SEMI-CRAPPY DAY + SEMI-BLOODY FINGER

I’m having an “off” day.  Nothing major, just stupid crap.

I apparently cannot read a calendar because four meetings have been scheduled for the next six work days … and I didn’t know about any of them.  “They’re on the calendar,” I am told.  Yes, this is true, but I’ve been without Internet access at work for two days, and I’m just too damn busy to pull up the cyber-calendar.  My bad.

Then, I run out of sugar for tea that I desperately need in order to sit through another meeting.  Okay, there’s one sugar packet left, but I know my teammate needs it, so I overcompensate with extra honey, instead.

Last, but not least, as I’m trying to get out the door from work, I whack my hand inside the cabinet where my coat is, and I cut my knuckle wide open.  It bleeds … and bleeds bleeds bleeds bleeds bleeds bleeds all over everything.  My desk is covered with bloody tissues that make it look like a crime scene.  All I have are fingertip bandages.  I make do with one and start cleaning as if I belong on a hazmat crew.

When I finally get to the parking lot, I realize that it’s not so bad outside, and by “not so bad,” I mean it’s 31 degrees, calm, and the sun is out.  I rush home, change into sweatpants, sweatshirt, and a fleece, don my sneakers, fill up a water bottle, and take off for a walk.

For some odd reason, I don’t take my usual route (or the start of my usual route) heading through the heart of town.  Instead, I cross the train tracks and maneuver toward the high school.  This route involves a sharp downhill to cross the river, followed by a long and steep uphill climb . 

Before I reach the school, I turn toward the post office and re-cross the river via another bridge.  This route is not so great because the sidewalks still have snow and ice on them.  Stupid me.  And the traffic is crazy, so I won’t be able to cross the road anytime soon.

No problem.  I make a sharp right, head up the hill, and walk up past the fire department.  My intent is to walk through town, but the traffic is too congested, and I hate hitting the pedestrian light.  First of all, I know it annoys the hell out of the drivers, and it makes me feel inept (Walk light is on for all crossings!!!!!) as it blares out over the speakers.

I scoot by the library, head down the hill past a couple of churches, then swing back up toward town so I can inspect the progress of the construction at the Catholic school at the bottom of the road and the new youth center at the top of the road.  More uphill trekking toward the prep school, but halfway up my lazy Achilles tendons are screaming at me, so I hike through a side street, do a quick circle around part of the academy campus, then it’s down, down, downhill almost the whole way home.

When I get home, I discover that my injured finger is still bleeding, so I change the bandaid then start puttering around the house.  I take out a container to bring some sugar to work.  Laundry goes in.  Dinner is made. 

I decide there’s no point in spending the rest of the evening correcting essays because I suddenly feel better.  Well, not completely better because my muscles ache, but I don’t feel so much like the day totally sucks anymore.  Of course, the circuit I walk today is loaded with cars and trucks, so I’ve probably negated all the health benefits by sucking down a ton or two of carbon monoxide via vehicle exhaust, but I manage to escape the brick and cinder block Land of No Internet and Full Calendars and Ungraded Essays for a while.

Now if I can just get my finger to stop bleeding, this might turn into a good day.

ODE TO A RECENT FOOTBALL GAME

Just because we won a game
Now everybody's mad.
The stuff they say is really lame.
In fact, it's downright sad.
They say we lie and say we cheat
They say we make trick plays:
They're mad because they all got beat
(We'd beat them anyways).
Here is what I truly know
And this is truth, I swear:
Let them flap their lips and blow
Their sour grapes everywhere.
Haters always love to hate
Their attitudes are poor
Here's something that gets no debate:
We are NOT Michael Moore.
Folks, when Glendale comes around
The Pats might run amok,
They might go up, they might do down,
In fact, they might well suck.
Here is something that is fact
It hits all protocols:
We are not those talking smack
With wee deflated balls.

GETTING OUR EXERCISE ... AND SHOES

I have decided to pretend that I’m healthy.

Oh, sure, I was healthy before this, but I’m getting a little tired of my body turning on me.  If it’s not bouts of pneumonia, it’s hip bursitis, or Achilles tendonitis, or migraines, or vertigo, or flipping menopause… this could go on and on until the complaints are longer than a Thanksgiving grocery list.

The truth is I’m not unhealthy, but I sure as heck could be healthier.  So I invest in some exercise equipment.

The first requirement is that the equipment needs to be something I’ll actually use.  I have a universal set in the basement that is only used intermittently, and it has basically been a coat-rack and snowboard holder for a year now.  The second requirement is that I must be able to lift the boxes when they are delivered to the store for pick-up because I have to get them into the house by myself.

I am waiting for an email that the two boxes have arrived at the store, but it turns out I am supposed to be checking the website myself, instead.  I figure this out a few days before the stuff is shipped, so it only sits at the store for a couple of days when I forget to check the site over and over again.  Friday night I figure out where my equipment is – Salem, NH – so Saturday I plan to pick the stuff up and, with any luck at all, figure out how it all goes together.

I sleep late on Saturday, rolling out of bed around 9:00 a.m.  This is when my sister calls.  “What are your plans for today?”

So I tell her: Pick up the boxes at the mall, stop at a couple of craft stores, pick up a zipper for a fleece vest repair at the fabric store, spend my $10 coupon at DSW, hit a local wine tasting of Argentinian Malbecs, and maybe go to Boston Chowder for lunch.

She’s in.  It means she has to drive seventy-five minutes from Maine, but she’s in.

Once she arrives, we take my car to New Hampshire.  The automated machine is down, so we go find a clerk, which takes about ten minutes, but we are told to go knock on the window in the service area (a window which does not exist, by the way).  By this time the machine is back up and running.  Within five minutes, the rather charming service guy has two boxes loaded into my car.  Neither box weighs more than 50 pounds.  So far, so good.

We make a few other stops, including waiting in line twenty-five minutes to buy a zipper for 25% off, and a stop in at the clearance shoe section of DSW, then decide that, yes, we will head over to the wine tasting.  We sip some Malbecs and decide that three are acceptable.  I came into the store for Pinot Gris, and I’m leaving with a Malbec.  Wrong color and everything.  It is, as my wine vocabulary will tell you, “yummy.”

We head over to Boston Chowder for lunch, which is also yummy, then head back to the house to deal with the boxes.  I bring one box in by myself, but it takes two of us to maneuver the second one in to the house.  I probably could’ve dragged it myself, but it would’ve taken me a while. 

This is where I really need my sister’s help.  I cannot follow directions for the life of me, especially and even when pictures are involved.  I have some sort of mental block when it comes to constructing things.  We manage to get the manual treadmill put together without too much trauma.  The rowing machine, though, is almost a disaster.  We search around like crazy for eight missing bolts … until we realize that the factory already installed them, we just have to loosen them … and … just … have to … loosen … loosen …

One of the bolts is stuck.  Thanks, factory installers.  My sister Googles “stuck factory installed bolts when putting together equipment” or some such other brilliant combination, and is instantly told to apply hot water.  We both think this will expand rather than shrink the bolt, but we do as we are told anyway, and, damn if the Internet isn’t correct.  Seconds later, the bolt is free.

It only takes us two hours and one more small glass of wine each to finish putting together the exercise equipment.  Had my sister not been here to help, I’d still be trying to put the damn stuff together.  As it is, I’ve actually used it several times.  And I’ve almost completely redone the universal in the basement. 

This may actually be my healthy New Year, after all.

That’s not the best part of this story, though.  The best part of this story would be the shoes.  That’s right.  The shoes.  I buy myself another pair of sneakers and a pair of suede lace-back boots, and my sister finds a pair of suede and patent leather heels for her concert gigs (she’s a singer of many talents). 

This year I can be healthy … or not … but, either way, my feet will look marvelous, and sometimes that’s all it takes in life to feel better about myself.

ON BEING SUPERSTITIOUS OR NOT

I wore a Patriots jersey to work last week and got yelled at by the secretary.  Apparently "everyone knows it's bad luck to wear team gear before a playoff game."  Well, apparently not everyone.  Several of us thought showing team spirit was acceptable.  Besides, I'm not superstitious. My bad.

The Patriots won, anyway.

So, this week, I do not wear any team gear to school ... and everyone else does.  What ... the ... hell.

I decide to leave the Patriots jersey at home on a chair, instead.  I leave it there all weekend.  I don't even wear it for Sunday's game because I'm trying to prove a point to the secretary and maybe even to myself.

It's not my team spirit nor the breaking of superstitions (no matter how innocently done) nor the number of steps I take between the kitchen and the television set in the living room nor the food I eat during the game that helps me make this decision.

Honestly?

I decide to stay indoors all day Sunday and kick around in flannel pants and a sweatshirt.  I spend the day prepping food to eat while watching the Green Bay-Seattle game and the Colts-Patriots game.  When the Pats' game time arrives, I debate getting the shirt, but I'm still kind of pissed about what was said to me last week.  And I'm too lazy to change again.  And ... I'm not superstitious.

I decide before today's game to save the shirt for the Superbowl.  That's right.  I don't bow to superstition or to breaking superstition.  I just figure if the shirt is going to live to see one more day, I'll be overly confident and wait two more weeks.

The Patriots win, anyway.

That's right.  The Patriots win the AFC championship game despite my refusal to wear the shirt.  I'm not superstitious ... nope .... I'm not ... not ... not going to move that shirt from where it is until the Superbowl.  That's right, I'm not changing anything about it until it's time.  Because I'm not superstitious ... much.

Go, Patriots!

CHRISTMAS IS DOWN

Christmas is down.  I repeat – The Christmas stuff has finally been dismantled and packed away.

I’m a little sad about it, but I am so ready to have my living room back it’s not even remotely funny.  It took longer than I expected to take everything down, though.  I kept getting sidetracked by anything and everything.  I had to repack some things into new boxes, too.

But, it’s all good.  Christmas is safely tucked away in its new spot in the freshly cleaned-out shelf area of my basement.  Well, not all of it went so safely.  Unfortunately, I broke a glass icicle ornament.  Yup, one more soldier down in the Christmas battle.  At least it wasn’t one of the antique ornaments.

I like seeing the houses still all lit up with candles in the windows and lights in front decorating the bushes and trees.  Several houses are still all lit up in the dark early mornings of my commute.  I’m wondering, though, if those people packed up Christmas this weekend like I did.  That will make me much sadder than seeing my own decorations come down.

Oh well.  Two months until spring, five months until summer, and eight months until the Christmas stuff migrates back upstairs from the basement. 

Christmas may be down … but it’s not forgotten.

WHINING ABOUT WINE

For Christmas my friend receives a gift certificate to a local wine shop.  I have to be totally honest.  I live a quarter mile from this wine shop, pass it nearly every day, often park in the lot adjacent to the store, and I never, ever knew it was there … for eight years.

Two weeks ago, we finally venture into the shop.  The place is small, so there is no hiding us when we walk in.  The proprietor and a gentleman are drinking wine at the checkout counter.  No one acknowledges our presence, no one offers to help us, and we are blatantly ignored (hard to do in a room the size of a hefty walk-in closet).  We look around, gasp at the prices, and feel lost at the lack of variety and selection. 

A woman enters shortly after we do.  She is in search of a burgundy to make Beef Bourguignon and is met with the words, “Our cheapest burgundy is $45.”

It is at this point that my friend and I kind of shit our pants just a little bit.  We are used to the discount wine store with the incredible prices, stellar selection, and unrivaled weekly tastings.  Oh, and being acknowledged when we enter the premises.

We decide right then and there that the only way that gift certificate will be spent requires actually tasting some of the wines in the shop.  We find a small sign for Thursday evening wine tastings, make an uncomfortable exit, and plan to come back and hope for a better experience.

Thursday arrives, and we brave the slippery, icy flurries to go to the tasting.  Now, even at the most hole-in-the-wall stores, the wine tastings have a decent attendance.  Instead, awkwardly, we are the only two people at the tasting.  Well, there are two men and the proprietor, but it turns out that the two men are somehow connected to the store, part-time employees of some kind.  We mill around stiffly, wishing to just melt into the walls, waiting for someone, anyone, to open a bottle.

While we are trying to make ourselves inconspicuous, we notice that the shelves are much better stocked than the last time we were here, and we notice some of the wines are more reasonably priced.  Perhaps the holiday rush left only the expensive stuff on the shelves two weeks ago. 

Finally, my friend opens up and starts some conversation.  Thankfully, I know enough about tasting wine not to look like an idiot.  Oh, I may still sound like an idiot, but I know the basics – how to hold the glass, how to swirl the wine in the glass, how to suck in air while sipping from the glass, and how to pretend I know the whole chewing thingee.  But I can’t really say much more than, “Hmmmm, interesting … fruity … sharp aftertaste … yummmmmmmmy.”  That is the bulk of my wine-tasting repartee.  Thank goodness my friend’s wine vocabulary is superior.

The conversation goes slowly, almost eerily, until we drink a bit.  I introduce my friend to the wine people as my partner in crime.  “I’m the troublemaker,” I say.

“And I’m your wingman,” she adds.

“Yes,” I agree, “though sometimes it’s a chicken-wing-man and sometimes it’s an eagle-wing-man, depending on what we’re up to.”  Suddenly, I think this sounds ridiculous.  I must be getting drunk.  One of the employees claims it’s a great line and asks to steal it.  What the hell.  Why not?  I’m not that attached to it.

Pretty soon we are all exchanging hearty stories about kids applying to colleges, our jobs, bad dates, and various states of matrimonial distress.  And bottles are opened.  Not the four we are expecting, but three, one custom chosen for my friend.  We sip the same wine several times, buy some bottles, and even get our hands on a few bottles of $36 red that’s a close-out and marked down to $7.99 a bottle, and, no, it’s not shit wine.  The stuff is freaking yummy.  (See, I’m using my extensive wine-tasting vocabulary here.)

After our first impression two weeks ago, we initially approach this evening with trepidation, limited expectations, and lined paper on which to immediately jot down notes about the experience. 

“It wasn’t entirely unpleasant,” I tell my friend as we carry our box full of wine to her car through the snowy parking lot.

She nods in agreement.  “As a matter of fact,” she exclaims smiling, “it got better the more I drank.”  At this, we laugh so hard we almost drop the wine bottles.  Aw, wine buzz.  The best.

Sometimes we crack our bad selves up.  And to think people pay money to go to comedy shows when they can hang around us for free.  Tsk tsk.

AND I SHOVEL

When it comes to sanity, sometimes a blizzard beats flurries.
Take today, for example.
During the day the weather vacillates between snow flurries and freezing rain.
When I go to the parking lot, my car is frozen shut.
I warm it up and scrape it off.
I even scrape the ice off the headlights.
On the drive home, the cars in front of me spit salt and slush onto my windshield.
When I arrive at my driveway, it needs to be shoveled -
Not a lot, but enough.
I park on the side of the road, run inside the house, get the shovel ...
And I shovel.
It takes all of fifteen minutes.
In that time, my car has re-frozen and I have to dust it off again.
My friend texts me: Wine tasting.  Tonight.
I'm in.
It's near my house, so she'll swing by and get me.
I look outside.
Damnit.
More snow.
My shovel and I go out to prep the driveway for company.
I am clearing the snow while I have my pocketbook slung over my shoulder.
It's quite the look.
I shovel enough to make a path to where my friend's car will be.
She pulls in, and I drop the shovel pretty much where it is.
Two hours later, after the wine tasting and dinner, I arrive back at my house.
The shovel is still there, caked in the dry snow from earlier.
No new snow has fallen.
However, my car is re-caked with an icy crust.
At least if this had been a blizzard, I'd only be shoveling once.
I'd only be cleaning off my car once.
Instead, I have several layers of snow piles just from today's multiple trips out with the shovel.
I know it's still early in the year, but ...
Counting down until Spring.
I hope my shovel isn't offended.