W(H)INING ABOUT BEING ILL

I finally have a couple of days off. 

No big surprise -- I'm sick. I finally succumb to that grippe that seems to be making its rounds at school. I am of foul mood and foul temper.

Sure, it's not the pukies. Not officially, anyway. 

However, anyone who has had this will tell you that the first hour awake in the morning is one of hacking so hard and so continuously that all of the phlegm coming forward is like choking up giant globs of puke, anyway. Every time I cough this morning, I have to be near the toilet in case my stomach decides to come up with my lungs.

As the day progresses, my coughs run the gambit from dry and piercing to seal bark to wet with echoing rattles. Although my head feels like it's in a vise, I don't have a fever and would probably be functioning semi-well at school, which is exactly where I'd be had the day not been observance of a national holiday.

I'm getting a little tired of soup, tea, and hot chocolate. It doesn't seem to help much, anyway. I decide that orange juice must be the next defense, so I fill up one of my Christmas mugs. When I empty that and go for a refill, I notice some cava (sparkling wine from Spain) in my refrigerator. I decide that a mimosa in my Christmas mug might make me feel better, too. After all, a mimosa has both orange juice and bubbly fizzy stuff to settle my stomach.

Then I notice the red wine open and recorked. It's a Spanish Monastrell. Red wine is a healthy choice, right? Antioxidants, and all that? Maybe I should have some of that. If all else fails, I can add some juice and fruit and a little tonic, and turn it into a poor version of sangria. 

I'm not sure yet which drink of choice pairs better with the thick, cherry-flavored cough syrup I've been downing nor with the camphor-eucalyptus goop I've been spreading across my chest. All I know is that the wine in my house has taken my initial PAIN and turned it into SPAIN, and THAT, my healthy friends, is a great way to spend a lousy day off.

PENNEY FOR MY ANXIETY

I'm having company this weekend.

This isn't really big news. I often have family members stop by and crash in my living room. I gave up my larger townhouse for smaller apartment living, which is great for cleaning and upkeep and utility costs, but it sucks for storage and for accommodating guests. I have a semi-comfortable futon that I pad with a thick mattress cover, and I bought some nice sheets for it. For the upcoming company visit, I set up the futon and put the pad on it. Then, I look for the bed linens where I always keep them.

The bag is missing.

I spend an hour tearing apart every piece of this apartment, which is crazy since I recently redid the two closets, and I also recently cleared out and reworked the storage benches. There is absolutely nowhere else this bag might be. Well, except for possibly in a donation box somewhere. There is a very real possibility that I accidentally threw the bag of clean sheets near a place where I often gather bags to go to Good Will. All I can think of is that someone now has a rarely-used, basically brand-new set of comfortable, lovely, wrinkle-free, purple flowered sheets.

To prep for my guests, I do not have time to go to the store, even though I live near a Target. I really don't want to be limited to whatever selection and prices the store have, so I throw a random king-sized top sheet over the futon and beg my relatives to bring sleeping bags with them. This seems like a great solution, except that my anxiety is ramped up now because I still cannot find the damn futon sheets.

This dilemma bothers me for about twenty-four hours. 

Finally, I sit down on the computer and Google queen-size sheet sets. Within seconds, I am informed that there is a sale at JC Penney this weekend, starting today. The movie Airplane is one of my favorites, as is the character Johnny, who studies the newspaper foretelling of disaster and announces, "THERE'S A SALE AT PENNEY'S!" 

I find a great selection of sheet sets at unbelievable prices. I throw in two pillow protectors, also on sale. What the heck, I add in a king-sized blanket, also, not surprisingly, at a discounted price. And, because it's a special weekend sale, I get even more money off the entire order. The whole kit-and-kaboodle costs me a whopping $57. If I were to put a price on appeasing my anxiety, I would've guessed it might cost a lot more, and it probably would have if I had gone to Target and picked something off the shelves. 

Of course, now that the order has been placed (scheduled to arrive Friday), the original bag with the original sheets will certainly make an appearance. I don't care! I have my sanity back, and it cost much less than therapy. Now, if I start mumbling, "Auntie Em! Uncle Henry! It's a twister!" or "Leon's getting laaaaaarger," just pull up the JC Penney website and place that plastic credit card in my angry little fist.

A MENACE TO THE HOLIDAYS

Guilty. It's true, your Honor, guilty as charged.

Yes, I am pre-empting Halloween and Thanksgiving with another holiday. It is kind of accidental, but, once it starts, it really does come down to intent. Apparently, I shouldn't have started rearranging the piles of stuff still left to organize, especially not after working all day. My guard is down, and I am mentally exhausted. For the remainder of messy crap, I'm down to some minor office files and a huge amount of photographs and frames. This warrants compartmentalizing larger containers to smaller containers, which somehow leads to checking on the organizational skills of my holiday boxes. 

Oh, it starts innocently enough. 

I question whether or not I can carve out a tiny bit more space to hide more of the junk I carry around with me. Honestly, though, in the last four years, I have gone from a tri-level three-bedroom townhouse, to a two bedroom townhouse, to a one-bedroom apartment. I have weeded out a lot of my belongings. I probably should've gone for a two-bedroom apartment or one that actually offers storage, but this one comes with a fireplace and porch, and the utilities are cheap money compared to the townhouses. 

In my defense, I couldn't help myself.

I truly do not need to pull the holiday boxes out. I know me, and, dang it, I know better. But one box leads to another and another. Before I can stop myself, Christmas is sitting in my living room. I ignore it for a few days. I go grocery shopping one day. I stay late at work another day. I go to a wine tasting on a completely random day.

But then, the weekend sneaks up on me, and I am feeling a little peckish, just peckish enough to stay close to home. I pretend that I don't see Christmas staring at me from every corner of the main living area. It's 80 degrees out, so I open the windows and clean the inner sills. I rearrange and sweep the porch. I let the last gasp of summer into my home, finish a book, make soup, drink wheat beer. I vacuum the apartment.

Yes, yes, yes. Summer is still in the air!

Like the theme song from Jaws, the boxes stalk me with a menacing cadence. O-pen. Oooooooo-pen. Open open open open open open open ...

Damnit, Christmas. It's not even Halloween. I haven't even carved the pumpkin yet. ("Do it tomorrow when it's chilly and rainy," a voice inside my head reasons.) But . . . but, it's too hot to open Christmas. 

O-pen. Oooooooooooooooo-pen. Open open open . . . openopenopenopen . . . OPEN!

The next thing I know, a small pre-lit tree is standing in the corner by the fireplace. It gets plugged in. Ornaments slowly and belligerently make their way to the branches. It takes hours because I don't want to be doing this. Yet, I am, like a person possessed.

Please, your honor, I may be guilty, but I haven't murdered Halloween. I didn't run the red light of holidays. At worst, I've committed a misdemeanor of celebratory order; at best, a breach of etiquette.  I may have the colored lights on, but I haven't plugged in the Santa Band just yet, so there is that. I blame Michael's Craft Store for having Christmas displays out. For the love of all things sane, they even had Advent candles on sale. 

It's not my fault! Guilty! Yes, I am, and somewhat proud of myself, as well.

PALTRY POETRY FOR A PERFECT PARTY

There once were some people who raged

About being what's called "middle-aged."

To avoid the confusion

They held a reunion.

Fun memories soon disengaged.

The dress code they said, "Strictly casual" -

To accommodate all of the gradual

Midsection spreading

That they all were dreading,

Though worry proved to be irrational.

Some say they are older than dirt,

But these insults will rarely cause hurt.

Life gave a licking,

But they are still ticking

Much faster than those now inert.

Oh, sure, perhaps their lives are waning,

But actually, they think they're gaining:

One hundred or more

Is the age they will score

If ever their hips stop complaining!

ARRIVING FOR THE EARLY SHOW

There are many days, too many, that I stay at work later than any sane person should. I have been better in recent years because a coworker kept me honest about leaving close to quitting time, but then she retired. Another coworker has picked up the slack, though, so I am much better about getting my car into parent-pick-up traffic rather than post-Boston commuter traffic.

It's my morning routine that still needs a little finesse.

I have some mornings that I simply cannot sleep, so I leave for work early. Or, I have to get to the post office. Or, I need to escape from my complex because someone is going to be tarring at the ass-crack of dawn. 

I am almost ashamed to admit that this is my car, by itself, in the school parking lot, around 6:30 a.m. For clarity, my hours start officially at 8:20 a.m. I'm not suffering or anything. I get first dibs on the copy machine, no one stops me for an impromptu conference as I head to the mail room, I make myself tea in peace, and nobody looks at me suspiciously if I stop to pee in the deserted student bathroom.

That's right. No normal, well-adjusted person would come to work so damn early. As you can see in the pictures, even the specialty bus-vans hadn't left on their routes yet. However, in my defense, I couldn't sleep, and the complex scheduled speed-bump shaving (complex built them too tall last summer, and we are all scraping our cars' undercarriages) to start at exactly 7:00 a.m.. Since Mother Nature had already thrown off our paving schedule this past June, I didn't want to take any chances.

On a positive note, I was well-caffeinated by the time everyone else arrived at work. On a negative note, I lacked an audience for a good thirty minutes, and I probably whistled, sang, and danced some of my best material before that lot filled in. 

A DAY IN THE REVOLUTIONARY AMERICAN LIFE

I have a friend who is a relatively recent American citizen. I find it wildly ironic that he harbors a fascination for the American Revolution and the Fathers of the United States republic, as he is British by birth. Currently living in Los Angeles, not exactly a place I consider the cradle of staunch American values, my friend decides he wants to experience Concord when he visits his old Boston-area stomping grounds. My plan is to take him to some sites in Concord and perhaps even to Sudbury. After all, very little compares to hoisting an ale in the tavern of Longfellows' Wayside Inn. 

We start our day at the Concord Museum, which has some amazing artifacts. It also has a large, interactive map that depicts the timeline and troops and actions and locations of the events of April 19, 1775. The stuff that is on display is absolutely spellbinding: muskets, swords, silver-smithed kitchenware, furniture, documents, art, and sculptures, including two scaled sculptures by Daniel Chester French that are notably recognizable: The Minute Man and the Lincoln Memorial.

My next stop, however, is a near-fatal mistake.

I decide to take my friend, who is a voracious reader, to Author's Ridge at Concord's Sleepy Hollow Cemetery. Buried here are famous American authors Alcott, Emerson, Thoreau, and Hawthorne. This is my personal Valhalla, and I assume, stupidly I now realize, that my British friend would be as familiar with iconic American writers as we all are with iconic British authors. It's okay. I mean, we didn't have anyone over here writing when Chaucer was creating verse in Merry Olde England. As a matter of fact, we didn't have any famous literary now-dead white guys here at all during that time period. I figure, then, that it's okay to skip Sudbury since Longfellow isn't on the radar today.

We head over the the Old North Bridge, and trudge uphill in unusually hot autumn weather to the Visitors' Center. It is amazing to be on hallowed ground, and even my former red coat buddy is enthralled by the history of the Americans' bravado and chutzpah. Finally, we wrap up the day with a wonderful early supper at Concord's 1716 Colonial Inn, extending our Revolutionary-ish Era adventure.

After my friend catches the train back to Boston and I head home via back roads to my own place about twenty miles northeast, I can't help reflecting on the propaganda campaign that led us to this place where we are now. Sure, we are tax-laden, Congress is littered with nut jobs, and the entire monetary system is on the verge of collapse, but overall it's a damn lot better than most. 

PEEK-A-BOO HAIRBALL

We have a fabulous janitorial staff at our school. However, every once in a while, they miss obvious stuff. It's not their fault because most of the time they have to operate on auto-pilot due to staffing shortages.

I tend to run into the girls' bathroom in my wing because it is directly across the hall from my room, and by "directly," I mean that we can hear people fart in the bathroom as if we are right in there with them. Let's not even get into the next stages of personal potty functions. Let's just say this: The acoustics rival The Met.

The custodians do a great job of cleaning up after middle schoolers and making sure that the toilet paper dispensers are full. We haven't had paper towels in there since TikTok decided that stuffing wads of paper into the pipes to clog our entire septic system was a trend that all students should cling to and try. Yes, because some of them graduated to wedging paper towels into the bowls, now, nobody gets to dry their hands the old-fashioned, super-efficient way. We either stand under the useless cold dryers, or we wipe our hands on our own clothing.

That being said, the paper towels are the least of our worries. There hasn't been soap in there for over a week. It's not necessarily the fault of the staff. The soap is clear in its dispenser bag, so it's hard to tell if the thing is full, half-way, or bone-dry. I decide to leave a nice note, pretending that the soap just barely ran out that day, and I add a happy face.

It works! The following morning -- voila -- we have soap! It doesn't work so well with the floors in the room.

For a few days, my room has a fist-sized hairball of crap making its way around the room. One day it is near the computer. The next day, it's hiding under student desks. I have been watching it, waiting for either a kiddo or a janitor to dispose of it. Near the window. By the door. Between the rows. Next to the bookcase. 

It's like the official Classroom Prepositional Phrase Hairball.

Thursday night I try to go to bed at a reasonable hour because I am exhausted. Instead, monkey mind keeps my up until almost 1:00 a.m. Even though my alarm is set for 6:00, I am up and down all night and finally awaken for good around 5:15. Might as well get up. I play games on my phone, check email, look at the forecast, read the news, peruse social media . . . anything to deny work's existence.

Even though I stop to mail bills at the post office, I am still first into my end of the building at 7:10. I walk in, plop my backpack on my desk, and come around to sit in my chair. I have a vague sense that the Jaws theme song is playing softly somewhere in the background track of my life. Just as I am about to sit down . . .

I scream.

Is that a huge spider? Is it a dead mouse? Is it Rapunzel's hair extension?

Nope. It's the damn hairball. It is sitting right at my desk, staring up at me, challenging me from the overly-waxed tiles.

Defeated, I drop my shoulders, jerk my head back, jut my chin into the air, and lament, "Why me? Dear gawd almighty, whyyyyyyyy meeeeeeeeee?!" Then I grab a paper towel from my closet (because, hey, I know how to hoard supplies, especially if I pay for them), lean down, scoop up the hairy mass, and toss it into the trash bucket far away from my desk, dry heaving as I do because loose hair clumps unnerve me.

I swear, if that thing is back on my floor on Monday, I'm calling in an exorcist.