AHS Class of 1977

So yesterday was June 9th, which was the thirty-third anniversary of my graduation from Alliance high school. Whoa. How is it possible that I’ve been out of high school that many years? I mean, after all, I’m only…um…38 years old! I tell ya – I must’ve been a veritable genius and graduated while I was still a toddler!

Don’t buy that, huh? Okay, so you do the math then. I’ll wait…

…Yep, you’re right. I’m officially old. Oh well. It’s wayyy better than the alternative.

When I was a shiny brand new 17-year-old high school graduate, I thought the life ahead of me was going to stretch on forever. Not so much. It’s amazing – and a little disconcerting – how fast time passes.

I loved high school, though. I loved my classes, especially literature and writing (not surprisingly). Well, okay, so I hated Math (also not surprisingly). And I wasn’t too crazy about Driver’s Ed because I constantly crashed while driving in the darn simulator.

And I also loved my friends. Well, except for that one guy who made fun of me for…well…never mind…! I even loved the whole learning thing, although the intervening years may have colored my perspective a little. Perhaps I really didn’t enjoy studying for exams in subjects like Geography. All those states in the middle had me a little confused about what was where.

Anyway…I made it through and, for the most part, I loved high school.

I am a little surprised that I enjoyed it so much, though. Why, you ask? Well, because I was pretty shy back then and I hadn’t gone to grade school with many of my classmates because they went to the public schools in Alliance while I went to the Catholic grade school in town.

So 9th grade was a scary time where I had to meet all sorts of new people. Fortunately, there were a few key friends who opted not to go to St. Thomas and thus came along for the ride at AHS, some of whom remain friends to this day. So that helped.

The biggest challenge, however, was not in learning the ropes of a new school. No, it was picking out a brand new outfit to wear every single day! Talk about pressure. I mean, for the entire eight years of my schooling until that point, I wore a uniform and didn’t have any choice in what I wore to school. Navy plaid skirt. Check. White blouse. Check. Navy knee high socks. Check. Oh, hey…wait just one minute! I DID get to choose between the navy vest and the navy sweater. Oh well, then. I feel better.

Actually, I’d have to say that the lack of uniform at Alliance High was one of the primary reasons I chose to attend public high school rather than the Catholic high school. Well, that, plus I didn’t want the long commute to St. Thomas. It would’ve been hell (haha) had I missed the school bus.

I’m not sure my parents knew the main reason I chose Alliance High, although I think they were happy they got out of paying tuition for four more years, so they were willing to let me make my own decision in the matter.

In retrospect, wearing a uniform might not have been all that bad because it would have eliminated early morning decision making. High school was the only time in my life I religiously got up at 6AM every single day to primp. I am not now nor have I ever been a morning person – and 6AM is not a good wake-up time for a non-morning person.

I didn’t think, however, that I had much of a choice since sharing a bathroom with three siblings necessitated getting in and out first. If I overslept, I might have had to wait in line and then wouldn’t have had time to shower and wash, dry and coif my hair, which for a high school girl is an absolute requirement. I don’t remember if that ever happened, but if it did, I probably called in sick that day. Just guessing. (Yeah, like my parents would’ve allowed me to call in sick for something like a bad hair day…)

Anyway, with the passing of years, I have come to appreciate that time in my life when Geography exams and bad hair days were the worst of my worries.

With the advent of social media outlets like Facebook, it has been a lot of fun reconnecting with so many high school friends, and I’ve enjoyed reading about what has happened to them in the intervening years. It is, however, a little freaky to think of some of them as grandparents when I last knew them as teenagers! But that’s what time does – it rolls on. And it does soften those teenage angst moments and memories. So to that guy who made fun of me for…well, never mind… - I want you to know that I’ve forgiven you!

Happy 33rd Anniversary fellow classmates of the Class of ’77. I hope all your dreams have come true!

Rainy Days and Car Keys (Always Get Me Down)

It’s rainy and dreary today – and I’m wearing gray…so I’m sorta feelin’ blue. Ha. Apparently, I should have opened the curtains this morning to check on the weather. If I had, I probably would have selected something far brighter to wear – like hot pink or lime green. And that might have altered my mood.

Interesting how that works, eh?

So, instead of buzzing around getting a million tasks handled simultaneously, I’m slumped over my keyboard wishing I had another mega-cup of caffeine instead of slurping my umpteenth glass of boring ol’ water. Damn gray jacket. All it’s fault.

Oh well. At least I wasn’t my coworker today who lost her spare car key and the entire staff spent 45 minutes looking for it. Oh, and it was her spare car key because she lost her original set of keys a couple weeks ago. She even knows when she had them last and has searched repeatedly, but simply cannot find them. So it was sort of important for her to find her spare car key today as she wasn’t going to get anywhere without it.

So where did we finally find the car key? In another coworker’s trash can. Huh?? Why would you even throw something away in another office when you have your own perfectly good office trash can to throw things like spare keys in?

That’s not something I would do. No, I just leave my car keys in the ignition. Did that the other night. I didn’t even notice until the next morning as I was dashing out the door on my way to work. I shook my purse to listen for the jangling of my car keys and didn’t hear them. So I looked in the handy-dandy wooden box affixed to the wall where I’m supposed to keep my car keys on the off-chance that I actually put them away properly the night before. Naturally, I had not. So I started getting a little frantic as I do not allow extra time in the morning schedule to play hide-n-seek with my car keys. I scrabbled through my suitcase of a purse until Vince calmly pointed out that I do, in fact, have a spare car key. Oh. Yeah.

Fortunately, the spare key was in its proper spot in the handy-dandy wooden box affixed to the wall. As I reached my car, Vince called out that he bet they were in the ignition. And he was right. I hate when that happens, because it’s usually when I’ve done something boneheaded. But oh well. At least I hadn’t left the key in the “on” position and drained the battery. Or even worse – left the car running!

Don’t laugh. I did that once. I was running a meeting first thing in the morning, so I wanted to get to the office in plenty of time to get things set up. I parked my shiny new car in the parking garage and hustled the two blocks to the office. Once I reached the office, I realized I didn’t have my keys as I couldn’t unlock the office door. Luckily, someone else came in just then and opened the office – so I started preparing for my meeting. Figured I would search for my keys later.

Well, it was about an hour after the meeting ended and I thought again about my keys. I searched through my belongings, but couldn’t find them. So I walked back to the parking garage and up to my car. Started searching on the ground for them. No dice. Looked through the windows at the seats thinking I may have put them down. No luck. Somehow or other, I touched the hood of the car – and it was warm! So it was only then that I realized that the keys were in the ignition and the car was running! As I said, it was a new car – and the thing was so quiet that I didn’t even realize it was running! Fortunately, I had locked the door; otherwise, I may have come back to an empty parking spot! The parking attendant had his slim jim thingie that opened the door in about two seconds, which made me grateful that I was able to gain access so I could shut off the car and retrieve my keys…but also made me realize how easy it was to gain access to anyone’s car – locked or otherwise. Scary.

Anyway, I am happy to report that I have never again pulled that stunt. Obviously, there are other boneheaded things I’ve done that I could tell you about – but I think I’ve admitted to enough for now!

In the meantime, I am still slurping boring ol’ water and staring out at the drizzly, dreary day and wishing I was wearing my hot pink jacket. On the other hand, maybe bright clothes still wouldn’t help brighten the day. Too bad I can’t bag it all and go home and take a nap!

Ah well…it’s okay. Tomorrow is gonna be a brighter day. I’m already planning what to wear – and it ain’t gonna be gray. Come on sunshine!

Nanna

One of my cousins just became a grandmother the other day. Mom, dad and baby are doing great. And my cousin is beaming – because she gets to add “Nanna” to her list of names.

In my family, grandmothers are called “Nanna” (with two n’s, thank you very much). But there are a plethora of names people call their grandmothers. They can be called “Grandma” or “Grammy” or “Mamaw.” They can add their first name after their grandmotherly name – like “Mimi Myrtle” or maybe add their last name instead – like “Grammy Gunderson.”

I imagine there are even some women who are called “Granny,” but if I were a grandmother, I wouldn’t want be called that. The name “Granny” makes me think of The Beverly Hillbillies and I picture Granny Clampett with her bun, gingham dress and spindly legs chasing Jethro with a rolling pin. And, now that I think about it, is this where the term “granny glasses” comes from? None too flattering, if you ask me.

On the other hand, it’s a good thing there are so many names for the role because there are many permutations in families nowadays. There may be grandmothers on both the mother’s and father’s side – and there may even be various step-grandmothers thrown in there for good measure.

Kids can’t walk around calling all of these women “Nanna” – it would be too confusing. Mostly for the kid. I mean, they need to be able to differentiate between the cool grandmother who gives them great toys whenever there is a gift-giving occasion – and the not-so-cool grandmother who gives them crappy stuff like socks and underwear.

In my own family, my dad’s mother passed away before I was born, so we didn’t have the dilemma of figuring out a different name for her as the “other” grandmother. So I just had one Nanna who lived until she was 95 years old.

And what a cool Nanna she was. She never gave us socks and underwear for gifts. Instead, she traveled around the world and brought back exotic gifts like dolls with wooden shoes and intricate jewelry from foreign lands. Or money. Sometimes Nanna just gave us cold, hard cash, which was also fine with us.

Even more importantly than the gifts, believe it or not, was the chance to spend time with her. As kids, we went to visit Nanna and Grandpa at their summer cottage on Cape Cod every August and spent two whole weeks with them. (Or at least until Grandpa passed away when I was 9.) But we loved it up there and spent many happy hours swimming and playing at the beach and fishing and picking blueberries and flying kites and doing other fun stuff we didn’t get to do in Ohio.

Now Nanna was a tiny little fireball – I don’t think she even topped 5 feet – and she drove a big ol’ boat of a car. I don’t have any clue what kind of car it was (my brother John would know, I’m sure). But I do remember that it was green and she had a little ceramic figure of a saint affixed to the dashboard. Hopefully it was the Saint of Safe Travels – because I’ve gotta tell you that my Nanna was hell on wheels! She had a hard time seeing over the steering wheel, but that didn’t stop her from driving. Fast. But she was constantly correcting her steering with jittery movements, which meant that those of us unlucky enough to be sitting in the back seat invariably arrived at our destination with queasy stomachs.

As soon as Nanna said the words “road trip,” our oldest brother John would yell “shotgun!” – so that meant that my younger brother, sister and I were the unlucky kids relegated to the back seat. John was good at stacking the deck, too. If ever he was slow on the uptake and someone else managed to call dibs on the front seat, John would torment the other two rear-seat passengers until Nanna pulled over to the side of the road and made John move to the front where she could “keep an eye on him.” Hmmm…pretty slick move, wouldn’t you say?!

While on our vacation to the Cape, my parents would sometimes take a day or two to recharge their batteries and get away from their four brats, er, darling children and Nanna would take care of us. She wanted to make the time fun, so we usually went somewhere for the day.

There was one memorable trip we took with Nanna to Provincetown, at the tip of the Cape. This was in the 60’s when flower-power was at its height and hippies were common in P-Town.

We arrived around lunchtime, which was bad news for my younger siblings and me as our stomachs were in no condition to ingest food. But Nanna marched us along until she found a place that served burgers and fries, which she figured was a treat for us kids as opposed to our normal bologna sandwiches. So in we walked…and found ourselves inside a dark bar. There were long-haired guys hunched over stools along the bar drinking beer, which made Nanna go “tsk-tsk.” Yes, she actually said this. Nanna was very good at “tsk-tsking” and one really did not want to be on the receiving end of it.

My guess is that she was “tsk-tsking” not because they were drinking – because Nanna herself was known to enjoy a cocktail or two from time to time – but probably because it was only lunchtime and these guys were sitting in a bar wasting their lives. Nanna never apparently heard the song “It’s 5 o’clock Somewhere.”

Anyway, the bartender made some sort of rude comment about bringing kids into his bar and he made the mistake of calling her “lady.” By the end of the conversation he was deferentially calling her “ma’am.” And before we finished our burgers and fries, the beer drinkers had all slunk off. Probably to go to confession somewhere or get a haircut, be my guess.

After lunch, I remember walking down the street and seeing stoned out hippies lying around on the grass. One guy was lying there in a happy haze – or at least until he encountered Nanna. He was sprawled across the sidewalk with his big, black boots sticking up in the air that made sidestepping him impossible. So one-by-one, my siblings and I veered around him and into the street so as to avoid confrontation.

Not Nanna. Oh no. She stood there staring down at him until he flipped open an eyelid and peered up at her. Admittedly, he didn’t have far to look up. But they stared at each other without saying a word until finally he dropped his eyes in defeat. But he didn’t move. So she prodded his jeans-clad leg with the tip of her sensible old-lady shoes and told him that he should be ashamed of himself – a young man like him lying practically in the street. She told him to move out of the way of pedestrians and, finally, after some sort of internal debate (perhaps he was thinking of pounding on a little old lady, but she looked kind of feisty and he didn’t want to be embarrassed in front of his stoner friends?), he rearranged himself so that he was no longer blocking the sidewalk.

Nanna didn’t say another word – she just calmly continued on her way down the sidewalk. Or maybe she tsk-tsked – but I was far enough away from her by that point so I didn’t actually hear it.

That’s pretty much my entire recollection of that particular visit to Provincetown. I’m quite sure I blocked the memory of the trip home because I guarantee you that car sickness was involved. Fortunately none of us ever tossed our cookies in the back seat. I’m guessing that Nanna’s “tsk-tsking” would have gone into overdrive and we couldn’t have borne the shame.

But queasy stomachs notwithstanding, I have such great memories of my Nanna. I miss her, even though she has been gone for twenty years now. And I can still hear her saying, “Jane Dear...” (never just “Jane” – it was always “Jane Dear...”), which was usually followed by, “Can you please reach {such-and-such} for me?” (Did I mention she was tiny?)

So I’m thrilled for my cousin who is a newly-minted Nanna. And I know her grandson will have some great memories of his Nanna, too. Maybe she should practice “tsk-tsking” though. She can still be cool. She just needs to avoid the bun. And maybe the rolling pin. And never ever – under any circumstances – purchase socks or underwear as a gift. Trust me, M – you’ll do great!

The Fine (?) Art of Farting

I’m going to discuss a subject today that most women do not talk about or even acknowledge really. And that subject is…um…farting. Passing gas. Tooting. Whatever you call it – we don’t like to talk about it and we really don’t like to do it. Ever. I suspect that there are even men out there who believe that women neither possess the knowledge nor the ability to perform this biological function. These would not be married men, by the way. Married men know all our ugly secrets. Or most of them anyway.

Truthfully, most women would rather suffer inadvertent internal combustion rather than doing something so crass. And in public? Forget it! We’d prefer you posted a video of us on YouTube trying on bathing suits rather than tooting in public. And let me just clue you in on something: unless they’re a Victoria’s Secret model, women really hate trying on bathing suits. Clearly, there is a hierarchy to the things we hate doing. (And, guys, don’t let anyone fool you – folding and putting away your boxers and cleaning out the vegetable drawer in the fridge are somewhere on that list, too.)

So why is it that men find the subject of flatulence so incredibly hilarious? I mean, they virtually regress before our very eyes and become giggling 10-year-olds if even the subject of passing gas is brought up, let alone if they were to let one rip or hear someone else do it.

Oh, and before I go any further on this subject, let me just state for the record, that no, I did not have a tooting accident – in public or otherwise.

No, I bring up the subject because we went to a cookout on Saturday night and our host brought out his “fart machine,” complete with remote control. And the guys at the party thought it was the Funniest. Thing. Ever. They cracked up every single time anyone bent over or lowered themselves into a chair and the fart machine went into overdrive. I don’t know this for sure, but I suspect that the batteries for the remote on the damn thing needed to be replaced after its evening of non-stop use.

Vince said it was the most fun he’s had in a long time – and he laughed harder than I think I’ve ever heard him laugh before. Yikes. I thought I was pretty good at knowing what makes Vince tick…but who knew that the way to a man’s funny bone is a remote controlled fart machine?

Men even have names for their gaseous emissions. The loud-but-odorless. And the silent-but-deadly. And they giggle whenever they let one loose. The smellier the fart is, the louder these grown men laugh. Why is this? I simply don’t get it.

On the drive home after the fart-fest – between bouts of uncontrollable laughter – Vince asked the same question. “We don’t laugh when someone sneezes or belches,” he said, “so why do we laugh when people fart?”

I said, “First of all, honey, the ‘people’ you refer to in that question would be ‘men’ – let’s just get that straight. And, also, women don’t laugh when men fart. We’re too busy trying to uncross our eyes, fanning the air in front of us and hoping the noxious fumes will dissipate before we’re forced to move to another room or, depending on the severity of the smell, to another ZIP code.”

Vince just laughed all that much harder.

My theory is that – for men – there is a strange combination of embarrassment and pride in their ability to pass gas loudly. When they were boys, they had farting contests. C’mon, I know these things. I had brothers. And, also, I saw the movie Blazing Saddles and know what the effects of eating baked beans will have on a group of grown men sitting around a campfire. Mel Brooks probably thought up that scene when he was 10 years old and couldn’t wait to grow up to be a filmmaker so he could recreate the visual. Not to mention the audio.

Clearly, men and women are different creatures entirely. If a woman were to accidentally pass gas, even in a private room with only her best friend in the world there to hear it, she would still be mortified. It’s just not something we do.

Now, I must admit that there are exceptions to every rule. I am sure there are men who don’t find flatulence funny. And there surely must be women who take pride in their ability to produce long, loud farts – but I cannot say I’m acquainted with any of them. Or at least they don’t display such prowess in front of me.

I’ve not done a scientific study, but I know of at least three men who, while finding great humor in the art of farting, find it distasteful to hear women pass gas. In public or otherwise. Double standard? Yeah, sure. But that’s okay. There are some areas in which I do not wish to be considered equal to men. And one would be in the silent-but-deadly category.

Pass the baked beans? Nooooo thank you…I’ll think I’ll, uh, pass!

Thurman Café

One night last week Vince had an appointment downtown, so we decided to meet for a quick dinner somewhere in German Village. My modus operandi is that at 5:01 I’m already outta German Village and headed north on my way home. I do not tarry and I do not dawdle – but not having to forage in the fridge for some semblance of a meal was a definite incentive.

Vince has long waxed poetic about the “Thurman Burger” at a little restaurant/bar in German Village called the Thurman Café, a family-owned restaurant that has been in existence since 1942. Despite all these years of working downtown and in German Village, I had never been to the Thurman Café. So that is where we decided to meet.

I didn’t actually count them, so don’t quote me on this, but I’d guess that there are only about 12 tables and booths in this joint, along with the stools along the bar. They do have long benches in the waiting area where people take their beers to sit, drink, talk to their friends and relax. Possibly they are working up an appetite in anticipation of eating one of those Thurman Burgers. And, from what I understand, there is usually quite a lengthy wait to get seated, so this outer room also handles the overflow.

We only had about a 10 minute wait and then we were seated at a little two-top table, which didn’t seem big enough if the burgers were as big as they say. It was…but just barely! We had a great server/bartender help us. As she said, she wanted to make my “first time” an extra special one. Ha ha…not the first burger I’ve ever had, lady.

But it was the first burger from Thurman’s I ever had…and that probably qualified as a “first time”!

Vince ordered a Thurman Burger and I ordered one of their Blue Cheeseburgers. Mine was delicious, by the way – just let me get that out of the way. I managed almost half of it before giving up in defeat. But this, too, is my modus operandi. I rarely leave a restaurant without a container to take home for another meal. And KFC has nothin’ on the finger-lickin’ good thing. Yum!

The Thurman Burger itself, however, is a height-defying tower of ¾ lb. of burger, bun and all the fixings held together by what must have been specially-ordered extra-long toothpicks. My eyes widened in amazement when it was brought to the table and placed in front of my husband. There would be no way on God’s green earth that I could manage one of those things! But, Vince, well, he’s da man and somehow he managed to eat the thing without dripping most of it down the front of his shirt. I do not know how. I think he didn’t let go and just kept eating until it was gone. If he had let go, it probably would’ve burst apart in a flurry of tomato, pickle, burger and bun.

Apparently, they have a burger on the menu even bigger than the Thurman Burger, which is called the Thurman-ator. This gastric monstrosity contains DOUBLE the meat. Are they kidding? I didn’t see anyone eating the Thurman-ator when we were there. Who knows – maybe the wait staff would be legally required to have paramedics on-site with their resuscitation paddles just in case. I can’t imagine what a double the meat burger could possibly look like. But I do think it takes gluttony to a whole new level.

The restaurant received national attention when the guy from Man v. Food came to Columbus and filmed a show featuring the Thurman Burger. I don’t watch that show – other than once when it was on TV in someone else’s living room. In that episode, host Adam Richman consumed mass quantities of some sort of spicy seafood, which would pretty much be my nightmare meal, so I quickly lost interest. As Vince frequently says about my spicy food eating habits, “Ketchup is spicy for Janie…” And, no, sadly, he’s not really kidding.

I have to assume that the episode featuring the Thurman Burger was a success, or else Thurman’s Café wouldn’t still be promoting the Man v. Food episode with a big sign in its front room.

Anyway, my first visit to the Thurman Café was an enjoyable one. I mean, I was sitting there with my husband – so what’s not to like? And the second half of the burger turned into dinner for both of us the next day, so we certainly couldn’t complain about the value!

But, it’s now an entire week later…and I think I’m still working on the whole digestion thing. I'd say it should be a celery stick-and-water sorta weekend...but we're going to a cookout tomorrow evening. Hopefully, burgers will not be on the menu!

(Graphic Image by: Modern Photography)

Sex & the City 2

One of the few activities we did over the Memorial Day weekend was to go to the movies. Somehow I was able to persuade Vince to see “Sex & The City 2.” I think perhaps he thought that the “sex” part might be a little more featured, but other than a brief glimpse of a naked male backside, he was out of luck. (I, on the other hand, didn’t mind so much as it was a particularly nice male backside.)

Um…anyway…sorry…my mind wandered for a minute there. What was I saying??

Oh yeah. We went to a matinee showing and saved a few dollars, which was probably a good thing. It’s not that I didn’t enjoy the movie, but who wants to pay full price when you can see the same flick for a few bucks less?

I did, however, leave the movie (a) feeling frumpy and (b) wondering why I’m always trying so hard to get all my belongings stuffed in a single tiny suitcase that will fit into the overhead compartment on an airplane. Oh, that’s right. Because paying an extra $25-50 to check a bag these days is not how I want to spend my money.

Did I mention frumpy? Sheesh. Women in real life cannot possibly compete. The jewelry they wore alone would take up an entire fleet of suitcases.

The plot is basically that Samantha gets invited to Abu Dhabi by a rich guy who wants her to publicize his new to-die-for hotel, and she finagles invites for her three best friends, Carrie, Charlotte and Miranda. First class all the way and all expenses paid.

Yeah, like that happens in real life. Except for one time when I was invited to go along with some friends to their new condo in North Carolina and didn’t have to spend any of my own money to get there or get home, no one has ever offered me a freebie that comes even close. Oh, and when we got to the new condo in North Carolina? There was no furniture yet so we all slept on the floor.

Not quite the same thing.

Each character in this movie had her own butler and car and driver. Not to mention people to haul around their many suitcases. They were in an incredibly beautiful suite with its own kitchen and bar that (at the end of the movie), we discover rents for $22,000 per night!

Clearly, this movie does not resemble anything remotely real life – or at least not anything in my real life! So, instead of scoffing at the unrealistic aspects of the flick, I mostly focused on the clothes. And jewelry. And shoes. And hats. Each outfit on each character in each scene probably cost more than my monthly salary. Heck, the dry cleaning alone probably cost more!

Ah well. It was a little bit of escapism. Plus, the theater was air-conditioned and, if you read yesterday’s blog, you know that we were sans A/C over the weekend. So that was a big plus, right there – almost worth the price of admission.

Neither Vince nor I left the movie raving about the incredible plot or acting skills and I’d venture to say that no one will be nominated for any awards, but I guess I didn’t go in with the expectation that it would be anything more than it was. I do admit, however, that I miss the series. Movies that emerge from cancelled television series just don’t seem to live up to the hype.

And, like I said, poor Vince didn’t get to see much in the way of sex. Oh, wait a minute. Now that I think about it, there was a scene where Charlotte’s nanny walked around braless – and they showed her jumping up and down in slo-mo. I’m guessing this scene was made expressly for the male audience members who were dragged to the movie by their significant others. So, see, honey? You got your eye candy, too!

And, yes, next time you get to pick the movie. But try to pick an action flick, okay? I don't care so much about camouflage and automatic weapons...and at least I won't leave the theater feeling quite so frumpy!

Normal is Relative

So I woke up on Monday morning, Memorial Day, and for the first time in nearly a month thought to myself, Hey, I feel normal! True, “normal” is a relative term – and we could possibly have a discussion here about how abnormal I am, but since I’m doin’ the writing, I’m gonna say, um, “No, not happening!” Let’s just say that – for me – my version of “normal” felt wonderful! In fact, I briefly considered dropping to my knees and shouting “Hallelujia! Ah’m healed!! Praise the Lawd!”

A tad dramatic? Perhaps. But being sick for nearly a month is no fun – no fun at all. It made me cranky and out of sorts and I had absolutely no sense of humor.

But I should probably correct one point. Since I slept away most of the mornings of the long holiday weekend, “Monday morning” also sort of meant “Monday around noon-ish.” Hey, I choose to believe that I needed the rest and was not just being lazy.

But, anyway, I finally got outta bed and went downstairs for lunch. It was over chicken salad sandwiches that I decided it would be a very good idea to finally excavate our bedroom. I mean, it had been nearly a month since anything but perfunctory “picking up” had gotten done.

So back upstairs I went. Now, if I hadn’t been feeling normal I may very well have plopped back down on the bed, gotten comfy, and finished the novel I was reading. But I didn’t. Instead, I powered up my iTunes for the appropriate “music to clean by” and started in on the top of my dresser, which had accumulated a scary amount of junk. Movie ticket stubs and lone earrings and grocery store receipts and an errant sock, the other of which must have permanently escaped as I hadn’t seen it in a while.

And while we’re on the subject, to where exactly do lone socks escape? It’s not like I go out for a drink or something and spontaneously decide to pull off one sock and leave it under the table. I mean, I think I would at least remember doing something like that.

I briefly wondered if Murphy’s Law would come into play if I were to toss that lone earring or errant sock – would I immediately thereafter find the other half of the pair? But I didn’t spend much time contemplating Murphy’s Law or any other existential thought – I just mindlessly started tossing. And cleaning. And dusting. And organizing. I pulled the sheers, curtains and decorative scarves off the windows and cleaned them. I did mass quantities of laundry. And, given that it was nearly June, I hauled all my winter shoes out of the shoe boxes in the closet and put them away in their proper storage bins (perhaps to allow more room for some fun new summer sandals? Hmmm…yeah, I’m kinda likin’ that idea!).

But, anyway, I also organized the linen closet and the under-the-sink cabinet. I spritzed and sprayed and scrubbed. I even took the finials off the curtain hold-back thingies (technical term) and washed them.

Yes, I was a veritable cleaning machine!

You should also know that our air conditioner chose this past weekend to conk out and no one was going to be able to fix it until Tuesday. So when I say it was hot upstairs, picture the fires of hell and some red guy with horns and a pitchfork – and you’ll get an idea of how truly warm it was.

Naturally, Vince thought I was crazy. That I should have, perhaps, waited a few days until the A/C was fixed before I started doing all this work. Not to mention that running the clothes dryer upped the temperature quotient ever closer to the boiling point. But I couldn’t be stopped. Well, at least not until I found myself cleaning the grooves in the bedside lamps with Q-tips. Only then did I start to think I may have taken the cleaning thing a little too far.

By this point, I was a wrung-out tired old mess and even the ends of my ponytail were drenched in sweat. So I finally decided I’d had enough. I took a cool shower and washed away the sweat and grime – and then went downstairs.

And, oh boy, was it hot down there, too. Vince had been frantically trying to eek out whatever coolness he could from the ailing air conditioner and, when those efforts failed, opened windows and doors trying to allow a little cross-breeze ventilation. Nothing worked. I wouldn’t have blamed him if he resorted to standing in front of the open freezer trying to cool down a little, but he managed to restrain himself. But for the rest of the evening, I suspect he was secretly shooting dirty looks in my direction, but I pretty much chose to ignore them.

Hey, I figured the excavation project was long overdue. Not only that, but I was feeling better, and a three-day weekend is the perfect opportunity to do some spring cleaning. Besides, spring cleaning while it is still technically spring brings its own sense of accomplishment.

True, neither of us slept very well in our hot bedroom that night, but I was happy that we were not sleeping in a clean bedroom at least. You never know when the finial inspection people will come around to check for dust.

Our A/C is now fixed – and it’s set right around “sub-zero” – but neither of us is complaining. I wonder, however, if I shouldn’t have kept at least one pair of winter boots and a sweater handy. Sub-zero is pretty chilly.

…but I’m still not complaining. And I’m thrilled with our clean and organized bedroom. And also that I’m finally feeling well again. Praise the Lawd.