HALLOWEEN

It's Halloween.

I'm not certain I'm really up for Halloween this year.  

Some years I am; 

some years I'm not.  

Some Halloweens are spent handing out candy with friends and relatives; 

some Halloweens are spent with the lights out and the doors locked, 

just keeping myself company.

Sometimes I'm the witch; sometimes I'm the ghost.

I'm not certain that makes Halloween

any different than every other day.

Trick or treat, Life.

 

A POEM FOR COFFEE AND FRIENDS

Here's a poem to honor coffee
That I share with two great friends.
Once we start to chat together,
Seems the laughter never ends.

We sit in Starbucks for so long
As if we haven't got a care
(But, of course, that quickly changes
When someone tries to steal our chair.)

We argue with the teenage cashier:
"Thirty percent off the mugs!"
Soon thereafter time for parting
With more laughter and some hugs.

All at once we check our cell phones;
Four-plus hours have flown past.
Forty years have also gone by
Proving friendships will outlast.

IT'S A MIRACLE

What I am about to tell you is going to make many people hate my guts, but I'm going to tell you anyway in a case of full disclosure:

I have heat and hot water.

It could be that I'm in Zone 1, but it's more likely that Columbia Gas didn't want to make the news... again.  What started with a hissy fit by the contractors on Thursday, escalated into hours of phone calls up the political food chain that included calls to people in high positions within the law enforcement community.  Those calls coupled with hours-worth of phone calls to Columbia Gas and twenty-one photos attached to emails result in a multitude of workers descending on my townhouse on Friday and again Saturday morning (at 7:15 a.m. -- thank goodness I was up and dressed; no make-up, but whatever).

On Saturday we here in New England are experiencing our first seasonal Nor'Easter.  Luckily for this part of the state, that means lots of rain and some hefty wind gusts.  I leave the workers dragging mud and leaves through my den to get to the basement (in their defense, they try to keep it clean, but I have to put down more Murphy's Oil Soap at some point, anyway).  They're replacing pipes, they're installing a furnace, they're installing and re-venting the hot water heater.

It's freaking mayhem.

When I return from running errands hours later, the workers are trying to drill through the field stone basement, breaking and toasting drill bits every step of the way.  I am supposed to have a team of two guys in my house.  At several points, there are a dozen workers in my cellar.  I haven't had this much company in my entire life.

I know that the gas meters have been installed (by a different crew) way too close to the house ... about four feet too close.  I also don't have a stove yet.  Even though progress is being made downstairs, outside the meters remain precariously close to my windows.  It seems like it's going to be a long time before I see daylight and a hot shower again.

The plumbers and I are all old pals by now.  We laugh about FOX news trying to interview me while having a BBQ and several beers at my daughter's house (a half mile away -- also in the gas crisis area), and about how I was not willing to speak on camera with a buzz and be recognized by students and school staff.  We talk about their living conditions on a ship in Boston Harbor's Seaport district, a ship that is completely dry of alcohol and serving them horrid sandwiches (yes, they show me a picture).

Honestly, at this point ... I love these guys.

One of the plumbers brings in an inspector to check their work.  He is a white-haired gentleman wearing a service Army cap.  He is older but by no means ancient.

"Army?" I say.  "Where did you serve?"

"Cambodia."

Holy shit.  This guy is totally badass.

"Thank you for your service," I reply, and I make sure I say it at least three more times while we are chatting about Cambodia and his service.  He okays the work the plumbers have done, and then he leaves.

I know darn well that a crew still has to come in and clean out the mess in my basement.  Plus, they need to come get the brand new hot water heater down there that was the wrong one, so it's just sitting around.  I also know that the outside meters need to be moved by law.

My plumber pal comes back into the house and tells me his work is all done except for one last thing.  The relight.  The relight which, he informs me, he's going to do right now.

"Now?!"

"Yes," he says.  "You'll have heat immediately and hot water in an hour, maybe forty-five minutes."

I'm so bloody happy I could kiss him.  Within minutes the new furnace is humming and pumping out hot air.  I have to open the doors for a few minutes to blow off any smoky residue and to avoid setting off the new alarms they installed.  The crew and I chat with the heat blaring at 80 and with both my front and back doors wide open, letting the Nor'Easter into my home.

Life is grand.  I'm not going to lie, but I'm not going to gloat, either, because I am the first one of the people I know to be re-lit and re-gassed.  I also wait until I know the guys are done traipsing through my house, then I lock the door and shower.  A long shower.  A shower so fabulously warm that I want to cry.

No more multiple blankets.  No more footie pajamas in October.  No more electric fireplaces out of necessity.  Best of all --

No more trash-can showers.

I have heat and hot water.  It's a goddamn mother-freaking MIRACLE.

LIFE COULD BE WORSE

I pick a crappy day to run errands.

There's a nor'easter raging: wind, rain, gusts that knock out some power lines, chill in the air, and still no heat inside my home.  Small blessing that this storm is rain in my part of the state and not snow like just west of here.  I spend the morning inside working on school stuff that needs to be done, but, once the afternoon hits, I know I have to head out.

In the middle of my errands, I decide that I deserve something to warm my bones.  I could get tea or hot chocolate, but instead I steer toward Boston Chowder.  Usually I get the corn chowder when I'm here, which is probably several times a year.  Today, however, is not a chowder kind of day.  I mean, it is ... but it isn't. 

Today is a chicken soup kind of day.

While waiting for the chicken vegetable soup order to come out, I notice that I'm not the only one in a soup/chowder mood, and there isn't a booth to be had.  That's okay.  There's a small counter with three chairs right in the front window facing out to the patio and the street.  Obviously no one is eating on the patio since it's so crappy out.

Okay, so maybe I have an afternoon full of errands after spending a morning working on school stuff.  I enjoy a wonderful, hot cup of soup while staring out into a watercolor world.  Life certainly could be worse.

DON'T BE ALARMED!

Life outside of work is a crazy mix of occasional moments of normalcy overshadowed by major bouts of shit-show-ery. I cannot remember the last time I was warm in my house, and I'd really like to take an incredibly long, hot shower in the privacy of my own home.

So, my patience at work is nonexistent when it comes to having zero heat in my classroom, as well.  The maintenance staff comes in, one after the other, put their hands on the heater and exclaim, "Yup, it's cold."

No. Shit.

If that's not bad enough, every day around noon the air turns on, sending waves of cold air straight at me since my desk sits in front of a vent.  It's like the final insult.

Oh, but wait.  Just when I think it cannot be worse, an alarm starts screeching from the loudspeaker in the room's ceiling.  It is an alarm we've never heard before.  I doubt it's an alarm for a lock-down or for an active shooter because it is the end of the school day, and parents in cars are all lined up right outside of my window.  If there were an active shooter situation, surely people wouldn't be holding social hour mere yards away. It's definitely not the heat sensor alarm in my room as the heat sensor  must be frozen.

The noise is loud, disturbing, and maddening.

I poke my head into the hall and see a couple of other teachers taking students outside, as if this whole fiasco were a fire drill.  We look around and realize that no administration has said anything nor made their presence known.

Turns out it's the alarm that lets the police know when someone breaks into the building after hours.

Well, now that we've established what that is, maybe someone could shut the damn thing off so that we don't all go mad.  I suppose it's a blessing in disguise: The noise is so loud and so obnoxious that most of the staff packs up and leaves right on time instead of hanging around prepping for next week.      

(Video doesn't work ... trust me -- it's LOUD and annoying.  LOL)             

I'D SHUT THE EFF UP IF I WERE COLUMBIA GAS

Sunday = Columbia Gas workers show up with NO warning at 8:00 a.m.  They are in and out all day; claim they need sheet metal guy to cut furnace out of basement. They also claim everything is illegally vented and pipes are too small due to new building codes.

Monday = Columbia Gas workers leave my front door WIDE OPEN for hours.  Not only can anyone get in, but so can squirrels and COLD AIR.  Motherfuckers.

Tuesday - Thursday = Columbia Gas workers leave my house unlocked while coming in and out and doing very little... if anything ... except tracking shit through my house.  They also leave pipes in my driveway.  I run over pipes and almost damage undercarriage (pipes are at angles in dark) of my car coming home after a late meeting.

Thursday = Columbia Gas decides that my tiny front lawn is where they will put the meters (wait until they figure out that's where all the driveway snow gets dumped). They also claim that they are not going to put pipes back into the walls; they are just going to run new pipes outside of the walls.  Oh, and there will be pipes running outside along the house. And the two meters in my basement have been cut out and dumped on the floor along with a bunch of other junk.  In case anyone cares, they disconnect my fire alarm and break a light fixture.  And ... they get into a fight with my landlord, call the cops, then pack up their tools, leave their shit behind, and tell my landlord to go eff himself and good luck getting someone to finish the work.

Thursday night = I call Columbia Gas, send them 21 photos of this shit show of a mess, and start raving about how THIS ALL FUCKING SUCKS.  I submit more receipts that I wasn't going to submit because FUCK YOU, COLUMBIA GAS.  You can't just QUIT, you dumb fucks.  You HAVE to fix this mess. You CAUSED this mess.

It's okay.  I'm calmer now.  My landlady called anyone and everyone who will listen, including some very highly connected state officials.

Hey, Columbia Gas, guess what happens when you screw with a bunch of short-tempered, pissed off, extremely cold New Englanders?  Ever hear of Concord and the Shot Heard Round the World?

Dudes, I'd shut the eff up and get the job done right, if I were you.  I'm just saying.

RAIN, SNOW, AND THE DEFINITION OF IRONY

Autumn is a crazy time here in the Northeast section of America.  It has been cold ... pretty cold ... not ridiculously cold yet except for the few windy days that dropped wind chills into some low numbers.  But still -- cold enough to bring in more seasonable (slightly icy and chilly) fall temperatures.

This is why, sitting at the kitchen table, my mind cannot and will not accept that we are surrounded by thunder and lightning.  I check the radar on my phone.  This is no mere fall squall; this is a massive storm about a hundred miles long, and it is marching across Massachusetts, New Hampshire, Maine, and Rhode Island like a relentless and unmerciful onslaught of invaders.  The storm has some hook patterns to the south, and it is spawning tornado-like activity.

Within mere minutes, the storm has turned brutal.  The house shakes and rumbles and stutters on its stone foundation once ... twice ... three times ... four times.  Just when I think the walls might implode, the storm moves on.  It is, by far, the worst thunderstorm of the entire season from spring until now.

The following morning I drive to work through the state forest. The damage doesn't seem too bad considering a lightning strike in a nearby town destroyed an entire church.  The skyline is brightening slightly, but it is obvious more rain is due from the low hanging, gray-blue clouds.  I park my car and walk toward the back entrance by the janitorial staff's shed.

As I turn the corner I am greeted by two snowblowers.

I wonder if this is the definition of irony.  Nah.  It's New England.  Thunderstorm one minute; snow squall the next.  I guess it's time to put away my flip-flops after all and change over to my boots, regardless of what Mother Nature serves us the evening prior.

I THOUGHT IT WAS FUNNY

I am mean.  I've said so before, but I am totally serious. 

For the past six weeks we have been in the throes of the Great Merrimack Valley Gas Explosion Extravaganza.  It started out as frightening, went to eerie, became a bit fascinating, started to get irritating, slowly eased into uncomfortable, and now ... well, now we all are just damn punchy.

So, when the gas company sends Bruce the Foreman my way, I can tell from the bags under his eyes and his later-than-five-o-clock shadow that the poor guy is probably operating on zero to negative amounts of sleep.  Standing in the kitchen with my landlord, Bruce is trying to inventory my gas-damaged appliances.  He has already been to the basement and has catalogued the hot water heater and furnace, both of which have been condemned.

Bruce stares at his clipboard. glances at the stove, then looks again at his paperwork.  My stove looks perfectly fine, all tidy with a hand towel hanging over the front of it.  Bruce finally cocks his head sideways and says to the landlord, "Isn't there supposed to be a sticker on that stove?"  He examines his paperwork again, clearly confused.  "Yeah, there's supposed to be a red sticker on it."

I lean over in front of them, grab the hand towel, and whip it away so quickly it makes a snapping sound.  "Abracadabra!" There on the front of the stove is the bright red sticker, condemning the appliance and marking it for the junk collection. 

I'm not sure Bruce is amused.  He tells us that he has been working pretty near to ninety-six hours over the last week, and doesn't even crack a smile.  He checks off the box on his paperwork and moves on.

Hmmmmm.  Like a lead balloon.  He must think I am the meanest person alive.

Oh, well.  I thought it was funny.

POETRY FOR A TUESDAY COMMUTE

I arrive to work every day at the same time (or within mere minutes) every day.  I am one of the first (if not THE first) to arrive at work simply because I like to get a parking space, I prefer to beat traffic, and I like my quiet time before the breakneck pace of the day starts.

For the last week, a man has been arriving at about the same time.  I have never seen this man before, and he circles in from my parking lot all the way to the other lot, so I assume he is possibly a high school teacher or employee.  Either way, it surprises me that since we seem to be on a similar schedule, I have never seen him before.

What I notice is that he is a really big man.  I don't mean overweight, I just mean he seems tall and full-bodied.  Wait, that sounds like he's wine or something.  He just seems to take up a lot of space.  No, that's not quite it either.

Okay, truth is he drives a teeny weeny itty bitty car, and he clearly cannot move his arms to steer.  His shoulder is up against the itsy bitsy window, and it appears that he takes up both front seats.  Again, he isn't a big guy, necessarily, but his car ... it's kind of like watching someone drive a clown car.

So, I made up a poem for the man, who is probably very friendly but cannot possibly lift his arm to wave as he is completely stuffed into the compact mini-car he drives.  Here it is; here's my poem.  Don't be offended, Man in Miniature Car.  I'm seriously certain you're probably an enjoyable guy despite your squishy commute.

Big giant man
In your teeny tiny car,
You must be uncomfy
Contorted as you are:
Folded like a sausage
In that teeny tiny can,
A car that's far too compact
For such a giant man.

(You're welcome.)

CLEANING THE BASEMENT AND HAVING LOTS OF GASSY COMPANY

It is truly difficult to get up in the morning when the bed is warm and the rest of the unheated house is so damn cold.  This morning (Sunday) I put off getting out of bed for almost an hour.  Finally, around 8:00 a.m., I roll out of bed in my long-sleeved school shirt and a pair of knit pajamas pants.  I am not out of bed for more than three minutes when my phone rings.

"Are you up?"

It's my landlady.  "Yes, I am."

"Can I come over? I mean ... can I come in?"

Uhhhhhhh.... "Where are you?" I ask.

"At your door."

Turns out today is the day the gas company will be taking out some of the appliances.  Of course, no one told us they'd be here, but, c'est la vie. I have already cleared paths to the appliances, so I am feeling relatively confident.  I let the landlady in, and we walk the apartment, heading to the basement.  I know there are still some things too close to the furnace (that needs to be ripped out), so I tell her I will finish moving stuff around.  She leaves, confident that the gas company will be able to access everything they need.

Meanwhile, I run to the dirty laundry, grab yesterday's jeans, put on a bra under my pajama shirt, and start surveying my handiwork with moving stuff.  I pull an end table around away from the cellar door, and I push the kitchen table  so close to the wall that it's practically out the window.

Not ten minutes later, the landlord is at my door, and he has the gas company foreman with him.  We all go to the basement together, where we discover that the pipes all need to be brought up to current code (ALL the gas pipes), and that the furnace will need to be cut out by the sheet metal person.  Oh, and by the way, the hot water heater can no longer be vented the way that it is. 

The verdict is that my new furnace and new hot water heater may have to be moved.

Once people leave, I start pulling the rest of the basement apart in a huge tizzy.  I started this project over a year ago, and it resulted in thirteen bags of trash going out.  Now, though, most of what's left are things my older children left behind and all of my youngest's sports equipment.  ALL of it. Trust me: Play It Again Sports doesn't have the amount of sports equipment that my youngest has accumulated.  It's absolutely daunting.

Since I don't know where the new furnace or hot water heater will end up (nor does the gas company), I get rid of everything that I can, which results in three more bags going out plus an old sports rack for equipment and a very basic treadmill, which I put next to the water heaters and other appliances on the sidewalk waiting to be picked up.  I yell to Bruce, the foreman (because we are all friends now -- me and Bruce and Paul and Bob and the kid from Bourne who played lacrosse and the tall guy who almost smacks his head on the cellar ceiling...), "Hey, add this treadmill to the junk pile if you can!"

When the landlady returns two hours later, she cannot believe the work I've done in the basement.  Well, since we have no idea exactly when the appliances will leave, exactly when new appliances will arrive, and now we're not even certain where they're going to go, I had to pretty much clean out the whole place.  Important stuff I move to the living room, like the weight bench and the weights (thank goodness for my weightlifting days and for all those years of cardio kickboxing and judo, because I move the weights like I own those bad boys).  I also bring up the Airsoft guns and the BB's for the rifles. 

I get to thinking, though: What kind of mess will they be making down there? So I haul up the Christmas stuff, too, which, coincidentally last Christmas all got consolidated into three plastic bins.  I mean, it's almost time to set up the tree, anyway, right?  Might as well get the stuff handy.

For a few hours, things go quickly.  The hot water heater is drained, the assessor checks out the furnace, the hot water heater is removed, and people are in and out and in and out.  The workers come through like it's a revolving door, and I give them updates on the Patriots' game.  Then ... nothing.  So I start doing laundry (three loads today) and figure whenever they get here, they get here.  I just hope they're done by a decent hour.  I still need to boil water and set up my make-believe shower/bath so I can get the basement slime of dust and webs off of me before work tomorrow.

The worst thing about it, though, is that I do have to go to work tomorrow.  Even though the workers will be here for two more days, I cannot really take time off.  I have three school meetings in two days, and I'm going to Boston Monday evening for dinner.  This couldn't have happened at a crazier two days in my school year.  If only I could take a day off, then maybe I could stay in bed again and recoup that warm time I lost Sunday morning.  After cleaning out my basement for the workers, I feel like the gas company owes me that much.

A NICKEL IS NEVER TEN CENTS ... OR IS IT?

I am out shopping with my sister today when we need to run an errand at Target.

Now, I know perfectly well that I could use my charge card (and get money off), but I am cheap and don't want the extra finance charges.  So, I decide to pay cash.

Simple, right?  I mean, cash is cash is cash.  Without cash, there wouldn't be an economy.  Cash is easy: you get the total, then you pay the total, then you wait for the sales clerk to hand you change (if necessary).

Apparently this is NOT how it works at Target.

I hand the cashier all the paper bills she needs, but I do not give her the exact change.  I have the exact change, but I don't want to hold up the line.  The register tells her how much change to give back: 66 cents.  I mean, she doesn't have to calculate or count back change or anything.  She just has to hand me 66 cents.

Maybe I'm expecting too much. 


But this young woman has the change total showing ON her register.  She doesn't have to do a goddamn thing except count out the change... which she cannot do.  She stares at the change amount, looks down at the drawer, looks back at the change amount, looks back at the drawer, then looks back at the change amount.  I suspect she is about to cry.  She seriously (I'm not remotely exaggerating here -- perhaps understating, even) begins to shake.

Carefully, painstakingly, she begins taking coins out of the drawer one at a time, glancing often at the amount on the register.  She places some coins in my hand and says, "66 cents.  Right?  It's right?" Then she closes the drawer.

Well, no, sweetie, it's NOT right.  She has handed me two quarters, two nickels, and a penny.  I explain to her that she owes me another nickel. 

She ignores me and starts ringing the next order.  Luckily, it's my sister's order.  "That's okay," I say, "you can hand me the nickel when you open the drawer after this order."

I see that she is attempting to do the addition in her head while mindlessly ringing through my sister's order.  Finally she reaches the end of the order and the drawer pops open.  I am still holding my palm open to her, and I can see that the line has gotten very long.

"I gave you the right amount," she says. 

"No, you shorted me a nickel, and, as a former assistant manager in retail, I can assure you that a nickel may not mean much to me, but when balancing a drawer at the end of the night, a nickel discrepancy is hard to try and explain."

She argues with me again then counts each coin in my hand while the entire line of customers watches.  "See?  Here's fifty, and this is sixty..."

"No, honey, that's a nickel."

 "Yeah, ten cents.  Sixty plus the nickel is 66."

Forget the rest of that math equation.  I'm still stuck on this first mathematical issue.  "No.  No, a nickel is only five cents."

"Yes."

I blink back at her stupidity.  "Right," I say, "and you gave me two nickels."

"I know."

What.  The.  Fuck.  I've heard of new math, but this is insanity.


My sister grabs one of the nickels out of my hand, hands it to the girl, and says, "Now give her back a dime." 

"But I gave her 66 cents."

Both of us together reply, "No.  No, ya didn't."

On the way out I stop and tell someone who seems to be a manager that maybe the girl (and I name her) shouldn't be on a register as she cannot count.  Ooops.  Oh, no.  This girl is clearly not capable herself of running a register.  Hey, I'm all for hiring people of all educational and capacity levels, but NOT HANDLING MY DAMN MONEY.

When we get out to the car, we discover that both of us have been overcharged for items we bought.  I'm not going back in.  No way am I going back in that store.  I may never go to that store ever again.  Listen, Target -- Hire people who can actually count, people who passed second grade math, people who are capable of communicating relatively intelligently on the most basic of levels, for your cash registers and customer service.  I promise if you do, I'll GIVE you the fucking nickel back.  Hell, I'll give you the whole 66 cents.

SHE SANK MY BATTLESHIP ... TWICE.

My daughter decides to do laundry at my house.  This is excellent because my washer takes a nice long time to run its cycle, and I can set the dryer for as few as sixty minutes and as many as ninety minutes, so I can force her to stay at my house for a really, really long time. 

While she is here, she suggests we play a game.

Somehow, I am not really certain about the course of the conversation, we end up playing Battleship.  Yes, a war game.  How appropriate for and conducive to pleasant family dynamics.  Not.  Truth is that we are both rather competitive when it comes to games.

The downside is that we think the same way. My first thought is to set up all of my ships on the outer edges of the grid, but I resist temptation.  I cannot find her ships right away, but she scores a direct hit on her first turn.  Turns out many of my daughter's ships really are on the outer edges, after all.  She thinks too much like I do. 

Then, I wonder about lumping all of the ships together in the middle.  Too easy, I tell myself.  Hit one, hit them all.  Again, I resist temptation.  This time, though, I wonder if my daughter is pulling the same strategy that I just jettisoned, so I go for the middle of the grid and start wiping her ships out almost immediately.

In the end, though, my daughter wins our mini-tournament.  We only get through three games, and she wins two of them.  After that, it's time to get her laundry out of the dryer and fold it all up nicely so she can take it home.  Perhaps next time I can convince her to play a more sedate, less stressful game, like Barbie: Queen of the Prom, or maybe even Go Fish.  At least I won't have to pout and tell her, "Hey, you sank mommy's battleship!"

CLASSY RESPONSE ... NOT

WTF is this?

My home is still without gas.  The street and the pipes to the house are gas-ready, but the pipes inside are not, I need all new appliances, and the gas company never finished installing the meters.  This morning the temperatures dip into the 30's.  By the afternoon, it's a toasty 45 degrees. I have been somewhat curt with friends and relatives because, quite frankly, I'm crankier and crankier as this situation continues.

Here's today's conversation with a friend who moved to Los Angeles a while back from New England:

L.A. Dude: "Did you see that catch to win the game with the bases loaded?"

Me:  No, I was out cold.  Cold ... ugh, it's 45 degrees outside and 58 inside.

L.A. Dude: Dry and hot here.  80's.

Me:  Damn you.

L.A. Dude:  85 to be precise.

Me:  (long pause) Fuck you a zillion times infinity.

L.A. Dude:  Classy broad.

Me:  Oh, please fucketh thyself a zillion multiplied by absolute value infinity and beyond ... my humble sir.

This, apparently, is why I do not have and cannot maintain friendships.

PUMPKIN CUPCAKES AND AN UNNECESSARY MAILMAN

I know it's not Sunday, but it's the first chance I get to tell this story.

I am going by a friend's house on Sunday because her husband is in the hospital and another friend is driving up from Watertown (a considerable but not outrageous distance, for those of you not in our geographic area) to drop off some food she made for the family.  I have no such offering as my stove is condemned, but I have a greeting card.  Besides, my Watertown friend is going to give me some pumpkin cupcakes, so this is a necessary trip.

I get to the house a little earlier than I expect -- it's really difficult to judge I-93 north traffic regardless of the day of the week or the time of day.  My friend with the husband in the hospital lives on  a cul-de-sac.  I don't want to park in the driveway, so I decide to park in front of the house.  The only problem is that someone visiting another neighbor has parked partlyin front of her house.  That leaves me with the spot in front of the mailbox.

No worries, I tell myself; there's no mail delivery on Sunday.  No mail truck will be honking my ass out of the way.  I should be good to stay.  I am minding my own business playing games on my cell phone when I hear a car round the cul-de-sac.  Decent!  Must be my Watertown pal!  I look up and see...

Damnation.  It's the MAILMAN in his white mini-box van with the blue and red striped logo. The freaking mailman ... on a SUNDAY.

He circles the neighborhood three times, opting to mosey past the driveway where my car is parked just beyond, just off the street, just in front of --

Oh, shit.  I am parked in front of my friend's mailbox.  I park here believing that there is no mail delivery on Sunday, and I now witness my own epic fail.  By the time I start the car and get ready to put it into gear, the disgusted mailman has driven away.

Oh, well.  Sorry, my friend.  Perhaps I saved you a day or two from an unwanted bill or invoice.  In that case, "You're welcome!"  Honestly, I doubt the mailman was there for my friend, anyway, because I'm sure he would've either told me to move or simply handed the mail through my car window.   [P.S. I get the pumpkin cupcakes, which barely survive the fifteen-minute drive home, so it's not an epic failure of a trip after all.]

KILLING THE INTERNET RESTRICTIONS BEAST

We have a new internet filter at work.  It blocks us from any videos that Google has deemed "violent or inappropriate."  This is awesome because it means that the kids won't constantly be looking at each other's uploaded Fortnite clips.  Access to videos online or via Youtube or Vimeo is practically nil.

Such a grand plan!  Until ...

Until I try to show a three-minute video clip that I have bookmarked and have been showing for years, decades even.  It's a short clip from the 1931 movie Frankenstein, showing the mob scene in the town and through the village hills as the citizens, infused with mass hysteria, hunt down the monster. 

Nowhere in the clip is there any monster, nor blood, nor violence of any kind (except maybe when one of the extras trips and falls down).  As a matter of fact, it's kind of hilarious because the people in the boat never touch their oars to the water, and viewers can see the line attached to the front, pulling the boat across the scene.

Oh, great.  Now what?

I fight with the entire district tech team, because this fabulous discovery happens on the heels of the disastrous and recalled Windows 10 update that only three computers in our building end up infected by, one of which is MINE while I am teaching a Kahoot (website) lesson.  First, I endure thirty hours of pure computer chaos and mayhem, losing every single download I ever had and being locked out of Chrome and everything including our school website.

Now, this shit.

What to do, what to do.  I have to find a video clip that accurately portrays mob mentality and mass hysteria without violating the strictest internet codes ever known to humanity, and I have to locate this clip on my school computer so that I know which websites are flagged.  I panic for a moment, but then I get an evil idea.  Yes, evil, because if my school won't allow me to show clips from film classics with connections to great literature, I'll go lower.

What's lower than the classics?  Disney.  That's right, folks.  DISNEY.

Madly I search Beauty and the Beast for the mob scene.  You know it as "Gaston's Song" and the scene where he whips the people into a mass frenzy.  Unlike the scene from Frankenstein, which is relatively sedate, the scene from Beauty and the Beast is violent, scary, and threatening.  There are knives and axes and saws, and there is a call to arms ("Bring your guns...").  Gaston orders an old man thrown into a dungeon, and the characters literally toss him into the hole, followed by grabbing Belle violently and hurtling her in behind her father.  Things are set on fire while Gaston screams repeatedly, "KILL THE BEAST!"

Of course, I am the Queen of Passive Aggressive Mastery.  I know darn well that several of my students are well-connected within the community and have no problems repeating what I tell them.  I know a thing or two about mob mentality and mass hysteria myself.  I tell them about the new internet filter and how I wish, oh do I wish, that I could show them the movie clip from Frankenstein because the clip I am now forced to show them will be much worse, more violent, more threatening, and, probably for them, far more disturbing.  I apologize if they're scared or have nightmares afterward.

Oh, yes, I am so, so sorry.

Then, I show them a three-plus-minute video from Disney that has passed the seal of approval from both Google Filters and the district's technology department.  I'm admitting right here and right now that it is far more violent but far more entertaining than the clip I intended to show.

Surprisingly enough, a blanket technology statement comes through my school email the following day.  Seems the filter they installed was too restrictive, and if any of us still need videos approved, we can file a tech ticket in advance for approval.

Well, would you look at that.  Apparently there really is a way to KILL THE BEAST.

DUDE AT THE PATIO TABLE

Sitting with friends having dinner, I am constantly distracted by a person seated at another table.

This person isn't at a table right next to us, but rather is sitting at a table on the restaurant's patio.  I'm glad that we are not on the patio this evening because it's warm outside, and that means that we will have to contend with the ravenous fall mosquitoes.

I try to ignore the person who is so close to and yet so far from our table.  This person is quite literally on the other side of the window from where we are seated trying to hold a dinner meeting and share some laughs.  Even after one beer and some great food, I can see that person is still there, darkened now by the evening shade as the sun sets.  He is silhouetted against our table area now, like an unbidden partner at cards, leaning casually on the other side of the glass, close enough that if we spun a chair around and if he could materialize through walls, he'd be eating with us.

It takes me a while to realize that the person hasn't moved very much in the two hours that we are enjoying our meal and conversation.  As a matter of fact, the dude hasn't moved at all.

I lean closer to the window, wondering why someone would just be hanging around outside for so long without so much as making animated conversation like we are.  Honestly, our hands and arms and heads are shaking and flying all over the place as we chat.  One of our party even recalls how his hand-wielding conversational skills recently knocked an entire tray of wine glasses out of an unsuspecting waitress's expert balance.

Oh.  Well, this is awkward.

Turns out the dude on the other side of the glass is the statue of a golfer that we all walked past on our way into the restaurant.  Even worse, the statue isn't sitting at all -- he's just short, and the reflections of the patio tables on the window create the sense that he is dining outside.  Yup, our almost-dinner guest is a charming bronze greeter who will still be there through rain, snow, hurricanes, blizzards, heatwaves, and many, many more meals other than just ours.

WONDROUS BISCOTTI

I have been having a not-so-great few weeks.  Oh, sure; I know what you're thinking.  You're thinking, "When do you EVER have a great week?"  Well, that is somewhat true, but I seem to be having a run of ... not necessarily bad luck, per se ... more like annoying luck.  I've been having what amounts to pebble-in-my-shoe luck.

My luck seems to be changing, though.  I thank the Wondrous Biscotti.

The Wondrous Biscotti is made by a friend and former classmate, and she brings it to a dinner meeting that we and several other former classmates are having.  She packages the Wondrous Biscotti into baggies and distributes it to us innocently enough.  She doesn't seem to realize that she is bestowing upon us something akin to the powers of Excalibur.

(I pieced it together for the picture.  Last bites!!!!)

I kid you not; this biscotti is freakin' amazing.

Now, I'm not saying that my luck changes because I start eating the Wondrous Biscotti; but, I have to admit, after weeks and weeks of crappiness, all of a sudden things are starting to look up.  Work is tolerable again, I don't need to have surgery, my gas service is on its way to being restored, and the trash collectors finally serviced my street after two weeks.

I mean, all of these things don't just happen like this -- there has to be some kind of Higher Power operating here and it seems way too coincidental to me that all of these things start falling into place right after the Wondrous Biscotti arrives.

I won't lie: I feel a little guilty taking home my baggie of Wondrous Biscotti when the Italian waiter at our dinner meeting realizes what we have and that he isn't getting any of it.  A little guilty.  Not guilty enough to share.  Hey, the biscotti may have the powers of Excalibur, but this is no Round Table, and I'm no chivalrous knight.  This Wondrous Biscotti is my Holy Grail, and if the waiter wants any biscotti, let him go fight his own rabbit.

SURGERY? MAYBE NOT.

Regular readers of this blog may recall that exactly two years ago I had to have the left side of my face sewn back together.

I had a bout of basal cell skin cancer that turned out to be reasonably large and somewhat stubborn. Well, damnitall, if I didn't find another spot that looked just like the last one, but on the exact opposite side of my face from the other spot.  My PCP gave it the "You should probably go see a dermatologist yesterday" speech, and luckily I already had my yearly appointment set up for three months hence.

That appointment finally arrives.

I forget that this epic adventure starts with my scalp.  I still have the remnants of a black fly bite that I got recently.  The reminder of the bite is on the back of my scalp by the top of my neck.  The bastard that bit me was like a mini Dracula, sucking the living buhjeezus out of my skull, and, unlike when I was a kid, I just don't tolerate black fly bites, deer fly bites, horse fly bites, or mosquito bites with any kind of tolerance anymore.  Instead, I blow up like I'm allergic to every bug ever gifted to Earth.

After the scalp, I go through the usual, "Hey, look at this age spot!" routine, even having one of them chemically frozen off.  Oh, joy!  Finally -- all those years making diodes and working with liquid nitrogen pays off when I show zero fear and complete recall of what it feels like when one accidentally gets splashed with a small amount of that shit.  Like mini pins and needles, and yet like nothing at all.  Best thing about this part is that I'm not going to blow up like I've been bitten by some nasty little insect bastard.

Finally, it's time for the Main Event.

The dermatologist takes one look at my lovely spot (growth?), immediately sticks me with a numbing needle, then slices that bad boy right off my face.  "I took the top of it off," she tells me.  Yes, I gathered that from the amount of blood my face has decided to expel in her general direction.  She then tells me that I will probably be able to do a phone consult before the surgery and avoid that whole "come in and meet me" routine since the surgeon and I are already well-acquainted.

So certain are my PCP and my dermatologist that this is cancer again that I have already started making plans for my time out of work.  I won't be able to talk for days; I won't be able to lift anything for weeks; I'll need to get school plans in order... My brain is absolutely in overdrive getting ducks in rows.  I'm thinking, "Will this happen before Halloween?  Will I be able to eat at Thanksgiving?  Should I put the surgery off until after Christmas?  Can it wait and roll into a school vacation?"

Days later my cell phone rings as I'm driving home from work.  I don't recognize the number, but it's local.  I answer it, and it's the dermatologist's office.  I'm thinking that I wish I had a pen and some paper so I can take notes and numbers and...

"There are some atypical cells, but, unless it grows back on its own, you don't need further surgery."

Um, what?  Can you say that one more time?  I think maybe I have a bad connection.

I hardly believe it.  I won't miss anything! I won't miss holidays or work, and I won't have to have the right side of my face sewn back together, at least not right now.  I'm so happy because I really, really love the holidays, and I really, really like to talk.  Most of all, though, I am not the right kind of person to be the sad-faced clown.  I'm feeling damn lucky, so, as the biopsied area heals, I can go back to concentrating on important stuff ... like that wonderful and totally normal little black fly bite along my hairline. 

I'M READY AND I'M SQUEAKY CLEAN

My house phone has not rung in days.  Seriously.  Nobody calls me, and I'm not going to say that it's a terrible thing.  This afternoon the house is quiet, my youngest is away, and I've had a long, strange day of highs and lows.  I think I earned a bath.

I get the water ready while I'm doing other things, such as moving shelves and a bunch of stuff from the cellar landing so that my new hot water heater can be wheeled downstairs when it arrives next week.  By the time I am ready to take a bath (and the bath is ready for me), it's a little after six o'clock in the evening.

I bring the phone into the bathroom in case a call comes in from the gas company or someone else calls who needs to be dealt with immediately, but I forget to bring in my glasses to read the monitor in case a call actually comes through.  But, really.  Who would call now?  No one has called all day, and no one has called for days on end.

Of course, as soon as I get into the bath, the damn phone rings.  I pick it up because I cannot see who is calling.  Turns out it's a political robo-call.  I hang the phone up, finish my bath, and, just as I am considering staying in the tub a little longer, the phone rings again.  Out I go, wallowing in water, drenching the bathroom floor, and grabbing a towel before answering the phone.  I still cannot read the caller ID, so I pick it up. 

"Hello, this is So-and-so, and I'm calling about Shlockey-Jock who is running for state senate ... I mean state rep..."  DUDE!  You cannot even get your own candidate correct nor the office for which he/she is running. 

My response: "Do you have any idea what we are going through right now?" (Meaning this whole gas fiasco.)

"Oh, yes. I live in the affected area--"

"--Good, then you'll understand that I'm heating up water for a bath and don't have time for this."  CLICK.  No need to tell him I already bathed and am standing in a towel with dripping wet but exceptionally clean hair.

I throw on my quasi pajamas; it's 85 degrees at 6:30 p.m., so I change into yoga pants and a tank top.  This is when the phone rings yet again.  I have my glasses on now, so I see it's from Boston and it's not a number I recognize.  I pick up the phone and yell, "IF YOU CALL ME ONE MORE FRIGGING TIME, I WON'T EVEN VOTE IN THE GODDAMN ELECTION!"

As I'm hanging up the phone, I kind of hear a robo-voice, and I realize too late that it might be an update about my gas restoration.  Oh, well.  Too late.  I'm bathed, dressed, and ready to relax for the evening.  If it's something important, I am reasonably sure at this rate that whomever it is will call back again ... and again ... and again ... and, if I'm taking a bath, maybe they will call several times in a row just to aggravate me. 

It's all right: I'm ready and I'm squeaky clean.

MAGIC 8-BALL OF WISDOM

I have been having an exceptionally bad month.  No, really.  From my house to work to some health crap, I'm about ready to pack it in and escape to parts unknown.  Every time I turn around, one more thing falls onto my plate, and today's work email, though relatively innocuous, sends me into a tizzy of depression and exhaustion and rage and a bit of self-pity.

But, I have a secret weapon.

My friend bought me a Magic 8-Ball last spring.  It's sitting on my desk, and I know in my heart and in my logical brain that the Magic 8-Ball holds all the answers to the secrets of the universe.  I pick up the Magic 8-Ball and start shaking it vigorously.

"Oh, Magic 8-Ball, will tomorrow be a batter day than today?"

I turn it over and wait for the triangular Dome of Wisdom to settle into place.  "Concentrate and ask again," it instructs me.

So, I do.

This time I shake the Magic 8-Ball and ask it in the most sedate tone of voice, "Oh, Magic 8-Ball of Wisdom and Knower of All Things Sane, will tomorrow be a better day than today?"

I wait and wait and stare at the Magic 8-Ball with the wonder of a child on Christmas morning.  Suddenly, the answer I've been waiting for appears.

"Outlook not good."

In case anyone wonders what the black plastic fragments covered in drying liquid are, I threw that motherfucker across the room and smashed it against the wall.  You know what?  I feel much better now...oooooooh, you guys...

Just kidding!  I would NEVER destroy the Oracle of Wisdom! The Magic 8-Ball sits on my desk at work, the only one honest enough to tell me the truth.  Okay, so tomorrow will not be a better day ... but it didn't tell me it would be a worse day, so there is some comfort in that.

$5 DISH PAN SET

I cannot believe that I fell for this lie without checking it out first:

Someone told me that dishwashers don't actually use hot water; they heat the water up as it enters the dishwasher using a heating element similar to tankless water heaters.  I thought, "Oh, shit, that's probably true since the water is so super-dee-dooper hot!"

So, I rinsed the dishes really well (in case it was a lie) and put them into the dishwasher (just a small load).  I ran the dishwasher and ...

Mudderfudder.  It IS a lie; it's a damn, bold-faced, "I'm an absolute ass" kind of lie.

So, the dishes went through the entire COLD cycle with dish soap, then they went through the heated drying cycle.  They may be clean, but they're not as sanitized as I am used to them being, so I guess it's back to cold water and lots of soap and/or heating up water for the washing part and rinsing in the cold water.

Oh, well.  At least my $5 dish pan set from Wal-Mart is coming in handy.

CHOCOLATE CHIPS OR POSSIBLY WINE

Dear People without Ovens (including gas-less gas customers and my friend who is about to have her kitchen demo-ed):

You will be pleased to know that cookies really can be made successfully in a toaster oven.  Oh, it takes a long, long time to make an entire batch, but there's a way around it.  If you get the pre-made packages (or make some and freeze it in small dough balls), you can easilly make six small cookies in under fifteen minutes, a dozen in less than a half hour.

Why am I telling you this fabulous secret?

Because some of us need chocolate or we will be tempted to wipe out entire counties, maybe even entire regions.  Being without chocolate and being without cookies is a crime worse than ... oh, I don't know ... maybe worse than ring around the collar ... but still.  Homemade cookies are the anti-depressants of the food world.  Survival of entire nations could well depend on homemade cookies.

So, just an FYI to my oven-less pals and to my good friend who is about to voluntarily (insanity!!!!) give up her kitchen for weeks: Get yourself a toaster oven and make yourself some cookies.  I'm telling you, it will change your world.

Or it could be the wine I'm sipping with the cookies.  I'm not entirely certain, but I'm willing to bet on the chocolate chips at this point.

MY HEAD IS LIKE THE GAS LINE

I am prepping to write the blog today, and I am trying not to write about the gas company yet again.  Today it is so amazingly quiet because no one is working in my neighborhood.  Oh, it's not done; not by a long shot.  However, apparently today my street gets the day off.  Or so it seems.

Just when I think it's all safe and wonderful and that life might be getting back toward normalcy, I hear the news: "Gas over-pressurization event affects 300 homes in Woburn..."  Woburn is two towns away from my town, and the gas company responsible for their debacle is not the same gas company responsible for mine.  Which begs the question:

What the hell are you people doing out there, anyway?!

Un-freaking-believable.  No, seriously.  I cannot even begin to comprehend that this is happening again.  And the company (not my gas company) is telling people it's okay and not to worry. 

No.  No, it is NOT okay, and you all SHOULD be worried.  This is straight bullshit.  You cannot blow high-pressure gas through low-pressure lines and through low-pressure household appliances and expect that "everything's going to be all right." 

That's not how any of this works.

I don't know what the hell is going on up here in the Northeast, but I can tell you this: Nobody knows what the hell they're doing, apparently.

Oh, and if that's not bad enough, the gas workers finally show up in my neighborhood at 4:45 p.m. to start work outside my driveway again.  I suppose I should be thankful for a quiet day, but I'd much prefer a quiet night, thank you very much, which I guess I won't be getting after all.

We are quite literally under pressure up here, folks, so I apologize for the constant gas-related posts, but if I don't release some of this pressure, my head is going to be just like those gas lines and it's going to start smoking and sparking from frustration.

PRETENDING LIFE IS NORMAL

Today we take a small break from the gas fiasco that rules our daily lives to go to the local brewery for my daughter's birthday celebration.  The brewery, which is also without hot water, hasn't been making new beer (unless it has been sanitizing with boiled water, which is entirely possible), so everyone is helping to drink up the current supply.  Soon, very soon, the brewery will be right in the construction zone, too, because there are tell-tale white paint marks running down the road.

We bring in pizza and cake and get family together: girlfriends, boyfriends, sisters, moms, cousins from out of town.  It's not bad for a rag-tag group.  At one point ten of us are crowded around the long table I put together when I arrive at opening time to secure our spot by the window.  Even though it's a holiday weekend, and even though most of the streets around us are blocked for gas pipeline deconstruction, there are still enough patrons here so that vying for a good spot is nearly a full-contact sport.

Football is on the big screen, but the Patriots are off today, and no one we care to watch is playing at the moment.  We tell stories, laugh, and celebrate the birthday girl.  The wonderful weather we expect today (sunny in the high 70's) never arrives.  By the time we are ready to leave, it's drizzling and chilly out, so I am glad I drove down the hill to get here.  I drive up the hill, searching for the blocked streets, but I am able to drive over the metal plates on my road, squeeze by parked machinery, and then back into my driveway.  That makes two out six nights I've parked close to home.

Okay, so it's only a small break from gas mayhem, but it's a break, just the same.  Best of all, we get to celebrate my daughter and her birthday, and we get to pretend life is normal for a little while.

FALL DECOR

Recently I bought a cheap fall vine decoration for a reunion.  I could've bought a nicer $17 one for about half that price on sale, but instead I buy the $3+ one for even cheaper (with a coupon).  The decoration will probably end up in the trash anyway, right?

For some reason I bring it home.  I don't need a plastic fall vine with fake leaves on it, but I take it anyway, stash it in with my stuff, and haul it all to my car.  The following morning I leave the vine curled up on the table.  Over the next few days it moves around from place to place, still all trundled up like a piece of forgotten rope (but with fake leaves).

Fast forward a few days.  I decide that maybe I'll take the fall vine to school.  Surely there is something that I can do with it.  I'm madly running around on Friday morning, but I take time to grab the fake fall vine.

Only problem is ... I can't find it.

I search every room in the house except my son's bedroom and the basement, two places I am quite certain would not hold the fake fall vine.  If I don't leave soon, I'll make myself late for my usual work arrival time, which is early, but I'm obsessive over my parking space and having a few minutes of downtime before my hectic days begin.

Once more I run around the house, muttering to myself things like, "Where the hell would I put a damn leaf decoration?" and "Why can't I remember shit anymore?"  Just when I am convinced that I've finally lost my mind, I glance ahead of me and focus on the back door.

Hanging on the inside of the back door is a fall wreath.  It is covered with fall leaves and fake berries and ribbon and ... wait a second.  Why does my wreath suddenly look so lush and new and --

Oh, that's right! I wrapped the autumn leaf vine around the autumn wreath to make it look better!

I carefully unstring the fake leaves from the wreath, making sure that I don't pull off anything extra and ruin the wreath itself.  When I get to school, I set up my homework board with the leaf vine hanging around it.  I stick a couple of foam pumpkins in for extra effect.

When the students arrive for homeroom, they instantly notice and  compliment my seasonal decor.  "I really like the leaves!" they exclaim. "Where did you find that?"

Find that?!  Oh, kids, you have NO IDEA.  

BACK IN MY BRICKYARD

Getting around the gas restoration work sites is almost as painful as my constant posts about the whole process.  I know, I know!  I'm sorry.  But this is a blog about my life, and, kids, this is my life.

For the last four nights I have been parking in a lot across the dangerous intersection -- it's a small tar and dirt lot under trees, so my car is getting tree grunge and bird poop on it.  I probably could've snuck my car into the driveway last night, but the gas company was paving the end of my street until midnight.  I wasn't certain at the time that I'd be able to get out again to go to work in the morning.

Yesterday's commute home was an exercise in inertia.  I sat in traffic for thirty minutes, twenty of which were to go one quarter of a mile until I could reach a side street.  Then I had to circle my own neighborhood by another mile and a half just to reach the parking area because every street leading to mine was closed off for gas work.

This is good; this is bad.

Today I am expecting the same slow show.  After all, if the workers are putting down 150 feet of pipe a day, no way will my street be done yet because it's about 300 feet long, and they just rounded the corner to my street two days ago.  I approach my street from the side away from last night's tarring, grab a spot in the church parking lot (which is a much safer walk than through the dangerous intersection), hoof it in from my car and see...

Hey, my landlord has all of the family's cars in their driveway on the other side of my house!

I hustle back down the street, start the car's engine, maneuver my car back into traffic and -- sit there.  Stuck again in goddamn gridlock.  Holy shit, this traffic is getting old really, really, really fast.  It has been three straight weeks of gridlock all over town, gridlock so torturous that the new town motto is "You cannot get there from here, but certainly enjoy the scenery as you sit forever in your car hoping and praying that when the light changes yet again, you might actually make it through this time."

It takes me ten minutes and some very aggressive driving to get around the block one more time.  As I approach my street, I see that a gas company pick-up truck is now blocking the entrance to my road.  I edge closer, closer, closer until I am finally able to drive around the cars in front of me, go up over the sidewalk a bit, and break out to open space that leads to my driveway.

Success!

Of course this means that I cannot possibly even consider going anywhere tonight, but that's okay.  I've got a couple of cans of chicken noodle soup, some sandwich meat, and cold beer.  I'm certain I won't be starving to death or anything like that.  I am just so damn excited that my car is closer than the next town finally!  I might not leave the house this weekend.  Maybe I'll just stare at my tree sap-covered, bird pooped-on car and muse wistfully on how wonderful it is to be back in my own driveway.

TOMATO SOUP FOR LIFE

This gas crisis is putting a crimp in my eating habits.

I can't really cook, but I do have a microwave, a toaster oven, and a semi-operational (free from the town) hot plate.  Nothing is open around here, really, except one or two places that finally converted to electricity instead of gas for heating and cooking.  (Wait until they get their first industrial electric bill and have to claim bankruptcy.)

My son and I plan on patronizing one of those few electricity-converted places for pizza. But, as it gets later and later, and as it rains and rains, as the gas company is jackhammering in my driveway, and it gets increasingly darker, the less ambition I have to stray out and jump over the gas trenches just to get a pizza.

Turns out my son is late getting home because the woman driving in front of him hit someone head on, so he is standing in the pouring rain giving a statement to the police (officer turns out to be, like my son, a former lacrosse player at his high school).  By the time he gets home, no one feels like going anywhere, not even if it means starving to death.

My son grabs the leftovers; I grab the last can of tomato soup.  Yup.  Campbell's tomato soup with milk (not water -- that's just heathen) goes onto the hot plate, and, in surprisingly short time, my dinner is ready.  Only problem is that I don't have saltines.  I do have some Ritz crackers, but those run out quickly.

Turns out that extra-toasty Cheezits make a decent addition to tomato soup, as well.  Not that it matters.  I'm not going outside again until the morning because now it's just dark, dreary, and the gas company is still outside, so whatever crackers I have are the crackers going into my soup bowl.  Besides, if I walk by carrying a pizza, I'll feel guilty.  Plus, I might fall into a trench, and then the workers will get my pizza anyway when it flies out of my hands as I sink into the ditch.

See?  Campbell's tomato soup really IS healthy: it saved me from falling into a ditch, and Cheezits kind of have cheese-like stuff in them, so do the math, folks.  I'm alive and walking today all because I have no gas.

Okay, okay.  I'm stretching it now, but work with me.  If only I had a grilled cheese, my life would be complete.