MY BAD HABIT POEM

Years ago my eyesight faltered -
Cannot read stuff left unaltered,

Have to make the font huge size

To accommodate my eyes.

Tolerate progressive lens?

Makes me feel like I've the bends.

Spend a lot on fancy glasses?

Nope. I'm not like all the masses.

I buy a pair to read the books -

Funky frames that earn me looks.

I buy a pair so I can drive

Helping keep my butt alive.

Since the glasses are so cheap

I buy them all - I spend a heap!

Glasses here and glasses there --

You'll find my glasses everywhere.

Laugh at me? I've saved a bundle!

I buy in bulk - I'm hardly humble.

It's not just for fashion's sake;

I've one bad habit: Glasses break!

HOARDING, BASKETS, AND SOME NEW-FANGLED FURNITURE

 I ordered some furniture. 

I needed more storage options, and I decided to get some wooden shelves with wicker baskets. The pieces got excellent reviews and were on sale. Besides, there were no drawers nor cabinet doors to add this time, so it all looked pretty simple; even a directions-impaired person such as I might be able to build the stuff.

This is not my first foray into pre-fab furniture building, but, to be honest, at my age I am sick to death of trying to read directions or follow illustrations. I'm at the point in my life where even building bookshelves is too much damn trouble.

But, I took the leap. I ordered five pieces: two small end-table-type units, and three larger units. Yup. Go big or go home, right?

What is hilarious to me is that every time -- every single damn time -- I put the furniture together by hand and have to use leather work gloves to get enough torque to tighten the screws on this stuff. I have also invested in my own set of allen wrenches because I've built many things (bed frames, coat racks, etc.). If you ever find yourself in desperate need of some random and ridiculous size of allen wrench, I am your go-to person, believe me.

Anyway, I am almost done with the first piece of furniture when I think to myself, "Wow, this would be soooo much easier if I had an electric screwdriver..." And that's when I start vocally calling myself every kind of idiot known to mankind.

Why, you may ask?

Because I DO have an electric screwdriver. It's an attachment that goes on my battery-operated drill.

Gawd, I am a dope and a half. So, I continue putting the shelf units together, bit by bit, using the hand-driven screwdriver to secure everything loosely until all of the parts are properly attached. Then, I fire up the battery-operated drill and tighten those babies into submission. In a couple of hours, I have all five units built and all of the baskets (18 of them) assembled and settled.

The good news is that I now have much more storage for things like cribbage boards and card games and pieces to board games and chess pieces and all the stuff that I have had shoved into bins. My CD's (yes, I still have some) are organized now. The trickle down effects will free up space in the living room, the kitchen, and the bathroom, as well. 

It's a true win-win situation.

Except that . . . at this point in my life I should really be downsizing and getting rid of things. But, I suppose if I want to hoard record albums and Christmas music and Yankee candles and yarn (way, way too much yarn), then I suppose people can judge me when I'm dead. At least it will be organized chaos, and my beneficiaries won't have much trouble disposing of things in an orderly manner. 

GETTING PUNKED AT THE PACKIE

I live a few miles from a liquor store, or, as we like to call them around here, The Packie (short for the old reference to these "package" stores). I have gone here off and on for a while, more recently since I moved closer a couple of years ago. Anyway, the point is that I know the store, and the people kind of know me by face.

On Wednesday afternoon, I decide to stop by on my way home from work. I need a few things and this store has several different kinds of bubbly in small bottles. Yes, I buy the small bottles because they don't explode at me when I open them, and because it's just me so the small bottles don't go flat in between mimosas. 

When I arrive at the counter, a gentleman around my age is behind the counter talking to another employee, a younger guy, about how he used to belong to a union. "The best union," he says proudly, "the very best union of any of them." I know instantly that he is not talking about the national teachers' union because that's my union, and, quite frankly, the teachers' union sucks as anything other than a political mouthpiece. The older man keeps talking, gives me a side-glance, and starts ringing up my order.

MAN:  "ID?"

ME: "Excuse me?"

MAN: "Yeah, I need to see your ID."

At this point, I turn to look behind me. I mean, it's a slow day, a Wednesday afternoon, and I may very well be the only shopper in the entire place. I look back at the guy, who is staring at me intently.

ME: "Am I on Candid Camera?"

MAN: "No. I just need to see your ID, please."

ME: "Are you punking me?"

I have my wallet in my hand to pay, but there is no way I'm taking my license out for him, not because I am trying to be rude. I am quite simply in shock. I know when I go to the Boston Garden for hockey games, every single vendor is required to ask every single patron for an ID every single time. But this ... this is Twilight Zone shit. I shove my wallet toward him with my ID still firmly behind the plastic sleeve that covers it. He sputters and stares then continues ringing me up. Maybe that great union he belonged to was the Welders' Union, and his corneas have fried.

MAN: Uhhhh, just tell everyone you got carded today, I guess.

ME: Yeah, I guess so, indeed.

I shake my head, hoping to be on the road and driving before the apparently blind old guy leaves work and gets behind the wheel of his own vehicle. Then, I take my purchases and head to the car. Now, let's be serious here. There is no way that guy mistook me for a twenty year old. Nope. No way, no how. All I can imagine is that the two cashiers were bored out of their skulls with such a slow afternoon. It probably went like this --

(I walk into the store. I am the only shopper. I disappear down the aisle to the back of the store.)

OLD GUY: Hey, let's bet on the broad's age.

YOUNG GUY: How will we know who wins?

OLD GUY: Well, whoever waits on her, let's card her.

YOUNG GUY: What?! She's like seventy. Maybe seventy-five!

OLD GUY: Nah. I'll bet she's like fifty-six-ish.

YOUNG GUY: Are we doing an over-under, or do we have to low-ball like on The Price is Right?

OLD GUY: Whoever is closest in years. Doesn't matter over-under.

YOUNG GUY: Ten bucks?

OLD GUY: Yeah, but let's pay it out in lottery tickets.

YOUNG GUY: You're on!

That's how I imagined it because my gray hair and wrinkles surely give me away. It's a fun game, and I'm sure they both had a big laugh at my expense. No matter. I got the bubbly, and I am enjoying my purchases. It's a win-win in my book.

A LITTLE BIT CHILLY

It's a tad chilly up here in the Northeast. Well,  it's not "too cold for Dunkins iced coffee" chilly, but chilly, just the same. Although by morning the wind seems to have abated, the overnight conditions caused wind chills like we've never felt before. It wasn't a steady wind, either, so the occasional blasts of eerie whooshing were a bit unnerving.

Having calm restored this morning is helpful, but the temperature is still hovering around -14 degrees when I wake up. I decide that today will be an indoor day. I read a book, work on a few puzzles, do some knitting, light several candles, have the gas fireplace cranking, and bake bread. This all sounds remarkably productive, except that I am not really attacking my to-do list in any way, shape, or form.

I suppose that's okay, though. I'm not out causing mayhem, I am not in need of a trail-side rescue, and I haven't had to call AAA. As Saturdays go, it's reasonably sedate, and I discover that I don't truly mind this at all. Not to mention it, but I will, the bread came out reasonably well, especially after melting butter on it. 

Later this week it may hit 50 degrees, which would make it feel like a completely different season and tempt many of us to break out of t-shirts, beach chairs, and flip-flops. It's amazing more of us don't develop walking pneumonia during weather swings like this. But, if anyone does, I can send you some bread to go with your soup. If you don't mind, though, please wait until it's a wee-bit warmer; it's still a little too chilly out there for me.