GET OUT OF THE GARAGE FOR FREE

It's a shame that ticket dispensing machines cannot have a universal system.

I use ticket dispensers mostly for parking my car somewhere: a parking lot where I have to display the paper on my dashboard; the parking lot where I leave my car over extended days so I can use the airport express bus; the parking lot at my favorite beach, the one where I pay the machine then walk thirty seconds to the soft sand without crossing broiling Hell to get to the water. I also use ticket dispensers to get on the commuter trains and buses.

There should be a universal coding system that the directions, or, at the very least, the FIRST thing you are supposed to press or do, should be at the TOP. Makes sense to me, but I am a technology moron.

I am on my way to a medical appointment, and I have to park my car in a new garage. It used to be a regular Pay-By-Phone lot (Super easy, by the way, but probably unnecessary because who polices these lots? No one.), but apparently the city turned it into a multi-level parking facility. 

As I enter the garage in my car, I see someone trying to leave the garage. He is out of his vehicle, playing with the ticket scanner, and generally trying very hard to get out past the gate. I make a quick assessment: I had better pay attention to the rules so I don't look like a complete idiot trying to leave. 

I promptly stop in front of the machine on my side, and I realize that I need to take a ticket. After all, there's a slot that says: Take ticket. The only problem? No ticket is coming out. There are some buttons on the screen, but I can't read them because I am wearing my driving glasses, not my reading glasses. So, I throw the car into park, reach for my reading glasses, and glance back at the screen.

There are all kinds of useless tabs and phrases flashing at me, but not a single one tells me how to actually get the damn ticket to come out. Finally, off to the side but not anywhere that makes sense, it says Press here for ticket.

Brilliant. This I can do. I hit the button, get a paper receipt, and the gate opens. I drive through, park, and then realize that I failed to see how I am supposed to get out of the garage, especially since that other driver could NOT get out of the garage.

Now comes the part that is almost comical. I Google the information for this particular garage. Yes, I do. I actually Google it. I find out enough to know that the medical office where I am headed will not validate parking. So, I walk back to the machine. It tells me to pay before I leave. I glance around for a pay station. Once I find that, I feel prepared enough to get out quickly after my appointment.

I come out an hour later, scan the piece of rolled up paper, and pay $1.50 on my credit card, where the interest charge alone will triple that ten times over. When my car and I get to the gate and get ready to put the already-scanned code up to the reader, the gate just opens. OPENS. Like I never had to pay at all.

This begs the question: What the hell was that dumbass driver doing stuck at the gate?

Okay, so maybe it's not the ticket dispenser technology that needs universal coding. Maybe it's the human species. Either way, I have a $1.50 Get Out of the Garage Free receipt. It's kind of like winning the lottery in my book!

TRULY A WONDER-FULL

It's the most wonderful time of the year!

It's the time of year when I freeze in the morning before work if I forget to set the car controls to warm up my vehicle in the morning, and I fry if I leave those same controls on when I depart from work in the afternoon. 

Commonly called Autumn, this strange New England phenomenon brings with it heat rash, frozen toes, night sweats, morning shivers, and a persistent hacking cough that settles deep within the lungs. It is what locals call survival and visitors call pneumonia. It is when the heat cranks in the morning, and the air conditioner runs all afternoon and evening. Fans operate all night in an attempt to run off both germs and clammy skin caused by prolonged exposure to temperatures between 35 and 85 degrees within single twelve-hour time periods.

It is also the season when it is bright out one second, and then suddenly it's like Mother Nature turned the lights off. Someone mentioned today, "Look, it's three o-clock, and it's still light out!" Yes, that's shocking because we know it's coming: pitch dark by 4:45 p.m. and still lights-on dark at 6:45 a.m.

Of course, in the brief time that there is still visibility between the outside world and the Netherworld, the leaves on the trees make spectacular statements, which is great on weekends when I am not shut into the working world until the sun sets.

But, as lovely as the foliage is, it still cannot help me make decisions on jackets and sweaters and (the truly dreaded daily decision of) footwear. I guess that also makes this the most wonder-full time of year when I have to wonder fully how to dress myself to get through the day. 

Don't worry, though. Snow is coming. We locals can smell it in the air. Not yet. Not here, anyway. But soon. We can feel it coming as we prepare to scrape windshields and warm the car seats. As annoying as it all sounds and is, it truly in the most wonderful time around here.

BEFORE I ZOMBIFIED

The first few weeks of school are crazy. 

Teachers (or, at the very least, those with whom I work, myself included) easily put in sixty to eighty hours of work ahead of ever setting foot into the classrooms: downloading class lists, creating seating charts, reviewing IEPs and 504s, redoing seating charts when new students are added or others are removed, fielding emails, and completing hours and hours of online training (most of it useless). When we actually get to school, there are more hours of setting up classrooms. Within the first three weeks of school itself, we have assemblies, fire drills, meetings, and Back to School Night (the dog-and-pony show for the parents, guardians, and other related adults). 

It is small wonder that ill staff members start falling like Pickett's Charge at Gettysburg. 

I try to stay healthy, but I start the school year already exhausted. Like so many of my students and colleagues, I get hit with the scratchy throat. This slowly escalates to headaches. Then comes the upset stomach (which sucks because I teach on my feet from 8:30 until 12:30 with no break). This leads to (for no logical reason) the runny sinuses. Finally, and I know it is coming because my voice drops from the alto range into the tenor range, comes the demon sore throat.

Thank goodness I am able to drag myself to the grocery store before the worst of it hits. I stock up on soup and tissues and Polar orange-dry soda. I buy bread to make toast. I have eggs and oatmeal and tea and honey. I probably should have restocked the medicine, but I still have enough supplies to make it through the weekend and can probably crawl to a nearby pharmacy, if absolutely necessary.

I get it. I really do. Seasons change, weather shifts, people breathe on each other, surfaces are dirty, papers carry germs, there is a lot of coughing and sneezing going on. However, I truly hoped to make it past weeks three and four before my body rebelled, before I became infectious, before I reached pariah status. 

You know, before I zombified.

The worst part of it all? We love what we do (for the most part). We drag our sickly selves to school partly because it's more work to be out and partly because, like the kiddos, we don't want to miss anything.

If you know any teachers, please forgive us for cancelling plans or missing deadlines or forgetting to respond to texts. We are struggling, really and truly. You should probably check in on us -- we might be dead by now.  But, please don't call. Our throats hurt and we don't feel like chatting just yet.