BREAK A LEG

(Almost done packing)

Moving Day, Part II --  Well, today is the day.  Everything must be packed and ready to go lest it goes down with the razing of the building.  The district refuses to move five of my book shelves, shelves that I sincerely need to run my classroom, so I don’t have much of a backlog of stuff. 

I do, however, have an old vinyl and metal chair that has been with me forever.  I want this chair to move along with me for several reasons.  The top two reasons are:  1. Sentimentality; 2. It’s the only thing sturdy enough to hold my weight.

I begin dragging the old chair down the bumpy ramp.  That isn’t efficient, so I push it, instead. 

Wow, this is great!  The chair is just sailing along with me behind it.  This is going to work out –

THHHHWWWAAAAAAAAACK!

All of a sudden, the chair hits a crease in the floor and stops dead.  I, however, do not, and I flip right over the chair, jamming my right knee hard into the metal leg of the furniture I am trying to rescue.

I recover from the fall and look up to see one of my teammates staring at me in the hallway.  “It’s all good,” I assure her when she offers to help me.  I dust myself off, clench my teeth against the roaring pain in my kneecap, and look around to see if anyone else caught my pratfall.

Shit.  The security camera is right there, directly above me.  Somewhere in the archives of digital memory, my amazing chair roll has been caught on video for all of eternity (or until the evidence is erased from the hard drive).

I continue down the ramp, a little more cautiously this time.  I seem to have it all under control –

THHHWWWWAAAAAAACK!

I hit another divot in the flooring.  I am semi-prepared this time, and the chair’s front legs remain stuck to the flooring imperfection.  The back legs, however, go into the air then slam back down again.

Yup, slamming back down.  SLAMMING down … directly on to my left foot.

I am wearing sandals, and I damn-near jump out of my skin with agony, except now that my foot is injured, jumping is no longer an option.  My right knee is throbbing, my left foot is screaming, and I still have to get this bastard of a chair out to my car.

A few more minor injuries, and I am ready to put the chair into the back of my vehicle.  As I am lifting the big-ass metal contraption into my even bigger-ass metal contraption, the chair takes one more bite at my hand.

“Why you … you … you sonofabitch,” I mutter (in case any children or parents are within earshot).  I decide I’ve had enough.  “Look, you fucking asshole chair, I am trying to save your sorry ass.  I AM TRYING TO SAVE YOUR FUCKING USELESS LIFE, NOW GET THE HELL IN MY CAR!”

With that final tirade and a good shove, the chair is in my vehicle.  All I have left to do now is get my right knee and my left foot x-rayed.  Oh, and secure that video footage, if possible.

ON THE MOVE

(Notice my trash bag shade. Ingenuity!)

I'm moving again.  No, not residentially.  Professionally.  For the second time in twelve months, I am loading up bins and carting all my school shit from our temporary school back to our newly remodeled school.  Forty bins this time. 

The problem with the last move was two-fold: #1 the movers lost/broke/messed up most of our stuff; #2 some of what was unpacked from our stuff got stolen by high school teachers trolling for yard sale items.

This time I decide to smarten up.  I invest $30 of cash into buying boxes that will fit nicely inside of the bins, and I box up most of the important stuff, taping it over several times and adding labels that nicely say, "Thanks for moving my stuff, but please do not open this box.  I will unpack it in September.  Thanks!"

I am praying it works.

In the meantime, though, truly important stuff, like my entire curriculum, has come home in boxes.  I would rather live through a few months of mayhem than lose the stuff.  I've also carted home some furniture that I don't want stolen that didn't get labeled to be moved.

In other words, my house now looks like an earthquake zone.  There is mayhem EVERYWHERE.  Worst of all, the damn stuff is starting to protest being here instead of at school.

This morning I decide to do some laundry.  As soon as I turn the corner on the landing to head down the cellar stairs, the door slams shut behind me.

This is not good.  I am home alone, and the door should still be wide open.  Either someone has shut me in, or something from the pile of crap has fallen over and trapped me in the basement. 

I put the laundry basket down on the landing and push on the door.  Luckily, it opens just enough for me to crawl back into the den.  A folding chair has fallen over sideways, semi-blocking my exit and giving me a minor heart attack.

I hate to say this, but I almost (ALMOST) cannot wait to get back to school so I can get all of this damn crap out of my house.  My downstairs den and upstairs office both look like giant junk closets.  But, I am pleased to report that I am not trapped in my cellar doing endless laundry like some ridiculous housewife version of the Flying Dutchman, and I will indeed be able to complete my LAST DAY OF SCHOOL FOR THIS YEAR on Monday.

Hallelujah!  Bring on the summer, kids.  I'll kick aside the boxes full of curriculum and meet you at the beach.

SOUNDING THE HORNS

Something happens today that hasn't happened for years:  All the trains barreling through town are blowing their horns.

Years ago the wise elders of the town outlawed train horns and whistles when coming through the crossings.  They claimed it bothered the people who lived near the tracks.  I live practically on the tracks, right next to them, and I have always found the sound of the train horns, even during the dead of night, to be comforting.  My attitude is if you do not like the sound of the train whistles, don't live near the train tracks.

Given this directive, the screeching blast of the train whistle this morning around 8:00 a.m. jolts me, shocks me, even.  "Oh, no," I think, "some poor engineer is gonna hear about this when a local asshole complains."

Then a little while later, another train comes through blowing its horn, and then another a little while later.

I don't know if people are working on the tracks or if there is a problem with the crossings, but I am totally psyched that the trains are making noise again.  Every time one blasts its warning coming through town, it makes me doubly excited, first for the love of the sound, and second for the ire of the smarmy people it must annoy, people who have already called the police and the MBTA and the local newspaper to bitch about it.

I have to leave the house late morning, so I don't know how it all resolves itself, but, by the time I get home in the evening, the train horns have once again been silenced.  That's too bad.  I used to doze fitfully until the 12:04 a.m. train flew through, tooting its horn as it zoomed through the dangerous intersection at the end of my short street.  After that sound, I could always fall into a deep sleep.

I had been looking forward to that moment tonight, but I guess the past isn't going to repeat itself, after all.  Instead of the comforting sound of the trains, some asshole in my tiny neighborhood is lighting off M-80's intermittently, which is not comforting.  Actually, it's annoying.  But, unlike the train haters, I'll just grin and bear it for a short while.

SILENT CHALLENGE

Field Day!  The day when sometimes I have fun!

A couple of years ago was the Field Day of the Living Dead: Temperature in the high 90's with high humidity and a heat index of about 115 degrees; Full sun with no shade at the venue; One toilet open for 600 people (adults, students, other people at the park); My uterine fibroid decided that it was the best day ever to bleed out.

Since then, my Field Day experience has improved.  Take today, for example.  With the exception of having a hot flash or two, the day goes along swimmingly.

Well, until the Bucket Challenge Game.

For the Bucket Challenge Game, the team sends a runner to retrieve a card with a random challenge that has to be accomplished, and they have to get through as many challenges as possible before the whistle blows.  I have to say that my group is doing a terrific job.  Everything they're given, they do.

Spell out one of the school's core value words using every member of your group for the letters.  (They choose RESPECT, and they spell it out in people very nicely.)  With one person going at a time, have your group do 200 push-ups while the class counts.  (I drop down and do push-ups #160-175.)  Coordinate in complete unison the number of sit-ups as are letters in the vice principal's last name.  (Takes them two tries, but they figure out the job of counting 1-2-3 DOWN and UP, 1-2-3- DOWN and UP...)

About halfway through the bucket full of challenges, someone grabs a card with instructions.  Suddenly, the group turns completely silent and starts advancing on me, pointing and smiling.

I'm not going to lie.  They are scaring the crap out of me.  They all look like zombies, so I take a step back, then another, and then one more.  One of the kids shows me the card when they get face-to-face with me.

Silently determine whose birthday is the closest to today.

They all know that my birthday is next Saturday (now you know it, too).  And just like that, without any other work on their part, that challenge is done is ten seconds.

In the end, we don't win this activity (but we're close, thanks to the random birthday challenge).  At the end of the day, my nose is a little sunburned, despite the sunscreen (I probably sweated it right off), and I have a slight burn on the left temple where I missed with the sunscreen.

Oh, and I have a birthday coming up, apparently.  ;)

BEST DAY OF MY LIFE

I had a dream so big and loud

I jumped so high I touched the clouds

Woo oh oh oh oh oh ooohhh…

I have spent the entire lacrosse season (which is now over) singing this song by American Authors.  It was my travelling theme song for every away game I went to by myself this past season.  You know the song, right?

This is gonna be the best day of my life, my li-uh-i-uh-iiiife…

Part of my obsession stemmed from the fact that this was my last scholastic lacrosse season as a parent, and I really did believe that every game I got to see really was the best day of my life.  I also learned to travel alone, stay in hotels alone, and count on myself to do a lot of things I hadn’t done ever before alone.  Every time I accomplished these tasks without screwing them up, it became the best day of my life.  My li-uh-i-uh-iiiife.

Today driving to work the song comes on the radio, so I do what I always do when it comes on: I turn up the volume to deafening levels and start singing along.  I am still singing as I pull into my parking space at school, so I continue singing (long after the radio is off) as I wander the hallways in the morning.  I am still singing when my cohorts come in to their classrooms. 

After all, we are going on a field trip today.  This could very well be the best day of my life.

We go to the New England Aquarium, and my group of eight kids turns out to be the Awesome Eight.  While wandering the Aquarium with me, they randomly engage employees and guides in active conversations and presentations, asking and answering questions and showing general interest and respect for the people.

Quite honestly, it’s frigging awesome.

When it comes time to go to the IMAX and watch the 3-D movie about whales, I don’t even obsess about sitting near them or even behind them.  My supervision isn’t needed as they are all fine with me and without me.  So, I grab my crazy glasses and settle into one of the front-ish seats. 

A little while into the movie, I hear a familiar tune, a Calypso version, steel drums, marimba.  Hmmmm.  I start humming a little.  Sounds like … No.  Really?  No.  Then the music changes to a guitar sound, almost flamenco, but still.  Hmmmm.  I find my brain singing to itself: Woo oh oh oh oh oh ooohhh.  It cannot be.  Can it?

Suddenly the part about the young whales playfully slapping water around and having a grand old time starts, and the soundtrack overpowers the booming sound of the whales’ playfulness.

Wooo ooo ooooooo

This is gonna be the best day of my life

My li-uh-i-uh-iiiife…

Holy crap.  What are the odds?  Of all the music in all of the world, seriously, what are the freaking odds?

Infinitesimal.

And yet this is how my life goes.  Once when I was telling someone about how this happens to me a lot, I called these episodes “synchronicities.”  Right after the word left my mouth, the song by Sting came on the radio:  Synchronicities.  I mean, riiiiiiiight after, like the moment the word left my lips.

My picture from the tank.  ;)

So, as soon as the movie ends while leaving the IMAX, I’m singing along with some of the students:

Wooo ooo ooooooo

This is gonna be the best day of my life

My li-uh-i-uh-iiiife…

And when we get back to school and get off the bus, and when we walk in the hallways to our lockers to get our lunches, and when the day ends and we’re packing up to leave:

Wooo ooo ooooooo

This is gonna be the best day of my life

My li-uh-i-uh-iiiife…

It may not have been the best of the best, but it is the best today of my life.  Woo oh oh oh oh oh ooohhh.

SHARK!!!!

Great white sharks are being spotted all up and down the New England coast, this after two nearly concurrent shark attacks occurred in North Carolina.  Researchers filmed one of the great white sharks off the coast of Cape Cod and named her "Freckles" due to her markings.

Freckles? Freckles is not exactly a name that strikes fear into the hearts of swimmers. 

I have been wary of the ocean since seeing the movie Jaws.  Oh, sure, it's a fictional story, right?  Two weeks after seeing the movie in a theater, a great white shark was reeled in off the coast of Newburyport ... you know ... Plum Island ... where we all used to go swimming ... until we saw the movie and the photo of the actual shark.

As recently as five years ago, I was at a local beach when officials shut it down for a shark sighting. Right here, in New England, where the ocean water is generally pretty flipping chilly. The beach is always damn crowded, too.  That shark would've had a buffet.

Every so often, though, I tell myself it's all okay.  I mean, surfers are in the water, and they look more like seals than I do.  If the surfers are safe, it must be okay to wade out deeper, deeper, deeper until I cannot touch the bottom easily; so far out that I'm well beyond the breakers and riding the swells.

So relaxing.

And then ... somewhere in my brain I hear it.  Dahh-duhh.  Louder.  Dahh-duhh.  Again.  Dahh-duhh. 
Dahh-duhh.  Dahh-duhh.

Suddenly, my brain is playing the entire John Williams' composition, the theme from Jaws (not as good as his score from The Cowboys, but a damned good second place).   Suddenly, I cannot get out of the water fast enough.

I'm not paranoid.  Of course, as I type this, the television story right now is about the shark attacks in North Carolina.  Coincidence?  Sign?

I'll tell you this -- I'll go in the water, maybe to my knees, but I have no desire to get up close and personal with Freckles or her friends.  Well, not today, anyway.  Ask me again when it's 98 degrees with 98% humidity.  In that case, Freckles had better move over because I'll be the one trolling the water.

GET OUT THE WAY

Look, I know it's summer and all, and the later dusk makes us all relaxed and happy.  I mean, who doesn't love walking on the beach at 7:30 p.m. ... and it's still light out!

But, people, listen closely: GET THE HELL OUT OF MY WAY.

Seriously, people, learn how the frig to drive, or get the flipping hell off the roads.

I have had people in front of me stop their cars dead in the street for no reason, or pull so far to the right to make a left turn in a subcompact that it's as if they are driving a semi, or pull out in front of me like it's  NASCAR only to drive ten miles below the 30 mph speed limit, or refuse to yield the left highway lane, or drive so slowly that even the police officers behind in the line of traffic are going insane.

When the heck did people forget how to drive because it's the summer solstice?

Truly, I'm not in that big of a hurry.  I am notorious for giving myself ample time to get places.  But, I would like very much to get to these places TODAY.  If I wanted to saunter, I'd be walking not driving.  Capiche?  When I ride your ass, MOVE.  When I flash my lights, MOVE.  When I toot the horn, MOVE.  When I lay on the horn, MOVE OR PREPARE TO MEET THE SHOVEL I KEEP IN THE HATCHBACK.

There are rules of the road and there are rules of courtesy.  I have no idea why warm weather seems to make drivers maneuverably retarded to these rules.  It makes me yell/sing, "Move, bitch, get out the way!" complete with the expletives not deleted.

The other day not one, not two, not three, but four cars ran the red light and cut my friend and me off in traffic.  She was behind the wheel, being polite but firm in her complaints.  I, on the other hand, leaned forward in the seat, busted the bird out, and started screaming obscenities through the windshield.

"Move, bitch, get out the way!"

I don't care if it is summer, I don't care if you're happily out of work or on your way to work, I don't care if you're in love with yourself or someone else, I don't care if you have a "Baby on board" sign in your window, and I don't care if you're an off-duty traffic cop.  OBEY the SPEED limits, OBEY the traffic LAWS, and, for the sake of my sanity, go the fucking minimum speed limit, you jackass, or I'll go all Ludacris on your ass.

PLUM LUCKY

I have a very good friend, Mary, in California.  I’ve never actually met her personally, but we have been cyber-friends for so long that I think we might now be related through osmosis.  I owe this friend a wonderful debt of gratitude because she sent me something in the mail several years ago, something that she sensed I needed, and something that started an obsession for me.

She sent me my first Stephanie Plum novel.  I have since read all twenty-one, saw the one and only movie (it is better than critics claim), and have devoured most of the other stuff written by/with Plum author Janet Evanovich.

Why does this matter to anyone but me (and Mary)?

It matters because today I decide to reorder my fiction book shelves.

Oh, sure, you might be reading so quickly that you miss the fact that I call these my “fiction” shelves.  That’s because I have them set up in my reading room/office for quick access.  I also have my professional books here (school and writing), sheet music, maps, some nonfiction stuff, and craft/sewing books here.  Downstairs in the den?  That’s an entirely different animal as there are a few hundred books down there, too.  Oh, and the landing at the top of the stairs to the bedrooms?  There’s a bookcase full of academia, poetry, and rare/old books.

At the risk of taking weeks to reorganize, I just stick with the fiction today.  As I’m going through the Evanovich section, I realize that I am missing two books from the Plum series, books that I borrowed from the library and assumed I could live without.  This would be a mistaken assumption.

Then, I check out my collection of Evanovich’s Alexandra Barnaby series and realize that I am also missing the newest one of those, and I’m behind one book (with another coming out soon) in the Kate O’Hare/Nick Fox series, as well.  I’m missing several of the “Full” series Evanovich wrote with Charlotte Hughes, too, but I already read those and can probably get by without them.  And don’t even get me started on the new Wicked book coming out today.  The Wicked novels are not my favorite of Evanovich’s books, but still.

Okay, so the books are fast and easy reads, but Evanovich is entertaining.  Her writing is quick-witted, engaging, and hilarious.  Laugh out loud hilarious.

As I rearrange my shelves, I’m leaving space to fill-in some of the missing pieces.  Not all of them, mind you.  I don’t need a few of them, but I do need to plug in the holes of the Plum series. 

Thank you, Mary, for what you’ve created: The Plum Monster!  I’m Plum Lucky you sent me that first book.  Thanks, friend!

BEACH GAMES

Closing term and year-end grades, printing out data for the data-collection gremlins, and assessing effort and conduct points:  A not-so-exciting way to spend a Saturday.  Luckily, my pal Jess calls me and asks me to hang out.  She tempts with one of her world-famous homemade salads.  No way can I refuse garden-fresh salad, plus we’re going to concoct sangria with a moscato wine another friend gave me.

Suddenly my weekend doesn’t suck anymore.

We occupy her sprawling, freshly-mowed backyard while enjoying our lunch, then we sneak over the stone wall to the neighbor’s pool.  The sky alternates between sunny and cloudy, and we hope to absorb some sun while checking out the condition of the pool patio furniture.  Another tall glass of sangria each, and we’ve polished off the moscato, enjoyed some wine-laden fruit, and realized that the pool water is still too chilly for a quick dunk.

Jess, who has just returned from a semi-cross-country trek from Boston to Salt Lake City via car, is adamant not to get into a vehicle any time soon, but she is equally adamant to decorate her garden and the concrete apron around her house with beach rocks.  This is an endeavor we started little by little three years ago.  At that time, the rocks were for a small section of flower garden off her brick patio.  Now, though, our ambitions are much more grandiose.

“Let’s drive to the beach!” she suggests suddenly.  “We can get more rocks.”

Hmmmm.  The only problem with this is that the famous sand sculpting contest is culminating near our preferred beach.  The traffic is going to be a nightmare.  We decide to wait until late afternoon to make the trip, avoiding the major beach areas where news crews and crowds will be.

When we arrive, we are surprised to find a few people in the water since the air temperature at the beach is clearly in the low sixties with moderate wind.  We park first in our coveted spot (1913), and are shocked and amused to discover that there are no rocks here.  We peer further down the beach.  About a quarter of a mile south are large breakwall rocks with lots of smaller rocks (exactly what we’re looking for) tucked around.  We hop back into the car and relocate to spot 2059, jumping out to peer down the staircase.

Score!  Rocks on both sides! 

We start filling bags with rocks, and by “filling,” I mean that maybe a dozen rocks can fit into each bag and still allow us to carry them back to the car.  Two women are nearby, one smoking cigarettes and throwing the filtered butts into the rocks and sand, the other letting a dog run loose, informing us when it comes near us that “It nips.”  (My translation: “If your little asshole dog bites me, I’ll probably drop this bag of rocks on it.”)

Suddenly, Butt-Woman scolds us.  “You know, if you take all the rocks from the beach, there won’t be any left for anyone else to enjoy.”

Um … excuse me?  We are taking some rocks (not many), and every damn time high tide rushes in here, tons of rocks are deposited from the ocean onto the shore.  Every.  Damn.  High.  Tide.  As if her throwing butts in the sand and her friend’s dog doing doodies all over the rocks is enhancing the beach experience.

In an attempt to get away from the two nasty buzz-kills, we take a break and walk down to the water.  We take off our flip-flops and wade into the Atlantic, fully expecting that bone-chilling jolt that usually accompanies the ocean this time of year this far north.  Instead, the water is surprisingly warm, warmer even than the neighbor’s pool had been hours earlier.  I roll my capris up higher and wade in almost up to my knees.  We understand now why people were swimming when we arrived.  The water is perfect.

In the end, we gather two bins full of beach rocks, leaving hundreds of thousands of rocks behind.  We decide to take the long way home and drive down the coast and across the back roads so we can stop for homemade ice cream at Benson’s.  We are sitting on a bench with our dishes of chocolate chip cookie dough (with dough chunks so large it’s almost obscene) and fresh wild strawberry ice cream when a little boy arrives with his father. 

He scuffs his little feet along the pea stones that make up the parking area.  “Look, Daddy,” he exclaims, wide-eyed, “ROCKS!”

I turn to my pal and say, only loudly enough for her ears, “Hey, we’ll open the back of the car if you really want to see some rocks.” 

We both smile and finish up, heading back to her house just as dark is settling in.  Luckily, the wind has picked up and the temperature has dropped enough to stave off the mosquitoes.  This allows us enough time to dump the beach rocks along the side of the house, added to the ones we started with last summer. 

We are already planning our next reconnaissance mission to the rocky beach shores.  We’ll either go very early in the morning or very late in the afternoon, and we will avoid Butt-Woman and Attack-Dog Lady at all costs.

And we sincerely promise that if the beach runs out of rocks and high tide yields nothing, we will cease and desist and leave the beach damn-well enough alone.