Detours

I am, I'm afraid to say, one of those people who, once I make a plan, must stick to it, come hell or high water, no matter now little or inane that plan is (e.g. I'm going to go to the grocery store around two this afternoon).

Yesterday's plan was to get up, pack, play with the dogs, leave the house around 10, hit the library (looking for Twilight #2, which, alas, they didn't have yet, but my name is now on the list), and head for my friends in Northern New York. It would be about a 7 hour drive, but it was a lovely day, so no worries. The plan all proceeded beautifully, with a slight hitch when I realized that, despite the fact that I have done this drive a couple of times, I wasn't actually sure which highway to take once I hit Vermont. No problem, I have an atlas.

I love maps. I don't know how people survive with that dinky little GPS system telling them where to go. I like to see the big picture, and, well, plan my route. I look at the map regularly, just to see where I am, even on the trip from St. Louis to NH, which I have done, literally, 70 times.

So I was driving along, everything going according to plan, arrival time to be around 5 pm, when I happened to look at the map in the middle of Vermont, just to check my progress. A little red point of interest caught my eye. I don't normally notice them, but there was something about this one that jumped off the page. It said, "Ben and Jerry's Ice Cream Factory". When I focused a bit closer, I noticed that it was, lo and behold, at the next exit.

Thus ensued a little grapple in my brain. It went something like this:

I love ice cream.
But the plan has us driving from NH to NY, perhaps with a stop for gas.
I really love Ben and Jerry's.
But if you stop, you won't arrive at 5.
I wonder if they have a tour.
But that would REALLY throw the plan off. Only stop for gas.
I need gas. I bet they have a gas station at the Ben and Jerry's exit.

Really, the planning side of my brain was absolutely no match for something as great and good as a Ben and Jerry's factory. The only thing that probably could have gotten me off the road faster would have been Will Shortz giving a talk about crossword puzzles.

So detour I did, and it was good. They did have a tour, a very fun, funny, and vaguely informative 25 minutes, and yes, there was a free sample at the end. (Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough, mmmmmmmmmmm) I bought a postcard at the gift shop, wandered up the hill to the Flavor Graveyard (Popcorn ice cream? I'm not surprised it didn't make it), laughed at the fact that the sugar vat was twice the size of the milk and cream vats, and yes, I bought myself an ice cream cone (Coconut Seven Layer Bar, which is one of my all time favorite desserts, although the ice cream wasn't that great, actually. Not enough condensed milk, I would guess). The sun was shining, it was beautifully warm, I was eating ice cream and looking at the green mountains.

That is what my Gap Year(s) is all about. Taking those detours, because I can. Because I really don't have to be anywhere at any time. Letting the planning part of my brain go on a little vacation (even if it is a forced one).

Life is good.

So is ice cream.

Brrrrrr

What was I saying about looking forward to crisp weather? Well, this morning it was 56 degrees in the house. My poor nephew was shaking as he ate his hot oatmeal. I gave the kids a cup of hot water, just so they could have something to warm their hands! (By noon I was sitting in the sun in shorts and a tank top, so it wasn't too bad...)

Fall

I noticed that the trees are starting to change color here, and I pointed it out to my brother. He groaned and said he wasn't ready. I, on the other hand, am quite ready for fall. Usually I too think it comes too early. Perhaps it is because I've been in summer for the last 15 months (less a month in England that was bloody cold), and I am looking forward to the crisp air, lovely colors, and chrysanthemums (my favorite flower)... That is until it actually gets cold here and I start to bitch and moan about the fact that I am freezing. (I went to village district meeting last night-- about sidewalks, woo-- in a neighbor's barn, and he must have seen me shivering, for after he handed me juice and cookies, he passed over a large wool sweater.)

I may be ready for fall, but I am not one of those people who likes to jump the gun. Driving down the street the other day I saw that someone already had their Halloween flag flying, and I hollered (inside the car) "It's not even OCTOBER!!" I mean come on... the leaves are pretty enough, why muck it up by hanging a garish flag to distract the eye?

???

I just tried to access my blog by typing in my address, and was diverted to "Mega Site for Bible Studies". Wow. That's different. On the second try it went the right way (although I'm sure some would argue that the first way was the "right" way).

NOT My True Calling

It pains me to say it (really, I am actually in pain right now), but I think that becoming a manual laborer is not for me.

Yesterday I had grand plans to polyurethane the new dining room chairs and sand the drywall joins in the chicken coop (which I mudded, oh, last July). I put on my work clothes, and then... What did I do instead? I read Twilight. All of it.

So the grand plans got switched to today. After a few errands this morning, a late breakfast, and of course the crossword puzzle (I can't really do anything until that is out of the way... it being Thursday it took a little time to get it out of the way), I got down to work. First order of business, sanding the six chairs. (First find the sandpaper. Dickie said it was right here. Oh, here's the box. Empty. Expletive #1 of the day.) That done, I then got out the foam brushes. (This one won't even fit in the can of poly. Expletive #2.) Vaguely appropriately sized brush in hand I got to work. Drip, drip, splotch, and, somehow, a small white imprint of probably my elbow in the middle of the seat (Expletive #3), and the first chair was finished. The problem is that my skill level does not match my perfectionism. Sigh. Chair Two was a bit better, although, inevitably, I did end up getting poly on my forehead (Expletive #4).

I decided to let the chairs dry for a bit to see how they looked before I mauled the next four, so I got Dickie's plastering bucket and off I headed to the chicken coop (a two storey outbuilding that various members of the family have been working on fixing up for about the last decade. Drywalling started 5 years ago, and I am almost done with it). All I needed to do was sand the ceiling downstairs, then I could vacuum it all (LOTS of spiders and webs in there, as well as all the drywall dust), and then start on the second (and last, so help me god) layer of mud.

So I started to sand above my head, a fine, white powder flying everywhere and getting into every orifice (Expletives #5-25). I lasted about 15 minutes, finishing only half the room, before storming out in a billowy huff. I seem to have used about seven times as much mud on the first layer as necessary, and now it all needs to be sanded off. Clearly, the only thing that I know about drywalling is that it is worth paying someone else to do it.

But these aren't the only experiences that have hinted that maybe I'm not meant for a blue collar. The most dangerous thing I have to contend with in the classroom is sniffing too many markers. (One day I collected my kids from art class, and the teacher told me that they had been using permanent markers. My normally rambunctious class was basically silent and stoned.) With Dickie I've hit my thumb with hammers, kicked a saw blade, worried about falling off a room, and wrestled with various power tools (always wearing my safety glasses!).

A couple of weeks ago I was helping my brother (and his crew of three men in their 50s) build a 'shed'. (If anyone asks, it is a shed. Don't mind the fact that it is two storeys, has a shower, and costs more than some houses. According to zoning regulations, it is a shed. I think they are going to put a rake in it, for good measure.) I thrive on human interaction, so I was happy to be busy (more sanding, but not drywall) and have other people around. When I worked at school, I loved hanging out and talking with coworkers. We talked about all sorts of things. But here's a conversation I never had with them:

Ray: Do you want to see pictures of my (soon to be ex-)wife with her moose?
Me: Sure. Look at a little collection of photos of woman in camouflage, holding shotgun, standing next to gigantic moose on a hook. Other pictures of her next to wild (dead) boar. Wonder why he would leave her.
Rod: That's a nice crossbow you got there.
Bob: I shot a deer last year with a [blah, blah, blah, it is all Greek to me].

I have to say that I truly respect the fact that these guys can feed themselves rather than relying upon meat which comes conveniently anonymous and divided into little packages, but I'm just not quite used to conversations about various sorts of weaponry and tactics used to kill things.

Although earlier in the summer, when walking through Home Depot with Dickie, I, unemployed, suggested to him that I get a job there, he said, Sure, you're surly enough, (Um, Dickie, the adjective you were looking for is burly), I think I may just not be cut out for this.

Except for the week of trail clearing I'll be doing next week on an island in Maine, and the week of work I'll be doing later in the month with my friend in New York, that is. Then I'll get the iron out and start working on starching my white collars.