ASIAN PINCHING LADY BEETLES

Ever since I removed the air conditioners from the windows, my house has been inundated with those stupid little Asian beetles.  They fly all over the place and knock into things, making little pinging noises.

Unlike their springtime American cousin, the harmless ladybug, these little fuckers are quite aggressive and have pincers that stick to their victims and leave a little bruise.  Oh, they look plenty cute, but they are miniature terrorists.

I have a couple of the Asian "lady beetles"  flying around the bedroom, so I bring a fly swatter into the room with me and knock the little kamikaze bastards clear out of mid-air.  I still believe (perhaps truly or perhaps psychosomatically) I hear them snap-crackle-popping on the backside of the window shades.  I whack at the shades just to be sure.

I'm willing to bet that at some point tomorrow during a presentation or something, I will cough and an Asian beetle that I've accidentally inhaled in my sleep will come spewing out and hit someone across the room from me.  Oh well.  It's rumored that we all eat a certain amount of spiders in our sleep.  I guess adding an Asian beetle or two to the menu wouldn't really be too far beyond the realm of possibility.

Should be a frost this week, though.  I am certainly hopeful that the little asshole beetles still roaming around outside will get their due.  If not, I have discovered that Raid hornet spray is very effective against slowing the beetles down enough for me to completely annihilate them with a shoe or other implement of destruction.

Just don't miss.  If those buggers get on your skin, you'll know it.  Like summer greenheads, these fall insects will leave a mark you won't soon forget.

DEAR SUMMER - GO AWAY

Dear Summer:

Go away.  No, for real, get your damn ass out of my autumn.  I'm sick and tired of your hot days, and I am wicked bored with your warm nights.

It's November.

For fuck's sake, Summer, go home.  Go south.  Go to Hawaii.  Go to Peru.  Go to Hell.  Just GET OUT.  Be gone.

After spending Saturday packing up and storing the air conditioners, then cleaning and storing away the kayaks, I am in no damn mood for another day in the 70's, but here you go again with your stupid shit.  Windows up, windows down; heat on; heat off.  Seriously.  Make up your damn mind.

It's snowing in the Pacific Northwest.  At least someone somewhere knows what the hell season it is, what month it is, that this isn't the Deep South nor Florida nor Arizona.  Wake up, November.  Wake up.

Oh, don't be telling me to be careful what I wish for.  I shoveled that damn 110 inches of snow a few years ago.  I'm not afraid of snow.  Do you think my grown-up ass would sit around New England if I didn't like snow?

I love summer, too, and I get very antsy in the pantsy if summer arrives late.  But, let's be serious here.  70 degrees predicted on November 6th?  What the holy hell.  Are you high, Summer?  Are you still buzzed from your own season?

Look, I love you, Summer; I love you like a visiting relative.  Now, though, it's time to pack up your toothbrush and go home.  Go where you belong, Summer, which isn't here.

I know, I know.  When my skin cracks and my face freezes off and my ears are so cold I cry -- you'll be laughing at me from the Southern Hemisphere.  When the Reynaud's in my fingers and toes threatens to cause amputation, I'll be begging to have you back.

Right now, though, I want my flannel sheets, my long sleeves, my sweaters, and my sweatpants.  I want hiking boots and knit hats.  I want hot chocolate and soup and chowder and beef stew in the crock pot.  I want spiced mulled wine and turkey and crackling fires.

Go away, Summer.  Go away and don't come back until May.  You can show yourself a tiny bit over the next few months, but pack your bags and go live somewhere else for a while.  I need a break.  My sweat glands need a break.  It has been real, and it has been fun, but right now -- it's not real fun.

I love you, Summer, but, for the love of all things sane ... GO ... AWAY ... for a few months.

Sincerely,

Me and my flannel sheets and my big fluffy slippers and my fleece jackets and my furry hiking boots and my snowshoes and my knit scarves and my wool socks and my flannel pajama pants and my handmade quilts ...

LAUNDRY DAY ON STEROIDS

Ahhhh, Saturday!  A day when I can do some minutiae that needs to get done.  Yes, some of it is work-related, but nothing that has to get done.  I am soooo looking forward to a well-earned day off!

Until my son brings in his lacrosse equipment from his car.

Apparently, every piece of clothing he has ever owned is in his car.  Okay, maybe not every, but there are a helluva lot of sweatshirts, sweatpants, and enough sports pinnies to outfit his own team.  The stuff smells ... horribly.  Several of the articles of clothing are so sweat-encrusted that they could probably walk into the house out of their own volition.

Suddenly, I am spending Saturday reliving the old days of youth and high school sports as the unpaid limo service.  The aroma of the pinnies reminds me of long car rides from field to field, sometimes with the windows wide open because (until my most recent car purchase) I didn't own a vehicle with a closed trunk.

It only takes three loads to get everything done.  I am displeased to tell my son that his pinnies, regardless of the amount of detergent used along with multiple fabric softener sheets, still have the wafting stench of lacrosse on them.

Four hours later, the laundry is done and folded.  Of course, the kiddo is gone for the next two days with friends and then coaching at at an all-day lacrosse tournament.  At least I know when he arrives home, it will just be the coaching clothes coming through the door.  He cannot possibly have any more clothing in his car -- it's all clean and folded on the den futon.

WORK: MY OWN DAMN FAULT

My work life has become a little too invasive into my personal life.  I find myself going in to work way too early and staying at work way too late.

It's my own fault.

This year I am quite honestly flying by the seat of my pants.  This means that my serious prep work takes place during my morning set-up.  Every single day I have a meeting of some sort, and, even if I am lucky enough to get thirty or forty minutes to address my own work, it is often spent fielding ridiculous emails, mostly from companies that want my business now that our grade level has gone 100% 1:1 with technology. 

Today I stay late to use the copy machine.  I realize that the machine is almost out of toner, and I know damn well that means I won't get through my work, so I book it down to the main office to catch the secretary before she leaves so she can unlock the cabinet and hand me the toner.  When I get back, someone has taken my place in line and started copying.  The toner runs out, and, thank goodness for me, we replace it and move on.  Eventually, I get my copies done ... well, mostly done before someone else comes in and needs to copy.

Grades close today, as well.  I could take the last of the numbers home with me, or I could tack another thirty minutes on to my day and get them done at work, which is what I decide to do.  There are a few other stragglers who, like me, decide to stay an extra hour or so rather than bring the work home with us ... still ... yet again.  Oh, sure, I do bring work home with me, but it's mostly my busy work so I can, once again, fly by the seat of my pants come Monday morning.

The problem with this whole coming in early and leaving late crap, other than the fact that it means I have zero social life, is that my room is mere yards from the superintendent's office.  He keeps a schedule similar to mine, and he often walks down the main hall in front of my room on his way to meetings or to get coffee.  Today he takes his morning walk when I arrive and his afternoon walk while I (and several others) am still there.

This gets me to wondering: Does he think we are trying to impress him by arriving early and staying late?  Or, even more obvious and slightly more depressing, does he think we cannot do our jobs and are staying late to cover our own asses?

At the end of the day (which is late today), I don't give a flying hootenanny what he nor anyone else thinks.  My room is semi-organized, and my grades are calculated -- not ready to be sent to admin yet, but still.  When I leave along with a colleague, it is getting dark and starting to rain, a fitting end to an otherwise crappy week, both personally and professionally.

But, we LEAVE at an almost-reasonable hour, no less.  It's all good.  I can make up that hour this weekend when we fall back.  Arriving early and staying late will not, however, make up for the time I have already lost this week, but my habits are improving -- I only stayed late this once in five days.  That in itself is an improvement over the first two weeks of school this year.

THANK YOU, NON-LOCAL WORKERS!

Wow, trees that are still standing!

It has been five days since the remnants of Hurricane Philippe swooped across New England, causing widespread power outages, major traffic accidents, chemical fire, and fallen trees.

For the first few days I stick to the main route from home to work, only to discover power out and wires down still days later.  I even follow a line of traffic through a "road closed" sign on the highway through town because the cones have been moved, and the line in front of my car is proceeding past the electric trucks parked in the northbound lane.

Three days post-storm, I come home along the edge of the state forest and discover that, although the road is mostly cleared of downed trees, there is still no power, including no working traffic lights at a dangerous and busy intersection by the state police barracks.  One would think the staties would be at the top of the "must have power" list, but apparently not.  These lights stay out for two more days.

Finally, today, five days post-storm,there seems to be power, the roads are passable, and life is grand again.  This prompts me to tempt fate and go home the back roads by a nearby cemetery and the local pond.  After all, these roads have not been tweeted out by the town as impassable.

The town is incorrect.

Five days later, this one pocket of town is littered with trees, the roads are single lane only due to debris, and I am attempting to drive through not one, not two, but ten utility trucks trying to restore power by rewiring the entire neighborhood and beyond.  It is a beautiful 72 degree day outside, so my car windows are open.  As I wait for several trucks to pass between my pulled over vehicle on the right and their pulled over compadres on the left, I shout to one of the trucks that has an unfamiliar insignia.

"Thanks for all you do to get us back up and running," I say.  "We appreciate you!"

Uh-oh. Now, a bus! This road is tight even without debris.

The gentleman in the yellow emergency vest answers me in a wonderful Southern drawl.  He and his coworkers seem tired but still cheerful.  Meanwhile, I'm thinking how we Northerners are usually the ones sending help south when those horrible ice storms grip the Atlantic seaboard and beyond.  How wonderful to see these trucks from down south and to see these workers from down south coming up to help us out.

We will attempt to keep the good weather for all-y'all, too.  No rain since Saturday, mid-seventies today, and mid to high seventies predicted for Friday.  We hardy New Englanders are having a hard time wrapping our heads around being incapacitated by something as inconsequential as post-hurricane winds and rain, and we are also pretty ungracious and rather self-deprecating about accepting help from the outside world, but thank you all for being here.

Hopefully, by Friday the town will be fully restored to power.  If not, just know that many, many people are working hard to get it done.

ASKING ... YOU KNOW, FOR A "FRIEND"

You want to know what
Fries her ass?
People who are too lazy to
Do their jobs;
That's what fries her ass.
Constant emails from people who are
Perfectly capable of doing the
Simplest of tasks:
But won't.
Truly and honestly
Exhausted
From picking up the slack while
Others do
Important and altruistic deeds like
Attending office parties,
Getting others coffee,
Posting personal crap on
Social media,
Avoiding sweat caused by
Picking up
Pen or pencil or keyboard.

Never met so many people who
Spend so much work time
Entertaining their damn selves.
Sadly, she can count
On one hand,
Maybe two,
Number of people who
Can and might and will
Share these sentiments with
Job-Shirkers
Just to make her already
Over-taxed job
Worse;
Pat themselves on their
Just-above their own asshole
Backs.
At this point,

Being a Wal-Mart Greeter is
Probably an improvement.
At least she wouldn't take her job
(Nor their jobs)
Home ... Every ... Damn ... Evening.
If only Bill Belichick were the boss:
Do your job.
Please, for the love of
All Things Sane,
Do your goddamned job
So no one else is forced to
Do it
For you.
Is this too much to expect?

Just
Asking for a friend
Because
Inquiring minds want to know.

 

A NEW, CREEPIER LOOK

I make it all the way through the thick of the storm without losing power for longer than thirty seconds.  The winds are screeching, the rain is pounding, trees are crashing down, and I am smugly enjoying no interruption to my life whatsoever (again, except for thirty seconds).

Of course, it's Halloween, so things are never exactly how they appear.

Silly me invites my daughter to come over after her shift at the hospital (which is running on generator power).  I set her up in the living room on a futon, and she is happy there from about 11:30 p.m. until 1:00 a.m.  Yes, two hours into her stay, my electricity goes out, and she heads home.  I don't blame her.  If it's going to be dark here and dark at home, might as well sleep in her own bed.

The lights are still out when my cell phone alarm goes off at 5:05.  I fire up some candles and search for more batteries for the other flashlights that are running low on energy.  No such luck.  I wash my hair with the reserve of hot water, then pull it all back with a headband since I cannot dry my bangs.  This would be innocuous except that I have a severe widow's peak hairline that rivals Count Dracula's.  My forehead is completed exposed under the sharp point of my pulled-back bangs.

I take some candles into the bathroom with me and set up the flashlight of my cell phone to shine onto my face so I can put on eyeliner.  Thank goodness it's Halloween because I am totally mauling this simple task.  I figure if I can't beat the eyeliner disaster, I might as well join in and put smoky gray shadow on my eyelids then top it all off with thick, black mascara.

Finally, around 6:20 a.m., I snap a few photos of my candlelight morning. I mean, this whole fiasco will probably make a great -- Oh, hang on!  The lights just snapped back on, but it's ruining the ambiance of my struggle, so I shut off the light and take one last photo -- blog.  Yup, probably a decent blog.  Except that I'm not struggling any longer.

Whatever.  It's Halloween.  My slicked-back bangs and smeared black eyeliner and bruised-looking eyelids and I are late for work.  I'll dry my unruly bangs tomorrow morning.  Today, I'll channel my inner Dracula and sport a new, creepier look.