THE LOTTERY THRILL WILL KILL ME

Speaking of luck (since yesterday was Friday the 13th), I love my friends and family, but they have got to stop giving me lottery tickets for gifts.  Don't get me wrong -- I LOVE lottery tickets!  But, I never win.  Ever.

I've come close a couple of times.  I once hit Megabucks for all but one number .... back when that prize was a mere $400.  My landlord followed me to the store and took the cash right out of my hands.  So much for that windfall.

Oh, sure, I go through the motions.  I uncover the magical winning numbers first.  Then, I scrape off the overlay to reveal what wonderful prizes I might win.  I usually start with the big prizes, knowing I won't be winning any of those.  A million dollars!!!!!  Ohhhhh, too bad, so sad.  Then, I work my way down to the $1 prize.

Here's the thing, though.  If it's a $5 ticket, a $10 ticket, or more, it should be a guaranteed winner.  Seriously.  The damn lottery can't spare a lousy $1 on every $10 ticket?!

That's just bullshit.

Anyway, if people want to keep giving me lottery tickets, I am happy to scratch the tickets to reveal my big non-winnings.  I am just telling you people, I don't win.  I never win.  Never, ever.  You could have a stack of 99.99999% winners, and I'd pick the one and only losing lottery ticket in the bunch.

So, in a holdover from yesterday's potential for bad luck, I'd like to take this opportunity to say that I enjoy all the lottery tickets that I get over the course of the holidays -- birthdays, Christmas, Saturdays -- and I still have that eternal flicker of hope, "Maybe this time.  Maybe I'll win!"

I know I won't though, and it's okay.  I'm quite certain at this point the thrill would probably kill me.

PLANTA-SKEVIDEKATRIAPHOBIA

A Friday the Thirteenth Update -- Massachusetts, July 13, 2018  (For Immediate Release)

This just in: Heliand has managed to keep several plants alive this summer.  Repeat: Plants are still alive!

Seriously, though, I did lose two plants that I bought about five years ago from WalMart for 90% off, but it was time for them to go.  They were fine until I re-potted them last summer.  I had the stupid idea that the plants would thrive in larger containers, that the roots must be strangling the plants.  I replanted them into large containers, then... Boom, boom; out go the lights.  Honestly, if I had to wager a guess, I'd say the plants killed themselves when they realized they'd be spending another summer with me and not back at school on my sunny (but unattended) windowsill.

So far ... my luck seems positive.  Even though it's Friday the 13th, I am apparently holding off bad luck for my plants.

Nope, nope, nope; no triskaidekaphobia nor paraskevidekatriaphobia for this girl.  I have a small geranium and two robust basil plants from Stop 'N' Shop, and a lovely planter of flowers from my sister, a gardenia plant, plus I have three inside planters of Golden Pothos plants.  So far, so good, but my luck cannot hold out forever.

EXTENDING THE FESTIVITIES

After a barbecue, I am left with a little it of steak, some boneless chicken, and a fair amount of sweet Italian sausages.  I decide that these ingredients, along with some carrots, broccoli, peppers, and onion will make an outstanding stir fry.  I am also left with an ear of corn, but I eat that with butter and salt before I have a chance to consider adding it to the mix.

There's plenty of rice to use as a base for the stir fry, but now I have to decide exactly what kind of stir fry goes with a smorgasbord of leftover meat and some random vegetables.  While I am thinking about this, I start grabbing seasonings from the spice rack: salt, pepper, onion powder, garlic powder, basil, rosemary, oregano, tarragon ... I start the fry pan, add some olive oil, then dump the sliced up food pieces into the hot oil and start stir frying the heck out of everything.

I look in the fridge.  I have all kinds of salad dressings, and I could go Italian, since I already have the sausages, or I could go balsamic vinaigrette.  I could even lean toward barbecue sauce, which is what the sausages marinated in before they ended up on the grill.  This debate rages on far too long, and I am afraid the vegetables will dry out, so I lift the glass stopper off a bottle of port wine and heavily pour it into the fry pan.

Oooooooooooohhhhhhhh, that smells sooooooooo gooooooooooooood.

Before all the wine is vaporized, I throw in soy sauce and teriyaki sauce.  In about eight minutes, the stir fry is done and smells like heaven.  The rice takes two minutes longer.  Dinner is done, dinner is delicious, and I no longer have plastic containers full of leftovers in my fridge.  I also have very little port wine left, but that's a story for another day.

KAYAKING WITH FEW OTHERS

Finally the weather breaks enough that I can get out kayaking on a local pond.  Truly, it has been too hot to even consider kayaking for about five days when the temperature lowers from 96 to the mid 80's, and the humidity falls from 76% to about 60%.  I can kayak without risking heat prostration.

When I get to the pond, the small lot is completely full.  I pull over to the side of the road, close into the woods and off the pavement, and carry my kayak and oars fifty yards to the launching point.  A man and woman are poking around with their kayaks, trying to figure out how to get them into the water.  I decide to cut in front of them and take forty-five seconds to launch myself into the pond.  Yes, after waiting days for this, I am extremely impatient.  Pleasant ... but I'm no saint.

What I am pleased to discover is that although the small lot is packed, most of the vehicles belong to people fishing from the trails.  People in kayaks, canoes, and other water flotation devices, are few and far between.  There is no swimming allowed at this pond (though many do incognito), so none of us needs to worry about whacking errant humans while rowing.

 I kayak around the pond, ducking into the coves where there is no one but me and the turtles that sun themselves on the branches and rocks that jut out of the pond.  The entire open-water area of the pond is completely people-free, and it is easy to maneuver or just sit and drift.  The water is calm, the sky is bright blue, and the only cloud in the sky is a small tuft of white that looks like a tiny blemish on the wide expanse.

It takes about ninety minutes to complete the perimeter and row around a couple of small islands.  In the whole time, I only speak to three people when I pass them by.  As I prepare to pull the kayak out of the water, there are people struggling to get a canoe off a truck.  I haul my kayak up onto the ridge and have everything broken down and packed back into the car in less than four minutes, well before the gents finish unloading the canoe.  I am thrilled that the most people I run into today are coming and going at the water's edge and that I am quick enough not to be at their mercy to launch or take out.

Now, if the weather would just get under 90 degrees again (next two days, at least), I might consider going out once or twice more.

SOS FOR THE LOCAL NURSERY

I need some new plants for my patio.  I could go to the grocery store or to Home Depot, or I could go to a nearby, local, family-owned nursery.  I like supporting small businesses, and I've had fabulous luck with this nursery several times before. I haven't been here in a couple of years, but I do know that this is the best local nursery around.  The selection is amazing, or so I recall.

I double-check the hours online and arrive early on Saturday afternoon.  The first thing I notice is that I'm the only car in the lot.  I look around before heading to the plants and notice music playing, greenhouses accessible, and the "open" sign hanging out front.  But it's freakishly quiet.

I contemplate grabbing a cart, but I am a little creeped out by the silence around the place.  My eyes see many colorful plants, but I am concentrating on prices.  Not bad, not bad.  Plus, they're offering the "buy two, get one free" option.  I'm easily leaving here with six plants.

But, as I walk further and further through, the place is a wasteland.  No one is around. 

Finally, I get to the back edge of the nursery.  I see the owner and someone else (his wife?) planting small grasses into little pots.  They look up, see me, and ignore me.  I start thinking, I wonder if the place isn't really open.  But, truly, they should at least acknowledge my presence, perhaps even ask me if I need any help. 

I wander around a few more minutes and start crisscrossing the plants, trying to decide if I will bring my choice of six plants to the owner and ask if he wants my money or not.  This is when I take a closer look at the plants and notice that almost every one is withered, dried out, and abused.  Plant after plant after plant lies drying up and cringing from lack of water.  This seems crazy to me, especially since there is a hose at my feet.  I am tempted to pick it up, turn it on, and water the poor, dying greenery (brownery).  Instead, I continue walking slowly to my car (still no one approaches me), sit in the lot for a few minutes (still no one approaches me), then take off, shaking my head with disbelief.

What the hell is happening to this place?  What the hell is happening to customer service?  How did this wonderful business pinwheel into the chasm of crap?  If they treat everyone they way they treat me (or ignore me) and they way they treat (or ignore) their own plants, they're going to go out of business -- as well they should, and good riddance. 

BEACH DAY BEYOND THE LIMITS

I don't always enjoy going to the beach on weekends.  The small beach, usually dotted with people, is crammed on weekends.  The Fourth of July holiday weekends (before and after) are particularly crowded, especially during the house rental changeovers, because those arriving hurry to the beach after checking in, and those leaving lollygag at the beach after they've checked out.

For some reason, when I wake up Sunday morning I decide to go to the beach for a few hours.  I know it will be double the people, but the beach I go to is away from the madding crowds.  If I go early enough, I can be on my way home by the time most people are setting up at the beach for the Long Pre/Post-Rental Sit-In. Unfortunately, high tide is working against me.  The timing of the tide means that there will be limited exposed beach for a few hours.

I park in my usual spot, close enough to the bath house to walk to it, but far enough away that most families won't park here in case their kiddos need the bathroom.  I do have to compete with the local renters, though.  Thankfully, they're mostly families because this end of the beach isn't a hot spot for teenagers and young adults (no arcades, no bars, no nightlife).  This end of the beach is mostly surfers and die-hard wave jumpers.

After walking the small part of the beach that isn't still underwater from high tide, I plop my chair into an unoccupied spot on the beach.  I don't move even as more sand opens up with the receding tide.  I like my spot, and no one is near me.

Until ... because I am a flypaper for freaks ... a family sets up mere feet from me.  Then another.  And another.  Suddenly, my wide open spot is still wide open except for the nucleus.  I am now sitting in the center of lots of people while the rest of the beach remains open.  It's like they all see me, figure I must know THE BEST SPOT ON THE BEACH, and surround me.

One group sets up country music blasting to my left.  Another group sets up classic rock blasting to my right.  It's like they don't even realize they're next to each other nor that they are bothering other people on the beach.  This isn't Hampton Center or Salisbury Center, for crying out loud.  This isn't party freaking central. I breathe slowly, reminding myself that these are the Weekend People.  This is their holiday and vacation weekend, and many of them have to work in less than twenty-four hours.

Before it's even lunchtime, I am more than ready to leave.  I've been to the beach, I've walked in the sand, and I've been in the water.  I've also reached my aggravation limit for these Weekenders.  My sandy spot, like my parking spot, will be gobbled up in no time.

WHEN THE WORLD IS TELLING ME TO F*** OFF

Apparently I have a filthy mind.  Perhaps I just see dirty symbolism in everyday items.  Either way, I suspect that the universe is telling me to go f*** myself.

Twice in the last week I have been given the cosmic dick symbol. 

Not the middle finger, although my daughter's boyfriend does accidentally flip the bird in a zoo photo when his hand isn't quite done grasping the item he is holding.  Suddenly, we have a middle-finger photo bomb. Nope, this is not the same as the cosmic dick symbol.

I have been techno-phallus-ed two times in the last seven days.

The first time is when my daughter and I finally turn off of the Mass Turnpike/NY Thruway after driving for hours.  Well, it's not really the NY Thruway until we hit Schenectady, so I'm not sure what the No Man's Land of I-90 is between Stockbridge, MA., and Albany, NY.  (I can tell you it's the part with no rest areas and/or bathrooms.) 

We finally reach our exit in Schenectady when my daughter's gas light comes on in her car.  Directly across the street from our hotel is a gas station, so we pull in to get gas. The GPS totally freaks out on us and demands that we get back on the highway, then immediately pull off the highway and backtrack from whence we have already come.  This direction combined with the direction we just completed, creates a huge roundabout conundrum -- one which we have zero intention of fulfilling because our hotel IS DIRECTLY ACROSS THE STREET FROM WHERE WE ARE.

It's like the GPS is trying to screw with us.  Even worse, the directions create a giant phallus on the screen.  Yes, technology is trying to screw us right here in New York, like it senses we're from out of state and wants to mess with our minds.  "F*** you and drive around in this giant penis-like map structure, you little Massholes!"

Needless to say, we drive across the street to the hotel and leave the penis on the GPS while technology screams at us, "RECALCULATING!  RECALCULATING!" 

The second dick symbol arrives this morning on the projected weather radar map.  I'm up early trying to plan my activities.  For the first time in about seven days, we are finally getting a break from the heatwave.  This means thundershowers and downpours, but I have a day of shopping planned.  I am trying to figure out what time to hit which stores in order to avoid doing the longest walk to my parked car during the heaviest waterworks. 

I bring up the radar map on the computer in one tab while checking the opening times of stores in another tab.  I set the interactive radar to "Future" so it brings up the next five hours of projected storm activity.  I watch the radar images fly across the screen, indicating the worst of it should be around 11 a.m.  Fabulous!

But, as I'm about to shut everything down and get my day started, I notice the predicted storm activity exploding over the South Shore after it passes by my area.  And, by God, the storm track turns into a giant, colorful radar dick.  In other words, anyone in the storm's path is going to be totally and completely fucked.

You can judge these pictures for yourself.  Yes, I probably have a dirty, filthy, horrible mind.  But it sure does look like the universe is giving me the cosmic F*** OFF.  In the end, I win, though.  My daughter and I get to the hotel in NY without incident, and I only get a little drizzled on during thunderstorms today -- plus, almost everything is on sale or purchased with coupons and gift cards.  (My little way of dicking the universe right back, I suppose.)