HAPPY NEW YEAR

 It's the end of the year, and not a moment too soon. What a year! I cannot wait for it to be over, and yet I do have a few more days to wait. Soon, though. So very soon.

Thank goodness I can juggle. 

Well, not literally. I've tried to learn to juggle, but I'm simply too uncoordinated. However, I can mentally juggle things. I have sharp, rapid reflexes and am notoriously smooth at crafting quick solutions out of thin air while under extreme duress.

All this brings me to the Great Year-End Saga, which I won't get into this week. Probably next, though. 

Here's what I have to say to 2024: Do NOT let the door hit you in the ass on your way out.

To be cautious and because I am going to do it anyway, I'm staying home for New Year's Eve. I already picked out some champagne-themed pajamas that I was gifted for Christmas as a celebratory outfit, and I'll do up my hair with a simple but colorful elastic. Maybe, just maybe, I'll opt for theme socks instead of slippers. If Christmas hasn't been packed up by then, I'll toast it all away with bubbly in one of my Santa mugs.

It's slated to be a happening time over here. I cannot even begin to explain what a wonderful evening this will be, unless, of course, my 2024 luck continues to rear its ugly . . . rear . . . in my planned and coveted blissful solitude.

Please, I'm begging you, 2024, please just leave and do so without your usual pomp and fiasco. If you value your reputation at all, you'll do it by December 31st at 11:59:59 p.m., before I can chalk up one more disaster and blame YOU.

GRILLED CHEESE ASIDE

I've been having a rough go of it. Nothing major: just minor, annoying, health-related stuff.

It starts with the wildfires. The school smells so awful, and the air quality is so poor, that the custodial staff does their best to hermetically seal us inside the building. Then, the sore throat comes along, first one side and then the other. This lasts maybe two days, followed by complete and total laryngitis. The chronic laryngitis has lasted four weeks, and I am exhausted. My vocal cords are so inflamed that I've been singing tenor for almost as long as Andrea Bocelli. (It seems like it, anyway.)

Now, my eyes are burning. Well, not so much burning as feeling like someone dropped acid into my pupils. I cough a little bit if I feel like it, and my nose drips a little bit if it feels like it. Then I have a spontaneous nosebleed (only the second one I've ever had in my entire life that didn't involve an injury). I use up half a box of tissues, and my bathroom sink looks like Sharon Tate's living room. Worst of all, I simply cannot get warm. 

I test several times for Covid to make sure I don't ruin anyone's holidays. Nope -- all clear. It's like I'm sick, but not really. It's like I'm well, but don't feel quite right.

I'm trying to decide on dinner when it hits me: I need comfort food.

I grab a can of Campbell's Tomato Soup and dump it along with milk into a saucepan. I pull up a fry pan and toast myself a perfect grilled cheese sandwich to go with the soup.

This. Yes, this is comfort food.

Maybe feeling a little bit crappy isn't so bad, after all. It's a good excuse to slow down and relax, and it's a terrific excuse for an old-fashioned, diner-style meal. But, grilled cheese aside, I hope to feel better soon. 

A TRIP DOWN GPS LANE

I'm doing four days of a big commute: Heading south toward Boston then north back past my starting point in the morning, and heading south back toward Boston to turn around and head north again in the afternoon. This means that I am doing the hideous commute morning and afternoon despite my best intentions.

The one thing I learn while doing the practice dry-runs is that my "ignore the GPS and stay the course" back roads route is actually the fastest and most efficient, despite the smatterings of traffic and despite passing several elementary schools and two high schools. To make it worse, my final destination each morning is a combined middle-high school campus with one -- count 'em -- only one entrance and exit for both parent and employee traffic.

Each day I play a game with my GPS. Every time I ignore the voice, I check to see how much time I may have gained or lost. Day One I arrive exactly eleven minutes late, just as the morning announcements are starting. Tuesday I arrive right on the money despite being behind one school bus that stops at every other house, and  despite having to stop for a rather lengthy bus pick-up coming the other direction - I walk in just as the bell rings to send children to homeroom. Wednesday I am also outrunning a rain-wind storm, but I improve my time by almost ten minutes, avoid buses, but do hit some high school traffic two towns away from work. Thursday I may or may not run two red lights (to be fair, two vehicles followed me through both times, so they really ran them), miss every bus, and I arrive fifteen minutes before my scheduled start time.

The afternoon commutes, however, have me stumped. On Monday, I time it well enough that the backed-up traffic is no longer backed-up, but still steady.  Tuesday's traffic is more delayed, but there are several long and useless lights on the commute that interfere with the normal flow. Wednesday I am driving pretty much blind through pounding rain and wind, and the commute is a nightmare, but not horrifically terrible. 

Thursday, the nicest weather of the whole week with sunshine and mild temperatures, both deceives me and defeats me.

Yes, Thursday. 

What starts out as a relaxing and enjoyable commute turns into Hell on Fire. People are weaving in and out of traffic, passing in no-passing zones, changing lanes with no warning, and making lanes where there aren't any. Traffic isn't just backed up at lights; it's backed up for miles in every and any direction including side streets. On a good day, the one-way commute would be about fifty minutes. Thursday I am in my car in the work parking lot at 2:45 to begin the debacle, and I arrive back home at 5:45. The entire less-than-forty-mile commute takes me three hours.

Three.

Hours.

Once I clear the worst of the traffic and believe that I'm home free, though, a transit bus cuts me off. It blocks my commute for about eight miles, and it's going twenty miles per hour in a thirty-five mph zone. I'll be honest with you - at this point, I'm not just losing my mind; I am losing my sanity.

Normally, losing my sanity inside my car with windows slightly open is not a horrible thing. However, I have a two-year-old in the back seat. Yes, I may have said things like, "Just f*****g turn, you f*****g d**k. You're not a f*****g eighteen-wheeler. Make the turn!" I may have said "sonofabitch" a few times, and I know without even having to do total recall that I said s**t many, many times, as well.

I am a relatively well-trusted teacher and a reasonably reliable caretaker, but I'll be totally up front: a five-hour daily commute is going to elicit certain words and phrases not normally used in my everyday vocabulary. Okay, they are used every day, but not in front of minors (for the most part). 

To make a very long story very short: Dear Parents -- Blame me when your toddler spews more colorful language than a drunken sailor on a weekend bender. Sincerely, The Crazy Woman Behind the Wheel

TEENY BIT OF SNOW

We had a teeny bit of snow for about a milli-second.

In a way, it's a relief because my car handles like garbage in the snow. I used to have four-wheel drive, and I enjoyed running out to the store in the middle of a blizzard just because I could. Now, when I see the slightest snowflake, I go into panic mode if I have to drive because I know I'll slide around more than a toddler on hockey skates.

But, I do love the snow. 

That first snowfall is tough at school, too. When those fat flakes fall out of the sky, it's like the kiddos have never seen it before in their entire thirteen years on Earth. Of course, I'm just as bad as they are. Once the snow starts, it's really difficult to reel them back in and equally difficult for me to collect my thoughts enough to try to get them back on task.

I suppose it's a lucky thing that the sun came out by lunch time, except that the heat melted everything away. No fluff stuck to tree branches, no slush clinging to the windshield, and no trace left in the parking lot on the way out at the end of the day.

I should be careful what I wish for, I suppose. I may have said the same thing last blog, but it bears repeating. When one wishes for snow badly enough, it's bound to whack us all at the most inconvenient time. So, when the first seasonal blizzard hits us, I'll be the one hiding around the corner pelting people with snowballs and yelling, "Told ya so!"

WHERE'S THE ICE?

No big freeze here yet.

We've had below-freezing temperatures and mornings of frost and black ice, but so far the ponds and lakes around here remain ice-free. I'm not talking about skateable ice; I'm talking about the crinkling presence of frosty lacing along the edges that scream, "Winter's coming!"

Last winter was pretty much snow-free. Then, the summer came along and was gloriously free of rain. I know, I know; the drought caused all kinds of problems from wildfires to tree farm disasters, but it sure was nice weather, just the same.

So far, though, we've had some decent sunshine here for Fall. 

I've seen it worse: Ice storms ruining Thanksgiving; snow on Halloween; sub-zero temperatures by mid-November . . . But, so far? So far this change of seasons has been remarkably painless and pleasant.

So, when the temperature plummets and the roads are so ice-coated that we cannot drive on them nor walk on the sidewalks, when the cold wind threatens to peel the skin off our faces, when it snows so hard that driving looks like hitting hyperdrive in our starships, when we are struggling to shovel our cars out of snow mounds -- You may blame me. 

Bring it, winter. I may not be ready, but the anticipation is killing me.