Friday, September 14, 2018
Thursday, September 13, 2018
KILLED BY CARPETS
My friend and I decide to meet at a place that's in between her house and mine and find ourselves at the Woburn Mall. Anyone who is familiar with the area can tell you that the location of this mall is key: right off two major highways, around the corner from the industrial district, and situated on two very busy roads.
However, other than two anchor stores and a couple of die-hards, the place is deserted. Half of the stores are empty, and we are among possibly thirty people milling around inside the mall itself. Both anchor stores are crowded beyond reason: a local chain grocery store and a HomeGoods store. My friend and I are fans of TJ Maxx/Marshalls/HomeGoods, so we wander in for a look-see.
Holy crap. Holy crap on a goddamn cracker. THIS STORE IS AMAZING. This store is IKEA for people with agoraphobia who want a side of clothing with their furniture purchases.
This particular HomeGoods store has the best selection of clothing for every size and gender that I have seen in years at other stores, including specialty department stores. It also has fabulous jewelry, tons of home gadgets, and enough furniture and decor to redo entire mansions. It has beauty products, pet products, sporting goods, and Halloween costumes for kids.
It also has rugs. RUGS. Yes, rugs. No, not the rolled up kind at WalMart or Home Depot, although they do have some of those kinds of rugs. These are the master-class of rugs: room-sized, Oriental style, modern, decorative, and heavy as sons of bitches.
The rugs are suspended from the ceiling by a contraption that allows consumers to see what the rug looks like all splayed out then pull the carpet sideways to expose the next rug. Moving these monstrous rugs, even with the help of mechanical technology, is difficult. The first few times I try to "flip over" to a new rug, the old rug comes swinging backward and basically kicks the living shit out of me. Several times I am trapped between two humongous suspended rugs like cheese on a sandwich.
Finally, after freeing myself from the rug maze, I realize that the rug left in view is probably the best one in the batch. It's not as large as the others that smush me into the sandwich (9 X 12 feet), but it is just as heavy. It's an uneven tufted pattern of color. I lean in closer and realize that the entire rug is starting to look like it has a more intricate woven pattern.
This is when another rug that hasn't quite settled firmly into place decides it's time for fresh air. The giant rug pulls at its metal hanging rod high above, and the momentum sends the rug careening back at me. I do not even have time to move. I am suddenly smacked upside my head with the full force of an Oriental rug on steroids. I am now officially a HomeGoods flapjack, just me and a bunch of rugs that are suspended from on-high like silver-dollar pancakes stacked at IHOP.
My friend, of course, is laughing and can't help me much because the entire rack of rugs probably weighs about 10,000 pounds. She does, however, assist me in pushing my way out like some kind of spelunker suddenly shone the light of day after a near-death cave experience. When my eyes re-focus to safety again, I notice the lovely rug that I'd begun admiring when this whole incident started: a bluish print style carpet with shapes on it resembling a mosaic.
How appropriate. Thank goodness the mosaic pattern is for admiring and not marking my rug-induced grave. I may have been as dead as some of the stores in the mall. But, on a positive note, my carpeted demise would probably make the news and create a buzz of activity at the mall again, so I suppose my survival or not would equal a successful shopping experience.
Holy crap. Holy crap on a goddamn cracker. THIS STORE IS AMAZING. This store is IKEA for people with agoraphobia who want a side of clothing with their furniture purchases.
This particular HomeGoods store has the best selection of clothing for every size and gender that I have seen in years at other stores, including specialty department stores. It also has fabulous jewelry, tons of home gadgets, and enough furniture and decor to redo entire mansions. It has beauty products, pet products, sporting goods, and Halloween costumes for kids.
It also has rugs. RUGS. Yes, rugs. No, not the rolled up kind at WalMart or Home Depot, although they do have some of those kinds of rugs. These are the master-class of rugs: room-sized, Oriental style, modern, decorative, and heavy as sons of bitches.
Finally, after freeing myself from the rug maze, I realize that the rug left in view is probably the best one in the batch. It's not as large as the others that smush me into the sandwich (9 X 12 feet), but it is just as heavy. It's an uneven tufted pattern of color. I lean in closer and realize that the entire rug is starting to look like it has a more intricate woven pattern.
This is when another rug that hasn't quite settled firmly into place decides it's time for fresh air. The giant rug pulls at its metal hanging rod high above, and the momentum sends the rug careening back at me. I do not even have time to move. I am suddenly smacked upside my head with the full force of an Oriental rug on steroids. I am now officially a HomeGoods flapjack, just me and a bunch of rugs that are suspended from on-high like silver-dollar pancakes stacked at IHOP.
How appropriate. Thank goodness the mosaic pattern is for admiring and not marking my rug-induced grave. I may have been as dead as some of the stores in the mall. But, on a positive note, my carpeted demise would probably make the news and create a buzz of activity at the mall again, so I suppose my survival or not would equal a successful shopping experience.
Wednesday, September 12, 2018
YOU NASTY MOTHER NATURE
Thirty days of hotness;
One day it gets cool;
Wearing sweaters for a day;
Other days the pool.
Briefly there is respite,
I think that I might live.
Then it's back to eighty!
Oh, what I would give
To feel the breeze and chill
Instead of constant sweat.
What happens when it cools off?
Rain! So, now it's wet.
Come on, Mother Nature,
You're making me insane.
What's with all the drama?
What the hell's your game?
Just a taste of autumn
Then summer's back for more;
Little bit of sunshine
Then muggy with downpour.
I know that you do hate me
And I often wonder why
You nasty, Mother Nature,
Are trying to make me fry?
Eventually fall happens
For a teeny tiny bit,
Then you'll dump the snow on
And the leaves all go to shit.
It's okay, I'm ready
If you'd maybe just agree
To bring a little temp drop
To make us all happy.
But don't be going crazy
Like you often get:
Just a taste of autumn --
'Cause it ain't winter yet!
One day it gets cool;
Wearing sweaters for a day;
Other days the pool.
Briefly there is respite,
I think that I might live.
Then it's back to eighty!
To feel the breeze and chill
Instead of constant sweat.
What happens when it cools off?
Rain! So, now it's wet.
Come on, Mother Nature,
You're making me insane.
What's with all the drama?
What the hell's your game?
Just a taste of autumn
Then summer's back for more;
Little bit of sunshine
Then muggy with downpour.
I know that you do hate me
And I often wonder why
You nasty, Mother Nature,
Are trying to make me fry?
Eventually fall happens
For a teeny tiny bit,
Then you'll dump the snow on
And the leaves all go to shit.
It's okay, I'm ready
If you'd maybe just agree
To bring a little temp drop
To make us all happy.
But don't be going crazy
Like you often get:
Just a taste of autumn --
'Cause it ain't winter yet!
Tuesday, September 11, 2018
OF COURSE I WANNA
One of my sisters and I tend to do strange things when we are together. This isn't anything new.
It started years before the infamous rollerskating rope trick (me in old skates with a rope around me and tied about twenty feet behind her bike) when we were kids and has continued ever since. When I was almost out of my teens, she convinced me to take horseback riding lessons, and we would lead the others in singing "Happy Trails to You" at the end of each lesson as we walked the horses to cool them down. We walked through Walden woods, stopping to take selfies with the Henry David Thoreau statue. We had to abandon a house at Strawberry Banke (old village) when one of us, I won't say who but it wasn't me, passed gas.
On our way home from her daughter's wedding in Maine, we decide to stop at the Stanley Auto Museum. Oh sure, we know it's closed, but we just want to nose around and see if there's anything cool to photograph (other than the building, which is an old school building). I mean, seriously -- the place is locked up tight. How much trouble can we possibly get into?
And this is when I eat my words.
My sister, who has taken several steps ahead of me, is rounding the side of the building when she suddenly zooms back and shoots me a waggish grin. "You are not going to BELIEVE what they have back here!"
I'm thinking, since it's an auto museum, maybe there's an old car out back for kids to climb on or for people to use as a photo op. We are at an auto museum, so her excitement should be connected to that, or so my brain tells me. I catch up to her and her waving arm and focus in the direction at which she is now pointing.
There's no automobile, but there is a self-propelling mechanism of our childhood sitting squarely by itself near a children's playground. Tucked behind the museum and near to a modern, SAFE playground, there is an old merry-go-round type recess ride. You know the one: steel pipes to hold onto, set into a huge round disc that spins at whatever speed your legs can propel it.
It is, quite simply, one of the most dangerous amusements from our childhood.
"You wanna?" she asks me.
Oh my gawd, woman, you know exactly what I'm going to say. It's the same thing I said when we decided the skates-rope-bike contraption was a brilliant idea; it's the same thing that happened when you encouraged me to join you and harmonize "Happy Trails to You" like we were some kind of Cowsills version of Roy Rogers and Dale Evans; it's the same exact answer that I gave you when you asked if we should take selfies with Thoreau, or when I had to run for my life or get blamed for the noxious fumes at Strawberry Banke.
OF COURSE I WANNA.
We both grab hold of the metal bars and start spinning the old merry-go-round at a decent clip, and then, amazingly enough, we both jump on without killing ourselves. It's a lovely ride for about thirty seconds until we realize that someone must've greased the ball-joint on this baby because we are not slowing down. Not at all. We are, in fact, picking up speed.
I don't normally get sea sick, but I will admit that my eyeballs are starting to float just a little bit, and I might very well barf up my breakfast if we keep going like this. Both of us scoot to the edges and start dragging our feet, which isn't so easy because I'm wearing pull-on shoes and she is wearing sandals.
Finally we get the ride to a standstill, and we sit for a few moments to get our own bearings back because we still have a three-hour drive ahead of us. We need to save our shenanigans up and spread them out for the rest of the trip. However, this is probably the high point of our commute, and I have to be completely honest and say that I certainly would love to go back and do it again and again and again (as long as someone doesn't claim it's too dangerous and get the merry-go-round removed for everyone's own good).
It started years before the infamous rollerskating rope trick (me in old skates with a rope around me and tied about twenty feet behind her bike) when we were kids and has continued ever since. When I was almost out of my teens, she convinced me to take horseback riding lessons, and we would lead the others in singing "Happy Trails to You" at the end of each lesson as we walked the horses to cool them down. We walked through Walden woods, stopping to take selfies with the Henry David Thoreau statue. We had to abandon a house at Strawberry Banke (old village) when one of us, I won't say who but it wasn't me, passed gas.
And this is when I eat my words.
My sister, who has taken several steps ahead of me, is rounding the side of the building when she suddenly zooms back and shoots me a waggish grin. "You are not going to BELIEVE what they have back here!"
I'm thinking, since it's an auto museum, maybe there's an old car out back for kids to climb on or for people to use as a photo op. We are at an auto museum, so her excitement should be connected to that, or so my brain tells me. I catch up to her and her waving arm and focus in the direction at which she is now pointing.
There's no automobile, but there is a self-propelling mechanism of our childhood sitting squarely by itself near a children's playground. Tucked behind the museum and near to a modern, SAFE playground, there is an old merry-go-round type recess ride. You know the one: steel pipes to hold onto, set into a huge round disc that spins at whatever speed your legs can propel it.
It is, quite simply, one of the most dangerous amusements from our childhood.
"You wanna?" she asks me.
Oh my gawd, woman, you know exactly what I'm going to say. It's the same thing I said when we decided the skates-rope-bike contraption was a brilliant idea; it's the same thing that happened when you encouraged me to join you and harmonize "Happy Trails to You" like we were some kind of Cowsills version of Roy Rogers and Dale Evans; it's the same exact answer that I gave you when you asked if we should take selfies with Thoreau, or when I had to run for my life or get blamed for the noxious fumes at Strawberry Banke.
We both grab hold of the metal bars and start spinning the old merry-go-round at a decent clip, and then, amazingly enough, we both jump on without killing ourselves. It's a lovely ride for about thirty seconds until we realize that someone must've greased the ball-joint on this baby because we are not slowing down. Not at all. We are, in fact, picking up speed.
I don't normally get sea sick, but I will admit that my eyeballs are starting to float just a little bit, and I might very well barf up my breakfast if we keep going like this. Both of us scoot to the edges and start dragging our feet, which isn't so easy because I'm wearing pull-on shoes and she is wearing sandals.
Finally we get the ride to a standstill, and we sit for a few moments to get our own bearings back because we still have a three-hour drive ahead of us. We need to save our shenanigans up and spread them out for the rest of the trip. However, this is probably the high point of our commute, and I have to be completely honest and say that I certainly would love to go back and do it again and again and again (as long as someone doesn't claim it's too dangerous and get the merry-go-round removed for everyone's own good).
Monday, September 10, 2018
WHICH WINE GOES WITH HOT DOGS?
My refrigerator decides that the weather is too much for it. About five days ago, it started to lose its cool -- literally -- during the last of the multiple heat waves we have had. It's not entirely the fridge's fault. I went away for four days during the thickest, hottest of the weather, and the poor thing tried and tried and tried to keep itself running.
Eventually as the weather changes and as I return from my vacation to put the air conditioners back on, the fridge does spring back to life with a vengeance, freezing nearly everything inside. But, during its few days of being a little wonky, I have been averse to putting anything too valuable and potentially lethal inside its semi-chilly chamber.
That means I have been eating sedate things, like peanut butter and jelly, ham, and things I'm not worrying too much about getting salmonella from, like hot dogs. Yes, I have eaten hot dogs for at least two dinners.
It's not so bad.
The first night I have a lovely English cucumber, so I slice that up and throw on some Caesar dressing to go along with my dog in its bun with mustard and relish. The second dinner is even better. My friend brings me fresh tomatoes from her garden, and I have some basil on a plant that has just about decided it's done for the season, so I make a fabulous Caprese salad by buying fresh mozzarella to add to it all.
Suddenly I feel like I should be celebrating. I mean, it's not every day that Caprese salad and hot dogs are on the menu. Plus, the fridge is still crippling along, and I might make it a few more days until I have to decide if it will recover or if I need to buy a new one (as you know, it recovers!). I decide that some semi-chilled white wine would go perfectly with my wonderful Italian-ish all-American supper.
I'm not really sure of the wine pairings for Caprese salad and a hot dog with relish and mustard in a bun, but I will say that the sauvignon blanc does a wonderful job of making the meal more decadent. I'm not sure if I am ready to go to Wine Spectator with that claim, but I guess sharing it with all of you via my blog will have to do.
Eventually as the weather changes and as I return from my vacation to put the air conditioners back on, the fridge does spring back to life with a vengeance, freezing nearly everything inside. But, during its few days of being a little wonky, I have been averse to putting anything too valuable and potentially lethal inside its semi-chilly chamber.
It's not so bad.
The first night I have a lovely English cucumber, so I slice that up and throw on some Caesar dressing to go along with my dog in its bun with mustard and relish. The second dinner is even better. My friend brings me fresh tomatoes from her garden, and I have some basil on a plant that has just about decided it's done for the season, so I make a fabulous Caprese salad by buying fresh mozzarella to add to it all.
Suddenly I feel like I should be celebrating. I mean, it's not every day that Caprese salad and hot dogs are on the menu. Plus, the fridge is still crippling along, and I might make it a few more days until I have to decide if it will recover or if I need to buy a new one (as you know, it recovers!). I decide that some semi-chilled white wine would go perfectly with my wonderful Italian-ish all-American supper.
I'm not really sure of the wine pairings for Caprese salad and a hot dog with relish and mustard in a bun, but I will say that the sauvignon blanc does a wonderful job of making the meal more decadent. I'm not sure if I am ready to go to Wine Spectator with that claim, but I guess sharing it with all of you via my blog will have to do.
Sunday, September 9, 2018
FIGHTING FRIDAY FUNK
Returning to work after the summer break is always brutal. I say it isn't, but then Friday night smacks me right in the face, and I know in my heart and in my brain that I am nothing more than a pathetic liar.
It starts after lunch on the very first Friday. I suddenly notice that I have a splitting headache. Seriously. Not a little annoying one, not even a migraine; this headache is at retina-splitting levels. I briefly wonder if I'm having a stroke, which I hope I'm not because I still have two classes to teach. I pop Tylenol (super-heavy-duty, extra-aggressive, strength-of-an-Olympian, fastest-acting-on-the-planet Tylenol) and pray for relief.
I make it through the rest of the day, but by the time the bell rings to release the children for the weekend, I am ready to put my head in a drawer and leave it there until Monday. I just want to go home and crawl into bed. But, I cannot. I have errands to run.
First, I go deliver a bunch of goodies to my invalid sister. Thankfully, she didn't ask for a laundry list of stuff when I visited yesterday, and I know she won't be there when I pop in today, so I dump the stuff and run, run, run as fast as I can with my head down so no one notices me and engages me in conversation.
Then I remember that my fridge is sort of on the blink. It has been running at less than optimal temperatures since the four days that I was away at the wedding and the house got to about a thousand degrees while I was gone. I turned the fridge and freezer temperature way up, but I'm a little worried that it's time to invest in a new fridge. I buy some beer anyway because I have a cooler and ice, so I can totally make this happen.
The car needs gas, so I stop and throw $20 worth in, then I have to go to the light and turn around in the plaza or else I'll be sitting trying to cross four lanes of traffic. Oh, yeah, and I might as well stop at Whole Foods and get something healthy for dinner because I have a gift card ... an old gift card ... the kind that apparently doesn't work anymore, so I have to get a manager and change registers just to check out.
I finally arrive home ninety minutes after leaving work, still indulging a brain-bleed of a headache. I put the beer on ice in a small cooler and decide that I should probably give it about an hour before the beer is as icy as I really want it. Meantime, I open the fridge to check the temperature.
Damnation ... but, also, YAY.
Sometime between this morning and this very moment, the fridge decided to work again, and much of the shit inside is frozen. This is bad for the waters on the top shelf, but fabulous for the cans of beer on the bottom shelf because they are beyond ice cold yet not iced over, so I decide to have one of those while I wait for the bottles that I bought and put on ice to get cold enough.
This is a mistake. A bad, bad, bad mistake.
By five o'clock in the evening, I am starting to consider going to bed. Yup, this is exactly what the First Friday of School looks like: Bedtime beats sundown. My waning headache is not the biggest struggle I have right now; my biggest struggle is keeping my eyelids open. However, five o'clock is not an acceptable Friday evening wrap-up hour unless I am a toddler or an elderly person. Since I am neither, I force myself to stay awake.
I do some work, I play some games, I answer some emails, I text with friends, I watch television, and I have a beer from the cooler. I do anything and everything I can to maximize my evening and the start of my weekend. Certainly by now it is a respectable bedtime, right? No, it's only six-thirty. I repeat my activities in just about the same order, including the confident delusion that it must be time to go to bed because the sun has pretty much set. This time when I check, it's barely seven-forty-five.
Finally, I make it to nine-thirty, an absolutely acceptable time to call it a night. By the time I'm done putzing around and turning down the bed and all, it's ten-fifteen. I put my head down on the pillow and then I don't remember a damn thing. I get up a couple of times during the night, but then I'm out again.
I sleep ten hours. Ten damn hours of my life, of my weekend, gone just like that. When I finally roll out of bed, my headache has dissipated, and I feel a little sluggish. I spend a few hours doing work I was too tired to do the night before, then I go about my day, hoping I don't look any worse for the wear of my first week of being back at school and being on my feet teaching.
It's going to be another long year, folks, and now you know why teachers hate Friday nights: Zombieland. Yes, we are all zombies by the end of the week. It's all good as long as you don't steal the beer out of my cooler because, even if I doze off, I'll be looking for it Saturday when my senses return.
I make it through the rest of the day, but by the time the bell rings to release the children for the weekend, I am ready to put my head in a drawer and leave it there until Monday. I just want to go home and crawl into bed. But, I cannot. I have errands to run.
First, I go deliver a bunch of goodies to my invalid sister. Thankfully, she didn't ask for a laundry list of stuff when I visited yesterday, and I know she won't be there when I pop in today, so I dump the stuff and run, run, run as fast as I can with my head down so no one notices me and engages me in conversation.
Then I remember that my fridge is sort of on the blink. It has been running at less than optimal temperatures since the four days that I was away at the wedding and the house got to about a thousand degrees while I was gone. I turned the fridge and freezer temperature way up, but I'm a little worried that it's time to invest in a new fridge. I buy some beer anyway because I have a cooler and ice, so I can totally make this happen.
The car needs gas, so I stop and throw $20 worth in, then I have to go to the light and turn around in the plaza or else I'll be sitting trying to cross four lanes of traffic. Oh, yeah, and I might as well stop at Whole Foods and get something healthy for dinner because I have a gift card ... an old gift card ... the kind that apparently doesn't work anymore, so I have to get a manager and change registers just to check out.
I finally arrive home ninety minutes after leaving work, still indulging a brain-bleed of a headache. I put the beer on ice in a small cooler and decide that I should probably give it about an hour before the beer is as icy as I really want it. Meantime, I open the fridge to check the temperature.
Damnation ... but, also, YAY.
Sometime between this morning and this very moment, the fridge decided to work again, and much of the shit inside is frozen. This is bad for the waters on the top shelf, but fabulous for the cans of beer on the bottom shelf because they are beyond ice cold yet not iced over, so I decide to have one of those while I wait for the bottles that I bought and put on ice to get cold enough.
This is a mistake. A bad, bad, bad mistake.
By five o'clock in the evening, I am starting to consider going to bed. Yup, this is exactly what the First Friday of School looks like: Bedtime beats sundown. My waning headache is not the biggest struggle I have right now; my biggest struggle is keeping my eyelids open. However, five o'clock is not an acceptable Friday evening wrap-up hour unless I am a toddler or an elderly person. Since I am neither, I force myself to stay awake.
Finally, I make it to nine-thirty, an absolutely acceptable time to call it a night. By the time I'm done putzing around and turning down the bed and all, it's ten-fifteen. I put my head down on the pillow and then I don't remember a damn thing. I get up a couple of times during the night, but then I'm out again.
I sleep ten hours. Ten damn hours of my life, of my weekend, gone just like that. When I finally roll out of bed, my headache has dissipated, and I feel a little sluggish. I spend a few hours doing work I was too tired to do the night before, then I go about my day, hoping I don't look any worse for the wear of my first week of being back at school and being on my feet teaching.
It's going to be another long year, folks, and now you know why teachers hate Friday nights: Zombieland. Yes, we are all zombies by the end of the week. It's all good as long as you don't steal the beer out of my cooler because, even if I doze off, I'll be looking for it Saturday when my senses return.
Saturday, September 8, 2018
COFFEELESS BUT LUCKY
On my way to a weekend wedding extravaganza, I have myself all packed. I am so ready that I probably have enough gear and specialty items to last a month in the wilderness and look damn good while doing so. I have everything from bug spray to eye liner, and my clothing ranges from work-out gear and sneakers to lace-overlay dresses and high heels.
I am so ready that all I need is an iced coffee for the road. Yes, a simple thing, and then I'm out the door. I'll drag my suitcase and bags to the car, throw everything but the iced coffee in the trunk, and start heading north toward Sugarloaf, Maine. I'm even going to put the iced coffee into a disposable cup so I don't have to bring home four-day old coffee crud in a travel mug. Oh, sure, I could buy an iced coffee at Dunkins, but their iced coffee is never quite perfect. Mine is perfect. Perfectly perfect.
Which is why the next thing I have to tell you is so horrifyingly tragic that I still cry a little bit as I recall the devastating events that are about to unfold.
I have a cooler with me on its way to Maine. It's a great cooler, made of waterproof fabric, so it's flexible and has a long strap attached. It has some beer in it and some wine in it and some waters in it, along with a crapload of ice to keep everything cold on this 90+ degree day. The cooler sits next to my suitcase and my shoe bag.
For some reason, this also looks like a grand location at which to place my iced coffee.
As soon as I move the shoe bag, the suitcase wiggles, which in turn causes the cooler to buckle ever so slightly. I watch with frightful anticipation as the cooler nudges the container of iced coffee, and, like The House That Jack Built, a chain reaction from one to the other to the other leads to the inevitable: over goes the coffee cup.
I swear a little under my breath because my son is still sleeping in his room at the top of the stairs, which is about ten yards from where the coffee has tipped over. I notice that some coffee is spilling from the straw, which is being held in place by the cover I snapped on ... lightly ... apparently too lightly.
As soon as I reach for the cup, the entire top pops off with a sound that resembles a slap across the face, and the entire contents of iced coffee (cream, sugar, ice cubes, and all) rushes across the floor toward my packed bags (and some of my son's gear) with a whooshing sound that kind of seems to whisper "suuuuuuuuuucker" as it oozes across the entryway.
Now I'm swearing for real but still trying to do so through clenched teeth because, yes, my son is still sleeping, despite the sound of my packed bags flying across the den to avoid getting drenched and the stomping of my feet to the kitchen to grab paper towels. The whole entire roll of paper towels -- which turns out to really be the end of a roll of paper towels.
After throwing down whatever paper towels I have in my immediate vicinity, I realize that's not going to be exceptionally helpful, so I run to the pantry closet and grab a full roll of paper towels to add to the ones already sopping wet on the floor. Like a mantra, my mouth continues spewing swears faster than the nearly empty cup is spewing iced coffee.
The towels, dripping with sugary, creamy, coffee-stinking liquid, only make it partially to the trash can because I am so mad at this point that I sort of throw them into the barrel, but they sort of miss. Now I have iced coffee on the trash can lid, running down the front of the can, slopping in huge droplets on the tile floor, and spattering the wall like some kind of surreal Andy Warhol pop art creation.
Sonofabitch.
Finally, I get as much cleaned up as I can, leave one final dry paper towel on the floor, write my kid a note, throw away the damn empty cup, lid, and straw, put my gear in the car, and take off. If this is the worst part of my day (and it is), then I'm a damn lucky person. Coffee-less, but lucky, just the same.
I am so ready that all I need is an iced coffee for the road. Yes, a simple thing, and then I'm out the door. I'll drag my suitcase and bags to the car, throw everything but the iced coffee in the trunk, and start heading north toward Sugarloaf, Maine. I'm even going to put the iced coffee into a disposable cup so I don't have to bring home four-day old coffee crud in a travel mug. Oh, sure, I could buy an iced coffee at Dunkins, but their iced coffee is never quite perfect. Mine is perfect. Perfectly perfect.
Which is why the next thing I have to tell you is so horrifyingly tragic that I still cry a little bit as I recall the devastating events that are about to unfold.
I have a cooler with me on its way to Maine. It's a great cooler, made of waterproof fabric, so it's flexible and has a long strap attached. It has some beer in it and some wine in it and some waters in it, along with a crapload of ice to keep everything cold on this 90+ degree day. The cooler sits next to my suitcase and my shoe bag.
For some reason, this also looks like a grand location at which to place my iced coffee.
As soon as I move the shoe bag, the suitcase wiggles, which in turn causes the cooler to buckle ever so slightly. I watch with frightful anticipation as the cooler nudges the container of iced coffee, and, like The House That Jack Built, a chain reaction from one to the other to the other leads to the inevitable: over goes the coffee cup.I swear a little under my breath because my son is still sleeping in his room at the top of the stairs, which is about ten yards from where the coffee has tipped over. I notice that some coffee is spilling from the straw, which is being held in place by the cover I snapped on ... lightly ... apparently too lightly.
As soon as I reach for the cup, the entire top pops off with a sound that resembles a slap across the face, and the entire contents of iced coffee (cream, sugar, ice cubes, and all) rushes across the floor toward my packed bags (and some of my son's gear) with a whooshing sound that kind of seems to whisper "suuuuuuuuuucker" as it oozes across the entryway.
Now I'm swearing for real but still trying to do so through clenched teeth because, yes, my son is still sleeping, despite the sound of my packed bags flying across the den to avoid getting drenched and the stomping of my feet to the kitchen to grab paper towels. The whole entire roll of paper towels -- which turns out to really be the end of a roll of paper towels.
After throwing down whatever paper towels I have in my immediate vicinity, I realize that's not going to be exceptionally helpful, so I run to the pantry closet and grab a full roll of paper towels to add to the ones already sopping wet on the floor. Like a mantra, my mouth continues spewing swears faster than the nearly empty cup is spewing iced coffee.
The towels, dripping with sugary, creamy, coffee-stinking liquid, only make it partially to the trash can because I am so mad at this point that I sort of throw them into the barrel, but they sort of miss. Now I have iced coffee on the trash can lid, running down the front of the can, slopping in huge droplets on the tile floor, and spattering the wall like some kind of surreal Andy Warhol pop art creation.
Sonofabitch.
Finally, I get as much cleaned up as I can, leave one final dry paper towel on the floor, write my kid a note, throw away the damn empty cup, lid, and straw, put my gear in the car, and take off. If this is the worst part of my day (and it is), then I'm a damn lucky person. Coffee-less, but lucky, just the same.
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