WALKING IT OUT

Today is another beautiful day.  I can hardly believe the luck – a string of gorgeous days all put together nicely like a gift from Mother Nature.  She must’ve forgotten how much she hates me; either that or she feels like a wicked bitch about all that snow.  Since it’s so incredibly nice out, and since I don’t feel like battling the Bee-Bots on the patio, I decide to take a walk. 

Back when I was walking/jogging, pre-Achilles tendinitis (which I still think is spelled incorrectly, but apparently the orthopedist is correct and I am an idiot), I would easily accomplish three 5k’s a week.  Not formal ones – just me walking around in circles and rhombuses and weird routes that resemble doctors’ signatures when projected on Map My Walk.  I would walk semi-aimlessly until I’d hit at least 3.1 miles, and I’d do this several times a week.

Then came the leg issues, then the snow (and more snow and even more snow), and now I have foot things happening.  I have zero patience when my own body starts turning on me, so I pretend (as per the multiple clear x-rays) that there’s nothing wrong with me, strap on a pair of sneakers, set the walking app on my phone, and head out.  Now, when I say “sneakers,” I really mean shoes that are lightweight, sort of canvas-y in a sneaker-like way, and provide zippo foot support.  But, it’s hot out, and I don’t want my poor footsies to get all sweaty. 

I start my walk with a vague plan in mind: Walk through town.  I live a quarter of a mile from the town’s center, and the center itself is probably a tenth of a mile long, so this great planned route of mine isn’t going to get me the 3.1 miles for which I hope.  So far, my plan is doomed to failure.  Once I walk uphill to town, I figure I’ll weave in and out of the side streets, stay on flat ground, and work my way home again.

Honestly, I don’t know what the hell is wrong with me that I cannot follow even my own simple directions.

Before I can stop myself, I weave through traffic, cut around intricate side streets, and attempt one of the steepest walking hills near town – Morton Street.  Like this is a good idea.  Once I drag myself to the crest of the slope, I decide to cut straight across and head down, down, down to my own street, except that this decision goes completely into the shitter when I suddenly veer left at the next intersection … and continue uphill. 

I criss-cross street to street, avoiding the pedestrian crosswalks, jaywalking every damn chance I get.  I can hear my phone mumbling unintelligible updates through the app, and I’m determined to get a decent pace per mile today.  After all, it’s all about the …

Suddenly I realize that I pass by several interesting trees and flowering bushes that would make excellent photos.  The newly redone area in front of the town hall has a granite-carved crest in it that would be a cool camera subject.  All the stuff that makes a long walk worthwhile … I’m passing it by so quickly that I forget exactly why I walk outside instead of on the treadmill.

What’s the point of being outside if the only object is to accomplish that experience as rapidly as humanly possible?  So I can what – go back inside?

Disgusted with myself, I trudge downhill the rest of the way home, making excellent time, I might add, but quite disappointed in myself.  How could I be so afflicted with tunnel vision as to worry about a few more minutes of a wonderful walk so I can slow down and enjoy my surroundings?  I’m willing to bet the next time I take a walk, those flowering trees and bushes will be past prime.  This whole getting in shape thing is tough enough without losing myself in the process. 

My sore feet and sore tendons distract me from my sore attitude.  After 2.74 miles (not quite the 5k for which I’d hoped), I limp around the house and promise myself two things:

1.  Walking means enjoying the outdoors, damnit, so take time to enjoy the outdoors.

2.  Worry less about sweaty feet and wear decent sneakers because my frigging feet are killing me right now.

THIS MEANS WAR

Apparently, Darth Vader Bee reads my blog.

I come home this afternoon with the same plan as yesterday:  Get changed, sit outside, and enjoy a beverage.  This plan goes completely to hell in a bee-infested handbasket the moment I approach my front door.

Yup.  I am attacked by not one armored asshole bee, but two armored asshole bees.  They are both reasonably pissed off and highly aggressive.  Seems to me "someone" (aka: Dink Bee) has been trash-talking behind my back while I am at work.

It's Cinco de Mayo, that Americanized semi-Mexican holiday, so I'm planning on going out tonight, anyway.  Might as well skip the sunshine and check my email.

This, this exact moment, is when I realize those fucking bees are out to get me.

Their huge shadows cast larger-than-life-could-ever-possibly-be black splotches across the blinds.  Yes, I admit it, even safely inside behind screens and glass and all, I am nervous.  I can hear the angry chatter and see those bees circling the window right where I am sitting ... as if ... as if ...

As if they are stalking me.

Okay, you little fucker-bees, you know what this means.   

This means WAR.

Stay tuned, folks; one of us, possibly two, will be going down.

BATTLING DARTH VADER BEE

Fucking bee.  Seriously.  I’m not even kidding.  Die.  Just die, already.

I have a nasty bee who invades my patio space every single spring.  I assume it’s a male bee because it’s dumb as the frigging stump it lives in.  It hovers and dive-bombs right at people’s faces.  If it were a female bee, it would sneak up behind me, bite me in the back, then play all innocent and run away.

This isn’t any ordinary bee.  It’s Warrior Bee: a giant bumblebee-like sonofabitch with a hard, chainmail-ish black shell around its body.  It’s the flipping Darth Vader Bee (which, I suppose, is ironically funny since it is attempting to attack me on May the Fourth).  It is also completely immune to the most lethal Death Spray, and whacking the shit out of it just pisses it off.

For the last few years, I have abandoned my patio for the first three or four weeks of spring while Draco MalBee zooms and hovers and dive-bombs and strikes fear into anyone who steps near my door.  Today, though, I’ve had enough.

Today it is 86 degrees outside, and I’ve just left work where the heat has been blasting almost the whole day.  Yup, lots of fun:  Full sun into my room, hot air pouring in the windows from outside, and heat screaming out of two units in my classroom.  Today is like one giant, perpetual, unending, semi-man-made, menopausal hot flash.

Fucking sucks.

All the way home I calm myself with the idea of a cold beverage on my patio.  It isn’t until I attempt to get into my front door that I remember Bee Bastard.  Well, I don’t so much “remember” as I am attacked trying to unlock the deadbolt.  I start chanting, “Motherofgod, motherofgod, motherofgod,” as Bee-hemouth gets right into my face, then I yell at him, “Get away!  Get away, you fucker!”

Determined to enjoy an hour or two on my patio … MY PATIO … I change into shorts and a tank top, mix a beverage, grab some magazines, then choose my weaponry: Super Hornet Spray and a big-ass fly swatter.  Oh, sure, I understand intellectually that these items will be useless in my fight against Insane Bee, but it’s all about that false sense of security.

I am outside less than thirty seconds when the first attack happens.  I shoot the deadly liquid at him, and he flies over the fence for a moment where he stares me down, clearly pissed.  A minute or so later, I can see his shadow (it’s huge) as he sits in space like a miniature helicopter just out of my line of vision.  I wave a magazine at him.  He retreats for a fraction of a second then makes his move.

“Fuck you,” I say nonchalantly, and wave the swatter at him, the mere air movement sending him backward.  “I’m NOT leaving.  Live with it.”

We continue this back-and-forth for ninety minutes, him buzzing around to let me know how absolutely incensed he is that I dare take my rightful spring throne on the patio.  I refuse to yield.  Okay, so I couple of times when he is right in my face and being super-aggressive, I admit I jump up, run away a few feet, and start swearing like a sailor with a lit firecracker under his armpit.  For the most part, though, the bee and I sort of coexist for an hour and a half.

(Notice the re-purposed sippy top)

In the end, he doesn’t win nor does he die.  I actually put a towel down and take a brief nap on the back stoop, which sounds brave in theory except Bumble Butt Bee Boy is right there when I lift my head back up to check on my surroundings.  For the first time in three or four (perhaps even five) years, I don’t give a flying shit what that asshole bee is doing casing my property.  I pay for this damn patio.  It’s MINE, and I intend to enjoy it. 

Bring it, Darth Vader Bee.  I’ve seen the movies; I know how this ends.  Besides, it’s May the Fourth Be With You Day – If I don’t save the patio, I might soon be invaded by Wookie Wasps and Ewok Stink Bugs.  Maybe the next insect will be Jabba the Bee Hutt. 

This ends today, and, if it doesn’t end, we’d damn well better learn how to coexist because the nice weather is here, and I’m not going anywhere.

RECONNAISSANCE MISSION

A friend texts me today.  She lives about seven states away from me, and she needs a favor.  It’s a secret spy mission, the kind that is right up my alley, and I jump on the request without even thinking it through.  After all, I have another pal, J, who is as experienced in spy missions like this as am I.  To us, this is just another joy ride in the car.

The first time my pal J and I went on a reconnaissance mission like this years ago, we took all kinds of precautions, like wearing disguises.  Okay, helmets.  One of us wore a helmet (J).  A bicycle helmet.  A kid’s bicycle helmet.  Since then we’ve upgraded to dark sunglasses, hats, and changing up cars. 

Today, though, our prey has no idea who we are.  We are going into a part of a nearby town where being noticed is a crapshoot.  It’s a very congested neighborhood, but it’s also an area where strangers casing a parking lot might be noticed and remembered.  I decide to take my car because it’s sporty (like many in this neighborhood), it hasn’t been washed in a while (like many in this neighborhood), and it has some bird crap on it (like many in this neighborhood). 

Honestly, we don’t really hold much hope that our recon mission will pay off on day #1, trip #1.  We are searching for a car, the make, model, and year of which is uncertain.  We have a vague idea, and we are reasonably certain of the address where it is supposed to be located.  Our objective is to find the car, confirm its location, and see if it appears to have been recently driven (ie: no pollen on its windshield).

I should go buy a lottery ticket, because not only do we find the address, but we also find the vehicle exactly where it is supposed to be.  Normally this would be where the disguises and discretion come in.  Unfortunately, we throw caution to the wind and start taking pictures with my phone.  We get really close.  We park almost next to the car. 

I’m thinking this may not be my brightest idea yet.  J says she’s getting out of my car to take pictures of the target vehicle.  I’m thinking this is even less of a bright idea.  I mean, seriously.  I don’t know who might own a gun in this neighborhood, and someone might mistake us for repo women.  Bang.

In the end, we accomplish our mission easily … almost too easily.  After all, we don’t even need helmets this time. 

FINDING GOOD IN EVERY DAY

I walk to keep a dream alive. 

Today is the Step-Up For Colleen Ritzer 5k, a memorial tribute to a wonderful young woman, a teacher who was taken too soon at the hands of a student.

All of us together will run or walk this beautiful course through the streets and through the bird sanctuary, raising money for a scholarship in her memory, keeping Colleen in our thoughts and our hearts.

"Find good in every day."  (Colleen Ritzer)

AMATEUR NIGHT AT LACROSSE

I find myself at two different lacrosse fields this evening. 

I know, I know; Lacrosse is over.  Sort of.  Two of my son’s biggest college rivals are playing each other in an elimination play-off game, and it is being played less than two miles from the house. My son’s season may be over, but that won’t prevent us from cheering from the sidelines.  Besides, it’s one of my alma maters versus the college with the volatile coach (The Screamer Who Just Might Give Himself a Brain Hemorrhage).  It’s a chance for me to love the college I have had to hate for the last four years during lacrosse season.

My son and I arrive at the field and decide to stand near the fence by the far goal.  We know several of the parents and at least one referee, and for once in our lacrosse careers, we are trying to lay low.  This plan works well, for a while, anyway.

Until the college students arrive.

Like my experience last week at the Mattatuck Museum, I have proven over and over again that I am a magnet for students.  Sure, there are stands and grassy areas and all kinds of other spots where these young adults can stand, but, of course, they stand elbow-to-elbow with me.

The college kids all hold red Solo cups, which means they’re probably enjoying a cocktail or two.  I am jealous of them until the police officers come over and do two things:  #1 makes them pour out their beverages; and #2 confiscates a backpack full of various bottles of mixable libations.  I’m not jealous anymore; I’m trying to stay clean here.  I’m trying not to become my usual lacrosse banshee self.

A man can be seen on the other side of the field.  This is not just any man; this is one of the visiting team’s fathers.  He is rather rotund, and he is exercising, and by “exercising,” what I mean is that he is pretending to walk in small, measured steps.  When his team scores, he comes to the fence, continues marching in place, and claps.

My son and I both agree that Marching-in-Place Man reminds us of a wind-up toy monkey.  All he lacks are cymbals of his own.

So begins the heckling.  It is not I who starts this heckling ball rolling, either; it is my new-found fence mates.  They begin berating the players with, “Hey, number 35.  Nice shooooooooes.” And “My grandmother plays better than you, and she’s DEAD … God rest her soul.” 

The antics go on for about four more minutes.  Finally, one of them reasons, “Hey, I’m trying to get thrown out!”

“Amateur!” I call toward him.

Oh, sweetie.  You poor, delusional little man.  You are standing with the Master of the Sarcastic Zinger.  Bow to your queen.

After this game at the college ends, which it does with a slim-margin loss for my alma mater, we head over to a high school game (both of us graduated from here).  We are running a little behind schedule because we are freezing now that the sun has disappeared, so we pop home to gather coats, hats, and gloves.

 Once we arrive and get situated in the high school stands, I start checking texts and mail notices.  I cheer a few times, but generally don’t get too terribly excited.  After all, I have no dog in either fight today.  Quite frankly, it is an interesting change to watch a live lacrosse game without my camera attached to my face.  I’m not really sure what to do with myself without my photographic extension.

At the end of this game (another slim-margin, last-minute loss), we hang around to say hello to the coach.

“I didn’t even know you were here,” he says to me.  “You were so quiet.”

“I used it all up at the college game,” I lie.

It’s tough to get older, I suspect.  It seems I’m not as excitable as I was a week ago when my son was still playing college ball.  I don’t know what’s different about me.

Hahahaha.  Yes I do, silly people.

It’s amateur hour on the sidelines.  For once in my life, that doesn’t mean me.

SPRING IS BUZZING

I have new solar lights for my walkway.

Okay, they're not so new.  I bought them last fall (and truly hope they still work).  But, they are new to me.  I decide it's time to clean out the small area next to where I park my car, maybe plant some flowers and put in those lights that I hope still work.

I grab the rake, walk toward the offensive little area with my plan in mind:  Clear out the mulchy crap left over from last fall, measure the area to plan a mini-flower garden, then perhaps buy some plants, and put them in over the weekend.  The only thing in the little area is a holly bush.

Oh, and bees.  Hundreds, maybe thousands, of bees.

This not only sucks for my gardening plans; this sucks because I have to walk right through the insects to get to and from my house.  It's not just a few bees -- It's like I can hear those fuckers buzzing as soon as I cut the engine of my car mere feet from the holly bush.

I debate spraying, I debate clearing it out, I debate the merits of being stung by all those little bastards.

In the end I attach a note to my rent check and have a quick conversation with my landlady.  After all, the new lights can wait (hopefully not another six months), but they can't wait too long.  Spring is buzzing ... in  more ways than one.