On avoiding Santas

I'll cut straight to the point.  It's 3 in the afternoon, I have an ice pack on my burned wrist, there are 5 firetrucks on my street, and all the appliances in the house are blinking "12:00", as if to say "I think it's noon... no, I changed my mind... yeah, maybe noon, yeah... wait what time is it?".  Yet the day started out so peacefully.

Like most mornings, this one began with an encounter with Nyka, my bedroom door guard cat.  Since I can't afford 24/7 guards for my bedroom door, I make do with the schedule that the guards I do have are willing to work.   Nyka seems to prefer the early morning shift, about 5 to 7 or so.  On the rare occasion when she is otherwise engaged at any point in this period, she subcontracts the job to her sister Byka, who is gullible enough to accept the post at whatever rate Nyka offers.  This morning Nyka was available to do the job herself, and she greeted me with a silent look I know all too well - you know, the one that says: "Food preparation will bring you grief today so consider eating out".  I promised to consider her warning and proceeded about my day.

My first task for the day was to check on a very slow processing task I left running on one of the computers overnight.  Still running, I remarked to myself - a synthesis of approval and criticism.  I'm glad that the job has not died (it would have to be started over), but it's taking longer than expected, about 20 hours at least.  The task does not require my involvement other than me cheering it on as it reaches percentage milestones, so I pre-cheered several and moved on to more interesting things, proceeding without incident all the way until lunchtime.  

Karma dictated the events that followed, as I've set the wheels in motion several days ago.  A pre-cut Butternut Squash cannot be ignored once purchased - if you don't use it it will beckon each time you open the refrigerator, calling to you, teasing you, making you self-conscious about your inability to follow through with a plan.  I find that it is usually pointless to argue with a vegetable, but this time I decided to prove the squash wrong.  I combined the squash with several other unsuspecting ingredients, which all seemed harmless enough, at least until the pot came to a rolling boil.  

This is simply the way life is.  My kitchen is full of things that seem friendly enough, but true friendships are tested under pressure.  I know this well enough, and so, heeding Nyka's warning, I chose against using my new pressure cooker.  The rapidly maturing Butternut Squash soup waited patiently for its chance to express its feelings, and soon enough I presented it with this opportunity - I opened the lid and stirred.  Little did I know that the potato chunks conspired with the squash to create a carefully positioned air pocket, a pocket that would lay in waiting until I disturbed it with my silicone spoon... only to spring into action, propelling a quantity of boiling water in my general direction.  I don't know what made my edible friends feel the way they did - perhaps it was the "Genie In A Bottle" syndrome, as I've kept the potatoes waiting for quite some time.  Perhaps the squash was simply coming of age and acting out its adolescent need for self-assertion.

I don't usually hold a grudge.  Instead, I am holding a bag of frozen peas against my wrist.  It's not that the burn is that severe, but I'd rather go through life without having to experience blisters.  And so it is with a bag of peas on my wrist that I encounter two sounds, both familiar and yet unexpected.  The first is the beeping of a UPS as it responds dutifully to a sudden loss of electrical power. This beep comes to an abrupt end as the UPS utters a dissolving "I told you so...." and quits.   Indeed, the UPS did tell me that the batteries are spent months ago.  So much for my computing task.  As I wallow in the prospect of restarting that infinite wait, I am shaken into present moment awareness by the simultaneous roar of five fire trucks delivering a plethora of Santa Clausi to the unsuspecting residents of my street.  I had no idea that my small town had that many of either, but I am glad that it's winter and my windows are closed.  I like my eardrums.

Embracing Your Worst Fear: Better Left to Bruce Wayne

In Review: Zombies
Rating: Freaking terrifying, are you kidding me?

Alternatively: TV shows
Rating: I need to get out more.

Alternatively: Immersion therapy
Rating: Fail

I am terrified of zombies. Despite the wealth of acceptable phobias I could have, this is what I have subconsciously chosen as my greatest fear. This may have something to do with forcing myself to watch the first five episodes of The Walking Dead as a sort of Batman-like immersion therapy. Except it didn't turn me into a superhero that dresses like a zombie in order to fight crime. I'm just super at being scared of zombies.

Here are a few reasons why you should be afraid of zombies, too.

1. They can contaminate you easily. This is the most important one. Because let's face it. Zombies are pathetic. They are slow and stupid and predictable, and I could definitely put down dozens of them before they finally got me, and that's only if I'm in an area with high population density. But all they need to do to win is bite me or get some of their nasty bodily fluids to mix with my pristine ones, and bam. I'm a zombie.
2. They have neither boundaries nor a healthy respect for stuff that will end their creepy existences. Like entering someone's property up in the boonies where we live, which can get you shot. But do zombies care? No. If you pump a shotgun right in front of a zombie's face, does it put up its hands and say, "Whoa, man. Take it easy. This is all just a misunderstanding," and back away slowly? No! It just keeps on shuffling at you, making weird raspy noises with its entrail-coated throat, and you can pump that shotgun all you want, but you better know how to fire it, too.
3. You're probably thinking this is dumb because zombies don't exist, right? But they never exist in zombie movies until the world is crawling with them. It's not like there is a zombie or two and people just go, "Eh, not my problem. Let's ignore that, and I doubt it'll be relevant to the plot of this film later."

I want to think zombies are cool like my hip friends. I want to enjoy The Walking Dead and Romero flicks (I did live in Pittsburgh for four years, after all). I wanted to do the "Run For Your Lives" 5K Obstacle Course in Boston last year, but a more critical review of my mental status revealed that I would be far too likely to bludgeon one of the actors and end up in jail. So me and zombies? Not gonna happen.

I'm so far from that, in fact, that when Oliver starts barking at night, I start panicking and lock the doors. Which seems to be upsetting to Oliver, who is barking because he has to pee. When I'm stuck at a red light in a highly populated area (like Boston) and I get to thinking, I realize that if everybody abruptly turned into a zombie except for me, I'd be completely trapped. I spend the rest of that light cycle thinking how I could get around the guy in front of me, and doesn't he understand that he needs to run that red light before we all get eaten?!

Sometimes, when I go into my office to work and I'm walking downtown to get lunch and one of the impossibly old people that lives there is walking my way (for some reason the place is half students and half ancient alumni), I just turn around and run to safety. Other times, though, if I'm really hungry and I don't want to go all the way back to my office empty-handed, I try the approach of trying to blend in with them. I think I do a pretty good job, because they only glance at me briefly as I drag my leg behind me and rattle my throat.

Stop. Am I mostly kidding here? Uh... sure, let's say I am. But the point is, you can never be too careful. Or maybe the point is just that I should stick with sitcoms unless I want to turn into a bomb-shelter-stocking, CB-radio-hoarding, end-of-days crazy person (or end up making a similar post tomorrow about my fear of statues because they could be quantum-locked time-energy-consuming aliens -- thanks, Doctor Who).

This post brought to you by a lifelong fear of the dark, a couple nights of sleeping alone, and of course, zombies.

Forgive and Forget

In Review: Mount Cube in winter
Rating: Some like it more than others

We're hiking up Mount Cube with our human friend Laurie and her dog Winslow. Misha is leading the charge, undeterred by the mounting winter conditions. "You have got to be kidding me," Oliver grumbles behind us silently (because he is a dog) as he picks his way gingerly across a thin layer of ice, his feet crashing through at every step and sinking him into a cold but shallow stream. "It said 'winter weather advisory'; can't you read?" But then Winslow runs by carrying a stick (more of a small tree than a branch, but let's not split logs here) and Oliver's biological imperative to tug kicks in, making him forget about his woes. They efficiently clothesline me, because I am peacefully hiking up ahead, not prepared for the coordinated assault on the backs of my knees by a young pine well-balanced between two big dogs. Who knows why not; this is probably the tenth time during this hike alone. But I have my own troubles. I've chosen a pair of boots most ill-suited to the task of climbing a steep mountain covered in a thin layer of ice, because they are not insulated and have less tread left on them than on the tires of our 1994 Corolla. I don't know how many times I've now ended up sprawled on my belly, clinging desperately to a root with my for-some-reason-not-waterproof mittens and attempting to use my upper body strength to get past this particular icy slope while my legs wiggle uselessly below, occasionally being nudged by a curious paw. And we've only been hiking for half an hour. And it's three and a half miles to the summit.

Okay, let me start over. It's actually not that bad. There's nobody here but us, and the trail is quiet and beautiful. A bit of snow is falling slowly, and having to scramble here and there is actually pretty fun. Even Oliver, who is not the most agile of dogs, is having a good time tugging on sticks with Winslow, and I think Misha is having a good time staying out of their way. Everyone has had a fall or two, but no damage has been done. We're probably almost half of the way up... when we reach disaster.

A half frozen river far too wide to jump.

After vacuum cleaners, Oliver's greatest nemesis is ice. His experience with these early winter river crossings has been consistently tragicomic (though I don't think he'd agree with the -omic part). Winslow and Misha run across easily, blundering through the rushing water and even stopping to pound the ice with a front paw until it cracks, allowing access to what must be the most delicious water, since they clearly prefer to it the iceless water surrounding them. We humans manage to balance, scoot, and jump our ways across some conveniently fallen logs. But Oliver can only stand at the water's edge, whimpering to himself as he nervously drinks in an attempt to lower the water level to a safer depth. We humans stand on the other bank, calling encouragingly and offering treats, while his canine companions run back and forth across the river, either to give him hope or just to rub it in. Eventually, we take the only tack that has ever worked with Oliver, and appeal to his fear of abandonment. We walk away from the river, down the hill, and out of sight, standing huddled together and trying to ignore his cries. It works beautifully, and only a minute later, Oliver triumphantly crests the hill, galloping on four completely uncoordinated limbs. We cheer and continue on to the summit, all six of us gleefully ignoring the inevitable: the way back.

The rest of the hike goes on without trouble, and though there are a few smaller river crossings, Oliver keeps up his positive attitude, having (in true canine fashion) forgiven us. "No I haven't," he mumbles to himself, sparing us a quick glance while chasing the full grown shrub Winslow is dragging along. We've made it to the top and eaten victory treats (Laurie's staple congratulations of cubes of gourmet cheese -- for the dogs, that is; the humans get enough snacks at home), attacked the steepest part of the descent with the grace of a recently woken bear, and unearthed several more trees before that menace loomed up ahead: the river we had forgotten about. "I definitely had not forgotten this," Oliver seems to say as he looks from us to the thin ice.

The way back is somehow more challenging. Winslow and Misha take it slower this time, but they make it across eventually. With some assistance from the other humans, I do, too. And that leaves Oliver. He knows that the only thing awaiting him is abandonment, so he tries his hardest to keep up. He's made it almost all the way across -- he's separated from the shore by no more than a few feet. A few feet consisting of three-foot-deep rapids. "Yeah, that's not happening, guys," he glares at us. "Aw, come on, are you serious? GUYS. I know you can hear me!" But our hearts are made of stone, and we don't even turn around as we walk out of sight.

What feels like half a day later, judging by the frostbite that seems to be settling in around my toes, it is pretty clear that this approach sucks. "No kidding," says Oliver. He's tried to make the jump a few times, but he just can't bring himself to lose his footing.

Desperate times call for desperate measures. Asa and I head back down to the river. After some deliberation, Asa straps the two dog leashes together and I tie one end to a tree. He uses the leash to jump, Indiana Jones-style, onto a rock next to Oliver. I free one of the leashes and hand it to him, and he throws it over Oliver's neck like he's taming a dangerous wild beast. Using the leash tied to the tree for support, I give Oliver's leash a tug. "This idea is even worse," he tells me with mounting melancholy in his eyes as he digs his claws into the snowy chunk of ice he's standing on. I tug again. "Woman, do you see where I'm standing? There's no telling how deep that water is!" I tug again, harder, and Oliver loses his resistance. Terrified of the water, he lunges his front half toward a rock halfway between him and the bank, and gets stuck, his legs straining in opposite directions while his body hovers over the rapids. He looks up at me with the saddest eyes I've ever seen on a dog as I pull him one last time, and his entire back half collapses into the water. As he climbs out, his fur drenched and clinging to him to make him look much more like a skinny-legged goat than usual, he glares at me for one quick second before he and Winslow start playing tug with the leash.

Thank goodness that dogs have such short memories.

"Yeah, sure," says Oliver as he walks slowly up the stairs to the bedroom the second he gets home, planning on sleeping on our bed alone for the rest of the day. "I've completely forgotten."

Teaching a Cat New Tricks

Today's class proceeds much the way it does on most days. After putting together what I would tentatively call "Dinner" I find myself perched atop a bar stool, leaning onto the breakfast bar with my right hand occupied by an eating utensil which is almost always a fork. I am not anti-spoon, and given the opportunity I would almost always choose chopsticks, but for reasons I don't fully understand this pro-chopstick agenda only applies at my workplace cafeteria. Perhaps it is ego-driven, as I show my western coworkers my impressive wood manipulating skills in hopes of praise or a faint whisper of admiration. In the reality I do not choose to entertain, whispers are more likely to contain terms like "weirdo" and "it's a salad, not sushi!".

Regardless of my choice of eating tool, the important part is that it is my right hand that is occupied and is thus unavailable for other actions. This is precisely why I feel an expected nudge in my left hand just moments after sitting down. I do not need to turn my head to investigate the source of this disturbance - unless a neighborhood raccoon managed to scale the uninvitingly tall walls of my deck and then breach the dual-magnet cat flap, the choice boils down to the two felines that share my residence. I will concede that from their point of view I may be a guest in their residence, but thus far we have not reached clarity on the subject.

Without turning away from my rapidly cooling meal (which I am even less likely to consume at room temperature), I mentally go through the flowchart for determining which cat is demanding my immediate attention. First off, the force of initial impact is a dead giveaway. A gentle inquisitive touch with a possible ultra-high pitched equally inquisitive "mmmrrrwl?" indicates Nyka, the queen of grace and weightlessness. A sudden slam that causes my hand to bounce into my rib cage with enough force to put my balance on this stool at risk indicates Byka, the queen of, well, whatever the opposite of grace is. She frequently miscalculates chair-jumping ballistics and either knocks the chair over or requires significantly more runway to come to a stop than the top of a stool affords her, leaving her no choice but to use me as her emergency braking appliance.

On occasion, the girls make the guessing game more difficult and arrive in a manner which leaves some doubt as to the visitor's identity. Fortunately the nose rules (to quote Michel Thomas) are able to cut straight through their charades. A wet nose on your hand indicates Byka, whereas its absence indicates a feline that is able to correctly judge distance and avoid direct contact while smelling.

My domestic companions were named according to their traits from a very young age. Nyka was a name loosely derived from the word "curious" in another language - while Byka was a similar perversion of the word "scared", and she indeed tends to choose to relocate to the darkest corner of the house at the first sign of movement, noise or any weather phenomenon.

I, on the other hand, do not appear to be named according to my traits. I have a strong tendency to place much value on physical ability and self-sufficiency, which leads me to consider Byka's WWF-style behavior a disability of sorts. Therefore on nights like this I attempt to teach Byka grace.

"Look at your sister" begins "Grace: 101" for today, as Nyka takes the teaching lead and leaps up on my desk without a second thought, knowing very little about what dangerous objects I've placed in her landing zone, yet she manages to land perfectly, needing no runway, with her paws positioned precisely in between electronics, wires, screws and occasionally my fingers.

"Keep your center of gravity low" I tell Byka as I apply enough pressure to the top of her back to correct minor defects in automotive bodywork. This is the correct amount of force for her since she's 16lbs of pure muscle (mostly because she's always tense with fear), and she seems to enjoy the attention. I then rattle the stool underneath her to show her how much more stable she has become. She stares at me with huge eyes that say more or less what they said a minute ago: "Pet. Now." So I do. But there is always tomorrow.

How to Lose a Guy in Ten Days (Or, How I Found This One)

In Review: Romance

Rating: Two propeller umbrella hats up

My notion of romance has changed a lot since the days in elementary school that I spent dreaming about a handsome prince riding up on a white stallion and, shaking out his beautiful blonde locks, offering me his hand and a lifetime of riches and candlelit dinners. Or maybe that would have creeped me out just as much back then as it does now, but my memory isn't very good, so I will assume the worst.

Here's a not very well kept secret (and I'm sorry, former partners, that I didn't make this clear enough): I suck at traditional romance. I am awkward and far from elegant. I have a near clinical inability to accept compliments ("Hey, your hair looks really nice today." "No it doesn't. What are you playing at?"). I don't particularly like flowers and my unrefined palate makes it difficult for me not to prefer Big Macs to filet mignon. That doesn't leave much with which potential suitors can attempt to woo me, so it's really in everybody's best interest that I am no longer on the market.

But I don't want to leave the impression that I am not a romantic idealist. My ideal is just a little different. So when Asa proposed to me last winter (during a snowshoeing quest in the mountains 100 miles north of Fairbanks, Alaska, in a repurposed plastic water container with a hole punched in it, perched on top of a mountain overlooking Denali, in -30 degrees Fahrenheit) by passing me a thermos lid full of tea and asking, "So, wanna get married?", it was absolutely the most perfect proposal that anyone could've come up with. Maybe putting "get married" on my to-do list this morning wasn't exactly reminiscent of your favorite fairy tale, but then, you didn't see Asa come to the car window when I was on my way to work just to give me a kiss and say, "we're in love!" And maybe our last fancy restaurant date was back in our "courting phase," but I think we'd both take a long walk in the snow with our dogs over candles and sea urchin quenelles with raspberry coulis foam any day (yeah, I don't know what that is, either, but I think I had it on a date once). There's nobody I'd rather be unromantic with. And that's the most romantic thing.

And I'd like to add that my brother got married at city hall while wearing sweatpants and an umbrella hat with a propeller on it (though he claims he was wearing relatively clean jeans and that his umbrella hat did not have a propeller -- I will once again assume the worst in absence of a clear memory, though). Blame my genetic predispositions.

The Pleasure of Puking Things Out

In Review: A long-awaited homecoming
Rating: Comfortably familiar and familiarly uncomfortable

It's our first full week at home since before Thanksgiving. We came home late at night and the house is a disorganized disaster. I can't find my sock, my shoes are scattered around the closet, our passports are on the dinner table, and we haven't even started unpacking. Following our two consecutive weeks out of town around Thanksgiving and our subsequent trip to Costa Rica, we spent (on average between the two of us) two nights at home before heading back down to New Jersey for three nights and then directly to Boston for another two.

So it's nice to relax after all that adventure. Our little bed has a heated mattress pad, and even though we'll be chipping off icicles from various surfaces throughout the house tomorrow morning, at least this night is going to be cozy and warm and comfortable. Pretty comfortable. As comfortable as four mammals together weighing a quarter of a ton on a little full-sized bed is ever going to be. (It's not really that we let the dogs sleep on the bed so much as they sometimes gracefully agree to share pillow space with us.)

It takes a little while to get back into the rhythm of sleeping at home. I'd missed that comforting, familiar trifecta of Oliver's tailing bouncing on my feet as he dreams, Asa's elbow embedded in my spine as he scrabbles for purchase against his precarious perch on the edge of the bed, and Misha's 100+ pound bulk resting peacefully over my face. That rhythm becomes elusive so quickly when we go on vacation, for some reason. But yes, there it is again. I remember how to time my inhalations with Misha's to minimize how much of his terrible breath I intake. I remember how to arch my back like a vaulting pole in mid-jump to minimize the number of vertebrae being coaxed out of alignment by Asa's epiphyseal protuberances. I let the sound of the scampering mice in our ceiling lull me into a deep slumber...

I'm dreaming that the mice have developed the initiative to cooperate and are carrying me on a very uncomfortable palanquin toward what sounds like a great lion having a hair ball, when I start suddenly awake. The lion must still be hacking up this hair ball, though, because the sound hasn't gone anywhere. I look groggily around in the dark, trying to make sense of my current reality. As my eyes adjust, I realize I am looking at Oliver, who has mercifully gotten off the bed and is wreathed in serene moonlight, preparing to embark upon what promises to be an epic vomit-quest. Our eyes meet and he opens his mouth, fixing me with his mournful gaze, and loudly releases a small, wet clump of slimy fabric from the custody of his bowels.

Ah, it feels good to be home. And at least I found my sock.

Holy Shiatsu

In Review: Massage
Rating: Painfully amazing

I call to make an appointment for a massage. "BRC Spa and Sauna," says a gruff Russian-accented voice at the other end of the line. I awkwardly bumble something about wanting a massage at 11:15, because I have a lifetime of unjustifiable inferiority complexes built up regarding conversing with Russian adults. On the other end: silence. "So, um," I eloquently wrap up. Some more silence, followed by, "I'm listening."

Most of my interactions with the desk clerks at the banya, as my people refer to it, go pretty much that way. It's hard to explain to a person with limited experience talking to Russians that those guys are actually really nice. But I will try anyway.

Asa and I arrive at the banya at 11. Have I mentioned that it is run by a gentleman who is lovingly known as - and this is true - "Metal Pete"? Metal Pete isn't at the desk this time, though, and we are greeted by the only other person I ever see working there. Let's call him Boris the Knife. I tell him about my upcoming appointment and he nods vaguely. We put our valuables into a plastic bag in exchange for a locker room key.

When I come out, fully bathing suited and bath robed, Boris the Knife asks me, in Russian, if I'm ready for my massage. This is the first time he's said a word in Russian to me because, perennially embarrassed about my accent in my mother tongue, I speak English whenever I can. "Oh, sorry," he recovers in English. But I finally decide to stop hiding behind my American intonations and tell him, in Russian, that I am in fact ready. His buddy (Mikhail Kalashnikov, say) has been leaning menacingly over the counter, and he suddenly laughs. Boris the Knife tells me, while never marring his hard expression with a smile, that he and Misha here were just discussing that I must be Russian, because beautiful women always are. I laugh awkwardly and give them what I must assume is a smile so charming, it disables their ability to make any further conversation. The Knife leads me silently to the massage room. 

Which brings me to what this review is actually about: Annie. Sweet, tiny, painfully strong Korean Annie. 

She does not speak In English sentences, but she can communicate with me pretty effectively just by using a word or two. "Robe," she points to a hook on the door. "Bathing suit," she points to an empty space by the sink. "Face down," she points to the massage table. "Muscle good," she says, looking at my back. This is cryptic, but clearly a compliment, so I mutter thanks, and she gets to work. And hot stones, does she know what she's doing. She finds my sore and tight spots within nanoseconds, and wastes no time. "Hurts," she laughs, and continues shoving her thumb into my neck. "Mrvvrrrth," I sort of respond, maybe. This conversation doesn't matter anymore. After years of the pathological caution I've grown accustomed to at American massage places, her unapologetic assailment of my anxiety-constricted muscles is disorienting and amazing. I actually feel like those ladies in massage commercials who seem transported to a wonderful place by the relaxing aroma, the mountain view behind them, and the gentle touch of their masseuses. Except I'm in what I think used to be a broom closet and instead of looking like a beautiful model with a peaceful expression unmarred by a lifetime of actual human concern, I think I'm drooling.

"Married?" Annie asks suddenly. There is a pause while I get my drool under control, which she mistakes for a lack of understanding. "Have baby?" she clarifies. She's asking this while she massages my butt, so I'm not sure this cryptic question is quite complimentary. "Not... yet?" I say somewhat doubtfully, since I'm starting to think she understands my body better than I do, so maybe she knows something that I don't. "Have baby," she assures me. Before I can really worry that this is a statement of fact, she elaborates, "Have baby, happy every day." For some reason I assure her I'll have a baby soon (anything for you, Annie), and with this out of the way, she happily resumes the massage.

When she's done, I'm pretty much a pile of vaguely connected body parts. She must be aware of this, because she pushes me into a sitting position. I wait for her to leave before putting on my bathing suit, but she doesn't seem particularly inclined to do so. Whatever, I think, and put on my bikini in front of her. "Russian woman?" she asks me while observing me out of the corner of her eye. "Happy woman," she mutters sagely when I nod. I thank her profusely for the amazing massage (have I mentioned that I can turn my head to the left for the first time in months?) and my tiny masseuse grins at me. "Have baby soon," she says in place of a goodbye.

A Nice Day (and Where to Have It)

In Review: Vermont DMV
Rating: Faith-in-humanity-restoring

I was in Costa Rica with my family a couple of weeks ago, and maybe that should be its own review, but all I'll say here is that we got expertly alleviated of many of our possessions; among them, some drivers' licenses. This meant very different things for some of us.

For my mom, it meant going to the DMV in New Jersey, getting yelled at for presenting a credit card as one of her six points of identification, having to go home and get a debit card, coming back and presenting the debit card and an insurance card and her passport, getting to the photo booth and suddenly being told that since she has a middle initial on her license but not on her passport, she needs to go find the original copy of her naturalization certificate. That is: go back home, root through the safe, find that the certificate is not there after all, ask father-in-law to go with her to open his safe at the bank, see some direct evidence of the near-delusional scale of his lifelong preparation for the zombie apocalypse (which for some reason necessitated putting empty plastic bags in the safe - "to prevent shifting"), finally find the certificate, go back to the DMV, and no less than a full workday later, come out with a grumpy picture (because they told her not to smile).

For us, it meant a trip to a Vermont DMV, which is a little different. We went up to Montpelier with our dogs (because there are some nice hiking trails right next to the municipal building). When we got inside, we were nearly the only ones there. Asa took a number and a form to fill out. The only proof of anything he brought was a single piece of mail. No picture ID is necessary here since they already have the license photo on file. Meanwhile, a very elderly gentleman hobbled over to the counter, relying heavily upon a rolling walker with a basket in the front. He asked to speak to Caroline. Caroline was busy, but he said he'd wait. A few seconds later, Caroline turned out to be available after all, but she clearly didn't recognize the guy. "You helped me get my disability placard," he told her, and some possibly artificial recognition crossed her face. "So I wanted to give you this." And he pulled out a wrapped gift from his basket, which turned out to be a cutting board that he custom made for her. She thanked him profusely and told him he didn't need to come all the way out here for that. He told her that she went out of her way to help him get his placard, so it was the least he could do. Asa's number was called before the exchange was even finished; by the time the old man was out the door (which someone held open for him, of course), Asa had his new license in his hand. And in the photo, he was smiling widely.