"I don't think I know that card game you and Bill were playing," Heidi said as we walked along the beach this morning.
"You've never played Spit before?" I asked with some amazement, because in my mind, every child of a certain age spent hours on hot summer days slapping cards on piles in numerical order as fast as they could.
"No," she shook her head. "I might have heard of it, though. Do you actually spit?"
I laughed. "There's no spitting," I told her, "except when you get spitting mad!"
"There's the edge of the front," I pointed as we were driving south on I-95 to our Thanksgiving beach house rental.
We were south of Richmond, and the driving had been cold and damp, a light drizzly mist under leaden skies. But there ahead of us we could clearly see where the clouds ended and blue skies began. The outside temperature was 57 as we barreled toward the front, but just a few minutes later, huge cumulo nimbus clouds filled the rearview as we continued south under blue skies. It was sunny and 73, and even the traffic congestion was gone.
Vacation mode activated!
One of the errands I ran today was taking our big jar of coins to a machine that would count and cash them. I have avoided this task until now, mainly because the 12 percent surcharge seems so onerous. But then I figured that, whatever the cost, the time it would take me to sort and roll the coins (mostly pennies, nickels, and dimes) was probably more valuable.
I was right. The machine did in five minutes what would have taken me several hours, and the charge was about six bucks. At the end of the process, the contraption spat out a ticket for me to take to customer service. My total was 44.13, and it made me laugh to think I would get thirteen cents back after just ridding myself of 5000-some cents.
When the cashier scanned the barcode on my ticket and tapped her screen, the readout on my side showed 44.15, and there was a line item above the total that said +.02 [penny round-up]. She handed me 2 twenties, four singles, a nickel, and a dime, which I tucked into my pocket, sure I had seen our penniless future.
In a throwback to 2020, I worked from home today.
On my first full day as a consultant, I spent several hours on Zoom calls, stretching my unused virtual communication muscles. By the end of the last call, I felt more limber, even though I had four browser windows with 10 tabs each open. Even so, I was able to turn my camera on and off, mute and unmute, admit people from the waiting room, and share my screen.
One of my biggest challenges was leaving my morning meeting; it was a bit awkward to make the consulting company executives wait while I fumbled to find the exit button on my toolbar. A little while later, I had trouble finding the end-meeting button when my own call was over.
To be honest? That one didn't matter much, because the teacher I was talking to was already gone-- I know from experience she had better things to do.
I spent several hours cleaning and decluttering today, and although the place looks clean, there's still a good bit of clutter left to clear. In my defense, I worked on some junk drawers and cupboards, and you would see a big difference if, for some reason, you opened them. I did toss quite a bit of stuff, and I have plans for more, so, with a small sigh, I'll take all that as a W.
"She's just a great big Mama Bear!" someone said of Heidi this morning in a meeting, which had the two of us in stitches when she told me about it this afternoon.
"Was she serious?" I asked.
"I'm not sure," Heidi answered.
That has been one of the unexpected challenges of Heidi's new job. After 30 years at the same school, now she's an unknown quantity to many of her colleagues. But she's a big personality, too, and it's hard to gauge how people are really reacting to her.
Even so, while mama bear might not be the metaphor I would choose? The more I think about it, the more I can see the analogy (setting aside the mama in the Three Bears, that is). Heidi's professional persona is at times gruff, always strict, but also nurturing, which is just right for the job she has.
"How are your bowel movements?" the nurse practitioner asked me during my annual wellness visit.
"Fine," I reported, then added, "I do have to go right now, though!"
She laughed at my candor.
"I'm sorry if that's too much information," I said, "but once when Dr. C was examining me, she said, 'Oh! You're constipated!'" I explained. "But, really? I just had to go. And ever since then, I've felt a little self-conscious."
"Well," she said, continuing her examination, "you are full, though I wouldn't say constipated. I can also feel how tense you are! I know talking about this topic can be a difficult conversation, and no one wants to hear they're full of, well, you know--" she paused. "Poop."
"Even if they are," I agreed.
