I'M BLOODY-WELL RIGHT

I have an older android cell phone, but I'm rather fond of it.  It does more than I could ever master, and it works just fine.  I've already gone through several phone covers, though.  The flip cover eventually falls apart.  The flexible cover fades and gets rather gunky.

I buy one of those rubbery plastic protective shells, and, for some unknown reason, I gravitate toward the purple cover.  I never buy purple.  After the cover arrives, I realize that one of my good friends has the exact same cover on her phone (and has for quite a while).  We look like twins and now have to keep closer eyes on whose phone is whose.

I try changing the cover out, but, as I said, one cover is dead and the other has passed its prime.  This is where I am right now.  Time to put the purple cover back on and just leave it.  One side of the phone slides on easily.  The other side, however, catches on the rubber stopper surrounding the hard plastic edges.

I take the cover off and put it back on again.  Same issue. I take the cover off and try loading the phone in several different ways.  Honestly, a goddamn safety phone cover shouldn't be this goddamn difficult to get onto a goddamn phone.

Aha!  I will use tweezers to pull the rubber gasket away from the phone and then feed it up and over the one section that refuses to cooperate.  Brilliant! Except for the fact that the regular tweezers will not pull the rubber far enough away from the glitch in the phone cover.  I try smaller tweezers and almost correct the problem ... but not quite.

It's okay.  I have one more secret weapon.  I have a pair of ridiculously sharp tweezers.  They are for splinter removal or perhaps performing emergency appendectomies in the wild, I'm not entirely certain.  I fish out those tweezers, slip the sharp point under the rubber gasket, and start pulling it from underneath, feeding it slowly up and over the phone.

I am nearly finished with the task when the cover decides to fight back.  I jab the tweezers just a little too zealously.  Suddenly, the rubber gives way and the tweezers, still clutched in my right hand, come flying toward my other hand, the hand that is holding the phone.  I can see the whole thing happening, yet, due to my concentration and own strength, I cannot halt my tweezers-hand mid-strike.

Direct hit!  My right hand jabs the sharp point of the tweezers directly into the ring finger of my left hand.  Anyone who has ever had a fingertip pricked will agree that the needle, despite being small and super-sharp, still shocks the finger's nerve endings.  While I stare at my throbbing finger, I can hardly believe what I've done.  I mean, seriously.  Who stabs herself to near stitches with tweezers while putting on a phone case?

Well, other than me.

I bleed for a while and have to tourniquet-bandaid the little bastard, lest it will shoot red all over the kitchen, the phone case, the phone, the table, the floor, my clothes.  Yup, that sucker is bleeding like a sonofabitch.

Damn good thing I bought that phone safety cover, though.  Not that it matters.  After all that, including piercing my own finger badly enough that it could probably support an earring through the hole, I don't even drop the phone to see if my misery is for naught.

Anyway, the point of the story is this: Dear Children, I have requested a new phone cover for my old android cell phone, preferably one that won't fight me back.  Sincerely, Your Numb-Fingered Mother

DO NOT LOSE THE REMOTE

The Christmas season is officially upon us ... Tuesday night is the holiday broadcast of Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. 

I semi-watch the show while I'm doing other things.  Every song and most of the lines are engraved in my memory, and when the line "Bumbles bounce!" comes around, I mouth it with perfect syncopation.

Sure, I'm watching other holiday shows, like Hallmark movies and Drunk History Christmas.  However, nothing beats such wonderful seasonal classics as Charlie Brown Christmas, Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, and Emmet Otter's Jug Band Christmas. It's almost like a full contact sport: one channel, another channel, two channels at once!

The Christmas season is upon us.  Do NOT lose the television remote control! 

FRONT-SIDE POWER WASH

I wash my dishes by hand.  Even if they're going into the dishwasher, I wash them (or, at the very least, rinse them thoroughly) first, mostly out of habit from not having a dishwasher for so long, but also because I don't run the dishwasher often enough, so the dishes get crusty.

Lately, I haven't even been bothering with the dishwasher.  I wash the dishes vigorously then let them air dry on a dish pad.  Vigorously wash them.  Did I say vigorously?

I should also point out that my faucet has been broken for over two years now.  I went an entire year with it spitting a tiny semi-stream of water out.  No matter how I tried to fix it (since no one else would do it), I got nowhere.  The end of the faucet refused to loosen until one day I got so disgusted (after months of waiting for it to be repaired) that I took the biggest set of pliers I could find and attacked the stupid thing.  Within seconds, the screen piece shot across the room, and now my faucet rolls out Niagara Falls' worth of water.

This waterfall effect faucet should not come as a surprise to me since it has been like this for about a year now.  Somehow, some way, I manage to forget this.  I get into my comfy pajamas, also known as an old shirt and some yoga pants, and hit the sink to finish the dinner dishes that have been soaking. 

Um ... "soaking" being the operative word here.

The next thing I know, water is shooting up out of the sink and completely sopping what I am wearing.  At first I stand there, frozen in time like a statue that just got shit on by pigeons; this travesty is such a humiliation.  I mean, really.  How many grown-ass adults cannot safely and intelligently operate the kitchen faucet?

Oh, well.  I think I've hit a new low mark on the Kitchen Goddess's Scale of Competency: Dish Washing 101 = FAIL.  Not a complete failure, actually.  The dishes are squeaky clean and I've had a front-side power wash, so it may well be a win.

MIMOSAS FOR THE WIN

I am starting to feel under-the-weather.  Nothing major - just general malaise and feeling rundown.  I plan to go to the Santa parade, something I haven't done in years, but as the morning wears on, my excitement wears off. 

Instead, I stay inside and do laundry while cleaning out more of the spare room, which is now a combination of the music room, my walk-in closet, and Santa's Workshop.  I stop long enough to make some salads for work for this coming week's lunch, enter some grades that I finished last night, and sit comfortably to watch most of the football game.

Still, though, I feel a little off.  My head is a little stuffy, my stomach is a little iffy, and my sneezes could knock a car off an overpass with the crosswinds. 

First, I consider some tea with honey.  Nah.  I look in the fridge and find some orange juice.  Yeah, I should probably get some vitamin C into my system before heading into this long stretch at school leading into winter break.  I reach in to grab the carton of OJ when in my peripheral vision I spot three small but fancy glass bottles.  They are smaller than soda bottles, but they're tall enough to catch my attention. 

Ah, yes; the prosecco I picked up at yesterday's wine tasting.  Perfect.  Nothing like an afternoon mimosa while watching the Patriots filet the Dolphins. Plus, I'm having orange juice, which is where I was headed when this whole thing started.  Patriots win, laundry gets done, and I am starting to feel a little better.  Bring on the next few weeks -- I may be ready.

LEFTOVERS = GONE

I killed it.

Just when the leftovers from Thanksgiving thought they might be safe in the fridge, hiding inside their foil container with foil covering, I find them.  Not only do I find them, but I also shovel them onto a microwave-safe plate. I am going to nuke those leftovers until they're as warm as they were when they hit the table a few days ago. 

Before I dig in, I ask my son if he wants any of the Thanksgiving leftovers.  He answers with a casual "Not now."  Kid, I tell him, it's now or never.  I'm serious about this food.

 The moment my son passes on the leftovers, they magically disappear.  I inhale that food so fast that it's like it never existed in the first place, but I went to Thanksgiving dinner, and I packed the container before I left.  I know this stuff existed.

Oh, well.  All that is left is an empty plate.  I killed the leftovers, completely and totally, and I am not ashamed to broadcast that fact to a skeptic world.

BLACK AND GOLD FRIDAY

BLACK FRIDAY!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Some people love it; some people hate it; some people are just "meh" about it.  Personally, I am in the "meh" category, but also I avoid Black Friday like the plague.  I don't hate Black Friday.  It's just not for me.  I know my limitations: Fighting crowds to get shit nobody really wants for prices that will be lower closer to the holidays all seems like a fruitless and dangerous activity.

So, in honor of Black Friday, I enjoy Black and Gold Friday.

I fight the crowds at the bars and restaurants before and after attending the Boston Bruins versus Pittsburgh Penguins hockey game, and I stand in (surprisingly quick-moving) line for the ladies' room during the game breaks.  Since both NHL teams' colors are the same, it's a perfect way to celebrate Black (and Gold) Friday.



The closest that I come to any store on Black Friday is when I drive past Target after exiting the highway on my way home from the hockey game and post-festivities.  The normally-mostly-empty parking lot is abnormally-packed with cars.  I consider stopping to buy some Target Monster Trail Mix then decide it's not worth the lines or the bruises.


Here's to this year's Black and Gold Friday!  Just so you all know (spoiler alert...), I DO SURVIVE and (another spoiler alert...) the BRUINS WIN!.

THANKSGIVING TEXTING

Thanksgiving Part II

My daughter, who has to work Thanksgiving afternoon and evening, decides to join us in Maine for a few hours, even if it means she misses dinner.  She will need to get there early to make the 3+ hour round-trip before-work ride worthwhile, but she wants to make sure others will be there, too.

Text exchange prior to the Maine family gathering between my daughter (SHE) and me (ME).  Words here and there have been correctly spelled and may or may not be twisted altogether.

SHE: Can you text me when you're heading to Maine?

ME:  No.

SHE: Okay...

(Long pause between texts)

ME: I can't text and drive.  It's illegal.

(Longer pause between texts)

SHE: Text me BEFORE you leave, Douche.

Ah, yes.  This Thanksgiving I am thankful for the gift of clarity in the English language and the ability to bring it to the cyber-text world.  You're welcome.  (P.S. Dinner is ready early; my daughter eats dinner before she leaves Maine to head to work.  Thankful for that, as well.)

HAPPY TURKEY AND PUMPKIN BREAD DAY

HAPPY THANKSGIVING!

{conversation between me and my youngest child}

ME:  Do you want me to bake more pumpkin bread so you can bring some to your girlfriend's house for Thanksgiving?

CHILD:  It's okay. I have leftover pumpkin bread from the batch I took to work.

ME:  No, you don't.  Not really.

CHILD:  Yes, I have one whole container that's still full.

ME:  Um.... No, I don't think so.

CHILD:  Mom, the container with the pumpkin bread is on the kitchen table.

ME:  Yes, it is, and I've been eating it.

CHILD:  ALL OF IT?!?!

ME:  Yeah.  Pretty much.

(Pause.  Momentary silence.)

CHILD:  Yes.

ME:  Yes, what?

CHILD: Yes, I want you to bake more pumpkin bread so I can bring some with me.

{And so it goes.  Happy Turkey and Pumpkin Bread Day, all!}

PAPER HOLE PUNCH CONFETTI AND OTHER DISASTERS

This is the year of getting organized. 

I started last February by hauling thirteen bags of crap out of my basement, including some stuff my landlord left behind fifteen years ago.  The basement is 75% or more done, my spare room is about 75% or more done, and I still have some furniture to build that has been hanging around for way too long in a box. I am determined to get it done by this coming February.  I figure an entire year is a decent expectation to go through decades-worth of stuff.

This organizational bug has hit me at school, too.

With so many moves over the years at my job (between grades, classrooms, wings, floors, curricula, buildings, schools...), I am finally thinning out my stash of stuff -- materials, files, supplies...  Of course, as soon as I toss crap, someone needs it RIGHT AWAY! 

It's maddening, and it's enough to give a lesser person a severe case of chronic diarrhea. Not me, though.  I have binders, and I know how to use them (not for the diarrhea part, I mean)!

The first order of business is the school closet that is packed full of my work stuff.  I get that organized right before school starts, and it's a dream working out of the closet as my personal book shelves.  This leaks over to my desk, then to my filing cabinet and to the Google drive that's full of random documents and various other items -- now all neatly in virtual file folders. 

I believe that I am as organized as I can be at this point.  Until... someone asks me for data from the last three years.

Seriously?  That stuff got demolished with the old school building.  Gone with the bricks!  See ya later.  It's okay, though, because it's all in Cyberland, right?  Well, sort of.  You see, our district doesn't use that data system anymore, and the company itself has gone belly-up.

Smart-ass that I am, I go back into the program through some cyber-craftiness, and I manage to access my data from not only last year, but right up until we started using the system in 2007.  Once I print out what I need (before I get permanently banned or crash our current system with my cyber-creeping), I decide to organize it all into two binders.  I might need more, but at least the big binder is like my non-digitized database for information.

Okay, so it's kind of like old-school card catalogs, but it seems to be working for me.  I'll let you know after my big meetings whether or not I really am organized, or if I flip around trying to look intelligent but unable to actually locate any data I need.

The best part about it all is that my hole puncher is now full.  I'm going to have plenty of round paper confetti for New Year's Eve this year.

'TIS PUMPKIN SEASON

'Tis the season for all things pumpkin: Pumpkin coffee, pumpkin pie, pumpkins leftover from Halloween.  It's almost Thanksgiving, and Son #2 is having a Thanksgiving-style luncheon at work tomorrow.  He wants to bring pumpkin bread and pumpkin butter.

For those not-in-the-know, pumpkin butter is the consistency of applesauce, but it's made of pumpkin and spices and brown sugar and honey.  Then, it is spread on pieces of pumpkin bread.  It is best served warm, but it totally rocks cold, as well.

So, tonight in between my meetings and between my son's work and lacrosse schedules, I help him make two loaves of pumpkin bread and the pumpkin butter.  Really, though, he does most of the work.  Okay, we cheat a little bit by making the boxed-brand pumpkin bread.  Every time I make pumpkin bread from total scratch, I screw it up somehow.  Two loaves later, my son is a successful baker.

The pumpkin butter, though, is a special art.  One wrong move and the whole thing will be scalded and trashed.  I walk my son through the treacherous steps of tending the watched-pot of mixed spices and sugar and honey and pumpkin.  He is on it, though, totally and completely.  Twenty minutes later, the pumpkin butter is cooling, and it looks and smells fantastic.

This is proof-positive that I don't have to do everything around here, and a damn good thing it is, too.  You see, I get distracted this evening, and I forget to stir the pumpkin butter.  I also forget to set a second timer, so I do not hear when the pumpkin bread is done in the oven. 

My kid is all over it.  He moves the wooden spoon in the saucepan with careful diligence, and, when I remember the bread is still baking, I rush downstairs to find him already taking the perfect loaves out of the oven.  After all, 'tis the season for all things pumpkin; might as well train a minion to carry on the tradition.

FLANNEL DAY OF SMOKY LAZINESS

I didn't shower last night after being out in the drizzling rain.  I didn't shower after running home up the hill in an attempt to beat friends who wanted to drive me a quarter mile to my house.  I didn't shower last night nor this morning.  As a matter of slovenly fact, I threw on a sports bra and stayed in my t-shirt and flannel pajama pants all day long.

What horrible condition could make me shun showering, even though I clearly needed it? Simple: Fire. Not a conflagration; just a chiminea fire at the brewery down the street.

Last night we sat inside at the brewery while it spit rain and drizzled off and on, but a lovely fire was crackling in the new chinimea outside.  The bar workers tended it, but no one paid it any mind.  After watching it through the front window for about thirty minutes, I excused myself and went outside, enjoying the fire all to myself.  Eventually, several of my compatriots joined me, and we had a beer at the mini-fire pit before heading back inside.

I enjoy the smell of a fire pit, the smokey aroma clinging to my hair and my clothes.  When I arrived home after the brewery, I slipped into my flannel pajama pants, hung my fleece on the bedroom door knob, and fell asleep with the lingering smell of wood fire in my hair and in the air of my room.

All day today the wafting scent of wood fire permeates my brain.  I am correcting papers, and I smell last night's fire.  I am sorting dirty laundry, and I smell last night's fire.  I snuggle in my fleece, and I smell last night's fire.

Finally, though, the bed has been changed and it's getting near time to start my work week.  I need to get to sleep, but I have to shower.  The best and worst of it all is getting my hair wet.  The best part is that I can smell the smoke in my hair, and the steam from the shower makes a misty aroma of firewood as if I am standing back at the chiminea (except with clothes on ... not IN the shower).  The worst part is when I have to shampoo the smell away.

Not only do I rinse away the fire pit, but I also rinse away the tail end of my weekend.  Back to the grind in a few hours.  Clean hair, clean sheets, clean slate.  Like the smoke evaporating into thin air last night, my days off evaporate into thin air of late Sunday evening, and already I miss my flannel day of smoky laziness.

THE GHOST DID IT

I live in a haunted neighborhood.

When I say this, I am often surprised at the number of people who feel the need to tell me that they do not believe in ghosts because there's no such thing as ghosts.  Well, first of all, good for you; second of all, nobody asked.  I don't necessarily believe in ghosts, either, but this little patch of land is loaded with them.  I'm not asking for debate; I accept it as fact, whether I believe it nor not in my rational mind.

I've never had any trouble with ghosts in my current abode, in which I've lived for more than thirteen years.  When I lived two houses over, we had weird things happen, like missing kitchen utensils.  Next door to that house and forming a triangle to where I live now, there is a small, older home that is so badly haunted no one stays for more than six months.  I feel very fortunate to have been spared the spectral home invasion.

Until now.

Sure, sure, sometimes I get antsy, like there's someone else in the room with me when I know there isn't.  I try to convince myself it's okay to glance to the dark, far corner of the basement when I'm doing laundry late at night (I usually lose the battle and hustle up the stairs without looking over).  Sometimes noises come from the townhouse next door during the night, even though I know it's unoccupied.  Lately I catch myself seeing someone in the room with me out of the corner of my eye, then when I do a double-take, there's no one there.  My eyes playing tricks, perhaps.

However, there is no denying the table mats.

I have four table mats for the kitchen table.  They're made from rusty-red colored cloth, and I recently wash and dry them.  All four go into the washer; all four come out of the dryer.  They need ironing, so I place all four onto the center of the table and put the Advent wreath and candle on top.  After I iron them, I'll place them around the table where they belong.  All four of them.  Yes, I still have four; I know because I count them again.

The next time I look, a day or two later, there are three.

I count them several times, as if I cannot comprehend that three is not four.  I search the kitchen, the den, the linen closet.  I check the washer, the dryer, between the washer and dryer, beside the washer and dryer, and behind the washer and dryer.  No table mat.

I look upstairs, downstairs, under things, over things, here and there.  I Dr. Seuss the shit out of my searching (in a box, with a fox, in a house, with a mouse...), and still no table mat.  I contact people who have been in my house and ask such bizarre questions as, "When you picked up your coat, did you perhaps accidentally swoop up a table mat, too?"

I give up.

Apparently our neighborhood ghost is getting ready for Thanksgiving because it has lifted utensils and now a table mat over the two decades that I have lived in this neighborhood. 

I count the mats and recount them again and again, as if three will magically morph into four, but this doesn't happen.  It could be worse, I know.  If only I could train the ghosts to clean ... THEN I'D BE A TRUE BELIEVER.

I CAN SEE CLEARLY ... NOW

I have an eye doctor appointment today.  The office has been calling me for days to update my insurance info, which I do online.  When I arrive at the office, the info isn't in the computer, so I re-enter everything on their kiosk machine and scan my new insurance card into their system.

Two minutes later the desk calls to me and says, "So, you're self-pay?"

"Excuse me?"

"No insurance?  Paying today upfront?" she asks.

Um, that would be a big fat NO.  I tell her that I have already updated everything ... twice.  I even have the confirmation email.  I hand her the card and she tries to call the business office for approval.  They hang up on her.

What the hell. 

Look, folks, I can still see well enough.  I can drive without glasses, but sometimes I'll use +1.25 or +1.50 if it's dark or rainy out.  I can read well enough with +2.50 and perfectly with +2.75.  I color coordinate my outfits using the crazy cheap glasses that I find at places like Wal-Mart or Christmas Tree Shop.

You want to screw up my insurance info?  I'll head back over to Christmas Tree Shop and buy more glasses I don't need because what I don't need even more is a hassle.

Turns out it's all okay.  The insurance info goes through.  I pass my exam with flying colors, meaning my sight is no worse off than it was last year.  I can still drive legally without glasses, if I so choose, and have both eyes at 20/30 vision. 

Best part is that my new insurance has a ZERO co-pay for my annual eye exam.  Score!  (Score, that is, now that the info is finally saved in their system.)

The downside is that my pupils are still dilated because the appointment is so quick.  No vision problems, no eye problems, so I am an easy fifteen minute case.  It's dark out when I leave (thank you, November and falling back an hour), so I have to drive with my headlights on and my sunglasses to shield my eyes from the horrifyingly bright and huge lights of oncoming traffic.

The good news is that I am 1.5 miles from the doctor's office, I get home safely, and I don't wipe out any cars or pedestrians on my way.

LIGHTS OUT!

We have a half day at school today because there's an open-house in all of our classes this evening.  I am hesitating whether or not to stay all the way through and maybe get some of my own work done.  Just as I decide to stay ...

The electricity goes out.  Then it comes back on for a minute.  Then, it goes out and the generator kicks in.  We have some lights and zero excess power (no computers, no pencil sharpeners, and zero lights in the bathrooms).

Apparently, there has been an accident on a nearby street.  This means that our school (out of session for the afternoon) and three nearby schools (still in session) are without power, along with hundreds in the surrounding neighborhoods.

I could file papers; my filing cabinet requires no electricity.  I could grade papers; my pens and pencils require no electricity.  I could plan for the shortened schedule next week; I still have a hard-copy planner.

Nah.  I head home, turn up the heat, turn on the outside lights so I don't come home later in darkness, and eat two giant bowls of leftover beef stew. 

I hope power has been restored by the time I get back to work... or, maybe I hope it hasn't.  There are worse things than coming home and going to bed early because, at my age and in my line of work, these are real-world goals.

BEATING THE SLOWPOKES

I found another way to work.

Yup, after eighteen years, most of which have been spent driving in the same way (south on route 28), I branched out in the last two years when my school was remodeled and rerouted to a less accessible entrance.  I tend to come across another busy route and meander in the back way. 

The only problem is the light.  There's one traffic light in particular that is finicky.  It is such a pain in the ass that I have found myself racing two different school buses to try and beat the light.  When one or both of them beat(s) me to or at the light, it causes me great agida and forces me to re-route myself an entirely different way to work lest I sit behind large yellow taxis that stop at every ... single ... house ... and sometimes twice at the same house because one kid comes out the front door and a second kids straggles out the back door.

Recently the town re-paved a side road that comes out to its own light.  It is a direct crossover to the back road I like to take to work while I sing along to Sirius Radio at the top of my lungs.  It's an extra half a mile or so of driving to get to the little road, but the light is far more efficient than the one about one hundred yards to the left, and so far this week, I have managed to beat both buses.  Today I even beat one of the buses that had been ahead of me because it went to the very slow light.

Yup, even with the extra half a mile, I got across the main road first because the other light is so ... damn ... sluggish and this new one at the end of the freshly paved road is very sensitive and timely.

NOT that I am in any big hurry to get to work or anything.  But, truth be told, I'd rather get to work early and easily than spend the time sitting behind the bus watching students drag their heels as they plod along.  I spend the REST of my day watching that in the hallways, dragging of heels and plodding along.  No need to waste my commute on that, as well.

HIGHLY SKILLED PLAYERS

Getting to the copy machine at work is a highly competitive business.

We compete with our own grade-level to get to the one copy machine allotted to us.  Sometimes other grade-level machines are down, and we compete with teachers from other grades, as well, for that one copy machine allotted to us.  This only sucks eggs when other grades or other departments (such as admin or the super's office) are trying to copy during our grade's limited planning time.

Like I said, access is highly competitive.

 

The machine does have the capacity to interrupt, if necessary, so we can make copies in a pinch.  Except ... except if someone sends a job remotely from his or her classroom.  Then, once the job starts, there is no recourse, no way to stop the copying process. 

(Well, that's not entirely true.  There is always the plug in the wall, or out of the wall, as solutions go.  I'm not saying that I've ever done that, but I am not denying it, either.)

Often when we see another teacher heading toward the planning area where the grade-level copy machine is, we run as fast as we can and employ tactics that rival the NHL and European soccer leagues for fouls and penalties.  One of the teachers even has her own red and yellow flags to call infractions during such antics.

This same teacher, flags or not, is petite.  By petite, I mean that I just today suggested that the next time someone calls her "petite," she should break out with a rousing chorus of "We Represent the Lollipop Kids" from Wizard of Oz.  After our joint-meeting to prep for tomorrow's special once-a-week joint-class, this teacher gathers her materials and I gather mine.  Together we start walking in the direction of the prep room.

I notice that her little legs are suddenly scurrying along.  When she has put about four feet between us in the hallway, she glances back at me over her tiny shoulder and says, "Oooooohhhhhhh no ya don't!"  I realize that she is heading straight for the copy machine, a direct beeline, and she seems intent on beating me there.

I have a short back but long legs, so I am able to gain on her rather quickly.  She runs a zigzag pattern in an attempt to block me from passing, her tiny black shoes clacking along the tiled hallway, echoing in the emptiness of our planning period as the students are elsewhere in the building.  In addition to my longer-than-hers legs, I am wearing sneakers today, so I have the advantage in height, shoe size (I have big feet for my stature), and footwear.

I tease her as we waddle and push and giggle, elbowing each other in an attempt to be the first one to the sacred machine.  This competition lasts only until she realizes what I am holding in my hand: Scantron sheets -- the ones with the bubbles filled in using number 2 pencils. 

The jig is up.  I am not racing to the sole copy machine in our hallway; I am meandering down to the admin offices to use the Scantron machine, which will feed and correct my papers for me and spew out all kinds of data about the quiz questions. 

My pal slows to a walking gait and bids me adieu at the planning room door.  I have about a football field's length of hallway to get to where I am going, and I know that even if someone else is using the Sacntron grading machine, there's a second one tucked away upstairs in another grade-level planning room.  I'll smack someone out of my way, if I have to.

Yup, just like I told you: Copying papers is a competitive sport at my work, and we are all highly skilled players.

A RELATIVELY NORMAL FELLOW

I have to go to the bank this afternoon.  Well, I could put it off until tomorrow, but then I'll be kicking myself for not doing it today, so I might as well cross this chore off my list. When I leave work, it's raw and rainy outside.  When I arrive at the bank, there are zero parking spaces to go inside, so I opt for the drive-up.  This way I stay warm and dry and still get my cash.

The drive-up is an odd place where the exchange between bank and customer is done through a plastic tube that carries checks and money via a space-age, air-jetted tunnel system.  It also has a television screen so that I can see the teller and the teller can see me.

Today's teller is a dead-ringer for Arthur Fielder, former (and currently dead) conductor of the Boston Pops.  I'm not certain that pseudo-Arthur-Fiedler understands how the teller-vision works, though, because he seems to have OCD ... NOT that it's a BAD thing.  He has this whole routine: shake shake shimmy touch the nose shimmy touch the nose shimmy touch the nose -- repeat, repeat, repeat.  I'm not so sure I like the fact that he is touching his nose and then will be touching the money he is about to hand over to me, but, when it's all said and done, I'm sure the money is filthy with other bacteria and crap, anyway.

This is when things turn weird (or, weirder): Pseudo-Arthur-Fiedler lifts up his leg, perches it on the table where the camera is, and leans forward.  I'm not initially sure if he is exercising or trying to show off his bumbum.  Suddenly, he lifts both of his arms in a giant arc as if he is prepping to start conducting Leroy Anderson's greatest hits.

Holy crap -- he really IS Arthur Fiedler!

But then, just as I'm thinking I'm about to hear the Boston Pops play, pseudo-Arthur-Fiedler starts tying his shoe.  On camera.  While I watch.  He puts his foot down, leans to his left, grabs my cash out of the dispenser, counts it out, and sticks it back into the plastic missile.  I cannot tell if he remembers he has just repeatedly tweaked his nostrils and tied his shoes while doing a semi-split,  all while in full view of me and anyone in the aisle to my right who may have privy to the monitor in my aisle.

"Anything else I can help you with today?" he asks cheerfully.

Hmmmmmm.  An eye wash might be pertinent suggestion, and possibly some hand sanitizer, or maybe some Lysol spray for the envelope filled with nose-touched money. 

Honestly, though, he is quite jolly and very affable.  Except for the ritualistic mannerisms in the teller booth, he seems like a relatively normal fellow.

POPOVER PUCKS

Today is a beef stew kind of day.  It's chilly out, and the football game of interest isn't on until this evening.  I'm cleaning out the spare room that only made it halfway through its original blow-out this summer, and trying to reorganize enough to get Santa's Workshop set up (gift wrapping station).

For some reason, I am craving popovers.  It has been so long since I made or ate popovers that I don't think my kids even know what they are.  I love popovers, so I dig out my mother's recipe ... a.k.a. Betty Crocker ... and give it a whirl.

The popovers look fabulous when I take them out of the oven -- warm and tall, though I know the tops will fall in shortly.  For some reason, the popovers weigh a lot.  They're very heavy, not too heavy, but heavy like when biscuits end up more like hockey pucks than rolls.  I also seem to have forgotten how eggy they taste.  I don't remember them being so yolky (yeah, I may have made up that word), so I try to cut that flavor with a slab of butter melting inside the popover's center.

When the butter trick doesn't help as much as I'd like, I pull the popover I am eating into pieces and dip it into the gravy of my stew, making the roll more like Yorkshire pudding.  That does help, but still I am disappointed by my memory mismatching my reality.

Oh, well.  I have leftover popovers and stew, which isn't a bad thing at all.  The spare room doesn't get finished, but I'm over it, at least for now.  I can always use the popovers as paperweights to hold stuff down until I can put it where it belongs.

SATURDAY SHOPPING ADVENTURE

With the help of 2/3 of my children, my Christmas tree is up.  I figure if I'm going to drop money and time and energy on the holidays, might as well reap the benefit of the decorations.  Oh, and it's my only semi-open weekend until Christmas.  If it doesn't get done this weekend, it may not get done at all.

I feel productive, so I decide to hit a few stores on Saturday, use up some coupons and such.  I plan to hit Christmas Tree Shop, Kohl's, AC Moore, Michael's, DSW, CVS, Staples, Yankee Candle, plus two wine tastings and a visit to my invalid eldest sister.

I have a couple of things that I want at The Tree, and I sort of find them.  I have to bring some holiday decorations to my sister at The Home, but I forget important things like the photo album I need.  I do, however, find a good sale on batteries for the Christmas toys I have not yet unpacked from storage (but will on Sunday).  The Tree has taper candles in purple and in blue and in pink, so I have to decide which way I'm going with the Advent candles.  I end up with the purple/pink combo, buying enough candles to get me through Advent and beyond, should we lose electricity again.

The Tree and Kohl's are in the same mini-mall, so I come out from one store (surprisingly easy wait to check out), take a look at my awesome Kohl's coupons, then decide I am too cheap and too bored to go shopping there.  I'd just end up buying stuff for myself, and that defeats the purpose of today.  I head over to AC Moore with my 20% off coupon, but there is zero parking available between Market Basket and Home Depot, the sandwich stores surrounding the craft store.  I swing through the lot, get into the line for the traffic light, and head down the street to Michael's, instead.

Michael's isn't too horribly crowded, and I snag a space about four from the end.  I wander inside, anticipating some decent sales.  I didn't get much at Christmas Tree Shop, and it would be nice to bring a few more items to my sister, although she keeps losing everything we give her, so I don't want to invest into anything that will break my heart nor wallet when it goes missing.  I find nothing worthy of the coupon I am holding (15%) , and they have zero photo albums, so I leave empty-handed.

I decide that I do not really need new shoes nor sneakers nor boots, even though I have a coupon, so I pass right by DSW.  CVS is next, and I cannot think of anything that I need except the AA batteries that I already bought at The Tree.  The coupon I have for CVS has not quite expired yet, anyway, so no harm, no foul.  Since I did not get the photo album I need, I also pass by Staples.  There's no point in buying the photo paper for my printer if I don't have the photo album for the finished product.  I also do not need to stop at Yankee Candle because it's almost a sure bet that they won't have Advent candles, and I plan to improvise with the tapers I bought at The Tree, anyway.

I stop at wine tasting #1, discover one of my favorite sommeliers is the guest host, then grab my usual vino verde.  From there, I go to visit my sister and set up her few decorations, find her coat for her, discover that she is missing her fall coat, give her the mail and a pink knit hat, and avoid awkward questions about Thanksgiving.  After this fun adventure, I need a second wine tasting ... except ...

Neither wine store on my docket today carries small bottles of prosecco, and I'm craving mimosas.   I don't like having a full-sized bottle of prosecco because it's too much for one person in one sitting, and I hate opening the bottles.  So, I head to the small liquor store tucked inside the grocery store, buy the four-pack of small bottles of brut wine, and continue on my way to yet another liquor store.

The second wine tasting is next to a grocery store, so I check and see if the grocery store has stew beef.  (Why I didn't do this at the last place is a complete mystery).  The store was out of stew beef the other day, so I don't hold out much hope, except that the store DOES have stew beef, and it is on SALE.  I finish up my day with wine tasting#2 at liquor store #3, where everything tastes good but I am definitely not worthy of a $60 bottle of Aussie wine, so I buy beer.

All in all, I don't do too badly.  I am out for less than four hours, I only spend about $70 total, my wine and beer are restocked, my sister has been visited, and I can make beef stew for Sunday dinner.  Okay, so my list of things to buy and places to go isn't as successful as I'd planned, and a bunch of "today only" coupons end up in the recycle bin, but think of all the money I save today by efficiently eliminating stops from my shopping. 

Yup, positive thinking.  Not as productive as I'd like, but at least the tree is up.  Thanks, kids, because without you, the tree would've gone the way of my list: partially completed.

SCRAPERS, SCRAPERS, WHO'S GOT MY SCRAPERS?

I am notorious for losing things, replacing them, then finding the things that I lost in the first place.  It's a nasty curse that has led me to own not one, not two, not three, not four, not even five, six, or seven... I own so many windshield scrapers that I've lost count.

I own small scrapers I can maneuver with one hand; I own long scrapers that can reach the center of the windshield; I own medium length scrapers that are ideal for windows; I own several scrapers with brushes on them for getting the fluffy snow (when it IS fluffy) out of the way.  I own enough windshield scrapers to open my own windshield scraper kiosk.

Of course, the morning of the first frost, I leave my house, confident that I have at least two scrapers in my car.  I start the car, crank up the defroster, and prepare to start scraping the windows so I can make the mad dash to work. 

There's only one problem: No windshield scrapers.

I check the trunk -- Nothing.  I look under the seats -- Nothing.  I recheck the trunk and start tearing things apart.  I still have some of my summer gear back there, but the trunk is organized.  I can find walking poles, several umbrellas, two life jackets, a sun hat, some flip flops, my water shoes, two sets of oars for the kayaks, a whole slew of waterproof bags, emergency tools, cleaning supplies, and some random sports balls.  I close the trunk, check the seats again, then re-check the trunk, now to the point of pulling crap out of every crevice I can find.

If I ever intend to get to work, I'll have to improvise.  I unload my backpack, find my wallet, pull out my Stop & Shop card, and start scraping the windows, the back windows, and, finally, the front windshield.  I don't even bother putting the card back; I shove it into the center console as I pull my car out of the driveway.

Later, after work and after another semi-crappy day, I hit the store and load the groceries into the trunk.  The trunk ... that now looks like a mini-bomb has exploded all over it because my formerly well-organized belongings have been tossed (by me) all over the damn place. 

I do find the two scrapers tucked neatly into a bag and stuffed carefully next to the emergency tool kit.  Apparently, I never restocked all of the scrapers I own when I changed over from my old car to my new one six months prior.  The scarpers won't do me a damn amount of good now, but at least I know where they are.

On my way to the basement to do laundry later, I spot the other three scrapers/brushes that I removed from my old car.  These scrapers/brushes haven't made it to my car yet because I traded in my previous vehicle for this new one at the start of the summer.  I gather up the scrapers from the basement floor (where I dumped them last May), and I prep them to be returned to my car.

Not today, though.  I'm not leaving my house today.  It's too cold, and I'll probably just have to scrape the windshield, anyway.  My brain knows that I have enough scrapers now to outfit the entire neighborhood, but I know me.  Give me a week or two; I'll have lost them all by that time.

WINTER BASIL

Ah, the last sweet smell of summer ends today.  No, it does not end today because we have our first official frost; it ends today because the basil plant needs its final pruning before being put out to pasture.

I bought the basil plant at the store part-way through summer, and I paid less than $6 for it.  The dang thing grew and grew and grew, causing me to nickname it The Hulk.  It produced enough basil to keep me and several others in caprese salads for weeks at a time. Even when I bring The Hulk inside for the winter, it still continues to produce leaves.

However, the plant isn't going to make it through the winter, after all.  It has been showing signs of extreme exhaustion for a while now, so I know the best thing for it is to save the leaves that I can and put the rest outside for compost.

Poor Hulk.  It almost makes me cry to trim the sad baby, but I know there's no going back.  The stems are all drying out and turning brown; if I don't act quickly, I'll lose the last of the basil altogether.

After saving the remnants of this year's basil, I do rescue a few semi-healthy sprigs from the once-hardy plant and immerse them in a water-filled mason jar.  Yup, I guess I'm not quite ready to say good-bye yet as summer hope springs eternal. 

I will know in about four weeks whether or not any of the sprigs actually root and produce winter basil plants.  Then, I will know for certain whether or not summer is over.

I MAY BE STUPID, BUT ...

I'm having a bad week.

First, I need to pick up some stuff at the store after I leave work on Monday.  I'm all set to go, but, for some reason, I double-check my wallet.  I am 99.99% positive that I have plenty of cash in there, so I feel silly for even looking.

Damnit.  I have $7 cash; no credit card, no checks, no bank card.  Pissah.  I have to swing by the house before I do anything else.  Walking out of work, I am yelling at myself: "You stupid, STUPID person!  You STUPID, STUPID, STUPID person!"

Tuesday we have all-day meetings.  At the end of the day, I stay late to make some copies that I need.  I copy several pages of things back-to-back, hole-punched, collated ... you name it; I'm copying it.  I am finally ready to leave work when I realize that one of the worksheets is copied wrong and that I missed an entire page.

It's fixable and it's minor, but I am very tired.  I haven't been feeling well all day and woke up with vertigo in the morning (walked right into the wall ... twice).  I could go home now and fix the copying mistake the following day, but it will bug me all night.

Damnit.  I gather the papers that need to be correctly re-run through the machine and stalk down the hall while muttering, "You stupid person.  You stupid, stupid person.  You STUPID, STUPID, STUPID person!"  I stay and re-copy the pages correctly, adding another fifteen minutes of work onto my day, which doesn't seem like much, but it's dark when I finally get outside ... and it's cold ... and it's raining.  Pissah.

This morning I am trying to get out of the house so I can get to work early and get my feet under me before the day begins: Set up the classes, bookmark the PowerPoint slides, make sure the audio for the article is running.  I showered the night before and only need to straighten my bangs, which look like miniature ski jumps the way they stick out.  I plug in the straightener, get dressed, cut it close to leaving time, and prepare to hot-iron the crap out of my errant bangs.

Damnit.  I forgot to actually press the "on" button, so the straightener isn't even tepid, let alone hot.  I hit the regular "on" button as well as the "turbo on" button, then madly attempt to fix my hair, all the while chanting, "You STUPID person,  You STUPID person.  You STUPID person."  My hair ends up looking pissah, and by pissah, I mean I look like a groomed spaniel.

Lastly, I have a remote start for my car.  I've never actually used the remote start in the six months that I've owned the car, but I figure today is the day to start because it's chilly out.  I point the remote through the window of the living room, and ... nothing.  I try again and again and again to remotely start the car.

Finally, in the driveway walking near the car, I try it again and the car starts.  It also locks itself up like Fort Knox.

Damnit.  I cannot even get into my own car.  I try hitting the button on the remote to unlock the car.  Nothing.  I try my other set of keys.  Nothing.  I try shutting the car off.  Nothing.  Pissah.

Now, I know damn well that I can unlock the car with my regular key, if necessary, by pulling the strange metal doodad out of the remote entry, but I finally manage to get the driver's door unlocked.  For some reason, I've sprung the trunk, as well, probably because I started beating the shit out of the remote.  In the meantime, I am harrumphing around the car and in the car, gritting my teeth and hissing, "You stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid, STUPID, STUPID, STUPID asshole of a person!  Stupid, stupid, stupid!"

During one of these Stupid Person moments this week, a colleague stops me to inquire of whom I speak.  Who is stupid, she wants to know.  Me.  I am. Hopefully, though, this is the last of it for this week.  Just in case it's not, though, I don't stay late at work today.  Instead, I haul ass, come straight home, inform my son we are eating leftovers out of the fridge, and get into my pajamas by 6:00 p.m.

Before bed, I decide to make lunches for tomorrow.  I get out the bread, the mayo, the knife... Oh, yeah.  I came right home from work.  I didn't stop at the store.  There is no sandwich meat for lunches.  Damnit.  Here I go again.  "Stupid person.  Stupid, stupid, stupid..."

Time for bed; I'll try again tomorrow.  I know defeat when I see it.  I may be a stupid person, but I'm not a total idiot.

I SMELL FIRST SNOW

Snow, snow, snow, snow, snow, snow, snow, snow, snow, snow, snow, snow, SNOW.

When I leave work this afternoon, I walk out of the building, take a deep breath, and say out loud to no one, "I SMELL SNOW!"

My buddy in Western Massachusetts says it is snowing in his neck of the woods.  I am waiting, somewhat impatiently, for the snow line to move across the radar map and blanket my neck of the woods.  

There's nothing quite like the first snowfall of the season, regardless of how major or minor it may be.  I keep peeking out the windows past the sheer curtains and the shades, searching through the darkness of the early evening sky. 

Nothing yet, though; no first snow.

I check the radar again. Little by little the snow inches northeast.  The temperature, however, is holding steady here at 45 degrees. 

Maybe.  Maybe ... probably not.

I haven't given up yet, but it's getting later and later, and I've had a long day.  Sorry, snow, but if you don't make an appearance soon, I might have to wait for snowfall #2 ... or #3.  It's comforting to know that the snow is just a few miles away, and that thought will lull me to sleep tonight.  Well, that and the knowledge that my nose was right. 

ASIAN PINCHING LADY BEETLES

Ever since I removed the air conditioners from the windows, my house has been inundated with those stupid little Asian beetles.  They fly all over the place and knock into things, making little pinging noises.

Unlike their springtime American cousin, the harmless ladybug, these little fuckers are quite aggressive and have pincers that stick to their victims and leave a little bruise.  Oh, they look plenty cute, but they are miniature terrorists.

I have a couple of the Asian "lady beetles"  flying around the bedroom, so I bring a fly swatter into the room with me and knock the little kamikaze bastards clear out of mid-air.  I still believe (perhaps truly or perhaps psychosomatically) I hear them snap-crackle-popping on the backside of the window shades.  I whack at the shades just to be sure.

I'm willing to bet that at some point tomorrow during a presentation or something, I will cough and an Asian beetle that I've accidentally inhaled in my sleep will come spewing out and hit someone across the room from me.  Oh well.  It's rumored that we all eat a certain amount of spiders in our sleep.  I guess adding an Asian beetle or two to the menu wouldn't really be too far beyond the realm of possibility.

Should be a frost this week, though.  I am certainly hopeful that the little asshole beetles still roaming around outside will get their due.  If not, I have discovered that Raid hornet spray is very effective against slowing the beetles down enough for me to completely annihilate them with a shoe or other implement of destruction.

Just don't miss.  If those buggers get on your skin, you'll know it.  Like summer greenheads, these fall insects will leave a mark you won't soon forget.

DEAR SUMMER - GO AWAY

Dear Summer:

Go away.  No, for real, get your damn ass out of my autumn.  I'm sick and tired of your hot days, and I am wicked bored with your warm nights.

It's November.

For fuck's sake, Summer, go home.  Go south.  Go to Hawaii.  Go to Peru.  Go to Hell.  Just GET OUT.  Be gone.

After spending Saturday packing up and storing the air conditioners, then cleaning and storing away the kayaks, I am in no damn mood for another day in the 70's, but here you go again with your stupid shit.  Windows up, windows down; heat on; heat off.  Seriously.  Make up your damn mind.

It's snowing in the Pacific Northwest.  At least someone somewhere knows what the hell season it is, what month it is, that this isn't the Deep South nor Florida nor Arizona.  Wake up, November.  Wake up.

Oh, don't be telling me to be careful what I wish for.  I shoveled that damn 110 inches of snow a few years ago.  I'm not afraid of snow.  Do you think my grown-up ass would sit around New England if I didn't like snow?

I love summer, too, and I get very antsy in the pantsy if summer arrives late.  But, let's be serious here.  70 degrees predicted on November 6th?  What the holy hell.  Are you high, Summer?  Are you still buzzed from your own season?

Look, I love you, Summer; I love you like a visiting relative.  Now, though, it's time to pack up your toothbrush and go home.  Go where you belong, Summer, which isn't here.

I know, I know.  When my skin cracks and my face freezes off and my ears are so cold I cry -- you'll be laughing at me from the Southern Hemisphere.  When the Reynaud's in my fingers and toes threatens to cause amputation, I'll be begging to have you back.

Right now, though, I want my flannel sheets, my long sleeves, my sweaters, and my sweatpants.  I want hiking boots and knit hats.  I want hot chocolate and soup and chowder and beef stew in the crock pot.  I want spiced mulled wine and turkey and crackling fires.

Go away, Summer.  Go away and don't come back until May.  You can show yourself a tiny bit over the next few months, but pack your bags and go live somewhere else for a while.  I need a break.  My sweat glands need a break.  It has been real, and it has been fun, but right now -- it's not real fun.

I love you, Summer, but, for the love of all things sane ... GO ... AWAY ... for a few months.

Sincerely,

Me and my flannel sheets and my big fluffy slippers and my fleece jackets and my furry hiking boots and my snowshoes and my knit scarves and my wool socks and my flannel pajama pants and my handmade quilts ...

LAUNDRY DAY ON STEROIDS

Ahhhh, Saturday!  A day when I can do some minutiae that needs to get done.  Yes, some of it is work-related, but nothing that has to get done.  I am soooo looking forward to a well-earned day off!

Until my son brings in his lacrosse equipment from his car.

Apparently, every piece of clothing he has ever owned is in his car.  Okay, maybe not every, but there are a helluva lot of sweatshirts, sweatpants, and enough sports pinnies to outfit his own team.  The stuff smells ... horribly.  Several of the articles of clothing are so sweat-encrusted that they could probably walk into the house out of their own volition.

Suddenly, I am spending Saturday reliving the old days of youth and high school sports as the unpaid limo service.  The aroma of the pinnies reminds me of long car rides from field to field, sometimes with the windows wide open because (until my most recent car purchase) I didn't own a vehicle with a closed trunk.

It only takes three loads to get everything done.  I am displeased to tell my son that his pinnies, regardless of the amount of detergent used along with multiple fabric softener sheets, still have the wafting stench of lacrosse on them.

Four hours later, the laundry is done and folded.  Of course, the kiddo is gone for the next two days with friends and then coaching at at an all-day lacrosse tournament.  At least I know when he arrives home, it will just be the coaching clothes coming through the door.  He cannot possibly have any more clothing in his car -- it's all clean and folded on the den futon.

WORK: MY OWN DAMN FAULT

My work life has become a little too invasive into my personal life.  I find myself going in to work way too early and staying at work way too late.

It's my own fault.

This year I am quite honestly flying by the seat of my pants.  This means that my serious prep work takes place during my morning set-up.  Every single day I have a meeting of some sort, and, even if I am lucky enough to get thirty or forty minutes to address my own work, it is often spent fielding ridiculous emails, mostly from companies that want my business now that our grade level has gone 100% 1:1 with technology. 

Today I stay late to use the copy machine.  I realize that the machine is almost out of toner, and I know damn well that means I won't get through my work, so I book it down to the main office to catch the secretary before she leaves so she can unlock the cabinet and hand me the toner.  When I get back, someone has taken my place in line and started copying.  The toner runs out, and, thank goodness for me, we replace it and move on.  Eventually, I get my copies done ... well, mostly done before someone else comes in and needs to copy.

Grades close today, as well.  I could take the last of the numbers home with me, or I could tack another thirty minutes on to my day and get them done at work, which is what I decide to do.  There are a few other stragglers who, like me, decide to stay an extra hour or so rather than bring the work home with us ... still ... yet again.  Oh, sure, I do bring work home with me, but it's mostly my busy work so I can, once again, fly by the seat of my pants come Monday morning.

The problem with this whole coming in early and leaving late crap, other than the fact that it means I have zero social life, is that my room is mere yards from the superintendent's office.  He keeps a schedule similar to mine, and he often walks down the main hall in front of my room on his way to meetings or to get coffee.  Today he takes his morning walk when I arrive and his afternoon walk while I (and several others) am still there.

This gets me to wondering: Does he think we are trying to impress him by arriving early and staying late?  Or, even more obvious and slightly more depressing, does he think we cannot do our jobs and are staying late to cover our own asses?

At the end of the day (which is late today), I don't give a flying hootenanny what he nor anyone else thinks.  My room is semi-organized, and my grades are calculated -- not ready to be sent to admin yet, but still.  When I leave along with a colleague, it is getting dark and starting to rain, a fitting end to an otherwise crappy week, both personally and professionally.

But, we LEAVE at an almost-reasonable hour, no less.  It's all good.  I can make up that hour this weekend when we fall back.  Arriving early and staying late will not, however, make up for the time I have already lost this week, but my habits are improving -- I only stayed late this once in five days.  That in itself is an improvement over the first two weeks of school this year.

THANK YOU, NON-LOCAL WORKERS!

Wow, trees that are still standing!

It has been five days since the remnants of Hurricane Philippe swooped across New England, causing widespread power outages, major traffic accidents, chemical fire, and fallen trees.

For the first few days I stick to the main route from home to work, only to discover power out and wires down still days later.  I even follow a line of traffic through a "road closed" sign on the highway through town because the cones have been moved, and the line in front of my car is proceeding past the electric trucks parked in the northbound lane.

Three days post-storm, I come home along the edge of the state forest and discover that, although the road is mostly cleared of downed trees, there is still no power, including no working traffic lights at a dangerous and busy intersection by the state police barracks.  One would think the staties would be at the top of the "must have power" list, but apparently not.  These lights stay out for two more days.

Finally, today, five days post-storm,there seems to be power, the roads are passable, and life is grand again.  This prompts me to tempt fate and go home the back roads by a nearby cemetery and the local pond.  After all, these roads have not been tweeted out by the town as impassable.

The town is incorrect.

Five days later, this one pocket of town is littered with trees, the roads are single lane only due to debris, and I am attempting to drive through not one, not two, but ten utility trucks trying to restore power by rewiring the entire neighborhood and beyond.  It is a beautiful 72 degree day outside, so my car windows are open.  As I wait for several trucks to pass between my pulled over vehicle on the right and their pulled over compadres on the left, I shout to one of the trucks that has an unfamiliar insignia.

"Thanks for all you do to get us back up and running," I say.  "We appreciate you!"

Uh-oh. Now, a bus! This road is tight even without debris.

The gentleman in the yellow emergency vest answers me in a wonderful Southern drawl.  He and his coworkers seem tired but still cheerful.  Meanwhile, I'm thinking how we Northerners are usually the ones sending help south when those horrible ice storms grip the Atlantic seaboard and beyond.  How wonderful to see these trucks from down south and to see these workers from down south coming up to help us out.

We will attempt to keep the good weather for all-y'all, too.  No rain since Saturday, mid-seventies today, and mid to high seventies predicted for Friday.  We hardy New Englanders are having a hard time wrapping our heads around being incapacitated by something as inconsequential as post-hurricane winds and rain, and we are also pretty ungracious and rather self-deprecating about accepting help from the outside world, but thank you all for being here.

Hopefully, by Friday the town will be fully restored to power.  If not, just know that many, many people are working hard to get it done.

ASKING ... YOU KNOW, FOR A "FRIEND"

You want to know what
Fries her ass?
People who are too lazy to
Do their jobs;
That's what fries her ass.
Constant emails from people who are
Perfectly capable of doing the
Simplest of tasks:
But won't.
Truly and honestly
Exhausted
From picking up the slack while
Others do
Important and altruistic deeds like
Attending office parties,
Getting others coffee,
Posting personal crap on
Social media,
Avoiding sweat caused by
Picking up
Pen or pencil or keyboard.

Never met so many people who
Spend so much work time
Entertaining their damn selves.
Sadly, she can count
On one hand,
Maybe two,
Number of people who
Can and might and will
Share these sentiments with
Job-Shirkers
Just to make her already
Over-taxed job
Worse;
Pat themselves on their
Just-above their own asshole
Backs.
At this point,

Being a Wal-Mart Greeter is
Probably an improvement.
At least she wouldn't take her job
(Nor their jobs)
Home ... Every ... Damn ... Evening.
If only Bill Belichick were the boss:
Do your job.
Please, for the love of
All Things Sane,
Do your goddamned job
So no one else is forced to
Do it
For you.
Is this too much to expect?

Just
Asking for a friend
Because
Inquiring minds want to know.

 

A NEW, CREEPIER LOOK

I make it all the way through the thick of the storm without losing power for longer than thirty seconds.  The winds are screeching, the rain is pounding, trees are crashing down, and I am smugly enjoying no interruption to my life whatsoever (again, except for thirty seconds).

Of course, it's Halloween, so things are never exactly how they appear.

Silly me invites my daughter to come over after her shift at the hospital (which is running on generator power).  I set her up in the living room on a futon, and she is happy there from about 11:30 p.m. until 1:00 a.m.  Yes, two hours into her stay, my electricity goes out, and she heads home.  I don't blame her.  If it's going to be dark here and dark at home, might as well sleep in her own bed.

The lights are still out when my cell phone alarm goes off at 5:05.  I fire up some candles and search for more batteries for the other flashlights that are running low on energy.  No such luck.  I wash my hair with the reserve of hot water, then pull it all back with a headband since I cannot dry my bangs.  This would be innocuous except that I have a severe widow's peak hairline that rivals Count Dracula's.  My forehead is completed exposed under the sharp point of my pulled-back bangs.

I take some candles into the bathroom with me and set up the flashlight of my cell phone to shine onto my face so I can put on eyeliner.  Thank goodness it's Halloween because I am totally mauling this simple task.  I figure if I can't beat the eyeliner disaster, I might as well join in and put smoky gray shadow on my eyelids then top it all off with thick, black mascara.

Finally, around 6:20 a.m., I snap a few photos of my candlelight morning. I mean, this whole fiasco will probably make a great -- Oh, hang on!  The lights just snapped back on, but it's ruining the ambiance of my struggle, so I shut off the light and take one last photo -- blog.  Yup, probably a decent blog.  Except that I'm not struggling any longer.

Whatever.  It's Halloween.  My slicked-back bangs and smeared black eyeliner and bruised-looking eyelids and I are late for work.  I'll dry my unruly bangs tomorrow morning.  Today, I'll channel my inner Dracula and sport a new, creepier look.