WHEN ELITE NO LONGER MEANS ELITE IN THE WORLD OF SPORTS CARS

 Leaving work, I find myself behind a nondescript SUV. SUVs are all starting to look the same to me. I drive a black sedan, and I cannot even count on both hands how many times I've tried to get into someone else's car because I thought it was mine. All these vehicles these days look the same.

Try to imagine my surprise when the somewhat passive looking SUV in front of me bears the insignia Maserati. That's right. Yes, folks, apparently the elite sports car company Maserati makes an ordinary-looking, bland, rather forgettable sports utility vehicle.

And just like that, the idea of Maserati falls feet . . . yards . . . miles in my esteem.

I suppose if you do one thing well, might as well screw it up by making something that is totally not your brand. But what a bargain. The SUV is only about $100,000. At least the Maserati mini van is under $80,000.

Wait. Maserati makes a flipping mini van?

I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. Maserati is owned by Fiat, which produces the most uncomfortable tiny car that I have ever driven: The Fiat 500 Pop. It shakes and rattles and rolls more than Bill Haley. If you're going to mass-produce a crappy small car, might as well pervert the image of your elite sports car company.

Oh, I don't begrudge you buying a Maserati SUV or mini van, but I will and do judge you just a teeny bit. If you want to buy an expensive van that touts you as a big and free spender, Mercedes has an entire division dedicated to vans, from cargo to camping. And Range Rover is the elite SUV for those of you with money burning a hole in your back pocket. I have to be honest, though -- if I ever buy a Maserati, it won't be to haul the soccer team to games.

I know, I know. To each his own, mind my own business, and judge not lest ye be judged. Right? But, come on. Really, Maserati? Do you truly think anyone can take your sports cars seriously when you're also offering the Ken and Karen of motor vehicles on the same damn lot?

Thanks for the laugh, at least. It kind of made my afternoon and made my old sedan feel a little less pedantic.

ENCHANTED BY THE VILLAGE

Jordan Marsh, a mid-scale department store, opened in Boston in 1841. One hundred years later, Jordan Marsh upped its holiday spirit by turning its entire top floor into an Enchanted Village, a display that included the street-level store windows, and eventually included nearly thirty individual holiday scenes and about 250 animated mannequins. 

The annual display ceased in the seventies, but made a brief renaissance in the nineties before the store finally closed up shop for good. Such a shame, too, because Downtown Crossing was the place to go, short of NYC, to see holiday window displays. Oh, sure, there are a few stores still thriving in a redone attempt at Downtown Crossing, but it will never be the heyday that it once was when Jordan Marsh's flagship store and Filene's Basement (famous for the Running of the Brides sale) were the "in" places for holiday visiting. 

The Enchanted Village dissolved into oblivion, nothing but memories for those of us who grew up visiting the Enchanted Village during its reign. Until an auction. Yup. The Enchanted Village actually came into auction, and Eliot Tatelman cast the winning bid in a furious and blisteringly rapid event: Eight minutes. In well-under ten minutes, the Enchanted Village would be getting a new home.

Tatelman, for those unfamiliar with New England retail, is former owner and current CEO of Jordan's Furniture (no relation to Jordan Marsh - just a coincidence) conglomerate. He felt the New England tradition should live on and bought the surviving pieces of the original Enchanted Village, setting up mannequin triage and set design to refurbish the spectacle.

Those of us who remember the original sprawling display may be a little disappointed when we reach the end all too quickly, but the addition of snow machines do make for a fun and free experience. One suggestion -- lose the obligatory photo ops on the way in as it really holds up the already way-too-long lines in the furniture warehouse area. Maybe make separate lines for those wanting photos and let the rest of us mosey on into the display.

Either way, if you've never been, it's worth a walk-through. There are also the original-recipe Jordan Marsh Blueberry Muffins for sale (reasonably priced at $13 for 6). It's about twenty minutes south of Boston in Avon, so it's not too far out of the way. And, for those who find assembled furniture a drag, you can pop down the street to Ikea when you're done.

TOLD YA SO

I don't know who ordered this weather, but, for the love of all things sane, please make it stop.

I am sick and tired of this November heat wave. Some of you think this is the greatest thing since Betty White, but I'm telling you, this weather is crap and I hate it.

I'm ready for the snow. I'm ready for the cold. I'm ready for pre-warmed car seats and I'm ready for windshield scrapers. I'm ready for my heat to be on and for my fireplace to be lit. I'm ready to see snowflakes flying. 

Instead, I see plants blooming and rose bushes covered with colorful flowers. People are walking around in t-shirts and shorts. Windows are open in cars and in houses. Humanity and nature are both totally and completely whacked out by this ridiculous temperature behavior.

It's plus-70 degrees . . . and everyone is so happy. Except for me.

I'm trying to get into the holiday spirit, and this whole back-to-summer garbage is just frying my head. Plus, my allergies are back in overdrive. Air conditioning is off at school, and it's stuffy as hell in that building. I can't properly dress myself because what is appropriate at 7:00 a.m. will be completely overly-dressed by noontime.

I'm glad you're all happy. But, when the snow starts flying and the ice storms knock out your power and your holiday plans are ruined and you lose your big toes to frostbite, don't come crying to me. I'll just chuckle and say, "Told ya so."

MAGIC CARPET SHOPPING

Recently I drag my friends with me to do a family-related errand. They have no dog in the fight, but they drive me around and even cap off the day with soft-serve ice cream from a seemingly rinky-dink place near their home that actually serves epic product. As a thank-you for their assistance, I tag along while they rug shop. 

Before I knew that my new apartment had wall-to-wall carpeting (apparently not one of the updated units), I was rug shopping, too. I remember it as being a not-so-pleasant experience. Either the carpets were the wrong size, or I couldn't order the color I wanted, or it was too heavy for me to carry up the stairs after delivery, or it wouldn't fit in my car . . .  Any number of traumatic pitfalls. 

In short, I had an idea what they were facing.

And the prices. Holy crap, one would think little elves hooked each and every fiber along with gold dust for good measure. I could take a college course or two for the price of one 8x10 rug. The one and only requirement my friends have: NO GEOMETRIC PATTERNS. Simple enough request. Right?

So, among the several places we search, we stop at an actual carpet specialty store. The salesman is pleasant enough, but he is obviously not listening to my friends. They describe the color schemes they want -- he directs them to every sample except those colors. "Is this one available in green?"  GREEN?! Like he hadn't heard them say it two dozen times.

"Let me show you some other ones with patterns and color mixes."  Okay, sounds good. Except my friends say, "Sure, but remember -- no geometric patterns."

Well, there is an occasional wavy looking carpet, and occasional stripe, and even some plaid-type patterns, but most of the carpet samples that the guy shows my friends are humongous, gaudy, tacky, room-devouring geometric patterns.

My friends are trying to be patient with the guy. I start pacing. I leave the area they're in, pace pace pace for a minute, and head back only to find yet another grotesque geometric pattern being foisted upon my pals. I lean to my friend and whisper, "Did this guy fail math? Maybe kindergarten? Does he not know what a geometric pattern means?"

Now, really, if he is that dense, then leave the room for a second and Google the answer. Ask Siri. Ask Alexa. Ask Maxine the cartoon old lady, for crimeny's sake. At this point, at least one of my friends is considering knifing the guy. I just want to smack him upside of his head.  Needless to say, this is a NO SALE day for Bozo the Flying Magic Carpet Clown.

I am pleased to say that my friends did find a wonderful rug at a fabulous price at a home store a little while later. Before the ice cream. The ice cream was a treat for finding the prize carpet and for not rolling the earlier salesmen into one of his own products and dumping him among the geometrically shaped rocks behind the store.

HEIGHT CHALLENGES AT THE AMAZON LOCKER

 There is an Amazon Hub where I live. For anyone unfamiliar, this is a group of multi-sized lockers, and orders such as Amazon and other packages can be delivered here and locked securely until a code is entered. When the code is put in correctly, a random door will open, and, VOILA, there's the package!

I have lived at this same apartment complex for almost two years now, and I have not had any major issues with the Amazon Hub except that once the UPS delivered a super-important document and gave me the code -- but it wasn't even mail for me. Other than that, I have never had an issue with the locker system.

Until recently.

I ordered some books (big surprise), and they were delivered to the Hub locker. No problem. I've done this at least fifty times already. This time, the box is in the very top locker. Well, I am five-foot-two on a good day, so I tried to grab the box while standing on my tippy toes. No suck luck because whoever delivered it pushed the box back into the deep locker.

I cannot back my car any further, so standing on the trunk or hood is not an option. Nor is heading home to get a stepstool since once the door closes, I cannot open it again even with the code. So, I reach for the bike pump. It has a thin handle. Maybe I can catch the box. Nope. It budges a little, but not enough. My fingers are still slipping on the box edge.

I grab my leather driving gloves, figuring maybe my hands are too slippery or something. Nope. The box is simply too heavy for my fingers to move it close enough to grab completely.

I dig out a golf umbrella. Surely that must be long enough. But, no, it is actually too cumbersome to make a positive difference and accidentally pushes the box even further in than it had originally been into the storage cubby. I throw the umbrella into my open trunk, figuring all of the facing apartments and the entire office staff must be having a grand laugh at my expense.

Finally, I grab my scraper-brush. I am able to pull the box just enough to make contact, just enough to pull the damn thing out of the way-too-high bin. I slam the bin shut, but I do so with such force that it bounces open again, and then again, mocking me. I almost leave it open, then I figure I had better close the stupid thing or risk losing delivery privileges.

The following day, I get another notification that I have a package. Well, surely it won't be in the top locker bin again. Right? I mean, what are the odds after all this time with just one height-related insult?

Sonofabitch, it is in the top bin. Not the same exact bin, mind you, but a top locker, just the same. I go right for the scraper-brush, get the package, and head home. Over the weekend I am with friends at a home goods type store. I see a foldable stepstool for $8. SOLD! It now sits in the trunk of my car. Screw you, Amazon and UPS and USPS! I am onto you and your dirty tricks!

Of course, now all of my packages will be delivered to the bottom row of bins because I have hip issues. It's just my rotten luck.

MASKING UP FOR THE CROWN

I am on my way to the dentist to get a crown when I remember I need a mask at the office. Yeah, yeah, yeah; I get it: Covid is the monster still lurking in the air. Right?

I'll probably die of it because I'm over Covid. Completely and 100% over it. I took a few of the shots and got deathly ill from shot #2 and booster #1. I have been medically advised never to take the vaccine ever again, and I never will; not unless the hematologist and I want to get up close and personal for another six months. Thanks, and she's a lovely woman, but no thanks.

I am so over Covid that I don't mask up anywhere anymore. Except, of course, at the dentist. Even my most recent trip to the dermatologist didn't require a mask. I wore one into the office and saw the entire staff unmasked. I asked, "No more mask requirement?" They smiled. "Oh, thank gawd," I replied. 

Over it. So over it.

Which brings me to the dentist.

Imagine my surprise when I get to the dentist office doorway a mere week after my last appointment, and I notice that the sign requiring masks has been taken down. I walk in, masked, of course, because I don't believe this for one red-hot second. I'll bet the sign fell off the door and blew away.

Nope. No one is masked up. No one, that is, except those actually doing the dental work.

And it's a damn good thing that the dentist has taken away the mask requirement because as soon as I get into the office, my new mask decides to throw a shoe -- one of the ear bands snaps apart. I can't wear this mask; I can only hold it plastered against my cheeks. 

In the end, I am saved from the embarrassment of showing up without the proper mask, even though I have probably seventy-five new masks at home. Now the only crown I have to worry about is the one I wear as Queen of my Classroom.

FALL FOLIAGE FORECAST

The fall foliage forecast has been dismal due to the summer drought. Honestly, the last few years the foliage colors have been kind of lackluster, anyway, so what's another sucky year, right?

Much to our spectacular surprise, though, the colors have been amazing. 

The best part is that we don't even have to trek up into the mountains to see this. Peak foliage is just hitting its stride here, and a simple drive down most any back road will cause jaws to drop. Drive a side route instead of the highway and amazed. Cruise along any random neighborhood, and you'll be pulling over to whip out the cellphone camera.

Today, a simple trip to a wine tasting a few miles away turned into a two-hour driving tour of ooooohhhs and aaaahhhhhs, with multiple random pull-overs to take pictures of the autumn colors.

Some people enjoy the sick distress of sitting in highway traffic just to be able to say they saw a few minutes of the foliage from Cathedral Ledge or the Kancamagus or the Adirondacks or the Green Mountains. I say just hold your cameras for a dang minute and the foliage will come to you without the gasoline emissions and the swearing and the never-ending mobs of people.

Enjoy, people. By this time next week, it will almost be over and winter will be here. That's when the real fun starts.