TWELVE ITEMS

Shopping in the parallel universe today!

I need to stop into the store for about five minutes, for a total of eight items.  I feel confident that my loot will lead to a quick get-away. I can wait in the express aisle with my fewer than twelve items!  Woohoo!!!

The only problem is the woman in front of me.  She already has four bags full of groceries (clearly more than a dozen items).  What she is doing in the express check-out line is a mystery (and a bit of an itch), so I am forced to wait in the regular check-out line, along with other shoppers avoiding the over-the limit woman, in the line with the slow cashier.  Maybe I'll get out sooner than the now-slower line, which is supposed to be the express line.

Before I make my final decision on a line, my blood starts to boil.  The lady in the express check-out keeps going back into the store aisles to add more stuff to the conveyor belt.  I blame her for being a numbers-challenged moron, but I also blame the express cashier who started ringing her full grocery cart in the first place.


This is one of life's everyday conundrums that will never be solved.  As I stand there with my eight items, waiting and waiting and waiting, it pisses me off.  It's not rocker science, folks; then again, maybe it is.  Boooo.

HUNTER AS HUNTED

I know plenty of people who hunt.  They're awesome people, and they're pretty decent sportsmen (and women) and people in general. 

They eat what they kill, they only hunt in designated areas, they only take what they are legally allowed to take from nature, and they do not hunt simply to put trophies on their walls. I also know plenty of former hunters who now choose to shoot animals with cameras rather than crossbows or guns.  That's fine, too.

Here's what I don't know.  I don't know how or why anyone could claim not to know he is tricking a reserve animal out of a restricted, protected area and into an open-season area.  All my hunter friends can read both signs and maps.  I don't personally know anyone who hunts just to see an animal dead, maybe stick its head on a wall or put its pelt on the floor.  I don't know any hunters who would bribe crooked guides with $55k to kill a country's pet lion. Furthermore, no hunter whom I know personally has ever poached black bears and lied to the police and game wardens about it.  No hunter whom I know personally has ever sexually harassed a female employee nor remarked to her directly about her genitalia.

This dentist/hunter whose life is imploding is getting exactly what he deserves after killing Cecil, the beloved African lion.  His practice is closed, his address has been published online, and his face is being broadcast everywhere.  His Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram accounts have been closed.  From all anecdotal accounts, they guy is a fucking dick turd in his day to day life. 

Now he is presumably hiding out, being hunted and stalked like the animal he murdered. 

That's right - murdered.  This is not hunting.  This is not even any kind of sport.  Karma is a bitch, Doctor, and right now that bitch bites like a lion.  Keep running, sir.  There may be some human (or animal) guide willing to lure you out and treat you with the same mercy you showed Cecil.

God speed.  Bastard.

SURPRISED BY PEOPLE DAY

Today is Get Surprised By People Day.  Well, not officially, but for me it is.

First of all, it’s hot as the blazes of Hell outside partly because of the temperature but mostly due to the humidity.  I decide to go for a walk/jog, but I’m sticking close to home.  There’s no way I’m going to make three miles today.  I live in the middle of a giant circle that goes uphill by one church then downhill by another.  Once I’ve passed both cemeteries, I’m home.  This continuous loop keeps me going for about forty minutes, and I pop into my driveway after each circuit of walking uphill/jogging downhill so I can suck down some water.

I keep passing the same scenery and maneuvering around the same trash cans and parading past the same construction workers two houses away.  On one of my passes, a neighbor and his son are outside watering plants.  I am laboring a little, so I don’t have the breath to say hello, but I do nod at them.  This is when I get surprise number one.  Inside the large front window is a little girl staring at me as I pass.  I grin at her and keep going. 

The second person to surprise me is my youngest.  He is supposed to be working two jobs today and going straight from one to the other.  Unfortunately for him, he forgot some lacrosse equipment he needs for his evening job.  Fortunately for him, his supervisor allows him to leave early so he can shoot home and grab his gear.  Surprise!  I am just about to throw together some dinner, and now I have someone to eat with because he is home (momentarily). 

The third surprise comes when I decide to bake son’s birthday cake.  Tomorrow is his birthday, and again he is working double shifts at two different jobs at diametrically opposed points on the map.  I figure I’ll go shopping to get the cake mix and frosting, so I ask my pal if she’s in the mood for a quick ride to the store.  She is prepping for a long cross-country car trip, so I figure there is no way I can convince her to join me, but she happily jumps in the car and rides along, surprising me with good company and some hearty laughs.

The fourth surprise occurs while I’m in line at the grocery store.  One of my coworkers is standing right next to me to get my attention.  I really like this coworker – plus, her kitchen has a magic drawer that’s full of all kinds of tea.  Surprise!

The last surprise happens after I get home and have baked and decorated the cake.  My daughter texts me to say she’s available for an evening celebration for her brother’s birthday.  This is awesome because now we can meet him somewhere in between his jobs and take him to dinner, making this more of a party than a stop in between careers.

It may not be for you (or for anyone else, for that matter), but today for me really is Get Surprised By People Day.  It’s almost midnight, folks; there’s still time to get in on the surprise.

(P.S. Best surprise -- Son's second job is cancelled so he will be available all evening for dinner and cake and partying!)

BROUHAHA - HYBRID EVENING

All this brouhaha over the owner of a Maine diner yelling at a screaming kid.  You want to know what?  Rude kids are everywhere.  Rude people are everywhere.  Disturbing sights are the hybrid of this dilemma.

Take tonight, for example.

My friend invites me out to dinner with her friend/sister-in-law.  The three of us are teachers at different grade levels (elementary, middle, and high school) in different towns/cities.  The restaurant is practically empty when we arrive, so we get a table quickly.

Maybe too quickly.  We forget the caveat of “Not anywhere near children.”

Before you go booing me, you should know that I generally like kids, which is good since I’m with them all bloody day long, day in and day out.  Since I am with kids all bloody day long, day in and day out, I sometimes like to have a little break from them when I am out at a restaurant. 

Once we are seated in a booth, families quickly surround us.  Toddlers, elementary school kids, middle school-ers, and their parents stream in from every possible side.  I almost ask to be moved.  I can feel myself getting twitchy.  Look, people, I SWEAR.  Do you understand?  When I am on my own time, I have a foul mouth and I swear like a drunken sailor on a week-long bender.  Being away from your children is probably the greatest gift I can give to you and your loved ones.  I attempt to stop the hostess but hesitate.

Seriously. 

It’s dinner.  How bad can it be?  After all, the kids haven’t made much noise, not even the toddler in the booth kitty-corner to where we are sitting.  This can’t be that bad, right?  And, to be truthful, it isn’t that bad.

Until.

(There is always an “until” in stories such as this.)

Until the twelve-(or so)-year-old boy in the booth next to us stands up in the aisle, reaches his hands down, and grabs his penis through his nylon shorts.

Say … dude … really?

I quickly avert my eyes because as a teacher and parent and woman and human being, there simply are some things I don’t need to see, and a kid publically adjusting himself without benefit of a sports uniform is downright disturbing to me.  But -- (If there is an “until,” there should probably be a “but”) – But, it is not a screaming child.  Okay, okay, go ahead and boo me.  I don’t believe children should scream, screech, or throw tantrums inside restaurants or other public venues if there is an adult available (preferably their own adult) to remove the child from the premises. 

Other than the crotch-grab, dinner is uneventful, which is highly unusual for me since weird shit happens to me pretty much 24/7.  Must be a hybrid evening: kind of strange and kind of entertaining in a PG-13 way.

LOGAN'S RUN

It’s airport weekend for me!

Saturday I spend the entire morning carting my bro to Beverly airport and back so he can get re-certified with his pilot’s license.  The cloud cover makes it impossible for me to watch the flight training as my brother and his instructor take the Piper up through a break and into the sunny skies above.  I go shopping, instead, so it’s win-win for us both.

Sunday I pick up some pals who are flying back from England.  The plan is to go into Logan Airport and do a drive-by on the upper ramp where the departures are to avoid the arrivals crowd below at terminal E.  This plan would be flawless except that I have not driven to the airport in decades.  The last time I went to Logan, I was a disinterested passenger, and we arrived via route 16 (which is easy).  This time, I’m behind the wheel and coming in from I-93.

Oh, sure, there are signs everywhere (without much warning), but the traffic is flying through the airport ramps, and I’m panicking because I know if I screw this up, I am doomed to go back and forth through the toll booth like Slim Pickens and his cowboys in Blazing Saddles, and I do not have a shitload of dimes with me today. 

I accidentally and luckily find Lot #1, which apparently is the lot for the international terminal.  I jaw for a few minutes with the attendant, who assures me that I am in the right location but apologizes because no matter how long I will be here, the minimum charge for the lot is for two hours ($14).  My plan is to sit in the cell phone lot until my pals text me, but I cannot find the damn cell phone lot.  I decide that my sanity is worth $14, so I pull into the lot.

I park in a pull-through spot directly at the crosswalk and the main door #E106.  I collect my book, my notebook, my water, my pocketbook, and my keys.  I figure it will take me at least fifteen minutes to figure out where I am.  Lord knows nothing I do is ever easy, so I’ve no reason to expect this adventure will be, either.

I walk the few steps from my car to the doors and come across an information desk.  “I hate to sound stupid,” I say, “but I’m looking for an international arrival.”  I tell him the airline, which I know has just landed, and he assures me that I am in the right place.  I am standing mere feet from where all the international flight passengers will spill into the terminal area.  I turn and look back out the door across the street to my car in the lot. 

Bingo.

Honestly, this all seems too easy. 

My friends text me that they have disembarked from the plane.  I text back saying I am in the waiting area.  “Get ready for a big hug from us,” they text back.  This is funny since none of us could be considered warm nor fuzzy.  I smile at the people I see who really are giving and receiving greetings hugs.  So not happening, I chuckle, knowing my buddies are enjoying the same joke.

I know it will be at least an hour to move my friends through customs, so I find a nice, empty, quiet spot amongst the ample seating area which, for some strange reason, does not have a single seat facing the doors to where the passengers will spill out.  Every seat faces the street in an attempt, I assume, to make arriving passengers able to see rides and shuttles.  No matter.  It beats the registry where people have to sit in each other’s laps for space.

Anyone who knows me also knows that I am flypaper for freaks.  No sooner do I get comfortable with my book when a woman and her child roll their luggage practically over my feet and sit right next to me.  (You know the people: you’re all alone in a movie theater when in walks one person and that person sits in the adjacent seat.)  She is speaking a European language I don’t totally recognize.  Her child companion gets up and starts running full tilt through the terminal.  She whips out her phone and very loudly starts pressing buttons. 

BOOOOPEEEE BOOOOOP BOOOOPEEEEEEE BOOOOP BOOOOOOOOOP!!!!!

Truly?  You just have to sit next to me and do this?  I am in no fucking mood for this, so I shoot her a disgusted side glance, shake my head, then get up and move back two rows to another completely unoccupied set of seats.  The moment she gets up to chase the kid, a group of newly arrived passengers takes over the row and her seat (not like the rest of the waiting area is full or anything), rolling her luggage aside.

I discover that I am sitting very close to a moving sculpture that is encased in plexi-glass.  Suddenly, a guy leans back, back, back, bending right over my head to take a picture of the machine with his full-size camera, as if moving to a better location or another angle isn’t nearly as great a view as a shot from right where my face is.

Another friend starts texting me to see what I am doing.  I text her back and tell her my tales of being freak flypaper, for she has had her share of flypaper experiences, as well.  She texts me back something that I find hilarious, so I start giggling.  Giggles become belly laughs, and soon my entourage of strangers moves far away from me.  No one wants to sit near the crazy lady who is amusing herself with her phone.

Aha!  I have finally discovered the secret to sitting by myself!  Victory!

I will say that the music here is boss, everything from Louis Armstrong to Luke Bryan and anything at all in between.  Every time an announcement is made, I feel depressed that the music has stopped if even for a few moments.  It doesn’t help that I cannot understand a damn word any of the announcers spews.  I am not gifted in languages, so to me it’s all gobbly-gooky-mumbo-jumbo, which just adds to the crazy cacophony of the airport.

Much as I complain about people attaching themselves to my personal space, I admit this place is fantastic for people-watching.  I’m liking it better than North Station – less hobos and more movement.  For all the people sitting on the benches waiting for trains at The Garden, there are just as many people here who are all wound up and running loose after being cooped up on their long international flights.  This place truly is a trip.  Hahahaha, a trip, get it?

My friends arrive, and we do the fake hug thing.  To everyone around us, we look like one happy little crowd, but we laugh at the awkwardness of it all.  It’s almost like they really are family; my own siblings and I have mastered the art of the air hug, so anyone who can do the same is revered in our circle.

I prepay my parking pass, fully expecting the required two-hour minimum, but I am only charged $6.  I am nervous going through the gate that I will get bagged for the rest of the money.  I mean, I did agree to the two-hour $14 minimum when I parked there.   No alarms go off, and, after a heart-stopping few long moments, the gate opens and we’re off.

Two airports in two days is about all I can tolerate, but someday I might spend the day working my way around the airport until I have mastered the place.  It seems like it should be easy enough, and there is plenty of fodder here.  Besides, I still need to figure out where that damn cell phone lot is located.

SNAPPED WIRE

My neighbor is moving.  This makes me sad because, even though she lives in the front house (bottom floor), she shares my driveway. 

She parks in a way that is convenient for me to move cars in and out of the driveway without even having to rearrange vehicles and do the whole back-out-into-the-street routine; I can just drive over into her side and swerve back (or my son can) to manage two cars on my side to the one on hers.

She also shovels and survived the 100+ inches of snow we got this year.  She was quite cheerful about this last winter, but I’m sure that being from Virginia, this totally sucked for her. “Welcome to New England and the great continuous blizzard!”  Worst of all, the landlord’s snowblower broke trying to do her side after clearing out mine.  Even though we had to do some mad shoveling, it was late spring before she saw the upper half of her side of the collective driveway.

She’s quiet, too.  I don’t think I ever heard her throwing a party, and her infrequent guests never keep the neighborhood up late at night. 

Today, though, her move makes me sad for a different reason.

I arrive home just as the moving guys are ready to fly the coop.  As I get out of my car, they are readying to close the back truck doors when my passenger notices there is a wire down.  The idiot moving truck has ripped a wire out of the pole that connects to my townhouse.  The wire, hanging off my house, snakes along my walkway, over the small patch of grass, and out along the driveway into the street.

This sucks for multiple reasons, the first being it could my power or, worse, my internet.  Turns out my half of the house is okay.  This also connect to the townhouse next door.  I don’t know if everything is on over there, but the wire is completely snapped, and the moving dudes do not appear any worse for the wear, so it’s obviously not a live wire.  It’s probably my old Verizon landline.

But still.  These guys aren’t going anywhere.  I immediately call the landlady, who is in no mood to deal with these numbskulls.  After a few exchanges from me, I leave her to yell at the guys and try and reach their supervisor. (An advantage to renting, for sure.)

Later I go out and put some duct tape on the wire, which snakes for yards and yards and yards, up against my side of the house where it is hanging down in front of my living room windows.  It’s supposed to be stormy for the next few days.  I’ll be damned if that frigging loose wire is going to be flapping against my house and keeping me awake at night.

Hopefully, someone will actually fix this and not leave it hanging around being a disgusting eyesore and generally pissing me off.  I hate being pissed off.  I’m sad enough about the neighbor moving, and now I’m aggravated that her move is causing me problems.

Oh, well.  I guess this is payback for shoveling snow onto her side of the driveway when it got too high to put anywhere else.  My bad.  (Smirk.)