = New Year's Eve, which in modern times ushers in lots of debauchery and Bacchanalian behavior.  The Scots call it "Hogmanay," which basically means "big celebration" (aka: debauchery and Bacchanalian behavior).  The feast honors St. Sylvester who slayed a dragon,  which we all totally believe because dragons are real, so I guess anything fire-cooked (BBQ, hibachi, etc.) is okay for tonight ... with bubbly.  Don't forget the bubbly.

Day #8 = January 1st, New Year's Day: Also the day of Jesus's circumcision.  I'm not entirely sure what's on the feast docket for this one, and it's hard not to be sacrilegious with my suggestions (hot dogs, sausages, wienie roast, cocktail hot dogs).  Maybe we should all just take a few aspirins and call it a day.

Day #9 = St. Basil the Great gave a lot of money to the poor.  He was wicked philanthropic that way, so his feast involves baking gold coins into bread, which I think is fabulous.  Imagine going to the bank or the store and sticking your fingers into the bread loaf to make your deposit or pay for your order?  That would be daft and hilarious and disturbing all at the same time.  Nowadays, though, people are so stupid and so sue-happy that you should probably substitute raisins or craisins or chocolate chips for the coins.

Day #10 = Jesus is officially named in the Jewish temple, and today's feast is all about desserts.  This is fabulous!  Thank you, Jesus, and I mean that in the sweetest way possible.  Now, move aside -- I'm about to attack the candy aisle.

Day #11 = No medieval feast information comes up about Day #11, but I do discover that some dude named Simon Stylites, around the mid 400's, lived on a platform on the top of a pillar for 37 years.  Think about that -- how often did passers-by get peed on (or worse)?   I'm thinking lemonade or green-yellow Gatorade or a colonoscopy prep is in order for Day #11, which, of course, would prep us all for ...

Day #12 = Epiphany Eve, Twelfth Night, wassailing, costume parties, and a whole slew of fabulous celebratory shenanigans.  Epiphany is when the tree is supposed to come down, branch by branch, and be burned in a giant bonfire, which sounds like great fun except that my tree is fake and we would all die of asphyxiation. Many places still hold their gifts until Epiphany, but here in America we decided to shorten the whole process to two days for convenience.  Damn Americans.

Anyway, Happy Twelve Days of Christmas.  See you next year!

Saturday, December 29, 2018

ARCHBISHOP OF GRAY MATTER ... AND OTHER CHRISTMAS DAY #5 IRONIES

The more I learn about the Twelve Days of Christmas, the more disturbing it all becomes. 

Day #5 is as unsettling, possibly more so, than the Day #4 celebration of Herod's infant death knell.  The fifth day of Christmas is a celebration (if that's what it can be called) commemorating the brutal, hideously horrifying murder of the archbishop of Canterbury, Thomas Becket. 

On December 29, 1170, four knights attacked Becket in Canterbury Cathedral after a lot of pompous bullshit about pretending to haul the archbishop back to King Henry II to explain himself for upholding the laws of the church.  According to an eye witness, aptly named Grimm, the knights sliced off several top portions of Becket's head until his brains were displayed, then stomped on his neck as he lay prone on the floor, ensuring that his gray matter would spill onto the cathedral floor.

Oh, joy!  Another happy occasion to celebrate.  Huzzah!

Two hundred years later a guy named Chaucer wrote about pilgrims on their way to Canterbury because, apparently after the gruesome murder, Becket was canonized and the king said, "Oh, my bad!" and the murderous knights fled to Scotland ... or some other semi-sympathetic place.  In a cruel, or perhaps cool, twist of fate, Chaucer never completed writing his tales about the famous shrine, cut short (pardon the pun) by death, much like his muse, Becket.

Anyway, today I will quote the first 18 lines of the General Prologue from The Canterbury Tales in Middle English because, surprise, I can.  (Thank you, Professor Branca and my hapless mates at Merrimack College.)  Perhaps I shall also feast on fowl and veggies, and sip lots of wine.  I'll skip the modern-day dessert, though, which is a little out of my comfort zone for tact: sword and miter sugar cookies, as if the horrid death throes are sweet and yummy.  Of course, the recipe I find says, "Easy to make!"  Sure, as easy as lobbing off a few layers of skull with a broad and tidily sharpened sword.

Happy, happy day, everyone.  Happy Fifth Day of Christmas to us all!

Friday, December 28, 2018

LULLY, LULLAY, AND CHEERING FOR THE WRONG TEAM

Today, day four of the twelve days of Christmas, is also called Childermas, and it celebrates the Feast of the Holy Innocents, which is incredibly ironic since the Holy Innocents were the babies slaughtered by King Herod's men in the course of disproving the Magi.

Anyone know the words to the Christmas carol "Lully, Lullay" (aka "The Coventry Carol")?

Now, here's a fabulous holiday song!  The words to one of the verses: Herod the King, in his raging, charged he hath this day -- his men of might in his own sight, all young children to slay.   Most of the carol is in a minor key, which makes it sound almost like a funeral song, and then on the word "slay," it changes to a major chord, and it sounds all happy and celebratory.  "Yay!  Yes, let's all be glad because little children die!  Merry Christmas, everyone; Merry Christmas!"

So, today apparently we all celebrate infantcide.  Huzzah!

As if that's not bad enough, in Spain the masses celebrate the Day of the Holy Innocents by playing practical jokes on each other, like we do here in America on April Fool's Day.  In the Middle Ages in France, the celebrants elected a mock bishop, but, like many things French, it degenerated to elaborate burlesque shows by the 1400's, then the whole damn thing was thrown out by the 1600's.

I don't think I like Day Four as much as the other days.  There doesn't seem to be any spirit of giving or sharing going on: no presents, no horses roaming through the church aisles, and no hot spiced wine (which was excellent, thank you for asking).

Nope, today is just about the systematic slaughtering of tiny male infants in an attempt to kill baby Jesus because someone (Herod) actually believed that an infant might be interested in stealing his crown, even though the kid couldn't wipe his own ass yet, being newborn and all.

Here's to Childermas!  Here's to cheering for the wrong team!  Lully, lullay!

Thursday, December 27, 2018

THIRD DAY OF CHRISTMAS = WINE, WINE, AND MORE WINE!

Well, it's the third day of Christmas, and, no, it's not really the day of Three French Hens.  It is, however, the day honoring John the Apostle.   

John received his calling while mending fishing nets, which is a nice interactive activity to have interrupted by The Holy Spirit.  There is a feast (of course) for John the Apostle, who is the patron saint of many things, amongst them authors, bookbinders, booksellers, and editors, so I guess I should put more time into today's celebration.  Of course, I have a dental cleaning today, so maybe I'll read while the hygienist is trying to clean my teeth.  That won't be messy or anything, right?

More important than the patronage and the religious bent of this whole thing, which is ironic since I'm not particularly religious and lean heavy to the agnostic cliff, John is known for blessing the wine.  John drank poisoned wine and lived.  Some say it's because he blessed the wine first, but it is entirely possible that he was related to Rasputin and that's just how he rolled.

It is suggested that the wine be hot mulled wine.  Okay, now we're talking.  I do love a good hot mulled wine, and not many people can pull it off.  I can, though.  I used to make it all the time.  Maybe after I drink enough hot mulled wine, I'll see those Three French Hens. 

So, after the dentist today, I'll get ready to stain my beautifully fluoride-infused choppers with some simmering red wine, all spiced up and stirred with cinnamon sticks.  Then when the dentist complains my teeth are all reddish and dull the next time I see him, I will blame it entirely on John the Apostle and his nefarious wine challenge.




Wednesday, December 26, 2018

IT AIN'T OVER 'TIL IT'S OVER

Christmas isn't over.  The fat lady did not sing yet.

Now starts the countdown of the Twelve Days of Christmas, leading up to January 6th, or Epiphany.  The tree stays up until at least Epiphany, and it's still the Christmas Season until Twelfth Night.  Twelfth Night is on January 5th, and it marks the end of the Medieval Christmas Season.  It traditionally involves a bean baked into a cake (for the men - the finder is King for the night) and a pea baked into another cake (for the women - the finder is Queen for the night), and also involves costume parties and frivolity.  Lots and lots of frivolity.

What fabulous tradition!

I wish I could find a way to bring it back or locate people of like minds who still celebrate this wonderful Bacchanalian festival.  I know, I know: It almost seems sacrilegious to cap off the holy season with absolute mayhem, but somehow the letting loose seems appropriate.  It's also a good distraction from those pesky New Year's resolutions we all make (and break instantly).  Hell, we've already failed; let's party on.

In the meantime, Happy Boxing Day, which, by the way, in Germany involves horses being ridden around inside churches, which also sounds a bit Bacchanalian.  Perhaps another tradition to appropriate? 

Tuesday, December 25, 2018

I SURVIVED THE HOLIDAY SEASON ... ALMOST

'Twas the night before Christmas
And all through the townhouse
Not a creature was stirring,
Not even a brown mouse.

I made it through Advent: Hope, Peace, Joy, Love, and all.  I just have to make it through to Epiphany, and then I may officially claim to have survived the holiday season.

Have a wonderful Christmas, everybody.

Monday, December 24, 2018

CORPORATE CHRISTMAS TREE

In honor of the Christmas season, I take a detour on my early morning errands.  The sun isn't quite up yet, so I decide to drive by the big Christmas tree at the office park down the street.

To understand my excitement, know the trees that used to be set up there were always huge, rivaling the ones in Boston.  For some reason the tradition stopped many years ago, but the building owners revive it this year.

This is very exciting!

There is a tree lighting (which I do not attend because of the crowds it gathers), and I hesitate to drive by it on weekend nights because it will be mobbed (like it used to be), right?  Right?!

When I drive into the office park at 6:50 on a weekend morning, I am disoriented.  I don't see anything out of the ordinary; no giant tree and no giant ornaments and no kiddie ride area and no place to drop off Toys for Tots.  There is a statue of a large sock and one of what looks suspiciously like Mark Hamill in the most recent Star Wars movie.

And there is a tree.  It's a regular tree, much like I would see in someone's yard.  I drive around a few times.  Is this it?  Is this all there is?  In the scheme of things, it's probably a perfectly fine tree and decorative display.  However, the hype from the press that the Giant Corporate Christmas Tree Is Back turns out to be just that: Hype.

My disappointment is really inconsequential.  Christmas isn't about corporate consumerism, but I cannot help being let down by the reality of a normal-sized tree being touted as the same as the trees of days gone by because those trees were always magnificent. 

It's not the same.

Maybe it shouldn't be the same, and that's fine.  But don't sell me a bill of goods and pull the bait-and-switch.  That just makes you look like Scrooge.

Merry Christmas, Eve, everyone.   At the risk of having a stake of holly through my heart and being boiled in my own pudding: God bless us, every one.


Sunday, December 23, 2018

MEDITATING ON A FULL DAY

The last seven days at work and in general have been hectic and stressful.  I am slowly recovering from a bad cold and broken bones in my foot, both resulting from me pushing too hard and not taking time to be careful nor to take care of myself.

Tonight I find myself with some time, as things finally settle down around 7:45 p.m., so I meditate.  No, no, no; not that "ooooohhmmmm" stuff. Usually I go to an app (Insight Timer) that lets me listen to various nature sounds while I de-stress from the day; like white noise for my brain. 

Not this time.  This time I search out my favorite teacher and good friend who has an app called Tranquil Me.  I originally took a few meditating sessions with the instructor to help her business, but now she is my go-to when I need heavy-duty relaxation. 

Tonight I need heavy-duty relaxation.

Despite all the stuff on my to-do list and despite the fact that I have been running around all day, I decide that I deserve thirty minutes to myself, so I sit by myself in the living room in front of the Christmas tree, close my eyes, and listen to my friend's voice.

My mind drifts from time to time -- that to-do list refuses to be quiet -- and I eventually doze for a few seconds here and there during musical interludes, but it works. By 8:15 I am relaxed and stress-free (for the most part). 

Honestly, my idea of meditation is what I pulled on my students the last day before break: soft instrumental music and an animated roaring fireplace projected on the front board.  Meditation is that fifteen minutes I had to myself at night in the saltwater hot tub in the mountains of Maine, gazing at the stars and the moon.  Meditation happens when I'm out snowshoeing (in a safe place) and no one has broken trail yet because the snow is that fresh.

But tonight the much-needed relaxation comes via my friend, and, like always, when the session (guided meditation) is over, I feel like I've had a massage, and I don't care about a damn thing on that to-do list.

Saturday, December 22, 2018

HAPPY ELECTRONICALLY-INDUCED WINTER

The first day of winter arrives in New England with its usual flare for the dramatic: Torrential downpours and 65 degrees.  That's right -- 65 flipping degrees.  I walk from my car up the street to our school holiday party without even bothering to put on a coat.  It may as well be June except that it is pitch-dark by four-thirty, and everyone is wearing Christmas-themed clothing.

Today during school, though, I try to get into the season.  My sound system breaks in my room, so I have to go old-school (hooking up some well-worn speakers I hid in my closet during one of our many moves from building to building during construction).  I put on some nondescript holiday-ish smooth jazz music and project a fireplace, complete with animated burning logs, onto the front board.

It may be late-spring New England weather outside, but inside my classroom it is true winter ambiance.  Of course, I shut the heat off to my room so we don't all truly roast, but the sentiment is fine, just the same.  Best of all, the days will slowly start getting longer now.  If they don't do so quickly enough, I'll go back to my fake fireplace scene and warm up my spirit by the light of the electronic fire.

Friday, December 21, 2018

HEY, LINUS, WHAT'S THE STORY?

Well ... I almost made it.  I'm almost organized for Christmas. 

The decorating isn't quite done; the shopping isn't quite done; the baking isn't quite done; and the cleaning definitely isn't even close to being done.  However, considering that the gas company finally got all of their shit out of here two weeks ago (and my stove still has not been inspected), I guess I'm doing all right.

Tonight is my final day to make lists, and I am pleased to say that I am damn-near done with whatever is going to get done before the big day.  So, I treat myself.  Yup.  I semi-watch a Christmas movie about an ice skater (the plot seems to be horrible),  and then I follow that up with the greatest Christmas television event in the history of Christmas television events:

A Charlie Brown Christmas

I must admit that I am surprised some protest group has not gotten this taken off the air by now due to its religious speech near the end.  Seriously -- Imagine the horror of all those fragile people when they suddenly realize that Christmas is ... gasp ... a religious holiday.  Oh, the humanity!  But, for the time being anyway, this is still one completely untouched piece of Christmas fabulousity.

I've almost made it, and, if Charlie Brown can keep plugging along (and Linus can continue spouting Luke 2:8-14), I can chug along to the finish line as on time and prepared as I can possibly be.

Thursday, December 20, 2018

TOTALLY FESTIVE SELECTION OF MUGS

The decorating is not quite done, the shopping is not quite done, the wrapping is not quite done, and the cleaning is definitely not even close to being done. 

Other than that, Christmas 2018 is under control.  Somewhat.  Sort of.  Mostly.  Possibly.

At least my glassware is ready.  Santa and holiday plates and mugs are all set and ready, although nothing really matches, but it's okay because my holiday spirit is stitched together like an old quilt, anyway.  This whole concept of perfection is overrated. 

Christmas should be kind of messy, kind of disorganized.  Christmas needs to be spontaneous.

In the meantime, though, as I struggle to get myself organized and to the finish line, I will enjoy my tea or hot chocolate in a wonderful holiday-themed ceramic mug.  It's the least I can do since the glassware is the only part of Christmas that is prepped.

Yup, Christmas 2018 is somewhat under control, but if it's not, I'm armed and ready with lots of caffeine and a totally festive selection of mugs.

Wednesday, December 19, 2018

THE TELL-TALE WREATH

I have a small wreath that I usually put on a hook somewhere in the house, hanging off the back of an outside door or off the front of an inside door.  This year we have broken all of the hooks clean off the inside doors.  This leaves me with two options: put the wreath away until next year, or hang the wreath on the hook outside.

It's the holiday season, so I secure the wreath to the front door (the outside), make certain that it's not going to blow away, then smile at how great my little wreath will look to people driving down the opposite street who can see my door from a distance.

Spread some holiday cheer, right?

Well ... sometime during the night, the weather takes a nasty turn.  The wind whips up like crazy, the temperature plummets, and the cold night rattles the windows a bit.  This is all fine and well (it happens a lot because I live in a bit of a wind tunnel), until about four o'clock in the morning.

I am awakened by what sounds like tapping or scratching on the front door.

I try to go back to sleep, but the noise is infuriating.  It's incessant and it sounds like drumming on my brain.  I suddenly feel like Poe's hapless anti-hero in "The Tell-Tale Heart"; I'm slowly going insane listening to the noise (although in truth I have been awake for probably ninety seconds, if even).

As my brain cells catch up to my wakened state, I deduce that the noise must be the wreath, scratching back and forth on the metal door in concert with the howling wind outside.  Rather, I hope and pray that the noise is from the wreath and not from some creepy person or animal trying to get into my house.  No matter, because if I don't stop the noise, I will never get back to sleep, and I have one more precious hour before I need to be up for the day.

Much like ripping up Poe's floorboards in an attempt to rid the thumping, I half-heroically, half-terrifyingly throw open the front door.  I am greeted with darkness and frigid wind that doesn't bode well with my t-shirt and flannel pajama pants (I know ... sexy, right?).  It is a gesture, however, that allows me enough time to grab the wreath, wrestle with my handiwork of attaching it to the hook so it wouldn't blow away, and toss the icy decoration across the den floor.

I shut the front door quietly, lock it tightly against fear and weather, then pick up the holiday wreath from the floorboards that, unlike Poe's heart, is no longer driving me insane.

Tuesday, December 18, 2018

GROCERY AVOIDANCE

I don't want to go to the store. 

I need a few things, but I honestly despise shopping.  I hate shopping so much that I am quite certain Hell is a mall.  Grocery shopping is the worst because I know I need to fight those crazy people, and I know I need to stand in those damn lines, and I know that at least one bag will break, and I also know that I will forget or leave behind the one and only item that I truly need on my list (something essential, like toilet paper or ice cream).

Today after work I try to steer the car toward home, but I have a short shopping list.  If I can get some of it done today, maybe it won't be so bad the next time I have to go.  I keep trying to go home, but my guilt and the steering wheel take me to the grocery store; not the small neighborhood one - the big one. 

I sit in my car for about three minutes, talking myself in to actually entering the grocery store.  Okay, okay, I am finally convinced.  I grab one of the smaller carriages (this will be a quick trip, right?) and wheel it into the store.  I prepare to enter the first aisle of items when I look at the front registers. 

The lines for an early Monday afternoon are ridiculous.

This is when I am supposed to admit that I am victorious and conquer the market!  This is when I claim the grocery store in the name of introverts everywhere, plant my flag in the frozen food section, and sing songs of praise to the register receipt as I skip out the door with my many parcels!

But what actually happens is that I spin the cart back toward the door, drop it off in front of two women who've just finished a large grocery shopping trip, and walk right back out to my car without even hesitating. 

Just like that ... five seconds in ... I've given up.

Ehhhh, I'm not suffering.  I mean, I have toilet paper at home, and I may even have ice cream.  I'm reasonably certain I can survive for a few more days.

Monday, December 17, 2018

RESTARTING THE AUTO-START

If you believe in astrological influence, you might be aware that when Mercury is in retrograde phrase, things go wrong.  When planets are in retrograde, it appears that their regular orbits are actually moving in the opposite direction.  Mercury retrograde influences mechanical things, machinery, shopping, making major decisions, and signing contracts and other legal documents, and causes things to seem like they are going wrong or impeding progress, perhaps even moving backward.

I don't know that Mercury is retrograde when I start using my automatic car starter this fall, or, I should say, when I start NOT using my automatic car starter.  No matter what I do, I cannot get the stupid starter to work.  I'm not a dumb person, but apparently I am too stupid to press a couple of buttons. 

Finally, I happen upon a sequence that works.  First I auto-unlock the car, then I auto-lock it twice in quick succession, followed by two taps to the ignition key.  BINGO!  Car starts.

But ... I cannot get into the car.  The automatic door un-locker is not working.  I have to remove the dummy key from the automatic starter, use the dummy key to open the door by hand, then restart the car that now thinks I'm a car thief and shuts itself off. 

This routine goes on for a few weeks and, mostly, it works, but it's impractical, it's frustrating, and it's maddening.

This is when I happen to hear the radio snippet saying that Mercury is no longer retrograde. 

Since I didn't know it was retrograde to start with, I decide to give it the old cosmic karma try.  I head to the living room window, hold up my automatic starter, and do the sequence that is supposed to start the car (but so far this season has not): two clicks to the auto start button. 

I'll.  Be.  Damned.

Not only does this work, but the car doors unlock with the auto-key (I do not need to pull out the dummy key), and, this is the best part, the car doesn't shut itself off when I try to drive away.  To prove that I'm not insane and that astrological influences may actually have impact, I try this routine again the following morning, then again, and then a few days later, again. 

Every time now it works.  I'm not saying Mercury retrograde is the true problem, but I suppose it will work until the next time Mercury goes retrograde, March 5th to March 28th of 2019.

Sunday, December 16, 2018

MATRYOSHKA SHIPPING BOX

More holiday shipping/shopping boxes have been arriving from various vendors, more even from the infamous Amazon.  A box arrives that looks like it might be holding a tent or something large and cumbersome.  I start thinking: What did I order that requires so large a box?  I could seriously stuff a body into it.

Turns out it's a Russian box.  Well, it's actually a box from China inside a box from the United States, but it could be a Russian box because inside the big box is a smaller box, packed just like Russian Matryoshka dolls.  

In addition to the box from China, there is one more small item inside the box, a second box inside the box.  Even with this second box next to the first box that's inside of a huge box, the shipping box is much larger than necessary. 

I debate keeping the box.  I have started collecting boxes in case I decide to move at some point.  I could be on that show Hoarders except that I hoard empty boxes.  This big box is bulky, though, not the kind of box that lends itself to moving.

Not to mention that I do keep going to the dark place (see paragraph #1) ... I seriously could stuff a body (probably in parts) into this box.  The fact that I even know this and continue to dwell on it indicates that I should probably disassemble the box and get it prepped for the recycle rotation on Tuesday.

It's not all death and destruction, though.  I mean, presents do arrive in that box, Matryoshka-style or not.  (Just in case you forgot, though, I really, truly, and with very little blood loss could fit a body into this large shipping box.  I'm just saying.)

Saturday, December 15, 2018

CROWS OF MURDER ... AND ... MURDER OF CROWS

Alfred Hitchcock is not dead.  He is alive and well and directing movies outside of my house, apparently.  I know this must be true because of the birds.

Yes, the birds.

I back my car into the driveway, and, even with the windows closed, I hear a loud din.  At first I think it might be my car, but I can still hear it after cutting the engine.  This is quite a feat since all of my windows are rolled up. 

Maybe it's the train, I tell myself.  I live right on the tracks, so it's probably the commuter rail making its appearance, possibly even the Northeaster, which barrels through without stopping.  I check out the crossing down the road and notice that the gates are not down.

Sometimes construction vehicles come by on their way to the nearby town yard.  Also, the school buses park down the road in the opposite direction from the town yard, and idling buses sometimes sound louder than life.  I don't see any other vehicles around, though.

As I exit my car, I notice the sound is much louder coming from the side of the house that is under construction (remodel) and empty.  It takes me a few seconds to realize that the constant screeching sound is caused by crows -- hundreds of them -- in a tree.  There are so many crows that bunches of them look like giant nests high up in the maple, but they are really clumps of birds.  The birds are not really moving, but the sounds ... the vibrations in the air ... are powerful.

So powerful, in fact, that I flash back to the first time I saw Hitchcock's movie The Birds.  Remember the scene with the birds all perched on the jungle gym and the main character sidles along, hoping not to disturb the angry flying bastards as she runs to the school?

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ydLJtKlVVZw

Yes, this is exactly what it's like.

I step away from my car and dozens upon dozens of birds fly away, circle back, and re-land in the tree.  There is a momentary silence.  I step backward, and the noise starts anew.  I honestly feel that the birds are watching me, taunting me with their murderous intent to peck out my eyes.

I quickly gather my belongings and get into my house as rapidly as possible.  Not going to lie -- I check to make sure there aren't any open vents or chimneys that can be accessed by the damn birds.  I remember that old lady with the hollow eye sockets, dead as a door nail after having her eyeballs pecked out.

I do get a picture and a short video.  It may be hard to see them, but these are not leaves on this tree.  Since a gathering of crows is called a "murder,"   I'm relieved to be safely inside before the birds continue to plot my demise.

Friday, December 14, 2018

GONE, BABY, GONE

When I arrive home from work today (finally a day when it is still slightly light out), I plan to decorate the hot water heater that has been around forever and ever.  I have been intending to do so for two weeks, but it had been too cold initially, then I was sick with a hacking cold that won't quit, and I've been hobbling around with my busted toe/foot.  Pair all of that with these early sunsets (so depressing), and it just hasn't happened. 

All the way home I am thinking about which garland string I will finally donate to the gas company for this little endeavor.  An extra one from the tree?  A smaller piece meant to hang over a doorway?  The fat red garland usually used on the smaller tree that I put in the den (before I set up my new office area)?

I pull my car around the corner, up the small hill and ... I notice the gas company is at a house four away from mine.

Oh, no.  Did they?  Did they really????

They did.  The hot water heater is gone. 

It has been the last shred of the basement debacle and the horror of a house full of gas in September, and its disappearance should be calming.  Part of me wishes I'd thrown some tinsel on it and maybe left an empty plastic margarita glass taped to it.  Part of me enjoyed being greeted by it every morning and again every afternoon.  Part of me is thrilled the damn thing is gone. 

Actually, though, I'm pissed off at myself for lacking the follow-through and rallying my sorry self to the occasion.  I don't know if the gas company would find it funny, but I certainly thought all along that it was, and still is, a grand idea.  Oh, well.  Next disaster (if I survive it), I promise that I'll act as quickly as I think.  If that means keeping a string of garland at the ready all year long, I guess I'll have to take one for the team and find a safe and convenient place to stash a string of it.

Thursday, December 13, 2018

MOST WONDERFUL AMAZON TIME OF THE YEAR

It's the most wonderful time of the year!  It's AMAZON TIME!

That's right, it's that time of year when stuff ordered from Amazon starts making its way to the front door as it migrates toward Santa's workshop upstairs in my house.  Today three boxes arrive.

I am so excited.  Except two of the three boxes are for my son.  The last box only has a tracking number on it because the rest of the label obviously got stuck to something and has been torn off.

Uh oh.  Is this more of my son's order, or is this part of my Amazon order?

I ask my son, "Is there anything in that box for me?"  He thinks for a few seconds.  Nope. I tell him that if it were my Amazon order, there'd be nothing in it for him.  We agree to open the unmarked box and see whose stuff it is.

It's just like Christmas!  It's going to be a surprise to one of us!

Turns out ... it's a surprise to both of us.  Inside the box is a flat stove-top skillet pan and disc brakes for a car.  I'm reasonably certain someone can wait a few more days for the skillet, but I'm fairly sure that disc brakes in a box ordered with Amazon Prime probably register up there in a Code Red Zone.

Thankfully we can see the tracking number, so we call the local UPS store.  They can tell the package has been delivered (to my front door, which I already knew), but no other information is available.  No address, no name, no contact info.  The UPS store does give me a more global number.

Well, apparently it's SUPER global, because the person who answers barely speaks English and sounds like she is in a completely different time zone, one that might include Pakistan.  The woman on the other end takes MY information, but she will not give me ANY other information other than the promise to call me within an hour.  Her advice?  Tape it up and leave it on my front doorstep for the driver to pick up.

I'm really not happy about this.  Someone NEEDS those brakes.  I assure the woman in Sri Lanka (or wherever she may be - she really, really does sound like she is thousands of miles away, possibly during typhoon season) that I will NOT be putting the package outside until I have conformation that she has phoned the recipient and has been told by that recipient to have me do so.  She says that someone will call me.

Luckily the person who calls back is from a local UPS distribution center, and she is able to tell me the address (house in front of mine), and the recipients (quiet neighbors who live downstairs from my landlord).  My son is able to deliver the re-taped package less than thirty minutes after we discover the mistake.

This is all very lovely, except for one important fact that is being overlooked: Not a single one of those packages was for me!  Dang it.


Wednesday, December 12, 2018

DELI CHEESE OVERLOAD

I have to get my grocery shopping under control.

Even though I make a list, I still manage to screw stuff up.  I miss items, I fail to write things down, and I am forever forgetting important items, like toilet paper.  No, I haven't run out of that yet, but I've come dangerously close a few too many times.

Unfortunately the same curse that causes me to forget things also works in reverse.  Take cheese, for example.  I'll buy deli cheese, then go to the store a few days later, see the deli cheese, and mistakenly believe that I don't have any deli cheese at home and I'll buy more deli cheese. 

This cheese thing seems to have extended itself to my son, who came home the other day after hitting the store for some munchies that he likes.  In his bag was a pound of ... yup ... deli cheese.  Currently there is enough cheese in my refrigerator to make sandwiches for an elementary school full of hungry children.

Meanwhile, I need milk and foil and Italian dressing (which I have forgotten probably a dozen times now) and, yes, toilet paper.  I wonder if I can barter deli cheese for any of those items?  Until then, looks like grilled cheese for dinner ... today, tomorrow, next week... 

Tuesday, December 11, 2018

CADDYSHACK STOVE

My new stove still has not been approved nor inspected by the gas company.  This, of course, will not stop me from using the stove.  After six weeks of waiting, I'm growing a little tired of the lack of follow-through.  If I blow up, sue the crap out of them for me.

In the meantime, I'm discovering all kinds of interesting things about the oven.  For example, it hisses then pops every time the temperature needs to go up.  (This is relatively normal for a gas stove.  Relatively.)  Also, the front two burners, even on the lowest settings, can fry an egg in no time.

My favorite feature by far, though, has to be the sound the oven makes when it reaches a pre-set temperature.  Usually when an oven reaches the set temperature, perhaps 350 degrees, it beeps to let the cook know it's up to temp and time to bake (or broil or whatever).

Not this stove.  This stove makes music.  Not just any music; Caddyshack music.

When the temperature notification goes off, it sounds just like the horn from Al Czervik's car.  You know the car (and the character, played by Rodney Dangerfield) -- it's the big red one that has the musical horn. 

I'm still not used to it yet, and I jump every time it plays its little ditty.   Perhaps if the gas company would inspect my stove, I'd use it more and get used to the musical temperature notification.  In the meantime, I'll just yell, "Oh, I broke my arm!" with every chime it plays, followed by an impromptu gopher dance to "I'm Alright."

In case you missed it (ignore the random political incorrectness of the scene -- for those easily offended, that's the entire point):  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=171FURqSIQc


Monday, December 10, 2018

3-D PUZZLEMANIA ... HEAVY ON THE MANIC PART

I almost buy myself a Christmas gift. Yup, I really do.  I see it in the store and I think, "Oh, man, that would be cool when it's all done."

I'm talking about a 3-D puzzle.  No, not the ones you have to build in 3-D like the damn Eiffel Tower that falls apart when you screw up one little piece.  I mean puzzles where the puzzle is 2-D but the picture itself is 3-D.

I see the boxes at the specialty store, and I start moving around the box, left to right, up and down, because the picture on the front of the box, being 3-D, is fascinating to me.  I can almost see "behind" the items in the front of the picture.  There's a depth to the picture that tricks me into believing that there are spaces behind the characters, even though my brain tells me this cannot be.

Surely this 3-D picture is really 2-D.  It's on the front of a box, for chrissakes.


I do know Santa is bringing me two puzzles, though.  One is from my sister and her family via Santa; the other one I had to buy because it was a bunch of cats, so it's from me to myself via Santa.  My first challenging puzzle when I was a kid was an octagonal puzzle loaded with cats, and I saw this one (kind of modernistic), so I bought it.

(See?  Even the picture hurts my eye!)
Standing in front of the 3-D puzzle, I wonder if it would be a good thing to try.  The price isn't too bad, and it's not too many pieces.  These are pluses, in my book.  But ... and this is huge ... I have a hard enough time seeing the regular shapes and colors and nuances of the small pieces.  Imagine if these are complicated with 3-D special effects?  Will my eyes start freaking out?  Will this give me migraines?  Will it be like psychological warfare just trying to put the edges together?

Then it dawns on me that if I am even thinking these crazy-ass thoughts, I probably shouldn't get myself the puzzle.  Puzzles should be relatively fun and semi-relaxing.  I shouldn't be comparing a puzzle-solving experience to terrorism and mustard gas.  These thoughts alone make me wonder why these puzzles are in the toy section of the store when they should perhaps be in sporting goods (except that I doubt The Paper Store has a sporting goods section, although the designs on Vera Bradley bags and clothing could probably be used close-up to torture suspects).

Yes, the puzzle would be cool when it's all done, but it won't be done by me.  Not today, anyway.  Of course, the fact that it is still on my mind worries me.  I have a sneaking suspicion that it might end up under the tree, after all.

My eyeballs hurt just thinking about it.


Sunday, December 9, 2018

LIGHT BEER AND A DAY OFF FROM THE HWH

Today I don't have a chance to decorate the hot water heater, but it's still out there and probably will be tomorrow (and maybe for the entire winter), so there's still time.  Today I am trying to recover from being sick.

Honestly, it has been a tough three weeks.  First, I snap my toe in the middle of the night, and no, it has not healed and continues to bug me.  Oh well, I guess arthritis is in my future.  Then a little over a week ago, I started with this massive cold that just will not go away.  It's lingering like an unwanted house guest and continues to plague me like the ... well .... like the damn plague.  (I actually had to sit in a corner during a huge meeting on Friday when I declared myself to be Typhoid Mary to protect them all from ruining the holidays lest they become infected.)

I need to go to the pharmacy and stock up on cold medicine because now my youngest is sick, too.  I doubt he got it from me since he has barely been home, we don't really see each other - just kind of pass by on occasion when our schedules meld - so the chance of infection from being near me is low.  However, his girlfriend is also feeling the effects of this nasty grippe (she is an elementary school teacher and has not yet encountered every flu known to man on the planet), so I suspect their equally snotty sinuses infected each other.  Anyway, he needs medicine and I need medicine, so I need to go out today whether I want to or not.

I run a couple of quick errands before the pharmacy, then I stock up on things like tissues and cough drops and cough syrup.  I have a coupon, so it sort of helps to keep the costs down.  After that, I decide to go to the weekend wine tasting.  I mean, CVS is right next to the store, so I should go.  If the workers in the wine shop see me and I don't stop in, they might be offended.

At the wine tasting, there's some bubbly being sampled, so I have to buy bubbly to make mimosas because they have orange juice and I have a cold so it all makes sense in my snot-infested brain.  I think of my son, home on the big living room chair, and decide he probably should be drinking fluids.  So I head to the regular packy so I can buy beer.

Oh my God, there's a wine tasting there, too.  Not just one table, but two tables are pouring wines that range from $17 a bottle to $80 a bottle.  I sample some but not all - that would be a total of two dozen samples between here and the previous wine shop, and I haven't even had lunch yet.  On a good day when I'm not sick, I might be able to tackle it, but not today.  I rummage through the beer refrigerators, grab something boring and inexpensive, and do the walk of shame past the wine reps and their tables.

I feel a little guilty leaving the store with a six-pack of light beer after sampling and enjoying higher-end wines.  It's all going to even out, though.  I mean, I did buy bubbly at the wine shop so I can make mimosas.  Mimosas have orange juice.  Orange juice is good for me when I have a cold.  I have a cold and feel like maybe I might die.  I don't know why she swallowed the fly...

Anyway, there's the longest explanation on Earth as to why the hot water heater is not decorated today. 

Saturday, December 8, 2018

BLANKET FOR THE OLD HWH

Okay, I'll admit it. 

Now I'm just starting to feel sorry for that poor water heater in my driveway.  Every time I walk by it to get to or from my car, I think about animals at the shelter.  Oh, sure, it's not as serious as abandoned pets, but it's the same mindset.  Here is this sad hot water heater that could make some family very, very happy, and yet it just sits here, trying to look tempting to passers-by.  The poor baby is ignored and all alone, night and day, through cold and wind and eventually rain and snow. I don't want just anyone to adopt (steal) the hot water heater.  I'd truly like it to go to a good home, a stable home, a home that won't explode or catch fire or worse.  It hurts my heart to see it.

Today I start having some fun with the gas company, though.  I mean if they're going to just leave the hot water here, I will continue to let it be my muse.  I back my car into the driveway like I always do, glance to my right, shake my head that the machine is still here, then decide on today's photo op. 

Yes, like the shelters, maybe if I dress up the hot water heater, someone will willingly adopt it, or maybe the gas company will see it and say, "Oh. my goodness, there's our long-lost baby!  How could we have ever left it behind?!"  Kissy kissy kissy face.

In the back seat of my car are the blankets I use to cover my kayak halves and stuff between them to keep them from clanging against each other while I'm driving.  Obviously it is past a rational person's kayaking season, so the only things left behind are the blankets.  I have a choice of a boring brown fleece blanket, an equally unexciting green fleece blanket, or a small, old, blue and white crocheted afghan.

Like any good fairy godmother, the handmade afghan wins.

Perhaps if it is still here tomorrow, I'll add some of the stuff I have in my trunk.  There's a bathing suit (don't ask me why -- It's November -- I've no logical answer), old jeans, a sweatshirt, a golf umbrella, some snow scarper/brushes, and a pair of walking poles for forest treks.  Hmmmm, maybe I can find the Halloween costumes, too.  I might have a wig I can donate to the cause, some shoes, mittens...

Oh. boy.  The gas company is so going to regret leaving that puppy behind.  I've a feeling I've adopted it by proxy already.

Friday, December 7, 2018

ANOTHER DAY OF MECHANICAL SHENANIGANS

The hostage situation continues.

I arrive home today to find the brand new hot water heater still camped out complacently in the driveway.  With everyone who lives here gone at work all day, the contraption sits unguarded and within full view of both a busy street and a busy industrial park.  I honestly cannot believe that it's still here and has not yet been stolen.  I let myself into my house and begin the fine art of snacking on unhealthy food, like Extra-Toasty Cheez-Its and Milano cookies and beer (not together, though).

Suddenly there is a knock on my door.  I look out the window, but I don't see anyone, so I ignore it.  More knocks follow.  Now I am convinced that it must be the neighborhood kids.  They tried similar shit a few years ago, and I went all Gran Torino on them.  I throw the door open to see ...

A metal clamp-like claw attached to what looks like a dryer vent hose.  I follow it to a strange robot with futuristic rollers on its feet.  Apparently it cannot get up the stairs, so it stretches its snake-like appendages to knock.

"I've come a-courtin'," it says in a mechanical voice.  "I am a Class M-3 Model B-9 General Utility Non-Theorizing Environmental Control Robot, also known as 'Robot.'  I'd like to date your hot water heater."

I look around.  Surely this has to be a joke.  "Dr. Smith?" I call out.  "Will, are you out there?  Did you guys put Robot up to this?"  I pause but get no response.  I shake my head and look directly at Robot's flashing chest light then up at its sparkling, gyrating, glass halo-like orb of a head.  "I'm sorry, Robot, but the hot water heater doesn't belong to me.  She's a transient from another universe, a universe without gas or heat or warm water."

Robot is undeterred.  Still, however, the hot water heater just sits there.  Finally, after what seems like an eternity, a strange foil-covered saucer arrives, and a homely gentleman sticks his head out of the flying machine.  Next to him, a red-headed boy with an old-fashioned bowl haircut skips from the saucer, grasps Robot's clamp-hand, and gently leads it back to the end of the driveway.  They board the saucer and seem to prepare for take-off.

I can hear them exclaim as they drive out of sight:  "Danger, Will Robinson! Danger!  Danger!  Danger!  Merry hot water heater to all, and to all, a  good night."

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RG0ochx16Dg

PS: If that contraption is still here tomorrow, I swear I'm putting holiday decorations on it and and putting it up for grabs on E-bay.

Thursday, December 6, 2018

HOSTAGE SITUATION CONTINUES

Day #45 of the hostage situation:

The interloper first appeared in our camp around o-nine-thirty on or about October 21st.  It entered our camp covertly, disguised as a large cardboard box.  We were fooled.  Yes!  We all were fooled.  Of course we were; its delivery was accompanied by seven, possibly more, men and women dressed in bright yellow plastic vests.  They certainly looked appropriate.

Well, they looked appropriate until the box came off.

Evident almost immediately, the contraption in the box was not native to the area.  Its cap didn't match our camp's energy supply, and we suspected the interloper was a plant, a decoy from the enemy to throw us off our game, and it did ... for a while.

Days of suspicion followed, leading to a confrontation in our camp.  The insurgents, now outed, they abandoned their tools, weaponry, and the original insurgent machine -- all within the bowels of our camp.  Deep in the stone and concrete darkness, down the stairs from the locked door, the interloper remained trapped, unable to maneuver the stairs by itself.

Days later, detente reigned, and the contrite insurgents returned.  They had a new machine, this one a peace offering, and its cap clearly fit into our camp.  Within days the new machine had been reassigned to our camp permanently and began working without complaint.

But the original interloper remained.

Weeks it sat there with an old, decrepit prisoner we had taken early on in the fighting, somewhere around September 13th.  Finally, someone in the higher enemy ranks realized that the interloper was still in our possession, and they wanted it back.  This is when we decided it would be our hostage.

"Come and get your soldier," we negotiated, "but you'll take the old, decrepit prisoner with you along with the mess your interloper has made for over forty days!"

The battalion showed up without warning to collect their comrade.  We were unprepared and held the fort just long enough to make them uncomfortable.  When they were finally allowed inside our camp, they brought dollies and brooms and plastic and apologies.  After about forty minutes, the two prisoners were released to their custody.  The old prisoner along with the scraps, stood at the end of the driveway to be collected by the first junk transport to come by.

The interloper sat in the driveway where it was safe from the junk collector, neither a part of our camp nor the enemy camp.  It sat there all night, all the following day, and into the next night.  Its troops returned and took new territory close to our camp, setting up orange cones over fresh tar to fill in more newly dug trenches in the street. 

Still they left the interloper. 

We didn't understand.  If they wanted their hostage back so badly, why leave it where it could be taken by another faction?  Were they afraid of poison gas? How depressing to be a rescued hostage that still, even after a successful extraction, was left behind like trash.  How depressing to see it sulking in the driveway, waiting for its brothers (and sisters) to come rescue it completely from our property.

Until then, the wrong-but-brand-new hot water heater will sit in the driveway, completely unhidden from other factions who may want it for themselves.  No matter how many times we wave goodbye, no matter how many times the gas company is here digging things up again, the hostage water heater keeps vigil on the bricks, hoping that someday someone will love it as much as we almost did.  Like a hostage that has developed Stockholm Syndrome, perhaps it will allow us to decorate it for Christmas.  We shall see.  It depends on how close it will allow us to come without reacting.

It's day #45 of the hostage situation.  We'll let you know how, when, and if it ever ends.

Wednesday, December 5, 2018

82

Eighty-two.

That's the number of days from that start of the gas crisis to the day the gas company finally comes and takes their crap out of my basement.

I know, I know -- I should be jumping up and down because I have heat and hot water.  I am amongst the lucky after being amongst the mistreated.  This whole thing, though -- no warnings when they're coming; no clear answers when things would be fixed; no follow through -- has been slightly maddening

I receive the phone call on my way home from work today: "Where are you?  Can you get home?  The gas company is here."  (My landlord.) Actually, I need to run to the bank, the gas station, and the grocery store.  I guess that won't be happening right now.  Besides, I have all the contact information for my landlord on the door to my house.  I don't own the place.  This is sooooo not my problem.

I rush home, just the same.

The landlord and the gas company are letting themselves inside my townhouse when I arrive home.  Apparently they are there for the extra brand-new hot water heater they forgot.  My landlord and I tell them all the same thing: "You'll get your hot water heater when you clean up the shit you left in the basement, including the old furnace."

This is a brilliant strategy.  Except... except that I had company last weekend and finally (after eighty days) moved basement crap out of my living level and put some of it back into the basement and the landing to the basement.  This means that I have to move that stuff back into my kitchen.  I also need to move furniture in the den so they can get through with the equipment.

Pain in my ass.

I've been living like a damn gypsy for eighty-two damn days.  Finally I might get my life back.  After watching seven of them (seven -- really, seven) haul the stuff out of my basement, I see one guy go into the cellar with a sheet of plastic.  My landlord and I hear clanging and a bit of sharp retorts.  Sounds like they've broken something.

Turns out the plastic is to ... surprise ... collect the crap they've left everywhere, and the noise is them picking it all up.  Seven people, four dollies, a sheet of plastic later, my basement is almost clear again.  It's like they were never there.  It's like the past eighty-two days never happened.

Well, except for the stove.  The gas company still has not approved the stove I've been cooking with for the last two weeks.  I suppose that means they'll be back.  I'll leave that contact information on my door just in case.


Tuesday, December 4, 2018

HERE COMES THE ... WHAT THE HELL IS THAT GIANT FIREBALL?

It's almost unbelievable.  Truly.  The sky is blue.  The. Sky. Is. BLUE.

This has been the most sun we have seen since late September.  Honestly, it has been so gloomy and so rainy and so overcast that we have all forgotten what the damn sun even looks like.  Is it round?  Is it bright?  Does it exist?  We doubt all of these things.

Then, all of a sudden and without warning on Saturday, out pops the sun.  Dagnabbit if it doesn't do it again three times (albeit briefly, for about ten seconds each time) on Monday. 

Now, now -- we know better than to count on these things.  After all, in between the sun's brief visit Saturday and it's game of Peek-a-Boo on Monday, we do have Sunday, which is so rainy and so colorless that by three o'clock in the afternoon, it is dark enough for outside lights.  But, really, seeing the sun for a total of maybe three minutes in the last six weeks has been disheartening at best, so to actually see it (and feel it ... it hits fifty degrees or better on Monday), is downright amazing.

Throw in BLUE SKY, and, well, folks: IT'S A FREAKING PARTY!

Fear not, New Englanders.  Mother Nature will shit all over us soon.  After all, I did hear the weather forecasters whispering the word "Nor'Easter," and we all know what that means: Once someone has uttered the word "snow," you know it's coming.  Yes, yes, that's right: SNOW.  Besides, isn't that why we live here in the semi-frozen Great Iced-Over Northeast?  For snow?

No, actually I think the answers is: We live here because there are tornadoes, earthquakes, giant bugs, and elderly-eating alligators everywhere else.  Oh, and every once in a while (possibly three times in a six-week cycle) we get to see the sun and blue skies, so there is that. 


Monday, December 3, 2018

ADVENT-URES

In addition to being Day #1 of Hanukkah, it is also Day #1 of Advent.  I really enjoy when the holidays all fall together.  It reminds me of when I was very young and lived next door to a boy my age who was Jewish.  His mother taught me my first Hanukkah song ("Burn Little Candle"), and I picked up a few more along the way through school chorus.

I clean off the kitchen table (also known as "My Desk") so I can put the Advent wreath out and get the candles into it.  While rooting around, I also find the infamous Christmas wine stopper.  Of course, this means that things are only going to get worse.

I don't have the Christ candle added to the center of the Advent wreath - not yet, anyway - but I do have a half-finished bottle of Chianti.  I replace the rubber stopper with the ornate Christmas one, and stick the bottle into the center of the wreath. 

Once this is done, I light the first Advent candle, which I always thought was Hope, but someone else told me it is for Peace.  This sparks a firestorm of Internet activity.  How could I be wrong all these years?  I mean, I even created my own mnemonic device so I wouldn't screw it up every year.  And why do they say to light the pink candle last?  I was always taught it was third in line? 

Holy crap, now I'm screwing up Advent, too.

Turns out many different Christian religions and sects mix up the four, but I'm sticking with my UCC knowledge (and my old church bulletins) and going with the same old: Hope, Peace, Joy (pink), Love, then the big white candle (I'll move the chianti bottle before then because it will most likely be empty soon, anyway).

That's my Holiday Story, and I'm sticking with it... for now, anyway.

Sunday, December 2, 2018

CHRISTMAS AT A DYING MALL

This Christmas season I have decided to be on the lookout for accidental decorations -- decorations that pop up where and when I least expect them.  Today's installment is the Woburn Mall.

The Woburn Mall is located in a fabulous spot.  It is easily accessible from route 93 (main artery in and out of Boston) and 128/95, the main artery into and out of the technology hot spot.  It is also adjacent to multiple industrial complexes with offices and industry, and it has two strong anchor stores with a bustling Home Goods at one end and a well-shopped Market Basket grocery store at the other.

Yet somehow this little mall cannot seem to keep itself thriving.  I don't understand it at all.

I used to go there all the time to get my fabric fix at a great store called Fabric Place.  In later years, I played trivia at Uno's restaurant with a group of gal pals.  Both places have since closed their doors.  Now I'm at the mall to shop at Home Goods (it's one of the better ones) and the comic book store.  Unfortunately, the comic book store, victim of the impending mall-demise doom, is gone without a trace.  Not even a shelving unit has been left behind.

We read some signs and ask around.  The mall is closing its doors on December 26th, the day after Christmas.  I guess the date is in order to avoid seeming like Grinches by booting the employees out BEFORE Christmas.  Yeah.  Good call (dripping sarcasm).  What's
truly strange, though, is the hopeful enthusiasm of the Christmas display, set up in the center court of the mall itself.  It's an elaborate display for a mall with so little foot traffic, and its irony is not lost of me as it sits in front of abandoned store fronts and is largely ignored by the half-dozen shoppers milling about.

It's really too bad that the floundering mall, soon-to-be-jobless employees, and hollow shops can't suck some of the life-blood from the Christmas display, especially right now in this Season of Giving and especially since someone went to a lot of work to set Christmas up in a dying mall.