FRIDAY THE 13TH STRIKES AGAIN

Oh, Friday the 13th. You're being a little shit, yet again. We have history, Friday the 13th and I. 

When I was fourteen, on Friday the 13th I stepped on a hidden sailboat mast that was embedded in the sand at a Cape Cod beach. A metal disc at the end of the pole cut my foot clear through the nerves. Sliced it like a chef's knife through warm butter. Bled like Carrie at the prom from my flipflop shooting blood up like a reverse fountain. Ah, good times, good times.

Another Friday the 13th, I smacked my head on the roof of a rental car leaning over to get inside because I forgot it wasn't my regular car and misjudged the entry angle. Yes, indeed, a funny sight for anyone else in the Dunkin Donuts parking lot. Except for the fact that I was driving with my young children, so, head-smack or not, I had to get behind the steering wheel and pretend that my brain wasn't trying to crawl out of my forehead.

This Friday the 13th, my apartment is scheduled for routine maintenance: Replace the battery on the entry door, install a new door lock and handle on the porch, and replace the HVAC air filter. Simple, right? I leave my phone off all day at work, so imagine, if you will, my confusion when I start up my phone in the late afternoon and receive a message that my replacement water heater will be installed when and if it arrives today.

Say, what?

The apartment complex was recently sold, so there are new owners. Maintenance is now an automated text service. So, I text back that there must be a mistake. My apartment is just getting routine door maintenance. 

Nope, that does not compute with the text I get back. They replaced my hot water heater because it "let go." Since moving to this complex, this is the third hot water heater (two different locations) I've gone through. Before that, at my old townhouse, I went through three, as well. This tells me that there is corrosive crap in the water. It also tells me that hot water manufacturers are crooks.

I arrive home well after the dinner hour and find that one of the light strings on my porch (only one of the two) is blinking on and off and on and off. Someone has obviously been on the porch and obviously touched something they aren't supposed to touch. Also, all of my porch items are now sitting in my living room, and my couch has been moved. I assume this is to bring in this new hot water heater that I supposedly needed, but it wouldn't have killed anyone to politely move the couch back to its original position.

Next, I discover that my apartment is at a cool 62 degrees from the door being open so maintenance could access my porch. I go to turn on the heat and notice a brand new air filter on the floor. I text maintenance: Did you guys change the filter? Is this a new one? An old one? Should I save it for you? I mean, what the hell do I know? I wasn't here all day because I have to work. All I know for sure is that my entire porch is inside now, and my house is chilly.

I decide to check the water. It takes about three minutes, but, finally, the faucet runs hot. Good news for a shower later. Then I notice that it isn't getting any warmer in here. As a matter of fact, the vents are blowing cold air. Did I accidentally turn on the ac (that broke during the heatwave over the Fourth of July)? No, the heat is "on" and set to 70. With the current temperature up to 63, this puppy should be cranking.

I text the automated system again. Ella (AI's name) assures me that I can reach a service member, but only if I send a photo of the thermostat. I snap a photo, tempted to add icicles from the Christmas tree. I send the photo. An hour later, someone shows up. I tell him about the hot water heater. (Shouldn't he already know this?) He checks that. He checks the HVAC. He seems to think they're connected. Do I have hot water? I check again. Two minutes this time to get hot water from the faucet. 

Suddenly, all work stops. Maybe the part they need will come tomorrow. What part? Every damn thing worked fine and dandy when I left this morning. My whole entire place ran like a Bradbury Martian station -- heat at my fingertips, hot water in the pipes, a porch door that worked, and an entry door that never ceased to light up when the code was entered. Now, I am huddled in front of a ceramic heater like a Dickensian character around a brazier fire, scrounging for rotten potatoes that fell off the back of a cart.

At this point, I don't dare take a shower lest the hot water only last a minute or two (after the five minute warm-up period) only to be soaking wet and cold with no heat, either. I don't dare move away from the ceramic monstrosity lest my healing lungs decide to take another chill and I die of exposure. I don't dare take off my Fiberfil vest lest my core temperature plummets. I don't dare fart, burp, or sneeze lest a body part flies off or an organ shoots out -- with today's luck, I'm not betting against anything at all.

Oh, Friday the 13th. You cad! You character, you! Ya got me again, ya filthy buggah.

NOVEMBER AMULET

Many people consider Halloween to be scary, and, in its own way, it can be. What is truly scary, though, is November. 

Hear me out.

First of all, the weather is whatever it wants to be. It can hurricane, snow, ice storm, be seasonable (40s to 50s), or be exactly what it's being right now: Morosely hot and sticky. Yes, we are warming up our cars in the morning to melt the icy windshields and wishing our pools were still open at 3:00 p.m. when it's 80.

Second of all, the sun (and, subsequently, the temperature) plummets around 4:30, so that it is now pitch dark outside when most of us leave work. This affects the psyche to the point where many of us are ready for pajamas by 6:45 p.m.

Lastly, November is scary because the holiday season and the end of the year are both right around the corner. November, in its infinite wisdom, isn't even polite enough to have 31 days in it to buffer the shock.

So, you people can be freaked out by Halloween and ghouls and monsters and sugar shock. I'm freaked out by erratic temperature fluctuations, darkness, and decorating stress. 

I'm leaving the dancing skeleton out as an amulet to ward off November evils, just in case. I'll let you know if it helps.

TIME ENOUGH TO BE FESTIVE

It is my fault, completely and without denial, that it has been warm this week. 

Today the temperature reaches 75 degrees outside and much higher inside since we are in "turn the heat on automatically" mode at work. Much like outdoors, the classroom starts out around 65 degrees and ends up around 80. Dressing for the day has become an exercise in excitement and surprise, wondering if the sweaters I wear will prevent frostbite or cause heat stroke.

I am personally responsible for this because I do two very bad things: I change the bed over to flannel sheets, and I put up the Christmas tree. Hear me out, though.

Remember when I admitted to cleaning out the closets and the cabinets and the entire spice drawer? Well, I also clean out every storage box and bin. Sheets and pillowcases move to a different, smaller storage bench. While going through all of these, I thin out the pile of linens and decide to change out the sheets since the nights have been rather chilly.

I also have storage under the raised bed frame. This is where I hide Christmas in several small boxes. After changing over the sheets, I decide to consolidate the holiday stuff, which means unpacking it anyway. One thing leads to another and suddenly the cardboard is broken down and I have Christmas set up with zero storage solutions.

So, I apologize. I am sorry that I cleaned my house. I am sorry that I reorganized everything. (I still forget where the pajamas are every single night and where the socks are every single morning.) It is completely on me that Mother Nature decided to make it too hot to sleep in flannel sheets without a high-speed fan blowing directly at me. I am also sorry that I did not think to purchase a couple of storage bins to replace the cardboard boxes that house ornaments and garland and lights and decorations. 

Who am I kidding? I'm not the least bit sorry. Bring on the snow. Bring on the music. Bring on the movies. If it's time enough to be organized, then it's time enough to to be festive.

GETTING NOT-SO-SPICY

Why? Why do I clean out the shelves in the mudroom? WHY?

This move leads to cleaning out the coat closet. This is followed by going through every kitchen cabinet, drawer, and storage basket that I own. And this smart move?

This leads to shame. That's right. I said it: SHAME.

I used to cook and bake a lot more than I do now. My kids have all moved out and moved on, and I am still working full-time at a stressful job. The very last thing that I want to do after work or in my limited spare time is get fancy-schmancy with condiments and spices.

Don't get me wrong; my spice drawer is already organized. It's even alphabetized for efficiency. To be transparent, I decided to alphabetize after discovering not one, not two, not three, but four little containers of ground cinnamon. Unless I plan on opening a bakery (I do not), there is zero necessity for four full containers of ground cinnamon.

I attack the spice drawer as if it has personally offended me. Two containers of cream of tartar? Considering that I always forget to use it, I guess I only need one. I check the "use by" dates and empty one container into an old plastic bag. I continue this process through all kinds of spices. Some I still need and use, but some have simply passed their freshness dates. No sense in using spices if they have lost their pazazz. 

When all is said and done, I have a bag full of never-used, rarely-used, and expired spices ready to toss, and a sink full to embarrassment of empty containers ready to recycle.

To restate how this all started, this is neither the kitchen's fault nor my fault. I blame this entirely on the mudroom. If it hadn't tempted me to clean the shelves, it never would've lead to the kitchen.

 Honestly? The spice drawer does look marvelous now (even though it did already). The only problem is that this craze has now leaked partially into the bathroom vanity, somewhat into the bedroom closet, and completely into every drawer in every bureau that I own. 

So, heed my warning: Do NOT start cleaning nor sorting nor organizing. It is an infection that has no quick cure and will lead to initial chaos but ultimate serenity.

GET OUT OF THE GARAGE FOR FREE

It's a shame that ticket dispensing machines cannot have a universal system.

I use ticket dispensers mostly for parking my car somewhere: a parking lot where I have to display the paper on my dashboard; the parking lot where I leave my car over extended days so I can use the airport express bus; the parking lot at my favorite beach, the one where I pay the machine then walk thirty seconds to the soft sand without crossing broiling Hell to get to the water. I also use ticket dispensers to get on the commuter trains and buses.

There should be a universal coding system that the directions, or, at the very least, the FIRST thing you are supposed to press or do, should be at the TOP. Makes sense to me, but I am a technology moron.

I am on my way to a medical appointment, and I have to park my car in a new garage. It used to be a regular Pay-By-Phone lot (Super easy, by the way, but probably unnecessary because who polices these lots? No one.), but apparently the city turned it into a multi-level parking facility. 

As I enter the garage in my car, I see someone trying to leave the garage. He is out of his vehicle, playing with the ticket scanner, and generally trying very hard to get out past the gate. I make a quick assessment: I had better pay attention to the rules so I don't look like a complete idiot trying to leave. 

I promptly stop in front of the machine on my side, and I realize that I need to take a ticket. After all, there's a slot that says: Take ticket. The only problem? No ticket is coming out. There are some buttons on the screen, but I can't read them because I am wearing my driving glasses, not my reading glasses. So, I throw the car into park, reach for my reading glasses, and glance back at the screen.

There are all kinds of useless tabs and phrases flashing at me, but not a single one tells me how to actually get the damn ticket to come out. Finally, off to the side but not anywhere that makes sense, it says Press here for ticket.

Brilliant. This I can do. I hit the button, get a paper receipt, and the gate opens. I drive through, park, and then realize that I failed to see how I am supposed to get out of the garage, especially since that other driver could NOT get out of the garage.

Now comes the part that is almost comical. I Google the information for this particular garage. Yes, I do. I actually Google it. I find out enough to know that the medical office where I am headed will not validate parking. So, I walk back to the machine. It tells me to pay before I leave. I glance around for a pay station. Once I find that, I feel prepared enough to get out quickly after my appointment.

I come out an hour later, scan the piece of rolled up paper, and pay $1.50 on my credit card, where the interest charge alone will triple that ten times over. When my car and I get to the gate and get ready to put the already-scanned code up to the reader, the gate just opens. OPENS. Like I never had to pay at all.

This begs the question: What the hell was that dumbass driver doing stuck at the gate?

Okay, so maybe it's not the ticket dispenser technology that needs universal coding. Maybe it's the human species. Either way, I have a $1.50 Get Out of the Garage Free receipt. It's kind of like winning the lottery in my book!

TRULY A WONDER-FULL

It's the most wonderful time of the year!

It's the time of year when I freeze in the morning before work if I forget to set the car controls to warm up my vehicle in the morning, and I fry if I leave those same controls on when I depart from work in the afternoon. 

Commonly called Autumn, this strange New England phenomenon brings with it heat rash, frozen toes, night sweats, morning shivers, and a persistent hacking cough that settles deep within the lungs. It is what locals call survival and visitors call pneumonia. It is when the heat cranks in the morning, and the air conditioner runs all afternoon and evening. Fans operate all night in an attempt to run off both germs and clammy skin caused by prolonged exposure to temperatures between 35 and 85 degrees within single twelve-hour time periods.

It is also the season when it is bright out one second, and then suddenly it's like Mother Nature turned the lights off. Someone mentioned today, "Look, it's three o-clock, and it's still light out!" Yes, that's shocking because we know it's coming: pitch dark by 4:45 p.m. and still lights-on dark at 6:45 a.m.

Of course, in the brief time that there is still visibility between the outside world and the Netherworld, the leaves on the trees make spectacular statements, which is great on weekends when I am not shut into the working world until the sun sets.

But, as lovely as the foliage is, it still cannot help me make decisions on jackets and sweaters and (the truly dreaded daily decision of) footwear. I guess that also makes this the most wonder-full time of year when I have to wonder fully how to dress myself to get through the day. 

Don't worry, though. Snow is coming. We locals can smell it in the air. Not yet. Not here, anyway. But soon. We can feel it coming as we prepare to scrape windshields and warm the car seats. As annoying as it all sounds and is, it truly in the most wonderful time around here.

BEFORE I ZOMBIFIED

The first few weeks of school are crazy. 

Teachers (or, at the very least, those with whom I work, myself included) easily put in sixty to eighty hours of work ahead of ever setting foot into the classrooms: downloading class lists, creating seating charts, reviewing IEPs and 504s, redoing seating charts when new students are added or others are removed, fielding emails, and completing hours and hours of online training (most of it useless). When we actually get to school, there are more hours of setting up classrooms. Within the first three weeks of school itself, we have assemblies, fire drills, meetings, and Back to School Night (the dog-and-pony show for the parents, guardians, and other related adults). 

It is small wonder that ill staff members start falling like Pickett's Charge at Gettysburg. 

I try to stay healthy, but I start the school year already exhausted. Like so many of my students and colleagues, I get hit with the scratchy throat. This slowly escalates to headaches. Then comes the upset stomach (which sucks because I teach on my feet from 8:30 until 12:30 with no break). This leads to (for no logical reason) the runny sinuses. Finally, and I know it is coming because my voice drops from the alto range into the tenor range, comes the demon sore throat.

Thank goodness I am able to drag myself to the grocery store before the worst of it hits. I stock up on soup and tissues and Polar orange-dry soda. I buy bread to make toast. I have eggs and oatmeal and tea and honey. I probably should have restocked the medicine, but I still have enough supplies to make it through the weekend and can probably crawl to a nearby pharmacy, if absolutely necessary.

I get it. I really do. Seasons change, weather shifts, people breathe on each other, surfaces are dirty, papers carry germs, there is a lot of coughing and sneezing going on. However, I truly hoped to make it past weeks three and four before my body rebelled, before I became infectious, before I reached pariah status. 

You know, before I zombified.

The worst part of it all? We love what we do (for the most part). We drag our sickly selves to school partly because it's more work to be out and partly because, like the kiddos, we don't want to miss anything.

If you know any teachers, please forgive us for cancelling plans or missing deadlines or forgetting to respond to texts. We are struggling, really and truly. You should probably check in on us -- we might be dead by now.  But, please don't call. Our throats hurt and we don't feel like chatting just yet.