IT AIN’T OVER ‘TIL IT’S OVER

Merry Christmas weekend to all.

Nothing personal, but I am relieved it’s over. 2020 has been a major clusterfuck since March, and I fully expected 2020 to ruin the holidays. I am thrilled to admit that, so far, anyway, Christmas 2020 has come off without a glitch. 

Apparently, I haven’t been paying attention. I am the Christmas ostrich with my head in the melting snow because I had zero idea that the new state restrictions of furthering our collective house arrest started Saturday, December 26th.

I’m healthy (for now), I have food in my house (for now), I went to the bank so I have ready cash available (for now), my car is still running (for now), and I have a job (for now).

On the flip side, I cannot visit my family in neighboring states. I cannot visit my family in North Carolina. I cannot run into the store for supplies without risking my life either by waiting in line in the freezing weather or by ignorant people who don’t know masks go over their snot-runny noses. I mean, at least if we’re going to play along, let’s do it with gusto.

Much as I enjoyed Christmas 2020, it looks like 2021 is gearing up to be instant replay. Hang on to your stocking caps, folks.

BUBBA THE BLIZZARD

Oh, my God! OH, MY GOD! It’s gonna snow! IT’S GONNA SNOW!!!!! Buy milk and bread and eggs and wipe out the entire store, and, hey, because it’s still Covid-19, don’t forget to hoard the toilet paper, too!

Let’s be honest. Fifteen inches of snow is impressive. But, a blizzard? Armageddon? Biggest storm of the century? Please. This is a standard snowstorm here in New England. What are you people even talking about? We could shovel and clear fifteen inches of snow in our sleep, and most of us probably have.

By the way, who started naming these winter storms? Blizzard Bubba, or whatever the freak they called it. Do NOT name our snowstorms for us. We are not weenies who need names on our storms to validate them.

Listen up: When winter comes, it snows. When snow comes, it sticks to the ground. When snow sticks to the ground, it accumulates. When there is a storm, there is usually wind. When there is wind and snow, sometimes people lose power.

THESE CONDITIONS DO NOT, I repeat, DO NOT EQUAL TERROR.

Here are five pointers for predicting the weather in New England:

1. Don’t.

2. Please don’t.

3. Just don’t.

4. Do not.

5. Tape your mouth shut.

 

STAMPING MY WHEELS OVER CHRISTMAS

Things have been crazy for the upcoming holiday season. Every year I say I’ll be ready, and every year I’m not.  I make it to the final second then berate myself for never quite doing it right. I promise that next year will be better . . . and it isn’t.

I’m not sending many cards this year (sorry, folks), but I decided that I should probably get some Christmas stamps. I had a dozen left over from last Christmas, so I wanted to get a sheet or two more. Turns out, so does everyone else! No Christmas stamps to be found anywhere. (Remind me to do what I did last year: Buy Christmas stamps AFTER Christmas when the late-arriving USPS holiday stash finally arrives.)

I have the choice of flags. Yes, flags.

For crying out loud, haven’t you got anything else? I’m begging the woman – please. Please go look. Do you have Scooby-Do? (No.) Artistic  anything? (No.) Flowers? (No.) Children? (No.) So, what have you got? (Flags. I told you. FLAGS.)

What about those, I say, pointing to a bulletin board behind me. Oh, let me check, she says.

And just like that, my few Christmas cards are going out with Hot Wheels stamps. That’s, right, Hot Wheels. Like MatchboX, but faster.

Happy Advent #3 and merry almost Christmas. Vrooooom vroooooooooom!

2020 HOLIDAY PREAMBLE

 

I’m trying.

Truly, I am.

2020 is just such a motherfucker.

The tree is up, though it took days and required assistance to decorate.

I actually hung a small wreath on the door.

I decorated the front porch with lights.

I made a list.

(I haven’t checked it twice.)

I washed the Christmas mugs and plates.

I lit the Advent candle.

I’m even bracing for the second snowstorm of the season.

(The first one interrupted Halloween.)

But, 2020.

Holy Hell.

As Christmas approaches, I can’t hold back the anxiety of January.

Yes, the approaching January.

The reality that 2021 will be a vapid continuation of this shit show.

Smile – laugh – be cheery.

Pretend – imagine – believe.

Deny – deny – deny.

2020 is just such a motherfucker.

Truly I am.

I’m trying.

 

THANKSGIVING 2020: CRISIS AVERTED -- SORT OF

Thanksgiving Morning:

Ah, all I have to do today is bake pumpkin bread and corn muffins. Life is good.  My daughter, who lives next door, is doing ALL of the heavy lifting this year. She baked pies last night and today is cooking the turkey, all twenty-one pounds of it. This is going to be the best Thanksgiving ever—

(Mom? Uh, Mommy? My, ummm, my oven is on fire.)

Fire?

(Well, it’s sparking. We shut it off, but it’s still doing it. We’re going to unplug it now. We called a fireman friend for advice.)

Fireman? We’re on fire?

(No, just the heating element in the oven.  But, uh, the turkey just went in and . . . )

I have a small Alice-Brady-in-the-wall-four-feet-off-the-floor oven. I am not even sure a twenty-one pound turkey will fit into my oven, and I’m willing to bet I cannot lift it in and out of the oven to baste it because the stove is against the outside wall, which means I cannot reach in with both arms to lug the damn bird across the kitchen.

But Thanksgiving is now in triage. We must save Thanksgiving. We transfer the turkey to my house, change it into a smaller turkey pan so it fits into the smaller over, then realize the vented cover will not fit. We wrap the top of the turkey with foil and breathe collective sighs of relief.

Except now my oven is in use, and all I have left at my fingertips is a small toaster oven. Very small. I can cram the cornbread in, but there is no way I can pull off the pumpkin bread. We can supplement with crescent rolls after the turkey is out, though.

At the first turkey basting, I try to baste the giant bird without taking it out of the oven, which works until I attempt to replace the foil. I reach in a little too far and too high and catch the back of my left ring finger on the upper heating element in my oven. Apparently, heating elements are not our friends today. I slam the oven door shut and look at the half-inch hole in my finger, and I say “hole” because I have a chunk missing from my finger, and the burned area is pure white like ash. I have seen red burns, even purple ones. I’ve never seen a white burn with a chunk of flesh missing.

Now we have gone from turkey triage to finger triage. Cold water is fine except anyone who has ever burned himself will attest to the fact that once the burn leaves cold water, the pain is intense. So I run my wet finger from the kitchen faucet to the bathroom faucet and, while holding my hand in the bathroom sink under cold water, I rummage around under the sink with my right hand trying to find the medical cream and band-aids.

Meanwhile, the cornbread is in the toaster oven, and I almost forget about it because the timer is also for basting the turkey. The cornbread and my finger are saved, and then hours later, like magic: PERFECT TURKEY. This plus rolls and cornbread and squash and carrots and mashed potatoes, and cranberry sauce, and green bean casserole = DISASTER AVERTED. Of course, it makes a great, if not completely typical story because what would Thanksgiving 2020 be without an oven fire, a burnt finger, and magnificent success!

I HATE SHOPPING BUT I NEED STUFF

 

I despise shopping. I especially detest shopping on weekends along with every schmoe in the world. However, my new work hours make getting anywhere after school impossible. So, Saturday morning finds me trying to beat the weekend crowds to two places: Home Depot and Michaels.

All I need at Home Depot are lightbulbs. Yes, lightbulbs. I probably could buy them at the local hardware store, but if I go to Home Depot, I can spend more money on stuff I don’t need. And, I do. I buy batteries for Christmas toys (like the barking/singing stuffed dog and the walking penguin), and I buy battery-operated lights to put outside on the porch, like I really need to do that since I am inside and the lights are outside. But, hey, I just bought batteries, so why not, right?

As for Michaels, the only things I really need are those small “fairy” lights for some mini trees. I get there early because Home Depot self-checkout goes faster than I expect and I beat the crowds. There is a woman pacing back and forth outside Michaels, obviously distressed that she cannot get inside. I laugh at her, thinking perhaps she is an anxious crafter. I am wrong. Turns out that she is an employee who is dangerously close to being late for work. After she is let in, I watch the door, waiting another ten minutes for the store to officially unlock.

Turns out I am not the only one watching for the opening of doors. At exactly 8:58, a dozen people joust for first place in the socially-distant but impatient waiting game. Still sitting in my car, I don’t get it. This isn’t a fire sale; it’s the tail end of a sale that’s been going on all week. I don’t imagine many things will be left on the sale shelves. No matter. I am after “fairy” lights. Except, I also see the lights with snowmen, and Santa, and mini trucks with Christmas trees in the beds. These are all battery operated lights. And, what do you know, I just bought a crap-load of batteries.

I buy way too much at Michaels, way more excess stuff than I do at Home Depot. I could probably overbuy anywhere: auto supply store, paint store, computer store … you put me there, I’ll find something to buy, which is shockingly against all of my principles. Remember: I despise shopping.

The only problem is that shopping doesn’t detest me back.

 

FEELING FRUITY

 I am exhausted. Truly exhausted. Say what you want about teachers (just don’t say anything within my earshot), but we are working our asses off. The shortest workday I’ve had has been twelve hours, and my weekends don’t fare much better. Sixteen hours a day is my current average.

 Self-care time, right?

 Unfortunately, self-care time is at the expense of sleep because the school work still needs to get done, prepped, scheduled, and executed. Weighing my sanity against sleep, sleep usually loses. So why … why would I buy fruit at the store knowing damn well I will never have time to eat it because I am sitting rooms away from the kitchen, chained to computers (plural – you read that correctly).

 I have this idea that fruit will help me to stay healthy. Sleep would actually do that, but fruit is easier to manage and far more plentiful. Anyway, I end up with a perfectly fine batch of browning bananas plus a pint of absolutely lovely blueberries. I must decide: throw out the fruit or throw out a couple of hours of work.

 Thank goodness I choose to sacrifice work.

 Even the warm, summery temperatures don’t deter me. I get up early on a Sunday morning, ignore my school laptop, and bake banana muffins and banana bread from scratch. This actually makes me happier than I thought. Oh, sure, it catches up to me Sunday night when I am falling asleep at the computer, but I have banana bread to keep me company.

 On Thursday I come home from work after a day of only two meetings plus live (meaning teaching kids at school and at home all at the same time) classes all day. Should I be prepping for the next day? Should I be posting grades? Should I be fielding emails? Of course I should, but I’m not. I am baking lemon blueberry muffins and bread.

 The only bad results of my baking self-care workshops are these: I lose time doing school stuff, I lose sleep, and I eat way too much melted butter. Truth be told, though, I really do feel better.  Exhausted . . . but fruitier.