Pray for Boston

Oh Good Grief, It's Spring Charlie Brown

“Charlie Brown, you're the only person I know who can take a wonderful season like Christmas and turn it into a problem.” ~Linus Van Pelt in “A Charlie Brown Christmas”

If you take the word “Christmas” out of that quote and replace it with “spring”, then Linus could have been talking about me.  The snow is melting, the sun is warmer feeling, and yet I am in the midst of my annual anxieties about spring. 

My spring uncertainties are not the same as those I usually get around the holidays.  I almost wish they were.  At that time of year, I get caught up in more specific concerns: finding the right Christmas presents, finding the money to afford aforementioned presents, attending parties without making a fool of myself, making time for everyone and everything, and the like.   No, the anxieties that creep into my head around springtime are lower-level and less-pressing, but no less stressful.

Some of them are not highly defined.  When it is 35 degrees, windy, and ice pellets are falling from the sky in April, I admit that at some deep level I begin to doubt that winter is really over.  Given the five months of snow and cold that have just dragged past at the speed of continental drift, one can’t blame one’s psyche for not fully buying into the idea that it really is over.  After all, there was 1816, the “Year Without a Summer”.  Temperatures were well below normal that year all around the world due to a volcanic eruption in Indonesia causing unheard-of weather and crop failures.  There was snow in Albany, New York and Dennysville, Maine on June 6 of 1816.  Even within my lifetime, in 1990, we had more than six inches of snow fall on May 23 here in northern Maine.  Winter in Maine can be like that shark in the Jaws films.  Just when you think it’s safe, the damn thing comes back to bite you.

The general appearance of the outside in early spring is just a mess, which adds to the anxiety.  We have to pile the snow high here after storms, so while most of it has indeed melted, there are still huge dirty snowbanks in nearly every yard, slowly turning to water.  Even in a good year, some of the larger snowbanks can survive into May or early June in this part of Maine.  Trash, sticks, dog droppings and various other surprises lie around on the ground, left behind during the winter and now exposed by the melting snow. 

Where there are no snowbanks, everything is brown.  The grass and leaves have not dared to sprout yet, so the remains of last year’s dominate the view, dead and mired in the mud that is impossible to avoid.  Trees are still bare, and seeds under the ground have only begun to think about getting started.  It seems hard to believe that very soon, with some spring rains and warm sun, the green grass and leaves will soon burst forth, and flowers will be blooming.  At least, that is the plan.

One of my more specific worries this year includes the fate of my old riding lawnmower, which was literally limping toward the end of the mowing season last fall.  It had been giving me trouble all last year, and my only hope at the time was to nurse it along until the end of the season.  The old rustbucket threw a belt during the last mow in October, but it made it to the finish line.  Now I have to consider my options, none of which are good.  I can try to fix it myself, but frankly I am not very good at that kind of thing and will probably make things worse instead of better.  I could take it to get serviced, which is the most likely thing I will do, though that can be expensive, and loading a powerless riding mower onto a truck is a heavy job.  I suppose I can go without and just use my trusty push mower on the whole thing this year.  While the exercise would certainly be good for me, the extra time and work involved would be a real hassle, especially when it gets hot.  Sweating ranks right up there with cholera on my list of things to avoid.  Or, I could buy a new riding mower.  Let me know if you see the money fairy flying near my house, and I’ll flag her down and do just that.

I’m also worried about what I’ll find when I wash my car for the first time this spring.  My beloved chariot, as I refer to it, is caked in at least an inch of dirt and mud.  It has been showered with gravel and sand from driving on the interstate after storms, and was buried under snow several times this past winter.  I am bracing myself for the sight of the new dings and scratches in the paint job that I’ll uncover after that first wash.  Cars, like people, can’t stay new-looking forever, but I am going to do all I can to try to keep this car looking as close to how it did when I drove it off the lot two years ago.  I've got a bottle of touch-up paint on standby, and got a full kit of car cleaning supplies for Christmas just ready to crack open.  That chariot is going to shine, I hope.  Right now, it looks like something salvaged from the bottom of the Mississippi River, so it’s got nowhere to go but up.

My warm-weather wardrobe needs a serious update as well, since most of my best clothes from last year are really only suitable for use as rags when cleaning the aforementioned car or for dressing as a homeless person.  I've been milking them for a few years now, and they just don’t have another season left in them.  That means I need to shop for new clothes, which is easily one of my least favorite things to do.  I just don’t know what a guy my age (43, for those of you just joining us) is supposed to wear.  I do know what I am comfortable wearing however.  The former and the latter don’t always seem to coincide, unfortunately.  Plus, it’s getting harder and harder to find Nirvana tour t-shirts these days.  When I win the lottery, the first thing I am going to do is hire a professional fashion consultant.

In ancient times, the new year started in the spring, not midwinter like it does for us now.  That makes more sense to me, because a lot of what’s nagging at me at this time of year is the result of transitions, the new beginnings that are the hallmark of spring.  The old has passed, and the new lies ahead with all the uncertainty that comes with it.  All the little concerns I've mentioned here either falls under the heading of fear that the old has not really passed, or that there might be complications with the unknown new.

I know on an intellectual level that of course the hard months of winter are over and the beauty of spring is looming, but it still seems impossible at this point.  But it happens every year.  There will be robins.  There will be crocus.  There will be temperatures that allow us to leave our jackets at home.  It’s just a matter of hanging on and letting nature take its own time.

Cold War

I have a head cold, and I am pretty sure it is the very worst head cold that anyone has ever had in the entire history of humankind.  (Yes, female readers, I am such a typical whiny man.)  My sinuses are congested to the point where I think they are going to burst.  My nose is constantly running, and NO it is not just trying to get away from my face!  I go into fits of violent sneezing that seem to last longer than a presidential administration, and my head feels like the game ball must at the end of the Super Bowl.

Poor me.

Source

Despite all our scientific advances, there is no cure for the virus that causes the common cold.  Viruses are notoriously difficult to get a clamp on anyway, and the common cold virus especially so, since it mutates so frequently that finding a cure is like hitting a mosquito with a pea shooter.  So in a practical sense, all you can do is treat the symptoms with the remedies of your choice.  Here’s what I've been using:

Fluids: They always say to drink lots of fluids when you have a cold.  My fluid of choice is good old-fashioned water, although I’ll grab a glass of juice or two during the day as well.  Any microbiologist will tell you that water is one of the most fundamental things your body uses to maintain itself, so it only stands to reason that in the fight to ward off a virus and repair the damage it has done, water is important.  The trouble is, increased drinking means increased peeing. These past few days and nights, I've been to the bathroom so many times that the tiles on the floor in front of the toilet are starting to show wear.

Chicken soup: It has long been said that chicken soup is good for you when you have a cold.  Something about it containing natural antihistamines, I think.  In my experience, it does indeed seem like my nose gets a bit clearer during the actual time I am eating the chicken soup, but as soon as I am finished, it’s stuffed-up city again.  The temptation is to open up another can of soup for more relief.  But a guy can only eat so much chicken soup before he starts to sprout feathers.  Chicken soup is a short-term fix at best.

Vitamin C: I've always been skeptical of this cold remedy.  If vitamin C was so great for colds, you would think that you’d see better results.  I know people who take the recommended daily allowance of vitamin C every day, and they still come down with major colds.  I know other people, like me, who have taken megadoses of vitamin C after catching a cold, and have seen no appreciable results.  One person I know who buys into the vitamin C theory is very adamant about it.  No matter how terrible her cold turns out to be, she claims that it would have been much, much worse if she hadn't taken the vitamin C.  To which I typically want to reply “So other than that, how was the play Mrs. Lincoln?”, but don’t for fear of being beaten roundly about the head.

Cold medicines: There are few things more intimidating than the wall of cold medicines at your local pharmacy. There are meds for nasal congestion, chest congestion, throat pain, itchy and watery eyes, coughing, fever, aches and various combinations thereof.  There are also sugar-free medicines, alcohol-free medicines, children’s medicines, infant’s medicines, daytime medicines, nighttime medicines, liquids, pills, teas, throat drops, etc.  It’s enough to make your stuffy head spin right off your shoulders.  In the end, I typically just go with something in an orange box or something cherry-flavored, since those are things I like. (Of course it may or may not do anything for my cold, but whatever.)

Rest: This is a tough one for me.  I don’t do rest very well.  Oh sure, I go to bed at night and get a good eight hours, but once I am up in the morning, I am ready to go, go, go.  Staying in the house when I am not vomiting up a lung or nursing broken bones just seems odd to me.  But I've been at rest these past few days.  At least I've tried to be.  Take today for example.  I watched the news, did some reading, beat a level on my pirate video game, took a nap, wrote this, and, and, and now what?!  It’s only 12 noon!  The walls are closing in on me!  There are errands to run, people to see, places to go, things to do, and I am stuck in the house “resting” instead! And don’t even get me started on what is probably going on at work without me. Sure my body needs to preserve resources in order to fight off the cold germs, and I certainly don’t want to spread this misery to other people, but I am losing my mind over here!

So here’s hoping that you don’t end up with the same head cold I have.  But if you do, stay away from the cold medicine in the orange box.  It makes you jumpy and gives you screaming nightmares.

Foster Fish

Source: http://www.thezooom.com/2012/10/7399/

I have foster fish in my house, and I am not happy about it.

For those of you just joining us, let me recap some things for you.  About nine months ago, we helped my 87 year old grandmother move into an assisted-living apartment from the large house where she lived for nearly half a century.  While the move has been very positive in many ways, it did require a considerable downsizing, and many, many things had to be left behind in her house.  Among them was her two goldfish.  There is no room for them in her new digs.

In my opinion, fish are slimy creatures with cold, dead eyes, and have about as much personality as a typical member of Congress, so my interest in them is very limited.  Nonetheless, my job is to keep animals alive and healthy, so just flushing two pet fish for which I was mostly responsible was not an option.  Of course we were more than open to anyone who was interested in taking them.  (Insert sound of chirping crickets here.)  So, the fish just stayed back at her house and I kept them in food and clean water until we could figure something out.

When winter came, we drained the water pipes and winterized the place so we could avoid most of the considerable expense of heating except for during the most extremely cold parts of the winter.  Turning off the heat, however, meant relocating my fishy friends, at least for the winter.

A second or third cousin of mine said that she would adopt the fish, but she lives out of the area, and would not be coming to get them until later this year.  So, with much trepidation, I agreed to take them in short term. No one else, it seems, could or would, at least not right now, and I am kind of a pushover.  So, I've got foster fish.

My general dislike of fish as pets and not meals was secondary to my concern about my furry housemates.  With three cats in my house, all of whom have oversize personalities and very little discipline, I was afraid that the two fish were hopelessly outnumbered and destined to become someone’s dinner, especially considering that they live in a small tank that is only slightly heavier than one of the cats when filled.  It would be easy enough for one of them to tip.  Unless I kept the fish on the roof, in a safe, or stayed awake 24/7, I didn't see how I would be able to keep the cats away.

I brought the foster fish into the house and set their tank on the table where it was to stay for the time being.  All three cats gathered around, sitting up high on their haunches, looking not unlike tourists choosing a lobster from the tank at a seafood restaurant.    They could look all they wanted, but sure as heck were not allowed to touch.  Spray bottle in hand, I stepped back to watch how things would unfold.

Stop It (see this post for background on the nicknames of my cats) has a tendency toward being a bit defiant.  This, after all, is the cat who tries to nap on my morning newspaper, every single morning without fail, no matter how many times I scold him.  True to form, he was the first of the three felines to jump up and take a look at our guests.  He sniffed at the tank and batted a paw gently against the side, the inhabitants within doing their level best to ignore him but looking very uneasy all the same.  Stop It’s predatory instincts are strong, and his dislike for being ignored is even stronger.  Fortunately for me, he is also very sensitive, and one squirt with the water bottle sent him scurrying after he started trying to figure out how to pry the top from the tank. He would be back for round two, I was sure.

Get Down, my resident acrobat and the sister of Stop It, is svelte and athletic, relentlessly curious, and hardheaded to boot.  If she wants to do something, she does it and not just halfway. Get Down is all about commitment to a task.  Of my three cats, she is the one I would least want to meet if I was a mouse or goldfish.  She is also smart, and was more than happy to let her brother go first and see what this new thing was all about.  As soon as I squirted her brother and he flew off, Get Down decided it was her turn to scope things out.  She sniffed a little, all the while keeping one eye on me.  As soon as I moved just a little bit, she jumped down, knowing that these fish were some kind of forbidden fruit.  I had no doubt this was not the end of it for her.

Don’t Bite Me, in contrast to the other two, is kind of a fat cat, and not very adventurous unless it involves teasing the others or trying to permanently maim me.  It would take a huge amount of effort for him to even come close to getting up on that table near the fish, so he was the least of my concerns.  I actually held Don’t Bite Me up to the tank to take a look after the others had had their chance, and he was a bit intimidated by the fish.  Fear of the unknown, like fear of the vacuum cleaner, can be a powerful thing.  He has not gone near the tank or the table on which it sits since.

I knew the overnight would be sink or swim for the fish, literally.  It wouldn't be practical to keep the cats or the fish shut behind closed doors whenever I was not around to supervise, so I figured I would just let things shake out however fate deemed them.  I set the spray bottle of water right next to the tank as a warning of sorts before I went up to bed that night, and wished the foster fish Godspeed.

Dread filled me as I made my way downstairs the next morning.  Don’t Bite Me was annoyingly underfoot on the stairs as usual, in giddy anticipation of being fed his breakfast, but the other two cats were nowhere in sight.  Maybe they had already eaten?  I expected a scene of carnage, with scales, bones and water everywhere.

I stepped off the stairs, and there, nested on the clear plastic top of the fish tank, was Get Down, looking quite comfortable.  The fish swimming frantically just inches beneath her in the tank looked anything but.  Stop It had been sitting beside the tank watching the fish with interest, but jumped down when I entered the room.  I shooed Get Down off her perch atop the tank, gave her a small quirt of water just to make clear my disapproval, and decided that an uneasy truce had been formed.  If those cats were going to assassinate the fish, it would have happened that night.  But it didn't.

The cats don’t seem to pay much attention to the fish now, except when I put a pinch of fish food into the tank.  Even then, I think it is only because the fish food comes in a container much like the one their cat treats come in.  From time to time, Get Down can be found sitting on top of the tank, and Stop It will lay on a chair across the room and stare at the fish for long periods, but the truce seems to be holding.  Meanwhile, Don’t Bite Me is only interested in food that doesn't require work.

Spring will be here soon, and the foster fish will be out of here, either to a new home with my relative or back to their old one for the time being.  Even if the cats have more or less accepted them, I have not.  The only fish truly welcome in my house are those on a plate with a squeeze of lemon and some tartar sauce on the side.

Sunday Services, By The Numbers

I make an effort to go to Mass at my local Catholic Church every week.  For me, it’s two parts faith, one part belonging to a (more or less) like-minded group, and one part habit.  I've gone almost every weekend for my entire life, so it’s pretty ingrained   Oh sure, I am more on board with some tenets of the faith than others, and you can call me a “Cafeteria Catholic” if you want, but I suspect everyone in those pews is the same way to one extent or another.  That’s a topic for another day.

Source

Try as I might, I cannot help my mind from wandering during Mass most Sundays.  It’s always been that way for me.  Serving as an altar boy for five years in my youth was helpful, as it kept me occupied (and under scrutiny being up in front of the congregation the whole time).  A short attention span is a cross I've borne for as long as I can remember.

This particular week, I thought I would share some of the highlights I observed during this week’s Mass, by the numbers.

5—The number of hymns sung during the course of the service.

2—The number of hymns I recognized.

12—The number of times the chorus to the Van Halen song “Jamie’s Crying” drifted through my head for no apparent reason whatsoever.

7—The number of cough drops the sniffling lady sitting behind me consumed within the space of the hour.

5—The number of minutes it took for my heart to start beating again after the PA system unexpectedly screeched.

1—The number of teenage girls wearing pants with the word “pink” bedazzled across the backside.

3—The number of mistakes the lector made during the course of a 300 word scripture reading.

9—The number of children who had to make a trip to the bathroom during Mass, despite the fact that any of them could probably sit through an all-day Spongebob Squarepants marathon without leaving the room.

15—The number of minutes that the sermon lasted.

200—The number of minutes it seemed like the sermon lasted.

2—The number of used, rumpled  tissues I found stuffed behind the hymnal when I pulled it out.

10—The rating, on a 1 to 10 scale, of how disgusted I was by the prior statistic.

1—The number of crossword puzzle clues I worked out in my head during the service. (#38 Down- 1968 offensive, three letters)

14—The number of times the toddler in front of me dropped something on the floor for his mother to pick up.

4—The number of times my stomach growled during the Mass.

4—The number of times I regretted skipping breakfast before Mass.

3—The number of cellphones that went off before or during the course of the service.

1—Number of blog posts I got out of going to Mass today (so far).

I Need My Space

I’m the kind of guy who likes to stretch out.  At a full six feet tall and just shy of 200 pounds, I need some room just to be, much less to move.  I don’t think claustrophobia is the best term to accurately describe this need I have for some real estate around me, but whatever I am feeling would definitely be in the same ballpark. 

The veterinary clinic where I am employed is a small building with several people of varying sizes and personalities, and a lot of “stuff”. We are always bumping into each other and tripping over things.   As much as I enjoy my work and the people with whom I do it, there are some days when I am vaguely irritated for seemingly no reason.  It never manifests itself outwardly or affects my work in any way, but it is just enough to tip my attitude from viewing the glass as half-full to one of seeing it as half-empty.  The other day, it occurred to me that there might be a connection between this hard-to-pin-down occasional irritation of mine and the times when things at work are particularly crowded or cluttered.  Hence the inspiration for this post.

Life feels a lot like this sometimes. (Source)

Like many things, it probably has roots in my childhood.  Growing up as I did in a small town, everyone seemed to know everyone else, and it was hard to avoid anyone, even if you tried.  I was raised in a small house by my parents, with three siblings and one busy bathroom.  I attended a small parochial school, but was part of an unusually large class, so we were packed tightly in the classroom from first through eighth grade.  It was much the same in high school, where no class since has had the numbers of my graduating class.  My first job was at a radio station that was in a facility the size of a shoe box.  Room to maneuver always seemed to be a tough thing to come by in my youth.

Then, as now, I always sought out some wiggle room.  I used to love to spend days at my grandparents’ place in the country as a child, and often visited my other grandmother in town since she lived alone in a large house.  Sure, I genuinely enjoyed their company, but I also liked to be able to stretch out a little.  My best friends as a child were usually kindred spirits who also liked to roam.  The gang of kids I ran with back then was not made up of the types who would hole up reading comic books or watching TV in the living room all day.  We liked to get out there and explore the world in which we had been placed just as much as we reasonably could.  There were paths to follow, streams to wade, rocks to climb, and roads to take.  I had numerous bicycles shot out from under me due to heavy use in those days.  My first car as a teenager was one of the largest on the road, a 1972 Chevy Caprice with lots of leg room for the $575 I paid for it.  Of course it cost over $25 to fill the tank, and that was when gas was well under a dollar a gallon, so it was not all good.  Plus it inexplicably smelt of cherries.  But I digress.

To this day, I still enjoy getting out for walks in the woods or going for rides on my bike or in my car on back roads.  Backwoods camping is one of my favorite warm weather hobbies.  I’ll freely admit that I have been out walking in an open field on a summer day with no one around and just flopped down on the grass, spreading out my arms and legs and just taking in the vastness of it all.  Then ants would start crawling on me, and the reverie would end very abruptly.  I have also done this while out snowshoeing in the winter too, but never for very long, since I don’t know exactly how I would explain the frostbite on my rear end to the emergency room staff. 

As much as I love sports and music, the idea of going to a crowded concert or stadium or hanging out in a packed club does not at all appeal to me.  I will do it, but it had better be a musical act or sports team that I am extremely fond of if I am going to subject myself to such close quarters.  We’re talking on the level of a reunion of the Beatles or the 1992 USA Basketball Dream Team here.  I attend a church that has lots of room, though purely through coincidence and not by choice, and it suits me very well.  Not so much on Christmas Eve though, when it is shoulder-to-shoulder in the church and I am usually ready to turn myself inside-out by the time the service is over.

Get-togethers with my family can be a wonderful thing, but if we are all packed inside someone’s house because of inclement weather, I can only take so much.  I’ll always be the first person to volunteer to run to the store for supplies if they are needed in such a situation, though I may not be back for hours.  I find that I am closest to relatives who are smokers, even though I don’t smoke myself, since I am often outside to get some air at the same time they are outside polluting it.

Carpooling is a challenge too.  While I am all in favor of saving on gas and helping the environment, it just makes me uncomfortable to be in a crowded vehicle for more than 15 minutes or so, even if I know all the occupants very well.  I’d be happier strapped to the roof.  I would probably use buses or subways if I lived in a large city though.  For brief periods, about the length of time between stops, I can tolerate close quarters, especially if it means I don’t have to look for an empty parking place or shell out money for a parking garage.

Please don’t think that it is an antisocial thing on my part, because I really do love people.  Some of my best friends are people.  However, too many too close to me for too long, no matter whom they are, make me edgy. 

Now, would you mind taking a few steps over there?  Thanks.

Contents of My Head: Erranding Edition

Monday, being my day off from work each week, is the day I get stuff done.  You know: errands, appointments, and that sort of thing.  This past Monday, I made a trip to the city of Bangor to accomplish some items on my to-do list, including a routine doctor’s appointment and getting a haircut, among other things.  As is my nature, my mind kept up with a running list of questions during the day.  Here are some:

• What if people with obscene bumper stickers got caught in traffic in front of the president’s limousine or a motor coach full of nuns? Would they feel awkward?

• What good does it do you to wear a surgical mask over your mouth in the doctor’s waiting room, but not over your nose?

• Could this nurse who is squeezing this blood pressure cuff so damn tight actually beat me up if she wanted to?

• Why is the office staff so shocked when I volunteer to pay my insurance co-pay before my appointment?

• What awful things can be done to people who park in such a way as to take up two spaces?

• At what age does one stop receiving a reward sticker after having behaved well while getting one’s blood drawn?

• Do they secretly keep all the hair swept up off the floor at the hair cutting place and use it to make yarn or something?

• How gross would that be?

• How awful must it be to have a job where you are poking around strange people’s heads all day?

• When, exactly, was the “oversized t-shirt and stretch pants look” a powerful fashion statement?

• Does this lady cutting my hair appreciate that I chewed on an entire roll of wintergreen Certs just prior to my haircut, since I did eat a cheeseburger with onions for lunch?

• Is the hair-cutting lady trying to come up with a tactful way to recommend “Just for Men” hair dye to me?

• Why aren’t these kids in school?

• How brave does a guy have to be to let a stranger shave his face with a razor?

• Why is it that do they not let you see the menu items at the drive-thru until you are right in front of the speaker?

• How come the one thing I am looking for at the electronics store is seemingly the one thing that they do not happen to have in stock?

• Can I get this cheaper online?

• Why are those Christmas decorations still up?

• How come there are always several people standing directly in front of an item that I need to get?

• Why are some people apparently opposed to the use of soap?

• Or deodorant?

• Seriously, why aren’t these kids in school?

• Shouldn’t there be a law about people wearing shorts when the temperature is below freezing?

• How am I supposed to know in which lane to drive if the paint is worn off the road and there is no sign?

• Why do I never, ever, ever have the correct change on hand?

• If the cellphone in my pocket rings while I am pumping gas into my car, will there be an explosion?

• How long can germs live on a gas pump handle?

• What is the proper etiquette when standing beside someone at a urinal and one’s cellphone rings “midstream”?

• Does it do any good to use a hand sanitizer dispenser when you then have to touch the germy doorknob in order to get out of the room where it is located?

• Will I ever get used to people who seem to be talking to themselves but actually are carrying on a phone conversation through an earpiece?

• WHY AREN’T THESE DAMN KIDS IN SCHOOL?