AAAAAHHHHHH CHOOOOOOOOOOOO

Uh-oh.  I feel a cold coming on.

I get cluster headaches.  These supposedly are the rarest of all headaches, but still there are tons of us who suffer with them.  These are the kinds of headaches that wake me right out of a sound sleep and last for days, leaving residual low-grade headaches for weeks so that I always know there's one right below the surface just waiting to totally wig out on me.  I had such headaches last week.

Then the nose started to run.  Initially I blamed it all on the weather, but I started sneezing uncontrollably three days ago, and then came the scratchy throat.  I am whipping through my tea supply:  regular tea, black tea, orange pekoe tea, Earl Gray tea, English breakfast tea...

Listen up, Self:  I don't have time to be sick.  You got that?

I have things to do, places to go, papers to write, books to read.  I have a project to present at school in two weeks and papers to file to start my thesis.  I still feel the remainders of the headaches just waiting under the surface, and this tension isn't helping.  I'm smack in the middle of the holiday season, and I simply do not have the time nor the patience for germs and bacteria.

So, Cold or Flu or whatever the hell you pretend you are, you may leave me alone.  No, really.  How many bouts of pneumonia am I supposed to endure?  How many nights of sleep and days of work are you going to screw with this time?

I just want to warn you, Cold -- I have some leftover antibiotics (do not ask from whence they came) on the shelf, and I am NOT afraid to swallow them (with water, of course).  I will fight you tooth and nail and nasal passage.

No one tells me what to do and when to do it, and I will ... I will ... uh-oh.  I feel a nap coming on.  Okay, Cold, listen up: When I'm done napping, we are so going to have this out.  You hear me?  Can .... you ... zzzzzzzz

Happy Saturday, Kids.

BLACK FRIDAY

It's Black Friday, the day when all the crazy people go wait in line in the freezing cold to buy shit they don't need for people they don't like at prices that will be lower in about 2 weeks to be able to rub it in our noses that they're done shopping for the holidays.

To me it's the day when leaving the house would be a certain sign of mental illness.

I won't even go to the grocery store, the liquor store, or the local pharmacy today if I can avoid it, and I need all kinds of shit, like printer ink and pomegranate juice and mascara.  But I will soldier on by not printing anything from my downstairs computer, not drinking anything healthy (okay, not making sangria, let's be serious here), and toughing out the last of the eye make-up until it gets too caked over to apply anymore.  These are my sacrifices to fellow Black Friday shoppers -- You can take the parking spaces that I would hypothetically be inhabiting had I decided not so hypothetically to actually drive into the shopping mayhem.

I think it's wonderful that people want to participate in full-contact competitive shopping.  Personally I think it should be added to the Olympics.  But I also think you're nuts, totally and completely like off your rocking chair and out into the meadows of insanity type of nuts.  And now that Black Friday has morphed into Slightly Grayish Thursday, I'm not sure what sacred honor awaits the very fate of Thanksgiving.

To all you lunatics who are reading this blog via your cell phone while waiting in line for a parking space at the mall, bless you for contributing to the economy.  In the meantime, while you're swearing about finding a place to park your vehicle, I'll be parking my ass in front of the television to watch sports, or at the computer to start my paper for grad school, or around the table eating leftovers and sipping something with a high alcohol content.  I may not be getting my holiday shopping done, but I'm not going to need sutures to close any errant shopping-induced head wounds, either.

Go forth and be cautious.  I'll see you all on Saturday.  You'll be able to recognize me when you see me -- I'm the one without the fully-loaded shopping bags.

HAPPY TURKEY DAY

Q:  How do you know when you've reached the Baking Breaking Point?

A:  You attempt to put the flour away in the freezer.

Q:  When do you know you're officially beyond healthy snacks?
A:  When a freshly-baked chocolate chip cookie goes really well with an ice-cold Bud Light.

HAVE A HAPPY AND  SAFE THANKSGIVING ... And have some turkey and squash and yams and mashed potatoes and apple pie and pumpkin pie and pumpkin bread and...

Go forth and share blessings, then watch tons of football and nap on the couch.

THE CABINET AND OTHER THANKSGIVING GAFFES

I have the world's tiniest pantry.  It's actually a few small cabinets in my kitchen.  One cabinet holds larger boxes, such as cereal, crackers, and popcorn, along with tall things like spare maple syrup and ketchup.  Two tiny cabinets house things like spices, food coloring, cornstarch, toothpicks, and also hot cocoa, olive oil, honey, and gravy mixes.

Then there's the cabinet.  Inside the cabinet are two shelves of dishware I rarely use, like large serving trays and the turkey platter, and one shelf stuffed full of the everyday staples that make up my life, like pasta, soup, canned vegetables, spare salsa, barbecue sauce, and peanut butter.  It's a corner cabinet, so the opening is mid-sized, but the surface area is considered cavernous by apartment standards.  I know there's a lot of hidden stuff in there, so periodically I clean it out, write expiration dates on things in permanent marker, and shove it all back inside again in some semblance of order (that lasts about three days).

I realize while making the shopping list for my small Thanksgiving that I may have much of what I need already inside my makeshift, disconnected pantry.  I look through the spices and discover to my great surprise that I actually own pumpkin pie spice.  That's really strange since I always use other spices in my pumpkin pie.  I've never used "pumpkin pie spice" for it, so I must've bought it for something else.  I wrack my brain wondering if I've ever had or made pumpkin martinis.  I also discover no less than three containers of ground cinnamon.  Not quite sure what that's all about.  There must've been a sale or something. I move to the general baking goods next.  I know I need cornstarch, so I don't bother checking.  I need brown sugar, white sugar, and flour.  In case I decide to get creative, I put baking soda on the list, as well.

Finally, though, I must face the cabinet.  I start emptying it all out.  I discover two opened boxes of panne pasta, both different brands requiring different cooking times, hence why I probably never combined them in the first place.  There's also a quarter of a box of lasagna noodles, like I forgot to put the top layer on the last batch or something.  I have a can of crushed pineapple, a can of pineapple rings, creamy peanut butter, crunchy peanut butter, three bottles of BBQ sauce, enough corn to feed the entire neighborhood, and an unopened jar of mayonnaise.  All good stuff, but not what I'm searching for.  I need to find...

Aha.  Cans of pumpkin and cans of evaporated milk.  I check marker dates: Must be recent purchases because the dates are all months and even years away.  I have enough pumpkin to make pumpkin butter, pumpkin pie, and pumpkin smoothies.  I also have enough evaporated milk to make a pie, some soup, and whatever else might strike me.  Excellent.  I finish making the list feeling content (and a little surprised at my good fortune).

When I get to the store, however, I am perturbed to discover that the idiots doing the ordering have failed to plan for Thanksgiving.  The milk shelf is nearly empty, the crescent rolls (my weakness) are almost gone, and there is zero pumpkin bread mix.  I have no idea what goes into pumpkin bread; I haven't made it from scratch in over a decade.  I figure maybe that's what pumpkin spice might be good for, grab another can of pumpkin and another evaporated milk for good measure, and move down my list of baking needs.  I am proud of myself when I remember cornstarch.  It's on my list but it has been written above stuff I've already crossed off, and I almost missed it.

I continue on, running back and forth between fresh and frozen turkeys like a nut.  In the end I get a mostly unfrozen one that is supposed to be fresh, but the fresh ones felt just a little too fresh.  I'm happy with my purchase.  On to the vegetable.  I find perfectly equal sweet potatoes, a simply charming sweet onion, and a nice bag of potatoes inside of which all the potatoes appear to be healthy and blind (no eyes).  I debate the butternut squash situation: whole (a bitch to both peel and cut), already peeled and sliced into halves (expensive), or go for boring frozen.  I continue to worry about this until suddenly I develop Shiny Object Syndrome.  I notice the frozen limeade containers and remember there's a recipe for Beergaritas in my file at home.  I circle the wagon (literally) and head in to the crowd to get the limeade.

It isn't until later, much later at home and over a few glasses of wine, that I realize I never bought the squash.  Oh well.  I still have to hit the liquor store tomorrow, so I'll just jump into the local supermarket and grab some squash and maybe some fresh fruit.  I am pleased with my shopping trip and start filing all of the important items where they belong when I realize I have already put away the cornstarch.  That's strange because I don't remember climbing on the chair to the tiny top shelf.  As I repack the baking cabinet, I reach down and grab another box of cornstarch.  Dang.  Now I have an overload of canned pumpkin, enough evaporated milk to feed a small army, and enough cornstarch to last four or five years.

I do go to the small plaza the following day.  I hit the packy for important things like beer, gin, tequila, and wine (but will probably end up drinking ice water).  Then I hit the small grocery store and buy the squash and some fruit and ... oh, thank the turkey and giblets god, there hiding on the top shelf almost out of view are boxes of pumpkin bread mix.  I step up on the bottom shelf, reach over, and grab two boxes of the mix, quickly hiding them in my cart in case some interloper comes by looking for the boxes on the shelf and finds them in my carriage, instead.

Stealthily I make my way to the check-out, desperately waiting for another express register to open (it does).  I get home, anxious to hide the loot in the pantry of tiny cabinets, which is how I got into this mess in the first place.  You know, it's moments like these that probably explain how I acquired so many boxes of cornstarch and cans of pumpkin and evaporated milk in the first place.

Well, folks, if there's ever a nuclear holocaust and you're craving Thanksgiving, there's always my house.  I'll keep the cornstarch handy so we can dust a path out front while thickening the gravy inside on the gas stove.

Happy Thanksgiving, folks.  I'm going to bake pies now.

MONDAYS AND BUTT-DIALING

Gosh, I love Mondays.

Wait.  No I don't.

Gosh, I love wine!  Yes, I do, I really, really do.

Aha!  It's Monday, and I'm drinking wine.  Eureka!  I love Winey Mondays.

I'm out doing my Thanksgiving grocery shopping Monday afternoon.  I don't really want to do the shopping Monday, but it has to be done.  The longer I wait, the more crowded it will get.  Besides, if I end up with a frozen turkey, it will take days to thaw.  My list is two full columns long and includes some staples I've been putting off, like detergent and hand soap and toilet paper (okay, truth be told, I never ran that low on TP, people, be serious).

I pull into the driveway, unload the bags from the back of the car, haul it all inside, and unpack the bags, sorting meticulously as I go as to what goes where.  I have just finished putting the refrigerator stuff away when my cell phone rings.  It is my friend who apologizes for missing my call, but tells me she was just thinking about me. 

Weird.  I hadn't called her, but I was just thinking about her, too.  I wonder if while unloading groceries I accidentally butt-dialed her.  I wonder if our connected psyches contacted each other.  Either way, I ask her what she's up to.  She's about a half mile from my house running an errand.

"Come over for a glass of wine,"  I say.

"I'm pulling up your street now," she replies.

 It's like our cell phones knew we needed to see each other.  It's eerie and yet completely and totally normal for us.  Sometimes it just happens this way.

My house is a disaster.  It hasn't been cleaned since the last wedding a month prior, and I have dry goods from my shopping trip piled all over the kitchen.  To make matters worse, I hauled the Christmas stuff up on Saturday, and the boxes are still littering my living room.  I move the boxes, bring some cheese and crackers in to the living room with us, and we proceed to suck down half a bottle of pinot grigio (because the Suavignon blanc is almost empty).

We talk about our college-tethered sons, commiserate over bad choices in relationships, lament the weather, and piss all over the holiday plans we actually made.  You see, for a brief moment in time, the two of us are going to blow off our obligations and go stay in a hotel somewhere that is near a Thanksgiving-meal-serving restaurant.

But, alas, I have just purchased a half-thawed bird and have great plans to bake, bake, bake my little (fat) ass off.

That's when I remember that I forgot to buy squash.  That's right, you heard me: I stood in the store debating the merits of fresh vs. pre-peeled vs. frozen squash, then spaced-out and forgot to buy any. 

I probably have to hit the store again, anyway.  I want to buy fresh fruit and tequila, not necessarily in that order.  You see, Thanksgiving may be an Americanized holiday, but that doesn't mean Jose Cuervo is disinvited to the celebration.

Besides, if it weren't for a random butt-dial, or perhaps a message that circled Pluto before arriving at a phone mere miles away, I wouldn't have remembered about the squash at all.  And hey, by the way, it's Monday, and that half-bottle of wine is suddenly and completely long-gone.

Just like that.  Poof!  It's a moment exactly like this that makes it all worthwhile. 

Here's to good friends and bad judgments,  incomplete shopping trips and completely empty bottles of pinot grigio.  Here's to us!

And here's to Monday (which in 24 short hours will be Tuesday, anyway).

Gosh, I just love Mondays.  Uhhhh...., honestly ... I kinda do, even when I don't realize they've gone by until Tuesdays.  

THE WIND-Y CHILL FACTOR

Winter is unofficially here.

Sure, it doesn't officially start until December 21st, but today's weather is wild enough to qualify.  The wind is gusting fiercely, knocking power out to different areas, and the wind chill is down in the teens and falling.

We have a gust that lasts about 35 seconds and sounds like it is going to rip the house wide open.  As soon as it dies down, I run outside to collect my welcome mat that is swirling in the air about to take flight off the patio into the abyss of my neighbor's yard.  One of the two surviving pumpkins, however, is long-gone.  May it land in peace (piece?) and not smash anyone's window on its way to Oz.

It looked for a while like snow for Wednesday, but the wind will abate and the temperatures will climb back into the 40's, so we'll probably just have cold rain that chills the bones.  Thursday is supposed to be seasonably pleasant, as well.  I don't go to the Thanksgiving football games at the high school anymore, so the weather can do whatever the weather wants to do.  I used to go when the kids were little, but now I stay in and cook.  Okay, I stay in and have tea that eventually morphs into wine as the day progresses. Yup, something's getting cooked on Thursday, and it will probably be both the turkey and me.

I wouldn't mind a little snow, though.  A little.  But you can keep the wind.  I don't sleep well with the noise, and now I have the extra worry of an errant pumpkin flying through the air, ready to attack whatever happens to get in  its way, like some mutant killer vegetable roaming the neighborhood unchecked.

Winter may not start until December, but it's Frozen Flying Gourd Season, so take cover and wear the proper protective clothing.  And wear gloves.  If you catch the thing, you want to be able to toss it back into play without getting frostbite.  I'm just saying.

WASTED WEEKEND, AND BY WASTED I MEAN ...

This is why I have a limited social life.

Thanksgiving is coming this week.  Also coming this week are two open houses at my school, which means Monday afternoon and Tuesday night will both be tied up with students leading their parents around from classroom to classroom, showing off their work and doing activities.  At some point, I also have to get College Boy home.

So I plan my attack:  Saturday I will read the assigned text for grad class and write my weekly paper.  I will also start doing research (in earnest) for my final project that is due very soon.  In other words, Saturday will be spent pretty much alone, just me and the basket of chocolate and the ice cold beer in the fridge and sports on television.


This makes me feel like a loser.

So I decide to fill up my day with a few other things in between the grad school work. After I finish the reading, I start writing the paper.  A little way into the writing, I take a break and bring the Christmas stuff up from the basement.  I don't unpack it; I just make sure it's upstairs and ready.  I write some more of the paper.  I text my kids about Thanksgiving and chat with them for a bit.  Then I write some more of the paper.  I go through some magazines (I'm two months behind) while watching a Bruins game.  In between periods in the hockey game, I write some more of the paper. 


I contact College Boy, and we decide that the open house at my work is going to interfere with getting him home, so I opt to drive up to school, get him, bring him home, and have him take his car back to school so he can get home for Thanksgiving at his own mercy rather than mine.  I make a brief stop at a wine tasting (one table, limited quantity) because I'm searching for a good Thanksgiving wine.  I leave empty-handed as I do not find anything I would consider "good" nor "Thanksgiving wine."  I drive toward the college.

As soon as I pass the last exit before entering Boonesville, traffic halts.  I am crawling up the interstate at 3 mph, and the nearest exit is five miles north of where I am.  The trip that normally takes thirty-five to forty minutes has now stretched to almost ninety.  I pick up College Boy, and we head home, stopping to pick up pizza (extra cheese) on the way.  We watch the rest of the BC football game (Maryland coach blew the game in the final seconds) while I intermittently work on my grad school paper and drink beer and eat pizza.

Eventually College Boy leaves for school, and I get back to business in all seriousness.  I work myself up to seven pages of writing, and I've only covered one-third of the topics for this week's assignment.  I seem to be missing part of the readings, so I check online to my university email and see a new message.  It instructs me to go to the class website we've been using in order to retrieve my message.

Dear Students -- Happy Thanksgiving.  You do not have to submit a written journal this week...

Holy hell.  By now it is after 9:00 p.m.  Even if I had any friends, it's too late to try and get together or go anywhere or do anything.  I have a seven-page literary diatribe, one of my best, to be honest, because it's on an essay I've read and studied and debated numerous times before.  I feel like I'm ready.  I've got those fighting words all in order as I continue reading the message I opened.

... but if you want to send one along, you may.  Also, be sure to post on the website about the reading from this week.

I look through the seven page document.  Hmmmm.  I tend to be a little chippy when writing my journal papers.  I use words like damnit and crack, and this week I even put in the expressions bunch of latent pot-smoking hippies with LSD flashbacks, and some of us simply raise our hands to air out our armpits and not because we have an actual question, and this priceless gem: The emperor has no clothes!  No, really, he's butt-freakin-naked, people.  Naked.   

The further I read into my cutting stream of consciousness gone bad, the less confident I am that there's anything remotely post-able in the entire manuscript. 

Oh well.  Another weekend wasted, and by "wasted" I mean the time is wasted not that I am wasted.  But give me time.  I have an entire fridge stocked with beer and leftover extra-cheese pizza.  I might just make a weekend out of it yet.

WEEKEND POETRY

Friday is Rime Royal Day in my class.  Also known as Rime Royale and Rhyme Royal (lest the English scholars amongst us throw a hissy-fit), this poetic format is a compact, seven-line poem written in iambic pentameter and following a rhyme scheme of ababbcc.  It's rumored to have been a favorite of Chaucer, whose Canterbury Tales General Prologue left eighteen lines permanently scarred across my brain. 

The object of Friday's activity is to continue our rhyme scheme lesson and build our poetry wall, which we have aptly named Verses vs. Verses.  It currently boasts 74 tercet people, who are like large paper dolls with three-line poems across them, and 75 colorful haiku leaves stuck in a tree made from packing paper.  There are also bright neon thought bubbles attached to each tercet person explaining which three-line poem is a better example of poetry, the tercet or haiku (no-brainer -- they're both poetic forms).  After bringing the wall to life today by adding the final elements and using up two rolls of wide tape to stick everything to the concrete blocks, everyone writes (or at least starts) two rime royals.

Next week are two open houses at the school, one Monday afternoon and one Tuesday night.  The kids are going to bring their parents through and teach them how to write rime royals.

Don't worry, don't worry.  I promise to let the parents use rhyming dictionaries; that's as close to cheating as poetry gets.

In honor of proving that I'll never ask the kiddos to do anything I'm not more than willing to do myself, here's a rime royal dedicated to my Saturday plans.  You're welcome.

It's Saturday and I will plan to go

To local stores to sample all their wine

To choose a vintage maybe I don't know

That makes the taste of turkey seem sublime,

Which we will eat before we all recline.

Of course there is one problem to be seen:

Company means that I have to clean.

VICARIOUS FUR COAT SHOPPING -- OR WHY I LOVE RETIRED WOMEN

So, my headache doesn't really get any better.  As a matter of fact, it makes me feel so sick that I leave work after my last academic block but before an important administrative meeting.  Apparently no one tells my principal because the vice principal who answered my emergency "I'm gonna puke" email also leaves sick.  Oh well.  Life is like that sometimes.

I head home, pop some Tylenol, and try to eat something.  I'm home now, so I don't care if I spend the rest of the afternoon hugging the porcelain god.  But I have an event to attend at 6:00 p.m.  I truly want to go because my brand-new daughter-in-law will be at the event, and I want to support her and hang out with her, too, because she's a blast to be around.  So at 5:50 p.m., I've rallied enough to make it to the store where the event will be held.  It's only about a half-mile from my house.  If I feel terrible, I could even crawl home if need be.

When I arrive, I see food.  Ugh.  Nope.  Not happening.  I work my way through the store.  It's a high-end consignment shop, and the stuff they sell is exceptional, really great quality with competitive prices.  I am distracted by the shiny objects and party dresses for events to which I will never be invited.  I work my way toward the back and discover … fur coats.

Now please do not debate with me the merits or disgraces of animal hunting.  There are goddamn skunks and river rats overrunning my urban neighborhood, and I recently saw a dead wolf on the side of a suburban highway.  I like wildlife as much as the next person, but there's a line to be drawn (like when I cannot get into the parking lot of my work because there are twenty or thirty turkeys pecking the pebbles off the driveway for about fifteen minutes and they are completely undaunted by screaming and honking and revved engines).  So please, don't judge me as some kind of anti-animal rights person simply because I grew up hiding away in the fur coat section of Jordan Marsh with my sister where we would smooth out the fur going one way and write words with our fingers going against the fur grain.

Back to my present-day story.  In the fur coat section of the store, I discover some mink and raccoon coats.  They are gorgeous, luxurious, stunning.  And semi-expensive.  The full-length minks I pull from the rack run between $800 and $1,000.  Oooooh.  Shiiiiiiny.  Then I discover the full-length raccoon coats are only $300.  Bargain!  I wonder where in my world would I ever wear a full-length fur coat?  A Bruins game?  Yeah.  No.  So I walk away.

But not for long. 

There is a masseuse set up near the station where my daughter-in-law is located.  DIL convinces me to get a mini-massage, which turns into five minutes of relaxation, which, for me, is alien.  I've had two kinds of massages:  the electric pulse ones for a lower-back/hip bursitis problem, and a brief hands-on one at a conference.  Apparently I cannot relax.  That's right, you heard me:  The woman who can fall asleep at a stop light, who routinely falls off the computer chair in a dead faint, who can doze in the dentist chair, cannot relax herself long enough to get a mini-massage.  When berated to relax my shoulders, I usually respond, "I AM RELAXED!" (followed by "FUCK OFF" under my breath).  But I suffer from cluster headaches, and I'm in the throes of a two-day cluster headache right now.  I allow the masseuse to touch all of the extremely painful pressure points of my neck and head.  Does this hurt, she asks me over and over.  Yes, actually it's like torture and daggers but I'll risk anything for a few minutes of relief at this point.  The pain the nerve endings are feeling at the base of my skull are better than the tearing agony of the pain behind my eyeball that is shooting in hot pokers out my right ear.  There are actually a few moments during this mini-massage where I forget I have a headache.  Eventually, though, I have to yield the chair.

For the first time in days I am craving something to drink and feel like I might be able to keep it in my stomach.  I stop and eat something flaky and then hit the cannoli chips and ricotta dip - holy shit, people, there really is a god.  I head to the rear of the shop where the wine table is waiting.  When I go back, two older women are trying on fur coats.  They are absolutely beautiful, hair done to the max, jewelry, and thoroughly enjoying their night out.  They've little intention of purchasing furs.  The saleswoman is working it, and she's doing a great job.  Three gulps of sauvignon blanc later, I'm ready to help her out.

I start chatting the ladies up and drooling over how nice they look in the various furs, and, truth be told, they do look fabulous.  "That coat is gorgeous with your hair color," I gush quite honestly and with a little jealousy.  Her friend agrees.  I sip some more and move along.  After circling the store for the fourth time, I find myself back at the furs again.  This time the other woman is trying on a fur coat.  She looks equally stunning, and I tell her so.

To make a long story just slightly less long, I end up becoming great pals with Muriel, Joan, and their other pal Gloria, who is buying a lime-colored suede jacket and debating some semi-matching gold-green-blue jewelry.  I grab the jacket from her and hold it up.  "Put the necklace with it," I smile smoothly, then add, "and with a navy shirt underneath, this look is killer."  I turn my attention back to Joan.  "What happened to that sexy mink that matches your hair?"  She assures me it is up at the counter waiting for her.  I turn to Muriel.  She is debating between a short jacket, a mid-length jacket, and a long coat.  All three are mink.  I try to read the sales clerk.  She's pushing for the mid-length, I can tell.

I chat Muriel up, discover she is recently retired from education, and convince her she is worth the money and the mink.  Completely and totally worth it.  She says she has no place to wear it.  I assure her that I would go wherever she does in that jacket because she looks fantastic, beautiful, stunning.  And I'm not remotely joking.  She simply looks gloriously happy in the mink.  I wish I could look so happy. 

Once I have convinced the three women that no, I do not work for the store and I am not getting a commission, I hit the wine table up one more time.  Headache?  What headache?  I yak with them until they reach the cash register.  I'm telling you, I am not letting those women go anywhere without those coats.  I want to live vicariously through them, three wonderfully happy friends having a marvelous time and looking radiant beyond anything I've seen.  I cannot recall the last time I saw such truly lovely women inside and out, such close kinship amongst my own at their ages, which they admit to me is 70.  I assure Muriel she doesn't look a day over 62, and I mean it.  Retired people, especially those retired from education, always look younger as they age.

I leave the shop without making a single purchase for tonight really isn't about me.  I mean, it is and it isn't.  I'm out and about, and I'm having a helluva time, and for the first time in 48 hours my head is only pounding and not throbbing with brain-strangling agony.  (Those who live with cluster headaches understand that there is no choice but to push through the pain because the episodes often last days, even weeks, so functionality is one of our coping mechanisms.)  I smile for the first time in hours.  I am relaxed for the first time in what feels like forever.

About thirty minutes after returning home my headache finds me again.  It wasn't really gone, but it did seem to be napping for a bit.  I think about those three charming women and I hope they are as happy with their purchases as I am for them.  I can't wait to be them -- a little older, retired, out and having a grand time with chums without a care in the world.  Meeting them has changed my outlook and how I feel about myself. 

And most of all, it reminds me that I haven't lost my touch for retail.

So the next time I'm on the verge of being fired, or if my boss freaks out because I am deathly ill in the middle of the day, get permission to leave, but forget to get my urgent request sanctioned by ten supervisors and the president, I guess I'll still have a career in sales … if that sales clerk in the fur department of the shop doesn't want to skin me alive first for honing in on her sales, that is.

That's my story, anyway, and it's mostly the truth.  Only the names have been… no, they haven't.  Shout out to Gloria, Muriel, and Joan.  You are my new BFF's.

HOW I SURVIVED A MASSIVE HEADACHE AND OTHER DISASTERS

Wednesday I wake up at 4 a.m. with a headache so bad it could take down a hippopotamus on its own without any ammunition whatsoever. 

I decide to go in to work not so much because I'm a martyr as my school email ate the file with the vice principal's phone number.  At about 11 a.m., I feel well enough to suck down two Tylenol finally.  After work I crawl home and into sweatpants and a sweatshirt by 4 p.m., and by 6 p.m. I am dead-asleep on the couch for ninety minutes.

This all sounds either marvelously wonderful (Yay!  I napped for 90 minutes!) or tragically pathetic (Holy crap!  I wasted 90 minutes on the couch!), but truth be told, this is more how it actually goes:

I throw in a load of laundry.
I sit down at the computer.
I check my email and various other important and unimportant Internet sites.
I doze in front of the computer.
I toss the wet laundry into the dryer.
I get comfy on the couch and turn on the television.
The phone rings.
I have unplugged the living room phone and run to the next room to answer it.
"Hello, this is the vehicle warranty office..."
I hang up the phone while the girl is still talking.
I return to the couch.
I shut the television off at about 6:05 p.m. when I realize there's nothing on worth watching.
Next thing I know, it's about 7 p.m.
Then the very next thing I know, it's about 7:40 p.m.
I sit up in the dark and wonder where I am.  I am still in my living room, which is good.
I wonder what day/night it is.  It seems to still be Wednesday, which is very good.
I wonder if I have a fever.  I don't.  Yet.  This is very, very good.
I wonder what I should put into my just-woke-up-from-a-long-nap stomach.
I wonder if a cold beer would be okay.  I decide it probably wouldn't be.
I search for food in the cabinets.
I really wish having a beer straight out of a long nap would be considered acceptable.
I start eating Ritz crackers and New York extra sharp cheddar cheese.
I sit down at the computer and start typing up this blog entry.
I really, really want a cold beer.
I start wondering if I am just tired or if I might be catching the flu.
Maybe I shouldn't be eating cheese.
What the hell.  If I do puke, it'll smell like cheese, anyway.
I reset the laundry (that has been sitting in the dryer) to a low setting and turn it back on for fifteen minutes.
I am still debating the merits of drinking a cold beer straight out of a deep-sleep nap.
I feel some coughing coming on and hope it's not the precursor to the flu.
I sit in front of the electric heater because I am still chilly.
I wonder if I am warm from a fever or because I am sitting directly in front of the electric heater.
I decide to get the laundry from the dryer because it really needs to be folded.
I continue to debate the sanity of drinking a beer on a relatively empty, just-awakened stomach.
I start wrapping up this blog entry.
I remember my teammate at work gave me the magic phone number if I need it.
I check and make sure I have the vice principal's (magic) phone number in my cell, just in case.

I suddenly realize that if I don't shut off the electric heater, I am going to set my left sweatpant leg on fire, and that would require some inventive explaining to my landlord and to the fire department.

I also realize that I don't have that freakishly awful, monstrously painful, sinisterly howling headache anymore.

Bring it on, Thursday.  I think I just might be ready.

WHY EXPLAINING MYSELF IS GETTING OLD

Sometimes I get tired of explaining myself.

No, really.

Especially when it's something trivial or something that makes complete and total sense to most sane, rational people. I often wonder if I'm stuck in some alternate universe where people just aren't as bright as they used to be.  I waste copious amount of energy some days trying to outwit the dimwits around me, trying to pre-guess what dumbass comment they will make or what stupidass task they will attempt to assign to me.

It's draining.  It's draining having to keep up with the silly demands; it's draining having to explain everything to people who probably shouldn't be unbuckled from their strait jackets.

So here's to those pesky times when explaining oneself just becomes beyond all normal and reasonable human sanity limitations. 

WHY BEING RIGHT ULTIMATELY TICKS ME OFF

You want to know what blows chunks?  Being right, that's what blows chunks.

Being wrong isn't so hot, either, but there's nothing more validating yet even more frustrating than sensing people are absolute pricks and hoping with all your heart that they're not absolute pricks only to have them prove over and over again that yup, they really are absolute pricks.

Sometimes I wonder if I'm the only one who smells a rat when she sees one.  Usually I take a load of shit for it for a long, long time.  I'll get labeled a troublemaker for making waves, for questioning the people around me, for pointing out what I see as the obvious, for wondering if those in authority are in it for the leadership value or for the ability to belittle and humiliate the underlings.

I'll stand alone or with the few, those of us ostracized as the critical ones who "apparently" wouldn't know cotton candy if it blew out of our noses like snot during cold season. 

But, kids, this much I do know:  I'm not a Kool-Aid drinker.  You got that?  Soylent Green is people.  And by the way, I knew that the psychologist in Sixth Sense was dead right at the beginning, and I also knew from about 1/4 of the way in that Ed Norton and Brad Pitt were both Tyler Durden in Fight Club (Hello?  Norton's name is never, ever mentioned until near the end of the movie, people), and that Gary Sinese was the bad guy in Snake Eyes less than thirty seconds into the film. 

The few times that I have mistrusted my first impressions, I have been sadly mistaken and beat myself up over doubting myself in the first place.  Look, do you think I actually enjoy knowing someone's an asshole the first or second time I meet him?  You think I like knowing your boss cannot be trusted and that your job is on the line? 

The saddest part is that I always hold out hope until the final second, and sometimes even beyond, that perhaps I'm wrong.  Maybe, just maybe this time I miscalculated, misread, misbelieved.  But, just in case, I should probably start looking for a room rental somewhere and a new career.

Hahaha!  I knew I'd never get to write that thesis; I'll be too busy greeting people entering the store as I shove empty carriages at them and sing merrily, "Welcome to Wal-Mart.  Enjoy your shopping experience."

I hate being right.  It blows chunks big time.

MONDAY, MONDAY ... SUCKS

Is it me, or are the weekends getting shorter?

It could just seem that way since the sun sets at like 1:00 in the afternoon now.  Or it could be because my weekends are completely full of doing my own homework, so my down-time has been reduced to mere hours.  I don't know.

What I do know is that Mondays suck.  This Monday sucks especially because I am required to go to yet another curriculum meeting.  So, in the last three weeks, that will be a complete and total waste of five-plus  hours doing work that the curriculum director is going to nix anyway for a project I refuse to sign on to but am being forced to do, and I'll get out of school after the meeting when the sun has set so it will be almost dark already.

Pissah.  Good time had by all.

Positive news:  Bruins and Patriots both play Monday night (but not the Celtics).  Okay, in that case, shorten up this weekend and get to the good stuff .... Monday night football and hockey.  Bring it on, Monday.  I'm ready... now ... I think.

WINE TASTING WITHOUT THE TASTING

The Plan:
The local liquor store (known in New England as The Packy) is having two pre-Thanksgiving wine tastings today.  The first runs from 1:00-3:00, and the second runs from 3:00-5:00.  My plan is to hit the packy at exactly 2:50 so I can attend both tastings.  After the tasting, I have to get to the store and pick up some important things like eggs, milk, and toilet paper.  After all of this, I have to get back to writing a paper that is due online by Monday evening.

The Itinerary:
Drive over to my friend's house.  Have food before the wine tasting.  Proceed as planned.

The Revised Plan:
I have to take my son's car for a ride.  He's away at college, and I try to drive the car here and there to keep it from getting all gunky and cranky (which I believe are perfectly legitimate, high-tech automotive words).  My friend's son is also away at college and beyond -- he's in Patagonia for a semester, so his car won't even be driven during Thanksgiving break -- and his car also needs a jaunt.  We decide to take my original plan and tweak it just a bit.  I will drive my son's car to my friend's house.  We will driver her son's car to the grocery store, come back to her house, and put her groceries away.  Then I will drive back to my house, put my groceries away, and meet her at the packy for the wine tasting.  After that, she will drive home and proceed with her evening; I will drive home and work on my paper.

The Actual Events:
I drive my son's car to my friend's house.  It is an unusually beautiful and temperate November day.  The sun is shining and it's sweater weather (as opposed to thermal underwear and parka weather).  She has prepared a surprise snack of breaded green beans and a wasabi ranch dip, a better and more flavorful version of the Applebee's appetizer we had recently.  We decide to open a bottle of wine and sit outside with the snack.  We are laughing so loudly that we attract the next door neighbors who come over to chat but do not indulge in the wine.  We, on the other hand, continue refilling our goblets.

We realize that we will miss the wine tasting whether we go to the store before or after, and decide that we don't give a rat's ass because it's a gorgeous autumn afternoon, we already have wine, and we are having fun interrupting one of the neighbors every time he tries to speak, which we can easily see is annoying him, but the wine is preventing us from having any shred of verbal control.

Apparently we drink all the wine because the bottle is inexplicably empty.  As the sun starts to go down, which is now much later, we stand up, walk around, and make sure we are not buzzed.  Good thing because now we have to go to the store.  My friend drives because her son's car still hasn't taken its road trip whereas my son's car has.  We park near a huge Penske truck just in case we can't find the car when we come out again in the dark.  It's not that we think we won't remember where we parked; we're concerned that we won't remember which car we brought with us.  There are many times when I take out my keys and start trying to beep open my doors only to remember I'm not even driving.  (I did this recently in Portsmouth with my sister, clicking my remote as we walked toward her car.  Doh.)

Once inside the store, we stay together for two aisles.  She runs into a work friend and explains that we have just shared an entire bottle of wine.  (Okay, it was a while before this, but it makes for a better excuse as to why we are putting junk into our carriages.)  Then we decide to split up.  My list is twice as long as hers is, she has less than twelve items and I have less than twenty-five, which means I should be done last.  However, my friend keeps looking at her Staples list instead of her grocery list, and I can hear her muttering, "Purple folder ... purple folder ...  Wait.  Chicken, oil ..."  I look for her one more time before I hit the check-out and call her cell phone.  It goes to voice mail, so I leave her a message: "I'm by the cooked chickens.  Where are you?"  She has already checked out and meets me at the chickens.  "Did you get my message?" I ask.  No, she didn't even know I called her because her cell phone is tucked away in her pocketbook.  Apparently we communicate through mental osmosis.

After I check out, we head to the parking lot and toward the giant yellow Penske truck that is thankfully still parked where we can easily see it.  We stop for gas because the light comes on as soon as we pull out of the parking lot.  She puts in about 1.5 gallons because she has $5.  That's more than enough to get us home.  We laugh hysterically over family stories, work stories, and people-we-saw-in-the-store stories that we tell on the short ride home while gazing at the nearly-full moon.  I help her bring in her groceries, and she helps me transfer my bags to my son's car.  When I see she's safe and sound inside, I take off for home.

As soon as I am done pulling son's car and then my own car back into the driveway, my cell phone beeps for an incoming text.  It is my friend reminding me that I have groceries in the back seat on my son's car.  You know, just in case I forgot with all the wine and the full moon, which I might and which is why I asked her to send me a text ... so I wouldn't forget.

As if I could forget such a relaxing and fun day.

I'll worry about Thanksgiving wine next weekend.  Besides, I heard the packy is having another wine tasting next Saturday.  If only the Penske truck were there again then I'd know where to park my car.

I'm just saying.

HOLIDAY RADIO FUN

A Christmas Limerick

Fir trees all pre-cut and smelly
Combined with the music, compel me --
Radio plays
Xmas music today,
But if you don't like it, DON'T TELL ME.

Friday evening -- First shots fired in the Battle of Christmas Season.

Sure, stores have been playing holiday music and showcasing their displays for weeks, but today the radio joined in.  First station to go all-holiday for the year, or, at least, the first one I have come across, started broadcasting Friday evening.  Maybe they started earlier, but I've been pretty diligent about checking and re-checking for the holiday music to start.

Good on, Radio, good on.  Let the games begin!

FUN WITH LANGUAGE -- OR WHY IT'S FUNNY TO BE TWELVE

There are days when I truly love my job.

Today I am correcting study guides, which means that the students generate answers to some reasonably straight-forward questions about a short piece of literature. This is as much an exercise in following directions as it is in writing, so any corrections for one student most probably mean these corrections will be repeated again through the class, spreading bad grammar like a bad case of the flu.

I am calling out as I work:

No random capitals!
Apostrophes are your friends!
Commas are free!
Spelling is important!
Restate the questions in your answers!
What goes at the end of a sentence?

 It is in the spirit of camaraderie that I allow small groups to work together, reminding them over and over of the grammatical pitfalls of which they should be wary.  It seems to be going well until one group of young men becomes very agitated.  There seems to be some kind of debate raging about the way they are wording their answers and punctuating their sentences.

Suddenly Sean yells out proudly, "Kevin has his PERIODS!"

We all stop what we're doing, and there is pure silence in the room.  Perhaps no one heard him, I lie to myself.  Truth be told, everyone heard him.  They may well have heard him in the classroom next door, too.  I wait for the moment to pass.  I subbed in eighth grade health for a while, so I know just how awkward this can get.  Slowly, like a wave rippling across the surface of the room, the girls start giggling.

It takes a few moments before Sean realizes how his words came out, and he stammers just a bit in an attempt to correct himself.  Meanwhile, Kevin hasn't moved a muscle.  I'm not even certain he's breathing.  Anything, anything at all not to draw attention to himself.

Within seconds, though, the entire room has dissolved into a fit of laughter.

"Aw, come on," I finally manage to say amid my own amusement.  "This is English class.  If you can't have fun with language, what good is it?"

Ah, syntax.  It's not just for heathens and bad Christians, anymore.  (Baddum-boom)

WHY DOES IT HURT TO BE COLD?

I don't like to be cold.

Wait.  Let me rephrase that;  It physically hurts me to be cold.

Legit.  I'm not kidding.

I have Raynaud's Phenomenon (also called Raynaud's Disease or Raynaud's Syndrome, but I like to think I'm a phenomenon), which means that my body's natural reaction to cold is to restrict blood flow to my toes and fingers to the point that they ache and turn colors similar to those Chagall used in his paintings.  It's all about circulation, and apparently mine is dysfunctional.

Raynaud's Phenomenon causes me to feel the cold more severely than the average Joe Schmoe does.  This means that even in chilly (not frigid) temperatures, I stockpile those hand and feet warmers that are sold in sporting goods stores.  So when you feel a little coolish, I'm probably already at ice cube levels.  If you're seriously cold, I've already been deep-frozen with the equivalent of liquid nitrogen.

I've gotten used to this, and people at lacrosse have already figured this out, too.  If they see me in the stands with blankets and layers and hats and gloves and scarves and heavy coats, they know the temperature has dropped below 50.  I'm like the human weather forecast.  "Oh, look!  Heliand has fur boots and three layers of socks.  It's going to dip into the 30's during the game..."

The problem isn't so much when I have to be outside, though.  The problem is inside.  At work.

Now that the new school steel girders are up against my room's outside wall, the integrity of the building has been compromised.  Air is leaking in through the foundation and the walls at a rapid rate.  When it's in the 70's out, this is no big deal.  But the last few days it has dipped into the 20's and 30's and not really climbed up from there.  That makes it a little breezy inside around my desk.  Couple that with an unheated hallway that has outside doors at either end (both of which are frequently opened, especially the one closest to my room).  Top it all off with a faulty room heater that generally blows cold air, and I am left with one, and only one, logical conclusion:

My bosses are trying to kill me.

Not that their plotting would be unwarranted. 

When my hands are so cold during the school day that the kids bet each other they cannot withstand my fingers against their arm, that's bad.  First of all, it's creepy that they even want to try this, as if it's some bizarro badge of honor: "I survived the corpse-like touch of Mrs. H...".  Second of all, I'm quite certain it wouldn't play well on television via the local news:  "Icy teacher touches students' arms.  Creepy educator arrested.  Film at 11..."

It's tough to go through the day so cold that I am wearing layers and layers and layers of fleece.  I've been known to bring a blanket to school with me, too.  I mean, truly the room is only about 66 degrees, sometimes about 68 if the minimal heat has been make-believe-coming out of the dirty vents of the heater.  But seven-plus hours in 66 degree temps with a slight breeze coming in from the hallway even when the door is closed and a substantial breeze coming in from the outer wall -- It's going to make an old lady like me feel like a perpetual popsicle.

I don't like to be cold because it hurts.  It honestly pains me to be cold, and it takes days (not minutes, not hours, but much longer) to recover.  Sometimes when I have the heat on, especially in the car, it hurts physically while my toes and fingers defrost, or even sometimes it just hurts from memory as my toes and fingers are apparently sympathizing with other cold toes and fingers of the world.

But you know the part about this that totally sucks?  My realization sucks.  I suddenly realize that getting old blows chunks.

Did I have Raynaud's as a kid in the woods of New Hampshire where snow is more than a season, it's a way of life?  That's probably how I got it.  We used to stay outside long after we should because hey, once you can't feel the limbs anymore, it's still going to hurt when they defrost; might as well push it some more.  Am I paying for that now?  Probably.

But here's the important question -- Would I go back and change any of it? 

Would I forget about long days skiing at Twin Tows?  Would I eliminate sledding in the icy woods by the light of the full moon?  Do I regret building snowmen and snow horses and snow sculptures until the ground was bare from us rolling all the wet snow away?  Can I say I've truly lived if I erase performing double-gainers off the Carrs' second story porch into the blizzard of snow below?  Would I give up long hours of skating on Heaton's Pond or on the flooded rink by the post office?  Might I forget about the swamp-rink between my house and my friend Gail's?

Screw Raynaud's.

It may bug the hell out of me now, and it may be completely organic and have nothing to do with how my flesh has faced frostbite hundreds of times before.  It may hurt me, truly and honestly with pain and suffering, to be cold now, but that was one helluva ride getting here.  A little bit of nerve damage isn't going to stop me now.

It snowed on Tuesday.  It was nothing big -- no snow stuck anywhere and it was gone within minutes. 

I got to see the snow before going in to work and disappearing into the bowels on the new high school building project.  I stepped out of my parked car, began strolling across the lot, noticed the morning rain had just changed over to flakes, and stopped to hold my hands up in the air.  This gesture of hands-up can mean a few different things:  1. It's snowing and I'm happy about that;  2. What the f*** is this s**t with the snow?; or, 3. I'm being robbed.

I wish the snow had stayed a little longer than three minutes. 

I want you all to remind me of those words when the first real storm hits the Eastern seaboard and starts making its way north.

Until then, just remember that I saw my first seasonal snowflakes on 11-12-13.  Let's hope that remains a date and not average snowfall per inches (or feet) per storm.

WHY CAMOUFLAGE SHIRTS MAKE ME VIOLENT

My kids are always accusing me of making a scene. 

Hold that thought for a few minutes while we go shopping at the outlets.  Spoiler Alert:  Before either of my sons gets too excited about this, I want to submit this disclaimer that no gift was bought.  I repeat, NO PRESENT MADE IT OUT OF THE STORE.

I head up to Merrimack to visit a childhood friend.  We try to get together a few times a year and do weird stuff like bowling (bumper lanes) or eating exotic Colombian food (yum) or photographing random outdoor art hidden around downtown Nashua (cool) or encountering a soft-shell crab just sitting all alone on a bulky roll (disturbing).  Today's mission is to hit the Merrimack Outlet Stores along with countless throngs of pre--pre-holiday shoppers.

I have one quest and one quest only: Find long sleeve camouflage Under Armour shirts.  And find them, I do, but the store only has hunting camouflage and not military camo, so I debate the purchase.  I need one large and one extra-large, one for each son.  The styles are not that great and the selection is even worse.  No XL, so I grab the one large and head to the register. 

The line is not too long, but there seems to be a problem on register 1 -- the cashier made a mistake, and now the woman who made the purchase must stand in another line at register 3 and await the young manager.  Meanwhile, Dopey (and when I say that, I'm offering this poor chap a helluva lot more IQ points than I truly believe he deserves) is ready to ring me through on register 2. 

After fumbling with the shirt, he decides there's no tag in it.  I explain to him that there is a tag, but it is way down inside near the armpit.  Rather than look inside the shirt, he squishes it over and over again, getting his hand oil and general gross cooties all over the shirt.  Nope, he declares the shirt is tag-less as he has completely felt it up like the uninitiated virgin schoolboy he appears to be. 

He fumbles for the better part of 90 seconds and finally decides to pretend he's entering some kind of number.  The price rings up … at a mark-up of 50%.  He wants me to pay 150% of the store-marked cost of the shirt. 

Now, I'm no rocket scientist, and it has been a while since I was an assistant manager at the fabric store … and the book store … and the donut shop … I'm pretty sure that I have more managerial experience than that kid probably has in his entire gene pool.  I am also reasonably certain that when a store offers a store-wide SALE, the prices shouldn't be ringing in at 50% above the original asking price, so I refuse to hand over an additional $20 for no reason. 

"That's the wrong price," I say calmly (for at this point, I really am still calm … yes, my children, I tell the truth).

Dopey just stands there, dumbfounded, pupils devoid of reaction, while he kneads my purchase like a drugged cat.  I am actually a little concerned about how close he and the spandex are planning on becoming before I bring that shirt home.  His lips part, his mouth falls open, and he drools out the words, "Did you get this from clearance or from the rack in the back?"

Well, then.  If I say clearance, I may get an extra discount.   If Dopey moved his skinny ass, he could go look up the price himself.  I answer, "Rack in the back."

He doesn't move.  He stares at the balled up shirt and continues to maul the fabric between his palms.  In turn I stare at him staring at the shirt.  After about thirty seconds, it becomes obvious that we are in a silent pissing match.  "They're on the RACK.  In the BACK." 

Hint, hint.  Wink, wink.  Nudge, nudge.  Ya know what I mean, ya know what I mean?

Nothing.  Just keeps touching the spandex.

"That's okay.  I'LL go get another one for you," I interject.  Now, surprisingly enough, I have not lost my patience nor my temper yet.  There is a long line forming behind me, and I want to be quick.  I run to the rack, grab a tagged shirt just exactly like the large one I am trying to buy, but I grab a small because that's all they have left in that style.  I am there and back in about twenty seconds.  I'm not kidding.  As a matter of honesty in reporting, it might have been closer to twelve seconds.

When I come back, Dopey is still touching the shirt, but he is standing back a bit with a blank expression on his face while Dumb-Ass-ia, the young chickie manager in a suit jacket who was just at register 3, is now ringing on his register.  I hand Dopey the shirt, and he stammers something about having to wait.

Wait?  Really? Didn't I, the customer, just have a transaction in progress? Didn't I, the customer, just wait in line?  Didn't I, the customer, just ask Dopey to make a price correction?  Didn't I, the customer, just go do Dopey's job for him? And you want me to … say what?  You want ME to wait?  Again?  Still?

Dumb-Ass-ia has decided to fix on register 2 the mistake the cashier made on register 1 for a customer who is in line for register 3.  Now, normally I have no problem with managers handling returns or mistakes, but not in the middle of my paying transaction.

"Here's the money," I say, holding out the crisp, green bills, knowing exactly where this is going.

"I … uh … I mean … uh … you'll have to …. um…. wait…" 

I look at Dopey, then I look at Dumb-Ass-ia, then I look back at Dopey.  I shove the cash back into my wallet, zip my purse shut, and say calmly, for still I am not yet pissed off, "Never mind."  With those two words, I turn away from the counter and head out of the store.

When I reach the door, though, that's when my blood boils.  I meet my friend outside and we start to walk away.  Suddenly I stop.  "No," I say to my very patient pal, "I have something to say."

Back into the Under Armour outlet store I go and make a beeline for the registers in the middle of the store.  Dumb-Ass-ia is still blocking my transaction-in-progress on register 2 while trying to figure out the mistake that some other dolt working there on register 1 managed to screw up that she promised the customer she would correct on register 3. 

I take my glasses off the top of my head and point them right into Dumb-Ass-ia's face.

"You," I say evenly but firmly, "are incredibly RUDE.  I am in the middle of a purchase.  I waited in line, then waited again for a price check, then had to go get the tag myself, and you interrupt my transaction.  That's unacceptable.  That's rude."  She babbles something in my general direction, but I have already shown her my back.  The glasses remain in my hand, and I walk out of the store for good this time.

I don't scream, I don't yell, and, best of all, I don't even swear at her and tell her what a stupid douch-bag c**t asshole bitch skank she must be.  But I could not and cannot let it ride.  It's inherently wrong.

And there is no way on Earth I am buying that very last size large long-sleeve camouflage Under Armour shirt no matter what price they ticket it after watching Dopey all but lose his nuts over the thing.  At this point I am more than pissed off; I am skeeved out.

So, son, I'm sorry.  I don't buy you the damn shirt.  And kids, I'll openly admit right here that you really cannot take me anywhere because I will make a scene if someone is molesting the clothing I'm trying to buy and then someone completely different makes me wait and look like the total jerk while the line compounds behind me through no fault of my own.

Besides, a little drama goes a long way to whet the appetite.  My friend and I decide to eat Italian food then hit the free brewery tour afterward, so we end up winning in the long run.  The money I don't spend on the shirt goes toward a cheesy picture of us together in front of a giant plastic replica Clydesdale at the brewery, a memento that we simply must have for nostalgia. 

The photograph is of two of us, smiling away after one small Stella Artois and before a few more full-sized brewski samplers.  I'm pleased to admit that's the only scene I want to make today.