POETRY IN STAGNATION

I am so exhausted, my exhaustion's even tired.
Sometimes I doze off at my desk - I hope I don't get fired.
I've been keeping crazy hours closing term three grades,
But really all I want to do is snooze and pull the shades.
I try to get in bed on time - Sometimes I shoot for ten,
But suddenly it's midnight and I fall asleep around then.
Morning comes, alarms go off, I pry my eyes awake,
All because another day of teaching is at stake,
And all that different state-required crap is implemented.
It's small wonder that my brain is constantly demented.
I teach a class and then three more before it's time for meeting.
Damn you, Sleep, and you, too, Rest - Your time with me, so fleeting.
I guess I could stop writing now and get myself to bed,
But that would mean these thoughts would roll around inside my head.
I'll spit them out and type them up and post them to my blog
While adding in my final thoughts in this here epilogue:
I know that I am tired and I really shouldn't worry,
But F. U., April break, you'd better move your ass, and hurry.

STEREOTYPES AND DUNKINS AND GRITS

Every so often I pop south of the Mason-Dixon Line.  There isn't anything unusual about this, except that growing up a Northerner, there was always a certain excitement about crossing the line, kind of like we were getting away with something.  It was like crossing the line into another country, like crossing into Canada but without all the pomp and cavity searches.

Before we go any further, I need to be painfully honest here.  Stereotypes have basis in facts.  They're like archetypes gone bad, and that's why so many people get all up in your face when stereotypes are thrown around.  I'm not going to deny that the stereotypical New England behavior has some basis in archetypal reality: We talk damn fast, we drop the letter "r" whenever possible, Sam Adams really is our beer of choice even though the picture on the bottle is Paul Revere, we drink a shitload of Dunkins coffee, and "wicked" is equally correct as an adverb, an interjection, and a stand-alone adjective.

That being said, I forget I am down in the southern states until I go to the hotel breakfast buffet.  Tucked alongside the oatmeal station are packages of Quaker Oats grits.  Grits.  I've heard of them but have no idea what they actually are, so I look grits up online.  Apparently, grits are some kind of corn by-product.  I'm not sure how closely related grits are to Cream of Wheat or Cream of Rice, but they are definitely not related to Cream of Corn in a can.  Either way, I am definitely at breakfast south of the Mason-Dixon Line because there are grits and people know how to eat them.  People, that is, except for me, because I'm a damn Yankee and don't know about anything for breakfast that doesn't come directly out of the Dunkins case.

Just when I manage to get through breakfast without outing myself as a Bostonian, I'm driving along, minding my own business as a typical New Englander with a "don't-bother-me" attitude would be, when I hear a tremendous roar passing me on the left.  In my neighborhood, this sound means one thing and one thing only -- a Hispanic from Lawrence is making an illegal lane pass in his souped-up, illegally nitro-ed, chop-shop Toyota with dual exhaust and a sound system blasting so much bass that it registers on seismographs as far away as Quebec.

Nope.  It's a UPS truck.  Yes, Brown is leaving me in the dust and heading for its victory lap after capturing the checkered flag.  Apparently here in NASCAR country, even the UPS drivers consider themselves the second-coming of Richard Petty (whom I happened to have loved and admired, so don't be dissing my NASCAR crush).

By the time I head North again, I realize that I haven't really had enough time to assimilate into the culture.  However, when a little Spanish-influenced vehicles blows by me on route 114 along the Lawrence line, I do have to look twice.  After all, I'm expecting it to be another southern UPS truck.

I know, I know.  Stereotypes are terrible, y'all.  Or is it all-y'all?  I'll figure it out on my next trip.  After all, the new grandbaby is a Southern gal, so Mr. Mason and Mr. Dixon and I will be seeing a lot more of each other.  I think I'm going to have to try grits on my next trip, though, just to blow the New England stereotype right out of the donut shop.

GREAT MARITIME FLIGHT PATHS

Until this past weekend, I've never done more than tour planes while they've been on the ground.  It's a little ironic since one of my brothers flies small planes and my brother-in-law is retired Air Force.

 I want to do something spectacular for my first plane ride, something to rival what my kids did for their first flights. For example, my eldest got on a plane and then transferred to a puddle jumper to go to in-line skate camp in Pennsylvania for his first foray into the air.  My daughter got on a plane for the first time to take a trip to Puerto Rico.  My youngest got on his first plane ... then jumped out of it, having his first take-off but not his first landing.

Last year I toured some WWII planes at the Beverly Airport, and I had semi-decided that I was going to take a flight up on one of the classics.  I couldn't afford the ride on the Mustang P-51 (I think it was something crazy like $450), but I was toying with the ride on the B-17 bomber (more reasonable at about $200).  I even had two credit cards with me as a choice for charging the flight.

My pal who is a muck-a-muck at the airport brought me over to a good vantage point in the industrial park so that we and a few dozen of our newest friends could watch the B-17 take off on one of its flights. Only, it didn't take off.  It taxied then stopped and limped back to the tarmac.  My grand idea ended before it ever "got off the ground."

I have no great fear of flying.  I'll be honest, I'm not a fan of heights in general, and I have some major control issues, though I'm getting better and better with that now that my own kiddos are grown and capable of washing their own underwear, which, in my mind, equates them with adulthood and independence. 

The simple truth is that I'm cheap.  It drives me crazy to fly somewhere in two hours for $125 each way when I can drive there for half the price.  Now that I'm self-supporting, though, it's more practical to fly.  When I was hauling the kiddos with me to places for judo tournaments and lacrosse tournaments and gymnastics meets, it wasn't cost effective to fly all four of us to places like Toronto and Philadelphia and Delaware and Maryland for the prize of some trophies and t-shirts.

It takes a grandchild to get me on a plane without guilt of the indulgence.  I hadn't deemed myself worthy of the convenience, as if driving Miss Daisy (myself) were to be my life's penance.  So, a friend/co-worker who is a veteran flyer takes me on my first two plane trips. 

I'm not going to lie -- flying is a blast.

But, truly, I do have one complaint.  We fly down on a mid-sized plane, complete with television channels and Wi-Fi, which is a fantastic way to spoil myself for flying.  (This is after discovering the I have been granted TSA pre-check on the heels of my traveling companion.)  Coming back, though, we fly on a big-ass plane, an Airbus.  Everything is louder: engines, landing gear, and the screeching toddler ten rows in front of us.  Even the pre-flight crash speech is grander.  It is shown via seat-back monitors and covers every possible scenario, including, and I'd swear to this in court, what should happen if the pilots were all to be decapitated in-flight and the heads should roll down the aisles like grotesque bowling balls.

This horrid little preview film ends with a neck-scarf-wearing video model smirking grimly and urging us to "Have a greeeeeeeeeeat flight!"  Jesus.  Not NOW I won't.

During the flight, we are instructed to stay seated as we're encountering storms and turbulence, which turns out to be no different than riding in the smaller plane on a good day.  The order leads to disappointment when we realize that no snacks or drinks will be coming our way.  Damn.  I'll be crashing and dying without benefit of eating my last pretzel.

This is the moment when I take a closer look at the screen on the seat back in front of me.  The video screen shows the plane's flight path, including the map where it seems like the freakishly large plane is actually in DC and NYC at the same time.  Off the coast on the map are names and dates.  Yup, names and dates just dotting the Atlantic Ocean right under where we are flying:  Lexington 1840, DeBraak 1798, Monitor 1862... Titanic 1912.

The plane's monitors are marking the sites of great maritime disasters.  Seriously.  I am on a plane hitting turbulence and the plane is telling me about dead, drowned people whose modes of transportation failed miserably.

As I said before, I don't have any bizarre agida about flying, but I'm not certain that it is wise to be constantly flashing the grim reminders of lost souls who were simply trying to get from one location to another location using the most current and populous modes of transportation of their times, coupled with the pre-flight disaster filmette and the turbulence-induced seat belt flying we are experiencing now. 

It's all for naught, though.  With a great tailwind, we arrive in Boston twenty minutes ahead of schedule and without any hint of the fate of the lost maritime souls.

It simply wouldn't be a Heliand Flight without some kind of wicked twist, and seeing the Titanic's grave marked just out of our flight path tops it all.  Oh, and next week guess which nonfiction story I start teaching my students?  Exploring the Titanic.  Much like the way my life always goes, the irony is not lost on me.

TOMB RAIDER

Hey, I'm all for holiday decorations on people's houses and in their yards.  Easter usually means plastic eggs hanging from trees (as if that's where they grow naturally), or large white bunnies with scary-eyed faces sporting giant buck-teeth and huge red smiles peering from front lawns.

The decoration I see when down South visiting my son's family, though, has to be a first for me.  It's not that this front-yard decoration is sacrilegious.  Honestly, it is completely the opposite: it is uber-religious.  But, that's not what makes it so unusual.

First of all, this display is set up in the midst of a huge neighborhood.  There are hundreds of houses, all the cul-de-sacs included, in this neighborhood, and only one of them has this display.  There's an association, and, quite frankly, I'm surprised the display is set up at all.  Secondly, it's kind of ... how to say this nicely ... tacky.  It looks like a middle school shop project gone bad.  Maybe not completely bad, but bad enough.  C+/B- bad.  Thirdly, it's just too tempting.

What do I mean, you're probably thinking to yourself.  How could a holiday display be so unusual as to stump the likes of me?  Let me explain.

The house in question is on a hill.  About three-quarters of the way up the hilly front yard stand three homemade wooden crosses.  Propped up to look like it goes into the hill itself is a tomb entrance made out of cheap wood, possibly balsa.  In the front of the tomb, a large circular piece appears ready to be rolled sideways.

Holy (and I mean that in multiple ways) crap!  The Tomb of Jesus is on this guy's front lawn.

For some background, I want to talk about going to a costume party once dressed as a nun.  When I walked in alone, some guy said to me, "Hey, sister!  Who are ya here with?"

My boyfriend (later husband) was readjusting his sheet/toga and was about thirty seconds behind me.  "Jesus!" I answered, motioning to my Sicilian-Scottish date who arrived in full holy regalia, including the crown of (real) thorns and some strategic (fake) blood, the sandals, the rope belt, and all.  He had longish nearly-black hair and a full beard and mustache along with a great construction worker tan.  He could easily pass for the Messiah's identical twin even on a regular non-Halloween day.

My oldest son inherited not only his father's Anglo-version Jesus-like Romanesque classic looks, he also inherited the impish sense of humor.  Not that he harbors any evil thoughts toward his neighbors or religion in general, but he is, as am I, fascinated by the whole front-yard Tomb of Jesus decorative motif, and he wonders whether or not the round circle on the tomb will be rolled aside on Easter morning.

"What would happen," he wonders, "if the neighbors opened up the tomb, and I jumped out?"

What would happen?  Most assuredly, the poor bastards would have heart failure.  The next thing that would happen is that I'd be getting a phone call to help post bail.

The thing is, though, that if I still had the costume in with the rest of the leftover Halloween stuff, I'd probably help my son dress himself up like Jesus just to pull the prank off because it's the kind of thing his father would do, if he were still alive.  I can just picture my late-husband now, driving down the street past the balsa-wood tomb and gauging the probability that this might be his greatest stunt to date, this literal scaring the buh-Jesus out of hundreds of people in this quiet, cul-de-sac Southern neighborhood.

Then my son would most probably be sent back North, reviled as that damn sacrilegious Yankee, and I'd have to stifle my own twisted sense of humor while admonishing him that nice people don't scare other nice people on Easter morning by jumping out of Jesus's makeshift tomb and yelling, "Hey, what time is breakfast?  I've been stuck in that damn place all night long waiting for my people."

I'm not going to lie, though.  I'd pay good (bail) money to see it.

HAPPY EASTER

My kids always complained that the Easter Bunny tucked brand new socks in the Easter baskets, hiding stealthily with the candy.  After a long winter of constant sock-wearing (in boots, out of boots, all around the cold house...), socks seemed to be something everyone needed round about spring time, so the Easter Bunny obliged every year.

"Socks?  Really?!  What kind of cheap shit is this?" my kids moaned.

A few years ago, I stopped giving them anything for Easter.  They didn't really eat that much candy anymore, so occasionally we'd get together for dinner and maybe color some eggs.  If the weather were truly fine, we'd color eggs outside on the patio (and drink wine, of course).

A year or two ago, one of my kiddos sighed wistfully and admitted, "You know what I miss the most about Easter?"

So, I'm thinking: Egg coloring, candy, family dinner, ham, day off...

The answer:  "Socks!"

Sorry, kids, the Easter Bunny has been car-less for over a week now, and tomorrow the Easter Bunny takes off for the weekend.  Maybe socks will be on sale when the Easter Bunny arrives back to the zip code.

Happy Easter, kids.

CHEAP FLYER

Well, if you're reading this blog, it means one of three things:

1.  You're a follower of the blog and already have it bookmarked for ease;
2.  I am finally able to post the link to Facebook using my new cell phone;
3.  You accidentally ended up here via a Google search.

If all goes well and the airplane hasn't gone haywire, I am in North Carolina today visiting my new granddaughter.  My friend and co-worker Sal has dragged me (hopefully not kicking and screaming, as I am writing this hours before the flight) on to my very first plane ride.  I'm not afraid of flying -- how could I be?  I've never tried it. 

I'm cheap. Seriously cheap.

So, folks, I will do my best to post Saturday and Sunday's blogs.  They're written and in the queue, so whatever happens, happens.  As ELP would say, "Welcome back, my friends, to the show that never ends..."

HAPPY TRAILS

Of course the one time I decide to get on an airplane, the computer crashes so I cannot print out my boarding pass. 

Let's hope that's all that crashes about this trip.

The good news is that I'm only going for about thirty hours, so if my bag gets stolen, I can pretty much wear the same clothes and no one would notice.

The bad news is that I'm only going for about thirty hours.


Okay, I'm going to pack now.  Happy trails, kids.  I'll have pics when I come back.

LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS

For some reason, I wake out of a sound sleep and hear ... nothing.  Usually I can hear clocks ticking, the fan whirring.  Even the train isn't passing through.  I know I'm awake because I am uncomfortably aware of a major hot flash wracking my body, hence why I am desperate for the fan that is no longer blowing through the room.

I open my eyes, blink, and open them again.  The room is completely pitch black.  There isn't a glimmer of light filtering through from anywhere, not even outside.  The sky is overcast, and no moon, if there even is one tonight, is shining through.  Or, I am blind.

This same eerie black-out happened last year about this same time right down to the hour it occurred.  Luckily, I am a planner, and there is a small flashlight next to my bed.  I fumble around for my glasses and my phone, finally seeing it is 3:35 a.m. and the house has no power.

I turn on the emergency flashlight that I keep in the hallway.  It's for emergencies only because the batteries are dying in it.  I head downstairs and look across the street at the industrial park and see that their emergency lights are on but that there are no lights coming from any of the windows.  The rest of my street and the one connecting to it are completely in the dark, as am I.

Being an idiot, I turn on my laptop.  This is a great idea because it has a battery, right?  Except the internet access needs power, and I don't have any power.  I decide to contact the electric company using my new, semi-useful cell phone, but I cannot remember the name of the company to whom I send my monthly electric bill payments.  Back upstairs I go and fumble around some more until I find my checkbook register, which is really just some random notebook or scrap of paper because I have not actually balanced my checkbook in about ten years.

Oh, yes.  National Grid.  Those bastards.

The website tells me that there are four outages in my area affecting 171 customers.  Right.  It's probably more along the lines of 10,071 customers, but they're not texting National Grid at 4 a.m. because THEY'RE FUCKING SLEEPING.

After reporting my outage, I try to go back to bed but it's too damn hot and I am too damn aggravated, so I just get up.  It takes me almost ten minutes to dig up the candles and get six small and four tapers lit.  Of course, in the dark I knock over a set of screwdrivers and start swearing ... quietly ... because there are other people in the house.  I try to get myself ready for the day but cannot make lunches by candlelight, plus I'm trying to wait as long as I can to open the fridge.

At this point I notice that my hair looks kind of like a 1960's beehive bubble-headed Barbie's hair, and, because I cannot plug in a straightener, I will have to go to school like this.  And make-up?  By candlelight?  Hello, Clown-face.  I'll end up looking like Caitlin Jenner.

Finally, at 5:45, the power is restored.  I quickly plug in my phone (which had low battery to start with), my hair straightener, and open the fridge to get sandwich meat out.  The rest of the house wakes up, completely oblivious to the Great and Miraculous Night of the Damn Dark or to the fact that I am punchy from four hours of sleep.

I feel sorry for my students: I'm going to be in a foul mood all day.  To make everything worse, it stays overcast and grayish-dark all damn day, like I'm living in the dark and then the shadows.  Yup, I'll be Plato today.

Damn you, National Grid.

On the way home from work, there is a National Grid truck down the street from my house.  If I don't have power, I'll be tempted to strut down the road and kick that National Grid guy's ass into next Tuesday.  I might do it anyway just because I couldn't sleep during the night... because the fan went off ... because the power went off ...  Yeah.  I think I'll kick his ass, but I might take a nap first.

WAITING FOR THE BODY SHOP, GODOT

Waiting ... waiting ... waiting ... not so patiently for my car to be repaired. 

My car (with me in it) got t-boned two weeks ago by someone who jumped a stop sign and didn't look both ways.  I was driving along minding my merry business when all of a sudden I was slammed sideways into the opposite lane.  When I got out of my car to look, thankfully the damage wasn't horrendous (and everyone was okay).

But geez-loo-eeze with the insurance claim process. 

While I appreciate the care and administrative paperwork the body shop has been doing, I have been car-less for exactly a week and a day.  And, no, for the first time in my life I did NOT rent a car because I can bum rides to and from work, live within walking distance of damn-near everything, and going after the other person's insurance for the rental would've added another layer of stress to my life.

I'm trying to avoid stress in my life.

Of course, I cannot even believe I typed that without my fingers falling off.  Stress IS my life.  The only way to avoid stress will be with my imminent and final breath.  When that happens, it damn-well better be a stress-free final slumber, I can tell you that.

Until such time as my demise occurs, though, it would be oh-so-very wondrous to have my car back at some point.  Any point.  Today.  Tomorrow.  Next week.  Just tell me when the hell my car is going to be back in my possession as I think I may have forgotten how to drive it.

Meanwhile, thank you, thank you, THANK YOU to the body shop doing the work, but please remember that YOU made the appointment and told me when to bring the car in, and YOU are the ones with the direct pipeline to both the adjustment bureau and the insurance company.

Waiting.  Waiting, waiting, waiting for my car.  It's like Waiting for Godot but with collateral damage and without the whole drop-trou fiasco.

LIKE AMATEURS

I don't mind going to work in the morning.  I don't even mind when it snows.  But, seriously.  Could we at least get the streets plowed?  Perhaps clear the parking lot so we can see where we're going?

I'm not blaming the school administration as they are only as informed as the DPW allows.  If the head of the DPW says the streets are clear, who's to question?

But the sliding vehicles, the number of accidents I see on the way to work, the fact that the streets have not been touched this morning, all prove that the administration has been punked.  In hindsight, a delay would've been better.  Yes, it would still be snowing, but at least the DPW would have a chance to prove they are not all lazy hacks.

Oh, well.  It's supposed to be progressively warmer for a few days.  After semi-shoveling the five or so inches of white snow before taking off this morning, I'm in no mood to continue shoveling this afternoon.  A lot of it has melted already.  By Wednesday afternoon, the rest of it should be (had damn well better be) gone.

Like I said, I don't mind it, really, but meet me halfway, people.  You knew the storm was coming.  You knew we would be having school.  Get with the goddamned program -- you look like amateurs.

MY FAULT

It's my fault.

I put the patio furniture out last week.  I started drinking gin and tonics already even though the summer isn't officially here.  I put away my winter coat, shoving it deep into the closet.  I even opened the windows a couple of times.

I won't know for sure until I wake up in the morning, but Mother Nature is supposed to shit snow all over eastern New England on Monday.

Who cares, though.  It's going to be nearly summer again mid-week.  I'm leaving the table and chairs out there on the patio, including the zero gravity chair.  I'm keeping the lime sliced and ready.  I refuse to take out my winter coat unless I am going sledding or snowshoeing.

I know it's still March.  I also understand that it's the first day of spring.  I'm simply choosing to ignore those realities. 

RARELY AM I -- RANDOM THOUGHTS AND REALLY BAD POETRY

Rarely am I at a loss for words,
So imagine my surprise when I
Find myself
Staring at a blank blog page.

It's not that I have

Writer's Block;

 I don't.

Somewhere along the course of this week,
I hit the wall -- Face first.
I keep getting slapped with
Free-association imagery.

Rapidly to REM.

Don't tell me I'm not dreaming;

I've a good mind to
Smack you over the head with a rolled up blog entry.
Oh, look, I just happen to have one of those
Right here with me.

I may be at a loss for words,
But I can gather up my blank space and
Beat you over the head with it
Like I just now did.

HUMAN REMORA

My car is going to cost an additional $800 to fix. 

This development brings some agida because the new issues mean the car will not be ready Friday, as suggested to me when I dropped it off on Tuesday.  It may not even be ready on Monday. 

This sucks because it's the first time I have not rented a car when I've been car-less.  I only need to get to work and home, so no harm, no foul.  Now, though, I'm just becoming a pain in the ass to my children and coworkers who have been carting me around. 

I've turned into a human remora. 

There are three positives to this situation, though:
1.  I'll be getting a nice, shiny, dent-less car back;
2.  the other insurance company is covering 100% of the repair;
3.  I don't have to shovel out my car Monday morning.

Yes, I said "shovel" and "Monday" in the same sentence.

Thank you, $800 car repair paid for by other guy's insurance company.  Thank you for saving me from shoveling, but, truly, I would love to have my car back sooner rather than later.

SYNCHRONIZED SCREAMING

My students have come up with a new Olympic sport.  It's called Synchronized Screaming.

They developed the idea from playing online games.  Sometimes when they are wearing their headsets and are all playing via their respective home television sets, someone starts screaming into the microphone.  Once this starts, someone else joins in. 

Pretty soon, they have the equivalent to a pack of prepubescent dogs baying at each other in semi-tenor, some alto, and mostly soprano voices.  All at once.  All at the same time.  All in unison.  All via cyberspace.

Synchronized Screaming.

According to them, they're really, really good at this.  I think maybe our school should sponsor their team.  First of all, we'll get our school name and logo on their jerseys.  More importantly, the Scream Team would need time off for training and competition, meaning we teachers get a break from their noise.

Yup, Synchronized Screaming.  I'm all for it ... as long as it doesn't happen in my classroom, I support it 100%.

GRANT AND WHO?

I'm tired.  I am so incredibly tired that I have been dozing off at work lately -- not like a nap; more like my eyes roll into the back of my head and I feel like my world is going to go dark at any second. 

Needless to say, I have been drinking a lot of tea.

I think I have this terrible exhaustion under control until my class right before lunch.  I teach three straight before lunch, meaning that I am on my feet and en pointe from 7:45 until 11:10 without stopping and without so much as a potty break.  I'll be honest, by 11:00 some days I am absolute toast.

I have been teaching fables, and we have been using "Ant and Grasshopper" as our mentor text -- different versions, modern translations with human characters, etc.  After almost two weeks of saying "Ant and Grasshopper," you'd think I would have it down pat by now. 

You would be wrong.

Right before lunch break, when everyone is listening because the students are also toast by now, I attempt to say, "Ant and Grasshopper."

Instead, I say, "Grant and Asshopper."

Yes, I do, I truly do.  And about halfway through the word "Asshopper," I notice faces in the room freeze, eyes open wide, and I hear a few snickers scattered about me.  I notice one poor girl has gone completely white, her eyes wide open in amazement, and she looks like she is going to faint.

It's almost as exciting as the time I was teaching sixth grade and attempted to say the word "city," only that's not what I said.

Oh, well.  I can pretend it's some weird version of the old television series Kung Fu:  "Try to grab this fable from my hand, Asshopper..."  In the meantime, I'll try and get some sleep.  The kids don't need to hear my potty mouth, whether it's on purpose or by accident, and I really, really, really need this job.

CARS, DINGS, AND PIZZERIAS

There are advantages and disadvantages to getting one's car whacked.  The advantage is that it gets fixed at someone else's expense.  The bad news is that it means being car-less for about five days, maybe more.

Because I am without a car, I beg my son for a ride to work every morning and beg my coworkers for rides home every afternoon.  When I make the decision not to rent a car for a few days, I figure I can walk to the grocery store if need be.  Seriously, there's a store a half mile away, and one about three-quarters of a mile away.  Yup, seemed like a no-brainer decision.

And then the spring rain arrives.  It arrives as I am walking one and a half miles home from the auto body shop.  I have my heavy coat with me because it's a little cold and also because the coat is water-resistant.  Unfortunately, it is also extremely toasty, and I end up carrying it most of the way and letting the rain and my sweat cool me down along the trek.

The combination of drizzle and carrying my coat lead me to the decision that I will not be hoofing it to the grocery store this particular day.  We order pizza for dinner from the shop down the street.

The following day, I'm thinking about getting dropped off at the store and walking home with some groceries.  Instead of drizzle, though, it is raining in earnest, big, fat, driving hard pellets of icy cold.  Yeah, dinner isn't happening again tonight.  We order subs for dinner ... from the shop down the street.

Funny thing is that we do not often go to the pizzeria down the street.  I usually cook something.  But, with the car and my schedule, cooking has become a low priority.  Last week we ordered pizza, as well -- from the shop down the street.

Advantage = Pizzeria employees are making my dinner every night
Disadvantage = Pizzeria employees know they are making my dinner every night

Get better soon, my old car.  My stomach misses you.

TECHNO-BABY

I buy myself a new phone because any day now the first grandkiddo will be arriving.  Well, of course the very moment I am attempting to set it up, everything goes kaflooey with the phone.  While I am on the phone with who knows what country trying to get it all resolved ...

The baby arrives.

This is all great, except that the pictures won't download.  Well, some of them will.  So, I call customer service yet again.  Then three pictures download.  Then none.

Argh.  Well, here's to knowing that the little munchkin arrived happy and healthy.  Soon I will have pictures ... dang phone.  My timing is impeccable.  So much for me and progress -- It's why I prefer everything old school.

(Big smiley face here.)  Welcome, baby.  Your grandma is a techno-idiot, but I can still work an old-school camera.  See ya soon!

SUNDAY SCHOLA

I'm sitting in church on a Sunday.  Here's a concept that hasn't crossed my path in decades, but there's a twist.  Okay, there are a couple of twists.

First of all, it's an Episcopalian church (I'm more of a UCC Protestant).  Second of all, I'm not here for a sermon; I'm here for the music.  My sister is a member of a small singing group, a schola cantorum, which means they are attached to a church.  This church.  They sing all over the place, but this is their sponsoring home base.

Today's music includes several versions of the Lord's Prayer, including one by the musical director.  That's in the first half.  The second half, though, is all Handel.  The schola is performing Dixit Dominus, a magnificent choral (and strings) piece that includes multi-voice harmony and several solos.  It is a musical masterwork that runs about thirty-five minutes, and it is beyond amazing.

Here's the rub: George Frideric Handel composed the piece when he was twenty-two years old.  Twenty-two.  Twenty-freaking-two, people.  A masterwork.  Composed.  By himself.

What were you doing when you were twenty-two?  I was working and struggling to pay bills after moving our of my parents' house four years earlier.  I was having wisdom teeth pulled, taking a college class here and there from time to time, working in a factory, and drinking gin and tonics.

Let's face it: I was a bum.

I sure as hell wasn't writing an entire musical score of a psalm for five vocal parts plus solos plus string accompaniment.

Today, though, I get to experience it all, complete with harpsichord, strings, and an unusual stringed instrument called the theorbo (which I actually get to hold - I damn near shit my pants when the musician placed it in my hands).   It may not be the usual Sunday church experience, but after listening to the performance and mingling with the performers afterward, all I can say is there really must be a god, and I suspect his name is Handel.

SPRINGING THE CLOCKS

I have a love/hate relationship with the whole time change thing.

I don't care one way or the other if the government decides to eliminate the whole concept of Daylight Savings Time.  Well, not true entirely because I really do enjoy having an extra hour of daylight.  But, it's annoying having to reset all the clocks around the house several times. 

Around 9:00 p.m., I start changing the clocks over.  Spring ahead, right?  Lose an hour, right?

I have a lot of clocks.  I lose that hour over and over again.

I am reasonably smug in my foresight.  Why should I inconvenience myself in the morning and run all over the place, moving hands, shutting off alarms?  Why should I wake up in the morning, look lazily at my clock, then realize with sheer disappointment that it isn't 8:00 a.m., it's actually 9:00 a.m.?  Yup, I have every clock all set.  Before I even go to bed, I've already given up that hour so I won't miss it in the morning.

Smug, smug, smug.

Except ... Damn.  I forgot the car and the GPS.  When I get into my car, I'm going to lose that hour all over again.  Argh, so aggravating.

THE IRONY OF ICE MELT

Sure.  It's warm out.  Thanks.  No, really.

Never mind that I finally broke down this winter and invested in several large containers of ice melt for the driveway and the walkway.  Don't even consider that I bought a new shovel just for the occasion.

Nope.  You just roll right in here, Spring.  Roll in with both barrels blazing.

Forget about the fact that I'm finally tossing out the air conditioners and have to buy all new ones.  Do not even worry yourself at all about that.  Go right ahead and bring on the heat.  I have gin, I have tonic water, I have lemons and limes, and I have a back-up supply of ice cubes.  I can keep myself cool until the a/c unit sales start.

But, just so we all understand each other, you're not going to pull any of that mid-April blizzard shit on me, right?  I mean, I do have the shovel and I do have the ice melt, but I also have a basement where things like that can hibernate until next fall rolls around.

I don't mind.  No, truly.

I'd be willing to store the stuff for months if you'd ask me to.  I mean, you'd do it for me, right?  So, thanks.  No, really, I mean it.  Thanks!

ALL-STAR CRIMINAL

Here's what I don't understand.

If any normal person posts a nude picture of him or herself anywhere in Cyberland, and, even worse, if it gets shared and forwarded, that's a crime.  It's called distribution of pornography. 

Right? 

Don't believe me?  Try it yourself. 

No, really, YOU can try it.  I'm not going to try it.  First of all, no one ever wants to see my aging, post-children, menopausal body.  I mean, not unless we are going to use the images to discourage illegal immigration or something.  "This is what American women really look like!  Run away!!!!!"

So, how is it that when that porno-pig Kim Kardashian posts wide-angled naked pictures of her big bad self ... How is this NOT distribution of pornography?

Not that I'm going to look, since she's shown enough of her never-ending backside from every angle, anyway, so it's not like we all haven't seen it hundreds of times already.  I'm just curious.  You know, like the laws that seem to protect politicians who pull all that illegal shit but never ever seem to get punished for any of it.  Ever.  Never.

Different laws for different classes, I guess.  Hmmmm, maybe I do understand, after all.

DIS-CREDITED

I have a pile of credit cards with credit acceptance letters sitting on a chair in the kitchen.  They're just hanging out waiting to be activated.  I honestly don't know why they keep sending me more cards -- I must have five different versions of the JC Penney card, six or seven Sears cards, and a couple of Target ones, along with Kohls, Dressbarn, and other ones I use maybe once every three or four years.  I don't even know if any of them work anymore.

I do, however, use my bank debit card for absolutely everything.  It's a card that is not set to expire until 2017, so I haven't really given it a second thought.  I carry it everywhere; I use it everywhere.  Imagine my surprise when I try to order some lacrosse team gear tonight (my son is coaching a youth team and their logo is pretty dope) and the order gets spit back for a bank rejection.

Apparently, my debit card has been cancelled.

I stopped payment on a lost check yesterday, and I did it electronically.  Maybe I screwed up my account somehow.  I mean, I'm not exactly an electronic genius, so I start rooting through the pile of credit cards and letters, hoping to find the password I wrote down in order to go in and issue the stop-payment order. 

Suddenly I spy a folded up paper that says, "For your protection, we are issuing you a new debit card... Your old card will stop working in 30 days."

Holy shit.  I have been walking around with that old bank card as my only hope against being broke, buying groceries, and putting gas in my car.  Luckily, I recently converted to paying cash more often than not.  Damn good thing I tried to order the lax gear or else I wouldn't have figured this out until an embarrassing moment at Market Basket or the gas station or the doctor's office.

Okay, that's it.  Filing absolutely gets finished this weekend.  Bring on the shredder! 

STFU, I'M EATING

La-la-la-la-la.  Flowers.  Butterflies.  Birds.  Beaches.  Sangria...

Trying to distract myself from the end of winter?  NOPE.  Trying to distract myself from the election.

I keep typing things to say and then deleting them.  There is nothing worth saying because it doesn't matter which facts are presented: nobody cares.  Nobody, not a single one of the sheeple, gives a goddamn about the facts and the realities.  I have never seen so many incompetent candidates nor heard so many ignorant comments in my entire life -- from both sides, from every side, and I've been watching politics pretty religiously since 1968.

I cannot listen to it anymore.  Makes me puke.  Every fucking candidate is more incompetent than the next one.  The only good thing is that each and every one seems leaps and bounds smarter than the guy in office now, and that doesn't say much because the entire lot is dumber than a one-room schoolhouse packed full of rejected brain surgery test dummies.

So, please, stop trying to tell me why your candidate is the best.  Stop saying how evil this one or that one may be.  I don't care.  I. DON'T. CARE.  Your allusions to Hitler and to Stalin and to Jack the Ripper and to Jughead and to Granny Clampett and to Tribbles ... These are NOT going to change my mind nor sway my vote.

I'll give you two hints:  #1 -- I have NO IDEA for whom I will vote (not the party, not the ticket, not the candidate); and #2 -- SHUT the fuck UP while I'm trying to eat lunch.

Look, I get eighteen fucking minutes for lunch.  Eighteen.  By the time I get students out of my room and get to the lunch room, I have maybe fifteen total minutes to scarf down my lunch.  You think I want to talk about Trump's hair?  Hilary's Benghazi record?  Socialism?  Canadians masquerading as Americans?  Foot-stamping, tantrum-tossing toddlers on the national stage? 

You think these assholes make me feel proud to be an American?

It's a fucking embarrassment right now.  My tolerance level is in my throat twenty-four/seven.  You pull that shit while I'm eating lunch, I'm going to barf it back all over everybody, which is what I sort of did today.

For the love of all things sane, I HAVE MINUTES FOR LUNCH, MERE MINUTES.  Stop talking about the election.  Please, for the love of god and country, just STOP.

La-la-la-la ... Happy thoughts.  Deep breaths.   Think about the calming waves at my favorite beach.  Eye on the prize ... late November, when it will all be over... and we can all be AMERICANS again.

ONE FOR THE MONEY

I'm a Stephanie Plum addict.  I am twenty-two books into her fascinating life as a bumbling Trenton, New Jersey, lingerie salesgirl turned bounty hunter.  And to think it's all because my cyber-friend Mary sent me the first Plum novel years ago, One For the Money.  Since then, I have gotten my hands on every single one of the Plum novels, written by the inimitable Janet Evanovich, and I have the complete set on my book shelves.  No, by the way, I don't lend them out.  Nice try, though.

I am having a semi-poopy day at work and beyond -- then I come home to chill-ax for a while.  Sure, I could be correcting papers.  I could also be beating myself in the forehead with a brick.  The feeling and end result would be the same -- coma.  I decide to check what's on television tonight, not that it really matters; Wicked Tuna is on tonight at nine o'clock, and nothing interferes with the tuna guys.

Imagine my joy when I see that at six o'clock Lifetime channel is showing one of my favorite movies, One For the Money, based on the Plum novel.  I'm not a Katherine Heigl fan, to be completely honest, and she's no Stephanie Plum, but she's passable.  Jason O'Mara, the Irish boy, covers his accent well but still, he's no Joe Morelli, and Daniel Sunjata is handsome enough but cannot fill the shoes of Ranger.  On the other hand, the supporting cast is amazing: Debbie Reynolds, John Leguizamo, Sherri Shepherd, Fisher Stevens...

The dialogue is spot-on, and the set and location shoots totally kick ass.  I only wish the movie had done better so perhaps there'd be another movie, and another...  As for Lifetime, they stop for a commercial right in the middle of the climax of the movie.  Seriously, who does that?  Idiots.  I'm surrounded by amateurs, for chrissakes.

Oh, well.  All's well that ends well, right?  Besides, I have a new Evanovich heroine, a character she and author Lee Goldberg crafted, FBI agent Kate O'Hare, and her con man sidekick Nicholas Fox isn't too shabby himself.  Now, if only they'd make a movie on those books, I could be and would be very happy, indeed.  In the meantime, though, back to watch the rest of the movie.  Go get 'em, Stephanie Plum. 

SALUD!

I've been to Mexico and Martha's Vineyard this weekend with a trip around the world in between. 

Friday afternoon starts with a trip to Casa Blanca for a beer or two.  Saturday consists of two wine tastings with wines from Napa to Sicily and beyond.  Somewhere in the middle of all this, I manage to get my hands on beer from Martha's Vineyard, as well.

It may not be a trip worthy of my passport, but it certainly pleases my palate.  Salud!

RISKING THE WRATH OF THE SEASON

You can blame me.  Yup, I'm cursing us all.  When winter hits with a vengeance, point your fingers at me because I can take it.

Today I intend to move the patio furniture back outside.

Not all of it, mind you.  It's still too windy for the lightweight chairs.  I mean, it is March, after all.  And I might hesitate on the zero-gravity chair since it still looks brand new.  The round metal table, though?  It's time.

So, when it snows a mighty blizzard next week or the week after, when Mother Nature takes a giant white dump all over eastern Massachusetts this spring, I am responsible.  

 I risk the wrath of the season.  I chuckle in the face of storms. I dare to put out my patio furniture. 

Blame me.

POWER WHEELS AND DUMBASSES

I have a disturbing dream this morning.

The star of my dream is a private-eye type detective.  Somehow she needs to get an entire family into a car and race to a dinner for which they are extremely late.  Two problems: the car is a Power Wheels car, so who knows how the family will fit; the Power Wheels car is stuck in the mud.  In all this, Detective Girl gets mud all over her expensive shoes.

I'm sure some psychology major reading this is gleefully rubbing his or her mitts together, preparing to psychoanalyze me into oblivion, especially when I say that I wake up with a massive headache.

What does it all mean? Am I stuck in a rut?  Am I unable to make time/room for my own family?  Have I stepped into some deep pooh without realizing it?  Did I have something funky to eat before bed last night?  Am I having a brain aneurysm?  Any one of these is a distinct possibility.

Usually I can gauge how long my dreams are: fifteen minutes, an hour, three minutes, three hours...  I can tell because I often wake up and glance at the clock.  It's also a little sucky because I'm one of those people who can fall into a REM sleep instantly, even sitting in a kitchen chair.  According to the wide and wonderful Internet, instant REM sleep is a disorder that proves something is seriously wrong with me.  However, also according to the Internet, there are millions of us who experience this same sleep pattern.

This begs the question: Are those of us who fall into instant REM sleep the ones who are abnormal, or are the abnormal ones the people sleep-tested to prove "normal" sleep patterns have REM happening later in the sleep cycle?

Truly, though, my sleep patterns aren't the most disturbing part of all of this.  I have to be honest --  Hours later I am still morbidly fascinated by the vivid imagery of my mud-filled dream.  I mean, really, come on already.  Who the hell thinks their entire family is going to fit into a Power Wheels car?

Dumbasses.

IT'S THURSDAY, FRIDAY ... OR FRIDAY, THURSDAY

Off and on all day Thursday I keep thinking it's Friday.

First, I start packing up my files to bring home and correct over the weekend.  I do this three times over the course of the day, each time catching myself to remind myself that it's not Friday yet.

I post the homework on my website daily, and, when adding the day's entry, I see that I posted Wednesday's work but not Thursday's work.  Oh no!  I panic.  I know there are students and parents who will be mad that I forgot to post ...  Wait.  I didn't forget to post.  It's not Friday; it's only Thursday.  I need to post Thursday's homework today.

A little while later, I remember that I need some work copied for Monday.  Mentally making a checklist, I plan my attack on the copy room and figure out how to get everything done.  I don't want to have to stay late on a Friday afternoon, but ... but ... Wait.  It's not Friday; it's only Thursday.  I have Friday to make copies.

The fact that it is only Thursday and not Friday hits me several more times during the day.  I'm like the aquarium fish who gets surprised every time I swim by the castle.  Castle?  There's a castle in my world?  This is exactly how I feel: It's Thursday?  There's a Thursday in my world?

Despite all the agita Thursday causes me this week, there is a silver lining: I may be writing this blog entry on Thursday, but I'll be posting this blog entry on Friday.  It really is Friday, after all.  I made it!  We all made it.

Off and on today, I will keep reminding myself that it's Friday, for real. 

PRIMARY LESSONS

It is my kid's first time to vote -
I hope to teach him well
But all the choices suck out loud.
Country's going to hell.

Our choices for the Democrats:
A socialist hippy goat
Or a lying murderess,
Who should be in a moat.

As if the GOP is grand:
Some stooges and a Trump,
There's also a Canadian
We really ought to dump.

It's almost an embarrassment
To teach my kid the ropes
When all the choices leave no choice
But to dash our dreams and hopes.

The lines are short, such a relief,
No way they're worth our time.
But still he votes and then he sends
His ballot after mine.

Such a shame the choices suck --
My guidance misses its mark
Except avoiding traffic:
I teach him where to park.

WHOOSHING TSUNAMI

The student bathrooms at school have no doors.  The stalls have doors, but the bathrooms do not.  The bathrooms are connected, as well, so boys and girls can actually see into and walk into each others' restrooms (accidentally and/or on purpose). 

The acoustics are great, too.  When the kids tinkle, it sounds like a storm in the rain forest.  Don't even stand within earshot if someone farts -- it's like an atomic explosion echoing through the hallway.  The hand dryers sound like jumbo jets taking off at Logan.  Sometimes we direct make-believe airplanes with our arms, trying to communicate with our in-class students but accomplishing nothing short of being on the runway with dual flashlights while waiting for the blasting noise to cease.

How do I know this?  My classroom is directly across the hall from the student restrooms in my corridor.  This is how I know.

Usually for lunch I wander down the hall to the teachers' planning room and eat lunch with my grade-level team.  Today, though, I have so very much to do, so I sit at my desk trying to work.  I say "trying to work" because all I can hear is a low level whooooooooshing sound.  I figure it must be a hand dryer and dismiss it as mildly annoying.

Whoooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooosh.

Son of a ... I look at the clock.  The seventh graders are all at lunch.  It's either an eighth grader, or it's one of the kids with sensory issues who perhaps likes the warm air from the dryers.  Yup, I've been known to step into the girls' room and warm my chilly hands there, as well.

Whooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooosh.

Okay, now I'm getting pissed off.  The sound has been going continuously for about three minutes.  The whole reason I am eating at my desk is to have some peace and get some quiet work done.  I shove my chair away from my desk and march over to the bathrooms.  Since I can easily see the dryers in both the boys' and girls' rooms from the hallway, I will yell to the student to cut that bad shit out right this damn second.  Not in those exact words, of course.

Alas, there is no one at the dryers.  As a matter of fact, the dryers aren't making any sound at all, but still the whooooshing noise continues, and it is most definitely coming from the girls' room.  I nudge my head around the corner and suddenly see...

TSUNAMI! 

Holy shit, it's a damn tidal wave of water.  There's so much water that the floor drain cannot keep up with it.  Considering that the contractors clogged this drain 90% of the way with cement, this fact doesn't surprise me.  What does surprise me, however, is that within a few short seconds, the tsunami will be in the hall, and, if it reaches the hall, it will come across into my room.

I madly dial the office.  Thank goodness it's not a real emergency because nobody answers the phone.  I hang up after about twenty-five rings and try the alternate number.  In the meantime, I hear the office paging the custodial staff.  Finally, when someone answers, I am told the problem has been reported and help is on the way.

Without warning, I hear the sound stop all on its own.  It is strangely quiet except for the gurgling of the water creeping toward me over the tile flooring.  Help does indeed arrive and asks me which toilet overflowed.  "Girls' room," I say.  No.  Which TOILET?

Toilet?  Dude, I am not going in there.  It's a fucking TSUNAMI! 

Minutes later, the flood is mopped up and one stall is marked off with forensic yellow tape.  Soon after that, my students arrive for the next class.  I have not eaten my (eighteen-minute) lunch, but disaster seems to have been averted.  I go back to minding my own business when one of the boys runs up to my desk.

"Can I go to the bathroom before class starts?" he asks.

I doubt it, I respond.

He thinks for a moment then tries again.  "MAY I go to the bathroom?"

I don't know, kid.  Can you swim?

Just another day in middle school when a whooshing tsunami is the norm.  Gotta love it.

MONDAY, MONDAY (ON A TUESDAY)

(Okay, so I know it's Tuesday and all, but I'm writing this on Monday, so bear with me.)

[Everybody sing along...]

Monday, Monday -- Temp hits record high.
Lovely weather, but who knows?  I'm stuck here inside.

Oh, Monday morning - Monday morning when I drank some tea,
But by Monday evening life had crapped a big one on me.

Monday funday? Such a sucky lie.
Monday meetings make me poke myself in the eye.

Oh, Monday morning, you gave me no warning of what's in email.
Oh, Monday, Monday, you're one big clusterfuck of a fail.

Every other day .... every other day of the week is --
NOT Monday!  SCORE!
But whenever Monday comes (whenever Monday comes)
I'm in a meeting trying not to snore.

Monday, Monday -- You're such a pain.
When I leave work all that sun turns right into rain.
But Monday, Monday was never intended for the meek.
Cuz Monday is just one day closer to the end of the week.

Every other day ... every other day of the week is --
Time just to swear.
But whenever Monday comes I keep thinking,
"It's noontime .... somewhere..."

Monday, Monday -- Gotta find my blender.
Monday, Monday -- Going on a bender.
Monday, Monday -- Can't stand that day.
Monday, Monday -- Just go away.
Screw, Monday, Monday...

[Fade out ... with any luck at all.]