UP THE ARSE AT THE MUSEUM

My friend's birthday was this past week. We're at the age when we beg people not to give us anything. It's time to thin out our possessions partially because we're on the shadowy side of the Great Mountain of Life, and partially because we're damn tired of dusting knickknacks. 

So, I get this great idea to take her to a museum at a local college. Not only is it culturally enticing, but it's free. In theory, it's a brilliant plan.

Indeed, when we arrive, we are thrilled to discover that the museum actually has some decent stuff in it, including paintings by Monet and Sargent and deVries, and sculpture by Rodin. It's decently impressive as far as collections go.

But, as our visit progresses, we are accosted by a very large male security guard. There are other people in the museum, and, goddamnit, I am actually behaving myself (which, for me, is a huge imposition and an unmistakable challenge) for a change. This guy is practically up our asses as we attempt to tour the artwork.

Eventually, we make our way to the next floor and are immediately accosted by a mature, matronly security guard who also follows us all over the exhibit. It's creepy and insulting, and she yells at my friend for "touching the glass." She was not touching the glass, and the very next display is interactive and requires touching, anyway, so what the hell is she bitching about?

Let me point out that we are most certainly not the only people in the museum. However, we are clearly not students nor professors of this particular high-brow, uber-liberal college mainly due to our ages but also due to the fact that we are wearing clothes from JC Penney and TJ Maxx rather than Newbury Street and the Shops at Chestnut Hill. Also, our hair color is natural and not somewhere in the land of Roy G Biv. Not that there's anything wrong with that; it just contrasts how badly we stand out.

We may not look like Wendy's mascots, but we hardly look like flaming criminals, either.

By the time we get to the special exhibition on the bottom floor, which students on the Quad raved about, we are thoroughly disgusted with security guards poking at us with their two-way radio antennae. Anticipating artistic greatness (after all of those random kudos), we are instead met with really horrible and unfocused photographs of the same masked people over and over again. The "artist" probably shot the pictures for this display in about thirty minutes. We turn a corner to find a few torn newspaper words glued onto white copy paper. Apparently, it took the artist five months to create these "poems" (my middle school students could have done a better job in forty-five minutes). 

This final special museum presentation is a symbolic representation of the intelligence and taste of the people we have encountered on campus: slow-witted and pompous to the point of absurdity. At $65,000 per year (excluding meals and housing), we can only hope that the smart ones were busy in classes. 

I AM THE BOOB

It's the most wonderful time of the year! It's mammogram time. Joy!

Seriously, mammograms are important. Plus, mammogram is a fun word to say. Every time I say it, I think of the Mel Brooks movie Blazing Saddles, and the scene when he announces, "Candygram for Mongo." Sure, you know what I mean: "Mammogram for Mongo!" ("Mongo love mammaries!")

I walk into the health center, get myself all registered, head to the back, take off my shirt and bra, wipe off the deodorant (some of us had to work today) under my armpits, and do another pass across my chest in case I have body spray lingering from getting dressed hours earlier. I throw on that lovely open-air, front-never-closes partial johnny, and walk into the technician's room.

After checking me in and matching my information, she says, "You've lost weight."

Well, I don't believe that I have. I pretty much wear the same size pants (okay, maybe one size down if the pants have built-in stretch in the denim). Now, I have never met this woman before in my life, so this is kind of weird to me, but I say, "You are my favorite person!"

Then she clarifies. "What you told us last year, I don't think you look that weight." No, she doesn't weigh me, bless her for that, but I still don't know where she's going with this conversation. I mean, I am naked from the waist up, but on the bottom I am wearing my somewhat-stretchy black denim jeans, and black, as we all know, can be slimming.

"I don't know," I tell her. I honestly don't. I've had some weird health issues these last couple of years, so I have been making a conscious decision to change my eating habits. Well, semi-change my eating habits. I still like chocolate in moderation, and I am still a bread and cracker fiend.

"Well," she says, "I think we can use the smaller paddles!"

WAIT. WHAT?!?! Smaller . . . What the hell. What the serious hell.

Do you mean to tell me that all the black and blue marks, the actual rib bruising, the pinched skin on the front of my arm pits, the horror, the pain, the torture of the last decade is because you see me as a blimpous fatty boombalatty?! 

And, worse than that, you technicians can chose your goddamn weapons?!

While my boobies (and I) are quite pleased to have a tiny bit of relief (moderate on the pain scale as opposed to "holy crap, I think I need percocet"), I am somewhat disturbed that my perceived weight should be the determining factor on breast-squishing machinery. Let's be serious. My bra cup size isn't getting me any dates. Even if I weighed ten pounds more (or ten pounds less), my chest isn't going to be that different. It wasn't until I was largely pregnant with my first kiddo that I even knew boob-sweat was a thing.

As I leave the changing room and head back toward the waiting room, I wave to the technician. Now that I know about this whole secret paddle-size thing, I think I might drop ten pounds for real by this time next year. Who knew there would be such strong incentive for the Mammogram Diet? 

I know; it beats the alternative. Trust me, I really do know this several times over, which is why, despite the discomfort, it really is the most wonderful time of the year.

 

COFFEE, TEA, AND RAIN

 The weather outside has been frightful. It rains buckets for days, and then it snows for about a day and a half, but, since we have so much rain, it all just turns into three inches of slush and ice and muck. 

I've been trying to get together with a friend, a former town-neighbor of mine who now lives south of the tunnel. (For those out of the region, that means I'm north of Boston and she is south of Boston, so commuter traffic makes it impossible to actually get together.) When the weather sucks, the commute is ten-fold worse. I can jump on the T and be in the city in very little time. She doesn't have it so easy. Despite being able to practically spit and hit the city, public transportation from her area is spotty, at best, on any given day. Between trains and rains, getting together has become an epic event.

Finally, we manage to meet at Assembly Row. It's a Tuesday afternoon, and the rain is just about to start another multi-day drop. Most people would say, "Oh, yay, you can go into all the stores!" Nope. Not us. I suppose we could go to Trader Joe's or TJ Maxx, but that means hauling our personal and store-bought booty through the crowded parking lot while getting drenched.

Instead, we decide to go to a bakery/cafe. If you don't know the story behind Tatte, I highly recommend that you read about the innovative woman who founded the brand. If you haven't been to Tatte, I can only speak of the baked goods, although the food menu looks amazing, too. My friend has something marvelously chocolatey, and I have the biggest, fluffiest, most incredible croissant I have ever eaten. My friend also orders a coffee concoction (I know nothing beyond hot and iced where coffee is concerned), and I order English Breakfast tea -- bravo to the place for serving the tea hot, hot, hot. So many places serve tepid tea, and it's annoying as hell.

We end up having Greek food for dinner, which is fine except for the stroll in the rain that starts along with the wind whipping sharp, cold drops against our faces. Yes, the weather is horrid, and, yes, it gets progressively worse for the following forty-eight hours. The company, however, is worth it in any weather at all. The tea and crumpets just make it that much more decadent.

RECHARGE YOUR OWN BATTERIES

I'm really tired.
Maybe "tired" is the wrong word. 

Weary. 

That's it. 

That's what I am: 

Weary.

Fatigued.

Worn out.

It's not uncommon at this time of the year.

It is, though, uncommon to me.

So, I will take today off.

Easter.

Spend time with family.

Recharge my own batteries.

And remind myself that Monday is an amazing day:

Holiday chocolate goes on sale on Monday.

Amen.

IT'S SUMMER INSIDE

The weekend forecast is for snow, sleet, freezing rain, and general rainy and crappy weather. This is largely due to the fact that many people have been hoodwinked into thinking that Spring is here because:

A. The calendar says so

B. People have put shovels and snowblowers away

C. Winter tires have been replaced by the regular tires 

Sure, my snow shovel is still handy. I'm not a complete idiot. However, I prefer to dwell in a different reality, one that involves sunshine, warm weather, and flip-flops.

Just in case, I make sure I get to the store (days in advance because I'm not a masochist) to shop because, to be honest, I haven't bought groceries in a couple of weeks, and, by this I mean that the milk in my fridge has long passed cottage cheese stage and become a full-on science experiment. Yes, I buy milk (I needed some) and bread (sub rolls, actually), but I also buy salad fixings and bacon because fancy BLTs sound pretty darn good right about now.

I also restock the fridge with beverages. I have fresh fruit, frozen fruit, and various kinds of juices already at home that I plan to mix with red wine and make Sangria. Why? Because Sangria is a summer beverage, and I am more than ready for summer, despite the despicable weather forecast. 

I should grab some beer, too. I'm not a huge beer drinker, but, when I do drink beer, I'm not loyal to any specific brewer. It kind of depends on my mood. Imagine, if you will, my feeling of joyous jubilation when I spot this bad boy in the cooler: Sam's Summer. That is correct: Samuel Adams Citrus Wheat Ale. 

While most people rush to the store and grab pre-storm milk, bread, and eggs, I pile my cart full of what looks more like party fixings for the Fourth of July. I throw in a bouquet of flowers as the final middle finger to this weekend's weather. As the internet ticker rolls across the screen with the dire warning of "one more inch of snow overnight due," I am enjoying a lovely glass of fruit-infused Sangria while watching the Red Sox game. 

OFF-THE-CHARTS LUNCH FOR A LONG DAY AT WORK

One more quick post connected to my intense dislike of shopping:

Work sucks. Not even joking, as the MCAS state testing gets closer, my life feels like more of a pressure cooker. For anyone who doesn't understand state testing, for my particular subject matter, the year-end cumulative test for 100% of the state standards takes place in two weeks. This is prior to the end of third term. This means that before my students have completed 75% of their academic year, they are being tested on 100% of the curriculum. 

The best part is that over two days, these twelve and thirteen year olds will be writing four to six entire 10,000 character essays. For those unfamiliar with what a 10,000 character (including spaces) essay looks like, it's five to eight complete and expansive paragraphs; four or five of these essays, and, for some students who are lucky enough to get the "practice" question, six full-length essays.

In. Two. Days. I know English graduate students who cannot pull that shit off. But, I digress.

While this is hanging over everyone's heads, I also have an entire day of professional development, which means that I have zero time in my classroom to do important things like planning and preparing for the upcoming lessons. This is in addition to those regular days of going to multiple meetings, helping to substitute in other classrooms, and doing the important bathroom patrol (Doodie Duty) since we cannot trust the middle schoolers not to smear feces all over the walls nor to pee in the sinks nor to cram the toilets so full of paper towels (or shoes or clothing or schoolwork) that the entire septic system backs up.

So, yeah, I'm really too exhausted at the end of the extended day to fight irate shoppers, long lines at the cashiers, or malfunctioning self-checkouts. (Let's not even throw in the insult of paying for bags that break faster than tissues.) I need lunch for Friday's PD (Professional Development -- a time to sit in bored silence while people treat us like morons) day, so I should get some food and snacks. My mind tells me that I have bread in the freezer and probably have enough peanut butter and jelly on hand. I might even have a yogurt of questionable date in my fridge. Yup, I should be okay. I convince myself that I probably have enough food, and, hopefully, enough toilet paper to survive the next twenty-four hours.

This is when I remember that I have rapid-rise yeast. I have bread flour. I have shredded mozzarella cheese. I have sliced pepperoni. I even have a jar of pizza sauce. All of these items I have at home. I also have a damn good, incredibly easy pizza dough recipe that only takes thirty minutes to rise (though I always give it an hour, just because).

Take THAT, you stupid grocery store! Suck on it, you crazy-ass shoppers! Bite my arse, you malfunctioning self-service machines!

Yes, I would quite literally rather make a homemade pizza than stop for fifteen minutes at the store. I don't know if that makes me an idiot or a hero, but the results are amazing and my PD lunch is off the charts.

FROZEN DRINKS ON A FROZEN DAY

Continuing the misadventures from last week, I am still with the same two pals as we cruise around the South Shore of Massachusetts. It has been an unseasonably warm week up until the day we decide to get together and drive around. Of course, for the first time in five days, the temperature drops and the wind chill becomes ear-piercingly frigid. 

We stop at a scenic overlook, part of a farm-type school, and encounter snow. No, not a lot of snow, but patches of it here and there in small bucket-sized splotches. This is amazing to us since our area of New England has gotten about as much snow as South Carolina has gotten this winter. Ridiculously excited, we take a picture with the snow just to prove that we found some. Honestly, though, it is so cold, so numbingly freezing, that we run back to the car and grab more layers and hats and scarves and anything we can find to wrap around ourselves. The outing lasts less than ten minutes, and we are cold-hobbled by the time we stagger back to the vehicle.

Next we drive along the coast to perhaps fly a kite. Oh, the wind for kite-flying is strong, but the only way the kite will fly is if we suffer hypothermia and frostbite. We walk along the beach for longer than we probably should but ultimately decide that kite flying is not worth death.

We run a few errands that require us to cross great distances in parking lots because everyone and his brother and uncle seem to be out and about. Eventually, the day draws near to its end when someone suggests a quick drink, perhaps an appetizer, to finish off the day. As long as it's indoors, I'm game.

We get ourselves into the restaurant and sit near the window so we can watch the bay as the sun sets, casting long shadows over the water. When the waitress asks us for our drink order, we should probably say something warm like hot coffee, or rich with biting alcohol like brandy. After all, we are still trying to thaw out from an awesome but chilly day of adventure.

We are New Englanders, and because we probably have no brain cells left that have not been chilled to oblivion, we order a round of mudslides. You read that correctly: We order frozen drinks. But, you see, there is a method to our madness. This way, the frozen drink comes with a straw, and we won't have to pick up and hold the glasses that are covered with frost. We can simply tilt the straws as the drinks sit on the table, totally not molesting our defrosting fingers.

Brilliance, apparently, never freezes. By the time we are ready to truly finish up the day,  we've warmed ourselves up by belly-laughing for hours. 

WHY I HATE SHOPPING

I. Hate. Shopping.

Shopping is an enormous time-suck. Driving to the store, driving home from the store, looking around the store, and, the truest of all time-sucks, waiting in line. I will starve myself before going to the grocery store. 

I find very little more frustrating than going to a store with on-line confirmation of stock only to discover that the store does not really have what I am looking for, despite their insistence otherwise.  If the computer says that the store has "ten items in stock," then there should be at least one somewhere on the shelves, in the "to be re-shelved" pile, or out in the back waiting to be stocked in the first place. 

Remember Service Merchandise? This was the first self-serve store: Pick items from an onsite catalogue or computer list, go wait by the mini roller coaster, and grab your order as it came out from the backroom in a plastic bin that resembled a coal miner's cart. Best store ever, and zero inventory loss to theft.

The main reason that I despise shopping is the people. 

Recently, my friends and I decide to brave the crowds at a busy grocery store. Usually, this isn't a problem, but the aisles in this particular store seem tighter than necessary for a place with such high volume. There is a lot of pushing, of shoving, and an alarming number of people just stopping in the middle with their carts so that no one else can move. Most of the people are idiots, but, for those few moments of knowing glances with other like-minded shoppers, the entire debacle becomes worth every painful moment.

Me (to myself): This feels like a full-contact sport.

Woman (shopping nearby): And it's like this all the time. All the time. 

We laugh, and, as she turns a corner, she runs right into another shopper.

Not even two aisles later, an elderly man with a completely empty cart (despite being in the middle aisle of the store amidst hundreds of us with semi-full carriages), stops dead in the middle, blocking anyone trying to travel north or south through the baking supplies. I try, I truly do try, to hold my face in neutral, and I feel like I'm doing a bang-up job of it. That is, until I glance past the old guy and see a man about my age blocked from coming the other direction. He catches my expression and busts out a huge bark of laughter. 

"Oh," I say as we finally maneuver through the bottleneck and pass each other, "was my face too loud back there?"

The final coup de grace happens at the check-out. A couple gets in line behind me. The woman says, "We could maybe sneak through the express aisle."

I respond, "I don't have much stuff." Then I smirk. "Trust me. With the day I'm having, this is sure to be entertaining."

The two girls running this particular register and bagging station are not the brightest bulbs in the store's chandelier. I ask for my groceries to be packed into the heavier, ten-cent bags. You see, I'm not going straight home, so I want the stuff in bags that will hold up for the long ride. The cashier looks at me blankly, reaches over, grabs a huge section of the container, and hands me six or seven empty bags. Then, she just stands there. 

"Uhhhhh, no. For bagging. My groceries."

Both girls stare at me as I push the bags back toward them. No one says a word. No one moves. We are standing in a tableau of stupidity.

Finally, I make huge gestures with my arms and hands, sweeping from the left to the right, as I say, "Just riiiiiiiiiiiiing my stuff through and send it dooooooooooooooooown to the bottom and paaaaaaaaaaaaaack everything in those big plastic baaaaaaaaaaaaaags." 

Still, nothing. I spot my friends in the next checkout aisle, clearly not having the same problem. I turn to the couple behind me. "I told you that you wouldn't be disappointed!" Them, to the cashier, I say, "Go! Ring! Let's get these puppies home!"

This. All this. This is why I hate shopping.

AI Is Not the Wave of the Educational Future

Q:  What is worse than spending ten straight hours grading narrative essays?

A:  Spending many of those hours grading narrative essays that are obviously generated via AI.

Q:  What is worse than grading AI-generated narrative essays?

A:  Knowing that the students who used AI will be incapable of and unwilling to write the MCAS essays when the state tests occur in five weeks.

I have been teaching for a really long time, and my areas of expertise are subject-specific, grade-based, and test-prep informed. The required state standards for my subject matter are no longer mastered in elementary school through no fault of the teachers and through the entire fault of the business-based school model that stresses social-emotional content over academic proficiency. This model has been crashing and burning for years now with no apparent slowing. The wreckage has been visible through both state testing and the rising need for academic triage.

You might be tricked into believing that I am untrained in the latest and greatest trends in my field. We "elderly" educators are just as savvy as (and, in some content, more so than) the newest churned-out crop of professional teachers. That's one of the benefits and also one of the curses of state-mandated professional development. Here's what you should never be tricked by: AI is not the wave of the educational future. 

Before you jump all over me with the "You just don't understand technology or how it works" blasphemy, I'm quite certain that technology has its place even in my field. After all, I use technology when I write. I rely heavily on an electronic classroom platform to post assignments and to do my planning and to track the standards. I integrate all kinds of technology-based lessons to teach, to reinforce, and to chart data.

Here's where I will go toe-to-toe with you: AI has zero place in graded writing at the middle school level. (Okay, at any academic level, but I digress.) Zero. And that's the grade that I am tempted to give my 20% or so students who clearly used AI (and also cheated with each other using AI). 

The irony of all of this, of course, is that technology is supposed to make our lives easier, more efficient, and less mistake-filled. Instead, these AI-generated narrative essays are grammatically muddled, difficult to grade, and full of topical errors. King Arthur's wizard Merlin working at Market Basket and driving a Tesla? Yeah, I doubt that, especially when the same key words end up in a dozen essays that all suck as much as the other AI-generated ones do.

Recommendation to parents: Buy your kids some pencils and pens (and please tell them that highlighters are NOT writing utensils). I'll provide the lined paper. We are going old-school for writing. It's a sad day when I would prefer to slog through handwritten essays by kids who never mastered holding a pencil (lest it hurt their fragile psyche) rather than grading typed essays using premade rubrics. I much prefer students who are willing to try and actually think than those who coast through a few key strokes and hit "print."

DON'T CALL IT UNTIL YOU CAN CALL IT

New Englanders, especially the old timers, are incredibly hardy. 

You know why we keep talking about the Blizzard of '78? Because it was fracking amazing, that's why. It thunder-snowed sideways for three straight days. It snowed so fast that the plows couldn't keep up with it (hence people abandoning vehicles on highways). Even though the sun came out and it was warm and beautiful when it all ended, the snowbanks were so tall that no one could see to drive around corners or through intersections. Everything was closed for a week or more. We all just walked everywhere, right down the middle of streets and freeways, and partied straight for a solid seven days.

Now, we have today's New England snow storms. Essentially, each is a non-event. The fact that the weather forecasters have the latest technology available and still cannot get it right is beyond me. Take last week, for example. It was 50 degrees, kids were playing outside without coats, and the air did not have that distinctive stink of snow. In other words, where I live would be a snow-free zone.

Superintendents all across the state panicked. Gawd forbid the parents actually have to get up in the morning and . . . gasp . . . plan. Newsflash: Parents plan anyway. We plan for possible snow days. We plan for early releases. We plan for all kinds of contingencies. 

What is absolutely worse than a snow day? A snow day without snow.

This was our big "blizzard" last week - we didn't even get a dusting of snow. Barely even a flake fell, and, when it hit the warm ground, it melted instantly. This was the dire event that forecasters hyped up so forcibly that even garbage collection was cancelled. Anyone who lives in New England and considers an amount of snowfall under a foot to be "a significant event" is either a Newbie or a moron. A foot of snow is chump change here in New England. A significant amount of snow starts around eighteen inches and goes up from there. 

Okay, so a few parts of the state, mostly to the south or along the coast, did see snow. Excellent. Bully for you. The rest of us lost a much-needed work day. Schools now have to make up a non-snow snow day in June, when we want to be on vacation or at sports camps or at the beach.

So, if you wonder why people still talk about the Blizzard of '78, it could be because people had brains back then. People didn't call off school or garbage collection or close stores or businesses or government offices until they actually saw snow, until it actually happened. Yes, we had to watch the television or listen to the radio or rely on phone trees to get the word out, but I'm pretty certain none of us was dumb enough to go to school in a blizzard nor stay home when it remained dry.

Yes, we're not just hardy, we old timers are practical, as well. Must be all the snow we slogged through.

TOTING AROUND MY STASH

I have an addiction. No, it's not that kind of addiction. I am addicted to buying (and reading) books. Despite having a backlog of about fifty physical books and probably two hundred e-books, I continue to trade in books at the Used Book Superstore and bring home more and more and more books.

I go to bookstores in other towns, states, and even other countries. Yes, when I was in Montreal, I went into a bookstore in an all-French neighborhood, although I have not spoken any real French since I left sixth grade.

It's a sickness.

Every time I visit family in North Carolina, I go in search of bookstores. I can't find the independent one I am looking for, so I end up at the Flying Biscuit cafe, instead. After I eat breakfast for lunch, I hit my back-up bookstore, Barnes and Noble. 

I don't need a book. I have a book with me and I have my phone with both Kindle and Nook e-books already loaded. But, I go in anyway. I peruse the magazines, decide that Taylor Swift graces too many covers for my sanity, then pick up a travel book for an upcoming trip to the west coast.

As I get to the register, the woman asks me if I have a membership. I do have one, for another few months, anyway, because my educator discount has been discontinued, so teachers get a free year of B&N premium. Turns out I get a free tote bag.

I need another Tote bag like Castro needs another cigar, so I almost decline, but, in the end, I agree to it, thinking it will be some cheap muslin or plastic thing. Instead, I get a choice of three different heavy-duty canvas bags. The nice ones. The twenty dollar ones.

Score! 

I choose a black and gold bag (Bruins colors), and I happily leave with my merchandise. Like I said, I don't need any more books, but now I have some great swag inside of which I can hide more books. So, I guess it all works out in the end.

SPRINKLING SOME COMMON SENSE

Signs like this should not be necessary:

"Do not drink drain clog gel."

"Refrain from sticking body parts into animal cages."

"Rat poison is not candy."

"Do not cross the road in traffic."

"Do not stick your mouth over the car tailpipe."

I think I may have encountered the ultimate example of human stupidity. Well, via signage, anyway. And I am still trying to figure out who on this crazy planet we call Earth could have attempted this so that a sign would ever be necessary.

I am at a hotel -- a newer, lovely Marriott in an area full of shops and restaurants and all kinds of cool places within walking distance. The hotel is mid-range financially, so I doubt there will be silverfish in the bathroom, and any available room service will not be delivered with white gloves. It's clean, it's modern, it's quiet, it's very comfortable, and it has some higher-end amenities. 

I really like the bathroom. It has a huge walk-in shower with a decent-sized rainfall showerhead, and there is a pass-through shelf where I can leave a rolled-up towel (or, I suppose, a mixed drink). I have tons of towels, considering that it's just me. I have plenty of room on both sides of the sink to set up my make-up and earrings on one side, and my dental stuff and hair stuff on the other. There is a huge light-up mirror over the sink along with an adjustable table-top magnifying mirror, too.

Therein lies the rub.

It is the adjustable mirror that first catches the problem with the bathroom. I see something over my shoulder but, because the mirror is at an angle, the view is actually of the ceiling. I stand and peer into the light-up mirror over the sink and catch a glimpse of the same thing but from a slightly different angle. Finally, I turn around and stare up at the top of the bathroom.

There is a fire sprinkler head in the ceiling. No big deal, right? I mean, that's where the thing belongs, in case of fire. It's not the sprinkler itself that is the curiosity. It is the sign that is stuck on the ceiling next to it:  "Contact with sprinkler will cause flooding." Still not a problem, correct? I have seen a soccer ball smack into a sprinkler head at an indoor arena and flood the entire sports complex, so it makes perfect sense to me. 

No, it's not the words that constitute the absurdity. It's the illustration on the warning. There is a coat hanger with a red line across across it.

That's right. A coat hanger.

This means that some moron in a Marriott hotel somewhere decided to suspend clothing on a hanger from the sprinkler head, probably even spun it around for fun, and proceeded to flood an entire hotel because once the system is triggered . . . 

Please, people, if you are that incredibly stupid, please, please, please stop breeding. Stop reproducing. Stop sending your spawn to public schools. Just. Stop. 

Stop, so that the rest of us can continue to experience the little hotel amenities that we have come to enjoy, like clean rooms and bathrooms with running water. Stop making signs like this necessary. And to the sign makers, please start producing signs that the rest of us can truly appreciate:

"If you don't know that this is NOT a coat rack, please drink this poison, stick your head in this tiger cage, or run across the track at a motor speedway."

 

STILL SHARP AS A NEEDLE

I've had a lot of careers over the course of my life.

I've tried my hand at being a nanny (pretty successful), a nurse's aid (fine until someone spit in my eye while yelling, "Mocha java! Mocha java!"), a waitress, a cashier, a receptionist, a copy shop tech (loved running that blueprint machine), a scribe for a legally blind classmate, and an office assistant. I've worked in fast food a few times. I've also risen into assistant management positions at Dunkins, a bookstore, and a fabric store.

I'm a jack of all trades and a master of none.

This was never more obvious to me until I recently have to up and move like a fugitive on the run. As I sort through stuff I've just been tossing aside for the last few years, I come across a very interesting stash in the bottom of my sewing box. Yes, a sewing box, because at one time I actually knew how to sew a little bit. What I find both shocks me and disgusts me just a wee bit.

I find a horde of needles. Needles for sewing, for tapestry, for doll-making, for hand-sewing, and needles for the sewing machine (both ball needles and regular sharpies).

I haven't really sewn since the pandemic, when I spent all of my spare time sewing headbands for nurses and other medical personnel whose ears were suffering the effects of wearing the N-95 masks so tightly and for so long that they were suffering from raw flesh. I haven't done cross-stitch in probably a decade, maybe more, and my hand-sewing reminds me that no one should ever ask me to give them stitches if we are in an emergency situation in the wild.

But, damnit, I'm fully prepped and ready for any needle-and-thread related emergency should one ever crop up. I have dozens of spools of dozens of colors of thread. I have embroidery floss enough to open my own store. And, I have the needles necessary to do the job. They may be old needles, and they may be an assortment of needles, but, like me, they're still mighty sharp after all these years.

GETTING ALONG WITH MY NEW COUCH

I bought a couch.

It's not a plush couch - you know, the kind that swallows you when you sit down. It's moderately comfortable, and I can move the chaise part from side to side at my leisure (which I already have done). It fits the smaller space in my apartment, but it is actually bigger than I remember it being when I saw it and sat on it in the outlet showroom.

I got it for a steal, considering it's brand new. Well, considering the prices of the other couches (even for the discount section), I am quite happy with the price and the color. It goes with everything, and it surprisingly arrived with two pillows I wasn't even expecting. Bonus.

More limiting than the space, though, is the fact that I am a short woman. Barely reaching five-foot-two, and probably shrinking with loss of bone density as I age, shopping for a couch has been an interesting experience. At the furniture store, there were several other people there test-driving couches. A tall couple seemed to gravitate toward the same couches as did I. I'd watch them sink into couches, ohhhh and ahhhh, then stand up quickly to try another couch. Me? I'd sit down, sink further, and my feet would be dangling in the air as if I were Edith Ann in her over-sized rocking chair. 

I am pleased to report that my feet actually touch the floor while I sit on my new couch. As of this writing, I've only owned it for four hours, so we're both still in our honeymoon phase, but we seem to get along fairly well. Or, in furniture speak, sofa, so good. 

SNOW -- A LITTLE LATE FOR THE HOLIDAYS

Yay, snow! A little late for Christmas, but snow, just the same.  

Our predicted three-to-six inches of snow turned into a prediction of six-to-eight, and ended up being about fourteen inches of snow when the storm was over. Nearby towns beat that with up to eighteen inches of snow. We thought we were getting away with a minor hit when it stopped snowing Sunday morning, but then the storm ramped up and just kept dumping more and more of the white stuff everywhere all afternoon with a third smack returning after dinner.

Don't get me wrong. I live in New England. I'm a snow lover through and through. My skin hates the cold, but I do love the seasons and the precipitation. No way am I complaining. But . . . 

But, then the weather turned. Mid-week it started to rain. Pour, actually. High winds and buckets and buckets of rain. The snow melted fast, too fast, and the coast was facing what's called King Tides, an astronomical condition that causes higher than normal tides. 

Then, it happened again later in the week. You may have seen pictures from up here. Pieces of lighthouses floating out to sea, cabins from islands floating into land, and waves the size of buildings battering anything and everything in their paths. We're not the only ones, either. There's a lot of damage happening up and down the eastern states. 

Sadly, the rain took the snow with it. Oh, sure, plenty of people wish the snow good riddance, but there's something wonderful about the world covered in fresh snow, especially snow that sticks to the branches and everything it touches. Maybe not when it sticks to the shovel, though. That kind of stinks big time, and it also stinks when the snow weighs down the electric lines and cuts us off from the modern world. 

It was only the first storm of the season, so there is plenty of time for more of nature's shenanigans. The casinos around here would probably fare better betting on the weather forecasters who cannot seem to predict a snowfall with any accuracy despite having the latest technology available to them. Today it is rainy and in the 50s. Tomorrow it will be in the 30s with snow showers. Right now, Friday is expected to be 19 degrees with snow predicted. 

Place your bets and try to synthesize the forecasts, which will no doubt run the gamut. In the meantime, I'll just repeat myself: Yay, snow! A little late for Christmas, but snow, just the same.

SETTLING DOWN VS. SETTLING

Finally, things seem to be settling down. "Seem to be" being the operative terminology. In my life, that could be as simple as saying I slept two hours uninterrupted. But, for now, my worst problem seems to be a somewhat unfixable living room window. Every time maintenance tries to fix it, they leave it worse off than they found it. Big deal. I mean, hey, I HAVE windows. That's more than I had three weeks ago. 

Being back at work after the holiday break has left me with little time and less energy to get things done around here. I have been spending my time buying and building furniture, and ordering a new couch since I don't want to sit on one that the flying squirrel sat on. (I've needed a real couch for a while, anyway.) Kitchen furniture is gone, pantry stand-alone cabinets are gone, the old TV stand is gone. Instead, I am building bar stools and wooden storage drawers for my newly organized/reorganized life.

I am currently attempting to get through my boxes upon boxes of books, which, if you know anyone who is a reader or book hoarder, is daunting even though I am easily at half the amount of books I had the last time I moved two or so years ago. I have a huge bag of books ready to be turned in at the Used Book Superstore. This means that when the store clerk says, "Would you like cash or store credit?" I should respond with CASH. However, I do know me, and I know that one bag of books going out will quickly lead to three bags of books coming in, so I am leaving the current re-sales in the trunk of my car for my own protection.

Also in the trunk of my car are beach chairs, emergency roadside materials, snowshoes, ski poles, and a laundry basket filled with three (yes, three) pairs of recently sharpened ice skates. I have a very old pair of figure skates (may have even been my mother's at some point), and two pairs of hockey skates because I can never remember which I pair I prefer. I should probably put my hockey stick and a puck or two in the car, as well. I even have in the trunk a blanket that I use to dry and cover my kayak (which is now on my porch). The back seat of the car is stuffed with bags of books and bags of clothing and shoes to donate. The other day a neighbor came by as I was reorganizing my trunk, and I suspect he thinks I'm an interloper using the parking lot as my cover for homelessness because it does appear that I might be living in my vehicle.

In the midst of all of this craziness, New England is about to get its first Nor'easter of the season. This means that everyone will be at the store buying up all of the bread and eggs and milk, as if a snowstorm here in the Northeast is a reason to host a three-day French toast event. I went a few days ago and did my idea of storm shopping, which, in actuality, was me replenishing things I lost to the squirrel invasion or simply needed after not shopping for three weeks. I now have enough food for the neighborhood. I bought mozzarella cheese and lots of other random supplies so that I could hand-make dough and pizzas. Yes, I bought milk because I needed a half-gallon of it. I bought small rolls to make school-lunch-sized BLT sandwiches. I did not buy eggs, so I guess this all means that I cannot participate in the Great First Seasonal Snowstorm French Toast Extravaganza. I do have bacon, though, so there is that.

In the continuous pattern of absurdity that is the crooked karma of my mishap-filled life, I have in the last sixty minutes written this blog, booked two trips, planned a third, gotten the window fixed, had the blind replaced, had the inner window area repainted, had cookies delivered by my daughter, spoken on the phone with my sister, thrown my boots on to run outside to kiss my granddaughter, talked to a new neighbor, updated my online calendar, and continued to unpack books. I guess that means that things really aren't settling down, but they are settling.

To be completely transparent, I'll take the settling. Happy 2024, everyone. May it be as full of surprises, hopefully good ones, for you as it has been so far for me.