LIFE CHANGE - DAY #2

My friend decides to change my life.  Yes, indeed, twice in one day she changes my life.  Today, Life Change #2: My friend takes me to Duluth Trading Company.

DTC is an online giant, but it only has forty stores nationwide, most of which are in the northern Midwest area.  I've seen their ads in magazines and online: They are home of the No-Yank Tank, a fashion tank-top that my friend insists will change my life.  DTC, she tells me, will change my life. 

As soon as we enter the store, I am convinced she is telling me the truth.

The first thing I notice is the smell of leather and outdoors.  When I was a kid, we had a store near us, Hayward's Trading Post (which I believe is still open), that sold all kinds of stuff from toys to clothing to shoes to tourist crap.  The incredible smell of that store was always one of my favorites, and the moment the scents hit your nose walking over the threshold, you were immersed in another world.  It is the same smell, the same aroma, that envelops me when I walk into Duluth Trading Company.

The second thing I notice are the fabrics of the clothing.  This isn't cheap spandex-based crap; the fabric is sturdy, strong, and colorful.  I'm fascinated. Even the dresses they have here are stylish, practical, and made of smart fabrics.  My friend steers me toward the No-Yank Tanks, and she picks out two to buy for me.  I nod my head, a little overwhelmed by the store.  It's like L. L. Bean for cowboys and farmers and people who really get their hands dirty every day, not just make-believe sweaty on weekends when the neighbors are looking.

As we are at the check-out, I see a sign hanging in the back of the store that indicates there's a display of old and antique tools.  I make a beeline to the back of the store and discover an absolute gold mine.  The store has a museum of artifacts and appliances and tools in the back.  It is incredibly cool.

Once home I look up info on the stores and discover that each store is a little different.  The website states: "Every store features a fascinating theme, displays, photos and found objects that honor hardworking men and women past and present. It’s not just a store, it’s an experience." 

Truly, it is an experience.

I haven't had a chance to wear the No-Yank Tank tops yet (at the time of this writing, anyway), but I fully expect the clothing, like the store, to absolutely change my life.  If it works, I'm going back to buy the underwear.

LIFE CHANGE - DAY #1

My friend decides to change my life.  Yes, indeed, twice in one day she changes my life.  Today, Life Change #1: My friend takes me to IKEA.

IKEA is a gargantuan home goods store that resembles a theme park.  First of all, this store has its own road.  I know this because we are tooling along, passing other stores and strip malls, when we encounter a rotary (round-about to everyone outside of New England), and the GPS announces, "Continue straight on IKEA Way."

The parking rivals commuter lots, and, despite it being a weekday morning, the place is already packed.  There are signs everywhere: ENTER, WELCOME, ENTRANCE, EXIT, CARTS HERE... The best thing about the signs (a trend that continues inside the building) is that they're bilingual: English / Swedish.  Around here, despite being close to Canada, all of our signs are bilingual in English and Spanish.  Swedish is foreign and fascinating and unexpected (to me, anyway), and it makes me feel like we're on a trip somewhere outside of good old Stoughton, Massachusetts.

The building itself is a complex the size of a small town.  Thank goodness there are arrows on the floor because I'm lost as soon as we step off the escalator.  I feel like a kid at Christmas; my eyes are wide, my head cranes around, and my mouth is hanging open in amazement.  I've never seen anything quite like this.

As we move from section to section, each display is as cool or cooler than the one before it.  My friend is redoing her kitchen, so she is scrutinizing how the finished kitchen showcases look, snapping pictures here and there.  I am considering downsizing, so I pore over the small-spaces displays.

We round a corner to find chairs hanging from the wall.  Amazing.  Years ago we saw a chair tacked to the wall of the ICA (Institute of Contemporary Art) in Boston, and some lazy artist claimed it was his/her Great Artistic Accomplishment.  These IKEA chairs have more artistic flair than the ICA ever could, and I am fascinated all over again.  This place isn't just a well-organized warehouse; this place is a work of art.

Eventually we come to some sheep skins and cow hides.  My friend starts pointing at the animal-skin rugs and says to me, "Pose with them! Lie down!  Stick out your butt! I'll take your picture!"  I don't know what people around us are thinking, but honestly if it weren't so crowded, we'd probably do it.  Why not?  We're in IKEA and everything is Swedish and we don't know these people.  It's a once-in-a-lifetime photo-op.

After the lighting department, where we play with a Death-Star-like lamp that opens wide into a chandelier then closes back into a spaceship, we hit the Motherlode of mind-blowing proportions: The Warehouse.  The Warehouse is the part of IKEA where you pick up the stuff you picked out in the showrooms.  It is massive.  Boxes are piled high on steel platforms, and the place goes on for what seems like miles.  Even the warehouse end-caps are artfully displayed, and the floors are pristine.  Yes, even the storage facility at IKEA is spotless.

We buy a few things, although I am infinitely glad that I left my credit card at home and only brought a little cash with me.  I could easily lose my life savings at the hands of these crafty Swedes.  I am slightly shell-shocked as we make our way back to my friend's SUV.  Even the lot is clean, clear, well-lit, and safe.  I get into the passenger seat absently, still dazed from my first IKEA experience.  Thank goodness my friend is driving because my wide eyes and slack jaw would probably lead us into an accident.

I'm not sure IKEA Shock is a valid defense, but, at the moment, I really am in shock.  My life has changed.  Thanks, my friend, and watch out, IKEA.  When I downsize, you're not going to know what hit you.

KITCHEN SINK SPARERIBS

Ribs.  Country-style pork spareribs have been probably my favorite meal since I was a kid.  I love, love, LOVE these ribs. Best of all, I find them on sale at the store.  Yup, for real.

I love these ribs so much that I rarely cook them any way but the way I've always done so, by slow roasting them in the oven with barbecue sauce and onions, and serving them with baked potatoes and corn on the cob that are smothered in butter and salt.  I love these spareribs so much that my stomach is grumbling and my mouth is watering as I type this.

A derailed morning throws off my plans for getting the ribs prepped, and I decide that it's too hot to slow roast with the weather hovering at ninety-plus degrees with high humidity.  Sure, I have air conditioners, but they're already toughing it out with the outside heat; no reason to overwork them with the inside heat, as well.  Slow roasting the ribs takes about an hour and a half, and then the kitchen will still retain the heat. Besides, I don't even have the appropriate sides today -- no baked potatoes and no corn on the cob.

Dinner is already a crap-shoot.  I decide to throw the ribs into the crock pot.

Now, I've done this before, but they don't come out the same.  They're good, but they're not THE ribs I'm expecting.  I debate putting off cooking the ribs for one more day, but I really, really, really want those ribs for dinner.  So, I decide to go nuts.

In addition to the ribs in the crock pot, I also throw in Vadalia onion, celery, garlic, seasonings, fresh basil, soy sauce, Worcestershire sauce, teriyaki marinade, Vietnamese chili garlic sauce, Italian dressing, balsamic vinaigrette dressing, pineapple juice, and, of course, barbecue sauce.  I'm making Kitchen Sink Ribs because that's about the only thing I don't put into the pot.

Hours later it's still cool inside my house (and broiling hot outside of my house).  It's too hot to bake potatoes or boil corn, anyway, so instead of running to the store to buy some, I'll opt for salad and some steak fries as sides.  I don't know what these ribs are going to taste like, but right now the kitchen smells heavenly. 

ALMOST TO THE BEACH

Today I drive to the beach.  No, wait; let me correct myself.  Today I almost drive to the beach.  Or, today I drive almost to the beach.

(What I hope to see today.)

Honestly, it's not a super beach day.  Clouds are rolling in slowly, it's breezy, and it's not an ideal sit-on-the-beach forecast, but the temperature, even this early, is already over 80 degrees.  It is low tide, so the beach I prefer will be wide open, and I'll be able to walk about two miles in the sand barefoot.  I figure if I head up for two hours, do my walk, jump in the water, and read for a little while (as long as I don't get sandblasted), I can scoot home in time to make spareribs in the crock pot for dinner.

With this brilliant plan in place, I pack a beach towel, some snacks, a water, my book, money for the parking meter, and lots of sunscreen.

I leave the house around 8:40, which will put me in a spot and already part of the way down the beach by 9:30.  Traffic is a little heavier than usual, but I sail along at a pretty decent clip until I am a half mile from my exit.  All four lanes on the northbound side of I-95 are gridlocked.  My car, along with hundreds of others and dozens of semis, inches along.  According to one of those motorized signs, there is an accident just beyond the tolls.  Lucky for me I am not going through the tolls; I'm veering off onto 107 then route 1.  Easy-peasey, except...

Half the highway is turning onto route 1, including several semis, and now route 1 is gridlocked, as well.  I endure this massive back-up for about fifteen minutes, until I can see for certain that the traffic all the way to the beach is at a dead standstill.

Time for an executive decision.  My options are:
1. continue to sit in this traffic and do a slow crawl to the beach, maybe arriving around 10:30 or so;
2. turn around and cut over 286 to 1A and go entirely up the coast through the other beach traffic and arrive at maybe 10:30 if I'm lucky;
3. bang a uey on route 1 and go home.

(What I actually see today.)

I choose option #3.  The clouds are really moving in, the tide will be halfway up and blocking a good portion of my walking route, and I really want to get home to put the ribs in the crock pot.  I feel pretty good about option #3, especially since I wasn't involved in any accidents on the highway, I don't sit in beach traffic roasting, and I do not get ticketed by the local police (four motorcycle cops) despite the fact that I know they clocked me at ten miles over the speed limit on 125 coming home.

I guess, all things considered, this can be ruled a successful (non)beach day.

BROKE MY GLASSES

Oh, crap.  I broke my glasses.  I had them right here by the computer, and when I picked them up, KAPOW, just like that, the frame cracked and the lens flew out under the computer desk.

Damnitall.

Now I'm going to have to ... go to the basket and get another pair out to use.  Then I'll have to go to Christmas Tree Shop and buy a few more pairs of 2.50 (or maybe they're 2.75) to have on hand.  I have two baskets of glasses here: one basket full of 1.50 for seeing the television, the board at school, and for driving, and one basket full of 2.50 (or higher) for reading and computer work.

I know, I know, and yes, I do have a pair of bifocals somewhere, but I've long-since surpassed the prescription.  Don't judge me.  Okay, you can judge me; that's why I write a blog.  People can judge me all they want.  (Just so you know, without my glasses, I cannot read your commentary anyway.)

This all started when I had foot surgery.  I couldn't keep getting up and going to find my glasses.  For about a week, I couldn't get up at all.  So, I ordered myself a six-pack of glasses.  That way I could strategically place them around the house, downstairs and upstairs, so I didn't have to hobble around to find glasses.

It ballooned from there.

Suddenly I needed glasses in every color to go with different outfits.  Then, my eyesight worsened, and I needed to keep going up and up and up in reading glasses, from 1.50 to 1.75 to 2.00 and then I jumped right to 2.50.  With each progression, I bought more glasses.  At two pairs for $10 and sometimes four for $12 on sale, how could a sane person resist?

Still, though, I broke the pair I kept next to the computer.  This means that now I have to bring in the pair that I keep in the kitchen because another pair stays in my pocketbook (so I can read menus and things like that), and another pair is upstairs next to my bed, and another pair is in the spare bedroom where I am sorting through random old paperwork.  Also, I have a pair or two in the car plus another two pairs at work just for reading.

You don't want to know how many I have for driving (my old 1.50 glasses).  I probably have enough to put glasses on an entire classroom of sight-challenged children.  I also have sunglasses in 1.50 so I can drive with them on.

Yes, even though I have probably thirty pairs of glasses, if I know me I will be back the Christmas Tree Shop getting more.  School will be starting soon again, and now that my black-rimmed reading glasses bit the dust, I'll need some new black-rimmed glasses to replace them.

It's a sickness, I know, but if I lose all of my glasses or if they all break, I suppose that means I cannot officially "see" the problem.  I think this absolves me of any guilt.

MAYBE HE'S NOT THE KEY GUY

My friends and I drive invisible cars. 

No, really.  I'm as serious as a heart attack.  Other vehicles are constantly pulling out in front of us, changing lanes into us, and generally driving as if our cars are not remotely traveling in the same dimension as the rest of the universe.  It doesn't matter the sizes, makes, models, or colors of our cars; we are invisible in Traffic Reality. 

Surprisingly, this mind-bender suddenly starts extending to our physical presence, as well. 

My pal Sal and I have a plan to scour Lowe's and Home Depot for counters, backsplashes, and shades.  She is redoing her entire kitchen, and it's a gargantuan undertaking.  Even though she has a contractor, decisions still need to be made, and she is swimming in the deep end of accessories, appliances, and options.

Unlike me, Sal doesn't get distracted easily.  I'm looking at paint and lights and patio furniture and magazines and grills and knobs and pulls and anything and everything that isn't even on the list.  Sal spends the entire time at Home Depot in the kitchen section.  She is there for a long time, and when I join her, she is still full of questions.  However, not a single Home Depot employee, regardless of his or her "I'm sitting on my ass doing nothing but considering adding Kahlua to my coffee" demeanor, speaks to her nor approaches her to see if she needs help.

Imagine if she did not already have a contractor lined up.  Home Depot has a live one milling around the quartz counter options, presumably high-commission business, and every single hourly minion is acting as if Sal is invisible. This Cloak of Invisibility extends to me once I join my friend.  Apparently we have unwittingly entered Harry Potter's Home Depot.  Pretty soon we should probably make our way over to the wood section and pick out our new wands.

Eventually we flag down another employee, one who has very little knowledge of the store and must be either a trainee or simply trying to earn his hourly wage by avoiding customers.  Where are the back splashes, we inquire.  He leads us over to an end-cap display of two dozen possibilities, most of which are more appropriate to bathrooms, but proving that we are not invisible after all. 

As we stand there, touching the different mosaics of tile options, a man wheels an empty pallet cart toward us.  He is going at a good clip and shows neither sign of slowing down nor moving around us.  It is clear that we are, once again, invisible.  Sal and I jump back about two feet to let the man by.  Instead, he stops abruptly, placing the pallet cart between us and the tile back splashes we have just been touching.  The man jerks his head from side to side (perhaps clearing out his ears to better hear the voices in his head), then walks absently away, leaving the pallet cart right there in the middle of the aisle and blocking us from the display.

What.  The.  Freak.  Either we are completely invisible yet again, or this guy is just one big, fat, hairy asshole.

Sal and I decide that we won't be making any headway at Home Depot today because no one can see us except Stock Boy Space Cadet.  Heading toward the exit, she decides she needs a new house key.  The employee at the key kiosk looks at us, sees her picking out a key, waits until she comes to his counter, and ... walks away.  Yup.  He leaves his post and heads into one of the aisles nearby to stock shelves.

Hmmmm. Maybe he's not the key guy. 

Sal waits at the key kiosk, and I go up to Customer Service, where I wait in line behind a woman who has just come from the gym because she is wearing stretch yoga clothing, has sweated through her shirt, and smells a little gamey.  After four minutes of Sal waiting for Key Guy and me waiting to move in the stinky line to ask for Key Guy, Key Guy wanders back to his post, apparently seeing Sal because now she must be visible again. 

She picks out a Darth Vader key, and we are soon on our way to Lowe's, where, other than someone trying to pull into the same spot we are already occupying in the lot (invisible car again), employees actually see us. We must've left the Cloak of Invisibility back at Harry Potter's Home Depot, which is good because Lowe's has many more back splash tiles and patterns, and the sales people actually want to make sales.

BLISSFULLY HAPPY ABOUT BOOKS

This house has nine bookcases.  Nine.  Granted, each bookcase is a three-shelf unit, and some are wider than others, but still: nine bookcases.  Full.  Nine FULL bookcases with everything from reference books to picture books to newer fiction to rare copies of literature.

I have enough books here at home to keep me busy for months, probably years.  Couple that with the six hundred or so novels I have in my classroom library, and I have more books than an entire team of readers can get through in a reasonable amount of time. 

In other words, I have no business buying more books.  However, I stop in at Barnes and Noble, and this is exactly what I decide is my mission.  BUY.  MORE.  BOOKS.

Once inside the store, I make a beeline to my favorite author.  I don't think I am missing any books from her multiple series, but I've written down all the titles, just in case.  SCORE! I am indeed missing the second book from one mystery series, and B&N has it in stock.  I grab it, and it becomes Book #1.

I am walking away from the racks when another book catches my attention.  This book is about an imprisoned journalist and a soldier facing terrorists.  Hmmmm, some light reading (not) becomes Book #2.

I like to hit the tables of remainder books.  These are the books that are marked down and, unfortunately, are not money-makers for their authors.  These books "remain" after their initial selling push, and they are renamed "remainders."  A bargain for readers; a bust for writers . However, there's a sale: 2 for $10!  I pick up a hardcover about several women on Nantucket who bond after their mutual husband (not married at the same time -- one after the other) winds up dead.  I pick up another remainder book, a paperback, that's an intrigue novel about a CIA operative gone rogue.  (Books # 3 & #4)

I get to the register and discover that the sale is ONLY for hardcover remainders.  I really, really want the novel about the CIA operative, too.  I can either pay the full remainder price for both, which is $3.96 over the sale prices, or I can pay another $1.04 for one more hardcover remainder book. 

Luckily, the remainders display is right near the register.  I see another book by an author I used to read all the time in the late 70's until I discovered that all of her novels, every single one, followed the same exact format.  This novel sounds better, though.  It's about a group of disparate individuals who end up connected by a hurricane that hits New York.  Perfect.  More light reading.  I grab the book, which makes this Book #5.

It takes two bags to bundle up the order.  I leave the store quite happy with my purchases, but I am also apprehensive.  Truly, I have no business bringing stray books into my organized book life at home.  I am surprised that I am not arrested crossing the border from New Hampshire back into Massachusetts.  I am well over the legal limit for unread books, and there's probably a law somewhere that I'm breaking by hoarding books like this. 

Yes, for a fraction of a moment, I am embarrassed and uncomfortably guilty.  However, like all inexplicable pains and aches, the feeling passes.  I get home, take my books out of their bags, and I am blissfully happy once again.