JUST NOT DARTS

My daughter is good at many things. 

(Dart in wall)

Her amazing talents include such diverse things as painting, taking care of people, and spreading laughter and smiles.  She tells fabulous stories, even when she is giggling uncontrollably while telling them.  She is creative, thoughtful, and loyal, but she is no pushover; hand her a bowl of bullshit, and you're liable to be wearing (or eating) it within seconds.

There are some things my daughter isn't so good at, though, such as singing (I do love her, but she warbles), walking anywhere near curbs, and playing darts.

In a case of full disclosure, I'm not sure she has ever played darts before.  That being said, the darts that she throws go everywhere. People in the store next door to the pub are running for cover.  Her darts end up in the wall, on the floor, and one even pierces the Tiffany-style Sam Adams light fixture high above the dart board.  (The light fixture has many holes in it, making it obvious that my daughter's dart-throwing misses are not the first errant darts in the pub.)

(Darts in floor)

My daughter does at excel at many cool things; NOT darts.

However, like everything else she does, humor and an excellent attitude get her through the somewhat lopsided games.  She may not be good at darts, but she is great at life.  If she isn't, I will certainly find out after posting these pictures of her dart-playing prowess.

A PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT I CAN TRULY SUPPORT

News alert across my Facebook page today: DO NOT LET YOUR TODDLERS EAT LAUNDRY PODS.

Uh.  Um.  Well... I guess we all make bad parenting decisions.  I once left the Vaseline too close to the crib on the changing table, and my kid had a field day painting himself and the walls in the three seconds I was out of the room tossing the diaper away.  One of my brothers ate an ant cup and had to have his stomach pumped.  It was awesome.  He puked all over the ER doctor just as the doc announced, "Well, I guess he isn't going to vomit for us today!"  (Guess again, sucker.)

But these are isolated, really dumb parenting accidents.  Accidents happen, right?

No one puts out a public service announcement saying, "Hey, idiot parents.  Vaseline and ant cups ... NOT for children."  This is shit that we know but sometimes fuck up by pure exhaustion brought on by sleep deprivation.  (Or, possibly, as in my parents' case, alcohol consumption.  But, I digress.)

This bit about toddlers eating laundry pods, though?  This is epidemic.  Approximately 365 kids a year eat laundry pods.  There's even a lawsuit about it.

Look, I am wicked sorry if your kid ate a laundry pod, just as I am terribly sorry about the nasty Vaseline event that wreaked havoc with my wall decor.  One kid a year I can see maybe, possibly, stupidly sucking on a laundry pod.  But an average of ONE every damn DAY?

PEOPLE!  Two things: #1 - Laundry pods are not food; #2 - what the hell kind of parents are you?!  No, really.  I can see having a random dumbass parent here or there, but one a day?  Every day?  Day in and day out?

STOP IT.  JUST STOP IT.  You people shouldn't be allowed to have children nor laundry detergent in your homes.  You're fucking morons.

Here's my version of the same public service announcement that I received this morning:  DO NOT LET YOUR TODDLERS EAT LAUNDRY PODS.  STICK THEM IN YOUR COOTER INSTEAD.  THIS WILL PREVENT HAVING KIDS IN THE FIRST PLACE.  SAFETY RULES!

There.  That's a public service announcement I can truly support.  I'll even send over a half-smeared container of Vaseline to help you accomplish the task.

COLD, SCHMOLD, AND BUBBLY SIPPING

Cold, schmold.  Bah.  Humbug.

My plan to stay inside all day is interrupted by my son's car that won't start.  AAA jump-starts it, but it needs service, so I warm up my own car, follow him to the dealer, then drop him off at work. 

Meanwhile, my tire pressure is low partially from the sub-zero wind chill and partially because my car sucks and the tire pressure is always being a dick.  So, I brave the cold to put air into each tire, exposing my face and hands to the raw air.  By the time I get home, my face looks like I painted it with rouge.

After getting some of the work done that I have earmarked for today, I go back to get my kid from work, drive him back to the dealer, then race home again.  I need to stuff down a quick dinner of leftovers (I couldn't cook dinner because of the shuttling), though, because appartently I have one final errand to run today.

There's a wine tasting this evening.  Not just any wine, though -- a bubbly tasting.  No way am I missing a bubbly tasting.  Even though I could walk to the wine shop as it is only a quarter of a mile away, I do know my limits.  I may have driven all over the planet today (after swearing that I would just sit home and get some work done), but I know not to try and walk a half-mile round-trip in 6 degree weather with sub-zero wind chills.

I am now the proud owner of a bottle of cava, the exact same cava that is served at the Spanish royal family's functions.  I wouldn't have the cava if I had not ventured out, and I would not have ventured out had I not had to rescue my son today.

I also would not have learned that the cold really isn't as horrible as it could be.  It's not -83 degrees with wind chill, like it is on Mount Washington, and it's not even officially snot-freezing weather yet.... YET ... I'm not completely insane.

Cold, schmold.   It's nothing but a bubbly humbug.

MY MORALE IS READY FOR THE COLD

It's cold.  Yup, it sure is, and it's going to get much, much colder over the next few days.  This is the coldest post-Christmas snap of weather since 1917, and it's already taking a whack at morale.

Today it's a balmy 18 degrees.  I say "balmy" because there's little to no wind, so the temperature is about as pure as it can be for 18 degrees.  The sun is strong, though, so strong that when I go into the store to grocery shop, I leave my gloves in the sun in my car so they'll be toasty when I come back out.

Yes, I go shopping.  Grocery shopping.  With the temperatures decreasing and the wind chill increasing, today is probably the best of the next seven or so days to get my butt outside and do all my running around.  Bank, gas station, grocery store, errand to the nursing home, liquor store for New Year's Eve bubbly... just in case.

Just in case we lose power or the furnace breaks or my car battery croaks or the wind makes it impossible to go outside or the snow storm that might come actually does.  I have food, I have drink, I have ice, I have coolers, I have blankets, I have candles, I have flashlights, I have books to read, I have the phone all charged. 

18 balmy degrees today will rapidly fall to wind chills in the negative numbers tomorrow.  I have a few more days off before work starts up again, and I fully intend to do something that I'm not very good at and do very rarely: RELAX. 

If you need me, I'll be the one under the pile of blankets in front of the electric fireplace decadently sipping wine mid-afternoon with one hand while holding a book with my other hand.  It may be cold, but MY morale is totally ready.

HIDING THE CHOCOLATE HORROR

I have been eating all of the Christmas goodies. 

They should be called Not-Goodies because they are not good for my weight. No, seriously.  I have eaten so many M&Ms in the last twenty-four hours that I'm surprised I'm not farting colors by now. 

It's bad.  Really, really bad.

I cannot hide the horror anymore, either.  I keep reaching into the cookie tin and grabbing anything my fingers touch.  I convince myself that no one will ever know, but then I see the smattering of powdered sugar dragging across the kitchen table, mocking me with it's tell-all-trail. 

That's right: kitchen table; I am hiding the candy and cookies in plain sight.

I am slightly disgusted and conversely amazed at the amount of sugar I have ingested over the course of one day.  I could reason with myself, rationalize that this only happens once a year, but we all know THIS IS A LIE.  Yup, in a few short months Easter will be here, and, if I know me, I will champion the cause of Lost Chocolate Bunnies as I have championed the cause of Lost Chocolate Clauses this Christmas.

I am not getting fat; I am being altruistic.  I have the candy wrappers to prove it.

CHRISTMAS COMPLETE

I do love my family and friends, and I do love Christmas, but I also love my quiet time. 


It has been a long few months at work, and the finish line for December is akin to the finish line at the Kentucky Derby on a rainy, muddy track.  As if that's not pressure enough, our weather as of late has been uncooperative, with storms of rain and ice so bad that we lose power and school time.

This Christmas is beset with pre-holiday ice, sleet, freezing rain, and storms, followed immediately by a decent snowfall that interrupts Christmas Day travel and plans.  The Christmas Day snow stops falling around noontime, though, and the sun breaks through shortly thereafter.

Christmas snow is magical.  First of all, it is extraordinarily rare.  Secondly, the snow makes the whole world sparkle and shine.  This Christmas the snow is light and powdery, which makes fast business of clearing and shoveling and also makes it ideal for winter sports.

After the Christmas morning hoopla of breakfast and presents, we have lasagna for lunch, and I send my children on  their way to work or to the home of a significant other.  I have one more errand before the sun starts to set, and I watch the clock the entire time because there's something I want to do today, one thing I have never had the chance to do before and may never again.

I want to snowshoe in the Christmas Day snow.

By the time I break free for the afternoon, it is after 3:30, and the sun skews across the sky.  Trees are caked in ice and snow, so I need to calculate where I'll snowshoe and remain safe by myself.  There's a short trail through the woods near my neighborhood, but I am concerned about falling tree limbs.  Wide open spaces are somewhat boring but safe.

I opt for one of the cemeteries near my house.  It has some trees, some open space, and is sloped with some challenging areas.  I also want to see if it connects to the trail (it doesn't).  I spend an hour snowshoeing up and down and around, taking pictures, and enjoying the crisp air and absolute solitude.  The Christmas Solitude.

I love my family and I love my friends, but this gift of an hour of quiet snow and beauty is exactly what I need after the frantic finish at work and the mad rush to get people where they need to be while clearing the snow from the storm.  The fact that it's Christmas snow just makes it more special.  Now I'm home, candles lit, decorations on, tree lights shining, and my Christmas is complete ... and completely perfect.

MERRY CHRISTMAS TO ALL

Merry Christmas to all.

For Christmas, I want to share a couple of pictures from our most recent round of ice storms.  My son touched the ice on the holly bush, and the ice came off the leaves in connected patterns, each one resembling little angel wings.  When he touched a clump of frozen leaves, a larger ice sculpture fell into his hand, looking like a glass angel.

Even in the stormy weather and the treacherous ice conditions, even with some of our nearby neighbors lacking power this Christmas season, it is sometimes too hard to find the everyday goodness and too easy to overlook the simplest of joys. 

Merry Christmas to my family, my Blog family, and to all.

 

TIMING THE TAPE

Timing is what happens when you're wrapping Christmas presents and you get to the very last one when the tape runs out ... as you're ready to tape down that very last edge.

Oh, it's all okay.  I bought lots of tape on sale weeks ago at Staples.  I anticipated a much worse situation on the tape front, although I think we've gone through three rolls already.  Bear in mind that this includes prepping packages to ship.

Anyway, I do have one more gift to wrap.  Other than that, I think I'm as done as I'm going to get.  If the tape completely runs out, as in "I have no more rolls," I will start slapping gifts in plastic bags.  I do love you all, however I am NOT braving any stores on Christmas Eve, especially not for tape.

Good thing I have perfect timing because I am pretty much done wrapping, and I still have one unopened roll of the good tape (Scotch brand -- not that cheap-ass Staples shit that peels into pieces and strips and doesn't work for shit). 

To any and all of you hitting any stores today for such things as tape, wrapping paper, or bows, I just have one thing to say: "SUCKERS."

BONGO RECYCLE BINS

It is the last day of school for the calendar year, so all of us (teachers and students alike) feel punchy.  We are a little short on patience and a little long on aggravation.  At this point of the school calendar, it is difficult to tell who is crazier: the staff or our young charges.

So, it is no surprise to me when I let loose a little bit this morning before the school day starts.  One of my coworkers arrives very early, so early, in fact, that by the time I arrive, she has already put away her pocketbook, run to the ladies' room, gotten her mail, and chatted with the secretary in the office. 

Today, however, the inclement weather slows the progress of her commute, and the two of us arrive to work at the same time.  My commute (eight miles) is considerably less than hers (a gazillion miles), so I wait for my coworker in the hallway while she uses the faculty bathroom. 

This is how I come upon the recycle bins.

Directly outside of the women's room are three extra-large garbage receptacles for recycling.  I lean against one, propping myself up as I hum holiday tunes to myself.  After all, in a few hours, I'll be on break.

All of a sudden I jump up and start yelling to my potty-bound pal.  "Hey," I say loudly to be heard through the walls, "guess which Christmas carol this is!"

I place my left hand on the cover of one barrel and place my right on another.  I open the lids and start slamming them back down, over and over again in rhythm: Boom boom be boom, boom boom be boom ... bang bang bang banga-bang bang bang banga-bang bang bang banga-bang banga-bang!

I can hear her voice carrying through the thick wooden door.  "What the HELL are you doing?!"

I smash it out again using the bin lids: Boom boom be boom, boom boom be boom ... bang bang bang banga-bang bang bang banga-bang bang bang banga-bang banga-bang!

There is a long and uncomfortable pause before my coworker starts yelling from the great bathroom beyond.  I can tell from the sound of her voice that she is not amused.  "I ... AM ... TRYING ... TO ... TINKLE!!!!!"

"Nope," I reply, "you're wrong.  It's Carol of the Bells." 

The bathroom door swings open and she glares at me.  "I oughta smack you," she announces, only half-kiddingly.

I smile eagerly.  "Go ahead.  See if I can guess the Christmas carol you're slapping out!"

And that, officer, is the very last thing I remember before all the lights went out and I woke up here in I.C.U. 

RANDOM POETRY -- REFRIGERATOR STYLE

Some random poetry that I wrote this evening.  Enjoy.

The end.  (Each picture is a separate poem, FYI, in case, you know, you couldn't tell.)

SLEEP MEANS WINNER-WINNER-CHICKEN-DINNER

Sliding into the finish line for 2017 means that my sleep patterns are totally shot.  I can't hold my eyes open at 6:00 p.m., yet I'm still tossing and turning and making mental lists in bed at midnight.  When I do finally fall asleep, I cannot make it through more than a few hours before my brain wakes me up and is going off at a hundred miles an hour all over again.

So, I play a game.  Upon waking in the night, I try to guess what time it is based on the light in the room from the windows and based on how active a dream state I've been in.  I should probably take this show on the road.  I am remarkably accurate.

This morning I go to sleep ... yes, this morning because it's about 12:15 a.m. when I finally fall asleep ...and wake up randomly sometime later.  I check the window shades.  Hmmmmm.  Hard to tell with the outside lights shining in.  I feel like I slept some, I'm not in the middle of a dream, and I sort of kind of think I might have to pee.

Uhhhhhhhhhh ---- 2:40  I'm guessing 2:40 a.m.

I throw off the 10,000 blankets on the bed (because I sleep with the fan on in a cold room), sit up, grab my glasses, and look at the digital clock.  I am close, oh so close: It's 2:50 a.m. 

Sometimes I play this game when I awaken before the alarm goes off just after 5:00 a.m.  Before I look at the clock, I wonder if I'll get to go back to a deep sleep or just a little snooze.  I feel like a lottery winner if it's before 4:30-ish because that's like still sleeping soundly if I can manage to nod off again.  It's a little depressing when the clock says 4:50 a.m. and I know I will only get in a short snooze.  It's super depressing if I wake up, need more sleep, but realize the alarm will be going off within a minute or less.  Booooo.

The absolute worst is when I struggle to fall asleep, finally do, go right into REM sleep, and wake up twenty minutes later only to start the cycle all over again, struggling to fall asleep. 

Tonight I plan to try and go to bed really early.  Crazy early.  Maybe even around 9:00 p.m.  Of course, the reality is probably closer to 10:45 p.m., but I am hopeful at this point still that my goal is attainable.  At least if I get into bed and read or some such, I am tapping into the relaxation factor.  If I cannot sleep, I can at least give myself some much-needed down-time.  If I doze off and wake up in the middle of the night, I can base my time-stamp guess on how much I've drooled on the book pages.

Hey!  It's MY game.  I can make up rules as I go along.  Just so you know, I'm predicting 4:34 a.m. as one of my wake-up times tonight.  I'll let you know if I'm the winner-winner-chicken-dinner.

TO YOU FROZEN HIPPIES

My friend in L.A. texts me to tell me that it's windy, chilly, and about 45 degrees out there in beautiful Southern California.  He mentions he might need a sweater.  (He's a Northeast transplant.)  I text back that it's mild, sunny, and 50 degrees out here; no sweaters necessary.

This weather, of course, is on the heels of freezing rain with a semi-hairy morning commute followed by a treacherous walk in from the parking lot at work.  I make it all the way to the door, open it, go to step inside ... then slip.  I almost go down, and I'm sure the hallway camera that is pointed at the back entry will be great fodder later when the tech crew watches the staff do the cartoon-character shuffle.

Considering that a teacher did actually fall in the lot last week after a snowstorm, I shouldn't make light of it.  Black ice is damn dangerous, and one of my students injures her knee getting off the bus this morning when she steps onto a patch of the slippery, nearly invisible stuff.

But, that was then, and this is now.  Then, it was icy, slippery, and just starting to melt as the temperature edged over 32 degrees.  Now, it smells like spring and sounds like spring: the birds are singing from the trees.  People are outside and walking around, stalling on sidewalks to converse in relaxed stances.

Yup, winter (well, almost ... we are still hours away) in New England seems to beat out Los Angeles.  Their sweater weather is our pre-beach weather. 50 degrees to Southern Cali is cause to batten the hatches; 50 degrees in New England is cause to kick off the shoes and brave hypothermia by putting our toes in the ocean water.

I'm sorry you're all shivering a little out west, but we're loving it here, at least for a few more hours.  As soon as winter officially hits, there'd better be snow and all the wonderful mayhem that comes with it.  We'll pack up these glory days and send 'em back west to you frozen hippies.

SIDLE ON OVER FOR A SHOCKING EXPERIENCE

Lately I have been the queen of static..  I touch things; I get zapped.  I'm like a walking lightning rod.

Today one of the students hands me her paper.  I check it over, ask her to add something, and hand the paper back.  When we exchange the paper, her finger briefly makes contact with my hand. A loud SNAP is heard, and I flinch, obviously taking the full brunt of the static shock.  She, on the other hand, makes no indication that she has been affected in any way, shape, or form.

"Wow," she says in a  matter-of-fact manner, "I HEARD that."

I want to respond with, "No shit!"  That probably wouldn't be very professional, though.  Instead, I just nod and pretend to go about my business.  Truth is that it smarts a bit where the shock happened.  I'm now completely paranoid to touch anyone or anything as I feel so surrounded by static electricity.


It isn't even officially winter yet, and already I think I may have used up more than my allotment of static shocks.

But, in the case that I haven't, sidle on over and get close to me: the shock may be better than a defibrillator, and it will certainly "light up" your life.

PATRIOTS VS. THE ANALYSTS

Ugh.  It hurts my eyes to watch the Patriots' game on Sunday, at least for a while.

First of all, watching the icy rain pour down just depresses me because I know it will be here by tomorrow morning.  That just sucks.

Second of all, the team isn't having a strong game, and it pains me to watch NOT because I expect the team to win, but because we Patriots' fans spent so many years (decades, even) watching the team in the bottom of the NFL, and sometimes it's like deja vu alll over again when they deflate on the field.

Thirdly, I just cannot stand the Steelers because years ago I encountered a rather obnoxious person who was such a rabid fan that we all suspected he was mentally ill with his obsession.  Even now, just the mere mention of the words "Pittsburgh Steelers" gives me flashbacks and causes me to twitch slightly.

So, naturally, I distract myself from the end of the game by doing other things, like washing the dishes.  When it looks like the team is going to choke, I shut off the television.

That lasts about four seconds.  I cannot abandon the team.

I turn the TV back on and force myself to watch it.  My stomach is turning not because the Steelers are just about to score and win the game but because the announcers, those absolute fuckers, are so anti-Patriots that my ears bleed just listening to them.  All I hear are their pompous comments about how the Steelers are going to win, and about how the Patriots have sucked the whole game, and blah blah blah blah.

You see, watching the Patriots win, and that is exactly what they do with five seconds left in this game, isn't the real reward to it all.  The real reward is listening to the asshole, idiot, moron announcers, with their obvious bias, have to eat crow.  Better yet, eat shit, ya bastards.  Eat shit hard.  It's a RULE, and if the Patriots had violated that rule, those same commentators would be all over the Patriots like buzzards on a crap wagon.

In the end, watching the game still hurts because the team isn't playing consistently nor playing well, but they are playing effectively for the most part.  How the hell they pull out the win should still make people shake their heads, but I have to remember: These are not my father's Patriots, nor even my Patriots.  I grew up in the Grogan-Bledsoe era.  You want to talk about shitting your drawers every week, that's the definition right there.

I shouldn't be so surprised when the team pulls off another last minute victory, but still I am.  Honestly, I love to see it.  Someone might want to send the CBS analysts some new underwear and a box of tissues, though.  I'm not quite certain that they've caught on to the pattern just yet.

SOME HOLIDAY SHOPPING

Today I brave the Saturday crowds in nearby New Hampshire for some holiday shopping.  Christmas isn't much different than any other time of year when it comes to traffic along the strips of businesses and stores in the border towns of tax-free New Hampshire. Temper-flaring and road rage often accompany shopping just over the northern border, so, coupled with the holiday rush, I am not certain what I'm getting myself into with this adventure.

Sure, the usual highway behavior goes on, with people cutting lanes and jockeying to make the exit, but somehow no one is getting mad.  People are making way for the drivers, and the drivers are waving thanks.  Seriously -- not tossing the middle finger; true thankful waves.

Parking spaces, usually a highly competitive game resembling bumper cars and Medieval warfare, are not cause for mayhem as people wait patiently for spaces or park far out and walk in, enjoying the crisp but sunny weather.  Walking from the parking lot to the store isn't an exercise in cheating death; cars actually stop to let people walk by.

Shoppers pack the aisles of the stores, but there is no pushing or moving of carts.  People are smiling and laughing and helping each other find things and reminiscing about childhood toys, many of which are making comebacks and line the shelves.  We even hold the place in line so a woman can go grab the tape she forgot.  And the lines ... so long ... move quickly.  "So sorry for the wait," the cashiers say over and over again, but really it is unnecessary.  The wait is minimal, and everyone is chatting amiably.

In a case of full disclosure, I do not go to the mall.  I do, however, drive by it, and the traffic is moving along.  I know my limits on a regular Saturday, let alone a Saturday before Christmas because I may be nutty, but I'm not insane. 

TOO COLD FOR COMFORT

I think I'm getting sick.

I'm sneezing more, I'm very tired, I ache a little bit, and my head (and occasionally, my ear) hurts.  I've felt crappy for days, and several times I thought I might hurl.  My burning, red eyes also tell me that I'm fighting occasional fevers.

The biggest indicator, though, is my inability to get warm. The heat is turned up, but still I am cold, cold, COLD.

I understand, at least logically, that it isn't really cold inside my house, but still I am chilled from my head to my toes.  Finally, after attempting to reason with my exhausted, icy body, I concede.  I am now sitting in my kitchen, bundled up in flannel pants, long-sleeved shirt, a sweatshirt, a fleece hat, a fleece scarf, fluffy slippers, and a warm, thick jacket with the hood up.

If I'm going to get sick, might I please put it off until my school break?  Just asking for a friend ... a very, very COLD friend.



                                                                                                              

JUST A FEW MORE

I still have a little bit more shopping to do before Christmas arrives.

I know, I know: Shame on me for letting time get away yet again.  At least the stuff to be shipped has been, for the most part, handled and completed.  For the most part...

Santa's workshop, however, is up and running.  Once the shopping is done, the wrapping can happen easily because everything is set up and accessible.  I even remember to stock up on lots of clear Scotch tape and a few rolls of shipping tape. 

I seem to have enough wrapping paper.  I should -- every January I go out and scarf up rolls of it on sale.  I do have to restock the bows and the tags because, despite my certainty that I have enough stockpiled, I am sadly mistaken. 

Okay, so a few more gifts, a few more bows, and a few more tags -- all within a few more days. When it's done, "few" can become "phew" and then the real celebrating can begin.

LIGHTEN UP ON THE SHIPPING CREW, PEOPLE

This afternoon I drop a couple of packages off at my local UPS store.  I don't like to park in front of the store because it is super-difficult to get out of the tiny lot.  Backing up into the street is like trying to join a Formula 1 race from a dead stop.  I usually park across the street in the pay-lot, but I try to get the only "fifteen-minute parking"  spot, which is free.

Someone is already parked in "my free parking spot."  I park a little ways away from the store and the occupied fifteen-minute free spot, cough up a quarter, and put the ticketed time on my dashboard.  Grabbing the two bags with the two boxes to ship, I race across the street through the frigid wind-chill and prepare to stand in long holiday-shipping lines.

But, none such lines exist.  I am the only customer in the place.  One of the workers is aghast that he didn't see me coming so he could help with the packages.  No worries, I tell him, I parked in the lot across the street.  The clerk weighing the boxes is trying to hold a serious conversation with me, which, after a long day with middle schoolers, just isn't going to happen.  I cannot be remotely serious.  I joke around, and, eventually, he does, too.

The money to ship is about thirty dollars less than I anticipate, so I'm feeling mighty happy.  Rather than use my credit card, I scrounge up the last of my dollars and change to pay the bill.

As I am leaving, the clerk thanks me for being so pleasant.  Then, he thanks me again ... and yet again.  He stammers, "We don't get many pleasant people in here this time of year."

That makes me sad.

Look, people: The lines at the local UPS store will always be shorter and more efficient than the crowded post office, and the workers are just trying to do their jobs.  I'm quite disappointed in my fellow humanity that this is where we are -- bitching out the UPS counter clerks during the busiest shipping season of the entire year. 

Lighten up, people; lighten up.

NO LIMBS IN MY DRIVEWAY

Thanks for blocking the street yet again, you dumbasses.

Last time it was a lady in a van trying to get her kid to a dance class, so she ran the gates at the train crossing and got hit by the Downeaster (which does NOT stop at that station, FYI).  Nobody was hurt except her brain cells.  Wait: To cut in front of a speeding train, you don't have any brain cells.

This time it appears that a car's driver did one of three possible stupid things at the train crossing:

1. tried to run the gates in front of the commuter train;

2. parked too close to the tracks when picking up pizza at the restaurant;

3. drove down the tracks thinking it was a street (happened a few miles away a couple of years ago, so not outside the realm of probability).

Either way, there is a car facing Boston on the train tracks, heading southbound with a giant commuter rail train stuck to its ass-end, and both are stopped on the tracks about 100 yards from the actual road crossing.  SOMEBODY fucked up, and I'm willing to bet it has not been the train.

The worst part about the debacle is waiting hours on end for the road to re-open.  The best part about it is waiting for the Three Stooges to decide whose jurisdiction the crash scene actually is: local police (it's our town), Amtrak (they own the railway), or the MBTA (owners of the train involved).  Oh, and don't forget about the state inspectors who have to assess the damage.

I figure if the police are laughing, no one is seriously hurt.  I also figure since the car's gas tank didn't explode, I won't be poohing my drawers any time soon from the sudden boom and ensuing fireball.

Either way, someone fucked up big time, and the media will have a field day with it. Why shouldn't they?  Dumbasses are funny (as long as their limbs aren't in my driveway).

BALANCING CAP

Sometimes the littlest and silliest things can make my day feel so much better.

I don't sleep well the night before for some reason.  I fall asleep just fine, wake up twenty minutes later, then toss and fuss for a long time, finally getting almost five hours ... if even ... of shut-eye.  When I awake this morning, the alarm wakes me from a nightmare about the upcoming Patriots' game, and I am discombobulated and exhausted.

I have an errand to run before work, and it's chilly and icy out following a wet snowfall.  I am trying to get myself out of the house and across the train tracks before the commuter rail backs up traffic at the crossing, and I have to try and beat coworkers to the copy machine now that it is fixed after days on the blink.  I'm rushing, rushing, rushing, and I'm feeling out of sorts.

I pack up my work, pack up my lunch, pack up the stuff I have to drop at the post office, and pack up by back-pack.  Only thing left to do is make my iced coffee (yes, here in New England, iced coffee is a daily necessity, regardless of outdoor temperatures).  I grab my travel mug, add a little sugar, open the coffee container, and clumsily put the cap from the container on the counter.

The cap has landed perfectly on its side and is balancing.

Now, I know in my logical brain that the cap is plenty big enough to balance had I actually purposefully placed it that way, but this is not the reality.  The reality is I let the cap fly sideways so I could continue on my mad rush out the door.

I glance at the cap then stare at it for a few moments.  This is fabulous, to be honest.  I think it's wildly entertaining that the cap just happens to flip away from my hand and land in a way it never has before: impressively on  end.

For some reason, I find this incredibly calming.  Suddenly, my harried morning is a little less harried.  Yup, the cap flip is just what I need to refocus my attention and center my attitude.  I am reminded to take time for the little things, like the unintentional perfect flip of a coffee container cap, because sometimes all it takes is the silliest, littlest thing to make a day that much better.

SNOW - SHOW ME WHAT YOU'VE GOT

Remember this post when we get to the end of the winter.  I will be eating my words.

Today there is snow on the ground, on the fences, and clinging to the trees.  Everything is finally starting to look like Christmas.  The lights on homes and on trees look amazingly festive with the addition of snow. 

The whole world seems clean and fresh when the snow first falls. It has been a silent snowfall.  The flakes fall quietly, and the wind stays completely

still.  It is the kind of snowfall that makes everything seem muted and silent and wonderful. 

In the morning we discover that it is a semi-decent storm -- about six inches of snow -- but also a wet storm.  The snow is heavy and chunks together.  This makes for tough shoveling, but it also makes for great snowballs and snowmen.  The sun is shining brightly the day after the snow storm, and the temperatures reach into the 40's, making shoveling fun but sweaty business.

In the end, though, all the town is fresh and beautiful; I know because I take a little drive around to do errands and to see the white wonderland.   

Wonderland. 

Yes, throw that back in my face next spring when I am complaining about yet another storm because it seems that we are entering that pattern.  Snow Saturday, snow due Tuesday, possibly snow again next weekend... I don't think we'll hit another winter of 110" of snow, but every few days will do wonders for my muscles.

Bring it on, Mother Nature.  I have shovels and icy-melt and a whole stock of gloves and hats and scarves and coats and down vests and boots.  Show me what you've got and I'll do the same.

SNOWING!

It's snowing!  Snowing, snowing, snowing, snowing, snowing!

So easy to get into the Christmas spirit once it snows.  I have been online shopping, wrapping stuff I already have, and getting myself organized -- all because it's snowing.  I might even tackle some of the cards tonight.

There's something about the first snow that is invigorating.  Also, it's a quiet, gentle snow, the kind of storm that isn't a storm; it's more like a sprinkling.  Sure, sure; I'll have to shovel it tomorrow.  It shouldn't be too bad.  I think they're predicting about six inches of snow, and that's totally manageable.

Ask me again in March or April, though.  I doubt I'll be as chipper and excited about wonderful, marvelous snow then.  I'll probably be calling it "that white shit" by next spring.

In the meantime: It's snowing! Snowing, snowing, snowing, snowing, snowing!  And I am totally psyched about the whole thing.

WINE DOWN!

My daughter, our friend, and I enjoy an evening of games and fun, and we cap it off with a rousing round of one of the Twelve Drinking Games of Christmas.  It involves dice and glasses of wine.

We are all generally rule followers.  This is easily proven by our chosen professions: teacher, nurse, physical therapist.  Yup, if we don't follow rules, someone will get hurt ... or worse.  However, this does not prevent us from enhancing the rules to our own benefit.  For example, the game requires that if you roll a "1" on the die, you get to sip your wine.  If you roll a "6" on the die, you tell someone else to take a sip.  Well, the rule for #1 sounds reasonable, but the rule for #6 just sounds harsh, so we change it to "Everyone drinks" when #6 is rolled.

Everything is going fine, and we are pacing ourselves because we are all tired and we all have to work in the morning.  Of course, for some reason, we are ridiculously uncoordinated when we are sober (or relatively sober).  It's when silly things happen, like my daughter missing the step at the curb and spraining her ankle, or me cutting a finger with sharp tweezers while trying to fit my phone case onto my cell phone.

We are also rather uncoordinated people.  Recently my daughter baked some amazing chicken in the oven ... only to drop the cooking tray on the floor and lose the meal to the trash.  I have actually broken a toe with an ice cube when I jettisoned it out of the cube tray and it flew up into the air, arcing down at an angle and landing just right so as to not only crack the bone, but it broke the skin, as well.

So, it really should come as no surprise to anyone who knows us that somewhere in the midst of playing drinking games while still on the sober side of the spectrum, my daughter knocks over her entire glass of wine.  The wine spews across the table, just missing the board game we have set up but not missing at all the Advent wreath in the center of it all.

We move quickly.  My daughter rights the glass and saves some of her wine, our friend jumps and moves the board game away from the trickling mess, and I grab my phone to take a picture while announcing loudly, "Wine down!  WINE DOWN!!!!!" 

A few giggles and paper towels later, we are back in business.  All in all, it is a successful evening despite the loss of an ounce or so of red wine.

RECIPE FOR FUN

A recipe for fun:

Three overworked, underpaid women
Homemade meatball subs
A bottle of red wine
Room full of board games and card games


1.  Gather a few women who, like you, are overworked and underpaid.

2.  Cook a whole shitload of meatballs, add to sauce, then make subs.

3.  Open (at least) one bottle of red wine.

4.  Have access to a bunch of old board games and card games.

5.  Allow someone to wistfully remark, "I used to play Mall Madness."

6.  Open the large hassock in the den to reveal the game box containing Mall Madness.

7.  Play the game until your sides hurt from laughing so hard.

Repeat often and as necessary.

POEM FOR PEARL HARBOR

It's National Pearl Harbor Remembrance Day.

Not many people left who recall
The Attack
firsthand, though I try to imagine what
it must've been like for my widowed
grandmother raising three children
alone in a time of
great anxiety and insurmountable fear.

We swore we would never forget,

words repeated again and again and again --
dropping not one but two
Atom Bombs
on a foreign nation gorged with hubris;
tangling in wars where we've no business other than
Containment;
watching planes fly into buildings for want of 
nonexistent virgins bathed in the blood of hate.

When on a December morning
what a sound that must've been:
Enraged Bees of Battle gaining momentum,
a tsunami of death and destruction.

Young men of the day
scrambling to save a nation
to keep our spaces safe
have given way to
genderless whining
for safe spaces.

We have forgotten,
though we  swore
we never would.

ANOTHER HOLIDAY POST

I know, I know: Another holiday post.  Sue me.  It's the Christmas season, and I am going to wring every last moment out of it that I can.

I've started shipping things and wrapping things, but I am woefully behind already.  Even worse, the Christmas toys are still in the plastic storage bins on Sunday morning, even though they've been in my living room for a couple of weeks. 

Enough is enough. 

I spend an entire afternoon getting the toys out and prepped.  Some of them need batteries, like the waddling penguin, and some need a little elbow grease, like the sledding Santa who zooms across the table when the string in his back is yanked.  Some of them don't do anything at all, either because they never have or because the wires have long-since disintegrated with time.

I have just enough batteries for the penguin, and also for the singing dog, the Fiber-optic snowman, the animated Santa that reads 'Twas the Night Before Christmas, and for the two talking figurines (one of Rudolph's Santa and one of his companion Yukon Cornelius, the Greatest Prospector of the North).  There are also stuffed Christmas items, like the stuffed Santa and stuffed the polar bear.

And there's more, so much, much more to unpack and place strategically around.  Only one toy doesn't make it through this year: Snoring Santa.  He only semi-snored last Christmas, and this December he isn't snoring at all.  Today is trash day, so he'll be not-snoring with the worms at the landfill from now on.

The house isn't done yet, but it's getting there.  The gifts are not done yet, but they're getting there.  Not everything is in transit yet ... but those that are ... they're getting there.  I may be sluggish at whipping the season into shape, but at least I haven't yet given up.

SUPERMOON 2017 SEASON

Supermoon 2017 Season is practically in the books.  December's supermoon hits its brightest on Sunday evening, and it's a little hard to see.

Well, not entirely.

Much of the evening and into the night, the supermoon hides behind clouds, and by "hides," I mean it looks more like someone left a light on in a shaded room.  Clouds keep whisking in front of the supermoon, which causes an eerie "light in the fog" illusion in the sky.  The supermoon is so intense that even at 3:30 in the morning when I wake up (randomly), I cannot see the actual moon, but the sky is already looking like breaking dawn.

A supermoon happens when the full moon is at a point in its orbit at which it is closest to Earth.  Decembers Full Cold Moon is, according to www.space.com, the first and the last supermoon for 2017.  Although the Full Cold Moon has been elusive most of the night, when I wake at 5:00 a.m. I glimpse outside to see a large, illuminated orb hovering above my car at the end of the driveway.

Finally.  Clear view!

I lose the supermoon for a while on the way to work while I weave through the state forest, which is packed with evergreen trees.  Shortly, though, I get the best views of the moon as I enter the long driveway to work.  I want to stop and snap a picture, but the location (on an incline in the middle of the school road) isn't ideal. for stopping.  By the time I park my car, the moon is behind a grove of trees.  I jump out, grab my phone, and attempt to snap a photo of the supermoon before daylight really takes hold.  

There's something soothing about a bright full moon, and this is a full moon on steroids.  I'm hoping the photo is enough to get me through a stressful day until I can get a glimpse of the waning supermoon tonight.  I need all the soothing help I can get at this time of the year.