I don't know why people feel compelled to say something when they walk past me while I'm shovelling. Much as I drink deeply from the cup of human kindness, I find it hard not to bash these passers-by upside the head with my shovel.
Comments that make me want to go all red-rum:
"When you're finished with that, could you come to my house?"
"That looks heavy."
"Working hard?"
"Isn't the snow beautiful?"
"Don't you have anyone to help you?"
"You're almost done."
"Wow, that's a lot of snow."
Really, a number of people should be grateful that they escaped the day without serious injury.
What's wrong with the smile and nod? I'm a big fan of the smile and nod: it's appropriate for so many occasions, fulfills the need for brief social interaction, and never makes me want to do bodily harm.
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
If hatred was hot...
Those fluffy bunny flakes would be evaporating before they hit the ground.
Four hours, four hours and a bajillion shovel-loads, I can finally move my car. Not that I want to go anywhere (and I'm uncertain if anything is open), but knowing I could go somewhere lessens the cabin fever.
I'm currently quaffing my Irish coffee and waiting for my back to hurt. Hopefully the liquor and Aleve will nip that in the bud. Or maybe I'll be too drunk to care.
I'm wondering if school will be canceled tomorrow. It's been a looong time since we had two snowdays in a row.
Every winter begins with the hope that we won't use our snowdays and will get out earlier, but that never happens. In March last year, when I thought we were in the clear with one day to spare, the water main broke and we had to cancel.
I have a stack of papers to grade, but even if my spirit was willing, I don't think my arms have the strength to support a pen. They're noodles right now.
Four hours, four hours and a bajillion shovel-loads, I can finally move my car. Not that I want to go anywhere (and I'm uncertain if anything is open), but knowing I could go somewhere lessens the cabin fever.
I'm currently quaffing my Irish coffee and waiting for my back to hurt. Hopefully the liquor and Aleve will nip that in the bud. Or maybe I'll be too drunk to care.
I'm wondering if school will be canceled tomorrow. It's been a looong time since we had two snowdays in a row.
Every winter begins with the hope that we won't use our snowdays and will get out earlier, but that never happens. In March last year, when I thought we were in the clear with one day to spare, the water main broke and we had to cancel.
I have a stack of papers to grade, but even if my spirit was willing, I don't think my arms have the strength to support a pen. They're noodles right now.
Sunday, January 9, 2011
The latest in snow-shovelling fashion
What does the well-clad woman wear while shovelling the driveway?
I have a great pair of old, broken-in boots in black and brown. Nothing makes me feel richer than a sturdy pair of boots, especially since my poverty years were marked by a scarcity of appropriate footwear.
Tangent: INTO THIN AIR, a great read about scaling Mount Everest contains an incident that's become a metaphor for my life. One of the people on the expedition climbed the mountain in new boots. NEW boots- barely worn before. His feet were effed-up pieces of hamburger meat by the end of the trek (but the horrendous frostbite he was dealing with took precedence). In situations when I might be ill-prepared, I ask myself if what I'm doing amounts to climbing Everest in new boots.
A hat is a must. It took me more than thirty years to realize wearing a hat keeps me warmer than going without. I have my trusty black hat and my Notre Dame hat for snowy days.
I don't like shovelling in a winter coat. I prefer layers: shirt, sweater, and winter sweater. My winter sweater used to be my dad's, and the good feature of a winter sweater, the definitive feature of a winter sweater, is that you can wear it without a coat. It's thick enough by itself.
I wear jeans even though they aren't the best pants for winterwear, but I'm only shovelling; it's not as if I'm climbing Mount Everest.
The couple down the street were having a massive argument while I shovelled. The only sounds at seven this morning were the intermittent traffic on the street, the plops of snow from trees, the long scrapes of my shovel against the driveway, and their shouting.
I was intent on not appearing to listen, so I didn't really hear what they were saying. When the male half of the couple stomped past me, I couldn't look at him. Nothing to see here, nothing to hear here, only me and my shovel.
I have a great pair of old, broken-in boots in black and brown. Nothing makes me feel richer than a sturdy pair of boots, especially since my poverty years were marked by a scarcity of appropriate footwear.
Tangent: INTO THIN AIR, a great read about scaling Mount Everest contains an incident that's become a metaphor for my life. One of the people on the expedition climbed the mountain in new boots. NEW boots- barely worn before. His feet were effed-up pieces of hamburger meat by the end of the trek (but the horrendous frostbite he was dealing with took precedence). In situations when I might be ill-prepared, I ask myself if what I'm doing amounts to climbing Everest in new boots.
A hat is a must. It took me more than thirty years to realize wearing a hat keeps me warmer than going without. I have my trusty black hat and my Notre Dame hat for snowy days.
I don't like shovelling in a winter coat. I prefer layers: shirt, sweater, and winter sweater. My winter sweater used to be my dad's, and the good feature of a winter sweater, the definitive feature of a winter sweater, is that you can wear it without a coat. It's thick enough by itself.
I wear jeans even though they aren't the best pants for winterwear, but I'm only shovelling; it's not as if I'm climbing Mount Everest.
The couple down the street were having a massive argument while I shovelled. The only sounds at seven this morning were the intermittent traffic on the street, the plops of snow from trees, the long scrapes of my shovel against the driveway, and their shouting.
I was intent on not appearing to listen, so I didn't really hear what they were saying. When the male half of the couple stomped past me, I couldn't look at him. Nothing to see here, nothing to hear here, only me and my shovel.
A stitch in time
The only reason I shovelled yesterday was that more snow was in the forecast. I knew that yesterday's soft and fluffy inches would become a solid layer of PITA under the new snowfall.
When I woke up today and saw that the night had dumped a new layer, I was giving hardy thanks to yesterday's Kaye for having the foresight and actually carrying through.
It's funny what you think about during mindless tasks. As I shovelled and pushed the snow, I remembered my brother and I shovelling my mom's driveway last year. He lives in Florida and of course New England welcomed him back with a snowstorm. We didn't talk much during the shovelling, but when we got near the end, he turned to me and said, "Is it good enough for county work?"
That's what ran through my mind this morning, and as I started on the last few feet, I told myself, "It's good enough for county work."
When I woke up today and saw that the night had dumped a new layer, I was giving hardy thanks to yesterday's Kaye for having the foresight and actually carrying through.
It's funny what you think about during mindless tasks. As I shovelled and pushed the snow, I remembered my brother and I shovelling my mom's driveway last year. He lives in Florida and of course New England welcomed him back with a snowstorm. We didn't talk much during the shovelling, but when we got near the end, he turned to me and said, "Is it good enough for county work?"
That's what ran through my mind this morning, and as I started on the last few feet, I told myself, "It's good enough for county work."
Sunday, January 2, 2011
Shiny Sunday- the last day of vay-kay
How did I spend my Christmas break? Ignoring the work in my bag and inbox. Rereading Stephen King (DOLORES CLAIBORNE, THE DEAD ZONE, and THE SHINING). Forgetting to return my Netflix (I swear, if it weren't for instant-watch, I'd cancel my subscription). Rereading THE DRESDEN FILES. And my favorite, dicking around on the internet.
I also read the new DEXTER and FULL DARK, NO STARS. About the latter: people have been bagging on "Big Driver," but I have an outright fondness for the way King writes his heroines. I think he's one of the few male authors who can write from a female point of view and not eff it up. He's come a long way since CARRIE.
I forced myself to grade the classes I have tomorrow by holding up the carrot of DOCTOR WHO. It's on instant-watch, and I want to find out the secret of Big, Bad Wolf.
I also need to work on my geek-cred. How can I even wear the badge if I haven't watched enough of the good Doctor to understand the references?
Then again, I'm the one who always messes up lines from Monty Python and has to stand there while someone else re-recites them word perfect.
To which I respond with a groin shot.
You know what's funnier than someone repeating what you just recited with the difference of a few words? That person rolling on the ground, gasping like a fish.
My goal for today is watching a few episodes and buying a desk calendar for school (cuts to the budget mean teachers have to buy their own).
I also read the new DEXTER and FULL DARK, NO STARS. About the latter: people have been bagging on "Big Driver," but I have an outright fondness for the way King writes his heroines. I think he's one of the few male authors who can write from a female point of view and not eff it up. He's come a long way since CARRIE.
I forced myself to grade the classes I have tomorrow by holding up the carrot of DOCTOR WHO. It's on instant-watch, and I want to find out the secret of Big, Bad Wolf.
I also need to work on my geek-cred. How can I even wear the badge if I haven't watched enough of the good Doctor to understand the references?
Then again, I'm the one who always messes up lines from Monty Python and has to stand there while someone else re-recites them word perfect.
To which I respond with a groin shot.
You know what's funnier than someone repeating what you just recited with the difference of a few words? That person rolling on the ground, gasping like a fish.
My goal for today is watching a few episodes and buying a desk calendar for school (cuts to the budget mean teachers have to buy their own).
Saturday, January 1, 2011
Reason 477 why the internet is dangerous
I don't know how it happened, but I developed a new fear over the past couple months. Whenever I click on a video, I'm terrified that it's going to be one of those screamer vids that make my skeleton jolt against my skin.
Does anyone else have this fear?
I started reading Mark Watches, a blog by this wonderful blogger who started out reviewing Harry Potter chapter by chapter and then went on to reviewing Firefly. Now he's reading CATCHING FIRE (boy, do I want to warn him about that) and watching DOCTOR WHO.
I never watched DOCTOR WHO, but Mark keeps mentioning this foreshadowing and repeated mention of "Big, bad wolf" in the show. I got curious and googled it to see what it meant.
I went to a site that came on with a crash of creepy whispers and music, and a picture slowly started to come into focus on the screen-
I got the fuck out of there.
I will never stray from known sites. I will never click on strange links. I will never get off the boat.
Does anyone else have this fear?
I started reading Mark Watches, a blog by this wonderful blogger who started out reviewing Harry Potter chapter by chapter and then went on to reviewing Firefly. Now he's reading CATCHING FIRE (boy, do I want to warn him about that) and watching DOCTOR WHO.
I never watched DOCTOR WHO, but Mark keeps mentioning this foreshadowing and repeated mention of "Big, bad wolf" in the show. I got curious and googled it to see what it meant.
I went to a site that came on with a crash of creepy whispers and music, and a picture slowly started to come into focus on the screen-
I got the fuck out of there.
I will never stray from known sites. I will never click on strange links. I will never get off the boat.
Flashback to Thanksgiving
Thanksgiving was a much kinder holiday to me.
Tattoo Queen flew all the way out from the West Coast to spend a chunk of time with me. She helped me make the holiday potatoes and the baked mac and cheese (both recipes called for the timely administration of much beer), and the Friday after the feast, we didn't bother getting dressed.
We spent the entire day in our PJs watching a season of VAMPIRE DIARIES. With much beer and leftovers.
I didn't do a lickspittle of grading, and we were on the same wavelength of vegging out and falling in love with our favorite psychopath- Damon, who is ever so much hotter than Boone.
It was amazing to have her around, to talk and read and watch TV in the same room. All the things that were common when I lived in Portland, but incredibly rare now.
I am going to have to get my ass to the West Coast this summer.
Tattoo Queen flew all the way out from the West Coast to spend a chunk of time with me. She helped me make the holiday potatoes and the baked mac and cheese (both recipes called for the timely administration of much beer), and the Friday after the feast, we didn't bother getting dressed.
We spent the entire day in our PJs watching a season of VAMPIRE DIARIES. With much beer and leftovers.
I didn't do a lickspittle of grading, and we were on the same wavelength of vegging out and falling in love with our favorite psychopath- Damon, who is ever so much hotter than Boone.
It was amazing to have her around, to talk and read and watch TV in the same room. All the things that were common when I lived in Portland, but incredibly rare now.
I am going to have to get my ass to the West Coast this summer.
A Christmas for the Books
Christmas found me hung over and making holiday potatoes and baked mac and cheese. Cooking for me is not fun when I'm cold sober, but since my liver was waving a white flag from Christmas Eve, I decided not to imbibe.
I was spooning the potatoes into a pan when I heard a hot hissing from the oven.
My mother was roasting two turkeys and bent the aluminum pans to make them fit in the oven, as you do. We pulled the rack out and fixed the pan.
Or so we thought. (DUN DUN DUNNNN)
The turkeys coming out of the oven coincided with the rest of the family coming in. The potatoes and mac and cheese went in the oven, the baked brie went in the oven, and my mom's extra-special cauliflower went in the oven.
The smoke from the turkey spillage was a little heavy, so we kept the oven door opening to a minimum.
Brie came out, and I waited by the oven to be ready for the perfect browning-crispy-on-top minute. Apparently my minute was too long because the top of my mac and cheese burned. As I scraped off the carbonized parts, I bitched to myself that this is what happens- you work for hours on something and it turns to shit in a minute.
My sister Ella opened the door to put in the sweet potatoes-
-And flames leaped out. Honest to God flames of the fiery, scorching, FUEGO! kind.
She started laughing, I started crying, my sister Emma started screeching, and we all fumbled around looking for something to put out the fire. Fire extinguisher? Nope. Baking soda? Nope.
My brother found the canister of gourmet sea salt, uncapped it, and stood ready to douse the flames. He opened the oven door, and we all let out a sigh of relief that there was no more fire, then promptly started coughing our guts out as thick, black, acrid clouds billowed out of the stove.
More fumbling for fans and opened windows. My two brothers and my brother-in-law hauled the stove out the kitchen door, down the porch steps, and onto my mother's side lawn.
The smoke cleared after awhile, and we sat down to dinner.
My family found the funny waaaayyy before I did: so many effing jokes about "I've got the black lung" and cauliflower.
And my mother kept on saying that we've been lucky that this hasn't happened before. Really, I think she was dropped on her head. It's not luck that the stove doesn't catch on fire; it's normal. People go their whole lives without stoves catching on fire.
I felt stupid about knowing the turkey leaked and not doing anything about it, but I don't know what I could've done. The turkeys needed to roast and stuff needed to get cooked, and I had no idea- absolutely none- that the shit was flammable.
Lesson learned.
I was spooning the potatoes into a pan when I heard a hot hissing from the oven.
My mother was roasting two turkeys and bent the aluminum pans to make them fit in the oven, as you do. We pulled the rack out and fixed the pan.
Or so we thought. (DUN DUN DUNNNN)
The turkeys coming out of the oven coincided with the rest of the family coming in. The potatoes and mac and cheese went in the oven, the baked brie went in the oven, and my mom's extra-special cauliflower went in the oven.
The smoke from the turkey spillage was a little heavy, so we kept the oven door opening to a minimum.
Brie came out, and I waited by the oven to be ready for the perfect browning-crispy-on-top minute. Apparently my minute was too long because the top of my mac and cheese burned. As I scraped off the carbonized parts, I bitched to myself that this is what happens- you work for hours on something and it turns to shit in a minute.
My sister Ella opened the door to put in the sweet potatoes-
-And flames leaped out. Honest to God flames of the fiery, scorching, FUEGO! kind.
She started laughing, I started crying, my sister Emma started screeching, and we all fumbled around looking for something to put out the fire. Fire extinguisher? Nope. Baking soda? Nope.
My brother found the canister of gourmet sea salt, uncapped it, and stood ready to douse the flames. He opened the oven door, and we all let out a sigh of relief that there was no more fire, then promptly started coughing our guts out as thick, black, acrid clouds billowed out of the stove.
More fumbling for fans and opened windows. My two brothers and my brother-in-law hauled the stove out the kitchen door, down the porch steps, and onto my mother's side lawn.
The smoke cleared after awhile, and we sat down to dinner.
My family found the funny waaaayyy before I did: so many effing jokes about "I've got the black lung" and cauliflower.
And my mother kept on saying that we've been lucky that this hasn't happened before. Really, I think she was dropped on her head. It's not luck that the stove doesn't catch on fire; it's normal. People go their whole lives without stoves catching on fire.
I felt stupid about knowing the turkey leaked and not doing anything about it, but I don't know what I could've done. The turkeys needed to roast and stuff needed to get cooked, and I had no idea- absolutely none- that the shit was flammable.
Lesson learned.
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