IT'S A WAR-MISE

People who read this blog regularly already know that I am flypaper for freaks. 

It should be no surprise to me at this point of my life, and yet I am still shocked when an incident occurs. I have worked hard at perfecting my "please do not fuck with me" attitude and facial expression, but, apparently, I have yet to reach "fail-safe" status.

Logan Airport is a wonderful place. Terminal B is wonderful , anyway. I can always find an empty or half-full gate at which to sit unbothered to gather my thoughts, read a book, do a crossword puzzle, have a snack, charge my phone, or just to do what I do best: ignore people.

I find a completely empty gate where there must be seventy-five empty seats in multiple rows with gorgeous full-length window-views of airplanes and tarmac. All I want to do is eat the bagel I had shoved into my carry-on and taken through the security check with me. Since the bagel is oozing cream cheese, I figure I should probably sit away from people so I don't frighten them when I wear as much of my food as I eat. I find a perfectly fine seat toward the far end of the gate, proceed to take the bagel out of my bag, and --

Just as I am about to take a bite out of my breakfast, a woman comes and plops her substantial frame almost next to me. She leaves one seat between us. Even worse, she is chatting loudly to nobody. I certainly hope that she has some kind of earbud in the ear that I cannot see, and I hope she is speaking on a phone that I also cannot see.

Normally, I might try to wait a few minutes and genteelly and strategically move to another seat. But, you want to know a secret? 

I don't give a flying good goddamn shit how this rude motherflaming bitch feels.

I snap a picture of how close she sits to me, then I stand, not even bothering to pack my stuff back up but just kind of letting all of my belongings create a wind tunnel as I race by, and I move two empty rows away from her.

Honest to gawd, people. In the immortal words of Midnight Cowboy, "I'm WALKING here!" 

I am begging you all: If you see someone sitting alone in an airport terminal, a restaurant, a library, on the beach,  in their car . . . LEAVE THAT PERSON THE HELL ALONE. I don't care how many social-emotional classes you've taken. I don't give a hoot how many professional developments you have about including the outcasts of society in our everyday lives. I don't want to hear about the warning signs associated with fringe behavior.

Let me assure you that if you start randomly sitting near me, following me, or otherwise engaging me when I am clearly, and I do mean CLEARLY, sitting alone, I will go all mental on your ass.

This is a promise and a warning. It's a war-mise. Now, if you don't mind, I'm going to finish my bagel in peace.

INCOMING! -- SNOW MISSILES

We have a little snow. Some areas around us have a lot of snow, up to two feet plus. Not my house. We receive a reported total of four inches, but my car this morning says closer to one inch of snow. Regardless of the overall outcome, I do get stuck in the storm at work.

It starts to snow at a decent clip at the exact time the school has its early release. The line of traffic leaving the parking lot, between parents and teachers and high school students, stretches on for a mile or so, and it takes a painstakingly lengthy amount of time to get ourselves to the main road -- the unplowed main road -- not because plows aren't out because they are. The road is unplowed because the line of traffic blocks everything.

When I finally reach the main road, which I merely have to cross to get to a side road, I am relieved that the traffic stays on the popular route while I jaunt off to a semi-plowed but completely vehicle-less route.

Ah, safe and ready to travel blissfully the rest of the way home, which isn't too far. A completely relaxing drive is ahead of me. Or so I think.

BAM! POW! POOF! SMACK! KABLAM! Holy crap on a cracker! I'm under attack!

The heavy and wet snow that clings to the trees may not be as adhesive as it wants to pretend. Giant plops of snow strike the windshield, the roof, and the hood of my car as I drive down the street. It's as if my car is maneuvering through Frosty's Terrorist Snow War. 

The first few times I hear the sound, I jump inside my car and strain the seatbelt. It's the same reaction we New Englanders have in the autumn when those damn acorns hit the car and we think the Mafia has targeted us. But, I glance in my mirrors. Nobody else is on the road, and the snowfall, though thick and daunting, is quite stunning. 

Once I acclimate myself to the constant barrage of snow missiles, I start laughing. I mean, it is kind of hilarious that my car is running the snowball gauntlet. Just as I approach a wide-open intersection, which is treeless and presumably a safe zone, one giant mass of snow pelts the windshield with a humongous slopping WHACK.

I manage to get home and park, all without sliding off the road, becoming snow blind, nor crapping my own drawers from the somewhat white-knuckled commute.

FORGETTING TIME

I completely forgot about setting the clocks ahead. 

Oh, don't worry.

Someone reminded me on Friday evening.

My first reaction: Whaaaaaaaaat? Alreaddddddy?

But then I gave it some thought.

This means spring is coming.

This means summer is coming.

This means I almost have another year of teaching under my belt.

Most of all, it means that it won't be pitch-dark at six o'clock.

Okay, maybe in the morning for a few more weeks.

Porch weather will be here soon.

I'll tolerate missing an hour of sleep to gain an evening of light.

Don't worry, Time.

I won't forget about you.

Just don't forget about me, either.

SHREDDING MY LIFE AWAY

 Bag #3.

Yup. Three grocery bags full of shredding just from my files. This isn't even my writing backlog; this is just from my regular files of taxes, bank statements, and the like. 

I have been saving the stuff for seven years, but, now that everything is electronic including filing my taxes (and has been for many years), why am I saving this stuff? The government says unless I am claiming a loss, I only have to save this stuff for three years.

Who am I to questions the government? (Cue ironic music here.)

Last weekend I shredded so much that my shredder actually started smoking. I quickly unplugged it and fanned it off while emptying the paper contents so as not to start a brush fire inside my apartment. 

But, truth be told, the rest of it has to go. So, today is the day.

Not going to lie -- the older taxes take the longest because they involve the most paperwork and saved ridiculousness. The bank statements go much more quickly, which is rather depressing. One would hope that the bank statements would be thicker and more robust than the outgoing tax stuff. (One would be wrong.)

Probably takes me four hours over the course of two afternoons, from start to finish, from sorting files to destroying files. Sure, now that the task is done, I'm quite certain someone will come looking for something majorly important . . . probably the (damn) government. I'll show them this picture, happy faces and all, and smile, perhaps all the way to jail, but there are worse retirement plans, I suppose. At least I'll get a pretty orange jumpsuit and three squares a day. 

Bonus - I'm willing to bet I won't need the shredder in jail, so there is that.