GETTING NOT-SO-SPICY

Why? Why do I clean out the shelves in the mudroom? WHY?

This move leads to cleaning out the coat closet. This is followed by going through every kitchen cabinet, drawer, and storage basket that I own. And this smart move?

This leads to shame. That's right. I said it: SHAME.

I used to cook and bake a lot more than I do now. My kids have all moved out and moved on, and I am still working full-time at a stressful job. The very last thing that I want to do after work or in my limited spare time is get fancy-schmancy with condiments and spices.

Don't get me wrong; my spice drawer is already organized. It's even alphabetized for efficiency. To be transparent, I decided to alphabetize after discovering not one, not two, not three, but four little containers of ground cinnamon. Unless I plan on opening a bakery (I do not), there is zero necessity for four full containers of ground cinnamon.

I attack the spice drawer as if it has personally offended me. Two containers of cream of tartar? Considering that I always forget to use it, I guess I only need one. I check the "use by" dates and empty one container into an old plastic bag. I continue this process through all kinds of spices. Some I still need and use, but some have simply passed their freshness dates. No sense in using spices if they have lost their pazazz. 

When all is said and done, I have a bag full of never-used, rarely-used, and expired spices ready to toss, and a sink full to embarrassment of empty containers ready to recycle.

To restate how this all started, this is neither the kitchen's fault nor my fault. I blame this entirely on the mudroom. If it hadn't tempted me to clean the shelves, it never would've lead to the kitchen.

 Honestly? The spice drawer does look marvelous now (even though it did already). The only problem is that this craze has now leaked partially into the bathroom vanity, somewhat into the bedroom closet, and completely into every drawer in every bureau that I own. 

So, heed my warning: Do NOT start cleaning nor sorting nor organizing. It is an infection that has no quick cure and will lead to initial chaos but ultimate serenity.

GET OUT OF THE GARAGE FOR FREE

It's a shame that ticket dispensing machines cannot have a universal system.

I use ticket dispensers mostly for parking my car somewhere: a parking lot where I have to display the paper on my dashboard; the parking lot where I leave my car over extended days so I can use the airport express bus; the parking lot at my favorite beach, the one where I pay the machine then walk thirty seconds to the soft sand without crossing broiling Hell to get to the water. I also use ticket dispensers to get on the commuter trains and buses.

There should be a universal coding system that the directions, or, at the very least, the FIRST thing you are supposed to press or do, should be at the TOP. Makes sense to me, but I am a technology moron.

I am on my way to a medical appointment, and I have to park my car in a new garage. It used to be a regular Pay-By-Phone lot (Super easy, by the way, but probably unnecessary because who polices these lots? No one.), but apparently the city turned it into a multi-level parking facility. 

As I enter the garage in my car, I see someone trying to leave the garage. He is out of his vehicle, playing with the ticket scanner, and generally trying very hard to get out past the gate. I make a quick assessment: I had better pay attention to the rules so I don't look like a complete idiot trying to leave. 

I promptly stop in front of the machine on my side, and I realize that I need to take a ticket. After all, there's a slot that says: Take ticket. The only problem? No ticket is coming out. There are some buttons on the screen, but I can't read them because I am wearing my driving glasses, not my reading glasses. So, I throw the car into park, reach for my reading glasses, and glance back at the screen.

There are all kinds of useless tabs and phrases flashing at me, but not a single one tells me how to actually get the damn ticket to come out. Finally, off to the side but not anywhere that makes sense, it says Press here for ticket.

Brilliant. This I can do. I hit the button, get a paper receipt, and the gate opens. I drive through, park, and then realize that I failed to see how I am supposed to get out of the garage, especially since that other driver could NOT get out of the garage.

Now comes the part that is almost comical. I Google the information for this particular garage. Yes, I do. I actually Google it. I find out enough to know that the medical office where I am headed will not validate parking. So, I walk back to the machine. It tells me to pay before I leave. I glance around for a pay station. Once I find that, I feel prepared enough to get out quickly after my appointment.

I come out an hour later, scan the piece of rolled up paper, and pay $1.50 on my credit card, where the interest charge alone will triple that ten times over. When my car and I get to the gate and get ready to put the already-scanned code up to the reader, the gate just opens. OPENS. Like I never had to pay at all.

This begs the question: What the hell was that dumbass driver doing stuck at the gate?

Okay, so maybe it's not the ticket dispenser technology that needs universal coding. Maybe it's the human species. Either way, I have a $1.50 Get Out of the Garage Free receipt. It's kind of like winning the lottery in my book!

TRULY A WONDER-FULL

It's the most wonderful time of the year!

It's the time of year when I freeze in the morning before work if I forget to set the car controls to warm up my vehicle in the morning, and I fry if I leave those same controls on when I depart from work in the afternoon. 

Commonly called Autumn, this strange New England phenomenon brings with it heat rash, frozen toes, night sweats, morning shivers, and a persistent hacking cough that settles deep within the lungs. It is what locals call survival and visitors call pneumonia. It is when the heat cranks in the morning, and the air conditioner runs all afternoon and evening. Fans operate all night in an attempt to run off both germs and clammy skin caused by prolonged exposure to temperatures between 35 and 85 degrees within single twelve-hour time periods.

It is also the season when it is bright out one second, and then suddenly it's like Mother Nature turned the lights off. Someone mentioned today, "Look, it's three o-clock, and it's still light out!" Yes, that's shocking because we know it's coming: pitch dark by 4:45 p.m. and still lights-on dark at 6:45 a.m.

Of course, in the brief time that there is still visibility between the outside world and the Netherworld, the leaves on the trees make spectacular statements, which is great on weekends when I am not shut into the working world until the sun sets.

But, as lovely as the foliage is, it still cannot help me make decisions on jackets and sweaters and (the truly dreaded daily decision of) footwear. I guess that also makes this the most wonder-full time of year when I have to wonder fully how to dress myself to get through the day. 

Don't worry, though. Snow is coming. We locals can smell it in the air. Not yet. Not here, anyway. But soon. We can feel it coming as we prepare to scrape windshields and warm the car seats. As annoying as it all sounds and is, it truly in the most wonderful time around here.

BEFORE I ZOMBIFIED

The first few weeks of school are crazy. 

Teachers (or, at the very least, those with whom I work, myself included) easily put in sixty to eighty hours of work ahead of ever setting foot into the classrooms: downloading class lists, creating seating charts, reviewing IEPs and 504s, redoing seating charts when new students are added or others are removed, fielding emails, and completing hours and hours of online training (most of it useless). When we actually get to school, there are more hours of setting up classrooms. Within the first three weeks of school itself, we have assemblies, fire drills, meetings, and Back to School Night (the dog-and-pony show for the parents, guardians, and other related adults). 

It is small wonder that ill staff members start falling like Pickett's Charge at Gettysburg. 

I try to stay healthy, but I start the school year already exhausted. Like so many of my students and colleagues, I get hit with the scratchy throat. This slowly escalates to headaches. Then comes the upset stomach (which sucks because I teach on my feet from 8:30 until 12:30 with no break). This leads to (for no logical reason) the runny sinuses. Finally, and I know it is coming because my voice drops from the alto range into the tenor range, comes the demon sore throat.

Thank goodness I am able to drag myself to the grocery store before the worst of it hits. I stock up on soup and tissues and Polar orange-dry soda. I buy bread to make toast. I have eggs and oatmeal and tea and honey. I probably should have restocked the medicine, but I still have enough supplies to make it through the weekend and can probably crawl to a nearby pharmacy, if absolutely necessary.

I get it. I really do. Seasons change, weather shifts, people breathe on each other, surfaces are dirty, papers carry germs, there is a lot of coughing and sneezing going on. However, I truly hoped to make it past weeks three and four before my body rebelled, before I became infectious, before I reached pariah status. 

You know, before I zombified.

The worst part of it all? We love what we do (for the most part). We drag our sickly selves to school partly because it's more work to be out and partly because, like the kiddos, we don't want to miss anything.

If you know any teachers, please forgive us for cancelling plans or missing deadlines or forgetting to respond to texts. We are struggling, really and truly. You should probably check in on us -- we might be dead by now.  But, please don't call. Our throats hurt and we don't feel like chatting just yet.

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.