PRE-CHRISTMAS CRIBBAGE

Meeting my sister in Portsmouth is a wonderful way to spend some time before Christmas.  There are lots of shops in Portsmouth, and we walk around, window shopping mostly since we are both done with our Christmas shopping.

We are looking for a place to have lunch, but nothing will do.  You see, I have a trick up my sleeve, and crowded bistros, delis, and diners won't do.

Finally, we abandon the center of town.  Usually we hit the outer edge of Portsmouth and do some competitive candlepin bowling, but we are not bowling today.  I suggest we head to our usual haunt, Panera, on the opposite side of town.  We grab our usual lunch and settle in to a table right at the front windows, a great spot for people-watching.

As soon as my sister finishes her lunch and moves her dishes out of the way, I reach into my pocketbook, a semi-large thing with pockets and zippers and snaps.  Onto the table I plop a Cribbage board and a new deck of cards.  Well, they're unopened, but they were produced in 1997, so they're new to us but not really "new" new.  No matter, they're cards, just the same, cards with a Christmas-themed Norman Rockwell scene.

We spend the next ninety minutes picking at leftover salad and splitting a warm chocolate chip cookie (it is a pretty large cookie) while having a nearly-endless game of Cribbage, followed by a few rounds of Rummy and Gin Rummy.  Right there, yup, right at the front table of Panera. 

I sense a new Christmas tradition forming -- so, if anyone else wants to join, we'll be at Panera the weekend before the holiday.  You can't miss us: we'll be the card players who are people-watching, sharing cookies, and laughing louder than anyone else in the place.

Who knows?  Maybe we'll graduate to board games next year.  If not, there's always bowling.

Happy almost-Holidays.

KARMA WEARS HIKING BOOTS

My friend and I go to a wine tasting today.  It isn’t a grand tasting, which means there is only one table of multiple wines, a very manageable task.  That is, until the chowder.

That’s right.  Chowder.

You see, we are planning on going to two more small wine tastings in the area, so we decide we should put something in our stomachs.  Since my parking space is very near to the Boston Chowda Company restaurant, we head in to see what’s what.

My friend orders the clam chowder; I order the corn chowder.

In the middle of our impromptu snack, my friend’s cell phone rings.  It is her friend calling from out of the country.  I signal for her to chat as long as she needs, and I take out my own cell phone and start playing games with my cyber pals.

My friend is still engaged in her phone conversation when it comes time to move along.  She stands up, one-arms herself into her jacket, and gets herself ready while still connected and balancing the phone on her shoulder.

I go to stand up, and …

… Nothing.

My legs will not move because I cannot separate my feet.

Now, I know what you’re thinking.  You’re thinking, “Oh, my God, the chowder at that place is so amazing that Heliand has become paralyzed!” 

Perhaps you’re even thinking, “Holy shit.  One little wine tasting and the bitch cannot walk.”

Actually, it’s neither of those two things.  It seems that while I have been playing on my phone, I decide to cross my feet under the table.  I am wearing hiking boots and heavy socks, trying to strike fear into Old Man Winter.  Instead, all I’ve managed to do is accidentally hook the loop of one boot lacing onto the hook attachment of the opposite boot.

Somehow I have tied my own shoelaces together and cannot pry my feet apart.

This dilemma in and of itself is hilarious.  It’s such a “me” thing to do.  I am so clumsy that I don’t need anyone else to trip me up; I am completely capable of doing this all by myself.  I try to get my friend’s attention, but I know her call is wicked important, so I scoot to the end of the booth, hoping to give my cohort the visual of the whole situation.

Then, just as suddenly as it happened, my boots unlock themselves from each other, and I am able to move again.  The moment is gone. 

Of course.  Thanks, karma. 

More wine tasting is back on the agenda; my friend’s phone call goes well, and I am not my own victim of a marvelous prank that only I can pull off.

WINNING IS FOR LOSERS

I never win.

You know those store surveys.  The ones that claim you can win gift cards immediately.  The ones the cashiers always insist, "Oh, we had five winners last month just in this store..."  Those surveys.

Bullshit.

I never win those.  I never win anything.

This is why I rarely play the lottery.  I hit Megabucks once ... all but one number.  The final number was 35.  I had 36.  It was back when that was only $400 pay-out.  I never bought another ticket.  It's all bullshit.

I can play poker pretty well -- unless there's money involved.  Then, I never win.  As a matter of fact, I get super-shitty cards whenever money is involved.  No point in bluffing.  My luck sucks.

I'm always in the wrong line, driving in the wrong lane, signing up for the wrong class, agreeing to work with the wrong group.

Of course, these crazy-ass experiences add to the awful things that I endure on account of being me, so bully for me that my luck is so incredibly pathetic.  How exciting a blog would it be if every day I wrote about all the wonderful, logical, magical things that happen to me in the course of a day?

Boring.

But, really.  Truly.  Once in a while it would be nice to win: the lottery, a gift card, a damn survey.  It has been months since I won a bottle opener at trivia, but that was thanks to people on my team.  They won; I just happened to be sitting there.

So, it's safe to send me lottery tickets for Christmas.  No worries!  I won't win, but I'll have that momentary hopeful feeling right before my feelings get crushed, and it will make one heck of a blog entry.

A POX ON YOUR HOUSEHOLD!

Today I discover the one word that can send an entire school, students and adults alike, into complete and total hysterical panic mode.

 It's not so much that this word is scary on its own.  It's more that we are just about to go to holiday break.  We are about to enter the busiest travel season of the year. 

This word will stop people in their tracks and destroy entire families' worth of plans. The word is the combination of two seemingly innocuous words: Chicken.  Pox. 

Chickenpox.

The school is notified on Thursday.  The child was diagnosed on Tuesday. Thanks for the 48-hour late head's-up.  No, really.  Um ... thaaaaaaaaaaaaanks.

MERRY ITCH-MAS, EVERYONE

INVASION OF THE WORST KIND

It is being reported that a fourteen-year-old kid shot at two intruders who broke into the North Carolina home where he was inside with his grandmother.  The two suspects broke in at 5:00 in the afternoon.  Yup, right at dusk like two cockroaches in the semi-dark.

You know what?  The teenager killed one of those useless bastards.  Thank God for that. 

I only wish he’d hit them both, not because I want the boy to be scarred for life.  I think the kid is a hero.  Those assholes might have killed the kid and that older woman.  Instead, this young man used his brains (and his training and his gun knowledge) and saved us some endless supply of welfare and sympathy to someone who doesn't want to be a decent part of a decent society.  Sure, we’ll be paying for the scum’s brother, who got himself caught for being a dumb-fuck, but one piece of garbage is now off the humanity dole permanently.

Do I sound radical?  Is this the tune of a gun-toting nut-job?

Last night as I was getting ready for bed, I heard a loud noise outside of my back door, mere feet from where I was standing brushing my teeth.  It was a man’s voice, yelling violently and throwing things around.  This was all seemingly happening right on my patio, right there on my doorstep.

At first I thought it might be the neighbors, annoyed at their little dog that sometimes wanders away and takes its time returning to the front porch of its own home.  But the voice, the pounding – it was too threatening, too violent.

I crawled up the stairs under the cloak of darkness, meanwhile burning bright every damn light downstairs to present the illusion that lots of people were home other than just me alone.  I looked through the sheer curtain from my son’s bedroom window and spied the new neighbors next door having a heated argument.  Someone inside had slammed the front door and apparently locked all access to the house.  The man, tall and stocky, was wailing on the front door as if his fists were battering rams, all the while screeching his lungs out.

Somewhere in the neighborhood another dog started barking, not the little sometimes-lost dog.  This enraged the man even more, and he started yelling even louder.  I crept back and made sure all of my doors were locked, including the one coming up from the basement. 

And I honestly wondered how much damage the BB and air soft guns might muster should I need them. 

As I read the story about the boy and his grandmother being assaulted and invaded in near-daylight, I remember how I felt last night, and I wasn’t really in any immediate danger … unless the raging man saw me looking out the window.  Then, my property and I would be in deep shit.  If he got that mad about a barking dog mocking him, imagine what he’d do to a witness.

I understand how and why that teenager felt the need to unlock that gun and aim it.  I even understand how and why he fired it. 

This is what the world is coming to, and I hope no stupid judge allows the mother of the brother-criminals to sue for wrongful death.  The kid will have to live with this for the rest of his life – and he is alive because he had the brains, the guts, and the reflexes to do what needed to be done under extremely adverse conditions inside his own home.

I’m willing to listen to other sides of the story.  I’m open-minded enough to take in another point of view, but bear in mind that I am a long-time FID cardholder and an interested, hopefully soon-to-be licensed-to-carry gun owner. 

Last night nearly scared the living daylights out of me.  I’d rather be cleaning someone else’s blood off the wood floors than being the helpless victim to some useless piece of shit invading my home.  I would hope that if it were my family, my children, my loved ones, (or, God forbid, my students – your children) that I would have the brains, the guts, and the reflexes to do exactly what needed to be done, and to do it with precision and without compunction.

If self-preservation sounds radical, then, hell, I guess I’m a radical.  An “alive” radical, mind you, but a radical, just the same.

AN OPEN F*****G LETTER TO THE HATERS

This is a fucking open letter to the fucking idiots who fucking complained about Tom Brady mouthing the word "fuck" during a fucking football game recently:

Listen up, fuckers.  No one gives a fuck if you're fucking offended by our fucking quarterback fucking swearing (silently ... there wasn't any fucking sound) during a fucking football game three fucking weeks ago.

Get the fuck over your fucking self.

Not only that, but how the fuck does your fucking six-year-old little fucker even know the fucking word "fuck"?  You must say it a fucking lot if your fucking kid fucking recognizes the word by fucking lip reading.

You are the fucking problem.  Your are ruining this country with your whiny, pathetic fuckstick ways.

Honestly.  It's fucking sports.  Do you fucking understand?  People fucking swear at games.  I fucking swear at games.  Okay, I fucking swear over anything.  I fucking swear when the tea is too hot, or my toes are too cold, or some fucker fucks up the check-out line by grabbing an item that doesn't have a fucking bar code or price sticker.

To quote a line from a judo friend's mother, "Fuck fuck fuckity fuck!"  (I really must meet this woman.  She is my kind of people.)

To all you vanilla pansy fucking Communist useless horrible parents raising nasty, spoiled, entitled little fucking fuckers, stop watching sports on TV if you're going to fucking complain to the fucking FCC about someone saying FUCK on the sidelines without any fucking sound being fucking broadcast.

Congratufuckinglations.  You are a fucking failure as a parent and a fucking useless excuse for a human being.

Go fuck yourself.

PS.  I could be speaking facetiously, but since you're a dumb fuck, you'll never really fucking know.

PPS.  If you're offended by my blog, go fuck yourself twice.

GET IN LINE ... OR NOT

I finally finish packing up the gifts that need to be mailed.  This would all be wonderful if I had remembered to buy more packing tape, but I forgot when I went to the store earlier, so now I am stuck with the tape I have left, which is dwindling.

I tape one box shut, the largest of the bunch, and realize I forgot something.  I cut through the tape (there’s a few feet wasted) and repack the top of the stuff, adding in the nearly-forgotten stuff.  I have four packages that need to be shipped:  two small ones, one medium one, and one too large to fit in the weigh-it-and-ship-it-yourself chute at the local post office.  I also have about 80% of my cards ready to go and a stack of bills that need to be mailed.

After packing and wrapping and addressing and taping everything, I notice I forgot to pack something else into one of the smaller boxes.  I get another small box and create package #5.  Now I have two small packages, a semi-small package, a medium-sized package, and THE BOX.

No matter how I play this, that large package is going to be a deal-breaker.  Sometime today I am going to have to stand in a line to get the damn thing shipped.  It’s my own fault, too.  I put some large-sized, heavier items in the box.  It will cost a small fortune to ship it all, but it’s cheaper than driving and delivering it all myself.

Early this morning, I crawl to the post office under the cloak of semi-darkness.  There is an automated postal machine there, so I pop in quickly, as if anyone else will be mailing anything at 6:40 on a Monday morning.  (They are, but they have the good sense to use the drive-by mailbox.)  I quickly weight the small and medium packages, stick the postage labels on, and crank them into the chute. 

I look at the large box.  I think maybe … But, no.  There is no way that box is fitting.  I will end up hauling it back out to my car, which is in the front-row parking space since I am the only clown doing any real postal business at the moment.

I take the cards and bills and dump them into the mail slot around the corner from the postal machine.  All is right with the world!  My packages are on their way!  Except …

… Except Big Bertha the Box from Hell.

I am running late to work now, having spent fifteen precious minutes in the post office lobby in an attempt to avoid standing in a line after work.  You see, I have a meeting after work, which means I will get to the post office late, which means I’ll be stuck in traffic, which means I will be standing in line, which means I have hardly gained anything from my early morning jaunt to the p.o.  The trade-off is now sitting in bumper-to-bumper traffic on the one access road to my school and the new high school as we all attempt to jockey for a position that will get us into our respective buildings before lunchtime.

All day long I stew about having to stand in line again, my evasive morning tactic gaining me nothing.  A colleague says she is leaving school during her prep period to go to the post office to mail a package.  I should go with her, but I have too much to do before getting to my meeting on time.  This makes me stew even more.  If I were a pot roast, I’d be falling apart right about now.

I remember that there is a UPS store about ¾ of a mile from my house.  It’s right next to a little packy I frequent.  (For anyone outside of Massachusetts, the packy is the local liquor store, or any liquor store, for that matter.)  I sit at my desk - I have ten minutes before I truly have to report to my meeting, so I attempt to look up the UPS store online.  Is this store a shipping store?  Is it for residential and businesses or just for businesses?  What are the hours?  Etc., etc., etc.

Hahahahahaha.  Stupid, stupid me trying to actually use the Internet at work!  Hahahahahahahahahahaha! The Internet hardly ever works at work!  Our network supports maybe three computers out of the hundreds in our building.  I am such a frigging moron thinking I can actually get a Net-based answer in less than two hours, let alone the ten minutes that I have. 

I head to my meeting none the wiser and still stewing about standing in line later.  Goddamn school network.

When I leave the school an hour later, I know that there is a post office across the street.  The parking lot is small, and I can see from the school driveway that cars are stuck in the street trying to pull in to the place.  Plus, I don’t really want anyone from the town in which I work having my personal address, nor do I want to make idle chitchat with parents.  I have things to do, places to go, people to see, packages to ship.

Now comes the critical decision – Go to the post office near my house and wait in line on the reportedly busiest shipping day of the holiday season (possibly the year), or … take a leap of faith and hit the UPS store.

Driving down the main street, I am still not sure what I am going to do until I near the decisive intersection and find myself turning toward the UPS store.  What the hell.  So I blow another fifteen minutes then go wait in line at the post office, anyway.  Whatever.

The lot is tiny, room for about six cars, but there are two public lots within spitting distance.  I wait for a car to back out and grab a front-row space here, just as I had at the p.o. in the morning darkness.  I carry my package in and see there is a line … of one person.  A second attendant comes over and offers to help me.  The time it takes me to enter the store and get Big Bertha the Box from Hell onto the scale for shipping has topped off at about twenty seconds.

Do I want to insure it?  Sure.  Guess what?  It’s included.  When will it arrive?  I don’t even have to wonder because the UPS guy says, “It will be there tomorrow afternoon.”

Say, what?  Wait a minute, wait a minute.  You mean to tell me that in the thirty or so seconds I’ve been in this place, you’re telling me for the same, probably less, amount of money the p.o. is charging me, I get free insurance AND it’s like an express delivery?

Shut up.

I am so damn excited that I hand the guy cash and rifle through my wallet.  Thank goodness – I have enough cash left for a six-pack of beer at the packy next door.  I mean, I’ve got to celebrate.  This whole “avoiding the major line” thing is a complete and total victory.  As I stand there dumbfounded that I am done and everything has shipped and that it has all been painless and stress-free, I’m suddenly feeling an impromptu party atmosphere invading my afternoon.  One package store to the next, right?

Look, postal service, I’d like to apologize, but I won’t.  I cannot believe I haven’t shipped packages this way before and suddenly feel like the world’s biggest jerk.  All this time I believed the hype and the smoke-and-mirrors the USPS has been playing on me.  I feel like I’ve just left a dangerously one-sided relationship and wonder if the mail staff will realize that I’m not coming back to mail packages.  Not ever.

Okay, maybe when I have to mail some in the middle of the night, but it will only be in desperation.  I’m pretty adept at running away from relationships without looking back, and I have to be honest.  The guys at the UPS store?  A little young for me, but definitely worth the brief conversation. 

Anyone else need anything shipped?  I’ve got this one covered.