Moving Day Is Approaching

We are moving in twenty days.  An outside observer would be able to tell that something is amiss.  This inside observer and person who is actually living in the turmoil can definitely attest to the variety of ills caused by moving. 

The garage has become a boxy cavern.  There is one narrow path from BP's door to the kitchen door.  To the right and left are walls of boxes, both packed and waiting to be packed, a pile of odd-shaped things that won't fit into boxes, four rapidly filling garbage cans, an island of unformed boxes, and my kayak.  My kayak is loaded and in position to be pulled out so I can escape to the river where there are no boxes.

We feel the need to remind each other not to use the coffee table in the livingroom.  The glass top has been wrapped and boxed.  So when BP put his cell phone down, it kept going down.  We're a little nervous that someone will try to put their coffee down.

I'm keeping my fingers crossed that we don't need any tools.  They're packed away in the garage somewhere.  We do have another tool kit in the kitchen with a place for every tool and all but one tool in its place.  I sure hope we don't need the pliers.

Meals are now planned around whatever is in the freezer or pantry.  If anyone wants to stop in for dinner that's fine.  Just don't expect much.  Those cans of Progresso soup are heavy, and we will be eating them no matter how hot it is.  We have 4 1/2 boxes of linguini, 1/4 box of elbows, 3/4 box of bowties, et cetera.  My goal is to finish all the et cetera.   The only thing I might give in on is the beer bread mix from the Tastefully Simple party Diane hosted back when she lived in Cliffwood Beach.  How many years have they been here?

This move will go smoothly.  First, on moving day I will have an easily accessible bag with a change of clothes, toiletries, and bedding to be used that first night so we don't have to be buying sheets at Walmart at 10:00 at night (like we did when we moved in!)  This time we will not have a truck that's too small and requires a second trip.  This time we will use wardrobe boxes and NOT attempt to move the closet contents ourselves.  This time we will not be moving in December and hell-bent on unpacking while decorating for Christmas.  In fact, we will be packing easily accessible bathing suits.  When in doubt, go swimming.

On Turning 50

I recently celebrated my 50th birthday.  It wasn't anything like I envisioned it.  I had hoped to spend the day kayaking down a river, but it was a Friday and everyone I'd have liked to go with was working.  So I decided I'd go by myself.  Or maybe I'd go hiking and geocaching, or just kayak on the lake, or something.  Maybe we could go fishing or go to the beach.  Then I got the newsflash that the world is still spinning rapidly without regard to my birthday plans.  A decision on which house to buy had to be made that day, so I would be fishing for a house, and would have to settle for a dinner at Big Ed's before Friday Night Games. 

Optimist that I am, it was not an awful lot in life to spend one's birthday choosing between two really nice houses.  Would we go with the wonderful ranch with the good kitchen, the gorgeous living room with the white stone fireplace and the wooded yard and the small outdated bathrooms?  Or would we end up in the bright split level with the great closets, the office, the to-die-for inground pool, all those stairs and the yucky kitchen?  At the end of the day, I ended up with the pool house.  The negotiations, the paperwork, and a kitchen renovation are still ahead of us, but the decision is made.

Being 50 can't be that different than being 49.  In the past week, the beginning of summer vacation, I did some fun things.  I went kayaking twice, visiting with the blue heron and the family of loons.  I've done some shopping and started rewatching the Lord of the Rings trilogy.  Don't tell the governor, but despite the fact that I'm one of those union-joining budget-sucking teachers, I've completed one and 2/3 of the textbooks I'm reading to prepare for the two new curricula I have to teach next year.  

Best of all, I found my first geocache this week.  For those who don't know, geocaching is a treasure hunt played by millions of people.  Geochachers hide plastic boxes in the woods and register its coordinates on a website.  Then someone in that vicinity picks the coordinates off the website and searches for the box using a handheld GPS.  The searcher opens the box, signs the registry, takes a trinket, and leaves a trinket.  I took a geocache coin and left a seashell marked Seaside Heights.  I had only a small amount of trouble finding the cache, and once done I drove directly to the grocery store to buy some poison ivy wash to remedy that small amount of trouble.  Two days later, I'm happy to report several mosquito bites and a scratch from tripping on a fallen branch, but no rash.  

There was a book that I bought for a friend who turned 50 a few years ago.  I was thinking of that book and toyed with the idea of taking a run to the bookstore to buy myself a present.  But I didn't even know the title, so instead, I registered online for my AARP card and then drove to the library to borrow a copy of New York magazine.  While waiting in a doctor's office (to schedule a colonoscopy!!) I started reading an interesting article and I wanted to finish it.  On the way out of the library, out of sheer wild coincidence and serendipity, I left through a random aisle that happened to contain the book Fifty Things To Do When You Turn Fifty.  That's the book I wanted to buy!  It's a collection of advice essays and what I've learned is that many people are upset about turning 50 because they feel old.  I have no idea what they're talking about.  "50 is the new 30.  50 is the new 40."  I didn't care about 30.  I didn't care about 40.  I'm 50 and I still don't care.  Somehow, my hair's not gray.  Somehow, I'm not losing energy.  Somehow, on some really significant level, I'm not swimming with the other 50-year-olds.  But next month, I will be swimming in my own pool.  So be it.  Viva la 50th birthday!

The Ghost Wins--No Contest

When I was little I was afraid of the top floor of my grandmother's house.   I didn't love the basement because it was dark and dirty and empty except for the furnace, the washing machine, and maybe some boxes or other things of little note.  But I wasn't afraid.  I was perfectly fine on the first floor, which held the kitchen, the bathroom, and the dining room.  It also had a creepy little bathroom near the back door with an ancient toilet and a really tiny sink.  It was old and dingy, but I wasn't afraid.  The second floor had a small bedroom where Aunt Bridgie slept, a big bedroom that Nana and Kathleen (her daughter) shared, and a living room.  I was fine there.

But when you went upstairs to the third floor, there was a two by three foot rectangular hole in the ceiling.  A metal ladder was bolted into the hall and led over the stairs to the hole.  I was never up there.  It was black.  I touched the ladder on occasion with the intention of climbing up and looking around, but I never made it past the second rung.  I am assured by both my mother and aunt that there was nothing up there but old clothes and photographs, but never, not even as an adult living there, did I seriously consider exploring.  Over the course of my life I have dreamt of the hole in the ceiling.  In these dreams I have found brightly furnished pleasant rooms with staircases leading to shabbier rooms, with ladders leading to storage rooms, with ladders leading to dark, foreboding, horrible secret hiding places complete with the preserved remains of murder victims from past generations.

But the attic wasn't the problem.  If I left it alone, it left me alone.  There was something wrong with the whole apartment, especially the hallway.  When I lived there I felt perfectly safe.  I slept for ten months in the front room, which I had strong reservations about.  When I was 18 the family gathered downstairs for some occasion.  My cousin Gavin, who I only saw a few times a year, was about 15.  He was sent to the upstairs kitchen to get ice from the freezer.   After he was gone for an unreasonable amount of time I was sent to find Gavin and the ice.  I found him waiting for me on the bottom step.  "It's about time you came," he said.  "I'm not going up there alone."  I looked at him questioningly and together we ran up two flights of stairs, grabbed the ice, and tore back downstairs.  A few hours later, his sister Geraldine, who was about 25, and who I saw only once or twice in a year of two, came over.  She suggested we go upstairs to get away from everyone.  Gavin and I  settled on the sofa, while Geri sat on the floor a few feet away.  The cat, Lance, was sleeping curled up on the floor.  We got to talking about how we were all scared of the third floor  for as long as we could remember.  We talked about the attic.  We talked about our hunchbacked grandfather who lived up there alone until his death about ten years earlier.  We agreed that the hall made us queasy and that there was something not right about the front room.  As we talked about the front room, the cat jumped up with a yowl, fur up, and stared into the darkness of the front room.  The three of us bolted through the door and thundered downstairs.  That was enough of that.

When, four years later, we were offered the upstairs apartment, I immediately said no.  BP, with dollar signs in his eyes, a healthy measure of common sense, and no experience with the third floor, talked me into it.  Rent free is a good deal.  But truthfully, in the ten months we lived there we were 99% incident free.  There was just one problem on one morning.

I was alone in the house.  Nana and Kathleen were away on vacation.  BP had gone to work.  I was in the bathroom doing my hair.  I heard footsteps in the hall.  I went into the hall and listened.  Nothing.  I returned to the bathroom.  I heard footsteps in the hall.  I stopped, looked, and listened.  I unplugged my curling iron, grabbed my purse and jacket, and went to work.  Something was present and walking in it's apartment.  I was not going to get in the way.

The Beginning of Domestic Bliss: The Day from Hell

Yesterday I wrote about my pecan pie.  What I only touched on was the rest of the day from hell.  It was our first day home from our honeymoon and BP had to work, even though it was a Saturday.  I was so looking forward to setting up our apartment. We were living in the upstairs apartment above my grandmother and aunt in Brooklyn.  We had a kitchen with an old refrigerator with an ice compartment, metal cabinets, and a stove with a lift top so it could double as counter space.  We also bought a freestanding metal cabinet for additional storage and counter space, and an electric dryer.  Nana had a washer in the basement, but she always preferred to hang her clothes in the yard.  We had a nice little living room with huge windows, a little room that held a closet, a loveseat, and a small desk.  Then there was a large but slightly haunted bedroom, that I will write about another time.  The bathroom had a bathtub but no shower, and a tiny sink with separate hot and cold water faucets.  The house was built, I think, in the 1910's.  We  got married in 1983.  But since we were living there rent free so we could save for a house, it was a really sweet deal.

So we wake up for the first time in our new apartment.  BP goes to work.  I am supposed to go to the bridal shower of someone I don't know very well, so I call to say that I can't come because I have to wait for the dryer repairman.  Since we'd just returned from a two-week honeymoon, I decided to attack the laundry first.  I carried our clothes down three flights of stairs to the basement.  As I put our clothes in the washer I meet Spot and Henry.  Spot and Henry are now our pet water bugs.  They are dark brown, about an inch and a half long, and live over the washer.  I admit to being a little unnerved, but I make a mental note to pick up a couple of leashes if I find them in the right size. 

Laundry started, I run upstairs and put things away.  Then I clean.  I decide to call Aunt Mildred and invite her and Uncle Richie over for dessert.  I flip through my only cookbook and look for something I have ingredients for.  Before getting married, we went to the store to stock up our kitchen.  For some unfathomable reason, we happen to have the ingredients for pecan pie.  I have never had pecans in stock since.  Satisfied with my plans, I proceed with the cleaning.  I note that the metal venetian blinds are filthy.  They are also incredibly big.  The apartment had ceilings that I'd estimate at 12 feet high, at minimum.  The windows reach almost to the top of the wall.  The blinds have many, many slats and we have 5 of them, two in the livingroom, two in the bedroom, and one in the kitchen.  Realizing that it would take approximately a year to dust each slat, I figure it would be much more efficient to remove the blinds and wash them in the bathtub.  Metal scratches porcelain.  By the time I had removed wet, and mangled blind number one, I had muddy water, a smudged blind, soggy strings, and a horribly scratched tub.  The more I work, the more it scratches.  I have to give up and hang the unevenly washed blind back in the window.  I never attempt blind number two.  So I dry the floor and go downstairs to retrieve my laundry. 

I return with my wet clothes, stuff them in the dryer, and hit the on button.  Nothing happens.  I called the repair hot line.  They tell me to try plugging something else into the outlet.  The something else doesn't work either.  I need an electrician, but I am not going to get one to come immediately on a Saturday.  So I take my laundry down to Nana's to use her clothesline.  She introduces me to the clothespins and shows me how to use them.  Within five minutes it starts to rain.  She tells me to hang everything from the clothesline in the basement.  I lug my basket past Spot and Henry, and proceed to start hanging.  Apparently I am not very efficient because the wet towels and some white shirts fall on the floor.  When I pick them up, they are black.  Black, as in coaldust black.  Soot black.  Black black.  Now the house had an oil furnace.  But the floor was going to forever be covered with whatever fuel remains were there previously.  I rewash the clothes and resign myself to leave it all there until an electrician can be located.  Nana offers no sympathy and flatly states that going back home to Mom is not an option.  As a footnote, let me repeat that I started my day lying about why I couldn't go to that bridal shower.  I have never, ever again lied as an excuse for anything.  I'm pretty much convinced that if I'd said I was sick, I would have contracted the plague. 

I return empty handed to my upstairs abode.  It iss time to start dinner.  I flip the switch to turn on the kitchen light.  Nothing happens.  Nana assures me that the lights all work and that I just need to replace the bulb.  She hands me a bulb, sends me back into the fray, and probably wonders why she thought it had been a good idea to let us live in her house.  I climb up the ladder again, as high as I can go.  The whole socket turns and plaster rains down on my head.  Using one hand to hold the socket, one hand to hold the bulb, and no hands to keep me from plunging to my death, I finally get the bulb changed.  Yes!  Let there be light.

I don't believe I ever made dinner, being busy with the lightbulb, and about to become even busier with pecan pie.  Eventually the laundry gets done, the bathtub get a third rate paint job, and I decide to never examine the blinds above eye level. Tomorrow I'll tell you about the ghost.

Cooking From Scratch

I had something to prove.  I was just 22 and just married.  My husband, BP, had to work our first day back from our honeymoon.  I begged out of a shower for an acquaintance so I could stay home and set up the apartment.  It was truly a hell of a day.  The newly delivered dryer didn't work, I scratched the bathtub trying to scrub metal venetian blinds, and plaster fell on my head as I teetered on the top of a twelve foot ladder trying to change a lightbulb.  That's the abbreviated version of my day.  But it wasn't over yet.  In my misguided optimism, I had invited my Aunt Mildred and Uncle Richie over for dessert. 

At age 49 I know that when in such a situation one may justifiably cancel the engagement or go to the store to buy a cake.  One might, if extraordinarily ambitious, bake a cake from a box mix.  However, if the person in question is a very young and naïve newlywed, she will think it is a good idea to attempt her very first, made from scratch, crustless pecan pie.  Why pecan pie?  I can only guess at my own motivation here.  I had only eaten pecan pie a few times, but I was aware that BP liked it.  Mostly, it struck me as sophisticated, especially coming from a background in which homemade pies were never really thought of.  I was going to show the world that I could do anything. 

So I took out the never actually used cookbook that I lifted from my mother's house.  I carefully measured all the ingredients and deposited them in my brand new mixer.  I turned it on high and stood frozen in horror as corn syrup and molasses spurted in every direction and dripped down our kitchen cabinets, leaving streaks on our newly painted yellow walls.  Having very little time before our guests arrived, I tried my best to ignore the stickiness of the floor.  I remeasured the ingredients and turned the mixer on low.  Successful this time, I stirred in my pecans and poured the mixture into what I thought was a standard pie plate.  I filled it right up to the top and had batter to spare, although I didn't know why.  I placed it in the oven and got to the business of cleaning the mess.  When Aunt Mildred and Uncle Richie arrived, I was on my hands and knees scrubbing the goop that oozed under the freestanding metal cabinet that we had just acquired.  To there credit, they did not laugh or run.  Without a word, they grabbed cleaning supplies and joined us in the disaster relief effort. 

Things were looking up until someone smelled something burning.  No, the pie was not on fire.  But I now know that the pie plate I'd received at my bridal shower was not standard size.  Pecan pie batter was bubbling over the rim of the plate and was hardening across the bottom of the oven that had managed to stay in good condition from the 1930's until my first day with it.

After a stint of wiping and scraping, we managed to settle in the living room with slightly burnt pecan pie and a big pot of tea.  It was an experience and ultimately, it was fun.  It didn't taste half bad and we had a nice little visit.  Despite the stress, the mess, and total exhaustion, this first experience of cooking gave me a sense of satisfaction.  It wasn't perfect or anything close to the evening I'd imagined.  But I did prove something.  I proved to my aunt and uncle and BP that I was not an accomplished cook.  But I proved to myself that I can make a simple plan, watch that plan go off the scale haywire, and fight my way through every difficulty until things come out alright.  BP still says that it was the best pecan pie he ever ate.  

Unexpected Gift!

There's nothing like an unexpected gift.  No, I didn't win the lottery, but I imagine the feeling is similar.  I was so stunned I didn't quite know how to react.  I didn't even know where to go or what to take with me.  No, I didn't win a vacation.  Not quite.  So there I am in my classroom on a Tuesday afternoon after testing.  We're watching a movie, Akeelah and the Bee, to be precise.  I'm busying myself writing next week lesson plans and supervising the kids who need supervising.  I haven't had to harp too badly yet.  I have an hour to go.  The door opens and another teacher walks in.  He tells me I'm free to go.

At first I am confused.  There was a class coverage list but I wasn't on it.  According to the list, I get one prep break all week, half of 45 minutes split with someone else, and this takes place tomorrow.  I am not overly pleased by the arrangement, but neither am I distraught.  In teaching, the schedule changes from year to year.  Some years we like our schedules; other years they stink.  I've had years when my testing or half-day schedule had me working non-stop, and other times I've made out like a bandit.  You take the good, you take the bad.  So anyway, there I was being told I could just leave for 45 minutes.  Forty-five free minutes with no papers to grade, no parents to meet with, and no children to tend to!

So here I am hiding in the back of the school library, typing away my amazement.  I'm not really hiding, but...well, you never know.  I'm enjoying this out of all proportion.  It's not like I don't have a prep every day.  But every day there's something to get done.  This free time is, well, free.  It's unscripted and great.  And what does all this excitement about forty-five minutes say about my standards of happiness?  The answer to that question is scary.

Don't Look Too Closely in the Closet

A long time ago when BP and I were debating whether to renovate our old house or move, we did a little house hunting.  Let me just interject that in this place and time we had recently watched a creepy voodoo themed movie called "The Believers".  In this movie people were sacificing chickens, lighting candles on homemade altars, and dying of supernatural causes.  I don't really remember the details, but I remember watching it in a fetal position with a blanket wrapped tightly around me.  I may have left the living room light on all night so I wouldn't have to go upstairs in the dark.  Back to house hunting, we checked out a townhome across the street from Woodbridge Center Mall.  We couldn't quite place the smell.  The place was quite clean.  Cooking spices?  Maybe.  Nice kitchen.  Decent sized living room.  Very nice master bedroom.  Is this a linen closet?  No, it's not.  One shelf.  Statues, little pictures, flowers, candles, incense... all paraphenalia to pray to...Jesus? Mary? ancient ancestors?  Buddha?  the dark forces?  We were out of there.

This was back in the hey day of the haunted house movie.  Eddie Murphy used to do this skit.  Here's the difference between white people and black people.  You have all these white people in horror movies.  The kid gets sucked into the TV.  The walls are bleeding.  People are getting possessed and their heads are spinning, literally around on their necks.  These white people stay until they're all dead and the credits are rolling.  You never see black folk in these movies.  Black people go to see a house.  Look at these big rooms.  Great yard for the kids to play in.  Beautiful kitchen.  Then a voice from the chandelier says G-E-T O-U-T!  Too bad we can't stay. 

And that's how fast we left the townhome across the street from Woodbridge Center.  In retrospect, we now know that the owners were Hindu and it is very common for them to maintain shrines in their homes.  Still, a non-Hindu like me might be a little unnerved by a shrine-in-the-linen-closet. 

I have recently learned that this uneasiness might be universal, even within own's own religion.  My father-in-law has always been sole owner of the upstairs hallway.  This is because he is the proud owner of over a hundred saint statues and other religious icons.  The family has known for years that the eyes of all these statues follow you on the way to the guest bedroom.  If castastrope ever strikes the Vatican and they find themselves in need of statues, the church will call my father-in-law.  But since that probably won't happen, we are left wondering who will some day inherit this collection.  I want to publicly say that long before my children were thought of, before my sister-in-law was out of elementary school, I declared that those statues will not ever live with me. 

My in-laws are now preparing to sell their home.  To prepare, my mother-in-law wisely boxed up every last saint, relic, picture, and the kneeler (yes, he owns a kneeler!) and hired a painter to spruce up the house.  She was showing the newly painted hallway to Laura and me and we nodded wholehearted approval of their now-normal second floor.  Then she opened the door to the storage closet.  Hundreds of Holy Eyes staring out at us, peeking around the Christmas wrap and suitcases.  Laura and I gasped, looked at each other, and promised to fix this in the morning.  If we were potential homebuyers, this is where we would be jumping into our car wondering "What in heaven's name was that?" 

So in the morning, Laura was hunched in closet in the eaves handing me all the items that might scare off buyers of all spiritual persuasions.  After everything was cleared out, we slid the kneeler into the back corner and tucked the hip-high Archangel Michael with the broken wing underneath it.  We hid the equally large Moses and his Ten Commandments behind the largest boxes we could find.  Although we pulled up the flaps on all the boxes many of the Apostles and Mother Seton were still sticking up, so they are now wearing a lampshade.  I double-checked that the framed picture of St. Sebastian, who is tied by the wrists to a tree and is oozing blood from his multiple arrow wounds, was safely facing a wall because if an actual Voodoo high priestess shows up, neither she nor her family will be hanging out long enough to ask questions. 

In recap, the upstairs hallway is beautiful, the saint collection is totally camoflauged, and not one item of it will ever come to live with me.

Me, BP, and Dr. Seuss at the Hospital

That IV.
I do not like
that IV.

I do not like it.
I do not like it,
not one bit.

Would you like it here or there?
I would not like it here or there.
I would not like it anywhere.

Would you take it from a nurse?
She would really hear me curse.

Would you, could you just relax?
I'll defend me with an ax.

You will get one from the doc.
I could hit him with a rock.

IV's are easy in your arm.
I am violent; I'll do harm.

Nothing to it in your hand.
I could bury you in the sand.

You can do it, easy as pie.
That's a big fat rotten lie.

IV's aren't hard, it's in your head.
I might bolt right up from this bed.

You made Nurse Holly up and flee!
And now my arm is still so free.

IV's are just part of the rules.
Want to keep your family jewels?

I don't see why you have to fuss.
"Not 'til showtime" is a plus.

The doctor's here; it's time to go,
to get IV, I hope you know.

I hate IV.
I hate IV.
I do not like it,
even a bit.
I do not like them here or there.
I hate them, hate them everywhere.

It was too early.
I was surly.
But now the doctor's here.
He's always late.
I know my fate,
and now I will cooperate.

I'm Just Writing to Bother You

I don't quite know what to do with myself, so I am bothering you.  I took the day off from work so I could rest up for tomorrow.  I'm heavily into the "mind over matter" thing, so I figured I would take care of a few phone calls and run an errand or two.  Then I'd spend the day reading and mentally preparing for tomorrow.  I took care of all the business I needed to take care of before noon.  Since I'd not slept well last night I decided that the best place to read was upstairs in bed.  I caught up on my sleep in one session, which means I caught up on my reading before and especially after the sleeping portion of my program.  By the time I finished The Poisonwood Bible I was hungry.  I ate a delicious healthy salad and three Chips Ahoy.  I'm not sure what to do next while I'm essentially occupied with the ambiguous task of waiting for tomorrow morning at 4:15 when it will be time to get up and leave for the hospital.  I am supposed to be there at 5:45 and the surgery is scheduled for 7:30.  That means I will have approximately one hour and forty-five minutes of waiting in the hospital.  And what am I worried about?  I am worried that they will put in that stupid IV before they absolutely need to.  I'm thinking 7:29:00 is a good time if I am unconscious by 7:29:30. 

The Staff of JFK Hospital Needs Your Prayers

As many of you know, I am having a minor surgery on Friday.  Last night I entered a limited audience post on Facebook requesting prayer for my doctor and the nursing staff.  I am confident that I will be just fine.  In fact BP suggested that we cancel our plans to go to Games this Friday, especially since Rich is cooking Indian food.  I courteously gave Rich and Velia a heads-up that it's remotely possible that I might back out at the last minute.  But in my head, I fully intend to be eating dinner with them on Friday night.  I do not know how well the doctor and nurses will be doing.  They may need to cancel their Friday night plans in favor of just chilling out and recovering from me.

I have a checkered medical past.  Several years ago I needed an operation on my foot.  I was given a "twilight drug" which would block the pain but keep me sedated.  I recall laying on the operating table.  I was somewhat aware of a conversation taking place between the surgeon and the anesthesiologist.  I remember wanting to take part in the conversation but not quite being able to.  I heard the little circular saw go on and I remember my foot being held firmly against the surgeons hip.  I couldn't feel anything, but I was awake and I wanted to tell the doctor that I could hear the saw.  I think I tried to talk, but I was not being acknowledged.  He kept jamming my foot into his hip.  After awhile, determined to be heard, I sat up on the operating table.  The anesthesiologist grabbed me by both shoulders and firmly pushed me back down.  I don't remember anything else until I woke up.  When I went for my post-surgical exam, I asked the doctor if I was the first patient to talk through an operation.  He said, "No.  But you were the first patient who ever moved through an entire operation."

This is why I am asking you to pray for Dr. Kline.  Now I will tell you why you need to pray for the nursing staff.  I fired a nurse this morning during my pre-admission testing.  I was not a really happy camper from the start.  I knew to expect a blood test and I was mentally prepared, or at least mentally resigned to the fact.  What Dr. Kline did not mention, and I will be sure to mention it to him, is that I also had to get a chest x-ray and an EKG.  As these are quick, painless, and non-invasive tests, I took them in stride with a perfectly amiable disposition.  Then the very nice nurse who performed the EKG turned into something else- the person who would draw blood.  (Just as aside, BP just asked if I was now writing about the nurse.  He could tell by the sudden intensity of my keystrokes.)  Anyway, she looked at my left arm.  Then she looked at my right arm.  She saw no veins.  She looked at the backs of my hands.  I promptly withdrew my hands and told her that the nurse at the doctor's office got blood out of my right arm and so should she.  I suggested that my veins were not surfacing because I was dehydrated from not drinking, which she agreed was most likely true.  I knew this because I have lived through this scene many times.  She looked again at my left arm and then my right.  Then she said she could feel a vein and she'd TRY to get it the first time; she'd just have to go deep.  (The room is reeling now as I think about this.)  It was now that I said, " I might pass out.  I have to lay down.  And no offense, but I want someone else to do this.  There are  people who can take blood from me.  I want someone else."  She said she did not take offense.  The paperwork nurse came back and gave me orange juice.  Then she offered me more and put a cold compress on my forehead.  She called the lab to send a phlebotomist.  I told her that I've never had trouble at a blood lab and she said, "That's because that's all they do all day."  "I want someone who does this all day."  She assured me that the lab would send someone of that description very soon.  A middle aged Indian-looking woman came, spoke little, examined my arms, and took four vials of blood with no fuss, no muss, and no ramblings about deep veins and TRYING to get blood on the first try.

Oh, and pray especially for the poor soul who has to insert my IV.

I Worked Out Today

I just want to inform the world that I went to the gym this morning.  I walked 32 minutes on the treadmill and did double sets on the circuit.  I joined Planet Fitness last month and I committed myself to exercise every other day.  I kept my commitment for a whole half week before some urgent matter called me off course.  I don't remember what urgent matter offhand.  Was that the day the President asked for my council on some issue of international security? 

I restarted my program only to be interrupted by snow.  There was the day I didn't go to the gym because the snow was accumulating quickly and it would be safer to get home and off the road.  There was the day I worked out shoveling the driveway.  There was the day the weather reporter said it might be icy.  And there was the day it was snowing like crazy...in Chicago.

I have managed to work out between storms and taking care of the needs and potential needs of my family.  But today I worked out.  Yes, I want a medal.

Gina and the Superbowl Non-party

A funny thing happened since my last blog.  Our family grew.  No, there is no change-of-life baby.  Our new addition, Gina, is two months younger than Tara.  Gina is a friend of Tara's who found herself suddenly in need of a new home.  Her mom has been incapacitated with a stroke, and well, she's here now and we are all very glad to have her.  So in future blogs when I'm writing about Gina, you will kindly understand that I am not seeing imaginary kids, nor did we unwittingly fail to include an offspring in our 2010 or 2000 census surveys.

Tonight was our annual watching of the Superbowl.  Just like last year we feasted on ginormous sandwiches from Harold's Deli.  Unlike last year, nobody dropped an entire pastrami and liverwurst sandwich on the floor.  Magic was sorely disappointed.  Nobody was rooting for anyone in particular, except maybe BP.  About halfway through the second quarter he decided Green Bay was looking good, so he declared himself rooting for the frontrunner.  Because of the general lack of enthusiasm for the game, and probably due to being stuffed with deli meat, we were not a lively crew.  Dee never made it here at all.  Gene and Terry went home after half-time.  Frank went home in the third quarter.  I got an unexpected call on my cell phone.  It was BP calling from the other couch to tell me to stop snoring.  So I picked up and reread the magazine article I had been working on in between commercials.  Woo hoo!  Superbowl Party!

Face to Face with Snowplowman

I didn't need to have faith in the weatherman.  Schools were canceled so both Tara and I were off the hook.  She was free to follow her delusion of pulling an all-nighter to work on her art portfolio.  I was free to follow my delusion that I was still capable of pulling an all-nighter. 

10:30  Tara gets home from work and announces that the roads are terrible and we should start shoveling.  We gear up and easily clear the first couple of inches.  A nice young Snowplowman in a yellow truck stops in front of the house to ask if we are going out.  We tell him that we are not going anywhere, but intend to stay up all night and take care of the snow in small manageable increments.  I do my best to impress upon him that I am incapable of shoveling large mountains of frozen snow plowed into the base of my driveway.  He promises to try not to do that.

11:30  BP, Tara, and I are sitting around contentedly enjoying the fire and the knowledge that we have a snowday.  There is an ominous crunching sound in front of the house.  We leap up to investigate.  An Evil Snowplowman in a blue truck has just pushed a three-foot mountain of frozen snow left over from the post-Christmas blizzard into the bottom of our driveway.  I draft BP and the three of us go outside.  BP and I shovel while Tara lifts and launches ice boulders onto where we estimate our sidewalk and front lawn to be. 

1:00  BP is in bed.  Tara and I shovel again.  It is easy.  Good Snowplowman is scraping by our curb.  He sees Tara and straightens out the plow.  She gives him a thumbs up.

1:30  Tara is finally drawing.  I am playing a mindless adventure game on the computer.

2:00   I've had enough of the game, so I settle on the couch with my Kindle.

2:05  I don't know what Tara's doing because I am sound asleep on the couch.

3:00  Tara wakes me by announcing that it's time to shovel again.  My body rises from the couch and puts on boots and coat.  More mountain has been deposited at the base of the driveway.  She gets to work on it while I start at the top.  Soon Good Snowplowman comes.  This time he slows, swerves gently into the bottom of the driveway, and moves the mountain to the side.  An enemy has become my hero.

5:15  I wake up from my reading.  Tara is no longer at the kitchen table or in the diningroom.  I look outside and find her clearing the snow from her car.  The snow has stopped falling and she has cleaned the driveway down to the pavers.  She soon comes inside and I lavishly praise her handiwork.  This is a behavior I clearly want to reinforce.

6:45 Postscript:  The dog has not stayed up at all and comes down to announce breakfast time.  I don't see Tara but note that her boots are next to the kitchen table.  I assume she has gone to bed and contemplate doing the same.  Then I hear Tara talking to me.  I look up at the balcony but she is not there.  She's not in the diningroom or the hall.  She is still talking from very close by.  I convince myself that I am really asleep.  Then I look at the other couch and remember that the blue and yellow blanket had been dropped on the floor in a heap.  It is now in a heap on the other couch and Tara is curled up in a ball under it.  She seems to be sleeptalking.  She didn't do much by way of artwork, but what a job on the driveway!  She made it all the way to sunrise, which is more than I can say for myself.

How Much Faith Should I Place on the Weatherman?

I have a dilemma.  The snowblower gave out last winter and we never replaced it.  There is a major snowstorm coming.  I will  be shoveling.  Here's the problem.  I could stay up all night shoveling a few inches at a time.  If I'm lucky I could even be out there when Snowplowman comes. 

Snowplowman will come after you have spent hours digging out.  He will empty the entire accumulation of the street into your clean driveway.  When you clear out the new pile, he'll come again.  And again.  He is relentless but he can be warded off.  I have learned that he will not dump on you if you stare him down.  Yes, I have stood guard in my driveway.  I have posted myself, and my children, shovels in hand, at the base of the driveway, double-dog-daring him to do it while we were standing there.  And he backed down.  This was a serious moment of triumph for me.

He did,  however, get revenge.  After another storm I had shoveled myself out early and left to go shopping.  When I returned he had snow-piled me out of my own driveway. 

I get so worked up thinking about Snowplowman that I digress from my original intent.  The best thing for me to do is stay up all night and shovel a couple of inches at a time.  Then tomorrow when everyone else is partaking of the Big Dig, I will be sleeping upstairs in a warm bed.  But, what if, by some bizarre twist of fate, I stay up all night chasing the snow off my pavers, and school is not called off.  What if it's a snowy night not followed by a snow day?  It's been known to happen.  The snow that was supposed to start soon after dark has not started at 7:40.  So... how much faith do I place on the weatherman?

The Voyage Home

Floor mats.  Ed Hardy.  Koi.  No problem. 

Leaving my sister-in-laws house, I get on Route 1 South.  Pep Boys is on the corner of whatever street that is that I turn on when I go to Costco.  Somehow I miss it.  No problem.  Auto Zone is a free-standing building in front of Wick Plaza, home of the country's largest American flag.  I thought it was there.  I don't see it.  Maybe it was further down.  I am at Sears.  I toy with the idea of stopping, but I NEED to know how I missed both Pep Boys and Auto Zone.  Besides, I don't ever recall seeing designer floor mats, or any mats at all at Sears Automotive.  I make the U-turn.  I head back north.

There are people reading this who know me well, so I want to say something for the record.  I was not talking on the phone.  I was not singing to the radio.  I was not thinking about something else.  Just for this one afternoon, my entire mind was with me and was  wholly focused on finding these stores.  Now let's continue.

I again approach Wick Plaza.  There's Auto Zone, exactly where I saw it this morning, and where it is every morning on my way to work.  But for the first time I notice something odd about the building.  It is not squarely facing the highway.  It is situated on an angle.  Half the building, visible from the northbound lane, is occupied by Auto Zone.  The other half of the building, visible from the southbound lane, is occupied by Childrenswear Outlet.  From the homewardbound side, which I do not pass that often, you can NOT see the Auto Zone sign. 

I need to make a U-turn.  But I am pretty close to the turn for Costco.  I realize for the first time that the Pep Boys building is set way back from the highway.  What I really see time after time is the sign visible from the north side of the highway.  I get onto the jughandle, proceed to the Pep Boys store, which I have never before entered, and find, (Thank you, God!) the Ed Hardy Koi floormats. 

And then, feeling relieved and exhonorated, I went home.

I made one more brief, eventless trip to Menlo Park the next day.  It was finished.  Christmas happened and everything that needed to be under the tree was there. 

At this point, I should probably write about how Christmas is not about the presents.  And it's not.  I could tell how this Christmas was particularly eventful and in these events, more meaningful.  But I won't.  Instead I will reiterate the lesson I will remember for the rest of my life.  I will never, ever, again miss Black Friday.

Morning at the Mall, Installment IV

We are now up to the Sunday before Christmas.  I am on the road early.  I had completely forgotten that I wanted to get Tara floor mats that match her steering wheel cover.  I head for Strauss in Milltown.  They do not have it.  I decide to go to Woodbridge Center to finish up my shopping.  It shouldn't be too bad.  On the way up Route 1 I see Sears, Auto Zone, and Pep Boys.  I can most likely get the mats in one of these places, all of which are on the southbound side, so I will stop in on the way back.

It is one of the very rare Sundays that I skip Church.  I tell myself that if things are going well I will stop in at Our Lady of Peace and catch the noon mass.  I know that this is probably not going to happen.  I do not feel guilty about it, but I do have the feeling that God is watching me, shaking His head, rolling His eyes, and reminding me that if I hadn't missed Black Friday I would be home at my computer with a bagel and a cup of tea. 

I start at the Sears in Woodbridge Center.  They do not have an automotive department.  I am now on the lookout for Merlots tee shirts, which I hear can be found at Spencers.  I feel way too old to be shopping in Spencers, which was deliciously raunchy when I was in high school.  Thirty one years and two daughters later it strikes me as half a notch away from being a porn shop.  The saleswoman tells me that they do not sell True Blood merchandise, but that I can get it in Hot Topic or FYE.  While I am surrepticiously browsing I find Pop Rocks, a stocking stuffer tradition.  I pay and exit quickly.

I locate the perfect tree ornament for Tara.  It is a camera, which I have personalized with her name.  I pay and am told to come back in ten minutes.  At this point in my travels I am so obsessed with Coach shoes that I have mentally blurred the line between what I am buying and what other people are buying.  I am no longer thinking straight and think I am buying shoes for Laura.  I stop at the ladies' room at J.C. Penny, and pass the shoe department on the way out.  I ask if they have Coach shoes.  The clerk doesn't seem to speak much English and isn't sure that Coach shoes are.  I go to Macy's.  I find the shoes Laura wants in size 7 1/2.  While I wait for the shoes I realize that I am not holding a bag.  Totally losing it now, I can't remember what exactly was in the bag or when I last had it.  For a moment I think I've lost the ornament.  But I don't think I've picked it up yet.  I layed it down on the toilet paper dispenser in the ladies' room.   Which department store was that in?  Did I pick the bag back up?  Which came first, the ornament or the bathroom?  And where is the salesgirl with those blasted shoes?  Okay.  It was only Pop Rocks.  If they're gone, they're gone.  The clerk brought the right shoes in the right size (or so I thought until Christmas Day).  I bought them.  I retraced my steps to the ornament kiosk.  I left my Pop Rocks on the counter when I wrote Tara's name on the Post-It.  Everything was relatively cool.

I found a table to sit at in the center of the mall.  I borrowed a pen from the Dead Sea Salt vendor and checked my list.  As I checked Laura's column it became clear that she didn't ask me for Coach shoes.  That was Tara's idea for her sister.  I sighed and pick up my phone.  "Tara, I found the shoes you wanted for Laura."  I was only really missing the Merlots shirts, which were too expensive at Hot Topic, and the unlisted floor mats.  I tried FYE, which no longer had shirts.  I did find a double pack of Fangtasia shot glasses and a Merlots mug, which I decided, was going to be Pina's birthday present.  I bought them, got a birthday bag at the dollar store, and called Pina to make sure she was home.  She didn't answer her cell phone.

1:04.  She probably forgot to turn off her phone after noon mass.  1:07.  She wasn't answering the house phone.  1:15.  Still nothing.  I took a chance and drove to the house.  I flew into a momentary panic when I turned down the street to hear sirens and see a firetruck in front of the house.  No wonder she wasn't answering the phone.  Fortunately, it was only Santa's firetruck cruising around town.  False alarm.  Both cars were there.  I called from the curb just to be obnoxious.  This time she answered.  I told her to open her front door and there I was on the step with a birthday bag.  She had just gotten home a few minutes ago.  She was, indeed, at the noon mass, but it was the Sixth Grade mass and it had gone overtime.  Thinking like a Catholic, I thanked God that I didn't go to that mass after all.

All I had left was to get the mats on the way home.

Coach Saga, Third Installment

So now it is Saturday morning, 9 a.m.  Tara is working until 3 and is going to Jesse's family Christmas party at 4.  We have a strict deadline.  Laura, Jesse, and I head for the Jackson Outlets in search of a Coach bag for Tara.  I also plan to come back in the near future to buy one for Laura, so I am eager to hear her boldly hinting which bag she would get if it were for her.  We pull into the spacious parking lot and head for one of the many available spaces near the Coach outlet.  My attention is taken by the large crowd on the sidewalk.  It is a very condensed crowd, concentrated only in front of the Coach store.  It appears that no one in New Jersey is shopping anywhere but the Coach store.  I let Laura and Jesse off at the sidewalk to join the line as I park the car.  I soon find Jesse alone because Laura has run off to another store.  The woman behind us counts about a hundred shoppers in front of us.  Laura returns with a purchase.  We leave Jesse alone to freeze while we look in the kitchen store for the knife. 

The kitchen store doesn't have the knife.  We go to the food court to get breakfast.  We call Jesse to find out what he wants.  Laura orders herself an egg sandwich.  I order an egg sandwich.  I can not have it because Laura got the last egg.  I get a grilled ham and cheese.  We return to Jesse.  He has moved up ten whole feet.  I send Laura and Jesse to eat in the car.  After they leave I regret not telling them to bring me my gloves first.  I eat quickly and shove my hands into my pockets.  They come back, and after a little more than an hour, total, we are allowed to shop.  There is a huge crowd inside the store, most of which is the line to pay.  I make a beeline to the shelf where Tara had picked out a purse four days ago when the store was virtually empty.  They have changed the displays and it is no longer there.  I am now sweating.  I find it.  Laura helps Jesse pick out a wristlet while I hold our places on the cashier line.  Jesse joins me.  Laura comes and goes.  Being in this store and not shopping for multiple items is more than she can handle.  She comes back with one bag and then another.  She returns with THE BAG.  It is chocolate brown.  And it's the very last one.  While she forages one more time I tell Jesse that he is to develop a shopping emergency in another store and he needs Laura's opinion.  I will get everything, including THE BAG, and we can settle up later. Laura returns.  "I'm buying it," she announces.  I hand everything to Jesse so I can kill her with both hands.  There are too many witnesses, so I grab the last chocolate brown from her and glare.  "Well, you weren't going to come back here again, were you?" she asks.  Just then a salesperson comes with ten more chocolate brown purses to restock the table.  Just another half hour and we will be out of this accursed store. 

If it weren't for the almost flat tire we would have been on our way to Freehold Mall.  Instead we were looking for a gas station.  Jesse filled the tires.  Then we weren't sure how to get to the mall from where we were.  We had a tad bit of trouble with the GPS, but we finally got there.  Four stores later we found Tara's Coach shoes.  They had the right style in each department store.  They just didn't have size 8.  Laura tried on a  7 1/2 and she figured Tara really needed the 8.  (For later, it is important to note that I thought Laura would actually need a 7 1/2.) She even made it clear which shoes she liked.  Our eyes were on the clock.  I needed to get sneakers for BP.  Laura needed to get sneakers for Billy.  As we headed towards Footlocker Laura and I  had a whispered discussion of what I might get Jesse. 

The answer presented itself almost immediately.  As Laura and I were waiting for our sneakers, Jesse just happened to be looking at a display.  On the display was a pair of gloves with silicon finger tips in size X/XL.  "These are really cool," he said.  "You can use a phone with these gloves on.  I think it's the last pair."  I literally grabbed it from his hand and said that BP would really like these.  Laura said she'd like a pair for Billy.  At this point, I was on a quest and no one was going to stand in my way.  No one.  I waited at the stockroom door for the salesman.  When I appeared I whispered that the young man with me might ask if there are anymore gloves in stock.  "There are none," I informed the clerk.  The man wisely nodded and rang up my purchase.  Laura was miffed that I took the gloves she wanted for Billy.  Oh well.  Jesse, who was basically mugged, was a little bewildered and was still muttering something about really wanting those gloves.  Good, I thought, sulk until next Saturday.  But I had one less present to worry about, which at this point, was the only thing on this planet that I cared about. 

On the way out of the mall we found IT.  The Holy Grail of knives was locked in a display case in the back of Le Table Sur.  We waited fifteen minutes for a clerk.  Actually, I kidnapped a clerk earlier, but the designated Knife Lady wouldn't give him her key.  She finally came and got us the knife.  It seems to be store policy to hand the unpaid knife to the cashier rather than the customer.  But there were quite a few people on line.  She instructed us which line had the more experienced cashiers and hesitated only a moment before handing the item to me.  I'm not sure if she decided I looked trustworthy or too deranged and driven to be messed with. 

As we headed for home, with time to spare, I had two Coach bags, Tara's Coach shoes, a ceramic knife, the sneakers, the ill-gotten gloves, and clear knowledge of which sneakers Tara should get for Laura.  I was relatively happy.

Installment II: Ceramic Knife Divides Coach Saga

I'd like to continue the Saga of the Coach, but I have always been a fan of chronological order.  A couple of nights later I had a minor panic attack and was nursing thoughts that Best Buy would run out of the earphones I wanted to buy BP.  I couldn't stand the anxiety a moment longer, so I announced to BP and Laura that I was going to Target to buy... something.  I was really headed to Best Buy to give Tara, who was working there, money to get the earphones.  Laura, who was making chocolate covered pretzels, said she wanted to come with me to buy little gift bags for the pretzels.  Off we went.  My first stop was the ATM so I could get cash.  Although I use a debit card for every other possible purchase, when I buy for BP I need cash so he can't track the progress of his own Christmas present acquisition.  To Stop and Shop we went.  They even had gift bags. 

But Laura thought we could get them at a better price at Michael's, and get Dad a ceramic knife at Bed, Bath, and Beyond.  I was packing two BBB coupons, so off we went.  We couldn't find the right knife.  They only had a $20 "as seen on TV" version, so we passed.  We got the gift bags at Michaels.  Then we headed south on Route 1 towards Tara and Best Buy.  As we approached, Laura started thinking that we should go to Market Fair to find the knife.  Off we went.  We found a great knife at Williams Sonoma.  Unfortunately there was only one great knife left, and it had a pink handle.  Agreeing that Daddy would not like a knife with a pink handle, we perused the rest of the mall fruitlessly and left empty-handed. 

As we approached the U-Turn Laura observed that we were a few short minutes from Quakerbridge Mall.  We might find a knife at Macy's.  So off we went.  We did not find the knife at Macy's or anywhere else.  Laura did, however, make an interesting observation.  The knives in the display blocks at Macy's could easily slide out of the blocks.  Anyone, at Christmastime at the mall, could easily obtain a weapon.  Laura thought this very distrubing since display knives at Target are securely bolted into their blocks.  I thought it disturbing that Laura knows how kitchen knives are displayed anywhere.  Anyway, we bought a small amount of Gertrude Hawk candy, used the restroom, and got a soda.  As we left the mall, empty-handed, BP called wondering if we were at the Target in Cleveland, Ohio.  We assured him that we would be home very soon.  We delivered the money to Tara and came home. 

While I did feel somewhat reassured to actually see the earphones in the store, I was now concerned that we didn't have the knife.  It's not that I had zero presents in hand.  I spent a previous Sunday wandering aimlessly and desperately through Walmart.  I had scored a $10 sweatshirt and a football jersey.  I liked the sweatshirt, but I was concerned what BP would really think of the Jersey.  After all, as I was purchasing it, the quarterback who's name I was buying was busy lying sacked on the field.  Again.  The earphones should be on the way home soon, but I needed that knife. 

I would like to add that at some point, either that night or at some other time, Laura and I were in the kitchen department at Target.  I checked out the kitchen knife display.  They are, indeed, bolted in.  All except one paring knife that was either overlooked or unbolted... a weapon for someone.

The Saga of the Coach, Installment I

Good morning, everyone, and HAPPY NEW YEAR!

I'm going to flatter myself that you've all been missing my blog these past few weeks and have been wondering why I haven't been writing.  I couldn't write anything of substance because it would have been a violation of the Santa Code.  If it weren't for December's cloak of secrecy I would have written about how easy I thought it would be to only Christmas shop for one husband, Billy (my future son-in-law), and two daughters.  But I couldn't risk spilling the beans on how miserable it is to shop on Cyber Monday when one daughter asked for a very specific pair of boots that doesn't actually exist in adult sizes.
Furthermore, it killed me not to tell the Saga of the Coach.  Tara and I drove an hour to buy Coach shoes and a purse for Laura.  Upon our arrival to a beautifully empty store, we discovered that the outlet doesn't sell shoes, Tara's reason for being out in the cold and dark on a Tuesday night.  My hidden motivation for being there was to find out what pocketbook Tara would like.  So bummed was she about the shoes that I had to forcefully persuade her to make any comments at all on the surrounding merchandise.  This is the child who has stopped me at every Coach display since the age of 12.  I finally had to force her to look at bags until I was satisfied that she picked out the same favorite in three different locations.  We asked a clerk the location of the nearest outlet selling both shoes and bags.  We were in formed that we could go to Atlantic City or Lancaster, Pennsylvania.  We went home empty-handed. 

At least I had a target purchase for Saturday when I was scheduled to return with Laura and Jesse, Tara's boyfriend, in search of the bag I wanted for Tara, and the shoes Jesse wanted for Tara (for which we would extend the odyssey to Freehold Mall). Overambitionsly, I also wanted Laura to pick a bag  for herself while helping me get Tara's present.

I will hold this part of the saga until tomorrow.  All this takes place two weeks before Christmas.  Are you starting to understand why I spent the month of December chanting, "I will never miss Black Friday again"?