KAYAKING SHENANIGANS

After visiting my brother's classroom and before s'mores and sangria, we decide there is enough time to pack up kayaks and head to Ausable Point, an area on Lake Champlain known to a few campers, some kite surfers, and the locals.  My brother's family has two tandem kayaks on trailers; my kayak breaks in half and travels in the back of their SUV.  It takes us about two minutes to decide to go kayaking and about ten minutes to pack everything up.

The parking lot at Ausable Point is blissfully quiet, just a few cars, and we are able to pull up relatively close to the beach to unload our gear.  From curbside to putting in at the water's edge, we are good to go in little time.

The Point is somewhat protected by a small break wall on its southern edge, but truly this is a gateway into Champlain.  The view is expansive, and the waves are rolling in at a decent clip.  The water is choppy, even near shore, so as we head out about two-tenths of a mile, we cannot go much further.  The kayaks are rolling over white caps, and we don't want to do anything too adventurous with my nephews along.

Besides, I just arrived here for my New York visit.  A trip to the hospital for stitches when my kayak smacks me in the head would probably put a damper on the rest of our weekend.  The beach is short width-wise but long length-wise, so we don't bother anyone when we beach the kayaks to take a break.

Of course, we are all about shenanigans, and this is when it all starts.

My nephews take turns in my single kayak, and I hop into one of the doubles.  We all switch off except my brother, who is suddenly tired and decides his best kayaking will be done stretched out on a blanket with a hat over his eyes. 

Suddenly, kayaking becomes a full contact sport (since no one is really supervising my sister-in-law, the boys, or me).  Kids are draped over the front of the tandem kayaks, splashing anyone who paddles by in my single kayak, or we're standing hip-deep in Lake Champlain pushing the kayaks away from shore with gleeful children whooping and hollering.  We are also playing bumper kayaks because we can.

Don't panic; we are staying close to shore -- far enough to be in about six feet of water, but close enough to avoid the choppy water that might prove too difficult for my young nephews.  We're nutty, but we're not crazy.

When it's time to pack everything up, we are exhausted from having so much dang fun in and on the lake.  My brother drives through the wooded area along the service tracks, getting the SUV and the trailer so close that we don't have to haul our gear very far.  This is a good thing because s'mores and sangria are calling (yelling, to be honest), and we are anxious to get on to the next shenanigans.

VACATIONING AT MIDDLE SCHOOL

What do middle school teachers do when they are on vacation?

If they're like me, they visit other middle schools.  That's right; I get out of school to go to other schools.

For example, that ramp I posted the diatribe about the other day?  It's for an elementary school but it's part of a middle school multiplex.  I had to drive all around the middle school to reach the ramp and view it from the middle school parking lot, so that means I actually did visit a middle school.

The real adventure, though, is going to visit one of my brothers and his family.  All I have to hear from them is that I might be able to attend a Curious George event at the local PBS station, and I am all over the visit.  But, my brother, who also teaches middle school, needs to haul some stuff to his classroom.  (Hmmmmm, who does THAT sound like?  GUILTY.)  So, we head to his middle school.

He actually lives across the street from the middle school.  He could spit from the school parking lot and it would land in his driveway.  He has a substantial amount of gear to haul, though, so we drive from his home parking spot to his teacher parking spot.

It takes about ten seconds.

I work in a relatively new facility.  My classroom has drywall, and we are not allowed to hang anything from the walls.  Nothing.  Not one damn thing.  My brother's classroom is older and still has the cinder block walls.  I touch the walls, run my hands over them, and tell him I am jealous.  Oh, to have fire-resistant, bullet-slowing walls again, walls onto which I may hang student work.

I also notice that he is coveting major amounts of supplies.  "Are these for your entire team?" I ask him.  No.  They are all his.  All of it.  Every last marker, pencil, glue stick, and leaf of paper.  He tells me that he has been hoarding supplies for years because sometimes it's impossible to get the stuff restocked.

Looks to me like he held up Staples.

I help him put out books and find homes for paper.  We check out his technology (a television hooked into a computer -- a bit old school but still far more efficient than my useless ENO board, which is a glorified overhead projector that doesn't even function because the pen is broken and the company is defunct).  I do a quick tour of the floor he is on, and I realize that the lockers are much bigger than the lockers in my newer school, and the student bathrooms have something that we do not have at our school: DOORS.

We don't stay too long, perhaps an hour or a little more.  It reminds me of all the things that I still have to do in my own classroom two hundred-plus miles away.  The weather is getting hotter -- it is due to be in the high 90's for the next three days when I return home.  This is when I can one-up my brother.  His school has fans and open windows; my school has conditioned air.  I won't be getting as sweaty as he will during this hot spell. No matter, though.  He can hop home and take a shower (on his lunch break, if need be).  I have to drive almost twenty minutes before I can even think about relaxing.

It's not a contest; it's just observational activity.  After all, what else would middle school teachers do during the long summer break if not drool over what other middle school teachers have and do.  We pack it up then head back to his car, which we take more time to open than it would had we just walked in the first place.

It's okay, though.  S'Mores and sangria will be awaiting us at some point, rewards for time spent in the classroom.

SOMETIMES I USE THE FACILITIES

Whenever I drive north on I-89, I stop at one (or both) of the rest areas.  No, it's not necessarily because I have to pee, although preventive bladder emptying is a smart idea when driving long distances.  I stop for the views.

Yes, the views ... outside of the facilities.

The first rest area is just north of Sunapee, NH, in Springfield.  Even if I don't need to stop, I stop.  I always stop because the view is impressive.  All of a sudden the highway gapes open, and visitors can see across the mountains.  The rest area, up on the hill, provides a great scenic vista.

The other rest area I like to stop at comes up relatively quickly after this one.  It's just over the Vermont border in Sharon.  Walking through the welcome center and straight out the other side leads to a memorial built for Vietnam War veterans.  It is, fascinatingly enough, the very first Vietnam veterans' memorial ever erected in the entire country.

Coming south there aren't many rest areas, but I think they've put in a few more.  As I pass one coming home from Burlington, I am happily surprised to see that there's a real building and a paved parking lot.  I don't stop, though.  Coming home is much more of a straight shot than going out, and I am counting the exits until I hook up with I-93 and familiar territory.

Heading north into the mountains is always wonderful.  Eyes wide, mouth open, I wonder why the hell I don't live up here.  I mean, I only really started going to the ocean when I was a teenager.  I've always been a woods and mountain gal since I was little.  Heading south toward home, though, is always depressing.  The land flattens out as does my mood.

Then I remember how much I like Boston and wonder how I could ever leave it.  (Of course, I'm fond of Burlington and Montreal, too, and when I'm in either place, I wonder how I'll ever leave those cities, as well.)  For now, though, I'll make the drive a couple of times a year, and I'll make my usual stops at the rest areas, treating them like the old friends they are.

Oh, yeah.  And sometimes I use the facilities, too.

SUBBING OUT THE SUB ROLLS FOR SUBS

My summer is ending, which is a bit of a shame and a relief all at the same time.  I have been going and going and going like the Energizer Bunny since school let out in late June.  Within hours of leaving my desk for the last time for the school year, I was on a road trip.  When I'm not on road trips, I am having company or tearing my house to shreds.

On my way to my second-to-last road trip for the summer, I tell my son that we will be having a quick and easy dinner.  I buy sandwich meat, potato salad, fresh tomatoes, and bakery sub rolls toasty from the store's oven.  I go home and throw together a caprese salad using basil from my patio garden, and I cook up the last of the bacon to add to our sub sandwiches for dinner.

Everything is all set to go.

I am still packing for my trip, and I've been working at school for six hours, plus I'm trying to get the dishwasher unloaded, the laundry folded, stuff ironed, directions for both ferry locations in case I decide to take one instead of the other, and there are a zillion little things that need to get done before I'm off for a weekend in the northern reaches of New York.

As soon as my son arrives home from work, I start with dinner, pulling out the regular white butter bread.  I proceed to make two perfect club sandwiches on regular bread, serve the caprese salad, and then clean up after dinner.

This is when I turn around to see ... the bag of fresh bakery-made sub rolls sitting untouched on the counter.  Damnit.  I mean, didn't I say we were having SUBS?  Wasn't that the whole point of the exercise?

Now I feel like a moron. Oh, well.  We'll use those sub rolls soon, anyway.

I turn my attention back to the table, clearing away things like balsamic vinaigrette dressing.  As I open the refrigerator, I see a container: Potato salad.  I totally spaced out and forgot to put out the potato salad.

Now I feel like a gigantic stupid idiot moron.

The bad news is that I make sandwiches for dinner instead of subs.  The good news is that I'll be back in two more days, so, with any luck at all, there will still be enough sandwich meat to make REAL subs.

RAMPING UP OVER THE RAMP

I am not in the habit of being unnecessarily critical (okay, STOP LAUGHING), but a local elementary school is building a ramp for disabled students and visitors that looks more like a thrill ride at am amusement park.  Now, I cannot be absolutely positive about the whole thing because, with a week before school is set to start, the ramp is not finished, and the entire construction zone is cordoned off to trespassers (also known as "taxpayers").

First of all, the ramp is about the length of the Titanic with a slope that rivals an Olympic ski jump launch.  It appears from what the common man can see that the ramp twists and turns at a severe downgrade.  If anyone remembers the Speilberg movie Duel with the evil run-amok eighteen-wheeler, I envision wheelchairs careening down the ramp to their inevitable crash-end, a triumphant Dennis Weaver jumping up and down at the top and raising his fists in victory.

Second of all, there does not appear to be any scoring marks in the concrete, so, in the case of rain or ice or snow, unlike the postal delivery, your disabled victim will not always be delivered safely.  Can you even imagine an electric wheelchair hitting the ice and just going ... and going ...  Or what about crutches?  I had crutches during the worst icy winter we've had in decades.  My crutches needed ice-climbing spikes (which I doubt had been invented then, if they even have been yet), and that was just with a short but sloped driveway.

Thirdly, this ramp is long, so long that by the time someone on crutches makes it down to the field, gym class or recess would be long over.  And getting back up the ramp?  Who is pushing here?  The school will have to hire power-lifters or those strongmen/strongwomen competitors just to get kids down and back before the end of school.

Lastly, the ramp has smooth, wide walls that only come up about three feet.  This, my friends will be a skateboarder's and/or inline skater's idea of Disney World.  There will be wax all over the edges of that ramp's walls before the concrete has completely set.

Okay, okay.  It seems like I'm being a overly critical and somewhat picayune.  Not true.

For a while, one of my sisters needed a wheelchair when she had a bad break in her leg.  I also had an uncle whose progressive Multiple Sclerosis required a wheelchair.  Our house (at the time) had steep walkways in the front and back to get into the house.  Yes, we pushed them both -- my sister and my uncle -- so they could enter our house.  When I tell you it's damn tough work pushing a wheelchair up a lengthy ramp, I'm speaking from experience.

It is my understanding that this mega-ramp isn't just for disabled children and adults, and that there will be slides and other "fun" things added into it.  Between the ramp's length, design, lack of safety features, low wall, "fun" features, and its rather tedious grade, I'm not holding out high hopes for a successful application.

But, hey, I have yet to see the entire ramp once the construction blockade has been lifted.  Furthermore, I really HAVE been wrong before; once or twice, possibly, but I do believe that it has happened.  I really and sincerely hope that I am wrong about this ramp.

SEE THE SEA DOGS

I'm at a minor league baseball game when pro sports break out.

First of all, the minor league teams playing are both teams for whom I root: New Hampshire Fisher Cats and Portland Sea Dogs.  The last time I saw them play each other was in New Hampshire, when Sea Dog Mookie Betts embarrassed the hometown boys until rain forced the game to a merciful end at something like 18-0.  The following week, Betts was called up to the Red Sox, and he has been there ever since.

This time I am in Portland at Hadlock Field, home of the homerun lighthouse, mascot Slugger, and the unrivaled Sea Dog biscuits (ice cream stuffed between two chocolate chip cookies).  Tonight there are two MLB players rehabbing, both pitchers, both starting: Eduardo Rodriguez from the Red Sox (starting pitcher for the Sea Dogs) and Aaron Sanchez from the Toronto Blue Jays (starting pitcher for the Fisher Cats). As if that's not enough major league sports, the first pitch tonight is being thrown out by Boston Bruin Kevan Miller.

I love going to a minor league sporting event and having major league sports break out.  Not only is it fun for fans to be so up close and personal with these players, but it's also a reminder to the players on the field and to the little kids in the stands (and maybe even to all of us, young and old): Dream BIG because dreams really can and do come true.

I WILL HUNT YOU DOWN ... LOVE, MOM

Sometimes (not every day) I like to have tea with honey in it.  During decent weather, I like to take my tea outside and sip it on the patio.  I could use sugar in my tea, as I occasionally do, but honey is my first choice, so I try to keep honey on hand at all times.

I usually get stuck with store-bought honey, but I much prefer buying honey from local beekeepers at fairs and farm stands.  Local honey helps cure a lot of what ails people, and it's especially good for relieving allergies - well, easing them, not curing them.  But, for now, since I haven't been to the farmer's market or any local farm stands in a while, I am stuck with good old manufactured (probably semi-fake) honey from some gawd-forsaken distance, like Argentina.

I am really looking forward to my morning tea on the patio, so I grab a my Shakespearean insults mug,  steep some Constant Comment tea, and open the cabinet for honey.

NO HONEY.

I cannot even believe my eyes.  Did I already take it out of the cabinet?  I search the kitchen.  I retrace my steps.  I even check out the other rooms: den, living room, bedrooms, even the bathroom.  Then I start checking every other cabinet, including where I store the plates.  Did I absently put it into the refrigerator?  The freezer? 

I recheck the cabinet where it belongs.  I take things out and put things back when I determine there is no honey.  I do this three times then reopen the cabinet four more times as if my eyes cannot believe what they are seeing.  There is only an empty spot where the honey belongs, regardless of how many times I look and re-look.

Still ... NO HONEY.

Finally, I text my youngest, who still lives here most of the time.  "Kid, I know this is a strange question, but have you seen the honey?"  I know this is stupid.  He probably hasn't opened that cabinet in a year or more.

My phone sits silent for a few minutes then vibrates to life.  "I brought it to work.  My throat was sore so I used it in tea."

Damn.  Well, damn, yes, but damn no.  I mean, I guess I cannot fault him for using the honey, but, geez, did he have to take it?  That's MY honey.

I suffer through with tea and sugar (bah ... sugar ... boring), add honey to my shopping list, and continue on with my day.  I'm going to Maine in a few days, anyway, and I know my sister (whom I will visit) has honey.  I'll stop at the berry farm up the street from her house.  A local beekeeper uses the berry farm as a distributor for honey; hopefully, there will be some honey for sale..

Local honey?  Well, not local to where I live, but I've practically lived up here in Maine this summer, anyway.  Surely I am local-by-proxy at this point.  I buy a jar of local honey and wrap it up tightly in the bag to bring it home with me.

I can finally have my tea with honey on the patio.  I'm not going to lie, though.  I'm seriously thinking of putting a sign on it: Take this honey to work and I will hunt you down and sting you with the anger of a thousand truly pissed off bees.  With all of my love, Mom.

WISHFUL THINKING DESK

It's that time of year again.  Time to set up my classroom.  Finally I can haul all the crap out of my den and to school: files, materials, toys, books, and various other stuff that has been accumulating since the end of June.

Just when I think I'll get something accomplished, the janitorial staff informs me that I cannot have anything on top of my classroom storage closet because it is illegal to have anything within eighteen inches of the ceiling.  Of course, I have old text books and leftover curriculum from another teacher all stored up there. Apparently, I am shuffling old crap around today rather than dealing with the booty I brought in from home.

I've been at school for less than three minutes of this new school year, and already I am falling behind.  How is this even possible?

I tackle the top of the closet first.  Much as I hate to have more useless crap around my room, I'm going to have to find homes for thirty out-dated grammar/writing text books and twenty giant dictionaries (I haul ten more down to the teachers' room with an adoption sign).  I decide to shove them all onto a rolling cart and use the top of the cart for my hall passes and pencil sharpener.

There.  Books out of sight; books out of mind.

I spread the rest of the crap out across the top of the closet.  Oh, well.  It's probably fourteen inches from the ceiling, not eighteen.  Maybe it is eighteen - I don't know because I'm too short to measure it, and I'm balancing in my bare feet on a rickety student desk.

The rest of my limited time at school, I rearrange desks and fix a bookshelf that was accidentally wrecked during summer cleaning.  I put one desk near plugs to use as a charging station for ChromeBooks.  Coincidentally, this desk faces outside, like the Wishful Thinking Desk: Anyone who sits there wishes he or she were outside instead of being stuck inside listening to me (myself included).

As I lock my door to leave, pulling it shut behind me until it clicks, I look down the hallway.  Standing ten feet away is the head maintenance guy for the entire district along with the fire marshal and his assistant.  The fire marshal is carrying a clipboard.  I know why he is here; he is here to measure the top of my closet and issue citations for my junky collection of leftover shit. I apologize but leave the locked door behind me, forcing the maintenance staff to open everything back up, then I slip out of the building before anyone can tell me to do more work on the closet top.

The next day I return for two quick hours.  I run into the maintenance guy again, so I ask him, "How did our fire inspection go?"  He tells me that we passed with flying colors.  Good.  Maybe next time I can get some of my own work done instead of sorting and manipulating extra stuff that I will never, ever use again in my lifetime.

Looks like a few hours into my year, I'm the one needing the Wishful Thinking Desk... already.

MINIMALIST CAMPING ROOTS

Tired of rifling through files and shredding, I turn my attention back to the basement.  Thank goodness I have already cleaned out most of the stuff down there.  I had to have the junk men come and haul a bunch of it away after hauling it all myself up to my patio, so all that is left are odds and ends and sports equipment.

I do have some camping gear there.  The last time I went camping was probably before I had kids,  definitely no later than when my two oldest were little.  I am a minimalist camper.  I tend to cook on the fire, and I use disposable everything: foil pans that can go into the fire pit after use, paper plates that burn, paper cups, etc.  I like to be as compact a camper as possible. 

Camping with children is the antithesis of minimalism.  You have to pack extra food and snacks and toys and games and extra clothes and bikes and hand-held video games and ...  It got to the point where staying in a motel near campsites where friends were camping became a much better deal than actually camping.  Plus, damnit, every time I go camping, EVERY single time, it rains.  So, being stuck inside a damp tent with damp children kind of took the fun out it all.

The basement, however, is reigniting my love of being outside.  I know, a bit of irony -- being inside makes me love being outside, yet I'm not outside, I'm inside.  First I stumble across a dusty box that says "camping stuff."  I open it up and find a small, portable charcoal grill and three mess kits.  One mess kit is more of a messed-up kit, so I toss it into the garbage, but the other two mess kits are perfectly acceptable, plus one still has the cutlery with it.

I start to wonder if I still have my dome tent (I do), but I seem to recall that one of the poles had an issue with it.  I wonder if duct tape would fix that.  Also, I've lent the tent out a few times in the past two decades, and I've never bothered with it since.  Maybe someone returned it wet and it's all mildewed.

Might as well tear it open and see.

What I find is a clean, dry tent.  It smells a little dusty from lack of use, but that's not unusual for tents.  I check to make sure the poles are all there (all three of them), then I decide I need to set the thing up.

A practical person would take the tent outside and set it up on a lawn or in the driveway. I am not a practical person. Instead, I move some furniture in my already-too-small den (which also has stuff heading back to work with me), and I decide to set up the dome tent right there.  It may not be the best decision, but I do manage to get the tent laid out on the floor, correct sides down and up.

But, wait.  It has been at least twenty years since I set up this tent.  I start doubting myself.  What do I do after getting the poles fed through?  Is it really that simple?  So, I Google how to set up a dome tent, and, by gawd, it really is that simple.  Within minutes, my tent is up in the tiny space, and the tent is much bigger than I remember it being.  Surprisingly, no parts are broken or missing.

I should probably invest in a better bedroll before I go anywhere, and the sleeping bags definitely need to hit the industrial washing machine, but right now, I think I'm good to go.  Of course, my sister teases me when I send her the pictures, wondering if I'm expecting Armageddon with the tent in the house.  Nope, just camping.  Suddenly, I am expecting camping, and I am reasonably ready to get back to my minimalist roots.

CHASING THE STORM ... SORT OF

Anyone who knows me (my children included) knows that I am not a fan of thunderstorms.  There are three places I do not like to be during a storm:  in a house, in a quiet building with lots of windows (like a school), or outside.  I cannot sleep when there are storms during the night, and I am not a fan of sitting through several microburst storms that have passed over my townhouse in the last decade, first taking down one giant tree then another mere feet from the siding of the house (and yes, tearing off multiple shingles from the roof in the process).

But, in true conundrum form, I love to be in noisy buildings (white noise or real noise like music) with big windows during storms, and I really, really like to drive into storms.  Yes, I don't want to be inside or outside with storms, but the in between of being inside a moving vehicle apparently is somehow exactly the way I prefer to experience a storm.

I'm not dumb, though.  If a storm has a tornado associated with it, I'm reasonably smart enough to seek shelter and cover my ass.  We seem to be getting more and more of those.  Do I trust the forecasters?  No, not really.  But I have amateur working knowledge of radar maps and also pay attention to things like the sounds outside.  For example, if there's thunder in the distance but the birds are still chirping, don't bother coming in the house because the storm isn't coming this way.  However, if the birds suddenly go silent (even if the thunder isn't audible yet), get your ass into the storm cellar (if you have one).


So in the early afternoon when I hear the constant, distant roar of thunder without any let-up, I take a quick look at the radar map and see absolute freaking mayhem coming my way.  Tornado warnings are up, and the woman with whom I am on the phone chatting can hear the same thunder I'm hearing two towns away (and she is six towns away from where the real action is happening at that moment).  I could hunker down in my house (with the microburst history, I'm thinking maybe not), I could drive into the storm (and become Dorothy on her way to Oz), or I could outrun the storm, sit on the edge of it, and watch it roll through, which is what I decide to do.

I drive about five miles south, where the radar claims the storms will not come, and I park my car in a strip mall parking lot.  However, the radar lies.  The storm is monstrous, and the lightning is so close that I don't even want my car in the open with all the other cars.  We will be like a giant electricity-charged Whack-a-Mole game.  I start driving further south about three miles and pull into another parking lot.  I face the storm, raise the camera, and ....

HOLY CRAP.  There's lightning everywhere, and the giant bolts fracture the sky.  I don't even want to stop to take a picture.  I have to get my damn ass outta here.  I have the radar up on my mobile phone like some kind of idiot storm chaser, only this time I'm not driving into it; it's simply too much red all over the map, and it is starting to show small hook shapes which indicate rotation.  Again, I'm a fan of emeralds, but I don't need to go visit the wizard in any green, sparkling city.

I head south, keeping an eye to the wall of destruction heading by on its rampage toward the coast.  In front of me the sky is gray and white; behind me the sky is black and blue, bruised by the madness.  I drive slightly further than I probably need to, but I am searching for a decent vantage point with easy access back to the main road via a traffic light.  I pull in, park, and watch all Hell break loose north of my position.  The storm is easily thirty miles wide and racing with anger across the sky.

(Later radar = Dog storm?)

I don't get a chance to photograph any lightning because in my attempt to get a better viewing position to the south, the storm has curled around and circled east only, making no further movement in my direction.  What I do get to see, though, is the edge of the storm, the front line (the actual one) that separates the massive red radar splotch with the simpler, calmer green indicating mere rain.  I briefly consider chasing the storm to the east, but it's time for the afternoon commute, and there's an accident backing up at least one way home.

As payback for my storm chasing hubris, a couple of more lines of thunderstorms roll through the rest of the night, keeping me from a deep sleep until about three o-clock in the morning.  Another round rolls through the next afternoon, but it's not really noteworthy.

It's only a little past midsummer, though, and we still have hurricane season coming.  I'm sure I'll get another shot at some photos.  It's a reasonably easy process: I just have to watch the radar and have my car keys handy.

NOT TOO DAMN EARLY

It has been a while since I wrote a poem:
I've been too busy cleaning out my home
And getting ready to go back to work
While shredding files 'til machine goes beserk;
Weeding out junk to make my life lean,
Seeing all the places that aren't very clean,
Chasing dust bunnies across the floor
Then getting back to it and sorting some more;
Going through thousands of paper-filled files,
Dumping everything into separate piles;
Pruning out books that I really don't need
But stopping because now I've something to read;
Thinking I'm done with the clothes in the bags
(Yes, several items were still boasting tags)
Until I open another full drawer
And realize that I can donate some more.
Purging my life is making me crazy -
Prosecco at noon will not make me lazy.

TYPEWRITING MANIA

(I wrote the bottom sentiment.)

I'm minding my own damn business while scrolling through my usual social media outlets when I happen to fall across notification for an upcoming event: Typewriter Fair at the Museum of Printing.

Museum of Printing?  Really?  Even greater, the place is relatively near to my house.  I didn't even know such a wondrous place existed.  Even more shameful, it has been around for a long, long time and used to be even closer to my house before it moved to its new location.

All this time, this wonderful gem has been within reach, and I have been blissfully ignorant.

I cannot even believe my good fortune in stumbling across this event.  (I have since started following the Museum of Printing so I will never miss such events ever again!)  I am a typewriter fanatic.  I taught myself how to two-finger type (okay, so more like four fingers) at an early age first playing with the old non-electric typewriter then graduating to a Smith-Corona that my dad set up in the attic office.  By the time I got to junior high typing class, it was too late to teach me the correct way to type.  (That and the fact that they put me into a class with no typewriter for me, so I dropped the class.  Hard to type without a machine.)

The museum has printing presses and composing machines and typesetters and bindery items and early computers and books and artifacts and mimeographs and all kind of wicked cool stuff in addition to typewriters.  But today, the day of the Typewriter Fair, it's the Holy Freaking Grail.  Not only are there a slew of typewriters to try, there are a slew of them for sale, as well.

Yes, for sale.  Even ... even ... wait for it ... the exact model of Smith-Corona typewriter on which I taught myself to type. Thank goodness I had the brains and foresight to remove the credit card from my wallet before I left the house.  Otherwise, I would be out $145 and I'd be the proud owner of a typewriter that I do not need (but really, really want).

Look, I'm a reasonable person most of the time, but we're talking typewriters here.  Typewriters are to writers what crack is to addicts -- we don't care about the effects of our addiction.  Even now, well after the fact, I am jonesing for that Smith-Corona against all reason and common sense.  Oh, sure, I could buy it; I can afford it.  But, people -- I am trying to purge useless things and extras from my life.  I DO NOT NEED TO ADD A TYPEWRITER TO THE MIX (especially since I am still holding on to an old computer because I like the old MS Works operating system that's on it).

The good news is: I do not buy the Smith-Corona, but I do type on it a couple of times.  The bad news is: There's another event coming up at the Museum of Printing (which, mercifully, is only open one day a week) in a couple of weeks.  It's a printing fair where visitors will get to use letter presses and "talk to old printers."

What?!  Talk to old printers?!  Dudes!  I am soooooooo going.  Maybe my typewriter will still be there.  (Someone remind me to hide my credit cards before I leave the house.)

ALMOST TEA TIME!

In addition to getting my house in order, I have a bunch of school stuff that I brought home for summer organization, plus I have a bunch of school-related stuff that I've siphoned from my home files --  all of which must go to school with me in two weeks.  I keep the ever-growing pile in the den, clearly visible to anyone who opens my front door.  It's organized, though, almost brutally so.  I have been ruthless this summer, and my school files are not unscathed.

The piles going to school are not all business, though.  I've cleared out several old tins and several canisters from Yahtzee games that are intended to "mix up the dice" before players roll the dice onto the table.  We rarely use those containers, so ... BOOM ... into the Maybe Someone Can Use This Shit at Work pile.  I'm also bringing some stuffed animals to school, ones I couldn't bring myself to part with: Scooby Doo, Simba from The Lion King, and a stuffed lizard that is heavy enough to act as a paperweight.

I'm prepping for the back-to-school team meetings, as well.  My team likes to have tea and act civil and civilized.  I am stocking up on important things, like tea and stirrers and sugar packets.  I still need the flavored green teas, napkins, honey, and hot cups.  We used to have tea in the afternoon like Brits, but now our meetings will be first thing in the morning.  This new tea-in-the-morning routine is going to put a huge damper on my daily iced coffees.

Not that I am against being a two-fisted drinker; done it before and will do it again, I'm sure, but two-fisting iced coffee and hot tea may not be the wisest daily combination when I'm already a bit of a whirling dervish.

Time for this whirling dervish to drag everything to school and get myself prepped for a new year.  Thank goodness for my sudden burst of organizational craziness.  Thank goodness for coffee ... and tea ... and more coffee ... and more tea ... and for the girls' bathroom right across the hall from my classroom.

STILL TACKLING THE MESS

Two more days into the mess-tackling, and I must be up to day number twenty or so of this process.  I started in July, ignorantly believing this would be a few days of work.  Instead, here I am in August, still putting hours every week into the process.

I'm not losing any sleep over this (nor much fun time), but I have sacrificed several days, a few evenings, some very late nights/early mornings, and a few sunny days to work through this.  The main reason why it is taking so long is because I am determined to sort and file EVERYTHING into its proper place, even if that means moving that proper place around a dozen times.

These two days involve my craft stash and the games.  The craft stash includes all of my sewing stuff, knitting stuff (and crochet hooks from when I remembered how to do that, and hooks for rug-making from another lifetime), needlepoint stuff (I used to cross stitch?  really?  I had totally forgotten until I find some of my final projects), paints, clay, fabric dye, floral supplies, and lots and lots and lots of glitter.  There are pompoms and feathers and pipe cleaners.  My craft stash looks like some craft store's back room.  Add to it my daughter's bead stash from her teenage years, and I'm sorting, repacking, and purging endlessly.  The beads alone take three hours, but it gets done and it gets organized.

Also, the craft stuff includes holiday items, like gift bags and tissue paper and ribbons and bows and roll after roll of wrapping paper.  Yes, that crap has to get organized, as well.  It's not enough to find it all a new hiding spots; I need to weed out crappier crap from my horde of not-so-crappy crap.  Then, the crappy-crap has to go into the Ultimate Crap Pile while the mere crap has to be found homes within my home.

When that is all done, I decide that my pajamas should be next.  Amazing.  I have completely forgotten about one drawer and come across t-shirts.  Yes, I am guilty -- guilty of having enough t-shirts to open an Army-Navy store ... except most of my military tees are Marines, so I guess Army-Navy wouldn't work.  Most of these t-shirts are leftovers from my kids' sports days -- clothing I pilfered from their "toss away" piles years ago.  Three more bags go out to the car for donation.

Then I attack the games.  I have a lot of games.  We are a game-oriented family and always have been.  Cards, board games, electronic games, puzzles, trivia games, and enough Lego to open my own version of Lego Land.  We also have a poker chip set that could probably support tournament play.  I throw away games that are incomplete or broken, and I break down the wasteful boxes of other games.  I am determined to make my life simpler and more compact, so any game box that isn't packed to its capacity becomes a game in a bag while its cardboard container gets recycled.

Finally, I am done ... for today.  NOT "done" done; I'm at a stopping point for now. 

I am quite certain that you wonderful readers are as sick of hearing about my purging and reorganizing as I am doing this.  However, you really are my best motivators.  If I am honest with my audience, I'll have no choice but to see it through.  Besides, I don't want any of you watching me on television as the star of "Hoarders."  Bear with me a little longer -- We really are making significant progress, team.  Don't abandon me now -- plus, I'm sure I can probably throw in a (used) random sports shirt for your efforts.

TACKLING THE MESS

I am tearing my house apart.

This is no easy task as I live in the three-story townhouse that is packed with stuff I have been collecting off and on while raising three children.  Some of the stuff I've already attacked, for example a lot of the clothes went last summer, and the basement is well on its way from about eighteen months ago's purge.

I start with paperwork (which ends up taking days and still isn't quite done).  I finally have to stop after I have overfilled my recycle bins plus filled two trash bags with shredding.  After four days, the shredder craps out; it needs a rest, so I leave it be for about thirty-six hours then it miraculously returns to life.

Needing a break from shredding and tossing paper, I hit the closet again.  This time, I fill my car's trunk with bags of clothes to donate.  Where did I get all of these clothes?!  Funny for someone who keeps wearing the same stuff over and over again.  My loss will be some thinner person's gain.  Face it -- I'm NEVER losing that extra thirty pounds.  NEVER.

The worst part about this whole purging/reorganization project, other than the fact that it is taking weeks rather than days, is that it looks like freaking mayhem all around my house.  No, I cannot do one pile at a time because one pile leads to another and then another, so I start piling piles on top of other piles.  It ALL has to be done at the same time, so my townhouse now looks like a tornado hit a hoarder's house and made it even worse than it was.

Oh, and I simply must move around the furniture.  That's a given.  Adding to the piles on top of piles of stuff, I now have drawers of stuff everywhere so I can move the furniture by myself.  It's an absolute shit-show.

The best part about this whole purging/reorganizing project is that I am getting rid of so much crap that I almost cannot even believe I ever had this much stuff in here.  Oh, and it's also fabulous that I've turned the halfway point.  Yes, there is still mayhem, but I am starting to see progress in a big way.  I might be done by the end of summer, and I might not, but at least now this place is almost tolerable.

Almost.  I still have the games and sports equipment to tackle.

BEST DAY EVER ... AGAIN AND AGAIN

Every time I visit my sister in Maine, we always say the same thing: "This is the best day ever!"  At the time (every time), we sincerely mean it.  I've spent a lot of time with her over the last few years between weddings and birthdays and holidays and medical appointments where someone has to drive, vacations, general family business, and just general mayhem.  I don't like her any more than my brothers, particularly, but she lives close enough to me that I can make a day trip to her house without blinking an eye.  Also, she and I were close growing up -- we shared a bedroom for many years, and, of course, we'd play games, she'd win, I'd cry, then we'd beat each other up.

Yes, very close.

My most recent trek to Maine is so that we can work on wedding stuff.  One of her daughters is getting married, and we need to make a run to the craft store and create some prototypes with her printer.  Plus, it has been over 90 degrees every damn day for about a week, with humidity levels that rival the rain forest, and she has a pool.  Volunteering to drive to her house is an absolute no-brainer.

My sister is expecting me to show up, help her out, then leave.  I, of course have other plans.

I have a collection of pool/water fun stuff from when my kids were young.  It's a small collection, but I pull out the bin every once in a while.  Today is the day.  Before I drive to Maine, I pack up my stuff: a towel, my bathing suit, sunscreen, flip-flops, and ... goggles and pool toys.  Yup, I bring a weighted shark to throw around that we must dive under the water to retrieve.  I bring goggles to go underwater so I can chase her as she attempts to get away from me in her little floating peacefulness, maybe even flipping her over into the water.  I also bring squeeze toys that shoot water.

Before we hit the pool, we must do our required errands.  At the craft store she is quite serious about things we need to accomplish -- necessary wedding-type chores.  I, on the other hand, start searching for other distractions.  My sister kind of ignores me as I wander off and back, and I volunteer to carry everything so that maybe she won't look at the booty I've stashed along with the important stuff.

When we get to the registers, she is shocked to see what I'm buying, you know, in case we have time to be silly.  Best of all, if we're not silly today, we will be silly some other time in the near future.  I buy everything on sale, plus I get to use a coupon.  My sister leaves the store with her wedding items.  I leave the store with: Silly Putty (the genuine stuff), Barrel Full of Monkeys (fake version), encapsulated animals that grow in water (I tear off the outside and toss the packaging so we have no idea what will appear), and ... the family staple ... FART PUTTY.

Unloading the stuff at my sister's house, I run to my car for a moment.  You see, I went to the craft store the other day myself, and I have a surprise gift for my sister that I found on sale: Wedding napkins that say "Best Day Ever" because it is.  It always is.  We run the prototypes, we use the napkins with our lunch, and we swim for two hours (yes, I do terrorize her and dump her into the water).  We don't get to the Silly Putty, Barrel Full of Monkeys, nor the encapsulated animals, but we master that Fart Putty like it's nobody's business.

When the whole family gets together for the wedding and my crazy brothers arrive, it will be the Bestest Best Day Ever.  I hear there's a pool where we're headed, so the shark and pool toys might come along for the ride.  Maybe I should bring the Fart Putty to the wedding.  This is why every time I go to Maine (coincidentally the location of the wedding but much farther north) it really is The Best Day Ever. 

HAND ME SOME SCISSORS

Clothing tags.  Annoying as hell, right?  Imagine the excitement of discovering that your shirts now have a stamped "tag" instead of a real tag sticking out and attacking your neck.  Awesome.  Right?

Except there ARE tags, even on these stamped shirts.  The tags are on the left side, stitched into the seam just above waist level.  Yes, instead of tags annoying the hell out of your neckline, there are tags annoying the hell out of your rib cage.

Enough about your shirts.  Let's talk about my shirts because my shirts have these side tags, and I am sick of it.  I am tired of putting on a shirt and discovering what feels like spiders crawling along my bare skin.  Most of the time this means tearing the shirt off over my head, throwing it onto a table, and grabbing scissors in a fit of rage.  I usually have to try and control myself because if I attack the tag without my glasses, I'm liable to cut a hole into the shirt, and then I have another problem.

This solution, however, is not feasible if I notice the tag while at work.  I cannot exactly rip off my shirt in the middle of teaching and cut off tags in an angry tirade.  Well, I suppose I could but not if I want to continue working.  I have been known, though, to take the scissors into the bathroom with me, turn my shirt up, and cut the tags off while I'm still in the clothing, risking serious injury and possibly giving myself unnecessary and impromptu stomach surgery.

The other day I am packing up to leave for a fun day in Maine.  Suddenly, I notice a horrid pinching and itching in my left side.  Damnation.  I know what it is.  I grab my glasses and scissors before I even look.  I pull off my top (it's okay -- I have a sports bra on and the shades are pulled) and start sawing away at the tags.

It's annoying, it's unnecessary, and it's wasteful.  Whatever that tag needs to say, just stamp it on the shirt like you do with the size and production information near the collar.  That's what I think about my shirts, anyway.  What you do with your shirt tags is entirely up to you.  Just don't send me a hand-me-down with the tags still attached to the inside of the clothing or I'll know there's something sensory-related wrong with you. (Not me.  Nope.  I'm not obsessed.  Not at all.  Hand me some scissors.)

BAD MEDICAL READING

I have two appointments in the same day.  One is medical and one is dental.

My first appointment is for my annual mammogram.  I am sitting in the waiting room, waiting and waiting and waiting... reading magazines.  All they have for magazines is one magazine for pilots and about fifty medical magazines.  As I wait forty minutes, I go through a lot of the medical magazines, but they are more like medical journals. Each issue is more gruesome than the one before with tales of procedures and disasters and death and horror.

Why on earth they have these out for public reading is a mystery.  It isn't until after I've read the last one that a technician pops her head out and says, "Are you waiting for someone?"  Yes.  YOU.  Ooops.  Seems they lost my paperwork, so I have been waiting and reading for nothing.  So sorry I am making you all late to lunch, but I'm NOT leaving until YOU SQUISH MY BOOBS!

Hmmmmmm. That may not have been exactly the right thing to say when someone you're holding up from lunch is about to put your chest into a vise.

My appointment later is equally annoying; I'm having a permanent crown attached to a tooth.  There is good news, though.  I arrive early, prepared to sit and read more magazines of horror and dental disasters.  Instead, they have real magazines, ones worth reading.  However, it seems these people actually want to get to dinner.  I am in and out of the dentist's chair and back at my car by the exact time of my scheduled appointment.

I guess this means that I've had a semi-successful day in both my reading materials and my bodily materials.  I've also learned two important lessons: Do NOT make two semi-painful appointments for the same day, and bring MY OWN reading material next time.

ROCKS AND AN AGING HIPPY

My friend is selling her house.

This is a great thing except for the rocks.  Yes, rocks. There are tons of beach rocks edging her garden and her home.  How do I know there are tons?  Because we carried every last one of those rocks home from the beach.

Oh, shut up. 

Don't go getting all environmentally prude on me.  We hauled them from a rocky beach that deposits so many rocks along its high-water mark that no one can actually walk or sit there because of the pebbles and stones.  Most people brush them away or toss them back into the ocean.  Next day ... boom ... the rocks are back with more of their friends.  At this beach the rocks are like Star Trek Tribbles.

Besides, we moved those rocks over time.  Years, actually.   It's not like we wiped the freaking beach clean of rocks.  There are still hundreds of thousands of rocks there.

Once when we were bringing a bag of rocks (they're heavy so you cannot haul too many at once) to the car, a wrinkly old cigarette-smoking woman in a sagging bikini started screaming at us for stealing the rocks.  After her tirade, she tossed her still-lit cigarette butt right onto the sand where people sit and children walk.

Yes, because taking a dozen rocks out of hundreds of thousands is sooooo much worse for the environment than polluting it with trash and cigarette filters. 

Doh.

I'll let the rocks go along with the house when it sells.  Those rocks bring lots of memories, and, much as I'd like to bring them all home because they connect with such great times at the beach, I don't want to be accused of stealing again or have any more decrepit hippies throwing lit tobacco my way. 

AN EXHAUSTIVE JAM

I have officially exhausted myself.

Too much sorting and filing and purging and closet-cleaning and furniture-rearranging and bad sleeping and eating too much take-out food has finally caught up to me.  Last night and again this morning I am damned with a stomach ache and nausea.

Bah.  Humbug.  It's summer.  The day is beautiful.  Crap on a cracker. Well, I suppose it's time for a little self-TLC.

I decide to make myself some Constant Comment tea and a little toast.  I am thinking about adding jelly to the toast, but then I realize that I have two jars of interesting possibilities: Maine blueberry jam and Maine strawberry-rhubarb preserves.  Great -- now I can't decide.  I toast up a piece of bread while debating which jar (both unopened as of yet) gets to be unsealed. This is not going to be easy.  They are both very tempting or else I wouldn't even have them in my house in the first place.

Even a round of Eeny-meeny-miney-moe doesn't help.  (Did I mention that I've exhausted myself?)  Instead, I decide to cut the toast in half and have both.  Yes, yes I do.  I can have my jam and eat my preserves, too, if I want to.  I take my breakfast out to the patio and eat my wonderful toast in alternating bites until I decide that the blueberry jam should be finished first because the preserves are more appealing this morning, so I'm saving them for last.

As I'm finishing my breakfast and sipping my tea, I notice that the neighbor's trees have dumped whirlygigs and leaves all over my patio.  I grab the outdoor broom and ... so much for being exhausted.  Now that I'm full of fruit and a beverage, I suppose it's time to rally and get back to working on this house.

SOMEONE HAS TO EARN WINE TIME

Filing.  I HATE IT.  Ironically, my first full-time job was as a file clerk.  Did I mention that I HATE FILING?

I need to get myself organized.  I'm not a hoarder, per se, but I am afflicted with that old New England/Yankee syndrome called, "But What If I Need This Someday?"  It's a ridiculous affliction that bites New Englanders in our fat asses the moment we decide to toss something out.  Yup, even if we have owned some useless piece of crap for thirty years and never used it, the day after the trash collectors come will be THE DAY that we wish we had the exact item we just finally tossed.

In other words, this is all a very, very slow process.

I have the following areas of But What If I need This Someday Syndrome:
* my personal files
* my writing files
* my school files
* sewing/mending that needs to be done
* old family photos and documents I inherited
* my basement

To be honest and in the case of full disclosure, I have made some headway over the years.  My basement got the 75% clean-out two years ago, so I really should finish what I started.   The old photos and documents move around from shelves to shelves, but all of the old slides (hundreds of them) have already been scanned and uploaded.  As for the sewing/mending pile, I'm willing to bet that I don't fit into most of those damn clothes anymore, anyway, so that pile will probably go quickly.

The last three or four days (I cannot even remember anymore), I have been digging out from all of my filing: personal, writing, and school-related.  The amount of shredding that has happened is almost shameful, and that's only the stuff with important account information.  The amount of stuff I'm simply pitching is frightening, and, unfortunately for me, the recycling isn't coming for another week, so I have to live with and look at the bags of crap.

Today, I almost reach the end of the worst of it.  Okay, I DO reach the end of the worst of it, so around 4:00 p.m. I decide it's Wine Time.  I know, I know; it should pretty much always be Wine Time, but this is different.  I've actually made headway over the last three or four straight days (at six to ten hours a day -- don't judge me).

I earned this glass of wine.  As a matter of fact, I earned the next glass, and the next glass, and possibly even the next glass, as well.  Appropriately enough, I am sipping (sucking down) Pendulum red blend because the pendulum of mayhem is finally swinging toward the side of order rather than disorder.  I add a little cheese because I probably shouldn't be sipping (sucking down) wine on a near-empty stomach.

Hmmmm.  I'm feeling so good that I might start on the cellar again.  Watch out, people.  I'm going to get myself organized if it takes me the rest of the summer!  Someone has to earn Wine Time.  It might as well be me.

MILES OF PILES OF FILES

Files.  Miles of files.  Piles of files.  Miles of piles of files.

I need to sort through the giant pile of files.  I have paperwork going back as far as my oldest child applying for college ... fifteen or so years ago.  It's insane.  If I'm thinking about downsizing, then I should also be considering clearing some of this crap OUT of my life.

Today is the day.

I am reasonably organized.  If I were to die right this moment, my children would be able to find all the important documents.  Of course, they'd find all kinds of unimportant documents, too, like sales receipts from three Christmases ago, and contact lists from before the Internet was invented.  They would, however, be able to locate both my will and my life insurance policies.  I take this fact as a small sign of success.

It takes hours and hours and hours and several glasses of prosecco, but I finally make it through three of the five file boxes.  I make it through my personal files, my professional files, and I still need to go through my writing files (one bin full of college stuff, and one bin full of extra-curricular stuff).  The pile of papers for recycling is the size of one of the bins.

I am forced to take a break, though.  In addition to making dinner, I also have to give the shredder a break.  It's only a small home office machine, and after the amount I feed it today, it's starting to smell like the motor might be burning out.  I have to empty the shredder receptacle four times.

Best part is that my town just outlawed shredded paper in the recycling.  I guess I'm going to jail because I carefully press the shredded paper into small paper lunch bags, fold them closed tightly, and stuff them into larger brown paper bags.  I cover everything with random newspapers, magazines, and regular paper recycling.

I am now down to hundreds of yards of filing instead of miles.  The piles I still need to go through are not as daunting, and now I'll only be a little ashamed (as opposed to massively embarrassed) if I were to die right this second and someone has to go through my files.  Hopefully, they'll say, "Wow, everything is exactly where it should be!" instead of, "Geez, she was a bit of a hoarder, eh?"

MUST. STOP. LISTENING.

Must. Stop. Listening. To. Weather. Forecasters.

Another perfectly fine day blown to Hell waiting for the pounding rain that we are told will be happening today.  Sure, it's a little overcast off and on, but the temperature is around ninety degrees, and the humidity is enough to make you wring out your clothing within seconds of being outside.  But, overall, it's not remotely a crappy day at all.

I check the weather app on my phone: Thunderstorms at 7:30 a.m.!  Liars.  I watch the local news: Rain moving in by noon with severe thunderstorms!  Charlatans.

To be a little fair, the western and central parts of the state are suffering.  The thunderstorm front is huge, miles and miles in diameter, and it's totally wasting those parts of New England.  Warnings keep springing up from the television as I'm working (indoors), and I jump pout of my skin every time the loud blare-blare-blare-blare-blare sounds, indicating another warning to cover our asses.

But, it never arrives here.  Maybe later while I'm trying to sleep, but, all day, mostly blue skies and sun.  I don't take a break to sit outside because I'm sorting through years and years of files today.  I mean, it is supposed to suck today, so I'm doing a job that sucks equally.

Apparently, the joke is on me ... again.  Damnit, one of these days I will learn my lesson and just say, "Fuck it, weather channel, I'm going in!"  I'll probably get struck by lightning and die, but at least I won't be sitting at home wasting yet another gorgeous summer day.

DIE, FLIES, DIE!!

Flies suck.  Not in a mosquito way, nor in a greenhead or deer fly or horse fly or tick kind of way, either.  Flies just suck at life in general.

I have my door open every so often today: sit outside, put the recycling into the bin, check the mail... That kind of stuff.  Somehow I get a fly into the house.  I chase that sucker down and knock him clear out of the air.  (I don't know why, but I take sick satisfaction in whacking the fly dead out of thin air with the swatter.)

Before the fly dies, though,  it radios for reinforcements because I get another fly into the house.  I commit that fly to the same fate as the first fly, but this one takes more effort.  I finally chase it into the bathroom, close the door behind me, and start swinging the swatter around like a novice t-ball player.  Eventually, the fly falls to the tile floor near the toilet, and I am happy once again.

When my son comes home for dinner, another fly gets into the house.  He tries swatting at it, but this sucker is fast.  Honestly, it is the fastest damn fly I have ever encountered.  I run upstairs to grab the back-up fly swatter, and, the next thing we know, we are double-teaming that bastard.

This is when fly #4 appears.  The two flies, #3 and #4, are now zooming like kamikaze pilots.  I start whacking at the light bulbs, and my son yells at me, "You're going to break the lamp!"

Meanwhile, I am yelling at the flies, "DIE!  DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

We finally manage to kill both flies, but not before my son wounds the autumn wreath hanging on the inside of the back door (which shouldn't be there anyway because it's not autumn).  My son gets one fly out of thin air in the kitchen, and it lands on the floor under the counter near the sink.  I stalk the last one for a while longer and eventually kill it near the den.

Whew.  It has been a battle, but .... sonofabitch!  There's a fifth fly.  My son has long-since retired from fly-swatting, so I pick up both swatters and start madly flailing away at the damn thing.  For a solid ninety seconds, the only sounds in the house are the swishing and thwacking of the two fly swatters and my son's video game in the living room, where he has decided it is safer than being near his crazy-ass mother who will smack anything that comes near.

Suddenly, I corner that little fucker fly in the back hall, where I have closed off the doorways.  There's no escape.  The fly is fast, but I am faster.  It takes me five solid swipes with both swatters.  If these were ceremonial swords, I'd have lopped off more heads than Attila the Hun by now.  The fly, thoroughly smooshed, falls gracelessly to the floor.

Thankfully, I am able to retire the swatters for the evening.  I am completely spent from the aerobic exercise, so I declare that no fly may enter or exit the house ever again.