I HESITATE TO TEMPT FATE

It has been a heck of a two-and-a-half weeks.

By now you all know that I had to execute a rapid evacuation from one apartment due to a flying squirrel invasion. I had a lovely but thankfully brief stay at a wonderful hotel, slept in a mostly-empty apartment on top of storage bins, and crippled my friends and family asking them to move a few pieces of heavy furniture since there quite literally was zero time to contact movers. I had to get out of there tout suite.

In the course of The Event, I waited two weeks for internet access, survived amid chaos, managed to pull off a flawless Christmas Eve gathering and meal, and enjoyed an amazing holiday experience with family and friends. I am still unpacking my life even as I pack up Christmas, earlier than I usually do but with necessity to gain organizational traction. I honestly did have a rough few days of absolute mental and physical exhaustion. 

Then, something happened. A co-worker who retired in June passed away on December 22nd.

For the love of all things sane, I encountered a flying squirrel and had to move. This makes great blog fodder, but it's hardly earth shattering. What is earth shattering is someone finally retiring from the grind that is our business (working in a municipality for the public), potentially facing the best years of his life, and then it's just . . . over.

So, as I look around the mayhem that currently is my life, and as I pack up what is usually the best time of the year for me, I am thankful that I am still here and healthy and able to share my tales of insanity.

Glad to see 2023 in the rearview mirror, but also looking forward to 2024. I hesitate to tempt fate and say it will be a better year, but I will poke the bear and say, "Please, if it could be rodent-free, I'd greatly appreciate it."

Happy New Year to all.  

OFFLINE

 I am without internet.

 It has been a brutal battle between Verizon, who sold me a package that cannot be hooked up in my new apartment, and Xfinity, who wanted to charge me $100 just to drive into the parking lot.

The only one losing here is me.

I have my cell phone for connecting, and thanks for that. Both internet companies tried to get me to jump ship from my longtime phone service.

Hell to the NO. 

This little company got me through the Great Merrimack Valley Gas Disaster. If only they had residential internet service.

So far, Verizon is in the lead. But, the outcome depends on holes being drilled and wires being run. Friday. The appointment was made over a week ago. That's two weeks waiting for them to hook me up. So far, Verizon's customer sevice sucks. I really don't hold much hope.

The worst part is that I am missing all the Hallmark Christmas movies. Oh, well. There's always July.

THE DAYS ARE FLYING BY . . . LITERALLY

'Twas twelve days before Christmas,

And all through the house

A creature was stirring -

It was NOT a mouse.

I heard it tear-assing

Throughout the whole place

And I got just a glimpse of its rump

(Not its face).

It wasn't an elf

Nor even a rat.

No, my dear friends,

It was BIGGER than that. 

I chased it around

And I screamed just a bit,

Which is probably what caused it

To scuttle and shit.

I couldn't quite find it

Despite all my trying.

Turns out 'twas a squirrel

(The kind that goes flying).

I called for the workers

To come please tout suite

But I think maybe they all

Decided to eat

Rather than come 

And provide me with aid.

By then, what a mess

That shit-head had made.

For three days they chased it

In the chimney and round

But only disaster in its

Wake could be found.

I cried to the agents,

"'Tis a serious matter!"

But they just assumed that

I was full of chatter.

I stayed in a hotel

Afraid to be home.

I mean, a flying squirrel

Could dive-bomb at my dome!

Finally, the agent and I

Talked. She said,

"I hate to inform you

We found the squirrel dead."

It didn't surprise me

Because the bait trap

Was turned on its top

And surrounded by crap.

She seemed quite surprised 

When I mentioned the poison.

Apparently no bait was 

Put down by the boys in.

And that's when it hit me:

The mouse from long past.

I put the traps down!

I killed the bast(ard).

I had to demand that

They close the fireplace

Because they were too dumb

To think of that space.

And now I am moving

To the building next door.

If I see any rodents

This place won't stand anymore.

Happy holidays. You're all getting squirrel pie.

POURING FOR A PARADE

The weather last weekend was horrible. It snowed north and west of where I live, but it rained buckets here. This kind of stuff often breeds stupid driving and multiple accidents, so I wasn't surprised to hear the sudden shrieking of many, many sirens during the deluge.

I live near the highway ramp, close enough to watch vehicles exit and enter and also close enough to hear the downshifting of big rigs passing by during the night. It doesn't bother me at all. I lived for years with route 495 as my backyard and witnessed numerous interesting events, including a hot air balloon landing on the highway, a small plane putting down on the highway and just missing the overpass, an eighteen-wheeler tipping over while I just happened to be looking out the dining room window, and the crazy non-movement of highway traffic (and subsequently snow-covered vehicles) during the blizzard of 1978.

My instant thought last weekend during this downpouring of buckets of rain, though, was that there must be a massive pile-up on route 93 because the number of sirens and the strength of the sound overwhelmed all other noise, including the music I had playing inside my home. 

But, I was wrong. It was no accident. It was the town's Santa Parade.

Not only did I completely forget that this same event tricked me this same way last year, but I was completely befuddled that the town didn't cave to weather concerns when a parade is scheduled. I meandered to an outside window in the hallway to watch the fun (and to stay dry), and was so happy to see the number of kiddos and families who hurried out to catch Santa and the other floats swing by. You see, the people of the neighborhoods don't go to see the parade; the town brings the parade to the people of the neighborhoods. And this year they did so despite the horrible, detestable weather.

Kudos to the parade committee and participants, kudos to the town for following through, and kudos to the families who cared enough to brave the weather and support this great event. After all, with the weather we've been having for the last twenty weeks or so, apparently it's going to rain sheets and walls of water every weekend, anyway. Since we can't beat it, we might as well join it.

WRAPPING UP MY SANITY

Currently the FedEx, UPS, USPS, and Amazon delivery people are my best friends. 

It's not so much that I am trying to make my life easier by ordering holiday gifts online as it is that I am sick and tired of being my own cashier at the check-out. I've done my stint in retail, and I'm over it. Besides, I am not getting any employee discounts at these stores, so why would I do self-checkout?

Next comes the part that I really hate: wrapping. I don't know why, but I despise wrapping stuff. Unfortunately, it is as necessary a part of the holiday season as eating over-baked and under-decorated cookies. So, I set up my wrapping station, which must be moved, rearranged, put away, and taken out over and over again because I do need my kitchen table from time to time.

I'm in decent shape for now. I've wrapped enough stuff to have several shipping boxes complete and ready to go to UPS. My goal is to enjoy the entire last week of Advent by having nothing other than partying and cooking on my proverbial plate. Every year I swear I will be ready and able to relax, and every year it is an epic failure.

This year will be different. Or so I believe.

Right now, much as I love them and count on them, my delivery people are letting me down (through no fault of their own). Several items, regardless of how early I ordered the stuff, is delayed, delayed, delayed. Today I helped the Amazon delivery person get into the package room here at the complex, hoping that at least one of my items might arrive today. 

No such luck, though. I get home to an email update: Your items are now delayed until at least Tuesday. Sweet. Just flaming sweet.

In the meantime, I'll wrap like a demon on a holiday sugar high. If I eat enough chocolate and sip enough wine, I probably won't mind wrapping anymore. (The recipients might.) Maybe by the end of it all, my Grinch Wrapping heart will grow three sizes. I mean, I wouldn't place bets on it, but, like the delayed shipping on my items, I can always remain hopeful of holiday miracles.

OLD YELLOW GOES INTO STORAGE

I finally unload my kayak from my car. My kayak is a snap-together model, so it fits right into the back seat of my little sedan. I left it in the car for an unusually long season, past the freezing point here in New England, because I was determined to get more kayaking in this autumn than I did this summer. 

No such luck.

This past summer sucked. It rained almost every weekend and many days during the week. I spent four days in Laconia, New Hampshire, and I only had one opportunity to kayak. It rained buckets the rest of the time. My favorite pond, which is right around the corner from where I live, was mostly shut down due to the parking lot housing construction equipment to rebuild the dam. 

Needless to say, the kayak got very little time on the water this summer and none this fall.

Now that December is bearing down, this weekend the kayak goes back into the closet, its winter residence, and does nothing but aggravate me when I have to step over displaced snow boots. It's a big yellow reminder that summer wasn't truly summer. It's a huge yellow flag that I didn't get my time's worth out of my investment.

On a positive note, though, now that the kayak has been stored, the sleds can come out of hiding. Maybe it will snow this winter as much as it rained over the summer. I doubt it, though. Mother Nature and I haven't had the most symbiotic relationship, so, if it doesn't snow at all this year, feel free to blame me and Old Yellow. 

SURVIVING THE BOOGER-HEADS

Still sick. This grippe is hanging on like a sloth from a branch. I drag my sorry self to work every day not with the intention of infecting people, but simply because it's more work to be out than it is to be in. Plus, our wing of the school sounds like a tuberculosis unit already. Everyone is hacking up a lung or two. Might as well join the fray.

Luckily, I had stocked myself up almost two weeks ago, so I have soup and crackers, and my freezer is packed full. Finally, though, I decide I need better food. 

Monday I am too sick to go anywhere and barely make it home from work before collapsing. Tuesday I develop a late afternoon fever, so I go straight home, as well. Wednesday and Thursday I don't sleep much and hit the wall both afternoons, so I head home after being on my feet all day.  Sitting up is the only answer for sleep, and I wake up so often during the nights to gag/cough that I manage to piece together about ten hours of sleep over four nights, and I develop severe neck and back issues.

Finally, on Friday, I feel upright enough and can stop hacking long enough to make a quick stop at the grocery store. Despite drinking tea all day long, my body is dehydrated, so I am breaking down and getting myself some soda. I also decide that I need a decent meal. Yes, I desperately need something more substantial than chicken noodle or tomato soup.

Stew. I. Need. Beef. Stew.

I quickly hit the aisles, but it is the Friday before Thanksgiving, and the store is busier than I expect. Oh, well. If I have to wait in a long line, I might as well really stock up. I throw a few extras into my carriage along with soda and stew ingredients. I add bagels, lemon, tea, honey, cough drops, ice cream, broccoli cheddar soup. And, of course, the panacea: Puffs Plus with Lotion tissues, because my poor nose is bloodied raw.

I plan my exit strategy perfectly. By the time I hit the check-out area, there is a lull, and I manage to find an open register. Life is good. But, to be honest, by the time I haul my four bags of groceries up to my apartment, I am more than ready to sit still for the evening.

This morning I get that crock pot going early, pour everything in, add seasonings, sauces, marinades, and half a bottle of bourbon-barrel wine. I run a couple of quick errands then come home, settle in with a book, and wait for my first real meal in over a week. It's worth the wait, but, like someone eating too much after a period of fasting, it takes a while for my stomach to recognize that it is no longer on the "I Think I Might Be Dying" Diet.

I will be eating that stew for a few days. I don't care. It is so worth it, and I am going to savor my step-up from soup as I (hopefully) continue to recover from whatever plague has been cast upon my body by the little booger-heads running loose in the hallways of my place of employment.

W(H)INING ABOUT BEING ILL

I finally have a couple of days off. 

No big surprise -- I'm sick. I finally succumb to that grippe that seems to be making its rounds at school. I am of foul mood and foul temper.

Sure, it's not the pukies. Not officially, anyway. 

However, anyone who has had this will tell you that the first hour awake in the morning is one of hacking so hard and so continuously that all of the phlegm coming forward is like choking up giant globs of puke, anyway. Every time I cough this morning, I have to be near the toilet in case my stomach decides to come up with my lungs.

As the day progresses, my coughs run the gambit from dry and piercing to seal bark to wet with echoing rattles. Although my head feels like it's in a vise, I don't have a fever and would probably be functioning semi-well at school, which is exactly where I'd be had the day not been observance of a national holiday.

I'm getting a little tired of soup, tea, and hot chocolate. It doesn't seem to help much, anyway. I decide that orange juice must be the next defense, so I fill up one of my Christmas mugs. When I empty that and go for a refill, I notice some cava (sparkling wine from Spain) in my refrigerator. I decide that a mimosa in my Christmas mug might make me feel better, too. After all, a mimosa has both orange juice and bubbly fizzy stuff to settle my stomach.

Then I notice the red wine open and recorked. It's a Spanish Monastrell. Red wine is a healthy choice, right? Antioxidants, and all that? Maybe I should have some of that. If all else fails, I can add some juice and fruit and a little tonic, and turn it into a poor version of sangria. 

I'm not sure yet which drink of choice pairs better with the thick, cherry-flavored cough syrup I've been downing nor with the camphor-eucalyptus goop I've been spreading across my chest. All I know is that the wine in my house has taken my initial PAIN and turned it into SPAIN, and THAT, my healthy friends, is a great way to spend a lousy day off.

PENNEY FOR MY ANXIETY

I'm having company this weekend.

This isn't really big news. I often have family members stop by and crash in my living room. I gave up my larger townhouse for smaller apartment living, which is great for cleaning and upkeep and utility costs, but it sucks for storage and for accommodating guests. I have a semi-comfortable futon that I pad with a thick mattress cover, and I bought some nice sheets for it. For the upcoming company visit, I set up the futon and put the pad on it. Then, I look for the bed linens where I always keep them.

The bag is missing.

I spend an hour tearing apart every piece of this apartment, which is crazy since I recently redid the two closets, and I also recently cleared out and reworked the storage benches. There is absolutely nowhere else this bag might be. Well, except for possibly in a donation box somewhere. There is a very real possibility that I accidentally threw the bag of clean sheets near a place where I often gather bags to go to Good Will. All I can think of is that someone now has a rarely-used, basically brand-new set of comfortable, lovely, wrinkle-free, purple flowered sheets.

To prep for my guests, I do not have time to go to the store, even though I live near a Target. I really don't want to be limited to whatever selection and prices the store have, so I throw a random king-sized top sheet over the futon and beg my relatives to bring sleeping bags with them. This seems like a great solution, except that my anxiety is ramped up now because I still cannot find the damn futon sheets.

This dilemma bothers me for about twenty-four hours. 

Finally, I sit down on the computer and Google queen-size sheet sets. Within seconds, I am informed that there is a sale at JC Penney this weekend, starting today. The movie Airplane is one of my favorites, as is the character Johnny, who studies the newspaper foretelling of disaster and announces, "THERE'S A SALE AT PENNEY'S!" 

I find a great selection of sheet sets at unbelievable prices. I throw in two pillow protectors, also on sale. What the heck, I add in a king-sized blanket, also, not surprisingly, at a discounted price. And, because it's a special weekend sale, I get even more money off the entire order. The whole kit-and-kaboodle costs me a whopping $57. If I were to put a price on appeasing my anxiety, I would've guessed it might cost a lot more, and it probably would have if I had gone to Target and picked something off the shelves. 

Of course, now that the order has been placed (scheduled to arrive Friday), the original bag with the original sheets will certainly make an appearance. I don't care! I have my sanity back, and it cost much less than therapy. Now, if I start mumbling, "Auntie Em! Uncle Henry! It's a twister!" or "Leon's getting laaaaaarger," just pull up the JC Penney website and place that plastic credit card in my angry little fist.

A MENACE TO THE HOLIDAYS

Guilty. It's true, your Honor, guilty as charged.

Yes, I am pre-empting Halloween and Thanksgiving with another holiday. It is kind of accidental, but, once it starts, it really does come down to intent. Apparently, I shouldn't have started rearranging the piles of stuff still left to organize, especially not after working all day. My guard is down, and I am mentally exhausted. For the remainder of messy crap, I'm down to some minor office files and a huge amount of photographs and frames. This warrants compartmentalizing larger containers to smaller containers, which somehow leads to checking on the organizational skills of my holiday boxes. 

Oh, it starts innocently enough. 

I question whether or not I can carve out a tiny bit more space to hide more of the junk I carry around with me. Honestly, though, in the last four years, I have gone from a tri-level three-bedroom townhouse, to a two bedroom townhouse, to a one-bedroom apartment. I have weeded out a lot of my belongings. I probably should've gone for a two-bedroom apartment or one that actually offers storage, but this one comes with a fireplace and porch, and the utilities are cheap money compared to the townhouses. 

In my defense, I couldn't help myself.

I truly do not need to pull the holiday boxes out. I know me, and, dang it, I know better. But one box leads to another and another. Before I can stop myself, Christmas is sitting in my living room. I ignore it for a few days. I go grocery shopping one day. I stay late at work another day. I go to a wine tasting on a completely random day.

But then, the weekend sneaks up on me, and I am feeling a little peckish, just peckish enough to stay close to home. I pretend that I don't see Christmas staring at me from every corner of the main living area. It's 80 degrees out, so I open the windows and clean the inner sills. I rearrange and sweep the porch. I let the last gasp of summer into my home, finish a book, make soup, drink wheat beer. I vacuum the apartment.

Yes, yes, yes. Summer is still in the air!

Like the theme song from Jaws, the boxes stalk me with a menacing cadence. O-pen. Oooooooo-pen. Open open open open open open open ...

Damnit, Christmas. It's not even Halloween. I haven't even carved the pumpkin yet. ("Do it tomorrow when it's chilly and rainy," a voice inside my head reasons.) But . . . but, it's too hot to open Christmas. 

O-pen. Oooooooooooooooo-pen. Open open open . . . openopenopenopen . . . OPEN!

The next thing I know, a small pre-lit tree is standing in the corner by the fireplace. It gets plugged in. Ornaments slowly and belligerently make their way to the branches. It takes hours because I don't want to be doing this. Yet, I am, like a person possessed.

Please, your honor, I may be guilty, but I haven't murdered Halloween. I didn't run the red light of holidays. At worst, I've committed a misdemeanor of celebratory order; at best, a breach of etiquette.  I may have the colored lights on, but I haven't plugged in the Santa Band just yet, so there is that. I blame Michael's Craft Store for having Christmas displays out. For the love of all things sane, they even had Advent candles on sale. 

It's not my fault! Guilty! Yes, I am, and somewhat proud of myself, as well.

PALTRY POETRY FOR A PERFECT PARTY

There once were some people who raged

About being what's called "middle-aged."

To avoid the confusion

They held a reunion.

Fun memories soon disengaged.

The dress code they said, "Strictly casual" -

To accommodate all of the gradual

Midsection spreading

That they all were dreading,

Though worry proved to be irrational.

Some say they are older than dirt,

But these insults will rarely cause hurt.

Life gave a licking,

But they are still ticking

Much faster than those now inert.

Oh, sure, perhaps their lives are waning,

But actually, they think they're gaining:

One hundred or more

Is the age they will score

If ever their hips stop complaining!

ARRIVING FOR THE EARLY SHOW

There are many days, too many, that I stay at work later than any sane person should. I have been better in recent years because a coworker kept me honest about leaving close to quitting time, but then she retired. Another coworker has picked up the slack, though, so I am much better about getting my car into parent-pick-up traffic rather than post-Boston commuter traffic.

It's my morning routine that still needs a little finesse.

I have some mornings that I simply cannot sleep, so I leave for work early. Or, I have to get to the post office. Or, I need to escape from my complex because someone is going to be tarring at the ass-crack of dawn. 

I am almost ashamed to admit that this is my car, by itself, in the school parking lot, around 6:30 a.m. For clarity, my hours start officially at 8:20 a.m. I'm not suffering or anything. I get first dibs on the copy machine, no one stops me for an impromptu conference as I head to the mail room, I make myself tea in peace, and nobody looks at me suspiciously if I stop to pee in the deserted student bathroom.

That's right. No normal, well-adjusted person would come to work so damn early. As you can see in the pictures, even the specialty bus-vans hadn't left on their routes yet. However, in my defense, I couldn't sleep, and the complex scheduled speed-bump shaving (complex built them too tall last summer, and we are all scraping our cars' undercarriages) to start at exactly 7:00 a.m.. Since Mother Nature had already thrown off our paving schedule this past June, I didn't want to take any chances.

On a positive note, I was well-caffeinated by the time everyone else arrived at work. On a negative note, I lacked an audience for a good thirty minutes, and I probably whistled, sang, and danced some of my best material before that lot filled in. 

A DAY IN THE REVOLUTIONARY AMERICAN LIFE

I have a friend who is a relatively recent American citizen. I find it wildly ironic that he harbors a fascination for the American Revolution and the Fathers of the United States republic, as he is British by birth. Currently living in Los Angeles, not exactly a place I consider the cradle of staunch American values, my friend decides he wants to experience Concord when he visits his old Boston-area stomping grounds. My plan is to take him to some sites in Concord and perhaps even to Sudbury. After all, very little compares to hoisting an ale in the tavern of Longfellows' Wayside Inn. 

We start our day at the Concord Museum, which has some amazing artifacts. It also has a large, interactive map that depicts the timeline and troops and actions and locations of the events of April 19, 1775. The stuff that is on display is absolutely spellbinding: muskets, swords, silver-smithed kitchenware, furniture, documents, art, and sculptures, including two scaled sculptures by Daniel Chester French that are notably recognizable: The Minute Man and the Lincoln Memorial.

My next stop, however, is a near-fatal mistake.

I decide to take my friend, who is a voracious reader, to Author's Ridge at Concord's Sleepy Hollow Cemetery. Buried here are famous American authors Alcott, Emerson, Thoreau, and Hawthorne. This is my personal Valhalla, and I assume, stupidly I now realize, that my British friend would be as familiar with iconic American writers as we all are with iconic British authors. It's okay. I mean, we didn't have anyone over here writing when Chaucer was creating verse in Merry Olde England. As a matter of fact, we didn't have any famous literary now-dead white guys here at all during that time period. I figure, then, that it's okay to skip Sudbury since Longfellow isn't on the radar today.

We head over the the Old North Bridge, and trudge uphill in unusually hot autumn weather to the Visitors' Center. It is amazing to be on hallowed ground, and even my former red coat buddy is enthralled by the history of the Americans' bravado and chutzpah. Finally, we wrap up the day with a wonderful early supper at Concord's 1716 Colonial Inn, extending our Revolutionary-ish Era adventure.

After my friend catches the train back to Boston and I head home via back roads to my own place about twenty miles northeast, I can't help reflecting on the propaganda campaign that led us to this place where we are now. Sure, we are tax-laden, Congress is littered with nut jobs, and the entire monetary system is on the verge of collapse, but overall it's a damn lot better than most. 

PEEK-A-BOO HAIRBALL

We have a fabulous janitorial staff at our school. However, every once in a while, they miss obvious stuff. It's not their fault because most of the time they have to operate on auto-pilot due to staffing shortages.

I tend to run into the girls' bathroom in my wing because it is directly across the hall from my room, and by "directly," I mean that we can hear people fart in the bathroom as if we are right in there with them. Let's not even get into the next stages of personal potty functions. Let's just say this: The acoustics rival The Met.

The custodians do a great job of cleaning up after middle schoolers and making sure that the toilet paper dispensers are full. We haven't had paper towels in there since TikTok decided that stuffing wads of paper into the pipes to clog our entire septic system was a trend that all students should cling to and try. Yes, because some of them graduated to wedging paper towels into the bowls, now, nobody gets to dry their hands the old-fashioned, super-efficient way. We either stand under the useless cold dryers, or we wipe our hands on our own clothing.

That being said, the paper towels are the least of our worries. There hasn't been soap in there for over a week. It's not necessarily the fault of the staff. The soap is clear in its dispenser bag, so it's hard to tell if the thing is full, half-way, or bone-dry. I decide to leave a nice note, pretending that the soap just barely ran out that day, and I add a happy face.

It works! The following morning -- voila -- we have soap! It doesn't work so well with the floors in the room.

For a few days, my room has a fist-sized hairball of crap making its way around the room. One day it is near the computer. The next day, it's hiding under student desks. I have been watching it, waiting for either a kiddo or a janitor to dispose of it. Near the window. By the door. Between the rows. Next to the bookcase. 

It's like the official Classroom Prepositional Phrase Hairball.

Thursday night I try to go to bed at a reasonable hour because I am exhausted. Instead, monkey mind keeps my up until almost 1:00 a.m. Even though my alarm is set for 6:00, I am up and down all night and finally awaken for good around 5:15. Might as well get up. I play games on my phone, check email, look at the forecast, read the news, peruse social media . . . anything to deny work's existence.

Even though I stop to mail bills at the post office, I am still first into my end of the building at 7:10. I walk in, plop my backpack on my desk, and come around to sit in my chair. I have a vague sense that the Jaws theme song is playing softly somewhere in the background track of my life. Just as I am about to sit down . . .

I scream.

Is that a huge spider? Is it a dead mouse? Is it Rapunzel's hair extension?

Nope. It's the damn hairball. It is sitting right at my desk, staring up at me, challenging me from the overly-waxed tiles.

Defeated, I drop my shoulders, jerk my head back, jut my chin into the air, and lament, "Why me? Dear gawd almighty, whyyyyyyyy meeeeeeeeee?!" Then I grab a paper towel from my closet (because, hey, I know how to hoard supplies, especially if I pay for them), lean down, scoop up the hairy mass, and toss it into the trash bucket far away from my desk, dry heaving as I do because loose hair clumps unnerve me.

I swear, if that thing is back on my floor on Monday, I'm calling in an exorcist.

THE (SAD) ZOO

The zoo should have better enclosures and more animals. Seriously.

First of all, there are so few animals in each enclosure that a zoo visit is more like a piss-poor game of Where's Waldo, but with an admission fee attached. It becomes a random guess-filled walk, hoping that other people's children will be able to point out the invisible zoo treasures.

"Where is the snow leopard? Does anyone see the snow leopard?"

"Hey, lady. You see that hint of shadow about thirty feet up? That's the reflection of one of its paws."

When I went to the National Zoo in DC the first time, apparently the panda was dead, so that was merely an empty space left open and unoccupied. The second time I went to the zoo in DC, it was so hot that even the desert animals couldn't be bothered to materialize.

Today's visit to the zoo starts with an immediate deterrent: All of the parking spaces have been taken by people at a university-level cross-country track meet. Yes, the course runs between the zoo and a golf country club. So, those of us who are paying zoo patrons actually have to park along the side of a crazily busy city main street, hoof it past the track runners who don't bother getting off the sidewalks nor out of the way of people and small children, and attempt to push carriages over rocky, muddy, overgrown terrain.

What's even sadder is that the last two times before this visit, I went to the zoo to see Corpse Flowers. Yes, even the things that smell dead are more enticing than lazy, listless living animals. I mean, I understand that the eagle needs to be contained, but in a chicken wire cage the size of my apartment bathroom? And the wallaby enclosure is large enough that there should be . . . oh, I don't know . . . wallabies running around in it, rather than one or two dozing against the fence yards away.

There are a lot of things to see, just the same. There's a giraffe that licks a steel pole, snoozing lions (one of whom would die the following day), and some gorillas (that surprisingly have not been able to escape from this place since Little Joe made it to a local bus stop in 2003). 

This zoo is not as sad as some other zoos, but that is hardly a testament to its continued existence. It just seems that perhaps the zebra enclosure might have more grass and less rocks and muck. The monkey "house" might have enough monkeys to make it worth seeing, perhaps monkeys in action rather than the sad looking monkeys that belong at the tent city on Mass and Cass, begging for money and heroin.

In case you're wondering if I'm just bitching or willing to pitch in, I do donate to the zoo, and, yes, monetary donations. But that doesn't seem to make it any less sad than it is and has been for decades. It used to be much better, which should tell you how awful it is now since even then it was borderline pathetic.

Will I go back? Of course I will. I do love the animals, it's a decent walk, and I have a yearly membership.

STAY CHIPPER, MY FRIENDS

Sometimes metaphors happen.

I'm driving to work,

The upcoming day on my mind,

Meetings - emails - filing - data collection -

All kinds of useless cacophony taking place inside my brain.

A small dump truck pulls in front of me.

It's not really a dump truck dump truck.

It's one of those landscaping style trucks with six wheels.

It's pulling a trailer -

Not a big one;

One with a piece of machinery on wheels attached.

I take a moment and realize what it is:

A wood chipper.

Debris litters the intake chute, 

And the horrid metal gnashing gnawing mouthlike jaws

Laugh at me as I get closer to my destination,

Jeering me,

Lulling me into a false sense of security,

A Siren song of sadism,

Reminding me that work will 

Chew me up and

Spit me out

As sure as if a wood chipper awaits me at my desk.

Metaphors happen;

Sometimes the timing is unavoidable.

DUNKS ON THE . . . STOP

Anyone who lives anywhere in New England knows where the nearest Dunkin Donuts stores are located. True New Englanders measure travel distance in Dunks, as well. There are two Dunkins directly across the street from each other in the town next to where I live so that customers don't even have to worry about crossing one nearly-empty lane of non-traffic to get a coffee. 

One of the best advances in the Dunkins business is the app ordering. It means that you don't even have to interact with anyone. You just pop into Dunks (one of the twenty within a two-mile radius of wherever you are), look for your order, and grab it. No human contact necessary.

My daughter and I are on our way to the zoo with her daughter. Before we get there, though, we really, really, REALLY need Dunkins iced coffee. So, we pre-order, swing around the city streets where she lives, find a parking space in front, and I get ready to hop out and pick up the order.

Dunkins on the GO! Whoohoo!

Except that parallel parking in the city can sometimes be tricky. Now, lest you think we cannot parallel park, you would be wrong. I taught each of my children the proper way to parallel park before I even let them drive around on real streets. "It's the single most important driving maneuver you can master." Truth. Since I know that each child can, indeed, park properly on a city street, my daughter gets her SUV into a tight street spot like a damn boss.

The problem here is that she parks too well. When I try to open my door, not only is the car right at the curb as it should be, it is inches from a signboard and a telephone pole.

Dunkins on the STOP!

I glance over to my daughter, who clearly didn't want to be the one doing the touch-and-go for iced coffee. I shrug my shoulders like Max the dog when he finds himself riding, rather than pulling, the Grinch's sled. I guess I'm watching the baby while she gets our order.

Hey, at least we still didn't have any real human interaction, so there is that. And, we have coffee to keep us hydrated and caffeinated at the zoo. Win-win! Thanks, Dunkins! You truly are saving New Englanders one iced coffee at a time, and we appreciate you for it.

DO NOT CLIMB THIS TREE HOUSE

Anyone familiar with the Tewksbury Country Club's restaurant and it's lovely (shorter) golf course might lament the fact that it was sold suddenly and unceremoniously out from under many prospective brides and other venue securers. Many of us also were a teeny bit excited as it was sold to a brewery. Tree House Brewery, to be exact.

Having never been to a Tree House Brewery before, I did a tiny bit of research before going and discovered that not only were the reviews lackluster, but the company itself released its own press release saying something to the effect of, "Hey, sorry we're assholes and our service sucks, but, gee willikers, won't you just suck it up and give us another chance?"

This should have been red flag number one.

My friend and I pull into the nearly empty parking lot, walk up the charming stone steps of the former country club, and are greeted by a person with a squawking walkie-talking, a rumpled cardboard box, and a shitload of pink paper wristbands -- like they're prepping for the Thanksgiving Day Feaster Five Road Race, or something.

"Hi. We've never been here before. Don't we just go in and order beer?"

Oh, no. Jesuschristalmighty. That would be too damn easy.

The person inhales a huge breath, and, while the radio is still blasting voices, gives us a spiel that must be longer than a Henry James paragraph, and delivered at the rate of an auctioneer. I am suddenly reminded of Arlo Guthrie's Alice's Restaurant courtroom speech. When she finishes, a bit blue around the gills from lack of taking in air, she smiles and looks at us expectantly.

Say, what? What in the hell did you just say? This should have been red flag number two. Can't we just go into the damn venue? 

Oh, no. No, no, no, no, no. We must download this and open that and QR code this thingamajigee and enter that into the kiosk, and what's your credit card, phone number, social security ID, rank, serial number, and the password to every bank account you've ever had. By the time we even get to the first room (more on this in a moment), I feel more violated than if I'd had a pap smear in the food court of the mall. So, we stand there, inside this first room, looking around at the familiar, wonderful, expansive venue, and notice that almost everything has been roped off -- the upstairs, the former restaurant -- like an abandoned mansion or the set for a horror flick. We are told to open our phones, use the internet, and go from room to room.

This should have been red flag number three.

Room one, as I just referenced, is the QR room. Yes, folks, here you can buy tickets for up to three beers. Step right up! The fun is about to begin! No more than three beers! All you can ever have here are three beers. That's it. No more. Ever. Never. My friend and I scan the code and I am able to open their "Buy your ticket here" but not any kind of beer list. So I step back outside to my long-winded pal.

"What if I want a flight of beer?"

Red flag number four.

Horrified eyes, completely and utterly aghast as if I have just killed her first born child and torn out its entrails, stare back at me. "We don't sell FLIGHTS!" she whispers harshly, as if I've just spit blasphemy in the house of God. Then she smiles her Mr. Sardonicus smirk and says, "But we do offer some samples!" Then she shoos us away like we are crap on her shoe.

I am able to open the ticket sale page on my phone because I am still connected to my car's Bluetooth. My friend's phone, which is much better than mine, just keeps buffering and buffering and buffering. So, we wander into room number two. Surprise! It's a golf and gift shop. Apparently, we are supposed to buy all kinds of crap on our way in, like Disney Land has gone backward and you must get your purchases out of the way first before you forget to spend more money. We look appropriately interested and wander into room number three, passing more roped off spaces like we are in an art museum that sadly lacks pictures. Plenty of docents (useless extra staff) standing around looking bored, but nothing really to enjoy. 

We move along to room number three. This is apparently where you buy canned drinks. Yes, canned. No need for a bartender here, but there is one, just the same. All she has to do is stand behind a gorgeous mahogany bar,  pop the tab, and overcharge the patrons. But, wait. We cannot order drinks because we cannot buy tickets because the Tree House Brewery QR site is still buffering. 

Gosh, gee whiz, and howdoyado. If this place is completely self-service and entirely web-based and web-run, shouldn't the Internet be strong and efficient? We shake our phones, as if that will help secure a connection, and wander over to the young lady standing behind the bar next to a fridge full of cans. We are about to ask what we seem to think is an obvious question, especially in this day and age of modern technology.

"What's the Wi-Fi password here?"

Red flag number five has just been raised.

She looks at us, glances around to make sure we are alone (we are - the place is practically empty), and sheepishly admits, "We don't have Wi-Fi."

I'm sorry, what?

She turns her head to the left then to the right, like she is a spy on a secret mission and is passing us covert information that might possibly get her killed. Still, we are the only ones within earshot. "Yeah, there is internet," she says quietly, "but no one is allowed to use it. Even the employees."

But, wait. How do we get drinks?

"You put your order in using the QR code on your phone using the Internet."

Using the Internet you don't have? We can't pay cash or simply hand you a credit card? The answer is no.

"Hold on, here," we say. "This is a one-hundred percent internet-based business."  Yes. "But you don't have Wi-Fi for the patrons." That is correct. 

At least the poor young thing has the decency to appear mortified. We look around. Everywhere, and I do mean all over the damn place, are signs for QR codes and online ordering. But, and this may seem like I'm nitpicking, there is zero access to said QR codes unless you are lucky enough to have your own Internet connection.

Okay, then. Red flag number six, it is.

We head to the tap room. Forty-eight beers on tap, they boast! Forty-eight! Now, we are just about the first patrons of the day. I count about twenty-six beers on tap. There's a rolling list on electronic boards behind the taps. They change so fast that I cannot even take in the information before it snaps to the next screen. I feel like I'm having a seizure. Finally, I notice a hard copy of the beer list, which is a damn good thing since we cannot open their QR coded beer list because, hey, there's no fucking Wi-Fi.

The list is typed up and very lovely, but 99.9% of the beers simply say names and then IPA after them. No descriptions. No information about said beers. No little catch-phrases to get you thinking about any beer in particular. So, me being me, I ask, "Can you tell me about the beers?" I notice that this is the same person from Door #1 who assured us that samples were available. 

"Uhhhhh, well, this one is an IPA."  Yes, dear, but tell me about the beer. What is it like? What's in it? "Uhhhhh, it's like . . . an IPA!" No shit, Sherlock. I'm not illiterate. What kind of beer is it? Is it fruity? Is it hazy? "It's, you know, beer!" May I sample one? Now, folks, remember: This is the person from the front door, the one with the radio and from whom we received our paper armbands, and who told me that, yes, they offer samples since they didn't sell flights. "Oh," she says to my face, "it's not really something that we do here."

What. The. Serious. Fuck. Red flag number seven.

I hand her my credit card. Nope. I have to have a paper ticket so they can take the paper ticket from me then mark my wristband with permanent marker to make sure I don't have more than three beers. "I would love to have a paper ticket," I say, "except that you don't have Wi-Fi so the internet doesn't work so your QR codes just keep buffering." Well, apparently that's not the problem of Tree House Brewery. No Internet service here on the back nine means no service, so move along, move along, move along. We are at the Mad Hatter's Tea Party, and even the White Rabbit isn't getting served without a damn paper ticket.

Big fat flying red flag number eight.

We finally manage to get two tickets into our phone cart, enter more information than was required to pass TSA precheck screening, and go back to the counter with our little paper tickets that we get from the nice girl who told us about the lack of Wi-Fi service for their web-based venture. I order a non-IPA beer, one of three on their list because, hey, wouldn't you just know it, the other taps ran out of beer at 1:00 in the afternoon, two short hours after opening to an empty house. The beer she (Door #1 Girl) hands to me in a clear Solo cup has a four-inch head of foam. Yes, an $8+ cup of beer, $5 of which is freaking air bubbles.

"Try it!" Door #1 girl says. Um, it has foam on the -- "TRY IT! TRY IT NOW!" I take a mouthful of foam and attempt to sniff my way into the beer. "Do you like it? Isn't it great?" Listen, bitch, I can't even drink this motherfucker. Who taught you to draw from a keg? When I finally get a taste, I almost gag. It's a fucking IPA.

You know where I'm going with this: Straight to red flag number nine.

My friend chuckles and says to the girl, "I think your keg is dead." No response from the Stepford employee.

While we sip our drinks, we go online on our own Internet because, hey, we have our own Internet service outside on the patio, and start reading reviews. Yup. Many experiences just like ours on the threads and in comments and for reviews. It's quite enlightening.

While outside, we go over our ticket purchase for the beer and discover that the tip has been included in the purchase price. A tip. A TIP. I hate to point out the obvious, but no one waited on us. Not one person was put out at all nor actually helped us, nor interacted with us in this experience beyond our insistence that someone help us. This is an entirely hands-off experience run by human automatons who cannot pour a decent cup of beer. I could tap a keg better at age fifteen than these yoyos can with expert Tree House training.

Red flag number ten - because I am sick of tipping (or paying for bags) when I'm the one doing the self-checkout shopping work. I'm the one who should be getting a tip.

As we leave, another young hipster is now manning the door (that we've had to find because the EXIT is actually roped off -- big surprise -- and it is literally a labyrinth in this place). I figure he is young, he grew up in the computer age, he has always had Internet access. 

"Hey," I say, "how does this place think it will survive as an Internet-based operation if it doesn't have any Wi-Fi?" He smiles a bit embarrassingly, shrugs his shoulders, and agrees with us. "I'm not trying to be a dink here," I continue, "but, son, this is like saying you're opening an all-American burger joint but you don't have any meat to serve. If Wi-Fi is the base of your business model, why wouldn't you actually have Wi-Fi?"

Red flag number eleven because having a business model that essentially doesn't exist in your actual business is not a model at all. It's a flaming disaster. It's the Titanic of business models. 

Since I've no desire to return to the seven rings of Dante's Tree House Inferno until Beelzebub actually calls for me, beer in hand or not, I'm going to pass on ever again visiting this brewery. 

TRUCKING THROUGH ACE HARDWARE

I am babysitting at a house with a temperamental door lock. Thankfully, it's not the tumbler, because that would require more work than I am willing to expend and would definitely exceed my limited mechanical ability. No, it's actually the key mechanism that seems to be faulty. The key needs to be fed carefully, slowly, and with some wiggling akin to the fine art of safecracking or transporting nitroglycerin. To get the key back out again requires the strength of an Olympic powerlifter and the finesse of a brain surgeon.

I know graphite can help ease sticky locks, so I search around the premises for pencils. Not finding any, I have a mechanical pencil with me, so I give it my best shot, but, let's be serious here, folks -- that tiny, breakable piece of make-believe graphite isn't going to solve the problems of the world. I need the real stuff. The Ace Hardware stuff. The powdered graphite that dreams are made of. 

The problem is that my tube of graphite is at home, twenty miles away, in a plastic bin sitting inside a storage bench that is my workshop. I currently live without a basement or garage, so a large ottoman houses all of the tools I own (which are more tools than any uncoordinated person should own, and, by the way, why in the name of all things sane might I need a drywall saw?). In addition to this minor inconvenience, I am in Maine when I remember that I need to go to the hardware store.

My sister, who is more than willing to go on this adventure with me, shows me a spray graphite that she has stored in her garage. She tells me to borrow it, but, if I know me, I'll either lose the cannister or simply forget to return it. Plus, I really want the tube of graphite because I know the dry stuff works.

So, off we go to the local hardware store in southern Maine. (Not to make it sound like Maine has limited hardware stores. Just adding color to the commentary.) I am in search of lock-fixing magic. I grab a few other things that I need before buckling down to find the intended items. 

This explains how I come across something that fascinates me and brings me decades into the past: an old-fashioned kid's pedal truck.

Oh, sure. It's not your Barbie car or your PowerWheel or any of that mamby-pamby battery-operated crap. This isn't a toy for wussies. This is the thing of memories and sweat. If a child wants this truck to go, that kid needs leg power. Leg power and a coordinated steering frenzy, and hugely determined muscles to go up the teeniest incline, as well as nerves of steel when the damn thing picks up break-neck speed on any downgrades. If you think a loaded eighteen-wheeler losing it's brakes on hill is terrifying, then you've never been set loose on a runaway pedal car careening the downgrade to your doom and imminent death, not to mention guaranteed road rash.

Ahhhh, this is a Jean Shepard moment, a thrill akin to that Daisy Red Ryder Model 1938 steel smooth bore barrel 650 shot capacity BB rifle from A Christmas Story.  I turn a corner and find a second red push-pedal truck. Good gravy, it's like childhood nirvana! All we need now is Captain Kangaroo to jump from behind the cash register and tell us to jump into our little red trucks, shouting, "Get out there and help Mr. Green Jeans, you lazy little squeakers!"

I do eventually find and buy a tube of powdered graphite and a small cannister of the spray graphite-WD40 mixture. Better yet, I remember to bring them the next time I babysit. Best news of all, the dang stuff actually works like a charm. I don't worry about snapping the key off in the vise-grip lock any longer. 

I get to unlock my childhood and that silly door all thanks to Ace Hardware. 

SUMMER PUMPKIN ALE

This summer has sucked

Unless you like rain.

My basil plants don't -

They view storms with disdain.

When it's not raining,

Quite rare through these days,

It's hotter than blazes,

Cooking brains into haze.

It's reaching the point

Where we all pray for fall

Because summer has passed 

Without summer at all.

I've been to the pool,

And I've hit the beach twice.

Generally speaking,

The weather's not nice.

But autumn is coming,

Maybe rain's in the rear.

Time for sangria

To change into beer.

So as summer wanes,

Let us all lick our chops

Because now's the time for

Those pumpkin-soaked hops.

That's right! There! I said it!

May the sun strike me dead --

Because Wednesday I drank

My first fall Pumpkinhead.

Now it's official!

Sucky summer shall fail!

We've broken it out:

Pumpkin spiced ale!

DUCK, DUCK, FOOT

I am enjoying a few days of relaxation and recharging with family on Paugus Bay in New Hampshire. Even though it's still considered in-season, the place isn't too crowded. Of course, we are having the worst weather of any recent summer. It has been raining -- downpouring -- off and on since May. It is hard to fathom that there could be any more moisture whatsoever in the sky. This weather may mean less people on the shore, but it does mean more ducks.

That's right; I said it: DUCKS.

They are everywhere. To top it off, the ducks are bold and cavalier. They are also cheeky and forward. They come right up to people and stand there, doing the duck equivalent of webbed-foot stomping, completely ignoring the fact that humans could trip over one and send it to the Duck Morgue. 

I do my best to shoo these feathered demons away. I'm sitting in a beach chair, trying to read, and watching the fiends come closer to my toes. The tenacity needed to ward off the ducks is nearly as strong as their tenacity to bother people. This may well end in a standoff.

Later, I am sitting in a tall bar chair on the outside deck, enjoying lunch and a beverage with family and friends. My feet, crossed at the ankles and perched on a chair rung, seem safe from mallard marauders. Until, that is, up to the moment that one of those ducks nips at my left heel. 

I yelp a little and pull my legs toward my sternum. It doesn't really hurt, but it's darn irritating. I spend the next few days keeping my appendages close to my inner core. I am on constant vigil while reading, while at the tiki bar, and, to be honest, everywhere except inside my room at the inn.

Look, folks. If something is going to be doing any foot nibbling, I'd prefer a little polite conversation, possibly dinner, first.

MARTY MAGNET

I am in Stop & Shop, trying to find something at the bakery and also waiting for a wine tasting to start. I am minding my own business in the small floor space between the brownies and the cookies when all of a sudden Marty appears.

For those of you unfamiliar with Marty, it is a large, tube-like robot that roams around the store. No one is quite sure what it does, but whenever I am in the store, Marty follows me around like it is obsessed with my rear-end. And no, for the love of all things sane, I am well-past the age of having what one might consider a "nice ass." 

I am a Marty Magnet.

I am basically trapped by Marty in the bakery. No one else is around because it's a quiet store anyway, and the bakery staff has gone home. I wait patiently for Marty to pass, then I wrongly assume Marty will continue on its route around the store. I let my guard down and move past the cookies to the cupcake display, completely oblivious to everything except buying dessert for a meeting, and making a quick stop at the wine tasting.

My hands leave the grocery cart, and I balance a package of frosted brownies in one hand, and a box of Hershey chocolate chip cookies in the other while bending over to check out the prices and selection of cupcake treats when suddenly I sense a presence quite literally at my left butt cheek.

Damnation and crap on a cracker! It's Marty!

I shoo Marty away, as if it will listen to me, throw items into my cart, and attempt to move past the robot. I finally make a get-away but have to escape in the wrong direction. Instead of approaching the check-out area and the wine tasting, I am now somewhere in frozen food and heading toward eggs and cheese.

Peering around every corner, I finally get my items into a bag and proceed to the alcohol and beverage section of the store. I love wine tastings because it gives me a chance to be social with other people, some of whom know much more about wine than I ever could, and it's fun to be educated while sipping tasty samples. 

Many of us at the table know each other by sight as we run in the same wine tasting circuit, so we are laughing and sampling and telling stories. I decide to tell them about my bakery encounter with Marty. Everyone chuckles as I say, "I swear someone is in the upstairs office with a joystick, controlling that robot so it follows me everywhere."

Suddenly, my friend nudges her husband as her eyes widen. No sooner have the words left my mouth when sneaking right up behind me, close enough to pinch my fat tush, rolls Marty.  I practically spill the wine, which would be a bloody shame because it's a Chianti Classico and mighty tasty. Instead, I turn, look Marty in its make-believe eyes, and sigh. 

Really, dude? Seriously? But, that's not the strangest part.

As soon as Marty passes, it heads to its docking station, between the wine tasting and the exit. Marty just stops there, facing me at a distance of about five yards. The people at the wine tasting turn to me and voice exactly what I am thinking: Marty is waiting for me and will attack me on my way out of the store.

I won't lie. As soon as I am done shopping, I look right at Marty, make sure the coast is clear of humans, and run the carriage toward the automatic doors. No, I do not return my carriage to the inside of the store. I leave it outside on the sidewalk near the store entrance. And no, I do not look up at the door when I roll the carriage over there. I am truly afraid I will see Marty staring out at me, plotting for the next time it sees me, and waiting for me with true Hitchcock-ian evil in its robot heart.

TANK TOP SAVES ME FROM BEING ARRESTED

Gosh, it's HOT. 

Recently, I am on a trip to North Carolina. It has been very hot both here and there. So, for the trip down, I decide on a loose, lightweight fabric sleeveless top for the plane ride. I've worn this top before, so I don't even give it a second thought when I put it on.

It isn't until I am seated on the plane hours later that I realize -- Oh, crap; I always wear this shirt with a camisole-style bralette underneath because it is a little too loose when I bend over. 

Huh. I wonder how many people I flashed in the airport and as I put my luggage in the overhead bin on the plane? 

I mean, I am wearing a bra, albeit a smaller version of a lightweight sports-type bra. (Yeah, I know -- sexy, right? I gave up on underwires years ago, folks.) But, still. I am suddenly very self-conscious about flashing most of Logan airport and a good portion of those seated on the American Airlines flight. I don't think I need to be flashing the entire city of Charlotte.

The car rental line is ridiculously long because they seem to be short-staffed, so I check and double-check and triple-check my shifting shirt as I wait to get into my car. Once I am finally situated, I put the GPS coordinates to my destination, but I also ask my phone to avoid highways. I know there are several stores on my way to my destination if I stay on the main drag but away from the thruway.

I locate a Wal-Mart close to my destination. I run inside and buy two cheapo tank tops (since I cannot decide on a white that matches the design in the shirt, or a light blue to complement the navy). Then, I run over to Panera, sneak one tank top into my purse, and head for the bathroom. Yes, I add the layer under my shirt so I can stop flashing my boobies all over the Eastern seaboard.

It's not my first fashion malfunction, and it sure as heck won't be my last, knowing me. But, at least I have not been arrested in North Carolina for indecent exposure nor for scaring the masses, so there is that.

SANGRIA SUMMER

 Apparently, it is Sangria Summer.

We blame the retirees at my work. If they hadn't started having all of those retirement parties, my coworkers and I wouldn't have started sipping sangria. This sangria craze started out as a welcome for the coming of summer. Then, summer arrived, and it started to rain. And rain. And rain more. Sangria became the salve to sip away the desolation and despair. When the sun finally comes back out (in September when we are back at our desks), sangria will be our celebration of survival, as well as a bolstering to the approaching clusterfuck.

There are two very good things about sangria. 

The first thing is that it is made with fruit. Fruit is healthy. When I go for my physical in a few weeks, I can truthfully say that yes, I have been indulging in lots of fruit this summer. Yessiree. The second good thing about sangria is that my palate for red wine is faulty. If I end up with a red that doesn't strike my fancy, or if I end up with a partial bottle of red that sits just a tad too long, I can always turn it into a lovely and refreshing and tasty red sangria.

So, go ahead and rain. Be crappy. Be sunny. Be a good day. Be a bad day. Wane away, summer. Bring on the nightmare of scheduling mishegas that summons in a new school year.

We are armed with sangria -- and we know how to use it.

A FOGGY DAY AT THE BEACH IS BETTER THAN NO DAY AT THE BEACH

I make it to the beach this summer! It is foggy, damp, and dreary, but I make it.

I understand that this blog complains an awful lot about the weather. This is, after all, New England, which means that the weather is often center stage for complaining. That being said, no decent New Englander worth one's salt would ever live permanently anywhere else because the weather is what makes us so damn tough. It can be ninety degrees out one day, and we could endure a blizzard the next -- and yet, we don't all die of pneumonia. It's almost a fluke.

But, let's be reasonable. This summer's weather has sucked. SUCKED. And done so big time.

So far I think we  may have had four days, possibly five, since June 21st that it has not rained. Lately it has been pouring. You know, that pounding, drenching, unforgiving crap that never seems to stop. The radar has been crazy. There can be completely clear skies. then, without any warning at all, a huge green and orange and red splotch appears on the map, the skies darken like midnight, and -- BAM! -- umbrellas everywhere.

I am on my way to Maine, and I am early for arrival. I decide, since the tide is receding, that I should walk to coast along The Wall, which is a part of the limited New Hampshire coastline that loses almost the entire beach during high tide but leaves a mile and a half of the softest sand known to man during low tide. The problem is that the entire coastline for miles and miles and miles is socked in with thick fog. I park my car anyway, and prepare for my walk.

I am not wearing my bathing suit today (shorts and a tank top), but I would gladly wade into the water, which is much warmer than I am expecting for this time of year and these weather conditions. I walk almost three miles before heading back to the car. When I do get back to the car, I am soaked, anyway. The fog is so incredibly hideous that the water condenses on my skin, and I am so slippery that I might as well have jumped into the surf. My hair, once straight, is curling like Shirley Temple and dripping like I've just showered. 

By the time I arrive at my destination, I have dried out considerably but still smell of salt. I have to pull my hair back because its sheer volume interferes with my driving. But, I have been to the beach. It didn't rain (although it pours like crazy on my ride home from Maine) and I only get one greenhead fly bite that happens when I head to the bath house to use the facilities -- not a bug on the actual beach. 

If it ever, EVER stops raining, I would love to go back to the beach before school starts again. Knowing my luck, the weather will change to gorgeous and perfect daily as soon as Labor Day passes.