TYPHOON COUNTRY ... EXCEPT COLD

I'm going to change my name to Noah and build my bad self an ark.  It seems like all it does is rain.  Rain.  And rain some more.  Then rain again.  And it's not that piddley-ass rain; I'm talking about extensive torrential downpours.  The puddles are huge and the rivers are close to their spilling points.

It's like I live in typhoon country ... except that it's freaking cold.  Oh, sure, not cold enough to snow where I live.  Just cold enough to dump icy rain that slicks the roads and gets into my bones so that I'm cold for hours.

The other day it actually stopped raining and didn't rain the entire day.  I wouldn't exactly say that the sun came out; it has been quite a while since we've seen a sunny, blue-sky day.  It's just so damn gloomy all the time.  It makes me cranky. 

There's a rumor that we may have a big storm next week.  I'll tell you this -- it damn-well had better be snow.  I am sick to death of this rain crap.  Besides, I have yet to begin my winter shoveling diatribes (honestly ... I like to shovel and it makes my biceps seem more impressive than perhaps they really are). 

So, listen up: If it rains any more in the next week, you may all refer to me as Noah of Ark (Joan's wayward sister).  But, if it snows... YOU'RE WELCOME!

LASAGNA SUCCESS

Even though the stove has not been properly inspected by the gas company (like they know what they're doing anyway), I am using it.  Nine weeks without a decent home-cooked meal in my own gas-damaged house is more than enough for me.  I haven't smelled any gas leaking from the stove in the two weeks that it has been installed and uselessly taking up space in my kitchen, so, at the risk of blowing a giant crater in the ground, I cook.

I start small (boiling water for tea) and work my way up to things like soup and grilled cheese, only using the burners at first.  My first foray into using the oven itself involves five straight hours of baking (pies and bread) because if I'm going to blow up, I'm all in.

Finally, though, I think everything is okay.  It seems okay.  It looks fine, sounds fine, feels fine, and smells fine; now it has to taste fine.  I jump into the deep end without any safety vest: I make lasagna. This involves multiple burners (boiling the noodles, browning the ground beef, and heating up the sauce) and the oven itself to cook the assembled meal-in-a-pan. 

Thirty-five minutes after I put the lasagna into the oven, dinner is ready and piping hot and fabulously delicious.  Best of all, I don't blow up myself, my family, my house, nor my neighborhood.  Success!

RUDOLPH AND DECONSTRUCTING SANTA THE BULLY

In an extension of the Christmas Spirit, I am semi-watching Rudolph, the Red-Nosed Reindeer on television.  I don't know why they show these specials so damn early.  It's not even December yet. Oh, sure, I've got my tree up, and I'm already steadfastly listening to Christmas music, but this ... this onslaught of television specials... it's too early. 

(I suppose this is where I should admit I've been watching Hallmark Christmas movies since July --Don't judge me!  I'm trying to be merry and cheerful, goddamnitall.)

I'm doing school work, laundry, dishes, and a bunch of other stuff, so my attention really is divided, but I am paying haphazard attention to the show.  Right now all the other reindeer are making fun of Rudolph, and I am reminded (as I am every time I watch this) that Santa does not stop the bullying.  At times he even partakes.  I have always found this deeply disturbing.

I'm just waiting for Yukon Cornelius.  He's my favorite and always has been and always will be, though I don't really know why.  Maybe it's when he licks the pick-axe and spits out the disgusted and disappointed "Nothing!" then continues about his business no worse for the wear.  That's resiliency!

Sorry -- my English training sometimes teases me into deconstructing things rather than just watching them and enjoying them.  I promise not to deconstruct Santa Claus Is Coming to Town, even though the young Santa gives little girls candy for sitting on his lap.  I guess that's another disturbing blog for another disturbing day.

After all, I'm just a misfit and bumbles bounce -- Wahhhooooo!  That's pretty much all I really need to know to get through the rest of the show.

TREE, BASEMENT, AND CHAOS

After the Santa Parade, it's time to buckle down and make sure the decorations are in order.  Well, as in order as anything can be when there is still chaos in my house thanks to the gas company.  I am, however, determined to give myself some seasonal normalcy.

The tree takes two weeks to set up completely.  I don't exactly know why, but adding the garland seems to be a stumbling block this season.  I suspect that I am hesitant because much of my basement is all over my first floor.  Christmas requires a certain order amongst its own chaos, so the added stress of unexpected gas company workers in my house at any given and/or ungiven time makes it difficult to commit to the season.

Now that the tree is done (not the room it's in, but the tree itself), I suppose I can be considered semi-committed, which is a big step considering the state of my home and my tendency to be a commitment phobe.  Not only are the ornaments on the tree, along with lights and garland, I have also put the ribbon angel on the top.

I think I can now safely conclude that Christmas is here ... or that I am ready for it to be here ... or just that its imminent arrival is going to be okay in the long run, basement chaos and all.

QUICK JAUNT TO THE SANTA PARADE

Today is the annual Santa Parade in my town. 

I keep saying that I'm going to go every year, and then I don't go.  I do the same thing today, hemming and hawing about going, until I hear the neighbors next door prepping their little one to go to the parade.  I peek outside in time to see an empty float fly by on its way to the parade line, so I figure I should probably just go at this point, especially since it's a five minute walk (if even) from my house. 

I get there about ten minutes before the parade is supposed to start and find the streets relatively empty.  I'm surprised at how few people are here, and I stake out a huge spot in front of one of the banks.  I don't have anyone near me for about fifty feet on either side.  I stick myself between a lamp post and a sign post, a space of about six feet in width, figuring no families will encroach on this space (I am correct) as the streets finally fill up just after one o'clock.

Of course, the parade starts late, which isn't anything unusual. 

There are the usual dance companies and the usual marching bands.  Two Celtic bands march through - Catamount and Clan McPherson.  There are lots of scout troops, which is nice to see, and the Historical Society has people in period costume (not going to lie -- that looked like fun).  Lots of candy is thrown, but they all, even the fire department, avoid giving candy to me.  I must look fat in my super-puffy coat with my post-Thanksgiving figure underneath.

The floats are decent this year, although there aren't many.  I see the Polar Express float that boogied past my house and sent me on my mission to see the parade.  The floats have sentimental value to me.  When I was in seventh or eighth grade, my school made a float (giant Frosty the Snowman) that won the parade contest.  It was great except that it was super-cold that day, and my job was to hold the chicken wire Frosty into place, so my hands were frozen solid.  Even worse, for winning the float contest, we had to go over to the nursing home and show off our float.  Yay!  We win .... freeze even longer!

Santa is always at the end of the parade.  As I watch him go by on the back of the firetruck, I can hear a wave of small voices cheering, "Santa! Santa!" and that makes me smile because this is what it's all about.  I like the bands and the floats, but for the kiddos, it's all about Santa and the magic of the season.

I walk for a short while with the parade, getting ahead of Santa by about a minute or two.  The parade disperses in front of my daughter's house, but she isn't outside watching nor are her neighbors, so I head home, avoiding all of the coffee shops on my way, but cutting behind the church and through the cemetery to avoid the throngs of people weaving back toward their cars parked nearby. 

Even though it rained all morning, it's about forty-five degrees, which is fifty degrees warmer than it was three days ago, so it almost feels like spring is in the air, but it smells and looks like Christmas, and that's exactly what I came out for in the first place.

MORE LEFTOVER TIDBITS

Thanksgiving is the holiday that never seems to end.
Like leftovers, one more story can always be burped out from its remains.
Today is one such day:
Friendsgiving.
This is the day that we celebrate with friends, especially those who work on the holidays,
and we eat another Thanksgiving meal.
And, of course, we are thankful.
First of all, we are thankful for heat and hot water;
so many are still without.
Second, we are thankful for roofs over our heads and clean floors beneath our feet.
Third, we are thankful for friends because it means we have people surrounding us on whom we count, and that is a rare and wonderful thing.
Lastly, we are thankful to food that, like our good friends, seems to multiply.
Thank you, Thanksgiving, for giving me one more story to eke out;
Now go loosen that button and admit your time here is almost done ... for now;
Christmas is just around the bend.

TODAY IS THE DAY

Today is the day.

Before marching ahead to Christmas and Hanukkah and all the New Year's festivities, there is still Friendsgiving to get through.  This means that even though the gas company has yet to stamp my stove with an approval card, I am going to use that sucker anyway.

Yup, I am making pumpkin bread, a pumpkin pie, and an apple pie.  I figure that the stove must be okay since it was installed by a licensed plumber, and also since I haven't smelled gas seeping out of it in the week or two that I have been awaiting the gas company to return.  I have been using the burners, but I hadn't yet turned on the oven to do any baking.

Today is the day.

First, I remove the tape that the plumber left stuck to the inside of the oven.  That would've been an adventure had I lit the damn thing without an extreme perusal on my part.  Next, I have to burn off the initial metallic stench when the oven goes on for the first time.  Lastly, I need to put some stuff in the oven and see if it actually works.

After spending hours cooking today, I am pleased to report that I have not yet blown up my kitchen, my home, nor myself.  I should also report that I'm not certain the oven temperature is actually calibrated because it seems to be under-heating.  I suppose this is good because I once had a stove that broiled everything regardless of the temperature settings.

In the end I have a warm kitchen, a happy stove and: one pumpkin bread, one pumpkin pie, one apple pie, some pumpkin butter, and a few cookies that I had from leftover refrigerator dough (so I baked them, but I didn't make them from scratch).

Today is the day that I test-drive the new stove, bake a whole bunch of good stuff for Friendsgiving, and I save the neighborhood from becoming a giant hole in the ground.  It's a win-win all around.

ONWARD TO THE NEXT HOLIDAY!

I attend Thanksgiving at my sister's house.  It's a beautiful day (bitter cold outside, though), the food is amazing, and the company is fabulous.  Clean-up seems to take forever, which means that we are blessed with lots of food and goodies and company; every time I clear the sink, someone plops another baking or serving dish into it.  

All goes very well until one of the two dogs in attendance decides to hop up to counter-height and steal a turkey bone.  Turkey bones are dangerous because they can splinter.  This particular dog is a bit of a big galoompha, so retrieving the bones is a lesson in human-vs.-canine control.  One of my nieces decides she will rescue the dog from choking itself, but she is afraid the dog might nip at her, so she puts on an oven mitt, which isn't much protection, but she does manage to wrestle the bone away.  Apparently, we should've left the pups in Doggie Jail a little longer while we started drifting into food-gorged complacency.

Other than that and one little guy taking a tumble or two while playing tag, it is a highly successful and stress-free day.  Everyone looks happy but bone-tired at the end of the day, and I realize as soon as I arrive home from a relatively short commute (about eighty minutes) that I have seriously hit the wall and am starting to fade into a food-induced coma.

I hope everyone had a good Thanksgiving with friends, family, and food.  And now ... onward to the next holiday gathering!

COLD THANKSGIVING

Happy American Thanksgiving, everyone, and a cold one it will be. 

Wind chills are expected to make the feels-like temperature hover around four-below zero.  The Feaster Five, Massachusetts' biggest Thanksgiving Day run (and a local tradition for those who live on or near the race course), has been scaled back - both the kids' fun run and the longer five-mile run have been cancelled, but the 5k will remain as an event.

Those of us on the road traveling -- may it be a day of safe and warm journeys.  For those still without gas service, please stay safe and warm , as well, and may your homes weather this cold front like it's just another day in the wait for service restoration.

Have a wonderful holiday with friends, family, neighbors, strangers ... however and with whomever you wish to spend Thanksgiving.

ROMAINE REALITIES

This is what I get for trying to eat healthier.

First, I get the strange cashier with the purple and bubblegum hair who thinks rats live inside the navel orange I'm buying.  Then, the damn vegetables try and kill me.

For dinner one night I decide to make a huge salad.  I make so much salad that I have to put it into a huge party-sized bowl.  I heap a mountain of salad on to my plate, top it with feta cheese, croutons, and steak.  The salad is delicious, so delicious that I make myself three small containers of it plus one large container.  I will have lunch for the entire week!

For dinner tonight I decide to make a huge pot of pasta with sauce, to be served with the large salad.  I never finished my lunch salad, so I quickly polish that off so I can make room on my plate later for more salad.  After all, SALAD IS HEALTHY, right?

 I put my lunch salad container in the sink to soak, and I start setting the kitchen table for dinner when I come across this gem:

https://www.cdc.gov/media/releases/2018/s1120-ecoli-romain-lettuce.html

The article claims that ALL romaine lettuce must be disposed off, even if you haven't gotten sick. I find this hard to believe.  I mean, there has to be a lot number or a sell-by date recall or something.  The news cannot possibly mean every damn shred of romaine lettuce, right?

WRONG.

The more I look into this, the more it upsets my stomach with the salad that I just finished eating.  Yes, the CDC says, everyone must throw out any and all romaine lettuce, regardless of where and when it was bought or in what condition (fresh, bagged...).  Article after article, video after video, it sounds like we will all suffer a Jim Jones death if we do not surrender the lettuce.

In the last 24 hours, I have devoured half a bag of romaine (mixed with cucumbers, tomatoes, spinach leaves, a yellow paper) lettuce, and I am a little fearful that I might drop dead at any random second of food-borne bacteria.

You see, THIS right here is why I shouldn't eat healthier: First my navel orange has a large animal living inside of it because the cashier is a weirdo, and now this.  Now my goddamned lettuce is trying to off me.

That's it!  That's it, that's it, that's it.  No more of this "Let's eat healthy" bullshit.  Hand over the Oreos, kids; I'm going to live to be one hundred!

GET OUT OF YOUR PARENTS' BASEMENT!

How do you know when you're dealing with an adult who lives in his parents' basement?

I am at the store buying food, trying to be healthy by choosing fruits and vegetables.  (Okay, I buy cookies, too.  Don't judge me.)  I decide to buy stuff to make salad, but I also throw a navel orange into my basket.  I do a whole bunch of shopping -- it has been about two weeks since I did a comprehensive grocery trip -- and there is a huge line to get through the one and only register that is open.

As soon as it is finally my turn, the woman in front of me is arguing with the cashier about something being on sale.  She demands the manager, then she starts talking into her phone as if Google or Siri will answer her question, "Is this ziti 99 cents or 88 cents?  Damnit, I want to know NOW!"

Finally, the store opens a second register.  I take my cart to the new cashier, who is a man about thirty years old (probably older) with multi-color purple-pink hair.  Normally I don't give a crap what color anyone's hair is, but, as I am trying to get him to ring faster than he is chatting, he tells me all about how he wanted bubblegum-colored hair, but the bubblegum has worn out already.

Meanwhile, with no bagger in sight, I start bagging my own groceries.  Suddenly, Bubblegum Man shoves the orange at me.  "You'll need a new one of these!"

I ... uhhhh ... ummmmm ... why?

"Something tried to eat this!" he says loudly enough that people in the self-checkout aisle have stopped and are staring.

The orange looks perfectly fine to me.

"If you bite into this, you're going to bite into whatever animal is inside this!"  He is absolutely aghast.

I examine the orange intensely.  I see no sign that rat nor bird nor cockroach has made any move whatsoever on the orange.  I put the fruit back down and prepare to put it into my bag when I have other items appropriate to go with an orange.

Bubblegum Man grabs it, holds it up, and points to a what he considers the terrible culprit.  "Look," he screeches, "it's still IN THERE!!!!!"

I see where he is pointing and grab the orange from him.  "Dude.  That's the navel.  It's a navel orange." Mother of God.  Seriously.

Grown adults should not be living in their parents' basement and working at the local grocery store simply to be able to afford bubblegum-colored hair dye.  They should probably get out into the real world and learn things like ... oh, I don't know ... that navel oranges have navels.

That would be a handy-dandy start.

CLODHOPPER VELCRO BOOTIE TIME

I come home Friday after a long day at school, and I start working on more stuff that I need to have done for Monday, finally wrapping up for the evening after midnight.  Crawling into bed around 1:00 a.m., I decide that I'd really like to wake up to daylight instead of an alarm in the darkness, so I get up and open the blinds in the bedroom.  Saturday morning sunshine will be fabulous.

Even better, though, is the light that comes in from the window in the room connected to my bedroom.  I might as well open that blind, as well, so I get up, pull open the blinds, and start (a little too excitedly) heading back to bed.  The lights are off, and I'm in a fine mood: my work is about 75% done, and I'm going to sleep until the morning light wakes me.  Life is going to be...

FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK!

I forget that there is a bag of holiday gifts on the floor in front of the closet that separates the two rooms.  The fourth toe on my left foot catches something that absolutely does not move, which causes said toe to snap up and out of its socket, and I use the word "snap" not only as a verb but as a double onomatopoeia because I hear the loudly audible SNAP SNAP of the bones separating.

Once I can breathe again, I look down to see that the toes on my left foot are now making the Vulcan greeting sign.  I've dislocated and broken toes before, many times, more times than I should probably admit.  It's the curse of having creepily long toes mixed with a huge lack of coordination.  Never the graceful one, I've snapped toes wearing open-toed shoes, in sports, and catching them barefoot on pieces of furniture.

Snapping a toe on a bag of gifts?  This is a new one.

I am so pissed off at myself that I refuse to do much triage beyond popping the toe back into its socket (to the best of my ability).  In my experience, the few moments of intense and breath-stopping pain at my own hand is far better than the pain of waiting, going to the walk-in, and having some ER doctor forcibly put the joint back to its original position.  I'm not entirely certain that the toe is indeed back where it came from, but my foot now looks like it's just waving a little bit as opposed to making the Vee for Victory salute.

The following day I clean up my foot and wrap it.  The pain is intense enough that I dig out an old surgical bootie and my crutches.  Walking on it is painful but workable (slowly and carefully), and the swelling isn't nearly as bad as I expected it to be.  Thirty hours post-snapsnap, my foot is slightly puffy, red and purple, and the hematoma has spread to the middle toe and the second toe.  In other words, I have a very colorful few days coming on.

Of course I attempt to stuff my foot into a shoe, but that's not happening.  Looks like I might have to be a clodhopper in a Velcro bootie for another day or two, which means that my idiocy will have to be explained at work on Monday.  I suppose I could just say that I broke a toe in a couple of places and call it a day.  I also suppose the inevitable "how" question can be avoided if I just say that I caught it on something.

But truly, who breaks a toe on a bag of gifts while trying to open blinds so the sun can shine in five hours later simply because it's the weekend?

Oh, wait.  That would be me. 

CHEERS TO THIS CANKER-BLOSSOM OF GAS

Still, I cannot officially use my stove. 

I am NOT complaining here, folks. I am now amongst the 73% of people in my town with gas service restored after eight weeks.  I am thrilled to have a stove, but, honestly, I'll be even more thrilled when I can use it.

Ummmmm, okay, so I've been using the burners on top.  (Don't tell ANYONE.)  I've done nothing but boil water, so this lovely new stainless steel hunk in my kitchen is a glorified tea maker.  That's okay by me.  The ugly, scary, horrible empty space left by the ugly, scary, horrible red-carded gas-infected stove is now filled.  The only reminder of the gas fiasco is the absolute shit-show mess in my basement (hot water heater, furnace, metal scraps, pipes, tubing, dirt, empty boxes, wires, trash...).

I decide that my new tea cup will be my Shakespearean insults mug, so every time I make tea and bemoan the fact that I cannot truly cook yet, I can think back to Shakespeare's time and be thankful for little things, like electric lights, automobiles, and flush toilets.  Oh, and I can say things like, "Thou art a boil, a plague sore!" and "You rampallian!" and "You fustilarian!" and "Not so much brain as ear wax!"

I mean, if having/not-having a stove is how we're going to play this game for a few more days, I might as well take this mountain of mad flesh and be light of brain, highly fed, and lowly taught.  Cheers!

STAINLESS STEEL BRIAR

The stove is here.
The stove is in my kitchen.
The stove is installed.
The stove has gas.

The stove lights up like a beacon in the dark.

The stove itself hasn't been inspected.
The stove installation hasn't been insepcted.
The stove gas hasn't been inspected.
The stove cannot be used until inspected.

The stove sits in my kitchen like a stainless steel briar.

The stove - so close and yet so far.

(Fuck you, Columbia Gas.)

FINDING THE CANDLES

I have been frustrated lately trying to find Advent candles for the coming holiday season.  I kick myself for waiting so long.  I've been in this predicament before then end up using old candles that I already burned the prior year ... or even before that.

While shopping with my sister, I look in the department stores and craft stores for candles.  I cannot find the colors that I need: four blue tapers, or three purple tapers plus one pink taper.  Even worse is the nagging feeling that I had this same conversation with myself a few months ago while shopping at The Christmas Tree Store.

Yes, I could swear that I'd already bought the Advent candles.  I honestly remember saying to myself, "This year I'm going to buy them as soon as I see them," and following through on that in July or August.  However, the candles are not with the items from that bag nor are they with the Christmas stuff.

As you all know from my endless rantings, the Gas Crisis hit without warning on September 13th, and the Powers That Be cut off all electricity to two towns and a major city for three days in addition to shutting off all gas service (much of which still remains off).  The first night in the dark was spent at a friend's house.  The second night in the dark was spent in my own house with flashlights.  The third night, once we were certain we weren't going to blow up, was spent with barbecues, open-pit fires, and candles illuminating the blackness.

Candles... Oh, crap.  Did I burn the candles out of desperation?  I did go through a lot of them during the dusk and late into the evening then again the following morning before the lights came back on.  No, no, no; I wouldn't burn the Advent candles.  I'm certain I would never get that desperate.  I guess I never did buy them after all.

When the weekend is over and I still, after four or five stores, cannot find Advent-colored candles for sale, I decide to do what any NORMAL person would've done in the first place: I look in the small cabinet that houses all of the candle holders, votive burners, and all of the tapers, votive candles, and tea lights in my possession.

I mean, why on Earth would I put the Advent candles where they actually belong?  Who does THAT kind of stupid stuff?

Tucked right on top of the other candles, safe and sound (yes, right where they belong), I find four brand new, still-shrink-wrapped, absolutely flawless taper candles: three purple and one pink; the Advent candles that I bought during the summer when I saw them for sale (and on sale) at The Tree.

Apparently being organized is not my strong suit, but I really am trying.  Eventually I might catch on.

WHEELCHAIRS AND RETAIL

My sister and I spend a day shopping in Newington, apparently along with hundreds of our closest friends.  I'm not a fan of Black Friday, so this sudden onslaught of random weekend crowds is slightly annoying but not too overwhelming.

After all, we have each other for company while waiting in line.

And so we are in line for the registers, probably twenty-five people deep or more, when the older woman in front of us turns and says, "I think I saw a wheelchair up front.  I might need it."

Oh boy.  We don't need any elderly shoppers dying while in queue at the check-out; that would really be a line-stopper.

We offer to go get the wheelchair, but she insists on getting it herself, so we offer to hold her place in line.  By the time she returns, we realize she is thinking wishfully as she works her way down the faces of people from the front, hoping uselessly that the line may have moved in the five minutes that she has been gone.

No such luck.

She thanks us, sits in her wheelchair, and shuffles forward every time there is movement from the front (hopefully just cashing out and not real casualties).  My sister and I continue to chat until we are almost to the registers and the woman in the wheelchair is actually next.  She turns to my sister and me and says, "I've enjoyed listening to you.  You sound like a fun family!"

My sister smiles, but I am in utter shock.  "Fun?!" I say loudly, clearly aghast.  "No one has EVER accused us of being FUN before.  You must have the wrong family."

Sis nods in agreement.  "Clearly," she confirms.

After the charming woman leaves us and after we get ourselves to a register next to her, we wait until she checks out and is through the door before glancing at each other.  While it's lovely to be complimented, it's also smart to be realistic.  We study the empty wheelchair.

"Dementia," we both say in unison.

So concludes another successful shopping adventure and confirms why we clearly shouldn't be left unsupervised in public places.

DEAD IS DEAD

My phone died.

I resuscitate it several times, but each time it comes back to life, it loses some ability: group texting, opening pictures, sending pictures, receiving calls, making calls...  The first time it died, it just needed a new battery.  It cost me less than ten dollars, and I became very adept at removing the back cover of my phone and playing with its inner electronics.

This time when it dies (again and again --- my phone is in the technological version of defib), I have the advantage of knowing how to open the back of it off.  It seems that the SIM card has shit the bed.  If I can get my hands on a pre-programmed SIM card from my cell phone provider, this will be an easy fix.  The SIM card, though, does not exist.  Oh, I can buy a new, clean SIM card, but my provider will charge me to start up the phone again.

This seems to me to be a bit of highway robbery since I'm the one who actually keeps repairing their piece of crap phone. So, I order a new phone.  It's not the latest and greatest, which is fine because that would cost me $700 and up.  Besides, I don't know bullshit about bells and whistles, anyway.

Once I transfer over most of my contacts, I realize that only email addresses have made the transport.  I have to enter my phone contacts (ie: text messages) by hand.  Finally confident that most of my people have come with me through Cyber Space, I decide that it's time to synch the Bluetooth with the phone.

The last time I tried this, my phone was synching up to any number of cars within miles and I ended up at the cemetery down the street.  This time I head to the beautiful garden cemetery about two miles away instead of the closer one.  I figure there will be less traffic away from the train tracks, the  street, and the five-way intersections at either end of the cross street.

I am so wrong.

There are so many cars and joggers in the cemetery that it's a wonder any of the dead can stay that way.  Too much noise; Too much commotion.  I had not planned on so many cars nearby, so I drive exactly where I didn't want to go: the far end of the cemetery, away from the streets and everyone, almost into the woods, near an old mausoleum.

I am halfway through the phone set-up, trying to remember what it is I am supposed to do, when a giant black town car with tinted windows heads right for me, trying to push my stopped car further into the woods.

I back up and pull further into the forest so the giant limo-like car can get around me.  Nope.... wait, he's putting on his directional and he's heading ... RIGHT --- FOR --- ME.   The driver is headed right to (you guessed it) the damn mausoleum.

After three more moves through the cemetery, I finally get far enough away from others and off the small cemetery paths, and close enough to the stone chapel to get my phone synched up to my vehicle without further interruptions.  As long as the extended-stay guests in the cemetery don't start calling me ala Rod Serling, this new phone should be okay ... for a while.

THEY'RE BAAAAAACK

Like the poltergeists in the movie of the same name, the spooks that have occupied many sleeping and most of my waking moments over the last eight weeks are back.

It all starts with a noise -- a steady pounding as if someone is breaking rocks far, far away.Then it becomes a torrent of voices.  The rain makes it difficult to gauge exactly where and what is going on -- perhaps the railroad has maintenance going on at the train crossing or something. I don't really pay it much attention, though, until I look outsidemy front window.

Damnit.  Columbia Gas is blocking my driveway ... again.

I run upstairs to look out the windows that have more expansive views of the area.  Sure enough, not only is the gas company back, but they are digging up the pipes in the dangerous intersection again.  This is unbelievable; they're supposed to be done over here.  All the major work is supposed to have been completed in my zone (Zone 1) and my neighborhoods, but here they are digging it all up again as if nothing had every been done. 

My driveway is blocked, my street is blocked, and my patience is blocked.  I could understand if they were going house to house to collect their garbage from our basements: dead furnaces, extra hot water heaters, old pipes and hoses, vents they tore down installing new pipes, stone pieces they left behind while drilling through my foundation.

I can hear them; I can see them when they flit past to get to one of their trucks.  They're not in my house, but they're haunting me, taunting me: "We're here but not here."  It's a huge mind-f*** when you never know who will be inside your house when you step out of the shower or come up the stairs from doing laundry.

The gas company is like poltergeists: other-worldly entities responsible for wreaking havoc, noise, and moved objects into my life then disappearing after creating chaos.

HITTING THE WALL FRIDAY-STYLE

The ending of the hectic work week often feels like the bad ending to a drag race: a fast slam straight into the wall.  It's little wonder that on Friday, especially now that it's dark by five o'clock in the afternoon, I hit that wall hard and without mercy.

By six o'clock, I am ready to fall asleep.  I fight the feeling with snacks and with games on my phone and with the television and with chores.  Two hours later, I am quite literally ready to drop, but I still refuse to go to bed this early.  That would be crazy.

Sometimes when I get this tired, I put my head down on my desk or on the kitchen table and nap for a few minutes.  I wake up refreshed and ready for a few more hours of puttering or correcting or television watching -- whatever it is that I was doing when I dozed off.  Tonight, though, I figure I'll stretch out on the futon in the den.  It's a remarkably uncomfortable futon, so I don't expect to even fall asleep.  I leave on the lights, the television, my cell phone, the computer, because I anticipate a short nap, if anything at all.

I do doze off, though, and when I awaken, it feels like I've been out for maybe fifteen minutes.  I take my time getting reoriented, roll off the futon, and check the time on the microwave in the kitchen.

Midnight.  It's after midnight.  I've napped for three hours.

I putter around for about ninety more minutes: work on the computer, wash utensils I used earlier,  and turn down my bed.  In a case for full disclosure, I did change into sweats, wash my face, and brush my teeth before I napped, just in case I really did fall into a deep sleep.  I repeat my face and teeth routine then crawl into bed for the rest of the night (morning?).

Napping might be easier with a more comfortable futon, but apparently that isn't cramping my life as much as I suspect.  If this is what hitting the wall feels like, I think I can live with it.  

THANK YOU, VETERANS

November 11th is Veterans Day.

This year it is the 100th anniversary of the armistice that ended The Great War.  The Great War was not known at that time as World War I because no one ever expected the debacle to repeat itself with World War II.  One hundred years later it still seems unfathomable to me that we even had one war so global that having a second in the lifetime of those who lived through the first seems like infinitesimal odds.

When we were little my parents often threatened us that we should practice for Armistice Day - a day of solemn silence.  My father was a WWII vet, an Army soldier; his brother served in Korea and his father was also in the military (I believe during WWI, but my memory of shared details is spotty).  Armistice Day was kind of a big deal.

My brother-in-law served in the Air Force.  My niece served in the Marines.  I have close friends and former teachers and professors who served in Vietnam.  The inspector who okayed the re-ignition of my gas service was stationed in Cambodia and also served in the Vietnam War.  Many of the people with whom I grew up and with whom my children grew up are active or retired military.  A lot of my friends and co-workers are also military families.

So many amazing people willing to step forward and serve.

I hope we never have another draft, and I wish (though it's probably futile, knowing human nature and all) that we'd never have another war or need for military deployment.  However, regardless of the climate for conflict here or abroad, I'd like to thank all of the veterans I know (and those I don't yet know) for your service.

I appreciate and respect you on this day and every day of the year.

BEST SONG EVER -- PETER GUNN

I have discovered the World's Greatest Song. 

Okay, perhaps not the greatest all the time -- I have remarkably diverse taste in music, and on any given day my favorite song could be rock, rap, country, jazz, New Wave, classical, flamenco ... There are days when the theme song from SpongeBob Squarepants is stuck in my brain, or when I find myself humming Tubular Bells (theme song from The Exorcist) during bus arrival time at school.

However, when this song comes onto the satellite station, I know instantly that it is Winner, Winner, Chicken Dinner.  I turn the volume up to ear-splitting levels.  The car is rocking out so fully that the sounds from the speakers collide with each other, causing a ripple-effect of energy that leaks outside of my car, scaring the early-morning dog-walkers and waking anyone who has their home or car windows ajar.

The winning song of the day (the week, the month, the year ...) is Peter Gunn. 

Peter Gunn is a theme song from a 1959 television show of the same name, and the theme song was composed by Henry Mancini. It is probably the greatest riff of all time, and it has been recorded and re-recorded dozens of times.  You know the song even if you don't know the title.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tK-vUY6erQU

Today's version of Peter Gunn is a remix of the Duane Eddy version and done by a New Wave band The Art of Noise. Honestly, though, it doesn't matter who performs the song; it's a kick-ass song in any format as long as the main riff stays the same.

Anyway, give it a listen if you like, or you can wait until it comes around again on the radio.  Maybe I'll be driving by your house and you can hear it by osmosis as the sound waves penetrate the walls.  It certainly perks up my day and, in my opinion, is the World's Greatest Song (for this morning, anyway).

FINALLY FALL FOLIAGE

Sunshine! 

We haven't really seen it in weeks around here, and word has it that we won't be seeing it again for a while.  I finally have ideal weather for snapping pictures of foliage.  The only problem is that the last few weeks of Nor'Easters and wind and pounding rain (and thunder and lightning) has left us with very little left to see in the colorful leaves department.

I have errands to run after work, errands that take me in giant circles around the gas company and plumbers who are madly trying to put our area back together.  Yes, seven weeks later, they're still here doing triage.  This is how I happen to find myself face to face with the town park where there just happens to be a tree with bright yellow leaves attached.

Amazing.

The sky is still blue, but now that we've fallen back an hour, dusk is rapidly descending.  Unfortunately there are no parking spaces available, so I pull over to the side of the road, put on my blinker, jump out of my still-running car, and snap a couple of photos.  I don't know how they come out because I just activated my new phone about twenty hours earlier and still haven't figured it out yet.

I am pleased to report that I have actually been able to snap a fall foliage picture, after all.  My autumn is complete.  Okay, it can snow now.

MINDFUL POND MOMENT

For once in about a month, it's not raining when I leave for work.  My car is plastered with wet leaves from the rain that stopped just a short while before, but, other than residual street flooding that splatters up from the road, I don't need my windshield wipers.  The sun is attempting to make an appearance, and the light of day looks remarkably like any normal, non-monsoon day.

So it is a normal day for a short while, until the car turns right instead of going straight across the intersection.  I know, I know: technically I'm in charge of the car's direction, but I don't feel like I am.  My car wants to take the side street through the state forest.  Usually my drive around the perimeter is enough -- patches of forest, splotches of ponds, and lots of rocks large enough to climb. 

This morning, though, not so much.

As soon as the car and I glide through the gate-like entrance, I know exactly where I am going; I'm going to Field Pond.  A few moments later, past trees and trails, I turn into the small parking area that faces the pond and gaze out over the water.  Fog settles and adheres to everything, creating a gray, almost opaque blanket over the morning, and it is incredibly peaceful.

I don't stay long, perhaps a minute or two, because I really do have to get to work still.  I snap a couple of photos then get right back onto my path toward the rest of my day.  This is when the car takes over; it's autopilot from here on out, but I don't have any anxious knot in my stomach or to-do list racing through my brain when the car and I arrive at school, steering into the third pull-through space one row deep in the empty lot.

It does not matter what the rest of the day throws at me.  I've had my mindful moment, and, best of all, I've the pictures to prove it.

"GRAMMAR RANT" [WITH EXPLETIVES]

Stop it.  Stop that shit.  Just stop that fucking shit right now.  You all look like fucking morons.

No, not YOU, dearest readers. 

I'm talking about an English professor at a local graduate school (let THAT sink in ... English graduate level) who posted about a newly-released novel and put the novel's title in quotation marks.  Also, I'm talking about a national newspaper that refuses to underline or use italics for novel titles in the book section of their paper; the titles are in quotation marks.

Quotation marks!  I mean, seriously.  What. The. Fuck.

Novel titles are NEVER put into quotation marks unless you're a moron, a college English professor who should be fired, or the New York Times Book Review.  I actually had to unsubscribe to the NYT BR online because I couldn't tolerate the stupidity.  Imagine posting the entire review of books while publishing each title incorrectly punctuated.

It's inane.  It's lame.  And it's WRONG.

Like the Oxford Comma (aka The Serial Comma), changing the rule because new writers and semi-experienced journalists are too stupid to follow the rule is NO EXCUSE.  If people don't know to put a comma before the conjunction in a series of words (hence marrying the final two items), there is very little that I personally can do to save the world.  It's like ending a sentence with a preposition; it shows an incredible and undeniable amount of fluency flatulence.

But this ... this is heinous.  This is contemptible. This quotation-marks-for-titles crap is grammatical sacrilege.

If we allow idiots and other imbeciles to change the rules of grammar at their whim (because they're dumb as shit), what's next?  How in the name of Ben Johnson are people supposed to identify chapters from books if the book titles are reduced to quotation marks?  You simply cannot punctuate a novel title in quotation marks unless it is a very short, short novel, much shorter than a novella, so short, in fact, that it's a short story.

How will we punctuate titles of short stories or non-epic poems?  Shall we simply put brackets around them?  Oh, yes, let's do.  Let's put brackets around Joyce's "Araby" ... Oh, so sorry ... [Araby] ... and call it fucking algebra.  Ummmm, I mean [algebra].

Yes, I'm mad.  I am mad as hell at people who keep changing the rules, like NOT putting two spaces at the end of a sentence when typing.  Oh, sure, computer keys are not the same as typewriter keys, which is why the two-space rule was created in the first place: identical key sizes in the letter keys and the punctuation keys.  I still, for the most part, adhere to it, and I have been told I'll NEVER get published because some young asshole will believe I am a hack for doing so.

Yes, and so was Hemingway.  A fucking hack.  A fucking hack who lived in the hills with white elephants.  Put a bracket around that shit, stuff it in your pipe, and smoke it.  Or maybe blow your head off with it.  Either one.  I don't care. 

Well, if it's good enough for college professors and good enough for the NYT, I suppose it's good enough for the common charlatan.  It is not, however, good enough for me, so stop that shit right now before I have to bitch-slap someone.  Oh, so sorry ... let me novel-title that for you: "Before I Have to Bitch-Slap Someone."

HOT WATER IS AN AMAZING LUXURY

How unusual is it for me to have hot water?

I survived forty-five days without heat or hot water (and still lack cooking gas as I don't have a stove), which, to most people may not seem like an ultimate sacrifice.  To me it doesn't even seem like that a big a deal.  Sure, it was an inconvenience and, toward the end of the ordeal for people on my street, the annoyance level boiled into frustration and eventually our tempers were all shot.

But, still.  These are First World problems, and we should be thankful for roofs and running water in general.

During the continuing Gas Saga here in the Merrimack Valley, I became adept a heating water for baths, showers, dish washing, and general hand and face washing.  I had it to such a science that I could accomplish many other things as I heated it all up, taking multi-tasking to new levels while boiling, microwaving, and using tea kettles and coffee makers to get enough bath/shower water heated up to spa-like levels in under thirty minutes.

So this morning, while boiling water for tea, I find myself having autopilot issues.  As soon as I start steeping the tea, I immediately pick up the pan (I didn't bother with the kettle this time) and start heading for the bathroom. 

Wait.  What am I doing? How programmed am I after six weeks that I have this bizarre urge, need, obsession to use up any heated water lest it cool down before it can be put to good use. Weird. 

I've gone from fumbling around to figure out the best bathing-by-teapot system all the way to being an expert shower maker, and now I'm wracked with guilt when hot water sits by the wayside.  I still feel it, hours later, like I've failed somehow by leaving hot water behind that could've done good in a gas-less world.

Argh.  This is all the tea's fault.  If I hadn't forced myself to enjoy a wonderful cup of black tea with honey, I'd never be debating the ills of Yankee ingenuity and miserliness; I'd never be suffering the agony of a guilty conscience hours later, still convinced that the water could've gone to great use if only I'd figured it out before washing my hands under the warm water from the faucet, which, to me, is still so unusual that I often forget I have the capability not to freeze to death anymore.

QUITE POSSIBLY KICK THEIR ASSES

I get up in the morning and get ready for work.  I leave early, and, at the time I am writing this, we have not yet fallen back an hour, which means that it is darker than dark when I get on the road at 6:30.  Every day I try to beat the gas company workers because they sit in their cars and trucks with the headlights on, and they block my street and blind me all at the same time. 

This has been our morning dance for the last six weeks.

One morning, though, no one is parked on my street.  It's deserted.  I am the only car, and there is clear access either to the left down the small hill to the dangerous intersection, or to the right where the staging area has been for Gas Company Ground Zero.  Now clear, I can actually turn up the road that leads to Main Street (and work).  It is creepy without my usual crew around.  All those mornings of me bitching and complaining about having to take my life into my hands entering the dangerous intersection with my sight-line blocked, and all the mornings I have had to run across the intersection on foot to get to my car parked a street away when there were giant holes everywhere --Finished.

I enjoy the peace and resign myself to the fact that eventually they will be back to get their crap out of my basement -- the leftover pipes, the busted heating vents, the old furnace, and the incorrect brand-new hot water heater.  (Well, they'd better be back if they know what's good for them.)

The next morning, though, there they are again.  It's not my usual crew, but it's a crew, just the same.  Then I realize they're working on the house that caught fire.  The owners filed an insurance claim rather than a Columbia Gas claim, so their crew had to wait until our crew finished up.  I guess the silent, worker-free zone only comes with a twenty-four hour codicil.

The best part is, though, that now I recognize all the sounds without even having to look.  Saturday morning when I hear the crew working at 7:00, I instantly know they're toasting drill bits trying to make their way through the field stone basement. I also know from living in that house many years ago that the crew will have a bastard of a time getting the hot water heater and furnace out and bringing in new ones because the staircase is tiny and the limited work area is about the size of a handicap stall public restroom.

Good luck to them all.  But, hear this: I've waited six weeks to have my morning commute back.  Do NOT block the end of my driveway anymore or I just might be tempted to cry... and quite possibly kick your asses.

SUN FOR A MOMENT; IT'S ANOTHER DAMN MIRACLE

Holy crap, two miracles in one week.

First of all, last Saturday I get my gas turned back on in the middle of a pounding rain Nor'Easter.  That's definitely Miracle Numero Uno.  It's also slightly ironic that my first order of business is taking a long, hot shower considering that...

It has been raining pretty much non-stop for two or three weeks now.  Truly.

Every autumn I go out and take pictures of the fabulous birch and maple tree leaves all colorful and fabulous against the crisp blue sky.  But, no such luck this year because once the colors turn and start toward peak, it stays gray and even rains all the time.  ALL the time, I mean, as in day after day after day after day.  Last night it rained so hard and so powerfully and so forcefully that the noise actually prevented me from sleeping.  It is annoying and disheartening and truly depressing because there has been no real daylight forever.  Now I'm just pissy and disgusted and quite tired of being perpetually clammy.

Today is also the day we go into Boston for the bar crawl to raise money for Boston Children's Hospital.  We don't know how to dress: Will the rain continue?  Will it get humid?  Do we need sunglasses (wishful thinking)?  Do we need rain boots or winter boots?  How many layers of clothing should we wear?  Of course, the rain stops but then the wind kicks in.

Quite frankly, this weather sucks.

However, for a brief moment, for about fifteen short minutes, the sun comes out -- Miracle #2.  We are all nearly blinded by the burst of light.  It doesn't last long, but we get a chance to remember what it looks like and feels like to watch the sun hit the tall buildings and race along the roads.

Quick, take a picture! I tell myself.  By the time my phone is ready and I've set up a shot, the sun is starting to fade.  Although the rain hasn't returned (yet), the wind is blowing trees, and branches fall over the streets, making the  the semi-flooded ride over and through the giant limbs just one more inconvenience.

I quickly snap a few photos before the grayness descends again, reminding me that it's autumn here in New England, and that hurricane season tends to last longer up here and has no concern about colored leaves or the peepers who love the season, and that the weather has zero concern for miracles.

ATTACK THE BANANA BREAD!

One of my students gives me a lovely gift bag for Halloween.

I don't believe that he is sweet on me.  I think he is genuinely thrilled to be doing so well in my class.  Honestly, he's doing all the work and completing assignments and using time with classmates to the best of his ability.

In other words, he is doing exactly what I expect, better than I hope, and miles beyond what I believe will happen.  He is successful because he trusts what I tell him, nothing more and nothing less.

As appreciation, he brings me a lovely Halloween bag with scented liquid hand soap, a candle, and homemade banana bread that is absolutely to die for (I eat it for supper in place of all else in my home).  Really -- it's that good.

These moments (the moments of surprise gifts and cards of appreciation) are what make my job worthwhile.  Now, if you don't mind, I'm going to attack the rest of that banana bread.

WAISTLINE FROM HELL

Oh. boy.  Here it comes.  Waistlines from Hell.

It starts with Halloween, when I buy candy and no one shows up at my door.  Then, it morphs into Thanksgiving, when I eat everything in sight because it's cold outside and my stomach craves the warmth and comfort of good, old-fashioned New England food.  Lastly, it becomes Christmas, when eating sugar is practically a competitive sport with both individual and team categories.

Why do I buy candy for Halloween when I know that no one is coming?  Why ... why ... WHY?!  This clearly is the catalyst to all this holiday disaster.

I'm sorry, stomach.  I'm sorry, butt cheeks.  I'm sorry, waistline.  I'm sorry, bathroom scale.  I'm sorry, pants that don't fit anymore.  I'm sorry that I'm not sorry for eating so much.

Okay, January and diets and exercise are a mere eight weeks away, but until then... I'll start with Halloween candy (not ALL of it) and work my way onward.  I'm nothing if not a diligent trooper.  If I know me, I'll get by just fine.

P.S. Send me some new clothes.  I'm going to need a size or two up, if you don't mind.

STOP CALLING, YA POLITICAL BASTARDS

Dear Anyone and Everyone Running for Political Office:

Now that it's November, I have some sage advice for you: STOP CALLING.  No, seriously, stop calling my damn phone.  Stop pretending you're calling from a local number.  Stop pretending you're just taking a survey.  Stop masquerading as someone who gives one shit about me or the things that matter to me.

Where were you when my house was full of gas?  When it got cold and I had no heat?  When I couldn't shower?  When I had to evacuate with no place to go?  When the gas company quit working on the property because the manager had an exhaustion-fueled meltdown?

I NEVER saw you in MY neighborhood, and I'm living at Ground Zero here with all the trucks hauling dirt from the end of my street to fill the holes they've been digging to get the entire town/city/area back on the grid.  I NEVER heard from you when I couldn't get emergency housing or reimbursement or something as simple as answers.

You and your make-believe, absolutely heartless, useless political volunteers (phone-calling, sign-holding, hand-waving pimps) can go straight to Hell and back, and then you can go back again and stay there.

If you call me one more time...

Here's my latest modus operandi when you call me, and yes, I'll answer the phone just to say it.

"Hello? ... Ummmm, hold on.  Can you spell the candidate's name? ... And, what political party is that? ... Oh, really? ... Well, I'm unenrolled, you know ... Okay, you can stop talking now.  I'm voting AGAINST ANYONE who has the audacity to call me begging for support.  Thanks for helping me decide.  Now bugger off."

It's actually very cathartic.  Good luck, ya faceless bastards, and thanks again for ALL of your boots-on-the-ground support during the gas explosions.  I cannot even tell you how much I appreciate your lack of empathy, decency, help, and support.

I hope you all fucking lose.