HOW I SPEND MY SNOW DAY

1.  Wake up at regular time of 5:15.

2.  Watch the news.  At 5:23, see that my school is cancelled.  Wait for the official call.

3.  And wait… and wait … and wait … Get a text from a coworker.  Both of us are like, "WTF?"

4.  Phone call from school comes at 6:10:00 and again at 6:10:20.  Get another text from coworker.  Both of us are like, "WTF?"

5.  Go back to sleep.  Wake up at 7:45.  Refuse to get out of bed until 8:15.  So there.

6.  Get on Internet while watching the news.  Trying to get a handle on the storm.  So far it's paltry.  Lame ass storm.

7.  Have Irish breakfast tea.

8.  Have an English muffin.  Apparently I am going international this morning.

9.  Do some computer work.  Check on this super lame-ass storm.  At 10:00 I am thinking we should've had a half day of school.

10.  Start working on school stuff.  Make myself a smoothie according to my daughter-in-law's instruction (she knows these things).  Smoothie is a lovely green.  I add a strawberry and a dollop of honey.  Now smoothie looks more brownish than greenish.  I drink half of it.  I am trying to be healthy, I truly am.  I consider it a victory that I actually made and sipped the thing.  Needs tequila, but I resist.

11.  I check outside again.  Holy crap, it's snowing and blowing out there.  If it were a half day, I'd be driving in this shit.  If it were a whole day, I'd be screwed.  Thank you, Superintendent.  I love you today; however, I will curse you and all of your family in June.

12.  Screw healthy.  I heat up leftover pulled pork and make myself a monster sandwich.  Life is good.

13.  Work work work work!  Gotta post grades Friday.  Correcting open responses.  My eyes are ready to fall out.

14.  I continue to look outside and check the weather.  I still don't believe the meteorologists.  Screw you, snow.

15.  I watch an old episode of Judging Amy.  I have no idea why.  I never watched it when it was on for real.

16.  I decide to be healthy again and get out some low fat dip, carrots, cukes, yellow pepper, and Wheat Thins.  I have this with a glass of white wine from a bottle that has flip flops on it.  Come on, summer, I'm rooting for you.

17.  The snow is turning to rain.  I'd better shovel.  Out I go.

18.  Two and a half hours, one back ache, two sore ankles, and soaking wet gloves, coat, snow pants, and everything underneath later, I am done shoveling and moving cars.  My life sucks. 

19.  I immediately peel off anything and everything I am wearing that is drenched.  This allows me to shed about 25 pounds because I have become completely water-logged from the rain, the snow, and sweat.  Into the shower for like forty-five minutes because I cannot move.  I think my shoulders have locked up.

20.  More correcting, more wine.

21.  Damnit.  I have to get up and work in the morning.  More wine more wine more wine.  Okay, not really because there were only two glasses of wine left in the bottle when I started this.  I wish for more wine.  I gaze longingly at the flip flops on the label.  Save me, white wine, save me, save me!

22.  Time to write the blog.  Transfer some pictures from my phone to prove I am telling the truth, which I do not always do.

23.  Cut up some strawberries for tomorrow's lunch.  No, it will not be a smoothie, but I'm trying.  Damnit.

24.  Plug in my phone because I forgot to charge it before I went out to shovel.

25.  Get to bed sometime before midnight because I have to get up at 5:15 and the weather people say it's going to snow again overnight. 

All this and I have to remember to wear pink or red because it's Valentine's Day.  Have a happy and safe one, folks.  And if you happen to see any Flip Flop wine, remember how much I love you … and how much you love me … and bring me a bottle. 

HOUSTON, WE HAVE LOCKDOWN

The lockdown drill happens today, just like I know it will.  Oh, sure, I have insider information from a staff member who calls out sick.  But I also use common sense:  snow is coming.  No one knows if there will be school, won't be school, will be a delay, won't be a delay…  Wednesday is the only day of reasonably steady weather, something that will not impact either the school day nor traffic conditions on the roads thus tying up the police who essentially run our drill.

As soon as the attendance is posted via the Internet, I'm on alert.  Traditionally the drill has happened during second block, shortly after 9:00 a.m., and today is no different.  When the all-call comes through with no pomp and no circumstance, I am ready.  I have already locked the door, and I have already arranged the desks away from any entrance to the room. 

What I expect is a little pomp with my circumstance.  You know, something like, "May I have your attention please.  At this time the school will proceed to lockdown conditions.  Please follow protocol.  I repeat, we are now entering…"

What I get is, "May I have your attention.  We are now in lockdown."  Click.

That's it?  That's all we get?  No sense of leadership?  No sense of authority?  Just casting us all into the winds of oblivion and hoping we all play along? 

I double-check the door, which has the one errant handle out of all doors in this wing.  I cover the panel window in the door, and I fill out the emergency card, the green one for "all accounted for and safe."  I tell the full classroom, the group that is bursting at the seams and occupies every open chair and more, that they are to be silent, put their heads down, and please do not do anything that will attract enough attention for an administrator to unlock the door and find that we are still at our desks rather than huddled in a mass on the filthy, construction-dust-laden floor. 

Then I shut off the lights.  Except for the computer monitor in the back of the room, it is absolutely pitch flipping dark.  Because the classroom now lacks windows, it's like someone just shut us into a box.  I light a small Halloween electric candle I have fished out of the back closet and hope this is enough to stave off nervousness amongst the children.

I hear the first responders walking the hallways, checking on our paperwork and procedures and reaction time.  It is at this moment that I realize I forgot to tell the students one teeny, tiny little detail:  Someone is going to attempt to open my door.

Yup, I forgot to tell them about the door trauma, and trauma it is.  Whoever rattles my funky door handle works it and works it and works it.  He/she even gives it a little shove for good measure. 

This is when I first hear noise.  There is a murmuring coming from the back of the room and audible panic from a girl nearer to the door.  Houston, we have a screamer.  I can tell she is trying not to shriek as she emits two high-pitched and noisy intakes of breath. 

A couple of minutes later, we get the "all clear" announcement.  I turn the lights back on and apologize to the class, especially the girl who nearly lost her shit when the hallway people attempted to get into our room.  I can scarcely believe I forgot to mention so basic an occurrence to the students.  For that matter, I forgot to mention it to my co-teacher, as well, who is sitting mere inches from the door handle when it starts to clang around.

When it's all over and we know that it really is a drill and that everyone is accounted for, I apologize for not informing the class of exactly what happens during a lockdown.  Truthfully, though, I'm not sorry in the slightest.  Sensing the entire class having a miniature meltdown has been so worth the price of admission.  Witnessing my co-teacher having the same reaction?  So be it.

After all, this is a drill, a real-time simulation, and sometimes reality happens this way.  Life has its own handle-shaking events.  Might as well practice that reality now while we can still bounce back.

LOCK IT DOWN!

My windows at school have been completely blocked.  There are plywood boards, thick ones, nailed to wooden moorings that have been silicone-glued to the concrete walls.  When I come in to work on Monday, my classroom is darker than night, there is questionable-dust coating everything from the window treatments, and there are huge splinters on the desk chairs, some long enough to spear clear through one's thigh.

I wash down all the desks and chairs lest someone pick up a chunk of sheered wood and use it as a weapon, or worse, sit on it by accident and get a humungous splinter in an ass cheek.  I cannot even imagine what the air quality readings are like after being completely shut in with almost one hundred mouth-breathing young teens for hours on end without any ventilation whatsoever.  As it is, when I return from a meeting almost an hour later, just opening the door emits enough powerful dead air to knock a buzzard off a shit wagon.

Now, though, with these six giant slabs of plywood covering my windows, I no longer have the illusion of daytime streaming in to my room.  I no longer see the construction workers who awkwardly stand and pledge allegiance to the flag through my window when they hear the announcements seeping through the plexiglass.  It is as bizarre for them as it is for us having that theatrical third wall broken and breached.  The plywood will save them from having to stop and salute, from being afraid when I sneeze too loudly, from the bored stares of the disengaged students, and from me dancing naked during my planning period.  Okay, that last one I made up just to see if you are still paying the remotest slice of attention.

This complete and absolute shuttering of the outside world strikes an increment of agita in my claustrophobic self, but that is nothing, nothing at all compared to when I prep for our lockdown drill.  This fact alone is startling that, in lieu of everything going on in this world, we have yet to practice the drill.  Until today.  Because I am a semi-trained journalist, I have a way of finding out confidential information, and I am completely aware that we are having our lockdown drill today, soon, maybe even now as you read this.

In a lockdown drill, I am supposed to herd the children into one corner, away from windows, doors, and general mayhem, and force them to keep their hands folded while they sit silently huddled into a corner.  There are only two problems with this scenario:  #1 - There is a film of oily sawdust everywhere, and I do not want them sitting in it; #2 - the room is pitch black when I flip the lights off (as per the instruction). 

Call me old-fashioned, call me a prude.  However, I see absolutely no logical nor productive reason why I should huddle prepubescent boys and girls into a completely black corner, you know, just in case someone shifts an arm or leg around and makes illegal contact (or what might be perceived as illegal contact).  I decide to set up my desks in groupings and make sure these desks are away from the doors.  This way the children can remain in their seats in the silence in the dark like miniature Walt Disneys in suspended animation.

The announcement will be made, sending us into lockdown mode.

I will, of course, lock the door quickly and efficiently, which is fun since my door handle is the only one different than everyone else's and lacks a quick and efficient lock.  Oh, it locks, but it's like the opening sequence of Get Smart to accomplish the task.

Since there is no qualifier that this is just a drill, the nervous students will all suddenly have to pee.  Nobody leaves; we are locked and loaded. (Poor choice of words, I'm sure.)

I will take attendance, and fill out the proper paper color to shove under the door to indicate our status.  I'll slide the paper into the hallway, letting any hypothetical gunmen know that this here is a classroom full of unarmed citizens ripe for the taking.

I shall then instruct the children to put their heads down on their desks and be completely and utterly silent (or, so help me, I will smack each one with a rolled up piece of construction paper … if I could find one to roll up).  I plan to break protocol and keep them safely sitting away from the doors (windows don't count anymore since they are behind the plywood fortress) and also sitting safely away from each other.

Then, I will shut off the lights.

Certainly screaming, crying, and general mayhem will ensue here as true claustrophobia sets in along with the inability to see the fingers in front of one's face.  I can sense fear in the air, hear it, taste it; all this before I realize that I am the only one in panic-mode here. 

What seems like hours later but is really only minutes, we will be allowed to return to normal status, lights will come back on, and the immobile mannequins of children will statically return to life, their power fully restored.  The lesson, like the show, will go on.

This is how I anticipate the lockdown drill to go.  I'll certainly report back if I don't have a heart attack being shut in to the lightless black mausoleum that has become my work space.

TODAY'S BIZARRE HOLIDAY

Today is Don't Cry Over Spilled Milk Day.

Why the hell would I cry over spilled milk?  I might cry over spilled margarita or spilled tomato soup or spilled medium-rare steak tips.

I might even cry over bra spillage, tampon spillage, or runny nose spillage.

I often cry from taking a spill, especially if it's in front of an audience.

I can see myself crying from spilling my wallet, spilling my brains, or spilling the beans.

I'd even shed a few tears over an oil spill, a gas spill, or a chemical spill.

But, really.  Spilled milk?  Unless I spill it down my entire front side at work, or into the seat of my pants while I'm driving, or into my socks and boots while I'm still wearing them, I still can't see it.

So I suppose that means I've joined the ranks of those who do not cry over spilled milk.

The fact that it's still four more days (including today) until I get a break from school and also the fact that it's zero or below outside (not including wind chill) -- That's worth crying over.

Screw you, milk.  Get in line if you want to make me cry.

ANOTHER SOMEWHAT HIDEOUS POEM ABOUT SOMEWHAT HIDEOUS WINTER

Oh, Winter that is not ceasing!

It's not the snow. 

Really it isn't.

But I am damn tired of the cold.

Look, I have dry skin, anyway.

Now it's even drier.

Like sandpaper.

Like brittle old paper.

Then I go to work all day long.

For all the years I've been in cold rooms,

This one has heat enough for the entire wing.

I go to school dressed for Siberia,

Yet while I'm teaching, it's Aruba.

It's like being in the menopause room.

One second it's chilly (hallway),

The next it's boiling (where the desks are).

Then I bitch about it.

I bitch like that's going to change anything.

It's not.

It's not winter's fault.

It's not the snow's fault.

It's not the short hours of daylight.

It's not the thick slab of ice that undercoats

The walkway and the driveway that makes

Just getting to the car an everyday adventure.

It's the damn cold.

Tomorrow - zero degrees - truly?

Today everything is covered with what is

Supposed to be a dusting.

Liars.  Morons.

I'd chase you down and smack you all,

You silly weather forecasters,

Who say more snow is due on Thursday.

I don't care anymore about your snowcast.

Tell me! 

Tell me the truth!

When is it going to be warm again?

When will it stay above 24 degrees for

More than 24 hours for more than 2-4 days?

I am single-handedly keeping

Lotion companies in business,

All you've got for me is zero degrees?

There's a reason I don't live in Siberia.

Or maybe I do and just don't know it.

Damnation.

SPENDING TIME WITH MY KIDS SPILLS OVER FROM THE END OF THE WEEK TO THE WEEKEND

Yay!  It's Spend Time With My Kids Weekend!  Actually, It's Spend Time With My Kids End of the Week and Spilling Into the Weekend.  Yay!

Thursday evening my eldest, Financial Guy, comes by for dinner and the Bruins game.  We also play along with Jeopardy on TV because the hockey game doesn't start until 8:00 p.m.  We drink frozen strawberry margaritas.  Ole!

Friday evening my daughter, the middle child and RN, comes by.  We eat dinner together and go through her stuff in the basement in anticipation of next weekend when she and hubby move to New Hampshire.  Very exciting!

Saturday I drive from a Newburyport thesis session to Hooksett, NH, entirely on the back roads without touching route 101 once.  I take youngest child, College Boy, to pick up some much needed supplies (shaving cream, deodorant, and sunscreen since the lacrosse season starts next Saturday) and out to eat at the local Sal's Pizza.  

I love my children, I truly do, but there are many parents who totally understand what I am about to say: I love them even more when they're away from me.  Not far away.  Close enough to visit frequently but far enough away to get a decent night's sleep without listening up for them to come home.

My youngest still lives here part time: summer and Thanksgiving and Christmas breaks.  His lacrosse schedule prevents him from coming home and/or getting into trouble during spring break.  Part time is good.  He fails to understand, though, how I can sleep soundly while he's at school, but when he's here I have the weird need to make sure he gets home at night and is still breathing in the morning.  I try to explain that it's a Mom Thing -- when he is under my roof, I'm still responsible.

I guess that means since I'm usually without kids here at home, I've become irresponsible, and I suppose that's true.  I sometimes stay up late, watch too much HGTV, and often eat nachos for dinner.  (Hey, they have grains and dairy and veggies, right?)  For some odd reason I also eat a lot of sweet potatoes, which sounds healthy and creepy all at the same time.  When I run out of Cheez-Its, toilet paper, milk, and patience, I've only myself to blame.

It has been a wonderful three days.  Really.  I'm not even being sarcastic.  But, truth be told, I have a huge pile of homework and a lot of correcting to do.  Since I indulged my mom mode for three days, it's time to get back into teacher/grad student mode.  I have pulled pork cooking in the crock pot for Sunday dinner.  Don't tell my children, though.  I don't want them to get any ideas!

TOP THRILL DRAGSTER HOUSE

My daughter and her husband are moving next weekend.  As a gift to them, I am sending the last of her crap with them to their new house. 

Turns out she has more stuff here than I thought but much less than I panicked about: a few boxes, a couple of bins, three mysteriously tied trash bags, a drink dispenser, some paintings, and a garbage pail with miscellaneous junk in it.  There is also a table set with four large chairs.  All of it must go by next weekend.

In addition to these treasures, there is one other box, a box full of file folders and notebooks, that I want her to remove from my basement.  It has been there for a long time, probably as long as we've been in this home, and somehow it keeps getting ignored. 

Until tonight.

After having some soup, we attack the basement, bringing things upstairs and packing them into the corner of the den, ready and waiting for the big move next Saturday.  We decide the table and chairs will have to stay where they are for now because the den is too small to accommodate that much stuff.  Believing that we are done, my daughter is quite evasive when I point to the paper-filled box of her childhood.  Reluctantly the box comes upstairs with us.

Paper after paper after paper is a step into the past.  There are the notes never-passed to old friends and notes never-passed to ex-friends; old essays with teacher commentary, sketch journals, a middle school yearbook with snarky asides written in, class notebooks, calendars, photographs, and a list of things to do before she dies (written when she was in her mid-teens).

The list is by far the best thing found in the box. 

Some of the items she already crossed off in high school because she either did them or decided that the people involved weren't worth her time and energy.  Some of her aspirations are poignant, like never losing touch with her childhood friend Rachel (Rachel came to my daughter's wedding last fall).  Some are a little scary and harsh, like wanting to punch a boy (any boy, no one in particular) in the face.  She wanted to visit the set of the television series ER, but since it has been cancelled, she is a real nurse, an RN who gets to experience the real medical field every day.

Some of the stuff is a little wackier.  For example, she once aspired to own a hairless cat, or, if unavailable, a hairy cat that has been shaved to look like a hairless cat.  She also thought it would be truly wonderful to run over a squirrel or chipmunk because her friend Jayme didn't like them, which totally explains the fur caught in the tire treads of my late mini-van.

My daughter may be full of a sense of adventure, but she also has common sense.  Some of the stuff on her teenage-self list make her present-self roll her eyes.  "Go cliff diving?  When the hell did I ever want to go cliff diving?  Uhhhh, no."  And it may not be cliff diving, but there is one massive adventure challenge on her list:  Go on the Top Thrill Dragster roller coaster at Cedar Point, Ohio, without crapping her pants.

I honestly don't know why she would crap her pants.  When it comes to amusement parks, my kids will ride anything, the higher and the faster the better.  Corkscrew coasters?  No problem.  Rickety old wooden coasters?  Easy pickings. 

My kids all inherited the daredevil gene.  I don't have it, at least not for amusement parks, but I'm willing to take real-life risks and jump of proverbial cliffs, and I am hopeful that my daughter at least takes that with her on her journey into home-owning.  Not only am I sending her crap with her, I'm sending her on her own personal Top Thrill Dragster of a life moment.

I wish the new home  to be everything she has dreamed of, and that it's as thrilling a ride as she's hoping.  And just an FYI -- there are two bathrooms in her new house, so she doesn't have to be worried about crapping her pants with excitement.