STINKY ROOM

All this time … I spent all this time thinking I was right.  How could I be so wrong?

If you read this blog with any regularity (as in your reading habits and not your colon), then you know I’ve spent the last few months of work without windows.  Until three weeks ago.

I am so damn excited to have windows again that I open them every day, regardless of the temperature.  Part of this is because it’s so great to have fresh air at work again, and part of this is menopausal hot flashes that could take down a despot government.  I am so freaking happy to have windows that I go out and buy expandable screens to keep the bees and flies and errant geese and rabid squirrels out of my classroom.

But today … well, after today, my habits will change.

For the last few days I have been coming into my room after lunch and noticing a terrible stench.  This morning I complain to my colleagues that I wish someone would tell these twelve-year-olds that it’s time to start showering and using deodorant, daily, if necessary.  Yes, tell them daily and have them use deodorant daily.  I think, “They must talk a lot because their breath stinks!  This room reeks!”

Today, though, I got my foot planted squarely into my mouth.  Today I realized that the horrible stench is not coming from my students.  It is coming from the leach field outside, and the aroma is wafting in through my wide-open windows.

Windows.  The same windows I have been waiting months and months to open.  Well, not exactly the same because I’m in a different room, but windows, nonetheless.

(Not the one ... but close)

This isn’t karma.  This isn’t the universe pissing on me.  This, folks, this is the irony that is my life.  I finally get windows and now I can’t open them because it smells like a sewer outside of my room.

Not only am I completely and utterly disappointed with my new-found dilemma, I am horribly disappointed in myself for blaming the smelly atmosphere on a bunch of innocent, if slightly ripe by their own means, children.

Well, at least when I start putting air fresheners all over the room, the kiddos won’t be too offended. 

Here’s the truly and deeply horrifying part, though.  If I can smell the stink when I walk into my room from the hallway --- What exactly are they thinking about ME when THEY come in and get a whiff?

Oh, shit.  I’ll bet they’re wondering when I’m going to shower and use deodorant.

Now THAT’S the real bitch of karma, ironic or not.

DON'T YOU FORGET ABOUT ME

(High tide/high ground)

Sunday my friend and I plan a trip to the beach.  Yes, this is New England, and yes, it is autumn, but today the temperature soars into the 80’s with full sunshine.  Did I mention that this is New England?  Did I mention that it’s fall?

Both of us wake up feeling crappy.  She has a bad headache and I have a pain that feels like my left kidney is about to jump out of my back.  I am also struck with vertigo.  I’ve had this before, and it freaks me out every time it returns – I walk sideways and totter into things.  At 6:15 Sunday morning, I almost catapult through a glass window in my den, all the while hopping mostly on one foot and yelling, “Oh … OH … OOOOOOOOOOHHHHH NOOOOOOOOOOOOO” as my hand gets caught up in the slats of the blinds when I lose my balance yet again. 

My friend and I rally, though; she and Tylenol meet up with each other around 4:00 a.m., and I pop naproxen shortly before 6:30 a.m.  By 9:30, we’re good to go.  This is the latest we’ve ever left for the beach on a hot day, plus it’s a weekend.  We have no idea what we’ll find when we get there. 

Unfortunately, our favorite parking space, #1913, has been swallowed into the construction zone.  We are stuck with a space that is between two access staircases to the sand.  Instead of walking 45 seconds to the beach, we have to walk a whole 120 seconds.  It’s almost too much, but, again, we rally and make the two-minute trek to the water’s edge.

Despite the recent chilly nights, the water is still amazingly comfortable.  Sure, the website claims the temperature in the ocean is about 61 degrees, but we go swimming anyway.  Okay, we take short dips because it’s too darn hot to just sit in the sun baking.  Lots of people are in the water: surfers, swimmers, casual waders.  It’s a perfectly wonderful summery beach day.

Except, of course, for the fact that it’s autumn in New England. 

Driving to the beach we notice how many leaves are changing already, how some trees are already losing their battle with keeping covered, and how some harvest-themed decorations are already out.  Yet for the four hours that we are at the beach, there are a couple of times that I forget, completely and totally fail to remember that I have been teaching for three weeks, and that I’ve already broken out the leather driving gloves multiple times on chilly mornings.

We collect about 100 pounds of rocks (this is not an exaggeration – five bags full and two trips to the car later) for my friend’s home garden, then head down the road to our other friends’ condo.  They host us for a short visit then encourage us to walk to another nearby beach, but we’re beached out for the day.  I can’t even believe that’s possible, but it has been such a perfect day, such a hot and wonderful and salty and sandy day, that we decline and start heading home.

We are shocked to find ourselves locked in a highway traffic jam.  We never leave the beach this late – after 4:00 on a Sunday afternoon.  We learn from the radio that the traffic is backed up even further behind us, past the tolls, past Portsmouth, into Kittery and beyond.  We bounce on to a shorter highway and we sail smoothly back to town, miles away from the sound of the surf hitting the rocks, miles away from the smell of the salt in the air, miles away from the warm sand under our toes.

By the time I post this, I’ll be just getting up to start another school day, but I did grab a few rocks of my own.  I’ll bring at least one to add to the collection on my desk.  When a student notices that I have a new “paperweight,” I’ll maybe tell the beach story from Sunday about how we kept having to move back until we were off the sand and trapped on the higher ground of rocks when high tide rolled in, or how some kid tried to jump off the ten-foot wall into the rocks below (like this might be a good idea), or how the mom and her son both got wiped out by the same wave and her paddleboard and his surf board both flew over the surf and whacked the same random guy almost simultaneously, or how upset we were about the Italian greyhound whose owners thought it was a good idea to make it sit in the sun for hours with no water and no shade, or how we damn-near strangled three girls who played on the nearby jetty and screamed like cats in heat every time a wave came within five feet of where they were sitting (then they left their trash behind and we really did want to strangle them).

Bye, bye, beach.  Bye, bye, summer.  Bye, bye, salty hair and clothes and skin.

Don’t forget about us; we certainly won’t forget about you.

HOT SUNDAY (WITHOUT THE FUDGE SAUCE)

I spent all day out in the sun Saturday.  The temperature soared into the 80’s, and there were times when the air felt brutally hot.  It’s supposed to be even hotter Sunday.

I’m not complaining.  No, sir!  As a matter of fact, for Sunday’s encore, I want to get to the beach one last time before fall sets in.  Well, before fall sets in and all the leaves float off the trees.  Fall is here officially already.

If the weather holds out, I might get a beach-walk in, and maybe I’ll even have time to collect rocks for my friend’s garden. 

Maybe I should write a limerick for Sunday, just in case:

Oh, how I wish for hot Sunday

(Without fudge) that day before Monday

Although I’ve been told

That the ocean is cold

The sand and the sea equal fun day

That’s my “Let’s get to the beach” rally poem.  I’ll be thinking about you all while I’m digging my toes into the sand.

Hahahahahaha  I cannot even believe I just typed that with a straight face.  I won’t be thinking about you.  It’s a beach day.  There’s no thinking allowed at the beach. 

Turn up the heat.  I’m ready.

P.S.  My air conditioners are still in.  So there.

EARWORMS AND OTHER MUSICAL MALADIES

I hate when I get earworms.  Not the gross kind that squirm around inside your body like some kind of backwater infection, but the musical kind.

I think I must dream in music or something because I often wake up with songs stuck in my head.  In the last three days, it has happened to me twice, and I can’t shake the tunes.  Hence the term “earworms.”

These songs aren’t your run-of-the-mill, newly-released, top 40 songs, at least not anymore.  Okay, maybe never.  Today’s earworm is Paul Simon’s “Still Crazy After All These Years.”

Yup. 

And we talked about some old times, and we drank ourselves some beers.  Still crazy after all these years … I fear I'll do some damage one fine day.  But I would not be convicted by a jury of my peers - Still crazy after all these years. 

I wake up with it running in my brain over and over and over, sing it on the way to work several times, and then, like magic, it usually disappears when I leave my car in the parking lot for the day.

Two days ago it was a different tune.

Champagne don't drive me crazy; cocaine don't make me lazy.  Ain't nobody's business but my own.  Candy is dandy and liquor is quicker; you can drink all the liquor down at Costa Rica.  Ain't nobody's business but my own …

Taj Mahal.  Over and over and over and over.  I sang it pretty well, too. 

I’ve heard this malady referred to as “earworms” because the tune bores into your skull then worms its way into your brain.  I don’t get it.  I don’t sleep with the radio on at night.  As a matter of fact, any noise other than the fan drives me bonkers.  I can’t stand the muffled sound of voices in another apartment, music, people next door having an all-night outdoor party; even the sound of the rain (which used to be so soothing) aggravates me now.  I can’t get into a deep and restive sleep if there’s noise.

And yet, I can fall asleep accidentally all the time when I’m immersed in noise.  What the hell.

I could blame menopause, stress, anxiety, and mental illness.  Truth is I cannot shut my brain off.  I suppose it could be worse.  At least if I lose sleep to an earworm, I get some enjoyment out of the tune (for the most part).  Earworms are far, far more manageable than night sweats from worry, or nightmares about work, or the true kicker – Dreaming that you’re awake all night and feeling like you’re awake all night, only to wake up from a fitful sleep and be unable to recall any sensation whatsoever of actually being asleep.

Last week I had a Carole King earworm.  Today I heard the song while driving home from work.  Earworm solved.

It wasn’t so easy for Spongebob, though.  Anyone remember Spongebob from the raising-kiddos days?  His earworm had to be eradicated from his brain, and it followed him everywhere.  Maybe I’ll invite Squidward over to help me out, just like he helped out his burger-flipping buddy.  You know, that guy who works with Spongebob at the Krusty Krab.  You know Spongebob -- He’s the one who lives in a pineapple under the sea … Absorbent and porous and yellow is he …

Oh. Shit.

Here I go again.

WEEKEND WISHES

I don’t know if the weekend will turn out this way, but this is what I have planned.  If Mother Nature cooperates, it might be a decent weekend after all.

Friday afternoon is “stop for a quick drink” after work.  This week, though, I have to stick to my schedule and get home early (and sober) enough to cook.  This is opening weekend of fall lacrosse (my last official parent year), so I’ll make either pasta salad or cookies to bring.  Everybody seems to like the cookies, but they might melt if it gets as warm as has been predicted.  I bought ingredients for both, so I can go either way on this one as I wait for the most up-to-date weather report.

Saturday is the inter-squad lacrosse game, complete with refs and all.  I have to remember to get the camera fired up.  Oh, and sunscreen.  Must have sunscreen.   Then a barbecue.  These are the days I live for – good weather, a fun game, and food, food, food.

Sunday I’m planning a beach day.  I don’t care how cold the ocean is.  I tried to get in it a couple of years ago when it was 90 degrees in mid-April.  (No wonder those people from the Titanic froze instantly – it was damn frigid that day.)  If Mother Nature pisses on my plans, I’ll go to the beach, anyway, then head out somewhere along the coast for lunch.

In between all of this, I have some ridiculously important paperwork to finish for school that has to be officially filed by October 1^st.  Have I started it?  Of course.  Is it remotely organized?  Um… no.  Will I make the deadline?  Bets are being taken on that one.

Who knows?  Maybe I’ll get everything done, including the paperwork, and maybe I’ll even return to work on Monday with a file folder ready to hand in and a beautiful new glow on my rapidly fading tan.

A girl can dream, right?  Now, cooperate, Mother Nature.  The next few days are in your hands.