AIRPLANE SAFETY REVIEW

I'm on a plane trip with two of my grown children, Child #2 and Child #3.  We're going to visit Child #1 and his family.  As happens on every plane trip, the safety demonstration starts before take-off.

"Direct your attention to the emergency card in the pocket of the seat in front of you.  REVIEW these safety directions!"

I flip through the chart of emergency situations and offer my best advice to my kids:

If the plane is on fire ... SCREAM!

If the plane crashes ... SCREAM!

If you need to use the emergency exits ... SCREAM!

If you need to use the emergency chute ... SCREAM!

In case of a water landing ... SCREAM!

When using the seat cushions as flotation devices ... SCREAM!

To inflate the emergency life vest, take a hold of the red tube and ... SCREAM!

If the oxygen mask drops down, put yours on first and SCREAM before helping others to SCREAM!

I personally feel this is terrific advice.  After all, if you're in trouble, the best way to get someone's attention is to SCREAM! 

On the return flight, Child #2 is with me (Child #3 already flew home).  As soon as the safety demonstration starts, I shove the tri-fold safety card into her face.

"So, in case of a nasty food cart incident, you should ..." Scream!

 "In case of a bird strike ..."  Scream!

"In case of a child being unruly on your flight, like kicking your seat through the entire flight ..."  Scream!

The next time you're on an airplane and the safety instructions start, PAY ATTENTION in case you have to SCREAM!

SIP OF THE WEEK: OLDE MECKLENBURG BREWERY

This week's sipping shout-out goes to the Olde Mecklenburg Brewery in Charlotte, North Carolina.

We are in North Carolina for a wonderful family event, and my youngest has yet to visit the brewery. The problem is that he has to fly home before the rest of us.  We are a mere eight miles from the Olde Mecklenburg Brewery, and there's a little more than an hour before he has to head to the airport.

The brewery has a German theme, and their beers run the gamut from sweet and light to dark and frothy.  The brewery has a fabulous interior room, with tables and a huge bar, and it also has an outside set up that is family-friendly.  Food is available, and the place has a band playing outside.

The best thing about the brewery would be the prices.  A flight of four samples costs around $5, and a flight of seven costs around $7.  The four I pick for today run from sweet to seasonal:  Raddler (a combo beer that also has Sprite in it), Hornet's Nest (fruity and light with a bacony aftertaste), Captain Jack Pilsner (same one I had at dinner last night - outstanding), and Mecktoberfest (a beer that rises above the rest).

Mecktoberfest competes with the best of our local New England beers, and I'm sorry it won't be available the next time I visit Charlotte, but I'll be back.  This brewery is amazing, and it does beer and presentation beautifully.

My recommendation for this week -- Get on a plane and head south, my friends.  (I'll have to add the picture after the fact -- not on y laptop.)  :)

RECYCLING BURGER BALL FUN

My students know that I like to shoot baskets.  I crumple up paper recycling and toss it backward over my shoulder, hitting more shots than I miss.

Tonight I take my show on the road: HOME. 

I decide to get dinner since working hours around here have become later and later, but there is still laundry to do, and more.  Besides, there's an excellent burger joint near my house.

My son wants a burger with bacon, egg, and cheese.  My daughter gets some concoction with Buffalo sauce, Borsin sauce, and cheese.  I order a plain old American-style cheeseburger.  It has pickles, lettuce, tomato, and red onion, and it smells and tastes fabulous.

I have a plate for my burger, so I crumple up the foil wrapping.  On the counter across the room, the now-empty bag awaits its turn at recycling.  Part of the bag is torn away, creating a nest-like appearance, and there's a hole about the size of my two fists in the bag.

I have a foil ball.  I have my target.  Now all I have to do is make the shot.  From across the room.  Cold, without practice.

Sinks it!  (Of course.)  Thank you, students, for encouraging me to shoot on our recycling basket.  Together we can make the world  (better/cleaner/recycled).

DOODLE DEFENSE

Meetings ... meetings ... meetings ... meetings ... meetings ...  My life has recently been all about meetings. 

Sometimes meetings are fun, including tea and cookies and other goodies.  Sometimes I yawn my way through them because I'm bored out of my mind or because I'm exhausted.  Sometimes I need to play a game on my phone or do a crossword puzzle or make shopping lists to keep my mind focused.

(Picture keeps spinning itself.  Oh, well.)

Sometimes I doodle.

This doodling started in high school.  Well, sort of.  I actually spent a lot of time drawing informally on that awesome math paper in elementary school.  There's nothing quite like a blue medium ballpoint Bic pen when it meets blank newsprint.  The doodling as a defense mechanism, though -- that's the one that appeared during my high school years and has kept with me ever since.

I often draw characters with crazy thought bubbles or dialogue balloons, spewing the evil thoughts that ramble across my brain.  Other times, I start with a scribble and work my way around it.  I never know what's going to come out of my pen or pencil during meetings, but apparently it's leaps and bounds better than anything that can come out of my mouth during meetings ... meetings ... meetings ...

It's my Doddle Defense.  You're welcome.

WELL PLAYED, WHOLE FOODS

I end up staying a little later at work today, then I run errands.  I'm trying to get myself ready for a family trip to North Carolina to see my eldest and his family for a celebration.  I need to organize myself, and I start texting my other two kiddos -- "Anyone around later?  Doing laundry?  Having dinner?"

Turns out that I have the evening alone.

This means I'm not cooking nor thinking about what to get for take-out, so after finishing my errands, I make a stop at my new favorite go-to place for food on the run:  Whole Foods.

I start at the seafood counter, but I decide I'm not really in the seafood mood.  I near the prepared food area, but I'm too lazy to make a decision.  I head over to the packaged prepared foods -- I am so incredibly predictable -- and grab my usual: single tuna salad wrap and a small Caesar salad.

I pass by the vegetable rolls with peanut sauce, to which I am strangely addicted, but the pizza grabs me.  I can barely believe that my quick escape is being thwarted by, of all things, Whole Foods pizza.  I mean, I'm a purist.  I like my pizza straight from the pizza parlor.

I see the pizza is now self-serve.  I don't even need to bother an employee to get at it.

I grab a triangular pizza box and eye the different concoctions.  So many choices, so little stomach.  My attention falls on a pizza I've never tried before.  The pizza has a white sauce on it and lots of cheese with broccoli and artichoke on top.  Not only does this sound like a great combination, but it looks and smells fabulous.

But, I already have tuna and a Caesar salad.  I even bought myself a block of Cabot cheese to start attacking.  But, nothing stops me.  I grab a huge slab of that pizza and secure the cardboard around it.  By the time I get my purchase out to the car, the smell of the pizza is making me salivate so badly that I am practically foaming at the mouth.

Yes, I scarf down that pizza, barely giving it time to zap in the microwave, though it's still warm from the store.  Yes, I can claim I need a quick meal to finish my packing for the NC trip.  Yes, I'd be lying.

Truth is I just want the pizza, and trying to rationalize my spur of the moment purchase doesn't change the fact that the slice I eat is some of the best damn pizza I've ever tasted.  Well played, Whole Foods.  Very well played.

FIRST FLOPPY SUN HAT

Today I buy my first floppy sun hat.

I know, I know; it's autumn and we are due for a major frost.  The last thing I should be doing is searching for sun hats, but I can't help myself.  The hat is on sale for 70% off. 

It would be sacrilege to pass up a deal like that.

I probably won't be able to wear my new, inexpensive-because-it's-on-sale hat until at least next spring, but it's still a fine hat.  It's a fine floppy hat.

The only problem is that it's floppy.  The front flops, the back flops, and every part of the brim flops.  And flops, and flops, and flops.  

The effect of this floppiness is that my face is going to be totally protected, and not because of the hat's wide edge.  My face is going to be protected because the floppiness causes the brim to fall past my eyes and shade my face with fabric.  This means that I will not be able to drive while wearing the floppy hat unless I develop x-ray vision.

It's okay, though.  The hat ends up costing less than $5.  Plus, it really is a fine first floppy sun hat.  I'm looking forward to less wind and more sun so I can wear it before winter comes.

THE SLOWEST SLOW COMMUTE ON A SLOW MORNING

I think I need to slow down a little bit.

I leave for work early and I arrive at work early, like I always do, but earlier than usual.  I'm uncertain as to how this happens since I am driving behind two giant maintenance trucks of some kind as they play tag team on the two lanes of my work route, blocking anyone from going faster than twenty miles per hour.

Of course, this is after I am stuck behind a dump truck going about 35 mph in a 50 mph speed zone.  But it's not entirely the dump truck's fault as we are all stuck behind someone in an SUV going 35 mph in the same speed zone before it turns off to another road.  The dump truck is just trying to keep up with the pace car.

But, see, I wouldn't be stuck behind the dump truck if I do not allow the New Hampshire driver to cut in front of me at the light.  I figure he's on his way to work, so, rather than have him ride up my ass, I let him go ahead of me.  After all, he revs his tinny little engine as if he's got a firecracker shoved up his Monday morning ass just waiting for the fuse to ignite.

I'm wrong, though.  He is trying to find a space to pull over to go to Dunks for a coffee.  Of course, he starts looking for the space a quarter of a mile away then crawls, crawls, craaaaaaaaaaaaawls out of the road.  It takes him a full thirty seconds to edge into a space that has no one behind nor in front of it.

Still, however, it's not the New Hampshire driver's fault, either, because I stop at the post office to mail some bills.  Worried that I might be cutting the due dates of the bills a little close, I get out of my car, enter the twenty-four-hour lobby, and put the mail right into the "sort it immediately" slot.  I see the big box truck full of mail pulling out of the other exit, but I figure I'll let the truck go ahead of me.  I mean, how slow can he really be?  He has important mail!

Slow.  That's the answer.  Slower than slow.  Sloooooooooooooooooooooooow.

Okay, so it's partially my fault for deciding that mailing the mail in the post office is actually a wise idea (it truly is), but even then, getting to the post office is quite a feat.  Leaving my driveway, I have to get out of the street before the short bus blocks me in.  The bus driver knows the kid he's picking up is going to be late.  She's late every morning, so the driver sits there and sits there and sits there with the flashers going, not letting anyone by.

The bus isn't holding me up this morning, though, either.  It's all about the train tracks.  Ever since they put the second rail back down, the crossing is five times longer than it used to be.  I know, safety first.  I am thrilled, THRILLED that I get to the crossing before the commuter train does.  Except that ...

As soon as my car is dead center on the tracks, the bells and whistles and lights all start flashing and clanging.  I glance to the left then to the right, as is my customary reaction when crossing the tracks, and see the bright light of the commuter train barreling into the station about three hundred yards away while I am shitting a total brick on the tracks, smacking the gas pedal and hoping no one else is running the five-way intersection because I sure as hell am.

That's it.  From now on, I leave my house on time or maybe a little later.  This leaving early shit is enough to drive me to start drinking before I even finish my commute.

AUTUMN - THE MAGNIFICENT MOMENT

It's important to note that a camera phone does not capture the brilliant autumn colors as well as a 35mm, but I give it the old Heliand try, just the same. 

I have been waiting, waiting, waiting, waiting for a sunny afternoon this past week so I can take some foliage pictures.  The foliage here sucked until last week when rain finally arrived.  Colors are always more brilliant when the trees have enough water in their roots, and we have been in severe drought conditions following a spectacular but dry summer.  The problem is that photographing the best color contrast requires a brilliant blue sky, and we haven't had one since the rains helped the trees along about five days ago.

Today it is finally blue enough and sunny enough outside to get some great pictures, but we have a terrible wind storm blow through last night and into today.  My window of opportunity is sadly limited by whatever is left on the trees.

I head over to the same place that I have been taking pictures since I moved here a thousand years ago as a kid.  I snap picture after picture, as do the dozens of others wandering the grounds of West Parish cemetery.  The place is loaded with vivid trees and also is home to two ponds, a small fountain, a stone bridge, and a famous old granite chapel, complete with original Tiffany glass windows.

Anyway, I do manage to get some great shots, including a line of veterans' gravestones where the wind splays the flags out in a row with the trees behind.  I play with some camera exposures, too, just for fun.  I only wish these pictures could properly display the true colors of the season.  Imagine these amped up with a bit more colorful electric hues and you're seeing the real deal.

Happy autumn, all.  It may be a short season, but it certainly is worth the magnificent moment.

GRAND TASTING RECOMMENDATIONS

Today is the Grand Tasting at my favorite wine shop.  I have to pace myself, though, because I'll be shitfaced if I try all the wines at the eight tables and the hard liquor at the extra table.  I decide to go with prosecco first (my personal favorites), then whites, and maybe have my arm twisted to try a couple of reds.

This strategy lasts about thirty seconds. I do manage to avoid sipping all of the wines, but I end up mixing my color palette. 

I start with a lovely pinot gris from Oregon, followed by a sharp chardonnay-like sauvignon blanc from California.  After this I fall immediately for a Spanish garnacha and an Argentinian malbec.  And this is just at my first table.

I don't go in order, of course.  I start at Table 3 because it's not crowded and my buddy is manning the table.  Wandering into the big tent in the back, I see the Italian Wine Guy (that's what we call him).  His palate is a lot like mine, so I head over and discover he is serving some prosecco.   This makes me love him even more than I already do.  He is serving an Italian Valfonda prosecco that he describes as "the house prosecco," and it's very nice, but I pucker a little at the peach Bellini prosecco -- it needs cheese; too sweet.  My glass gets mysteriously filled with a Californian pinot noir after that, but I walk away without sampling everything.

This is when trouble starts.  The enigmatic wine guy, B, is manning a nearby table.  I should know better than to go over there.  He is an expert flirt, a knowledgeable and prolific wine storyteller, and pours faster than one can breathe.  Before I know it, I'm sampling all seven of his wines.  I start with a Pieropan Soave Classico, an Italian white, followed by Poggio Al Tesoro Vermentino, which is an Italian white that I find to be a little too sharp for my liking. 

I start going out of order, following B with whatever he is pouring for others: the Colombini Brunello (excellent but out of my price range at $40 a bottle), followed by the equally pricey Californian Ramey cab sauv.  I might as well try the Argentinian malbec while I'm here, though a Mendozan malbec cannot even come close to a Patagonian malbec, no matter how hard it tries and regardless of who's pouring it. 

I'm about to walk away from the table when one of wine tasting pals, Maria, convinces me to try the California Kunde Estate Zinfandel.  Now, sometimes I have the mindset of "if I've tried one red, I've tried them all," so I don't expect much, but this zin is surprisingly drinkable and priced well at $16.  I still have food to eat and tables to explore, so I try to walk away, but B is having none of it.  I've tried everything except the Domaine Travers Rasteau "La Mondona" from France.

As I said, sometimes (too often) one red is pretty much the same as the next.  Except this one.  It's a grenache blend, which shouldn't surprise me because I am partial to grenache, and it's easy on the senses.  Its aroma is unobtrusive - the smell doesn't manipulate the senses.  It's smooth and easy to drink yet flavorful, fruity but not fruitful, and sips well from the glass without necessity of food that so many reds crave. 

I go on to taste about twenty more wines. dumping more than I'm sipping, but none worth writing a blog about.  But, for the sake of desperate wine drinkers out there, I'll post a small list (in no particular order) of some of the hits recommended by me and by my wine-sipping pals:

1.  Domain Travers Rasteau "La Mondona" (red) at $18
2.  Valfonda Prosecco at $10
3.  Cooper Hill Pinot Gris at $10
4.  Feudi di San Gregorio Greco di Tufo (white) at $13
5.  Pennywise Petit Sirah at $10
6.  Reata Pinot Noir at $16
7.  Alias Merlot at $10
8.  Atteca Grenacha at $13
9.  Kunde Estate Zinfandel at $16
10.  The Wanted Zin Primitivo at $13

Sip on, my friends, and thank you to my favorite wine shop, Wine Connextion, for another wonderful Grand Tasting.

EAT THE COOKIES!

I don't care how hot and sticky and muggy and gross it is.  I'm baking cookies.

All right, so they're not "real" cookies, in the sense that I don't actually mix the ingredients together.  But, in my defense, I do still have to bake them in the oven at 350 degrees.  The hardest part of the prep, though, is opening the wrapper and using a huge carving knife to cut the twenty-four squares so they can be lined up on baking sheets.

Really, this whole baking thing is a moot point.  I still have a few Chips Ahoy cookies left, but the package of Nestle Toll House pre-made chocolate chip cookie dough is calling to me.

"Hey," it whispers, "you're dying for fresh-baked cookies and ice-cold milk.  You know you are."

Look, it's bad enough when the voices inside of my head start whispering to me.  Those voices I can ignore.  But, seriously.  Have you ever tried to ignore cookie dough when it calls? 

DOUGH:  (whispering) cooooookies ... cooooooooooooooookies ...

ME:  Who said that?  

DOUGH:  Open the fridge.  See that bright yellow-orange package?

ME:  No!  I'm on a health-food kick.  Leave me alone.

DOUGH:  You know you want me.

ME:  My rolls of fat want you.  Me?  I want nothing to do with you.

DOUGH:  LIAR!  (pause)  See the milk?  Yeah, right there, right next to me.  That's it, that's it.  Think of its icy-cold, milky goodness.  All it needs is a cookie.  A fresh-from-the-oven cooooookie.

ME:  No!  Get away from me!  Heathen!  Loser!  You're a bad influence!

DOUGH:  Cooooooooookie.  Cooooooooooooooookie.  You're getting very hungry.  Very, very huuuuuuuuuuuuuumgry...

Next thing I know, I'm under the Nestle spell.  I'm opening the cookie dough, I'm separating the cookie dough squares, I'm baking the cookies, and, damnit, I AM EATING THE COOKIES.  I do also drink milk (1%), so I suppose this can be considered a healthy snack.

Just don't tell my rolls of fat because I ate the cookies without telling them, and I don't want to give them any more ideas about how they can prevent me from fitting into my own clothes.

THERE'S A NEW MAC-CRACK IN TOWN

Holy pasta, Batman!

My youngest coaches lacrosse in the next state, and sometimes that means he buys dinner to go and brings it home with him.  A few weeks ago he showed up with some kind of macaroni and cheese, and by "some kind" I mean chicken bacon ranch macaroni and cheese.

Now, folks, I thought the kid was brilliant when he brought home boxes of Annie's Shells and White Cheddar; he absolutely blew my mind when he showed up with a case of it after getting me hooked.  But now, there's a new mac-crack in town.  Okay, so it's not really "in town," but it sort of is when he brings it home from New Hampshire.

There is a place called Mr. Mac's Macaroni and Cheese (translation: One Step Closer to Heaven) up in the Hooksett end of Manchester.  Pull up their menu (I dare you), and you will truly believe in the genius of ... well ... geniuses.  This place has everything from Cheeseburger Mac to Shrimp Scampi Mac with unfathomable marvels in between. 

Plus, you can craft your own. 

Thanks to my son, I am now addicted to the Pulled Pork Mac, although I am absolutely jonesing to try the Blazing Buffalo Chicken Mac and the Bacon Cheddar Mac.  Maybe even the Philly Steak Mac.  And the Garden Veggie Mac. 

I want to try them all.

Better yet, I want to live next door to Mr. Mac's.  I want them to put a Mr. Mac's into the townhouse next door.  I want them to open a Mr. Mac's right across the train tracks from my house in the giant industrial park.  I want Mr. Mac's at my work so I can eat it every damn day.

Truly, this is the Holy Grail of macaroni -- addicting and satisfying and, best of all, reasonably priced.  I have seen a slice of Heaven, and it is filled with Mr. Mac's signature macaroni dishes.  Keep coaching, My Son; Mama needs her mac-crack.

DRIVING AT EIGHTY DEGREES OF STUPIDITY

Geezuskrist with the driving already.  Seriously.  We have one warm autumn day, and you're all driving like fucking lunatics.  Just because it is 80 out doesn't mean your driving IQ  has to match it.

First, some trash-ass low life in a white Lincoln Towncar tries to kill me by going 30 on route 125 (speed limit is 50) and hitting the brakes.  Dude!  If you're going to drive while high on your way to a Lawrence drug deal, take the damn back roads instead of meandering past the state police barracks, you dumbass.

Then, I have not one, not two, not three, but four people crossing the center line on 125 coming the other way (they are all doing the 50 mph speed limit).  Do NOT text and drive!  Or perhaps you have a bee in your car -- they go nuts this time of year when it gets hot like this.  Stay in your lane, damnit.

I get to the stop light in the center of town and an SUV, parked in a legal parking spot, decides to pull out into me.  The driver, a man, starts to scream at me because I am in the lane he wants -- namely, THE ROAD.  He immediately tries to ram my car then pulls into the space eight feet from the one he just left.  Um.  Seriously?  He appears to be headed to the law offices in the nearby building.  I hope he is there for a divorce.  God bless his soon-to-be ex-wife.  She is a lucky, lucky woman.

I want to stop at the grocery store for some potato salad to go with my dinner.  I come through the back entrance and swing around because I'm trying to avoid traffic.  By now, I am quite certain people suck at driving today.  But, wait!  As I cross the path of the main entrance where there is a huge STOP sign for incoming vehicles, an asshole in a red SUV not only ignores the stop sign (his), he careens across the opposite lane and goes straight in front of me doing about forty in the parking lot.

After I get my potato salad, I decide I don't want to die at the hands of idiot drivers, so I take the side street home rather than the main drag.  Smart, right?  Nope.  STUPID.  Someone decides to pull over sort of a little bit on the other side, and everyone behind him believes that my lane going up the hill is now their lane to come down the hill.  One ... two ... three ... four ... five more cars drive straight at me, expecting me to get out of the way.  There is an eight-foot tall stone wall next to me.  I'm not going anywhere but to the emergency room if they keep driving like this.

When I finally arrive at my house, I attempt to back into my driveway.  Easy pickings?  Sure.  That is, until my neighbor realizes she is late to the bus stop to meet her kid and walks across the path of my car.  Hmmmm.  Person.  Car.  Person.  Car.  Apparently, my neighbor is a gambler.

I'm home now, safe and sound.  I'm not going out anywhere tonight.  If anyone has an emergency, tough shit.  Bite me.  Come borrow my car.  Me?  I'm not going anywhere.

SCAR FOR THE ROAD

Scar and I take our show on the road today.  Sure, Scar partied a little bit Friday evening, but this will be Scar's first daytime, in the light, public outing.  A proud moment, to be sure.

Scar first attached itself to me two weeks ago during surgery to remove a hunk of basal cell cancer from my face.  In a strange spot, the surgeon cut, cleared out, then reattached part of my nostril and sewed me up from chin to cheek to nose, and thus Scar was created. 

For a while I thought I might look like Terry Sawchuk, pre-goalie mask.  (For the record, I actually think Sawchuk was rather handsome.)  When I first saw the stitchery up close (my facial stitchery, not Sawchuk's), the raw hamburger effect made me sad and somewhat distressed, which was and still is difficult to convey as one side of my mouth now bows into a permanent smirk.

Now that I have my face almost completely back, I see the damage is not so bad.  The surgeon, an absolute master with needle and thread, used dissolving stitches.  Although the inner ones (dozens) will slowly melt away over the next three to four months, the outer ones have dissolved nicely and neatly.  Except for a couple of spots along the incision that absolutely couldn't be helped, I look more like a victim of Captain Hook than the Bride of Frankenstein.

It's going to be a long while before things settle back down.  I still have residual swelling, and the nerve damage is regenerating and repairing itself a sloth-like millimeter at a time.  I still have some numbness around my left eye, so if I wink at you, it could be involuntary.  Just go with it.

I'm in the Official 99% Club now.  The chance of recurrence of the cancer, at least in this spot, is only 1%.  I may look like I survived a knife fight, but I survived.  The best part is that I have more cool bandaids than I

could ever possibly use.  So, if anyone needs football or shark or Minion or animal print or Shakespeare or Edgar Allen Poe or camouflage bandaids, I have them.  I have them all.

Until I need those bandaids again, I'm taking Scar on the road.  We cannot hang out in sunshine (Scar is part vampire, apparently), but we can hang out.  I could not ask for anything better than that.

DRIVE UP ... AND SIT STILL

Today is a beautiful day, gorgeous fall weather but a little on the warm side.  I need to run a quick errand to the bank, but I don't feel like getting dressed into real clothes.  Currently my outfit consists of sweatpants and a sports bra covered by a worn-out shirt that looks more like a knit surgical scrub top.

I decide to go to the bank drive-through.

This way my dirty hair can stay dirty with a quick spritz and poof, my feet need some flip-flops, and then my outfit of shabby not-so-chic will be complete. Who cares if I am seen at the drive-up camera looking like a bag lady's bag lady?  This is a great way to air out the scar, too.  If I go into the bank, I need to gauze up my face, and right now it's airing out, so I have to use the drive-up.

There are four drive-through bays at this branch, and all four have green "open" signs showing.  A truck is in the first bay, so I pull into the second bay.  I assume the bank clerk is serving the truck dude, so I sit and wait my turn.  And wait.  And wait.  And waaaaaaaaaaaaaaait.

After five full minutes of waiting, the teller still has not resurfaced.  By now a third car has arrived, pulling into the bay on the other side of me.  We all continue to wait some more.

Ten minutes after I arrive, the teller pops her head into the window across the parking lot.  She goes first to the truck.  I hear the driver responding to her garbled electronic voice, "Yes, then the white car, then the SUV."

The bank teller has been away from her post for so long that she doesn't even know in which order we have arrived.  I don't know what she has been doing for ten-plus minutes, but I certainly hope her intestines feel better now.

Seventeen minutes after I arrive at the bank, I am finally getting some service.  I can't exactly go in and complain (poorly dressed), nor can I get the counter tellers to cash the check as I've already put it into the tube and sent it to window teller in the bottom floor of the building.

By the time I get my money, the sun has hidden behind clouds, and I cannot even stop to take autumn pictures as the dim light of overcast gray blots out the colorful foliage.  It is still warm, and I could wait for clouds to pass and sun to shine again, but I've done enough waiting already today.

DIRTY THIRTY PUB CRAWL

My daughter spends her thirtieth birthday sitting with me during five hours of facial surgery, driving me home while I hide my mummified face lest I scare small children and random animals.  I feel like I owe her a better birthday experience than this, so I make a plan to take her and some gal pals on a Boston pub crawl.

When I make this plan pre-surgical experience, I believe I will have a small round bandaid on my face.  Instead, I have gauze taped to my cheek and upper lip and left nostril.  I look like I just rolled out of post-op.  I don't care -- I promised my daughter a Boston pub crawl, and, by God, she's going to get one!  Besides, I'm the designated driver.  I cannot back out.

My daughter and her friends are nurses, so no one flinches at the sight of my swollen, bruised, bandaged face, but I'm taking my show on the road.  I figure this get-up is nothing Boston hasn't seen before, and I'll never see these people again.  Besides, I can hide at the bars, right?  And, hey, my daughter is sporting a shiny, pearly crown that shouts "30" from its peak.  If she's wearing the crown, no one will even notice my face.

We start out at our favorite Seaport spot, The Whiskey Priest, but our pal the barmaid isn't working.  Word gets to her anyway that we are there for the Dirty Thirty crawl, and, after we order a huge plate of nachos, a round of green tea shots arrives, courtesy via proxy from our best barmaid.  Life is good.  It takes me three swigs to down my shot because of the gauze mask I am wearing, but, by god, if the young'uns can do it, so can I.

It's about a mile walk from Seaport to Faneuil Hall, and our intent is to go to Dick's Last Resort and be professionally insulted while we drink, but we spot the Granary Tavern on our way there.  Never having been there, we try to get an outside table, but we're not eating again (or so we think) yet.  Once we determine that the upstairs bar is too full, the maitre'd tells us there's a second bar downstairs.

We head down the stairs into this amazing, intimate bar that is in the bowels of the old building, and the walls are huge slabs of granite boulders.  It's like we're outside but inside, and it reminds me of the indoor/outdoor restaurant my friends and I discovered in Montreal last summer.  We start ordering up drinks (I am sipping mostly tonic water as the DD ... mostly), and then a plate of the most amazing, incredible, full-loaded pulled pork nachos arrives, courtesy of the bartender, who also buys my daughter's drinks.

Holy crap, this city is amazing, and the bartenders are the absolute bomb!

Eventually we move on to Faneuil Hall.  Instead of heading right over to Dick's Last Resort, one of the gals wants to try Sissy K's, but, being a dance bar, there's already a line, so we head over to The Black Rose.  This bar is more of a tourist trap than a local bar, but we head upstairs, anyway.  We are told we cannot take a table unless we order food, so we go for a giant Caesar salad to share and start drinking.

We are just about to move along when the Irish trio shows up, and the fiddler, a man about my age, starts talking to us.  He chats up my daughter, too, because, hey, she IS wearing the crown.  Suddenly we realize that we are sitting at the table next to the band, right in the line of everyone's vision.  If my daughter thinks that she and the crown are going to hide, I should realize that my gauze and I aren't going to hide, either.  The band stars, and the lead singer/guitarist, a gentleman straight from Dublin, immediately gets the entire bar singing "Happy Birthday" to my daughter.

The entire night people are dancing, the band is playing, and lots of touristy type stuff starts to happen.  A Polish lady and her entourage get everyone, including my table, dancing.  The young couple next to us, who appear to be having a bad first date, suddenly sweep into the moment and parade around the bar in an Irish version of a Conga line.  Cowboys from Texas dance and dance and dance with the women at our table.  Four college boys start doing the Cotton Eyed-Joe line dance to one of the Irish jigs, to the amusement and cheers of the packed bar.

We sing a lot of my old favorite, too -- The Irish Rover, Waltzing Matilda, Dirty Old Town, and several older rock songs.  The entire upstairs bar joins in for a rousing version of Johnny Cash's Ring of Fire.  The band keeps an eye on my daughter, too, announcing every so often, "And there goes the birthday girl again!  The birthday girl is dancing!"

It is a wonderful night, a night worthy of a girl who spent her true thirtieth birthday not only taking her mother in for cancer surgery, not only living through the trauma of me coming out of the operation and sobbing about how my face is ruined (even though I am now cancer-free), but also coming to my rescue after her birthday dinner with friends when my face started bleeding through the pressure bandage.  Not tonight, though - no trauma tonight.   

This night, this is her birthday celebration.  A magical night. 

She doesn't turn into Cinderella again until well past midnight.  Crown and gauze still on, we head home around one in the morning.  It's a pub crawl success even though we do not get professionally insulted at Dick's.  We'll do that next time.  Who's having a birthday?  I could use round two.

SIP OF THE WEEK

This week's choice for my favorite "sip" is something that has been hiding in my liquor cabinet for a few weeks, waiting patiently for its moment.  Saturday that moment arrives.

I attend my son's alumni lacrosse game, and I've been instructed to bring "a drink for the girls."  I don't feel like bringing beer and the red solo cups, so I branch out by reaching deep into the cabinet.  Suddenly, I have my "aha" moment.

What is better on a sunny, warm (but not hot) fall day than lemonade and iced tea?  And what could be better than both of them together?

Newman's Own lemonade is a great base (pink and regular for a wider selection of mixers), but the iced tea is not for the feint of heart.  As a matter of fact, it's not iced tea at all.  I'm using Lazy Eight Black Tea Flavored vodka.  This vodka tastes so much like a great cup of tea that it goes down just as easily by the shot as it does mixed into a drink.

Lazy Eight is a New England product, created by bartenders and chefs, so buying it also supports local businesses, which is simply a bonus.  The black tea flavored vodka, which is all-natural, by the way, mixes perfectly with the lemonade to produce a late-summer early-fall drink that complements perfectly the casual mood of the alumni crowd.

I discover while doing impromptu bartending that it's not just "a drink for the girls."  This is a gender-neutral beverage, and the entire tall bottle, along with both containers of lemonade, disappear before the event is over.  Best of all, the old fogeys win, which makes the after-barbecue even sweeter, as if anything could top the black tea vodka lemonade concoctions. 

This week's recommendation: Lazy Eight Black Tea Flavored Vodka (under $20 a bottle).

PERFECT CARD

There are times when my sister is right, and then there are times when my sister is right.  Okay, basically she is always right.  Once in a while she might let me win at Cribbage, but still, no matter, she is always right.  Always.

My sister never misses a holiday, birthday, or important life event.  Recently after having surgery for cancer on my face, she sent me a care package.  She sends texts and she calls and she sends cards.  Absolutely perfect cards.

Take for example the Halloween card that arrives today.  Hang with me for a moment:

Sometimes her cards are sappy, and that whole "we are family" sentiment comes out in her.  Oh, sure, we're sisters, but growing up together we spent a lot more time whacking each other around and trying to drown each other in the pool than we did bonding.  Maybe that was our bonding; I don't know.

Sometimes her cards are funny and have clever word twists that are personalized just between us, like Shakespearean insults or offhand references to infamous composers or other obscure references.

More often than not, however, her clever mailings are spot-on.  This card for Halloween?  Yup.  Spot.  Totally.  On.

This is why we get along so well ... other than being survivors of a horrific shared childhood experience.  Oh, that and the fact that she lets me sing very badly to equally pathetic 80s hit radio when we are in the car together.  This must be indescribably tough for her as she is a classically trained soloist and I am an automobile solo star (in my own mind).

Anyway, the Halloween card that she sends me (early, too, so now I realize that I am even more inadequate than originally presumed) is funny.  Yet, the card is also surprisingly accurate.  It doesn't say much and yet it speaks volumes. 

It is the perfect card.

Any why is it the perfect card, boys and girls?

Because it's true.  (And because it's from my sister.)

MINI REUNION = PARTY ON

Mini class reunion tonight. The possibility for fun is there (always there ... we were a damn fun high school group), but I have two problems.

My first problem is that I have to wear bandaids on my face.  The incision from the basal cell isn't healed completely yet.  Although I can walk around with my face uncovered here at home, I cannot go out this way.  My make-up tonight will consist of some mascara, a touch of eye shadow, light lipstick, and lots of medical tape. 

It's a unique look.  I'm reasonably certain no one else will be sporting it.

My second problem is that I no longer have a strong memory for names or faces.  I used to know everyone's names.  I went to both junior high schools -- 7th and 8th at East and 9th at West.  By the time I got to high school, I'd met everyone.  EVERYONE. 

Now I look at people and think, "Do I know you?  Are you a spouse of someone?  Am I being rude because I cannot place you?" 

I blame middle age.  Not old age.  I am going to live to 121 years old.  Well, if cancer doesn't get me first, but that's why I'm wearing the bandaids.  Right now it's Me = One, Cancer = Zero.

Party on! 

PUMPKIN ICED BULLSHIT

I don't get it.  I seriously don't get it. I even Goggled it online to see if it is true, but it just doesn't seem possible to me.  I think for real the barista just punked me.  No way could a coffee shop do business like this and still be in business.

First of all, let me openly admit that I don't know jack-shit about ordering coffee anymore.  I've never really liked coffee; I'm a tea drinker, and a purist at that (black with occasional honey added in).  However, as a former assistant manager at Dunkins, I know how to make make a coffee.  Or, so I thought.

I used to believe that Dunkins and Starbucks were interchangeable, with the exception of faux French words and exorbitant prices.  One day, though, I ordered a hot chocolate at Starbucks and decided that the chain must be a link above Dunkins in the hoity-toity department, and that's fine.  Like I said, I don't drink coffee, so I don't care about lattes or espressos or hazel nuts or double-roasts.  Truly, I love the smell of coffee but cannot tolerate the taste except, of course, in flavored iced coffees.

When it comes to flavored ice coffees, I like caramel followed by pumpkin followed by peppermint followed by chocolate chip cookie dough.  Disgusting, I know, but to me coffee is like vanilla flavoring and is better served as a mixer.  My daughter has taught me how to properly order flavored iced coffees and, more importantly, how to drink them without getting a straw full of pumpkin spiced sugar.

I've had a long, rough day after a long, rough week.  I'm exhausted and I still need to get to the hairdresser so she can help me grow out my hair with style to cover my newly gashed face. 

I want an iced coffee. 

No.  I need an iced coffee.

I stop in at Starbucks because it's on the way to the salon.  I check out the menu.  I have no flaming idea what a pumpkin spice latte is, so I ask if they have anything iced with pumpkin.  The barista insists that she can make either an iced latte or a regular iced coffee with pumpkin.

Perfect  I'll take the regular iced coffee with pumpkin. 

I order a small, which is a tall.  But the girl grabs a big-ass cup.  I say, "No, I want the smallest size you have."  She holds up a Dixie cup and insists that this "tall" is really only seventy cents more so I should take it.  Um... what the hell kind of bait-and-switch shit is this?  I just want a goddamned cup of iced coffee. 

So, I say, "Well, sure, then.  I guess so.  Make it regular."

As she is writing on the cup, she nonchalantly says, "We make all our coffee black.  Cream is on the counter."

Um, say what?  You said you could make a regular ... what the ... I mean ... Hold on a sec.  Did she just tell me I'd have to make my own coffee?  Oh, no, she didn't.  Wait.  Yes, yes, she did.  She is tricking me into buying a huge coffee, sold as a "tall," which is the smallest size except if I want a Dixie cup, for which she is going to charge me somewhere in the vicinity of $7, and, to top it all off, I have to make my own frigging coffee?!?!

That would be a big fat fucking NO.

I tell ya what, Starbucks barista.  How about you hand my that empty cup, and you open the cash drawer, and you pay me to make my own huge-ass cup of pumpkin iced coffee.

I look her square in the eye.  She is absolutely serious about this.  Honest to gawd, I just ordered a regular pumpkin iced coffee, just exactly like she told me I could, yet now she is merrily assuring me that she is not, under any circumstances known to man, going to serve me a regular pumpkin iced coffee.

A black pumpkin iced coffee, yes. 

Regular?  Fuck no.  No fucking way. 

Apparently, Starbucks doesn't roll that way.  Black coffee matters!  Black coffee matters!  I'll bet she's even wearing the tee-shirt that says so.

Thank goodness for Dunkin Donuts, that's all I can say.  It's a slightly longer drive, and I have to go through the traffic-jammed intersection twice (once there and once back).  I walk in, I order a small regular pumpkin iced coffee plus a pumpkin donut because now my blood sugar is low from being all pissed off at Starbucks, and my entire order comes to three dollars and loose change, half of what I was being charged for whatever the fuck sized Starbucks coffee that was supposed to be that I would've had to make myself.

I end up drinking about half of my pumpkin iced coffee because I'm too busy getting all gussied up at the hair salon, but it doesn't matter.  It's my coffee and it's exactly the way I want it and, best of all, I  didn't have to make it.  Boom.
 

DAY #1 WITH GAUZE

Okay, Day #1 back to work
With gauze on my face is a suck. 
A complete and total suck.
But, I tell the kiddos that it's no big deal, and,
Truly,  it is not.
My face is still being "saved."
Who knows?
Maybe my cheek should be replaced.
I make it through the day,
People asking me
"Does it hurt?",
I lie and say no when I really want to say,
"Somewhat."
Back to work tomorrow.
Besides,
Some of my crazy bandaids arrive.
Shakespeare and football.
Now, there's a great combo.
Like a rock band.
QB and the Bard.
I'll let you know how
Day #2 goes.





                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    

THANK YOU, BIG PAPI

Today's blog is dedicated to Big Papi.

Thank you for a wonderful run, sir.  You've done Boston proud up until the final pitch.  Sorry to see the post-season end so quickly, partly because we would love to watch some more Red Sox baseball. 

However, we're really sorry to see the end of the Big Papi era at Fenway Park.

This may be "our fucking city," David, but, in truth, tonight and for days, months, and years to come this will be YOUR city.  Always your city.

You've become a Bostonian by osmosis; once it's in your blood, it never bleeds out completely.

Thank you, sir, for a fantastic run.  We salute you!

PRESIDENTIAL STFU

I have officially reached my limit.

Actually, I think I reached it a week or so ago, but now it's to the point where I don't even pay any attention whatsoever to the rhetoric.

Oh, sure, call me an uninformed voter.  Go ahead.  However, you would be incorrect.  I am informed.  What I am not and do not wish to be is over-informed. 

Someone grabs young women's pussies; someone else sticks cigars in young women's vaginas.  Pussy ... vagina ... vagina ... pussy ... Let's call the whole thing off.  (My apologies to the Gershwins.)

Taxes, stolen White House merchandise, illegal employment, terrorist refugees...

Know what I think?  Here's what I think.:  SHUT THE FUCK UP.

No, really and truly.  You can coddle and manipulate your candidate however you want, and you can post on social media, and you can bombard me with reasons why your loser candidate is better than someone else's loser candidate. You have that right to speak.

But -- so do I.  My free speech is this:

SHUT THE FUCK UP.

No, I'm not aggravated because you're exercising your right to free speech. I'm aggravated because the more people back these assholes, the more like a bunch of assholes you all look.  There.  That's MY right to FREE SPEECH.

Wake up, people.  None of the candidates deserves to be Commander in Chief.  If you were honest and serious with yourself, you'd admit it.  But, go ahead, keep on keeping on, if you must.

Maybe da Nile really is a river in Egypt.  Maybe when one or the other of the lunatics we have to choose from gets elected, half the fucking population will move to da Nile and let the rest of us fend for ourselves as best we can. 

You wanna know how I'm voting?  I'm for SECESSION.  I love my country, but I am completely exasperated with it right now.  For the sake of my sanity, I will block my ears and cover my eyes.  I will see no evil; I will do no evil, I will hear no evil.

I honestly have no fucking idea what I'm going to do come election day.  I might do what Johnny from Airplane does.  I might take my ballot and make a hat ... or a brooch ... or a pterodactyl. When I say this to someone, she vehemently replies, "Oh, you KNOW who you're voting for.  Don't play games." 

FUCK YOU, no I do NOT know for whom I am voting.  And it's subversive and insulting and belittling remarks like this that make me want even less and less to vote in this sham of an election.  SHAM.  Because that's what it is.  We have two low-life criminal money launderers, masters at their crafts and wizards with their wayward words, and a damn pot head running for president.

If that doesn't depress you greatly, oh, well, I don't truly want to hear about it, so maybe both of us should just shut the fuck up about the election until after it's finally and truly over.

SIP OF THE WEEK: SHIPYARD PUMPKINHEAD ALE

I'm not going to any wine tastings this week.  Oh, sure, I could pull a bottle out of my wine rack and yak about it, but, truth is, I feel like I'm starting to repeat myself.  So, I'm branching out.

Besides, it's pumpkin time. That's right, everything pumpkin is now in season, so it's okay to rave about things like pumpkin iced coffee and pumpkin pie and pumpkin donuts and pumpkin cookies and pumpkin shakes.

Those who read the blog with some regularity know that I have been down but not quite out post-cancer surgery on my face.  Still looking like Edward Scossorhand's twin sister, I opt out of my usual wine circuit lest I scare people and send them running for the dump buckets. 

I am planning on trying to hit Boston later because in the city no one notices strange shit like gauze adhered to the side of one's face.  In the city, it's all normal.  Besides, I ruined my daughter's thirtieth birthday by making her sit with me for five hours so I could have surgery then cry all over her car.  We still managed to have a birthday cupcake when all was said and done, and she is my hero for keeping my spirits up.

Anyway, today a friend and co-worker gets to see The Big Gash on my face.  She handles it well, but, then again, she is a science geek.  Best of all, she brings me pumpkin.  That's right: Pumpkin.  Not A pumpkin, not SOME pumpkin.  She brings THE PUMPKIN. 

She brings me ... hold me back ... deep breath ... SHIPYARD PUMPKINHEAD ALE.

Shipyard is a local brewery, and by "local" I mean Portland, Maine.  If it's drive-able, it's local.  If you look at online "professional" reviews, this beer is hated on big time, but read the personal postings and comments and you'll know why people like me salivate every September when the beer finally starts to trickle into the packies.  (If you don't know what a packie is, you've never truly lived a full and meaningful life.)  People love this beer.  I love this beer.  Anyone with a pumpkin brain adores and drinks Shipyard Pumpkinhead Ale.

Today we sip (slug) it with crackers and cheese -- more cheese than crackers.  I highly suggest Cabot Seriously Sharp Cheddar to balance to semi-sweet pumpkin flavor of the ale.  This is a beer drinker's beer, not one of those overly indulgent craft beers that pretentiously sits on the palate.  As a matter of fact, Pumpkinhead is one of the few beers that tastes as good when it starts to warm up on the table (if it lasts that long) as it does fresh out of the fridge.

Sip of the Week goes to: Shipyard Pumpkinhead Ale (and good luck to you beer snobs trying to find it at the store because we true connoisseurs probably already bought out the Massachusetts packies and/or New Hampshire/Maine markets).

A NICE BREAK WHILE IT LASTED

I'm sitting at home minding my own business and trying to get some computer work caught up.  It's not even 9:00 a.m. when suddenly my computer cuts out.  As a matter of fact, everything cuts out.  All of the electricity shuts down without so much as benefit of wind, rain, nor storm.

Within minutes of the electricity shutting down, I hear sirens.  Many sirens.  I decide to call the electric company to find out what's going on.  I mean, my initial reaction is always, "Shit, who's in my basement shutting off the breakers?"  Probably not a healthy thought process.  Of course, I cannot call the electric company because someone shut off my power!  Maybe the creep in the basement...

I grab my cell, which has about 65% life left in it, and get on the National Grid website for my state.  I report the outage.  According to the website, only two of us have reported the power loss, and a mere 174 addresses are affected. I live on a weird patch, connected to many business and down the street from the switching station (or whatever they're called now where all the big wires meet at fenced-in giant metal stumps that hum like church choirs on Sunday morning).  I'm kind of surprised how localized the outage is and figure the guys working on the railroad tracks probably hit a live wire.  I assume no one fried since the sirens have stopped.

The power is due back on by 11:15, according to the website.  Pissah.  I'm still trying to work and the sun isn't out enough to work by even with the blinds wide open.  Guess what that means. 

Candle time!

I can't believe it.  It's early October, and I already have reason to break out the blizzard candles!  Very exciting.  Of course, it's gearing up to be 75 degrees today, but still.  It's not that warm yet, and ... hey, I can't really see ... the power is out.  I set up some candles in the kitchen and sit down to work on non-computer stuff.  I can even make myself some tea because the burners are gas.  A whiff of sulphur later, I'm in semi-lit business.

I find myself slightly disappointed when the lights come back on by 10:00 a.m.  I go around the house and reset the clocks, but I keep the candles burning for another ten minutes while the internet boots itself back from oblivion.  When it's up and running, I blow out my makeshift work lights and head back to the computer.  It was a nice break while it lasted, just the same.

FLORAL DELIVERY TIMES TWO

I have been out of work for a few days on medical leave. My face is still wrapped up like a turkey in cheesecloth, and no one is allowed to see me, not even my sister.  This seclusion seems to be working until the doorbell rings.

Flower delivery.

I yell through the door, "I have to pre-warn you that I have a huge bandage on my face."  When I get the delivery woman's okay, I open the door, but not until I truly know that she knows I look like a freak.  I'm sure she is shocked, but she doesn't drop the glass vase filled with water and an exquisite floral masterpiece. 

A little while later the doorbell rings again. By the time I reach the door, I can't hear movement on the other side of it.  After screaming "Hello?" about fifteen times, I nudge the door open.

Flowery delivery.

This package of flowers arrives via a paid delivery service.  The delivery guy gets out of the truck, drops the package, does "Ding Dong Ditch" with my doorbell, and is back in the delivery van in the time it takes me to scream "Hello" and determine that it is safe to open the door.

Recently the outside plants on the patio became inside plants again, so any formerly available flower display space has been taken.  No matter,  One floral arrangement goes on the kitchen table; the other goes on the counter but doesn't really fit there.  It's okay, though.  My now-indoor plants will keep it company. 

It's starting to chill down at night. so I grab the basil out of the open kitchen window and place it next to the flowers on the counter. I'm not sure what to expect later, though, now that my basil is fraternizing with the roses.  I might have some strange hybrid growing soon. 

But even if I do end up with some freakish basil bouquet, by the time I have to do a press conference about it, my face should be unwrapped.  I won't have a huge bandage on my face.  I won't scare small children.  And ... I'll be able to answer my own door.

THE HUMAN CHEEZIT SLOT MACHINE

Today's is Surgery Recovery Day #2. 

I sleep fairly well - four hours uninterrupted - then promptly roll around thinking of all the things I need to get done, mostly paperwork as I am on activity restrictions.  I get up and discover that I am famished.  The only reason I am awake now is probably because my stomach is too loud and woke me up with its complaining.

I still cannot open my mouth very far, so I suck applesauce off a plastic spoon.  This is breakfast.  About halfway through my morning, I rummage around the kitchen in search of edibles that do not require a lot of work. 

I discover a box of extra-toasty Cheezits during my search. 

I discover that, like a slot machine, I can pass a Cheezit through my nearly-clenched teeth, let it melt into mush, and it's kind of like winning the food lottery.  Later on, I slowly but expertly pass the rest of yesterday's stew through my lips using a wide, flat soup spoon.

Fear not, stomach!  The bandages come off tomorrow, and my face, what part of it isn't too swollen, will regain some movement.  Also, my left nostril will be uncovered again, so food will smell like food instead of antiseptic-coated, blood-caked gauze. I'll be like a kid in a candy store -- what to eat first?  Cheese?  Roast beef?  Cookies?  Maybe something to drink that doesn't require a straw.  Huzzah!

Seriously, though, it's nice to be in recovery mode, yes, but it will be wonderful to eat again.

INHALING BEEF STEW

I have some facial surgery today, which turns out to be a little more complicated than I'm expecting, and my face starts to swell.  On top of that, tape is everywhere, and my mouth is both swollen and taped partially shut.  (This is like a dream for those who have to tolerate me.)

The biggest challenge is eating.  I cannot open my mouth more than a tiny bit, and chewing makes me blow out some stitchery.  In order to eat pudding, I have to hold the spoon to the opposite side of my mouth and inhale.  Most of the pudding ends up on my face, but enough gets in to serve as sustenance.

Later, after having a bleeding semi-emergency, my daughter and her friend, both nurses, come over to help tape my now-blood-caked bandages back down.  (Have I painted a pretty picture yet?  Yeah, I'm a real looker right now.)  They bring me piping hot beef stew and fresh bread.

The food smells amazing.  AMAZING.  If only the aroma could help the food jump into my growling belly.

Eventually I am able to semi-shovel small bits and squished pieces of stew into my mouth.  The bread will have to wait, so I wrap it up in plastic wrap then foil, hoping it stays just as fresh for when I can eat it in 24-48 hours.  That is, if I don't starve to death or drown myself with pudding in the mean time.

CHAR-BROILED COMMUTE

I should know better than to keep going when I see the sign for a flagman ahead on my ride home. It's still shorter driving straight through roadwork than going down the crowded main thoroughfare. 

Eh, I figure, what's a little delay going to hurt me?

They're repaving the road ahead, one side at a time, and several trucks are lined up on the hot macadam.  Working on the new road are probably about a dozen people, multiple trucks, and three police officers.  I see two cars ahead of me, and we are being waved through, so I hop into the line.

We are bumper to bumper, and, in order to avoid the construction vehicles, we must drive dangerously close to both the workers and the telephone poles on the other side.  It's like driving slalom through human gates.

As soon as I approach the final hurdle, the last truck, the edge of the paving, I notice fire shooting out from one of the trucks.  The car in front of me gets through, no problem, so I go by, as well, about eight inches from the big rig, the fire shooting right into my tires as I pass quickly.

This is not normal.  I know that fire doesn't just shoot out and that I probably shouldn't be careening through it. As soon as I plow on through, mouth agape in confusion, I look into my side mirror and see flames erupt all around the truck, workers running amok.

Holy shit, people.  I am a fraction of a second ahead of becoming embroiled in a vehicle barbecue.

Much as I'd like to stop and help, I am somewhat terrified that the French Tunnel Effect will happen.  Years ago people and vehicles were fried alive when a car fire started a series of explosions during rush hour traffic inside a traffic tunnel in France.  More concerned for my own safety, I drive as fast as I can away from the scene, half-expecting to hear a giant explosion followed by another then another as the construction caravan turns into a conflagration.

I try to put this all into perspective: Tomorrow I am having minor surgery, and right now it seems like a much better option than recovering in a burn unit, which I understand (from knowing people who've been in them and people/saints who work in them) is a hell of a lot worse that having some stitches in my face.

Now I hear there's an armed clown a mile and a half from my house.  Dafuq.  Seriously.Armed.  Clown.  Armed.  ??????

 I almost become char broil this afternoon and tonight the damn lunatic fringe is loose in my neighborhood, so I'm feeling pretty lucky right about now. I'm not a charcoal briquet nor am I full of holes, so a little Bride of Frankenstein facial scarring will be okay.

DIRTY WATER BREW-FEST

Drinking dirty water -- That's how friends and I spend Saturday.  Yup, just like that old song, "Down by the banks of the River Charles ... I love that dirty water.  Boston, you're my home."

A fundraiser is taking place in SoWa, an area of the city marked by refurbished brick industrial buildings.  The fundraiser is the capstone to HUB Week, a days-long series of events all over Boston, and it's a brew contest between half a dozen local breweries. The event is held in a wonderful open-air brick structure that resembles the bones of an industrial cathedral.

All participants must brew their beer with water taken from the Charles River.  Dirty Water.  Not just any dirty water -- the Famous and Beloved Boston Dirty Water.

This beer tasting might scare the less hardy, and those of us in attendance are pooh-poohed by others.  "We're surprised you don't have dysentery," and "Hey, you're not captive to your toilet" are common comments after we arrive home.

One of the brew-masters explains that the ultra-filtration process of the Charles River water makes the water soft and easy with which to brew.  All we know is that we taste some pretty decent beers, so much so that we have a hard time voting for a winner.  My friends and I each vote for different breweries as our #1.

No matter which table gets the most votes, those of us at the tasting are the true winners.  We contribute to children's programs connected to the city and to the Charles River, and also we get to sample some damn fine beer.

Loooooooove that Dirty Water, Boston.  Thank you for being my home.