DUMB, DUMB, DUMB ME

I didn’t watch the news this morning.  Every morning before work I watch two things:  Weather and Traffic.  But I didn’t watch this morning, I didn’t tune in to my regular NECN (New England Cable News) broadcast, and I got caught off-guard today, not once but twice.

The weather concerns me because I have to go outside.  Since I need someone I trust to tell me exactly what the weather is going to do, I watch NECN for Matt Noyes.  If Matt Noyes is not on, I’ll watch any channel that suits me at the moment, but if Matt Noyes is on, I always listen.  He’s rarely, if ever, wrong.

I also will only watch traffic on NECN.  I don’t give a rat’s butt about the traffic because I travel eight miles to work and usually go the back roads.  (Of course, today I got stuck behind two construction vehicles going 20 mph, but that’s my own bad luck.)  I watch the traffic because Scott Montminy is hilarious.

None of this is news to my regular readers.  All of them know that I am a Noyes-Montminy freak.  Yet, this morning, my first day back to work in ten, and I totally space out and miss the broadcast.  I’m posting on Facebook and updating the blog and eating half an apple and washing my hair and putting on my make-up and getting my lunch ready. 

This series of events totally sets me up for my double failure.

As I leave in the morning, I grab a heavy winter jacket rather than a thick fleece zip-up.  As I head to my car, I wonder why I’ve bundled up so much.  It’s about 38 degrees out and quite comfy.  I kick myself for the jacket, knowing I’ll probably look like a dope wearing a fluffy down jacket outside later in the afternoon when the temperature is sure to be in the mid-to-high forties.

Dumb, dumb, dumb me.  I should’ve watched NECN.  The warm morning air takes me completely off-guard.  This is mistake number one.

Later on as I am leaving work, seething over an unprofessional email I receive from in-house, I remember how warm it had been earlier.  Between that thought and my hot temper, I exit the building with my jacket unzipped, expecting to shed it as soon as I get to the car, maybe even drive home with the window open.

Dumb, dumb, dumb me.  I should’ve watched NECN.  The frigid, icy, Arctic blast of afternoon wind takes me completely off-guard.  This is mistake number two.

I seriously thought this weather wasn’t moving in until late Wednesday and all day on Thursday.

The shock and awe of the freakishly cold air sends most of my blood immediately to my core in a life-preserving fury.  Thank goodness I am wearing this ridiculously fluffy winter coat by accident.

When I get home, I watch a pre-recorded weather report online by a competing station, and I discover that Thursday’s high is supposed to be around -5 with wind chills rounding out at about -32 degrees.  Naturally, Thursday is the only day this week that I am committed to running all over the place after work and won’t be home until about 9:30 p.m.  My timing, as usual, is impeccable … impeccably bad.

You know what I’m going to do in the morning?  Sure you do.  I’m going to watch NECN, and I’m going to listen, too, maybe even swear a few times.  Then I’ll grab my scarf, maybe a hat, wrap myself up in a warm coat, wear extra socks, get my gloves on, and I’ll brave the New England winter.  I’ll haul the trash to the end of the driveway first … very, very quickly … and then I’ll do whatever the weather people and traffic people tell me to do.

Two mistakes may not make a right, but my learning curve has improved greatly as a result.

KICKING MONDAY BACK

My winter break is over.  That’s right, “winter break,” because we’re all being prejudiced if we refer to it as Christmas break.  I don’t care what it’s called, all I know is that it’s over.

I have been pushing myself for the last ten days to get through the holidays, to do errands, to work on the house, to pack up Christmas, to clean out the basement.  As usual, nothing is quite completed, and I am left with a 75% chore completion rate.

The worst of it, though, has been the changing of my sleeping habits.  Suddenly I’m seventeen again.  I’m staying out late, staying up late, and staying in bed late.  I have not been to bed before 12:45 a.m. in ten days.  I’ve gotten up early a couple of times, maybe 7:30-ish, but mostly I’ve been sleeping until 9:00 and then on Sunday, 10:00.

Here’s what I know:  Monday morning’s 5:15 a.m. wake-up call is going to kick my ass.

If I know me, and I do, here’s how it’s going to go.  Sunday night I’ll toss and turn, probably wake-up a half-dozen times, and I’ll be too hot, too cold, too antsy, too uncomfortable, too stressed.  I’ll manage to get up on time, maybe even get out the door on time, and I’ll make it through the day cheerily, probably even with a huge burst of energy because I really am anxious to see everybody at school.  (Yes, even the kiddos.)

But then … Tuesday will arrive, and I’ll start dragging, maybe even doze for a few seconds during my planning period when I try to correct papers.  Wednesday will be a little worse.  I’ll try to be less on my feet and more on my butt in my chair while attempting to lead a class lesson.  Thursday will find me hiding in the ladies room after lunch because peeing means two things: I can sit still for a moment, and no one can bother me in the stall.  Friday is Wall Day – I’m on autopilot all day and out cold on the couch by 7:30 p.m because my body has reached its physical and mental (and sometimes emotional) limit.

So, come on, Monday, come on and kick my ass.  I’m ready.  Kick my ass all week if you want.  I don’t care.  You know why?  Because Saturday I can sleep late if I want to, and even Monday cannot stop me from looking forward to that.

SKATING AWAY ... ALMOST

I’ve started cleaning out the basement, little by little.  I was really hoping to have made more progress by now, but I guess if I messed it all up over several years, I cannot expect to un-mess it in a day or two, especially since I am systematically reorganizing as I go. 

It looks a little better down there, so that counts for something.  However, I was really hoping to have it all done before my school break is over.  I’ll shoot for the end of February break.  That seems reasonable enough.

I’ve gotten through all of the toys and games, which in itself is remarkable.  Games are now mostly in my den, so they’re accessible and inviting rather than stuffed on shelves behind lawn chairs, all the while gathering dust and dryer lint.  The toys are on shelves at the top of the cellar stairs in the landing, including dozens of Matchbox and Hot Wheels cars, puzzles, and more crayons and colored pencils and art supplies than anyone could ever need in a lifetime.

I reorganized the tools, which meant actually organizing screws and nuts and bolts and washers and nails along with wrenches and screwdrivers and putty knives and hacksaws and hammers and drills.  I have enough miscellaneous stuff to fix, repair, or Mickey-Mouse pretty much anything around the house until the landlord can come to actually fix it, should anything need fixing, that is.

I went through the camping gear, of which there isn’t much because I stopped camping when I realized that camping with young children meant pretty much bringing the entire house along with me.  I also cleared off more space to repack the Christmas stuff, which I still have not packed away yet.  The Tree is still up and lit, and it may stay that way until next weekend.  Maybe even longer.  I don’t care.

The big hurdle, though, is the sporting goods.  I have a collection of sporting goods that rivals Play It Again Sports.  I started small when it comes to going through all that gear – I started with the two giant plastic tubs full of stuff, some of which has been sealed in the plastic crate since my foot surgery six years ago.  It has been too depressing to even look at it.  Before my foot was rebuilt, it became painful to wear my ice skates, so I stopped ice skating.  I have a pair of old figure skates and a pair of hockey skates, but my pre-surgery right foot no longer fit in either.  The same with my roller blades – packed away because the pain far outweighed the gain.

I unloaded all of my gear along with my kids’ gear, stuff no one touches anymore because feet had grown and no one had time for roller hockey or outgrown cleats anymore.  I hauled each pair of skates and cleats to the top of the stairs, intending to sort which might be in good enough shape to be traded in at the resale shop (Play It Again Sports) and which might go directly to the trash without a second thought.  Then I plunked myself into a fold-out chair and tried stuff on, fully and totally expecting the same pain and the ill-fit to turn my sporting goods pile into a huge, full trash bag.

Instead I was like Cinderella with the glass slipper.  The figure skates, stiff and dusty from neglect, gradually softened enough for me to stick in my foot.  They still fit.  My hockey skates also still fit.  My roller blades not only still fit, they felt comfortable.  Then I tried on gear my kids left behind and realized there were two more pair of hockey skates and a pair of bonafide roller hockey blades that fit me, too, and an old pair of soccer cleats.  Only one pair of small, rusted skates needed to be tossed.  Everything else was salvageable.

Score!  It was like Christmas all over again, and a long six years of post-foot-surgery recovery time vanished into the air of the past.  Not only can I wear shoes and boots again, I can wear skates again.  Skates!  Honest to goodness skates!

All I need now is a frozen pond or a rink.  Back when my own kids were in school, the local college often had open skate times during their school day, and on days when I wasn’t working, I sometimes had the entire hockey rink to myself.  I doubt I’ll be that lucky again, but I’m willing to get right back into the gear and give it a go.

All I need now is to quite literally put my best foot forward … and follow it with my “bionic” foot, now that it actually fits into that long-awaited glass slipper that is mysteriously disguised as several pairs of old skates and some well-broken-in cleats.

BOOK TYPING

I’m not much of a shopper. 

I despise clothes shopping, mostly because nothing fits and clothing companies don’t make things consistently true to size.  I’m not one to window shop in a mall.  As a matter of fact, the last time I went to the mall, I was on a mission.  Every time someone tried to stop me and give me free samples, I brusquely said, “I don’t have the time,” and waved each one away.  Far away.

Grocery shopping bores me to tears.  On days I know I’ll be grocery shopping, I am agitated all day long.  I don’t relax until I have all the bags loaded into the car and I am pulling out of the parking space.  I can’t stand weaving around incompetent people who don’t understand that aisles are made for all of us, not just them and their stupid carriages.

Shoe shopping is better since I had my foot rebuilt, but I know what I’m looking for.  I’m in and I’m out.  I’m an efficient shoe shopper probably since I went years without being able to wear much other than sneakers and hiking boots.

Book stores, though, are another story.  When I see a book store, I have to go inside.  I don’t care if they’re new books, used books, old books, rare books, resale books, estate sale books, fire sale books … It just doesn’t matter.  I’m there.

It wrenches my heart to think the local bookstore may be going out of business soon.  As a writer, I know that online book sellers are undercutting authors’ earnings.  As a consumer, I buy from those places online quite a bit.  To temper my guilt, I try to patronize local book stores whenever I can.  Recently while pretending to be a tourist in Portsmouth, I drag my sister into one such local book shop.

The books, however, are not the main attraction for me.  No, something far more compelling hits me square in the fingers the moment I walk through the doorway.  Immediately to my right is a display of vintage typewriters.

Yes, typewriters!  For anyone born after 1990, typewriters are like keyboards with ink ribbons attached.  Typewriters print while you’re actually typing the words!  Surprise! 

There is a message by the typewriters, handwritten, ironically enough, to leave a message using one of the older machines.  My eyes grow wide, I can feel them inside my skull, and my fingers start twitching.  The winter gloves come off and get tucked into a coat pocket.  I can feel the electricity radiating from my hands, and I know it’s all in my brain because the typewriter on which I will be typing is unpowered by electrical current. 

It’s a Royal manual typewriter, circa 1949 (or so). 

I start typing and forget I cannot type too fast or the keys will strike each other and jam, which they do.  I pick them apart with my index finger and start again.  Slowly.  Deliberately.  I type a quick message that is something along the lines of this being the coolest thing ever.  After I’m done typing, my sister and I peruse the store.  It’s tempting to buy, but I’m still a few books behind.  Buying another one now would just be folly.

Besides, this gives me good reason to come back in a few weeks … or months … when I’m caught up on my reading.  Perhaps the typewriters will still be there, but, even if they’re not, patronizing the local bookstores might help to keep them open.

Maybe that’s the message I’ll type the next time I encounter a 1949 manual Royal in a small shop that specializes in keeping writers like me in business because it’s all about returning the favor.

THANKS

As I mentioned briefly in the New Year's Day blog -- Someone shared a post on Facebook that has a picture of a jar, and inside the jar every day I am supposed to write one positive thing, one blessing, one gift … It’s called a “Grateful Jar.”  I think this is an excellent idea, except I’m not sure how I’m going to fit 365 scraps of paper organized inside a jar. 

I decide to take an old composition notebook that is partially decorated and turn this into My Grateful Journal.  This way at the end of the year, my blessings will read chronologically like an entire year-long retrospective.

I’ve started organizing the basement, and, by organizing, I mean bringing games and stuff up to the den (baskets) and the cellar landing (shelves) so the stuff is accessible and no longer dusty.  In addition to finding games and puzzles and all kinds of things I’d completely forgotten about, I find a whole slew of art supplies.  I have more colored pencils than a professional illustrator, and I’ve already started using them … again.

So, today I am grateful for being a bit of a pack-rat – for having an old journal and for having colored pencils and for having a bunch of magic markers that still work.  I’m grateful for having something to write about every single day.

I’m grateful for people who are interested enough in what I have to say to actually read my blog.  I’d still write it without you, but it wouldn’t be much fun without the commentary and feedback.

So … thanks.  I don’t believe I say that nearly enough.

HAPPY NEW YEAR 2015

I usually spend New Year's Eve safely inside my house.  This year I venture about 5 miles from my house and spend New Year's Eve with friends.  My plan is to be home by 11:00, watch some TV, maybe fall alseep on the couch.

Instead, we eat like crazy, sip champagne like royalty, play some trivia, and stay up until well past 1 a.m.  Life is good.

I'm starting a Grateful Jar this year in which I will place pieces of paper on which I write positive things that happen in my life.  Already I have something for my jar:

Good friends, good times, good food, good conversation - Welcome 2015.

So far, it is turning into a good year.  May it continue ever so.

Happy New Year, all!