END OF A MILK CUP ERA

It's the end of an era. 

My childhood milk cup has finally called it quits. To be fair, the thing has endured decades of abuse by me, my siblings, and my own children, but, still. 

It's a sad day for cold milk everywhere.

My childhood milk cup was one of those plastic ones with the dual color scheme. It seemed insulated, in its own pathetic way, but, in reality, it was just hollow plastic. It did, however, keep milk colder for far longer than a glass or an ordinary plastic cup.

The bottom of it finally cracked, and I feared water getting trapped inside of it in the dishwasher or in the sink. I used it one final time, a "goodbye" of sorts. I may have heard the distant sound of "Taps" being played as I took my final sips of really well-chilled moo-juice.

Poor 1960's era cup.

Breakfast, lunch, and dinner just won't be the same without its retro vibe. Somehow, though, I'll manage to trudge on. I'll have to resort to other cups, or learn to drink my milk more quickly, or, perhaps most distressing of all, drink the last of the milk in any given cup when it has turned lukewarm. (Oh, the blasphemy!)

Farewell, old chum. We've had a wonderful sixtyish-year run. 

Wait. What's that you're saying? There are identical red and purple plastic milk cups hidden in the cabinet? Really?

In that case, bake up some cookies and grab us some fake-insulated cups of ice-cold milk.

POEM FOR NOVEMBER

November:

I don't recommend it.
One of out five stars. 

Gets dark early;

Temperatures are psychotic;

Too cold to swim;

Too warm to snowshoe;

Too much emphasis on turkey.

Football season;

Hockey season;

'Tis the season.

November is one giant hot flash:

Heat on in the morning;

Airconditioning on in the afternoon.

Orb in the sky, 

Full and shiny,

Mooning the people below -

"It's as cold and barren

Down there

As it is up here."

If November had one

(And only one)

Thing

To tell us,

It might be this:

Cranberry sauce is

Better in the can.

BACKING INTO THE FUN

When driving and parking -- I am a backer-in-er. Occasionally I am also a pull-through-er, but mainly I'm a back-it-up parking person.

Recently a friend teased me that I'm just showing off when I wedge my car into a spot by backing it in. Nah! I'm actually untrustworthy when backing out of a parking space because my view might be blocked by another vehicle, or perhaps a pedestrian or bicycle might zoom by. (I just witnessed this the other day at the grocery store and almost saw two idiotic bicyclists get smeared as they raced between parked and moving cars.) 

I also do this to provide a quick getaway. Not that I've robbed the store or anything. Truth of it is that I hate shopping. Detest it. Doesn't matter what it is: grocery shopping is tedious and always has long lines to check out; shopping for other random supplies (ink or hardware or odds-and-ends) requires wasted time hunting and pecking through jumbled aisles; clothing shopping is torture; malls are constructed from the Devil's armpit; I even hate running into the coffee shop for an iced caramel swirl. 

The main reason I back into parking spaces, though, is because even the average driver is a moron. This is on display when I go to meet friends a few towns away in a place called Station Landing. There are some shops and several restaurants, and there is a decent amount of parking. So, imagine my surprise (being facetious here, folks) when a young man slides his SUV into a space, blocking the handicap spot, and leaves his vehicle partially parked with its ass-end hanging sideways.

I snap a picture of his marvelous parking ability, and I also snap a picture of all of the empty spaces around me. Yes, this is hilarious! Except . . . 

. . . Except that it immediately starts happening as if the driver has opened Pandora's Parking Box. Within two minutes, every space is taken, and multiple drivers arrive making multiple attempts to back into, and to pull straight into, the spaces. 

It suddenly looks like a clown circus. It looks like a drivers' ed course. It looks like the opening sequence from the old TV show The Banana Splits.

My friends, who park across the lot in a sensible spot, arrive in the nick of time to witness the madness. As we wander into the restaurant for lunch, we are wide-eyed and giddy after watching the mayhem of the crazy parking party. As quickly as it starts, and once all of the parking spaces have been filled, it's as calm in the parking lot as if the ridiculousness had never happened. We shake our heads, because, in reality, we can describe it to you, even post pictures of it, but it cannot compare to the hysteria of watching people jockey for spots as if they'd won the lottery and had to beat the competitors to the ticket cashier.

And this is why I back into spots. Yes, there are nutty drivers everywhere, and I can exit the space more safely with a front-facing position. Truthfully, though, I would've missed all of the fun and insanity if I'd been facing the street instead of the idiocy occurring in the lot. Backing into the space is well worth the price of admission to the fun!

BABY, IT'S (NOT) COLD OUTSIDE!

Baby, it's coooold outside.

Well, actually, it's not cold outside on the first day of November, also known as The First Day of Christmas Music on the Radio. In fact, it's nearly eighty degrees outside.

Sure, I know it's always eighty degrees where some of you live. Christmas is tropical, and your Christmas grog has coconut in it. 

But, up here? We're all about snow and hot mulled wine and freezing our toes off just stepping across the parking lot to huddle inside of our iced over vehicles.

Bring on the snow.

Bring on the biting winds.

Bring on the pitch-dark afternoons now that the clocks have fallen back.

Bring on the holiday soundtrack.

I'm ready!