LEFTOVERS

Yesterday's blog asked the question "Why do I cook?"  Today I remember why.  Leftovers: Leftovers to eat, and leftovers to use for new meals. 

Just a few days ago, I cooked a turkey and all the trimmings, and I find myself with some leftover turkey that no one seems to be able to consume.  I also have a pre-made pie crust in the freezer, along with half a package of frozen veggies.

Time to make a turkey pot pie.

This doesn't take very long since I don't bother with a recipe.  I throw the turkey and veggies together, add leftover gravy, and season the daylights out of the whole concoction.  I spoon the whole mess into the pie crust, and -- voila -- dinner!

And more leftovers. 

My freezer is filling up slowly but surely with all these meals I cook, even though I'm not very adept at this whole cooking thing, and even though I am surrounded by restaurants that cook a lot better than I ever will.  But, in full disclosure and contrary to yesterday's blog topic, I do cook on occasion, I just prefer when someone else does.

WHY COOK? IDK

I don't know why I even bother cooking anymore.  I live within walking distance of many fine and reasonably priced restaurants and within driving distance of dozens more. 

The deli down the road makes excellent honey BBQ chicken calzone and outstanding steak tip salads.  I can get Mexican, Chinese, Mediterranean, fancy pizza, char-broiled burgers, Indian, and Italian practically out my front door.  The pizza place across the street makes consistently solid pizzas, packed-full subs, and has fabulous dinner plates, all at reasonable prices.

Tonight I am exhausted from breakneck speed at work today (and quite a bit of fighting with technology).  I come home, take a shower, throw in a full load of laundry, and start attacking some phone calls I've needed to make.  A certain magazine to remain unnamed (but sounds a lot like Sports Illustrated) has bogusly charged my credit card for $55, and I have been fighting with them for a couple of weeks.  This afternoon I call India (or Pakistan or wherever it is) and argue with yet another employee mysteriously also named Jim.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, I'm done threatening "Jim" and assuring SI that my bank intends to investigate their bogus practices ("We don't verify the name or the three-digit code or the expiration date ...")  Um... dude?  That's FRAUD.  Finally, my bank confirms that the refund has gone through. 

Wonderful.  Now, time to deal with the Department of Education's loan division.

Before I realize the time, dinner should really be on the table.  I haven't even given it a thought.  Luckily, my son has also had a long few days, and we decide it's a steak tips kind of night.  We both decide to order the steak tip dinner (complete with a side salad), but, at the last minute, I change my mind and go for the baked haddock dinner.

Seriously.  The dinners are amazing, and I spend less than I would have to buy a couple of pieces of semi-fresh haddock myself, then I would need to prep it, cook it, get the smell out of the house.  The baked haddock is to die for, cooked to perfection and seasoned to an unfathomably tasty level.  Same with the steak -- the meal is less than a package of steak tips at the store, and it's cooked flawlessly.

I know that I'm spoiled.  Dinner is never further than the end of my almost strangely short road.  Most people don't even know it's a road at all.  Most people think it's part of the nearby church's parking lot, especially since there are only a handful of houses, and we're all living on the same one side of the street.  For $10 or less a day, I can eat like the spoiled brat I am.  For $20 or less a day, I can eat like freaking royalty.

I'm free, free at last from the oven and its post-Thanksgiving treachery.  No turkey leftovers tonight -- we've moved on to surf and turf.  No dishes to wash, either -- it's all eat-and-recycle. 

Best of all, though: I don't have to cook.  Believe me, if you've ever tasted my cooking, this is truly a win-win situation.

THE PARADE I DIDN'T GO TO

After getting stuck in the traffic of another town's Santa Parade yesterday, I totally forget to walk up the street to attend my own town's festivities.  Yup, I miss my own Santa Parade.

I have good excuses.

First of all, I wrap everything I bought yesterday and get it all sorted into piles: to-be-mailed pile, to-be-delivered pile, to-go-under-the-tree pile, to-go-in-the-stockings pile, and the infamous not-quite-sure-why-I-bought-this pile.

Second, I am busy with school work that I put off all weekend.  My entire folder of "important things to get done by Monday morning" sits there until I feel like looking at it today.  Ooops, have to type up some worksheets.  Ooops, have to type up a quiz.  Ooops, left the heavy-duty correcting on my desk - too bad, so sad.

Third, I'm still wearing last night's pajamas and have very little intention of changing until the sun sets and I shower and get into fresh pajamas for tonight.  I put on deodorant this morning, but I don't put on a bra.  I'm home alone, bra-less, in crumpled flannels and a t-shirt.  Say what you will, but we women understand that this is the desired Sunday uniform, and today I am The Sunday Pajama Master.

To be truthful, which I am from time to time, I totally forget about the parade.  My plan for today was to walk along crowded Main Street during the parade and shop in the stores I missed yesterday.  I figured I might watch a float or two go by for old times' sake and remember when the float I helped build (and rode on in the freezing cold until my hands iced into the twelve-foot chicken-wire Frosty we prevented from flying off the trailer in the wind) won first prize. 

It's a good day, even though I miss the parade.  My to-do list for the weekend is more than checked off.  I still have some holiday decorating to do, but so very much has gotten done that I'm almost looking forward to Monday work so I can sit down and regroup for a few minutes.

Of course, there is that giant pile of correcting still waiting for me.  If only I'd thought to bring it home and shred it all to toss as confetti at the parade -- you know, the parade I didn't go to.  There's always next year.

SMALL BUSINESS STUPOR AND WINE (OR NOT)

I don't have a new recommendation for Wine of the Week nor Sip of the Week. I do have one that I may have made before, but I can't seem to get myself to any tastings with the Thanksgiving disruption.

Well, that's not entirely true.

Saturday is Small Business Saturday, the day when we consumers are urged to patronize and support small business owners and their struggles.  This sounds great in theory, so I head to one of my favorite small shop spots -- Newburyport, Massachusetts.

Newburyport is loaded with small, eclectic shops, and it's fun to peruse through them.  I have a particular mission in mind, so I make a bee-line for that one particular shop.  It is both better and worse than I expect.  The owners are pleasant and accommodating, and the selection is better than I anticipated.  However, the shop is NOT offering ANY special sales for Small Business Saturday.

This trend of "no extra discount" pretty much sums up my Newburyport experience.  Only one shop is offering extra sales on their stock.  Naturally, I spend money there.  I spend money at several places and try to reason with myself for the ultimate stupidity of these small business owners: This sales holiday is for their benefit, not mine; Offer some goddamned discounts.  Even a simple 10% off total purchases, as cheap as that is, would've been a kind gesture.

This pattern repeats itself back in my own town.  The only place offering discounts is the chain toy store.  Really?  Truly?  Are you people even serious right now?

Here's my decision on Small Business Saturday -- BITE ME.

Do I get some shopping done?  Sure.  Do I spend money I didn't need to spend?  Sure.  Do I find what I expected to find?  Not really.  Do I feel like the small businesses actually appreciated my money?  Nope.  Not even slightly.

Here's where the wine comes in, though.  I am on my way home from Newburyport when I attempt to get to the wine shop for the Saturday tasting.  Waze keeps insisting that there is a huge traffic jam ahead of me, which I cannot fathom since I'm on the backroads.  Suddenly I see ahead of me three police cars and a firetruck.  I see that the road is now closed.  Thinking there must've been an accident, I stay in traffic and inch closer.

I.  Am.  So.  Stupid.

There's no accident.  It's the town's Santa Parade.

I cannot get over to the wine shop for the tasting.  I could go later, and I have gone late in the past, arriving just in the knick of time.  However, I have a long list of important things to get done today that includes bringing food to my daughter who accidentally knocked her fridge open and lost all of the food when running off to work after being called in early this morning. I can't really say, "Hey, I'd love to rescue you, but I have to go sip wine first..."

If after reading all of this you still need a wine recommendation, I highly recommend the Sterling Cabernet Sauvignon from Napa Valley, California.  Even though the wine didn't quite make it into the 90-points bracket, it is very close to that score across the board.  Sterling cab sauv is a drinkable red that doesn't overpower the palate, and it goes well with turkey, possibly because its smooth taste compliments such foods as cranberry sauce and squash.  Coming in somewhere around $20 a bottle, This is a great go-to wine when being invited somewhere and you need to bring a gift or help supply the home bar.

The string that ties this all together is the wine shop.  They truly are a small business with on-site owners, and they offer discounts to their customers every day.  Do I want to support them on this special sales day holiday?  Of course I do, but Santa won't let me get there when I need to get there.  So I'll patronize them whenever else I can because, well ... because I can.

As for those other businesses, I understand that you're trying to make a buck or two off people on Small Business Saturday, but THIS is why you need a special day to encourage people to come in.  Don't be so damn cheap about being too damn expensive, especially when you know a little bit of coinage in my pocket will encourage me to spend even more at your register.

Lesson learned.

GETTING THE TRASH OUT

I am ashamed to admit that the cellar I recently finished cleaning out (not yet cleaning UP, but the junk is cleaned OUT) is a project that started months ago.  Last fall after removing air conditioners from windows, I piled them outside instead of in the basement.  Last Fall.  As in 2015.

I am careful with the patio, though.  I place heavy plastic under everything so nothing leaves rust stains on the concrete, and I keep the pile covered with plastic (and weighted down with bricks) through the winter.  To this pile of three air conditioners, I also add two dehumidifiers, three old computer monitors, and a busted electric fireplace. 

All the while, plastic comes in handy, and the monitors even have trash bags on them, just in case.  I'm not sure from what I protect these items.  After all, it's JUNK.

Finally, I finish the hauling out, and finally I have an entire day off, so I decide to find out where to haul the crap I've piled outside (lest my landlord start charging me a daily ugly property fee, if there even is such a thing).  I look up the recommended removal places on the town's recycling flyer only to discover that not one of the places listed even serves our community.

What.  The.  Hell.

I do have two options.  I can haul the stuff (one at a time, week by week) to a friend's house in a nearby town and pay $25 for each item removed.  Or, I can haul the stuff to the local scrap metal dealers.  The problem with these options is that I am also having some back trouble and can barely rake leaves out of the way for anyone to lift the trashed appliances let alone try to lift them myself. 

I search the Internet for junk dealers near me, find one with good reviews, and call them.  I figure maybe they might be able to come by next week sometime.  Instead, I talk to an amiable gent who informs me that the junk men will be at my house within the hour.  Actually, his time frame gives me about forty minutes.

Hmmmm.  I suppose I should change out of my flannel pajama pants, then.

The junk men call before they arrive, and they wave to me as they drive up to the house.  By now, I am outside madly (and sorely) trying to move the wet leaves out of the way.  They quickly give me an estimate that is $100 cheaper than I am expecting and $75 cheaper than me hauling the stuff away myself.

SOLD.  Take it.  I'll even give them cash.

The basement may not be finished yet, but at least the year-long saga of staring at the old air conditioners, monitors, and dehumidifiers is over.  Luckily, since I waited so long, I get to add in that electric fireplace that bit the dust two weeks ago.  Life is good, and my patio is clean again. 

Thank you, All Day Junk Removal out of Lawrence, MA.  You saved my sanity, my back, my wallet, and the eventual wrath of my landlord. 

APPLE PILFERING FOR THANKSGIVING PIE

Thanksgiving means homemade apple pie, and homemade apple pie means Granny Smith apples.

I hate shopping, which means that I am going into the worst possible season for a person like me.  To do my Thanksgiving grocery shopping, I decide that the large chain market is the best option.  I must hit the store exactly at the right time, and, when I do arrive, there's a huge line of cars trying to get out of the lot, but there are plenty of empty spaces near the store. 

When I go inside, the place is no more crowded than any other weekday afternoon.  I can tell, though, that this shopping trip is different -- The shelves are being stocked beyond capacity and I can move around a little bit without limb loss.

The last item on my list is simple: Granny Smith apples for the pie. To my surprise and horror, there are NO loose Granny Smith apples in this giant grocery store.

The store does, however, have pre-bagged fruit: 3 red Delicious apples, 3 oranges, and 3 Granny Smith apples in each packaged bag.  The packages are $6.49 each.  I need at least two bags' worth, maybe three bags' worth, but I am not paying that kind of money just to get Granny Smith apples.  Besides, I hate the taste of red Delicious apples.

So, I break open the bags. Okay, I pre-warn the produce clerk that I'm going to do this, but still. 

In the end, I bag myself six small Granny Smith apples.  I really need seven large Granny Smith apples, but the store doesn't have them, and I really should break open a third bag and grab three more apples, but I cannot bring myself to do this.  Two busted produce bags seems like enough.  (I throw in two Braeburns, just in case.)

I probably could stop at another grocery store, one of the smaller ones closer to my house, but somehow this thought doesn't occur to me while I'm in the big store doing all of the Thanksgiving shopping.   I am so tired from work and so stressed from getting everything organized that I have tunnel vision.  I need the Granny Smith apples, I need them now, and I don't particularly care how I get them.

My pie is perfect.  Flat, yes, but perfect otherwise.  Thanksgiving, on the other hand, is perfect and not at all flat, which makes my whole apple-pilfering an absolutely worthwhile adventure.

THANKSGIVING DITTY

Making sure the house is clean,
Cooking like a flour storm.
Oh, please let no dust be seen!
Oven makes the house feel warm;
Finally the turkey's done.
On the phone to all who're living,
Eating, talking, having fun --
That's the way we do Thanksgiving.

Happy Thanksgiving, all!

SEMI-FIRST SNOW

As soon as the word spreads online, I rush to the window to look outside.  This is how I discover that the patio's back light fixture is out, but this is a secondary fact.  I move to another window for confirmation.

Yes.  It is snowing.  Not much, but still.

The first sign of True Winter brings out the rabid snow people here in the Northeast, especially since we're out of the range of the season's true first strike.  Yes, it has snowed in earnest in the western part of the state and north of us in Vermont, New Hampshire, and Maine.

It's obvious that this snow isn't going to stick, at least not for long.  Eventually I venture into the spitting flakes to change the patio light, and I am no worse for the encounter.  I won't really declare it First Snow, though.  That happens when the huge flakes fall, the fat and puffy flakes that mean they are going to stay around for a little while.

I know: Be careful what I wish for, right?  I only used my snowshoes three times last winter.  I think I have some luck to spare.

PROGRESS AND RECYCLING

My daughter comes over to do laundry, and I am showing off the newly pulled apart basement.  I am proud of myself, smug even, because I have managed to clean out the trash and recycling, at least to the best of my ability. 

The joke is on me, though.

While pointing out all of the progress I have made, I spy two more boxes that could have been broken down and dragged out to the trash.  Honestly, though, after hauling out two overflowing recycle bins, two old metal shoe racks, a double bed frame, and thirteen bags of trash, I am not up to wrestling with more.  The cardboard recycling I have for this week is already spilling into the street.

Anyway, progress is being made.  I don't get back to the basement project right away -- Thanksgiving is coming and lists have to be made, shopping has to be done.  My only hope is that when I come home from work tomorrow, all of the recycling and trash will be long gone. 

THAT would be real progress.

SHOWERING SPIDERS OUT OF MY HAIR

Today I have a zillion things to do.  Thanksgiving is coming, and my house is messy, disorganized, and I haven't even made my shopping list yet.

So, what do I spend all day doing?  I clean out the basement.

Yup, I decide that today is the day, and I'm determined to get old boxes emptied and broken down for this week's recycling, and I desperately need to see what's left to go out for the junk collectors, whom I still have yet to call.  Plus, the two kayaks need to be broken down and put under the stairs until spring.

It's an arduous process, especially since my house is 180 or so years old and the foundation is stone, which means the edges of the floor need constant sweeping and attention.  It's like the concrete dustbowl down there.

All in all, in addition to my basement project, I get two loads of laundry done, watch some of the Patriots' game, and iron clothes, but I still have a long list of things that do not get accomplished.  The worst of it all is that after five hours, there's still a bunch of stuff to go through -- I get all the trash out, but now I have to sort and file what's left down there.

Oh, well.  The cobwebs and I have a lovely day together, though I need to throw out my socks (because I don't bother putting on sneakers) when it's all said and done.  I think I'll leave the rest of it until after Thanksgiving.  Now, if you don't mind, I have several items to drag to the curb, about fifty pounds of cardboard to recycle, and something like ten bags of trash to haul out, then I'm going to shower the spiders out of my hair. 

THANKSGIVING WINES

Thinking about wine for Thanksgiving?  White?  Red?  How about a white and a red, a sure way to make everyone happy.

First up is a red wine, suitable for dinner and providing a wonderful juxtaposition to what might normally be considered a white-wine meal of turkey.  This Californian wine, a 2013 vintage, is smooth.  It's also spicy, but not over-powerfully so, due to its oak aging.  Fruity, it's heavy on cherry and would be an interesting counter to sweet potatoes and cranberry sauce.  At $13, my Thanksgiving red recommendation is Donati Family Claret.

For a white, I find a perfect wine to go with apple pie.  It's not a dessert wine.  This wine, a 2015 vintage also out of California, is smooth, drinkable, but with a slight tang.  It's tart on the palate, probably due to grapefruit and lime, and I instantly think about Granny Smith apples when I taste it.  Also coming in at $13, my Thanksgiving white recommendation is Honig Sauvignon Blanc.

Of course, you don't have to take my word for it, especially since my word is filtered down from the real experts around me.  At this time of Thanksgiving, I'd also like to thank my local wine shop circuit and all the fine experts who make me sound like I actually know something.  I know nothing ... except what I like, so thank you to the experts who open bottles for me to taste, and thanks to the people reading who humor my wine obsession.

Happy Thanksgiving a little early, folks.

DISLIKING POLITICAL HYPOCRISY

This is why I dislike politics.

A fashion designer refuses to make clothes for the new First Lady and every liberal on the planet is praising her conviction to her "morals."

An ultra-conservative bakery refuses to make a cake for a gay wedding due to the owners' conviction to their "morals," and they are vilified in the press and sued (probably out of business).

I'm not a liberal.  I'm not a conservative.  I'm not a Democrat.  I'm not a Republican.

Most importantly, I'm not a hypocrite. 

It is hypocritical to demand (legally or otherwise) that the entire world believes what you do, behaves like you do, lives like you do, eats like you do, watches what you do, reads what you do, speaks like you do...  That doesn't make you intolerant of bigots.  That MAKES you the bigot.

Does it matter if one side is right and one side is wrong?  Nope.  Know why?  Because they're BOTH WRONG,and if you're on either side, then you might be wrong, too.

What matters is that people are practicing sanctioned bigotry while hiding behind the facade of being tolerant of others when they are, in fact, being completely intolerant of anyone who doesn't think the same way.

However, when you work with the public and you sell a service, guess what!  You no longer have the supreme authority to pick and choose your clientele if your aim is to work with the general public.

Do you have a right to control your own opinion?  Absolutely.  Do you have a right to control mine?  Nope.

This, in a nutshell is why I hate politics: I don't give a flying fignut what you think, but once you start infringing on everyone else's personal thoughts, you are no longer an advocate; you're simply a fucking asshole.

CABLE TV EVERYWHERE

I have too many televisions.  Seriously.  For someone who doesn't watch much TV (unless you count Hallmark Christmas movies), I have televisions everywhere. 

It started innocently enough -- buy some cheapo $50 televisions to put into the kids' bedrooms to keep them from hogging my TV in the living room.  Then, once we moved to a bigger place, my living room and kitchen became separated by a den.  I realized I couldn't watch TV while prepping breakfast or dinner (I like catching the morning and evening news), so I extended the cable and brought it into the kitchen with a small television.

My son bought his own TV for college, and I inherited his TV into my bedroom, which means now I have five televisions in a six-room townhouse.  Okay, it's seven rooms including the bathroom (which doesn't have a TV) and then there's a large basement, essentially three rooms' worth, and there isn't a single TV down there ... but only because I haven't quite figured out how to split the cable from its source outlet yet.

Except for my son's television, not a single TV in this house is newer than twelve years old, and some of them have been around for twenty years.  They refuse to die, and I refuse to replace them until they do.

This brings me to the present.  I am working away in my upstairs den (glorified closet/sewing room/craft area) and want to watch TV, but the cable box is dead.  I try everything: reconnecting the wires into and out of the box, making sure the television connection is solid, unplugging and re-plugging in the cord from the outlet and also from the cable box, and, when all else fails, I try smacking the box with my fist.

Nothing.

I dread the trip to the cable company because the lines are often out the door.  I drive there directly after work on Monday to find ... surprise, surprise ... no lines.  Not a single other patron in the place.  Within three minutes I am in and out and heading back to my house.  The service call to get connected goes well except that the technician accidentally hangs up on me, but, because the call is being recorded for training purposes, she calls me right back.  About six minutes later, we're good to go.

Now, if I can just convince myself to dump the old stereo TV in the living room and finally go HD (I am sooooo behind the times), I think I'll be living in the 21st century.

MILITARY AIRSTRIKE ... SORT OF

I haven't been sleeping well lately.  It started with my surgery over a month ago, and recently this restlessness has skirted dangerously close to full-on insomnia.  It doesn't matter if I have everything or nothing on my mind; sleep is fleeting.

I suppose I could connect my sleep patterns with the Super Moon.  Like a crazy person, my full-moon dreams are always more intense and colorful than my half-moon dreams, as any lunatic would expect them to be.  And speaking of lunatics, when we were younger, we were told that the tower high above the old building at the state mental hospital down the street was for the lunatics who preferred baying at the moon over silently moping in partial mental awareness.  Right now, I feel as if I am stuck in that very tower.

When I do finally doze off, the dreams are almost as disturbing as the reality.  Take this morning, for example.  I wake up and realize I have two more hours to sleep.  Most people would jump for joy at that revelation, but I have already had three short-sleep nights this week  I am determined to milk the crap out of the time I have left in my dreamscape.

My dreamscape, however, refuses to cooperate.  Instead of a pleasant nap, I am subjected to House of Horrors.  Well, not exactly "House" and not exactly "Horrors." 

I dream that we are being invaded.  I dream that America is under attack by itself, and the military is sending in serious military airplanes and choppers.  I dream that an airstrike is imminent, and I dream it so realistically that I can hear the jets, see them, smell them, even.  In my dream I am standing in a park, staring at the horde of military machinery roosting at the airport nearby, settling in one after the other and sometimes multiples at a time on separate landing strips.

I wake up in a cold sweat, which sounds like a cliche until it actually happens to you, shocked at the clarity and the details of slumber.  I listen from my bed, listen for the sounds of war, listen for the sounds of airplanes or helicopters above. 

The world is silent.  Even the nearby train tracks sit still in the dawn.

An expert interpreter will tell me that my dream indicates major conflict in my life, but I don't buy it.  I know what the problem is -- too much politics.

Tonight I'm going to attempt to get to bed early.  Of course, that's always my intent and it never turns out the way I plan.  Tonight I am going to really and honestly give myself a break and get some real, deep, dreamless sleep.  If it doesn't work, I'm going to infiltrate my dream's military home base and kick all of their asses for keeping me awake. 

CONFERENCE CHAOS

Conferences.  I attend an educational conference on Monday. In the world of education, this can either be a "Get out of jail FREE" card or the Kiss of Near-Death. 

The conference itself is somewhat unexciting.  It consists of sitting in a chair for six hours and doing a brief role-play Socratic seminar.  Of course, my re-writing of the state-regulated test question doesn't help my case, either.  I mean, seriously.  Who wants to finish a boring story?  Isn't the Zombie Apocalypse a better interpretation?  I certainly think so, therefore the sample story/essay question morphs from a lovely period piece into the Time Warp dance number, take two.

Anyway, conference aside, the best part is my compatriot.  We arrive at the conference very early because I miscalculate both the distance and the traffic patterns.  I am driving, and the only place to park is a sketchy, super creepy, very low-ceiling parking garage.  My cohort doesn't like elevators (and neither do I after being stuck at one while 9 months pregnant a couple of decades ago), so we walk up five industrial flights of stairs, which is like ten regular flights.  It's our exercise for the day, so it's a good start.

We bond with the presenter (being so damn early, thanks to my bad judgement) for a while, then promptly begin arguing with her about statistics once the class starts.  This continues until lunchtime, when pizza and salad is provided for us.  This is all wonderful, except for the fact that we are stuck in this small room for hours and hours and hours.  With the exception of the view (an impressive center atrium) from outside the shared ladies' room, it's kind of like being incarcerated for the day.

An excellent lunch of pizza and salad is served (no dessert), and the day ends with my coworker and me winning the poetry challenge by coming up with the best common word in the example poem ("shattering", just like our dreams).  The prizes are small peanut butter cups, which we eat quickly lest we get attacked for not sharing the only chocolate withing a two-mile radius. 

The walk back down to the car seems strangely longer than our ascent.  Even when we see the car in the light of day that shines through the garage walls, the concrete parking area is still super-creeping us out.  We leave early but hang out and chat until late.  We are not the best at time-management.

Other than the Zombie Apocalypse, though, it's a perfect day.

SUPER MOON

I would be remiss in my duty as a blogger if I did not post about the Super Moon.  I also need to be truthful: I think it's super-cool.

When the moon rises, I call my youngest to the window to see it.  It's bright, remarkably so, and looks amazing through the late autumn stark tree branches.  Taking a picture now would be futile.  There's no way I can get my Android phone to capture the night scene.

In the morning, just before daybreak, I hustle downstairs and look out the front window.  With dawn light making the backdrop a better palette, I try to snap some pictures.  I don't have time to hunt up my digital camera and figure out how to set it up.  Apparently, I am getting very lazy in my older age.  Besides, my cell phone is handy and fully charged.

Obviously, my pictures suck, but the real moon (the actual real-time view out the window) is fascinatingly gorgeous hanging in the sky just minutes before it disappears. If you didn't see it yet, it's not too late to catch a waning glimpse. 

GAME NIGHT TURNS VULGAR, AND MOMMY WINS

Game night arrives to the Heliand household as we have a rare but welcome family evening.  Two of my three kiddos are around plus one girlfriend, and apparently they've all ganged up on me to make it Game Night.  By ganging up, I mean they want to play some old-school video games. 

I suck at old school video games.  Actually, I suck at all video games.  Even as a kid, I couldn't win at Pong nor Space Invaders nor Pac-Man nor any of those video driving games.  We decide to play some Mario Kart.  I cannot for the life of me figure out how to make the car go without hitting the wall or dunking into water or running off into the snow.  I do pretty well with the dirt track and actually find myself accidentally winning one round.  I have no idea how I finished first as I don't even know what I'm doing.

We also play some Mario Tennis, which is a good idea until I choose to be some flying duck-like thing.  I cannot play tennis as a person, so this whole flapping around thing isn't helping.  Somehow I manage to win a few rounds of this, as well.

I don't truly shine until we change over to Cards Against Humanity.  For anyone unfamiliar with this game, it's a theme game played with different printed cards.  It's just like Apples to Apples only filthy and foul-mouthed.  In other words, it's my kind of game.  The first three times it's my turn, I pick teacher-school type cards, which depresses me a little bit.  It's the weekend; cut me some slack. 

I find myself ahead in this game.  No one can play the "fart" card nor the "getting launched off the toilet" card nor the cards that are in particularly poor taste like I can.  Soon the kiddos are complaining that even when they try not to pick the cards I play, they pick the cards I play.  I end up with 24 cards in my pile, which makes me the winner-winner-chicken-dinner.

I may not be very good at the interactive television-based games, but I am very good at the interactive vulgarity games.  I'm not sure that says much about me on a personal level, but I at least get some kudos for being clever ... 24 kudos, to be exact.

ANGEL SHARE: WINE OF THE WEEK

Another week of tasting reds; another week of being unable to choose just one without suffering guilt for leaving the others out.  There is one white this week, a 2014 Spanish albariño that doesn't thrill me, although Robert Parker gave it 90 points.

That leaves me with six excellent reds from which to choose.  Six reds that all earned 90 points or above according to various wine-rating agencies.  Since I know very little about wine, it would be a good idea to pay attention to the real experts.

There's an Oregon pinot noir that is smooth with a nice finish, heavy on pomegranate, earthy and vibrant.  Oregon pinots are usually lovely, and this one is no exception.  At $25 a bottle, though, the Maison l'Envoye Two Messengers pinot noir is just out of my "sit down and sip it for fun" price range.  Wine Spectator rates it 92 points.

Another favorite has been on my list before, maybe even a few times: Daou Vineyards red blend, a 2014 California wine called The Pessimist.  It has a deep, long finish, and is a little spicy and berry-flavored, but the color of the wine impresses beyond all else.  This wine is dark, purple, with the flavor and color of cassis, and it sticks to the wine glass after it has been swirled.  Robert Parker rates it at 90 points, and the cost is $20 per bottle.

This week's winner, though, is slightly more expensive than the pinot; it comes in at $27 per bottle.  A richly dark deep red, this wine mixes the flavors of chocolate and berries.  Its nose is a major part of its charm, but, even more charming is its name: Angel Share.  A 2014 Aussie wine, Two Hands Angel Share Shiraz gets its name from the small amount of wine that evaporates during the maturation process, or "the angels' share."  Galoni rates this wine at 91 points.  Like the pinot, though, it's above my price range for everyday drinking, but it certainly merits a place on my "This Is Important" list for special occasions.

ELECTRONIC HIDE AND SEEK

Several months ago my daughter bought me a portable charger for my phone.  I was going on a relatively long bus ride, and I wanted to be sure I would be able to have internet access (for a while, anyway), or, at the very least, be able to play with some of the apps on my cell phone during the ride. 

Unfortunately, this was a short-lived experience.

It's not really my fault.  You see:  I put the brand new charger someplace safe where I wouldn't lose it.  And then, I promptly lost it. 

Hey, don't judge me!  I've had a lot on my plate these past few months.  Okay, that's not really true.  Maybe it's a little true, but still.  It's electronic, right?  So, it should be with the electronics and electronic accessories near my home computer. 

But, it's not.

This week, the thought of the lost charger is really bugging me, so I search the house, wandering from room to room, trying to remember where I last saw the damn thing.  It's not like I can miss it; it's bright pink.  This isn't the first time I've gone looking, either.  Yet again, seeking that which is hiding is futile.  Somehow, I really and truly cannot find it.

I start questioning my sanity: Did I leave it in my daughter's car?  Did I leave it somewhere?  Did I accidentally throw it out with the Best Buy bag it was in?

Fast forward to me cleaning out that winter closet (aka: my spare room).  There is a laptop case with no laptop in  it.  I am notorious for leaving pens and pencils inside of everything that I own, so I reach inside the flap of the front pocket, fully expecting an animal or some other crazy possibility to come flying out of the darkness. 

Instead, I feel something cardboard-ish.  Could it be?  Dare I hope?

It is. 

I pull the missing charger out of the laptop case pocket.  I open the package the charger is in (hadn't even opened it when I shoved it in its hiding spot months ago), plug it in, and rejoice knowing the next time I have to go on a long bus (or plane, train, or automobile)ride, I'll have the extra charger I needed months ago in August, just in case.  Best of all, I am now the winner of a very long game of Hide and Seek.

PRACTICING FOR ARMISTICE DAY

When we were kids, my father often yelled at us to be quiet(er).  There were (and are) five of us, so we made a lot of noise.  My dad, being retired military (WWII vet), knew and practiced the fine art of War Games on us, and he did so with a absolute precision, a short temper, and a heavy hand.  When he told us to shut up, he meant immediate business or immediate retribution.

One of his favorite lines to us when we got exceptionally unruly was to "practice for Armistice Day."

Armistice Day was the precursor to Remembrance Day, which eventually morphed into Veterans' Day.  The Armistice marked the end of the fighting in World War I, an agreement that happened on November 11 at 11 o'clock in the morning.  To commemorate that moment in history, 11:00 a.m. was (and still is) considered the exact time that two minutes of silence would commence.

Perhaps my veteran father was trying to teach us about history, or perhaps he really did believe that children should be neither seen nor heard.  Armistice Day children.  Children who know the importance of practicing for a silent holiday no matter what day of the calendar year it may be.

To all the veterans out there, to all retired and reserve and active service men and women, thank you for your service.  Know that I will speak up on your behalf any and every other day and minute, but for two minutes today I will show off the mastery level I have finally achieved of being told to practice for Armistice Day.

POST-ELECTION POETRY

There once was a man named Trump
Who was not quite dumb as a stump
With some direction
He won the election
Four years he'll be pain in our rump.

Hillary tried to campaign
Until she collapsed with some pain
Vagina no reason
To hand her the season
Sorry - no White House again.

Johnson gave all that he got
But others just couldn't be caught
He had to suspend
His race in the end
Because everything still went to pot.

For quite a while numbers were floated
Across a map that was red-coated
The red and the blue
For me and for you
Some of us cried and some gloated.

I hope you enjoyed this bad poem
I wrote it while sitting at home
I don't care who won
Just glad that it's done
Now, everyone, LEAVE ME ALONE.

BURNING QUESTIONS

I always vote after school, around 3:15 in the afternoon.  Until today.

My youngest wants me to go vote with him, make sure he has the correct polling place and the correct precinct.  He gets out of work at 5:00.  I know from experience that dinner-time voting can be a huge wait-game, and the kid has to get to a coaching gig in New Hampshire early in the evening.

The potential for disaster is in the air. 

We devise the best way to hit the polls.  After all, on my way home earlier, the line of cars jockeying to get to the high school field house for the election was very, very, VERY long, about a mile, and that's just from one direction (the back road).  Turns out, though, that disaster is averted.  There are parking spaces and zero lines inside even at dinner time.

Honestly, my son doesn't  need me, but I enjoy the company.  It's fun to watch him vote in his first presidential election, and the women manning the precinct think he's absolutely adorable.  They make a big deal out of checking him in, watching his ballot go into the box, and handing him a sticker.

I cannot stomach any of the candidates for president, to be honest.  I have personally met Bill Weld, and find him to be a decent guy.  If it were Weld-Johnson, I could choose my ballot, but today I stand dumbfounded, staring at the ticket, wondering what in the hell I am going to do. I end up with a mixture of Republicans, Democrats, and Independents.  Mix it up.  Keep it fresh. For the state ballot questions, I vote also in a mix of yes/no.

By the time I post this blog, the decision will be made and America will have spoken.  Right now, though, as the results are still up in the air and the polls in the west are still open, I have a few burning questions left unanswered:

1.  If Trump loses, will he go back to being an orange Ooople-Ooopah in a business suit, running his business ala Willy Wonka?

2.  If Clinton loses, what country will she move to in order to avoid prosecution and extradition when her cohorts start mysteriously suffering "heart attacks"?

3.  Will the Obamas stop coming to Martha's Vineyard so the rest of us can maybe vacation in our own backyard for a change?

And, the most pressing question of all in this whole election:

4.  How much wood would a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood?

THANK GOD IT'S ALMOST OVER

Thank God it's almost over.
I will be able to watch the news again perhaps in a week or two.
Earth will resume spinning on its own axis.
Birds will sing again.
I might even be able to quit drinking.
This is it.
The last morning.
The last time I'll have to hear or see political ads for a few years.
The last time I'll get robo-politicalls for a while.
My mailbox won't be stuffed full of useless postcards.
I won't answer a political survey in the near future.
I can speak to my friends again.
I don't have to constantly remind myself how dumb people can be.
Dumb.
Yes, dumb.
All sides believing absolute bullshit.
Spewing absolute bullshit.
Filling social media with bullshit.
Although, some of it has been wildly entertaining.
Disheartening and aggravating and frustrating.
Massively entertaining.
Johnson's fake heart attack -- probably my favorite moment.
Clinton with n-word-spewing, woman-hating rap stars probably the most disturbing.
Trump's hair probably the scariest yet most mesmerizing -- like a train wreck.
Soon.
Soon it.

Soon it will.
Soon it will be.
Over.
All over.
Thank God.

BOSTON PRE-CHRISTMAS

Boston is gearing up for Christmas.  I see it for myself when I'm wandering around the North End and Faneuil Hall this weekend. 

I will say this, though: the giant Christmas tree looks horrible at the moment.  I hope it is because I see it right after it arrives on a flatbed truck.  One side of the beast is bushy and lush, and the other side is crooked, squished up, and sad.  There are huge limbs on the ground, chopped off in an effort to make the tree more uniform.  If the branches don't start relaxing themselves, no amount of pruning is going to save this year's holiday spruce.

The other trees in Faneuil Hall wear their decorations all year.  The only thing missing is the coordinated holiday light show set to Christmas music.  Already the stores are decorating their window fronts with scenes of holiday cheer, transforming the marketplace into a wonderland.

I know Halloween just passed, and I know that many people don't want to rush the season, but once Thanksgiving passes, life becomes a frenetic pace of beat the holiday clock.  At least this way there is a sense of relaxation rather than urgency.  Maybe I'll mosey in once or twice to see the tree and lights before the season ends.  Two years ago I wandered around for an hour or two before a Bruins game.  Last year friends and I came in on New Year's Day.

Nothing at all is like Christmas in the city.  Buildings are decorated and lights are strung everywhere, even office lobbies have massive lit trees and colorful displays.  I don't care what religion you are or what you believe or know about an American Christmas -- the holiday lights are for everyone, and it makes the city look clean and bright and welcoming.

First full week of November?  That's fine with me.  I'm ready.  Bring it.  Throw the switch; light the lights.  Boston is gearing up for Christmas, and I'm gearing up right along with it.

SIP OF THE WEEK AND A FUNDRAISER

Today is a fundraiser for Boston Children's Hospital, and we're doing a pub crawl through the city.  The sponsoring pubs are ready for us this year, and food awaits us at the last stop.

I could go on and on and write about the virtues of of the pub crawl.  I could review the drinks we had (Bell in Hand makes the best sangria), but that's not what I really want to say.

Here's the long and short of it.  If you're in Boston and have a few minutes to explore Faneuil Hall Marketplace and the perimeter streets, keep these pubs in mind.  They are the pubs that sponsored the crawl, contributing to Boston Children's Hospital.:

Sissy K's (for the dancer in you)

Paddy O's (for the Irish in you)

The Bell in Hand (for the historian in you -- oldest American tavern)

The Wild Rover (for the rover in you, wild or otherwise)

This week's Sip of the Week goes to these wonderful establishments for allowing 100+ people to descend, take over bar stools and tables, and dance around your taverns.  It may be temporary chaos, but it's for a fantastic cause.

AN ALARMING FRIDAY

Staying at work late on a Friday afternoon is the last thing I want to be doing.  Actually, that's not true.  It's the second to the last thing I want to be doing.  The last thing I want to be doing is bringing work home with me.  It's the end of the term, and I have finally finished the correcting and am halfway through entering grades on the computer.

Suddenly, ceiling lights start flashing and the alarm starts screeching.  This is an alarm I've never heard before.  Our fire alarm is very civil, a female voice instructing us all to leave through the nearest exit.  This is coming from the same mechanism, but the sound is shrill and loud and booming and blasting, and lights are flashing and strobing.  A loud voice yells shrilly, "There is an emergency in your building.  Leave through the nearest exit immediately.  There is an emergency in your building!"

I'm half-expecting to hear, "Danger, Will Robinson!  Danger!  Danger!"

The few of us stragglers pop heads into each other's rooms  Do we have to leave?  Is this a drill?  What's going on?  Will we be able to get back inside once we leave?

Since this is all new to us, we decide to take a minute to gather our stuff and do what the voice screams at us to do: get the hell out of the building.  Madly dashing about my room, I throw papers and binders into my backpack, shut the laptop, gather my personal belongings, make sure I have my car key, check to make sure things are shut off (I realize too late that my printer is still on), then lock the door behind me.

Oh, and I stop in the ladies' room because I will definitely pee my pants before I can ever make it remotely close to my house.  By the time I wander outside with the other people, I could easily be dead of whatever is happening inside the building (chlorine leak, gunman, nuclear attack, tidal wave...).

The alarm finally shuts off after about eight minutes, and some of my colleagues meander back inside.  Not me, though.  I am not going back inside and risking jumping out of my own skin should the damn alarm go off again.  It's not until about an hour after I arrive home that I discover I forgot one key piece of information back at school.

Oh, well.  I have a few days to change grades.  I have no idea if I entered the "Incomplete" grades correctly, and I have even less of an idea as to why I give a damn, anyway.  I get into my car and drive away, encountering police, fire truck, and ambulance all still parked in the front loop of the school, lights ablaze.  It appears that this is not a drill -  they appear to be as confused as are we.

So much for staying late on a Friday.  Let that be a lesson to me.  Let that be a lesson to us all!  From now on on Friday afternoons, I won't need a scary, alien alarm to order me out of the building because my butt will already be gone as soon as the gates are open.

LOST LUNCH -- LEFTOVER LOSER

End of term time is always tough.  Today I have a group of students come for lunch to work on tests they haven't finished.  No, I don't force them to come and have lunch with me; this is their choice to avoid staying after school with me.

I tell the kiddos to get their lunches while I run to the teachers' lunchroom so I can warm up my leftovers.  Last night I made chicken broccoli ziti alfredo, and I'm dying to eat it for lunch.  My stomach has been grumbling for over an hour waiting for this moment.

The container goes into the microwave, and I set it for one minute.  I have to get back to my cherubs, make sure they're comfy and ready to work.  Finally, the microwave dings and I'm headed back to my desk, my mouth salivating with the knowledge that I am about to eat a fabulous lunch of excellent leftovers.

I get all of us situated, wait until the students have picked up where they left off, then peel back the cover to my lunch.  I am expecting chicken broccoli ziti alfredo.

Not.

Unfortunately for me and for my stomach, I grabbed the look-alike container of leftover chicken rather than the delicious leftover ziti when packing my lunch this morning.  Deflated and still hungry, I pull out of my bag some applesauce and a snack.  This will be my lunch.

I won't starve, but I do learn an important lesson.  When one packs his or her own lunch, it is wise to double-check all containers before leaving the house.

SOUTH CAROLINA DRIVING GLASSES

While still in North Carolina, my daughter and I decide to take a ride to South Carolina. 

I tout this as some grand adventure, and I convince her to stop at Wal-Mart in South Carolina so we can buy some cheap reading glasses because apparently I have my "read printed things" glasses on my head and not my "see while driving" glasses. 

She is very excited.  We are in Charlotte, and I'm going to drive us to the next state!  It's amazing!  It's exciting!  It's sensational!  It's adventurous!

It's also only four miles away.  This simple fact is the one I fail to disclose to my daughter.  When we cross the border between states about ten minutes after leaving the hotel, my daughter is both happy and deflated.  She expects more obstacles on our way, but we are in South Carolina as easily as if we are going for bagels across the street from our lodging.

Just like the Goodwill store, this Wal-Mart is immaculate.  The staff is friendly and the people shopping aren't pushing or jockeying for better line positions.  As a matter of fact, it is so unlike New England that we feel like we've gone to another country not just another American geographical region.

We snap a couple of pictures for friends, texting them that we are in Clemson country.  Then I head over to the reading glasses, which is why we came here in the first place.  I select a lovely teal blue pair, a shade that doesn't remotely match the black and white I am wearing, but I don't care for the $6 price tag. 

Too bad we are heading back over the border into North Carolina.  It would be nice to explore South Carolina now that I can actually see again.  Next time we go down, we will explore more, and I'll put a spare pair of driving glasses in the rental car.  After all, I have about fifteen pairs, so it shouldn't be a problem.

WICKED PISSAH IN NC

While we are in North Carolina, I tell my kids that we should go on an adventure.  I like going somewhere new when I go somewhere new -- museums or shops or restaurants or sightseeing or zoos -- getting the local flavor.  So, we hop into our rental Jeep and start cruising southward.

My youngest is a sucker for Goodwill and Salvation Army stores.  He likes to look for strange sports gear, and he has managed to accumulate a collection of jerseys from up and down the eastern seaboard as well as quirky things, like a China basketball jersey that was made for a giant.

On our travels, I spot Goodwill, so, of course, we have to stop.  First thing I will say: This store is immaculate.  It is amazing the quality of stuff in here.  The clothing is not only washed and pressed, but it is lined up by gender, by item, and by color. 

There are several workers whose job is to dust and keep the aisles and displays clean, and they are polite and cheerful.  The cashiers are helpful, chatty, animated, and funny.  The store, relatively busy for a Saturday, is full of people moseying along and smiling, talking to each other whether or not they are already acquainted. 

People are pleasant here, and things move along at a slow, patient pace.  Just an hour earlier, I wanted to smack someone in the bagel shop as the line snaked out the door without any forward progress.  No one else in the place seemed the least bit bothered by the fact that not a single worker came to the aid of the sole order-taker nor that they were even in a line.  Back home in Boston, this kind of service would be considered legal defense for a stabbing.  Here, the most strenuous things the knives are used for is spreading cream cheese when and if you ever get to it, or if you ever really care.

We are not totally without reminders, though.  Tucked into a rack of color-coordinated apparel, we discover a little taste of home:  a t-shirt from Boston that screams "Wicked Pissah" at customers who happen across it.  In the end, we adopt some local lacrosse shirts and leave the Boston shirt behind.  We'll be back to the frenetic pace soon enough without trying to get it through airport security with us, as well.

WHEN IN ROME OR CHARLOTTE

When in  Rome, do as the Romans do.

We're in Charlotte, North Carolina, which is Carolina Panthers country.  We don't bring any Boston team gear down with us: No Bruins jerseys, no Red Sox hats, no Patriots sweatshirts.  We are trying to blend in as best as we can.

The mid-sized car we rent turns out to be a Jeep Patriot (the irony here is not lost on me) with North Carolina plates.  This is good.  It presents the illusion that we might be natives when driving on the roads.  Last visit our car, a Fiat about the size of a tuna fish can, had Texas plates, and we seemed to be known as the two little Texan gals, which meant people gave us wide berths on the roadways.  This new vehicle, although very shiny and bright white, lets us travel inconspicuously as locals, though we are Patriots in a Patriot.

We also need to blend in when shopping.

This means the beer we buy has to blend in, as well.  We save the craft beers for dining and breweries, but we stock the hotel mini-fridge with Bud Light.  Local Bud Light.  Carolina Panthers Bud Light.

When in the tap rooms, sample the on-site brews.  When in the quickie-mart, grab the Panther logo and run.  It's kind of like survival of the pseudo-tourist.  After all, when in Rome... even if they give the Patriots a Patriot.