INSULT ME AGAIN -- I DARE YOU

While trying to clear the snow from the walkway and the driveway, I am insulted three times:

1. The wind keeps blowing the snow back into the paths I've shoveled;

2. The outside light doesn't stay on because apparently saving electricity is more important than saving people from slipping and smashing their numbskulls in the driveway;

3. The landlord takes out the snowblower and only clears his driveway, leaving his tenants to suffer and shovel drifts deeper than three feet in the sub-zero wind chills.

So, after I get shoveled out to the best of my ability, and along with the help of my youngest, who needs to get shoveled out for work, I reward myself with a huge chunk of my homemade pumpkin pie and a giamundo slop of whipped cream.  A mimosa helps wash down the cold, the snow, and the slight pissiness of being ignored by a perfectly fine snowblower.

Payback is lovely, though.  The following day I have no work, and my son's office has no internet, so we are both home relaxing, listening to the wind blow like crazy outside.  He has already sipped his way through a glass of wine, and I am still wearing last night's pajamas.

Go ahead, winter and others: Insult me again.  I'm loving every second of it.

SNOWED MYSELF

I am so gullible.

Who is the one always criticizing the weather professionals?  Who is the one constantly bitching about the storm hypes?  Who says after every storm to end all storms, "That was pure bullshit!"?

I am and I do.

And yet I fell for it again.  Okay, not completely.  I didn't rush out and stock up on groceries, I didn't fill up my car beyond its half-tank of gas, and I didn't rush out for road salt or shovels.  But, I did allow the forecasters to influence my excitement over the impending (now raging) storm.

Cyclone.  Bomb.  Cyclone Bomb.  Blizzard.  Floods.  It's fucking Armageddon.

Okay, no.  Actually, it's just a snowstorm with some windy conditions.  The coast is getting whacked, that's for sure, due to the Super Moon and the high tides.  People who stay close to the ocean under these conditions, though, are maybe not being the wisest. 

However, people like me who live inland are reasonably comfy watching the quiet storm drift and blow with relatively little noise.  No howling, no screeching -- just a pleasant dumping of snow.  The neighborhood kids have been out sledding, and I haven't heard any crashes at the tricky intersection near my home.

The only really crappy part is that the storm will not wind down until after it gets dark and tomorrow will be another days-long deep-freeze.  Shoveling in the dark blows chunks.

I fell for it, though.  I believed that we would lose power, that windows would be rattling and shingles would be tearing off the roof.  I had that sick anticipation of having to shovel not inches but feet of snow (not going to happen ... maybe a foot on average).  I let myself be swayed by all the gadgets used at the local news stations.

Next time a snowstorm is predicted, remind me I allowed myself to be gullible.  I snowed myself!  Hopefully, it won't happen again.

FIRE ALARM AND LESSON LEARNED

The school fire alarm two weeks ago was caused by overcooked popcorn.  It was very chilly that day, and I didn't think to grab my coat as the coat-less students marched outside in front of me.  Thinking it was an errant drill, it wasn't until I realized no firetrucks were there that I figured out the alarm was the real deal.

Well, it happens again today.  I am in a meeting in the classroom next door to mine while my roomie teacher holds a math class in my room.  Suddenly, we hear, "DING-DING-DING-DING-DING There's an emergency in your building.  Please exit the building by the nearest door..."  (Yes, our alarm is Siri for alarm companies: No need for panic.  Chiiiiiiiiiiiiiiill ... and leave the building at your leisure...)

I immediately run to my room next door.  The teacher and kiddos, who've never had an alarm go off while using my room once a day/every other day, ask me which exit to use and, to their great credit (and mine, I suppose, for product placement at eye level by the doorway), check the evacuation chart on the wall.

Except, I am not rushing to help them evacuate; I am running for my coat and gloves this time.  Clearly no firetrucks are outside, so clearly this is no drill.  Of course, today's coat has been worn for fashion and not for emergency assistance to the masses.  As the coat goes on, so goes the hood, then on go the gloves. 

Much like the popcorn incident, we do need to leave the building.  The only problem is the school conjoined to ours is in the midst of dismissal.  Teenagers are driving amongst teenagers, and parents are in the carpool lane, blocking our access to the spot in which we are required to gather.

This is not a safe situation.

However, for the first time in days, possibly even a week or two, the temperature is hovering around 30 degrees and the sun is shining brightly.  After the subzero weather we've been tolerating (and will again for the weekend), 30 degrees feels like summer... NOT enough summer for me to give up my coat to any students. 

Seriously. 

Where will they be if I die of pneumonia?  I have to think of my own survival.  I'm Rose on the Titanic telling dead Jack I'll never let him go, then chiseling his iced fingers from my rescue door floatie. 

The root cause for the alarm turns out to be a burst pipe in the building connected to ours.  This is ironic because: #1 - the building is barely three years old, so what gives with burst pipes; and #2 - it's the absolute warmest, sunniest day we've had in weeks.

We know, though; oh, how WE KNOW.  Things can change in an instant.  Between the forecast for a foot of snow and burst pipe in the connector school, there is no school in my district for Thursday.  It's kind of great right now, but it's going to totally suck in June.  At least I'll remember to keep my coat handy, though.  Lesson learned. Twice, no less.

I'M AS READY AS I CAN BE

Heeeeeeeeeeere we go again!

This is suspiciously similar to the way 2015 started -- cold with a hint of snow that suddenly became an avalanche.  Two days ago the forecasters predicted maybe seven inches of snow.  Yesterday, the forecast total edged up -- eight to twelve inches of snow.

This picture is the most recent (as of the blog's typing) and most extreme of the weather maps.

The only difference between 2018 and 2015 is that my son is here to help shovel.  In 2015 his car was here, but he was living at college.  I shoveled almost every flake of the 108+ inches of snow that invaded my space, and I had biceps of absolute steel.

Already the shoveling has started.  Christmas Day dumped some snow on us here in the Northeast -- enough for a decent, powdery snowshoeing afternoon.  Already I am returning to snow-fighting form, and I've resorted to packing my snowshoes in my car so I can stop and make tracks at any given moment; a fact that makes me happy.

Why?

Because if this weather map is correct, I'll be outside enjoying winter (which is one reason why I live in New England), getting some well-needed exercise, and taking pictures of our "misery" for the rest of you, so you can all be jealous.

Here we go again, and I'm as ready as I can be.

CELEBRATING WITH A DECENT FOUNDATION

2018 starts out with a mini celebration. 

We have the brilliant idea to have Thanksgiving for New Year's Day.  Of course, I cannot find any small turkeys, and I'm not getting a turkey breast since my daughter and I both like the dark turkey meat, and we'd feel completely ripped off. 

The huge turkey means that we can invite other people, and, since this whole thing has really been my daughter's brainchild, she extends the invitation to a couple of pals who live close-by.  She does the entertaining (games and conversation) while I do the cooking. 

Except for the potatoes.  We argue about the potatoes.  She wants to peel them; I don't like people in my kitchen with me unless they are sitting at the table and not underfoot.  I relinquish, and good thing because her help actually coordinates the meal to timely perfection.

Most people begin the holiday season with Friendsgiving, usually a weekend or two before Thanksgiving in November.  We end the holiday season that way, or perhaps we are starting 2018 with Friendsgiving.

No matter.  Beginning the new year with friends and family and celebration sounds like a solid foundation for a decent 364 days to come. 

HAPPY NEW YEAR AND BAD POETRY

Oh, great, it comes again:
That horrid time of the year when
I have to think of what to be.
Crap - It's now: New year, new me!

To be sure, I weigh the same -
I won't play that calorie game.
I don't care what I'm wearing;
Not the time to give up swearing.

As if things will change at work;
Thinking so means I'm a jerk.
Haven't written for a while -
My best laid plans are in a pile.

Bills to pay and shit to do,
And borrow this, and IOU,
Files to file and stuff to sort.
The bank account is always short.

And yet I am supposed to plan
Resolutions to expand
My never-ending daily strife
(Implying that I have no life).

So, here's to you, 2018!
Be the best year that I've seen!
I'll try to believe this, I reckon.
(I don't believe me for a second.)

Happy New Year, everyone.
I'll check back in when the year is done.

JUST NOT DARTS

My daughter is good at many things. 

(Dart in wall)

Her amazing talents include such diverse things as painting, taking care of people, and spreading laughter and smiles.  She tells fabulous stories, even when she is giggling uncontrollably while telling them.  She is creative, thoughtful, and loyal, but she is no pushover; hand her a bowl of bullshit, and you're liable to be wearing (or eating) it within seconds.

There are some things my daughter isn't so good at, though, such as singing (I do love her, but she warbles), walking anywhere near curbs, and playing darts.

In a case of full disclosure, I'm not sure she has ever played darts before.  That being said, the darts that she throws go everywhere. People in the store next door to the pub are running for cover.  Her darts end up in the wall, on the floor, and one even pierces the Tiffany-style Sam Adams light fixture high above the dart board.  (The light fixture has many holes in it, making it obvious that my daughter's dart-throwing misses are not the first errant darts in the pub.)

(Darts in floor)

My daughter does at excel at many cool things; NOT darts.

However, like everything else she does, humor and an excellent attitude get her through the somewhat lopsided games.  She may not be good at darts, but she is great at life.  If she isn't, I will certainly find out after posting these pictures of her dart-playing prowess.