TRIVIA NIGHT OUT

Tonight is trivia night - a fundraiser for Boston Children's Hospital.  We have a full table with two generations of players.  This turns out to be crucial in the music round.  Over the course of the evening, I know some of the answers and score big time when I know the answer to the television show for which John Laroquette won multiple Emmy awards (much as I would love it to be for Black Sheep Squadron, it is actually for Night Court).

I'm losing steam by the end of the game (it is Friday, after all), and I am thrilled when our team places third overall.  I'm also kicking myself for a few I couldn't remember (Bjorn Borg is stuck in my brain when the correct answer is Boris Becker, and I do not insist on goat when that is, in fact, the answer).  However, for rusty trivia players, we do all right.

One of the younger adults at our table wins a raffle prize.  Then, he wins another.  After a few other items are raffled off, he wins another prize, then another, and then another still.  People around us seem mildly annoyed, but they have just as much chance of winning as does our boy.  A couple of other people from our table win things.

We have a great time, answer enough questions to take third place, and raise money for charity --- $5,000+  I mean, seriously: It's for the children ... damnit.

I'M SUPPOSED TO

I'm supposed to be cleaning the house.
I'm supposed to be doing laundry.
I'm supposed to be paying bills.
I'm supposed to be correcting papers.
I'm supposed to be exercising.
I'm supposed to be posting grades.
I'm supposed to be compiling my evaluation portfolio.
I'm supposed to be prepping food for a fundraiser.
I'm supposed to be catching up on my sleep.
I'm supposed to be organizing my room.
I'm supposed to be answering emails.
I'm supposed to be prepping my classroom.
I'm supposed to be painting my nails.
I'm supposed to be drying my hair.
I'm supposed to be emptying the dishwasher.
I'm supposed to be updating my calendar.

I'm supposed to be enjoying being alive, so
I'm supposing the checklist above isn't getting done, and
I suppose I don't mind in the slightest.

SAVING THE DUSTY COMPUTER

Oh, my poor old computer.  The poor baby, all covered with dust and waiting to die. 

A few months ago, the Internet finally stopped working on it, and it had no memory left.  I realized that I needed more than CD's and DVD's to store all the stuff on there, so I finally went out and bought mega-thumb drives.

Then, I promptly ignored the whole thing.  Until this evening.

Once I cleared out all the giant dust tumbleweeds, I finally started breathing life back into the computer.  I took years and years and years of sports pictures and videos off the thing and transferred them all onto the thumb drive, a process that has taken (and still will take) hours of my time tonight.  I almost forgot to transfer the videos, too.  Good gravy, there are lacrosse videos on there from when my youngest was in eighth grade, which was ... nine years ago ... ???? 

Oh.  My.  God.  I am so ashamed of myself.  Poor, poor, poor dusty old computer.  No wonder it has to be resuscitated. 

It no longer connects to the Internet, so I delete everything pertaining to security and Google, and Firefox and anything else.  I am hopeful that I can renegotiate its compatibility with the printer, especially since I bought ink for it a while back.  If I can turn this ancient computer into a glorified word processor, I will be extremely happy ... especially since I just killed another computer recently. 

Okay, okay, so I'm no good with electronics.

Wait, though.  I recently got myself a new phone that, for some strange reason, will not download pictures or group texts or those weird sticker-thingees until they've all circled Neptune three times.  I finally did some detective work, discovered several possible solutions, and actually outsmarted the android phone.  A couple of times at work, I have even been able to solve technical issues with computers for me and for my teammates.

Well, I'll let you know if my technical luck has run out in about ... 46 minutes and 11 seconds ... when my download of all the videos, pictures, and documents will be done.  I have since regained a shitload of GB on my hard drive, and I haven't even begun with the stored music yet.

Wish me luck.  After all, I do have to get some sleep sometime.  I have to go to work tomorrow, so these files had better finish transferring in time for me to catch a few hours of shut-eye.  Until then, though, I will play Tech-Doc to my poor, dusty old ignored dinosaur of a computer partially because I'm truly fond of it, and partially because I already have four or five other computers in my basement just waiting to be recycled.  If I add one more, there may be a rising of the machines against me.

DUST BUNNIES AND OTHER CREATURES FROM THE DEN

This evening I tackle the second to last space in my house that needs to be done.

Months ago I started with my son's room (though, by now, you'd never know -- I mean, I love him and all, but still), then hit part of the basement, then back upstairs to the den and my room (about 80% done up there), then I came back downstairs.  I rearranged the entire living room, hated it, and within an hour put it all back the way it had been, for the most part. 

I also discovered that this house is wired really strangely and several of the rooms have multiple plugs on various walls that are all connected to the same switches.  Hard to believe after a dozen or so years that if I'd just moved some plugs around, I could've controlled my Christmas tree with the flick of a wrist.  Oh, well.  Live and learn.

Tonight, though, I face off with the computer corner of my den.  Why?  My son is rewiring the Internet.

Mind you, the internet on this particular (wired) computer has not worked in over a year, and I've sort of been ignoring the thing ever since.  I turned it on a few weeks ago to try and do some Word document work (because my laptop is older and doesn't have Word on it at all right now after a rebuild), but I could not get the damn printer to work, even though it was plugged into the wall and the switches were all in the correct positions.

All this sounds like excuses.  Well, true that.  But the end result is simple:  Dust Bunnies.  No, not really bunnies.  Dust Great Danes.

Once I start moving the furniture around, these giant gray beasts start attacking us like wayward tumbleweeds gone amok.  I don't think I've seen this much clumpy dust ever ... No, wait.  Scratch that.  I definitely saw this much and more when I cleaned out part of the basement.  Okay, I haven't seen this much dust in my main living space in forever.  I am deeply ashamed of myself.

I am also embarrassed to discover that the probable reason for the printer not working is because, even though the printer has been plugged into the wall and the USB cable has been connected to the tower, the part that plugs into the printer itself has not been completely inserted.

 Hmmmm, perhaps this is the problem, after all.  Perhaps I can get that old dinosaur working again.  Perhaps dust was clogging up the works!  Maybe ... maybe ....

Oh, look at the time!  What a shame.  I mean, really.  It's like a little after dinner time, and, well ... now that the irrationally large dust bunnies are gone, I'm starting to lose interest in this whole rearranging shit.  After all, the new Internet is all installed, this room is also about 80% done, there's a movie on television that I want to watch.  Oh, yes, and there's still the other side of the basement to de-clutter and organize eventually.

I believe it was the late Erma Bombeck who noted that no one ever gets to Heaven and says, "Gosh, I really wish I'd spent more time cleaning!"  Those dust bunnies aren't going anywhere, and, knowing how fast bunnies reproduce, they'll just be more of them again next week.

Now, if I can just find the remote in this mess.

DRESSING UP THE BARD

Have you ever wondered what English teachers do when they're stuck on hall monitor duty?  Sure, you have.  Admit it.

We play with magnetic Bards; that's what we do.

My co-worker went to the Currier Museum last week, as did I, and she also saw Shakespeare's First Folio, but, unlike cheapo me, she actually spent money at the museum shop.  She bought a play set of magnetic Shakespeare figures, something along the lines of Colorforms from our younger days.

As we are sitting in the atrium area at a round table, we spread the play-set across the tabletop and start dressing up our various Will figurines.  The high ceiling and wide-open space carry our laughter, and a couple of people wander over to see what we are doing.  One even joins in.

We dress up Will in street clothes, jester clothes, Elizabethan  ruff.  We add hats, glasses, masks, hoods, and shoes.  There is an extra Shakespeare head (black and white sketched), Yorick (skull), and Bottom (head of an ass).  I add a cap and a feather to Bottom and create my own Shakespearean version of Senor Ed the Ass-Hat.  We put bloody knives into Will's legs and chalices of mead in his hands.  We add the ass head, the arrow through the cranium, a wine glass, and we dub him Steve Dean Martin-Bottom.

Oh, sure.  We are supposed to be monitoring the halls, which we are, but we're having some creative fun while we do it.  Worse case, we end up statistics in some horrible news story.  If that happens, remember us fondly as the Shakespeare Colorform Jokers.  Feel free to steal these lines:

"That skull had a tongue in it and could sing once ... This same skull, sir, was Yorick's skull, the king's jester ... Alas, poor Yorick.  I knew him, Horatio: a fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy."

HAIKU FOR POST-BREAK TEACHERS

It's National Poetry Month.  Here are Haiku honoring the end of school break for our state.

Damn. April break is
Done.  We have to work today.
Monday: Shot to Hell.

How many more weeks
Until summer break arrives?
Ten weeks.  Far away!

People say teachers
Get vacations.  They are wrong:
We do not get paid.

So your kid needs more
Time off?  Prices better now?
Fuck you.  Get to school!

Yay! We have meetings
After teaching all damn day.
Useless waste of time.

The worst part of this:
On most days we like our jobs,
When we can teach kids.

TOWN TRAIL TURKEY TROT

April break ends, and, again, I get done only a fraction of what I'd planned.  My basement still sits half-cleared, my house is still in disarray, and I never once turned on my school laptop that I hauled all the way home.

I did, however, enjoy the beautiful weather.  I took several walks and discovered (much to my amazement and stupidity) a small pond perfect for winter ice skating within spitting distance of my neighborhood, where I have resided now for twenty-one years without ever knowing this gem existed.  Right now the pond is sitting quietly in the woods,  hosting occasional wildlife that lives in the small triangular few acres of woods abutted on all sides by houses and busy streets.

Today I take what will probably be my last April break trek.  The first half of my walk is almost always uphill, so I go up and around the west side of the prep school campus, cutting through one of its service roads rather than overtake the professor walking along in front of me.  Of course, I assume he is a professor from his clothing, slower pace, and the amount of paperwork he is cradling in his arms. 

Once I hit the main road again, it's a nice steady down-grade, so I start jogging.  I have terrible stamina lung-wise, but I make it about a quarter mile.  I think I will stop at the hydrant, but I keep going and round the corner to a street that doubles back the way I came.  I walk-jog along it, turn down another small hill,  and make my way toward the churches.  I can head down the tarred road and go home, which would be fine.  Or, I can make my way to the town-owned path through the woods that I finally explored earlier in the week.

My decision is made when a carload of teenagers drives by in a small car with NH plates and harasses me out the window.  When they make a second pass, I make my decision.  While they are presumably turning around (probably because I chucked them the bird and yelled, "Fuck you" on their second pass), I take off into the woods at a decent clip. 

As soon as I am certain my bright colored shirt cannot be seen from the street, I slow down to a regular jog.  When I get to the Frost Point (two paths diverge in a yellow wood, or some such), I turn right because this path goes by the little pond and comes out closer to my street.  I am jogging along at a decent pace, just about to the wooden bridge/path, when I suddenly see three turkeys -- two of them are huge with full plumage.

The last thing I want now is to be attacked in the middle of the woods by three pissed-off turkeys.  First of all, it will ruin the small remainder of my break, and secondly, I cannot even imagine my long-suffering embarrassment should I make the local papers: "Teacher attacked by turkeys on town trail..."  It's a goddamned alliterative nightmare.

I stop abruptly, back up carefully, then hightail it and run my ass off for about a hundred yards.  Instead of going completely back the way I came, I turn right again and hit the street about three hundred yards down from my originally intended exit point.  When I get to the other end of the trail via the street, the end where I wanted to come out, I walk back in toward the pond from the other side, hoping to get a photo of the turkeys, but they are no longer there.  I can hear them in the brush yards away, but they are no longer blocking the path.

I head back to the road and continue to my neighborhood.  As I spot the local kids playing on the other side of my fence, I sneak up and yell, "BOO!"  I figure if my heart rate has to go up on account of some turkeys, I might as well extend the favor to some unsuspecting eight-year-old kids whose break, like mine, is sadly over.

HOLY GRAIL #2

Sure, sure, sure; I told you yesterday that Nathaniel Hawthorne is the Holy Grail, but that's just for Early American local writing.  I prefer his writing to Alcott, Thorough, Longfellow, et al.  Besides, he's my birthday buddy.

But Thursday is the REAL Holy Grail.  The holiest of all holiest of Holy Grails.

Thursday is a day trip to the Currier Museum to see one of the 233 known surviving published copies of Shakespeare's First Folio of plays.  500 or so more copies are out there, either truly existing or already destroyed, but this one is close enough to practically touch. 

Okay, so it's not the Lindisfarne Gospels nor the only existing original written copy of Beowulf, but still.  I'm not planning a trip to the British Library anytime soon.  Besides, I don't even have to go find the First Folio; it practically finds me.

This is when we say, "Hurrah for friends!" because had it not been for two of the late Will's pals deciding to publish previously unpublished plays of his, we might have lost much of Shakespeare's greatest works.  Also, we say "Hurrah for friends!" because my pal drives up there so we can go see this masterpiece marvel of 1623 printing technology.

Of course the book, encased in thick, highly alarmed glass, is open to the "To be or not to be" soliloquy from Hamlet.  This, to me, is an amateur move, but there are so many plebeians coming to view it, the museum probably wanted something everyone would easily recognize.  I suspect that if I want to turn the pages, I'll have to do it virtually via the British Library's website (a brilliant technological move on their part for their extremely precious and valuable manuscripts).

Even though my friend and I are the first people into the museum, an older man muscles his way in front of us to see the First Folio.  This is the same man who, in a nearly empty parking lot, chose to park so close to my friend's car that we had to move to a different spot just to open the door.  As I wait impatiently behind the old gent, I notice two things: I cannot see past him and he smells.  No, really, he smells like he hasn't bathed in weeks nor used deodorant ever in his life.  I don't care, though.  Stinky Cheese Man is not going to drive me away from the Holy Grail of the Literary World. 

When it is finally my turn, I silently and carefully drool over the manuscript.  I can hardly believe my eyes that I am staring at a book that is nearly 400 years old and that is the hotly-contested center of the literary canon.  I wrap my head around the reality that the greatest of all literary thieves (Shakespeare built much of his magnificent plots around snippets of factual information) concocted so many brilliant and magnificent characters and dialogue.  His rhyming ability alone dizzies common sense.

Afterward, my friend and I mosey downstairs to see the terribly lame Shakespeare's Potions display, which we almost miss because it is tucked into a dead-end hallway on the way to the lower bathrooms.  If we didn't have to pee while we were closer to the main stairs than to the entrance, we would've missed it entirely.  There, though, is an enlarged version of Shakespeare's First Folio, a hands-on version that invites visitors to find their favorite passage.

Oh, so many.  So very, very many.

I flip the pages to Much Ado About Nothing, the first Shakespeare I ever encountered (Thank you, Sam Waterson, Kathleen Widdoes, the York Shakespeare Festival, and the marvels of modern television circa 1973) and find one of my favorite parts (made even more dear to me by the Branagh version twenty years after the York production).  "Here," I tell myself and my friend.  "I'll leave it here."

As Don Pedro would say, "By my troth, a good song."  And so, I leave thee.

Sigh no more, ladies, sigh nor more;
    Men were deceivers ever.
One foot in sea and one on shore,
    To one thing constant never.
        Then sigh not so,
        But let them go,
    And be you blithe and bonny;
Converting all your sounds of woe
    Into Hey nonny, nonny.

Sing no more ditties, sing no mo,
    Or dumps so dull and heavy;
The fraud of men was ever so,
    Since summer first was leavy.
        Then sigh not so, 
        But let them go,
    And be you blithe and bonny,
Converting all your sounds of woe
    Into Hey, nonny, nonny.

HOLY GRAIL #1

My sister's birthday is coming up, so we need to concoct an adventure.

In the last year or two, we've had some amazing highjinks that included Pennsylvania, New York, Maine, and beyond.  We've stumbled across bear scat while hiking a mountain, stayed in a hotel so close to a fireworks store that we feared an explosion if anyone near us lit a cigarette, visited a mansion that could be the Titanic's landlocked twin, woods-bombed on snowshoes through private property, and faced a very pissed-off river animal while kayaking.

Today's exciting adventure ends up being a trip to Salem, Massachusetts.  The first thing people think about when anyone mentions Salem is that crazy-ass mental people live here who sincerely believe they are witches and warlocks.  Newsflash!  The Salem Witch Trials were more about land grabbing and church snubbing than anything else.  There were no witches, and I say this as someone related to John Proctor and Susannah North Martin.  I've read transcribed notes from Martin's trial, and it's pure and malicious horseshit.  Nonetheless, Salem is nicknamed Witch City, and it's a real money-maker for the locals at all levels.

So, for the day, we pretend that we are tourists rather than people intimately connected to the history of the city and its surrounding towns, pretend that we don't live (or, in my sister's case, used to live) in one of the "other" witch towns involved in the 1692 debacle.  I pretend that I haven't spent more than a decade traveling in and out of this city while one of my kids and then, later, I earned college degrees here.  Nope, today we are just like every other camera-toting out-of-towner.

Today we are Birthday Bashers disguised as common tourists.

We have our routes mapped out, which each of us did separately, but this is how similar we are; like the time we went to Poughkeepsie and brought the same games along: two Yahtzee games, two decks of cards, and two Cribbage boards.  We have many things in common that we want to see, but we are starting at the Peabody Essex Museum.  There are many amazing exhibits here, and after seeing thousands of diverse pieces of art, I save the best for last.  I know my sister likes early American history, so the maritime exhibit, one of the permanent collections here, is the final stop.

This is where we see two masterpieces that catch our attention.  More so than glass sculptures and the Haida jewelry and the Asia in Amsterdam exhibition, we see a Norman Rockwell that we've never seen before ever, and we see the portrait of a young Nathaniel Hawthorne (one of my perennial favorites here).  Hawthorne, who shares my birthday (different years -- duh), looks pretty damn good in this portrait, handsome, maybe even a little hunky.

So starts our search for Hawthorne.

We go from the PEM to the Old Burying Point to find Hawthorne's warped relative, Judge Hathorne, the dude who contributed to the deaths of John Proctor and Susannah North Martin, et al.  Crossing Hawthorne Boulevard, we wave to the Hawthorne statue in the grassy median.  After a wrong turn by the Witch Museum, we find our way to the House of Seven Gables, where we discover a horrid, blatant spelling error in the huge timeline meant to educate visitors about Nathaniel's life.  Way to go, dumbasses!  Hawthorne must be rolling in his grave.

From there, we head over to the Custom House, the one where Hawthorne worked and the same one he made famous (or, if you hated the general prologue, as did I, the same one he made infamous) in The Scarlet Letter.  Unfortunately, the Custom House, like the candy shop across from the House of Seven Gables, is locked up tight and we cannot get inside to look around.  After wandering over to see the tall ship Friendship, we end up back on Hawthorne Boulevard.

What starts out as a random trip to Salem turns into an inadvertent quest for the Holy Grail -- Nathaniel Hawthorne.  Today's Holy Grail, anyway.  When we get back to my house, we have two PEM postcards of the Hawthorne portrait.  My sister makes one of them out to me, mentioning our excellent adventure and our mutual swooning over young Nathaniel.  I make hers a litany to her beauty and her birthday and sign it from Nathaniel, adding hearts around his name.

After all, it's almost her birthday, and what better way to celebrate than by connecting with a swoon-worthy young author who has been dead for nearly 152 years. 

HOW DOES ONE LOSE A FUTON?

How does one lose a futon?

Seriously.  This is my riddle for the day.

A few weeks ago, I ordered a full-sized futon online to be delivered to my house.  It matches the one I currently have, and is supposed to be a replacement for the uncomfy one that I put upstairs as a spare bed.  I know what you're thinking.  If it's not comfortable, why keep it for company?

I fix it!  I open that crappy futon right up, stuff batting into its cavernous spots, and I buy a brand new memory foam topper.  I throw clean sheets on it, a blanket, a freshly-washed thick comforter, top it with brand new pillows, and ... voila! ... guest room complete!

Then, I wait.  I schedule the new replacement futon delivery for Wednesday via an online link.  No futon on Wednesday.  The freight company calls.  They'll deliver it Thursday between noon and 4:00.  I tell them I'll leave a note and they can leave the freight right outside.  When I get home from work Thursday, no futon.  I call the freight company who says they'll call the driver and call me back.

No one calls me back after an hour.  So, I call them back with a little attitude. This time they tell me, "Oh, the driver has your paperwork, but the merchandise isn't on the truck."  I hem and haw about just sending it back, but I'm kind of digging the idea of having a real guest room, so I reschedule the delivery for Monday, the day of the Boston Marathon.  I'll stay home all day and wait for the delivery, even though I get invited into Boston to hang out at the Marathon finish line.

I wait and I wait.  I do some stuff around the house.  I sit outside (moderately dressed in case the delivery guy shows up) and sunburn my arms and neck waiting.  Finally, around 3:15, I call the freight company.

"Um ... we have your paperwork here, but we don't have your merchandise.  It's not on the truck and it's not in the warehouse.  Maybe it's on the loading dock..."

Apparently, it's not my lucky day.

This time, I'm not so nice.  As a matter of fact, I'm so not nice that I tell them to stop dicking me around.  They'll keep looking and call me back.  I mean, really.  Who the hell loses a damn full-sized futon?  It's a huge box.  I know this because I already had one delivered a few years ago.

In the meantime, I call the originator of my order, explain the situation, and decide to cancel the futon.  While we are on the phone, the customer service rep calls the freight company, and they give her the same story.  I'm sure they really DID lose it, but they should've fessed up to that days ago.  And how, in the chain of command from receipt to loading the truck to delivery did no one notice a MISSING GODDAMN FUTON?

By the time the freight company owner calls, it's all over but his crying.  Someone is going to have to pay for the futon, but it won't be me because I'm already having a refund processed.  I tell him about being dicked around, and he wants names of his employees who lied to me.  Dude, soooooo not my issue.  I tell him I don't remember any names, just some chick I talked to three times and a few guys, too, but no one has been honest with me from the start.

Oh, and by the way, I miss the Boston Marathon because of them, I make sure to add that in.

"Well, there's nothing I can do about that now."  And there it is.  Any sympathy I had for the freight company and the owner?  Gone in two seconds flat.

Later on when my son gets home, he helps me move the old futon back downstairs, and my den looks pretty much the same as it always has.  "Hey," I say to him, "how's the old foam topper on your bed?  Could you use a new one?"

"Sure," he says, testing out the new memory foam topper.  "Now, if only I had some new pillows..."

I throw him three almost-new guest pillows to pick from and he takes two.  Just like that, all of my guest room problems are solved and dissolved at the same time.  Thanks, freight company!  Turns out it's my lucky day after all.

TRAIL-WALKING

When I was a kid growing up in New Hampshire, we spent a lot of time in the woods -- walking through, running trails between houses, creating bike paths, sledding between trees, skating on the small bog, scaling boulders, climbing trees, and generally creating mayhem.  Except for the occasional bear, wolf, or beaver encounter, my life in the woods has been relatively uneventful.

Although I live in an urban part of suburbia, I'm still not far from the woods.  I drive through or around the perimeter of the state forest every day going to and coming home from work.  My town has protected trails all over the place.  Even though I live across the street from the train station, I'm also along the banks of a river that is completely shaded with trees.

Even the prep school up the street has protected woods.  Behind the track and playing fields are trails into the woods.  It also has a bird sanctuary, which is a partially fenced area full of forest trails and animals.  Sunday my daughter and I decide to take a walk and inadvertently end up in the bird sanctuary.  For a beautiful day, it's not very crowded.  We see a few families, some joggers, and a few lone hikers.

I am surprised by how many people come in here alone.  I'll admit there is the creep factor of someone jumping out from behind a tree and grabbing me, but that may be leftover fear from my younger days of living in the NH woods.  Still, there's the simple worry about tripping over a tree root or miss-stepping.  A rolled ankle out here in the woods can turn into an evening of hypothermia before anyone even notices that you're missing.

My daughter, who rolled her ankle badly a few months ago, admits that despite being a nurse, she's worried about re-injuring herself in the woods.  I tell her not to worry; I'll grab her a crutch-like stick and help her hobble out to safety.  She assures me that if her ankle hurts as badly as it did a few months ago, she's calling an ambulance to drag her out of the woods.

We trek along for a while, crossing an open field then ducking back into the cover of the early spring semi-foliage.  I laugh to myself walking through the woods because this is what it looked like in April 1775 when the British engaged the Colonists in Lexington and Concord.  There was no cover except the trunks of trees, semi-leafy mountain laurel, and the occasional stone wall.  New England doesn't have real foliage in April, yet every movie ever made about the battle shows the Americans hiding under cover of lush green leaves.

I call bullshit.

As I'm thinking about this, I see something ahead of us on the trail that makes me gasp a sharp intake of breath.  My daughter, who is wearing sunglasses and not her regular glasses, panics.  Last year there was a coyote attack in these woods, and I'm not helping when I stop abruptly and point.

"Three deer," I say.  "White-tailed, about fifty yards in front of us."

My daughter sighs.  "You know I can't see that far."

As quickly as I see them, they bound away.  I'm not sure where they're going because there's nothing up there except an open field, a cabin, and the street.  I lose sight of the deer for a few minutes then catch a glimpse of them skirting the open area and circling back around behind us, then they vanish.  I hope to take a picture of them, but all I get is a picture of the knotted bush where they are hiding, waiting us out as much as we are waiting them out.

Other than the deer, we don't see anything more exciting than a chipmunk.  Nobody falls or twists ankles or gets attacked by anything.  Even the spring bugs are not out yet.  We walk almost three uneventful miles, emerging back into the tar and car exhaust of urban suburbia.

TO BEE FRENZY, OR NOT TO BEE FRENZY -- THAT IS THE QUESTION

I have been trying to do some spring planting in a little area I have where my walkway comes up to my house.  Every spring I try to get creative, and every spring the bees drive me away.  They whip in and out of the holly bush at the space between the start of the brick path and the end of the driveway.

Today, though, I decide to put some beach rocks in the space.  Tomorrow I'll add the mini solar lights, too, but I forget to bring them outside, so today is just going to be rock day.  I need to see how many more rocks I need to complete the area.

I'm annoyed with the bees, and I cannot determine if they're inside the holly bush or creating hives inside the stone wall.  No matter.  I grab the two almost-empty canisters of wasp and hornet spray, and I spray the shit out of the bush and the rocks.

A couple of bees dive-bomb me.  One lands on my sweatshirt, so I spray that sucker right in its gumpy until it falls to the ground.  I've either killed it or made it completely Raid-drunk.

It doesn't seem to deter the bees too much, so I go over to the area, dump my rocks in anyway, and start spreading them out.  I'm only driven back twice by the bees, but I soldier on.  Yes, indeed, I will need more beach rocks.  Many, many more beach rocks.

As I stand back and admire my semi-handiwork, pleased that I have not been stung nor swarmed, I notice movement over the fence.  It looks like flying dots.  It looks like ... it looks like ... it looks like ...

Sonofabitch.

The damn bees are not in the holly bush.  Well, I mean, they ARE in the holly bush, but it's only by default.  Hanging over the top of the fence from the neighbors' side to mine are several tall lilac bushes, just starting to work up to their spring blooms.  There are tons of bees swirling around and fighting for control over the damn lilac bushes.

Two now-fully-empty bottles of hornet spray later, I surrender.  I'm not going to bother getting the solar lights out today.  I'll wait until the bees aren't in their afternoon frenzy of sending me into a frenzy.

PATIO SEASON - PART 2

Saturday I set up the patio ... again.  I already set it up once this season when we had a string of beautiful, warm, sunny days a few weeks ago.  Then it snowed.  That totally sucked.  So, I packed everything back up along the side of the house and waited for spring to really arrive.

Sunday, spring seems to be here to stay. 

I spend some time outside sitting at the bistro table.  I read magazines, do a little laptop work, and sip a lot of pinot noir.  Just when I think the day is probably as good as it could be, I get an idea.  Yup, the patio is almost done, almost ready.  Just one more thing and then spring is complete.

I take a chance.  Yes, I move the grill back into its coveted spot and roll off the cover.  If I can get my son to help change over the gas canister (it's on too tightly), we might have BBQ#1 of the season under our belts.  The only problem is that my son is not here.  He has a sports commitment in the city.


Despite my youngest child's late dinner arrival from a field in Charlestown for a lacrosse game, I still manage to pull off a twilight barbecue dinner.  After a quick grill inspection to make sure no winter animals have taken up residence, we change over the empty gas for a full one, I scrub down the grill itself, and we make sure all systems are go.  With a turn of the handle and a flick of the red starter button, we have ignition.

It's just the two of us for dinner tonight, so the burgers are a bit bulky, somewhere between 1/3 and 1/2 pound of meat per burger.  It's the 93% stuff, so the burgers will stay pretty much the size I make them.  I throw in some seasoning: onion powder, garlic powder, salt, pepper, some Worcestershire sauce, and whatever else my hands grab out of the cabinet. 

As soon as the burgers hit the grill, the smell is amazing.  I have almost forgotten how great the smell is of seasoned burgers char-broiling on a grill.  Fifteen minutes later, everything is done, and the burgers are oozing out all over the hamburg buns.  My son grabs the cheese, which I have carelessly forgotten, out of the fridge and makes a cheeseburger for himself.  Then he makes a second one.  I am still slowly savoring my burger, taking time to eat the one I have in the time it takes him to eat two.

Spring?  Check.  Patio?  Check.  Grill?  Check.  Barbecue #1 of the season?  CHECK.

IT'S PATIO SEASON ... RIGHT?

I sure hope winter is over.

I put out the palm tree plant, so frosts had better be behind us, and by "put out the palm tree," I mean that I drag the container up the stairs and to the patio.

I set up the patio furniture with the intention of finally getting rid of leftover leftovers, but all of the furniture survived the winter with minimal damage.  I rearrange chairs and such on the concrete slab, determined that things will stay where there are but knowing full-well that spring is fickle and winds will blow chairs from their perfect spots.

I roll the grill into place.  It needs gas, but that's okay.  I have a canister; I just haven't changed it yet. I wash down the leaf-stained chairs, dry them off, then take turns sitting in each spot.

Come on, Spring.  We have faith in you, and now our patios have faith in you, too.  Don't let us down!

PEA SOUP PLEASANTRIES

It's the most wonderful time of the year! It's post-Easter, and you know what that means?

I know what it used to mean.  It used to mean that Easter candy was on sale, usually 50% off.  It used to mean stockpiling Cadbury Cream Eggs and grabbing myself a solid white chocolate bunny.

Now, though, it means pea soup.  Yes, pea soup!

One of my teammates makes pea soup every time she gets a ham bone from dinner.   Easter, the ultimate ham dinner day, has just passed, and I am hopeful there will be pea soup in my future. It's not the Most Important Chatter of the day, but I'd be lying if I said, "Oh, it's not on my mind even a smidgen."

Just when I'd forgotten about the ham bone, like the sun coming out after days of rain, without pomp, my teammate hands me a brown paper lunch bag.  She smiles a giant grin, a grin bigger than Easter,

"We had ham," she says to me, and I know.

OVER-MEDITATING

One of the side affects from meditating is being so relaxed that I doze off sitting up while trying to watch television.  It's not late, and I'm not exceptionally tired.  But, oh boy, am I ever relaxed.

After seven weeks of stress (starting with a car accident when someone ran a stop sign), I have a chance to take an hour-long meditation session led by a friend.  When I had a grad school professor who required meditating, I resisted.  After all, I was a busy grad student trying to finish a degree and write a thesis.  Relax?  What nonsense.  I had things to do!

Now, though, I see the value of slowing down every now and then.  Besides, I can support a friend and recharge my inner batteries all at the same time.  I may have recharged just a bit too much this time.  The moment I sit still to watch television, I nod off.  Then I rouse and rally ... then I'm out again.  This cycle repeats probably five times.  I force myself to stay awake through the end of the show.

I mean, no way am I going to bed at 9:00 p.m., relaxed or not.

Okay, yes, yes I am.  It's a side affect of meditating.  That's my story, anyway.

POPCORN FRENZY

This evening's snack obsession is brought to you by my daughter.

She has me hooked on pre-popped popcorn.  Gone is the need to microwave theater-style kernels, pre-seasoned with enough imitation "butter" as to clog all of my arteries instantly.  Instead, I'm eating some kind of "smart" corn, apparently meaning that I am super-smart to be eating it.

Then, and this is where my daughter's influence really comes in, I top the pre-popped popcorn with a butter-like spray and nuke it for about fifteen seconds.  "Salt it lightly," she tells me.

Oh, please.  This is her mother she's talking to.  I upend that bad-boy salt shaker and give myself instant arteriosclerosis. After polishing off one bowl like this, I make a second bowl because ... well ... it's addicting.

I blame my daughter.  She is a bad influence on me.

RECYCLING FOR CHARITY

Every other week my recycling goes to the curb.  Yup, I'll admit it: I put my regular bottle and can recycling into the bins. It's not that I am too lazy to return the recyclables to the store.  I mean, I'm at the grocery and/or liquor stores several times a week.

I discovered a couple of years ago that a slight man on a bicycle peruses through the recycle bins when we put them out every other Tuesday.  He shows up at first light, which is around 6:30 a.m. currently and about an hour earlier when the summer comes.  I put out the recycling the night before so it will be curbside when he comes around.

This morning as I bring the trash bag to the sidewalk, I call down the street to him, letting him know that I have a lot of salvageable cans and bottles for him.  He waves back to me.  I'm not certain he speaks English.  I see this week that he has brought a young girl with him, a daughter or granddaughter, perhaps.  They are both wearing fluorescent safety vests.  This relieves me.  I know they will be visible on the streets with these vests.

I do not know if my recyclables yield them any treasures because I leave for work while they are still canvassing my street, and the bins are empty from the truck collection by the time I get home.  I hope my small contribution helps him.  I know it helps me.  Sure, I could return those bottles and cans, but truthfully I do not want to.  I have no place to store them until I have enough worth returning, and I consider it a small but honest donation to someone who hopefully appreciates it.

SPRING RAMBLINGS

I hate Spring.
All these ridiculous pot holes in the streets.
Today one swallows my car, front-end and all.
It is a crater roughly the size of New Jersey.
I swear and yell and point out the windshield while berating myself,
"Don't come this way anymore! 
What the hell is wrong with you coming this way?
Jesuschrist.
Don't drive on this end of Salem Street ever again.
Idiot."

I know that I will, indeed, drive this way again.
Probably tomorrow.
I have a short attention span,
And I have a bad habit of forgetting important shit,
Especially first thing in the morning.
I worry about beating the school buses around corners.
Getting stuck behind a school bus can be a lesson in domestic torture tactics.
Buses stop every six feet to pick up children.
It is necessary, true,
But it is also fucking annoying.

Thankfully, my front tire is intact.
I do not seem to have ruined the repairs from my car being t-boned weeks ago.
I drive through a couple of pot holes on the way home --
They are impossible to avoid in Spring --
Even though it is a different route.
These tar-monsters are more the size of Delaware and Rhode Island.
Still, though, it ticks me off.
I calculate a different way to work for tomorrow.
It is an easy task:
There are probably ten ways to get to my job.

One way takes me down the main drag,
Two lanes of crazy driving broken by drivers holding up traffic taking lefts into
Dunkins or Starbucks or Heavenly Donuts.
I could turn at the Chinese restaurant.
Sometimes I go through the swampy back roads with the mega-pot holes.
Sometimes I drive past the back side of the pond and check out the sunrise across the water.
Once in a while I take the winding tarred path through the state forest,
Between two ponds,
My favorite pond where I kayak on sunny days.
There are no pot holes on the water.

Spring.
It makes me impatient for summer.
It's like a long and arduous pot hole between bone-chill and beach.
Fraught with bad weather and collapsing roads,
Warm days suffocated by wind-chills strong enough to peel paint off of houses;
Sudden snow squalls that remind us who controls reality;
A love-hate relationship with the season.
I love the lengthening daylight and I hate the constant changing of weather.
I'm ready for warmth and sandals.
Spring - I hate you, I love you, now hurry up.

HOW THE HYDRANT TOTALLY TICKED ME OFF AND RUINED A LOAD OF LAUNDRY

I really, really, really wish the town would let people know when they're going to drain a hydrant.  Saturday, for no damn good reason, the town decides to open the hydrant right across the street from my house.  More than 24 hours later, that damn thing is still pumping water into the street.

I mean, seriously.  Isn't this somewhat wasteful?

Oh, yes, and the water is crystal clear.  NOW.  But, before now ...

My daughter drops by to do some laundry at my house.  No problem, I assure her, pop in the clothes, and forget about them.  I transfer them to the dryer, still none the wiser.  Until ...

Until I try and brush my teeth.

The water is so rusty and brown that it actually smells metallic.  The last time this happened, my hot water heater went from all the rust in the town water.  Hahahaha, no worries this time, right?  Of course, I have a mouth full of toothpaste.  What to do?  I grab the fluoride rinse and use that as makeshift water, rinse my mouth out, and head to the kitchen.

I'd better write a note, I think, so the kiddos don't try to drink or cook with the rusty shit pouring out of the faucets and staining the porcelain toilet bowl.  Halfway through posting the note near the door so people will see it, I get a horrifying realization.

My ... daughter's ... laundry.  Shit, shit, SHIT.

Of course, it is too late, just like the first time this happened to me decades ago and I ruined $120-worth of white judo gis.  Fucking town and their fucking shitty, rusty water!

Yes, I ruin four of her shirts and several socks.  I might be able to dye the shirts and at least salvage something for her, but by the time I figure out what's going on, everything has been through the hot cycle in the dryer, setting the nasty stains for all of eternity.

If only the town had sent a text or an email or something, but that would make too much sense.  Better to poison the waterhole and confuse Woody and Buzz. 

AN APP FOR THAT

I don't have many game apps on my cell phone, but I will admit to three:  Words with Friends, Hanging with Friends, and Solitaire.  I don't need many more than that -- maybe I'll add Sudoku and Crossword apps in the future, but right now, this is fine.

Anyone who has ever been stuck in a never-ending meeting knows how very important these apps are.  They are the silent (if you turn down your volume) saviors that prevent us from falling asleep.  Without these sleep prevention mechanisms, snoring might ensue, which is a sure-fire way to get canned.  I suppose this means that game apps are actually good for job security.

I have also found that these apps are good for insomnia.  No, not curing it -- causing it.  Sometimes I'll stay up way too late just to keep trying ways to solve the daily challenge game.  Oh, but the brain power I gain from the sleep I lose!  (I keep telling myself this.)

Truth is that I don't have many game apps on my phone because I'm really not that good at these games.  I had to stop playing Trivia Crack because I kept forgetting to play when it was my turn, so I would lose all the games.  Sometimes I look at Words or Hanging and see that I haven't made a move in two weeks. 

I'm getting a lot better about playing, not too often yet not too infrequently.  It's a challenge to balance it because, once I start playing, it's kind of fun to spar back and forth with my pals in Cyber Land.

So, here's to all my pals who are willing to play online games with me.  I may forget to play, but I don't forget the players, and, if I do, there's probably an app for that.

5K STATS

The results are finally in from that 5k that I walked/semi-jogged in the snow on Sunday. Considering that I cannot run anymore (as if I ever could), I did all right for an old lady in the snow.  I may not run as fast as the troops, but I "ran" For the Troops, and that's what matters.

Overall, I came in around the 77% mark, which means that I finished ahead of 23% of the other participants.  This is not so important from a statistical view as it is from a geographical point of view.  I walked a 5k in Kennebunk in 13-degree weather two years ago and got lost because they took the course down before I was done.  I mean, jeez, I got in under an hour.  I guess they roll the streets up super-early there... and I must've been dead-last.

For this race, I averaged a little over 14 minutes per mile, which is pretty good at a walking/sort-of jogging pace.  This put me in the top 71% of all females running, which means that I managed to out-walk 29% of the women who raced. 

In my gender age group I did even better.  I came in just under the 60% mark of women my age, which means 40+% of women like me were actually behind me.  Part of this remarkable feat is because I didn't want to get left behind, but the main reason that I wanted to get 'er done is because somewhere around mile #2 I was starting to think about potties.

No matter.  I finished the race, I enjoyed it, and I'll probably do it again next year.  Best of all, I got an awesome shirt that I can wear with pride because I truly earned it.

A NIGHT OFF ... OR NOT

I love my kids, I really do, but having a night off is a wonderful thing.  Why?  Because I can eat whatever and whenever I want without worrying about eating all the dinner before anyone else arrives home suffering from hunger pangs.  I throw a bunch of fresh veggies into a fry pan, add wine, teriyaki sauce, Worcestershire sauce, garlic, seasoning, and pre-cooked chicken.  I microwave a sweet potato for fun, pour a glass of wine, and set myself up at the head of the table.

The head of the table is usually the seat reserved for my son.  There is no particular significance to this seating arrangement except that it has the best view of the small kitchen television set.  I know some people think having a TV in the kitchen is sacrilege, but I grew up with a television in the kitchen.  We used to watch the news every morning with breakfast.  I hold fond memories of Don Kent fudging up the weather report and the constant commercial interruptions that claimed, "I'm Ernie Boch ... Come on down!" or sang the jingle for Manchester Coal and Oil.

Kids today don't know how good they have it when it comes to school cancellations, either.  We used to have to wait for cancellations to scroll across the bottom of the screen, and even God couldn't help you if you turned away at the wrong second and missed your part of the alphabet.  Nowadays, cancellations are scrolled, called in to cells, posted online, and often decided the night before, so today's kids don't even have to wake at the crack of dawn to see if they go to school or back to bed.

Of course, I still watch the news in the morning, but our evening kitchen television watching usually includes the Game Show Network or sports television.  Occasionally, I get my hands on the remote and we get to watch HGTV, although that channel is way-lame now that Scott McGillvray and "Income Property" have moved to a pay-cable station.

Dinner tonight goes with the Boston College vs. Quinnipiac Frozen Four NCAA hockey.  It's me, the telly, a fantastic hodgepodge stir-fry, and a quiet house.  It's a wonderfully serene night, to be sure, but, to be completely honest, I kind of miss having company at the table.  There's no laughing over stupid game show humor, no guessing which house the couples will choose, no barking back at sports analysts, and no one to cheer with when our team scores.

If only I could train my zucchini noodles to talk back, I might have an ideal meal.  Yup, a night off is a wonderful thing, but I'm looking forward to seeing my kiddos again soon.  Television can be an entertaining companion, but it's hard to poke fun of the programming without a flesh-and-bones sidekick at the table.

SOFT TACO FAILURE

Sometimes I think I can't cook.  I convince myself that my cooking is mediocre at best.  I fall into the trap of thinking that there has to be a better way, one that the masses use, a way that is sure-fire error-free.

This is when I fall into the "Soft Taco Kit" trap.

Usually when I make soft tacos (or, as I call them, plain old tortillas), I fry up some high-grade ground beef, cut up all kinds of veggies, then put out salsa, ranch dressing, cheese, and sometimes even sour cream.  I get the large flour tacos (or burritos -- or tortillas -- whichever), and we load those babies to the max.

Suddenly, standing in the Mexican food aisle of Market Basket, I'm feeling like there's something missing.  I mean, look at how great the soft tacos on the kit box appear!  So appetizing!  So appealing! I dodge my usual bag of soft flour shells and opt for a box of "everything included."

Just so you know, "everything included" means taco shells, a bag of wimpy sauce, and a packet of chili powder.  I didn't expect vegetables, but I expected ... I don't know ... freeze-dried tomatoes or something to add substance to the meat mixture.  I dig deep into the fridge.  I have half a yellow pepper and some leftover scallions.  That's it.  No lettuce and no tomatoes.  Oh, well.  I have the chili powder, right?

Once the meat mixture is all ready, I add some of my own chunky salsa to it to give it some texture.  Then I open up the large package of soft tacos.  Should be great, right?

Wrong.  Whoever packed the soft tacos must work in a potato chip factory because the packaging is 90% air.  I take out the "soft tacos" and discover what look like flat little circles of white dough about the size of my palm, and let me assure you, I have really small hands.  My ring finger is a 4.5 and my wrist is so small that I have to wear kid-sized bracelets.  If my son and I intend to make dinner out of these miniature tacos, we're going to have to eat about twelve of them.  Unfortunately, there are only ten per box.

I stuff my soft tacos with cheese and yellow pepper, then I crack open a beer.  I figure the beer bubbles will help fill my stomach, at least until I burp.  The good thing, though, is that the seasoning mix (a.k.a. chili powder packet) isn't so bad, especially when coupled with the salsa I also poured into the fry pan.  Dinner is edible.  It is also over in about a millisecond.

Note to self:  Next time do not be tempted by the "all-in-one kit."  When it comes to good tacos, burritos, or tortillas, homemade is still best-made, and I shouldn't doubt my ability to fry up a pound of hamburg and throw in some extras. 

IN A TWIST OVER A CAP

I have been moving furniture all over my house.  I am a reasonably strong person, and have no problem moving most of the stuff myself.  Oh, sure, sometimes I have to use my butt and feet to scoot furniture along the rugs, but I don't care.  I'm getting it done.

It has been a long time since I rearranged furniture.  The rooms in my 150+-year-old townhouse are tiny, and the heat comes out of grates on the floor, both factors that limit my creativity.  When I was a kid, I rearranged my room all the time, so I mastered the fine art of disassembling things or removing drawers to make it possible to wake up to a new room.  Ironically, I still have my childhood furniture.  The damn stuff is solid as rocks, so I've never been able to part with it.  Why should I?  It's perfectly sturdy.

So, if I am strong enough to move large pieces of furniture by myself (including a heavy-ass wooden bed frame), why the hell can I not open a damn beer?  Seriously, these are twist-off caps.  Children can open these bottles -- not that they should, but they are absolutely capable of unscrewing bottle caps. 

I could claim that I am tired from all the heavy lifting and dragging and pushing and rearranging.  That would be a lie.  For some reason that I cannot explain, I am too wimpy to twist off the cap.  It digs into my palm and scrapes skin from the base of my thumb, but it simply will not budge.

Yes, I admit it: I resort to using a bottle opener to release a screw-on bottle cap.  I want that beer; I need that beer; I earned that beer.  With a flick of my wrist and the aid of a carefully crafted piece of metal, the beer bubbles are free and I am a happy lady.

If I can just figure out how to open the small bottles of tonic water without having to saw the plastic cap off with a steak knife, then I might be onto something.

NOT-WHITE NISSAN SENTRA

While on my recent jaunt to North Carolina, I have the opportunity to rent a car from the airport for the very first time.  I've rented cars plenty of times at the car rental places, but, since I've never flown until now, I've never had reason to rent a car from the airport.

I make great plans ahead of time to rent a car from a company familiar to me, and I do this through the AAA website.  Everything goes along swimmingly until the car choice keeps reverting to a sub-compact.  No, I want a car about the size of a Corolla, something similar to the size I drive anyway.  When I change the car specs, the AAA site bumps me to a different rental company, which I do not notice until it is already booked.

This is the first mistake.

The line at the airport car rental counter is not that long.  Judging from the negative online reviews, I expected an hour's wait or more.  The wait is more like ten minutes.  When it's our turn at the counter, the woman says, "Okay, we've got you in a Chevy Spark!"

This is the second mistake.

The conversation inside of my head goes something like this:

ME:  "A Chevy Spark?  Do I look like a fucking tree-hugger?  I'm an old woman, for chrissakes.  I can't fold up like that anymore.  Give me a REAL damn car, for crimeny's sake."

The real conversation goes more like this:

ME:  "Spark?  Uh.  No.  That won't do."

FRIEND:  "It's okay.  I don't mind a Spark."

ME:  "I do.  It's too small, and I didn't reserve a sub-compact.  I should've gone with Enterprise."

The moment the word "Enterprise" leaves my lips, the competing company offers to put me in a bigger car for the same price.  She also tries to charge me $30 additional daily for insurance.  I tell her I purchased insurance through AAA, and she claims that doesn't count.  I politely but firmly instruct her to BITE ME.  After some finagling, the agent hands me a key and says, "Okay, you have a white Nissan Sentra.  The windows are down.  You can't miss it."

This is the third mistake.

My friend and I wander out to the garage, clutching the key to a white Nissan Sentra, only there aren't any white Nissan Sentras in the damn garage.  There are some white cars that are not  Nissans, and there are several silver cars, including a silver Nissan Sentra, but nothing matches the description.  I start smashing my finger into the clicker, and lights flash on the silver Sentra.  We use the remote to pop the trunk.

Oh, well.  It's not white, but the keys work.  I guess we're driving this puppy for the weekend.

As soon as we get to the hotel, I park as far away from others as possible.  After we check in and find our room, we head back to the car only to discover that a big-ass Jeep has parked next to us, and its door has swung open in the wind and hit the Sentra.  It leaves a little ding, but we pretend we don't see it, and, after touching it a few times, it's really not that noticeable.

Later we meet a gentleman in the parking lot while he is walking his dogs. After a brief chat, we ask him, "What color is that car over there?"

"Silver," he responds without skipping a beat.

Hmmmmmm.  "Just checking," we say, "because the agent told us it's white."  This is good to know because we are starting to think that maybe in North Carolina people have some color blindness issues (not that it's a bad thing -- we're just saying).

Surprisingly for us, there are only a few other interesting encounters, like the guy driving the big-ass truck who gets mad because we pull out in front of him when he is five hundred yards away then proceeds to make sure he cuts us off and prevents us from taking the ramp to the highway and the airport beyond.

All is fine until we arrive at the airport.  Somehow I miss Car Rental Road, and we have to go around.  Then, I go the wrong way and end up on another highway, which is fine except our cell phones lose the GPS signal, and we have to wing it.  We make it back to the airport and I find the rental garage on the second pass.  I am afraid to pull into the lot, though, as there are spikes in the ground.  My friend assures me that I can drive over them.

ME:  "I'm gonna pop the damn tires!"

FRIEND:  "No, really.  Drive over them.  They're facing the other way."

ME:  (In my mind, spikes are spikes, regardless of which direction they're facing.)  "I'm AFRAID!"

FRIEND:  (laughing) "Haven't you ever returned a car to the airport?!"

She knows I have not.  This is my first-ever plane trip, and it's the first time since the invention of the TSA that I've gotten near a gate or anything beyond, including the car rental company.  She is training me well, though, for my subsequent airport experiences.  I will know next time that car rental spikes are only meant to deter theft, not cause undue agida to poor old me (although this is a bonus, I suppose, for bystanders).

With all the strikes against me and the silver (not white) Sentra, it is a relief to hand the keys back over to the rental agent and get on a plane.  After all, now that I'm a seasoned flier (heading into my second trip...), these things don't bother me anymore.

SNOWY 5K

Today I have signed up for Run for the Troops 5k.

I can't run.  Sometimes I can jog a little bit, for short distances, anyway, although once I made it about 1.25 miles on tar.  I'm fine on a treadmill, but put me outside, and suddenly my legs are all, "What the hell are you doing to us, woman?"  So, when I say I am doing a 5k, I mean I mostly walk it and jog some.

Doesn't help much that Mother Nature takes a giant white dump on all of us this morning.  It's snowing, the sidewalks are ice-covered, and the wind gusts are so strong that my scarf almost blows away.  Even when I jog a little bit, I am taking my life into my hands (or, in this case, my feet) with the slush on the route.

During the last mile, there is a good deal of downhill roadway ahead.  I start chatting with a gentleman about my age.  He is doing much what I am: walk, jog, walk-walk, jog, walk some more, jog a little bit...  He admits, "I like to set a distance ahead of me and see if I can jog that far."

"Me, too," I say.  Then I tell him, "Hey, let's see if we can jog to that sign way up there!" 

Of course, the sign isn't that far away, but once we start jogging, it could be in frigging Timbuktu.  There are two signs to pass before we get to our target sign, and I huff and puff and complain, "I should've said THIS sign..." as we pass by sign #1.  We high-five each other when we make it to the third sign, and we pick up another walk-jogger along our way.  In the end, I can only jog a little bit toward the end of the course, but I finish.  That's the important thing.

Now when I wear that shirt again, I'll wear it with the pride and knowledge that I finished this 5k.  Seriously, if the troops can put themselves through harsh conditions to keep us safe, I can walk-jog through the snow for an hour, right?

WINE AND PALS

Wine Tasting Saturday strikes again.

This week, I drag my daughter and three of her friends with me to the wine tasting.  When we get to the tasting, there are two tables going, so we head over to Table #1 to start with some whites.  I attempt to taste the chardonnays out of order, but the wine steward balks at my faux pas, assuring me that I need to taste the un-oaked before the oaked.  This is probably true, but my thought is to maintain my palate for the chardonnay I know I will like better than the one I know I will not like as much.

My daughter and her friends don't particularly care what order the wines are in, anyway -- they hold out their glasses.  This all works very well until my daughter gets sidetracked with a former coworker.  Instead, the two of them stand off to the side, cavorting and cackling.

Now, don't get me wrong.  I don't deny letting my daughter have some fun, but this is WINE TASTING.  This is serious frigging business.  We drink slowly so she can catch up to us somewhere around the Argentinian malbec.

After we've gone through both tables, my daughter's friends hit the bourbon tasting cart, located next to wine table #2.  This particular shop also has some interesting, specialty liquor, and I want to point out to all of them some of my recent purchases -- the large bottle of Caffe Moka, the smaller bottle of Acqua de Cedro, and the mid-sized bottle of Dorda double chocolate liqueur.  The staff asks us if we are interested in tasting anything in the back room, meaning their specialty liqueurs.  Next thing I know, we are throwing back some mini-shots and buying everything on the shelves because it is all absolutely scrumptious.

Thank goodness my daughter is driving.  She missed some wines at the first table (she avoided the whites) and spent a little bit of time gabbing through the second table.  She is the sensible one, watching us all run around the store like bees, flitting from one favorite wine of liqueur to another.

The best thing about Saturday Wine Tasting is that it happens every Saturday.  I usually go alone and make friends when I'm there, but this time I have my own posse, and, to be honest, they are a very savvy group.  I hope my daughter doesn't mind me appropriating her pals.  After all, Saturday is only six days away.  It's never too early to start planning ahead.