Let's Get One Thing Straight

When I say I'm spending a weekend doing nothing, what I really mean is that I'm going to stack upward of 2,000 pieces of wood, dig up 150 weeds and rake 1/3 of our huge lawn.

The wood pile before

The wood pile during

The wood pile after

The wood-stacking-thingamajig before

The wood-stacking-thingamajig during

The wood-stacking-thingamajig after

So, when I say I'm going to spend a weekend doing nothing, and when I really mean it, let me be a sloth for two days. Rags, on the other hand, was completely useless. He got comfortable where I was stacking the wood, so I told him to move. He got up and walked to the other end of the wood-stacking-thingamajig (I think a need a new name for this unit - it sounds like it stacks the wood itself. I wish!). I punished him by taking him to the groomer. He is much more handsome now.

PS - Because I always give credit where credit is due, I did this all alone (unless you count the moral support I got from Rags). However, my brother tackled another wood pile on his own while I putzed around the yard picking up random leaves, twigs and land mines because I have undiagnosed OCD.

Sloth Disease

Working for a Catholic college can be overwhelming and frustrating at times, but it also has its perks. Like a four-day weekend for Easter and a week off between Christmas and New Year's. I left the office at 12:30 today and don't have to be back until 8:30 Tuesday morning. What do I plan to with my time? Nothing. I felt guilty for like half a second last night when I told my Dad that and he said, "That's what you did last weekend." But then I remembered last weekend I felt like death so I was in a coma for most of it.

My dad is at our cottage in upstate New York until Sunday night. He brought his dog, Shaggy, so Rags and I plan on sleeping in and being our regular "chill" selves. Rags is much more calm without his little brother around. He isn't being nasty and guarding his 34 toys.

I'm going out to the Boston area sometime on Sunday and will head back here Monday morning. But until Sunday, I have nothing to do. There's no one I have to see, so in reality, I could wear the same underwear until then. I won't, but I could. It's a nice feeling. Pretty soon, I'm going to have several weekend work commitments, so you'd think I'd want to do something awesome this weekend like travel or do a big project. Nope. I'll continue to work on sanding down the desk and chair I bought. I'll probably spend some time doing yardwork. But mostly, I'll take lots of naps, cuddle with Rags, and enjoy the beautiful weather that's supposedly on tap.

Confession: I Have Rage Blackouts

My boss and I had a meeting in downtown Springfield last week. We decided to take one car to save gas, and she said she hoped I didn't mind her dogmobile. She has two large, shedding dogs. Actually, I mind. I wore all black that day and since I love dogs but not dog fur (it's so nice having a dog that doesn't shed), I offered to drive. Big mistake.

If you've ever driven in any city, you know how it is. We were running late, so I was white-knuckled and nodding and "mmmhmmm"-ing as she talked, hoping she wouldn't notice my building frustration with idiot drivers. Finally, my rage took over and I shouted, "Get out of the way, you idiot!" At least I said idiot instead of something else. I turned to her and confessed, "Um, I might have road rage." She is a hilarious person, so she just laughed. But I realized my road rage is getting out of control. A lot of people with Graves disease refer to their Graves rage. I think it's a real thing. Combine that with being a certified Masshole, and I'm a force to be reckoned with behind the wheel.

My brother and I went to a free yoga class two weeks ago. Afterward, some horrible driver in front of me was going about 20mph in a 35mph zone. I yelled at him (as if he could hear) and my brother said, "So much for the yoga." I quickly defended myself and said, "I'd be calm if it he wasn't driving like that." In some ways, that was true. I am not a psycho walker or a crazy treadmill user or stressed out shopper. Yes, dumb people annoy me, but living in the South for almost five years taught me that if you're in a rush, you're out of luck. I learned to go to the grocery store when I had two hours to kill and to go workout when I felt like walking across the gym 15 times because people were not using the circuits the way they are supposed to. So, I feel like I've learned patience. Learned, not mastered. But when it comes to driving, I have none.

I keep promising an explanation as to why I don't have a thyroid. I'll get there eventually. Long story short: I have Graves disease. It's hereditary, but no one on either side of my family has any history of thyroid disease. Well, things have to start somewhere, and it's thought that the people who develop Graves are Type A, high-strung, and experiencing some extreme, acute stress. I was diagnosed in February 2010, after nine months of a job I absolutely despised that caused me to question my place on earth regularly (I wasn't suicidal, but I hated my life because of my job). I was so sick at first that I was banned from exercise because instead of burning fat, my body was burning muscle and guess what the biggest muscle is? I wasn't really pining for a heart attack at 25. My doctor said I could do gentle yoga and walk Rags, but nothing more. After being a competitive athlete my whole life, I laughed at him. Yoga? Hippies and incense? Pshhh...

Fast forward two years, and I have been infatuated with yoga off-and-on since then. I never got into a routine. My work and volunteer schedule was always too busy and sporadic to commit. In fact, I can't commit to anything. But last night, I made a commitment to be at the yoga studio every Tuesday night for the next five weeks for 75-minute classes. It was a proud moment for me, because I wouldn't even commit to a job (like, I wouldn't sign a contract for a job that demanded I work there until a certain date) let alone a yoga class. Afterward, the instructor came up to me and asked my story. She said she was so glad to have me there. Has she driven behind/in front of/next to me? How does she know how badly I need yoga in my life? I almost had a rage blackout when she asked the class to give a word or two about why they decided to take the course. At first, people said things like, "Peace" or "I need to slow down." But then people started going off on tangents about their personal lives and whatnot. I stared at the ceiling and eventually closed my eyes and breathed deeply, and ignored Susie Jo's story three-minute story about why she likes yoga. When she was done, I smiled and finally the class started. See? I'm learning!

TV Rants

I have something to say, and it's really too short for a blog post but too long for a Facebook update so here goes...

*Spoiler alert: Do not continue reading if you are an avid Mad Men or Army Wives fan and have not yet watched last night's (April 1) episodes. Also, don't bother reading if you don't care about my opinions on these shows.

Also, I have no commentary on Games of Thrones season premiere because A. I don't have HBO and B. I'm a nice sister, so I'm waiting for my brother so we can watch it together.

*Update: We watched Games of Thrones. I still have no commentary because it was amazing, as expected, and true to the book (A Clash of Kings for you silly geese who should know better).

The Comfort Zone

Why is it that the company who made the thermostat in my bedroom thinks they know what temperature I prefer? They have deemed, via the "Comfort Zone" denoted on the thermostat, that 70-79° is the perfect setting to be comfortable. I beg to differ.

Now, mind you, we're talking heat here. My old New England house doesn't have air conditioning, unless you count the 200-pound window units we lug up every summer for the few months that it actually gets hot here. We have electric, baseboard heating.

If the thermostat is set anywhere below the "Comfort Zone," you can't feel any heat unless you lay on the floor about 3 inches from the unit. But once you cross that threshold from 69-70° and hear the click (that says, "I'm turning sh*t up in here!"), you immediately feel faint. It gets so hot that you're dizzy and disoriented, it smells like the house is burning down, and if you make the mistake of giving in to the poisonous heat and fall asleep for any period of time, you'll wake up the driest skin and hair you've ever experienced, and yes, Virginia, your nose will bleed from the lack of humidity. I like to think of myself as a smart, edumucated woman, but my brother is the genius - for he has conquered the heat. He uses a humidifier. He can get his room all nice and cozy without the nosebleeds.

Rags and I require white noise to get a good night's sleep, so I already have a air purifier chugging through the night. I don't want another contraption. So instead, I sleep below the "Comfort Zone" and leave my room frigid while turning my electric blanket up to about the fifth or sixth (out of 10) setting. Rags sleeps on top of the covers here, so he feels the warmth from the bottom up.

The past two weeks, minus a day or two here and there, has been warm enough that I can open my windows a crack to let in fresh air without turning blue. Two nights I even slept with the windows open. But for the most part, I'm always cold inside and always hot outside (even in the winter - I sweat doing my errands). I blame my thyroid, or lack thereof.

I just wish there was a happy medium. For now, the score is Kelly - 0, thermostat - 1 (or 35 if you count every night I've slept here).

Never Move Across State Lines

Warning: This will probably be the most boring blog post you ever read and I ever write. Deal with it.

When I moved to Florida in 2007, the process was relatively easy. I stopped at the RMV office in Gainesville the day we got there. I said, "Hi. I just moved here from Massachusetts and need a license." I got my license that day. Later that day, I called State Farm and said, "Hi. I just moved to Florida from Massachusetts and need insurance." I got it that day. The next day, I went to the Tax Collector's office in Gainesville and said, "Hi. I just moved here from Massachusetts and need new plates and registration." I got everything that day. Massachusetts demanded I mail back my Massachusetts license plates, so I did.

Fast forward four-and-a-half years, and I just moved back to Massachusetts. I called State Farm and said, "Hi. I just moved from Florida to Massachusetts. I have insurance with you, but need to transfer it to Massachusetts." I got an email that day with my new policy information. That's where it stopped being easy.

Because I have a loan on the car I just bought in December, the loan company told me I needed to send them a notarized letter informing them I have moved in order to get my title transferred to Massachusetts. The letter needed to include my account number, old address, new address, and address, phone number and fax number for the Massachusetts RMV. I'm sorry - have you ever tried to call a Massachusetts RMV office? No, because you can't. So I made up a phone and fax number, drove to my dad's office, bothered his co-worker who is a notary public, and got the damn thing notarized. Then my dad faxed it for me (because who has a fax in their house? and I hadn't started work yet). I called the next day - they didn't get it. I called a week later and was told, "We don't release titles until the loan is paid off." Well, no kidding. I didn't ask for my title. I asked for it to be transferred to Massachusetts so that I can A. get my new license and B. get my new registration/plates. I called State Farm, and the nice lady tells me that the loan company is wrong. All I need is the title number when I go to the RMV, and they do all the work for me regarding the title. So I called the loan company back, explain that they are idiots (in not so many words) and get the title number.

I go to the RMV in downtown Springfield. I'm told the wait is going to be two hours and 45 minutes. Fortunately, the RMV is across the street from the Y my dad and I belong to. So I go work out for as long as I can manage, and then wait the last 45 minutes with every other sweaty, smelly person at the RMV. The only difference between them and me? I was sweaty and smelly because I was at the gym. They are sweaty and smelly because no one who goes to the downtown Springfield RMV owns soap? I don't know, that's my best guess. Then it dawns on me that my license, which is good for four years, will have a picture of me sweaty and red-faced. Wonderful!

By the time I had accepted my license photo fate, it was my turn. I gave the clerk the 2,309,785 documents from the insurance company, the car dealer and the RMV website. She wants to know what I have to prove my address is, in fact, my new address. I give her my auto insurance policy with the address, but that's not good enough. She asks for a utility bill or lease. I inform her that I'm living with my dad and not paying any utility bills or rent. I do have a cell phone, but I only changed my address the week before and thus don't have a bill with the new address. In a stroke of genius, she realizes she can process my registration/plates first, and use those as proof of my new address. Great!

Massachusetts, also known as Taxachusetts, has this crazy rule that if you bought a car in the previous six months in another state, even though you already paid that state's sales tax, you have to pay Massachusetts sales tax again in order to register your car. This is because people hate Massachusetts and its insane tax rates, so they used to cross the border to buy a car in New Hampshire and save oodles. Not anymore. However, I wasn't trying to be sneaky. I was living, working and driving in Florida, so I thought it would be convenient to buy a new car in Florida. Apparently that was my first mistake. Trying to move back to Massachusetts was my second. The clerk wanted $600-something before she'd issue my new registration. I cried, partly to make her feel bad but mostly out of sheer frustration, but it didn't work. She said either I paid the $600+, plus the $50 for my license, plus the $75 for my registration, or I could show her proof that I paid sales tax in Florida when I bought the car. I showed her every single piece of paper the dealership gave me, including the bill of sale showing I paid $600 something in sales tax. Apparently that wasn't good enough. I need an official, notarized Department of Revenue form from the dealership. So I left. Without a license, without registration, and without plates (which, by the way, are called "tags" in Florida).

I called the dealership. They knew what form the RMV lady was talking about, but they said that was only for people who are Massachusetts residents who happen to buy a car in Florida, either because they are on vacation or they are snowbirds. She said that is not for people who are Florida residents who later move to Massachusetts, but that she would go ahead and fill it out as if I was a snowbird who bought a car in Florida. Ha!

It worked. I went back a few days later with my express ticket number, waiting about five minutes and, fortunately, got a different clerk. I acted like nothing happened. I gave her everything I had given the other lady, plus this stupid form that really didn't even apply to me, and walah - I got a license, plates and registration without forking over that $600. I try to look on the bright sides of things, so I guess I'm glad I look normal in my picture and not like a heart attack victim.

That was two weeks ago. Today in the mail is a letter from the State of Florida informing me that they are about to suspend my license because I canceled my Florida auto insurance. No kidding! So I called the number on the letter, was put on hold for 25 minutes during which I listened to this nice-sounding good ol' boy with a charming North Florida accent tell me what I could do online without waiting for an operator. Finally, the good ol' boy picks up and tells me his name is Mike. Well, would ya look at that! I told good ol' boy Mike about the letter and how I canceled my Florida auto insurance because I moved to Massachusetts more than a month ago was legally and officially licensed, registered and insured here, not Florida. Good ol' boy Mike says I was supposed to mail back my Florida "tag." Both RMV clerks told me that was not necessary. I lied and told Mike I threw the plate away (I paid extra for that University of Florida plate and I want to keep it!) and that the RMV took my Florida license, which he understood. So now, I have to fax a copy of my registration and a letter on State Farm letterhead with all of my policy information, to him at his office in Tallahassee. If I don't, when it comes time to renew my license (in 2016), it will show up in the national database of driver licenses that my license was suspended in Florida, regardless of the fact that it was suspended when I was no longer a resident. Ugh! Mike was nice, and very helpful, so I was nice back, but I think I need to go to yoga before I punch someone in the face.

I'm pretty sure I will never move across state lines again. If I do, it'll be because my rich husband takes a job elsewhere, and I'll just make his secretary handle all of this nonsense for us.

Raking Blister

I picked up a rake today for the first time since December. And before that, I probably haven't raked since 2006, or maybe even 2005 - the last time I lived at home and it was warm out. You're probably wondering, OK, so why rake now? Because I moved home. Long story.

I hated Florida. Anyone who knew me, knew that. Living in Gainseville and going to UF was probably the best two years of my life. The first year in Fort Myers and working at the agency was probably the worst year of my life. To prove it, ask me where my thyroid is (another long story for another day). I quit, took a 45-day "sabbatical" and finally landed my dream job (OK, my dream job really is working for St. Jude. Or the Red Sox...but this was third). I became a writer for Lee Memorial Health System, the huge hospital system in Fort Myers. I was happy again. But after a year-and-a-half, the fact that I loved my job, loved the new friends I made and the ones I had known since I moved to Florida, and kept busy with Junior League, well even those weren't enough to keep me happy enough to stay. So I started looking. My plan was to get a job in the Boston/Springfield/NYC area in June or so. That would put me at two years with the hospital - a good length of time for my resume. Fortunately and unfortunately, I found a job much sooner than I planned. I applied, got an interview (via Skype) and landed the gig. That afternoon, I walked into my boss's office and dropped the bomb - I was leaving in two weeks. Exactly two weeks later, I left work around 2 on my last day, hysterically crying. I never wanted to leave my job and my co-workers, but I couldn't take them with me! They were all so understanding and happy for me, but kept reminding me how much I'd be missed. My dad flew into town that night, and a few hours later, in the wee hours of the morning, we hit the road. About 30 hours later, I was home.

Home. It feels so natural to say that. This has always been home. I grew up in the house. I switched bedrooms when I was 4, and then when I officially moved out the week after college graduation, my brother turned my bedroom into his den. So now I'm in the guest room. It's temporary until I find my own place, but it's so nice. I'm saving money. I get my alone time but I'm never really alone. Rags is on a 24/7 playdate and my dad takes them for at least four walks a day. He also has a yard to play in. Speaking of yards...

It was cold when I first got here, but the past few days have been quiet warm for New England in March (or should it be, "March in New England"?). Apparently an hour of cardio at the gym wasn't enough for my body, so when I got home, I didn't even bother to change - I just took the dogs outside and picked up a rake. Three hours later, my thumb was killing me. Well, hello blister. I wasn't mentally done raking - there is still a lot to be done. The freak October snowstorm kind of hampered my dad's (and the rest of New England's) plans to get the yard free of leaves before winter, so it's been several months coming. It was warm a few days in December when I was here, and we got the whole side yard done then, but we have a huge yard and so now the back two-thirds needs to be done. It's a good project for me, since Dad is busy tearing down sheetrock and ceiling in our den so he can renovate. I have afternoons off from work (another long-ish story), I'm not paying rent and it's good exercise on top of the hour I spend at the Y every day, so why the heck not? Plus, it lets the dogs get some fresh air without being tied to a leash. Rags particularly enjoys sunning himself. Probably because for the last four-and-a-half years, it's been too hot for him to enjoy time outside (in Florida) except when we would go to Dunnellon.

I really like cleaning, inside or out. I guess it's because A. I hate clutter B. I hate messes C. I feel accomplished when I'm done and D. I feel like I'm being helpful/useful/productive. I have always rented for the past six years, so I've never had to do any yardwork, but I truly do enjoy it. I always liked mowing the lawn in high school. It's good exercise and then, I would get paid or at least not feel bad asking for money for the movies or dinner. And I always got a tan! Now, I'm a little more "motherly" and worried about skin cancer, but I did let myself get some sunscreen-free rays today. I jokingly tell people at work that I lied - I moved back here from Alaska, not Florida. I think they believe me.