POTTY HIDE-N-GO-SEEK

I am watching HGTV, the only station I watch consistently, and there is a marathon of House Hunters on, which is almost silly to even say because anyone who watches HGTV will ask the more rhetorical question, "When ISN'T House Hunters on?"

It is both enticing and insulting to see how much cheaper homes are in other parts of the country. It's encouraging to know that I might be able to afford a teeny cottage in the middle of the mountains somewhere in the central USA that will prevent me from retiring to a van in a Wal-Mart parking lot. I also find out that Seattle prices are as asinine as Boston prices are, which I find shocking. I can see NYC and LA and San Diego competing for Boston housing costs, but Seattle?  One more retirement spot right off my list.

But the best episodes of the HGTV show are when the crew goes across the pond to House Hunters International, particularly the rental episodes.  When you're in the market to buy, you can do whatever you want to with the property, and the buildings often come as is.  But when you're ponying up rent money, and good rent money at that, you might expect to have the basic necessities, like a toilet, a sink, and electrical outlets.

With the international edition, though, this is not always the case.

For instance, a couple of the Indonesian homes have bathrooms ... but no toilets.  They instead have squat holes.  At my age, I'm not squatting over a tube in the floor.  Okay, I'll be honest with you, I'm not doing the squat hole at any damn age.  I've seen my share of port-a-potties and outhouses, and that's as close to a squat hole as I intend to get.

Sometimes the apartments have access to outside space.  This is wonderful, unless access to that space requires a trek through someone's bedroom, which is often the case.  I don't want my guests wandering past my skivvies to have a burger on the patio, and I don't really want anyone wandering around the patio peering in the doorway and seeing my skivvies.  Or me in my skivvies, which is even more disturbing.

But tonight's rental offering is classic.  The apartments are in Germany, where presumably they have things like running water and basic appliances, especially when renters are required to cough up top dollar for monthly fees.  Presumably, that is.  Imagine the couple's chagrin and my jaw dropping when the rental agent told the couple nonchalantly, "You bring your own kitchen."

Say, what?

That's right.  The kitchen was empty.  EMPTY, as in no counters, not outlets, and no water pipes anywhere.  Just three walls and a floor and a ceiling.  Apparently in Germany renters are supposed to provide counters, cabinets, appliances, piping, and electricity when they move in.  I'm assuming they will be able to disassemble everything afterward and take it with them to ... oh ... I guess another German rental.

Even the Indonesian squat hole house has a stove in it.

Maybe it is a fair trade.  I mean, the German house does have a potty.  Maybe they can rig something up in the bathroom, like a hot plate that fits over the small porcelain sink and turning the porcelain toilet tank into a food cooler.  But in all serious, who in their right mind pays top dollar to have a kitchen-less apartment?  Who in the hell even thinks this is a good idea?  And it must work pretty well because I've seen it on other shows, too, but usually with a for-sale property.

Ultimately the couple goes with a city apartment that does indeed come with a kitchen.  They are not required to bring the kitchen with them, which is good.  Not many people keep complete cabinetry packed away with their photo albums and wall decor.

I can laugh all I want, and I can poke fun of the people who buy and rent on this show, but truth be told in this economy and starting my career so late, my only retirement plan is a tent and the generosity of the Wal-Mart corporation that lets people sleep in their vehicles in their parking lots.  I won't be bringing my kitchen with me, either, but I will have my skivvies with me.  Like the people on House Hunters, I know my priorities.

[Happy New Year's Eve, everybody.  Watch out for errant squat holes when ringing in the midnight hour.]

BOTTLENECK AT THE BOTTLE RETURN

Note to self:  Do not go to the packy on a Sunday afternoon after a Saturday night during college holiday break and within hours of a Patriots football game, and do not do this especially if returning empties.

I am expecting grown children to stop by today, and, even if they don't, it's nice to have cold beers in the fridge just in case.  You know, just in case one of my few friends should stop by; just in case a thirsty neighbor should drop over; just in case I suddenly crave an ice-cold brewski as I watch the cold rain wash away the snow I just shoveled two days ago.

I decide to return the Christmas season empties, which amounts to less than a dozen bottles.  As I enter the store, I see a line.  No, not the long line I saw at the registers the day before Christmas Eve.  This line is at the return counter.  It's four people deep -- three men with bags full of empties and little old me with my one bag of eleven bottles.  The line moves briskly because the guys in front of me are well-prepped: They've already counted the bottles, simply hand the bags-full over, receive their tickets, and get out of my way.  I, on the other hand, put the bottles up on the Formica, counting as I go like the amateur I am.

Everyone in the liquor store is going for pre-game alcohol except one guy.  He is buying two bottles of expensive champagne.  I don't know whether this is for Tuesday night or if somehow Sunday evenings are big occasions in his house, but he seems out of place with the rest of us sports junkies.  I stand behind him in line, balancing the 12-pack of beer bottles so I don't knock myself over while he double-fists the delicate black bottles of bubbly.

I briefly wonder if I should get some champagne for New Year's, since I will probably be home and inside safely away from drunk drivers.  It's not because I don't want to go out.  But you see, there's a Bruins game on, and I kind of want to watch it, so … 

My wonder lasts only a millisecond.  I don't need the bubbly tonight because I'll be back at the packy before Tuesday evening.  After all, there will be empties to return.  Cue up, folks, the line forms behind me.

THERE'S A SALE GOING ON!

Is there anything better than the after-Christmas Christmas sales?

Today I bought wrapping paper and bows and ribbon and tissue paper for next Christmas.  I looked at Christmas cards but didn't find any I liked.  Same thing happened last year, and I ended up buying cards full-price.  But I haven't given up yet.

After all, we are still in the 50% margin and I've only hit one store.  We still have the 65%, 75%, and then the coveted 90% off.

When I worked at the bookstore, I got talking Yukon Cornelius and Santa from Rudolph for a measly $3 each.  Back when we still had Bradlees, I got an entire Santa band set-up for about $20, which was a goodly amount off the original $75 asking price.  I don't really need a Santa band that plays two dozen different holiday tunes on little instruments with bells, but I wanted it, and it cost less than fast food for a family of four, so why not.

I usually buy one new weird holiday decoration every year.  Some of these decorations last a long time, like the battery-operated Santa that reads part of the story T'was the Night Before Christmas or the LED light-up snowman or the stuffed hairy dog that barks out Christmas carols.  Some of these decorations don't last nearly as long, like the Charlie Brown skating rink, complete with moving characters.  I am still on the look-out for this year's close-out weird decoration; it must be cheap and super-cheesy, perhaps even borderline tasteless.  If it requires batteries and makes some creepy animated movement accompanied by tacky music, it's even better.

Like I said, though, I've only invaded one store.  I have at least two or three more to go before I feel like the after-Christmas shopping has truly been successful.  If I can find off-kilter holiday cards that are equal parts of sappy sentiment and insulting commentary, I will be truly happy.  Of course, the price of stamps just went up, so I should probably just send out Christmas emails or something, but I say that every year, and every year I break down and send out some cards.

I can't help myself.  It's like a sickness.

Luckily the symptoms disappear by the middle of January and are replaced by a sad need to send out tacky valentines.  This is then eclipsed by the sudden urge to give everyone I meet plastic pastel Easter eggs full of candy.  Flags, flip-flops, and seashells take over the summer, followed by the reappearance of the dancing skeleton who sings "Super Freak" while shaking the boniest ass I have ever seen on any man. 

Then the turkey candle holders come out, gluttonous menus are made, and, before I know it, I go scrounging around for all the great sale items I've managed to gather during the two weeks after Christmas the year before.  I mean, seriously.  there are only about 360 more days until next Christmas.  We have to get a move on.  It'll be here before we know it, and you won't have me to blame.  I have next year's wrapping paper, and bows, and tags, and ribbons already.

If you see any really super-strange Christmas animatrons for a low price, though, text me their locations.  I won't truly be ready without that new wacky-tacky addition to the menagerie. Maybe, just maybe, I might find an Elf on the Shelf for a good, low price, and then we'll all be sorry.  Mwaaahaaaahaaaaa.  I feel Target in my immediate future.  And with that, dear friends, I'm off...

THERE'S SOMETHING WRONG WITH MY FINGERS

There are many dangers in and on Facebook.  One of them is friending me.

If you friend me, you will be treated to random pictures of my family, an occasional anti-politics rant, tasteless commentary, and an endless string of random musings.


I can and will comment on anything.  I have been tossed off numerous blogs numerous times, including the Jericho blog at CBS (multiple bannings), WBZ TV's many commentary sites (yes, that's a multiple smack and multiple times), Boston.com's blog, the Herald's website, the Eagle Tribune site ... I even managed to get my own blog shut down.

I am incredibly talented that way.

I will also "like" a whole lot of stuff you post.  I am very altruistic.  I think most of my friends are very funny.  Hysterical.  It's one of the main reasons I use social media.  I'm like Ed Wynn in Mary Poppins -- I love to laugh.

I also love to rant and rave and chat and comment and just plain old drivel until I fall asleep in the computer chair.  Sometimes I have the downstairs computer and the upstairs computer going at the same time like some twisted techno-geek version of Dueling Banjos but with a reasonably full set of teeth.

Truth be told, I have verbal diarrhea in my fingers.

Hopefully this is a personal defect that will serve me well while writing my thesis, which begins anytime.  Any moment.  I can start submitting material like a week ago.  I was supposed to spend today cleaning up the hard drive of my downstairs computer so I can start filling it up again, but I got distracted.  I got distracted reading old magazines that I want out of the house before the new year starts and I got distracted by FB friends, some old and some new.

But I swear I will pay bills and print out bank statements and start my thesis tomorrow.  I promise.  After all, tomorrow is another day ... at Tara ... and frankly, my dears, I don't give a damn.

Which reminds me.  Are there any good movies on?

Yeah, like this thesis is ever going to get started.  I need to go wipe off my fingers.  They have verbal diarrhea again.  I tried to warn you.  Danger.  Danger!  Oh, what the hell.  If Will Robinson won't even listen, why should anyone else?

Happy Saturday, all. 

RE-READING YET AGAIN

I finally have some down-time and decide to just stay home.  All day.  Hunker down in the house.  Exchange flannel pajama pants for sweat pants.  Pull my hair back.  Ignore make-up.  Run a load of laundry (overly full) and a load of dishes (under full).  Watch the first half of the movie Brubaker that I missed the last time it was on the Independent Film Channel and act surprised every time the f-word flies out of the actors' mouths (though I've seen the movie several times already).  Eat leftovers and sip already-opened wine, so even my meal-planning is on vacation today.  Go through the last of the September magazines that are hidden under the October ones I haven't read yet.  Read through some Christmas books.

It is this last activity that trips me up just a bit.  I am not going to have time to read through all of the holiday texts, so I opt for some of the more obvious ones:  two childhood versions of T'was the Night Before Christmas, Mr. Willoughby's Christmas Tree, a couple of children's picture books, a kids' chapter book The Best Christmas Pageant Ever, and a young adult novel called On Christmas Eve.

It is this final selection that throws everything off kilter.  Flipping through the pages I am certain I've never read the book before.  But about an hour in, I realize that I have read it before, and it's driving me crazy because I cannot for the life of me remember how it ends.  I invest another two hours into the book, reaching the unsatisfactory ending, kicking myself for reading it a second time.  Or, perhaps it is the third time.  Or the fourth.  It is truly one forgettable tale.

I return the Christmas books to the rightful shelf, the children's book shelf, that I keep in the den.  Part of me is frustrated that I spend hours of time re-reading a mediocre book.  Part of me figures I wasn't going to do anything strenuous on my first non-committed day in months, so I haven't really wasted any time that I hadn't intended on wasting in the first place today.

In a way, this re-read forced me to relax and sit still for a change.  This is all so very unlike me.

Hours later my eldest stops by for a visit.  I am in complete relaxation mode.  He asks me if I'm tired, because, honestly, my children rarely see me sitting still completely unoccupied.  I am a little tired, but it's the tired that comes with being almost bored rather than being so busy that I've run myself into the wall.

Next up for me is an awful lot of computer work.  I have to start working on my thesis, and taking much more than a 24-hour break in my routine is probably a really bad idea.  It is nice, though, to take this day to just do nothing.  I wish you all a chance to give yourselves a Do Nothing Day.  Make it a resolution.  Make 2014 a year of random do-nothing days.  I know I will ... after I finish my classes ... and my thesis ... and teaching for the year ... and getting college boy where he needs to be ... and attending college lacrosse games ... and shoveling my way through snow storms ...

Okay, okay.  But I'm working on it.  I'm at least trying to relax.  I've made it almost an entire day.  For me, that alone is a major accomplishment.  If I can read the same book twice (a feat I've tackled several times before), then I can tackle being in relaxation mode twice (or more), as well.

Resolution for 2014: Make time to relax.  (I'll let you know how it goes.)

CHRISTMAS MUSIC - THROWBACK STYLE

Ever hear all those old holiday tunes on the radio and wonder who on earth might own all of those songs?  You know the ones I mean: Bing Crosby, Perry Como, Dean Martin, Mitch Miller, the Ray Conniff Singers, the New Christy Minstrels, The Robert Shaw Chorale, the Mormon Tabernacle Choir, Percy Faith, Mahalia Jackson, Brothers Four, Doris Day, Dinah Shore... and on and on.  You know who owns 'em?

I own 'em.  Yup.  Actually, they belong to my brothers and sisters, too, but I've got them all in my hot little hands.

I relive them all on Christmas Day.  I rail against hearing Vince Guaraldi's Charlie Brown Christmas for the eighth or ninth time this season (and the third time in a row Christmas morning), and for some reason my CD player starts skipping during its shuffle mode.

So I go old school.  I throw it back to the old albums, and I discover some really funny things.

For instance, I remember all the words to Mitch Miller and the Gang's rendition of Must Be Santa.

Bing Crosby sure can whistle, but his version of Wonderful White World of Winter beats out White Christmas for smooth listening.

Sometimes Dean Martin actually sounds sober.

Barbra Streisand's voice grates on my nerves.

Jan Peerce's rendition of Noel Nouvelet is something everyone should hear at least once in a lifetime.

Steve Lawrence and Eydie Gorme's arrangement of Sleigh Ride is a little annoying, but their arrangement of Let It Snow kicks it out of the park.

Andy Williams married a murderer.  Actually, he divorced a French singer and then she became a murderer.  Not an O.J. Simpson-like murderer; more of a manslaughterer.

The reason I have this eclectic collection of old recordings is because my father used to get his snow tires through Goodyear.  Goodyear sponsored a Christmas compilation album every fall, and we managed to get a few.  Or so the story goes.  It's hard to remember the exact details because it's back when I lived in Framingham.  Christmas memories from that far back consist of vague, fleeting pieces:  a white tree, a spinning color wheel of light, a wreath over the white brick fireplace, a small ceramic tree with lights that sat on the dining room hutch, the delicate glass ornaments and the plastic spinning one (some of which are still on my tree).

It has been a Christmas of throwbacks, as well.  One of my gifts is a new electric fry pan, so I can finally toss out the old family one that I inherited and have been struggling with since the Teflon let go about a decade back.  My sister gives me an old-school Operation game with a new twist: It's the Bumble from Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.  Before dinner my three kids plus the two spouses we've gained so far all play a six-way game of Chinese Checkers using my father's old wooden board.

This makes the choice of music no big surprise, I suppose.

Either I've reached that age where I am constantly reliving my childhood or else Christmas just lends itself to an awful lot of looking back.  It's that same old oh I remember that ... statement followed usually by the words toy, song, decoration, ugly sweater, candy, stocking, movie, television special.  It's funny and strange to hear my kids talking about Christmas and reliving their memories, as if just a few years ago were so far a reach, as they talk about the way the holidays used to be.  They use the same words and the same nostalgic timbre. 

My daughter comes over late on Christmas Eve to wrap some very large boxes that have arrived for her husband's gift.  She laments about how tired she is at 10:30 p.m.  I tease her that when she has children, she'll be up a lot later wrapping, assembling, filling stockings, and hiding things under the tree.

A bit of Christmas past, present, and future all wrapped into one day.  Maybe Dickens had it right, after all.  Maybe we really can affect change all in one evening.  It just takes a little bit of blind faith, a good dose of reality, and a whisper of things to come.

And some music; some damn fine old holiday music.

Merry Christmas and happy holidays to all.  And to all, a good night.

MERRY CHRISTMAS

Enjoy the holiday!

THE GREAT CHRISTMAS CAPER CAPER

I should know better than to leave things until the last moment.  Unfortunately, real life has a weird way of invading into otherwise well-planned imagined life, and rarely do the two exist on the same plane.

The day before Christmas Eve is grocery store day, just me and about three thousand of my very closest friends.  I see a woman about my age come out of the store clutching a few bags in her hands.  

"How is it in there?" I ask cautiously.

"Huh?  Oh, in the store?  Not too bad.  Just remember to smile," she assures me.

I decide to try something new at the store: I'm going to start at the end with produce and work my way back to the beginning with dairy.  I make this decision for three reasons.  #1 - The produce section is usually the craziest and takes me the longest, so if I start there, the rest of the trip should be easier; #2 - The dairy products won't get all warm and hideous while I'm shopping and waiting in line; and #3 - Most people with full carts will gravitate toward registers open at the produce end of the long row of cashiers, whereas when I'm done, I can get right into line next to the express registers at the entrance end of the long row of cashiers.

This strategy comes in very handy when my phone rings in the middle of aisle 8.  A friend is in need of something for a recipe she's making.  "Capers," she tells me, "I need capers!"

What ... the ... hell ... are ... capers?

I'm serious, folks.  I've no clue on earth what capers are.  Oh, I know they're food items because I've had to answer the word to solve crossword puzzles.  I instantly think she wants me to buy her capons, and I'm really not in the mood to ring the meat case bell and ask some young high school boy how to tell which chickens are actually roosters, and, oh by the way, how can I tell which ones have been castrated?

"Capers," she repeats then clarifies, "in the same aisle as olives."

I haven't been to the olives yet.  They're ahead in aisle 3 and I'm only hitting aisle 7 because I'm still in reverse mode.  I swing around to aisle 3, taking my cart with me because the last time I left it alone for even ten seconds, someone absconded with it.  I cannot risk having my Christmas meal shopping go down the shitter when the store is this crowded, so my nearly-full carriage and I careen around being steered by one hand and an elbow while the other hand holds the phone to my ear, taking directions on how to recognize a caper when I see one.  (To the uninformed: Capers are reasonably small.  I'm just pointing this out.)

I spy with my little eye the olives and I move in for the kill.  Capers cannot be far behind!  Alas, there is a myriad of capers -- different sized jars, different brands, random prices, some brined, some not brined, some natural, some ... unnatural.  I cannot even imagine what the other shoppers are thinking hearing only one end of my conversation.

"In a jar ... yes ... very small ... round balls ... different sizes ... jars!  Different sizes of jars!"  And on and on like this for about seven minutes.

When we finally decide on what it is I am supposed to buy, I head back to aisle 6.  I don't need aisle 7 this week, and the rest of my shopping goes quickly.  My evil plan works as I get immediately into a cashier's line that is next to the express lane.  The registers down at the other end, the produce end, are packed and several carts deep.

Oh wait, though.  My cashier is going on break and needs to cash out her drawer so another check-out girl can cash her drawer in.  My groceries sit on the belt. And sit.  And sit some more.  Three times people get in line behind me, check their watches, roll their eyes, give a disgusted snort, and move along to another line.  I should have a sign on my back that reads: "If you're behind me, you're in the wrong line!"  But all of my things, well, most of them, are already on the conveyor belt.  I'm completely and totally committed.  Kind of like when I'm in a relationship and I make that leap of faith only to discover that I'm in the wrong line once again.  Figures.

Ninety minutes after I step out my front door and head toward the grocery store, I am back at my house unloading the bags onto the kitchen table.  I have forgotten to buy whipped cream (I forgot to put it on my list, actually) for the pumpkin pie that apparently I will not be baking, and I forgot to get more pancake mix for Christmas morning breakfast.  Oh well, that's what the cookbooks are for.  Somebody has a recipe for basic flapjacks, and, if not, there's always the Internet.

I realize I cannot find the two jars of capers I bought for my friend.  Oh shit.  Shit shit shit shit shit.  I look around the table, the counter, into the empty bags.  There's one bag left, and it's full of bathroom-related items:  toilet paper, toothpaste, Clorox wipes, tissues.  I don't hold out a whole lot of hope.  I reach in and start unloading when I touch glass.  Yup, the capers are in with the non-perishables, just hanging out with the toiletries like they belong, those little round greenish-brown balls of whatever they are.  Apparently the bag-girl doesn't know what they hell capers are, either.

I bring the capers to my friend, she makes her recipe gift and packs it up for the neighbors, and we listen to Christmas music.  We open some bubbly and have a small toast.  Later we hop out to do an errand and check out holiday lights. We park in a pay spot to go to a restaurant that is locking its doors as we arrive and have to walk in the rain to another place because gawd-forbid we move the car to a better location after paying an entire 75 cents to park in the municipal lot. We hear Andy Williams singing "It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year" three times -- once on my friend's computer at the house and twice in the car on two different radio stations.  We crack inappropriate Claudine Longet jokes.  (Look it up -- yup, we apologize.)

It's another stellar adventure that only we can have.  It is dubbed The Great Caper Caper and will go down as one of the holiday stories we tell in the nursing homes during our advanced-aged years, and it's all because I waited too long to go to the grocery store.

Happy Christmas Eve, everybody.  May your shopping adventures be as great as, or even better than, mine!

SANTA VS. SHELF ELF (SORT OF)

There once was a Santa in Bucket
Who said to the Shelf Elf, "Go suck it!
I'm on vacation
While you cause frustration.
Safari so goody, so f**k it!"

And now, something a little cleaner:

Santa in a Bucket is looking for that elf
He's helping Troll, Snoopy, Yukon, and himself
The elf stole his red suit and Santa is pissed
(The elf figured one less suit wouldn't be missed)
So Santa has followed that Shelf Elf around
He can't hide forever, that elf will be found
And when the boys find him, his brains they may pound

The elf makes them crazy, they're madder than molten
Like when they hear commercials with Michael Bolten
In the end , though, it's futile, this massive pursuit:
The suit is too small; Santa's point is all moot
That's how it happens at this time of year:
Spread it around: "Bah humbug and cheers."
And I heard him exclaim as he rode out of sight,
"Merry Christmas, Shelf Elf, I will catch you tonight!"

THAT'S A WRAP

Today I took College Boy shopping;
Once we started, we went without stopping -
Free Parking! The prices were dropping.

When we got home from being all wandery
We found ourselves in quite a quandary
Of massive amounts of his laundry

That had to be washed, dried, and folded
Before the clothes stunk up and molded,
And the boy would just need to be scolded.

Not to sound snobby and cocky,
But I wanted to watch Bruins hockey.
My kid didn't bother to mock me:

He was attached to the game console,
The virtues of which he could extoll
To Santa and elves at the North Pole.

I started to wrap all the presents
But got interrupted by events.
When I stopped, paper flying was intense.

But now I'm so tired there's Cheetah,
Whose fur looks a lot like Velveeta.
(Can you tell I sip lime Margarita?)

That's my story; I'm sticking to it.
I don't believe I'll wrap right through it.
It's late so I'm going to say, "Screw it."

The End

HITTING THE WALL

Snow Tuesday cancels my last grad course of the semester.  We decide to post the final class as a blog thread on our course site.  Then we decide to meet Monday for our final class.  Then the university tells us to meet Friday night, instead.  In the midst of all this, I have a final paper due electronically by Friday evening.  The paper is done by 10:30 p.m. Thursday evening when the Internet crashes.  Paper is printed out, but the electronic copy cannot be submitted since the Net is being a jerk. I manage to get thirty seconds of Internet connection and receive an email alert informing me that Friday's class is also cancelled, so even if I want to, I cannot submit a hard copy of the paper on time, nor do I have Friday afternoon to play with the Internet because I have to pick up college boy, which is the exact opposite direction of the university where my paper is due.  (Are you confused or exhausted yet?  I am.) I cannot get online either via wired or wireless connections, so I reset both routers multiple times, which basically means that I hit the reset buttons on each a half-dozen times while swearing, spitting, and shrieking.  Eventually the service comes back online and I am able to send my paper to its rightful place.

Good thing, too, because on Friday afternoon I am caught in traffic behind an accident on the interstate.  I have to drive about five miles out of my way, and take back roads to the university to fetch youngest for the winter break.  The 45-minute trip there takes a full 90 minutes.  Coming back at nearly the identical location but on the other side of the highway there is another accident.  We are sitting in a jam again.  A full three hours after leaving my desk at work to head north, I arrive back home with college boy after making a round trip that normally takes 90 minutes total.  I am now secretly relieved I have no final another 45 minutes southeast of my home.  I would cry.  Right here.  Right now.

On top of all this hoopla, I have an ear infection.  Nothing about this week is pretty; why should my inner ear be any different?

So, folks, I just want to introduce you to something.  Pink Floyd sang about it, not in so much context, but work with me.  Actually, I want to introduce myself, so here goes:  Wall, meet Self.  Self, meet Wall.

Please excuse me for not having anything stellar to tell you today nor any incisive commentary nor any witty repartee.  All I am is tired.  Exhausted.  Truly and deeply drained.  Today I am giving myself a Mulligan.  Pretend this blog entry is about something more interesting than musings about scheduling conflicts.  Pretend I am brilliant!

In the meantime, I am going to go put ear drops in my infected ear and allow myself the rest of time to embrace The Wall.  I mean, it's only a few short weeks until I start it up all over again.  With luck I will be brilliant again tomorrow, but for today just nod on your way by and mumble some kind words, like, "We knew her when ..." or "Too bad we'll never see how the blog ends..."  In the meantime, I'm going to speak gibberish while resting my eyes.  If I snore at you, it just means I'm listening really, really deeply.

BAH HUMBUG TO ACTING

Sometimes there are moments that are priceless in and of themselves but that could probably get me fired if seen by my supervisors.  Like today, for instance.

We are writing and performing skits using the characters from Dickens' A Christmas Carol.  The only parameters I've given my classes are that they must use the characters and include at least three vocabulary words.  These skits will be performed on a makeshift stage that accidentally sprung up in my room decades ago to cover up massive electrical wiring springing out of the floor.  The students know this is all very informal: their scripts are first drafts, and their live performances are actually their first blocked rehearsals.

Epic failure is not only expected, it is encouraged.

Perhaps it is the informal nature of the assignment, but every student seems completely comfortable and natural on stage, even the usually shy and quiet ones.  No one faints, no one officially falls off the stage, and no one seems nervous.  In short, I am amazed at the zeal with which every one of them embraces this assignment that I just made up off the top of my head the day before it was put into action.

We have some classic moments: rewritten scenes from the play, modernized scenes, and one group of two people who manage to perform the entire play in five miniature acts in under four minutes.  We also have some crazy creative moments, like Scrooge swimming in the ocean with sharks, Scrooge going to Mars, Tiny Tim up the beanstalk as Giant Tim, rapping Scrooge and Cratchit and Marley all played by studious girls in hoodies, a parallel universe, and elves helping Scrooge determine who has been bad and who has been good (candy canes awarded all around - yum).

We have a few moments of terror, as well, like when four boys lift one up to use as a battering ram and nearly face-plant the poor kid into my computer desk (the risk of not practicing a stunt first), an intended trip with quite a hard fall, a pretend knockout with a strange twist of the victim's left knee, and a genuine make-believe, ruler-based sword fight that requires not one, not two, but three foot-to-the-abdomen moves that send a student hurtling six inches off the edge of the stage and into the orchestra pit of our classroom.

In the end, no injuries are significant enough to warrant anything more strenuous than some hand sanitizer.  Once the students finish skits and have corrected an exam that I hand back, we seem to have some extra time in two of my classes.  One class opts for two very quick but intense games of Seven-Up.  The other has performed a skit in which Scrooge is Tiny Tim's football coach.  Suddenly the foam football starts being tossed.  I indicate to Battering Ram Boy to go long and throw him a decent spiral.  He scores.  We win.

As the kids are leaving, one of my more cynical pals says, "This was the best day ever.  Today's class was fun!"

I reply, "EVERY day is fun in here."

The students think about this for a moment then all nod their heads in agreement.  Every day (pretty much) is fun in here.  If learning weren't fun, I'd poke my eyeballs out.  And while they may not have seen the incredible stuff being performed prior to the sudden intra-squad scrimmage, we are learning, we are engaging, and I've achieved something I've never achieved before:  100% engagement in a lesson for three straight days.

Thanks, kids, for being good sports, great citizens, responsible students, and spontaneous learners.  If the amount it's going to cost me is nothing more than having a foam football handy, I am going to go buy dozens for my classroom.

And if the principal, vice principal, curriculum director, or superintendent open the door and see mayhem, I swear I will immediately pretend I've been taken hostage.

Hey, one of us is supposed to speak with the voice of reason.  Might as well act the part.

BIONIC EAR DROPS

I decide to do something about my earache today and manage to get a medical appointment for the mid-afternoon.  Luckily I am in a meeting at the end of the day, so I sign myself out from work and head home before going to the doctor.

Heading home means relaxing and eating something.  However, when I arrive home, I see the landlord's snowblower sitting 6 feet from my snow-covered driveway.  I decide that I'd better clean the rest of the driveway before it gets dark.  This means taking great shovels full of snow and whipping them at the snowblower because now we're enemies.

Eventually (with 10 minutes to spare) I quickly get ready for my appointment rather than eat anything.  Eating is overrated, so I don't try and squeeze that in.  I head over to beautiful Lawrence.   Diagnosis:  Ear infection.  Course of Action:  drops in my ear x2 every day.

Ahhhh.  This is wonderful:  no antibiotics; no shots.  All I have to do is ... put ... two ... hey, wait a sec.  How am I supposed to see where the ear canal is?  Worse than this, I can't even tell how many drops are coming out of the container.

 Shit.

Double shit.

And after I put the drops in, I have to stay in a supine, immobile position for five minutes.

Triple shit.

I decide to go for it.  I open the package, get ready, aim, fire, and ... Success so far, though I'm still not sure exactly how many drops went IN my ear.  If I wake up with bionic super-hearing, you'll know I ended up putting too much medicine into my ear, and that I've probably fried my brain.

Oh, wait.

My brain was already fried.

Never mind, then.  Carry on.

SHOVEL-READY FREE TIME

I have an unexpected night off when a lingering snow storm hits.  My last class of the semester is cancelled, and attempts to reschedule the final are going awry.  I have plans for this bounty of free time -- wrap presents, finish the holiday cards, correct exams, write a paper that's still due by Friday, clean the house, run some dishes, watch NCIS, shovel out the car, shower, get to bed early. 

Ah yes, the inspirational hopes of an unexpected few hours.

Reality, though, is far and away different.  I am sitting around nursing an earache that may well be an infection (I'll find out at the doctor's office where the school nurse has directed me), set up the wrapping station but never actually use it, put stamps on the holiday cards that need extra postage, ignore the exams in my backpack and save them in case I need to call in sick, start my final paper, ignore the filthy house, hit the start button on the dishwasher, watch NCIS (I know my priorities), and field a few phone calls.  I can't shovel out the car because it's still snowing like a banshee well past my bedtime.  That means the shower will have to wait, as well.  Maybe I'll get to bed at a reasonable hour, but then it all tumbles into the morning.  Maybe I'll just field-bomb my way out of the driveway (a definite advantage to parking nose out).

I'll have to wear a damn hat, though.  I suppose the only thing worse than flat, static-riddled hair is a flaming, infection-riddled eardrum.  I have so much to do, so very much to do, but it's all minutiae.  The big stuff is done.  Not much left to do but enjoy the holidays.  And wrap presents, and finish the holiday cards, and correct exams, and write Friday's paper, and clean the house, and shovel out the car, and take a shower, and go grocery shopping, and finish up last minute presents, and get my hair trimmed, and pick up the kid at college, and ...

So much for an evening off.  I'll let you know what that feels like if it ever actually happens.  Until then, happy snow storm.  Now get off yer asses and come help me shovel. 

A GOOD OFFENSE IS A STRONG DEFENSE

I'm going to get reprimanded at work, maybe even fired. I let loose a tirade of bad words in an after-school meeting.  I have a decent defense.  I swear I was just trying to prevent the spread of stupidity.

You see, your honor, it's like this.

For two and a half years I have been working on a project called Common Assessments.  Recently we also added in District Determined Measures.  Today I found out that all of my hard work has gone down the drain.  Well here, judge for yourself.

Me:  Here are the completed common assessments you wanted.

Him:  Great, but this isn't really what I wanted.

Me:  What DO you want?

Him:  Well, I don't really want this.

Me:  Then what do you want that isn't this?

Him:  I don't know what I want.

Me:  So, you don't want what I made, and you don't know what you want.  What do you want me to do?

Him:  I want you to do anything you want!

(Not anything because right now anything I want might involve playground justice and duct tape.)


Today in a meeting, after working for years to try and read the boss's mind, and after years of getting submitted finished products shot down over and over, my immediate supervisor pulls up a website that has all of the common tests and regulated learning procedures that the big boss truly believes will be a fix-all for the children.  I wonder why this website was not shown to us sooner, like maybe within the last two and a half years.

I open my mouth to voice this concern, but all that falls out are expletives. I sound like Charlie Brown's teacher as a crackhead.  It's amazing even to me how many times I can creatively weave the F-word into a simple sentence.

Oh, I'm quite certain that I harmed someone's fragile constitution with my foul-mouthed diatribe.

But put yourselves in my shoes -- I'm running, running, running as fast as I can with no track lane and no direction, and this guy wonders why I can't keep pace?

Dude, you are the biggest fucking douche, and I think that's about the safest thing you'll hear me let fly.  The rest of it I cannot even repeat here, it's that bad.

So, yes, your honor, while I did indeed swear and I did indeed show disrespect to both my immediate supervisor and the big boss (behind his back), it was and still is completely justified.

With that, the defense rests. 

I'M A DELICATE FLOWER

I like my landlords a lot, I really do.  And I understand they have other property that needs to be tended after a storm.  Well, not other residential property, but still. 

However, when they clear their own driveway with a giant snow blower, a driveway which is about 20 feet from mine, and leave the snow blower about 10 feet from my driveway and let me fend for myself, well, then I'm not really feeling the love so much.  I'm feeling like I want the keys to that bad boy so I can clear out my parking spots.

They do clear my walkway and a path between my cars and the neighbors' cars.  That is helpful since the snow has a horridly thick ice coating on its surface.  I had left the cars toward the street end of the driveway, which fits 3.5 cars in it (3 normal cars and a Smart Car), so a swath has been cleared in front along the sidewalk side -- also helpful.  The rest of it, though, is all mine.  Mine, mine, mine to shovel, shovel, shovel, especially the area closest to the house that I desperately hope would get machine-cleared so I could just drive into it.

This spot I left open for them to do is only about 8x10.  It would've taken less than 5 minutes to clear with the snow blower.  It's not my equipment to use, I understand this, but it would be so neighborly and so landlord-ly to do, right?  Or how about these excuses: I'm old, I'm recovering from some bizarre case of vertigo that knocked me for a loop yesterday, and I'm too short to chuck the snow onto high piles.  Nothing?  No love for me?  Okay, I'm bringing out the big one: For crying out loud, I'm a delicate flower!

I complain all the time when people, including me, complain about the snow.  It's storms like these, though, where there's ice and sleet in the beginning then that freezes then lots of powdery snow (the best except when you're tossing it onto a pile and the wind kicks in) topped by about an inch of icy crust, that remind me maybe living here isn't so wonderful.  Plus it's sleeting again and my face is starting to frost up.  The precipitation today is an absolute bitch to deal with because I have to keep stopping and carving patterns into the snow in order to chop the top layer into manageable bits.  That entire space I mentioned earlier, the 8x10 area?  It would be really cool to get someone at each corner and lift the giant ice coating off in one layer like a table top; really cool, indeed.

But you know what would be even cooler?  If the landlords used their large, gas-powered snow blower to clear that damn space out.  Yup, that would be way cooler.  After all, there are some things this delicate flower probably shouldn't be doing, and I'm willing to bet that shoveling is one of them.

THE SKY IS FALLING, THE SKY IS FALLING!

Okay, listen up. 

If you live in Florida and it snows, you have a legitimate gripe.
If you live in San Diego and it snows, you have a legitimate gripe.
If you like in El Paso and it snows, you have a legitimate gripe.
If it's summer and it snows, you have a legitimate gripe.

But if it is late fall, winter, or early spring, and you live in New England, and especially if you're supposed to be a professional weather forecaster, and it snows, you do not have a legitimate gripe.  As a matter of fact, if you're going to dis our weather, get out.  Just get the hell out.

Sometimes storms are inconvenient.  I get that.  You get that.  The guy whose brain is sitting next to him in a jar gets that. 

But for chrissakes, stop complaining about weather we get every winter, and have gotten every winter since the frikking ice age ended.  And stop running your news broadcasts 24/7 when it snows.  Really.  It's annoying.  Snow is not an unusual event here in New England.  Maybe if you were a native or, oh, I don't know, um ... intelligent ... yeah, maybe if you were intelligent you'd know that New Englanders don't need to talk about the storm every minute of every hour of every day.

Tornado.  Now there's an unusual weather pattern worthy of its own news broadcast.  Or a tsunami.  Yup, that would qualify.

But snow?  Think Currier and Ives ... or, at least, Currier. 

I would like to see this broadcast next time the news is on and it's snowing:  "Get ready, folks, sledding and skiing weather is BACK! (Fist pump) We're due to get a measly 15 inches of the white stuff, and you should be able to shovel it in a few short hours.  With any luck at all, it'll stay below freezing and this new snow will stick around until Christmas.  Now on to our winter sports report..."

I hate to be cold; I have Raynaud's Syndrome, and it actually hurts to be cold.  Oh well!  I get pneumonia more often than some people get paid.  I drive like the aged when it snows because I'm terrified I'm going to slide into someone or something, so I grip the steering wheel with knuckles whiter than the snowflakes.  But New England is my home.  I've been to some other parts of the USA -- I'm not sure I could survive anywhere else.  I'm too cynical, sarcastic, and sharp-tongued.  My family has been here for almost 400 years, almost all of which has been lived in Massachusetts.

I have a New England news flash, people:  SNOW HAPPENS. I know, I know; hard to believe, right?  That's what it does here. It snows.

Would somebody please tell the news stations?  I'm not entirely sure they get it.  Thanks!  Enjoy the snow.  I ordered it just for you.

KILL THE ELF - EPISODE #3

The damn Elf on a Shelf has struck again.  Today.  Twice.  He appeared once in an email and once in a Facebook post.  Evil, evil elf.  Watching people.  Scaring misbehaved children and terrifying naughty adults.

Hateful little bastard.

Must.  Kill.  Elf.

Let's face it -- The thing is creepy.  He has beady little elf eyes, wears his freakin' pajamas everywhere, and reports everything you say and do and hear to The Big Man up at the North Pole.  While this may be a normal thing in some of your homes, I find it mildly disturbing.

I have recruited several of my Christmas tree ornaments to sign on to a quest: Kill the Elf on a Shelf.  Led by Yukon on a Futon Cornelius, a bare-butt Troll in a Bowl by his side, we are joined this installment by Snoopy on Skates.  Their mission is to track down Elf on a Shelf, eliminate him, and donate his weird bug-eyes to science.

Sung to the tune of Theme Song from the Beverly Hillbillies:

Come listen to a story about an Elf on the Shelf,
A red-suited minion who helped Santa out himself.
Then one day he was searching with his eyes
When what appeared, to his beady surprise?

Christmas, that is,white Christmas.

The other elves all trembled and peed themselves with fear
That Elf on the Shelf might hide his buttocks near.
They said, "Under mistletoe's the place you'd rather be!"
So Elf in the Shelf went and hid in the tree.

Christmas tree, that is. Balsam fir.

So out came the best-- Old Snoopy on his skates,
He chased off the Elf from the shelf with all the plates.
Now Snoopy went and captured his own china-patterned rink,
But he still hasn't caught Shelfie Elf, that old dink.

(Your earworm for the day.  You're welcome!)

SOMEONE SAVED MY LIFE TONIGHT ... AND IT WASN'T ELTON JOHN

It's no secret to my regular readers that I have had a very stressful few weeks and have gotten about 1% of my holiday shopping done. 

Between work and grad school (which I didn't have to do because I already have a Master's necessary for my current job) I burnt myself out.  I almost murdered two obviously down-on-their-luck shoppers yesterday who walked off with my shopping cart at the grocery store.  I crashed and burned at my project presentation, and I had to sit in the lobby at the field trip today because the show continuously shoots off firecrackers for some stupid reason.  Yes, headset was on for almost two straight hours because there's no hiding -- the lobby is about ten feet wide and there are speakers everywhere including the bathroom stalls.  Yeah, talk about migraine triggers.  Gee, let me think for a sec ... thanks but no thanks.

I finally get home from work today, knowing that my house is a disaster that cannot be contained because of this research project.  My home is quite frankly a dump right now.  I have piles of books and piles of research papers and piles of notes and piles of my everyday mail and piles of miscellaneous crap.  The inside of my house looks like that garbage barge in New York that floated out on the river for a while. 

I am preoccupied because the shopping I was planning on doing this weekend will not get done: We're due to have snow, and a fair amount of it, on Saturday into Sunday.  In short, I am screwed.  Merry Christmas, relatives.

I lug myself up the driveway and trudge toward the front door.  There is a huge package, a giant box of something, on my front step.  I don't remember ordering anything.  Too bad.  Shopping would be done!  Alas, it's for my neighbor in the adjoining townhouse.  It's not too heavy, so I haul it over and gently knock on the door (the dad works third shift and sleeps during the day, which is why we're a good match up for side-by-side: I'm quiet and so are they. 

When I return from my short errand, I notice a bag hanging off my door knob that I hadn't noticed before.  Crap, is this also for the neighbors?  I hate to have to knock twice and be a pest.  I peer inside.  Nope, it's for me.  It really is for me!

Cupcakes!  Santa hat cupcakes. 

I open the accompanying card and discover that a friend from out of town who works nearby has delivered this delicious gift to me with a card that reads, "Hope your week gets better!"  There are a few more lines as equally wonderful and welcome.

This simple gesture lifts the burden of crappiness that has been my life as of late, and it's not just because some of the cupcakes are chocolate (or, for that matter, that they are vanilla -- YUM to both).  It reminds me why I am friends with the people I consider friends.  It's friends like this who randomly stop by the house and leave me mysterious gifts of joy.

I would like to hope that I do for my friends all the wonderful things they do for me.  I hope I'm not just a consumer.  I'm going to look into this.

In the meantime, thanks to my friends who leave me cupcakes, who take me for frozen yogurt, who help me feel good about myself when I don't want to or deserve to, who know how to pop the cork on champagne bottles, who are willing to spot me some cash when I'm short, who don't laugh at me when I get trivia questions so wrong that I look like a blithering idiot, who take me to Bruins games, who email me just because, who share my twisted taste in literature, who like the same wide range of music I do, who defend me when I'm thrown off blogs (including my own - that was classic), who recognize Senor Ed when they see him, who give me shoe ornaments because of our mutual DSW addiction, who may or may not be related to me by blood, who agree to get pictures taken with a giant plastic horse at the brewery, who make me want to buy and wear Depends because they make me laugh so hard and so loud and so completely that I nearly pee my pants sometimes.

I could go on and on because I do have the best friends in the entire world, and that's just the tip of the Santa hat frosting.

My friends rock.  Totally and completely rock.  I just wanted to make sure I acknowledge you properly.  I could (and would) never do this without you.

WHY TAKING MY CARRIAGE IN THE GROCERY STORE MIGHT BE HAZARDOUS TO YOUR HEALTH

I am about to start crying in the grocery store.  Someone has taken my half-filled carriage and walked away with it.  No, my child is not in the cart, my cell phone is securely in my pants pocket, and my wallet is still in my possession.  Still, I swear I'm going to cry.

I am so goddamned tired I can't even begin to describe it.  I have been working nonstop on a paper and presentation for days.  If I never see a research paper again, it will be ten days too soon.  My presentation nearly crashes and burns, I have worked through lunch every day for a week, I have no food for dinner and put two nearly empty boxes of pasta together the other night to have something to eat, the milk is out of date, the bread has started to turn green, and I haven't slept more than four hours a night for many, many days. 

I desperately need to go to the grocery store.  I debate going to the over-priced one close to home, but I need ant baits to kill the little varmint who've decided to come and visit me this winter (little fuckers).  These are not carpenter ants; they're more like the regular outside ants who've decided they want to move inside for the season.  I suspect they're coming from next door since ... surprise ... I don't have any food in my house, so I know they're not here for the victuals.

I arrive at the big supermarket and proceed to fill my cart with important things like milk, butter, cheese, chocolate chip cookie dough already made that just needs to be cut and baked, a cooked chicken, and deli meat. I go back for the sliced white cheese, and when I return thirty seconds later, my carriage is gone.

Gone.

I have a sudden panic attack, the kind parents have when their children wander off.  I understand that this is an abnormal reaction, and I keep looking where the cart has been but is no more, and I begin making a larger and larger circle.  This all takes about four minutes.  In the meantime, my brain is on fire.  Yes, I have my list, and yes, I can recreate what I bought and start again, but I'm tired.  I'm oh-so-ever-loving tired right now that the thought of starting over and re-shopping for another twenty minutes seems overwhelming.  I am dangerously close to sitting down in the middle of the aisle and sobbing.

Fuck it.  I'm going to find my cart.  So I start eying the usual suspects.  Who looks disorganized enough to accidentally walk off with the wrong cart?  And how the hell do you not notice a damn cooked chicken in the child seat and think, "Shit, when did I pick up a freshly cooked bird?"

Suddenly I spy my cart.  I know it's my cart because I see the above mentioned items plus the tuna and the crackers and the block of New York sharp cheddar cheese.  I see the guy pushing it and the woman he is with.  They are disheveled, dirty, and wearing pajamas.  Yup, at 3:30 in the afternoon, they are greasy pj-wearers with bathrobes under filthy coats.

Now, I could just say something nice like, "Excuse me, but I believe you have my cart!  Hahahahaha."  Or I could be super polite and be like, "Terribly sorry to trouble you, but I think there's been a mistake."

But I am so tired, and I don't feel well, and I'm on the verge of tears.  I simply go over to the cart and start hurling the few things they've added into the nearest meat case without uttering a single sound.

Pajama man's toothless mouth opens wide, and he yells, "HEY!" 

I don't even make eye contact.  I feel like the parent grabbing her child's hand from that of the bad stranger at an amusement park. 

"WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!" the man continues.

I feel the Language of the Forked Tongue coming on.  I hold my bad language, which is a major accomplishment and I expect lots and lots of kudos for this, and hiss, "My caaaaaaaaaaaaaaart" through clenched teeth.

I leave the couple standing there, shocked and without food.  I am reasonably sure their carriage is the one that wasn't even remotely near mine but now stands alone somewhere near the Sal's pizza display.  When they see me again in the bread aisle, I watch them out of the corner of my eye as they quickly turn around and disappear in the produce, fearing for their lives as they cower behind the spinach and green beans.

Truly I feel like an asshole.  After all, I have been laughing and joking with almost everyone else in the store, including the kid who tries to direct me to the ant killer, but for some reason, losing my cart and the groceries I have desperately needed for days sends me right over the precipice.  Did I mention I'm tired?  I haven't been this tired in a long time. 

So if you're reading this blog post, and if you were shopping in your pajamas at Market Basket on the North Andover/Lawrence line around 3:30 p.m. on Wednesday, December 11, 2013, and you hadn't showered in about eight days, and you were throwing really strange things into someone else's cart, then I'd like to apologize.  I'm wicked sorry. Well, I'm not sorry for rescuing my carriage, but I am sorry that you lack the sense to realize you didn't pick up a cooked chicken but yet it sits in your carriage right there under your nose.  (I know you didn't get one because I checked every other damn cart in the area.)

I blame the ants.  Again.  If I didn't need ant traps, I would've shopped at the smaller market, and I never would've seen you at all.  So, sorry that the ants made me shop with you, and that you felt the need to inhale the chicken fumes that didn't rightly belong to your nostrils.

Screw it.  Let's be serious here.  You're goddamned lucky all I do is fling your shit into the meat case.  I mean, this is me we're talking about here, right?  I rest my case.

ANTS SAVED MY LIFE

Ants saved my life today.

I have a presentation at the university, and I need to haul about 35 pounds of crap with me.  Usually I come home before going to night class, but the weather is horrible today.  The forecasters predict sloppy and icy conditions, so I pack everything up to take with me in the morning, including a change of pants and warm socks for later.

But I need to get some cash for dinner since I'm not coming home, so I plan on hitting the ATM at the bank.

Then I realize that I could potentially be stuck in crazy snow-moron traffic, when people don't know how to drive, so I decide to fill the gas tank.

And, oh shit, yeah, it's trash day.

Crap, I forgot to pack my lunch.

Guess what?  the car windows are iced over, so I have to warm up the car.

As I am rattling all of this off in my head, I am glancing at the clock.  Why is it that every time I believe in my heart I will get an early start, I end up leaving either right on time or about ten minutes late?  Why, why, why?

Finally I am ready to go.  I pack the heavy backpack full of the presentation materials in the car when I take the trash out and start the car defrosting.  I remember to keep my wallet handy for both the bank and the gas station.  I put the spare clothes in my work bag so I'll have them to change in to if I decide it'll be a jeans type of commute.

I'm ready to leave!  By god, I'm ready to leave and I'm right on time...

What is that?!  What the hell is that?  Ant?  ANT?  In my kitchen?  On my counter?  Sonofabitch.

I kill the ant.  Then there's another one.  I kill it, too.  I walk toward the bathroom to brush my teeth so I can get out the door when I see another ant.  I smack it senseless with paper towel and go throw the whole thing away.  There on the sink is another goddamned ant.

At this point I am just pissed, so I start smacking the ant with my bare palm.  Then another ant.  BAM!  Then another one.  BAM BAM!  Where the hell are these ants coming from?  It's 20 frikkin' degrees outside.  It's winter.  Die, ants, die on your own already.

I forgot to brush my teeth.  Damnit.  I need to wash my hands because now they have ant guts all over them.  I wash my hands with soap about a half dozen times then brush.

I finally get out the door to do my ATM and gas station errands.  I am leaving at about 7:02, which is my normal time of departure.  If only I hadn't had to run around with the trash and the toothbrush and the ants, I would've left with long minutes to spare.

I am halfway to work when I come across a bad car accident.  It is in my normal travel lane, southbound  on 28 heading toward Boston. The ambulance and police and fire department (and probably half of the town's residents) arrive, and it is clear that the whole scene is about six minutes old.

Six minutes.

If I had left my house six minutes sooner, that smashed up car in the middle of the wreckage might've been me.

Thank you, ants!  You saved my life!  (Well, that and being disorganized, but I digress.)

I CAN COUNT -- OR NOT

No matter how I approach this topic, it's going to come out sounding like I'm some kind of bigot.  I assure you, I am not any kind of bigot.  I'm sorry, but I have to put this out there, and you can take it as you may:

I now understand why the Chinese send their brighter children here to be schooled in the universities.

How do I know this?


I am working on a grad school project that I have to present tomorrow (which is actually tonight because I am writing this Monday but posting it Tuesday, so I'm presenting Tuesday, which is my current tomorrow but your current tonight).  I decide that the large paperclips just are not going to cut it for my handouts, so I go in search of the package of binder clips I bought ages ago at Staples.  I need 20.

Luckily I clean out my personal desk every summer and do my damnedest to keep it organized until the following summer.  It rarely happens.  But due to two major weddings this fall, my desk has rarely been touched since I cleaned it out.  I know for sure there are binder clips in there.

I find the packet for which I am searching, and, lo and behold, the package says there are 25 binder clips inside, and it's still sealed from the day I bought it.  Hallelujah!  I bring the bag of clips downstairs to where I am working, snip the top off with scissors, and start popping the arms of the clips back to make this whole process go quicker.

But ... something's wrong.

Sonofabitch.  Goddamn sonofabitch.

There are only 15 damn binder clips in the bag.

I check the bag again to make sure it has not been tampered with nor altered.  Nope; I am the first person to breach the protective plastic wrapping.  It is the Staples brand, so my mind instantly goes to the dark place.  Children must have manufactured these, I think, poor, overworked, underpaid little minions who probably have little more than bread and water for lunch ... if they even get a lunch break.

I feel guilty and pissed off all at the same time.

I check the back of the package: Made in China.  Seriously?  The Chinese can't count past 15?  They don't know that 15 is not 25?  No wonder they send their brighter kids here -- they go to public school over there with people who cannot tell the difference between 15 and 25.  (Don't point out that their numbers have different characters - you'll totally wreck my rant.)

And what about Staples Corporation quality control?  What the hell is the matter with those people?  The store managers?  The clerks who price these things?  Is there no one in this chain of manufacturing command who can count past 15?  Holy crap, and people want to raise minimum wage to $15?  Why don't we just say we'll raise it to $6.25 since no one can count anymore, anyway.

And then it hits me: I didn't realize there weren't 25 in the package, either.

Shit.

That's it, kids.  I'm moving to China where everyone can count as high as I can.  15.  If I'm really, really lucky, Staples will hire me to work in their factory for minimum wage.