"SNOW-MOBILES" IN THE PARKING LOT

One of my teammates and I live reasonably close to work.  She lives six miles away, and I live eight miles away, two miles northwest of her house.  It's a pretty easy commute to work, and we both tend to take the back roads unless the weather is sucky.

One thing that we have both noticed is that whenever there is a snowstorm, it doesn't matter which coworkers are coming from where ... closer, farther, north, south, east, or west ... our two cars are always the ones that arrive covered in snow.  It's like we are snow magnets.  People pull into the lot next to our cars and say things like, "Did you come from the mountains?  Is there a blizzard where you live?"

No, damnit, it's snowing the same as it is everywhere else.

This morning our snow starts late.  Most people are in it by 5:00 a.m., and it's all around but hasn't enveloped us quite yet.  Our snow doesn't start until about 6:15 a.m.  Still, though, when we arrive at work, our cars both look like we've been through the great snows on the peak of Kilimanjaro while everyone else's cars look like they've been in the hot plains beneath the same behemoth.

The weather snows and blows for several hours, but the sun comes out two hours or so before the end of our work day.  It's still cold out, but the melting has commenced.  I leave before my coworker does, and I assume (dumb move right there) that our cars will be cleared off between the sun and the wind.

I am wrong.

Of all the cars left in the parking lot (there are dozens), our two cars are the only ones still covered with snow.  I look around just to be sure.  Nope, this is no joke.  Even the coworker who drove in  through the heavier snow this morning has a spotless car.

I start my car, turn on the front and rear defrosters, grab my scraper-brush from the backseat, and start to clean off my car.  I stop, though.  I really feel like this moment deserves to be captured for posterity, so I snap pictures of our vehicles and text them to my teammate, who is still in her room.  Like me, she is not remotely surprised by the white crap clinging to just our cars. 

I brush off both of our cars while I wait for my rear window to de-ice.  Might as well save her the same annoyed disappointment that I experience coming out after a long day to find our cars the only "snow-mobiles" on the premises. 

FAT-PANTS AND MEATBALLS

After a very long day at work that finishes with an after-school meeting, I still need to hit the bank and the store before going home.  It's later than I'd hoped, though, so I check how much money I have in my wallet: just over $45.  I look at my grocery list; just over $60.

I can live without toothpaste for now if I really, really squish the container, and I can go another few mornings with the last of the straws for my iced coffee.  If I plan and shop well, I can make tonight's dinner last two nights and keep it all on budget.

I opt out of the ten-minute bank stop and head right for the grocery store.

As soon as I walk in, I'm off of my list because the blackberries look really good, and I get one small carton free if I buy one.  Gotta have 'em.  In they go.  Cha-ching. 

I also need sandwich meat and Land O' Lakes cheese, and I happen to find these in two smaller packages of freshly-sliced, from-the-deli turkey and cheese.  Bingo!

I throw in the essentials of toilet paper and paper towels, and soon I'm nearing my limit.  I notice that hamburg is on sale, so I get enough to make my own meatballs ... a big batch.  I get a big slab of hamburg on sale for under $8.  Score!

When I get to the register, I am figuring I've spent $44 maximum, so I am a bit surprised when $47.19 springs up.  I fish around in my pocketbook for some change and hand it over with the bills.  I am a dummy, though.  I was looking at my "before discounts" price.  I actually owe just over $43.  Fabulous!

At home I mix up a large pan of meatballs with seasoning and put them in the oven to cook.  Tonight, after feeling "mehhhh" for days, I am finally hungry, ravenously so, and I'm craving a meatball sub.  At dinner I match my son meatball for meatball then pack up the rest for spaghetti and meatballs tomorrow.  Yup, tomorrow ... after work and after I get my lazy butt to the bank.  I still need toothpaste and straws and a few more things I bumped off my list.

For now, though, the only things I need are a stretchy pajama top and my "fat-pants" bottoms.

I THINK I'LL LIVE

In the last few days I've had so much tea that I'm starting to pee Constant Comment with honey.  I share chicken noodle soup with my similarly cold-riddled son, and I stay in my pajamas all day on Sunday until I shower and get into clean pajamas -- no street clothes in between.

My daughter decides to make chowder today, so she brings me a big container of it.  While she is standing in my kitchen trying to make a quick exit, I immediately open the container, pour the chowder into a large pan, and start heating it up.  Five minutes after she has left my house, I have already inhaled one bowl full of the chowder, and five minutes later the second bowl is gone and the pan is empty.

Thank you to all who've offered me advice on recovering from this cold.  No, I don't have Nyquil nor did I go out to buy any (still in pj's, remember), and no, I'm not staying home from work.  I work in a school -- one less person with germs isn't going to impact anyone, and it's far more exhausting planning from afar and trying to play catch-up.  I have pretty much isolated myself to my room, though, so I'm at least attempting to be considerate.

In the meantime, I'm armed and ready with tissues, and I have plenty of tea and more cans of chicken noodle soup, so I think I'll live. 

GIVE UP AND GIVE IN

Today is day six of the full-on attack of my head cold, except it has decided to move and is now starting to occupy my chest, as well.  Just like every other morning this week, I need about three hours to get myself up and functioning at marginal capacity.

I have errands that need to be run, so I start with the hardware store where I buy a new canister of propane for the grill.  The weather may hold out, and, if it does, I might BBQ this weekend.  My next stop is to Staples to get two different strengths of Velcro/Scotch fasteners that I plan to use juryrigging my difficult-to-fasten snowshoes.  My last two errands are wine tasting and shopping at the grocery store.

Half of the registers at Staples are broken, so the line is long.  This makes my later plans for grocery shopping and wine tasting fall behind. I get to the wine tasting (I need prosecco for OJ ... for my cold, right?), but my daughter texts me before I can get to the store.  She needs a ride to a pub to meet some friends with whom she used to work.

Once we get to the pub, I debate having a drink.  The draft beer arrives, and it smells funny to me and tastes funky, but it is because with this cold I cannot really smell nor taste anything at all.  I could be sniffing the inside of my brain at this point, so I switch to soda. 

After two sodas, I start to lose my energy level and wander out into the dark night to my car.  I consider going to the store to do my final errand of the day, but it's so dark and a little windy and I feel so tired.  It must be close to bedtime. I crank the heat in my car, put on the seat heater, and drive home.  Is it bedtime?  It must be bedtime.  I am so very tired.

It.  Is.  Barely.  6:45.

Okay!  I give up!  I give in!  After working all week, running conferences for two nights and one afternoon, and running some errands, my body is giving up on me.  No mimosas tonight, I suppose.  I make some tea instead, get into my pajamas, and snuggle in to watch the rest of the Psych marathon, a box of tissues and a handful of cough drops securely attached to my side.

GAS METER MADNESS - TAKE 2

I get the mail today, and there are two things: my son's W-2 forms and this weird postcard from the gas company.  The gas company says they're going to shut off my gas if they can't come in and inspect the lines and the meter.  So, I call the number, and the fun begins.

I am on hold for several minutes, which doesn't seem like a long time ... unless I am having a gas emergency.  If I were having a gas emergency, this could pose a problem.  When a live person finally answers, she asks me for my address, the number of people that I usually have in my car, and whether or not I drink Dr. Pepper.  (It seems that way, anyway.) 

After asking me all this, she says, "I'm going to put you on hooooo--"

"No, nono nono, NO!" It's too late.  I am on hold for another few minutes. 

She finally comes back on the line and tells me that my gas meter needs to be inspected.  This is complete and utter bullshit. 

"I don't own the house," I tell her.

"That doesn't matter."

"The gas meter was just replaced recently," I say.

"Yes, in June.  And we have to inspect it every year." Ummmmm... June was just seven months ago.  That's not a year.  She continues, "So when can we come in?  During the day or at night?"

You can't come in; you can bite me.  "How soon are we talking here?" I ask.

"February is open."

Last time the gas company came in and changed the meter, my rates went up about 150%.  I think this is just another scam, but I cannot afford to have the heat shut off.  "Okay," I say, "but I don't get home until 4:00, and only sometimes.  Sometimes I work later."

I hear her brain ticking away through the phone lines.  "Okay, then the earliest we have is April."

"But you said February."

"Yes, April."

I am shaking my head, but she cannot hear this through the phone.  "But the new meter went in last June."

"Correct."

"And you said a year."

"Correct."

I sigh.  "And February that's really April is now really June."

There is a brief pause.  Then, "So, April 19th."

That's smack in the middle of my school break.  That would be one giant FUCK-NO.  "Let's make it the next week."

I'm so confused by the time I'm off the phone.  This is all the post office's fault.  If only tossing someone else's mail were not a federal offense, I wouldn't be in this predicament. 

SINGING LOW-DOWN

It's going to get worse before it gets better.

Today my throat feels less scratchy, but my head is full of snot and all kinds of other gross crap.  I drag my ass out of bed, try to get ready for work, change my outfit three times, then head out into the frigid, breezy air.  Snot or not, I have to work today and go to round #2 of conferences tonight. 

In fifteen hours, I can sit down.  I feel like Robert Frost with miles to go ...

I need something to jump-start my morning, so on my way to work I turn on the car stereo as loud as my aching ears can stand it.  I usually sing in the alto vocal range, but this cold has my voice more in the tenor range.  I'm croaking a bit, but it doesn't matter.  I'm on the back roads to work, so no one can see me nor hear me singing. After hitting every low note Sly Stone and his Family are singing, I top it off with some Elvis Costello. 

My cold may not be improving, but my musical repertoire certainly is.  Like this cold, my singing will probably get a heckuva lot worse before it gets any better. 

VITAMIN C AND PROSECCO REGIMEN

It's a damn losing battle, that I know, but I fought the good fight.  Finally, after staving off a cold for weeks, I wake up with the sore throat.

I need to go to work because conferences are this week and grades closed, so everything has to be perfectly synchronized.  I avoid going to the lunchroom with my colleagues lest I spread around this plague, and I spend the time that I'm teaching wavering between hot tea and menthol throat lozenges.  By the end of the day, my throat feels like sandpaper and thumbtacks.

On the ride home, I discover that breathing, talking, and singing intensify the pain.  I do, however, discover that humming with my mouth tightly closed seems to relieve the pain somewhat.  The vibrations of my vocal chords soothe the rotten irritation, and the lower octave I can hum, the better my throat feels.  This is good because whenever I have a cold, I can sing tenor, so I am humming in the Pavarotti range.

After arriving home, my nose starts leaking like a faucet.  It's almost like I cannot even feel or control it; one second I am breathing just fine, and the next I have Niagara Falls billowing out of one nostril ... then the other ... then back to the first side ... and then the other ...  I'm desperate to go to bed and get some sleep, but Drunk History's new season starts at 10 p.m., and there's no way being sick is going to make me miss it.  That's just bullshit.

Around 11 p.m. I head to bed and I sleep just fine, which, for me with a cold, is a miracle.  However, when I wake up, my eyes are on fire.  They're hot and they sting and they're leaking.  No, it's not conjunctivitis; it's just my sinuses rebelling against me.  I drag my sorry ass to work because conferences start tonight.  I isolate myself, drink lots of tea, but notice how much better my throat feels today than yesterday.

Of course, drinking liquids, especially bubbly liquids or liquids high in vitamin C, will be good for me.  I stop at the store on the way home and grab some orange juice and some ginger ale.  When I get home, I am surprised and thrilled to see one small bottle of prosecco left in the fridge.  Well, now, I know the fabulous healing qualities of OJ, and I also know that prosecco is bubbly and clear, therefore it must be good for sick people.  I mean, I guess I can consider it carbonated bouillon, right?

Needless to say I am now under the "Mimosa Medication" regimen.  I am not sure if it's helping or not or if I feel any better, but I can definitely say that I simply don't give a flying shit.  So, nasty cold and sore throat, if you intend to stick around for any length of time, I reckon we had both get used to the lovely bubbly mixture of vitamin C and vitamin P(rosecco) because that's how I intend to drive this cold away.

I'll take one for the sickly team!  Wish me luck!  I'm down to my last few straws.

SLIP-SLIDING AWAY

Waking up this morning, I expect rain.  The forecast is for rain and temperatures nearing or into the 50s.  It's trash day, so I have to make sure when I leave that I get the bag of trash to the curb with my neighbors' trash.  That extra walk to the curb in the rain means that my work clothes will get damp, my coat will get clammy, and my hair will frizz up like Bozo.

But, this is all wrong.  It's not raining and warmish out; it's sleeting and freezing out.  Of course, I don't discover this until I am halfway down the driveway with the trash.

First of all, I do not bring iced coffee with me this morning because I'm getting a cold and feeling peckish.  This makes my morning a little easier because my "carry iced coffee" hand is now free to carry the trash bag outside.  On trash day, I routinely go past my car, drop the bag, then double-back to my sedan and take off.  Easy-peasey.  This morning I figure my routine will go much easier since I am semi-hands-free.  I mosey toward the car, slip a little bit, and then...

... Then, I careen past the car and continue down the driveway.  Without.  Moving.  My.  Feet.

The iced-over brick driveway has a slight slope to it, and I am slip-sliding away like the Jestons on a space-age conveyor belt; my little feet start madly moving, but they're not making any difference.  Still, I am moving toward the street.  I manage to stop myself by twisting and turning my body and maneuvering to the small stone edge of the driveway.

I am still holding the bag of trash.

I toss the trash as close to the road as I can get it, but it's not close enough for the trash collectors.  I kick it.  The bag goes about two feet then stays still; I start slipping again until I have caught up to the trash.  I pick up the bag and grab the fence, working my way backward.  If I sail into the street instead making it to the car, I will keep sliding downhill for about a quarter mile until I hit the river.

Back, back, back I go with the help of the fence.  I grab hold of the car door handle with my free hand, which means that I have to let go of the fence.  The trash bag in my left hand weighs me down enough that I start sliding back toward the street.  I, however, refuse to let go of the trash bag and I refuse to let go of the car door.

The result of this incredibly brilliant decision is that my legs start doing a split.  Suddenly my left leg and trash-filled left hand are heading south, while my right leg heads north in an attempt to support my right arm, which is still clinging for my life to the vehicle.  It's like the damn Keystone Kops are trying to take out the trash.

I get myself into the driver's seat of the car and edge slowly and carefully forward with the door still open and the trash still in my hand.  When I am close enough to the end of the driveway, I fling the bag a few feet and yell, "Stay there, you fucker!"  Moments later, I'm on my way to work safely inside my car.  I do well until I arrive at work to discover the parking lot is a sheet of ice.  Once again I skate-slide my way to the door, a thirty-second walk on a normal day that takes about two minutes today.  But, I have both hands free since I already got rid of the garbage bag.

On my way home, the world is still ice-covered.  The promised, predicted warm-front never arrives, and the world is a slippery, icy, grayish-pink.  I stop to take some pictures, shuffling across the iced parking lot like the world's oldest photographer, but I don't care!  I make it home safe and sound to discover ...

The trash bag has been picked up!  Success!  It may not have made it to the regular trash pick-up location, but it made it to the sidewalk.  Apparently, that counts for something.

PLEASE ... JUST ... STOP

I know I wrote about this a week or two ago, maybe a little more.  Honestly, I was totally confused.  You see, my first, gut reaction to this headline had been, "WTF, are you people fucking stupid?"  Then, I read a press release from the company and realized, "Oh, I guess I'm wrong.  This product resembles a teething toy, so they meant toddlers.  But still.  Parents should be more careful and mindful."

But now ... Nope.  Now, all bets are OFF because my FIRST reaction was RIGHT the whole damn time. I am referring to: THE TIDE POD CHALLENGE.

Yes, when I first read about it, I thought, "Who are these incredibly stupid people who think laundry detergent is food?"  Remember, I was very young in the time of hippies -- young adults who are now Hillary Clinton and Bernie Sanders and Donald Trump -- people who thought bell-bottoms were cool, sex was free, and LSD made you smarter.  In other words, MORONS.  I truly thought I had seen the dumbest generation pass before me so when my generation grew up, we'd know what NOT to do ... you know, like eat fucking Tide Pods.

I felt guilty for that millisecond, though, because I thought, "Oh, no, toddlers are eating these.  Those poor kids must have hippies for grandparents, and their aged moron grandparents (hippies) must be watching them for daycare and letting them eat Tide Pods."

But, no.  Eating Tide Pods apparently is "a thing."  It's a fad like wavy eyebrows and duck lips and cement-filled ass-cheeks.  Recently, a university student was rushed to the hospital for eating Tide Pods.  A reporter claims the student was trying to off him/her/itself.  Well, of course it was ... it thinks Tide Pods are food; I'd off myself, too.

Can you even imagine the poor students who got rejected from that university?  Can you imagine them sitting there at home or at work in Wal-Mart thinking to themselves, "Goddamnit, I'm not even as bright as a goddamn Tide Pod muncher.  I couldn't even get into a decent Tide Pod eating school!  I must be a mega-moron!" Except, of course, that's probably more words than a mega-moron can actually string together without needing brain surgery.

Imagine their parents.  Well, first, the parents of the university kiddos eating Tide Pods.  How awful to be the bearer of such defective DNA.  But then imagine the parents of the rejected university students knowing that their rejected child was rejected in favor of a Tide Pod sucker.  JesusMaryandJoseph, how can you even reconcile yourself with missing such a horrifyingly low bar?

Of course, I'm being sarcastic.  Well, a little bit.  I mean, everyone does stupid shit, right?  I once thought wearing roller skates and getting pulled behind my sister on her bike was a grand idea.  Two black eyes, a broken nose, and 75% less skin surface later, I learned never to do that shit ever again.  I guess I should've stayed inside and eaten the family laundry detergent instead.

So, all in all, I apologize for my first assumption being what I thought was a mistaken assumption but having it end up being a valid assumption and discovering that all the world isn't a stage ... it's a fucking loony bin full of Tide Pod eaters.  Maybe the creators of The Walking Dead can create a new series: The Tide Pod Zombies.  They can all wear purple and orange clothing and have green faces covered in their own vomit.

Honestly.  For the love of all things sane, PLEASE STOP EATING TIDE PODS. The world already thinks we are fucking stupid Americans.  Stop proving them right every damn day.  Seriously.  Stop eating laundry detergent and go stick a fork in an electrical socket.  It'll be over faster, you'll save the ambulance fee, and you'll be buried with fabulous hair.

GOD GAVE US SNOW ... AND WINE

Someone is doing utility work on my street.  It's a company I've never seen before, but, upon some diligent research (hitting "Google search" on the Internet), I discover the company has been around since 1940 and specializes in electrical substation repair and shit like that.  There are substations down the street from my street but not on my true street.  My street has simple old electric wires that haven't suffered any fate worse than when the drunk off-duty cop who used to live next door left his car in gear and smashed it into the pole, causing sparks to fly and that horrible, loud, Dr. Frankenstein-like buzzing noise to creep out the entire neighborhood.

My street is short, so short that it's probably about the length of someone's driveway, but we've managed to stick a whole bunch of random-sized houses here and call it a real street.  Best of all, the houses are all on one side of the road because the other side drops off to yet another road and the train tracks -- instant death if your car is left in gear ... unless you're a cop and hit a utility pole, of course.  So, when the two giamundo utility trucks show up to do work, they block one entire end of the street and three driveways.

I  notice that they are inching their way up the street, and I can see the cones marking their future progress.  I suddenly realize that I have exactly thirty seconds to get out of my own driveway before I am completely blocked in for a few hours.  Well, it's wine tasting day, and I'll be damned if I am giving that up for some electric company, especially one I've never even heard of, so I quickly brush my hair and teeth (different brushes, no worries), pee as fast as I can, and rush outside.  I squeeze my sedan past the first truck and the line of cones just as they edge toward my house.

I run to the wine tasting, then hit CVS, and then I decide to go to the market and get some food.  When I come back, the trucks are full-on blocking the street.  Now, no one has access.  This will piss off my neighbors and befuddle all the people who seem to believe that my street is their personal parking lot for church.  Meanwhile, I park in the church lot, wedging it right up against the snowbank so as not to upset the deacons (or whatever the Catholic church calls them) and walk into the work zone with my multiple bags of shit, including my wine shop bag.  I don't know what the workers are thinking (probably jealous), but I trudge right through their work zone, including walking straight on via the sign that clearly screams, "DROP ZONE!"

My poor neighbor out front did not pay attention to the action on the street, which is lame since it has been going on for hours now, and attempts to get into his car and move it.  Unfortunately for him, that's not going to happen for probably ninety or so more minutes.  I dump my goodies on the table, put some stuff in the fridge, then head back out to the church lot.  It's almost 3:00 p.m.; if I don't move my car soon, the afternoon mass will block me in, especially since no one can use my street as their quick-getaway lot today.

A friend texts me, and we decide to go on an aimless adventure.  We end up with wrapping paper, nail files, wine glasses, and beer.  When I finally see my street again a few hours later, the workers are gone ... but the cones remain.  They will be back, apparently, but not in the dark.  I guess that means that whatever it is they are doing, it's not critical to my street nor connected to the nearby substations.  As long as I have electricity in my house and room for my car in the driveway, I don't really want to know what it is that they're doing.  Just keep the juice flowing so my wine and beer and food can stay nice and chilled. 

Otherwise, I'll have to go down the street to the church parking lot, grab the last of that melting snowbank, and fill up some coolers.  After all, God may not have given us electricity, but He did give us snow, and I'm pretty damn sure He gave us wine, too, so I think I'm good.

LIBERATING THE PAPERS

Friday when I leave school, it is later than I'd like and on the heels of a crappy, crap-filled meeting.  I pack everything up, making sure papers are clipped and fastened, add my planning, and bring home my grade book because grades are due by 8:00 a.m. Monday morning. At home and after dinner has been cooked, served, and cleaned up, I get everything spread out and alphabetized, all ready to go and ...

Bullfuckingshit.  I have left a key stack of papers on my desk (under a text book).  Damnation.

I get as much other work done as I can Friday night, anyway.  When I finally drag my sorry ass to bed around midnight, I need to actively practice relaxing because I am still so pissed off about forgetting the papers. This, though, is when I am beyond glad that my school is connected to the high school.  I know the high school is open for sports and for play practice on Saturday.  Maybe, just maybe, I might be able to get to my classroom and retrieve the papers.

I arrive at school around 10:00 a.m. and park out in the lot but near to to the high school gym entrance.  Girls' basketball games are going on, so I am able to access the main hallway.  My wing is not locked by doors, however, which is one of the things that terrifies us if an active shooter ever gets onto campus; we are ALL, quite literally, sitting ducks from grades six to twelve.  There are, however, some fire doors that I've seen swing shut.  If they are secured with a chain lock, I am shit outta luck.

I pass the gym and notice that the wing to my school is blocked ... with a table.  A folding, plastic table.  I don't bother moving it; instead, I sit on it, twirl myself around, and flip over it.   As I do this, the theme song from Mission Impossible is playing in my head.  A parent watching the game is pacing the hallway and stares at me.  "Forgot something important," is all I say.

Once past the table sentry, I peer down the darkened hallway.  Down. All the way down. The doors ... are ... open.  This is when the music in my head changes to the theme song from Get Smart.  I hustle down the hallway, half-expecting the fire doors to close as soon as I get to them. They don't, and I am finally about one hundred yards from my room.

When I get to the end of the long, LONG hallway where my door is, it is pitch black.  I have the key to my room in one hand, and I feel the key to make sure I have the flat edge to the top.  I feel around with my left hand until I've located the locking mechanism on my door.  It takes me about twenty seconds to get the key into the lock while completely blind, but suddenly the key and lock turn, and my door swings open.

THANK GOODNESS.

I move a few things around on my desk, grab the stack of papers, grab a second stack just because (these are for the next term, but whatever), lock the door again, and make my way back to the high school gym door.  Once more I flip over the table rather than move it.  Once outside, I weave through the cars in the lot to my own, parked in the back and facing out for a quick getaway.

As I'm trying to leave, some idiot is determined to fit his SUV into a space across from me, even though he clearly doesn't fit.  Forward, back, forward, back .... he's not going to make it.  Finally, he tries backing in near me.  I lose my patience and move forward, driving around him and causing him to most probably shit his pants.

I don't care.  I'm free!!!!  I have what I need!  It's like the Brinks Robbery only better.  I don't have any songs running through my head at the moment, so I turn on Sirius radio and find some soothing spa music.  What I need now is some relaxation music for what comes next in this misadventure: Liberating the missing papers isn't the worst of it -- now I have to grade them. 

CHASING DOWN THE CREAM EGGS

Yesterday's blog was about Christmas and how it's all put away.  Well, don't worry.  I'm not going to mention that Valentine's Day is right around the corner.  Nope.  I'm keeping my holidays completely in check. That is why I feel it my duty to destroy and make disappear that Easter-themed Cadbury Cream Egg that I see at the grocery store.

Yup.  If it's too early for Easter, then I will certainly do my part to obliterate the public sector's pressure to "git 'er done."  Seriously.  We have all kinds of Valentine's Day stuff out right now: candy and cards and trinkets.  What about Valentine's Day?  Might it be okay if we just handle one holiday at a time?

So, when I see the Cadbury Cream Egg Easter candies already in the store bin and ready to sell, I grab one, quickly take it hostage, then dispose of it sometime later (when no one is watching). 

I know, I know.  I cannot conquer them all.  There are dozens of Cadbury Cream Eggs in the bin here at the store.  But, I will persevere; I will do my part.  No Cadbury Cream Egg is going to rush my holiday!  I will change the world one Cadbury Cream Egg at a time.

Folks, if you see a container loaded with Cadbury Cream Eggs just randomly passing the time in any store, do NOT fall for the whining.  Text me, call me, FIND ME.  I will conquer the Cadbury Cream Egg problem one sugary fake-yolk at a time.  I took one for the team today; I'd do it again... and again ... and for half-price the day after Easter.

No need to thank me; I'll chase down those eggs like it's my job.

IT HAS "BIN" REAL

It's down and it's organized.  Christmas if officially over in my house, and thank goodness for it.  It certainly is time.

I start the whole process by getting everything related to Christmas into one room.  Then, and this here is the huge step, I make a commitment to get rid of cardboard boxes.  Yup, the boxes of ornaments and the box for the Santa band and the boxes for the two artificial tress are broken down and sawed into recyclable pieces before I can change my mind.  I even tape the scraps together and put them directly out with the trash/recycling pick up at the curb.

Next, I bring up any and every plastic bin I own that is not currently being used.  I have about a dozen because I used to store sports equipment and various other crap in the bins until I started cleaning out the basement almost a year ago.  Now I have a whole bunch of bins at the ready.  I disassemble the two trees and pack them into the large green bin ... green like trees ... so I will recognize what is in there next fall when Christmas will be coming back out again.

After that, I grab an equally large purple bin and put all of the ornaments and most of the decorations into it.  I figure purple is one of the colors of Advent, so I'm on a good roll here with the coordination of everything.  Well, that line of bullshit plus the fact that purple is the only other color for large storage bins that I have.  Yes, I considered putting all of Christmas into the two purple bins, but then I'd have to wonder which of the two held the trees.  Now I know ... the green one does.

Lastly, I have a choice.  Put the fabric decorations (like the tree skirts and the stockings) into the last huge bin along with the packaged glassware and risk dropping it and breaking things, or pack those things more securely into smaller, better bins.  I go for the smaller bins and discover that I only need one. All of my decorations (ornaments, toys, wreaths, stockings, etc.) now fit in a bin and a half, plus one bin for the trees.

Okay, so I still have one cardboard box of the glassware.  It seemed safer packed in the box with lots of wrapping inside and around everything.  Still, going from all of that mayhem to a few organized bins and one box is huge; it's epic; it's invigorating.

Eventually I am certain the glassware will make it into a bin as well, but for now the holidays are repacked, organized, and ready for anything -- storage, next Christmas, a possible move.  No matter.  The bins are ready to go.

BAGEL AND MIMOSA

The weekend's getting close-ah
I'm dreaming of mimosa
Maybe I'll finagle
An Asiago bagel
Don't have to be wealthy
Consider, though, how healthy
The critics will have no say
'Cause I am drinking OJ
The vitamins are in here
(See? I'm being sincere!)
I can make it doubly
With any kind of bubbly
I guess to rhyme prosecco
There'd have to be a gekko
Cava or some champagne
Maybe I can campaign
To mix a little brut in
(That would be darn tootin')
But I'm hesitating:
One more day is waiting
I will hope and seek and
Think about the weekend
And my cold mimosa
Sitting on a coast-ah

MISMATCHED SOCKS AND REAL WORLD PROBLEMS

This past summer I spent significant time organizing and pruning my belongings.  I don't have many clothes to start with, although it looks like I own a clothes store because I have next-to-zero closet space.

I have shirts organized in two old dressers (that I've had since I was nine, so these are not truly "big girl" clothing storage spaces), pants hanging on one metal rod, and dresses hanging on another metal rod.  My tiny closet holds some long-sleeved shirts and my coats and a couple of fancy-schmancy long dresses.

But ... I am organized.  Yup, everything in the drawers is color-coded, and my shoes are color coded, and even my pants are color-coded.  This is not because I have any special compulsion; it's because in many lighting conditions, I am partially color-blind.  I mix up brown and purple often (which I read at some point in my life to be the most common of all color mix-ups, but that could be a total lie), navy and black, and sometimes even black and dark green.

So, when it came time to organize my socks last summer, I spent a lot of time and effort under bright lights and in the sunshine that flooded the room during the day making sure that black socks went with other black socks, and that navy socks went with other navy socks.  Once accomplished, I put all of the black socks to the left of the drawer, all of the navy socks to the right of the drawer, and I separated both with a bunch of brown or other color socks.  This system has cut down on the sock fraternization.

Getting dressed in the dim dawn light is often a matter of snatching a pair of pants from one color section, a shirt from a coordinating matching section, and a sweater from my color-coded stacks.  I choose earrings (yes, the silver earrings are on one side, gold on the other, and both are separated by multicolored earrings), find some shoes, and then...

Then ... socks.  This should be the easiest part because, unlike my pants and my dresses and my shirts, I only have two major colors to choose from that might get messed up.  Remember: black to the left; navy to the right.

I grab some black socks that I have not worn yet this season.  The last time I wore them was sometime last spring before the purging.  I'm already running a bit late in order to avoid traffic and school buses that stop every fifty yards.  I pull on the socks with identical thickness, look down and notice that the damn things don't match.

Oh, the color is fine.  It's magnificent!  I'm wearing black pants (I hope), and these are lovely, fabulous, deeply black socks.  However, one clearly has a vertical stripe pattern and one clearly has a diamond pattern.

Sonofabuttmunch.

I examine both legs and the socks on my legs.  Hmmmmm.  Unless I look really closely, I can't really tell the difference.  Well, I mean, I am half-blind in the morning, and I'm not wearing my glasses.  I quickly rummage through the drawer, but I know there isn't another sock mate to either pair.  I was meticulous in matching socks last summer.  Perhaps ... perhaps ... perhaps neither had a mate, and I put them together hoping no one would notice them under pants.  Yes, that does sound like me.

Whatever.  It's time to leave, I'm wearing socks, and, as far as I can tell, they may not match each other, but they match my pants and shoes.  That fact is good enough for me.  If anyone notices that I have on two different socks (doubtful), I'll play dumb, laugh it off, and blame it on bad morning lighting.  

P.S.  The socks are in the dryer as I type this.  Should I put them back together as a pair, or should I toss them into a bag and relegate them to the sock gods?  I know, I know.  Real world problems.

JANUARY IS A CLUSTER****

Damn you, January.

To be honest, it's not really January's fault, and, after decades, I should be expecting this by now.  But, really.  Can't an old girl hope?

Shortly after 3:00 a.m. I am awakened by what I hope is a migraine.  I say, "I hope," because the three alternatives are much worse.  The first alternative is an aneurysm.  The second alternative is a stroke.  Unfortunately, I do know exactly what it is because I suffer them starting in mid-January every year.  Every.  Damn.  Year.  Ever since I was a little kid and for so long that I cannot even remember when they started ... every damn year.  The third alternative: Cluster Headaches.

When I first wake up, I fear that maybe I have the flu.  I feel a little hinky and am slightly agitated.  When my mind fully focuses, I am suddenly and keenly aware of a hot spike being jammed through my right eyeball.  Unfortunately, my only bathroom is downstairs and far away from my bedroom, so I stumble down the stairs, holding onto the railing but still suffering from enough vertigo to make me walk slightly sideways.

As soon as I'm in the bathroom, I flick on the light.  MISTAKE!!!!  MISTAKE!!!!!!!!! Ow, ow, ow.  The lights cause more pain, and now even my ear is complaining.  I glance in the mirror to make sure my face works.  I've had Bell's Palsy, so I know what a non-working face looks like.  Everything seems okay.  My right eye isn't droopy; a little red, perhaps, but definitely functioning, as much as I can tell without my glasses.

The conundrum: Do I take medication and risk puking it right back up, or do I attempt to go back to bed and sleep on my left side hoping for a miracle?  My eyeball begs for the medication; my stomach warns me against it.

I shut off the bathroom light and trudge back to bed.

I honestly don't believe that I will fall asleep again, but I do.  On top of having severe pain, I am exhausted, and the exhaustion mercifully trumps the eye pain.  I sleep about four hours, get up, feel sick still but can almost function.  I add a few pillows to the bed, prop myself up, and attempt to doze off again in a sitting position.  Thank the Headache Gods, I sleep another ninety minutes.

When I drag myself out of bed to start my day, I feel like I've been through three intense rounds at a Golden Gloves tournament.  My body aches from toenail to hair follicles.  My eye pain has dissipated to a normal headache dull throb, and my ear feels like it has an infection, which I know it doesn't because I never feel any pain when I do have an ear infection.  I know that this is the way the cluster headache attempts to exit my skull like some kind of nerve-worm.

I have things to do today and errands to run.  Thankfully, it is a no-school day or else I'd be on the absentee roster.  I'm trying to rally, but anyone who suffers cluster headaches understands that this may not be a bright idea; the cold January air might make my head clearer or might bring that clusterfucker right back with brand new strength.  It's another conundrum.

I have migraines and I have cluster headaches.  Depending on where I am and what I'm doing, neither kind is better nor worse than the other.  The only advantage, and I do mean ONLY, is that a migraine usually goes away and is a one-time event ... until the next one.  Cluster headaches are exactly that: They happen in clusters.  I'll get another one and another one and another one, sometimes several in a day or a week or a month.  For some odd reason, perhaps barometrically, they seem most prevalent in January.

So, damn you, January, you clusterfuck.  One of these years, I might escape your clutches, but, judging on my amazing consistently, I'll probably be dead by then.

WHIRLYGIG IN MY SNEAKER

Even though the winter's here,
Other seasons come to mind:
Summer, Spring, and even fall,
None of which is far behind.
First it snows then melts and then
It snows until it's bleaker,
But I see signs of other times -
Whirlygig in my sneaker!
Now it's time to shovel snow
But soon the days will see
I'll shovel all those whirlygigs
That fall from the maple tree.

(Damn things.)

ALL SUMMER AND WINTER IN A DAY

Ray Bradbury wrote a short story about a planet that's rainy and miserable except for one day every seven or so years when it's bright and sunny and lovely.  It's called "All Summer In a Day."  People think it's science fiction.  Well, people who don't live in New England might.

This morning when I wake up, the horrid, torrential rain has stopped, and the temperature on this typically chilly January day is 63.  63 degrees!  That's a full 80 degrees warmer than it was at this time last week (including wind chill).  Plus, the sun is starting to come out.  Sun plus 63 degrees could equal a fabulous day.

But wait.  It ain't over 'til it's over.

By 10:00 a.m., the temperature starts falling more rapidly than it did that last night on the Titanic (and faster than the Titanic sank, as well).  By noon, the temperature has plummeted more than thirty degrees.  By 4:00 p.m., we are back in biting wind chills.  80 degrees up one hour; 40 degrees back down another hour.


Ray Bradbury lived most of his life in California.  What the hell did he know about New England?  Oh, wait.  He was referring to Venus or perhaps Mars when writing about the extreme weather conditions in "All Summer In a Day."  That explains a lot, I suppose.  We extreme Northeasterners have been called a lot worse than aliens.

Folks, this is why New Englanders move to other parts of the country then fail to get sick -- we can experience temperature extremes.  We can experience bathing suit sunburn and ski mask frostbite in the same day.

We can experience all summer and all winter all in one damn day.

BRINGING WORK HOME, OR WHY MY BICEPS LOOK FABULOUS

Lately it seems that I bring work home with me, look at it, try to accomplish something with it, put it back into a pile, then take it right back to work with me.  I am not entirely certain why I even keep up the illusion of doing work at home.  It's not going to happen.

There's a commercial on television, or there used to be, where the weightlifter in the local gym explains his workout routine: "I pick things up, and I put them down."  This is my work-at-home routine.

Plus, my backpack weighs a lot.  Including my lunch, the darn pack probably weighs in around forty-plus pounds.  I'm surprised the strap hasn't fallen off yet.  It is mind-boggling how much crap I can stuff into it and still it will zipper closed and function like a backpack, though it resembles a body bag with its contents.

Still, no matter how much work and how many good intentions I cram into my work backpack, it still functions mainly as my limited form of exercise.  I may not get much work done, but I do get a work-out done.  Bring on the weekend; I'm ready.  I have all kinds of things to accomplish for work next week, and not a lick of 'em will get done. 

However, my biceps will look fabulous, and sometimes that fact alone is accomplishment enough.

WHEN IT ALL HAS TO COME DOWN

I've been trying to figure out why I am hesitant to put away the Christmas gear.

Usually by now everything has been packed up and put away, out of sight and out of mind.  I started converting things a while ago so that the decorations would not be in plastic bags stuffed into marked boxes, but rather in sealed plastic crates and placed on shelving units.  Of course, some of it, including the artificial tree, remains in boxes.

I have also been struggling with an apartment search.  My townhouse is fine ... for now.  I pay a decent rate for a decent living space that functions more like a single-family house as long as the townhouse attached to me stays empty.  Unfortunately, there is zippo insulation between the walls next door and mine, so when someone does live next door, it's actually more like they're living in my house with me.  This is true of all apartments, except that here I do all of the maintenance and pay all of the utilities.  I'm getting too old for that shit.

These two topics have been colliding for exactly a year now, which is when I first started repacking the holiday stuff into tote-able containers and when I started hauling other stuff out of the basement.  I have convinced myself that two things needs to happen before I can seriously plan to downsize: My youngest needs to fly out of the nest, and my basement needs to be cleared out of everything except the washer and dryer (and the kayaks, which fit perfectly in the small nook under the stairs).

AHA!  It's not at all that I am hesitant to pack up Christmas; it's that I am hesitant to pack up Christmas and put it back into the basement.  The basement is ground zero in this dilemma.

The other part of this whole conundrum is that the rooms here are tiny (fit a bed and a dresser and maybe fit a few shirts into the minuscule closets if wire hangers are turned sideways).  I have another tiny bedroom off of my tiny bedroom, and I use the back tiny bedroom as my closet.  I've done a fabulous job of clearing out that area, as well, so it's less than half-full.

What it ... What if I make a deal with myself that I can ONLY keep what fits into the back tiny room in an organized, non-fire-hazard manner and completely clear out the basement as originally planned!?  If I do this, it means that I will visually be able to see how I can function in a smaller space as I will not have crap all over my townhouse.  It also means that I will have to pack Christmas into an even tighter, smaller space.

This is another "AHA" moment as I have some empty plastic containers from last winter's clear-out of two-thirds of the cellar.  I hauled out thirteen trash bags of stuff one week alone and more after that.  I could ... I could ... Dare I think it?  Dare I say it?  I could DOWNSIZE WITH CONFIDENCE.

Of course, when I'm ready.  I'm not quite ready.  Kid #3 is still here (which is fine -- he's still young), the basement still has 33% of thirty-plus years of accumulated crap in it, and, last but not least, Christmas is still up at my house.

I'll get to it, I'll get to it.  For now, I will procrastinate in real time but plan my attack in cyber time.  Eventually, like the cosmos, these two concepts will collide.  There may not be a Big Bang as a result, but at least my basement will be clear and Christmas will be down.

PERFECTLY FINE DAY FOR SNOWSHOEING

I complain about the winter sometimes.  It makes my already dry skin itch and crack and hurt and bleed.  The winter is, to be frank, painful.  But, as great minds have been quoted saying, "Beauty is painful."  Despite the physical discomfort associated with winter here in New England, it is beautiful beyond words sometimes.

Today is one of those days.

After more than a week in the deep-freeze (could be two weeks, could be two years at this point; my brain is frozen solid), temperatures break and we are back in a more seasonable pattern with daytime temps in the mid-to-high thirties.  When a co-worker stops in to ask me if I want to go snowshoeing after work in a day or two, I immediately respond affirmatively.

I am slightly concerned as this co-worker and I have snowshoed once before as a storm rolled in and covered us with fat, heavy snowflakes.  I used to be a semi-athletic person, but she is a super-athletic person, and I huffed and puffed and sweated that first trip out trying to keep up with her.  This thought, though, does not stop me from agreeing to this mid-week trek. 

I am no quitter.  Plus, I hate admitting defeat.

The sun is setting slowly by the time we strap on our snowshoes to hit the trail.  We have about an hour of daylight left, and I worry again about being able to keep up with my younger counterpart.  If I blow out a hip or a knee or suffer a myocardial infarction or just plain die of old age out in the woods, she could be a few football-field lengths ahead of me and might not notice I'm missing until tomorrow at work when I don't show up.

To her credit, she sets a good pace; to my credit, I keep up and barely break a sweat.  We are out in the woods for over an hour, closer to an hour and a half, and we've passed stone walls, old foundations, a couple of bogs, and the backside of a power plant.  We've forged a couple of streams and balanced across slim wooden access paths that show clear signs of people who didn't know the trail and stepped deep into the groundwater, probably up to their thighs by the looks of the tracks.

It's Jack London's To Build a Fire, and I'm wondering if those errant greenhorn snowshoers before us felt the same frigid tinge of regret as did London's narrator.

We circumnavigate the trails, only re-crossing our steps near the end on our way back to the main road.  The sunset through the trees, along the bogs, and shimmering across the tree-laden snow is stunning. 

My friend apologizes about the impending dim conditions and the rapid loss of sunlight, but I assure her that this is not my first winter rodeo into the woods.  I grew up  surrounded by acres of woods, and my sister and I would downhill ski ... through the trees ... at night.  (We didn't know such a thing as cross-country skis existed, so we improvised.)  I know that as long as there is snow on the ground, even in darkness I can navigate through the woods from the color contrast of ground versus solid object.

Turns out I needn't have been concerned about keeping up at all.  I'm quite sure my coworker has restrained herself for my benefit.  She probably doesn't want to have to haul my dead carcass out of the woods any more than I would want her to have to.  The snow is suffering a bit from the sudden temperature changes of sub-zero to unseasonably warm (it will be over 60 degrees on Friday), so a fresh coating of powder would be ideal, but, in an imperfect world, today is a perfectly fine day for snowshoeing.

BAD DAY HAPPENINGS - 20 THOUGHTS:

1.  Put on a shirt with long sleeves; my arms are too long for "long" sleeves, apparently.

2.  Hole/run in top of nylons; use nail polish to stem the stitching and almost stick pantyhose to my thigh.  Almost.

3.  Slit in back of dress has let loose a bit; too high a slit for school.  Have to change my outfit and I'm already late leaving the house.

4.  Madly changing, pulling random pants off the hanger in the dark.  Hope they're blue because that's the color of my shirt and my shoes.

5.  Nothing for lunch; throw 1/3 piece of leftover pizza and two slices of turkey into a bag.  I'll lunch like I've reached into a dumpster today -- whatever I pull out of the plastic bag is what I will eat.

6.  Almost forget to make my iced coffee.  Almost.

7.  Shut off the outside light when leaving for work even though it is still dark; I don't waste electricity all day while I'm at work.

8.  Trash day -- Three bags to haul out to curb because recycling/trash never happened during the blizzard last week.  I cannot carry them all along with my iced coffee, so I leave two bags in the walkway.

9.  Drop my backpack and place my coffee down next to my car.  Haul trash bag #1 to curb.

10.  Run back to get other two bags of trash but forget that I put them in the walkway.  It's dark because I shut off the light, and I trip over the two bags, almost landing face-first into the snow.  Almost.

11.  Thank goodness I don't pitch myself into the snowbank because I'm not sure I have time to change yet again.  Almost kick my coffee over in the dark when getting into my car.  Almost.

12.  Traffic is moving at a snail's pace.  Turn to take a shortcut and promptly get stuck behind someone who believes that 50 mph speed limit means 20 mph.  NOT a shortcut. Get to work, put the iced coffee on top of my car to grab backpack out.  Almost forget iced coffee on top of car in the parking lot.  Almost.

13.  Get to work in time to get my second new student in as many days.  Try to assign a locker, but the locker won't open.  Find another locker.

14.  Schedule is short today due to a school function.  Still trying to make up two snow days' worth of work plus Monday and Tuesday's work in a period-and-a-half.  Students are rushing, rushing, rushing so no one is learning, learning, learning.

15.  Get handed paperwork that should have been given to me two weeks ago.  Paperwork is due to admin by tomorrow.

16.  Book I am supposed to start reading for a Thursday class has gone MIA through no fault of my own.

17.  Need to pee before leaving work.  Students are in my wing after school and are having a potty party.  Must walk blocks to get to faculty bathroom.

18.  Try to get to the store and the packie (next to grocery store) after work; stuck behind another person who believes the speed limit is 30 mph less than what is posted ... wondering if it is the same person from this morning possibly going slowly north then south then north ... just to drive us all insane.

19.  Long lines at store.  WHY?  Why, why, why?????  Woman in parking lot backing van out takes three minutes.  WHY?  Why, why, why????  I finally pass her with my cart and make her wait for me.  Temperature has dropped, and I am anxious to get into the car and turn on the heat.

20.  Get home, get groceries put away, get dinner made (steak and salad), sit down to eat.  All I want is an ice cold ... Guess what I forgot to do after waiting in line and dodging moving vans and freezing while putting groceries in the trunk?

No beer for me after a day of bad happenings.  Almost a disastrous day.  Almost. 

COASTAL PHOTOS POST-STORM

The recent storm causes considerable coastal damage.  Towns and cities along the Atlantic Ocean find waves crashing inside their establishments rather than hundreds of yards away, and many access roads are blocked.  Even a portion of Boston's Seaport district floods with kayak-able, briny-caked streets.

All of this means that two days later an investigative drive along the coast of Kennebunk, Maine, is done with a twinge of caution.  If the streets are icy, I won't be getting very far.  A little bit of pre-drive, online investigation reveals that the damage to the area doesn't seem to rival at all the whacking the Massachusetts shoreline has endured, but the damage is still substantial.  So, I charge up my cell phone, bring extra batteries for the 35mm camera, and head north.

I have a quick detour about one-third of the way to Maine when my car is shaking a bit on the highway.  I pull off to a parking lot, kick snow and gunk from the wheel wells which seems to help a bit, and continue on my way.  By the time I cross the Piscataqua River bridge, whatever has been wedged in the wheel seems to have melted or fallen away, and I am able to sail along at a better clip. 

When I arrive close to my destination, I have almost a half hour of exploration time, so I turn right onto Sea Road and make my way east.

Other than a lot of snow and some icy tire tracks along the too-skinny back roads, there seems to be relatively marginal coastal damage.  Some of the parking areas along the winding streets have been plowed, giving me (and other hardy souls) places to pull over in the sub-zero, windy, outrageously chilled winter air.  What the beach-walkers get is a short, ice-riddled stroll along quiet, brittle beaches; what the camera-toters get are spectacular hues, unusual ice formations, and a stunning glow of the frigid sunlight dancing over an eerily calm sea.

It's almost as if the ocean has exhausted itself and is trying to sleep off the remnants of the storm so recently departed. 

I don't drive all the way into the tourist village area of Kennebunkport.  I have seen the television footage and the high water levels it suffered, and I'm not entirely certain that I want to be sad, which is what will happen when I see it.  As it is, my main reaction to the ice-crusted world is two fold: it seems like Mars; and I only have the capacity to stand wide-eyed while mouthing the expression "Jesuschrist" over and over again.

Well, taking Christ's name in vain may not adequately label what I've seen, but the spectacular views and the seemingly small amount of damage here do seem to be the result of divine intervention.  The ice remains solid, but the winter sun tries its best to melt the coating away from the crags along the shoreline. 

By Friday, when the temperature hovers near 50 degrees, this may all be a memory.  Until then, though, I will enjoy the glistening splendor of a coast that is predominantly shackled in ice.  Salud!

HOLD MY BEER AND WATCH THIS

It's something crazy like -250 degrees outside.  Okay, more like -10 and, as the sun rises, it should warm up to about -3 by the time I have to meander out to my car. 

I officially live in the Simulated Arctic Circle.

My idiot neighbor next door never shoveled his walkway post-storm last Thursday.  Once the deep freeze set in (yet again), he has been attempting for days to chip away at the feet-deep drifts that block him from getting from his front door to his car without needing mukluks.  He is out there now, early in the morning, scraping, scraping, scraping, scraping at the snow.  It sounds like a frozen sawmill coming through the windows. 

Good luck, little dude; good luck.

However, this is New England.  Sometimes we have mild winters, sometimes we have extreme winters, and sometimes we fall in between.  Right now we are in the midst of a particularly harsh spell.  Oh well, kids.  This is one of the reasons we live here (not just me, but all of us crazy people): winter is beautiful.

Plus, we get to puff out our chests and say such sage things as: Florida is cold?  It's snowing in Florida? Shiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit.  Hold my beer and watch this...

I AM LEAVING THE LIGHTS ON ... LITERALLY

It's Epiphany weekend.  In holiday terms, this means that Christmas is officially over.  The infamous Twelve Days of Christmas have now passed, and there's really no reason why my house should still be decorated other than the simple fact that I enjoy the lights very much.

I won't lie; sitting in the chilly front room (poorly insulated old house) in front of the electric fireplace and snuggled under thick blankets while watching television or reading is made infinitely more enjoyable with the tree still aglow.  I have started collecting some of the decorations I've spread all over the downstairs, and I've placed them under the tree, so things are migrating in the post-holiday direction.

I cannot help myself, though.  I really, really, really like the festive atmosphere of the season.  It helps to survive these sub-zero, dark, snow-laden stretches.

Something else helps to get through -- sun.  Thank goodness the sun has been out post-storm.  It doesn't temper the wind chill, but at least there is an illusion of warmth through the windshield of the icy car or through the frosted windows of the house.  The sun also reminds me to be thankful and present while the season is still here when I walk past the ready-to-be-taken-down decor.

I have a second, small tree in the den (a glorified hallway between the kitchen and the tiny living room), and I set up a Santa band and an electric talking Santa to make it more holiday-like.  As I'm meandering through, debating taking down the Christmas set-up and getting my house back to its typical boring look, I notice a bright shaft of sunlight piercing the room.  It lands directly on the electric Santa.

I cannot explain why, but the sunlight on the toy warms my heart and prevents me from moving anything anywhere.  Nope.  That sunny Santa is going to stay right where he is for another few days, maybe even another week or two.  Truly I am not being lazy.  With two snow days from work, I've certainly had the time and means to take it all down and put it all away.  I simply do not want it all to end just yet.

If you're suffering from post-holiday withdrawal and you need a little holiday magic to break up the tundra-like existence cursing us all in the Northeast right now, grab yourself a blanket and head on over.  I'll leave the lights on ... literally.