TGIF

I know I’m having one of “those weeks” when I’m driving to work wearing my Friday casual jeans and suddenly I panic:  It is Friday … right?!

My work-week ends with my cell phone waking me up in the morning.  Good thing I set it as a back-up alarm because I totally space out and forget to set my regular alarm.  I claw my way through a slumberous fog to the sound of Calypso-like music, techno-steel drums and marimbas, clanging me into consciousness.

Thank goodness I showered last night before going to bed.  This morning all I have to do is wash my hair, slop on some make-up, and find clean casual-Friday clothes.  Since I wake up a little later than usual, and since I am tired of my static-filled hair contributing to the multi-shock conditions in my classroom, (okay, and since I’m frigging lazy as all shit this morning,) I pull my hair back into a ponytail rather than attempt to wash and style it.

Hair looks decent, I am wearing a newer pair of stylish hiking boots (“stylish” meaning “not suitable for hiking outside ever”), and I’m in my recently-laundered jeans.  I leave a few minutes early, and I actually have time to spare.

Good thing because everyone decides that today is the day to drive like a decrepit jerk.  Jackass rushes out in front of me near my house and almost kills me with his sedan, Smartass rolls through the stop sign and pulls her slow piece of shit SUV right in front of me while never once getting off her cell phone for safety’s sake, and Dumbass tools along down main street ahead of my car and decides that today is the day to drive 28 mph in a 45 mph zone.

I finally break free about two miles from work, and this is when the panic attack hits me.  It is Friday … right?!

Red Rider’s only hit song Lunatic Fringe, which I have been blasting at outrageous decibels, ends, so I turn the volume down to a tolerable level and start to wonder if maybe I should turn around and get into regular work clothes.  I mean, the week started with the Beanpot hockey tournament in Boston, involved a college lacrosse game two hours west of where I live, and I am fresh back from a week-long work break after so many snow days that I don’t even know what month it is anymore, let alone the day of the week.

Is it Friday?  Shit, what the hell day is it, anyway?  Oh, crap.

Just when I suspect that I have fallen into my own lunatic fringe, the announcer’s voice excitedly proclaims, “Thank god it’s FRIDAAAAAAY!”

Thank god, indeed, because I’m wearing my damn jeans today, and I am more than ready for this week to be over.  If I can just make it through a few more hours of lunacy, the weekend can begin … finally.

RIPPED OFF, RECYCLE BINS, AND A FOUL-MOUTHED RANT

Just another update on the impending arrival of spring here in New England.

First of all, I ordered a set of 25" women's snowshoes with poles and gaiters.  Box arrived today.  Opened it -- 36" men's snowshoes, no poles, no gaiters, totally ripped off by skis.com.  Flipped out, left a nasty, swear-laden phone message, wrote nasty "You ripped me off" messages all over return paperwork, wrote nasty comments in the amazon.com return section online, repackaged the damn shit, and will drop it at UPS store tomorrow -- more postage and handling charges for me.  To say I am fucking livid would be an understatement.

Secondly, the snowbank has melted back enough that my recycle bin is slightly visible.  This makes me happy and I don't have to swear about that at all, and I don't feel ripped off about this.  To say I am excited about the snow disappearing would also be an understatement.

Third, my trash cans remain lost under a thick blanket of snow and ice.  I don't care, and to imply that I remotely care about my trash cans at this point would be an overstatement.

That's all the spring news that's fit to print at this point.  Stay tuned for more snowshoe-return saga and the unearthing of the recycle bins and trash cans as these events happen.  I fully expect my swear-filled rant will get me the worst possible customer service ever.  Probably never see my $180 again, snow or no snow, melting or no melting. I'll let you know if anyone dares to call me back with an explanation.

ARRIVING FOR REAL

Spring made another pass at us.
Oh, sure.
The morning started with snow,
But by noon the sun was shining.
It was a balmy 24 degrees at the lacrosse game
Until dusk settled in and the wind kicked over.
(How sad when I look at the
Morning temperature and say,
"Oh, look!  It's 11 degrees!  It's 15 degrees warmer
Than it was yesterday at this hour.")
It may have reached 32 degrees today
Somewhere,
Maybe even where I was in
the western part of the state,
Because the snowbanks started to
Melt.
Shocking, I know.
Maybe soon spring will arrive for real.
Hahahahahahahahahahahahaha.
 I almost typed that with a
Straight face.

SPRING LACROSSE IS HERE

Despite the snowy weather and the ridiculously low, raw temperatures, spring is here. No, not spring by Mother Nature's standards; spring by the college sports season standards.

Lacrosse season officially starts today.  Okay, it has officially started across the board already, but for my son's team, today is The Day.

I have a long list of things I need to pack for the trip across the state, out to where supposedly it is not snowing.  That would be super, almost like going to Florida except about 70 degrees colder.  In addition to packing up my stuff (camera, extra socks, heat packets for my hands and feet...), there's baking to be done.

Since we will not be on our home turf, I don't need to make stew or salad or entree.  This is a dessert only event, so I bake a bunch of chocolate chip cookies -- about five and a half dozen cookies.  I pack them in small snack-sized baggies, three cookies per bag, so the players can huck the bags around the bus and not make a mess everywhere (or at least that is my intent).

The cookies and I will be on the road this afternoon, fighting traffic and toll booths to get where we need to be and to get there on time.  The last thing I need is to be stuck in my car in the middle of nowhere with five and a half dozen freshly-baked chocolate chip cookies, in which case I will really BE "stuck" in my car.

Good luck, boys.  Spring is here.

MTA CHARLIE AND THE BEANPOT

I am planning on going to Boston immediately after work on Monday.  I have tickets to the Beanpot, and I intend to make it there for the entire thing.

For those unfamiliar, the Beanpot is a yearly hockey tournament between Boston College, Boston University, Northeastern University, and Harvard.  The originally scheduled date for the finals was two weeks ago, but the snow and other disasters prevented this from taking place.

Getting into Boston shouldn't be such an adventure, but I have an after-school meeting, and the T (MBTA, which is out transit system) has been a total and complete clusterfuck for three weeks now.

I'll let you all know how it turns out.  If I don't post a blog on Wednesday, you can be assured that I have been abandoned at a T station, unable to get back to my car, or that I am being held hostage on a train to nowhere ala Charlie on the MTA of song.

Either way, I intend to see some great hockey.  Consolation game starts at 4:30, and the finals start at 7:30.  With any luck, the T will get me there before the first game starts and home after the last game ends.  If not, I'll be hiking it back to whatever orange line station is holding my car hostage.

Wish me luck -- If I never return, please have a sandwich waiting for me in a bag at the Wellington station for when I fly by on the subway, just in case. 

BREAK'S OVER

Well, school break is over, and it wasn’t much different than the days we had cancelled due to snow.  The week started with snow, had some snow in the middle, and ended with snow. Also, I got very little accomplished, and I’m blaming it on the weather.

Sunday (yesterday) I am out doing something familiar – shoveling snow.  I say to my neighbor (who shares my double-wide brick driveway), “Hey, isn’t this a novelty!”  She has been chipping away at the massive pile of snow on her side of the driveway, which she and the landlord allowed to get to heights nearing five feet.  (Okay, I admit that I added to the pile when I realized no one would care.)  Today is a bad day to be shoveling because today it is warm and sunny and beautiful, which means the snow is wet and sticky and heavy.

I am chipping away at the massive amount of ice that has encrusted my driveway and walkway.  The walkway is a lost cause; it is the run-off area for the roof, so it will be frozen solid until late spring.  The driveway, though, is a different story.  In some places the ice is several inches thick, but I am determined.  Unfortunately I busted my ice chopper years ago.  No matter – with the brickwork, my landlord would probably shit a porpoise if he caught me using a blade.  Armed with a beat-up old plastic shovel, I start scraping and whacking at the giant ice clusters all over my side of the driveway.

I quickly realize that I am overdressed.  I am used to temperatures topping out at about 14 degrees Fahrenheit with wind chills severe enough to freeze off limbs in a matter of minutes.  I lose the coat, then the hat, then the gloves, then I run into the house to change into near-summer clothing: short-sleeved t-shirt, light sweatshirt, and jeans.  Even in these, sweat pours off of me and makes my clothes clammy. 

After an hour of arduous physical labor, I run into the house and grab a beer.  I chug some of it, slam the bottle into a snowbank, and keep working.  I need a break from the ice work because it is killing my shoulders, so I head back to the walkway, chug more beer, replace the bottle into a closer snowbank, and I get to work widening the path.  I finally see two stone walls, one of each side.  I haven’t seen any stonework since January 26^th, which, coincidentally, is also the last time I saw my trash cans. 

I shuttle back and forth for another hour between the icy driveway and widening the walkway.  The bottle of beer, long emptied, remains in the snowbank, and I head to the end of the driveway to work more on the ice.  My neighbor continues her task of taking shovelfuls of snow from her side of the driveway and across the street.  This is her first New England winter as a transplant from Virginia.  I assure her this is an unusual stretch of weather as I chopchopchop at a huge, thick chunk of ice near the road.

My neighbor drops her load of snow and sighs as she passes me.  I glance over and apologize.  “I’d pick it up for you if I had the strength, but I don’t think I can lift another thing today.”  She understands, god bless her.

I grab my empty bottle and head back toward my house, the walkway still ice-coated but now wide enough for me and a bag of groceries to go through.  I have been at this snow shit for over two hours now.  I would love to stay outside because it’s beautiful, gorgeous, warm, spring-like; who the hell knows when we will see this weather again?  But, I am exhausted and my lower back, my shoulders, my knees, and my elbows are screaming at me for mercy.  Besides, I probably have a sunburn being out so long.  (No, this is not being facetious.)

I take a shower and start laundry, my winter break nearing its end.  What have I accomplished?  My list of things to do was mentally scratched out so long ago: Work on school stuff (nope), clean the basement (nope), ice skate (rink was plowed over), read a book or two (read five), get some writing done (“some” being the operative word), go to two lacrosse scrimmages (both cancelled due to icy conditions), go out to eat (several times), get my hair cut (and foiled), organize my den (books are organized, but not much else).  I have done other things that weren’t on my list, like snowshoeing and drinking coffee (I’m a tea person) and making guacamole and knocking icicles off the edge of the roof (every single day).  But, no, the computer files aren’t any better off than they were a week ago, and my school bag remains untouched.

I do have biceps of steel from shoveling snow, though, because my entire February has been shoveling.  I have been moving this white shit around since January 27^th when we got dumped on the first time.  The forecast looks good for a few days, maybe some flurries on Wednesday (which is the official opening to the college lacrosse season up here in the Northeast).  I’m ready – One thing I did do over break is load the car up with a shovel, some kitty litter, and a container of ice melt.  This is a sure bet that the snow is over because I am prepared.  My biggest accomplishment this week has been to stop Old Man Winter through the old bait and switch irony.

You’re welcome – no extra charge.

IT'S NATIONAL MARGARITA DAY

Hola, mis amigos. Today is a very important holiday here in the United States.  Today is the day we thank Mexico for one of its finest exports: Tequila.  You see, today is National Margarita Day.

I'm not kidding.  Seriously, you can look it up. 

There's some bone of contention as to where tequila originated, but it is most widely considered a Mexican staple from the early days of the Aztec civilization.  Some, though, claim it was a Native American staple from around 200 A.D.

No matter. 

The legends surrounding its origin are as colorful as the tales told by those of us who survive our tequila encounters, and we all have at least one tale to tell.  The tales are even better when we start adding in the mixer that makes today such a wonderful holiday. 

I decide to research this wonderful holiday and discover some interesting things.  First of all, there's a website dedicated to National Margarita Day (http://nationalmargaritaday.com/).  The site doesn't have a lot of historical information, but it does offer a whole selection of different Margarita options.  I'm a bit of a purist -- I prefer the plain old lime-based Margarita, but I don't give one rat's patootie if it's rimmed with sugar or salt.

The Margarita's invention is, like tequila's origins, marked by shady controversy.  Most historians agree that the drink was concocted either in 1945 or 1948.  Historians do agree that the first frozen Margarita machine was invented in 1971, and that should be the true cause to celebrate, and by "historians" I mean hardcore smart people:  An article was published on the Smithsonian's website about the Margarita, and in 2005 the Smithsonian's Museum of American History acquired the original frozen Margarita maker for its display  (http://www.smithsonianmag.com/arts-culture/the-history-of-the-margarita-57990212/?no-ist).

 So, everybody pretend it's summer today.  Mix up the Margarita of your choice, make it frozen or on the rocks, rim it with salt or sugar, add the tequila of your choice (I've discovered that I'm a Milagro girl), and join the whole nation in celebrating another American tradition of having more fun with semi-Mexican holidays than people in Mexico do.

HAPPY NATIONAL MARGARITA DAY, EVERYBODY!

SNOWSHOEING AND OTHER TALES OF GLORY

My phone makes that weird noise that indicates I have a new text.  I sigh audibly because sometimes my text messages are annoying.  Sometimes they’re from my phone provider reminding me that they’ll be taking out my monthly payment via auto-debit, as if after years and years of having the same provider, I don’t already know this information.  Sometimes it’s a text warning me of something important – Amber alert, a roadblock or an accident fifty miles south of here, weather notices of impending doom and gloom.

This new text is a doozie:  Do you want to go snowshoeing?

With three feet of snow already on the ground and flurries due over the next few days (not to mention another storm for the weekend), snowshoeing sounds like fun, but I don’t know for sure.  You see, I’ve never tried snowshoeing before.

I figure snowshoeing probably requires the same outfit shoveling in three feet of snow does: boots, heavy socks, snow pants, jacket, fleece, scarf, hat, and gloves.  When I arrive at my friend’s house, we decide to run a couple of errands and stop for lunch before going out in the snow.  This way we can drag our other friend (her next door neighbor) out with us.  My friends both live on the west side of town, and their property abuts some public-owned walking trails.  If we cut through the woods, there’s a big field we can snowshoe around. 

I am no stranger to bombing through the woods in too-deep snow.  I grew up pulling stunts like this with my sister and pals through the acres of woods surrounding our house in New Hampshire.  We’d never heard of cross country skis or recreational snowshoes, so we would strap on our downhill skis and cut our own paths through trees, boulders, and over wood piles.  Our favorite path was straight down the front walk, across the part of the driveway we never shoveled in winter, and right into the low branches of the summer bike trails we cut through the woods.  I didn’t hit a real ski hill (with groomed trails and mechanical tows) until I had well-mastered the art of kamikaze downhill forest skiing.  How we managed to get through our formative years without ever breaking bones is still an unsolved mystery of epic proportions.

Friend #1 and I strap on our snowshoes (I am borrowing an old pair of her son’s) and examine the mounds of snow we need to scale just to get to the yard to head to the trails.  There is a skinny cut-through about one leg-width wide, so we try that.  My friend plants one snowshoe and her two poles, expertly rolls against the snowbank, hauls her other foot up and over, and makes it to the other side.  I, the novice, take two steps on the snowshoes, get myself into the small path, and somehow manage to wedge my fat ass into the crevice we are using to start our journey.

After laughing way too hard, I finally manage to unwedge my fat ass and we trudge through the thick powder to Friend #2’s yard next door.  The snow is so deep that we barely notice when we cross the stone wall except that our ski poles sink in about four feet, disappearing into the snow up to our wrists.  After gathering up our pal, the three of us head to the tree line.  We can see the snowy field a few hundred yards away.  We have to cross another stone wall, a stream bed, and get through the pricker bushes first, though.

This is where all the years disappear, and I’m like a kid again.  I know how to get through the overgrowth and the sharp dangers of the woods in the snowy winter.  I’ve done this before.  I was an expert backwoods downhill skier through conditions just like this.  My friends check on me to make sure I’m okay and keeping up.  No problems, I assure them.  To me, this is like reliving my childhood except that I’m not trying to whack my sister in the face with errant branches as we bomb through.

When we get out to the field, someone, probably a cross-country skier, has beaten down a decent path for us to follow.  We make a couple of circuits, stop for pictures, laugh way too hard, and drag our spent butts back through the woods and back to the pristine, untrodden deep snow of my two friends’ yards.  Friend #1 and I see Friend #2 safely to her back door, re-cross the stone wall separating the properties, then we spend some time tamping down a snow trail for the oil delivery company.  This is not without its comedy as my friend somehow barrelrolls over a snowbank near her walkway, and I again get myself wedged into a sitting position trying to get down from the oil-man path.  I stupidly have my coat unzipped at this point, and I now have snow up my back and down my snow pants.

Ninety minutes after I strap the snowshoes on, I sit on the front step and disengage the mechanisms that hold the boots in place.  I am snowy, sweaty, spent, and my stomach aches from laughing.  My phone makes that noise again, indicating that I have a text message.  It is another friend asking me if I’m doing anything fun.  If only my fingers weren’t starting to get chilly and I could type faster, I could text the entire tale.  Just like the original text invitation, the end result is similar: It’s a doozie … and I can’t wait to do it again.  Hmmmm…. I wonder if my sister wants to go bombing through the woods at her house in Maine?  I’m pretty sure she has snowshoes, too, and I promise that this time I really will hold the branches back for her.

ADVENTURES IN WRITING

Well, well, well.  Another day; another snow squall or five.

I have a hair appointment in Salem, New Hampshire this afternoon, so I run up there early to avoid the highway shit-show that is sweetly referred to as “commuter traffic.”  As soon as I get on the highway for this short ride, it starts to snow, and by snow I mean nearly white-out conditions as I cross the river overpass.  Every driver appears to be ignoring the conditions, or perhaps we have gotten so used to this weather pattern that not a single one of us slows down.  As a matter of fact, we are all doing upwards of 75 mph as if this were just another day because the snow storms are no longer novelty to any of us.

I pull into the parking lot at Barnes and Noble bookstore. I go inside with the intent of working on a writing project and buying a book.  The book isn’t anywhere in the store, but I’m reasonably certain they have it.  After tracking down some help, the one copy of the book in stock needs to be pulled from the back room.  I suspect it is about to go on remainders and that the paperback version will be out any second, thus saving me valuable money.  The thing is I don’t want to wait.  I want to read the book before I go back from February break.  I want to read the book now.

I cough up the cash.

I intend to settle in at the Starbucks tucked inside the store, my notebook in hand, making notes about some changes to a manuscript that need to happen but I’ve no idea what those changes need to be.  Yes, this is my intention until I hear the muzak the store is playing.  I’m driven to near-insanity just waiting in line to buy the book when one terrible 1970’s love song after another blares through the store speakers.  Tempted to drop the book and run during Barbra Streisand’s “Evergreen,” I finally get through the line, paying cash to get out quickly.  I half-cover my ears as I bolt outside, terrified that Minnie Ripperton’s voice will start squealing “Loving you is easy cuz you’re beautiful … lalalalala… ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!”

I hightail it up the street to a nearby Dunkin Donuts where I intend to waste an hour reading and writing before I need to meet my daughter so we can get foiled and cut at the salon.  The line has one man waiting, but he is ordering several coffees and buying $60 worth of $5 Dunkin gift cards.  I’m starting to wonder if I will be able to order a cup of tea in the foreseeable future.  Eventually another worker comes over, takes my order, and I head to find a seat.  Unfortunately most of the tables in the small shop are taken up by older gentlemen.  I may have walked in on the Thursday Roundtable for the Semi-Retired.  I spot a table away from the commotion and stop to get a sugar packet. 

No sugar packets.

I go back to the counter, wait for a second time, get a sugar packet, and head for the stack of straws, stirrers, and napkins, where they used to also keep sugar packets.  I need a stirrer for the sugar, so I check out the display, and recheck, and check again. 

No stirrers.

Back to the counter I go, and I wait … wait … wait again.  Finally, I server tells me the stirrers are “over with the straws.”  Well, I must be blind, I tell her, or else I need to put on my glasses because I just don’t see them.  She leans down and grabs me a stirrer with the same hand she used to take money from the lady next to me.  Gross, but at least the tea is so hot that any germs will be instantly burned away.

By this time, my perfect table by the window has been stolen by three more men, a little younger than the gray-haired dudes on the other side.  I am left with the tall table near the door or stools at the window where there is a counter too high for me to sit at comfortably and write. 

I opt for the tall table.

I decide not to read my new book because I really need to figure out a different direction for the manuscript that I have allowed to collect dust while I did other things, like get my degree, get a job, get kids through school, get another degree, and write an entire thesis on completely different topics than any of the manuscripts I have in process.  I sit in my big-girl high-chair (yes, I am short enough that the chair is a bit of a climb for me), take out a purple pen that I grabbed as an extra on the way out the door earlier, and start making some notes.

I don’t think I’m getting anywhere and debate stopping this futility when I look down and realize that I may have solved my problem.  I have inadvertently killed off a character who wasn’t working (okay, I removed her existence – she’s still alive in Fiction Land) and added another character, and I’ll see how that goes during a rewrite.  I don’t know if this idle manuscript will ever be worthy of anything other than drafts, but at least the key elements it lacked have some kind of structured focus now.  It probably still sucks, but it doesn’t suck as badly as it did when I first walked through the door.

My Dunks tea is still semi-warm when the alarm sounds on my phone.  Time to pack it in and meet my daughter down the street so we can get foiled and chopped at the salon.  I’ll read my book while she’s in the chair and contemplate those possible edits while I’m in the chair.  Unfortunately, I still have the awful remnants of “Evergreen” stuck in my brain (the song sucks – I mean, it really and truly sucks worse than “Song That Gets On Everybody’s Nerves”), but, with the same luck that helped me produce several pages of literary possibilities, perhaps I will be lucky enough to have the chemicals in my hair seep through my skin and scalp to clear my brain of Streisand and company before the evening is out.

Besides, with all the damn snow on the ground and the squalls we have all afternoon, “Evergreen” is cruel and unusual punishment just via the title.  It should be outlawed for that reason alone.