TRYING NOT TO SCARE THE NEWBIES

I have new neighbors.  Again.

Lately it seems like I have new neighbors about once every few weeks.  I can remember back when the demographic hardly changed at all, but this rapid turnover has caused me great distress.

You see, I like to sunbathe on my back step.

No, not naked, or anything like that.  But, at my age, short shorts and a bust-showing top might not be considered neighborly attire.  My patio is partially secluded, but it can be seen, at least parts of it, from houses next to me, houses to the far corner of me, and anyone passing by on the busy streets near my home.

For today's sunbathing, all eighty minutes of it, I decide to put down my towel right onto the patio cement foundation rather than on the elevated step.  This way, no one can see me unless they come up my walk or enter the backyard tangle of my landlord's building junk.

This works out fine while I battle ants who keep invading my space.  Well, fine, that is, until I stand up.  From my stomach, I can do a modified push-up to a plank and walk myself into a standing position.  Lying down on my back, though, means that standing up requires more effort. 

Effort that is wonderful ... until I start to pop out from my top.

Thankfully, I am below the window and street site lines, safely behind my fence, but really.  Holy hell!  I like tan lines, but that's going a little too far.  And, quite frankly, that's way more neighborly than I ever intend to be.

Summer really is busting out, in more ways than one.  I'll try to remember not to scare the newbies.

BINGO DEBAUCHERY

I want to talk to you all today about an extremely dangerous hobby that has evolved into a full contact sport.  This activity used to be one of relaxation and social civility.  Today, it has become one of the fastest growing hotbeds of arrests and assault.

I'm talking about Bingo.

That's right.

Bingo.

I've only played competitive Bingo twice in my life.  Once was at a resort, and the only reason I went was to hear the strange lady say, "teeeyooooooooooooooo" and "Twenteeee-teeeeyooooooooo!" 

The other time I played Bingo was when my friends dragged me to a huge Bingo game at a local church.  I couldn't believe there were entire tables with single players actively working fifty cards.  I was one number (on my one little card) away from a $500 cover-all win.  Right after some fifty-card bitch won, the caller read the number I had been waiting for, so I decided that was God's way of telling me not to play Bingo.  Never.  Ever.

But, this Florida incident is just sick.  This is about that 88-yer-old woman having her car tires slashed by an angry 82-year-old male Bingo player.  Her offense?  She sat in his lucky Bingo seat.

Slashed tires!  Arrested!  Violence!  Premeditation!  Bingo debauchery! 

It's almost unbearable.  I mean, Bingo is supposed to be fun.  Next thing you know, Bingo players everywhere will be kicking each other's walkers out and stealing batteries from electric wheelchairs.  Pretty soon, we'll all have to wear helmets just to go to these local events.  Sign waivers.  Bring bodyguards.

I live right near four churches.  I'm going to watch for their Bingo nights so I don't make the mistake of walking alone when there's a night of mayhem.  Damn Bingo players.  There goes the neighborhood!

By the way, that damn number that kept me from winning and ruined Bingo for the rest of my life?

B13... just so you know.

SUMMER EDGES ITS WAY

Summer edges its way forward with a bang. 

Although my neighborhood misses the two direct hits today, thunderstorms wreak havoc just north and south of here.  My friend in Methuen, the town over the river from here, reports microburst damage, claiming that patio chairs became airborne missiles, and that two trees have smashed into houses on her cul-de-sac.

If we are already toying with mini-tornadoes here in New England in May, what will July look like?  August?

Damn you, Al Gore, and your Global Warming.  Or is Al the guy who invented WhiteOut?  I can never remember.  Who cares?  I blame him.  It's all his fault.

Meanwhile, back in Methuen, my friend has leaves plastered to her house, chairs and other furniture floating in  the pool, and, folks, it's only May.

May.

With a bang.

GRILLING - DAY ONE

Today when I leave work, it is breezy but hot, one of the hottest days we’ve had yet this spring.  The humidity isn’t too terrible, so I make a decision; I’m stopping by the grocery store to get burgers and rolls.  It’s grill time!

I don’t even know if my son is home or not, but I decide not to tip him off about my dinner idea.  It has been a week since I last made dinner, a lasagna with meat sauce.  It was the last evening before the plague hit me full force.  My appetite finally returned last night, so we ordered pizza (extra cheese), and I gorged myself until I thought my stomach would explode.

Today, though, for some reason, I have been smelling burgers on the grill in my daydreams.  My mind keeps wandering to red meat, possibly because my super-thrilling lunch consists of applesauce, pumpkin bread, and various bad-for-me snacks.  Hey, I felt icky when I packed it this morning, so I thought I’d do my stomach a favor.

For some stupid reason, the traffic running through town is stubborn, gridlocked, annoying.  I finally see the parking lot entrance … see it … three cars ahead of me … just cannot make it … yet.  I damn near jump the curb trying to pull into the lot and get a space.  By the time I enter the store, I want to scream, “Get out of the way!  I need hamburgers, and I need them NOW!” 

Of course the “Twelve items or fewer” aisle is mobbed, but I have forgotten my store discount card, so I cannot go through the self-checkout without it.  The sacker packs my bags a little funky (four large Gatorades in one thin bag, the fifth thrown on top of the hamburgers), but I am finally on my way home.

As soon as I arrive, I call up the stairs and tell my son it’s barbecue time.  We fire that badass grill up, and we grill right then and there in the middle of the afternoon.  The propane, coincidentally enough, runs out just as we finish grilling.  We take this as a sign of a higher power, perhaps the Great Big Burgermeister in the Sky.  (By the way, when I worked at Burger King years ago, our regional manager’s name really and truly was Mr. Burgermeister.  Even I can’t make up that kind of shit.)

 

Grilling out (homestyle, not tailgate), day #1, officially in the books, and on a work night, too.  Had I not been plague-riddled, this would’ve happened sooner, and once I replace the propane tank, we’ll do it all again, and again, and again.

RELATIVELY WORM-POOP-FREE AFTERNOON

Today after work I plop my fat ass into a plastic chair and enjoy my nearly-worm-poop-free patio.  Even though it’s hot out, it’s a dry heat (yes, it really does make a huge difference) with a decent breeze.  I decide to avoid the sun for various reasons, one being I’m too damn lazy to change out of my work clothes.

I set up my space on the patio and enjoy doing a few puzzles and taking in the relative peace and quiet for such a compact neighborhood.  I live in the urban part of suburbia, where I am surrounded by about 100 of my not-so-closest friends: close enough to walk to town and spit on the railroad tracks, and also close enough to be packed in tighter than people waiting for Filene’s doors to open at the Running of the Brides sale. 

I am minding my own business when worm poop falls from the sky and bounces off my Sudoku page.  (In case you’re wondering, inch-worm poop is like miniature missiles of concrete excrement.)

I look up, gauge how far I need to reposition myself to avoid overhead branches, then drag my chair sideways.  Ah, yes.  Nothing better than a pre-summer, worm-poop-free afternoon!  All is right with the world. 

I do some puzzles, play some games on my cell phone, check Facebook, check email, and take a mini-nap.  I figure I should probably head in at some point before the mosquitoes start their Kamikazee blood-lust, so I plop my feet down and see …

Ants everywhere.  Poor bastards, trying to find more worm poop to take home for the family dinner.  Sorry, ants, but the worm poop is almost over.  Buffet lunches are over!  I decide to lift my flip-flop-covered toes just a few inches off the ground.  If an ant crawls into my path, I drop the flip-flop and squish.  If it scuttles nearby but not quite close enough, I whisper, “Oh, it’s your lucky day.”

All of a sudden a big-ass, creepy, fuzzy spider comes at me from the left making a sneak assault.  It’s one of those jumping spiders – you know, here one second, hopping about eight inches away the next second.  Without thinking twice, I lower the boom of my right flip-flop, creating a crunching, squishy splat sound beneath.

I borrow a line from an old short story that means very little in this situation, but I’m on meds at the moment, so very little makes sense, anyway.  I look at the guts-spewing mini-ball of furry arachnid and say, “You’re too late, sir.  The admiral is dead.”

Then I encourage the ants.  “Fellas, I got you dinner.  It’s a feast!  Come on, dudes.  Dinner bell.  Dinner bell!”  They don’t listen. 

I stand up to go inside and see a worm crawling on the first chair in which I was sitting.  Had I not moved, it would’ve landed in my hair, or, worse, onto my face while I napped.  I try to take its picture, but it loses its grip and falls to the pavement, creating blurring resolution in the frame.

I decide I’ve caused enough global hysteria in the local insect world for one sitting.  I gather my belongings and trek back inside, satisfied with the knowledge that since the carpenter bees are gone for the season, I truly am the baddest bitch on this relatively worm-poop-free patio.

IT'S GONNA BE A SIZZLAH

I wake up this morning, which is the first good thing about today, and I am feeling almost human, which is the second good thing about today.  I decide that today is the day!  Yup, I’ve been watching television; I’ve clicked on the apps; I pressed that cloud picture on my cell phone.  I know what’s coming this week.

(Not my house - just a stolen pic.)

Today is the day I haul the air conditioners up from the basement.

I could wait for my son to get home from his weekend away and say, “Son, since you had a weekend away and I have been close to death warmed over, bring up the damn air conditioners from the basement,” and, of course, he would do it.  But I have been flat on my ass and completely wiped out since last Thursday.  If I don’t do something to prove that I am still able to take care of myself, then I might as well go live in a home.

So, I get myself all geared up.  This means sneakers (in case I drop the units on my feet), leather gloves to grip the sharp sides without killing my hands and fingers, and three beach towels (one for each air conditioner) to slide them across the floors and into place after hauling them up the stairs.  It’s a very effective system, just so you know, and I have perfected it over a number of years.

Once I get each air conditioner to the base of the staircase, I don’t bother with the lift-and-carry.  Too dangerous for me.  My center of gravity is pretty low being a short gal.  Instead, I take my gloved hands, turn each unit onto its back (as it were), and use the sliding sides to lift and go up one riser.  Then lift and go up one riser.  Then lift and go up one riser.  This is how I get them up, and then I casually slide them onto towels, and from there a drag them around by pulling on the edge of the towel. 

You know, much like dragging a body all by myself and deep into the woods.  Uh … Not that I’ve tried that … recently … or anything.

I used to put the a/c units into the windows by myself years ago, but I don’t do that anymore.  This is the one thing that I make someone else help with because I am terrified of dropping the unit out the window before it is properly secured.  This is where my son (or other family member if anyone is around) gets to be my helper. 

Once secure in the windows, out comes the duct tape.

(Not my duct tape, either.)

That’s right, you read that correctly.  Duct tape.

The accordion curtains on either side of each air conditioner have all split at the edges.  Sure, I could replace them, but why?  I mean, the air conditioners work fine, and the replacement parts will certainly be more expensive than duct tape.  Besides, I bought white duct tape this time, so it’ll blend in better than the traditional glaring silver.

This whole process takes about thirty minutes from start to finish – hauling them up, cleaning each filter, installing them in the windows, duct taping the sides, and plugging them in.  Of course, I take many breaks in between each step, so it actually takes hours, but, truthfully, the methodology is down to a thirty minute science.

I’m ready, Weather gods.  I hear tomorrow you’re gonna hit me with a real Boston Sizzlah.  Bring it on!  I have duct tape, and I know how to use it!

ON BEING A HACK(ER)

What better way to start off the unofficial summer season and a nice long weekend than driving myself to the walk-in.  Yup, nothing says welcome to three well-deserved days off with more irony than being flat on my ass, sick with fever, chills, and chest congestion.  I am prone to pneumonia despite living a relatively healthy lifestyle and having already been inoculated with the pneumonia vaccine, but none of this seems to convince my body otherwise.

At exactly 3 a.m. I awaken in a cold panic feeling like I’m drowning but cannot loosen any congestion that I painfully feel in my chest.  After hacking and, disgustingly enough, dry heaving for about five minutes, I decide that the neighbors have probably heard enough and move myself downstairs to the overstuffed chair, vowing to hit the walk-in the minute it opens.

At 8:30 (Sunday opening time), I am the only non-staff car in the lot.  I know this because I am the only one not parked out in East Bumshoe under the trees.  This is good.  It means I’ll be first in, as if there is a run for emergency services at the walk-in over the holiday.  Everybody knows the crazies go to the regular ER.

The nurse does the intake evaluation, and I sit there flapping my legs back and forth like a little kid in a high chair as I wait for the doc.  I’ve never been to this walk-in before.  Even though it is associated with my doctor’s office, the facility is brand-spanking new.  I have no idea who will be coming in to see me.

Suddenly, in walks Dr. Automaton. 

I cannot tell how old he is.  His face is plastic; his black hair is plastic; his demeanor is plastic.  He talks in a staccato monotone that reminds me of a robot.  I try to ask questions, but the glare in his eyes tells me he absolutely is not done talking and does not understand the give-and-take of polite nor serious conversation.

It kind of freaks me out like I’ve somehow gone to sleep and awakened in the Age of Artificial Intelligence.  I realize that there is no one else here but a few staff and me, and I suddenly think that maybe this wasn’t my brightest idea trying to beat the crowd.  What if I disappear and end up as some kind of science experiment?  Nobody even knows I’m here.

Dr. Automaton doesn’t appear to be taking me seriously.  He is almost dismissive, but orders a chest x-ray, anyway.  This is not my first nor even my second nor seventh ride in the pneumonia rodeo, so I know how this is going to go.  The doctor will either be surprised or pissed that he cannot hear the crackles but there will be a spot there.  I wouldn’t be here if I thought otherwise; I’d be at CVS buying every cough medicine available to humanity.

The really nice tech has to start the machine as I am Patient Zero of the day, but we finally get in and get ‘er done: two x-rays, one front on and one from the side.  I change back into my top and bra, go back, and sit to wait.

This is where it starts to get uncomfortable.  This is where the doctor comes in and says (and I swear to you that I am not making this shit up), “The x-rays are inconclusive because you didn’t have nipple markers, and I can’t tell the pneumonia from the nipples.”

I say … WHAT?!

(Apparently, these are nipple markers.)

He orders the technician to find some nipple markers and retake the x-ray.  The tech searches around but cannot find nipple markers.  To be honest, if the doctor cannot decipher a nipple from a spot of pneumonia, then I’m not sure I should be hanging around this joint much longer.  The poor girl comes back in the room, very apologetic, and takes me back to get another x-ray, even though no one has located said nipple markers.  While we are waiting to get going again, she suddenly smiles and says, “Never mind.  The radiologist already read the first ones.  You’re good.”

Oh, she knows.  And better, she knows I know.  And better still, the radiologist now knows that she knows that I know.

The report comes back as bilateral pneumonia.  Lucky me!  It’s a two-fer!  Shit, maybe the spots really are my nipples.  The doctor is totally pissed and will not even let me speak to him while he chastises me that he does not remotely believe that I have pneumonia, as if I made this all up so I could … so I could … what … get antibiotics?  Get super-cough medicine?  But, he must treat it as such because that’s what the pictures say.

I have to be honest: I’m trusting the x-ray tech and the radiologist on this one.  I’m not sure Dr. Automaton could diagnose ear wax at this point.  I head out to the pharmacy, relieved to be away from the creepy place.  A couple of more people have wandered in to be treated for various things, but I am over and done in one hour flat.

Of course, my daughter the nurse asks if I got a note to be out of work.  Uh.  Shit.  Um … no.  But I should be okay as long as I don’t get sick from the medication.  We have state testing this week, so I really should make an attempt.  Truth is I just wanted to get the hell out of that place as fast as I could.

Besides, it’s just a little tiny bit of double pneumonia.  You know, two spots about the size of nipples.