OLD YELLOW GOES INTO STORAGE

I finally unload my kayak from my car. My kayak is a snap-together model, so it fits right into the back seat of my little sedan. I left it in the car for an unusually long season, past the freezing point here in New England, because I was determined to get more kayaking in this autumn than I did this summer. 

No such luck.

This past summer sucked. It rained almost every weekend and many days during the week. I spent four days in Laconia, New Hampshire, and I only had one opportunity to kayak. It rained buckets the rest of the time. My favorite pond, which is right around the corner from where I live, was mostly shut down due to the parking lot housing construction equipment to rebuild the dam. 

Needless to say, the kayak got very little time on the water this summer and none this fall.

Now that December is bearing down, this weekend the kayak goes back into the closet, its winter residence, and does nothing but aggravate me when I have to step over displaced snow boots. It's a big yellow reminder that summer wasn't truly summer. It's a huge yellow flag that I didn't get my time's worth out of my investment.

On a positive note, though, now that the kayak has been stored, the sleds can come out of hiding. Maybe it will snow this winter as much as it rained over the summer. I doubt it, though. Mother Nature and I haven't had the most symbiotic relationship, so, if it doesn't snow at all this year, feel free to blame me and Old Yellow. 

SURVIVING THE BOOGER-HEADS

Still sick. This grippe is hanging on like a sloth from a branch. I drag my sorry self to work every day not with the intention of infecting people, but simply because it's more work to be out than it is to be in. Plus, our wing of the school sounds like a tuberculosis unit already. Everyone is hacking up a lung or two. Might as well join the fray.

Luckily, I had stocked myself up almost two weeks ago, so I have soup and crackers, and my freezer is packed full. Finally, though, I decide I need better food. 

Monday I am too sick to go anywhere and barely make it home from work before collapsing. Tuesday I develop a late afternoon fever, so I go straight home, as well. Wednesday and Thursday I don't sleep much and hit the wall both afternoons, so I head home after being on my feet all day.  Sitting up is the only answer for sleep, and I wake up so often during the nights to gag/cough that I manage to piece together about ten hours of sleep over four nights, and I develop severe neck and back issues.

Finally, on Friday, I feel upright enough and can stop hacking long enough to make a quick stop at the grocery store. Despite drinking tea all day long, my body is dehydrated, so I am breaking down and getting myself some soda. I also decide that I need a decent meal. Yes, I desperately need something more substantial than chicken noodle or tomato soup.

Stew. I. Need. Beef. Stew.

I quickly hit the aisles, but it is the Friday before Thanksgiving, and the store is busier than I expect. Oh, well. If I have to wait in a long line, I might as well really stock up. I throw a few extras into my carriage along with soda and stew ingredients. I add bagels, lemon, tea, honey, cough drops, ice cream, broccoli cheddar soup. And, of course, the panacea: Puffs Plus with Lotion tissues, because my poor nose is bloodied raw.

I plan my exit strategy perfectly. By the time I hit the check-out area, there is a lull, and I manage to find an open register. Life is good. But, to be honest, by the time I haul my four bags of groceries up to my apartment, I am more than ready to sit still for the evening.

This morning I get that crock pot going early, pour everything in, add seasonings, sauces, marinades, and half a bottle of bourbon-barrel wine. I run a couple of quick errands then come home, settle in with a book, and wait for my first real meal in over a week. It's worth the wait, but, like someone eating too much after a period of fasting, it takes a while for my stomach to recognize that it is no longer on the "I Think I Might Be Dying" Diet.

I will be eating that stew for a few days. I don't care. It is so worth it, and I am going to savor my step-up from soup as I (hopefully) continue to recover from whatever plague has been cast upon my body by the little booger-heads running loose in the hallways of my place of employment.

W(H)INING ABOUT BEING ILL

I finally have a couple of days off. 

No big surprise -- I'm sick. I finally succumb to that grippe that seems to be making its rounds at school. I am of foul mood and foul temper.

Sure, it's not the pukies. Not officially, anyway. 

However, anyone who has had this will tell you that the first hour awake in the morning is one of hacking so hard and so continuously that all of the phlegm coming forward is like choking up giant globs of puke, anyway. Every time I cough this morning, I have to be near the toilet in case my stomach decides to come up with my lungs.

As the day progresses, my coughs run the gambit from dry and piercing to seal bark to wet with echoing rattles. Although my head feels like it's in a vise, I don't have a fever and would probably be functioning semi-well at school, which is exactly where I'd be had the day not been observance of a national holiday.

I'm getting a little tired of soup, tea, and hot chocolate. It doesn't seem to help much, anyway. I decide that orange juice must be the next defense, so I fill up one of my Christmas mugs. When I empty that and go for a refill, I notice some cava (sparkling wine from Spain) in my refrigerator. I decide that a mimosa in my Christmas mug might make me feel better, too. After all, a mimosa has both orange juice and bubbly fizzy stuff to settle my stomach.

Then I notice the red wine open and recorked. It's a Spanish Monastrell. Red wine is a healthy choice, right? Antioxidants, and all that? Maybe I should have some of that. If all else fails, I can add some juice and fruit and a little tonic, and turn it into a poor version of sangria. 

I'm not sure yet which drink of choice pairs better with the thick, cherry-flavored cough syrup I've been downing nor with the camphor-eucalyptus goop I've been spreading across my chest. All I know is that the wine in my house has taken my initial PAIN and turned it into SPAIN, and THAT, my healthy friends, is a great way to spend a lousy day off.

PENNEY FOR MY ANXIETY

I'm having company this weekend.

This isn't really big news. I often have family members stop by and crash in my living room. I gave up my larger townhouse for smaller apartment living, which is great for cleaning and upkeep and utility costs, but it sucks for storage and for accommodating guests. I have a semi-comfortable futon that I pad with a thick mattress cover, and I bought some nice sheets for it. For the upcoming company visit, I set up the futon and put the pad on it. Then, I look for the bed linens where I always keep them.

The bag is missing.

I spend an hour tearing apart every piece of this apartment, which is crazy since I recently redid the two closets, and I also recently cleared out and reworked the storage benches. There is absolutely nowhere else this bag might be. Well, except for possibly in a donation box somewhere. There is a very real possibility that I accidentally threw the bag of clean sheets near a place where I often gather bags to go to Good Will. All I can think of is that someone now has a rarely-used, basically brand-new set of comfortable, lovely, wrinkle-free, purple flowered sheets.

To prep for my guests, I do not have time to go to the store, even though I live near a Target. I really don't want to be limited to whatever selection and prices the store have, so I throw a random king-sized top sheet over the futon and beg my relatives to bring sleeping bags with them. This seems like a great solution, except that my anxiety is ramped up now because I still cannot find the damn futon sheets.

This dilemma bothers me for about twenty-four hours. 

Finally, I sit down on the computer and Google queen-size sheet sets. Within seconds, I am informed that there is a sale at JC Penney this weekend, starting today. The movie Airplane is one of my favorites, as is the character Johnny, who studies the newspaper foretelling of disaster and announces, "THERE'S A SALE AT PENNEY'S!" 

I find a great selection of sheet sets at unbelievable prices. I throw in two pillow protectors, also on sale. What the heck, I add in a king-sized blanket, also, not surprisingly, at a discounted price. And, because it's a special weekend sale, I get even more money off the entire order. The whole kit-and-kaboodle costs me a whopping $57. If I were to put a price on appeasing my anxiety, I would've guessed it might cost a lot more, and it probably would have if I had gone to Target and picked something off the shelves. 

Of course, now that the order has been placed (scheduled to arrive Friday), the original bag with the original sheets will certainly make an appearance. I don't care! I have my sanity back, and it cost much less than therapy. Now, if I start mumbling, "Auntie Em! Uncle Henry! It's a twister!" or "Leon's getting laaaaaarger," just pull up the JC Penney website and place that plastic credit card in my angry little fist.

A MENACE TO THE HOLIDAYS

Guilty. It's true, your Honor, guilty as charged.

Yes, I am pre-empting Halloween and Thanksgiving with another holiday. It is kind of accidental, but, once it starts, it really does come down to intent. Apparently, I shouldn't have started rearranging the piles of stuff still left to organize, especially not after working all day. My guard is down, and I am mentally exhausted. For the remainder of messy crap, I'm down to some minor office files and a huge amount of photographs and frames. This warrants compartmentalizing larger containers to smaller containers, which somehow leads to checking on the organizational skills of my holiday boxes. 

Oh, it starts innocently enough. 

I question whether or not I can carve out a tiny bit more space to hide more of the junk I carry around with me. Honestly, though, in the last four years, I have gone from a tri-level three-bedroom townhouse, to a two bedroom townhouse, to a one-bedroom apartment. I have weeded out a lot of my belongings. I probably should've gone for a two-bedroom apartment or one that actually offers storage, but this one comes with a fireplace and porch, and the utilities are cheap money compared to the townhouses. 

In my defense, I couldn't help myself.

I truly do not need to pull the holiday boxes out. I know me, and, dang it, I know better. But one box leads to another and another. Before I can stop myself, Christmas is sitting in my living room. I ignore it for a few days. I go grocery shopping one day. I stay late at work another day. I go to a wine tasting on a completely random day.

But then, the weekend sneaks up on me, and I am feeling a little peckish, just peckish enough to stay close to home. I pretend that I don't see Christmas staring at me from every corner of the main living area. It's 80 degrees out, so I open the windows and clean the inner sills. I rearrange and sweep the porch. I let the last gasp of summer into my home, finish a book, make soup, drink wheat beer. I vacuum the apartment.

Yes, yes, yes. Summer is still in the air!

Like the theme song from Jaws, the boxes stalk me with a menacing cadence. O-pen. Oooooooo-pen. Open open open open open open open ...

Damnit, Christmas. It's not even Halloween. I haven't even carved the pumpkin yet. ("Do it tomorrow when it's chilly and rainy," a voice inside my head reasons.) But . . . but, it's too hot to open Christmas. 

O-pen. Oooooooooooooooo-pen. Open open open . . . openopenopenopen . . . OPEN!

The next thing I know, a small pre-lit tree is standing in the corner by the fireplace. It gets plugged in. Ornaments slowly and belligerently make their way to the branches. It takes hours because I don't want to be doing this. Yet, I am, like a person possessed.

Please, your honor, I may be guilty, but I haven't murdered Halloween. I didn't run the red light of holidays. At worst, I've committed a misdemeanor of celebratory order; at best, a breach of etiquette.  I may have the colored lights on, but I haven't plugged in the Santa Band just yet, so there is that. I blame Michael's Craft Store for having Christmas displays out. For the love of all things sane, they even had Advent candles on sale. 

It's not my fault! Guilty! Yes, I am, and somewhat proud of myself, as well.

PALTRY POETRY FOR A PERFECT PARTY

There once were some people who raged

About being what's called "middle-aged."

To avoid the confusion

They held a reunion.

Fun memories soon disengaged.

The dress code they said, "Strictly casual" -

To accommodate all of the gradual

Midsection spreading

That they all were dreading,

Though worry proved to be irrational.

Some say they are older than dirt,

But these insults will rarely cause hurt.

Life gave a licking,

But they are still ticking

Much faster than those now inert.

Oh, sure, perhaps their lives are waning,

But actually, they think they're gaining:

One hundred or more

Is the age they will score

If ever their hips stop complaining!

ARRIVING FOR THE EARLY SHOW

There are many days, too many, that I stay at work later than any sane person should. I have been better in recent years because a coworker kept me honest about leaving close to quitting time, but then she retired. Another coworker has picked up the slack, though, so I am much better about getting my car into parent-pick-up traffic rather than post-Boston commuter traffic.

It's my morning routine that still needs a little finesse.

I have some mornings that I simply cannot sleep, so I leave for work early. Or, I have to get to the post office. Or, I need to escape from my complex because someone is going to be tarring at the ass-crack of dawn. 

I am almost ashamed to admit that this is my car, by itself, in the school parking lot, around 6:30 a.m. For clarity, my hours start officially at 8:20 a.m. I'm not suffering or anything. I get first dibs on the copy machine, no one stops me for an impromptu conference as I head to the mail room, I make myself tea in peace, and nobody looks at me suspiciously if I stop to pee in the deserted student bathroom.

That's right. No normal, well-adjusted person would come to work so damn early. As you can see in the pictures, even the specialty bus-vans hadn't left on their routes yet. However, in my defense, I couldn't sleep, and the complex scheduled speed-bump shaving (complex built them too tall last summer, and we are all scraping our cars' undercarriages) to start at exactly 7:00 a.m.. Since Mother Nature had already thrown off our paving schedule this past June, I didn't want to take any chances.

On a positive note, I was well-caffeinated by the time everyone else arrived at work. On a negative note, I lacked an audience for a good thirty minutes, and I probably whistled, sang, and danced some of my best material before that lot filled in.