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.

LIGHT UP THE STORM!

This weather is all my fault.

I decide to replace the string lights on my porch. I had left an old string of Christmas color lights up on the railing until the bulbs finally died on their own a couple of months ago. Even batteries couldn't help after so many years. I didn't mind going through the summer without replacing them because it stayed light out until later, and I didn't actually sit out after dark because of mosquitoes. 

A couple of weeks ago, though, I knew I needed new lights. I spent days searching to find what I wanted. I decided on simple blue and white ocean-themed lights. I ordered them, then went away on vacation and left the new lights in the box. 

Finally, though, I am ready to string those babies up!

I get them all set up and strung around the railing; I get them all set up with fresh batteries. They even have remote control, so I can program them to all kinds of options, like blinking and glowing, and for hours and hours of illumination.

Now, my porch is completely redone. Earlier this summer I replaced the bulkier metal chairs and table with colorful new deck chairs and small tile-top side tables. I even set out a fake palm tree and a rattan rug. The lights? Perfect cap to the summer vibe. Now that autumn is here and soon enough winter, as well, I can enjoy that beachy feeling all year long. Sit outside with a hot chocolate during a storm? I won't care because the lit-up seashells will shine through the snow and tease me about warmer days.

However, I expected a little more time with my revamped aesthetic before the first Nor'Easter arrived. How silly of me. Because not two weeks after putting the lights up, we are due for a major rain and wind monsoon. Batten the hatches, tie things down, bring things in . . . the whole shebang. The apartment complex sends out an alert: Secure your belongings! It's like the apocalypse is coming.

So, folks, I apologize, deeply and from the bottom of my usually black heart. I tried to be cheerful. I tried to be positive. I tried to embrace my inner peaceful and restful summer side. Instead, all I did was tempt fate and piss off the weather gods. 

It's my fault that this entire weekend is going to suck, that it will rain sideways for days, that the winds will knock out power, and that your weekend plans are totally ruined.

I bought new lights and dared to enjoy my porch. I should've known better. 

MOVIE FOR ONE

I take myself to a movie.

I'm not a loser ... most of the time. This is not the first time in my life that I have gone to a movie alone. To be honest, Every time I go to a movie with friends or family, I always see at least one person going solo. It is actually a brilliant concept because no one distracts a solo movie watcher nor distorts the experience.

The only reason I jump on a late afternoon weekday movie ticket is because the movie has its play extended. I thought I had missed my opportunity to see it, but, as it turns out, the movie's popularity resonates with the theater's cash flow.

At the time that I buy my ticket the night before, I am the only one who has reserved a seat. I have a pick of ANY seat that I want. I am slightly skeeved out, so I choose a near-end seat about four rows back on the left side of the theater. It is close to two different exits, just in case something feels creepy.

And it is creepy. For a about fifteen minutes, I am the only person in the theater. Then one person sits a row in front of me but more toward the middle. Eventually, his buddy arrives with popcorn. Shortly thereafter, a single woman sits in my row but about six seats away. There may be a few more people behind us. 

Basically, though, the theater is deserted.

We enjoy the previews, settle in for the movie, and think we are about to enjoy a bang-'em-up buddy movie. There are twists, though. Deep, dark twists. When the lights come up, the few of us in the place stand up in stunned silence, glance at each other, and file out of the theater. Seriously. No one is uttering a word. 

Oh, the movie is spectacular. It is well-written, well-acted, and well-filmed. It simply gets very dark very suddenly, and it successfully takes us all by surprise.

It is at that moment, near-catatonic as I exit the building, that I am truly glad I went alone to see the film. There are times when words don't work nor would they nor should they. The seat may have been comfortable, but the movie wasn't. 

Taking myself to the movie alone is empowering; driving home alone after is like therapy. Five stars - I highly recommend the activity.

ONE SHOE ON AND ONE SHOE OFF

Never before, never since, but twice while on vacation in DC.

Sounds like the start of a riddle or perhaps a political joke, right? Nope. Apparently, it's some kind of weird trend. I don't mean that officially. At least, I sure hope that I don't. 

We are in a waterfront restaurant in DC, higher end, nice place, fancy seating and bar, both inside and out. We are having a lovely dinner, enjoying some seafood and some restaurant-week shenanigans, when we notice a couple at the bar. Well, we suspect that it's a couple. They are seated very close, leaning toward each other, and each has a drink. 

The woman, perhaps mid-twenties, is wearing a white dress and has a pocketbook with her. The young man has a shirt and tie, and his backpack (yes, a backpack, not a sling-type bag) is on the next stool over. He turns toward the young woman and we all kind of glance at one another. The man --- er, boy --- possesses a very young face. Very. Young. Very young. He looks possibly fourteen, maybe fifteen if we stretch it. 

Bless him. It might just be his family's incredible genes.

But, that's not the awkward part. Okay, it kind of is, considering that the couple is seated at the bar. The awkward part is that, despite being professionally dressed, he has one shoe off. One shoe and sock is on, and one shoe is off but the sock is on.

Naturally, I find this fascinating and start quietly singing the old nursery rhyme, "Deedle-deedle dumpling, my son John went to bed with his stockings on. One shoe off, one shoe on ..."

For some reason, we find this odd look to be fascinating. We end up sneaking glances at the socked foot off and on throughout our evening. Is he going to make a move using it? Is it a smell thing? Is he wearing his father's shoes and they're too big so one fell off? Is it a fetish? Is it a new dating tactic? Are they dating? Is he even of consenting age?

I snap a picture because of course I do. It's not often you see a one-foot-shod young man in a bar seemingly on a serious date. Inquiring minds want to know. Alas, we never find out because asking him would draw attention to it, and we don't want actual dirty laundry to wreck the relationship before proverbial dirty laundry can do it.

About forty hours later, after a long trek through Dulles Airport, I stand at the gate with a hundred or so of my best friends as we patiently wait to board the plane back to Boston. I stand near some chairs when a person deplaning decides that instead of going along with the other deboarding passengers, she wants to cut through the waiting, departing queue. This pushes me toward the people who are sitting and I nearly collide with ...

A socked foot. No shoe. There is a shoe on the other foot, but this foot is in the passing lane of Dulles, sock only. Another Deedle-Deedle little dumpling, apparently. Again. my only coherent thought is that I must try to get a picture of this without the guy noticing, which is hard since I, too, am practically in his lap at this point.

It just seems a bit strange. Weird. Licentious.

If this is some new male pick-up trick being bandied about in DC, I can speak as a single woman and say that it is not working. Also, it's creepy. I am pleased to say that the two men sitting alongside of me on the flight do keep their shoes on, as far as I can tell. However, now that I think on it, I have been on flights where this isn't the case. 

Let's try to stick to decorum. If your feet don't smell and you're on a plane and need to stretch those feet, I'll give you grace. If you're in the airport, preparing to board and smooshed amongst a multitude of other people, please refrain from presenting your shoeless stockinged foot. I will not concede the date thing, though. That was then and still now remains disturbing to me. If Socked Foot Fetish is part of your dating profile, maybe try it in a diner or fast food place before bringing the show on the road to a place where shoes are more than a suggestion.