I’m Vaccinated and I’m Angry

I am growing weary of claims by unvaccinated people that vaccine mandates are a limit on their freedom.  Freedom is such a tricky concept and Americans are woefully ignorant of how freedom actually works when we all must live in the same society.  We wave the flag and shout the word freedom as if it gives us the right to do whatever we damn well please.  But that is not what freedom means; nor has it ever meant that.  In otherwise free societies, once human beings live with one another, freedom is necessarily bounded so that we can live safely and well alongside one another.     

All day long, your freedom is restricted.  Consider just one day in my life.  I must drive on the right side of the road because the law demands it.  Worse than that, I must follow a speed limit because safety and order for other drivers is important.  I must stop at red lights, signal before I turn, and abide by speed limits.  I’m barely out of my house 15 minutes and already my freedom has been restricted.  How do I bear it?  Well, those restrictions apply to all of us and they keep me - and you - safer as we drive our cars.     

Most limits on freedom fall into this category - restrictions made to benefit the safety of us all.  They don’t endanger my life, neither do they put me at risk.  They do set limits on what I can do - limits on my freedom.  They do that to keep me - and everyone else - just a smidge safer.  Vaccines - and masks, these days - fall into this category.  A vaccine against a potentially fatal and airborne illness helps to prevent me from contracting it.  And vaccinated people keep all the rest of us safer as well.  We have been using vaccines for years — smallpox vaccines were common in the 1700s - and we know that vaccines, including the COVID-19 vaccine, is safe and effective for the vast majority of us.     

There is, of course, an enormous amount of vaccine disinformation, propagated by ignorant people who are afraid.  Fear and ignorance is a potent combination and for some of us it will be deadly.  But the fear of some of us must not prevent our government (a government by the people) from taking action to protect the health and safety of all of us.  

I make it a life habit to avoid anger and hate.  They are emotions that kill joy and I want no part of them.  But my fury at the unvaccinated and the risks they create for all of us is a potent force right now.  I am not proud of it, but I find myself not giving a damn about unvaccinated people who are dying of COVID.  I don’t even care about the suffering and pain of their families at this largely preventable loss.  The willful choice of some of us to keep a pandemic alive when we could stop it is unethical, immoral, and the height of selfishness.  To claim freedom as the reason for exposing us all to a greater probability of illness and death is beyond ignorant, it’s just plain stupid.     

If you want true and absolute freedom, then go where there are no other people, in a place where your actions can never affect any of us.  That’s going to be hard to find because it is an impossible goal in a planet occupied by people.  Until then, your freedom is limited by the freedom of the rest of us.  Roll up your sleeve and get the fucking vaccine.  You’ll be safer and so will everyone else in the world.  In a world in which we must live with other people, that is a really good thing.  

Spring Fantasies

Last week I earnestly explained to T that January is nice because it’s almost Spring.  She looked at me as if I had lost my last bit of sense, pointed out that we were less than a month off the Winter solstice, pulled her toque lower on her ears, slipped on her curse of a coat (it weighs 15 pounds, no joke) and slunk outside in Winter boots.  She didn’t even take the time to truly consider my assertion that Spring starts on March 1st.

Or consider that I have my eye on a pale pink sweater which I will wear in Spring.

It’s the time of year when I begin to think about Spring and realize again that it is the season that I love the best.   Admittedly, I am early to the party….it’s January, after all.  But I don’t feel limits because of January.  Over the weekend, we had unexpectedly warm weather and I left the house in flip flops…..it’s like Mother Nature wants me to daydream about Spring.  

And so I do.  I cheer on my amaryllis.  I’ve collected seed catalogs so I can make plans about what to plant in my garden.  On-line, I visit pink sweaters and flower stickers.  I day dream about Easter decorations.  In a few weeks, daffodil bouquets will turn up in the grocery store.

I am ready.

Wait, There is Photo Evidence

I think we can all agree that this uneven blind had.to.go.

Warning!

Last week, I had cause to open a new bag of flour when I saw this warning.

What?

Seriously...what? Has it really come to this?  Since this is the case, we likely deserve our fate.

Leaves of Three I, Apparently, Did Not Let Be

My backyard is awash in volumes of poison ivy.  I know what it looks like and I take care.  Not always perfect care, because every summer I get a touch of poison ivy rash.  Usually, it itches uncomfortably but within a week, the rash has dried and I am feeling much better.  

Emphasis on usually.

Sometimes, it doesn’t get better and I need a few days of prednisone to clean things up.

And then there is my most recent exposure.  I knew my ankle had been brushed by poison ivy on Sunday, August 25th when I cut the grass and did some trimming of bushes in the yard.  I washed the spot and moved on.  Four days later, a rash emerged on my left arm.  And then all along my waistline.

A spot emerged on my face and neck.  

And then my chest.  

My ankle was a mess.

By Labor Day weekend, I was a walking itchy and scratchy advert.  And new breakouts kept appearing.  I took myself to the doctor and got some prednisone, first a shot and then six days worth of pills that would gradually taper off.  I also got a steroid cream to use.  At once, my symptoms began to ease.

But now, here at the end of the taper off, I am still getting new outbreaks.  Clearly the exposure was more than my ankle.  In fact, T saw a patch in the front yard where I had been trimming that I didn’t see at the time.  In all fairness to me, we’ve never had poison ivy in the front yard.  In all fairness to poison ivy, I have sometimes taken a cavalier attitude toward its presence.  

My last prednisone pill will be taken tomorrow.  At this rate, I’ve the notion that by Tuesday I am going to remain a very unwilling poison ivy subscriber, this time headed for round 2 of steroids.  Will I ever learn?

That’s a rhetorical question.

Let’s Have a Chat About Glasses

I first needed help for my eyes when I was in my early 20s.  For a while, glasses for night time driving or while watching a movie would do the trick.  After a few years of decorative glasses that I thought made me look studious, wearing my glasses all the time meant better vision.  Decorative glasses were fun; full time glasses were not.  I took up with contact lenses.  Over the years, contacts and I were BFF and I never envisioned (pun intended) giving them up.

Then my mid-40s arrived and my eyes felt more and more dry in my contacts.  By the time I was 48, contacts and I had to break up.  It was either that or pretend I didn’t mind uncomfortable red eyes that looked like I’d been on a bender or in a sandstorm, events that seem odd (or inappropriate) for a school teacher.  Plus, I’d reached the point where reading in my contact lens required reading glasses.  I read a lot and so this became stupid.  Reluctantly, I gave up contacts and began wearing glasses full time.  I invested in a pair of prescription sunglasses and prepared to make my peace with the new me.

Though I like the way they help me see things, I don’t otherwise enjoy wearing glasses.  Even after nearly four years of wearing them daily (and more than 30 years of needing them!), I don’t quite recognize myself in glasses.  I am incredibly picky about frames and nine times out of ten I end up disliking the frames I’ve selected, having concluded that I look foolish or fuddy (even though no one has ever actually noticed that I have new frames).

I realize that all of this makes me seem rather vain.  So be it.  A few weeks ago, I got new frames.  I loved them at the shop but now I feel the stripes are silly.  Reality, however, is that no one can see the stripes and the frame shape is like every other frame I have ever selected.

Sometimes, I exhaust myself.

Today in New Jersey: Shirtless edition

The backstory:  On occasion, I document that strange things people in New Jersey do and say.  I call this happy feature “Today in New Jersey” and if I know New Jersey, these reflections will make frequent appearances on this blog.  Today, we’re talking about shirtless men.

The men in New Jersey like to go shirtless, often in their yards but also while walking down the street, and pretty much any time they are outdoors.  I don’t want to body shame here, but let’s just agree these men seem to have few self-esteem issues.  Certainly none that would cause them to keep their shirt on.

Many is the day that I drive through town to see a hairy shirtless man working in his yard, tuning his car, and otherwise hanging out shirtless.  In my most charitable moods, I assume they are over-heated.  In my less charitable moods I want to shout out the window that they should put a damn shirt on.

Today, shirtless men achieved a new low: shirtless but wearing sweatpants.  I think we can rule out overheating as a cause.  This means we are left with the usual explanation: bad taste.

Oh, New Jersey.

Today in New Jersey: Rainstorm edition

The backstory:  It’s about time that I document that strange things people in New Jersey do and say.  We’ll call this happy feature “Today in New Jersey” and if I know New Jersey, it will be making frequent appearances on this blog.  Today, we’re talking about rain storms.

When I arrived at work today, a colleague and I shared a wry laugh at the morning’s traffic.  We had buckets of rain last night and downed tree limbs and overflowing creeks had caused one of our routes to school to be closed.  That put many more cars on the other route, one which featured a traffic circle.  Traffic circles never bring out the best in people and so in addition to being slow, the traffic was angry.  This is a classic New Jersey response.

On the way home, I drove a different route (that’s also classic New Jersey….one route to work and another route home in a brave but futile effort to avoid traffic) and this took me back over the river.  With 4 lanes on the interstate at 3 pm, one should be able to assume that the traffic would move right along.  But not in New Jersey.  Predictably, everyone slowed to look over the bridge at the muddy river below and so we were briefly jammed up.  This happens after every storm and we have a lot of storms.  The river always looks the same after this sort of event —— swollen with debris, muddy, and fast-flowing.  And still we slow, likely all saying the same damn things…“look at the river”…“we sure got a lot of rain”…”would you look at that.”

Oh, New Jersey.

Crazy Plant Lady

Schefflura plants grow quickly and mine seems to be the dictionary example of that truth.  I got it two years ago from my secret source of amazing houseplants, Ikea, and it grew steadily that first summer it lived at Sassafras House.  Last year, it grew so big I had to transplant it into a larger pot at the start of the summer.  I did that, brought it inside for the cold weather and set it in a southern window. By the end of the winter I had a tree.

It’s outside on the front porch now and it’s enormous and getting bigger by the day.  If a windy storm blows through, its leaves rustle and it is in danger of being tipped over.  So I haul it inside for its own safety.  It’s nearly 5 feet tall and as I’m barely 5 foot 3 inches, this has become ridiculous.  I should trim off the three tall limbs, leaving a still-generous schefflura to grow.

But it’s a live plant and that’s a really hard step for me to take.  And so I lug it inside during storms and otherwise cater to its whims and needs.  This is the lot of a crazy plant lady and I’ve no choice but to embrace it.

Posting Has Been Light….

And I’ve been feeling a bit guilty about that.  It isn’t that I don’t have anything to say.  Far from it……but I damaged a key typing finger earlier last week and so my hands have been quiet even as my mouth has been yammering.  It all started on Tuesday, when I made tacos for JT and a couple of his friends.  

In the course of chopping jalapeños for salsa, I got a little careless with a very sharp knife and cut off a portion of my fingernail.

A significant portion.  

In hindsight, I’m lucky that I pulled back fast enough to save my fingertip.  But I cut off a third of my fingernail on my middle left finger.  It hurt in the moment, of course, and I bled like a stuck pig.  But once T and I got the bleeding to stop, it was merely the inconvenience of a bandaged finger and the fact that jostling it caused pain that slowed up my typing.  Things are better now (the finger doesn’t hurt and the fingernail is growing back) and I’ve got a lot to say.

The Perils of an Internet Free Lifestyle

Last Saturday, I realized that my intermittent Internet outage problem had become more outage than not.  That day, T called Optimum, my ISP, re-booted the wireless modem, and crossed her fingers.  We had Internet for a bit but it didn’t last.  On Sunday, we went through this routine again, including the call to Optimum, and this time suggested to them that there was a problem with the line.  The wireless router is less than a year old, we explained, having been replaced when I had an intermittent Internet outage problem last year.

I think you see where this is headed.

Customer Service was SURE it wasn’t a line problem.  I should unplug the router, roll on over to their office on Monday to pick up a new router, bring it home, plug it in, call them for a configuration update, and I’d be back in business in no time.

For those of you counting along at home, that is three days with no Internet.

I did as instructed and Monday night found me on the phone with the ISP, hooking up the new router.  It came on, but there was no connection.  We tried three times.

Nothing.  

There must be a problem, Customer Service concluded.  With the line? I asked hopefully….oh no, they said, something in the house.  They would send someone out on Wednesday, between 5 and 8 pm.  

On Tuesday, the ISP called me to report that there is a problem with the line in my neighborhood.  Their engineers would work on it and I should be patient.  48 to 72 hours, she said.

Things I have realized while I was without the Internet:

1.  I work at home far more than I should.

2.  I truly am an NPR junkie.  In the morning as I drink my coffee and get set for the day and in the evening when I come home and make supper, I listen to NPR on my Echo dot.  The sound is perfect and I love it. I was rather at a loss without it, especially in the morning as the stories help me to set the pace of my morning chores.  I won’t watch TV news (because TV news) and so all week long I felt like I was playing catch up to be well-informed.

3.  I miss the ease of looking up the answers to silly things via the Internet.  It’s not make or break, but who doesn’t enjoy the power to look up any number of inane questions?

Service was back on as of Thursday evening and on Friday morning I was especially grateful to hear the comforting voices of NPR.  We’re soaking up the Internet this weekend and hopeful it keeps on keeping on.

Tortured By Tunes, Extra Credit New Jersey edition

Last weekend, T and I went to Sunset Diner, as one does when one lives in New Jersey.  My previous calls for public soundtracks to be cleansed of the most horrifying of songs have been ignored  and Sunday’s playlist started on an unsettling note with a song guaranteed to linger in your head long after the last note has sounded.

“Wild Thing,” by the Troggs.

A dining experience that starts there makes one understandably anxious.  We waited as the songs veered into an especially strange playlist.  We heard Michael Jackson recommend that we “Beat It” and Kenny Loggins told us we were “Footloose.”  With lightening speed we’d moved from the ‘60s to the ‘80s and then Smashmouth reported,“Hey Now, You’re a Rockstar,” which seemed patently unlikely under the circumstances.  Also, late ‘90s?  Back to the ‘80s as Billy Joel whined about his “Uptown Girl.”  Then we abruptly headed to 1960 with a Chubby Checker diversion…he wanted us to do “The Twist.”  At this point, T decided soundtrack predictions were in order.  She predicted we’d soon be treated to something by Elvis.  I predicted Cindy Lauper.  We waited.  The sound track delivered an inexplicable “Just a Gigolo” by David Lee Roth.

And now we were in terrifying territory.  Naturally, “Sweet Caroline” by Neil Diamond followed.  T was preparing to tear out her eardrums when the Stones announced they could get no “Satisfaction.”  No kidding.  We were in a holding pattern.

No Elvis; no Cindy Lauper.  We made new predictions: T went with a solid: Elton John.  I optioned for Frankie Valli, always a sound choice when you live in New Jersey.  The soundtrack responded with Madonna, who remains “Like a Virgin” at the ripe old age of 60.  Then we achieved a new level of horror: Dylan’s “How Does it Feel” in …wait for it… instrumental-only format.  Who does that?  Why now?  Lunch was nearly over and then my most triumphant victory of all time settled over us when Frankie Valli delivered the goods with “December, 1963…Oh What a Night.”  

We laughed maniacally but as maniacal laughter is regular fare among the customers at the Sunset Diner, no one took note.  As we left, Boston was wailing about “More Than a Feeling.”  

Fair enough as we had a lot of feelings.  Angry feelings about the day’s confusing soundtrack.

28 Days

Without fail, this point in February finds me staring at my calendar wondering when I can reasonably abandon the wearing of Winter tights, heavy coats, wool sweaters, scarves, and mittens.  In November and December, I love these clothing items and gather them near with pleasure.  In January, I tolerate them out of their obvious utility.  But in February, my resentment builds.  Far earlier than makes any sense, I begin to contemplate abandonment of my cold weather clothing.

A reasonable woman would check out the weather forecast and refuse to set aside her Winter clothing until daytime temperatures are reliably in the 60s.  I am not that woman.  Without fail, I will declare an arbitrary end to the Winter clothing season.  I can usually wait until March for my unilateral declaration of Spring but there are no guarantees.

I’m no longer bemused by the prospect of snow in the forecast because snow will make flip flops seems like a foolish footwear choice.  I’ve begun too long for pastel sweaters and scarves, which I believe March will warrant.  I’m busily counting the remaining days of tights and heavy, dark Winter coats.  As usual, my imagination is untethered by reality.  One hopes my pride will keep me warm.  

What’s That Burning Smell?

On Christmas Day, the corn pudding I was baking for our supper overflowed in the oven.  T helped me scramble and supper was served on time (and it was delicious).  The oven problem was left for later.  So far, so good.

The next day, I curled up on the sofa to read and when I got hungry I turned on the oven to re-heat some Christmas leftovers.

Wait for it.

Of course, I had forgotten about the spill in the oven.  I remembered when the smoke alarm went off as smoke was pouring out of the oven.

Oh that……..

Windows were opened and the oven was shut off.  I considered, again, how it is that I am an adult.  When the oven cooled, I cleared out the charcoal.  

Sheesh.

No Good Deed Goes Unpunished

I make it a point to be polite and patient in commercial encounters.  It makes life nicer for all of us and it costs nothing to be polite.  But sometimes my patience is tested, as it was at the post office earlier this week.  

I was at my usual post office and a bit disheartened to see that the postal worker at the counter was the disgruntled postmistress, a woman known to us all for her brusquely unhappy manner at work.  I was the only person in line and though I know she saw me, she was busy talking to a friend and showing him a video on her phone.  I waited patiently and when she called me up I was friendly.  When she realized I wasn’t going to be cranky over the delay, she was friendlier than she had ever been; genuinely nice.

As I left I commended myself for my patience and kind nature, concluding that being nice makes the world so much better for all of us.  I was smugly pleased with myself for being polite.

I should have known better.

My next stop was the local market, known to me as the vile Acme because I don’t really care for it.  But I needed a few things and vile Acme was a seemingly quick stop on the way home.  I grabbed the bread and fruit that had brought me to the store and then decided to treat myself to some deli cheese.  The deli counter was manned by a friendly but soft-spoken woman who was clearly inexperienced.  She managed to slice the cheese without losing a finger and then could not figure out how to price it.  She spoke to me all along but no matter how much I politely asked her to speak up, I couldn’t hear a thing she said.  Five long minutes later, I took my cheese (priced incorrectly, of course) to the check out line.

I was third in line, behind a woman with a full cart and a man buying two items but paying attention only to his phone.  Under the best of circumstances, these lines are slow.  This was not the best of circumstances.  Once the first customer was finally loaded up, I breathed a sigh of relief.  Two items could be quickly checked out, I thought.

I was wrong.  

While two-item phone man stared at his tiny screen, the clerk at my checkout turned to have an off-topic conversation with the clerk at the next checkout.  This lasted through several iterations while phone man continued to look at his phone and I waited on a slow simmer.

When it was finally my turn to check out, I was friendly and polite and just hopeful I could make my escape before Labor Day.  On the way to my car I drew the obvious conclusion: this entire mess was all my fault, the legacy of being so smug about being nice to the cranky post mistress.  

I won’t learn my lesson, of course, but not because I haven’t had the chance.

A Tour of My Inner Thoughts

Me:  I should buy a new wallet; one that is nice and will last a long time.

And so, after a lengthy search of more than three years, I find a good price for the sort of wallet that is well-made and will last a long time.  It's a color I love and just the right size.  I’m pleased with my purchase and admire it daily but don't swap it out with my grubby old wallet.

Also Me:  I’m afraid to use my new wallet because it’s so nice and my old worn-out wallet will be fine.

I dream about using my new wallet three nights in a row and then I finally take the plunge and swap the old for the new because it’s exhausting to live with my subconscious and, honestly, I should use the new damned wallet that I spent three years thinking about.

A Word About Rest Stops

On our trip to the burning region of New York state, T and I stopped at a rest stop in Pennsylvania.  It was a vending machine wonderland and outside the bathrooms at least one man was seated on the lawn drinking a beer before he got back on the road.

Ahem.

The bathroom was a pink tile affair with a half dozen stalls and a long line. It smelled like a rest stop, which is to say, it wasn’t all that fresh.  When our transaction had been completed, I was eager to leave while T stopped to wash her hands.

I commend her commitment to hygiene but in all honesty, washing hands in that place was just a no.  I’m a woman with the immune system of an experienced teacher and can therefore afford to be around germs but I drew the line at that reststop and exited with haste.  When T and her wet hands emerged I suggested that the hand washing in that place was worse than just going without.  She wiped her damp hands on my shirt and agreed with me.

Thanks, honey.

Real Life Conversations with T: Pothole Repair edition

The Backstory: Potholes in New Jersey are a perpetual and serious problem.  In the last two years, both T and I have made expensive car repairs thanks to damage wrought by potholes.  There are streets in this state that cannot be driven because the potholes are so bad; some are in my town.  Given the fact that we have state, county, and town governments, the lack of pothole repair is one of the things that most annoys me about New Jersey.  So the Domino’s ad where they advertised that they will repair potholes so you can safely drive your pizza home really struck a chord with me.

Me: Really?  We’ve gotten to the point where pizza delivery is also handling pothole repair?

T: I don’t know why you’re bitching instead of calling and ordering a pizza.  It’s the only hope we’ve got.

She has a point.

Open Rebellion

It starts slowly, so slowly that I never quite see it coming.  Instead of ironing all my clothes for the week on Sunday evening, I toss a few items in the dryer with a wet washrag and consider that acceptable.

The next week, I identify all the knit clothes I own, toss them into the dryer with a wet rag, and skip the ironing all together.

The following week, I guiltily get clothes to the dry cleaner and vow that I will iron the rest.  I do iron those clothes.  But I resent it.

The next week I find multiple excuses to avoid drying my hair and turn up at work with braids or a messy bun in hopes that either will disguise my failure to be a mature adult.  My clothes are mostly ironed, but it’s a job done poorly.  I still resent it.

The next week, I start packing flip flops in my school bag, so I can switch shoes as soon as the school day has ended.

And then a day comes when I get to the car in the morning and only then do I realize I am still wearing my morning flip flops.  I know I should go inside and get school-suitable shoes.

I do get them.  

But I grow weary of grown-up clothes and grown-up efforts.  I want to wear flip flops every day.   It’s May 10 and Spring rebellion is in full bloom.  

Blowout Sale

I already posted this photo to Instagram, but seriously, it is well-worth another round here because every single time I see the picture, I burst into laughter.  You have to wonder what the marketing team was thinking.

Joke’s on me if they sell out.