SHARING AND HOARDING

COVID-19 is here, folks.

It is in my school district, and it is in the trial court where I served jury duty (and was impaneled under oath for several hours during jury selection) on Monday.  With schools shut down, the kiddos are now being driven into the regular population, rather than controlled inside the walls of buildings.  With public transportation still operating, we are all sucking in the same air as those around us, and, subsequently, allowing expelled air and germs to settle onto our clothes and in our lungs.

It's inevitable.  And because I find the whole thing hysterically hysterical, I'll be the ironic one to die of it.

By hysterically hysterical, I am, of course, referring to the  hoarding of certain items.  I can understand things like bleach cleaners and hand sanitizers.  I even semi-understand the toilet paper situation, except that COVID-19 is a respiratory illness, therefore tissues should be going long before TP.  I suppose it has to do with quarantine situations.

There are some hoarded items that I do not understand, though:  flour and trash bags.

I mean, truly, what are you going to do -- BAKE away the virus?  FLOUR DUST it into oblivion?  Maybe baking snacks, I guess; that I can understand.  Except that if you end up as infected, now everyone who eats the baked goods will also be at risk, and so on and so on.

But, people: What's with the hoarding of trash bags?  Are you going to duct tape together your own Hazmat suit?  Are you covering your windows?  Are you waving the bags at the virus like a toreador? Dare I even say it ... makeshift body bags?

So, be kind to each other.  Share your food, share your trash bags, and share your friendship but let's try to NOT share this damn virus.

DRIVING MY OWN CAR INTO THE SUN

A few weeks ago my car got hit.  A woman jumped a stop sign and, while looking to her left, completely ignored my car coming down the road on the right (with the right of way).  Surprisingly, it only took five days to fix my car.  Last time this happened I was without my car for almost three weeks.  Anyway, before dropping my car off for its repairs, I cleaned out a bunch of stuff I figured I would need: loose change, about five pairs of reading and driving glasses, and several pairs of sunglasses.

When driving the rental car, I realized that I did not have my sunglasses with me, at least not the ones with the 1.25+ (or 1.50+ ... don't judge me).  While I can wear the non-RX sunglasses, it's much safer if I drive with the ones that actually correct my driving eyesight.  I figured I must've put them in my backpack when I cleaned out the car, so I went searching.  Nope.  Not there.

Dang it.  I must've left them in my car when I left it at the body shop.  Thankfully, the time I was sans my own car was a relatively sunless few days, so it was not a huge problem.

Friday when I went to pick up my car, I immediately opened the center console.  No sunglasses.  I re-opened both the top of the center console and the big under-part of the console, as if perhaps I missed the sunglasses the first (five) time(s).  Still nothing.  I checked the side pockets on the driver's side door.  Nothing.  I looked in the mini-compartment under the radio, and I checked the glove box.  Still no sunglasses.

A few days passed and I was getting pissed off about losing my only driving sunglasses.  I'd have to get on Amazon and order another pair, not a big deal really, but the fact that I could find everything else, including stuff I had forgotten about like Dunkin's gift cards and hoarded plastic straws, was bugging me.  I checked under the seats, in the trunk, and I double-checked my backpack and my house.

Where in the hell did I put those glasses?  Did they fall out of the car?

It was nearly a week later when I arrived home after dark.  I shut the car off, reached up to hit the light and accidentally released the mini-compartment near the light button.  Yes, some of you have already figured out which mini-compartment I mean: the one for SUNGLASSES.

I was only away from my car for five days and I completely and totally forgot that my car has a SUNGLASSES COMPARTMENT in it, and that's where my SUNGLASSES live all day every day unless they are on my face.

I am pleased to report that my sunglasses are back in my possession and that it is safe for everyone, including me, to be back on the roads again.  However, I think to be extra cautious I might order another pair or two of 1.25+ (or 1.50+ ... don't judge me) sunglasses.  Truly.  I never know when I might forget that I am driving my own damn car.

BULLSHIT ON THE BULLSHIT ALREADY

I am getting a little tired of bullshit.  Bullshit on the news; bullshit on the radio; bullshit on television; bullshit in the newspapers; bullshit on the Internet; bullshit at work; bullshit at home.  I guess it's a damn good thing I am not a farmer or a rancher because bullshit would be my business, and I'd be damn tired of it.

There's nothing in particular to report on the bullshit front.  I mean, I got my car back from the repair shop and the body work (from an accident at which I was officially 0% responsible) looks fantastic -- even the dealer cannot tell anything has ever been done.  I did not lose electricity, not even for one second, during the recent two-day wind and rain storms that paralyzed several communities.  I actually went an entire week at work without having my ass reamed out for anything and/or everything.

I guess I am suffering from Bullshit Buildup.

This happens when one's constant state of high alert resumes to its pre-crisis homeostasis of near-calmness.  Apparently my system crashed officially about five days ago, causing me to go to bed early an be completely and soundly asleep by 8:45 p.m. on a weeknight.  When I awoke the next morning following eight-plus hours of nearly uninterrupted, dreamless sleep, my normal cynical self returned.

Since hitting the wall and resuming an almost even keel of mental stability, I've had a lot of time to reflect on recent events, both personal and global, and declare the entire first part of 2020 to be complete and utter BULLSHIT.  This revelation has morphed into systematic clearing of my personal belongings at work (if I disappear suddenly and the police are looking for clues, my desk and cabinets will yield nothing), the continued purging of my personal belongings at home, and a renewed fervor for writing (not all of it sane).

I have also developed a highly suspect and frightening obsession with the Guy Ritchie movie King Arthur: Legend of the Sword, a movie in which the completely wicked and horribly demented antagonist suffers total retribution and annihilation at the hands of the rabble-rousing commoners (led, of course, by an ass-kicking but clueless good guy).  I seem to have developed a psychic connection with Goosefat Bill, the hooligan you love but who also has a mental scoresheet of debts to settle.  He does all the wrong things for all the right reasons, and I suspect that I identify with his cause.

No matter.  I have discovered a cure for the Bullshit Blues: Pinot Noir.  Well, that and Ginaritas (Margaritas made with gin instead of tequila).  Okay, and beer.  Oh, and chocolate and cookies and cheese and crackers and pizza and salads with lots of feta and ham rolled up and dipped into mustard.  I might have to add cannolis and cake and maybe even hamburgers and ice cream as the political primary gets closer and the bullshit meter goes into high gear again.

Judging from posts online (sorry, Tic Toc, but you're just not on my radar) from many different sites, and judging from friends and coworkers and acquaintances, I'm not the only one suffering from severe bullshit buildup.  Remember, though, when it comes to the magic cure, commiserating is great, but never discount the curative powers of red wine and Hershey's.  It may not slay your enemies ala Excalibur, but it will certainly put that (double) edge back in your zest for justice.  (P.S. My "enemies" and their machinations have been warned.  Just kidding ... not.)

LANDLOCKED NEAR THE SEA

I could never be landlocked. I'd live near my favorite beach if it weren't so bloody far from work.  Of course, work is like a prison sentence at this point of my life, so maybe I should just pick the beach and drive my life away since I'm working it away already.

It's winter break right now, or it is for another 24 hours, so I take a detour to the beach on my way to Maine.  I don't know why I expect February in New England to be warmer than it ever is, but I am surprised when I check the outside temperature: 12.  Yup, twelve degrees Fahrenheit, which is damn close to what we here in New England call "snot-freezing weather," when your inner nostrils ice up as soon as you open your front door.

However, as those of us near the coast will attest, any day and every day is a beach day, so off I go.

Maybe I'll explore, I tell myself.  Maybe I'll park in a few different spots and get some different shots.  Maybe I'll drive straight up the coast from Salisbury after ..., after ... After what?  Looking at the deserted stands and arcades and trash barrels?  Driving past the empty motels and boarded up bungalows?

Nah.  Screw that.  I'm going to The Wall.

The Wall is a popular surfing spot, and the waves, when they're cooperative, can be impressive and constant.  The only shops are down the street near the bath house, and even then there are only three or four businesses tucked into one small structure.  This beach is a true beach-goers beach.  No frills, no teeny-boppers with arcade prizes and sticks of cotton candy, there is convenient parking thirty seconds from the sand, and no noise from the street due to the massive retaining wall to curb erosion.  At low tide, the sand stretches for a mile or more.  At high tide, about two hundred yards of sand are all that remain uncovered, but the large granite rocks protect sunbathers who dare to defy the tides and ride it out until the sand, wet and refreshing and cool, reappears within two hours.

Today the air, now at a whopping twenty degrees, is still.  The recent winds have died down, and it almost (since it has climbed eight degrees since I left the house) feels like spring.  I grab my phone, ready for waves galore and fabulous photo ops, and grab my down vest, ready for the blast of spray and salt air.

What greets me instead is a surprisingly calm ocean and strong sun against the rocks.  The ocean is nearly motionless except for small laps of water that gently stir along the sand with no more power nor pomp than a placid forest pond.  The raucous surfing mecca of the area is smooth as a glass serving tray.  If I didn't smell the sea in the air, I'd swear I was overlooking a lake.

I wait a long time, nearly fifteen minutes, for the ocean to get moving.  The swells start out about one hundred yards, but by the time they reach the usual breaking area, they gently overtake the tide already resting at the edge and disappear into nothingness.  Finally, a small wave breaks no deeper than ankle height (if I were actually in the water, which I am not).  I wait until another wave comes and then another, breaking with a bigger sound but no bigger finish.

All in all, in the twenty or so minutes I am there, I see maybe three or four small waves.  I also see maybe three or four people walking along the sidewalk above me and on the other side of The Wall, but looking left to right I realize that I have the entire beach, all mile-plus of it, to myself.  There is not one other single soul on the sand or rocks, though I do see recent paw prints and sneaker tracks, so I know I'm not the first one here today.

Packing up I roll down my car windows (damn the temperature) so I can hear the ocean as I leave.  I drive north along the coast through Rye and Portsmouth, drinking in the blue and the calmness of the water.  Oh, to live here.  Damn working.  If only I could see this every day, life would be perfect.  Though I say I could never be landlocked, when I go back to work on Monday, I will know in my heart that I am.

I SPY A NEED FOR DRAWING BOOKS

What starts as an innocent, mindless activity in my classroom somehow morphs into a daily game of I Spy.  Before Thanksgiving break, I decide to start drawing a winter scene on the whiteboard behind my desk, the board reserved for important notices like homework and upcoming assessments.  It starts with a turkey then turns into a holiday-type/winter scene.

In January when we return for the dog days of winter, I remove the turkey and Christmas tree and menorah and other holiday-themed stuff, and continue adding one new drawing every day as the countdown to February break approaches.  I think this is just my way to keep my mind of all the other crap happening at work.  You know, bring some color back into the dark, horrid days of dissension; keep a running count to the mental health break mid-February.

Instead of being my personal coloring calendar, though, it turns into a game.

At first I don't realize that the kids care what I am doing.  At some point in January, I notice that they are examining the board and challenging each other to figure out what I've added for that day.  Sure they notice the homework written there, but the true gazers are searching for something they haven't seen before.

At first I make the additions obvious: a pond with a skater, a large tree, Snoopy and Woodstock.  But as time goes on, I get devious: a flower, apples on the snowman, children (stick figures) lining up at school, birds in the sky.  It's fabulous fun to see if I can trick them.  "Nope, the penguin was last week.  Nope, the house was yesterday.  Nope, the snowboarder has been there for weeks."

I don't honestly know who's having more fun with this glorified game of I Spy - the students or the teacher - but the countdown is the best part of it all.  On Friday, the final day before the school's winter break and with my last class in attendance, I erase the board and clean it with spray and paper towels.  The kiddos are horrified as the entire scene comes down after four months of watching the board change and grow.

It's okay, though.  We have thirty-eight school days until April break once we get back from this one, days that will include grueling New England weather changes, academic open house, and state-mandated testing.  That means thirty-eight days of a new I Spy game ... easy the first week, progressively more difficult as we go.

Time to get some drawing books; I am in need of some fresh ideas for spring and beyond.

CRASH ... AGAIN!

I am definitely going to have to stop driving on Central Street.  For the second time in five years, someone jumped the stop sign at Brook Street and slammed into my car as if I were completely and totally invisible.  Not from a small stop, mind you; both times the person jumping the stop sign did so at a ferocious speed (pedal right to the metal) while looking in the complete opposite direction of oncoming traffic.

Duh.  When driving, it is usually best to be looking AHEAD.  You know, in the f*****g direction that you f******g car is going.

The good news is that no one was injured.  The better news is that the car (mine, anyway) is still driveable.  The best news is that the offending driver has accepted 100% liability, so the insurance claim process runs relatively smooth.

However, the accident and resulting long-term damage is what ultimately led to my last car's demise.  I had to get this current car in a pinch as a result of that other vehicle.  I never really liked this current car that much, but it's nothing against Hyundai or the Sonata itself.  I just plain flat-out am NOT a sedan gal.

Does it make me a terrible person if I kind of wish the frame were to be damaged?  I mean, it was a minor crash, and bless Hyundai for making a car that suffered so little damage when the impact was both startling and caused my car to spin about thirty degrees into the other lane.  If Brook/Central slowly killed my car once over the long term, might it be able to do the same but make it a bit more instantaneous so I am not continuously shelling out money for accident-related damages?  I already had to replace a brake light that jostled itself out during the impact, so there's fifteen dollars I'll never see again.

Okay, okay.  I know.  I'm very lucky, the person who hit me is lucky, and we are all just living in a lucky, lucky kind of world.  But, please.  If I am driving the invisible car, maybe it's time to trade in for a more visible one, like the monster truck I used to drive.  Yeah.  Hit that and you'll lose your cranium.

Here's to Monday, the body shop's expertise, and whatever tiny rental I end up with for the duration.  With a little MORE luck, I'll never see that Sonata ever again.

LAUGHTER AND MOTHER NATURE PISS

Winter in New England has totally sucked this year.  For real.  The snow has been just about nonexistent, but this is actually a plus when I meet my sister (each of us driving about forty-five minutes to meet in the mid-point) to tag-team babysit her grand-twins.

My sister and I meet early, act like idiots in a store by trying on a slew of dresses that are not flattering.  (One of the ones I try on is a flower-printed dress that is the color of stomach bile.)  Next, we have lunch at Panera and play cards for about an hour, entertaining the occasional nearby patron and employee with our Cribbage and Rummy mastery.

When the time comes, I insist on following my sister in my own car to the grand-twins' house, about a ten minute ride away, so that she doesn't have to return southbound (my home direction) yet again, just to turn around go northbound to her own home.  After all, the weather is supposed to turn and rain quite a bit later on.

Rain.  Not snow.  No big deal, she convinces me, so we leave my car behind and head to our babysitting gig.  After we are alone with the babies for a while, we hear the wind pick up (not unusual; the house is on an inlet) and then we hear the rain start.  It's a hard rain, a steady rain, but by no means is it an unmanageable rain.

This is New England; weather changes are what we do.

Eventually my sister and I are kicked out, sent packing so the babies can be put back on schedule and re-oriented to the correct parenting and not the Snap-Chat filter, photo-bombing afternoon we have enjoyed, turning the babies into princesses and bears and puppies and clowns and lipstick-wearing hotties.

To leave, my sister needs to back her car up so we can drive back to my car, still parked at Panera.  I wait patiently in the driveway in the slow but steady cold drizzle as she unlocks her car door, gets into her car, and ...

HOLY SHIT ON A SHINGLE.

The sky opens up.  In the minute it takes my sister to get into her car, start it, back it up, and position it so I can get in the passenger door, I am soaked.  I drip all over her car and all over her and basically just plain drip every damn where.  As usual, with our mad adventures of dress-shopping and Panera lunching and card playing and pseudo babysitting, we start laughing uncontrollably.

Thankfully, Panera is still open when we return, and, also thankfully, it is near-empty.  We sit in front of the fireplace, mostly so I can dry off a little bit, but also so we can split a tuna sandwich and enjoy a tiny bit more quality time together.

It rains and rains and rains buckets upon buckets the whole way home until about ten percent of the ride is left, which also cracks me up for some reason.  It's almost like Mother Nature is taking an hour or so to just piss all over.  Rain or not, it doesn't deter the fun.  My sleeves and knees are still damp from the deluge when I arrive home, but the only ache I have is in my stomach from the laughter.