DON'T CALL IT UNTIL YOU CAN CALL IT

New Englanders, especially the old timers, are incredibly hardy. 

You know why we keep talking about the Blizzard of '78? Because it was fracking amazing, that's why. It thunder-snowed sideways for three straight days. It snowed so fast that the plows couldn't keep up with it (hence people abandoning vehicles on highways). Even though the sun came out and it was warm and beautiful when it all ended, the snowbanks were so tall that no one could see to drive around corners or through intersections. Everything was closed for a week or more. We all just walked everywhere, right down the middle of streets and freeways, and partied straight for a solid seven days.

Now, we have today's New England snow storms. Essentially, each is a non-event. The fact that the weather forecasters have the latest technology available and still cannot get it right is beyond me. Take last week, for example. It was 50 degrees, kids were playing outside without coats, and the air did not have that distinctive stink of snow. In other words, where I live would be a snow-free zone.

Superintendents all across the state panicked. Gawd forbid the parents actually have to get up in the morning and . . . gasp . . . plan. Newsflash: Parents plan anyway. We plan for possible snow days. We plan for early releases. We plan for all kinds of contingencies. 

What is absolutely worse than a snow day? A snow day without snow.

This was our big "blizzard" last week - we didn't even get a dusting of snow. Barely even a flake fell, and, when it hit the warm ground, it melted instantly. This was the dire event that forecasters hyped up so forcibly that even garbage collection was cancelled. Anyone who lives in New England and considers an amount of snowfall under a foot to be "a significant event" is either a Newbie or a moron. A foot of snow is chump change here in New England. A significant amount of snow starts around eighteen inches and goes up from there. 

Okay, so a few parts of the state, mostly to the south or along the coast, did see snow. Excellent. Bully for you. The rest of us lost a much-needed work day. Schools now have to make up a non-snow snow day in June, when we want to be on vacation or at sports camps or at the beach.

So, if you wonder why people still talk about the Blizzard of '78, it could be because people had brains back then. People didn't call off school or garbage collection or close stores or businesses or government offices until they actually saw snow, until it actually happened. Yes, we had to watch the television or listen to the radio or rely on phone trees to get the word out, but I'm pretty certain none of us was dumb enough to go to school in a blizzard nor stay home when it remained dry.

Yes, we're not just hardy, we old timers are practical, as well. Must be all the snow we slogged through.

TOTING AROUND MY STASH

I have an addiction. No, it's not that kind of addiction. I am addicted to buying (and reading) books. Despite having a backlog of about fifty physical books and probably two hundred e-books, I continue to trade in books at the Used Book Superstore and bring home more and more and more books.

I go to bookstores in other towns, states, and even other countries. Yes, when I was in Montreal, I went into a bookstore in an all-French neighborhood, although I have not spoken any real French since I left sixth grade.

It's a sickness.

Every time I visit family in North Carolina, I go in search of bookstores. I can't find the independent one I am looking for, so I end up at the Flying Biscuit cafe, instead. After I eat breakfast for lunch, I hit my back-up bookstore, Barnes and Noble. 

I don't need a book. I have a book with me and I have my phone with both Kindle and Nook e-books already loaded. But, I go in anyway. I peruse the magazines, decide that Taylor Swift graces too many covers for my sanity, then pick up a travel book for an upcoming trip to the west coast.

As I get to the register, the woman asks me if I have a membership. I do have one, for another few months, anyway, because my educator discount has been discontinued, so teachers get a free year of B&N premium. Turns out I get a free tote bag.

I need another Tote bag like Castro needs another cigar, so I almost decline, but, in the end, I agree to it, thinking it will be some cheap muslin or plastic thing. Instead, I get a choice of three different heavy-duty canvas bags. The nice ones. The twenty dollar ones.

Score! 

I choose a black and gold bag (Bruins colors), and I happily leave with my merchandise. Like I said, I don't need any more books, but now I have some great swag inside of which I can hide more books. So, I guess it all works out in the end.

SPRINKLING SOME COMMON SENSE

Signs like this should not be necessary:

"Do not drink drain clog gel."

"Refrain from sticking body parts into animal cages."

"Rat poison is not candy."

"Do not cross the road in traffic."

"Do not stick your mouth over the car tailpipe."

I think I may have encountered the ultimate example of human stupidity. Well, via signage, anyway. And I am still trying to figure out who on this crazy planet we call Earth could have attempted this so that a sign would ever be necessary.

I am at a hotel -- a newer, lovely Marriott in an area full of shops and restaurants and all kinds of cool places within walking distance. The hotel is mid-range financially, so I doubt there will be silverfish in the bathroom, and any available room service will not be delivered with white gloves. It's clean, it's modern, it's quiet, it's very comfortable, and it has some higher-end amenities. 

I really like the bathroom. It has a huge walk-in shower with a decent-sized rainfall showerhead, and there is a pass-through shelf where I can leave a rolled-up towel (or, I suppose, a mixed drink). I have tons of towels, considering that it's just me. I have plenty of room on both sides of the sink to set up my make-up and earrings on one side, and my dental stuff and hair stuff on the other. There is a huge light-up mirror over the sink along with an adjustable table-top magnifying mirror, too.

Therein lies the rub.

It is the adjustable mirror that first catches the problem with the bathroom. I see something over my shoulder but, because the mirror is at an angle, the view is actually of the ceiling. I stand and peer into the light-up mirror over the sink and catch a glimpse of the same thing but from a slightly different angle. Finally, I turn around and stare up at the top of the bathroom.

There is a fire sprinkler head in the ceiling. No big deal, right? I mean, that's where the thing belongs, in case of fire. It's not the sprinkler itself that is the curiosity. It is the sign that is stuck on the ceiling next to it:  "Contact with sprinkler will cause flooding." Still not a problem, correct? I have seen a soccer ball smack into a sprinkler head at an indoor arena and flood the entire sports complex, so it makes perfect sense to me. 

No, it's not the words that constitute the absurdity. It's the illustration on the warning. There is a coat hanger with a red line across across it.

That's right. A coat hanger.

This means that some moron in a Marriott hotel somewhere decided to suspend clothing on a hanger from the sprinkler head, probably even spun it around for fun, and proceeded to flood an entire hotel because once the system is triggered . . . 

Please, people, if you are that incredibly stupid, please, please, please stop breeding. Stop reproducing. Stop sending your spawn to public schools. Just. Stop. 

Stop, so that the rest of us can continue to experience the little hotel amenities that we have come to enjoy, like clean rooms and bathrooms with running water. Stop making signs like this necessary. And to the sign makers, please start producing signs that the rest of us can truly appreciate:

"If you don't know that this is NOT a coat rack, please drink this poison, stick your head in this tiger cage, or run across the track at a motor speedway."

 

STILL SHARP AS A NEEDLE

I've had a lot of careers over the course of my life.

I've tried my hand at being a nanny (pretty successful), a nurse's aid (fine until someone spit in my eye while yelling, "Mocha java! Mocha java!"), a waitress, a cashier, a receptionist, a copy shop tech (loved running that blueprint machine), a scribe for a legally blind classmate, and an office assistant. I've worked in fast food a few times. I've also risen into assistant management positions at Dunkins, a bookstore, and a fabric store.

I'm a jack of all trades and a master of none.

This was never more obvious to me until I recently have to up and move like a fugitive on the run. As I sort through stuff I've just been tossing aside for the last few years, I come across a very interesting stash in the bottom of my sewing box. Yes, a sewing box, because at one time I actually knew how to sew a little bit. What I find both shocks me and disgusts me just a wee bit.

I find a horde of needles. Needles for sewing, for tapestry, for doll-making, for hand-sewing, and needles for the sewing machine (both ball needles and regular sharpies).

I haven't really sewn since the pandemic, when I spent all of my spare time sewing headbands for nurses and other medical personnel whose ears were suffering the effects of wearing the N-95 masks so tightly and for so long that they were suffering from raw flesh. I haven't done cross-stitch in probably a decade, maybe more, and my hand-sewing reminds me that no one should ever ask me to give them stitches if we are in an emergency situation in the wild.

But, damnit, I'm fully prepped and ready for any needle-and-thread related emergency should one ever crop up. I have dozens of spools of dozens of colors of thread. I have embroidery floss enough to open my own store. And, I have the needles necessary to do the job. They may be old needles, and they may be an assortment of needles, but, like me, they're still mighty sharp after all these years.

GETTING ALONG WITH MY NEW COUCH

I bought a couch.

It's not a plush couch - you know, the kind that swallows you when you sit down. It's moderately comfortable, and I can move the chaise part from side to side at my leisure (which I already have done). It fits the smaller space in my apartment, but it is actually bigger than I remember it being when I saw it and sat on it in the outlet showroom.

I got it for a steal, considering it's brand new. Well, considering the prices of the other couches (even for the discount section), I am quite happy with the price and the color. It goes with everything, and it surprisingly arrived with two pillows I wasn't even expecting. Bonus.

More limiting than the space, though, is the fact that I am a short woman. Barely reaching five-foot-two, and probably shrinking with loss of bone density as I age, shopping for a couch has been an interesting experience. At the furniture store, there were several other people there test-driving couches. A tall couple seemed to gravitate toward the same couches as did I. I'd watch them sink into couches, ohhhh and ahhhh, then stand up quickly to try another couch. Me? I'd sit down, sink further, and my feet would be dangling in the air as if I were Edith Ann in her over-sized rocking chair. 

I am pleased to report that my feet actually touch the floor while I sit on my new couch. As of this writing, I've only owned it for four hours, so we're both still in our honeymoon phase, but we seem to get along fairly well. Or, in furniture speak, sofa, so good. 

SNOW -- A LITTLE LATE FOR THE HOLIDAYS

Yay, snow! A little late for Christmas, but snow, just the same.  

Our predicted three-to-six inches of snow turned into a prediction of six-to-eight, and ended up being about fourteen inches of snow when the storm was over. Nearby towns beat that with up to eighteen inches of snow. We thought we were getting away with a minor hit when it stopped snowing Sunday morning, but then the storm ramped up and just kept dumping more and more of the white stuff everywhere all afternoon with a third smack returning after dinner.

Don't get me wrong. I live in New England. I'm a snow lover through and through. My skin hates the cold, but I do love the seasons and the precipitation. No way am I complaining. But . . . 

But, then the weather turned. Mid-week it started to rain. Pour, actually. High winds and buckets and buckets of rain. The snow melted fast, too fast, and the coast was facing what's called King Tides, an astronomical condition that causes higher than normal tides. 

Then, it happened again later in the week. You may have seen pictures from up here. Pieces of lighthouses floating out to sea, cabins from islands floating into land, and waves the size of buildings battering anything and everything in their paths. We're not the only ones, either. There's a lot of damage happening up and down the eastern states. 

Sadly, the rain took the snow with it. Oh, sure, plenty of people wish the snow good riddance, but there's something wonderful about the world covered in fresh snow, especially snow that sticks to the branches and everything it touches. Maybe not when it sticks to the shovel, though. That kind of stinks big time, and it also stinks when the snow weighs down the electric lines and cuts us off from the modern world. 

It was only the first storm of the season, so there is plenty of time for more of nature's shenanigans. The casinos around here would probably fare better betting on the weather forecasters who cannot seem to predict a snowfall with any accuracy despite having the latest technology available to them. Today it is rainy and in the 50s. Tomorrow it will be in the 30s with snow showers. Right now, Friday is expected to be 19 degrees with snow predicted. 

Place your bets and try to synthesize the forecasts, which will no doubt run the gamut. In the meantime, I'll just repeat myself: Yay, snow! A little late for Christmas, but snow, just the same.

SETTLING DOWN VS. SETTLING

Finally, things seem to be settling down. "Seem to be" being the operative terminology. In my life, that could be as simple as saying I slept two hours uninterrupted. But, for now, my worst problem seems to be a somewhat unfixable living room window. Every time maintenance tries to fix it, they leave it worse off than they found it. Big deal. I mean, hey, I HAVE windows. That's more than I had three weeks ago. 

Being back at work after the holiday break has left me with little time and less energy to get things done around here. I have been spending my time buying and building furniture, and ordering a new couch since I don't want to sit on one that the flying squirrel sat on. (I've needed a real couch for a while, anyway.) Kitchen furniture is gone, pantry stand-alone cabinets are gone, the old TV stand is gone. Instead, I am building bar stools and wooden storage drawers for my newly organized/reorganized life.

I am currently attempting to get through my boxes upon boxes of books, which, if you know anyone who is a reader or book hoarder, is daunting even though I am easily at half the amount of books I had the last time I moved two or so years ago. I have a huge bag of books ready to be turned in at the Used Book Superstore. This means that when the store clerk says, "Would you like cash or store credit?" I should respond with CASH. However, I do know me, and I know that one bag of books going out will quickly lead to three bags of books coming in, so I am leaving the current re-sales in the trunk of my car for my own protection.

Also in the trunk of my car are beach chairs, emergency roadside materials, snowshoes, ski poles, and a laundry basket filled with three (yes, three) pairs of recently sharpened ice skates. I have a very old pair of figure skates (may have even been my mother's at some point), and two pairs of hockey skates because I can never remember which I pair I prefer. I should probably put my hockey stick and a puck or two in the car, as well. I even have in the trunk a blanket that I use to dry and cover my kayak (which is now on my porch). The back seat of the car is stuffed with bags of books and bags of clothing and shoes to donate. The other day a neighbor came by as I was reorganizing my trunk, and I suspect he thinks I'm an interloper using the parking lot as my cover for homelessness because it does appear that I might be living in my vehicle.

In the midst of all of this craziness, New England is about to get its first Nor'easter of the season. This means that everyone will be at the store buying up all of the bread and eggs and milk, as if a snowstorm here in the Northeast is a reason to host a three-day French toast event. I went a few days ago and did my idea of storm shopping, which, in actuality, was me replenishing things I lost to the squirrel invasion or simply needed after not shopping for three weeks. I now have enough food for the neighborhood. I bought mozzarella cheese and lots of other random supplies so that I could hand-make dough and pizzas. Yes, I bought milk because I needed a half-gallon of it. I bought small rolls to make school-lunch-sized BLT sandwiches. I did not buy eggs, so I guess this all means that I cannot participate in the Great First Seasonal Snowstorm French Toast Extravaganza. I do have bacon, though, so there is that.

In the continuous pattern of absurdity that is the crooked karma of my mishap-filled life, I have in the last sixty minutes written this blog, booked two trips, planned a third, gotten the window fixed, had the blind replaced, had the inner window area repainted, had cookies delivered by my daughter, spoken on the phone with my sister, thrown my boots on to run outside to kiss my granddaughter, talked to a new neighbor, updated my online calendar, and continued to unpack books. I guess that means that things really aren't settling down, but they are settling.

To be completely transparent, I'll take the settling. Happy 2024, everyone. May it be as full of surprises, hopefully good ones, for you as it has been so far for me.