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My Profile
Gift from Hil Part 2 - 2014-12-30
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11:43 a.m. - 2014-03-04
The maple tree over my parking space is leaking some kind of weird yuck onto the roof and back windshield of my car. The maple tree is always doing something to my car. Pollen, leaves, little spinning seed pods, twigs, bird poop (not that tree itself does it, but you understand). Why park there? The maple tree looms over the only non-traffic lane parking place in the driveway. Mick needs to come and go far more often than I do, and has a passionate hatred of anything being on his car. Road salt, mud, pine needles, even dust will send my guy into ecstasies of rage. How dare Mother Nature put stuff on his car? So he gets the open tree-free parking place. Me? I figure my car will survive even if it gets dirty. Besides in the hot months the shade from the maple tree is nice. Rarely do I experience this when getting into my shade-protected car in August. The weird yuck is new though. It's some kind sap, I'm guessing. All I know is that it's a bitch-kitty to remove. Oy, my poor beater! Just another indignity for my ancient Escort to deal with. This afternoon when I gassed my car (fourth time in seven years, Mick always does it for me) I scrubbed the roof and back windshield with the Hess station's squeegee, then gave the head- and taillights a quick swipe while I was at it. And may I say something here? (Of course I can, it's my blog.) Even if you feel it's not worthwhile to wash your car until spring, would you PLEASE clean your lights? Give the rest of us a fair shot. Leaving your taillights and turn signals all crapped up with salt and road muck makes it really difficult to anticipate your next move. I truly loathe having to jam on my brakes because I couldn't see your brake lights through the filth or having to wonder why you're just sitting there when the traffic signal is green. Oh, you're making a left? But I couldn't know that because your indicators are covered in crud? GAH! Clean your lenses! Thanks ever so. Yeah, I went out today. I moved 90% of Tuesday's errands to today. There's snow coming. Not sure if it'll be here tomorrow or Wednesday, but it's coming. So I did the banking and weekly grocery shopping and hit Rite-Aid for vitamins and hair products today just in case. While at the bank I saw a big sign announcing Sami's baby. One of my favorite tellers (she's also a part-time cashier at our Shoprite) had had a little girl. Mother and child are doing well. YAY! The teller who waited on me was sporting a sparkly new rock on her left hand. I congratulated her and wished her well with the wedding planning. "Fun, yes? But so many things to do!" She looked overwhelmed for a moment and said, "I had no idea there'd be so much!" Poor little girl. Wedding whore that I am, I still have a sense of perspective about it. Of course you want your wedding to be wonderful. Unique. Magical. But I liken the wedding to having a kid. A wedding has about .000001% to do with the actual marriage, just as labor and delivery have almost zero to do with raising a kid. Like the bullcrap with doulas and birthing plans and Lamaze and having the whole kumbaya birthing experience in a yurt made from placentas, weddings have gotten out of hand. I love canap�s as much as the next woman, and have decidedly strident opinions about centerpieces and guestbooks and fondant and the totally unnecessary cruelty of strapless bridesmaid dresses, but ultimately a marriage comes down to whether you can deal with your husband's farts, and values, and how well you choose to live as a unit, it's not the wedding. The wedding is a frolic. Marriage is a long-haul slog. I wanted to pat that frightened overwhelmed teller and make it okay. Tell her she'd be just as married if the vows are spoken by a JP in a shed as they would in a cathedral followed by a schmancy catering hall sit-down dinner for 400 guests. Birthing takes a day, a wedding takes a day. Being a mom and being a wife is a lifetime obligation. How you get there is moot. Just ask any adoptee mom. Or long-committed gay couple finally allowed to marry. The 'how' cannot equal the 'is'. While at Rite-Aid I also treated myself to a new nail polish. A gorgeous pearly kelly green. For St Patrick's Day. There is so much shit coming the week after next (vague blogging, sorry) that having spiffy celebratory fingernails for Irish Day sounds great. Besides, I'm married to Mick the mick and not marking the holiday is almost a sacrilege. In another screeching change of topic, I got my DVD copy of 'Shirley Valentine' today. For some dopey reason when it made the jump from VHS to DVD the producers only made European copies. Not understanding 'region lock' anyhow, the inaccessibility of one of my very favoritest movies ever was a heartbreak. Truly? I thought about buying a European DVD player and tracking down an electrical current converter simply to be able to watch this movie. My VHS player is toast and I needed my fix of Pauline Collins and her enthralling escape from doing the expected right thing. But HOORAY! An all regions version on DVD was finally made. Tonight I will be feet up, blankie on, chips and soda at hand, and watching this most beloved movie. Obviously this was written yesterday. It's Tuesday and still no snow. It's too cold to snow what it being a whole ONE degree. Didn't get to watch 'Shirley Valentine' last night either. Too pooped. No, not from the extraordinary exertions of my trip to the Hess station, just not sleeping well and by the time we finished our very late dinner I was too tired and cranky. I read a book and did word puzzles and was in bed by 10:30. (My usual bedtime is somewhere after 2:00am.) One uppy thing about yesterday- I used the deli's automated ordering system. Perhaps everyone's been doing this for years and years and I'm just late to the party (as usual), but I really like this system. Waiting in line at the deli and then trying to keep my temper as the clerks fiddle around and move so sloooowly is the worst part of a trip to Shoprite. The ticket machine is always screwed up and pulling a number is like buying a lotto ticket, the odds of your number being called are really fricken slim. I always feel like Beetlejuice in the waiting room for the dead. He's got ticket #1,000,568 and the sign over the service window says, "Now serving #03". The deli at Shoprite is like that, only there's no chairs to make your endless wait more comfortable. A few months ago a touchscreen kiosk appeared next to the rotisserie chicken case and through observation and eavesdropping I figured out the kiosk was for ordering deli. A couple weeks ago I finally tried it. WOW! The touchscreen menu is well-designed and easy to navigate. Ordering is dead simple. The machine spits out a receipt with your order on it and an order number. Off you go to do the rest of your shopping. Now here's the really cool part- when your order is ready they announce it over the PA and...(wait for it)...you don't have to go anywhere near the scrum at the deli counter! Instead your order is neatly bagged and waiting for you in a small glass-front refrigerator near the check-out. Like magic. While you shop someone slices and bags your baloney and leaves it for you to find in the special secret place. For me it's like straw spun into gold. The Tooth Fairy. The Easter Bunny. Santa Claus. Now magic deli elves. Instead of toys and jelly beans there's roast beef and muenster cheese, but the finding of it waiting there just for me is equally as delightful. Better, even. I've been Santa and the Easter Bunny et al for 30 years. If shit shows up like magic around here it's because I make it happen. Now I'm on the receiving end and couldn't be more thrilled. Enchanted magically appearing lunch products. YAY!
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