MIND OVER MELTING

I don't have the air conditioners in the windows yet. 

I know, I know -- I should, and usually I do by now, but I've been too busy to haul the units up from the basement.  I will, though.  It's getting too hot and humid for my sleeping comfort.

In the meantime, I am keeping cool with fans and keeping windows closed during the hottest part of the day.  I'm also using a visual trick, and I'm not going to lie; it's kind of working for me.

I have a Christmas decoration that's only a holiday theme if I look at it really closely.  Otherwise, it disguises itself as an ordinary work of art.  It's an empty wine bottle stuffed with lights, topped off by a lovely bow and some other cool decorative baubles.  If I shut off the lights in the living room and plug in the wine bottle lights, it reminds me of winter.  Winter is cool, and so am I by imaginative osmosis.

It's not quite as effective as having the air conditioners in the windows, but it's an interesting experiment in mind-over-melting.  So far, it seems to be working.

NOT-SO-HORRIFYING HORRIBLE MORNING

My morning is not horrifying, but it is shaping up to be horrible.  Looking on the positive side, there's stuff in the fridge for lunch even though I haven't gone shopping since ... I cannot even remember when.  My car starts, there's gas in it, and traffic is only moving at a snail's pace; it's not at a standstill.  No, not completely horrible, but certainly not stellar.

It starts with a giant silverfish (hairy centipede) crawling around in my bathroom sink.  I grab a broom and whack the bug then rinse it down the drain with water.  In the reflection in the mirror, I see a spider crawling on the wall behind me, so I take the broom that's already in hand and swipe at the spider, which promptly falls onto my pants.  About twenty minutes later when I go to brush my teeth, I turn on the faucet and that damn silverfish crawls back out of the drain at me.  This time I whack it with a dustpan brush so hard that its legs scatter and twitch all over the formerly-clean porcelain sink.

My semi-awful day continues at work when I slice my finger open on a pile of papers.  It doesn't bleed immediately -- most deep cuts don't for about seven seconds -- but eventually it starts spewing blood like I've nicked an artery.  I put a bandaid on it, but the blood just laughs at the bandaid and spurts out all over my desk.  I put two bandaids over and around it, cutting off the blood supply.  This pretty much works until after lunch when I decide to take off the bandaid tourniquet.

Bad idea.  Bad, bad idea.

Within minutes I have a second gusher on my hands.  Old Faithful can't hold a geyser to the amount of blood shooting out of my finger.  My middle finger, no less.  Seriously.  I NEED this finger for driving.  How am I supposed to gesture at other drivers without it!?  I wrap up the finger again with one bandaid, but the finger just laughs and laughs and laughs at one bandaid and gushes out of that one, too.  Again I do triage on my paper cut ... a mere paper cut, folks ... so that I don't bleed out and die.

When I get home, I discover that I have a ton of gauze and a decent amount of medical tape but very few bandaids.  Well, middle finger, you best behave yourself unless you want me to tape you up like Gretzky's hockey stick.  Besides, I'm afraid to rewrap the dang thing because it means going back into the bathroom where spiders and silverfish roam.

That's all I need.  I'm liable to jump out of my skin and slice my finger clean off on something stupid like the towel rack.  I'd better just take the rest of the day and evening off.

UNEXPECTED SUN BEFORE THE RAIN

The long weekend is over.  I did manage to get a bunch of stuff done, although I expected to try and squeeze in a few more chores from my To-Do List.  However, the sun surprised me Saturday morning; I wasn't expecting it at all.  For some reason, I told myself that it was going to be dreary and overcast all weekend.

The lovely burst of sunshine was accompanied by some intensely warm weather, but it wasn't humid yet.  The humidity moved in during the afternoon along with the rain.  So, I mixed up a smoothie with frozen fruit, threw on my bathing suit top and some shorts, grabbed a pair of sandals, and smudged some sunscreen on my nose.  I took a book with me, along with a towel and a sun chair.

For ninety minutes, it was summer.  Gloriously, wonderfully summer.  And then, just like that, it vanished for the rest of the weekend.

GOING TO SCHOOL ON A NO-SCHOOL DAY

What do teachers do when they have a day off from school and they happen across an authentic, restored one-room schoolhouse?  Instinct would urge them to run away!  Run far and run fast!

I find myself with some time to kill on my way to a get-together in Eliot, Maine, so I pass by my destination and continue up the road to explore.  I drive past some nice old houses, a cemetery, and then ...

There's a flag on the side of the road.  The flag is attached to a sign that says, "Open house at one-room school today 11-2."   I glance at my clock.  It's 1:46.  Hmmmmm.  Maybe on my return trip I might stop by and check it out. 

I get to the nearest safe turn-around, which just happens to be the elementary school, and head back where I came from, trying to remember where I saw the flag.  Suddenly I see it, right along the cemetery and down a small side road.  I pull into the dirt lot and park next to three cars.  I have about eight minutes before the little schoolhouse closes for the day (and, as I discover, for another few weeks -- it's only open the last weekend of the month).

What I find is amazing. 

The schoolhouse has pristine, wide-planked floors, several old clocks, desks, books, an old wood-burning stove, and it even has some clothing from the time-period.  On the walls are pictures and articles and artifacts from and about the school.  I am so excited that I snap pictures and even donate some money toward its operational and restoration costs.

When I go back to my own classroom tomorrow, I'll definitely appreciate my modern school conveniences and the conditioned-air ventilation system, but there's something wistfully wonderful about the one-room schoolhouse's simplicity.  If I can't work there, I wish I could live there.  That way I'd never have a day off from school.

I mean, let's be serious: You can take the teacher out of the classroom, but you can't take the classroom out of the teacher.  

FLOWERS AND A REDUX

Two weeks after Mother's Day, the flowers from my kids are still blooming, and the Gardenia plant I got last year is also still thriving.  That's right, folks, you read that correctly.  I haven't killed the plants yet.

I just wanted to boast that I haven't smothered the plant nor the flowers yet.  For me, this is a real accomplishment because I can really only grow mold.  It could be a testimony to me, but it's really a testimony to the hardiness of the plants themselves.  Truly, I take no credit here.

Let's see how long the cut flowers make it.  I trimmed the survivors down again today, and I know they're on borrowed time.  Either way, Mother's Day lives on to make it through another glorious Sunday.

Happy Mother's Day Redux.  Enjoy your Sunday, everyone.

LET THE WEEKEND RACES BEGIN

When I leave work Friday, a cool eight minutes after the day's official end time, the parking lot is a ghost town.  Even the bosses have vacated the premises in Formula One green-flag time.

The temperature is a sizzling 89 degrees, and I'd really like to get home and enjoy some downtime as the three-day weekend begins, but I have several errands to run.  I could put off the errands, but then I'd just have to do them during the heart of the weekend, and that would suck eggs.

So, despite the feeling that I am already several laps behind everyone else in starting my mini-break from work, I trudge along, do a couple of the things on my Must-Do List, then hit the bank.  After all, I cannot survive the entire weekend on the $6 left in my wallet.

When I pull up to the bank at 3:30, I am thankful that the parking lot is almost empty.  This will be a quick errand -- in and out with moola in no time.  I pull into a front-row space, am just about to open my car door, and I notice the sign.  "CLOSED."

Sonofabitch.  Even the bankers left early for the weekend.

Luckily, the drive-up is still open, so I bang a uey in the lot, head back around, and get into the open lane.  Before long, my $200 is on its way back to me through the tubular express system.  But, when I open the envelope, the teller has slipped me two one-hundred dollar bills.

What in the Hell am I supposed to do with this shit?  Have the gas station break them?  Is CVS going to give me change for a c-note when I buy a pack of Life Savers?

I hit the Teller Call Button.  "Uhhhh ... hello?  Ummmmm ... I can't really spend these bills.  The money is going different places.  Hello?  HELLO?"  A few minutes later, I have a handful of twenties and am prepped for the weekend.  I have a stash of cash for gas, a stash of cash for food, a stash of cash for refreshments, and a stash of cash for travel.

Finally, around 4:15, I make it home from my day.  It seems like everyone else in the world has already been released for the weekend.  This includes my son, whose car is already in the driveway.  That's okay.  We get an early start on dinner, and he'll get an early start going away for four days.  Yes, four.  He has Tuesday off, as well.

I may have missed the green flag at work, but I see the checkered flag at home.  Let the weekend races begin.

CANNOT FORGET THE MERRELLS

My shoes squeak.  I'm not talking about a little creaking here and there; I'm talking about huge, loud, obnoxious, nails-on-chalkboard squeaking.  There will be no sneaking up on anyone with these shoes.  Not today.  Not ever.

The problem is that these are expensive shoes.  Well, not expensive to me because I bought them off the DSW clearance rack, but essentially these are expensive shoes.  They're Merrells, so they probably retail around $75, but, if I know me, I paid $30 or less.  Still.  These shoes ... these Merrells ... shouldn't be squeaking. 

That's just bullshit.

However, bullshit or not, I don't want to return them; I want to wear them.

I tell a pal about my expensive, squeaky shoes.  I tell her the same thing I'm telling you: "They're Merrells!  Merrells, for crying out loud."  (This is code-speak for "I paid more than Wal-Mart prices, and I expect shoes that don't squeak!")  She tells me that her husband had squeaky sneakers and that she had some good shoes that squeaked, so she consulted a small, independent shoe store for advice.

The trick?  Powder.  Yes, powder.  Pull up the the foot pad inside and sprinkle generously with talcum powder of some kind.

Of course I forget all about the recommendation until I decide that today is the day I will wear those shoes again.  I put them on, secure the strap, and ... the noise is so loud, even on my carpeted floors, that I am seriously afraid of waking my son, who is sleeping in the room across the hall from where my squeaky shoes and I are getting ready to leave for work.

I decide to try the powder trick.  I generously put baby powder under the foot pad, reconstruct my shoe, and take a step.

Not much squeak.

I walk some more, down the stairs, around the kitchen.  My shoes squeak some, but it is definitely better than before.  I grab a container of Gold Bond medicated powder, pull up the heel part of the foot pad, shoot in generous pops of powder, and reassemble the shoes once more.

Silence.  I swear to you: SILENCE.  My squeaky shoes are completely soundless.

This is wonderful news since I must walk around my classroom while the kiddos listen to an audio version of a chapter from a novel.  I can sneak up on them, rather than "squeak" up on them, to check if they're reading along in the text.

Even better than being in cognito, my shoes smell fabulous thanks to the baby powder, and my feet feel great thanks to the Gold Bond powder ... and the Merrells.  Cannot forget the Merrells.