LIGHT UP THE STORM!

This weather is all my fault.

I decide to replace the string lights on my porch. I had left an old string of Christmas color lights up on the railing until the bulbs finally died on their own a couple of months ago. Even batteries couldn't help after so many years. I didn't mind going through the summer without replacing them because it stayed light out until later, and I didn't actually sit out after dark because of mosquitoes. 

A couple of weeks ago, though, I knew I needed new lights. I spent days searching to find what I wanted. I decided on simple blue and white ocean-themed lights. I ordered them, then went away on vacation and left the new lights in the box. 

Finally, though, I am ready to string those babies up!

I get them all set up and strung around the railing; I get them all set up with fresh batteries. They even have remote control, so I can program them to all kinds of options, like blinking and glowing, and for hours and hours of illumination.

Now, my porch is completely redone. Earlier this summer I replaced the bulkier metal chairs and table with colorful new deck chairs and small tile-top side tables. I even set out a fake palm tree and a rattan rug. The lights? Perfect cap to the summer vibe. Now that autumn is here and soon enough winter, as well, I can enjoy that beachy feeling all year long. Sit outside with a hot chocolate during a storm? I won't care because the lit-up seashells will shine through the snow and tease me about warmer days.

However, I expected a little more time with my revamped aesthetic before the first Nor'Easter arrived. How silly of me. Because not two weeks after putting the lights up, we are due for a major rain and wind monsoon. Batten the hatches, tie things down, bring things in . . . the whole shebang. The apartment complex sends out an alert: Secure your belongings! It's like the apocalypse is coming.

So, folks, I apologize, deeply and from the bottom of my usually black heart. I tried to be cheerful. I tried to be positive. I tried to embrace my inner peaceful and restful summer side. Instead, all I did was tempt fate and piss off the weather gods. 

It's my fault that this entire weekend is going to suck, that it will rain sideways for days, that the winds will knock out power, and that your weekend plans are totally ruined.

I bought new lights and dared to enjoy my porch. I should've known better. 

MOVIE FOR ONE

I take myself to a movie.

I'm not a loser ... most of the time. This is not the first time in my life that I have gone to a movie alone. To be honest, Every time I go to a movie with friends or family, I always see at least one person going solo. It is actually a brilliant concept because no one distracts a solo movie watcher nor distorts the experience.

The only reason I jump on a late afternoon weekday movie ticket is because the movie has its play extended. I thought I had missed my opportunity to see it, but, as it turns out, the movie's popularity resonates with the theater's cash flow.

At the time that I buy my ticket the night before, I am the only one who has reserved a seat. I have a pick of ANY seat that I want. I am slightly skeeved out, so I choose a near-end seat about four rows back on the left side of the theater. It is close to two different exits, just in case something feels creepy.

And it is creepy. For a about fifteen minutes, I am the only person in the theater. Then one person sits a row in front of me but more toward the middle. Eventually, his buddy arrives with popcorn. Shortly thereafter, a single woman sits in my row but about six seats away. There may be a few more people behind us. 

Basically, though, the theater is deserted.

We enjoy the previews, settle in for the movie, and think we are about to enjoy a bang-'em-up buddy movie. There are twists, though. Deep, dark twists. When the lights come up, the few of us in the place stand up in stunned silence, glance at each other, and file out of the theater. Seriously. No one is uttering a word. 

Oh, the movie is spectacular. It is well-written, well-acted, and well-filmed. It simply gets very dark very suddenly, and it successfully takes us all by surprise.

It is at that moment, near-catatonic as I exit the building, that I am truly glad I went alone to see the film. There are times when words don't work nor would they nor should they. The seat may have been comfortable, but the movie wasn't. 

Taking myself to the movie alone is empowering; driving home alone after is like therapy. Five stars - I highly recommend the activity.

ONE SHOE ON AND ONE SHOE OFF

Never before, never since, but twice while on vacation in DC.

Sounds like the start of a riddle or perhaps a political joke, right? Nope. Apparently, it's some kind of weird trend. I don't mean that officially. At least, I sure hope that I don't. 

We are in a waterfront restaurant in DC, higher end, nice place, fancy seating and bar, both inside and out. We are having a lovely dinner, enjoying some seafood and some restaurant-week shenanigans, when we notice a couple at the bar. Well, we suspect that it's a couple. They are seated very close, leaning toward each other, and each has a drink. 

The woman, perhaps mid-twenties, is wearing a white dress and has a pocketbook with her. The young man has a shirt and tie, and his backpack (yes, a backpack, not a sling-type bag) is on the next stool over. He turns toward the young woman and we all kind of glance at one another. The man --- er, boy --- possesses a very young face. Very. Young. Very young. He looks possibly fourteen, maybe fifteen if we stretch it. 

Bless him. It might just be his family's incredible genes.

But, that's not the awkward part. Okay, it kind of is, considering that the couple is seated at the bar. The awkward part is that, despite being professionally dressed, he has one shoe off. One shoe and sock is on, and one shoe is off but the sock is on.

Naturally, I find this fascinating and start quietly singing the old nursery rhyme, "Deedle-deedle dumpling, my son John went to bed with his stockings on. One shoe off, one shoe on ..."

For some reason, we find this odd look to be fascinating. We end up sneaking glances at the socked foot off and on throughout our evening. Is he going to make a move using it? Is it a smell thing? Is he wearing his father's shoes and they're too big so one fell off? Is it a fetish? Is it a new dating tactic? Are they dating? Is he even of consenting age?

I snap a picture because of course I do. It's not often you see a one-foot-shod young man in a bar seemingly on a serious date. Inquiring minds want to know. Alas, we never find out because asking him would draw attention to it, and we don't want actual dirty laundry to wreck the relationship before proverbial dirty laundry can do it.

About forty hours later, after a long trek through Dulles Airport, I stand at the gate with a hundred or so of my best friends as we patiently wait to board the plane back to Boston. I stand near some chairs when a person deplaning decides that instead of going along with the other deboarding passengers, she wants to cut through the waiting, departing queue. This pushes me toward the people who are sitting and I nearly collide with ...

A socked foot. No shoe. There is a shoe on the other foot, but this foot is in the passing lane of Dulles, sock only. Another Deedle-Deedle little dumpling, apparently. Again. my only coherent thought is that I must try to get a picture of this without the guy noticing, which is hard since I, too, am practically in his lap at this point.

It just seems a bit strange. Weird. Licentious.

If this is some new male pick-up trick being bandied about in DC, I can speak as a single woman and say that it is not working. Also, it's creepy. I am pleased to say that the two men sitting alongside of me on the flight do keep their shoes on, as far as I can tell. However, now that I think on it, I have been on flights where this isn't the case. 

Let's try to stick to decorum. If your feet don't smell and you're on a plane and need to stretch those feet, I'll give you grace. If you're in the airport, preparing to board and smooshed amongst a multitude of other people, please refrain from presenting your shoeless stockinged foot. I will not concede the date thing, though. That was then and still now remains disturbing to me. If Socked Foot Fetish is part of your dating profile, maybe try it in a diner or fast food place before bringing the show on the road to a place where shoes are more than a suggestion.

THE GREAT DC NAPKIN CAPER

There are so very many things to see and do in Washington, DC, that bringing home souvenirs is practically a given. Apparently, my family is obsessed with collecting DC napkins.

That's right. You read that correctly. Napkins. Nondescript, unassuming, undecorated, cheap, paper napkins.

I meet my brother (older of the two) and his wife at Dulles. Yes, it's on the outskirts, and yes, it takes an hour to get there from DC proper. Two main reasons why we fly into Dulles instead of Reagan, which is actually in the city, are because their North Country New York airport only connects with Dulles, and because it is closer to the Udvar-Hazy National Air and Space Museum (which is different from and has a more spectacular collection of air and space machines than the air and space museum in the National Mall downtown, it's just not as flashy nor interactive).

Our niece who lives in DC picks us up, and we head over to Udvar-Hazy for the afternoon. First stop, though, is food. Inside the museum used to be Mickey D's or some such low-level fast food. Now it's Shake Shack. We tuck in and order food. As our trays come up and we make our way to the table, I grab a handful of napkins -- four, to be exact because there are four of us. My niece sits down, and she, too, has grabbed us napkins. My brother also grabs napkins. So does my sister-in-law. 

Haha. We have napkins galore!

After the museum, we head to my niece's house, then past John Philip Sousa's (Stars and Stripes Forever) house, to the Capitol, the Botanic Garden, a special event at the Library of Congress, and then to dinner, where, of course, there are napkins. 

The next day, breakfast is from Starbucks, which is attached to the hotel, and it involves beverages and egg sandwiches. And napkins. Must have napkins. We hit up a bunch of monuments, spontaneously walk into a nationally press-covered rally, see police horse stables, tour a couple of museums, and stop for lunch. It is another order-at-the-counter style restaurant, so we wait to pick up our bowls and salads and wraps. When we finally sit at a table, I have a handful of napkins. So does my niece. So does my brother. So does my sister-in-law. 

Now, before you go judging us, we actually take the unused paper napkins with us because we might need them later at the hotel (which is true because I am so tired that I miss the table with my glass of red wine and it lands on the carpet) and because we are sweating bullets so we need an occasional forehead swipe. At dinner, there are actual woven napkins. We do not bring those back to the hotel with us.

The following day, we diversify. My niece and brother go for a walk around the basin, then my brother heads to the Spy Museum. My sister-in-law and I head to the Museum of Natural Wonders, where we stop for a light lunch at the cafe. We both order spinach-and-cheese filled pastries and tea and coffee. As we sit at the high-top counter, I notice that she has grabbed napkins and so have I. (I also accidentally grab three forks instead of two because apparently we have a ghost guest with us, perhaps John Philip Sousa.)

We hit up the Nationals Park for an MLB game. My brother gets a bunch of food for us, and, like a great host, he grabs mounds of napkins. This is good because we are messy eaters and we are sweaty. Back at the hotel, my sister-in-law and I grab ice cream bars from the hotel lobby and, of course, napkins since perhaps we might need them. (We don't. We have a stockpile already.)

Our final day involves Starbucks for breakfast and more napkins. We head over the Eastern Market, where we eat some brunch and some sweet treats. Of course, since it's hot out and the chocolate in the baked goods is gooey, we need -- you guessed it -- napkins. We walk around, visit a book store, then make our way via Metro to Dulles, where my brother and his wife and I eat an early dinner, and we all naturally gravitate toward the napkins. I stuff some extras into my carry-on backpack because I might need them on the plane.

When I arrive home, I am exhausted, but I still feel the need to unpack and get organized. As I work my way through the bag of dirty laundry and my various toiletries, I come across a small collection of paper napkins.

Most people bring home t-shirts or magnets or postcards or gifts from DC. Not my family. Only the best for us! If someone asks us what we brought back for souvenirs, the answer is simple: Photos (thousands), memories (hundreds of thousands), and napkins (a gazillion). 

THAT IS THE QUESTION

To suitcase or not to suitcase? That is the question. 

I think Shakespeare said this -- probably on his way to vacation. 

Honestly, I would like nothing better than to fit four days' worth of clothes into a backpack that fits under the airline seat. It would make my life so much better and my flying experience so much easier. I hate fighting for overhead space, and I hate even more the people deplaning who do not understand the concept of getting their luggage and getting off of the aircraft. 

However, where I am traveling is going to be in the 90s with some rain and humidity. The place where I am staying does not have guest laundry. I have played this game before when I under-packed for a trip to Delaware for one of my kiddos' lacrosse tournaments. It was 104 degrees with high humidity every day for the whole week, and, despite the website's insistence, there was no guest laundry at the hotel. 

Do you know how many times a day one must change underwear when one is outside in the sun or dodging rain-soaked tornado-force storms over the course of five to seven days? The answer is: A LOT.

Just ask the housekeeping crew who saw all of my handwashed clothing hang-drying in the bathroom and all over the room when they came in to change sheets and replenish towels halfway through my stay. It looked like a squatter situation.

For this upcoming trip, I have packed and unpacked and repacked and unpacked again and under-packed and over-packed and packed everything so many times and so many ways that I could teach a master class on minimalist vs. comfort-level clothes packing.

The truth of the matter is simple and three-fold: ONE = I don't want to re-wear sweaty clothing nor do I want to handwash anything; TWO = I want room to bring my better camera this time rather than relying on my phone with its blind view in the light of day; and THREE = (the true reason) I want room for souvenirs.

I understand the issues here, as well. A backpack that fits under the seat eliminates jockeying for overhead space. As a later boarder with a forward seat, the risk of luggage space running out is real. Carrying a suitcase through the city, on public transportation, and around the streets until hotel check-in time (or until we are even near to the hotel) is going to be a pain. But, and this is huge, I won't get overheated with a backpack pressed against my boiling hot spine while summer attempts to kill me. Even if I did, my suitcase has extra clothes to spare.

I am repacking the suitcase for the third time after unpacking the backpack yet again for the same amount of times. I leave the suitcase open. I try to sleep. At 2:00 a.m., I wake with a brainstorm, creep out to the living room, unpack the suitcase, and let piles of clothing sit out while my brain stews. I go back to sleep. I am up and repacking the backpack shortly after dawn.

Be aware that I am still 48 hours from leaving. (I am busy the day before, so I am trying to get this task off of my plate.) Off and on all day I stare at the backpack, but it stays packed. Unzipped, mind you, but packed. This is progress. For now.

I sincerely doubt that this question, to suitcase or not to suitcase, will be answered until moments before I need to leave for the airport. Whichever packing option wins, I promise that I will not arrive at my destination without at least one change of clothes and some clean pajamas. 

I fold a fabric zipper bag into the bottom of the backpack in case I do want souvenirs and decide to put the backpack itself into the overhead bin for the trip home. Then again, I can always buy a suitcase for the return trip when I get there, if I change my mind yet again.

Thank goodness I'm not going to Vegas or Atlantic City -- I'm having enough trouble gambling on my luggage. I'll let you know which wins.

HE'S JUST A POE BOY

Once upon an outing dreary

On a Friday - we weren't weary -

(That is all I'll steal from Poe,

Lest I cause the readers woe)

A buddy and I both did go

Away to Lowell to see a show

Based on works by Edgar Allan

(Talked to raven with its talon

Sitting high above the floor,

Tapping, rapping at the door).

Acting serious and cheesy

At the E A Poe Speakeasy,

Watching, watching through the veils,

Drinking, drinking small cocktails.

Tales of terror total four;

Entire evening - not a bore.

If you get a chance to see,

It's a recommend from me, 

If some tickets you do score,

You can thank me ... nevermore.

GETTING GOOSED WITH A PADDLE

I don't take my kayak out nearly as often as I should. Oh, I keep that sucker in my SUV all summer long and into autumn, but I really should take to the water more often than I do. I also tend to go to the same pond over and over again. To be fair, my usual spot is a large pond, larger than some of the things we call lakes around here. It has interesting wildlife. I've seen several heron, lots of turtles, an otter, geese, ducks, and quite often fish will jump right out of the water and splash back in again, scaring the ever-loving buhjeezuhs out of me.

I often pass another pond, one I've never paddled. 

I've spotted a picnic area and a parking lot with a small boat ramp there. It's not too far from my house, so I spontaneously decide to give it a go. It's a pretty small pond. It's also deserted. I should be able to kayak its perimeter and traverse it a few times in an hour or less. And, no, I am not deterred by the amount of goose poop in the small grassy area.

The pond is murky, not with vegetation, but with brownish water. It's calm, and I've done my research so I know its depth is only about nine feet, but it's strange not being able to see below the surface. The launch site, a bank of earth that meets the gravel boat ramp, is deeply muddied despite a recent run of dry, extremely hot weather. This may explain the opaque water. I sink into the wet ground and wobble a bit before sitting atop the open kayak. It takes a few attempts to maneuver my way from the shore since the mud is pulling at the kayak and the oar I use to push off.

Finally, I'm in the open water.

I scoot around the perimeter, realizing the lack of fallen trees or limbs means that I won't be seeing any turtles today. As I head across the pond, I spot movement. Quietly and very, very slowly, I inch over toward the opposite shore where I see a hefty, regal heron. It is stunning. It is the largest one I have ever seen in the wild, and it politely stays unmoving as I get within about forty feet. I don't want to crowd the bird. This is its home, and I'm the invader. Plus, to be honest, if that sucker flies at me, I'm going overboard, and no one will ever find my body.

The remainder of the paddle is blessedly uneventful, if not a little too sedate, and I work my way back toward the launch area. I see one goose, and then I spot another one. The car is only a short way from the shore, maybe twenty feet, but I don't need to contend with an angry goose or two, so I slap the paddle on the water several yards away, hoping to move them along. I decide to chance it, hoping for benevolent geese as I grapple with the vacuum effect of the muddied shoreline. 

By the time I break down the kayak and gear and get it loaded, which takes only about three minutes, the geese are back and have called in reinforcements. I rapidly slam the rear hatch shut and jump into the driver's seat, although I am fully prepped and ready to jump in from the passenger side, as necessary. 

Safely behind metal and glass, I sit for a moment and get my phone oriented. My reverie is interrupted by frantic honking and the bellow of a gentleman in a work van. "Come on. Move it! Get the hell out of the road!" I look up to see my feathered friends meandering back across the busy street, single file and with space enough to be total arseholes, off to wander about the nearby neighborhood, perhaps to terrorize the elderly, harass the young, or piss off a dog.

Maybe the town should consider installing a plastic coyote on the goose-poop-infested lawn of the small park that houses the launch access. It might encourage the dumbass fowl to enter the pond from a more wildlife-friendly location. You know, like where the heron hangs out. It might help the traffic flow, too.

 It certainly would make kayaking less exciting, though.

EXPLORING WITHOUT PROPER DIRECTIONS

I like to explore when I go places. 

The good news is that I usually find something interesting and unexpected. The bad news is that I have zero sense of direction, and by "zero" I mean that sometimes I stand up and turn the wrong direction inside of my own home because I happen to be sitting in a chair that I don't usually sit in . . . and have forgotten this basic piece of information.

I head north about 90 miles, armed with GPS, a blurry printed map, and a vague sense of where I am supposed to be going. I can do this, right? Sure I can.

Until I can't.

About ten miles out, my cell service cuts out. Somehow the GPS map is still working for another few miles. The moment I get to a familiar point and shall begin departing from the straight and narrow, my entire GPS service cuts out. I pull over into a parking lot and try to reset everything. Sometimes restarting my phone is all I need to get back into cyber-civilization. When this fails, I resort to a quick peek at the map. Easy, right?

Wrong. 

I immediately find myself at soccer fields instead of my intended target: a small covered bridge. Maybe I didn't have the fields on the map, so I continue a little further. Nope. Now I'm at an ice cream stand. Tempting ... but not where I should be at 10:00 a.m. Interesting destination and definitely worthy of note, of course, but still not the bridge.

I know that the bridge is near the police station and sort of near the high school, so I pull over and enter both destinations, one at a time, into both Google and Waze. Oh, silly me -- I have no mobile service. Dummy! Well, I know the way back to the original crossroads, and there was an old cemetery that looked cool near there, so at least I will see that.

I stop at the cemetery, note that it is remarkably well tended considering the ages of the headstones are mostly Civil War era, and creep around with my camera. I find both a crow feather and a hawk feather on the ground, side by side, like some kind of karmic message. I decide that I am going to find this dang bridge if it takes me all morning. I peruse the map once again and note a road that I passed twice: Gunstock Hill Road. 

Aha! If I take that road, I can cut over to where I need to be. I get in the car and start off, turning onto the road and climbing, up and up and up. It's nice out here -- farms and homes and (of all unexpected things) a huge hacienda. I merge briefly with what I am mostly positive is the same road I was on originally before I found the cemetery. A couple of turns later, and I am at the bridge. Ta-dah!

I hang out, take some photos, then start toward my ultimate goal, which is a nearby small lakefront resort. Coming back down Gunstock Hill, I see in front of me what I hadn't seen behind me on the way up: a magnificent and panoramic view of the mountain range and a huge chunk of Lake Winnipesaukee. I also verify that had I not mis-turned originally, I would've found my way a lot sooner and more easily. I also would have missed the ice cream stand, the cemetery, and the two feathers.

Sometimes I explore new places, and sometimes they explore me. Either way, it's a win-win.

ALPHABETICAL AFTERNOON

Against an iron sky

Buoyant water lilies await

Cumbrous rain while

Dignified cattails 

Edge the shore and

Flora chokes access from the

General public whose 

Hubris 

Interrupts the

Juxtaposition of 

Kaleidoscopic air and

Lake 

Melding 

Nuanced clouds

Over

Placid surface and

Quilting watery

Reflections into

Satisfying

Tangles of an

Unbroken 

Vista

Where the 

Xanthic stillness of the water

Yields to the 

Zephyrous approaching storm

 

ADAPTING TO THE SITUATION

I've gotten too complacent.

I expect that when I rent a car, I will be able to plug in my phone charger. Simple, right? In all of the years that I have been traveling with a cell phone, I have always had multiple ports in rental cars and in hotel rooms. I can either plug in using the USB cable or the regular plug.

Oh, I own multiple, and I do mean MULTIPLE adapters. I have USB A, B, C, micro, HDMI, multi-plugs, and the ones that go into the old lighter jacks. But I usually only need the one I bring with me in my backpack pretty much everywhere I go.

Until the Toyota Camry rental in North Carolina.

I need either a lighter jack adapter (left all of them at home and in my car at the bus terminal back in Boston) or a USB C to C. I have neither. The kicker is that the port on the airplane was loose, and I didn't realize that the phone battery was draining rather than charging, so I have to figure out the car charger situation. 

My phone is so low on charge that I decide I'd probably better not get on the highway from the airport to my destination. Trying a new and different backroads route from the airport (I like to experiment with my directional deficiencies) means that I must have the phone reminding me of where I should and shouldn't turn. About two miles away from the airport, I spot a Walgreens. Perfect. I pull into the parking lot and walk out into the blue skies and sunny warmth of a Southern summer.

I have to wait in a short line, but I find what I am looking for: a lighter jack multi-port for $7.99. Never mind that I already own four or five of them (at home). I guess I'm now some kind of weird collector.  I pay and walk out the front doors, back into the parking lot that had just been brutally hot and bright.

The whole transaction from car to display to cash register to car takes maybe eleven minutes.

In that short time, though, the wind has picked up, the temperature has dropped, and the sky has turned an ominous green-black. Thunder rolls nearby, and I rapidly surmise that I'm not in Kansas anymore, Toto. I start the car, plug in the adapter, set Waze, and drive to the parking lot exit. As I attempt to make a right turn onto the road, the heavens drop. Rain is pouring down so fiercely that the wipers cannot even keep pace. Tree limbs are flying by faster than Almira Gulch rides her bicycle through the tornado. 

Any attempt on my part to make note of landmarks, so I can return to the airport the way I'm going when the time comes, is washed away in rivulets of water. It is like the car has been covered with a continuous wave. There are city workers just parked in the lanes of the road, picking up branches and, in some cases, entire trees. The little car does its impression of the Nautilus and I am Captain Nemo as we plod through mini-ponds in the small valleys along the route.

Thirty minutes later I arrive at my destination. Thunder still rumbles in the distance, and the rain has almost stopped. The good news is that the phone is charging, and it didn't flake out on me. I will just have to remember to take the charger with me before I turn the car back in at the airport. 

After all, what's one more adapter for the collection? Maybe it'll be worth something in the future.

KEEPING THE SPARK ALIVE

There's a broken lightbulb in one of my ceiling light fixtures. By "broken" I mean sheared off -- glass separated from metal screw ring. I know the correct procedure to solve this problem: wall switch off, breaker off, and a potato.

Except that I don't have a potato, and it's too late to go out and buy one.

However, there is no way that I am leaving the broken metal piece in the light fixture. There is also zero chance of me leaving the breaker off because it also runs all of the kitchen appliances, including the fridge, and, of course, I just bought groceries (but, alas, not any potatoes).

I know that pliers are the logical solution here, but I am not a logical person. When I was in my teens, I took a nasty electrical shock from a malfunctioning bun toaster while working at Burger King. I am not in any hurry to repeat that feeling nor the hours of Brain Scramble that followed it. 

So, I do what any other idiot would do: I Google it.

Several answers pop up -- most of them potato or pliers. There are two other options that strike me: duct tape and bar soap. I text two of my three children, both of whom are on the Cape (hours away but closer than the third child in North Carolina), and explain exactly what I intend to do. I tell them that if I do not text them within a half hour, to try and text me. If they get no answer, I might need an ambulance.

I investigate the duct tape option, which seems to me to be the safest bet. For some reason, having the shiny side out doesn't make sense to me, so I create a thick disk of sticky-side-out duct tape. This loosens the metal enough to form a miniscule metal lip. Honestly, I cannot fathom why this isn't working. Shouldn't the sticky duct tape grab the busted metal ring enough to turn it without any resistance? (Now that I consider it, perhaps I was supposed to use my finger against a square pad of duct tape to use as a buffer?)

Still unwilling to resort to pliers, although the exposed edge does present that as a viable solution, I grab an old bar of soap. (Yes, I keep the remainder of a bar or two to take with me when I go away on trips, but I am not a soap hoarder, I assure you.) All the soap does is crumble and create a falling mess that smells like English lavender all over the dining room floor.

I resort to duct tape yet again, manage to move the ring a tiny but more, and then decide it may be time to risk an electrical shock. Yes, I understand that the breaker is off, but remember, I have experienced a surprising and unexpected shock before. Couple that with the fact that I live alone and no one would find my body for days in the summer heat, and you have a possible episode of The Night Gallery.

The pliers that I own are not needle-nosed and they are not rubber-coated. But, I do have a small wire cutter, an old one, with rubber-coated handles. I use this to carefully grab the small ridge of metal and am able to turn the ring a bit. It takes a few more careful attempts to dislodge the misaligned ring until ... victory!

The damn bulb and its damn ring have been successfully removed from the light fixture.

I carefully screw in a new bulb, throw the breaker, then shuffle ever-so-slowly and with great trepidation to the wall switch. 

Let there be light -- and there was light!

I hear the angels singing, and it's not because I've shocked myself into oblivion. It's because I actually fixed something electrical and I didn't shock myself and I didn't set anything on fire, no sparks shot across the room, and nothing went pop nor started to smolder. It's a miracle, a true and fabulous miracle. A common household fix for any moron, I know, but let me have this moment. For me, it truly is ... electrifying.

IT'S HOT OUT THERE

It's getting hot, hot, hot!

Over the July Fourth long weekend, we experience a heatwave of several days where the daily temps are 98, 99, and 100. It isn't unexpected. After all, it is summer. 

What is unexpected is having the central air conditioning crap out. I suppose if one were to believe in karma (I do) and bad luck (I do), this really should just be another "I knew it" moment. 

There are several good things about this situation.

I no longer live in a townhouse that has windows on three sides. Sure, it stinks on days when a cross-breeze would be fabulous, but it pays out on super hot and super cold days. Another advantage to having only one side of my living space exposed to the elements is that I do not get direct sunlight until later in the afternoon as the sun is setting. I don't live on the top floor anymore, like I did back in the day, so I am not bearing the brunt of roof heat, either.

In a flash of serendipity, on the last day of school I decided to bring home my two extra fans. I didn't believe I would need them, but, hey, why not, right? And thank Hades I did, because I am able to keep the inside temperature at a dry 78 to 80 degrees through the worst of it.

Oh, maintenance tries to fix the problem, they really do. The system is relatively new (two years). I'm just not getting any cool air, nor any air at all.

Finally, after the heatwave breaks to a comfortable 84 degrees, maintenance installs a window air conditioner in the bedroom window, the only place in the apartment that it fits with the weird windows. It does somewhat help -- the bedroom is freezing and, despite the multiple fans, the apartment temperature gets down to 74. But, the following day it will be in the 60's, so, really, what is the point of it all? 

I am pleased to report that the central air seems to be working, and when I say that it "seems to be working," I mean that it is no longer broiling hot outside. It might be next week, though, so I will give the system a proper test run if and when that happens. 

Until then, I will mentally rather than physically sweat it out.

PATHETIC CHALLENGE

Yes, I look pathetic, but, trust me, I'm not.

My birthday is the Fourth of July. Growing up I always shared my birthday with barbecues and with my dad, whose birthday was the following day. No, I never thought the fireworks were for me. As a matter of fact, I love fireworks ... from a very long distance. Sparklers are a firm YES, but anything that goes BOOM is a no-no. 

Ironic, I know. Still not pathetic, though.

I fully expect that my family and friends will do something fun over the long weekend, especially since the holiday officially falls on a Saturday. They are all very thoughtful -- trying to change plans, alter routes, or invite me along to family gatherings. I'm not trying to be a martyr. Honestly, I grew up understanding that my birthday is also the biggest and most glorious of summer holidays (and sharing with my dad, as I said), so I feel guilty when people just hang around with me at the price of missing THE summer event. 

Go do your thing. For real. I might walk the zoo. I might take a drive. I might go out to eat. I might read a book. I might watch a movie. I will definitely watch fireworks on TV (maybe Boston, but probably the ones over the Hudson).

This solitary behavior might look pathetic, but it's not. Trust me. I'll be ready to party on Sunday, on the 5th. Part of it is learned behavior, and some of it is that I truly don't care for crowds. Going anywhere on July Fourth? Crowds. People ... everywhere.

I'm in the store the other day, buying groceries for a visit from one of my siblings and thinking ahead for the Fourth. The store is also not one of my favorite places because, well, people. On my list are several things, but the last item is small bouquet of flowers. Nope, it's not because I have any great need for flowers; I am too lazy to climb above the refrigerator to put a crystal vase into the cabinet, so I'll fill it with flowers.

To my surprise, all of the colorful bouquets, even small ones, are $12 and higher. I want to stay under $10. I mean, this is just a bouquet of grocery store flowers to fill a vase I am way too work-averse to put where it belongs. I spot the red and white roses. A dozen. Oh, those sure are pretty and would go well with the July Fourth holiday, but I sure don't want to spend the ... Wait a second. These roses are only $9.99. Yes! Exactly what I want to spend.

At the register, there is a casual question about the flowers. For anything special? Yes, for my birthday, I say. Before I realize I've said it, the cashier wishes me a happy birthday. The woman behind me wishes me a happy birthday. I take my few groceries and the flowers, push my cart forward, and then the bagger wishes me happy birthday. 

As I roll my carriage toward my car, I wonder how pathetic I sound and look buying myself flowers, and birthday flowers, at that. It wasn't my intention, but, now that the petal is planted, I'm kind of digging the whole idea. Might even make it a tradition -- a ten-dollar tradition. 

Pathetic Challenge accepted!

ON THE FIRST DAY OF FREEDOM ...

On the First Day of Freedom

The roofers said to me:

Wake up and check out

Our booty!

I am so tired from finishing up the last few days of school that I am dead asleep by 8:45 p.m. Yes, I realize that I can sleep until whenever I want the next morning and that I may end up wide awake at 3:00 a.m., but I am just so damn exhausted. I finally decide that falling asleep on the couch and at the kitchen table and across the counter and waiting for the shower to warm up are all really bad ideas, so, I join the elderly and go to bed right after the sun does.

To my utter surprise, I only wake a couple of times and end up sleeping eleven hours. That's true -- I wake up all snuggled in my bed with the sun and some shadows dancing in my room through the open window.

Wait. Dancing shadows? Oh, I've woken up, all right, but apparently I am NOT alone.

Today is the day workers will be replacing the roof on my apartment building. I awaken to voices and people -- men -- in my windows, and by IN my open windows, I mean that the ladders and scaffolding are set up against my window sills and screens, and there is at least one giant male spread-eagle against my living room's bay window.

Thankfully, I have a weird fear of people in the parking lot being able to see into my bedroom, so the window that actually faces my bed always has the blinds drawn at night. But, the window next to it ...

I mentally pat myself on the back for wearing yoga pants and an old cut-up t-shirt as pajamas. My hair is falling out of its ponytail, and my eyes are only half-open. However, I appear coherent and decent enough that perhaps this is my "I've been up for hours having breakfast" look and not my "It's asinine-o'clock a.m. and you just scared the shit out of me" look.

I check my email to discover that this job is supposed to take twelve hours today and possibly more tomorrow. Now that the workers are all in place in the windows and on the roof, the banging starts as they rip off the old shingles and start doing whatever it is that they are doing with the nail guns.

So, I do what any sane person would do on the First Day of Freedom from Work: I text my sister two states away and inform her that she will be having unexpected company in less than two hours. Oh, sure. I could go to a mall, a library, for a walk or three, or do any other number of silly, time-wasting things. Heck, I could go spend the day at work and pretend I hadn't already shut the entire room up for the summer. But, I know my sister will think this is as frustrating and funny as do I, so I head north for some card games and fun.

By the time I get home, the workers have packed up, and it appears as if this part of the massive roof has been completed. If they do come back the next day, I'll be ready. I have to be up early for an eye exam and a hair appointment, anyway, so there will be no more strange men spread-eagle in my windows, or, if there are, I won't be at all shocked nor surprised. Maybe a little disappointed, though. Now that I'm prepped, I kind of hoped that I might scare the crap out of them, instead. Probably better that I don't. If one loses his balance from fright and lands on my car, I'll be stuck here all day, and that simply won't do for Day Two of Freedom.

(Obligatory picture of Helen -- It's not a true Maine trip without one.)

WILDEBEEST WONDERS

 Our school year doesn't end until this coming Wednesday. As one of the final projects, the students must put together a visual totem pole on paper. The object is to choose animals based on a chart of traditionally associated attributes and characteristics, or to choose animals to which they gravitate or that gravitate toward them. (Don't panic -- We aren't appropriating; this activity goes with the novel we read in class.)

This seems simple. At first.

I use examples based on several animals that I randomly choose from the chart and show students how to create the visual product. We focus on personality traits, such as being clever or helpful or funny or wise. 

Then, we veer away from personal human characteristics and start talking mystically. 

I tell them that I like to see the big cats at the zoo: jaguars, panthers, leopards, bobcats, tigers, lions. I like watching the way they move and the look of constant disdain in their eyes, while their faces seem as if they want to be petted. Yes, I like the big cats and even those pesky housecats, though most housecats seem to find me far less interesting.

I tell them about the girl I know who attracts dragonflies. Seriously, all she has to do is hold out her hands, and dragonflies flock out of thin air and land all over her like she is some kind of dragonfly royalty.

Several students nod with understanding. Then, it starts to get weird.

Are there animals which, for absolutely zero reason that makes any sense to the universe, they are drawn to and seem fascinated by? Recur in dreams? Seem to always catch their eye in books or movies or just out in the world?

Like a Spirit Animal of some kind.

Apparently, my Spirit Animal is the Wildebeest. Formerly known as a Gnu, this animal is mostly unremarkable, travels in packs, and is relatively butt-ugly. Wildebeests are preyed on by other animals, and they hide in plain sight around zebras and giraffes so the bully animals (lions and hyenas) might not notice their existence and pick them off the menu for dinner. 

I have no reason to be fascinated by them. They've never saved my life, appeared in my dreams, nor have I ever owned a stuffed Wildebeest.

As I advise my students, I decide to look up any totem-related traits of the Wildebeest: Strength; Teamwork; Strong resilience; Ability to endure tough conditions; Adaptable; Good at surviving changes; Persistence to overcome obstacles; Trust instincts to know when to move or retreat; Observe the world keenly through all senses.

I can live with those traits. Maybe the Wildebeest really is my spirit animal. But, don't tell my students, at least not until school ends on Wednesday. I don't want next fall's crop getting any ideas that might engage my Wildebeest characteristics. 

Perhaps for my own self-preservation, I will teach this lesson in the fall. Maybe then I'll know what I'm dealing with instead of being surprised by student behavior as the year progresses. After all, I might be good at adapting to changes, but I also know when to flee.

RETAIL IS DEAD

Retail is dying. As former retail management, I've been watching the signs for years. A decade or more. Retail. Is. Dead.

The only thing keeping malls alive these days is the abundance of restaurants. It used to be big anchor stores, but no more. For years the mall near my home was vibrant and bustling. It was THE place to go, especially around the major holidays. Then, it turned into a ghost town, and walking through it became dangerous and creepy, creepier than the chase and rape scene in Lipstick. My hackles rose every time I walked through the place.

The food court is still a happening place, for sure, but even the stores around the food court were (and some still are) shuttered. Until the outside restaurants came. Oh, the restaurants won't put the food court out of business. Not even close, because these restaurants are mostly high-end. 

It's a different kind of clientele on the outskirts of the mall than there is on the inside of the mall. Outside are the spenders, the drinkers, the fussy eaters. People with credit cards to burn. Inside the mall the gangs of unsupervised school kids still roam wild like some kind of retail Lord of the Flies ... or Fries.

I went into Target today, and not some random Target off the beaten trail, but a popular one directly off the highway and along a busy industrial road. I needed a card, a few supplies, and maybe a grocery or two or three. 

Easy, right?

Not so much. Oh, sure, if I needed a gift candle, they had them. If I needed paper towels, they had them. Snacks and basics? What I found were row after row and aisle after aisle of empty shelves. Missing merchandise. And, no, this wasn't a seasonal changeover situation.

I am one of the few people left who still goes into a grocery store to shop. Pretty much everyone else I know gets their groceries shopped for and delivered. I just can't get past the idea of some youngster who's never grocery shopped in their lives after age three going into the produce aisle to decide which avocado is best or if it can be substituted with kale.

I don't judge you if that's your jam. It's just not mine, and therefore I must suffer and drive to the store, park, get a cart, and push past ever-dwindling amounts of people to pick out things that many times aren't even stocked. Or properly dated. I remember a time when I just grabbed the milk and casually checked the expiration date. Now, it's a bloody battle to find a sell-by date that is not within forty-eight hours.

Customer service is dead. Selection is dead. Retail is dead.

SUMMER BEFORE THE WORLD CHANGED

One of my Blog Friends (another blog) asked our group what a throw-back to a 1990 Pre-Technology-Boom Summer might look like. Well, for me it meant raising kids and making sure I didn't forget one at a playground. But, long before that, I fondly remember my elementary school summers.

When I was really young, we lived in a small city on a residential street across from a professionally tended but small botanical (or, botanic, if you're old-school British Kingdom) garden tucked into the woods. The only kids in the neighborhood who were my age (up to preschool) were boys. Even though I had two older sisters and an infant brother, I tended to rough-and-tumble like my age-counterparts. We had a playground at the end of our street, and my sisters walked to their school, a school that I very much looked forward to attending until we moved mere weeks before I was due to start.

Then, we moved to a very small town an entire state away. A village, actually. For months while our house was being built, we lived in the heart of town, close enough to jump when the fire department alarm bellowed out its signals to the volunteer firefighters. Close enough to hear the church bells chime every fifteen minutes and bong out the hours. Close enough to walk to the post office, where we had a mailbox (#612 -- how I remember that, I have no sane idea). Close enough to walk to the one and only village store. Close enough to walk to school and the public library. Close enough to walk to playgrounds and explore cemeteries and stare at the Civil War statue and run around the town hall building.

Once we moved out of the town square, our house was a dream come true. Tons of room for all of us (and an additional brother), and three acres of woods loaded with climbable trees and huge boulders to fearlessly scale. We had two different swing-set areas -- one smaller for the boys in a fenced yard off the house, and one larger for the older kiddos just off the driveway. We built trails through the woods to ride through in the summer and to sled and ski through in the winter. Yes, we insanely downhill-skied through cross-country trails and slopes, and yet never crashed into trees. Eventually, a pool went in, as well. 

It was like living in the middle of the world's best kids' camp.

We often used the phone (connected to the wall) to call friends, but we more often just showed up at each others' homes, knocking on the door at all hours (nothing was too early nor too late) just to get together and play. Radio was AM via an old-fashioned spin-dial system. TV was five channels: ABC, CBS, NBC, and channels 38 (WSBK) and 56 (WLVI), and the only way to watch TV was to fiddle with the rabbit ears or move the monitor that would whomp-whomp-whomp the aerial antenna on the roof. My dad had an old typewriter, a Smith Corona, and that was the extent of our access to technology: phone, TV, transistor radio, and a typewriter with a moderately-inked ribbon and slow metal keys.

We played outside all of the time. It didn't matter if it was a heatwave or sub-zero with negative wind chills. In the summer, we sweated and scratched endless bug bites (I still have scarred legs from it). In the winter, we simply waited until frostbite set in because once we were numb, who cared. (This explains my Reynaud's Syndrome, of course.) If we were inside, we played never-ending board games (Risk, Monopoly, chess, checkers, Life, Stratego, Operation ...) or cards (Rummy, Hearts, Go Fish, Cribbage ...) or dolls or dress-up or hide-n-seek, or we drew, painted, colored, or wrote stories. We played school. We played rodeo on the fence posts (giving one brother the smaller gate that he named Breckody because he couldn't yet say Black Beauty). We played baseball and softball and tennis and badminton and basketball and hopscotch and jump-rope (Double Dutch, Peppers, and Chinese). We played Cat's Cradle and sewed and knitted.

And, yes, we drank from the hose, but only after letting the water run cool. Otherwise it was fire water from the sun. We drank from the hose because being caught in the house was like a death sentence -- someone might assign us a chore or tell us to clean our rooms before we could be released back into The Wild. No one wanted that to happen.

I am now close to retiring. Every time I think about the world being my oyster, think about all of the wonderful things I will be able to do if I stay healthy and manage my money, all I really want to do is go back to the woods, the laughter, the camaraderie, play a game, kick a ball, jump off a swing (without fracturing a hip). Maybe have a little fun, live a little, before I'm watching the world go by from the glass pane of a nursing home. 

You know, drink from a garden hose before it's a feeding tube.

COLOR-CODING SMALL VICTORIES

Continuing last blog's theme, I am both wrapping up this school year and looking ahead to next year. I will have about twenty-five to thirty percent more students next year, which isn't an unusual number. This year's numbers were unusual because it was an exceptionally small class overall. 

Friday I arrive at work at my regular time, which is about an hour before the kiddos arrive. I'm not a glutton for extra work. Leaving earlier makes my commute easier as I generally beat the school buses and, most of the time, do not have to stop every three feet so a random bus can pick up children. (People complain that no one uses bus stops anymore. With the per-student bus fee, I'd demand door-to-door service, too.)

Something at work has been bugging me for a few weeks: the location of my desk. I have moved my room around dozens of times in the last few years, so this isn't that off-brand for me. However, I have been doing the geometry of trying to fit thirty desks back into my room. It helps that I have donated two bookcases in the last year, but still. Thirty desks is a lot considering that we use large desks with wide-based chairs.

So, I do what any normal person does on a Friday before students arrive: I start moving furniture. I drag bookcases around, scoot my heavy teacher desk across the room, and haul text books from the windowsill to the other side of the teaching area. For now, I leave the desks in groups, but the children are still thrown off by my desk and me being completely on the wrong side of the room.

At the end of the teaching day, during my planning period, I shove desks into six rows instead of five. I throw my extra desks into the mix until my room magically transforms from a space equipped for 20 into a space equipped for 28. That's all the desks I have, but I still have room (if I move the remaining bookcases around) to fit three more desks, if necessary.

Now, though, the fun starts. 

With three weeks left, the students will be getting new seats. These are the first newly assigned seats since September. I cannot wait to see the mayhem on Monday morning. After all, just moving my desk on Friday caused major angst. The multiple rows, extra desks, and new seats? These kids will be on fire. (Apologies in advance to my teammates.)

All that is left is to color-code labels for the desks and tape them down before students arrive. Then, the children get to play Scavenger Hunt as they first find their class's color and then figure out where their names and desks are. (Surprise: It has zero to do with the alphabet this time.) The real joy happens when they realize two things: They are not near their friends; The studious ones have been moved away from behavioral issues. 

You see, teachers can be fair and also a tiny bit petty. Sometimes we just ignore behavior because no one supports us, anyway. And sometimes we manage it ourselves with extra desks, new seats, and color-coded index cards that silently plot our small victories, even if those victories last mere weeks until the next crop arrives.

LUCKY 21 AND ITS FRAGMENTS

21  =  This year's Magic Number . . . 20.5 to be exact. 

Although it's a magic number, it has been far from a magic year.  

People who work in education right now will tell you that the system is collapsing. Actually, it has been collapsing for quite some time. Has already collapsed. Crashed and burned. The fallout has been so hazy that the proverbial dust is just now settling. That means that once the cloud clears, everyone will see what those of us on the front lines have been seeing for a long time.

The system is broken.

No, that's not quite right. Let me try that again.

The. System. Is. Broken.

That's better. Fragments. The system is fragmented. 

The bureaucracy, the initiatives, the oversight, the lack of support, the loosened consequences, the constant need for data that no one cares about nor will ever interpret nor even examine, scheduling inconsistencies, contract violations, top-heavy administration, creative budgets, tax demands, low test scores. 

Disrespect. The ingrained, bone-deep, exhaustive disrespect.

And yet, still, we teach. 

Still, we light up when students "get it," when their brains are on fire and their eyes grow wide with wonder. When they're sent on a wild scavenger hunt through a text to find clues and evidence. When they tackle a difficult assignment with rigor.

21.

This year's magic number. Not my magic number. Mine is 388. Maybe 204. If things get much worse, then maybe it truly is 21. The real tragedy is that I'm not the only one counting down. I'm not the only one watching the retirement chart. The real tragedy is that teachers even have to entertain the magic number. We should be slightly sad about the end of the year. The end of our careers.

But, we are tired. Tired of the systemic disintegration. Tired of the pompous and inauthentic oversight. Tired of the exhaustive disrespect. Maybe we'll recharge over the summer. For now, though, it's the Lucky 21. 21 more days of hopeless wishing that the system will magically mend by September. 

I'm not betting on it, but I still believe in magic, 21 or otherwise.

JUST IN TIME FOR SUMMER

As usual, Spring has gone from zero to sixty like it saw a state trooper. (Sue me for the cliche.) The other day I swear it was going to snow, and now it's eighty degrees. It's small wonder that I have spent the last week hacking up both of my lungs.

We are in full-frontal Spring mode. This means bi-weekly visits to the car wash to get the green sheen off. It means battling bugs as I walk past the swampy wetlands in the center of my apartment complex. It also means porch season.

I have a small porch, and, yes, I am the one who still has Christmas lights on the railing. They are timed to go on around 8:00 p.m., and they are staying up and functional until someone tells me otherwise because I enjoy them.

I also have a round table and two folding chairs out there. I've had the set forever, and the only reasons that I still have it are because it's durable and I'm lazy. So, this Spring, the challenge is to complete a mini re-do of the small porch and replace the outdoor table set . . . but only if it coordinates with the Christmas lights that I refuse to take down.

Once the porch is done, feel free to blame me for the nasty, cold, rainy weather. After all, nothing ruins a decent outdoor season like getting the great outdoors exactly the way you want it and then being unable to enjoy it. Either that or I will continue to hack up my lungs and have to stay inside until next winter.

Either way, Spring is here. Finally. Just in time for summer, thank goodness.

A DAY FOR MOMS AND PEOPLE WHO LOVE THEM

HAPPY MOTHERS' DAY!

Can you guess the Mom/Ma/Mama/Momma/Mother connected to these?  Enjoy! May all you moms, step-moms, sub-moms, quasi-moms, pet moms, grand-moms ... Have a mother of a great day!

1.  Cass Elliot 

2.  Recent Saint

3.  Frank Zappa 

4.  Literary poem writer

5.  Irish-American labor activist

6.  Malcolm Turner/Hattie Mae Pierce  

7.  Full Metal Jacket

8.  Vicki Lawrence

9.  Cello player

10.  Honey Booboo

11.  Dearest with a coat hanger

12.  Pa and "Tea..."

13.  Whistler painted one

14.  Abba song movie

15.  King's granny

IMPATIENT FOR SUMMER

I'm impatient for summer.

There are many reasons, but the main reason is that for the first time in over a decade, I'm cold. (Menopause is not for sissies.) I'm cold, and I'm tired of being cold. I'm tired of having to warm up my car in the morning, I'm tired of turning on the heat in my home, and I'm tired of standing under boiling hot showers to ease the ice that has settled deep into my bones. I'm tired of wearing socks with my shoes. I am tired of shoes, period.

A recent trip to Maine brings me along the coast. 

Oh, I can see summer. It's all along the beaches and it's creeping into the marinas that are slowly waking back to life. It's not here yet, but the air is full of summer. Low tide's stench seeps into the car because the windows are cracked wide (while the car's heat blasts on my feet), and the aroma reminds me that soon, very soon, perhaps not soon enough, I will be sitting in a canvas beach chair, book spread open, watching the waves hit the sand and hiding my snacks from aggressive seagulls.

I hope the summer lingers for as long as it seems to be taking to get here.

It's a short but wonderful season up here. I know that when I retire I can and will drive or fly or teleport myself to any beach I want to at any time so that I can have summer at a moment's notice. Of course, then I will complain about missing the snow and how those first flakes are magical and how amazing it is to be inside while a storm rages outside, trapping us all under piles of whiteness.

For now, though, I am impatient for summer, and I'll count the days until it finally arrives.

PLAYING WITH THE YOUNG ONE

Playing with a three-year-old

Can bring a lot of joys.

It also means strange happenings

When playing with the toys.

Sorting out the characters

Can often be a hassle.

Pretty soon you'll find Tarzan

Skateboarding on a castle.

Barbies playing make-believe,

Zooming round in cars.

Stuffies fly across the room

Orbiting toward Mars.

Styling dolls' heads full of hair

With fake brushes and clippers.

Stuffing little princesses

Inside some football slippers.

It may not always make much sense

But when the time is done,

Being in that magic world

Is fascinating fun.