SO OVER 2019

Not going to lie, 2019 was an up and down year. I don't usually make resolutions for the New Year,  but for 2020 I am going to make an exception.

So, here it is. I resolve not to take shit in 2020. I know, I know: it will happen on occasion because old habits die hard. But, I have already started. I refuse to feel guilty or squeamish about calling out people's bullshit.  I am sooooo over it all.

Welcome, 2020, and bring it on. I am totally ready, or, at the very least, in training. Here is your fair warning, people. You push my buttons, I have a response for you, and I damn well mean it.

I'M OVER IT.

Truly, I am so very over it. Here's  to a bullshit-free 2020. May you all be over it, as well. 

HAPPY NEW YEAR!

HOLIDAY SHOWERS BRING DECEMBER CURTAINS

Moving for the first time in fifteen years was a wonderful idea.  Moving weeks before Christmas ... NOT a wonderful idea.  Although the tree is up, the rest of the decorations are sadly lacking, and my shopping is not quite under control yet.

Imagine the pressure this puts on me whenever I do get out to the mall or to stores to start my shopping.  I'm already lagging behind, and I see decorations for people who take the holidays to an entirely different level.  For the love of all things sane, there are even Christmas-themed (and other holidays, too) shower curtains!  Who has the damn time or energy to change out the damn shower curtain every damn holiday?

That's how it all starts, anyway.

Actually, it starts at one store in the tablecloth aisle.  First I see outrageous silver place mats and think, Shit, I MUST have them.  Alas, nothing is priced.  Saved by the errant label gun.  Oh, but it doesn't stop there.  I edge over to the holiday-themed tablecloths.  (Please remember that I have just downsized in living space, and I am madly attempting to rid myself of my worldly possessions.)  But am I even hosting the holidays at all this year?  Do I truly need a silver and gray snowflake-infused cloth and gaudy, shiny mats if it's dinner for one?

I wander to the next aisle and discover holiday shower curtains priced out anywhere between $16.99 and $50.  Really, people?  $50 for a temporary shower curtain?  (Secretly, of course, I want one.)  I leave the store, completely resisting temptation on all household fronts (but not on other fronts).  On to the next store, which is a sister store in the same chain.

In this store, I say casually, "I'm just going to troll housewares for a few minutes..."  This translates to, "I'm about to drop a whoop-ass amount of my Christmas shopping money on myself and my new place."  I look around.  So far, so good.  Until ... until ...

Until I reach the shower curtains.

I paw through them, each one gaudier than the last.  Hmmmm, maybe this one .... maybe that one ... oh, look, Parisian dogs in berets ...  I cannot decide even if I were to buy one.  I turn to walk away when the price tag catches my eye.

$5.99.

I crap you not -- $5.99 for a curtain that's heavy duty and has a decent pattern to it.  But, remember: I do not NEED anything, not one thing at all.  I walk away.  I return.  I walk away.  I return again.  Oh, man.  I spent that kind of money on a sundae and a Coke at Mickey D's yesterday, and I don't have anything to show for that purchase except a new stomach roll.

So, folks, I am now the proud owner and displayer of Christmas via a vinyl shower curtain, and it's kind of fun and festive.  I start to understand what all the hoopla is about!  Maybe I don't, but I don't mind.  My bathroom is ready for the holidays, and, in the end, that's the room that really matters.

I am thankful. Oh, I am also doing a lifetime's worth of praying.  I am on my way to the airport,  driving myself in this time, and the weather sucks.  SUCKS.  It is pitch-black outside, the roads are wet, and the street lines have faded.

It has been pounding rain, and I seem to have forgotten that hours upon hours of steady downpours mean the roads are like ponds.  I hit the first massive puddle less than a mile from home.  No worries.  I'll be on the highway soon.  Right?

Idiot. I am so focused on getting to the airport and finding my perfect spot (spitting distance to the door and parking pay station) that I forget about the water buildup on the shoulders of the road.

What a sight to passing cars if they could see me in the darkness: hands tightly clutching the wheel, wide eyes focused into nothingness,  teeth clenched, spewing a mantra that includes the words God, Jesus,  damn, oh, fuck, and motherfucker ... in no particular order.

I am not giving up! I am going to North Carolina come Hell or, well, high water.  So bring what ya got, Ma Nature.   You may be tough, but I am a nana on a mission.

Oh, and thank you muchly, by the way.  I will gladly turn my car into a glorified kayak to drive here.  It could've been ice or snow, so, much as my jaw is sore, I truly appreciate just rain. 

COAT RACK CHAOS

The new home needs a coat rack.  Honestly, the old place needed one, too, but there wasn't any room in the old place.  The problem is that I don't actually want a coat rack because the coat racks I've seen are ugly, but I start searching for one, anyway.

Coat racks in the store are knobby.  That's right, I said it.  They're wooden and knobby and homely and just plain old-looking.  I start searching online.  Aha!  Metal coat racks like the medical offices have.  but still ... knobby and ... well ... coat rackish.

Maybe I should give up.  Maybe I should just break down and put up some hooks, make my life easy.  Maybe I should just do what I did at the last place and plop the coats upstairs on a bed or hang them from the backs of kitchen chairs.

Then, I spot it.  It's online.  It's perfect.  This coat rack looks like modern art, like an industrial version of a tree only better.  Price is decent, so I read the reviews, most of which are favorable, but a few say "Difficult to assemble."

Truly?  It's like eight pieces.  How difficult can this be?

I order the coat rack, and it arrives four days ahead of schedule.  Excellent.  I'm having company this weekend, so I'll assemble it Saturday morning.  When it's time, I open the box and separate the pieces, making sure that I have all the parts.  Seems easy enough with eight metal pieces, two plastic pieces, and six screws.  I turn over the paper to read through the directions.

Step 1.

That's it.  No actual directions.  Just a picture that says "Step 1."  Apparently step 1 is to assemble every frigging thing all at the same time.  Logic tells me that parts #4 are the ones to assemble first, and parts #1 are the final pieces.  But, what do I know?  It's just a picture, and I am terrible with technical visuals.

After one mistake and an awful lot of WD40 spray, the struggle ends in victory.  The coat rack is done and looks even better than I thought it would at the beginning of this whole process.  The new coat rack is not knobby, old-looking, nor ugly.

Best of all, it actually holds coats.  What a novel concept, and good thing, too, since that's exactly what I need it to do.

WAZE AND THE ROADKILL GAME

WAZE is a great app ... when it works and when it's programmed properly.

Sometimes it cannot find a satellite feed.  Sometimes it shows my car driving sideways.  Sometimes it automatically tries to avoid toll roads and attempts to take me on wild goose chases.  Sometimes it sends me around in circles just to confuse me.

Most of the time, though, it's pretty darn handy.  Plus, my WAZE is programmed to speak British English, so it's also a little sexy when he orders me to round the roundabout.

For instance, I enjoy knowing where the speed traps are.  You can always tell who has WAZE because we are all whipping along in the fast lane when suddenly one person will move over and slow down.  More of us move over and slow down as we enter the notification zone of "Warning! Police reported ahead."  The idiot drivers behind without WAZE zoom on by, assuming that we are letting them pass because our travel speed of 85 mph is no match for their 100+ mph jaunt.  Then we laugh and laugh and laugh (and sometimes honk and wave) as they are receiving their state police ticket in the breakdown lane two miles later.

Usually, WAZE will warn me of travel obstructions with a simple, "Warning!  Object reported in the road ahead."  This is a bit like playing roulette. Which lane?  What object?  How dangerous?  Will there be projectiles involved?  It's the driving version of the old TV show Legends of the Hidden Temple, only with cars and speeds in excess of 70 mph.

Driving north on I-95 Friday, I get this message about an object.  Time to play I Spy.  I watch the traffic in front of me, and no one appears to be swerving maniacally.  Turns out to be a tire rim in the left hand breakdown lane.  No harm; no foul; no bonus points.

All of a sudden, WAZE says something I haven't heard before: "Warning! Roadkill in the road ahead."  Geezus, Brit man, that's oddly specific.

So, I start speculating.  Which lane?  What kind of roadkill?  Human?  Animal?  Moose-sized?  Skunk-sized?  Elephant-sized?  Chipmunk-sized?  Where?  Am I close?  Will it stink?  Is it bloody?!  I stay in the middle lane, figuring it's probably my best vantage point.  I study the traffic, but no one appears to be executing any defensive maneuvers.

Then I see it.  It's a fox, or what's left of a fox.  In the lane to my right, kind of in between that lane and mine, is a fox head, completely severed and looking like it belongs stuffed on a wall.  The rest of it, guts and all, cover about fifty feet of pavement.  It looks like a giant lasagna found its way onto the interstate and spread out everywhere.

My return trip south on I-95 is much less eventful, with my Brit pal telling me about construction and which EZ Pass lane to head toward.  It's not nearly as thrilling as playing Roadkill Roulette, but that's probably a good thing since it's getting late and already very dark.  Oh, sure, my buddy tries to trick me into exiting the highway because "he" still thinks I'm avoiding toll roads (hence the huffy instructions as to which EZ Pass lane, since I ignored his original orders).

WAZE is silent for a long while until I am half a mile from home.  I moved a month ago, and I seem to have forgotten to update WAZE.  Poor guy.  He is as irate as a polite Brit can be when I turn left instead of right, go straight instead of turning around, and park my car several streets away from where it has lived for fifteen years.

Oh well.  I consider it payback for the roadkill.  If we're going to play the roulette driving game, it's only fair to include WAZE as a player.  You know, pay back and all.

SUN: NOW YOU SEE IT, NOW YOU DON'T

I've decided to build an ark.

I don't have any great desire to save two of every species.  I don't even have any biblical leanings outside of the realm of normalcy.

What I do have is a severe aversion to and complete exhaustion with the weather; to be more exact: RAIN.  Lately I feel more like I live in London or Seattle than I do in New England.  Twice, perhaps three times in the last three weeks, I have been able to see the sun.

I drive to work, and it rains.  I drive home from work, and it rains.  I go to appointments (doctor, dinner, work meetings), and it rains.  I slog groceries from the car to the door, and it rains.  I think happy thoughts, and it rains.  I think sad thoughts, and it rains.

It truly feels like it has been raining for forty days and forty nights straight.  Oh, it hasn't really, but the everyday gray of the sky and the rain nearly every damn day combine to make it truly seem like the last sunny day happened years ago, decades away.

Imagine my utter surprise when I look out of the living room window and see .... the sun.

It's a fleeting glimpse.  It's dusk, and soon it will be dark and I won't be able to see anything, sun or otherwise.  However, for a brief time, about ten minutes' worth, I am able to remember what it used to be like, back in the olden days of about a month ago, when a bright, glowing object in the sky actually shone from above and cast shadows and gave light and created heat and made the world a happy place.

Fear not, though.  It's already raining again.

FILM AT ELEVEN FOR THOSE WHO NEED A GOOD LAUGH

I don't like to complain (who the hell am I kidding -- that's all I do) but this weather kind of sucks.  I break out the winter coat, the gloves, the fleece vest, the down vest, and the car auto-starter this week, all in the name of November.

The wind howls, the snow blows (albeit briefly), and the temperature plummets to 18 degrees with a wind chill of about zero (Fahrenheit, not Celsius).  At one point I realize that my car is parked near the back of the lot, and I know I will need to auto-start it in the morning.  It has been drizzling, but, now that the wind is whipping at about forty miles per hour, the temperature resembles the Arctic Circle mid-winter.  I go to move my car and discover ...

I have been iced out.

In my old car, I could open the back hatch, climb through, and be in my driver's seat in no time.  This car, though, is a sedan.  If the back doors are iced shut as well, I'm basically screwed unless I can get the trunk open, clean it out, push down the half-seat, and manage to squeeze my fat ass through the small crevice into the back seat.  Thankfully, the back door opens, and I only have to crab-crawl my way over the console, literally pulling my leg from behind using both arms and wedging my ass-cheeks into the steering wheel.

Which brings me to my major complaint: If I let my car warm up for more than five minutes, I risk being fined anywhere from $100 to $500.  Kids, if I cannot even get into my own car after a mere drizzle-freeze, what am I going to do when the real shit-storm hits December through March?  What if I am at five minutes and three seconds?  Am I now in the fine zone?  And if it only takes me three minutes to get into my car on a Monday, can I buy back those 120 seconds to apply them to another day during the week, say, Thursday morning?

I'm trying here, folks, but Mother Nature and the local police have to work with me.  If I can truly only have five minutes on an iced-over, eighteen-degree, windchill bad enough to cause instantaneous frostbite kind of morning, then either waive the extra fee or plan on watching me wedge my fat ass into the steering wheel via the back seat of the sedan every damn morning.

There.  Complaint over.  Film at eleven for those who need a good laugh.

AUTUMN POEM SIMPLY BECAUSE I CAN

I don't expect really
That Summer will last;
Does Autumn have to
Be gone so fast?
The temperatures

Hit 60's and stick,
Then plummet to 20's
Just as quick.
It's like Autumn
Has passed us by.
Suddenly Winter!
(We don't know why.)
Frozen leaves that
Look so nice,
But leave imprints
Made of ice.
Oh, the weather:
So dark, so dreary,
Casting shadows
On Fall things eerie.
We should be thankful
For all this, though:
We could be buried
Under feet of snow.

KEEPING MY EYES ON THE SUBWAY SANDWICH

It has been a busy few months.

First, I pack to move (after fifteen years).  Then, I have facial surgery to remove more atypical cells (plastic surgeon level procedure).  I am not supposed to lift anything, so I hire movers (Two Men and a Truck -- not even kidding, this company is amazing ... AMAZING).  There are still things to move, though, so I gather friends and family and make a couple of more trips.  Finally, I decide it's still early enough, so I make the last trip, finish cleaning the old place, and wade through boxes at the new place so I can sleep on the futon (the same futon I've been sleeping on at the old place after packing up the bedding).

This weekend I have a fundraiser for Boston Children's Hospital (okay, it's a pub crawl, so really, this one is no sweat), and  there is also my niece's twin babies shower (definitely no sweat and lots of fun), so I finally get a break from the strenuous stuff.

After that it's a week full of meetings, professional development, project presentations and assemblies at school.  Cap that all off with the term ending on Friday, and I believe that I have totally qualified for:

BEING TOO TIRED TO KEEP MY EYELIDS OPEN.

I'm not going to lie: My eyes have glazed over more than once (and probably more than a dozen times) to the point where I am convinced that I may have dozed off for a few seconds during work.  I am hesitant to drive in the dark (which makes my morning commute and evening errands interesting) lest I accidentally not see something or someone.  I almost shat myself two days ago when a giant doe jumped out of the woods and almost ran into my car on route 62 and 6:40 a.m. in the dark and rainy drear.

So, forgive me for what I am about to admit.

I finally broke down last week and attempted to eat McDonald's for the first time in at least a decade (hamburger ended up in the trash, fries ended up in my belly, and Kahlua ended up in the vanilla shake).  Tonight after driving my daughter and her boyfriend to Oak Grove MBTA station, I decide I am hungry.  With no food in the new place yet, this brings up the question of what to eat and from where should it come.

I could go to Pizza Hut inside the nearby Target store.  I could attempt more fast food (Burger King or Wendy's this time).  I could go pay through the nose at Panera and suffer through their ridiculously jacked-up prices for semi-decent food.

I end up at Subway, which is good and bad.  The poor guy making my sub is so patient.  I want turkey and bacon, that much I know.  Oh, heck, throw some Swiss cheese on that bad boy.  Then I have him add lettuce, spinach, tomatoes, cukes, peppers, onions... on and on.  Last but not least, I have the sub topped with light mayo.  I look at the guy behind the counter and start laughing.  "LIGHT mayo, like that's going to make a difference with all that stuff on there."

I don't care!  I earned that sub, damnit.  I had to go four days without eating much because my face was so swollen that I couldn't open my jaw.  I was taking toddler bites and losing half the food back onto my plate.  This sub is fabulous.  FABULOUS.

Now, if you don't mind, my eyes glazed over mid-chew about halfway through, so I'm going to wrap up the remainder and drag my sorry arse to bed.  Maybe next week will be a little slower-paced.  Knowing me, however, I highly doubt it, kids; seriously, I totally and completely doubt it.

AND THE GOLD MEDAL IN RHYTHMIC GYMNASTICS GOES TO ...

My favorite gas station is directly across the street from a street-side CVS store.  The store is right on Main Street, and the sidewalk in front of the store is a major thoroughfare for walkers, runners, students (public schools, private schools, and college), and tourists.  You can pretty much see anything and everything just by watching the sidewalks that bisect the center of town, and today, anything and everything is exactly what transpires.

Today I see what truly wonderful things can happen when karma mixes together a woman, a CVS receipt, and the wind.

Anyone who shops at CVS knows that the receipts are longer than Yao Ming is tall.  The other day I bought four items at CVS and the receipt was taller than I am, so I know exactly what I am seeing as soon as I see it from my vantage point at the front gas pump at the Gulf station.  I see a woman leave CVS from the front door, walk about six feet in a southerly direction, stop at the fancy open-air trash receptacle, and attempt to throw away her CVS receipt.

She takes the receipt out of the bag, and the wind immediately flutters the multi-foot paper behind her and around her.  With one hand firmly holding her CVS bag full of purchases, she reaches up and begins waving both arms to rein the paper back in.  The paper ribbons around her like it's trying to tie her up like a Christmas package.

When she finally gets control over the flapping receipt, she tries to stuff it into the trash can then has second thoughts.  Oh, coupons!  There must be something she needs.  She begins scrolling through the paper-tape, rolling it around her arms and hands like our grandmothers used to do with skeins of yarn.  She tries to tear off a couple of the coupons, but they are in the middle area of the receipt and the wind is raising havoc with her good intentions.  Round and round and round the paper flies, and her little arms are pinwheeling trying to contain the paper that now looks like Mary Poppins on her way out of London.

Finally, she gives up, stuffs the entire receipt into the trash can, and tries to walk away.  But her hand is caught in one end of the paper.  The wind picks up the other end and the CVS receipt rises out of the trash can like a cobra from a snake charmer's basket.  Eventually, she extricates herself, starts to walk away, and looks around to make sure no one on the sidewalk is watching.

No, perhaps nobody street-side.  However, I am across the street, just finishing up getting twenty dollars of regular gas pumped into my car, and I have been lucky enough to witness the entire routine.  After I drive away, I realize that I should've clapped for her.  I mean, my window had been down.  I look around briefly to see if she is anywhere nearby, but I cannot see her anymore.  Perhaps I just don't recognize her with her Olympic-sized CVS ribbon receipt, which is a shame.  I want to award her a gold medal for her rhythmic gymnastic CVS receipt routine.  It truly was, and still is, memorable.

ALL AUTUMN IN A MINUTE

I don't know what's going on with autumn around here.

First, the limited colors were boring, not vibrant at all, and kind of brownish.  If autumn had been a crayon over the last few weeks, it would be burnt sienna.

Then, we finally got some rain, and, although it may just be an Old Wive's Tale, some of the color started to pop.  Bits of red here, some orange there, yellow starting to come out.  But the sun alluded us, so photos were tame, almost faded without the bright blue background of clear sky.

Suddenly, a big storm started up the coast, bringing with it pounding rains that flooded basements along with gusts of wind that toppled trees and knocked out power.  Many of the trees that were finally getting some vivid color sat naked, completely stripped of their leaves.

Today, though, is brilliantly clear.  The sky is bright blue, and the sun dances through the remaining leafed trees.  I decide to drive the long way around as I am running errands.  I see a yellow tree and ... another yellow tress ... and still another yellow tree.  I stop at two cemeteries in different towns because that's where the colors are usually the brightest.  (If you don't believe me, venture into an old New England graveyard where you'll find the best and most interesting trees.)

More yellow trees.  It's almost as if the wind has stripped any red and orange trees of their chance to shine.  Oh, sure, the yellow trees are gorgeous, but still.  The whole beauty of fall in New England involves the multitude of fabulous hues.  This, however, is like watching fall happen in yellow tunnel vision.

I finally find a partially orange tree that has not been stripped of its leaves.  Somehow it survived storm damage.  This is when I also notice a preponderance of still-green trees.  It's almost as if autumn has not yet happened, is happening, and has already happened, all at the same time.

I truly don't know what's going on with autumn around here, but I can tell you this: I'm glad it's finally here.

COLUMBIA GAS STRIKES YET AGAIN

Apparently Columbia Gas has finally decided to inspect the gas work done on my townhouse a year ago during the Great Merrimack Valley Gas Disaster and General Shit Show of 2018. 

I am not home when this happens because pre-warning people that they're going to actually show up must not be something any of the workers for Columbia Gas are trained to actually do.  Last year the workers walked right into my townhouse while I was typing on the computer and my son was watching soccer on television.  Yup, no knock, no doorbell, just walk right in like you own the damn place.

Since I am not home this time, my landlord lets the workers in to my house.  This is usually okay, except that I am madly packing to move, so right now my house resembles an episode of hoarders.  The kitchen is stacked full of boxes, all packed and marked and ready to move.  My living room is a general staging area for things like newspapers for wrapping fragile items, and it has a tiny sitting area so I can still watch television if and when I feel like it. 

The den, however, which has the access to the basement, is half-stacked full of furniture I am taking with me.  This is the entire reason that I cleaned out the basement a week ago: so I can use the den as a storage area and not have to worry about going into my basement ever again if I so choose to block the door with a chair or something.  Smart me, however, left access to the basement because it is also the path to the only heat register in the entire townhouse.  Yes, every zone gets heat blasted to it if I want to heat just one room. 

But I digress.  Back to today.  When I arrive home after work, I open the door and am immediately hit by the aroma of dusty basement cement.  Yes, the gas workers have left the originally closed and locked basement door ajar so that any varmint or aroma living below the first floor is now welcome in my living space. 

I decide to head downstairs for one more look at my lovely, clean basement and find... sonofabitch.  There's a new pile of rock and cement fragments and general dirt from the stone walls.  There is also a filthy and discarded putty knife left behind.  The doorbell interrupts my inspection, and it is my landlady.  No problem with letting the workers in, I tell her.  She says they came to do the final inspection of the gas work and to finish plugging up the old gas line.

Say, what?

Yes, you read that correctly.  To finish plugging up the old gas line ... 350 days AFTER turning my gas back on after the September maelstrom.  Mind you, my home is fifty yards from the town's Ground Zero gas line rupture, and the house next door to me (where I used to live) caught on fire.  One would think (if one were to truly think at all) that something as important as the final gas line inspection into people's homes may have taken place ... oh ... BEFORE TURNING THE FREAKING GAS BACK ON IN THE FIRST PLACE.

I don't know.  I mean, I'm no expert; I just live here. 

Anyway, there is now a new lovely yellow spot on the basement wall, a new lovely pile of crap in my basement (that they were told not to bother sweeping up... gee, thanks for that), and gas lines that apparently are okay to use, even though I've been using them for almost a year. 

Here's the kicker: My gas stove still has not been inspected.

Yup.  Progress, right?  I mean, it has only been 350 days.  I wouldn't want Columbia Gas to actually make sure their work is safe and up to code.  That might be a disaster.

PACKING AND HOARDING: AND THE DIFFERENCE IS ...

I have forgotten just how big a bitch it is to move because I haven't moved in fifteen years.  I still have a couple of weeks to pack, but I'm at the point where some of the junk I own is actually planning its own move.

No, truly.

Take the hose, for example.  I bought a hose years ago to use it attached to the landlord's outdoor water spigot.  I wanted to do simple things, like wash my car.  Hose wasn't long enough.  So, I went out and bought an even longer hose, but then the outdoor spigot got damaged somehow, so the landlord's leaky old hose ended up becoming permanent.  Now I am stuck with two garden hoses, neither of which I can use, one of which is still brand-spanking new in its original packaging.  Maybe someday I'll need a hose and then I'll kick myself if I get rid of either one.  Apparently, this means the hoses are moving with me.

What about the multiple containers of fabric freshener spray?  I'm quite certain that the bottles are really old, so they'll probably end up in the trash.  However, I only had one child still living with me for a long, long time, and, even though he played sports, he was away at college playing those sports for a long, long time.  Three bottles of fabric spray for his lacrosse and soccer bags?  I think not.  Where did the damn bottles come from, and why, oh, why, do I still have them (all half-full)?  These will not  be moving with me.

I am obsessed with packing each box to its maximum capacity without being so overweight that I cannot lift anything.  Yes, I have thirteen boxes of books, but they're mid-size boxes, manageable if even a little heavy.  But I figure it's better to pack books safely and with a positive weight distribution rather than have the moving company suffer hernias.

It takes forever to pack, though.  I zip through packing a few boxes and think, "Wow, I got a lot done.  I must be pretty far into packing.  I must be about ..." And then I realize that those few boxes haven't even made a dent in what I own.  Not even a smidgen.

Okay, I should be fair.  I'm trying to keep the boxes relatively uniform in size and weight.  Then I come across my skates.  I have old figure skates, two pairs of hockey skates, and in-line skates that need new wheels.  I can only fit two pairs to a box, so I end up packing other stuff into the boxes to fill any random space; other stiff like my beach rock collection.  How do I mark that box?  "Blades and Boulders"? If I write on the box that it is literally full of rocks, won't the moving company employees be agitated?  Yeah, I'll mark that box "Skates+" and be done with it.

I do get the basement completely cleaned out and swept, so there is that.  And, I'm probably going to piss off the trash collectors with another full sidewalk of bags and miscellany.  This alone should be proof-positive that I am trying, truly trying, to thin out my life's possessions.

In the meantime, my home looks like an episode of hoarders.  There are boxes and random unpacked items cluttering every room, and sometimes I have to step over stuff to get from one room to another.  If there's a fire, I'll be hard-pressed to access a window.  But, if there's a fire, I'll certainly have a lot less to move.

I am going to go shower the cobwebs out of my hair now.  Please watch my stuff.  I'm starting to suspect my belongings are multiplying when my back is turned.  I'll continue to fill, tag, and tape boxes as fast as I possibly can, but until this move actually takes place, I will continue to suspect that my possessions are plotting to smother me if I throw out or donate one more item.  If you don't hear from me in a week, send help.  Ill probably be trapped under a pile of useless and already boxed-up junk.

KARMA - FRIEND AND FOE

Karma, oh, Karma: You're such a wicked witch.
When you bite me in the ass, I scream, "You're such a bitch!"
Then I think, "Oh, Karma, you really have such nerve..."
Even though when Karma bites, I probably deserve.
There are times in life that if we're honest and we're lucky,
We will watch as Karma slaps a person who is sucky:
A person who's dishonest; a person who is cheating;
A person whose black heart would be much better off not beating;
A person at your work or home or about whom you have heard;
A person who tells only lies with every spoken word.
So when you feel defeated, like the whole world's let you down,
Remember that bitch, Karma, is the greatest show in town.

LONG LIVE CLEAN SKIVVIES

My washer and dryer are gone.  Sold.  See ya later.  I am sorry to see them go because both the washer and dryer, at three years old, are in excellent shape.  But, as anyone who has moved will understand, shit's gotta go.

The problem with selling the washer and dryer so fast is that now I must go to the laudromat until I move into my new place in a several weeks.  I could go to the really nice one in the next town over, or I could go to the crappy one closer to my house, the one of my younger, freer days, a place older than dirt itself.  I suspect this laundromat existed before washing machines were even invented, that's how old this place is.

As soon as I arrive, I start having deja vu.  Once my friends and I all started moving out of our parents' homes, this place became the local late-teen/early-twenties hang out.  Skivvies got washed while beers were consumed (the grocery mart was right next door).  The place looks exactly as I remember it.  Some of the washing machines are new -- some are not -- but all of the dryers are exactly the same some thirty years later.

The most reliable thing about this place is that nothing works.  Well, not exactly nothing, but damn near.  Luckily, I have quarters with me, laundry soap with me, and dryer sheets with me, because the coin changer doesn't work, and the soap dispenser doesn't work.  Score one for me!  I start walking around the washers and, out of the thirteen machines, two are unplugged, two have signs on them, and two more are simply shut off.  That means seven are left working: four giant ones, one medium machine, and two small ones.

The small washers look like larger washers until I put my clothes inside.  My small load of dirty clothes completely packs the drum.  I don't care.  I do not give one flying crap that I can spend an extra quarter and have a bigger washer; it's the principle of the thing.  I stuff those clothes in there like it's nobody's business, and, since I am the only one at the laundromat at 3:30 in the afternoon on a Thursday, it apparently isn't anyone's business but mine.

Twenty-seven minutes later, my clean clothes come out of the washer, and I find a clean and decent dryer that doesn't look like it will catch fire while drying my clothes.  I set it for hot, and I set it for twenty-one minutes at seven minutes per quarter.  Most of the stuff dries after I make sure that the dryer doesn't re-set itself to medium instead of hot temperature, a sure ploy to get more money out of unsuspecting patrons.  (Did I mention I've been here before?)

I hope I can survive the next six weeks of going to the laundromat, and I certainly hope that I spend more time at the big, clean laundromat in the next town.  However, at least I have experience on how to outsmart the machines at this local neighborhood dive.  In the meantime, long live clean skivvies -- even if it's hell to get them washed, dried, and folded for less than a king's ransom in quarters.

ODE ON A WINE SPILL

Goddamn shit sonofabitch!

I do not know which swear is which

Damnit, the wine glass does spill.

(Now I'm in need of refill.)

Cava all over the floor,

Running down cabinet door,

Making a mess that is bad;

Making me feel really sad.

I am so pissed off that I flip it

The bird but I'd just rather sip it.

Oh, plastic wine glass, you've failed me!

Your cava spill almost derailed me.

It's okay, no need for BOLO:

I'll refill a bigger cup SOLO.

FURNITURE, HAMMERS, AND MOVING DEAD BODIES

I'm moving.  Yes, it is official.  The best part about moving this time is ... uhhhh ... is there a best part about moving?  There are definitely pluses.  For example:

• All of my grown children have moved out, so I'm only moving my stuff (and a teeny bit of their leftovers).
• I started the purging process two years ago and realized during the epic Merrimack Valley Gas Crisis when the work crews invaded my home that I don't have much more crap to toss out.
• After my last kiddo vacated the premises in the spring, I did a huge reorganization (and more purging) of the bedrooms, so a lot of my minutiae is actually in decent order.
• I don't need that much from my kitchen to survive the next seven or so weeks, so I start packing fragile stuff (which takes forever) first.  (Isn't this why paper plates were invented?)
• I keep out a set or two of sheets and a few blankets, but all the rest can be packed up in boxes.
• I'm moving close by and have given myself six days for the entire move, so the pressure is low.
• I hired movers to do the heavy lifting.

That last point is key.  I don't mind moving, but I'm too old and far, far too beautiful for moving myself.  Oh, sure, it's going to be much easier to move small bureau drawers than it is to pack my clothes and then unpack them again just to put all my clothes right back into the drawers.  I'll move the drawers and the movers can lift the draw-less (and now considerably lighter) dressers.  I'll do the same with nightstands and desk drawers.  

It's easier for me.  

Carrying things like the sleeper-loveseat that weighs more than a small island?  Yeah ... no.  Making my friends and relatives carry futons and boxes and a kitchen table?  Forget that!  My friends can carry the coolers (if they so desire to be present at all), the full coolers, and help themselves as they go.

I do have a couple of big, heavy pieces of furniture that need to be tossed:  under-bed storage pedestals that used to be in my boys' room.  These two laminated particle-board drawer units weigh about three tons each.  Okay, not that much, but I've moved them several times all by myself across carpets, and they are about as easy to move as dead bodies.

So, today is the day those pedestal storage units must be dismantled.  My intention is to take them apart carefully, attach all the hardware (safely stored in baggies) to each main piece by using duct tape with signs that say "FREE TWIN BED STORAGE PEDESTALS" in case anyone really wants or needs them.  That is my intent.  Originally.

I am ridiculously gentle with the first pedestal, turning it onto its side, getting a good look at the screws and the under-assembly.  I start to loosen one screw and, remarkably, it's not too difficult.  Hopeful and full of care, I go for the next screw and bracket.

Nothing.  

I grab some gloves to add torque and really give it a whirl.  Still, nothing.  I don't really want to put WD-40 all over the frame because that will make a huge mess.  So, I get out the drill.  I probably should've done this at the beginning.  I can simply reverse the drill bit that has the screwdriver attachment.  Everything is charged and ready to go, so this ought to be a breeze, right?

Nope.

The damn screw won't budge.  I try a different screw but encounter the same result.  I head back to the hand-held screwdriver again.  Maybe I'm stupid and I'm doing something wrong.  I mean, the drill can only go forward or backward; how hard can this possibly be?

Nope, nothing, and never.  This is my screw-removal track record after screw number one.

Thirty minutes later I decide that there is no way, no how that I am going to salvage these bed pedestals, and quite frankly I don't give a flying shit anymore because the damn things are twenty-frigging-years old, and who wants them anyway, and tough shit if the trash people think it's construction trash and leave it all behind because I am done, done, DONE screwing around with these screwy screws and screw this and screw my life.

Out comes the hammer.

Now, I am not super strong, but I have lifted weights, done some cardio-kickboxing, and practiced judo for about five years.  I know the science of applying strength when and where need be by using whatever geometric laws and laws of physics are immediately available.  But, I'll admit that even I am surprised by the ferocity and ease at which I dismantle the two bed pedestals using a hammer and the brute force of my frustration.  Including the thirty minutes of struggle with bed pedestal number one, I have both pedestals completely apart and in pieces within an hour.  I have all the sharp hardware removed or hammered down shortly thereafter.  The longest process turns out to be duct-taping anything dangerous or pointed that might freak out the trash collectors.

I drag all of the parts, including the big wooden intact pieces, down the stairs and right out the front door.  I sort the contents of the six drawers into plastic bins and then line the empty drawers right up with the other destroyed wood and hardware that used to house them.  

The only fall-out from the whole process is the fact that particle board breaks down into, well, particles, so I have large chunks, smaller smatterings, and a lot of particle board shavings all over the room when I'm done.  Thank God for vacuums, though, because minutes later, with the exception of the pedestal base imprints on the carpet, there is no indication whatsoever that mayhem has happened on the premises.  Moving the bed frames may be as heavy and awkward as moving dead bodies, but, like the wicked person I am, no trace has been left behind.  Let that be a lesson to my enemies.  Yeah, I think I'll put that hammer away now.

ON THE MOVE

By the time I post this and people are reading this, I will be wrapping up my final fun summer misadventure on the road.  At the beginning of the summer, I said to myself, "Self, you should finally finish getting your house in order and getting yourself ready to start looking into downsizing!"  To be honest, I've been downsizing a lot over the last year and a half, and I have been so efficient at it that during the gas crisis, my basement was clear enough for an entire work crew to invade and still have room to move around.

The rest of the house ... needs some work.

But, summer arrived, and instead of putting time into the house, I started on a series of travels, mostly solo, to see and do and listen and feel and photograph and experience.  And I am loving every last possible second that I can wring out of August.  I tell Self (and Self agrees with me) that I can organize later, in the autumn, in the winter.  I can continue looking for a smaller place in the spring.  After all, the townhouse next door isn't quite ready; how soon will the landlords really need me out?

Those of you who have followed my years of blogging can testify, though, that nothing for me ever goes the way it's supposed to go.  Oh, sure, I have had the most awesome summer in years.  It has been a fabulous time!  I didn't get as far as I wanted (no long-distance trek to Pennsylvania or North Carolina), but I certainly went farther than I thought I would in June.

And then ... a text arrives randomly on my phone:  "You need to see this apartment."

Oh, no.  I'm not ready to move.  Not yet.  Next spring.  I've ignored this house all summer.  I'm disorganized.  I ... I ... I ... I text back.  "Sure.  Let me look."

Self says I should stay put for now.  I honestly don't know why I'm doing this crazy thing.  There are terrible, massive, tornado-spawning storms happening all day, and I'm not sure I'll make it between storm fronts to even see the place.  The landlord tried to call me in the middle of a nearby lightning strike, and my phone misses the call.  So many, many things seem to be trying to prevent me from getting to the place and taking the tour.

Well, I am not inside that apartment two feet when I declare to Self, "Shut up, Self.  I'm moving."  And, just like that, regardless of the semi-Brady Bunch kitchen set up (I'll pretend to be Alice every time I cook in the wall-mounted stove), I make my moves to be the best candidate for the apartment.  It's a cool old place with a curved staircase leading to two bedrooms upstairs, a decorative fireplace that used to work at one time, and small chandeliers in strange places.  It has outdoor space in the front on a porch and in the back with a small yard.  It has plenty of off-street parking, and it's closer to town than I already am, which is ridiculously close.

Best of all, I don't have to shovel out my car.  That's right; the parking lot gets plowed after snowstorms.  I don't know what I will do without endless shoveling to get in and out of my driveway that's on the receiving end of all of the snowdrifts on the street.  I don't know what I'll do without raking the constant flow of whirlygigs and leaves from the neighbor's trees, or seeing my car damaged by all the limbs that fall or the worms that poop.

It's going to be hard to leave the place I've called home for fifteen years and the neighborhood in which I've lived for twenty five years.  But kids, I'm on the move in a few weeks, a different kind of moving than I've been doing all summer, moving that will also be settling down for a while (I hope).

A bunch of small adventures to one big huge one this fall.  Stay tuned.  Self and I are on the road again.  It's been a while, but we're up to the challenge.

FREAKS AND PEAKS: AN ISLAND ADVENTURE

The summer misadventures continue with a trip to Peaks Island, which is off the coast of Portland, Maine.  When I say "off the coast," I am quite serious as the island is visible from Portland, and Portland is visible from the island.  It's a fifteen-minute ferry ride from dock to dock.

I am on the ferry with one of my brothers and his family.  My bro and his boys are going to bike the island and go exploring.  His wife and I are going to walk partway around the island, meet them for lunch, then trek back to the dock area and perhaps grab an ice cream or a beer ... or both.  Once the bicycling explorers take off, my SIL and I start down the road with me sharing points of interest:  bike rental place (not today), golf cart rental place (too long a line), umbrella cover museum (no idea but I'm reasonably certain I'll find out eventually), school, fire department, etc.

As we are walking down the street attempting to chat, a family suddenly appears next to us: mom, dad, toddler, and shrieking infant in a stroller, and when I say "shrieking," I think the poor baby is being stabbed.  Apparently it does this a lot because mom and dad seem completely unaware that there are tourists and renters and homeowners and construction workers and rescue personnel all rushing to the sidewalk to assist in whatever heinous crime is happening right there in River City ... er ... Peaks Island.  But no, nothing is amiss, lah-dee-dah, the parents just let the infant howl in extreme distress, talking over it loudly as if they haven't a care in the world.

SIL and I decide to cross the road and walk on the other sidewalk.  Ah, semi-relief.  Until, of course, the family also crosses the street.  We try to walk a little faster.  They also start walking and wheeling a little faster.  Holy crap on a Creamsicle.  We hesitate, stop walking, allow the family to pass, and wait a decent amount of time until the decibels of the howling reach a level acceptable to ears (somewhere just above standing next to a jet engine).

We continue walking, finally losing sight and sound of the family.  There's a corner coming up with two ways to go: right up the tarred road or left down a dirt path toward the ocean.  As we come around the bend, there is the family, happily standing as if anticipating our arrival.  (Cue creepy music here.)  SIL and I decide to turn down the dirt path.  Surely the family won't want to push the heavy stroller of bawling flesh over such moguls and through such a dusty avenue.

Not even ten feet into our escape route, I turn to my SIL and whisper, "They're following us, aren't they?"  She cautiously glances back and then says almost incredulously, "Yes.  Yes, they are."

By the time we reach City Point, a scenic vista at the end of the dirt path, the family has managed to catch up to us.  SIL generously offers to take a family picture for them with their cell phone, then we continue toward our destination: an old dance hall style building with polished wood floors inside and a remarkable view outside, a white camp-like structure perched on its own peninsula.  The family stops us by calling out, "Do you know any place we can have a picnic lunch?"

My SIL points to the distant building, our ultimate destination, and says, "Over there are some picnic tables."

Argh!  That's MY lunch spot!  No screaming babies!  NO SCREAMING BABIES!

"Or right here," I say with a huge smile.  "Look how flat these large rocks are.  You could sit riiiiiiiiight heeeeeeeeeere."  I see they're debating the three-quarter-mile stroll to my lunch spot on the peninsula.  The baby winds up again, and I know it's only a matter of time before one of us (me or a parent) ends up being pitched into the water over bad parenting skills.

Before you judge me, please remember that this baby has been screeching now for close to thirty minutes that we have heard -- who knows how long up to that point.  I don't care if it's colic, hunger, wet diaper, or mere frustration -- a small infant shouldn't be straining its vocal chords or be in distress for that length of time without some form of human interaction.  That's my opinion, and I'm sticking to it.

Suddenly, I perk up.  I have a brilliant, self-preserving idea.  "I believe we just passed a school a little ways back.  That might be a wonderful place to have lunch with kids."  Sweet smile, batting eyelashes, bright eyes like it's the best idea since the discovery of popcorn.  Meanwhile, I am concentrating all of my brain power on mind control:  Go to the school.  Go to the school.  Go to the school...

"Oh, yes!"  the parents exclaim in unison, "the school!  We really don't walk that far to ..." and they point off in the distance to my lunch spot, "... there."

As soon as the family entourage turns, we are off like shots down another dirt path and away from Freak Family.  We meet up with my brother and nephews and have a fabulous, relaxing, quiet lunch.  Well, except for the kid on the rocks in the water telling his dad that he is going to have diarrhea and constantly sticking his hands down the backside of his bathing suit.  That's awkward, but it isn't a couple of parents ignoring a screaming baby, so diarrhea is actually an acceptable alternative, especially since it will belong to someone else.

After lunch The boys head off on their bikes in search of old WWII turrets and towers, and SIL and I mosey back toward town.  I stop to take pictures of flowery bushes and rowboat planters and decorated nautical ship wheels and an antique bike in a tree and the umbrella cover museum (which will be open in exactly five minutes) and interesting houses and colorful front doors, when suddenly I hear voices.

Oh, dearest God, it's that family.  

That family is strolling down the street in front of us almost two hours after we've managed to dump them back at City Point.  We are far enough behind them that we can no longer tell if the infant is crying, but it almost seems quiet.  Perhaps, I'm just speculating here because I cannot see the front of the carriage, perhaps they left the child behind at the school.  I'm not judging them; I'm just speculating.

We decide to let them get ahead of us, wait a few minutes for the museum to open, then lose ourselves in the tiny room filled with other curiosity seekers.  Turns out the museum is actually a crazy little shop with an quirky docent who intends to hold us all captive until we have been lulled into some kind of boredom coma, forcing us all to buy stupid stuff we don't need.  I take a couple of pictures of her umbrella covers, which, it turns out, are not the actual tops of umbrellas as I had hoped, but are those small cigar-shaped carrying cases.  Honestly, and I apologize to the docent if she is reading this, it looks like a bunch of fabric condoms tacked to the wall, and I find it disturbingly hilarious. Having been held captive by crazy docents before (opera house museum, little red schoolhouse...), I understand that my only escape is to be impolite and push my way back outside while Umbrella Cover Woman is giving her monotonous speech.

Once we rendezvous with the gents, we grab homemade ice cream, do a little shopping,  then queue up to stand in line for the ferry back to the mainland.  Although I don't immediately see the stroller family, we do end up surrounded by two parents with five children, all on bikes, all ignoring the rules to get off their bikes, all screaming for some reason: One fell off the bike, one is tired and wants to lay down in the street, one wants to run people over, and one, who isn't crying, has yet to discover (which she will shortly) that her back tire is completely and totally flat.  The little buggah running over people with his bike is named Calvin, as everyone on the dock gets to hear being shrieked over and over and over and over and over and over again, probably three hundred times, as we all wait somewhat impatiently (and some very rudely) for the ferry.

Once we are safely aboard, we wave goodbye to Peaks Island and hello to Portland (because we can still see both clearly from everywhere), and grab a spot up the stairs where strollers and bikes cannot go and blissfully, thankfully, and mercifully, the fifteen-minute ride back is quiet, relaxing, and breathtakingly beautiful.

FLASHY CARS AND FLASHY BATHROOM ANTICS

Years ago my father, acting on one of his few truly parental leanings, took the family to the Larz Anderson Auto Museum, which houses the oldest car collection in the United States.  The museum is located in the city of Brookline, within spitting distance to Boston's medical hub and Fenway Park.  I remember two things about the museum: former director of the Boston Pops Arthur Fiedler's firefighters' helmet collection and an Alfa Romeo.

I am reasonably certain that Fiedler's collection is probably housed at the Boston Fire Museum now (another outing for my bucket list), but I am hoping to spy that Alfa Romeo again.  I remember it was a 1925 car, possibly a Roadster but more likely a Spider, and was either red with a white interior, or, I seem to recall, white with a red interior.  It was at the time and still remains from my childhood memory, the best looking damn car I had ever seen.

Which begs the question, why has it taken me so long to get back to the museum?  Afraid of bursting the bubble on one of the few positive childhood family memories?  Probably.

Anyway, I add the Larz Anderson Auto Museum to my list of things I will do this summer.  It seems like every time I try to go, though, something happens.  I either have another commitment or else the museum isn't open for some reason.  Finally, after the museum is closed on Saturday for some a private event, I decide to drive down there on Sunday.  I check the schedule and nothing major is planned at the museum for Sunday - no closings, no special events, just a regular day.

I am reasonably adept at getting around in Boston.  I can usually find my way via landmarks if I don't actually know the roads, but I end up being heralded through Boston a different way.  I am used to going through Kenmore Square and past Fenway to get to Brookline, but this time I circumvent Fenway and come out deep in the medical area.  I'm familiar with this part of town, so I comfortably follow both Waze and my GPS to Brookline, arriving just in time to find ...

... no place to park at the museum.

Apparently the website is incorrect, and there is indeed a lawn event going on.  I park along the street about a quarter of a mile away, walk past the community gardens, and discover that there is (pleasant surprise) no extra charge to drool over a hundred or more BMW's, which I do before entering the museum itself.  I am not big into BMW's.  Sorry, folks, but they're pretty standard, run-of-the-mill to me.  One poor guy stands next to his BMW, trying to get the attention of judges by whining about how only a few of this particular model were manufactured in this particular color ... yadda yadda yadda.  Good luck, Bro, because your car looks like about fifty others on the lawn.

Finally, I make my way into the museum itself.  A woman in a flowery dress rushes up to me and orders me to be careful and "Do NOT reach over the ropes or you will set off ALARMS!"  Anyone who reads this blog with any regularity may recall how I set off alarms (three of them) at the Boston Museum of Fine Arts when taking a class of miscreants through, a trek that somehow included a painting worth millions balancing on my scalp.  No worries today, lady; I'm not touching ANYTHING.  However, many people (mostly with kids) do reach over the ropes and touch the cars.  I keep trying to run away from them so that I don't get blamed for any alarms this time.

I stop by the ladies' room and discover that the one-seater is right in front of a window with a flimsy see-through curtain that leads out to the lawn.  Oh well.  Maybe if I leave the light off, no one will see my hindquarters as I pull down my pants and sit on the toilet.  I wave at people outside just to be polite, finish my business, wash my hands, and promptly head back to see what's happening around the halls of the building (now that I have flashed everyone from the loo).

The car collection is impressive.  It's not a huge museum, by any standards, but the cars include antiques, classics, kids' pedal cars, an old soapbox derby car, very old cars in various states of disrepair, old-fashioned bicycles, and the preserved tack room with antique saddles (the museum is an old carriage house).  Alas, there is no Alfa Romeo of memory there, as it was presumably on loan at the time.  I do, however, gravitate strongly to the 1937 Packard Super Eight limo and a nifty looking 1946 MG TC.

On my way out I decide I should probably hit the ladies' room one more time because I'm going home a different way and just might meander longer than the GPS suggests.  Again, I leave the light turned off and let daylight streaming through the flimsy curtain guide my way.  When I stop to wash my hands, I notice that someone has removed her bra and left it unceremoniously on the counter by the sink.  My mind reels with the possibilities:  Flashing the crowd from the window?  Trying to enhance the possibilities of riding in one of the BMW's by letting the girls bounce free?  Change of clothes including underthings?  I admit that I am stymied.  I have no idea how or why a random bra ends up in a mostly-see-through bathroom, but it clearly doesn't belong in the display of The Golden Age of Cars.

Safely on my way (and yes, still wearing my own damn bra), I make a mental note of my next possible adventure:  Fiedler's helmets are nowhere to be found, so I'll go on a wild goose chase for those very soon.

A QUICK SUMMER ASSESSMENT

I probably shouldn't say this because I'm cursing myself, but I'm going to say it, anyway: My summer shenanigans have been relatively successful.

I know, I know; there are still a few weeks left for disaster to strike.  However, other than the two nails in my car's rear driver's side tire, life has been good.  I have not stayed sedentary for longer than two and a half days, and even then it is mandatory as I wait to have the car repaired and serviced with its regularly scheduled maintenance.

Don't be jealous.  My adventurous lifestyle is less from wanderlust than it is from avoidance.

You see, I have a list of things to do: clean the basement out, go through years of paperwork, organize all of the family photographs (that I somehow inherited from both grandmothers), do some creative writing, read some books to clear off those overly crowded shelves, clean out the kitchen cabinets for cleansing and purging, go through my clothes for donating, and on and on and on.

About the only thing on this list that I have semi-accomplished is the book reading, but even that has been an epic failure because instead of weaning out the books I already have, I add four more trips to various bookstores and add about a dozen new books.  Oh, and I also discover Kindle (which I have been fighting tooth and nail).  Kindle is great except that I keep reaching down to turn the pages.

This is not to say that summer has itself been an epic failure.  On the contrary!  This summer has been, and continues to be, seriously epic.  After avoiding sharks on the Cape, my daughter co-pilots with me to see a concert (Barenaked Ladies with Hootie and the Blowfish), then I crash her significant other's family's resort vacation up north on the Big Lake.  I survive my first Uber ride (with a driver who can't tell left from right) and am treated to a piano serenade while at dinner (from The Rolling Stones to Dave Brubeck ... kind of like surreal elevator music but in a restaurant).

I do stop this week to do some work for school.  I'm not crazy - I know what I take time to do now will come back to bless me the final week of summer break.  The janitorial staff has already waxed my room and is prepping to wax the long hallway.  I beg and cajole and talk myself past the machines so I can do a quick hit-and-run for important texts that are locked into my classroom closet, and I spend hours in the library semi-working and joking around with my cohort and the summer technology staff.  After two days of school prep, I'm antsy-in-the-pantsy and ready for adventures.

I see more beach time in my future, another trip to Maine, brothers and their families coming to town, and maybe (just maybe) I can squeeze one more crazy, partially-planned trip into the time remaining.  In the meantime, my basement, kitchen, bookshelves, photo albums, and all the rest can just wait.

That's right, chores: Take a chill-pill and get a hold of yourselves.  Don't crowd me, to-do list!  Seriously.  I mean, what do you all think autumn is for?  Other than more madcap adventures, that is.

GREAT TIME, GREAT TORNADO, AND GREAT WHITE

Sidelined!  Damnation, I've been sidelined!

Last week in the midst of my misadventures, somehow I managed to get not one but two nails embedded into the same tire.  This is not just idiocy on my part, it's talent.  I don't know how nor where nor when, but I suspect it happened at the Decordova Museum since I didn't like it much.

That's right.  I said it: I did not like the Decordova Museum.

The Decordova Museum is like the Institute of Contemporary Art's lame cousin (and anyone who has read my blog might recall that I detest the ICA).  Never have I seen so much amazing, available space wasted so blatantly.  After suffering through the ridiculous admittance fee, I was done with the museum itself in about a millisecond, so I drove around the dirt parking lot to see if there might be other paths with other sculptures to see because the stuff outside the museum far exceeds the crap inside of it.  That's probably where the nails came into play, the little metal bastards.

But I digress, sort of.  The nails in my tire...

The day after the Decordova debacle, I am due in Chatham.  Luckily, I am only driving as far as Medford, which isn't too far, so I ignore the low tire message.  Okay, I don't totally ignore it; I pump up my tires with a super-powered, hand-operated air pump that I keep in my trunk.  You see, my tires have sent this to me this message before, and they've only been a few PSI below their required levels.  So, yes, I drive to and from Medford and ignore my car's warning system.

My friend drives us down to Chatham so we can spend the day with other friends who live about a half mile from the beach.  The only fly in this story is that we are visiting three days post-tornado.  Well, we think it's "a" tornado -- turns out to be three tornadoes.   But, again, I digress a bit.

On our way through Chatham, we drive right over the swath of street that the tornado crossed.    How do we know?  We know because huge trees are ripped out of the ground, street signs are twisted and tossed on the roadside and on top of bushes, and there is a path of torn ground on either side of the tarred street.

I have had the unfortunate displeasure of experiencing two microbursts that cut through about five miles of property each, both of which passed over my house and took out two giant trees about twenty feet from where I was hunkered down in my home.  One microburst took the first tall maple tree; a second one a couple of years later took out the other tall maple tree.  Thank you very much, but that would be a big, fat NO to tornadoes after living through that shit.  So, looking at the damage here from what the weather people label F1, I kind of poop myself for you people in the Midwest with your F3 and F4 and, god forbid, F5 monsters.

Our friends' property is unscathed except for their car.  They happened to be driving and took cover in a parking lot, where roof shingles from a nearby building smacked the car's hood, scraping and denting it like it was a toy.  This damage came from the indirect hit of the tornado, from them being in between two  touchdowns.  Yup, the tornado came along on the ground, lost its footing around the parking lot vicinity, then touched down again.  Indeed, luck was with them ... except for the (shit on the) shingles.

Later, after surveying the damage and hearing the tale, we head to the beach for a walk.  I'm not really feeling the ocean kayaking nor too much swimming (beyond my knees) at this point because I consider myself lucky: my tires didn't go flat yet, my friends survived the tornado, and we are having a nice visit without the need to sight-see any more tornado damage.  Honestly, I'm not sure I should press my good luck any further.

Besides, there's a huge sign warning swimmers and boaters about the great white sharks in the area.  I am feeling like I've had enough adventure for one day, and I would very much like to return home with as many limbs as those with which I arrived in Chatham.  I still have to limp my tire-weary car home later in the evening, and I'll need at least one foot and one arm to do so.  Better to not risk it.

Of course, now that I've made it home safe and sound and had the nails removed from my tire (I had to replace it, it was that damaged ... yay, me), and I've had a few days to recover while sidelined, I think I'm ready for another adventure.  If no one minds, though, I'll do so without further car issues and certainly would appreciate Mother Nature's cooperation and mercy.