UP THE ARSE AT THE MUSEUM

My friend's birthday was this past week. We're at the age when we beg people not to give us anything. It's time to thin out our possessions partially because we're on the shadowy side of the Great Mountain of Life, and partially because we're damn tired of dusting knickknacks. 

So, I get this great idea to take her to a museum at a local college. Not only is it culturally enticing, but it's free. In theory, it's a brilliant plan.

Indeed, when we arrive, we are thrilled to discover that the museum actually has some decent stuff in it, including paintings by Monet and Sargent and deVries, and sculpture by Rodin. It's decently impressive as far as collections go.

But, as our visit progresses, we are accosted by a very large male security guard. There are other people in the museum, and, goddamnit, I am actually behaving myself (which, for me, is a huge imposition and an unmistakable challenge) for a change. This guy is practically up our asses as we attempt to tour the artwork.

Eventually, we make our way to the next floor and are immediately accosted by a mature, matronly security guard who also follows us all over the exhibit. It's creepy and insulting, and she yells at my friend for "touching the glass." She was not touching the glass, and the very next display is interactive and requires touching, anyway, so what the hell is she bitching about?

Let me point out that we are most certainly not the only people in the museum. However, we are clearly not students nor professors of this particular high-brow, uber-liberal college mainly due to our ages but also due to the fact that we are wearing clothes from JC Penney and TJ Maxx rather than Newbury Street and the Shops at Chestnut Hill. Also, our hair color is natural and not somewhere in the land of Roy G Biv. Not that there's anything wrong with that; it just contrasts how badly we stand out.

We may not look like Wendy's mascots, but we hardly look like flaming criminals, either.

By the time we get to the special exhibition on the bottom floor, which students on the Quad raved about, we are thoroughly disgusted with security guards poking at us with their two-way radio antennae. Anticipating artistic greatness (after all of those random kudos), we are instead met with really horrible and unfocused photographs of the same masked people over and over again. The "artist" probably shot the pictures for this display in about thirty minutes. We turn a corner to find a few torn newspaper words glued onto white copy paper. Apparently, it took the artist five months to create these "poems" (my middle school students could have done a better job in forty-five minutes). 

This final special museum presentation is a symbolic representation of the intelligence and taste of the people we have encountered on campus: slow-witted and pompous to the point of absurdity. At $65,000 per year (excluding meals and housing), we can only hope that the smart ones were busy in classes. 

I AM THE BOOB

It's the most wonderful time of the year! It's mammogram time. Joy!

Seriously, mammograms are important. Plus, mammogram is a fun word to say. Every time I say it, I think of the Mel Brooks movie Blazing Saddles, and the scene when he announces, "Candygram for Mongo." Sure, you know what I mean: "Mammogram for Mongo!" ("Mongo love mammaries!")

I walk into the health center, get myself all registered, head to the back, take off my shirt and bra, wipe off the deodorant (some of us had to work today) under my armpits, and do another pass across my chest in case I have body spray lingering from getting dressed hours earlier. I throw on that lovely open-air, front-never-closes partial johnny, and walk into the technician's room.

After checking me in and matching my information, she says, "You've lost weight."

Well, I don't believe that I have. I pretty much wear the same size pants (okay, maybe one size down if the pants have built-in stretch in the denim). Now, I have never met this woman before in my life, so this is kind of weird to me, but I say, "You are my favorite person!"

Then she clarifies. "What you told us last year, I don't think you look that weight." No, she doesn't weigh me, bless her for that, but I still don't know where she's going with this conversation. I mean, I am naked from the waist up, but on the bottom I am wearing my somewhat-stretchy black denim jeans, and black, as we all know, can be slimming.

"I don't know," I tell her. I honestly don't. I've had some weird health issues these last couple of years, so I have been making a conscious decision to change my eating habits. Well, semi-change my eating habits. I still like chocolate in moderation, and I am still a bread and cracker fiend.

"Well," she says, "I think we can use the smaller paddles!"

WAIT. WHAT?!?! Smaller . . . What the hell. What the serious hell.

Do you mean to tell me that all the black and blue marks, the actual rib bruising, the pinched skin on the front of my arm pits, the horror, the pain, the torture of the last decade is because you see me as a blimpous fatty boombalatty?! 

And, worse than that, you technicians can chose your goddamn weapons?!

While my boobies (and I) are quite pleased to have a tiny bit of relief (moderate on the pain scale as opposed to "holy crap, I think I need percocet"), I am somewhat disturbed that my perceived weight should be the determining factor on breast-squishing machinery. Let's be serious. My bra cup size isn't getting me any dates. Even if I weighed ten pounds more (or ten pounds less), my chest isn't going to be that different. It wasn't until I was largely pregnant with my first kiddo that I even knew boob-sweat was a thing.

As I leave the changing room and head back toward the waiting room, I wave to the technician. Now that I know about this whole secret paddle-size thing, I think I might drop ten pounds for real by this time next year. Who knew there would be such strong incentive for the Mammogram Diet? 

I know; it beats the alternative. Trust me, I really do know this several times over, which is why, despite the discomfort, it really is the most wonderful time of the year.

 

COFFEE, TEA, AND RAIN

 The weather outside has been frightful. It rains buckets for days, and then it snows for about a day and a half, but, since we have so much rain, it all just turns into three inches of slush and ice and muck. 

I've been trying to get together with a friend, a former town-neighbor of mine who now lives south of the tunnel. (For those out of the region, that means I'm north of Boston and she is south of Boston, so commuter traffic makes it impossible to actually get together.) When the weather sucks, the commute is ten-fold worse. I can jump on the T and be in the city in very little time. She doesn't have it so easy. Despite being able to practically spit and hit the city, public transportation from her area is spotty, at best, on any given day. Between trains and rains, getting together has become an epic event.

Finally, we manage to meet at Assembly Row. It's a Tuesday afternoon, and the rain is just about to start another multi-day drop. Most people would say, "Oh, yay, you can go into all the stores!" Nope. Not us. I suppose we could go to Trader Joe's or TJ Maxx, but that means hauling our personal and store-bought booty through the crowded parking lot while getting drenched.

Instead, we decide to go to a bakery/cafe. If you don't know the story behind Tatte, I highly recommend that you read about the innovative woman who founded the brand. If you haven't been to Tatte, I can only speak of the baked goods, although the food menu looks amazing, too. My friend has something marvelously chocolatey, and I have the biggest, fluffiest, most incredible croissant I have ever eaten. My friend also orders a coffee concoction (I know nothing beyond hot and iced where coffee is concerned), and I order English Breakfast tea -- bravo to the place for serving the tea hot, hot, hot. So many places serve tepid tea, and it's annoying as hell.

We end up having Greek food for dinner, which is fine except for the stroll in the rain that starts along with the wind whipping sharp, cold drops against our faces. Yes, the weather is horrid, and, yes, it gets progressively worse for the following forty-eight hours. The company, however, is worth it in any weather at all. The tea and crumpets just make it that much more decadent.

RECHARGE YOUR OWN BATTERIES

I'm really tired.
Maybe "tired" is the wrong word. 

Weary. 

That's it. 

That's what I am: 

Weary.

Fatigued.

Worn out.

It's not uncommon at this time of the year.

It is, though, uncommon to me.

So, I will take today off.

Easter.

Spend time with family.

Recharge my own batteries.

And remind myself that Monday is an amazing day:

Holiday chocolate goes on sale on Monday.

Amen.

IT'S SUMMER INSIDE

The weekend forecast is for snow, sleet, freezing rain, and general rainy and crappy weather. This is largely due to the fact that many people have been hoodwinked into thinking that Spring is here because:

A. The calendar says so

B. People have put shovels and snowblowers away

C. Winter tires have been replaced by the regular tires 

Sure, my snow shovel is still handy. I'm not a complete idiot. However, I prefer to dwell in a different reality, one that involves sunshine, warm weather, and flip-flops.

Just in case, I make sure I get to the store (days in advance because I'm not a masochist) to shop because, to be honest, I haven't bought groceries in a couple of weeks, and, by this I mean that the milk in my fridge has long passed cottage cheese stage and become a full-on science experiment. Yes, I buy milk (I needed some) and bread (sub rolls, actually), but I also buy salad fixings and bacon because fancy BLTs sound pretty darn good right about now.

I also restock the fridge with beverages. I have fresh fruit, frozen fruit, and various kinds of juices already at home that I plan to mix with red wine and make Sangria. Why? Because Sangria is a summer beverage, and I am more than ready for summer, despite the despicable weather forecast. 

I should grab some beer, too. I'm not a huge beer drinker, but, when I do drink beer, I'm not loyal to any specific brewer. It kind of depends on my mood. Imagine, if you will, my feeling of joyous jubilation when I spot this bad boy in the cooler: Sam's Summer. That is correct: Samuel Adams Citrus Wheat Ale. 

While most people rush to the store and grab pre-storm milk, bread, and eggs, I pile my cart full of what looks more like party fixings for the Fourth of July. I throw in a bouquet of flowers as the final middle finger to this weekend's weather. As the internet ticker rolls across the screen with the dire warning of "one more inch of snow overnight due," I am enjoying a lovely glass of fruit-infused Sangria while watching the Red Sox game. 

OFF-THE-CHARTS LUNCH FOR A LONG DAY AT WORK

One more quick post connected to my intense dislike of shopping:

Work sucks. Not even joking, as the MCAS state testing gets closer, my life feels like more of a pressure cooker. For anyone who doesn't understand state testing, for my particular subject matter, the year-end cumulative test for 100% of the state standards takes place in two weeks. This is prior to the end of third term. This means that before my students have completed 75% of their academic year, they are being tested on 100% of the curriculum. 

The best part is that over two days, these twelve and thirteen year olds will be writing four to six entire 10,000 character essays. For those unfamiliar with what a 10,000 character (including spaces) essay looks like, it's five to eight complete and expansive paragraphs; four or five of these essays, and, for some students who are lucky enough to get the "practice" question, six full-length essays.

In. Two. Days. I know English graduate students who cannot pull that shit off. But, I digress.

While this is hanging over everyone's heads, I also have an entire day of professional development, which means that I have zero time in my classroom to do important things like planning and preparing for the upcoming lessons. This is in addition to those regular days of going to multiple meetings, helping to substitute in other classrooms, and doing the important bathroom patrol (Doodie Duty) since we cannot trust the middle schoolers not to smear feces all over the walls nor to pee in the sinks nor to cram the toilets so full of paper towels (or shoes or clothing or schoolwork) that the entire septic system backs up.

So, yeah, I'm really too exhausted at the end of the extended day to fight irate shoppers, long lines at the cashiers, or malfunctioning self-checkouts. (Let's not even throw in the insult of paying for bags that break faster than tissues.) I need lunch for Friday's PD (Professional Development -- a time to sit in bored silence while people treat us like morons) day, so I should get some food and snacks. My mind tells me that I have bread in the freezer and probably have enough peanut butter and jelly on hand. I might even have a yogurt of questionable date in my fridge. Yup, I should be okay. I convince myself that I probably have enough food, and, hopefully, enough toilet paper to survive the next twenty-four hours.

This is when I remember that I have rapid-rise yeast. I have bread flour. I have shredded mozzarella cheese. I have sliced pepperoni. I even have a jar of pizza sauce. All of these items I have at home. I also have a damn good, incredibly easy pizza dough recipe that only takes thirty minutes to rise (though I always give it an hour, just because).

Take THAT, you stupid grocery store! Suck on it, you crazy-ass shoppers! Bite my arse, you malfunctioning self-service machines!

Yes, I would quite literally rather make a homemade pizza than stop for fifteen minutes at the store. I don't know if that makes me an idiot or a hero, but the results are amazing and my PD lunch is off the charts.

FROZEN DRINKS ON A FROZEN DAY

Continuing the misadventures from last week, I am still with the same two pals as we cruise around the South Shore of Massachusetts. It has been an unseasonably warm week up until the day we decide to get together and drive around. Of course, for the first time in five days, the temperature drops and the wind chill becomes ear-piercingly frigid. 

We stop at a scenic overlook, part of a farm-type school, and encounter snow. No, not a lot of snow, but patches of it here and there in small bucket-sized splotches. This is amazing to us since our area of New England has gotten about as much snow as South Carolina has gotten this winter. Ridiculously excited, we take a picture with the snow just to prove that we found some. Honestly, though, it is so cold, so numbingly freezing, that we run back to the car and grab more layers and hats and scarves and anything we can find to wrap around ourselves. The outing lasts less than ten minutes, and we are cold-hobbled by the time we stagger back to the vehicle.

Next we drive along the coast to perhaps fly a kite. Oh, the wind for kite-flying is strong, but the only way the kite will fly is if we suffer hypothermia and frostbite. We walk along the beach for longer than we probably should but ultimately decide that kite flying is not worth death.

We run a few errands that require us to cross great distances in parking lots because everyone and his brother and uncle seem to be out and about. Eventually, the day draws near to its end when someone suggests a quick drink, perhaps an appetizer, to finish off the day. As long as it's indoors, I'm game.

We get ourselves into the restaurant and sit near the window so we can watch the bay as the sun sets, casting long shadows over the water. When the waitress asks us for our drink order, we should probably say something warm like hot coffee, or rich with biting alcohol like brandy. After all, we are still trying to thaw out from an awesome but chilly day of adventure.

We are New Englanders, and because we probably have no brain cells left that have not been chilled to oblivion, we order a round of mudslides. You read that correctly: We order frozen drinks. But, you see, there is a method to our madness. This way, the frozen drink comes with a straw, and we won't have to pick up and hold the glasses that are covered with frost. We can simply tilt the straws as the drinks sit on the table, totally not molesting our defrosting fingers.

Brilliance, apparently, never freezes. By the time we are ready to truly finish up the day,  we've warmed ourselves up by belly-laughing for hours.