THE BISHOP'S ADVICE

Today there's a party at the local brewery. 

My daughter and two of her pals come with us.  We will be celebrating the Feast of St. Arnold of Metz, the bishop who famously claimed, "Don't drink water; drink BEER." 

Smart man; obviously, ahead of his time (580 to 640 AD ... or CE, depending on your schooling).

Today the brewery has bratwurst and hotdogs in addition to their regular fare, but we stick to the usual but limited bar foods because, well, probably because we're too lazy to stand in line.  A local Celtic band arrives with bagpipes and drums to serenade the patrons prior to the official blessing of the beer, so we leave the comfort of our seats since the band is set up at the far end of the parking lot, sort of close to the outside patrons but completely inaccessible to those of us stuck inside due to limited seating.

The day is a decent success except that there is muzak inside via speakers, so patrons stuck inside cannot hear the bagpipers.  Also, the brewery is out of my favorite beer: the Inky Depths porter.  However, the four of us make up for it all by cracking jokes and laughing, sometimes at ourselves and sometimes at others.  By the time we leave, my face and stomach are cramped from laughing so hard.

Regardless, when it all comes down to it, the party is a success, the day is a success, and friend time is a success.  Good thing we took the bishop's advice.

DOING A LOT OF NOTHING

Every so often we just need a day to do absolutely nothing.  Well, not "nothing" nothing -- nothing of any supreme importance.  Take today, for example.

I have a To-Do List that is at least a dozen items deep.  Some of the items on the list are half-completed, and today would be a perfect day to continue trying to tackle the list.  Of course, it's beautiful outside: mostly sunny, not too hot, low humidity.  All of my windows are open.

Aha!  Air out the house.  Not on my list, but it could be, so ... CHECK!

My son and his girlfriend bought me a jigsaw puzzle, and the outline is done.  I poke around and throw a few pieces in here and there.  I check my email.  I check Facebook.  While online, I decide to check on one of my television obsessions and realize the series is in its final season already and I am late to the party.  I watch one episode online, but my internet is sluggish.

Time to figure out On Demand.  Yup, I am one of "those people."  I don't care enough about television to ever need On Demand, and, if there's something I want to watch that I miss, I can usually catch it online.  There are a few shows I hate missing, though, and one of those shows is the AMC series Turn. 

I google how to watch a show On Demand.  Excellent.  This should be easy.  I turn on the television.  Not so easy.  It's not in television mode.  I juggle the two remotes and try to remember what my son told me about resetting it to viewing mode.  Success.  Now, on to the real trick.

I have to find my way to the station selection guide, find AMC, find Turn, then make sure I'm on the right season.  Once the show comes up, I am truly surprised that I haven't screwed up the whole process, and I watch season four, episode two.  And then episode three.  Episode four.  Episode five, during which I grab some lunch when commercials come on to the screen.  Episode six and mimosas come into the mix. 

Finally, I am on the last episode before the new one airs later this evening.  I sneak in some dessert while I'm watching.  Honestly, I am stunned watching this show.  It is mesmerizing, fascinating, horrifying, addicting, and fabulous all at the same time.  If you're not watching it, you're missing one of the best things on television, and in the course of my six-hour binge today, I gasp, cheer, scream, yell at the characters, find myself with my hand covering my mouth more than once, and pace the house until the new episode airs at nine o'clock.

Now that the show is over for the night, I'm back to attacking the puzzle.  Oh, sure, I could be and should be working  on a project around the house or enjoying the lovely day and evening, but sometimes we all just need a mental health day.  Today is mine.  Besides, the To-Do List isn't going anywhere. 

PRE-CHECK = DONE

I do not fly very often.  Up until sixteen months ago, I'd never flown at all.  I don't have any great fear of flying.  As a matter of record, I find it rather relaxing.  Three things have kept me from flying in my life: personal responsibilities; miserly attitude; claustrophobia.

A friend (who loves to fly and goes everywhere) is the same person who accompanied me on my first flight.  Since then, I've flown with layovers and flown solo several times.  To seasoned travelers, this may not seem like a big deal, but I am so used to driving everywhere that this whole flying thing still fascinates me (time from here to there -- a few hours) and aggravates me, all at the same time (no real scenery and no on-the-road misadventures). 

This summer my friend and I toy with the idea of getting TSA pre-check.  I've been lucky enough to have this on my ticket more often than not, but the last time I went through security, I gave up my space in line to be polite to a gentleman who arrived at the same time I did in the queue only to have him hauled out of line because it was "the next passenger's turn to be searched."

Holy crap. That would've been me.  I'm still a novice at this whole getting through the airport check-point stuff, and that probably would've made me pee my pants.  So, when my friend reminds me about the TSA pre-check idea, I hop on board.

We imagine a long process, one involving a lengthy questionnaire and being sequestered in a small, dimly lit room in Boston someplace where individually we would be bombarded with questions about our past, present, and future shenanigans.

Turns out to be a much less painful process.  We do not have to go to Boston; we go to Billerica.  We are not put into locked rooms with two-way mirrors; we each step behind a partition, one at a time, and can hear each other's answers.  We are not bombarded with personal questions; we click some answers online in front of the agent (maiden name, ever been arrested or convicted, gun issues, mental health stability, etc.).  All we need are pre-approved IDs and our credit cards.

Neither my friend nor I balk at the fingerprinting since we have both been fingerprinted for the government within the last year in connection to our employment.  Yes, teachers have to be fingerprinted, either to see if we are criminals or to identify our bodies in case of a massive disaster or gas leak explosion.

The initial application process says that TSA pre-check screening results will be delivered in 120 days.  Oh, well.  It's good for five years, so what's a few months of processing.  This is the government, after all.  The agents who screen us claim that we should know our status in thirty days.  Within three days, though, I receive my confirmation notification along with my KTN (Known Traveler Number). 

Not only is this exciting, but now I have to book a flight somewhere.  It's time.  Except there's one thing I still haven't tried out yet: using the airplane potty.  I suppose that will be my next big adventure now that I am TSA pre-check.  Of course, if I'm a little claustrophobic on the big plane, I imagine it may not bode too well for me in a teeny compartmentalized bathroom.  We shall see.  I guess I'll have to book a flight that's longer than two hours and test it out.

T-SHIRT TRANSFER

AHA!  It turns out that my semi-hoarding habit really does come in handy sometimes.

I finally get to my stash of t-shirts.  Many of these are not even mine; I've inherited them from my children either by osmosis or by fund-raisers gone bad (in other words, each family has to sell ten shirts ... I buy them).  Some of these shirts I do save just as is.  Many others have saggy sleeves and pinched waists. 

What to do with the ones that don't fit quite right?  I mean, some of these shirts are truly sentimental, and I get nostalgic just going through them.

I decide to save a couple aside for future projects, like, quite possibly, a t-shirt quilt.  Many go into the "I am now a pajama top" pile.  The rest of them, I take my fabric scissors (yes, there is a difference between fabric shears and regular paper shears, and never the two shall meet) to, slicing off sleeves, cutting out necklines, and shaving some off the bottoms.

What I am left with is a large pile of "workout" shirts, shirts with uneven edges and rolling hemlines now that the stitching has been severed.  Inevitably, these "workout shirts" will quickly and quietly become "pajama shirts" also, but for now, the shirts (and I) are living the dream:  Someday we are going to exercise together.

Well, well, well.  For all of the people (my children, I mean) who told me that I need to stop my semi-hoarding, these extra "workout" shirts come in very handy this evening.

My son is creating team t-shirts for a competitive party he will be attending this weekend.  After much planning and some perusing around the craft store, we decide that iron-on transfers will far exceed hand-drawn logos.  I run to Staples to make sure there is enough colored ink to create five shirt transfers.  Turns out we don't need the extra color ink, but we will, so it's a decent investment.

We get to the ironing-on part, and both of us chicken out.  Although we do have extra transfer paper, we do not have extra t-shirts.  What if we screw it all up?  What if it all goes into the proverbial shitter?  Where will we be then?

AHA! 

I run upstairs to my pile of shirts, still waiting for permanent homes, and grab an old gray shirt that has had its sleeves and neck and bottom trimmed away.  This should be perfect.  We try out the extra transfer on the cotton t-shirt ... and it works beautifully.  BEAUTIFULLY. 

And do you know why this happens?

It happens because I have all of these extra shirts on which to experiment.  It happens because I sort through the dressers full of shirts.  It happens because I have a whole slew of old t-shirts willing to be branded by an iron-on transfer.  If I'd have been short any of the supplies, this may not have been an exceptional day.

Next time you're tempted to walk into my house and mutter, "Who lives likes this, anyway!", I can assure you that the T-Shirt Transfer Rescuer lives here and will proudly show you my huge stash along with my recently decorated (via transfer paper) t-shirt.

1800 IN A ROW

I start writing a blog for tomorrow. I have about fifteen different topics for any given moment, and my plan is to continue the sorting saga; you know, the one where I admit how disorganized and hoarder-like I am because I can't seem to let stuff (tangible) go in my life. 

(Unless you're an asshole; then you've already experienced how rapidly you become expendable.)

However, when I open up the blog home page, I realize that I have posted blog #1,799.  That means that this one, today, is a BIG one.  It's officially #1,800.  This means that I have posted my blog every day for 1,800 days in a row.  IN.  A.  ROW.

So, a huge thank you to all who do read, have read, and continue to read the blog.  Without you ... well, I'd still write and post because I have a serious problem with keeping my opinion to myself, but ... without you I'd be irrelevant. Maybe I already am irrelevant.  I don't know, and, quite honestly, I don't particularly give a flying shit. 

What I do give a flying shit about are my friends, my readers, and anyone at all who happens upon the blog on purpose or by accident.  Tomorrow I promise I'll regale you all with some tale of woe or hilarity or shame or rage.

Today, though, is #1800.  That's reason to celebrate, and celebrate we shall.  Happy Big 1800, folks.  You've earned it.

HERCULEAN TASK

In the continuing saga that is Project De-Clutter My Life, I take a detour from big changes and decide to clean out my bureaus.  This involves twelve medium-sized drawers of stuff.  When it's all done, my drawers are color-coordinated by shirts -- short-sleeved shirts of solids and prints in coordinating colors; long-sleeved shirts of solid and prints in coordinating colors, and tank tops of all kinds.

These are just the pull-over and knit shirts.  Oh, there are more shirts; dear lord, there are many more shirts.  There are shirts in my tiny closet, and there are enough t-shirts to outfit a summer camp in drawers under my bed. 

All of my work shirts and play shirts and t-shirts create a varied color palate,  a little heavy on black and blue and with a surprising amount of pink and orange, but still -- brown, green, red, yellow, purple...  It really does run the gamut.

After redoing all of the bureau drawers, I am left with work-out gear to relocate.  I take out the gym-rat clothing and sort it into four piles:  short-sleeved work-out shirts; long-sleeved work-out shirts; shorter yoga/workout pants; long yoga/workout pants.

This is when I notice a pattern. All of my work-out gear is either pink or black. I cannot tell you how or why this is so.  I can only admit to it.  Several of the pink shirts are from a 5k that I do yearly, and, to be fair, there are two other 5k shirts that are not black nor pink; they are blue and red.   I also sneak in a blue striped shirt and a green striped shirt, but the gear that I wear over and over again = pink or black, oftentimes both.

I'm sure there is some deeply-rooted psychological reason why I keep choosing pink and black for working out.  It's not like I'm a gym rat, at least not anymore I'm not.  Being inside is boring and defeats the purpose of exercise, at least to my brain. 

So, when I'm out and about, do people along my usual route notice this, too?  Am I the Black and Pink Lady?  I don't really need any new athletic clothing.  However, I will try to branch out a little bit next time when I am at the store -- maybe check out some blue or purple leggings.  Work my way up to it, so to speak.

No matter, really.  The drawers are done, and I've loaded two more grocery bags full of stuff to donate.  That alone is a Herculean task in any color.

GREAT THING LEFT ABOUT DOCTOR VISITS

It's that time of year again -- time for my annual physical. 

First off is the scale.  I hate the scale.  Every year a few more pounds creep onto that sonofabitch.  I am surprised that the number isn't worse, so I'll take what little good news I can get. Next, my height gets measured.  I am assuming that my height is done every year to see if my bones are deteriorating. 

"You'll have to take off your glasses," the nurse says, pointing to the specs I have perched on the top of my head.

"Uhhhhh, I was hoping to add an inch or two to my height this year."  Guess not.

The nurse does most of the hard work: heart rate (slow as usual since I have a very cold heart), blood pressure (low - I'm not in school right now), and then an EKG (to prove I have a heart).  Then comes the sitting.  Waiting.  In the exam room.  Half-naked.  Alone.

Except, I am not alone.  I have Daisy.

Daisy has been on the windowsill of the exam room ever since I have been coming to this doctor so long ago.  Years.  Daisy is always moving, always dancing, and always smiling.  Daisy is a small, automated plastic toy that resembles a plant.  She is battery operated and seems to be endlessly moving.

I cannot explain why this toy fascinates me except for the fact that I am probably immature and find it funny.  No, truly.  Its petals sometimes get themselves off tempo, forcing the smiling daisy head to bob and weave while the petal arms struggle to get back in perfect time. 

How do I know this?  I know this because I have watched this damn toy tick-tock back and forth for every appointment for the last decade or so.  I am obsessed with this thing. I don't want one of my own, though.  That would ruin its yearly mystique. 

Once the doctor comes into the exam room, I forget all about Daisy.  There are more pressing concerns.  It is discovered in the course of the exam that I have some other issues going on that need to be addressed.  When the doctor leaves to file lab work papers, it's just me and Daisy again, its ever-dancing presence soothing the sting of getting old and having to face more tests for more physical failures.

Last thing on the list is the blood draw in the lab in the basement of the building.  There isn't a Daisy in the lab, but I don't leave empty-handed.  The tech who draws my blood sends me away with a huge bruise -- not her fault at all.  She finds a great vein and the draw is completely painless.  Even as we both watch the bruise begin, she quickly covers the spot with a Looney Tunes Roadrunner band-aid.

Except for the scale and the new tests being ordered, it's another successful day at the doctor.  Hopefully, all will be well, and I'll see Daisy in a year (and not a day sooner).  As long as everything goes well, I should be fine on blood work for another year, too.

If not, Daisy and the Roadrunner will be looking out for me.  Immature, I know, but the annual physical might as well have some jovial lightness to it.  At my age, it may be the only great thing left about the doctor visits.

GOING OLD SCHOOL

My daughter and I have a young guest hanging out with us.  It is an exceeding hot and humid day, so after a morning at the zoo and a quick but hysterical lunch at Friendly's, we head back to my house for a couple of hours in the air conditioning.

This is where I am supposed to say, "So, we set up the video games and let the kid play while we relaxed."  Except I won't say that because truly the video games never even crossed my mind.  At my house when a small crowd gathers, we play games or we play cards.  We rarely play video games together unless the kids want to watch me fail at Mario Kart or unless my daughter decides to sing with Rock Band.

Instead of something an eleven-year-old might want to do,we decide to teach him how to play the board game Clue.  Better yet, I still have the original Clue game I've had since I was the kid's age.  That's right; we're not only going old school with board games, we are actually playing the old school version.

After two rounds of Clue, we break out the Chinese checkers.  I have a beautiful wooden set that used to be my father's.  The three of us play against each other, jumping the pegs on the board like our checkers are playing an elaborate but tiny game of Leap Frog.  We are halfway through when it's time to pack up the kiddo and return him to his parents.

I have to be honest here -- I'm not sure who had more fun today: the kiddo, my daughter, or me.  Could be all of us.  A trifecta.  An old school trifecta, especially when we still have all the game pieces.  If you ever want to play cards or play old board games, stop by.  I'm woefully bad at video games, but I might be able to kick your butt at Clue or Chinese checkers or Cribbage or Barbie Queen of the Prom or Mall Madness or...

CATBIRDS OF PREY

My daughter is helping out a friend by entertaining the woman's son for the day.  I recently bought a family pass for the zoo, which lets us take a small army with us into both the Stone and the Franklin Park Zoos. It's supposed to be about a gazillion degrees today with humidity in the bazillions, so we decide to go to the smaller and closer Stone Zoo.  (We also don't feel like hanging around into the dog day afternoon waiting to see the Boston animals that apparently show on Hawaii time.)

The Stone Zoo is under massive reconstruction and improvements, so their usual routine has been interrupted.  It isn't until we are halfway through the zoo that we notice a sign directing us to the Birds of Prey Show.  When I was here two weeks ago, this show wasn't ready yet because the Birds of Prey pavilion was still inside the construction area.

The Birds of Prey Show is an open-air demonstration of various wild birds from different continents.  I have been to this show before but not for a long time.  Many of the birds who were in the show years ago are long gone.  However, I know enough about the outdoor amphitheater to look for hidden perches and stoops.  Judging from the location of said perches and from our angle to the presentation area, we are sitting in what I can only refer to as "the catbird seats."

Catbird seats are situations that end up being envied by others, and these situations may appear to be purely accidental, though they are actually well-calculated and planned.  The presenters probably think they have amateurs on their hands and are chuckling, "Oh, look at those poor, unsuspecting fools sitting up there away from the crowd.  They're going to shit their pants when the birds head straight for them."

Because of our forethought and strategic placement, my daughter's young friend gets to have a hawk, a vulture, two owls, macaws, and various other birds of prey fly practically right at his face.  I take the corner seat, blocked somewhat by the chain link enclosure, a seat which allows the birds to fly barely eight inches over my hairline.

I know four things that I must do as these massive and majestic birds dive at me in search of the perch directly behind my head:  1. Don't stand up or move; 2. Don't raise the camera when the bird is in flight right at me; 3. Don't flail my arms; 4. Show no fear.

The show is only a half hour long, but we are stuck to the metal bleachers by our own body sweat when it's all over.  If anyone in the area decides to attend the Birds of Prey demonstration, the show is (now) FREE of charge with admission.

If it's a disgustingly hot and humid day like today, search out seats in the shade, but remember -- if there's a perch behind you, there's going to be a bird or two or five directly (and I do mean DIRECTLY) flying right at your face, which, even on the hottest of days, may be the coolest thing you'll ever experience.

PEOPLE UNCLEAR ON THE CONCEPT

People.  Puhleeze.  This is not rocket science.

Store tags are generally made of thin card stock and attached to merchandise with cheap plastic cording.  Many of us remove store tags with scissors.  If we don't have scissors available, we often tug hard to snap the plastic line.  If that fails, or if ripping of the coveted item may occur, it might be easier to simply tear the tag a little bit and work it off of the plastic tether.


But, people.  For real! It's probably a really good idea to get tags off of things before you drag them around.

Today at the beach we encounter two tag offenders.  The first is a huge group of adults with a huge brood of small children.  When they arrive, it's like a scene from Willard when they suddenly invade and fan out across the beach, scattering like rats in the sunlight.  This would all be scary if the group didn't have a giant store sale tag hanging from their beach umbrella.

Seriously.  Your umbrella is NOT a Minnie Pearl hat.  Tear that bad boy off and stop looking like beachy amateurs.

The second offender is a woman who plops herself right in front of us, blocking our clear view of the ocean.  She has her beach bag, her beach towel, her beach hat, and her big-ass beach chaise lounge ... that still has its big-ass store tag hanging off of it, along with the big label of directions.

Directions.  For a beach chair.  What the hell could the directions possibly say?  "Open chair.  Sit your ass down.  Don't fall over."

For people unclear on the concept: I appreciate that this may be your first day this season, possibly your first time ever, at the beach.  Like your bathing suit, though, pull visible tags off of things.  That way you can blend right into the crowd as if, like the rest of us, you've been doing this all of your life.

Oh, and most of all -- Welcome to the beach (because, contrary to popular belief, I am not a complete and total beach snob).

MONEY MONEY MONEY

Getting older and randomly putting weight on around the middle isn't very pretty.  It is an unattractive look in dresses and pants and clothing in general.  It's the kind of thing that leads to self-loathing.  That old spare tire is exactly the kind of thing that the doctor will remind you about at your physical, which I have tomorrow.

Let's face it.  This whole "getting older" shit -- nothing good can come of it.  Getting older and falling apart simply doesn't pay.

Or ... does it?

Today can only be described as ungodly hot.  The searing sun and the high humidity make it impossible to go out for anything longer than a quick jaunt to the mailbox, and even that can bring on heat exhaustion.  I promise my daughter that I will take her and her young charge-for-the-day to the zoo, but my one codicil is that we go early before we sweat out asses and underarms off.

I cannot decide what to wear, mostly because I cannot squeeze my rotund midsection into my own clothes anymore.  Truth is, thousands of sit-ups and planks and eating enough salad to become Mrs. Cottontail have zero affect on weight-loss or body mass toning.  I start trying on shorts, but they're all too tight.  I mean, I can force myself into them all right, but what happens when I try to move or sit?

I am refolding one pair of shorts when I notice that the pocket feels stiffer than the other shorts.  I assume it's the cheap-ass stitchery of clothing made in some third-world shit hole, so I move on to another pair, but something causes me to go back.  I unbutton the back pocket of the shorts and find money.

MONEY!  I find $20 folded inside the pocket, and ... no, wait ... I find $30 inside the ... no, wait.  Hot damn, I find $35 inside those shorts.  I haven't worn those shorts in maybe two years.  Wow.  Money.  It's like the "You Can't Wear These Clothes Anymore Because You've Got a Fatter Butt" Fairy sprinkled me with mercy and presents.

I promptly spend the $35 buying lunch for me, for my daughter, and for her young pal-for-the-day.  Easy come; easy go.  If only disposing of the middle-aged round belly worked as quickly and easily.

FALLING ALL OVER MYSELF

My friend and I decide to go to the beach today because it is supposed to be 93 degrees and humid.  When we arrive at the beach, it is hazy and only about 75 degrees.  The sun and mist battle each other for the three hours we are here, which is fine.  This constant temperature vacillation provides nice breaks from constant, searing heat.

We go into the water but have made a huge mistake, one we forget about until we battle some decent surf.  We are in the part of the beach with large rocks and intermittent boulders that are in the swim area during all but the lowest tide point.  Of course, these rocks are large enough to see, but they are surrounded by sink holes where the waves carve tunnels around them.  My friend maneuvers around these stony land mines with grace and ease.  I try to follow her lead, step gracelessly into a sandy hole, and go down hard in the shallow water, laughing and completely soaking myself in the process.

My pal looks at me as I drag myself back to my unsteady feet.  "Um, I don't want to be in the water with you and your bloody hand."  Oooops.  Even though it's my foot that stings from the rock, apparently I cut the back of my left hand with my flailing on the way down.  The theme song for jaws runs through my brain.

Beach tips for the day:  Don't slice your hand open in the water unless you want to attract sharks and other varmints and scare your friends; don't play chicken with ocean boulders that are under the water unless you want to make a total spectacle of yourself on a crowded beach.

POLLYANNA'S POOL DAY

I finally get a chance to see my gal pals.  Between our work and medical schedules, today is the day!  The sky looks pretty good, too -- mostly blue with some white puffs of clouds.  I get in my car to run a couple of errands before I am set to arrive at one friend's house.  I have to go to the bank, and I want to get the car washed.

Like Pollyanna, I have high hopes for a wonderful day.  I am wearing my bathing suit under a black knit pullover dress, and I also have a change of clothes because I should stop at the grocery store on the way home to buy hamburg buns for a quick grilled dinner with my kiddo later.

I am looking forward to floating around the pool while sipping wine and laughing with my friends. In other words, I am ready.  I am sooooo ready.  Everything is packed.  All I have to do now is hit the bank and the car wash.

I finish my business at the bank and come out to my car.  Work buddies are blowing up a group text.  I'll check it later.  I still have the car wash on my list, so I back out of my space, start heading toward the traffic light, and ...

Hmmmmm.  That sky looks a little dicey.  I think I'll skip the car wash.

I am the last to arrive at the party, but I arrive right on time, exactly at 11 a.m.  We start munching on crackers and cheese and fruit and then move on to guac and chips and mini cheesecake bites.  And wine.  Yes, we move on to wine.

The pool!  The sun!  The day!

At this point, the sky directly above us is still mostly blue.  The sky north and south of us?  Not so much.  "Go away," I command the nasty clouds in the distance.  "You will NOT ruin my day!"

I decide to check the local radar on my phone, and I should probably check the 28 work texts.

Oh, I forgot.  This neighborhood is notorious for poor cell reception and ineffective internet service.  I could hop on my pal's wifi, but I still have two bars on my own service.  It may take an extra minute or two or three, but I still can check the weather patterns.

No storms on the immediate horizon but plenty of weather action to the north near Manchester, to the west near Lowell, and to the south near Billerica.  Here, my good readers, is where the story turns into a picture book.  Enjoy.

Forty minutes at the pool, and then ... Uh-oh.  Here comes the rain.

Holy crap.  It's a deluge.

I'm not going out there.  You going out there?  I'm not going out there.

Oh, crap.  There's my black knit dress: Outside, on the fence, in the rain.  I'm not going out there until this stops.  It does, eventually.  The sun comes out again, but I have to change into my spare clothes.  No way am I entering the grocery store in a sopping wet dress.

Joke's on me.  It starts to rain a little when I get to the store, so I run, intending to buy hamburger buns for a quick grilled dinner.  Instead, I check the radar, decide grilling is not in my immediate future, grab soft tacos, and manage to get into my car right as the skies open up again. 

When all is said and done, we have a hilarious time at our pool-non-pool party, our cell phones don't bother us because of limited service, I do actually have dry clothes, and, (drum roll) best of all:  I did NOT wash my car before this all happens, so no one can blame it on me.

KEY TO THE KEYS

Is it just me?  Am I the only one?  I mean, what if I need one of these someday?  What if one fits when I least expect it to and need it the most?  What if one is actually something that I need?

Am I the only person in the world who holds on to old keys?

I find this cache of keys today and instantly suspect they belong to my daughter, who is notorious for losing large collections of important keys, oftentimes leaving herself stranded somewhere far, far away.  But, no, these keys are not hers.  So, I wrack my brain trying to recall from where these keys may have come.  I vaguely remember when I started this whole purging process months ago that I had a small wicker basket full of random keys and random key rings.

Dagnabbit.  Those damn keys I find are mine.  All mine.

I start flipping through them.  I am reasonably certain that the keys are for old apartments where I no longer live.  Maybe old cars.  Maybe even old suitcases, file cabinets, and classrooms. 

But, then again, in a small closet upstairs I do have two fire boxes of old negatives from my 35mm Canon camera and from the old family Nikon camera.  Perhaps I had better not dump the keys just yet.  Plus, my house currently has a back door that has never had a key.  I randomly try keys on the ring, anyway.  Some fit; none opens the lock, though.

So, is it just me, or are there other people in the world who save random keys because one might still be needed and because one might actually come in handy in a pinch some day?

On second thought, don't respond to that question.  I might discover from people's answers that I am worse than a hoarder -- that I am actually mentally ill because I stockpile old and useless keys (and various other reasons).  Move along, move along; nothing to see here. 

However, if you find yourself locked out of something or somewhere, I may just have a key close enough to help you out.  I'm just saying.

TIME OF YEAR WHEN PEOPLE MOCK ME

This is that time of year when people mock me and tell me how jealous they are of me because I have "the whole summer off" as a teacher.  I wish I could laugh at people when they say this, but I am still too exhausted from the end of the year and the mad cramming of everything into the last three weeks of school.  (No, it's not all fun and games and movies, FYI.)

Let me assure you that any teacher who makes important appointments before the third week of July is just asking for a commitment to a mental health facility.  Sure, we have no idea what day it is for a few weeks; every damn day is Sunday, apparently, at least until about July 15th.  This is not because we are freeeeeeeee freeeeeeeee freeeeeeeeeeeeeee!  It's because we're still in grading comas.

From late July until the middle of August, we are madly scheduling things that the rest of the working world can do whenever they damn well please -- doctor appointments, dental appointments, surgeries, car inspections, eye exams, mammograms, going to the store, going to the post office, going to the bank, going to the bathroom whenever we truly need to, and my personal summer favorite: colonoscopies.

As soon as we are done getting ourselves regenerated and recharged, we might possibly throw in a vacation somewhere, although it seems like most of us take a series of day trips because we are so damn used to the field trip format.  All of a sudden, it will be the end of August and we are getting ourselves ready to go back to school.  As a matter of fact, I am accompanying a coworker to a conference ...  CONFERENCE ... DEPARTMENT OF ELEMENTARY AND SECONDARY EDUCATION SPONSORED CONFERENCE ... the first week of August.

And, in case you didn't know, unlike other people who get two-plus weeks of yearly paid vacation, please remember before you bash a teacher during summer that we do not get paid for our summer break, or our winter break, or our spring break.  We don't even get paid for SNOW DAYS, people, or holidays.  Holidays.  HOLIDAYS.  We don't get paid for HOLIDAYS (let that sink in for a moment).  That's right.  I work 184 days and get paid on a 180-day pretense, and everything else is unpaid time. (Exception -- my sick time, which I hesitate to take because it's more work prepping the lesson from home while puking than it is to just tough it out and go in.)

Anyway, be jealous of me.  While you and your family are at the beach or the mountains or Aruba on your paid vacation time, I'll be getting dental crowns not covered by the insurance I pay for and having multiple doctor appointments that I cannot make during the rest of the year.  Maybe I'll see you in our mutual travels.  You'll have no problem spotting me. I'll be the one with the glassy, deer-in-the-headlights look muttering, "Where did the summer go?  How did I miss it ... again?"

IT'S THAT TIME AGAIN, AND AGAIN, AND AGAIN...

Oh, for crying out loud.

We have had a few decent storms over the past week or so, and I keep having to re-set the digital clocks.  (The analog clocks have batteries.)  After one storm, I run around the house and re-set the clocks only to have another storm roll through and commit the same offense.  Again, I am re-setting clocks.

This routine goes on one more time until Mother Nature, in her infinite wisdom and with her sarcastic persona, calms down enough for me to re-set the clocks and enjoy them keeping real time for an entire day.

Until I notice the stereo.

Many people don't have stereos anymore.  They have play lists on their phones, and, like magic, music is readily accessible to them with headphones, earbuds, or portable speakers.  I still have a stereo.  It's an older stereo: 3-CD player,  AM/FM tuner, dual reel-to-reel tape, and a turn table with a diamond-tipped needle.

Yuppers; this is a niiiiiice stereo.  Except for the digital clock.  Its time is all wrong.

It takes me a few minutes to figure out how to set the clock.  I know I have the manual here somewhere, but I don't know where the heck it is at the moment.  I touch something wrong and the present time disappears.  Swearing, I start the process of setting the clock all over again.  Then, it happens again ... and again.

Finally, I have the clock on the stereo all set.  This is fabulous!  I can listen to tunes while I finish re-assembling the room I have torn apart AND I'll know what time it is.  I decide that the stereo needs to scoot about two feet to the left so I can move a computer next to it.  I unplug the stereo from the top plug and quickly put it into the bottom plug.

Damnit.  The time is back to 12:00 a.m., which it most certainly is not.  I re-set the clock again on the stereo, much more quickly and valiantly this time.  I start moving more furniture and piles of stuff around, but the stereo is not going to relocate any further.  Its clock, however, is waiting for the "reset" button to be pushed, flashing itself into thin air because I am done trying to have the stereo read the correct time.

After about fifteen minutes of being "done trying," I march back to the digital clock on the stereo.  I re-set that sucker one last time.  If this one doesn't stick, though ... I mean, really.  For crying out loud, it's not like I don't have other clocks to keep time.

Of course, this is the exact moment when I locate the directions for the stereo.  Thanks anyway, old chap, but that ship has sailed, and the hourly chime confirms it.  I finally manage to fix something in the house!!!!!  Just don't say it too loudly or the digital clocks will hear you, and I'll be right back here where I started.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                            

BOUNTY OF DELICIOUSNESS

Today is a day for taking a break from sorting, rearranging, and tossing crap out.  For two straight days it has been chilly with temps topping out in the mid-sixties, so windows have been open, and the cool fresh air feels wondrous in the house.

This means that today is an ideal day to do some baking.

My friend's daughter just had the same kind of foot surgery that I endured about eight years ago, and the request is for brownies and cribbage over the weekend.  The cribbage board I have; the brownies I will have to make from scratch.  Sure, I could get in my car or walk to the nearest grocery store and get boxed brownies, which would be much fudgier and  more consistent than the homemade ones, but it's not nearly as much fun opening a plastic bag and adding a pint of vegetable oil as it is to measure stuff out and make a total disaster of my kitchen.

After mixing all of the ingredients for the brownies and getting the glass dish into the oven, I am overcome with the need to have a blueberry oat muffin.  This means I need to hand-wash and hand-dry all of the containers and mixing supplies.  By the time the brownies are ready (about thirty-five minutes), the muffins are prepped to go into the oven for about twenty-five minutes.

Right now the house smells fabulous, and it's still cool enough to keep the oven going.

I am about to put the rolled oats away when I realize that I haven't made oat-granola-chocolate chip bars in a long time.  I need to put some of the ingredients into a plastic bag (granola, walnuts, cashews) and beat them senseless until they are pulverized enough to mix in smoothly.  Peanut butter (both crunchy and creamy) and some honey bind everything together, then I add enough mini-chips to make the bars more chocolate than oat, which, to me, is no big deal.

A few hours later, the kitchen is back in order, the brownies have been cut into squares and wrapped up, the muffins have cooled (except for the one I scarfed down hot out of the oven), and the oat-granola-chocolate chip block is freezing in preparation of being cut into individual bars.  The house is still chilled with the afternoon air, and I feel slightly guilty that I didn't spend the day doing more sorting and cleaning (which I might do this evening, if I am so inclined).

I look at the bounty of deliciousness I've created today, though, and decide the day hasn't totally gone to Hell since there are several slices (and paper muffin cups and bars) of Heaven on my counters and table.

HOARDING, PURGING, AND ROCKING ON

I'm not really sure how many musical instruments one person is supposed to own when the only instrument she is semi-adept at is voice.  Kind of makes the instruments unnecessary.

I suppose people could call me a hoarder.   I'm certainly not as bad as I used to be nor as good as I could be.  I'm a semi-hoarder. 

I had to cancel my subscription to National Geographic a long time ago because I kept all the maps that came tucked inside each issue.  It seemed less horrifying to me never to see the maps at all rather than to covet them.  I also tended to keep the magazines.  I remember my father had collections of National Geographic that went back years and years.  What does one do with them?  Truly?  Is a 1962 article on Burma really still relevant in any way now?

I did manage to go through my maps (not as many National Geographic ones as I feared).  I discovered that I have (but do not need) multiple AAA maps for about fifteen states, mostly along the Atlantic, dozens for the New England area, several repeat maps from Quebec, and two street maps of downtown Philadelphia, a place I'm reasonably sure I never want to visit ever again (but probably will because, hey, I kept one map).  I also discovered that the magazine maps could be handed off to various coworkers: ancient maps to the history teachers, regional maps to the geography teachers, star chart maps to the science teachers, and I'll keep the Mars maps for when we study Ray Bradbury.

Bingo.  One problem solved.

This still leaves me with the musical instruments issue.  I'm keeping the electric piano because I can still read music and do occasionally actually turn the piano on for shits and giggles.  I'm also keeping the recorders because who really needs a wooden recorder other than me, the plastic ones are decades old, and you never know when you'll need to pretend you're part of Led Zeppelin. 

My brother, a teacher in upstate New York (the REAL upstate New York, up near Montreal, not that make-believe upstate crap in Syracuse), is a former marching band geek and sometime musician/music teacher.  I'm sending him back the drum practice pad and all of my eldest son's drumsticks (which can become kindling for all I care at this point -- time for stuff to go). 

I might even throw in one of my two pitch pipes (not for smoking weed; they're for keying up voices and instruments to perfect pitch) since I cannot possibly need two.  I mean, seriously.  What am I supposed to do with two pitch pipes?  Blow F-sharp on one to make sure it matches perfectly with F-sharp on the other?  And what if I lose one?  Oh, gawd-forbid my pitch is off when trying to locate middle C out of thin air, which I used to be able to do - might still be able to do.  Hey, I'll check it right now.  I have two pitch pipes.  (Damn, I found B.  I'll definitely keep one of the pitch pipes.)

The saxophone my daughter hasn't touched since middle school band is going to go to a good cause, as well, via my brother.  That still leaves me with a harmonica, a wooden ocarina (like a recorder and kazoo combined), and a set of musical spoons.  Yes, spoons.  Like the kind you put together and slap between your knee and the palm of your hand.  Yeeeeeehaw!

So, in the past week, I've cleared out books, maps, and musical instruments.  A few months ago I started in the basement with sports equipment and other various things I'd been storing needlessly (a dented scout-sized mess kit, inner tubes for bike tires we no longer own, extra cords for telephones from way before we went cordless...).  I still have to attack all of my paper files, my clothes, and my fabric stash, not to mention the decades of pictures that need to be sorted and put into albums and the cyber ones that haven't yet been printed.

I'm making progress, kids.  I even took a few days to read one of the books I had forgotten my daughter lent me a few years ago because it was buried in a stack of other books.  This is all about moving in the right direction. 

The best part about it all, though, is that I can hum or whistle or even sing a happy tune as I go because I have the spoons to keep time, the recorders to accompany me, and I can find that perfect middle C with very little assistance from old-school gadgets.  Rock on!

CONCORD DAY TRIP - STOP PIMPING OUT YOUR DAUGHTER

Apparently, Wednesday is Henry David Thoreau's 200th birthday.

This tidbit of information sparks an impromptu trip to Concord, Massachusetts, with a co-worker to pay homage to Thoreau's grave.  It will also allow me a chance to pay my respects to my birthday secret-sharer, Nathaniel Hawthorne.

We arrive at Sleepy Hollow Cemetery.  Well, not THE Sleepy Hollow Cemetery; the one of Washington Irving fame is in Sleepy Hollow, New York.  This is the Massachusetts version of Sleepy Hollow Cemetery, and it contains the famous Author's Ridge, resting place of several notable American writers and many other well-known local characters, including the originator of the Concord grape!)

Louisa May Alcott is here, along with her lazy-ass bum of a father Bronson (Amos Bronson, to be more precise).  Bronson liked such things as women, nakedness, making money off his daughter's success, and pretending to be a great educator in order to start a questionably-reputable commune of sorts.

Ralph Waldo Emerson is interred here with his family.   It could be rumor, it could be fact, it could be something I truly learned, or maybe I'm just making this shit up, but supposedly Emerson wanted to go live in the woods but couldn't because of his status in the community, so he convinced Henry David to do it, instead, and lived vicariously through him.  Of course, Thoreau spent part of every day at other peoples' houses, so his "sparse woodsy lifestyle" only suited him when he wasn't out on the town in another capacity.

Nathaniel Hawthorne is buried here, too, and it seems someone has been here recently, very recently judging by the dry, pristine, recently smoked joint, perhaps the young couple who arrived before we did.

After our cemetery musings, we head over to the Concord Public Library for a Thoreau exhibition.  We learn such wonderful things as what the Thoreau family pencil company products look like, and that Thoreau and friend Edward Hoar set about one hundred acres of field and forest on fire when trying to cook a stew out in the open during a fishing trip.  The fire, set in motion one year prior to the Walden hibernation, results in HDT feeling less than contrite.  His lack of contrition led to many people not thinking he was such a Great Thinker.

We say our quick good-byes to the many sculptures and busts in the library.  On our way out we notice a bust of Amos Bronson Alcott.  "Put on some clothes," we admonish, "and stop pimping out your daughter."

CONTEMPORARY ART ... OR NOT

 I'm sorry, okay?  I'm really, truly, deeply, sincerely sorry.  I don't "get" contemporary art.  I just don't frigging have a clue as to what makes some of this crap worth looking at for any length of time.

Several years ago I made the horrible mistake of going to the Institute of Contemporary Art in Boston ... twice.  The art there is total bullshit.  BULLSHIT.  A chair stuck to the wall.  A male mannequin pretending to spray paint, or tag, the inside of a ladies' public restroom.  A ream of white paper glued together piece by piece with white Elmer's glue.  A door from an old house.  Yarn tied on to a piece of driftwood.  Really poorly made video of a woman with Bingo disks in her eyes.

In other words, crap a kindergartner could make in less than thirty minutes or that anyone could grab from a dumpster in less than thirty seconds.

I.  Don't.  Get.  It.

Today I decide to take my sister to a local gallery.  It's a small gallery, free to the public, and there's a Cassatt, a Copley, a couple of Homers, plus an amazing collection of ship models.  There's also a gallery exhibit by a local guy.  It's contemporary art!  Or, so we are told by the little old lady docent.

What we find, though, is room after room after room of what looks like crayon and marker scribblings.  It's not even good.  It's not even in the lines.  The colors aren't even spread through the areas in which they are used.  It looks to me like something a toddler might create.

But, we are told, this is ART! 

I grew up with a mother who was an art history major.  My best friend for a few years of elementary school had a mother who was our art teacher.  One of my favorite childhood games was Masterpiece, the art auction game.  I love museums and galleries and am not half-bad at deciphering a Chagall from its imitators.

I appreciate color and patterns and statements and chaos.  But, I appreciate effort, as well.  A bunch of paint splattered on a canvas and called something like "Sunny Day in New York City" means nothing to me when it resembles the vomit pattern left on my couch by my youngster's macaroni mess.
 
I.  Don't.  Get.  It.

Imagine my sister's horror when we are easily within earshot of a docent, and I keep sighing, "This is bullshit," then stressing more loudly, "BULLLLLLLLSHIIIIIIIIIIIT."  I do enjoy the computerized images of cigar smoke, though.  That's kind of cool and interesting.  But, scrawls on a sheet of paper and called something like "Fables from Ancient Rome"?  Dude, you're on drugs, or you have a personality disorder, or, perhaps you're Phineas Gage and your brain has been bisected with a metal rod.

If this is all it takes to make it in the art world and get my own gallery -- this monstrous collection we see today and the absolute frigging moronic Emperor's-New-Clothes crap I saw at the ICA -- then I should have my own exhibit of doodles from professional meetings through which I am forced to sit.  They're amazing; fucking amazing, I might add; outstanding social commentary, especially in the margins (which I'll throw in for free).

I guess I'm incredibly stupid.  I do, however, enjoy the few sculptures and the boat models and the more precise paintings in the lower gallery.  But, honestly; a panel painted green attached to a panel painted orange?  This is great art?  It does prove one thing -- There really IS no accounting whatsoever for taste, or lack thereof.

WIN-WIN BEACH MORNING

My daughter, the nurse, works a double shift before having two days off.  She texts me from job #1 and asks what I have planned for the following day.  I'm not going to lie -- I am in the midst of a major reorganization of my house.  My plan is to stay home and work on the huge mess that used to be my abode, but I check the weather.  It's supposed to be beautiful in the morning and a little sketchy in the afternoon.

Beach morning!  Well, beach morning with one codicil: I have to curb my speaking at the beach so my kid can rest after her double shift.

I offer to drive so she can nap as needed after working 3 p.m. to 7 a.m.  When we get to the beach, I take a short walk, expecting her to be snoozing when I pass by, but she is wide awake, waving to me from a beach chair, so I cut my jaunt short and join her.  She has a speaker set up with music playing.  We get into an animated conversation.  (So much for curbing my talkative nature.)

After an hour, we decide it's water time.  The ocean is cold, but we are boiling hot.  My daughter goes in first; it takes me a while longer.  There's something about getting one's shoulders wet in the chilly water that doesn't bode well, but it feels great once it's done.  We get out, sit in the sun for a while, and gab more while listening to music.  I read about ten pages of a book before we're ready to hit the waves again.

When we venture back to our spot, we need to haul all of our stuff back about eight feet because high tide is near, and we are parked too close to the incoming water.  There's little left for space except the large boulders of the breakwall, so we grab flat areas of granite and set up anew.  At this point, she finally sets up her towel, sprawls out on her stomach, and dozes for a while.

We are about twenty minutes shy of running out of parking meter time when we decide to pack it up and head home.  She needs real sleep, and I need to get back to the disaster that has become my house.  Last minute toes in the sand, and then we're back in the car heading inland just as the clouds start rolling in.

Perfect timing; perfect day.  Best of all, post-beach early afternoon means my daughter gets her sleep, and I get the house in semi-order.  Win-win all around.

THE BIG BOOK PURGE

I've been living in squalor for three days.

Okay, I hate cleaning, so I suppose I've been living in semi-squalor for a long time, but I am trying to weed through decades of stuff and three kids' worth of stuff in a hopeful effort to maybe, possibly, with any luck, someday, down the road, in the future (etc., etc.) downsize my lifestyle.

By "downsize," I do not mean like tiny house living.  That's just crazy talk.  Those puppies aren't even anchored to the ground.  One Kansas-like wind and my belongings would be spread from here to about three feet away (remember -- this is tiny living, right?).  By "downsize," I mean possibly moving to a smaller place that still has things like closets


I had started in the basement over the winter and actually got rid of about thirteen bags of stuff.  The basement isn't quite done, but that's okay; it's passable for now.  This time around, I decide to start with something that has been bugging me for a long time: books.

I have way too many books.  In the scheme of things, I don't have as many books as a hoarder might, but my stash is both eclectic and impressive.  I have some rare books, and I have books on many of the major genres.  Also, this is not my first book purge - not even close.  I had to start purging books as a kid because I had been allotted one bookcase and only one bookcase.  This is my third or fourth book purge just since living in my current abode (about thirteen years).

Still, though, some have to go.  If I ever hope to be in a smaller place, I've got to free up some living space to make packing as seamless as possible.  Books scattered in many bookcases all over the house (den, stairwell, bedroom, craft room, living room...) is not conducive to a quick nor easy turnaround when packing to move nor when unpacking on the other end.

I start with the fiction books, thinking that this will be an easy purge.  A measly eight books later, I have a bag ready to go.  This isn't a purge; it's a hiccup.  There's only one solution -- I blow the place up.  Seriously.  I start emptying shelves everywhere and then I move bookcases to two locations: den and living room.  That's it.  Anything that doesn't fit (including my professional books and school texts) HAS to go.

This process that I thought would take mere hours has so far taken three days.  The end is in sight, sort of.  In the midst of all of this, I have started rearranging furniture, as well.  Might as well go big or go .... home ... to another home ... or wherever.  Proud of myself, I pack up seven bags of books to give away.

I know I've seen the book donation bins all over the place.  I'm pretty sure there's one at Whole Foods around the corner, but I am concerned about shoving seven full bags of books (fiction and reference and text books of all genres and categories) somewhere where I might be recognized.  I stop by my old church because I know it has at least one bin, but it turns out that is all that's there - one bin - clothes only. 

I run up to the Catholic church a few miles away.  I've dropped stuff at their bins, and I know for a fact that there are two metal receptacles on site.  Excited, I drive over.  Nope.  Only clothes here, too.  But, there's a combination elementary-middle school about two miles away.  They surely must have bins, so I head over there and drive all around the school.  There are port-a-potties outside but not a single donation box.  Well, unless you count the port-a-potty as a donation place of sorts, but that's another topic for another day.

This, to me, is strike three.  I suppose I'll have to trudge over to Whole Foods and risk having someone recognize me and shame me for me wasteful addiction to books.  On my way to Whole Foods, I decide to take one last-ditch ride to an older elementary school a few miles away.  After all, it's practically on my way.

I pull into the school lot and go through the signs that warn me "Do not enter," but it's Sunday and there is one guy playing basketball and another guy hitting baseballs with his kid in the far field; I doubt they'll bust me for breaking an empty parking lot traffic directive.   I don't see any metal donation receptacles and am about to turn my car around when I edge around one last corner.

Voila!  There is not just one donation box but two large bins, and both accept books (plus a whole pile more of things).  In go the seven bags, one at a time because they're kind of heavy.  I feel so free; I feel so liberated.  Plus, the sign on the bin suggests that the school gets a kickback from the recycling program, which sounds terrific to me.

Later on, after I've gotten home again and have managed to create a decent path from the living room through the den and into the kitchen, I figure it must be time to go to bed.  It's dark out, the full moon has risen into the sky, I've hauled one bookcase to the curb for trash day (or lucky drivers-by), and the neighborhood is gotta-work-tomorrow quiet.  I go upstairs, which still has some books piled around, turn down the bed, and promptly spy one more bag.

You.  Must.  Be.  Joking.

Oh, crap.  It's the original bag, the original collection of fiction from day #1 of the purge.  It seems like so long ago that I convince myself that maybe it's a bag full of something else.  But, no.  It really is the first bag, which is now the last bag, bag #8. 

I haven't taken bag #8 to the book drop yet.  I do have it tied shut to prevent me from losing my resolve and removing books from it that I suddenly feel the need to keep.  No, there will be no keeping and no regrets. Most of all, though, there will be (at least) one more stop at the book container, which will be much easier now that I know where the bins are located.