PERFECT GIFT

I get together with some pals today for some fun in the semi-sun.  Before I arrive, one of these pals messages me that he is bringing me a surprise.  Ladies, we all know what a man usually means when he tells us he is bringing us a surprise.  It's either his dirty laundry (as in real laundry that needs to be washed), or it's just plain old something dirty.

When I arrive at the gathering, my buddy asks me if I want my surprise right now or later.  Since we are standing in another friend's kitchen and there are several people present, I assume that my present is something fit to be seen by other people.  This is a huge relief.

It takes my pal about thirty seconds to get his hands inside the bag and around whatever it is he is planning on giving me.  He orders me to put out my hands and close my eyes.  (Yes, I hold my hands high above waist level as I am still not completely sure what I am getting myself into here.)  Then he places something heavy in my hands. 

The item, whatever it is, feels like a bowling ball but not as glossy.  This sphere has a matte finish, so the sides are smooth but not slippery.  I can't even imagine what it is I am holding, so I open my eyes.

It's a bomb.

Okay, it's not a real bomb (at least, I hope it's not real), but it looks just like one.  Slowly I turn it over in my hands.  My pal has put the letter F onto the side of the sphere.

He gives me the perfect F-Bomb. 

This is why I love my friends, folks.  These simple attentions to detail make my day.

AUSTIN ACHILLES MORTON

My right foot officially has a name:  Austin Achilles Morton.

Several years ago I had to have an Austin bunionectomy.  Don't look it up online -- it's horrifying, graphic, and nausea-inducing.  (You just looked it up, didn't you?  Well, don't say I didn't warn you.)  I have abused my feet for years, from tearing down hot summer streets barefoot to soccer to judo, and I'm sure the way we played marbles as kids (kicking the inside of one foot with the other foot to shoot the marbles into holes) didn't help. 

I like movement.

I've always been hard on my feet.  Once I even cut one of them (Lefty) almost in half.  Last summer I gave myself a double-dose of Achilles tendonitis, and it still hasn't repaired itself.  Seriously -- I'm a teacher; I'm on my feet all bloody day long.

Now it seems a new problem has arisen.  I seem to have given myself permanent nerve damage with something called Morton's neuroma.  Apparently the relief (not cure) for this is cortisone injections directly into my foot.

Can you say, "Bullshit to that"?  Sure you can.  I knew you could.

Looks like I'll live in pain until my foot falls off from gangrene, or whatever next crazy-ass ailment it decides to get.  Looks like my running career will be shorter than I expected, and there won't be any returning to the mat for judo no matter how many times I've rolled that around in the back of my brain.

So, the next time my coworkers comment on my gait ("Are you limping?"), I will simply answer, "Why, yes, yes I am, and it's all Austin Achilles Morton's fault, the bastard."

Man, oh, man.  It sucks to get old.

MILLING AROUND

I have a meeting next week.  I'm a little uncertain what the subject of the meeting is going to be, so to prep myself for all possible topics, I take a trip to the local teacher store.

I'm not overly fond of the teacher store.  I find it full of random workbooks and lots of hands-on manipulatives; basically, an elementary teacher's dream (or nightmare).  I used to go there mainly to get bulletin board paper and posters for the walls.

Today, though, I am on a reconnaissance mission to discover information to bring with me to the meeting.  I pore through the somewhat outdated texts and try to take in as much sensory information as my brain will absorb without imploding.  In the end, I walk away with a new plan book for the upcoming year.

There is one thing about the teacher store, that never fails to grab my attention, and that is its building.  It used to be in a giant old mill building, off an unmarked hallway, in the bowels of a brick labyrinth.  Now it is located a few miles north, away from the mighty Merrimack River, in a completely different mill building.

I love the old mill buildings.  I am as fascinated as I am horrified that many of the old brick mills around the Merrimack Valley are being turned into apartments.  Part of me wants to live in the old Boott Cotton Mill; part of me recalls the story of the mill girl who fell in an open stairwell, plummeting several stories to her death.  I'd be wary of spectral visitors.    I used to work in an old mill with a basement floor that sat in the mucky and watery banks of the Shawsheen River.  Going downstairs to use the bathroom also meant scaring the river rats off the landing so I could tinkle quickly and get back to work (or riding the giant wooden and steel pallets down the hardwood ramps).

The old mills are incredible architectural masterpieces, though.  This new building has preserved the floorboards, the slat-wood stairs, and the brickwork of the interior walls.  The architect also made sure to preserve several pieces of machinery and, in the process, pieces of history.

I may not have all the information I need for my upcoming meeting, but I feel empowered by my mill store mission.  Even if the present makes me anxious and the future boggles my mind, the past will bring itself with me to act as a buffer for anything I'm tossed.  I'll steal past examples, use references to past practice, and use my own past track record to survive.

Meeting is next Monday.  I'll let you know how it goes.

FREAKING ME OUT IN THE HARDWARE STORE

Look, folks, I'm sorry.  I'm really, truly sorry for staring at both of you while I'm at the hardware store, but I have to be honest.  You're freaking me out.

First, there's Jeep Guy.  Jeep Guy is trying to pull an SUV forward into the parking space we already occupy.  Why is Jeep Guy doing this?  Because Jeep Guy wants a pull-through space.  Yes, we all like the pull-through spaces, but, dude, we are already in the damn space in front of you.  What are you going to do?  Push us out of the way?

The other problem with Jeep Guy is that he is not a guy at all.  When Jeep Guy gets out of the Jeep, we instead see that it is a woman with a Crew-let.  Maybe it's a Mul-cut.  Either way, it's a short crew cut in the front with a longer back that has been molded and sprayed into a concrete rendition of the old Duck's Ass (or DA) haircut.  It's a crew cut / mullet combination that splays out in the rear like it has its own flight pattern.  Jeep Guy is really Jeep Gal.  Not that there's anything wrong with that.

We ditch Jeep Gal then Bicycle Babe arrives.  Bicycle Babe is probably mid-to-late fifties, fully geared up from head to toe, and she is wandering the store in compression pants and a sponsored nylon shirt.

And a helmet.

That's right.  You read that correctly.  A frigging helmet inside the store.  She must be afraid that a giant paint can is going to leap from its shelf and crack her skull wide open to reveal nothing inside but vacuous dead air.

Here's why it matters to me.  It matters to me because, statistically speaking, now 2/2 people we encounter are slightly off-kilter.  That's 100% of the population, statistically speaking.  Plus, now they're making me go and do math on my summer break from school.

See?  You're freaking me out, folks.

BEACH FODDER

I'm at the beach today with my good pal Sal, and we are dangerously close to the water as the tide rolls in.  Like the smarter people on the beach, we move backward every so often to avoid the rising water level as high tide approaches.  This is what intelligent beach-goers do.

The family in front of us?  NOT intelligent beach-goers.  They have towels and blankets and food and coolers and all kinds of equipment set up right at the edge of the waterline.

The rest of us retreat to the giant rocks, knowing that high tide might splash us occasionally, but we are relatively safe on higher ground.  The family, on the other hand, moves laterally.  Laterally ... as if the waves are going to magically avoid that particular area of the sandy beach.

This, we all know, is bullshit.

Because the family appears to be stupid, no one offers up the suggestion that they move to higher ground where the rest of us are perched.

After the waves hit their towels and blankets, the family slowly starts moving their belongings to the lower rocks, almost joining the masses of more intelligent people.  It is painfully obvious that these people have never been to the ocean before today, or, if they have, they do not understand the concept of tidal charts.

The family continues to estimate the height of the waves, an impossible task at this beach.  The onlookers continue to eye the family with a sense of curiosity ("How could they NOT know????") and embarrassment ("How many times do they have to get swamped before they realize they ARE the problem?!").

In the end, their towels are soaked, their toys dance in the waves, and their cooler starts to float away.  They are, essentially, amateurs. High tide hits, and the family is still half-in and half-out of the high-water line.  Perhaps they are allergic to the rest of us who've retreated to higher ground, but they are our fodder, and we professional beach-goers are thoroughly entertained.

ACK, HUMIDITY!

Ack!  Humidity!  Sweat!  Frizzy hair!

After the winter we’ve had – record snowfall, wretched weather – I should be jumping for joy at the summer temperatures and sunshine that beats down onto my concrete patio.  Not one to waste a perfectly fine day, I grab my book and head outside to read and soak up some rays.

Good idea, right?

Within minutes the high humidity has sweat leaking from every pore in my body.  Oh, yeah, isn’t this fun?  I manage about an hour in the direct sun, roasting front and back and totally soaking through my shorts and bathing suit top.  I won’t give up easily.  I move to the shade so I can finish the last three chapters of the book I am reading.  Ah, fresh air … sort of.

I stay outside for a total of two hours.  The only thing saving my hair from looking like Bozo the Clown is the mere fact that I have perspired so profusely that my scalp is drenched.  I don’t leave the air conditioners on inside the house while I am outside, but I do have the common sense to leave the windows closed.  When I retreat to the shade of the living room, it is still twenty degrees cooler than where I’ve been.

Tomorrow will probably be a beach day, though I’m surely insane for it since the temperatures are expected to reach 94 or better.  I’d be safer and smarter to sit in a semi-full bathtub of ice cubes than to venture outside on such a day, but I’ve never been one for rule-following and I’ve worn the dunce cap more than once (or twice or dozens of times).

 Remember these words when I complain about being salty and sandy and sunburnt.

No – Remember these words when I complain about another hard, cold, snowy winter.  Ack!  Humidity!  Sweat!  Frizzy Hair!  Bring it.

SAVING ELECTRICITY -- THE WINNER IS ...

I don't know why I bother.  Truly.  From whom am I saving electricity ... the big office building up the street?  All day I have the windows open to my house because apparently my house is sitting in the midst of some big frontal weather zone.  It's hot, it's cool, it's breezy, it's overcast, it's sunny -- almost all at the same time.

"Open the windows," I tell myself. 
"Let in some fresh air," I tell myself.
"Save some electricity," I tell myself.

This lasts until about 10:00 p.m. as I am changing sheets on the bed while sweating more pores off.  I cannot wait to take a shower and climb into clean sheets.  It's going to be great because ... because ...

Why is it going to be great?  Somewhere over the last few hours, the air has grown thick and humid and unbearable.  If I attempt to sleep with the windows open and the fan on, all I will do is blow the sweat around and ruin my clean-sheet experience.

Somewhere between putting on the top sheet and fluffing up the pillows, I decide to close the windows and crank up the air conditioners to high.  I also turn on every fan in the house in order to circulate air.

Screw this shit.  When I get out of the shower, I don't want to immediately start sweating again.  Tomorrow's forecast is for hideous levels of humidity coupled with outrageously oppressive heat, and the house is already starting to feel like a tinder box.

Damn the windows, damn the fresh air, and damn saving electricity.  Who's going to care?  The electricity police?  "Ma'am, we noticed that your tiny townhouse seems to be using up $4.75 worth of electricity this evening, and it is interfering with the mall down the road that is sucking off generator power now thanks to YOU!"

Truly, why do I bother?  Oh, yeah: I bother because sleeping in a cold bedroom on a hot and muggy night is akin to Nirvana for the body and the soul. 

Just for the record, electro-police, fans use electricity, too.  I rest my case.