THIS CHRISTMAS ON FIRE

A good way to listen to holiday music is on one's phone, Pandora, Blue Tooth, stereo, radio, or computer. Another way is through the television. At my daughter's house on Christmas, the television is playing some interesting music -- from old-school to pop to rap. Along with the music there are charming winter scenes with enhanced lighting to make the pictures more festive as they roll across the TV screen.

Except the special effects don't really work.

Case in point: It's a lovely scene along a residential street. At first glance, the entire area is festive with lights and warmth. Upon closer look, though, it is clear that the entire neighborhood is on fire. FIRE!!!!!! It is a Christmas conflagration! Someone's overly-dry tree must've sparked up. No presents for you! Now the whole block is aflame.  Good job, folks, good job.

Then there is a scene straight out of a 1970's Irwin Allen disaster movie. "My gawd! The building is on FIRE! Run for the exits! Fireball! Hurry, hurry, hurry!"  It's a disaster movie just waiting to be filmed. Some idiot probably called Bruce Willis and said, "Die Hard is NOT a Christmas movie!" Then John McClane set fire to the high-rise, and now ... Christmas conflagration!

Merry Christmas, or, rather, Happy Boxing Day. Also, happy St. Stephen's Day. 

And remember, only YOU can prevent Christmas television scene fires.

WE'RE WAITING

Here it comes. Here comes the snow.

Hard to believe since it has been so warm. The last couple of days have been in the fifties and sixties, practically bikini weather around here. How can it snow when we are all boiling in our own skins?

Today at work we have Ugly Holiday Sweater day. It's a great plan. After all, it's December in New England. We should be freezing our patootskis off by now. Instead, I sweat so much in my wonderful holiday sweater, giving credence to the SWEAT part, that I want to shower as soon as I get home.

Instead, I tear off the sweater and opt for a lightweight fleece so I can walk to the Amazon delivery hub and pick up some packages. It's a short walk, but even the light fleece is too much. It is still warm out. 

This is when I see it.

It's not a true ring around the moon, but there is definitely a halo. Old Wives' Tale or not, this is an indication of rain or snow coming. There are some reports that half a foot of snow is coming. The ground, though, just isn't ready. Nothing has frozen properly yet.  

Come on, snow. Come on winter. Our sleds, snowshoes, skis, and skates are waiting, and so are we.

SELF-IMPOSED REGENERATION

 

Weeks of being sickly finally caught up with me yesterday.

 I woke up this morning to lights still on. 

Sneakers still on. 

Fleece still on. 

Street clothes still on.

I remember being tired and lying down on top of my bed.

That's it. 

I wake up hours,

And I do mean hours,

Later,

Feeling a little disoriented

(Because, hey, some of the lights are still on)

But sooooo good.

My cold seems to be finally gone.

I am not coughing up a lung.

I am not suffering residual post-booster lethargy.

But I have zero idea as to when I dozed off.

I was reading,

And then . . . 

I wasn't.

I got nothing done last night.

Nothing.

No Christmas gifts wrapped, 

No candles lit, 

No tree plugged in.

The shades are closed, so there is that.

I hate when my body rebels against me,

But I appreciate that it had the good sense to take itself to bed.

Well, the top of the bed, deep into the pile of pillows.

Here's to Christmas overdrive and general exhaustion!

Here's to autopilot regeneration!

May all of your bodies shut themselves down when you truly need it.

By the way, it isn't even the ass-crack of dawn yet.

Anyone up for a Christmas game?

Seriously, folks -- take care of yourselves.

Thirteen days to go.

TRULY BAD CHRISTMAS POETRY

'Twas the first week of Advent

And all through the place

I was making up lists

And prepping to race

From cyber to mall,

From website to store,

From wish-list to prayer.

I can't take any more!

The season just started -

I'm mentally done.

The stress and the pressure

Has sucked up the fun!

Honestly, Christmas

Is truly a blast.

I wish it were longer;

I wish it would last.

I'm not Ebenezer,

I'm not a Scrooge jerk --

This season would glow

If I just didn't work!

Oh, I'll pull it off,

If I do know me.

I'll make it through Christmas,

Just you wait and see.

I have my planned action;

I'm not being smug:

I'm drinking mimosas

From a Santa mug

And lighting the candles

In the Advent wreath,

Enjoying the tree

With presents beneath.

My head does exclaim

With a frightening heft:

Get your fat ass moving!

Three weeks are what's left!

THANKSGIVING - THAT'S A WRAP

 Thanksgiving was successful.

Nothing started on fire, nothing burned, no one was injured, no food landed on the floor, and everyone behaved at the table . . . even me, for a change.

I didn't cook this year, for the first time in a long time. I did some baking - blueberry corn muffins and some pumpkin butter - but, for the most part, I kept my hands off the cooking (which explains the incredible success). 

It was a little weird not performing the Mad Dance of the Side Dishes. Everything had been prepped and ready, so the most I had to do was measure the extreme height of the mashed potatoes as they overflowed the big bowl. Looking back on it now, I probably should've stolen more leftover mashed potatoes. Drat.

I lost spectacularly at Cribbage several times, and I think I was skunked at least twice. I mostly lost at Rummy. I picked the wrong dog during the National Dog Show. (Honestly, who would've thought the Tommy Chong of bulldogs would win its class after it practically fell off the podium and then wobbled sideways when it tried to walk?!)

I am almost ready to start the next season. Hanukkah is in transit, and I bought a small, pre-lit tree to replace the old one that needed to have lights strung on it. I still need at least one purple Advent candle and some candles for the windows, but, other than that, I think I'm in decent shape.

I thank the turkey. Without a perfect turkey (and lots of potatoes), I doubt I would be ready at all. Hence why I didn't cook this year. Thank you to my hosts. Next time, though, a little mercy at the Cribbage board might be nice, too. 

I'm just saying.

CRANBERRY SAUCE AND AMERICAN SOCIALISM - IT'S REAL

 I am getting tired of all these shortages. For chrissakes, we are supposed to be the least third-world of the modern countries, and yet it's like socialism just swooped right in and stole all of our toilet paper. And cars. And gifts. And food. And employees.

The car dealers have zero inventory, yet they keep lists of incoming vehicles (all ten or less of them) and post the list in the dealer windows with the words "SOLD" and the overprices that people are paying for vehicles they have not even seen.  

I was in the grocery store recently and turned down the paper goods aisle. There was zero toilet paper. Zero. Again, people? Apparently, the news must be causing all-y'all to have massive cases of diarrhea. How, honestly, just how can we be out of toilet paper again? What are your damages, anyway?

My sister texted me a week or so ago because she heard rumor that people could not locate any cans of jellied cranberry sauce. In the state where she lives, people were going nuts trying to locate the stuff, according to the media. I went down the street to a chain grocery, the same chain she buys from, and found hundreds of cans. I felt like buying it all so I could understand what these damn toilet paper hoarders feel like when they score a stash. Instead, I bought four cans.

Look, people. Get back to work. Get. Back. To. Work. 

Get to the docks and unload the ships. Get to the warehouses and move the merchandise. Get to the stores and stock the shelves. Fuuuuuuuuudge the vaccine. It doesn't work, anyway. People are still getting sick. Brandon himself has said Covid isn't going away, and we all know that when Brandon speaks, as when The Big Orange Blob spoke, it's the freaking voice of God. (I despise all politicians, by the way.)

Thank goodness I got the jellied cranberry sauce, but I still need TP for my bunghole and a vehicle to get to my job.  My job. That's right, because I have yet to miss a goddamned day of work for this virus, so get your own sad-asses back out there.

Now, watch me die of Covid before the next blog. I hate karma, but at least it can be served up with a good-sized portion of jellied cranberry sauce.

THIS VACCINE IS A FREAKING SCREAM

 Got my booster.

That was the easy part. The hard part was that I forgot kids are also getting the shot. I was in line with screaming children. Screaming. SCREAMING. In CVS.  Screaming bloody frikkin murder BEFORE they got the vaccine.

I am not certain that children under the age of 12 should be receiving the vaccine in public. It was horrifying. Bloodcurdlingly horrifying. 

And the parents. Holy crap, the parents. I am surprised the poor tech giving the shots hadn't stabbed himself in his own eyeballs by the time I left the pharmacy. One mom actually told her kid, "Oh, don't worry, sweetie. You don't have to do this today. We can come back another time..." 

What? What the ... WHAT?!?!

By all means, traumatize the kid further by making the kid have anxiety for another week or two. For chrissakes, roll up the kid's sleeve and say, "Shut up and stop this idiocy. You're embarrassing yourself and disturbing EVERYONE in the store. You think they all want to listen to YOU?"

I may be the meanest person in the world, but if your kid is going to screech like you're carving off a limb without medication over the painless Covid shot, by all means, take your kid to the PEDIATRICIAN.

Understand this: I am NOT blaming the kids. I screamed bloody murder at a very young age over the (live vaccine) measles shot until the doc told me he had already given it to me. Of course, then I got the measles and almost died, but that's another trust issue entirely. 

I just don't think it's sane to have everyone in the store, not to mention everyone in the vaccine line with people of any age, listen to anyone, especially a child, basically being terrorized by a stranger with a needle out in public.

By the way, I talked to the little girl in line behind me. That screaming child in front of us scared the living shit out of that poor girl, so I talked her through it and made sure she heard me when it was my turn. "Is that it? All done? I didn't even feel it." I even managed to convince the screamer to get back in line by making sure she heard me, too, and she only screamed a little at the second try -- but, by God, she got the damn shot.

After, while we compared bandaids, I did have one complaint. All the kids got stickers and lollipops. I didn't get any candy. When it was my time to leave after the fifteen-minute waiting period, I said goodbye to my new not-screaming friends. As I turned the corner, one of the girls said, "And SHE didn't even get a LOLLIPOP!"

I guess I should've screamed. Oh, well. Next time. I'm sure there will probably be another booster, right?

RANDOM THOUGHTS WHILE BEING HELD CAPTIVE IN MEETINGS

 A day of professional development meetings often leads to a wasted day of boredom. When the bosses show up in one of the sessions we are watching via Zoom, it means no fun, no work, and no laptops. Here are some excerpts from my random, handwritten musings.

• I am so bored.
• I am trained in every trick that has come down the pike since "I'm Okay, You're Okay"  (1967, by the way)
• I've had dental surgery that was less painful than this.
• (presenter starts coughing) Oh, you're choking . . . literally and figuratively.
• Please, dear God, make it stop. Make. It. Stop.
• I can feel my brain bleeding.
• My skull is floating around trying to escape from this presentation.
• I will continue to write until one of us passes out - My money is on the presenter.
• Please stop telling us what a great coach you are. If you have to say it, then you're not.
• Are you a Kennedy? Every other word is er, uhhh, huh, ummmm...
• For chrissakes, they're "students" not "kids". I don't teach goats.
• Another forty minutes? I'm totally going to DIE right here at this desk.
• She said "tool" and "unit" in the same sentence. 
• Send help.
• Send reinforcements.
• Send food.
• Send alcohol.
• Send chocolate.
• I cannot even imagine being a student in this woman's class.
• Duct tape. She needs duct tape. Across her mouth.
• I can't make it. I can't. I'm gonna lose it.
• Lord, won't you buy me a Mercedes Benz. My friends are all free from this Hell that never ends.
• Feeling 7-Up, I'm feeling 7-Up.
• The lights are growing dim, Otto.
• Please. Send. Help.

I DID A THING

I did it.

Yes, I finally did.

Oh, the fireplace doesn't count.

I've had that sucker on even during the summer.

No, I truly did it.

Okay, so I did it maybe five times, but only for fifteen minutes each.

Just a little.

Just enough to make a real difference.

Just enough to feel it all the way into my bones.

To be honest, I did it again a few seconds ago.

I don't care what you think.

There's suddenly a chill in the air, and it feels great.

Not inside, though.

It doesn't feel so wonderful when stepping out of the shower.

So, I did it.

Yup, I did the thing.

I cranked the heat, but only for a few times and only for a few minutes.

I also changed over to flannel sheets.

Winter's coming, folks.

Crank the furnace.

It's time.

AUTUMN IS A BUST

 This year's autumn colors are brought to you by It's a Bust Decorating Company.

July was so dang rainy that most of us up here in New England expected a much more vibrant batch of colors. The North Country did all right, as far as colors go. But, down here in the middle bend? 

Meh. That's all. Just . . . meh.

Our weather has been temperate, to say the least. All this week it was like summer all over again. The trees don't know what the heck to do anymore. A few of them started budding. The plants on my porch started flowering. 

Meanwhile, there may be one or two colorful trees among robust green ones, or there are trees that try to change color but just go right to the "Hey, I'm dead already" stage. As much as the deciduous trees are hanging on to their green leaves, many of the evergreens are losing their boughs as if they, too, are supposed to be deciduous. 

Oh, sure, here and there I might see a patch of colorful trees among the greenish ones, but, for the most part, any trees that had started to change have pretty much done it and dropped their leaves. The rest? That icky shade between army green and stomach bile.

Autumn has been a bust around here. It's too warm and it's too green. 

Now watch; just because I complained, winter is going to be fifty degrees below zero, howling winds, and ice storms to knock out the power all the time. 

In the meantime, send some color our way, some color other than baby-pooh green. Come on, autumn. You only have one shot at this. Make it count.

WAITING FOR GODOT AND FEDEX

 My gawd, FedEx. How can you even stay in business?

I have been waiting days for a package. DAYS. My computer died over a week ago (a well-deserved and well-earned death, I might add), so I ordered a Chromebook to get me through the dark days until I decide on a new desk top. Yeah, after my Ouija laptop at work, I'm not getting into any laptops here at the house.

I kept coming home to notes from FedEx to sign and they would leave my Chromebook outside at my apartment complex. That would be a big fat NO. Why can't you just deliver it to the secure package room, like normal delivery people? I am not home between 8:30 and 11:00 a.m. on weekdays! I am at WORK. Had I known what I was in for, I would've gotten the damn thing delivered to work.

I start fighting with the company that sent it. They respond, "You agreed to sign for it, and NO, we will NOT allow you to pick it up AT FedEx! We will deliver it on the next business day." This means MONDAY. I have now been waiting three days to connect with their hired truck service. 

Well, fuck you and the horse you probably ate for lunch.

I contact the computer company again and say, as nicely as I can, "This is bullshit piss-poor customer service, so I expect a full refund when it gets returned . . . plus shipping and tax."  

Their response? "Fine!  Just FINE."

Well, it's Saturday. A beautiful Saturday. I could be out with my family, or kayaking, or shopping, or anything but staying home. No, I decide to get up early, get dressed, and pray for the FedEx truck.

Prayers answered. Shortly after 9:00 a.m. I receive a phone call. FedEx. They'll be here in twenty minutes. Will I be home?

Damn straight I will. I go outside and sit and wait for the truck for almost a half hour. I flag the truck down before it can get away. No effing way am I letting this truck or my package out of my sight.

Finally. FINALLY I am back online other than my phone and my tablet. Oh, sure, the Chromebook is small, but at least now I can access my Chrome files. I can write my Blog. I can get to my docs and sheets and photos and all of the stuff I have been unable to access for nine days.

But seriously, FedEx. Signed deliveries ONLY in the mornings? Weekdays? I guess forewarned is forearmed. I won't be making that mistake again. I live where there is a locked package room and an Amazon Hub. I guess buying directly from the company and giving them my business isn't an option anymore. Now I get why Amazon is doing such an incredible business. 

Hey, FedEx -- maybe you should hook up with Amazon so you can maybe access their hubs? Just a thought as I type here on my overdue Chromebook, the one I refused to let get away.

WHAT THE SERIOUS HELL

 What the serious hell is going on with the retail industry? 

I have been trying to peruse cars, perhaps to even buy one, and there is very close to zero inventory. Did corporations stop manufacturing them?  ALL of them?! 

What the serious hell.

My computer hard drive crashed. It's okay. The damn computer is a dozen years old, so it's not like it was unexpected. It has been running slowly for three years, so I'd say I won on that deal. I go to Best Buy today to look for maybe an expensive laptop plus a decent Chromebook for travel and school work. (I am not putting my work stuff on any new computer  -- lesson learned.) There were zero employees around to help. Oh, there were plenty of them "working," but not a one knew how to "help." 

What the serious hell.

So, I whipped out my phone, chatted with other irate customers in the computer section, and managed to figure out what I will be getting as replacements: an all-in-one desk top to replace the current all-in-one that I have, and an even cheaper Chromebook than the one I had been willing to drop change on when I walked into the store.

I go grocery shopping. There is one aisle open. ONE. Not an express aisle; a regular aisle. There are two employees standing around "guarding" the self-check-out. Okay, I guess I am going to the self-check-out registers.

What the serious hell.

It's the same everywhere I go. Wal-Mart. Home Depot. Do it myself or go without. I can tell you exactly what is going to happen when I have to continue to do this all myself -- I am going to start giving myself the employee discount. One over the scanner, two in the bag. I wouldn't have to answer to anybody because they're all too casual and unconcerned to catch me, anyway.

Seriously. What the serious hell is going on? Laziest bunch of fuckers running retail right now. If I cannot walk into the store and buy what I want and have customer service when I want it (and this is NOT a "Karen" rant because I just turned around and silently and calmly left Best Buy after forty-five minutes), why on Earth would I consider shopping there ever again?

Guess what? I wouldn't. I won't. That is the LAST time I will set foot in Best Buy. EVER.

People who claim they "want to work" -- You had better consider a warehouse job. Ain't nobody gonna be patronizing your lazy ass much longer. Those apartment developers must be licking their chops right about now watching all of the retail businesses and malls getting ready to go residential.

Oh, it's coming, all right, and when it does, I'll be the only one NOT saying, "What the serious hell."

UNSCRAMBLING THE WRONG WORD

So, I'm in this other blog.

I know, right! I actually have friends. Hard to believe, but, trust me, they sometimes let me post my thoughts and sometimes they even respond . . . and I don't have to pay them or anything! (You know who you are!)

Our weekend blog is always something fun and thought-provoking and witty. Well, by the time the weekend comes along, I don't have many brain cells left, but I try to participate, anyway. I go in last night and I see this Word Unscramble activity:

CROCESWAR

All I see is "CROC SWEAR."

Honest to gawd, once I see it, I cannot un-see it. I cannot for the life of me come up with any other word(s) except CROC SWEAR.

I submit my answer to the Word Unscramble Activity. Just to make sure I get credit for having the right answer, I submit the following as evidence. YOU be the judge and tell me if I win or not:

the unscrambled word = Croc Swear

Once I was in Africa with Steve Irwin. We were walking along the crocodile-filled river, and one of the crocs said to the rest, "Oy! It's Steve fucking Irwin, mates. Throw another Steve on the barbie! Let's get him!" But, hey, it's Steve fucking Irwin, right? So he hunted them crocs and he put them all in chokeholds until they all passed out but not before telling Irwin what a m**********r f*****g a*****e d**k he was. Irwin just laughed and said, "Crickey, I've never heard a CROC SWEAR!"

I'M NOT SANE

Right now things are kind of shitty around here. Covid is still raging, and I've just about reached the end of my rope with the stupidity. No, really. 

While CDC guidelines say teachers don't need to be told when they're exposed, or some such bullshit, and while we are all being told to "mask up" or lose jobs, rights, etc., we see STUPID SHIT.

Take the Emmys, for example. Why is it okay for the rich and elite to go maskless and sit next to each other at social events? It makes sane people think, "Gawd, I hope you all get sick." I don't think that because I'm not sane, but sane people think that, just FYI.

And these 5k's and concerts. Thousands of people jammed into spaces and not wearing masks. What the serious eff is that all about? If I have to wear a mask, then ALL of YOU assholes do, too. It makes sane people think, "Gawd, I hope you all get sick." I don't think that because I'm not sane, but sane people think that, just FYI.

Today at the grocery store there is a huge sign saying, "Please mask up to protect our employees." I mask up, walk in, and the employees in the aisles are not even wearing masks. Even the people stocking fruits and vegetables, NOT wearing masks. It makes sane people think, "Gawd, I hope you all get sick." I don't think that because I'm not sane, but sane people think that, just FYI.

So, I don't know who's dumber: Me for wearing a mask when I'm told I HAVE to (like at school) or people who go to the Emmys or 5k's or who tell ME to wear a mask to protect THEM but THEY refuse to wear masks. 

In the end, it doesn't matter because only sane people think this shit, and I'm not sane, so I guess that means I'm safe.

TOASTING THE TOASTY

It has finally happened.

It’s the miracle I have been waiting for.

I have emailed the company and written to the company, and I’ve even blogged about my extreme disappointment in the product that, despite its constant epic failures, I buy over and over again like Charlie looking for the Golden Ticket. I live for that one moment when it all comes together.

Today is that day. Today I reach into the box of Extra Toasty Cheez-Its and discover the panacea of extra –toasty crackers.

I would like to extend my deepest appreciation and joy to whichever line worker allowed this beauty to make it into the box. I love you and want to marry you.  You are my people!

LIGHTING THE CHILL

My friend has lights in her living room. No, not regular lights, but she has those, too. I mean like Christmas tree lights. She has them strung up inside the recessed ceiling, creating this chill and interesting lighting when it gets dark. Between that and the twinkling lights of Boston out her floor-to-ceiling windows, the place is amazingly chill.

After a hellish few days at work where micro-management has been taken to apoplectic, atmospheric levels, I want chill in my life. I crave chill. I need chill.

I recently bought (and built) a pub-table area for guests and for working someplace other than my stationary desk-top mini-office area. The pub table area has a little mood lighting, provided by mini-lights in a wine bottle (courtesy of another friend), but it needed something more. Something . . . well, to be honest, something chill.

I have several strings of mini-lights from when I had small decorative trees all over the old townhouse. When I downsized, I got rid of all those decorations (except for the two I recently unpacked that I forgot about) and my Christmas tree. I still, however, have the lights. I happened upon some adjustable stick-on hooks, and, the next thing I knew, I was prepping under the counter and above the pub table area to simulate chill.

It may not be as interesting as my friend’s living room ceiling, but I spent hours working there today and have completely accepted that this is now the most chill space in the apartment. It has to be, and I know this because I used those hours to do work and I wasn’t even pissed off while I was doing it.

Maybe I should bring some of those lights to work and set them up near my desk. Can’t hurt. And if they don’t make me chill, I can always use them to whack people as they walk by. Got to be honest, there are some times when that would be totally chill, as well.

MY SUMMER PICTURE FOR THE NONEXISTENT WORK BULLETIN BOARD

We have a tradition at school.

Teachers and staff send to the administration pictures of themselves or of their families doing something fun during summer break. From there, this shared file gets printed out and put on a bulletin board for all of the staff to enjoy.

Sounds like a great motivator, right?

One year I sent in a picture of myself crawling through the mud under an obstacle at the Muddy Princess Mud Run. One year I sent in a picture of myself standing in front of Madison Boulder, the largest glacial erratic in North America (I looked like an ant). One year I sent in a picture of me kayaking.

But, Covid happened. Rather than move the pictures to a more accessible location, staff was simply banned from using that hallway. It is, after all, the hallway where two doors are: Principal and Vice Principal. Gotta keep them safe from the rest of us poisonous minions, right?

So, instead of being able to enjoy the printed pictures of our colleagues, we can (if we are so inclined) glance at the shared Google folder instead because, hey, getting on our work computers to open our work files to maybe peruse some pictures in our work Drive is so motivating.

This year I might submit this picture of my summer break. It’s ME as a playing piece from the card game Rat-A-Tat-Cat. It’s as authentic and as motivating as shoveling through work folders to maybe see someone’s teeny tiny wedding icon.  Maybe it’s even more motivating because it’s colorful and interesting and speaks volumes about my personal life and who I am and how I spent my summer break (unpaid, mind you) from work.

Oh, phooey. You just know someone will say, “Wow, kid, sour grapes much?” or, even better, print out or virtually share this blog with someone actually IN admin (but I doubt it since most of those coworkers who friended me on social media have since UNFRIENDED me, anyway).

Whatever.

The truth of it is: If you really gave a crap about what we did while thankfully away from that insane asylum, or if anyone actually gave a good damn about our mental health, you wouldn’t make us WORK for an iota of camaraderie.

But don’t take my word for it. What do I know? I’m just a relatively innocuous card in a much larger and far more entertaining game.

BACK TO SCHOOL 2021

Dear Everyone,

Please be kind to teachers. This is our last “free weekend” (for many, that has already passed) before another Covid-crazy year starts. Please understand that we do not make the mandates nor rules – we simply follow them, just like you do.

Also, for those of you who are under the mistaken belief that teachers get paid for time off all summer, you couldn’t be more mistaken. We are per diem employees. We do not get paid for holidays nor snow days nor any “vacation” day your child gets or that we get. If we get “paid all summer,” it is because we have chosen to have our per diem rate slashed significantly in order to have our earned pay doled out to us over the summer so we don’t starve to death.

Please be kind to those who wander around with completely shell-shocked expressions this weekend. We are the Teachers, the Warriors, the Extreme Paper Pushers who love your children almost as much, as much, and sometimes more than you do (if your child might be having a bad morning). We aren’t asking for thanks, kudos, nor raises – just a slight bit of patience and compassion as we mask up (literally) for school to start.

Love,

A Teacher

ON HAVING A KAYAK

Rain, rain, go away . . . Truly, just go away.

No one wants a drought, but we would like to give up the ark building. It’s getting old around here. Now we have Hurricane Henri making an appearance, due here at any moment – maybe even by the time you read this.

However, I have an ace in my pocket until the rain stops. I have a kayak.

Most of my kayak plans are thwarted this summer by the weather or by my schedule, but predominantly it is the rain. I finally get a chance to get out on a decent-sized lake, but the forecast is iffy. Doesn’t matter. I drive up to the lake, anyway.

When I arrive, my friend and I decide that we should get right out on the lake before the weather turns. We kayak to the far end of the lake, and it starts to sprinkle. We keep paddling because the clouds are changing. First we get rained on, then we see rain in the distance to the left, then rain in the distance to the right. Other than the brief light shower or two, we manage to kayak the lake without many other weather-related interruptions.

As soon as we pull up to shore, though, the sky turns a mid-shade of gray. By the time we haul the kayaks out of the water and set ourselves up in beach chairs, it starts to rain. No surprise. I’ve come prepared, though. I have my sun umbrella, which can double as a rain umbrella.

After a ten-minute downpour, we are ready to go in the water and float around on inflated rafts. For a short while, until the anti-rain people return, we have the beach and water pretty much to ourselves and our small contingency.

So, rain – go away, or hang around, or do whatever you dang-well please because I, too, have decided to do as I dang-well please. Two can play at this game. You and Henri might be winning the battle this weekend, but just wait. My summer isn’t over yet, and I don’t give in that easily.

Besides, I have a kayak . . . and I know how to use it.

AND I BUILT THIS . . . TWO

Some things I can build and some things I cannot.

As I mentioned in the last blog, I still have a shelf unit and two pub chairs to put together. These are less “building” and more “assembling.” However, the directions still lack words. I cannot do pictures, people. I always failed those parts of the Iowa IQ tests that I took as a kid. What would this shape look like if it were put together? What would this look like is you took it apart?

My answers: CRAP, that’s what anything would look like if I put it together or took it apart. Crap, crap, utter crap.

(I have a failed attempt at a foldable kayak, but that’s a story for another day and mostly a manufacturing problem. Note to readers: Do NOT invest it Tucktec kayaks – the assembly mechanism is off by centimeters, and the instructional video clearly shows a broken piece that the guy just blows by like it’s nothing. Thank god for UPS returns.)

I have to stay out of the sun for a few days due to yet another weird medical issue (not measles – been there, done that), and, of course, it is the ONLY time all summer that New England has had several decent days in a row. So, I decide to assemble the last pieces of furniture because I’ll be damned if I will let that failed kayak experiment ruin my confidence.

I set out all of the pieces that I need for the pub chairs because I figure (correctly) that these will be far worse to assemble than the shelf unit. Step #1 – one of the swivel mechanisms is jammed. FML. I put on a pair of work gloves and force that sucker to start turning. Then, I begin the assembly, needing, of course, a small, super-powered flashlight (which, strangely enough, I own) to line up the holes. Two hours later, I have two pub chairs.

So, I decide, what the hell. I have two more hours. I’ll assemble the damn shelf unit, too. I take out all the parts for the shelf unit and study the directions.

All of a sudden, something completely unpredictable happens. I look at the pictures for the directions and decide that I know an even easier way to assemble this that will not require my gray hair getting grayer, me needing a high-powered flashlight, nor alcohol consumption to keep my nerves in check. Thirty minutes … yes, thirty teeny tiny minutes later, the shelf unit is assembled and ready for action.

In a way, I am glad that I finished up all of this furniture stuff by building last the easy shelf unit. Had I started that way, I would’ve been way over-confident and set myself up for disappointment. I am pleased to report that all of the furniture I have built/assembled so far is still standing and functioning.

Maybe next I will take on plumbing. Watch out, Three Stooges!

I BUILT THIS

I am NOT handy. Nope. Not even a little. My idea of repairing something usually involves duct tape, Gorilla Glue, or the trash can.

When I get the urge to be “handy,” I buy a piece of furniture that needs to be assembled. After a mistake or two, I get it right, semi-right, or just darn right enough. Usually it takes me months to recover from a building project, mostly because it’s traumatic but also because it takes me ten times longer than a normal person to assemble anything. (Yes, this includes puzzles.)

I have recently purchased several things that need to be assembled: a bathroom linen cabinet, a computer table, an accent table, a drop-leaf table, a bookshelf unit, and two pub-style chairs. All of these items represent the great and unwavering faith that I have in myself, despite repeated failures and shortcomings in assembling furniture.

In case you think I am kidding, I have made one and one trip only to Ikea. Oh, I loved the store -- until I got to the warehouse part. Holy crap in a cookie jar! People actually assemble this stuff . . . voluntarily?! Are there really that many weirdos in the world that a store like this, a franchise no less, can flourish?!

You sick, sick bastards!

I am pleased to report that so far everything is assembled except for the bookshelf unit (I am still recovering from the drop-leaf table episode) and the two pub-style chairs (they’re in transit from the manufacturer). If you see an old lady covered in duct tape and Gorilla Glue wandering the streets aimlessly, babbling about directions no longer having words but only pictures, that will be me. Feel free to bring your drills, screwdrivers, and wrenches to my room at the asylum. I’m sure I’ll need some furniture there, too.

FAIR USE IS A CRAPSHOOT WHEN IT COMES TO MY CAR

My car is a mess. It needs a wash, a good vacuuming, and the windows should be cleaned.

Recently I finally organized the trunk, which hasn’t been done thoroughly since I finished moving at the end of April. I cleaned out the back seat so I could load my break-in-half kayak into my car. That’s as far as I got, and the last time I even tried to make my car presentable was about two weeks ago.

A little background might help here:  I often write while driving.

Yes, you read that correctly. I actually write in weird, slanted, giant letters while keeping my eyes fixed on the road because I am unwilling to let a good idea get away from me just because I’m cruising along at 85 mph. I keep several notebooks and writing pads, lots and lots of pens and pencils, and several Post-It Note pads easily within reach of the steering wheel.

Well, I did until people started noticing these things.

Struggling with the mess: “Hey, I can’t buckle the belt with all of these binders stuffed next to the seat.”

Sitting on multiple writing implements: “Geez, just how many pens do you really need? Do you have stock in Papermate?”

Grabbing a purple Post-It Note that sticks to thigh: “What the hell does ‘Civil War Riot 1861’ mean?”

Making a face: “Doris Day? Que Sera, Sera? What are you smoking?!”

About two months ago, before I started cleaning out my car and when I was still jaded from the end of the Covid-ravaged school year, I confirmed that my current manuscript du jour may or may not walk the violation line of the U.S. Copyright Fair Use Law. Most of the notes in the car pertained to items that fall into the questionable Fair Use bucket. Of course, a lot of research could discount my concerns, but I remembered gathering up all of the loose notes and . . .

And what? Did I throw them out? Oh, snap. I think I did. I am pretty certain that in one of my post-work furies I decided that I would never need that crap again and that the manuscript would never be worth reading so let’s just junk the whole dang thing. I still have the manuscript, and I’m still playing with it, but what about the mountains of research scraps?

Friday night I do some more research and discover that, hey, my notes and concept ideas do not, I repeat, do NOT violate Fair Use Law. This makes me very happy. It’s near midnight when I make this wonderful discovery. Life will be better with all of my notes . . .

My notes. My notes? MY NOTES!

 I manage to sleep, despite my unease about the notes. In the course of my previous semi-car-cleaning, I cannot remember seeing the notes since early June. But I cling to my sole hope: I have yet to clean out the center console storage. It is the one part of the car I haven’t touched yet in my organizing. Did I save all of those months of note-writing, or did I have a knee-jerk reaction (which I have been known to do but not often) and trash everything?

I am pleased to report that all of my notes are still in the car, in the center console, shoved under a plastic bag full of paper masks, an old hairbrush, a half-used spray canister of sunscreen, a collection of plastic straws when the world was going all-paper and straws disintegrated as soon as they touched liquid, old sunglasses, and an inordinate collection of restaurant napkins.

My car still needs a wash, but at least now I have the mess under control, and, as a bonus, I have uncovered, discovered, and recovered notes I feared were lost forever. As the hippies say, “WRITE ON!” Or something like that – I don’t want anyone suing me over Fair Use.

 

ONE DRY DAY OR TWO MIGHT BE PLEASANT

I’ve been complaining a lot about the weather, but, to be fair, the weather sucks and deserves every nasty comment it gets. My neck of the woods has had torrential downpours, sprinkles, and anything and everything in between the extremes. Several areas have suffered microbursts, which are like mini-tornadoes.

Naturally on the one and only day that it is supposed to be nice, I meet my sister in southern Maine, and together we drive on an errand north of Portland. This is going to be great! The sun is mostly out, windows are open, and all systems seem to point toward a successful summer day.

Until, of course, it’s not a successful summer day.

First, there are the clouds. It’s not sunny anymore.  Then, there are the temperature changes – hot, chilly, steamy, breezy, flopping from temperature to temperature like menopause. The clouds let loose some sprinkles, too, but not enough for steady windshield wipers; just enough to be annoying and cloud driving vision.

Speaking of clouds, the coast here is suddenly a fog bank. We watch as a tall communication tower is slowly and completely embraced in gray. It’s a horrible day along the coast, we decide, until we go a few miles south where the sky is bright blue and the ocean matches.

Parts of New England need rain badly. Parts of the country are suffering from historical drought. Here in my neighborhood, we can kayak on the sidewalks because we are under a constant threat of flash flooding. It’s like spring here all the time. Even the “sunny” days turn overcast.

It’s dreary and it’s weary. After being forced to stay inside or masked or sequestered alone for the last sixteen months, this summer’s weather stinks. We might as well be done with it and bring on the snow. But, then again, what would I complain about if the weather finally cooperated? Knowing me, I’d find something, but it wouldn’t be as easy a mark as is the weather.

Just a full day of sun or two dry days in a row would be a gift, though. I’m just saying.

HIDE-AND-SEEK WITH THE SUN

Summer lasted about a week,
Then it started raining.
It went from hot to chilly air.
Yes, I am complaining.
It’s either gloomy, dark, and gray,
Or rains torrential buckets.
As for planning summer stuff
It’s better to say, “Fuck it.”
Haven’t yet been kayaking
Nor ventured to the beach.
Apparently a lovely day is
Far beyond our reach.
This season of rains tropical
Gives me an opportunity
Of living in a brand new place of
Waterfront-like property.
I’m hopeful that when August comes
It won’t mimic July.
I’d like to see the sun come out
Sometime before I die.

MY GREEN-LESS THUMB

I do not have a green thumb.

About the only thing I can grow is mold, so I am amazed that I still have a tiny sprig of basil growing and that a flowering plant I received at the end of school three weeks ago is still alive. Shocking.

In an effort to pretend that I am actually able to keep seasonal plants alive, I go to Home Depot and check out their sale rack. That’s right: If I am going to kill the plants anyway, I might as well buy some that are cheap and already halfway dead. This way I have a self-fulfilling prophecy and I also haven’t broken the wallet.

I know I want geraniums because those help to keep mosquitoes at bay. With a porch that faces the woods and also now is on a flood plain due to recent storms, those little blood-suckers can be a real problem. But I also want some color that is not limited to orange and gold. Since the sale sign claims the plants in this particular area are all three for ten dollars, I promptly select six containers. Twenty-plus-tax dollars later, I happily bring home my plants.

I am pleased to report that although I had to dead-head several of the shoots, my six (yes, ALL SIX) plants have survived a week so far. I know; hard to believe, but it’s the truth. Even my basil plant is hanging on for dear life.

I may not have an official green thumb, but for seven days it sure has felt like it. I’m willing to celebrate small victories.

THAT'S HOW FREEDOM WORKS

Happy birthday, America.

Since it’s also my birthday, I feel that I am entitled to make a political statement. If you disagree, grant me a gift and keep your commentary to yourself. This is my day, and it’s my stage.

I have always been fiercely patriotic, and not just because I was born on the Fourth of July. I grew up surrounded in Revolutionary history here in Boston and all around New England. I am from a family with ties to WWII, WWI, the Civil War, the Revolutionary War, the Salem Witch Trials, and Plimoth. 

While I despise politics and all things and people political, I am, for the most part, proud of my country. For all of its flaws, it is still the country on Earth where Freedom rings.

Now, my bone of contention.

I have had the honor of knowing (and working out with) Olympic athletes. I have seen and touched Olympic medals. I personally know someone currently representing the USA who is going to Tokyo. I would like to believe, and have never been given reason to think otherwise, that these people whom I know are proud to represent USA on the international stage. I have seen them cheer, cry, and stare starry-eyed during their medal ceremonies, even if their national anthem is not the one being played for the podium.

Any American Olympic athlete who is embarrassed by, offended by, or disrespectful to our national anthem or flag during an Olympic-level athletic medal ceremony should be disallowed from being awarded a medal.  If this happens during qualifying or preliminary competition to represent USA on the international stage, then say goodbye to your country as your sponsor.

PERIOD.

Competing on the international stage is your job. Save your politics for your media interview when the biased and useless press wants your minuscule and irrelevant opinion. Save your speech of how you hate America for the slaves working in a Filipino sweatshop making sneakers so you can get your millions in advertising and sponsorship fees. Save your anti-America sentiment for your Communist friends who wouldn’t know the Constitution as anything more than their personal toilet paper.

When you represent your country on the international stage, be it athletic or otherwise, try to act with the remotest modicum of decency for a nation that has granted you the freedom to become what you are. If that’s so damn offensive to you, sit the fuck down and let someone who cares about this country take your selfish, petty place.

Sure, sure; it’s your “Constitutional” right to be an asshole. But it’s also our right as Americans to make sure you know you’re an asshole. That’s how Freedom works.

PLAYING TOURIST AT HOME

I love Boston. It’s no secret that I’m generally not a fan of cities: crowds, confusion, traffic, noise, pollution, mayhem, plus I lack any sense of direction whatsoever so I am constantly lost. Boston, however, isn’t like most cities, and thank goodness for it.

It’s fun to be as local as a non-city resident can be. It’s fun to help out-of-towners navigate the streets and the bars and the different parts of town. No T stop directly at Quincy Market? No problem. There are at least three stops directly accessible. Want to go to Seaport? You’ll have to hoof it or rent a bike because there are zero T stops directly there. Oh, don’t even suggest the make-believe silver line that has a stop there – locals know the silver line is a mere ghost story.

One thing I’ve never done is the Duck Tour. It seems counter-intuitive to do something that takes me around to all the places I know, but it also seems like someone who has lived around Boston for as long as I have should’ve taken at least one tourist-type mad-cap adventure. So, I do.

Unfortunately for our guide, who has the stage-name Justine Time and wears a lovely Fascinator on her head, one of my equally-local friends on this tour and I sit in the front two seats. We didn’t pick those seats; they were our ticket assignments. We add comments quietly, which Justine Time overhears. Yes, James Otis was struck dead by lightning . . . standing in his front doorway, we believe. Yes, this is almost where the Boston Massacre happened. . . but now it’s a major traffic intersection. Bunker Hill – or, perhaps, Breed’s Hill. Hey, it’s the bridge in the opening scene from Boondock Saints. Silly commentary, really.

In the end, we drag our out-of-town friends to some local touristy places and make sure there are a couple of lobster rolls at the end of the trip. It feels good to be a tourist in my home city. It’s familiar and comforting. For someone with zero sense of direction, I like to know where my roots grow because it’s home, and I won’t ever be directionless.

I CAN BREATHE AGAIN

What a year. What a damn year. If there is such a thing as a balanced universe, I will not have to teach in pandemic mode next fall. 

So far we have been able to remove our masks for the last two days of school, which have been teachers only in attendance. We have also been instructed to leave maps of our rooms for September, meaning I probably won’t be rolling a cart madly from uniformly-set-up room to uniformly-set-up room.

I took some of my end-of-year time to do two important things for my own mental health: I cleared off my mobile teaching cart, and I moved furniture back to where it belongs.

Oh, sure, the furniture thing is physically unnecessary because the janitorial staff will be taking everything out to wax floors, anyway. However, moving the furniture back to the way it looked on March 13, 2020, the day we locked up our schools for the pandemic, has been mentally rewarding. I don’t simply want to go back to a school of normalcy; I wanted to leave a school of normalcy, as well.

If my teacher cart is still there in the fall in my room, taunting me and mocking me, and, if I am not using it for teaching room to room, I may store books on it. I may turn it into some kind of bizarre shrine. I may use it for demolition derby demonstrations.

I am stepping away from supervisory duties. I say that out loud and in print so no one, not even me-myself-and-I, can talk me into reneging on my extra-curricular resignation. I believe that I have at least one more career in me before I keel over and croak, and being someone’s boss is not it, hence why I always stopped at “assistant manager.” I like the paperwork, the details, the balancing, the minutiae no one else cares to do; I hate the directing and monitoring. If I could just be Leadership Paper-Pusher, I’d stay on forever.  

Well, except for the summer work. I am taking this summer off from school work and pouring my heart into plotting my next career move.

What a year. What a damn year.  Finally, after fifteen-plus months, I (literally) can breathe again. 

TLC AND ALCOHOL: WHAT THEY REALLY MEAN TO ME

What a year. What a fucking year.  What a fucking ridiculous, insane year.

I have one week left of the academic year, and today I visited two different stores (a wine-specific favorite and a local packie) to prep and fortify myself for the final slide.

The school district for which I work did not go remote this year. Teachers have worked full-on since the beginning of September, taking only an occasional snow day or pre-holiday as a “remote” day. Otherwise, we have had students in front of us since the very beginning, teaching hybrid and teaching “live” kiddos all at the same time.

Curriculum has been altered, teaching methodologies scrapped, and technology embraced to the point of folly since Google Classroom crashed several times during the school day over the past ten months. The twist to that is that while Google Classroom was crashing and burning, Google itself shared outage maps of its own worthless product’s inability to effectively maintain its own integrity.

At least the situational idiocy allowed me to cover irony as a literary device.

Now, with three teaching days plus two teacher-mandated days left in this 2020-2021 Pandemic Teaching Year from Hell, I have decided to acknowledge my inner alcoholic. I won’t deny that many a mimosa was sipped at an ungodly hour over the weekends, and that many a gin and tonic found its way into my clenched fists long before dinner reached the table.

So, over this summer break, I am going to give my brain and liver some TLC, ignore requests from school administration to continue my leadership role, and fly low, very low, under the radar of extra work. Last summer was a working summer, and I’m not doing that this time.

July and August are mine, all mine.

I may still be old and gray in September, but, with any luck at all, I will at least be alive and standing when the new school year starts.

IT'S NOT EASY BEING GREEN

T’was weeks before summer
And look was has fallen:
Everything’s covered in
Spring-laden pollen.
 
My house and my porch,
My car and my seat,
I’m covered with pollen from
Forehead to feet.
 
My once-black sedan
No longer is seen.
When I look for my car,
I now search for green.
 

The pile of minutiae
Upon my porch floor
Contains a few leaflets
And green crap galore.
 
My nose, how it runs.
My throat, how it scratches.
We try to fight pollen –
We batten the hatches.
 
Opening windows?
Ridiculous bust!
Right through the screens
Creeps that ominous dust.
 
The car wash is busy.
We’re all trying to clear
Inches of pollen
From front hood to rear.
 
Waves of green pollen
Bring me to my knees
As I fight with my sinuses:
“Please, nose, don’t sneeze!”
 
But I hear Spring exclaim
As it gusts out of glee:
“I’ll green ya next year,
That’s my guarantee!”

FLAG DISPLAY IS NOT A DETERRENT

I have been ordering a lot of stuff from Home Depot since I moved in early April. Yes, I dumped a lot of my old furniture (maybe not the brightest idea I’ve had, but definitely one of the happiest) when I downsized recently. Rather than have crap delivered to my new place, I have been picking it all up randomly at the local Home Depot about seven miles from my new place.

 Sometimes it’s a great success, and sometimes it’s not so great. “Uh, I actually ordered four of these. Are the other three out back?” (Here emits an exasperated sigh by the overworked employee who goes back in search of three more semi-heavy boxes.) The problem with this also means that I am back to building furniture and following directions, talents that I only semi-possess.

 Could I go to the furniture store? Sure. I am still on the lookout for that perfect living room accent chair. However, the wait of fourteen to twenty weeks for furniture delivery really turned me off. I am tired, so very tired, of living out of boxes. I am ready to get organized.

 

The advantage to store pick-up is that I do NOT have to pay shipping fees. If I were willing to fight northbound traffic, I could even have it delivered to New Hampshire and save sales tax. The disadvantage to store pick-up is the awkward wait for the merchandise to come down from the back storage area.

 Other customers in Home Depot have been marvelously polite. “Are you in line?”  Nope. I am hiding behind the cacti display because I am trying NOT to be in line, but thank you. The last two times I’ve been in to pick up merchandise (after being helped and while waiting for the stuff to be wheeled down), I’ve taken to hiding behind the flag display, which replaced the cacti display, which replaced the lawn fertilizer display, which replaced the snow shovel display . Still, people find me. They lurk around the corners of the massive boxes and hundreds of flags, surprise me to the point where I almost pee myself, and yell, “YOU IN LINE?!”

 No, dudes. I simply have a flag fetish and I’m creeping here to mess with your minds. (Okay, I do have a flag fetish, but that’s a story for another day.)

 Thank you, Home Depot, for having things like bathroom linen cabinets and other such interesting items on your website. In the meantime, change that front display out because I’m sure I’ll need something else soon, and clearly the tall flags are not a deterrent for my in-store version of Hide-But-Don’t-Seek.