SCAM ALERT

SCAM ALERT TO ANYONE WHO SHOPS AT CVS STORES!

CVS (the one in my town, anyway) is randomly charging people for products they do not buy.  The price appears at the end of your receipt, and the management (when called on the carpet) will tell you that it's a "computer glitch" that charges you automatically.  Granted, they will give you a refund ... IF you catch it and can prove that you did not buy the Rave 3-4-2, which is, apparently, hair spray.

Imagine, though.  What a gig.  $2.49 per customer, plus the product never moves.  That's money in the bank for CVS.  That's pure profit, $5 for every two people in their store.

The mere fact that the supervisor admitted the store KNEW that its registers were doing this makes my blood boil.  There are plenty of computer geeks working there (or related to people working there) who could go in and block the item from the register inventory.  It's plain bullshit.  I almost missed it myself, but I arrived home convinced that I had been overcharged by about $3.  (I was.)

Check the cashiers, check your receipt, and don't leave the store if there's a mistake.

Sure, sure, I only got ripped off about $1.90 after discounts but including sales tax.  And, speaking of sales tax, isn't CVS now paying state sales tax on inventory that doesn't exist?  That was NEVER sold? Isn't this some kind of fraudulent activity?

 Honestly.  I was just trying to do something nice for my invalid sister, and you schmoes have to rip me off.  Amazing.  Tactless, devious, underhanded, and probably illegal ... but amazing, just the same.  I suppose that I should be relieved that it's hair spray and not something notable, like hemorrhoid cream or adult diapers or laxatives, although those are all VERY important items; just not the items you want to be calling the managerial staff about being overcharged.

Regardless, it IS a SCAM ALERT.  Pay attention, CVS shoppers; this could happen to you, too.

SUCKER

I'm having a relatively good morning.  I sleep well, my hair is washed and dried at a decent hour, lunch is packed and ready to go, and I only leave the house a few minutes later than I'd hoped.  Traffic on the main road is backed up a bit, so I turn down the side street by the prep school.  With so much traffic on the direct route, the indirect route will take as much time, maybe even less, today.

As soon as I round the corner, I notice the brilliant gold of the morning sky.  The sunrise is exceptionally brilliant today, and I would've missed this sight going to work the other way.  I am so impressed by the colors that my mood shifts from so-so to full-on happiness.

(not my pic)

Yup.  Even though I'm moseying along on my slow but merry way, I'm feeling positive that it's going to be a decent day after all. Until I get to work, that is.

I pull into the back lot, park my car in its usual spot, and listen to the end of a song.  Throwing the car door open, I am not greeted by the fresh air nor the yellow-blue sky nor any of the cheery coworkers I often meet who arrive around the same time.

Nope.  This morning I am greeted by a very loud and obnoxious crow that is perched high on a nearby lamp post.  It caws at me with a voice that clearly screeches, "Awwwwwwwwwwwwwww."  It's a sad sound, a mocking sound.  That sonofabitch bird is making fun of me because I have to go inside to work and it doesn't.

I caw back at it.  What do I care?  No one else is around.

The crow responds quickly.  "Ca-ca-ca-AWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW," which clearly translates into, "Suuuuuuuucker.  Have a stupid day at work, you suuuuuuuckawwwwwwwww!"

Bastard.  I caw once more, chuck the bird The Bird, and let myself into the building for a long day of teaching, meetings, and fielding emails, phone calls, and other minutiae.  Clearly the bird is correct.  It's a decent day outside and the temperature is finally (albeit temporarily) hovering around sixty degrees.

What am I doing?  I'm going to work. Oh, man.  Suuuuuuuuuuuuucker.

RECORDER REORDER

Cleaning out my life means coming across some strange and funny items.  Recently I stumble across a box of musical novelties: recorders, metal spoons, wooden castanets...  My daughter is visiting for the morning, and she discovers the box of treasures.

She has not played the recorder in decades, yet she picks up her old recorders (a standard one and an alto one) and plays each (one at a time, of course) perfectly.  I, on the other hand, have never been able to play the damn recorder.  Every time I try, the instrument makes a high-pitched squeak. 

She laughs at me, attempts to teach me how to play, videos me massacring a melody, and giggles so hard that she gets me laughing.  She continues to play perfectly and from memory.  I, on the other hand, turn to the keyboard, an instrument that I can at least partially play, and start accompanying her with such easy tunes as "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star" and "Happy Birthday."

We get bolder and activate the pre-set songs already loaded on the keyboard.  Yes, this is muuuuuuuch better.  I pretend to play along, and sometimes I even really do play along ... a little bit.  I'm not squeaking any longer, and I wouldn't even be embarrassed if she videotaped me.

We jam together for about twenty minutes or so, stopping to laugh our butts off at how silly this all is.  Honestly, who'd have thought some plastic recorders and an old electric keyboard could bring back so many memories and cause us to nearly pee our pants.

Funny how cleaning out my life isn't stripping it down at all; it's enriching it.  I almost don't want to part with the recorders now that they have new-found significance and humor, which makes these old-time treasures new-time solid gold.

SUPER TROOPER GIRL

I go to bed relatively early, determined to get at least seven hours of sleep.  This is actually a fallacy since I never sleep through the night anymore.  I am up once, twice ... sometimes six times a night.  But, tonight I sleep reasonably well, even if I am awake early, about fifteen minutes before the alarm.

I am just about to get up when -- boom -- I fall back asleep.

Suddenly I am watching a large group of people wearing outfits that can best be described as 1950's state fair fancy chic.  The women wear colorful dresses with petticoats and ruffles while milling around a bandstand in a park that reminds me of something from Gilmore Girls (which, by the way, has not stood the test of time and actually sucks far worse than I ever remember when I first watched it).

All of a sudden, Zach Galifianakis struts across the "screen" of the dream along with a group of smartly dressed gents, and everyone snaps fingers and begins dancing in perfectly choreographed unison.  It's like watching a cross between Grease and West Side Story.  Someone, I don't know who, starts yelling, "Hey, they're all singing Super Trooper Girl by Brittney Spears!"  And the music continues...

I wake up when my alarm goes off minutes later, classical music on the clock radio today (sometimes the local Spanish station).  Flummoxed is a mild word for my state of mind.  First of all, I am not remotely a fan of Zach Galifianakis, and I never have nor will I ever listen to Brittney Spears music.  I fire up the computer and Google search Super Trooper Girl to see if such a song even exists; to my knowledge, it does not in any way, shape, or form, although, as I recall, the tune is rather catchy.

I have to wonder what the hell I ate last night.  Either that or I have to sleep less than seven hours so I can avoid having ear-worms of songs that don't even exist.  Still though, I suppose a bad Galifianakis-Spears musical number is better than a full-blown nightmare.

Ummmmm, it is ... right?

FOOTING ... JUST THE SAME

Sunday morning my neighborhood is hit by a sneak attack.

No, it's not thieves nor animals nor river rats from down the street nor drunken neighbors nor a train derailment.  It's not even the church-goers who park willy-nilly all over my street and block people's driveways.  It's not a plague nor locusts nor Hitchcock's birds.

Nope.  Those would be mild in comparison.

Sunday morning I wake up, open the shades, look out to the driveway and see ... I see ... damnation, it hurts to say it ... I ... see ....

SNOW.  That's right; snow, all over the cars, the street, the driveway, the walkway, the front steps, the porch...

Yeah, yeah, I know; I'm the one who says winter can still smack us around until late April, but truly, I am not expecting this.  My brain has already shifted to summer mode, so any mention of snow at this point just refuses to register.  I suppose the weather people may have mentioned snow showers for today, but after our most recent "Blizzard Not a Blizzard" rain storm, I kind of just stopped paying attention.

Anyway, it's not a total disaster.  It's a mere dusting, and, despite the icy temperatures, the sun has already started its intense seasonal shift.  By the time I have to move my car, there's nothing left.  Sneak attack ... followed by sneak disappearance. 

I suppose this can be my Passover-Easter anecdote: Flakes finally told to get out of the area, the skies part, and they make their mass exodus.  The flakes rise instead of fall, and people roll the rocks away from their front doors and look to the sun.

Too sacrilegious? Oh well.  I've never been known for my tact, and I'm not overly fond of the icy reception this morning.  I guess that puts me and the "people upstairs" on equal but unlikely footing ... icy footing ... but footing, just the same.

BITE MY ASS, WOMAN'S DAY

WARNING!  WARNING!  FOUL LANGUAGE TO FOLLOW!  COVER YOUR EYES AND EARS AND RUN FOR YOUR LIVES!

Woman's Day magazine and I have been battling for almost a year now.  They keep sending me invoices via snail mail and also via email, demanding payment that is overdue for my subscription to their rag.

Well, in true Heliand fashion, I paid the first invoice in full rather than pay those piddly surcharges on an extended subscription price.  I mean, I probably paid $12 at the most for the whole year.  I know this because there are only two or three magazine I'll spring a little more for, and Woman's Freaking Day is not one of them.

I have responded politely by snail mail.  I have responded politely by email.  I even phoned them.  I sent screenshots and hard copies of the check they cashed (because I still pay with paper when possible).  Then, I started getting nasty.  I wrote unhappy commentary and sad faces on both snail mail and e-mail.

(Four times by email; countless by snail mail.)

Still, these idiots harass me.

Well, here is my most recent and final email exchange with them.  Honestly, I don't give one flying fuck if I ever read this magazine again.  There are four or five magazines of the same genre that have been taking turns printing the same articles by the same writers over and over again, a practice that used to be a huge no-no in the publishing industry.  I mean, kudos to the writers, but it's damn bullshit in the real world.

So, folks, this is my last email to them before putting them into my spam folder.  Publishers of Woman's Day, you can bite my goddamn ass.

LEFT BEHIND BY ITS SIX-PACK MATES

There's a store down the street from me that, despite changing its name to a wine emporium, is really a glorified liquor store.  One way to be sure is the beer. Oh, sure, there are lots of vendors to choose from when purchasing beer.  This place, though, has an entire wall dedicated to single cans and single bottles of craft beer.

Sometimes I like to try different, off-brand craft beers without making a commitment.  Dark beers, light beers, middle of the road beers ... it doesn't matter.  The Mighty Beer Wall lets me be me and, like a loving and effective parent to a curious child, allows me to experiment safely with beers outside of my comfort zone.

While standing at The Mighty Beer Wall today, I strike up a conversation with an older couple.  They're doing out loud what I am doing silently in my brain: oohing and aaaaahhhhhing over the variety of craft beer singles, and narrowing down some fine but unusual choices.

This is when we all see it.

Quietly taking a space amongst the craft beers on the lowest shelf, almost hiding from view, is a bottle of Michelob Ultra -- certainly not an unusual beer and definitely not a craft beer.  A crafty one, perhaps, but not craft.

We chuckle over it, then the couple picks out four cans of varying size and source.  I stand alone in front of The Mighty Beer Wall for an extra moment, wordlessly cheering on the Mich Ultra.  Shine on, little lite beer of mainstream origin.  Show those crazy off-brands how a brand name beer does it, even if your six-pack mates left you behind.

(To be fair, there are several other mainstream beers there, but we spotted the Michelob Ultra first, and it makes a much better story than Heineken.)

NO ICE FOR THE ICED COFFEE

Weekday mornings are often quiet but focused.  I give myself enough time to edit and post the blog, get ready for work, and pack a lunch.  Most mornings I also make a small iced caramel machiatto coffee.  I leave early, and get to work with about forty minutes to set up, get organized, and iron out any last minute kinks.

This routine serves me well, and I still haven't managed yet to give myself an extra push on weekly trash day, so I often run late by a few minutes once a week almost as if this is routine, as well. 

This week when trash day arrives, I am doing my usual last minute song and dance and running a few minutes late as I tie up the outgoing bag then take a minute or two to re-bag the garbage can in the kitchen.  I prep my coffee -- a little sugar, the coffee, the creamer -- and head to the freezer for ice. 

This is when I discover that the ice bin is nearly empty.  I empty the bin into my iced coffee and place the container back into the freezer.  AHA!  Maybe someone else who lives in or passes through my house during the day will discover the "no ice" situation and empty a few trays for me. 

The next morning I prep to leave for work.  I am actually right on time as it is not trash day today and I prepped my lunch the evening prior.  If I play my cards just right, I might even get out of the house early.  I mix up the coffee and sugar and creamer, open the freezer, and I find...

Damnation.  The ice cube bin is empty.  Caught by my own nasty ploy.

I dump (then refill with water) two ice cube trays, grab what I need, twist the cover on to my travel mug, and check the clock.  Oh, well.  Might as well be trash day.  It's okay -- I've got my coffee and I've got time.  

LIMERICKS FOR MY KNEE

This morning as I dress for work
The snowstorm is being a jerk.
I own boots for hiking;
They're not to my liking,
So I check the closet and smirk.

Normally I'm not high fashion,
And shoes really aren't my big passion.
I choose boots for real
That have semi-heel
To go through the snow and rain splashing.

Before I head out of the door
A beer can I squash on the floor.
The heel of my boot
Makes the canister shoot
A foot and a half -- maybe more.

At work I forget that I'm taller
By boots that are higher, not smaller.
I misjudge a drawer
That never before
Has made me so horribly holler.

I whack my knee once and then twice
And want to scream words that aren't nice.
I've a room full of kids
So I put on the skids
And send a coworker for ice.

I've learned a smart lesson, it's true:
"Don't wear boots so high just for view."
Ow, my poor knee,
As plainly I see
A bruise that is blackened and blue.

SNOW? I DON'T GIVE A DAMN.

This is like living in a horror movie.  All of the shades are drawn, the outside lights are blazing, and both of my doors are locked tight.  I even locked the door to the basement, just in case.  I sneak peeks out the window, carefully parting the louvers to check.  Any moment ... anytime at all ... that white monster is going to grab me by the eyeballs and show me what it's got!

Nope.  Not yet.  Nothing to see here.  No snow.

We are awaiting our fourth Nor'easter in three weeks.  When I left work yesterday, it was a warm and sunny 44 degrees.  Today when I leave work, it still seems mild, and the air is timid.  I make a quick stop at CVS for shampoo because I didn't realize until earlier that only a dollop is left.

By the time I get home from CVS (a quarter of a mile later), the weather is starting to turn.  The wind is picking up slightly, the temperature has dropped from 36 degrees to about 33, and the air has a distinct tinge of snow-smell in it.  (Yes, New Englanders learn to smell snow before we learn to walk.)  I turn on the news, and the weather people claim the storm really is coming.

I have some doubts, though.  This storm has already dropped a foot of snow in the DC area, and it is pummeling parts of Pennsylvania and Connecticut.  Maybe it will lose its punch by the time it gets here.  There is a sharp front line, too, perhaps preventing the worst of it from hitting this far north.

Just the same, I park my car all the way at the street end of the driveway.  If it does snow and I have to work tomorrow, my intention is to bomb right through that white shit and leave it behind until later.  I'll call it "Tara Snow" -- I'll think about that tomorrow ... at Tara Snow ...  Rhett Butler and I will shovel Missy Scarlet out.

Okay, so the Nor'easter has gone from being a low budget horror movie to being a David O. Selznik blockbuster.

Oh, hell, what do I care?  It may be Spring, but it still snows here.  Get over it.  I have shovels in the house and a shovel in the car.  I have extra gloves and a hat and boots in my backpack for when I get out of work (in case the storm has super-bad timing).  I'm ready, and, like most Nor'easters, before I realize, it will be gone with the wind.

Shovel; don't shovel; snow; don't snow... Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn.

DRESSES AND LUCKY ARGYLE SOCKS

I hate shopping.  No, I mean it: I HATE CLOTHES SHOPPING.  Actually, I hate shopping for pants most of all.  It's more than the fact that I look like an idiot in pretty much everything; I find absolutely zero satisfaction from wasting time shopping.  To me shopping is one giant time-suck.

I do, however, enjoy having fun.

My sister and I have been at a long meeting -- she attends the meeting while I sit far away in a different room reading.  This sounds unexciting to most people, but to us it is triple excitement: 1 = she gets to laugh and talk about music projects with her fellow board members; 2 = it forces me to sit still for a couple of hours and concentrate on reading and relaxing, which I won't do unless I schedule it; and 3 = we get to spend time together.

On the way home, we toss around the idea of going to the mall.  The mall?  For someone like me who abhors shopping?

We both have a couple of special occasions approaching, not too near in the future so no pressure, and we toss around different ideas about colors, styles, dress lengths, necklines, degree of dressiness, and more.  Since there really is no time-crunch to "buy or be naked," this cannot really be considered shopping.

To us, this is the adult version of dress up.  Yes, we go to the mall.

Once inside the mall, we make beelines to high-end shops and proceed directly to the fanciest dresses the store has to offer.  This isn't as easy as it sounds since we must avoid prom displays and prom shoppers.  It's not like we fit into junior sizes anyway, but - damn - these girls and their mommas are EVERYWHERE.  We also run into two brides buying gowns, some bridesmaids, and several mothers of the brides/grooms.

In other words, we are surrounded by serious shoppers.

We start the game.  The object is to pick at least five items: one for color, one for style, one long gown, one totally outrageous dress that we wouldn't truly consider even if threatened with bodily harm for refusal, and one wild card of anything.  The semi-realistic target of it all is to find one color and/or one style that might possibly become a realistic contender when the real dress search begins in earnest.

The last rule is not to limit ourselves to one store.  Instead, we target three.  This means we have a minimum of fifteen dresses a piece to play the game.

Some of our choices are semi-serious.  For instance, even though the style is outrageously wrong, I need to try on the bright violet dress because I don't own anything that color and have no idea how it will look.  Color is a contender; style is horrifying.  Another dress has flowers on it and is light, airy, almost flouncy.  Once it is on, I start shaking the skirt bottom back and forth while kicking my legs and repeatedly chanting, "Rah, rah, sis-boom-BAH!"  The long midnight blue dress, however, stops me in my tracks.  I'll never buy it, and it's both too fancy and too heavy.  But, the color works, even with my pale, mid-winter skin tone.

My sister is having about the same luck.  I know this because we share a dressing room in each of the stores.  Part of the reason we do this is to laugh and to share and enjoy the dress-up experience.  Another part is because the lines to get into the dressing rooms are about twenty people deep with a wait-time of over fifteen minutes.  My sister thinks she is going for a muted pale rose color, but the ice blue lace overlay looks spectacular.  The bronze colored dress washes her out, but the square neckline is ultra flattering.

Probably the best moment is the gold dress moment.  I pick out an incredibly tacky and ridiculously heavy gold sequined off-the-shoulder dress with large trumpet-style sleeves that each weighs about the same as carrying watermelons on my arms.  My boobs look fabulous, but the dress clashes badly with my green argyle St. Patrick's Day knee socks.

My sister and I laugh until we have to abandon the dressing rooms in search of bathrooms lest we pee our pants.  It's a lot like being kids again, only this time we don't even have to put the dresses away as there are store clerks everywhere vying to make sales.

Sorry, ladies, but we're not in it for the money today.  That would be too much like torture.  Today we're in it for the fun.  And the colors.  And the necklines.  And the styles.  And the giggles we get from the people in line and in dressing stalls next to us as our running commentary is shockingly self-deprecating, cutting, and comedic.

We don't care what we say or how we feel or what our bellies or hips or butts or arms look like.  Today minor saddlebags and other flaws are not cringe-worthy; they are hilarious and fodder for tacky dresses no one should be buying nor wearing, anyway.

Besides, it's our fun day.  After all, I AM wearing the lucky argyle socks.

FRUMPY SPRING

Lately I have been feeling frumpy.  Part of it is because I AM frumpy, but part of it is that winter is hanging on and on.  I mean, it does do that through March and often parts of April, but today is SPRING, right?  My winter Mrs. Santa body has got to go.

I stop at the store on the way home.  My cart looks like I just robbed a farmer's market, and I have enough fruits and veggies to open my own produce stand.  By the end of this experiment, I will either look like a slightly less paunchy version of Mrs. Claus, or I will turn into a rabbit.

After making a relatively decent stir fry for dinner, I decide that I should probably meal-prep since I had zero food today and ended up eating past-sell-by-date cereal for lunch.  I couldn't convince myself to have lunch with my colleagues; the humiliation would have been palpable.  Instead, I stayed in my own room and slurped cereal at my desk -- a sad, truly pathetic statement on my laziness.

When I arrive home, I discover that my favorite daughter delivered corned beef and cabbage leftovers from a dinner she cooked yesterday.  After prepping all of my other food (cutting up meat to use later in the week, making a huge mega-salad for dinners and lunches, and chopping fruit and veggies into workable sizes for upcoming meals), I run the dishwasher.  I now have the leftover boiled dinner (two meals) and a huge salad (at least five meals).

My once-empty fridge is now reasonably full, the pre-storm grocery shopping is done, and I have decent lunches available for the remainder of the week, if necessary.  Sure, I still feel frumpy, but now I'm a healthy frumpy.  I blame WINTER, so SPRING better hurry its ass up and get with the program. 

WEATHER AND HEADACHES

The weather wreaks havoc on things other than snow and traffic.  Sometimes the barometric pressure changes give me headaches.  This is what happens over the weekend.  This is what causes me to take Sunday as a day to relax.

After popping some Tylenol during the night and again in the morning, I am able to function and enough to run laundry, and I finish reading a book while waiting for the dryer to finish up.  I have some work to do, but I don't really feel like doing it, so I watch a movie on one of the movie channels that I never watch.  It's an indie film, and it sounds interesting.

Turns out the book is pretty good, but the movie sucks.  It sucks so much that I am left with my mouth hanging open, calculating the time I've missed out of my life that I will now never, ever get back after sitting through it.  I run the movie through my mind over and over again -- did I miss part of it, or am I just dumb?  Nope.  The movie totally stunk.

While I am musing on my entertainment choices of the day, I realize that finally after about thirty-six hours, my headache is almost gone.  Not completely, of course, but enough that it is not the central focus of my day any more.

It seems like the impending storm may run itself out over the ocean, but it's not a certainty.  All I know is that two low pressure areas fighting with one high pressure area should figure out what the hell they're going to do because I cannot go through another thirty-six hours of headaches. 

But, if that happens, I have many more books to read, and I'm sure I can find lots more horrible movies to watch.

REFLECTIONS ON ST. PAT'S AND EVACUATION DAY

Saturday's St. Patrick's Day
When all Irish snakes went away
We made Pat a saint
Though Irish, he ain't
He's a Brit that we loved anyway

Meanwhile, in Boston of yore
Our freedom is not like before
The British of late
Must evacuate
We send them right back to their shore

No matter how you celebrated
St. Patrick is surely elated
Green is the beer
That's served there and here
The holiday's not overrated

SNOWSHOEING AND HIKING BECAUSE WE CAN

Oh, the lovely winter snow: so fresh, so white, so tempting.

A friend and I decide to go snowshoeing today.  It's still a little dangerous out there with tree limbs falling and all, so we opt for the scenic parts of a nearby cemetery.  There are some trees, much open space, and a gorgeous stone chapel in the center (Tiffany windows, even).    We need somewhere that has a lot of space because we are both on the mend -- she from a previous knee replacement and me from falling halfway down the stairs in the morning.

When we get to our destination, we park (the only vehicles in the lot), strap on our snowshoes, and promptly ... sink.  Yes, sink up to our knees in fluffy snow.  It's almost shocking how deep the snow is, and, to boot, it is ridiculously difficult to snowshoe in the deep, light snow.  We soldier on, but it's slow, arduous, and sweaty business.

As soon as we get halfway through our trip, my leg sinks in too deeply to the snow, and my snowshoe gets sucked right off my foot.  I dig my snowshoe out and notice that part of the heavy-duty Velcro is missing.  Not really a biggie.  I added the Velcro as an extra way to keep the excess strap out of my way.

My friend, who has suffered the same fate with the same snow-sucking drift, also loses her snowshoe, but we realize quickly that the buckle has cracked and will no longer stay attached to her foot.  I could put my snowshoes back on, but I don't want to; my friend wants to put her snowshoes back on, but cannot.

Luckily, the chapel road has already been plowed out, so we kick off our snowshoes completely and walk leisurely back to the cars.  We meet a woman coming the other way.  She is walking two dogs and tells us that she has already done two circuits, one at a nearby wooded trail and this cemetery, and she claims to be going to another long loop right down the street.

Our legs hurt just talking to her.

Meanwhile, a giamundo branch snaps loudly and falls to the ground, heavy end first, piercing an ugly scar in the snow about thirty feet from us.  Yup, probably time to pack it in, anyway.  We've had a good snowshoe and a nice hike, all in the name of enjoying winter.  If it's going to keep snowing, we will certainly do our part to make the best of it.

I'VE FALLEN, BUT I MANAGE TO GET UP

I don't know how I manage to pull this one off.  Perhaps it is because I am incredibly graceful, or maybe I'm super coordinated.  Maybe it's just because I'm lucky. Today I take a reasonably long trip, and it's all free and over in a second or two.

Today I trip and fall down the stairs.  Not all of the stairs; just the bottom half.

I have extremely dry skin, and it was always the joke when I played judo because I'd have to put lotion on my feet before stepping onto the mat.  If I didn't, I'd slip all over the place like I was wearing ice skates.  Today this comes back to haunt me as my super-slippery, extremely dehydrated feet slip completely off the stairs as I am racing down them at a bleary hour of the morning.  All of a sudden I am careening down the stairs in midair.

This is where my judo training should kick in.  A well-trained judoka knows damn well the LAST thing you put down during a fall is your arm, especially your dominant arm.  However, it has been a long time (over ten years) since I've been on the mat.  I had major foot surgery (resulting from a very old soccer injury) and will never be able to risk having my foot caught in a sweep ever again. After all this time away, I don't react like someone with training in how to fall safely; I react like a middle-aged woman in the middle of a prat-fall gone freakishly wrong.

So, the arm goes out, my dominant arm, flailing madly into space and banging uselessly off riser after riser as I ping off stair after stair.  I twist my wrist, whack my elbow multiple times, and pop my shoulder out of the socket.  The most amazing and humiliating part of it all is that the arm I am swinging around?  NOT the arm on the side with the handrail.

Seriously.  Shouldn't my FIRST line of defense be the HANDRAIL?!

Speaking of firsts, this is not the first time I have popped my right shoulder out, and it's only partially out, not completely out.  Anyone who has ever popped a shoulder knows exactly what I'm going to say next:  I pop my shoulder back into place using my opposite hand and the edge of a wall.  It sounds horrible and somewhat masochistic, but the pain of a semi-popped shoulder far outweighs the momentary horror of putting it back the way it belongs, and this is not my first ride on the "repair it yourself" rodeo.

I admit, though, that I will be holding that handrail EVERY time I'm on the stairs now.  I'm old, folks.  I'm damn lucky I didn't break a hip and end up wailing, "I've fallen, and I can't get up!" 

AROMATIC AND PRODUCTIVE SUCCESS

When it snows for what feels like days and days (more like 20 hours), a multitude of possibilities arise for passing the time. 

I could read (did that for a little while), I could write (did that for a little while), I could putter around the house (did that for a little while), I could clean (only if sweeping and washing dishes count), I could do some work (guilty), or I could shovel -- but it's snowing like mad outside and will be for hours more.

So, I tempt fate and start cooking.  When I say that I am tempting fate by cooking, I'm not referring to my semi-limited culinary skills.  I am referring to the very real possibility that my house will lose electricity.  This is especially exciting since the power has blinked several times when I decide to hit the kitchen.

Living dangerously, I start by making a huge omelet in the electric skillet.  I add American cheese, cheddar jack cheese, and some Asiago cheese, then I split it 30-70% with my youngest, who is working from home today.  I wait a few hours, run the dishwasher, then tempt fate a little more and make a batch of chocolate chip cookies (Toll House, as if there's any other recipe that's worthy). 

About this time it feels like a little sauvignon blanc is in order.  White wine goes with cookies, right?  It certainly goes with snow. 

I cap off my day of cooking by making a meatloaf.  I originally figured I'd be making meatballs in a fry pan on the gas burners of the stove, but the oven still has power, so meatloaf it is.  Eventually I do have to try shoveling out the cars.  I'm going to need energy, right?

It may be nasty outside, but inside my warm house smells absolutely fabulous.  Between the aroma and the final products, I'd say my snow day is a productive success.

PHONE IS TEMPORARILY DEAD

All the things to do to get ready for the storm:

I have food; I have milk; I have bread; I have beer and wine; I have blankets; I have candles; I have shovels; I have gas in the car; I have boots and snowshoes and gear; I have gloves and scarves and coats.

Ooops.  Forgot toilet paper.  I grab a roll from work, just in case, but it's that scratchy, sand-papery stuff, so I hit the tiny grocery store (crowded, but no lines) on the way home.  I buy (soft) toilet paper, a big container of hamburg, some stuffed clams, and a random can of corn because you never know

how much canned food you might need, and I'm sure that I can make something Mexican-ish with hamburg and salsa and corn.  (My stove is gas, so I can still light burners with a match even if the electricity fails.  I'm not going to starve!)

I believe that I am all set until I wake up in the beginnings of what plans to be a day-long (or longer) Nor'easter.  The snow is piling up faster than I anticipated, and we may be losing power (yet again).  For some reason I expected it to ramp up later than it has.  I check my cell phone and discover that sometime during the night I accidentally unplugged it from the charger. 

The phone is dead.  DEAD.  D-E-A-D.

I plug the poor thing into the charger, the end of which is sitting on the bedroom carpet charging into nowhere while still attached to the power source.  Unbelievable.  I am completely ready to be housebound for days, if need be, and somehow I have managed to disconnect myself from technology, which, in retrospect, isn't such a horrible thing.

Well, I suppose I should look on the bright side: If one of us should wake up dead, I'm certainly relieved it's the phone and not me.

WINTER, DON'T MAKE ME HURT YOU

A touch of Spring
so close so close so close
snatched away by the screaming
Blizzard Jaws

Yes, right about now many of us are in Blizzard Shock as the third Nor'easter in two weeks smacks the steaming shit out of us.  Oh, it's not the snow or the winds or the shoveling or the loss of electricity, although the last two of that group suck big time. 

Nope, not any of these.

I actually like the snow because it makes everything look fabulous.  I'm not overly fond of the wind because it wears on my skin.  Shoveling, although I'm not a huge fan, is terrific aerobic exercise and adds to my relatively decent guns.  Loss of electricity is not so great, mainly because the heat and hot water are tied to it.  But these are not the things that put me into Blizzard Shock.

My Blizzard Shock is directly connected to Summer.  Every day that blocks me from school is a day being ripped out of my summer break.  The fact that these recent storms, or, more accurately, this series of storms, is happening later in the season only makes it more of a smack.

But ... truth be told ... I still really like the snow.  Yes, yes, I do.  It could snow until May and I'd probably be happy.  However, I would like it a lot more if it stopped infringing on my summer. 

The only way to put a stop to these shenanigans is a touch of Spring -- the little whiff of it that showed itself in between Horrible Storm #2 and this Horrible Storm #3.  Come back, Spring.  Or, at the very least, visit us Monday through Friday and let winter show its hand on the weekends, when the pressure is off.

A touch of Spring dashed,
so close so close so close
to ruining my Summer;
Winter:
Don't make me hurt you
because I will -
I totally will.

POOR PARKING AND OTHER PROBLEMS

(Backing up...)

A friend and I are out to dinner.  We park in a spot in the lot when we notice a car in the adjacent lot attempting to park.  It's a very small red car, and it is backing up, pulling in, backing up, pulling in...  It appears that the driver is attempting to recreate the three-point turn luggage cart scene from Austin Powers.

It takes the driver no less than six tries to get into a space big enough for a dump truck.  Meanwhile, I am filming all of this and trying not to pee my pants.

(Backing waaaaaay up...)

When the driver finally puts the car into park, my friend and I have to sidle next to the vehicle to see what's going on.  Surely this has to be a new, inexperienced driver.  It must be.  No one else can possibly drive that poorly unless he or she is drunk or blind or ancient.

(Backing up yet again)

Turns out it is a woman a little older than we are.  Her mission: pick up take-out food.  Judging by her parking attempts, we can only speculate on how long the food has been ready, and just how many hours it might be before her starving family gets to eat.  Who knows?  Maybe it will be another twenty minutes for her to angle the car just so in the driveway when she arrives home.

We do search around for cameras.  Surely this has to be some kind of a spoof, a gag, a television or youtube worthy endeavor.  Nope.  It appears that this woman is not only completely sober but completely incompetent, as well.

(This time might be the charm...)

We do not hang around to see how many tries it takes her to back out of her space.  At this point, my friend's car is parked relatively safely on the other side of a barrier (but, really, who knows...), and we are quite hungry and don't want to waste another twenty minutes of our time.  We do not hear any major crunching or crashing, and no ambulance or police appear, so we have to assume that sometime over the course of our hour-long meal that crazy-ass driver has gotten home.

(Over the line ... but in!)

Either that or she has morphed into Austin Powers and we will see her backing out and pulling in and backing out ... of the space on our way home with our leftovers.

POST-STORM DAY #2: NOT HORRIFIC, BUT STILL IMPACTFUL

Day #2 of Armageddon:

Today I cruise around town in about a three-mile radius, surveying more of the storm damage.  While it's not entirely catastrophic (unlike some other weather disasters we've had, storm remnants do not include major property damage), it does continue to shock me how many tree limbs are down and how many trees have flat-out fallen over.

Many parts of town are still inaccessible either by trees, downed wires, or by the bucket crews attempting to repair the carnage.  The street next to me is closed, causing traffic to be rerouted over my tiny, mainly unplowed street.  This factor alone is what limits me to my immediate area.  There are still so many roads that are only semi-open (one lane for both directions) and major intersections without working traffic lights.  It's a little scary venturing farther than necessary, and this misadventure is, in and of itself, mostly unnecessary.

Well, other than the fact that my car desperately needs gas, I mean.  So, technically, I only NEED to venture about a half mile, but curiosity and shock URGE me out a little farther.

Even though I have an idea of what awaits me, and even though I hope much of the mess has been hauled at least to the sides of the roads, I am surprised and disappointed by what is still out there.  I am also a little annoyed at how many residents refuse to pick up some of the crap that still blocks the streets.  I mean, would it kill you to drag that tree limb onto your snow-covered lawn so cars won't come around the corner and wipe out (like I almost did at least four times)?  Would it break your damn arms to snap a few branches jutting out from your trees into the road at windshield height?  Aren't you at all worried about being sued?

Most of today's damage is from the trees.  I pass by only three downed wires.  This morning, there were still about 6,000 homes and businesses in town without power.  By late afternoon, the number is down to about 3,000.  Some people won't be back on the grid for another forty-eight hours, so I consider myself fortunate and quite humbled to have lost power for only a few moments off and on.  I shouldn't be surprised by what I see today, but I still am.  I am also terrified every time I drive under random, giant, snow-covered tree limbs hanging over the streets, convinced they will crack and squish me as I drive under them. 

We are all still in recovery mode -- property-wise, physically, mentally, and emotionally.  It may not have been a horrific storm, but it certainly leaves an impact.

 

ARMAGEDDON OR NOT

Luckily, my school district is in session today, the day after a Nor'easter wipes out trees and power all across eastern New England.  I say "luckily" because I don't want to be teaching right up until July (yet again).  There is very little in the world that is as annoying as having the first few days for break being July 4th, which is when everyone and his brother and uncle and cousin also have vacation.

I also say "luckily" because it gives me a chance to go out into the world and see what's left of it.

The driveway wire, loose but still attached to the house and the pole, is low but passable, and it is not touching my car.  This means that I can drive through my town to the next one where I work, and I can survey the damage as I go and as I return later.  I expect some branches down, maybe some wires here and there.

What I find is mayhem.  Pure and simple mini-Armageddon.

As soon as I turn out of my street, there is a huge tree limb across the narrow, one-way street.  The car in front of me shows the way to drive under, over, and through the mess, so my car follows the leader.  I swing by the park in the center of town, and it looks exactly how my daughter described it yesterday; it looks like bombs went off.  Trees are shattered in some spots, giant limbs down, and a tree that snapped in half is blocking the town offices.

I travel down the main road and have to stop because a tree is completely blocking my entire lane.  Any wires cordoned off are also swathed in caution tape.  There are so many photo ops for disaster that I actually feel depressed and put down my cell phone.

Luckily, I have school to keep me busy.  The bad news is that I drive home a different way through a different part of town, and the small playground is totaled with trees, the common has giant trees uprooted, and (to add further insult to our deep injury), it is snowing off and on and has been all day.

Bring it.  Bring the snow.  We still have several more school days left in June, trees are still standing, and we are still in our "lucky" zone, Armageddon or not.

ALMOST-PERFECT SNOW

There's a wire hanging into my driveway (resting on neighbor's car ... please, wind, stay away!!!!), and the snow finally stopped at around eight inches, but that's on top of three inches of rainy slush.

That's what I get for my hubris about the storm-not-yet-a-storm.

Today I shovel almost all of the snow.  My landlord's son gets the crappy snowblower going and does some of the work for me, but I do the majority of heavy lifting.  My youngest is home, but he is on the clock, working finance and trying to link into the office via the Internet for as long as we have it (and power).   He makes me a breakfast sandwich and promises to help me on his lunch break.  I promise not to do all the heavy lifting without him.

I lie.

Truth is the day after the storm is a glorious day.  It's warmish, it's quiet, and it's so incredibly beautiful when it snows.  I don't mind being outside on a day like today.  However, I do know it's not the day to go snowshoeing, even around the neighborhood.  We have tree limbs down on our cars, and, in addition to the wire I need to shovel under and around, the ice and snow falling from the trees are like snowballs with rocks in them.  They pelt me constantly and they hurt like hell. One chunk of falling tree-ice hits me in the head and almost knocks me over.  My back is bruised from the onslaught.

No, today would be a dangerous and stupid day to go trekking alone through the woods without a hardhat.  When the shoveling is done, it's still not done.  So much ice is falling from the trees that the ground is covered again.  The good news is that the sun comes out and finishes the last of the work for me.  The bad news is that I am desperate for Tylenol or Motrin because my shoulders are sore and my ice-pelted body is suffering.

It's all okay, though.  The beauty of the day -- this silent snow, the windless beauty of it sticking to the fence and the rocks and the trees and every thing.  If it just weren't so damn heavy, it would be absolutely perfect.

RAIN, SNOW, AND BS

By the time this posts, I will either be buried in snow as I attempt to shovel out my car, or I will be laughing at the forecasters as I wipe rain off the windshield and head to work at the usual time.

All day I watch out my work windows as the weather teeters between snow and rain, never truly committing to either.  My panic about driving my car, which handles horribly in snow, home through blizzard conditions turns into nothing more than annoyance at needing the wipers occasionally.  Oh, yes, the storm is so treacherous that I walk down to the pizza shop and grab two sub sandwiches for the kiddo and me.  I barely get rainy snow (or snowy rain) on my coat and hat.

Honestly.  What's the big deal?

As I finish off the sub sandwich (chicken fingers with lettuce, tomato, mayo, and bacon), I also drink an ice cold beer.  Afterward, I chow down a few Keebler Grasshopper cookies (essentially Thin Mints that cost $4 less per container), run a couple of loads of laundry, watch some episodes of Psych, and relax with an unanticipated evening off.

Yes, by the time I post this, I could be buried under a foot of thunder-snow after missing out on sleep due to the howling of winds and the crashing of more branches that survived the massive wind and rain storm from a few days ago.  I might even have the day off from work.  According to the 7:30 p.m. news, there may be ten to fifteen inches of snow on the now-barren ground within twelve hours.  According to opening my front door at 7:45 p.m., it is still raining.

Snow?  I don't believe it.  It doesn't make sense.

But, at the risk of being totally wrong, in addition to the laundry, I have also done the dishes and bagged up some extra ice cubes.  I bought some groceries and some alcohol and made sure the car has enough gas.  I will probably draw the line at filling the tub with water, though, because I don't think I'll be housebound for any great length of time.

Whatever happens, I think I'm ready ... over-ready, perhaps.  I'll let you know how it all turns out.