November

There’s usually a 10-day period in November when the trees are still a riot of fall color, even though they’ve shed at least half of their leaves. The foliage is still full enough that it filters the sunlight but sparse enough that you can see things that you don’t normally see through the normally dense tree canopy. The light is just right, pale whitish yellow that makes everything, inside and outside, look achingly beautiful. It’s colder than I like but it’s not freezing. It’s a nice time of year. 

Thanksgiving usually falls either right in the middle or toward the end of this little interlude. I first noticed the appearance of ideal November conditions on Tuesday or Wednesday of this week, so this year it will be toward the end. In just over a week, golden late fall will be over and winter will push and shove its way in here, uninvited and unwelcome. But it’s nice while it lasts. 

In a normal year, I am pretty much finished with my Thanksgiving preparations by this time, and I have just a few odds and ends still to gather. This is not a normal year, and I have barely gotten started. It’s Saturday, so I’ll grocery shop, joining the happy crowds of families looking forward to the long weekend and the football games and the leisured coziness of the last weekend before the Christmas rush is well and truly upon us. My heart is not in it, but life goes on. 

*****

Sunday morning, 10 o’clock. The November glow continues. Sunlight is streaming in through the windows and the trees and the light are so improbably beautiful that it’s just ridiculous. I should probably go to Mass this morning, but my heart is not in that either. 

My son’s friend’s wake is later today, and his funeral is tomorrow morning. His poor family has had a week of condolence visits and phone calls and preparation, but tomorrow they will have to say goodbye. Other families will prepare to welcome their college students home for the holiday weekend, while my friends lower their beautiful 19-year-old son into the ground. If I think too long about this, I will never get off the couch. 

Yesterday, I took my younger son and my five-year-old niece out for dinner. My older son was working and my nephew was at a laser tag birthday party. We finished dinner and then stopped at a very fancy grocery store, which has an enormous display of Christmas candy from all over the world. My 17-year-old son helped my niece pick out candy for herself and her brother, and he selected several things for himself and his brother. We spent $27 on candy. I handed $30 to the cashier, who asked if we’d like to round up and donate the change to a local food bank. I’d have done it anyway, but my son and I laughed as we left the store, amused at the idea that the cashier knew that he had us. “I mean, we just spent $27 on candy,” my son said. “He knows we can afford $3.” 

“Right?” I said. “What kind of asshole spends $27 on candy and then says ‘no thanks’ to a $3 donation to a food bank?” 

“That’s a bad word,” my niece pointed out. Poor child has no idea. 

After the candy binge, we went to the Hallmark store. My son wanted to find a new ornament for his little Christmas tree. He found two–Han Solo and Snoopy. Then my niece found some stickers and a pop-up paper doll set. Normally, I’d have let my son pay for his own purchase. Normally, I’d have told my niece to choose–paper doll or stickers, not both. Yesterday, I bought everything, plus a little crazy fad item that my niece picked out for my nephew. Right now, as far as I’m concerned, children can have anything they want. 

*****

On Sunday afternoon, we arrived at the funeral home to find a line of people winding around the building and through the parking lot onto the adjoining sidewalk. We parked and took our place in line, hugging and crying with our neighbors and friends. Between the crowd ahead of us and the crowd that quickly piled up behind us, there were easily hundreds of people waiting to say goodbye to my son’s friend and to say whatever inadequate words of comfort that they could think of to his poor family. There were so many very young people, friends of the boy and his 17-year-old sister and his two older brothers. Most of them wore black; sweet high school boys in black North Face and Champion hoodies and sweet girls in black leggings and dark sweaters. A few of the girls wore dresses or skirts and a few of the boys wore dress pants and oxford shirts and ties, but most of them just wore everyday casual teenage clothes, in mourning colors. 

They boy's parents didn’t care how these children were dressed. They hugged and thanked every young person. I know that they appreciated every person who showed up yesterday but there is something uniquely touching about teenagers not knowing what to do or say but showing up and doing it anyway, doing the hardest thing that they can imagine doing, as one last act of love for their friend. 

The boy’s mother is Irish, Belfast born and raised, and as we got closer to the family, we could hear her beautiful accent and her kind words of comfort to the children who had come to comfort her. My son had already gone to visit her earlier in the week, and so he wasn’t so nervous about what to do or say. He’d already done the hard part. When we came to the front of the line, she beamed at my son. “Ah, Aidan, there ye are. Thank ye for lovin’ him.” My son, speechless, just nodded and hugged her. We all spent a minute with the family and then it was time to go. There were at least 150 people waiting behind us. 

*****

If there’s anything worse than seeing a mother and father say goodbye to their beautiful 19-year-old son, watching as they watch him lowered into the ground, then don’t tell me about it because I don’t want to know. 

It used to be that Catholics who died by suicide were not eligible for Christian burial rites. Thank God that the Church has seen fit to change that teaching. Despair may well still be a sin but mental illness is not. The Mass of Christian Burial was over two hours long but it didn’t seem long at all. Our large church was filled to capacity and beyond. Mourners who couldn’t find a place to sit stood through the entire Mass. Nearly all of them followed to the cemetery for the final rites and burial, standing at silent, respectful distance from the grieving family at the gravesite, a mass of black coats and shoes and pants and dresses interspersed with little pops of color–a red handbag, a green jacket, a pale blue crocheted beret on a young blond girl. A few final prayers from the priest, a few verses of “The Parting Glass,” sung by the handful of us who knew the song, and the poor boy was finally laid to rest. 

My son and I went to the funeral luncheon, which was held at a Knights of Columbus hall, because that’s what Catholics do. We ate sandwiches and salads and laughed and cried and hugged one another and marveled at the strength of the boy’s family. And they are strong and graceful, but they haven’t been through the hard part yet. 

*****

That was just a week ago. Thanksgiving came and went, a one-day respite of peace and football and Christmas movies and far too much food. The weather was perfect Thanksgiving weather, sunny but slightly overcast, chilly but not cold, and perfect golden light. And that was the last day of the perfect ten November days. Friday was gray and cold and relentlessly windy. It's not officially winter just yet, but that was a winter day and today is another one. We even had a few minutes of snow. 

It will be dark by 5 o'clock today. It's two days until December and three more weeks of days getting ever so slightly shorter until the winter solstice, and then three months of winter, at least. Rest in peace, beautiful boy. The winter won't last forever. And we will see you again. 

Self-service

Do you know how when you fill your gas tank all the way to the tippy-top and the automatic shut-off valve shuts off the gas flow and you pull out the pump handle and no more gasoline comes out? And do you know how sometimes that doesn’t work and you pull out the pump handle and gasoline continues to blast out of the nozzle, covering the side of your car and your shoes and the surrounding asphalt until it looks like it’s been raining? 

No? Well count yourself lucky but that is exactly what happened to me last Tuesday at an Exxon station in Rockville, Maryland. The tank was full, I pulled out the nozzle, and the gasoline continued to flow, and I stood panicking as the gasoline shot out like water from a garden hose in June. 

I couldn’t stop the gasoline and I finally gathered my feeble wits and shouted for the lady at the next pump, who ran inside to get help. And when help came, it was distinctly unhelpful. A young woman who works in the gas station scolded me. “You can’t just spray the gas when the nozzle is out of the tank!” 

“I can’t stop it!” I yelled back. “Do I look like I want to spray gas all over the place?” The man who owns the station came running out behind her. 

“This is what happens!” he yelled at me. “This is what happens when you put the nozzle in and then get back in your car while the tank fills!” 

I was flabbergasted. I’ve been filling my own gas tank for well over thirty years. I’ve pumped gas in at least ten different U.S. states and two Canadian provinces. I know how to fill a gas tank. And I NEVER EVER EVER leave a gas pump unattended. 

“Are you kidding me?” I asked. “I didn’t get back in the car! I was standing here the whole time. And you know what? This is a gas station, and I am guessing that you have video surveillance tape to prove that.” 

“And I saw her,” said the helpful lady. “I saw the whole thing happen. She was standing outside her car the whole time.” 

“Thank you!” I said, gesturing toward my new friend. “At least someone here is helpful! Meanwhile, according to the total, I spilled $21 in gas, and I want a refund.” 

The man scoffed. “I’m not giving you a refund. There’s nothing wrong with that pump. You spilled the gas, and you have to pay for it.” He commenced with the clean-up operation, spreading kitty litter and sweeping it away with a large push broom. 

“There is obviously something wrong with the nozzle,” I said. “Your assistant could not turn off the nozzle from the pump; she had to run back inside to turn it off.” 

He scoffed again. “I’m not going to argue with you,” he said. “That pump is fine. I haven’t had any other complaints.” 

“Perhaps you need a dictionary,” I said, “because what you and I are doing right now is the very definition of argument. You can’t say that you’re not arguing when you are in fact doing exactly that.” Petty, but words mean something, you know what I mean?

He huffed a bit. “I’m just cleaning up,” he said. “If you think there’s something wrong with the pump, go ahead and call Weights and Measures.” 

A challenge! A gauntlet thrown! So that’s how we’re playing this, are we, Mister Man? It’s like that, is it? Fine by me! “I will!” I said. And so I called Weights and Measures, right then and there. 

Let me tell you that the Maryland Weights and Measures Office is a fine organization. 5/5. Would recommend. I called them, and an actual human person answered on the second ring. I briefly explained the problem, and the young man said “of course. Let me get some information–unless you’d like to report anonymously? You can report anonymously.” 

Anonymously? This is Weights and Measures, I thought, right? Am I on the line with the DEA? Am I dropping a dime on Tuco? Do your callers often face violent reprisals?

“No, no need,” I said. “I’ll give you my name and any other information you need.” And so the Weights and Measures person took my name and phone number, and the gas station’s address, and the pump number. “Are you OK?” he asked me. “Gas spills are upsetting. So unexpected.” 

“I’m OK, but thank you,” I said. I really was a bit shaken up, and a kind word was welcome. The Weights and Measures guy promised me that an inspector would contact me, and we said a polite goodbye. 

Later that afternoon, after I had thrown away a perfectly good pair of shoes and washed all of the clothes that I had been wearing, the inspector called as promised. He took a few additional details, and told me that he’d be visiting the offending gas station the next morning, and would call me to report on his findings. “Don’t expect a warm welcome,” I said. 

*****

Do you know how when you’re missing a Y chromosome, and you explain a mechanical or technical failure to a man, even a man you’re married to, and he listens with what appears to be interest, but there’s something in his expression or his tone of voice that makes you think that he doubts your version of events, and is secretly attributing the mechanical or technical failure to user error on your part? 

My husband is a detective. He interviews suspects, asking pointed questions to get to the story behind the story. Eliciting the truth from varying versions of events is his whole job. Well, it’s a big part of his job. 

Like lots of other dedicated professionals, he forgets sometimes that he’s not on the clock. So when I told him what happened, he was immediately sympathetic because he’s my husband and he loves me. But then the questions started. “So wait, the shut-off valve engaged when the tank was full, but then the gas kept flowing? And you weren’t pressing down the pump lever? No, no, I believe you–I’m just trying to understand this.” 

Did I press down the pump lever? Did I actually do something wrong? I spent the whole night gaslighting myself into thinking that perhaps I’m just stupid enough to have forgotten how to pump gas. Maybe it was my fault. Maybe it WAS user error.  

*****

I had just about convinced myself that the whole thing was my fault, and then I was even more upset; upset that I had caused trouble for a blameless small businessman and upset that I’m obviously so completely off the rails in terms of cognitive function that I can no longer perform everyday tasks such as filling my tank with gas. And then Weights and Measures came to the rescue. The inspector called me the next morning, and as soon as he greeted me, I knew that he had good news, at least from my perspective. 

Although the pump’s automatic shut-off valve worked properly, the nozzle had a broken clip spring. When the inspector tested it, the clip got stuck in its track and gas continued to flow, even when the shut-off valve was engaged. More mechanical blah blah blah with the bottom line being that I was right and I’m not crazy and it was the gas pump and not me. It was not user error, at least not this time. 

*****

As soon as I got off the phone with the fine civil servant of the state of Maryland, I called the terrible gas station man. Now I knew, and I knew that he knew, and I wanted him to know that I knew. Yeah, I know. Petty. 

Plus, that little adventure cost me $71–$21 in spilled gas, and $50 for the almost-new pair of sneakers that I had to throw away. And I love those sneakers. 

If the terrible gas station man had been decent about the whole thing from the beginning, then I wouldn’t be inclined to worry about a relatively small loss. But he wasn’t decent, he was a big fat jerk and now he’s a big fat jerk who owes me $71. 

I told the terrible big fat jerk of a gas station man that I’d spoken to the inspector and he had confirmed that the fault was with the pump and not with the pumper, and he acknowledged my statement in the most austere and distant tone imaginable. I told him that I wanted three things: the $21 for the excess gas (note that I was NOT asking for a free tank of gas, but only to be refunded for the gas that spilled through no fault of mine), $50 to replace my shoes, and an apology; and that if I didn’t receive these three things, I would be filing suit in small claims court. 

He harumphed. “I’ll refund the $21 and yes yes yes I will apologize. And I will dry clean the shoes.” 

The terrible gas station man was not catching on. He didn't get it. He thought that we were negotiating. He harumphed once again, a satisfied harumph this time, indicative of his belief that he was getting the upper hand in this little bargaining session. By the way, this man is fairly young. He can’t be more than 40, and yet he harumphs like an old man. This is what happens, Terrible Gas Station Man. Being a terrible person ages you prematurely. 

“How can I help you understand this?” I said. “Do you remember when you stood arguing with me, and told me that you weren’t going to argue with me, making clear that you don’t really know what that word means? Well I do know what that word means, and I’m really not going to argue. It’s those three things, exactly those three things, no more and no less, or we can let a judge decide. Entirely up to you. Take some time to think about it if you need to.” 

“Fine,” he said, finally understanding that as the victor, I was setting the terms. “But I need to see the receipt for the shoes.” 

He doesn’t give up easily. I will give him that. “It so happens that I still have the receipt,” I said, “and I will be happy to bring it to you.” 

We ended the conversation; me with a civil goodbye and him with a final harumph. 

*****

At the time, I was quite determined to follow through–$71 and an apology, or small claims court. But several days have passed and I haven’t returned to collect my money. And I think that the terrible gas station man probably thinks that by agreeing to apologize, he has in fact already apologized, and I don’t want to go ten more rounds of “you keep saying that word and I don’t think it means what you think it means” with him. 

More importantly, it’s not the money. It’s the vindication. And I have been vindicated, not only by the heroic Weights and Measures man but by the female gas station employee, who later admitted to my husband’s police colleague that the nozzle was faulty. And the terrible gas station man would not have given an inch on my demands had he not known that I was right. I haven’t made up my mind yet, but I might just let this go for now. I won, and I might be gracious in victory. Now I just have to find a new gas station. 

Riches

Work has gone from bad to worse to unmanageable to unsustainable to unbearable. I’m putting out fires in ten different forests and fighting battles on ten different fronts, failing spectacularly in just about every instance. I don’t even know what I don’t know anymore. 

I had to read the riot act to someone today. I don’t know if she really took in the message or not. We’ll see. Grief, shock, and work stress are not a good combination, and I might have been overly harsh. Or I might not have been. This is a person who makes a great deal more money than I do, and who is not pulling her weight or anything close to it, and something had to give. I’m hopeful that she’ll get it together. 

The bottom line is that I am a support person. I’m background. I’m a crew member, not a chief. And now I’m a square peg trying and failing to fit into a round hole. Another mixed metaphor, and I don’t even care. Who am I? What is happening to me?

*****

It’s always better the next day. Work is not better. Work is an explosion of project management mess that I can’t wrap my head around right now, and so I’m not going to. Yesterday, I tried to quit. Well, that’s not really true. I tried to step down. I told my boss that I couldn’t continue in the PM role but that I’d be happy to stay with the project as an individual contributor. He wasn’t having it. Maybe I will try again later. Or maybe this will all get easier as I continue to lose my grip on reason. 

Kidding! Ha ha! I’m HILARIOUS. Right now, I’m at a neighborhood association meeting; or rather, ON a neighborhood association meeting, because of course it’s on Zoom. Fucking Zoom. I already spent 10 hours in front of a computer today, and so I’m playing fast and loose with my already dodgy eyesight by spending yet another hour staring at a screen. 

Sanity? Overrated. 

Eyesight? Who needs it? 

*****

I'm glad I turned my camera off during that association meeting because I fell asleep about five minutes in. But it's Friday now and I am wide awake. 

I had not one and not two but three work victories all in one morning. Things might be looking up. Things might be manageable. Or this might be the eye of the fucking hurricane. We'll see soon enough but for now, for the next five minutes, I'ma rest on these laurels. 

*****

But who cares about work. My son's friend's funeral is on Monday. I dread seeing that beautiful boy in a casket, seeing his family's agony and seeing his young friends grapple with the finality of the goodbye. For today, though, I feel very lucky. My children are here. I have their physical presence. I can see and hear and touch them. It seems like an embarrassment of riches. 

Leavetaking

It’s a rainy Friday, a rare weekday that is not a work day, and I’m driving to Philadelphia in an hour or so. My 97-year-old grandmother had a bad fall, and I’m going to visit her in the rehabilitation facility where she is likely making life very difficult for a bunch of nurses, physical therapists, and aides. A 97-year-old leopard does not change her spots, and my Nana was no picnic when she was young and in good health. But family is family and this might be my last chance to see the old girl when she’s still lucid. 

I knew yesterday that rain was likely for this drive, and I wished that it wasn’t, but then I drove my son to school this morning and remembered that of all of my crazy anxieties and irrational fears, driving in sub-optimal conditions is not among them. I’d rather have my trusty Subaru but the rental car is fine, too. I am worried about my Nana, but I’m not worried about this drive. 

*****

As expected, the drive was just fine, and I'm here on Saturday morning, packing up and readying myself for the return trip later today. 

The rehab facility where my grandmother is staying is a very nice place staffed with kind and professional people. During the two plus hours that I was there, she was visited by a social worker, a CNA, a registered dietitian, and an RN. All of them seemed genuinely concerned about her well being. My grandmother,as we have established, is quite difficult, even ornery, but even she can't help but be nice in the face of so much kindness. 

When I arrived, she was sitting in a wheelchair in her very pleasant room, watching Bonanza at deafening volume. She was happy to see me, though she did ask me if I was Claire or Carole. My sister and I don't really look that much alike, but we resemble one another enough in appearance and mannerisms that a very old person with failing eyesight and dodgy hearing could easily confuse us. But after establishing that I was myself and not my sister, she asked about my husband and children by name. She has never failed to recognize me before, and she was quick on the uptake for the rest of the visit. She mentioned the names of the women who have been caring for her since Wednesday, and when these ladies stopped in later, their name tags matched the names that my grandmother had mentioned. Nana was pleased with herself, and rightly so. 

In my entire life, I had never seen my grandmother without makeup. She doesn't wear much, just some concealer for age spots, and some lipstick. She always wears lipstick. We have that in common. Her makeup items got lost in the shuffle between the hospital and the rehab facility, and my aunt forgot to bring her extra ones from home when she brought extra clothes. It bothered her to be without her makeup amid so many strangers. 

I offered to run around the corner to the drugstore to get her what she needed and she wouldn't let me go because she wanted me to stay with her for as long as possible before visiting hours ended. But when I was getting ready to leave, she mentioned a L'Oreal lipstick that she likes. "And the other thing is Cover Girl." 

*****

I stayed at my sister’s house on Friday night. After a morning of driving and an afternoon of visiting in a nursing facility, I was so tired that I fell asleep on her couch at 9 PM. My sister shook me awake and made me go to bed. I woke up very early for a Saturday, and went for a walk in the early morning mist. The sunlight was pale yellowish white and the air was fresh and chilly and the trees were a veritable color riot and I thought about how a morning like this could easily turn a person into an autumn lover. But then I came to my senses. 

Normally, I walk my sister’s crazy dog, but the canine lazybones was still sleeping, so I finished my walk and then drove to my beloved Gateway Pharmacy, which was open bright and early. They had my grandmother’s Cover Girl makeup and her L’Oreal lipstick, so I bought them, along with a half pound of her favorite dark chocolate vanilla buttercreams. I picked up two cups of Wawa hazelnut coffee and my sister and I drank the coffee while the silly dog, now wide awake, barked a complaining bark, a bark that indicated his disappointment at my failure to get the leash and take him out posthaste. 

Oh of course I took him out. What am I, an assassin? My brother-in-law told me that the silly creature already been out in the yard and had probably done whatever he needed to do, but he supplied me with plastic bags, just in case we needed them. And of course we needed them. And without sharing too much of the revolting details, let me just say that the consistency of the dog’s output did not lend itself to a thorough clean-up, and that anyone who steps into a certain pile of leaves on Revolutionary Lane in Phoenixville is going to be unpleasantly surprised. I did the best I could but sometimes a person’s best is not enough. And this is why I don’t have a dog. 

After coffee with my sister and breakfast with my mom, I quickly packed up my things, having for once in my life actually fulfilled my resolution to pack light for a trip. I had just one small overnight bag, and even that was only half-full. It was too late for morning visiting hours and afternoon visiting hours didn’t start until 1:30 meaning I wouldn’t get on the road until 2:30 or 3 meaning I’d be driving on the interstate in the dark, which I no longer do. So I left the gifts for my grandmother with my sister, and I drove home, first through some medium-heavy rain and November northeasterly wind, and then in blinding sunlight. 

*****

It was late afternoon when I arrived home. The sky was pale and almost clear, with a few clouds tinted red and gold by the setting sun. My sister texted me that my grandmother loved the lipstick and the chocolate. 

*****

My grandmother is recovering. God willing she will live to see one more birthday, one more Christmas. On Friday when I visited, she wanted to talk about her funeral, and where she’d like the mourners to go for lunch, and my mother told her not to be ridiculous. But it’s not ridiculous for a person in her 90s to talk about her eventual death. Death is a certainty.

And life is excruciatingly fragile. It’s Tuesday now; and as a 97-year-old lady regains her strength and fights as best she can for a few more days or weeks or months, a sweet 19-year-old boy, my son’s close friend, lies in a funeral home. The poor child took his own life yesterday, for only God knows what reason. 

*****

If you can make someone happy with some stupid little thing, a lipstick or a box of chocolates, do so immediately. If you love anyone at all, stop what you’re doing right now and make sure that they know it. That is the only thing I have to offer after this very long post; the only takeaway I can gather from this very sad day. 

Navigation

I went to work on Friday. Yes, I go to work every day, but on Friday, I actually left the house and drove to the office. I blow dried my hair. I wore proper clothes and real shoes. I carried a work tote stuffed with computers and notebooks and pens and a power cord and a water bottle and a travel cup full of coffee. I was ready for dang near anything. 

We have a new office. The old one was too big and my company's CEO decided to shift to a full time hybrid model, with teams rotating in and out, one day a week. Our day is Friday. 

Since it's a new office location, I used Google Maps to navigate. I probably could have gotten there without the aid of satellite navigation, but there's no guarantee. My track record for finding places is not so good. Better safe than sorry, know what I mean?

Yeah, that’s what I think, too. So I keyed in the address, got in my rental car, and pulled out of my driveway, loaded for bear and ready for a real workday in a real office. 

As soon as I got within a mile of the place, I knew where I was, and I told Google to stop navigating. To do this, I spoke the words: “Hey Google. Stop navigating.” Google responded with a helpful reminder to bear right on Veirs Mill Road and turn onto 355 North. She didn’t hear me, I thought, anthropomorphizing the AI-powered mobile device as I tend to do. So I spoke a bit more loudly: “HEY GOOGLE. STOP NAVIGATING.” 

I passed the office, because I decided at the last minute that I wanted to get donuts or muffins or bagels or something for the rest of the team, none of whom are accustomed to early mornings in the office. Google, however, wasn’t having it. She ordered me to make the first available U-turn. I couldn’t reach the phone to just stop the navigation so I yelled a little louder. “HEY. GOOGLE. STOOOOPPPPP NAVIGAAATINGGG!” And Google helpfully suggested that I make a left turn at Mannakee Drive and then turn around and make a right back onto 355. 

Usual me would have just heaved a big sigh and accepted that I’d have to put up with Google Assistant telling me what to do as if she’s the boss of me. But I’m not usual me right now. I’m losing my grip. I’m hanging by the thinnest of threads. 

*****

On Wednesday, for example, I finished my old lady’s grocery shopping and came out to my car just in time to see a man lose control of his shopping cart, which rolled downhill directly into the passenger’s side of my car. Did I mention that the car is a rental? Well it’s a rental. The man didn’t see me coming; or maybe he did. He left the shopping car just where it landed, got into his car with what appeared to be considerable haste, and started the engine. He thought he was out, until he found me knocking on his window. He rolled the window down an inch. “Yes?” he said. 

“Were you even going to check?” I asked. “Your cart ran right into the side of my car, which is a rental. Were you even going to look to see if you did any damage?”

“It looked fine to me,” he said. 

“Oh good!” I said. “Well as long as you think it’s OK, then I guess there’s nothing to worry about. Carry on! Go about your business! Don’t let me hold you up! Have a lovely day!” 

Yes, I’m the crazy person in the Safeway parking lot. That’s me. That’s who I am these days. That’s a glimpse into my mental state. That’s a high-level view of the way that I’m handling stress right now. To my credit, I only yelled “Jackass!” after I was back in my car. Did I mention that the car is a rental? 

Now that you have that helpful insight into my psyche; now that you understand that I am a ticking time bomb who yells “Goddamn it” all day long, you will also understand that when Google Assistant refused to comply with my simple and direct command to cease with the navigational instructions, I didn’t take it calmly.

*****

“Hey Google! Shut the fuck up!” I said, as I made a U-turn on 355 to get me to the Giant. She responded with a terse command to make yet another U-turn so that I could get to the office, which is on the other side of the road. “Hey Google! Burn in Hell!” I yelled back. 

The shopping trip proceeded without incident, though I was sweaty and flustered and cursing under my breath as I lugged my giant tote bag through the store. I don’t ever leave my Federal government laptop in a car or anywhere else other than on my desk so I couldn’t just carry my purse; I had to schlep all of my baggage. Thankfully, I remember what the stupid car looks like now, so at least I didn’t have to hunt for it, laden now with the handbag, the tote bag, and the shopping bag full of banana nut, corn, and blueberry muffins. I put all of the stuff back in the car, drove to the office (having silenced Google Assistant and her infernal voice navigation) and took a moment to organize my belongings and distribute them appropriately (keys in my pocket, tote bag on my shoulder, purse on one arm and shopping bag on another) so that I could walk calmly into the office looking like a professional person carrying her belongings and not like a lunatic dragging a fucking dog sled across the desert. 

Do you see? DO YOU SEE WHAT’S HAPPENING TO ME? A dog sled in the DESERT. Nobody drags a dog sled across the desert. I’m mixing metaphors. What is next? Dangling modifiers? Vague pronoun antecedents? Misuse of the semicolon? Inability to distinguish between “imply” and “infer”? I haven’t hit bottom yet, and there’s nowhere to go but down. On the other hand, I did say “like a fucking lunatic,” and a fucking lunatic might in fact drag a dog sled across a desert. 

*****

You know what? The actual day at work was rather pleasant. It was nice to see everyone again. There were four of us sharing a single table, so I didn’t get much work done, but that wasn’t the point, I guess. The muffins were well-received, and a meeting that would normally have stressed me right out had no effect on my disposition at all, and I went home early, with no assistance from Google. It wasn’t a bad day. And I may well be mixing metaphors, but I am sure that my semicolons are on point, and I’ll never drag a dog sled across a desert or anywhere else. I’m crazy, but I’m not a fucking lunatic. 

This is a test

 I need to see if the whole page layout on this blog is completely messed up or if yesterday was a one-off. 

The dogs on Main Street

When people show up at your house in the middle of the workday to try to talk you off the proverbial ledge, it might be time to get a fucking grip.

Sometimes, though, those people come bearing chocolate. Always a silver lining, amirite?

Yeah, that’s my day today. It’s 5 o’clock and I’m so much calmer than I was 9 or 10 hours ago. I thought I might actually be losing my mind, like I was watching this odd little person have a breakdown in front of her three computer screens, and wondering “What’s wrong, little person? What could possibly have happened to upset you so?” And the problem is that the answer is nothing, really; nothing more than the usual workday routine of due dates and deadlines and milestones to achieve or not.

Anyway, when it’s too much, when you have to eat an elephant, the thing to do is to eat him one bite at a time. And that’s what I did. And I listened to music as I worked. You can’t cry and sing along to a block party playlist at the same time. You can do one or the other, but not both. It’s just electric, just electric, just electric.

Yes, I like Justin Timberlake. Fight me. Some JT, some Aretha, some Queen, some Machine Gun Kelly, some Dua Lipa, some Beyonce, some Brandi Carlile, some White Stripes, some Eva Cassidy, some Elton John singing about Philadelphia Freedom, and I was right as rain.

And then some Bruce Springsteen. The dogs on Main Street howl 'cause they understand, and so does Bruce Springsteen. There was a dark cloud rising from the desert floor this morning. But everything is OK now, and I still believe in a Promised Land.

Dead Bloggers' Society

Someone I work with is retiring. Technically, I am his boss, but it is ridiculous that I am anyone's boss, and it is especially ridiculous for me to be the boss of this person, who knows much more than I do. Anyway, we talked yesterday about his decision to retire. He hopes to write or make videos (or both) about his area of expertise. I told him that I write every day, but that I haven't had any time to do anything with any of my writing, other than to post it online. People will read it or they won't. Once I hit the "publish" button, it's out of my hands. 

After years of writing, and at least four years of writing every single day without exception (7 days a week, 365 days a year), I have tons of essays, blog posts, random paragraphs, and draft novels (three). It won't be long before I am old enough to retire, so maybe I'll try to polish some of this stuff, and turn it into something worthy of real publication. Or maybe I won't. I think about the possibility of being a real author, and I don't really know if it's for me. I don't love attention. I don't mind being obscure. Everyone who needs to know me already does. Maybe I will make my children publish my work after I die. Posthumous fame is probably the only kind that I would ever want.