FROZEN FRUIT BALL

Note to Self:

If you want to smash up frozen fruit so it's not all in a clump, there are several ways to accomplish this.

1.  Let the bag with the giant frozen fruit ball defrost.

2.  Pack the frozen fruit in smaller baggies to begin with, like snack-sized baggies.

3.  Throw the entire bag against the tile floor and watch the frozen fruit ball break into manageable chunks.

Here's what you should NOT do:

1.  Attempt to break apart frozen fruit ball by hand.

2.  Smash the entire frozen fruit ball with a wooden kitchen implement, regardless of how sturdy said kitchen utensil may appear.  (Newsflash: Kitchen utensil is not really that sturdy.)

ONE MORE DAY

(Boston, January 1)

I have one more day to finish all the shit
I wished accomplish in 2016.
Yeah, like that's going to happen.
Not.
My cellar is three-quarters done
(Which is better than it has been in years).
I am only two months behind in
Reading my magazines.
I didn't wrap up any professional writing,
But I wrote my blog every damn day.
I didn't get to visit my siblings, though I did
Randomly manage to see them all this summer.
I didn't get through my sewing repair pile, but
I did get rid of a bunch of crap to local donation boxes.
On the other hand, though,
I did take my first airplane ride
(And my second, third, fourth...).
I became a grandmother
(Retaining my beauty and youth, of course).
I unexpectedly got out of the country on an
Impromptu trip to Montreal.
I beat the crap out of cancer when
It attached itself to my face.
I let my hair color grow out because
Gray is easier to manage.
I have a few more things on my 2016
Bucket list that might get done.
If not, it's really
No big deal.
Maybe I'll add them to my 2017 list.
I have one more day to wrap up the old and
Prep for the new.
This is why I don't make resolutions --
I make a list of suggestions.
That way, if something important comes up
(Like visiting the grandchild or partying in Canada),
All I have to do is make room on the list.
Broken resolutions are failures;
List edits and additions are progress.
One more day for 2016 wishes;
The rest of my life for spontaneous adventures.
Sounds like a reasonable trade-off to me.

STEP. OUT. SIDE.

(Is it just me, or is this model slightly suggestive?)

Here we go again - Time to trash the weather people again.

Look, I know we are due for a major storm of some kind, be it rain or snow or both, but come on already.  Our ancestors accurately predicted incoming weather based on the behavior of local woods animals.  We still do it -- fat squirrels means hard winter; moths inside the house in the middle of December means warm winter; birds that cease chirping before a summer storm means bad electrical event approaching; and if all the animals, including house pets, suddenly run for the hills, there's about to be an earthquake.

These days the modern meteorologists have computers that spit multiple models out and make spaghettification models that track a multitude of possible paths for the storm.  The forecasting should be flawless.  Still, though, leading right up and into the start of each passing storm, these modern weather specialists still don't know shit.

"It'll be mostly rain.  Unless, of course, the cold air comes in, then it might be snow.  Near the coast it will be too warm to snow.  Unless, of course, it gets cold, then it might snow.  Inland it will snow.  Sometime.  For a while.  Accumulating anywhere from an inch to a foot.  You call it.  I'm done.  This job sucks."

The weather guy just said on television that the computer models have no idea on this storm...

Listen carefully, people. Step.  Out.  Side.  Look.  Listen.  What do you see?  What do you hear?  If the pheasants are firmly on a tree branch, it's safe to say it's time to batten the hatches.

MAINE TAKES AN EARLY SPRING BREAK

What in life is better than a warm, sunny day in the throes of New England winter?  Having that same day off from work, that's what is better.  Better than that (best, even) is when my sister also has the same warm, sunny day off from work.

My sister lives in southern Maine, a little over an hour's drive from my house.  I've spent longer time sitting in traffic trying to get out of Boston on a weekday afternoon.  I spent twice as long trying to get home from work eight miles away during a major snow storm a few years ago.  She lives close enough to make it a day trip, yet far enough away that overnight stays are not out of the question.

Today it's a day trip, and the day starts out a little iffy.  Overnight the entire region is gripped by freezing rain, but the temperature is supposed to climb quickly, and the weather is supposed to pass.  At 7:00 a.m., the Boston area is warm enough for rain, but Maine is still getting sleet.  I might have to cancel my trip.

My sister and I decide to wait out both the storm and the meteorologists, some of whom like to wreak havoc with their forecasts.  "It's raining ... we're all gonna die!  It's sunny ... we're all gonna die!"  It's like watching Ollie Williams, the weatherman from Family Guy.  In addition to this terrible, awful, deadly, catastrophic sleet (that has pretty much ended by the time the morning meteorologists are screaming bloody murder about it), the television is already warning us of the horrid, deadly, evil nor'easter snow due on Thursday that, from all the research I do on my own, sounds like a mix of rain and snow with about three inches of white stuff somewhere in between whatever hideous crap will come out of the clouds in the sky.

This morning I head out a half an hour later than my original plan to give myself that "just in case" time, but the temperature is already 54 degrees when I leave my house at 8:30 a.m.  By the time I've crossed the Maine bridge over the Piscataqua River, blue skies are pushing the gray clouds south, and Maine looks every bit like its touted "vacationland" moniker.

Between the two of us, my sister and I have always had a competitive rivalry when it comes to games.  She usually kicks my ass in Cribbage and all card games, I tend to kick hers in word games, and we pretty much draw on Yahtzee.  We're not just about playing games, though.  We are also trying to be on health kicks (I say this as I polish off a small bag of M&M's).  We decide that it's a perfect day to get outside.

Getting "outside" in the woods of Maine can often be a dangerous adventure.  Hunters roam the woods, and it is easy to be mistaken for random targets.  We consider snowshoeing, complete with orange hats, but the warm temperature means that even though there is still snow, the streams will not be frozen.  We might not be able to complete the circuit.  Walking through the trails in hiking boots might not be wise, either, as much of the trail will be packed ice sitting on top of muddy base.

So, we opt for a hike toward the nearby store.  This route takes us the opposite direction than we usually go, which is past the golf course and up to the berry farm.  This one takes us past the boat-building school, along the cow farm, and over the Kennebunk River.  By the time we get ourselves going, the wind shifts, and it is starting to get briskly cool.  We don't make it all the way to the small store, but we do make it to the bridge over the river before the biting wind turns us back.  We end up completing 1.11 miles exactly.

Once we are back to her street, the sun is still shining and the tall trees protect us from the breezes, reminding us what a glorious, warm, spring-like day it is.  Hard to believe that in less than two days, we will be back at shoveling and moving more plowable snow.

I know, I know: winter just officially started seven days ago.  Relax.  It's difficult, though, to get back into storm mode again so soon after such a fabulous, fifty-plus degree, blue-sky packed day.  Or, maybe it will just be tough to go back to work on such a day in the future.  That could be it, as well.

MALL AFTER CHRISTMAS

A trip to the mall is in order on the day after Christmas.  This is not because it's Boxing Day nor is it because I'm a masochist; this is because one of the stores left a security tag on a gift that my daughter bought for my son. 

My daughter and I wait until dinnertime, hoping that the mall traffic has thinned out, but we are wrong.  The entire Merrimack Valley has come from north, east, south, and west to converge on Salem, NH, and tax-free, post-Christmas bargains.  The lines of cars weaving in and out of the strip malls lining route 28 create gridlock.

The mall is no better.  I direct my daughter (she is driving) to the far end of the mall, down near the faltering Sears store that has already lost its second floor to Dick's Sporting Goods.  The doors at this end open only to Sears, and, since people don't flock to Sears that much anymore, there are often rogue spaces up for grabs.

We score a second row space, better field position than any ordinary shopping day, then head inside with our grand plans of hitting several stores.  Once we are inside, it is obvious that this will not be the case.  We are going to get in, go to the two stores on our "must do" list, and get out, hopefully with our skins intact.

The place is mobbed.  People are in every nook, cranny, alley, and egress.  It looks like two nearby cities plucked citizens from their curbs and puked them back inside the already overstuffed mall.  We swim-walk against the current of humans like salmon traveling upstream.  We see strange sights (workers' and customers' patience right now are at strenuous levels, and people are moving remarkably slowly), and we listen to the cacophony of multiple conversations flying through the air.

We do survive, barely, and a bidding war ensues for our parking space once we abandon it.  Life is good!  The mall is soon behind us, and we get into traffic and onto the highway in good order thanks to our Sears parking strategy -- easy exit to the roadway rather than through the inner-mall demolition derby.

Merry Day After Christmas; Happy Boxing Day; Celebrate Stay Away from the Mall Day.

OREO MARLEY ZOMBIE

I'm not normal.  This I know.  It is also not news to those who know me well.  I am not normal, and I am apparently a very sick and twisted person.

Let me present the following evidence for your perusal.

A woman at work, a lovely woman who also happened to be my Secret Santa person, is always leaving treats and such in our teacher lunchroom.  She is a pretty decent baker.  Imagine all of our surprise when she delivers to us Oreo truffles. She makes them with regular Oreo cookies and with mint Oreo cookies, and then the treats are dipped in chocolate and presented to us much like offerings to the gods.

Everyone at work takes the Oreo truffles and eats them.  They're like bonbons, and no one seems to notice anything peculiar.  No one, of course, except me.  Why me?  Because I am not normal.

I look at the truffles and notice that some of them have faces.  Yes, faces.  The damn things are looking at me.  One in particular looks remarkably like Munch's Scream.  Having just read Dickens and watched the 1984 movie version of A Christmas Carol with the entire seventh grade, I pick up one of the Oreo truffles and announce to my lunchroom cohorts:

"Look!  It's Marley!"  (Marley, the ghost who unties the wrap around his head so his cadaver mouth can fall open.)

Never having seen The Walking Dead on television but knowing full-well what it's about and what I must do next, I suspect you all know where I'm going with this, and you're damn straight I run to get my cell phone to document the entire thing because ... because ... well, because I'm not normal.

So here it is, folks, my photo-documentary of how I turn an innocent Oreo truffle into dead Jacob Marley then transform him into the zombie apocalypse. 

You're welcome!

P.S.  Oreo Marley Zombie is delicious!

CHRISTMAS BLESSINGS TO ALL

To all:

May the joy of the season bless you and your family and friends.

CHRISTMAS EVE WITH ROGER GOODELL

T'was the night before Christmas
And all through Pat's Nation
The fan base was cheering
Old Goodell's damnation.

Deflated balls hung
From the rafters with care
After just finding out
Coach Bowles won't be there.

So who from the sidelines
Will have lies to sell?
What a surprise!
That asshole Goodell.

Out on the field
There arose such a bleating
I suspect that I heard
Roger get an ass-beating.

The temper, the tantrums,
The lies and the threats --
Piss the Pats off
So they stomp on the Jets.

But I heard him exclaim
Though his title won't fit:
"Merry Christmas - NOT Pats!"
He's full of bullshit.

LINGERING CONSTANT COMMENT

Ass dragging.

That's my new Olympic sport, and I am damn good at it.  These last few days before holiday break have been horrendous.  Truly, I am running just as fast as I can, but my ass drags behind me, caught in a never-ending cycle.

I make the mistake of sitting down.  One second later, I'm out cold, struggling to figure out where I am, when I am, why I am. No amount of tea or caffeine is going to help me: my body has smacked into the wall and isn't mending until I get a good sleep or two ... or three. 

I try to pump myself up, just the same.  My co-worker and I make tea during our planning block, pretending that it's making a difference.  I don't believe that it is, but even the illusion of control is worth a try, so we pour ourselves some boiled water, drop in our tea bags and ...

Well, like I said, nothing is going to help us now that we are beyond "tired."  I am still exhausted, but now I have the lingering flavor of Constant Comment on my tongue.

YOU STARTED THIS, WINTER.

On the first day of winter, it is seasonably warm enough that my sweatshirt and jacket feel too heavy.  I don't mind.  With the exception of a few hours last Sunday, the weather has been dry and frigid, which means all of my fingers and toes are screaming in pain no matter how much lotion I put on them.

It doesn't help that the staff finally fixed the heat at our relatively new school.  Apparently it has not been on since the doors opened.  Well, it has trickled through on occasion, but most rooms' valves had never been turned on.  Yup, and we paid the contractors.  Imagine that.

Anyway, Thursday is the day to wear our crazy holiday clothes and ugly Christmas sweaters to work.  I think I'll opt for a Charlie Brown Christmas t-shirt.  I already fluctuate between hot and cold internally, anyway; no need for the school to kill me, as well.

I don't mind cold spells as long as they snap pretty quickly, so, please, Old Man Winter, have some mercy on us.  We are still recovering from two years ago when the year's snowfall was something like 800 feet (obvious exaggeration for those unable to detect obvious exaggeration)! 

Okay, Winter, bring it.  But just remember, as of today, YOU started this!

GOOD ADVICE THIS TIME OF YEAR

Trying to do that Christmas sprint
Running the New Hampshire border
Saying words not fit to print
Getting gifts and all in order
Urging all the kids to hush
Run in circles like a bunny
Tired from holiday rush
Tired spending all the money
Just to get through one whole day
Even though it goes too fast
Join the crowd - the only way
For the holiday to last
Nasty patterns for my sleep
Keep my mouth shut, don't get fired
Traditions that we can keep
Even though I'm way past tired
Running! End line is in sight
I can hear the people cheer
On this glorious Christmas night
Let's start early for next year

SUMMONING HOLIDAY PATIENCE

Much as I try, I cannot seem to summon any holiday patience. 

I have an appointment at 1:00, so I arrive Sunday at the automated parcel postage machine with twenty-five minutes to spare to be on time for my appointment.  No problem.  I am next in line behind an elderly woman and her husband.  This is until I realize that she cannot make her card work and has to keep restarting the whole process.  I can almost wait, really I can, until she starts taking packages out of a bag.  The stream of packages seems never-ending, like Mary Poppins pulling lamps and furniture out of her tiny carpetbag.

The woman behind me tries to help the woman in front of me.  Finally, I step in, press the buttons, run her card, and move her along.  I am now ten minutes late to my appointment.  Worst of all, I don't even need to print the postage; I just need to verify the weight -- a simple, twenty seconds worth of time that takes me over a half hour as "next in line."

Monday comes shopping.  I hate shopping to start with, but couple it with the holiday season, and I am easily in rage mode when at stores.  I need to make six stops on a late Monday afternoon.  Stop #1 -- no line; no problem.  Stop #2, a line (not too awful), but I grin and bear it.  Stop #3 -- ridiculous line, three cashiers, huge search for gift cards. 

The lines I can take.  Not having gift cards or gift card envelopes, though -- That's just horrible store management.  Stop #4 not only requires me to beg for an envelope, I have to beg for a small bag, as well.  Stop #6 (I know I skipped one -- hang with me) doesn't have holiday gift cards nor envelopes, and I have to buy a non-holiday themed card (still no envelopes) and beg for a bag, as well.  What is it with people bogarting their damn plastic bags?

Stop #5 is deja vu.  I am in a line, not a terribly long line, and I keep looking at the one person manning the counter.  He is dealing with a customer, a tall man about my age, and they are holding an animated conversation.  Then, the sales clerk's telephone gets involved.  As time ticks away, I notice people leaving the line.  The woman behind me asks how long this one customer has been at it.  "Fifteen minutes so far," I respond, "but he was here before I got in line, so maybe longer."  People in line are fidgeting uncomfortably, rolling their eyes, sighing, looking around, sending eye daggers to the clerk and the customer.  I feel like Ralphie waiting to tell Santa he wants a Red Ryder BB gun.

I bail at the eighteen minute mark.  I have so many more important things to do with my life, and this certainly is not one of them.  I don't know what kind of problem the customer has that requires phone calls when we are all standing in line at a gift card kiosk.  Either you have the card, or you don't; either you have payment, or you don't. 

This is not frigging rocket science -- it's Christmas.  At least, it's supposed to be.

My children will be proud of me.  I didn't create a scene, but I did tell the woman behind me that I guess these  particular gift cards will not be under my tree.  Not my loss.  Not by a long shot.  I'd love to summon some holiday patience, but time is flying by, and I do not want to spend the entire season in rush-mode. 

So, people, Merry Christmas.  My gift to you is not blowing a head gasket while waiting in stupid, idiotic, unnecessary, futile, asinine, dumb-ass lines.

SNOWY DAY AND TMI

The first substantial snowfall of the season arrives today.  It starts during the night.  I notice it when I peek out of the blinds while half-awake.  I start opening shades upstairs so I can watch the snowfall while I fall asleep again after one of my nightly jaunts.

The first snow is always exciting, especially since it's a manageable amount,and it's light and fluffy.  This mean that shoveling is good exercise but not back-breakingly so.  Of course, I believe the temperature when my phone tells me that it's 18 degrees outside, but I know freezing rain is coming, so the temperature has to be rising slowly but surely.

I dress in all of my heavy gear: Snow pants, sweatshirt, scarf, hat, thick jacket, and big gloves.  Within minutes, the coat is hanging off the fence, and, despite the fact that it is still snowing and starting to change over, I am shoveling with my sweatshirt as my heaviest layer.  (Yes, I still have my pajamas on underneath it all.  God help me if I slip and have an accident requiring an ER visit because I'm braless, wearing an old lacrosse t-shirt, and still in flannel pj bottoms.)

I coerce the landlord's son to bring over the snowblower after I've gotten a little more than halfway through.  Any help is good help at this point, and together we make quick work of the end of the driveway -- he running the machine and I making piles of snow by shoveling it all away from the fence line.  Of course, both of us end up covered with snow when the chute fills the air with white crystals and they blow right back at us.

The shoveling and car cleaning only take about seventy minutes, which isn't bad considering several years ago when we got the record-breaking snow totals I was out every other day shoveling gargantuan amounts of snow for two to four hours.  Back then I had biceps of steel from the work-outs.  Today I know I'm working it because I have sweated right through all of my layers.  Honestly, there's nothing quite like ice cold boob sweat.

The best part, though, has to be the mockery.  Yes, my lawn ornament mocks me as I shovel.  A metal butterfly atop a glass orb, it protrudes from the snowbank like a reminder of the summer long-gone.  Its bright blues and yellows mock me as I pass by, moving more snow and shaking off errant snowflakes.  Right now, it's okay.  I can take it.  But, give me a few more storms, or dare to snow as much as it did a couple of years ago, and I might have to pry that lawn ornament out of the frozen ground and launch it into the snowy woods across the street.

Other than that, it's a lovely snowy day out.  If you don't mind, though, I think I'll shower and get dressed now.

ALL REDS, ALL DAY

After being out of the game for a few weeks with surgery, general malaise, and trips out of state, I finally hit the wine tasting circuit again this weekend.  There are four in total, but I only hit three.  Well, more like one and a bit and a bit.

This weekend it's all about the reds.  One tasting has two whites and then six reds -- nice combos of pinot, merlot, cab, and a blend.  The second tasting is two tables of all pinot noir and nothing but pinot noir.  The third tastings has two reds and a dessert wine. 

I end up pouring out more than I sip this week as I am still a little bit down for the count.  Also, after a while, all of the reds start to taste the same.  Could be because my palate is out of practice with the wines, or it could be because I don't know what the hell I'm talking about, anyway.  When a $60 wine tastes worse than a $40 wine which isn't nearly as delectable as the $13 wine, I know I'm an amateur.

True to form, though, I find several that I like but am determined to only recommend one.  So, I spin the options: $16 Bogle Phantom Red Blend (best label), $22 Muga Reserva Rioja (which I suspect I have already plugged here), or $20 Saint Cosme Cotes Du Rhone.

And the winner this week is ... the $20 (2015 vintage) French red, the Cotes Du Rhone!

This wine has a deep red color, a wonderful aroma of flowers, spices, and chocolate, and is dry and smooth.  It has no lingering after-taste and warrants a second sip after I've gone through the gamut of wines.  Besides, it will go well with both the Christmas Eve beef stew and the Christmas Day lasagna.

That's my pick of the week.  Don't ask me about the pinots -- they are all amazing today, but not a single one is coming home with me.  It's like puppies: if I can't have them all, I won't take any.  That's my story, and I'm sticking to it.

DINNER DIATRIBE

Apparently, I am on a cooking roll.  Yesterday's oatmeal blueberry muffins are a semi-success, so I decide to try something else.  My son, the one who still lives with me most of the time, coaches lacrosse, and he will occasionally bring home specialty versions of macaroni and cheese. I've mentioned this before because the stuff (Mr. Mac's?) is amazing.  Amaaaaaazing.

My son has a real fondness for the chicken bacon ranch mac and cheese, so I decide that I'm going to make a version of it.  I search online for a manageable recipe, one that won't take an hour or more to prep, and come across one that has both ranch dressing and alfredo sauce. 

Here's where I have to be completely honest.  Yesterday I claimed that my cooking never turns out the way everyone else's does.  Well ... this may be because I don't always follow the recipe to the letter.  Sometimes I do (baking is an exact chemical science -- one shouldn't putz around with baking powder if one expects perfect desserts).  I don't mind altering a stir fry recipe (it asks for water, I add wine; if it suggests broth, I add teriyaki sauce; if it recommends one onion, I use one and a half).

I get nervous if the recipe calls for an unusually tiny amount or  ridiculously excessive amount of anything, especially liquid ingredients.  For example, to prevent my broccoli cheddar soup from scorching, I always double the water content; to make better granola bars, I double the mini-chocolate chips from a half cup to a whole one; a perfect Mimosa requires less juice and more champagne.

I'm just saying.

So, I read through the recipe for chicken bacon ranch mac and cheese.  Seems simple enough, except it seems like an awful lot of alfredo sauce (1.5 jars).  It also calls for twelve ounces of shells, but the box is sixteen ounces.  I'm okay with the whole pepper and the whole onion, but there is no amount on the chicken.  No problem -- I buy a pre-roasted chicken freshly hot from the deli and pick all of the meat off of it.  That should work.

A pound of bacon means that I have to take it home, cook it, then crumble it all up.  I cheat.  I buy the real bacon bits in a bag.  Is my time worth an extra buck or two?  Damn straight.  I get it all mixed, knock off the extra half jar of alfredo, cover everything in extra mozzarella and cheddar cheese (and, of course, more bacon), and throw it into the oven.  The batch is huge, enough to feed us and the families who live on either side of us.  In fifteen minutes, I will pass or fail in the dinner race.

I am pleased to announce that we have success!  A perfect dinner!  I add some barbecue sauce to mine, and life is complete.  I'm still a bit of a Tasmanian devil in the kitchen, but somehow everything comes out right tonight.  Nothing gets set on fire, nothing burns, and nothing explodes except our bloated stomachs because not only is dinner delicious, it's damn addicting, too.

TASMANIAN DEVIL OF THE KITCHEN

Experimental cooking is my latest challenge.  I don't mean anything fancy.  I mean the plain old basic stuff that most people have no problem whatsoever baking, frying, braising, etc.

Let me give some background.

When I was a freshman in high school, everyone wanted to be my chemistry lab partner because no matter how carefully I followed the lab directions, something always blew up or caught fire in my lab group, courtesy of me.  This followed me into college when, as a grown up adult in my early thirties, I took a few courses to get back into the whole school gig. 

One of the courses I had to take?  Chemistry.

I have no problem mixing chemical compounds algebraically on paper.  Again, though, I became the scourge of the lab, the Typhoid Mary of Chemical Reactions.  The answer to the professor's question "What the hell is going on over there, Heliand?" was the inevitable and repetitive "Nuclear fusion, apparently."

My cooking is no different.  Oh, sure, I have some staples that get me through:  Toll House cookies, Oriental slaw, lasagna, beef stew, broccoli cheddar cheese soup, and an apple pie that is remarkably yummy.

My attempt to make oatmeal blueberry muffins should be relatively simple.  The recipe requires two egg whites.  I can do this, and, if I can't, I have an old plastic egg separator which is really only moderately accurate.  I take the eggs out of the fridge and let them sit for a few minutes while I assess my ability and confidence levels.

Can I do this?  I don't have many eggs, so if I screw this up, it could warrant a trip to the store.

I am brave.  I don't even bother with a knife edge - I go right for the side of the cup measure.  I crack the side of the first egg, pull it apart, and immediately turn my wrist upward, catching the yolk and a massive amount of white in the shell half while some of the white drools into the container.  Slowly and cautiously, I scoop the yolk into the other half of the shell, letting the white ooze out but not breaking any yellow.  Back and fourth, back and fourth, until --

Nothing in the shell but yolk.  Separated that first egg and then the second egg like an absolute boss. 

This all sounds great in theory until I decide that the paltry amount of blueberries required by the recipe will not yield me blueberry muffins worth eating, so I throw in double the amount.  I forget to allow for blueberry squishy-ness when baking, and I accidentally overcook the muffins just a touch, not worthy of disaster, but definitely a bit.

Doesn't matter.  I eat them.  I freeze some, but I eat the rest, that is.  A little butter and some milk on the side, and no one will ever suspect that I am the Tasmanian Devil of the kitchen.

MORNING MOONSCAPE

This morning's beautiful scenery brought to us by the moon.

I don't have an automatic starter in my car, so "warming the car up" means I have to freeze my ass off for about ninety seconds while I run outside, unlock the door, lean in, start the car, lock it back up, and run inside for a few last minutes of morning prep.

This isn't as horrible as it sounds.  Take this morning, for example.  The view?  Amazing.

The moon hangs in the sky, still luminous from its overnight perch, and the scene it creates is magnificent.  As a matter of fact, I have no words.  But, I do have pictures.  Before I leave for work, I snap a few with my cell phone.

Good thing, too.  By the time I pull into my parking space, dawn is creeping in and the moon has disappeared behind low trees.

HOLIDAY DASH AND PRACTICING TO BE NARCOLEPTIC

In the midst of the Holiday Dash, I have finally hit the wall.  My head hurts, my back aches, and I have been fighting off a fever for a week now.  Tylenol, you are my dearest friend, but tomorrow I might have to supplement you with iced coffee.

In the maelstrom that is my life at the moment, I just want to thank people.  My blog has had over 100,000 views/hits.  I vowed when that happened, that I would seriously pick up my side career as I now have something of substance to present to an agent and/or publisher (a blog of 100,000 views is pretty frigging impressive, if I do say so myself ... pat pat pat pat...).  Thank all of YOU!!!!  You are what keeps me typing.

In the meantime, though hating to disappoint you, the wall really took it out of me today.  Just sitting in the chair to type is making my spine feel like someone is twisting me in a torture device.  I am now going to eat every damn Tylenol I can find and hope that sleep is available at some point.  If not, I'll do what I did a few times today: catch myself closing my eyes while sitting at my desk during my planning period.  (This is bad as I have been know to fall dead asleep and whack my head on things like I am practicing to become a full-fledged narcoleptic.)

Anyway, back to the mad Holiday dash because I'm still about two hours away from sleep and it's already way past my bedtime.

ANIME-NIA

One of my classes is co-taught with a teacher who happens to have published books pertinent to our subject matter.  This means that I get to do zero heavy lifting since she already did the hard labor.  Our plan this week:  Steal her article and activities about Japanese anime.

Anime interests a lot of the kids (we can see its influence in their illustrations for stories and reports), so this lesson should be a no-brainer.  However, what if there are kiddos in our class who don't know what anime is?  It's entirely possible as they all have varied personal interests.

I try thinking about the anime with which I am familiar, and my mind starts flashing through the years. Aha!  I've got it:  Speed Racer!

Speed Racer was a Japanese anime import cartoon from the late 1960's, the first cartoon we ever realized that the dialogue didn't even remotely match the mouths of the characters.  Sometimes the characters were speaking, and their faces didn't move at all.  We start researching the show and come up with the first episode.  Perhaps we will show the students some clips of the cartoon on the largely-useless ENO board.

My co-teacher, the expert and author of the article, notes that Astro Boy was actually the first Japanese anime import, appearing in the states around 1963.  Back then, anime was ground-breaking and just a teeny bit disturbing, and, because that's how we sometimes feel in our jobs (ground-breaking and disturbed), we decide to do a little digging.

In no time at all, we have queued up the first episode of Astro Boy.  This will be our visual aid to get the class rolling on anime. If we have time, we'll play the theme song from Speed Racer, complete with the entire anime opening intro where he runs (without truly bending his knees, of course) across the tarmac.

It's going to be awesome, and, if we're lucky, we might even earn some cool points for growing up with something the kiddos thought they ushered into pop culture.

WEATHERING THE WEATHER

There's a small, satellite Stop'N'Shop grocery store near my house.  The thing about it is that the Stop'N'Shop doesn't realize that it's in business.  It thinks that it's a corner mom-and-pop operation.

This is both an advantage and a disadvantage

When I need to buy a few things and want to be in and out of the store in quick time, I head to Stop'N'Shop.  When I don't want to put on make-up, I head to Stop'N'Shop.  When I don't want to fight traffic, I head to Stop'N'Shop.

Snow is coming, though.  This is big.  This is horrifying.  People are incredibly worried that someone will  buy all the butter and eggs, so they're stockpiling like it's Doomsday.  Not a lot of snow, by the way; several inches with it getting slushy when it all turns to rain by midday.

This is how it happens every single time snow is mentioned. This is when the crazies are all out.

People descend on all the other, bigger grocery stores like the stores hold the last drops of water on earth.  I don't really need anything.  I have eggs, I have milk, and I have toilet paper.  I'll weather the weather just fine.  But, I want to make a new recipe for dinner, so I take a chance that the tiny Stop'N'Shop won't be too bad.

It is more crowded than I've ever seen it.  There are maybe forty people in the store, and I have to wait in a line behind two people with similarly small orders.

Oh, the humanity!

At first when this little satellite store opened, I thought it was a horrible waste.  Now I find it endearing, and I also find the whole situation highly entertaining.  I know damn well that the bigger store a few miles away is mobbed, there may even be fights breaking out over the last can of pet food on the shelf.

I don't care.  I'm home and carrying my groceries in (all in one trip) in less time than it would take me to find a parking space at the big-time store before a storm.

Why?  Because it's going to snow a teeny bit, and people who shouldn't live in New England are trying to grocery shop alongside those of us who should live here. 

PARTY PROBLEMS

It takes me over an hour to get ready for a holiday party today.

Why?

Because I discover that my several planned "festive" outfits do not fit anymore.  This is when I go to plan B to maybe wear pants and a nice shirt only to discover that the shirts I have that are not in my usual rotation (because they are "festive") are just short enough to make me look fat in my pants.

Then,  finally I find a dress, but my arm blubber shows, so I have to put on a shirt under it.  It's too cold for stockings so I opt for leggings.  Boots would be great, but when I add the boots to the look, I discover that I am channeling Zorro.  Somethings has to go -- the boots or the dress.

Well, since I have already systematically eliminated absolutely everything I own for clothing except this one outfit, apparently the boots are going, and I opt for high-heeled sandals that look a little gladiator and a lot dominatrix.

Add some sparkly earrings and a few essential pieces of jewelry (including a snowman pin) and I am ready to go.  It only takes me sixty minutes to dress myself.  On the bright side, though, I do plan to donate a whole pile of clothing to charity.

ARTSY-CRAFTY

For some inexplicable reason, I have the brilliant brainstorm to make something; something artsy and crafty, neither of which am I. 

After being at work and fighting off every infection the kids are passing around (another few bit the dust today and had to be sent home, and the entire staff is following suit), my usual Friday night involves sitting down at the table, playing a computer game, and waking up sometime later (like 7:30 in the evening) with my face plastered to the kitchen table cloth.

It's a sad existence, but someone has to live it.

Tonight, though, I decide to slowly make my way into a project.  The washer and dryer are necessary parts of this process, and when I remove the materials from the dryer, they look clean and well-shrunken as needed. 

Fabulous.  All I need to do now is iron.

This seems like a no-brainer except my materials are covered with thread.  If I iron now and pick the threads off later, I'll end up with wrinkles in my project materials.  So, I stop and pick the threads off.  Every time I think I have all of the errant threads, more pop up and ruin my evening, and, by ruining my evening, I mean that it takes me three times as long to iron than it would've if the materials had not been covered with errant threads.

Finally, everything is good to go.

I gather my stuff, get started, and actually make some decent progress.  When I get to a good stoppage point, I look at my pile of thread and realize that the straggly mess looks kind of like an animal or a lizard or a dragon.  It looks rather interesting.

Hey, apparently I AM  artsy and crafty, after all!

Ouch.  Wait.  On the heels of patting myself on the back, I accidentally stab myself with not one long sewing pin, not two or three long sewing pins; I accidentally catch my right hand four times in the course of seven minutes on large sewing pins, once so deeply that I swear it touches bone, blood gushing out almost immediately and threatening to ruin my artsy-crafty project.

I should be fine.  Only one more arduous step in the process then I'm finished.  Of course, it's super-late right now and I missed my early evening nap.  Rather than fade, I'll go pack up my artsy-crafty materials until tomorrow.

WHAT'S ON SALE?

Dear Kohl's:

Really?  Seriously?  It's the holiday season, for crimeney's sake.  Do you want me to spend money ... or not?  Throw me a damn bone, will you?

It has probably been a year since Kohl's sent me a 30% off coupon.  When they do, I routinely go in and spend a couple of hundred dollars on crap I don't really need -- suitcases, pants, earrings, gloves...  But, I spend money.

That's the whole point.  Spend.  Money.  Spend.  SPEND.

So, what's with the damn 20%?  I'm probably not even going to wander into the store for 20%.  Your prices are inflated to start with, and 20% probably won't even cover my car's gasoline expense to visit your store.

Look, it's Christmas.  It's Hanukkah.  It's Kwaanza.  It could be Merry-frigging-Sherlapone-Bumpkin Day.  Give everyone 30%.  Be like Oprah.  "You get a 30% coupon, and you get a 30% coupon.  Everybody gets a 30% coupon!"

No.  You have to insult me with your cheap-ass 20%.

Oh, well.  Sorry, folks.  Probably nothing from Kohl's under the tree this year.  Unless, of course, I run into a really, really good sale, in which case I just might be convinced to head in (with my 20% off coupon, of course).

COLD SHOULDER ... AND LEGS AND FACE AND TOES AND HANDS...

Turns out yesterday's bad day wasn't just me being a bitch (although that could easily have been the case).  I have been feeling like crap for a couple of days, and yesterday through last night and into this morning, I could not regulate my body temperature.

Well, that's not exactly true because even when taking my temperature, I register at an even 98.6 before leaving for (dragging my ass to) work.  My face is flushed and my eyes are burning -- both sure signs that I am sick.  Also, I am freezing all day -- Not a single hot flash, not even when I run down the hallway to make the ten copies I'm short for my last class.

(This is what I need!)

The weirdest thing, though, happens while I'm sleeping.  My body temperature drops so far that I awaken in the middle of the night absolutely freezing even though I'm in flannel sheets and under multiple blankets.  I am so cold that I have to shiver and warm myself up for about twenty minutes before I can even get out of bed to put on socks.

If I didn't know any better, I'd swear I am dead.  That's how cold my body is.

I sleep two more hours then drive my sorry excuse for humanity to work, feeling like shit and thankful that the girls' room is directly across the hall from my room in case I decide to hurl, which probably won't happen since I haven't eaten anything in more than twelve hours.  During the day, four more teachers come along and tell me how they feel funky, just not right -- headache, body aches, chills, upset stomach, but no fever.

I don't know what's wrong with us, but I do know that I'll be wearing flannel pj's and socks to bed tonight.  It may not cure what ails me, but hopefully I won't wake up as a zombie searching for my big slippers and winter jacket to get me through the final hours of sleep before work.

ONE OF "THOSE" DAYS

I'm having "one of those" days. 

The schedule has been altered, so my planning period has been sliced in half, and all of my classes are about 2/3 of what they usually are, maybe less.  There's no time to get anything done, and I'm running at break-neck speed all day long.

The end game is to have the entire school attend an hour's worth of the high school's performance of a musical.  This is an awesome thing for our students, and it's great to be able to use the performing arts center for something other than "big talks" with administration or magazine fundraiser presentations. 

But, the shortened schedule is killing me.  It's killing all of us.

By the time we get everyone settled into the big auditorium, I realize there isn't a nearby seat, so a few of us take our places either standing or finding random chairs to watch from the area near the exits at the back of the theater.  About seventy-five minutes in, I start to get antsy-in-the-pantsy and go stretch my legs in the main hallway outside the exit doors.

This is when I see some teachers from my school wandering around and enjoying free time (an hour and a half, to be exact) while the rest of us who did the mad rush are now supervising the performance.  I mean, seriously.  I'd looooooove to have ninety minutes to sit at my desk and start through the piles of correcting that need to be done.

I shouldn't begrudge them their free time, but, quite frankly, I absolutely do. Why do THEY get to work on their own planning and other backlog?  Shouldn't a "whole school" assembly mean that the "whole school" is expected to assemble?  Yup, that definitely smells like "begrudge" to me, and I'm oozing it right now. 

To be honest, I am so full of "begrudging" that I snap.  Literally.  I am trying to organize my plans for tomorrow, and I need to get into a box in one of my closets, but a stupid yardstick keeps falling on me from one of the upper shelves.  I put the yardstick back.  It falls again.  I put it on a different shelf.  It falls again.  Finally, I grab the yardstick, hold it high in the air, raise my right leg, and bring the yardstick down hard, snapping it in half over my knee until the wood is split into two extremely sharp pieces.

Damnit.  I guess I'm a little bit ... "begrudged."

I end up staying late at work - ninety minutes late, to be exact.  The same ninety minutes that ... well ... that some others decided to take for themselves.  I get to work in the dark, and now I'm leaving in the dark ten hours later, still with a huge pile of work to be done.  And the part that sucks is that when I need a yardstick, I won't have one anymore because I let  "one of those" days get the better of me.

MONDAY, MONDAY

When my school was remodeled two years ago, someone decided to ditch our SmartBoards (completely interactive for the students) in favor of ENO Boards (useless pieces of shit).  A SmartBoard is like a giant touch-screen computer for multiple people to use at once.  An ENO Board is a glorified overhead projector that one person can use at a time, and writing on it makes you look like you're trying to do calligraphy with sidewalk chalk.

However, the new school does have miraculous sound systems in every room.  Massively efficient speakers are built into the ceiling.  Sometimes when I'm the first one or last one to work, I crank the sound system until the ceiling tiles shake.

Of course, being thirty feet from the superintendent's office makes this a dangerous game of roulette, but I do it anyway.  Sometimes the teacher next to me cranks up her sound system, as well.  She leans more toward Frank Sinatra.  I have a more eclectic approach that depends upon my mood --  anything from Dropkick Murphys to Mendelssohn.  Honestly, I rock out to Shipping Up to Boston as easily as A Midsummer Night's Dream Overture. 

This morning I am grooving along to classic Christmas hits (Nat King Cole, Bing Crosby, etc.) and setting up my daily agenda on my mostly-ridiculous ENO Board when I hear something different.  Someone in the hallway near my room is blasting the Mamas and the Papas.

"Monday, Monday ... so good to me..."

I step into the hallway and notice the math teacher three rooms away is also peeking to see from where the music is coming.  It is definitely not the Sinatra fanatic between us.  We smile at each other from a reasonable distance and both shoot from opposite directions, turning into the musical hallway.

It's the science teacher!  We've never heard her play music in her room before, let alone so boldly.  Suddenly there's a Monday morning dance party happening in the science room.  We're dancing, we're lip-synching, and all before 7:30 in the morning on a dreaded Monday. 

The math teacher and I head back toward our respective rooms, boogeying out as if this is a planned part of our impromptu routine.  I head back to my holiday tunes and my finicky ENO Board, ready to start what may have been a crappy day, but, thanks to some Mamas and Papas, it has improved infinitely.

90,000 MILES

Driving my car, I realize it is going to hit the 90,000 mile mark sometime on my way home from Maine this weekend.  This is very exciting.  It also means that I need an oil change.

I have a bad habit of missing important events like this -- momentous occasions such as the odometer rolling over.  As soon as I start heading home from Maine, I try to remember to watch the dashboard, but I keep getting distracted by such nonessential things as merging on to the highway and changing lanes at 80 mph.

I have a cardboard air freshener in my car, so I take it off its hanging place and shove it on top of my dash.  With the big orange air freshener just in the bottom of my line of sight, I won't forget to watch the odometer change, or so I hope.

As I bop along, I start calculating that the rollover to 90k should happen somewhere around the toll booths in Maine before the I-95 bridge over the Piscataqua River.  As the number gets closer, I try to stay in a lane that allows me time to glance down without endangering myself or others.  I count seconds and figure my average speed, watching the numbers only when I'm certain they're about to change.  This strategy serves me well, until...

(Not my car -- I was driving)

... Until at 89,999 miles, I realize I am almost at the tolls. This throws off my second-counting as I have to adjust my speed, slower and slower and slower as the speed through the tolls, even with an EZ Pass, is 10 mph.  I also cannot trust my lane choice any longer as there are no lines, and cars fly from one side of the road to the other, jockeying for the fastest toll lane.

But, I'm watching.  Carefully, yes, but I am.  I am not going to miss this big rollover for my little car.

As soon as I roll into the booth, I look down.  Still 89,999.  I'm edging ever so slightly when the green light tells me I can speed back up again.  Green light means GO, and GO means glance down once more before careening through cars that are fighting to get ahead of the eighteen-wheelers in the far right lanes.

And there it is, right there at the toll, right there at the green light: 90,000 miles. Good job little car.  Good job, Dodge Caliber.  Good job, Heliand.

I toss the colorful cardboard air freshener off the dashboard.  No need for any distractions now as it is, indeed, smooth sailing all the way home.

PAPER PILE-UP

Sometimes I plan a day at work so that the students are completely engaged in learning, and I carve about thirty minutes out of each class to grade papers.  This doesn't happen often, but their book projects are almost done, and the pile of papers on my desk is now over a foot high (and teetering).  This computes to over 1,500 papers/pages that need to be corrected before their projects can be completely assembled.

It's my own fault.  I like making the kiddos work, and they seem to enjoy it, as well.

I go into work on Friday with high hopes.  If all goes as planned, I should be able to piece together about two hours of correcting and, if necessary, student conference time.  Yippeee!

First class comes in and notices two typos on their open-notes test.  Ooops.  Sorry!  I didn't want to give them the really difficult test, so I typed up a completely new one the other night and madly made copies.  Quick fix and they're back at it.

I look at the correcting.  Time to get started now that I've fixed the typos on the original copy of the test.

But, wait!  I need to create four classes to add to my Google Classroom account.  Plus, each account needs a specific theme, and it has to match their colored class bins (purple for A, blue for B...).  Oh, and don't forget to get the class codes to write on the board next week when the websites go live. 

All of a sudden, class is over.  In comes class #2.  After getting them started and having them all correct the mistakes on the test, they're off and running.  However, this is my "What do you mean by" class.  If I say, "Everyone stand up!", they look at me curiously and ask, "What do you mean by that?"  They question everything.  EVERYTHING. 

By the time I am done answering "What do you mean by 'all of the above'?" (It means ... all of the above) for the fifteenth time, I've had no time to start the correcting because I should probably have an activity for the students to do on Monday when they sign in to Google Classroom.  I start making a quick ten-point quiz for them to take when the class ends.  In comes class #3.

This is my class of meticulous workers.  I know at least five of them will not finish the open-notes test even if their classmates finish thirty minutes ahead of them.  I'm up, I'm down, I'm walking, I'm scanning, I'm reminding them of the time.  By the time I say, "You have two minutes left," I've only partially gotten through creating my ten-point quiz and still have not even touched the pile of correcting.  Seriously.  It's sitting not eighteen inches from my face, and I'm ignoring it as best as I can.

After lunch, class #4 files in.  They straggle, and we're missing some who dawdle at their lockers post-eating, or they're running to the bathroom because gawd forbid they pee on their time instead of mine.  Finally, we get settled and started.  After making sure they correct my typos, and after pointing out the corrections on the board, I still have one kiddo come up to me and say, "Number 45 doesn't have an answer."

"That's because YOU don't LISTEN."

Ooops.  Damnit.  Look, my failure to make any headway today isn't this child's fault.  I make a joke out of it as best as I can, but truly, I ... already ... covered ... this ... extensively ... fifteen ... minutes ... ago.

At the end of the day, Goggle classroom is set up, the quiz is done, and only six students failed to finish the open-notes test.  That's not too terrible.  I, however, did not touch the pile of must-do-today work.  I don't even bring any of it home.  I'll look at it again on Monday and see what I can do with it. 

Matches?  Recycle accident?  Robbery? 

Like the students, procrastination can often be the only answer.  At least I know some things never change -- my desk will still look exactly the same as it has for a week when I return to it.  There has to be some level of comfort in that.

ADVANCING THE DECK

My life is reasonably sad when I cannot even beat myself at cell-phone card games. Part of this is because I keep dozing off mid-game.

It's no secret that by the end of the week, my brain is toast.  It's hard enough to keep my eyes open without throwing computer games into the mix, but, for some strange reason, I decide to sit and play games on my phone rather than get to bed.

The end result is that I fall sleep (wherever I am) then open my eyes to discover two things:

1.  I have been playing games, not actually sleeping, so I'm in an awkward place (at the table, on the couch, at my desk, in a chair in the waiting area of the hair salon...) with my finger on the phone's screen;

2.  The finger that is still on the phone screen has been pressing down enough to make the cards advance without me even being aware that I am playing any kind of a game (because I am sleeping).

No wonder I cannot even beat myself at card games.  Apparently, my awake side will start a game while my snoozing side creates mayhem by holding down the "dealer" button, thus eliminating any chance of even remotely getting through the card game, let alone actually winning.

I'd love to write more, but I am obsessed with winning this game of Solitaire on my cell phone, and I keep nodding off and advancing the deck...

STARTING MY MUSICAL DAY

(Click on the links.)

My weekday alarm is set to 5:05 so that when I wake up in the morning, the first thing I see looks like a red, flashing SOS.  My clock-radio only gets two stations clearly and never at the same time.  For a few months, the local Spanish music station will come in clearly.  Then, for no known reason, I'll lose the signal and have to try and tune in the classical station out of Boston.

Currently, my clock-radio is in classical mode.  I never know if 5:05 will bring guitar, piano, or full-on symphony music, so this morning's fare wakes me with an air of familiarity.  What is that,  I keep thinking as I hesitate to turn off the sound.  I know this music.

The longer I listen, the more I am certain that I should be able to place this composition.  Finally, the finale of the piece arrives.   

Oh, of course I know this piece.  Everyone knows this piece.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YIbYCOiETx0
 
I bound out of bed and get right to my day, inspired by the music and its pace.  On my way to work, I attempt to listen to Christmas music on the car stereo, but, as is all too common in morning radio, there's way too much yapping by  disc jockeys and not enough actual music.

Again, I hit the old stand-by, my comfort classical station. I pull into the parking lot, ready to turn off the radio and get on with my day, when the music again speaks to me and tells me what kind of morning I am about to have. This is the exact same music my old cell phone used as a ring tone for when my kids' high school principal would call with some terrible problem, like one of my children got caught with spit balls: 


https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_4IRMYuE1hI

Now, if I only hear this one, my day will truly be complete.  After all, once I enter the doors of work, this will be the pace I keep until it's time to cut out for the evening.  Annnnnnnd.... I'm off!

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aYAJopwEYv8

MY BAD

This is why I love my job and also why I seriously wonder how come I still have a job at all --

(Student licks purple glue stick.)

ME:  (sharply)  Do NOT lick the glue sticks!

BOY:  (reasoning) I can if I want to.  It's MY glue stick.

ME: (reasoning back)  It's not food.

BOY:  (beaming) But it says that it's non-toxic!

ME:  (beaming back)  Just because it won't kill you, that doesn't mean it won't kill your brain cells.

(Momentary silence throughout the entire room)

BOY:  (triumphantly)  HA HA!  The joke's on you!  I don't have any brain cells!

ME:  (in my head)  No, sweetie, the joke's on YOU.

(GIRL sitting in desk near me looks at me with huge eyes and starts to laugh hysterically.)

ME:  (innocently)  Ooops.  Did I say that out loud?  My bad.