CLOUDY THOUGHTS

I like to look at clouds.  I've been doing this my whole life, and I can still fondly recall many times lazing out on the hill at my elementary school (during recess and during the summer when we'd bike there), cooling off in the tall grass, and gazing up at the sky watching the clouds. Of course, sometimes my cloud fascination is not conducive to the reality around me, like the time I completely missed an exit from the highway because ... surprise ... I was fascinated by clouds.  I suppose I could have much worse vices.

Today I have a long list of things to do: look for shoes at two stores (I have coupons to both), buy a thread holder at the fabrics/crafts store, look for a thumb brace (for my newly diagnosed arthritis), find a 2019 planner at Staples, shop at Pier 1 with my discount, and buy lots of books with gift cards.

My shoe quest is unsuccessful.  I find some boots at both places where I stop, but neither calls to me enough to buy them.  I do buy some lovely earrings, though.  Before I go to the fabric store, I drive by the lot that used to be my house, the lot that sits empty and fenced in now that the house has burned to the ground so thoroughly that the foundation is a crater.  Once I compose myself, bang a uey, and get back to the fabric store, I find the thread holder on sale, some needle threaders, and a few other doodads that I don't need.

The thumb brace is a bust.  Apparently, I can pay half the price by ordering the brace online, so I'm not worried after trying three different stores.  Well, other than the fact that my thumb is killing me and the intermittent pain is like a toothache in my palm.  Yeah, other than that, everything is hunky dory.

I head over to Pier 1 where I see plates I'd love to buy (but don't), furniture I have to have (but don't), and decor I contemplate scouring more closely (but don't).  Regardless of an excellent coupon, I leave the store empty-handed, something I rarely do.  Not a candle, not a bauble, not anything.  I'm proud of myself, and I take this as a sign that I might make it home with money in my wallet.

On my way to the last stop, the book store, I am sitting at a stop light when I randomly look up.  It's starting to cloud up, and the sky is supposed to remain mostly cloudy for days, maybe even weeks.  I look at the clouds filling in, no big deal, this happens in New England all of the time.

Then, I see a tuft of puffiness in the air.  It's not connected to anything nor is it part of any roadside oddity.  What I notice is a cloud.  It's not just any cloud; it's round.  It looks like a gray stone in the gray sky of a gray day.  Well, a very fluffy stone.  I am totally into this cloud.  It looks like a pompom sitting by itself in a grayish sky, like it doesn't belong, like a ball of cotton down or a dandelion tuft.

It's so weird (truly) and different than any cloud that I've ever seen, and I almost miss my turn for the book store.  Surprise, surprise.

I make it to the book store parking lot, half convinced that the damn cloud is a sign of total meltdown.  It is not a meltdown; it's probably a warning: "Don't go into the bookstore!  You have shelves full of unread books at home..."  And that's when I realize that it's probably not a cloud at all.  It's a thought bubble, like in the comics, but a real one.  It's a warning, an omen.

And tomorrow I'll tell you how this omen affects my shopping quest.  I'm not sure if this is a success story or not, but we can figure that one out together in about twenty-four hours.  For now, it can sit in the cloudy thought bubble and percolate overnight.

A PATIO VISITOR

I like to sit outside for an hour every summer day (if it's not raining out) and read.  This morning the weather is beautiful: it's sunny and it's breezy and the temperature is fabulous at 76 degrees.  I've been outside working on a crossword puzzle when I decide to recline and soak in the warm sun before it gets too unbearably hot to be outside on the patio.

There is a dog a few houses over that is inside barking barking barking barking barking barking nonstop.  It sounds like a small dog in extreme distress, and I wonder if I should call the police or go look in the window to make sure the poor thing isn't caught under furniture or something.  The barking is nonstop for the entire time I am sitting outside.  Honestly, it's giving me a freaking headache.

I lean back in the chair, fully reclined, and close my eyes, trying to block out the yipping yipping yipping from over the fence.  I am almost completely relaxed when I sense movement near my left arm. 

Before I go any further, let me tell you that I live near the river.  I also have trees around and am constantly chasing chipmunks and squirrels from my side of the fence.  When I notice the movement, I immediately assume one of three things: it's a chipmunk, it's a squirrel, it's a river rat.  Or, my next thought is not so innocuous: It could be the neighborhood skunk. 

I try not to make any sudden movements, but it's futile.  My eyes fly open, and my head tilts upright in the  beach chair.  My breath is caught in my chest, and I am momentarily terrified and a little disoriented, unsure as to what I'm going to find.

One of the neighborhood cats is staring at me and bumps its head against mine, rubbing my hair and purring, swishing its tail across my cheek.  I try to be mad, but it is a cute cat.  It's gray and white, and it's an itty-bitty of a thing for an adult cat.  I've seen this cat around before, but I thought its owners moved, taking the cat with them.  I am mistaken.  Apparently, this cat and I haven't been on the same schedule since last summer. 

The cat explores my patio, and I attempt to snap its picture, but the cat keeps moving around, stopping three more times to greet me before moving on to the small patch of grass in front of my house.  It's time for me to go in, anyway.  It's a nice visit, but, best of all, I have forgotten for a few moments that the dog, annoying as heck, is still barking just beyond my fence.

NEED FOR MORE GAUZE

I've been picking on my sister for a couple of days now over her colonoscopy, and it's my turn to go to the doctor a few days later.  Nothing major -- it's my routine summer physical.  At least, I hope it's nothing major.

I'm up-to-date on my shots, my gropes, and my swipes, so I'm not anticipating anything catastrophic.  I've put on a couple of pounds since last year, but I haven't started shrinking in height yet, so I think I can call this a definite win.  My EKG is surprisingly quick, so I'm either healthy or dead.  I've already scheduled my yearly mammogram and a check-up with the skin doctor, so I answer all of her inquiries correctly except the ones about vitamins and staying out of the sun.  I'm trying to eat healthier and be outside more, but my doctor thinks I'm probably low on the vitamin D.  (Hence the sunshine...?)

After I pretty much pass my physical, I need to go get blood drawn in the lab.  Having needles is a hit or miss for me.  I don't so much mind having them, but sometimes I bruise up like a pro sports player after a rough game.  I don't mind the giant black and blues during long-sleeve season, but it's the heart of summer.  If I bruise up, everyone on the planet will know I've been to the blood lab.

Luckily, I do not bruise.  I get a fabulous band-aid (Roadrunner), which stays on for about fifteen minutes until I make my next stop: the teacher supply store.  I pull off the band-aid and the gauze, toss it toward the floor, and see the gauze from my sister's IV on her colonoscopy day (we took my car).  Oh, yeah -- we forgot to throw the gauze away after running errands post-procedure.

I will admit that her leftover bandage is much more impressive than is mine, but she had a bigger needle for a longer period of time; I have a mere blood draw that takes about thirty seconds and leaves no mark, not even a pinpoint. Still, I think I win.  After all, my sister got white Acme gauze and some Acme medical tape.  I get Roadrunner.  Beep!  Beep! 

Okay, okay.  I'll stop picking on my sister.  For now.  At least until I get my blood work back.  Hopefully karma won't stick me, and there won't be any need for more gauze.

MY SISTER'S COLONOSCOPY - PART 2: THE BITTERSWEET END

The worst part of the colonoscopy preamble is the ride to the medical facility, which is usually far from one's own toilet.  Really, the professionals should allow people to stay at the facility the night before to prevent accidents of the butt kind while on the way from home to office.  To be frank, the prep should be intravenous because drinking that much liquid, especially something as horrifying as lemon-lime Gatorade, should be prevented by the Geneva Convention.

My sister, who sails through her prep, also sails through the thirty-five minute ride from her house to the medical center.  We park right out front (we are amongst the early clientele), and walk at a regular pace to the lobby.  Excellent, all we need to do is find the elevators.  But, no; my sister says, "It's only on the fourth floor.  Let's take the stairs."

Anyone who knows anything at all about industrial buildings also knows that the fourth floor is more like the eighth floor because the stairs are double -- halfway up (which is normally all the way up in a house) there is a landing between floors as we prepare to ascend to the next level.  I fear that by the time we make it to Floor #4, we will need our eardrums to pop so we can adjust to the altitude.

As we reach each landing, there is a sign next to each door leading to the offices.  At first I believe that these signs are low oxygen warnings as we near the peak of the Everest of office buildings.  I am huffing and puffing worse than the Big Bad Wolf by the time we reach floor #3.

This is where I notice the sign, as does my sister, and pause to actually read it.  Floor #3.  "... to exit discharge."

Say, what?  I'm not sure anyone heading into a colonoscopy needs to be reminded of exit discharge, especially someone who has done the full prep AND opted for the stairs.  This thought hits me right about the time that I realize I am walking behind my sister.  I rush by her on the stairs.  After all, if there's any exit discharge, I don't want to be the unwelcome recipient.

I make myself comfortable in the waiting room, complete with puzzles and a book and my cell phone, and wave my sister goodbye as she is led into the abyss, and I remain content there until someone near me is talking loudly.  It sounds like he or she is watching a movie.  A medical movie.  Talking loudly about polyps and colons and IBD and diarrhea, and I'm thinking, "Ugh, dude, really -- I haven't even had breakfast yet."  I finally glance up to see who would be so rude as to listen to something about colonoscopies before his or her procedure.

Um, yeah, no.  It's not a patient at all; it's the television.  The television is broadcasting an entire spiel as to the inner workings of the Human Poop Chute.  Honestly, if people don't know what they're in for after that prep, they don't deserve a colonoscopy; they're obviously still full of shit.

One word, however, keeps creeping into the noise that has now taken over the entire room like a stale fart: Rectum.  My rectum, your rectum, the rectum of your mailman.  Apparently it's all fair game around the proctology department.  Rectum, rectum, rectum!  I have flashbacks of my baby brother (who is by now quite far from his baby days) rejoicing with the mantra, "Rectum?!  Damn near killed 'um!"

By the time my sister hits recovery, the propofol is already wearing off.  I've missed the fun part where she babbles about things like flames in her veins or getting purple stickers or making unbelievable goalie saves during an imaginary sporting event (all things my own kids did coming out of wisdom tooth surgery).  My sister is coherent and looking rather rested.  I, on the other hand, am a wreck from hearing the television telling me over and over again how my colon is going to kill me and has had it planned for decades now, probably with my stomach and ovaries helping just for giggles.

After her "exit discharge," we go to breakfast at a diner across the street from the medical office (a strategic location), and my sister is still a little slow from the whole colonoscopy because I am able to steal the check right out of the waitress's hand just as the paper is passing between her right hand and my sister's right hand.  I'm like Cain in Kung Fu: Snatch this pebble from my palm... then you will be ready, Grasshopper (or whatever he mumbles in the introduction).

Finally, though, my Super-Sister's armor cracks, or, rather, butt-cracks, when she decides we should stop at Joann Fabrics on the way home.  As we reach the back of the store and see the restroom sign, my sister makes a bee-line for the one-seater.  Luckily, no one else is in the back of the store to witness the audio tail end of her tale end from her tail-end.

"Oh my gosh," she says as she stumbles from the bathroom, "I hope no one could hear that." No, nope, no one ... except that the loudspeaker announced a possible earthquake.  All the children ran screaming from the building due to loud noises through the wall.  Fukushima thought it had reached the East Coast.  Okay, truth be told, I've had belches that made more noise.

In true sisterly fashion, it is my job to kick her when she's down, correct her when she's wrong, and make her laugh so hard that she might poop or pee herself.  I believe it's written directly into the Sibling Code, which, of course, I'll follow to the bittersweet end.  Just to prove it is so, when we get back to her house and play a game of Quiddler, I make sure that I finish one round with the word of the day: B-O-W-E-L. 

MY SISTER'S COLONOSCOPY - PART 1: THE PREP

My sister is scheduled for her colonoscopy.  Due to family history, she and I are on the five-year plan, and this year it's her turn yet again.  I volunteer (a little too emphatically) to be her driver because I intend to make her laugh so hard that she might ... poop herself.  After all, what are sisters for if not to giggle at you when you're down for the count.

This sibling lives over an hour away, so I have to plan my trip accordingly.  She is working half a day, but I don't want to miss the prep.  That's the best part -- if you don't believe me, watch Billy Connolly's video description: https://vimeo.com/172951856  I arrive just in time to start the mixing of The Good Stuff.

For those unfamiliar with colonoscopy prep, The Good Stuff means an entire container (yes, the whole goddamned thing ... all of it ... enough to send a T-Rex into apoplexy) of powdered laxative dissolved into a gallon of lemon-lime Gatorade (also known as Piss of Your Enemies).  Since she has a couple of people in her house who actually like Gatorade, I grab the container from her and start writing all over it important messages like "NO!" and "POOP."  Hopefully, this will discourage anyone mistaking The Green Express Chute Cleaner for anything remotely drinkable.

Then, we wait.

It's extremely difficult to wait with someone who is doing a colonoscopy prep because that person is just trying to survive the urgent bathroom trips necessary prior to the procedure, while the rest of us (the audience members) are waiting for the show to begin.  I am beating (the shit?) out of my sister at Cribbage when suddenly (but disappointingly slowly) the abdominal fireworks begin.  For the next few hours, my sister will beat a path from wherever she is sitting to the bathroom, but not nearly as flagrantly as did I when it was my turn.

This process continues off and on without as much fanfare as I'm expecting.  Really, she has her butt pretty much under control.  I am somewhat crestfallen that I am not watching her suffer.  No, really.  Her prep is almost like a normal person's day: Going to poop, might poop a little more, nope just pee for now...  It's like she is a Gatorade Processing Machine and her intestines are no match for the cleansing.  Her dog seems to be suffering more than she is, and he's passed out on the porch.


Or, maybe unlike me, she's just not full of shit.  She is a much nicer person than I am, that's for certain.

Truly, I almost feel ripped off, like I got tickets to a comedy show and it's just not that funny.  My sister handles the prep like a pro, suffers little discomfort and minimal interference to her evening, and finishes the prep without puking any of it back up again.  I don't even have to worry about my car seats on the way to the medical center.  Well, I'm really not worried because my seats are Scotch-Guarded, but she doesn't suffer and of those "Oh my God, I'm gonna blow!!!!!" reactions that I get when it's my turn for this lovely five-year festivity.


The worst part of the whole prep experience, though, is that I thoroughly intend to cheat at cards while she is indisposed, but she's never really indisposed at all, so I cannot cheat.  She tolerates both the prep and my presence with complete and total professionalism.

But, then again, tomorrow will be Part #2 (appropriately enough): The Bittersweet End

TUTU FOR YOU (OR ME)

I know I've posted about the Muddy Princess 5k already, and it's no secret that I'm now considered a Mud Veteran since this is Fun Mud Run #3.  But, it's the first mud run where I'm totally ready. I can spot the first-timers a mile away: new/clean/bright sneakers, long sleeves, cotton shirts, hair loose, white socks.  The list goes on. 

The main thing I've learned doing these activities is that the clothing needs to be as wet-repellent as possible.  For this I find polyester/nylon clothing.  I start with an old one-piece bathing suit, which will prevent mud and muck from running up and down my back and into my drawers.  Also, it dries relatively easily.  I layer over this an old polyester-nylon shirt from a different 5k.  Even though it's a little chilly out (high 60's and rainy), the long sleeves will slog me down and keep me wet.  Filthy arms will dry quicker.  Muddier, yes, but definitely more rapidly.

I have a pair of workout/yoga pants that are nylon knit as opposed to cotton knit.  They're more like swimsuit than gym gear, so some of the mud might slop off instead of being absorbed like paper towel into the fabric.  I top this all off with very old, beat up water shoes that I use for kayaking.  Yup.  Water shoes, not sneakers.  This means that the water will ooze out of my shoes rather than absorb into the shoes.  It also means that I can empty out pebbles and other crap as it builds up without having to stop to untie, empty, and retie.

I do wear cotton socks because they're a great color and have been mudding with me before.  Perhaps they'll help keep my mud shoes on my feet, too.  This is all wonderful, and I am an array of bright colors and neons.  I add cheap cubic zirconia earrings, pull back my hair (and spray it down), and the look is damn-near perfect.

Except that I remember the last two times I did this, my baby-handles showed up in all the photos because of the clinging wet fabric of my shirt.  So, I decide to make a tutu to cover my not-so-flat abs.  I check my fabric supply and discover some old white netting and a slew of ribbons and other decorative extras. 

I search the Internet for no-sew tutu directions and within minutes I am on the road to an ab-covering outfit that fits into my vision. I am a little bit short on netting, so I cut up two other nylon shirts, add the tatters into the design, and ... voila!  Tutu!

The only two problems I encounter: the muddy tutu starts to sink off of my hips, so I have to tie it into place; my tutu snags a little bit on the log at the top of the rope climb.  I am pre-warned by spotters at various obstacles to BEWARE THE TUTU, and I get through everything unscathed and pretty much untangled. 

When I get home, I rinse everything out (except the tutu), throw it all in the wash, and discover that the shirt, pants, bathing suit, and socks will all live to see another race.  The water shoes get a slef-rinse in downpours outside and dry nicely when the sun reappears.

As for the tutu, I suspect that this will be its one-time usage.  I could wash it except for the decorative baubles that I added -- they might come loose and clog the washer or dryer.  It's okay, though, the tutu does its job (hiding my midsection), doesn't need to be sewn (except for the elastic, which I sew together rather than tie), and doesn't ever need to be re-worn. 

FLIGHT ATTENDANT TAKES A BOW

On the plane coming back from North Carolina, my daughter and I are sitting about four rows back from the mid-plane emergency exits.  Anyone who has ever flown knows exactly what this means: EMERGENCY INSTRUCTIONS!

For some reason, boarding the plane is ridiculously fast and efficient.  We are all in our seats without a second to spare, and the happy crew tells us we are leaving on time, momentarily, and without any kinds of silly delays that normally hold up planes (late passengers, tardy crew mates, idiots with too many or too large carry-on bags...).  So, it is no surprise when one flight attendant, a charming man about my age, comes to the back of the plane and starts his spiel.

As soon as he opens his mouth, an announcement comes over the speakers.  He chuckles, we chuckle, and all moves on.  He is thirty seconds into his very serious instructions when a second announcement breaks in.  He smiles, waits, apologizes, and continues with the important information about emergency exits because these are new doors.  They're hydraulic, and there are some things we really do need to know.  After all, if there is an emergency and we morons break the new hydraulic door by yanking on it while it's working, we might all get stuck in the plane and die.

Halfway through this critical information about not busting down the hydraulic emergency exit doors, a third pleasant, necessary, but untimely announcement comes through the speakers.  We all giggle because, hey, this is serious stuff.  The flight attendant makes a face, crinkles his taut mouth into a crooked smile, and says, "Well, that should be it for interruptions."  Then, he continues on with the instructions which, by now, not a single one of us can remember.

He is just about finished when announcement number four booms through with a cheery voice, "This is your captain .... (yadda yadda yadda) ... We'll have a great flight!"  Or some such upbeat stuff.  At this point, all the passengers in the back of the plane have completely lost it, the flight attendant has broken into a fit of laughter, and somehow, we've no idea how, he manages to get to the end of his speech.

Spontaneous cheers and applause erupt from the back of the plane, and our fabulous attendant takes a huge and glorious bow.  Thank goodness the flight goes well and no one needs to pretend to know how the new hydraulic emergency exit doors might work in an actual emergency.

MUDDY REMINDERS

I need to run errands. 

I have about a thousand things to do today, some of which I forgot about (like paying bills) when I moved the stack of important papers to a different location after rearranging the den to accommodate the desk I put together last week. I rush around in the morning getting stuff done: laundry, bills, packing for a short trip, watering plants, putting out the trash. Finally, it's time to run to the bank, the gas station, the post office, and the store.  I head out to the car and find ... dirt all over the inside of the car.

Oh, yeah.  Muddy Princess 5k.

I run back into the house, grab a towel, rub down the seats as best as I can, then fold the towel onto the seat in case twenty-four hours later it's still damp from my muddy behind.  I settle in and drive away, still noticing as I go splotches of dirt around the car's interior.

Once the last errand is complete, I am loading groceries into the back of the car when I notice something hanging from the bottom of my vehicle.  Oh, please.  I am about to drive two hundred miles round trip.  Please, please, please don't let there be something wrong with the exhaust or worse. 

I put away the shopping cart and approach the car, carefully peering underneath. Hanging off the car is a weed from the parking area at the mud run.  Even the car's exterior is reminding me that I made a huge mess (but had a huge blast).

Things to remember for next year -- check the interior and exterior for signs of nature I might be taking home with me.

I LIKE MUD

I don't mind doing stuff by myself.  I take myself out to eat, I go to movies by myself, and sometimes I go on random adventures by myself.

I sign up to do a 5k mud run.

It's nothing horrifying.  There are no burning nor electrified nor hazardous obstacles.  There are fun obstacles that participants can either try ... or not.  Either way, it's 5k from start to finish. 

I've done two of these before, one more strenuous than the other.  But I took a break after pulling both my Achilles tendons -- ouch -- and decided that tugging my legs out of mud might not be the smartest thing I've ever done.

But, like all immature overgrown children, I REALLY LIKE MUD.

I sign up, but nobody else signs up with me this time.  I'll be honest, I love my friends and family, but I'm perfectly happy going at my own pace, challenging myself, and helping out new and interesting people.  And, did I mention before: I really like mud.

I get myself all set and smartly wear an old pair of water shoes because it's truly gross once the muddy pebbles get into tied sneakers.  This way I can empty out my shoes on the fly.  I have a homemade tutu, bright socks, and fake diamond earrings.

I am ready to rumble.

Rumble, indeed.  The night before the 5k, all of the local weather forecasters (why do I continue to listen to these people?!) start talking about torrential downpours, severe and sudden thunder storms, and driving, gale-force winds.  They even start throwing out "Tornado threat!"

Shit.  Shit on a cracker.  Shit all over my fun.

I'm not running out in an open field if I am in danger of electrifying my hair or if a twister is going to shoot me over to Kansas.  However, I don't give up nor give in easily.  I get up early and start watching the weather radar.  An hour before my wave is set to run, there is a large thunderstorm cell headed right for the 5k venue.  I consider eating the registration fee, yet still I start getting ready.  Earrings in, make-up on, deodorant applied.

Suddenly, with 45 minutes until my start time, the cell breaks in half.  The left half and right half completely circumvent the town where the mud run is being held.  I get dressed in less than ten minutes, and I'm in my car and on the highway in short order.  While I am madly (but carefully) driving the thirty-five miles to the venue, the skies open up several times, at one point actually forcing tractor trailers and cars to the breakdown lane as visibility is definitely close to zero.

Forging ahead, I find the location, park in East Bumshoe, and make my way to the registration desk.  Thanks to the horrible weather, the  lines are short.  I look over to the start area and realize my wave has just left.  I know that the next few waves are full, but I have great hope.

"Bad traffic," I lie, "and terrible weather.  I just missed my start time."

No problem.  She puts me right into the next one.  Apparently, many people are bagging the morning run due to the weather forecast.

I do the 5k in a decent time, go into every mud bog, do all but two obstacles (but I do help others get over them) because my height combined with the height of the obstacles, the severity of the climb up, and the fact that it is still drizzling enough to make everything slippery, scares me off a little bit.  I do better than I expect on the obstacles that I embrace, and I meet a lot of fabulous women en route to the finish line and my Muddy Princess medal.

Other than stopping at a gas station to pee on the way home (scaring the hell out of the people inside the place because I look like the Creature From the Black Lagoon) and totally trashing the tutu, I am damn proud of myself.  Filthy, yes, but proud.  After all, I LIKE MUD.

I BLAME PARKER BROTHERS

I love art.  I suck at it, but I love it.  I enjoy looking at it, learning about it, photographing it, staring at it.  I am a sucker for art museums, but I tend to speed through them - not in hyperdrive, but not putzing along - because I want to see everything.  I need to see everything.

When I find art in unexpected places, it makes me happy: street art, a brick wall, inside an old building, on clothing, even tattoos.  I like when restaurants and coffee shops and other eateries display local art for sale.  Of course, I cannot afford to buy any of it, but still, it's fun to look at.

One time my friend and I wandered into a gallery on Newbury Street in Boston.  I had no business being in there, but I passed the place three times before my friend pushed me through the door with an exasperated, "Oh, just  go in already!"  Inside the gallery were original paintings and sketches.  Originals.  ORIGINALS.  There was a Marc Chagall sketch for sale.  If I were rich, I could own my own Marc Chagall.  There was a small piece by Salvador Dali.  Salvador Dali.  Are you even kidding me?!

But, I'm not all about high-end art or original art or street art.

I've started noticing chain art.  Yes, chain art -- art that appears inside chain stores and chain restaurants.  I know, I know -- one print/painting is the exact same in the Connecticut store as it is in the California store.  Now, though, it's a game.  It's a game that starts in DC during a recent jaunt to the nation's capital.  I start taking photos (on the sly) of chain store art.

It's kind of like playing tag.  "Look here -- where is it?  Where am I?"  It's kind of like a social media version of Where's Waldo? but with bad wallpaper and strange mass-market prints.  I have a high-art eye with a low-art sense of humor.  I suppose this makes me a walking, talking, stalking oxymoron.

I'm not remotely surprised.  One of my favorite games growing up was Masterpiece: The Art Auction Game.  I guess I can blame Parker Brothers for my poor taste.

POLKING AROUND

We have a little downtime during our trip to North Carolina, so my daughter and I stop in to see the birthplace of President James K. Polk.  It's not a big place -- a few log cabins, a small garden, decent expanse of lawn, and a small graveyard (which we did not locate).  There's also a small museum on the property.

Of course, it's free, so that makes it even better.

The only way to see the inside of the log cabins is by taking the tour.  There is a tour leaving as we arrive, but the humidity is so intense this afternoon that we cannot commit to even fifteen minutes outside then another fifteen or more inside cabins that are completely shuttered.  It must be stifling inside those small buildings that have been baking in the North Carolina sun all day.

The museum, though, is a miniature gold mine.  The displays are fascinating, the information is educational but accessible, and the items owned by the museum are, for lack of a better term, totally cool.  I didn't know much about Polk going into this; I didn't even know he was from North Carolina, let alone Charlotte, and I've been to Charlotte half a dozen times.  The only thing I knew about Polk is that he had longish gray hair and wore suit coats with tails.

What I learn about Polk is that he possibly could've prevented the Civil War ... but didn't.  I'm not certain if this is a nightmare or a dream come true, depending on one's political viewpoint.  He did expand the US across the country, led the country through the Mexican-American War, and reformed the US banking system (where is he now when we need him).  He promised to be a one-term president, and he kept that promise.  (Of course, he died right after he left office, but I digress.)

The museum is full of great minutiae, such as machinery, china, clothing, a flag captured during the Mexican-American War, old newspapers, documents, political propaganda, and furniture.  The best part of the museum, though, concentrated on relatives of Polk, characters of distinction from the time period.  I'm not going to lie -- I was most impressed by the Civil War epaulettes, the large gold fringed shoulder decorations that rested on an officer's coat.  These things are massive, larger than dinner plates, and must be very heavy. 

My daughter and I both wish the air weren't so saturated, but spending more than twenty minutes outside seems deadly.  After visiting the air conditioned museum, we give ourselves a quick tour of the grounds.  Next time we're down here, we will take the time to tour the insides of the cabins and learn more about the eleventh president of the United States.

It's a worthwhile stop, though.  Usually I find bizarre roadside places to stop, but this one is definitely a mini Southern and American gem.

BAGEL BROTHERS

We're on a fast trip to a slow pace.

Arriving early to our destination, my daughter and I scour the local area for a place to have breakfast.  Our great plan to eat at the airport has been a bust when we realize that nothing ... NOTHING ... is open on the outgoing side of the TSA checkpoint.  No, that's a lie; the bathrooms are open.  Everything else?  Locked up tight.

So, when we land in North Carolina a few short hours later, our first thought is food.  There's a Dunkins, a Starbucks, and a Panera near to our destination but a little bit off the beaten track.  My daughter remembers a bagel place closer to the last hotel we stayed at, about three miles from our current hotel.  She cannot remember the name: Something Brothers.  Brothers Something.  Maybe there weren't any brothers at all.

We drive around, winging it as we go.  There are hundreds of strip malls in this part of North Carolina.  Apparently, the economy is booming.  There is building going on all around, store after store after store packs vehicles in to the parking lots, and it appears that there is an endless supply of disposable income down here.  It's great for us because we can probably find a place to get breakfast.  It's terrifying for us because everyone drives like it's the Autobahn, and everywhere the roads are five, six, eight lanes wide and widening.

We enter one of the less-populated strip malls.  It's still early, but a stream of cars seems to be entering and exiting.  I assure my daughter that this steady activity indicates coffee.  No one would be out this early unless there were coffee nearby.  This decision leads us right to a local bagel shop, the exact one for which we have been looking: Einstein Brothers.

My daughter is hankering for a salt bagel.  I just want tea.  Once inside, though, the smell of bagels is overwhelmingly tempting.  We are the only people ordering (it's still early), and the woman behind the counter talks us through our order ... and talks ... and talks ... and talks.

Oh, that's right.  Everything moves slowly down here.  People are not in a mad-hurried, swear-laden rush like they are up on Boston.  My daughter and I have to take a deep breath or two and remind ourselves where we are and why we are here: to visit family and to relax for thirty hours.

We can do this.

In addition to having a leisurely breakfast, we have two of the best damn bagels that we have ever eaten anywhere or anytime.  My daughter gets her coveted salt bagel; I order a six-cheese bagel.  I don't care what cheeses are in or on this bagel.  All I care about is its fluffiness and the cheesy taste, topped off by a light spreading of cream cheese.

Best of all, as soon as we are done eating and sipping (iced coffee for her, hot tea with honey for me), we get the text that our relatives are ready for company.  Timing and breakfast are both perfect.  But, just to be like the locals, we take it slow and enjoy the morning

CRISPY SUNBURN

Lately I seem to have developed an immunity to sunscreen.

No matter what SPF, no matter what brand, no matter how many times I apply, reapply, and swaddle myself, I still burn.  Thankfully, though, I have been only semi-burning.  I'm at medium rather than well done, for the most part, but I still look too silly to wear sandals or shorts for a few days. 

My red markings scream "TOURIST!!!!" but I truly am a native.

Usually I go northeast to the beaches, but my friend suggests that we go southeast a little ways from her house, and we find ourselves at Nahant.  I've only been to Nahant once before, mostly because it's not in my neighborhood and because some of my students will probably be there.  I don't want to run into them any more than they want to see my old self in a bathing suit. 

Today, though, Nahant is beautiful: Not too crowded, long expanse of beach, noisy waves spurred by an off-shore storm.  I put sunscreen on before leaving the house, and I reapply when we get there.  In the four hours that we sit on the beach, I reapply sunscreen twice more.  I even put a sweatshirt over my legs and turn away from the sun.

It's not until hours later and after my shower that the heat comes on all over my skin.  My arms are lightly crisp, my face has weird patches of redness, my legs are slightly overdone, and my feet are reasonably crispy. 

What am I supposed to do?  Wear a hazmat suit to the beach?  I am going to have to start wearing SPF1000 and I'll have to reapply constantly.  I'll put sunscreen on so often that I'll go through an entire bottle of it at the beach in one sitting.

Seriously, though, it's a glorious day at the beach, the waves sound wonderful, the company is fabulous, and I am so relaxed that I feel as if I've just had a long massage and meditated all at the same time.  Except for the amazing red glow, I'd do it again tomorrow, but I think I'll have to put the beach off until the burn settles down or until they invent sunscreen so powerful that my lobsteresque skin turns a normal tan-ish color again.

DESK-BUILDING SUCCESS STORY

I need a new computer desk.  I've needed a new desk for about four years, and three years ago I bought one on sale.  It needs to be built.  I am terrible at building things because I can't translate the step-by-step visual directions, and I am mechanically incompetent.  So, for three years, the box with the desk in it has been stashed under a futon, collecting dust and generally making fun of me.

I keep hoping someone will help me build the desk, but the competent people are not here long enough -- an hour here, a couple of hours there.  This desk is going to be a marathon building session.  I keep telling myself that I am a competent person, but I also know that my biggest weakness is spatial-mechanical.  Couple that with being so directionally challenged that I cannot find my way out of a paper bag, and this is a recipe for disaster.

Finally, though, I open the box.  I carefully unload everything, making sure that I have all the parts, and making sure that everything is in alphabetical order (so I can find it easily).  Then I get sidetracked, and the desk parts sit a few weeks (okay, months, to be honest) leaning up against another piece of furniture in my den. 

I am determined to build this damn desk, even with its moving parts.

Even though all the parts are here, no tools have been included, so I promptly retrieve my screwdrivers and a hammer from a closet I cleaned out (while putting off building this desk).  Everything seems to be in order except the glue for the pegs; it's a very small tube, and I'm not sure there will be enough glue to complete the project. 

See?  I haven't even started yet, and already I am admitting defeat.

It takes me hours and lots of sweat and tons of swearing, but the desk slowly takes shape.  I only make one mistake (part D - the desk top), which I quickly rectify before any glue dries, and I only shear off one piece of the particle board, which is in the back, so I repair it with glue then cover it with silver duct tape.  Even though the drawings are not completely honest, and even though I sometimes have to turn the directions upside down and sometimes turn myself upside down, somehow the structure I am creating looks similar to the structure drawn into the booklet.  Even the keyboard tray works correctly.  Bonus: I use exactly the amount of glue in the container.

I have to move some furniture around, which reveals my horrible housekeeping skills as dust bunnies the size of snow leopards come bounding out from the floorboards.  When it's all put back together, though, it doesn't look half bad.  I actually feel pretty damn good about myself for the moment. 


Hours (and a few beers) later: SUCCESS. 

CROWNING SOUNDTRACK

I'm having a tooth crowned.

It's a sad story, but I bust a tooth when I bite into a piece of chicken that I steal right off my son's plate.  "Serves you right!" he tells me, showing zero sympathy, and he is correct.  I did steal his dinner.  I just wish it weren't such an expensive lesson to learn.

While I am at the dentist getting the tooth prepped, I am listening to the music (as well as I can with the drills whirring away).  As soon as the old filling starts coming out, the speaker is blaring a selection from Swan Lake.  Poor tooth; poor little swan of a tooth, being worked over for its evil double --- the crown that isn't really royal, isn't really a tooth at all.

Next, when the drilling stops and the rebuilding starts, I know (and am later told) that I cannot eat for a while.  Of course, this is when Dean Martin starts crooning, "When the moon hits your eye LIKE A BIG PIZZA PIE..."  Damnit, Dean, now my stomach is grumbling.

It takes over an hour of work, and, despite being numbed up to next Tuesday, I can feel what the dentist is doing.  For the first time in a very long time while in a dental chair, I almost raise my hand for a break; I almost ask for another needle.  Just at that same moment, the dentist is done and the technician takes over with the cursory things, like impressions (gross but painless) and gluing on the temporary crown.  All of a sudden the speakers are blasting, "Big girls .... they don't cryyyyyy.  They don't cry!"  So, I don't.  After all, I'm a big girl.

I am scheduled to go back in three weeks for the final fitting of the permanent crown.  I tell the dentist as I'm leaving, "Let's try to have a better soundtrack next time.  Today's line-up killed me."  True, but I'm humming (out of the half of my face that isn't paralyzed) as I leave the office.

HOW AND WHY WALKING IS GOING TO KILL ME

The temperature is hovering near ninety, and the dew point is somewhere around seventy-two percent.  With full sun shining, even at 8:40 in the morning, I head out for a walk.

My usual route is to head uphill for about a mile, circle around a nearby prep school campus, then come back either downhill the whole mile home or take a side route that has some downhill and some straight roads, too.  Either way, my downhill is usually the jogging portion of my outside experience.

Not today.  No way.

Thank goodness I remember to bring along a bandana because my face is dripping sweat.  Well, it can't truly be sweat because my pace is nothing strenuous.  I'm pacing around a seventeen-minute mile.  Elderly and invalids are lapping me.  The humidity, however, is enough to give me apoplexy.

Somehow when I started this jaunt, I thought it was a good idea.  I should've walked straight past the train station, turned around, and come back.  What was I thinking adding this long hill to my trek?  Oh, yeah: it's my most often traveled route.  It's my favorite route because the worst of it is over at the beginning, and this route has challenge to it. Today any walk is a challenge.  With this heat and this humidity, walking to the street to take out the garbage is a challenge.

If you happen to drive anywhere near my house and you spot a puddle with a yellow bandana floating around in it, call my family.  In true Wicked Witch fashion, I've melted.

GURGLING AND CONDITIONING

My air conditioner gurgles. Yes, it does.  It sometimes sounds like it's gargling or has wet belches.

Let me be fair, though; it has been as humid as pea soup here for most of the last two weeks.  There is more water hanging in the air than most people have in their pools.  Step outside and, regardless of the air temperature, the air saturation point is so bad that water instantly condenses on everyone and everything.

I suppose this includes my poor air conditioner.  It is wringing water out of the air as fast as it can, sending it through the condenser with a huge whooooooshing sound, and keeping my bedroom cool and me sane.

The first night it started the gurgling, I couldn't sleep with the noise.  Not immediately.  But, once I got under the covers (and added a quilt), it didn't matter that it was still 84 degrees at one in the morning outside; it was a cool sixty-something and dry in my room.  Comfort overrode noise, and I slept like a weary dog.

A brief respite of cool nights (three of them, I think -- I cannot remember because my brain is soggy from another round of heat prostration) with the fan gave my air conditioner a break, but now it's cranking out that cool, dry air again.  And thank goodness for it.

Gurgle all you want, air conditioner.  As long as you're spitting that humidity back into the outside air and not the inside air, we're going to get along just fine for the next several weeks.

THE LOTTERY THRILL WILL KILL ME

Speaking of luck (since yesterday was Friday the 13th), I love my friends and family, but they have got to stop giving me lottery tickets for gifts.  Don't get me wrong -- I LOVE lottery tickets!  But, I never win.  Ever.

I've come close a couple of times.  I once hit Megabucks for all but one number .... back when that prize was a mere $400.  My landlord followed me to the store and took the cash right out of my hands.  So much for that windfall.

Oh, sure, I go through the motions.  I uncover the magical winning numbers first.  Then, I scrape off the overlay to reveal what wonderful prizes I might win.  I usually start with the big prizes, knowing I won't be winning any of those.  A million dollars!!!!!  Ohhhhh, too bad, so sad.  Then, I work my way down to the $1 prize.

Here's the thing, though.  If it's a $5 ticket, a $10 ticket, or more, it should be a guaranteed winner.  Seriously.  The damn lottery can't spare a lousy $1 on every $10 ticket?!

That's just bullshit.

Anyway, if people want to keep giving me lottery tickets, I am happy to scratch the tickets to reveal my big non-winnings.  I am just telling you people, I don't win.  I never win.  Never, ever.  You could have a stack of 99.99999% winners, and I'd pick the one and only losing lottery ticket in the bunch.

So, in a holdover from yesterday's potential for bad luck, I'd like to take this opportunity to say that I enjoy all the lottery tickets that I get over the course of the holidays -- birthdays, Christmas, Saturdays -- and I still have that eternal flicker of hope, "Maybe this time.  Maybe I'll win!"

I know I won't though, and it's okay.  I'm quite certain at this point the thrill would probably kill me.

PLANTA-SKEVIDEKATRIAPHOBIA

A Friday the Thirteenth Update -- Massachusetts, July 13, 2018  (For Immediate Release)

This just in: Heliand has managed to keep several plants alive this summer.  Repeat: Plants are still alive!

Seriously, though, I did lose two plants that I bought about five years ago from WalMart for 90% off, but it was time for them to go.  They were fine until I re-potted them last summer.  I had the stupid idea that the plants would thrive in larger containers, that the roots must be strangling the plants.  I replanted them into large containers, then... Boom, boom; out go the lights.  Honestly, if I had to wager a guess, I'd say the plants killed themselves when they realized they'd be spending another summer with me and not back at school on my sunny (but unattended) windowsill.

So far ... my luck seems positive.  Even though it's Friday the 13th, I am apparently holding off bad luck for my plants.

Nope, nope, nope; no triskaidekaphobia nor paraskevidekatriaphobia for this girl.  I have a small geranium and two robust basil plants from Stop 'N' Shop, and a lovely planter of flowers from my sister, a gardenia plant, plus I have three inside planters of Golden Pothos plants.  So far, so good, but my luck cannot hold out forever.

EXTENDING THE FESTIVITIES

After a barbecue, I am left with a little it of steak, some boneless chicken, and a fair amount of sweet Italian sausages.  I decide that these ingredients, along with some carrots, broccoli, peppers, and onion will make an outstanding stir fry.  I am also left with an ear of corn, but I eat that with butter and salt before I have a chance to consider adding it to the mix.

There's plenty of rice to use as a base for the stir fry, but now I have to decide exactly what kind of stir fry goes with a smorgasbord of leftover meat and some random vegetables.  While I am thinking about this, I start grabbing seasonings from the spice rack: salt, pepper, onion powder, garlic powder, basil, rosemary, oregano, tarragon ... I start the fry pan, add some olive oil, then dump the sliced up food pieces into the hot oil and start stir frying the heck out of everything.

I look in the fridge.  I have all kinds of salad dressings, and I could go Italian, since I already have the sausages, or I could go balsamic vinaigrette.  I could even lean toward barbecue sauce, which is what the sausages marinated in before they ended up on the grill.  This debate rages on far too long, and I am afraid the vegetables will dry out, so I lift the glass stopper off a bottle of port wine and heavily pour it into the fry pan.

Oooooooooooohhhhhhhh, that smells sooooooooo gooooooooooooood.

Before all the wine is vaporized, I throw in soy sauce and teriyaki sauce.  In about eight minutes, the stir fry is done and smells like heaven.  The rice takes two minutes longer.  Dinner is done, dinner is delicious, and I no longer have plastic containers full of leftovers in my fridge.  I also have very little port wine left, but that's a story for another day.

KAYAKING WITH FEW OTHERS

Finally the weather breaks enough that I can get out kayaking on a local pond.  Truly, it has been too hot to even consider kayaking for about five days when the temperature lowers from 96 to the mid 80's, and the humidity falls from 76% to about 60%.  I can kayak without risking heat prostration.

When I get to the pond, the small lot is completely full.  I pull over to the side of the road, close into the woods and off the pavement, and carry my kayak and oars fifty yards to the launching point.  A man and woman are poking around with their kayaks, trying to figure out how to get them into the water.  I decide to cut in front of them and take forty-five seconds to launch myself into the pond.  Yes, after waiting days for this, I am extremely impatient.  Pleasant ... but I'm no saint.

What I am pleased to discover is that although the small lot is packed, most of the vehicles belong to people fishing from the trails.  People in kayaks, canoes, and other water flotation devices, are few and far between.  There is no swimming allowed at this pond (though many do incognito), so none of us needs to worry about whacking errant humans while rowing.

 I kayak around the pond, ducking into the coves where there is no one but me and the turtles that sun themselves on the branches and rocks that jut out of the pond.  The entire open-water area of the pond is completely people-free, and it is easy to maneuver or just sit and drift.  The water is calm, the sky is bright blue, and the only cloud in the sky is a small tuft of white that looks like a tiny blemish on the wide expanse.

It takes about ninety minutes to complete the perimeter and row around a couple of small islands.  In the whole time, I only speak to three people when I pass them by.  As I prepare to pull the kayak out of the water, there are people struggling to get a canoe off a truck.  I haul my kayak up onto the ridge and have everything broken down and packed back into the car in less than four minutes, well before the gents finish unloading the canoe.  I am thrilled that the most people I run into today are coming and going at the water's edge and that I am quick enough not to be at their mercy to launch or take out.

Now, if the weather would just get under 90 degrees again (next two days, at least), I might consider going out once or twice more.

SOS FOR THE LOCAL NURSERY

I need some new plants for my patio.  I could go to the grocery store or to Home Depot, or I could go to a nearby, local, family-owned nursery.  I like supporting small businesses, and I've had fabulous luck with this nursery several times before. I haven't been here in a couple of years, but I do know that this is the best local nursery around.  The selection is amazing, or so I recall.

I double-check the hours online and arrive early on Saturday afternoon.  The first thing I notice is that I'm the only car in the lot.  I look around before heading to the plants and notice music playing, greenhouses accessible, and the "open" sign hanging out front.  But it's freakishly quiet.

I contemplate grabbing a cart, but I am a little creeped out by the silence around the place.  My eyes see many colorful plants, but I am concentrating on prices.  Not bad, not bad.  Plus, they're offering the "buy two, get one free" option.  I'm easily leaving here with six plants.

But, as I walk further and further through, the place is a wasteland.  No one is around. 

Finally, I get to the back edge of the nursery.  I see the owner and someone else (his wife?) planting small grasses into little pots.  They look up, see me, and ignore me.  I start thinking, I wonder if the place isn't really open.  But, truly, they should at least acknowledge my presence, perhaps even ask me if I need any help. 

I wander around a few more minutes and start crisscrossing the plants, trying to decide if I will bring my choice of six plants to the owner and ask if he wants my money or not.  This is when I take a closer look at the plants and notice that almost every one is withered, dried out, and abused.  Plant after plant after plant lies drying up and cringing from lack of water.  This seems crazy to me, especially since there is a hose at my feet.  I am tempted to pick it up, turn it on, and water the poor, dying greenery (brownery).  Instead, I continue walking slowly to my car (still no one approaches me), sit in the lot for a few minutes (still no one approaches me), then take off, shaking my head with disbelief.

What the hell is happening to this place?  What the hell is happening to customer service?  How did this wonderful business pinwheel into the chasm of crap?  If they treat everyone they way they treat me (or ignore me) and they way they treat (or ignore) their own plants, they're going to go out of business -- as well they should, and good riddance. 

BEACH DAY BEYOND THE LIMITS

I don't always enjoy going to the beach on weekends.  The small beach, usually dotted with people, is crammed on weekends.  The Fourth of July holiday weekends (before and after) are particularly crowded, especially during the house rental changeovers, because those arriving hurry to the beach after checking in, and those leaving lollygag at the beach after they've checked out.

For some reason, when I wake up Sunday morning I decide to go to the beach for a few hours.  I know it will be double the people, but the beach I go to is away from the madding crowds.  If I go early enough, I can be on my way home by the time most people are setting up at the beach for the Long Pre/Post-Rental Sit-In. Unfortunately, high tide is working against me.  The timing of the tide means that there will be limited exposed beach for a few hours.

I park in my usual spot, close enough to the bath house to walk to it, but far enough away that most families won't park here in case their kiddos need the bathroom.  I do have to compete with the local renters, though.  Thankfully, they're mostly families because this end of the beach isn't a hot spot for teenagers and young adults (no arcades, no bars, no nightlife).  This end of the beach is mostly surfers and die-hard wave jumpers.

After walking the small part of the beach that isn't still underwater from high tide, I plop my chair into an unoccupied spot on the beach.  I don't move even as more sand opens up with the receding tide.  I like my spot, and no one is near me.

Until ... because I am a flypaper for freaks ... a family sets up mere feet from me.  Then another.  And another.  Suddenly, my wide open spot is still wide open except for the nucleus.  I am now sitting in the center of lots of people while the rest of the beach remains open.  It's like they all see me, figure I must know THE BEST SPOT ON THE BEACH, and surround me.

One group sets up country music blasting to my left.  Another group sets up classic rock blasting to my right.  It's like they don't even realize they're next to each other nor that they are bothering other people on the beach.  This isn't Hampton Center or Salisbury Center, for crying out loud.  This isn't party freaking central. I breathe slowly, reminding myself that these are the Weekend People.  This is their holiday and vacation weekend, and many of them have to work in less than twenty-four hours.

Before it's even lunchtime, I am more than ready to leave.  I've been to the beach, I've walked in the sand, and I've been in the water.  I've also reached my aggravation limit for these Weekenders.  My sandy spot, like my parking spot, will be gobbled up in no time.

WHEN THE WORLD IS TELLING ME TO F*** OFF

Apparently I have a filthy mind.  Perhaps I just see dirty symbolism in everyday items.  Either way, I suspect that the universe is telling me to go f*** myself.

Twice in the last week I have been given the cosmic dick symbol. 

Not the middle finger, although my daughter's boyfriend does accidentally flip the bird in a zoo photo when his hand isn't quite done grasping the item he is holding.  Suddenly, we have a middle-finger photo bomb. Nope, this is not the same as the cosmic dick symbol.

I have been techno-phallus-ed two times in the last seven days.

The first time is when my daughter and I finally turn off of the Mass Turnpike/NY Thruway after driving for hours.  Well, it's not really the NY Thruway until we hit Schenectady, so I'm not sure what the No Man's Land of I-90 is between Stockbridge, MA., and Albany, NY.  (I can tell you it's the part with no rest areas and/or bathrooms.) 

We finally reach our exit in Schenectady when my daughter's gas light comes on in her car.  Directly across the street from our hotel is a gas station, so we pull in to get gas. The GPS totally freaks out on us and demands that we get back on the highway, then immediately pull off the highway and backtrack from whence we have already come.  This direction combined with the direction we just completed, creates a huge roundabout conundrum -- one which we have zero intention of fulfilling because our hotel IS DIRECTLY ACROSS THE STREET FROM WHERE WE ARE.

It's like the GPS is trying to screw with us.  Even worse, the directions create a giant phallus on the screen.  Yes, technology is trying to screw us right here in New York, like it senses we're from out of state and wants to mess with our minds.  "F*** you and drive around in this giant penis-like map structure, you little Massholes!"

Needless to say, we drive across the street to the hotel and leave the penis on the GPS while technology screams at us, "RECALCULATING!  RECALCULATING!" 

The second dick symbol arrives this morning on the projected weather radar map.  I'm up early trying to plan my activities.  For the first time in about seven days, we are finally getting a break from the heatwave.  This means thundershowers and downpours, but I have a day of shopping planned.  I am trying to figure out what time to hit which stores in order to avoid doing the longest walk to my parked car during the heaviest waterworks. 

I bring up the radar map on the computer in one tab while checking the opening times of stores in another tab.  I set the interactive radar to "Future" so it brings up the next five hours of projected storm activity.  I watch the radar images fly across the screen, indicating the worst of it should be around 11 a.m.  Fabulous!

But, as I'm about to shut everything down and get my day started, I notice the predicted storm activity exploding over the South Shore after it passes by my area.  And, by God, the storm track turns into a giant, colorful radar dick.  In other words, anyone in the storm's path is going to be totally and completely fucked.

You can judge these pictures for yourself.  Yes, I probably have a dirty, filthy, horrible mind.  But it sure does look like the universe is giving me the cosmic F*** OFF.  In the end, I win, though.  My daughter and I get to the hotel in NY without incident, and I only get a little drizzled on during thunderstorms today -- plus, almost everything is on sale or purchased with coupons and gift cards.  (My little way of dicking the universe right back, I suppose.)