SAME OLD SAME OLD TRAVEL BLIPS

Whenever I travel, two things always happen without fail: 1. Some stranger accosts my personal space; and 2. My glasses break.

The first happens when I am minding my own business at Logan Airport. Regular readers of this blog will recognize the same old story. I am in a near-empty gate, sitting alone and away from humans, charging my phone, and generally minding my own damn business. Apparently I have a neon sign above my head that says, "Come! All ye who are loud and obnoxious, all ye who chew loudly, and who speak on your phones as if the whole world needs to know your life choices. Come, sit near me for a long, long while because I certainly don't wreak of 'Leave me the fuck alone' vibes."

A man, probably about my age, sits in a seat directly behind me (remember, the gate is near empty, so at least fifty other seats are completely unoccupied), starts up a video call, and proceeds to tell a woman (his poor wife?) all about everything from his travel woes to his pus-filled hemorrhoids. I know she can see me on the video call, and I've half a mind to swivel my head and scream, "Who are you talking to, you two-timing bastard?!" 

Finally, he says mercifully, "Let me put on my headphones so we can have a private conversation." Then, and this is the ridiculous part, he puts on the headphones but does not plug them into his phone. He continues on his very loud video call, only he's louder since he cannot hear clearly because he is basically now wearing mufflers on his ears. I turn, glance over my shoulder but am disappointed to see that he has angled the phone to the right so only half of his face is on the video screen (and none of mine). I shake my head and move two aisles over in the same waiting area because there is no one else here.

The second problem I have when traveling is that my glasses always break. Oh, they never break when I'm home or near a store -- only at the most inconvenient times and places. I have learned my lesson of having to wear driving sunglasses in the dark because my distance glasses broke during a road trip, and of not being able to read anything because my up-close glasses have lost a lens. Now, I always bring two pairs of driving glasses and two pairs of readers with me on trips. Simple. Problem solved.

However, on this particular trip, I will be going someplace sunny. At the last moment when parking my car at the long-term lot, I grab my driving sunglasses (the ones that saved me during that night driving incident) and pop them into my bag. Thank goodness I do. because I am wearing those constantly while driving around the neighborhoods of North Carolina.

I leave my glasses in the rental, no problem, and proceed to a park and to lunch. Until, that is, I get back in the SUV. Remember -- I have not been near the sunglasses for two hours; they are merely sitting alone in the vehicle. When I open the car door and ready myself to leave the parking lot, I grab my glasses and a random chunk of the temple tip of the frame has merely detached itself. I can't even pretend to use the glasses because they will fall right off the side of my face.

Thank goodness I still have two sets of driving glasses with me in my backpack in the car (I'm headed to the airport soon, anyway, so everything is with me). It doesn't help that I am driving into the sun, but it's okay. That's what car visors are made for, right?

When I get back to my own car at the long-term lot, it is dark, so I don't need my sunglasses. I have my spare pair in the car, anyway, but now I have to buy a spare spare. All in all, one random freakazoid headphone man and one set of broken glasses are not nearly enough to dampen a great trip, and it's reassuring to know that my travel blips remain steady. It almost feels like good luck!

SANGRIA AND INDUSTRIAL TOOLS

I am not a weakling.

I used to carry full-grown men across judo mats, along with dragging their full body weight up and down the mats. I can and have moved furniture by myself up and down stairs. I routinely carry cases of paper around at work.

But, I have strangely small hands that make opening things a huge challenge. 

My hands are so small that I can barely reach an octave on the piano keys, and pinkie rings are too big for my ring fingers. Of course, my tiny fingers are extraordinarily helpful when someone needs to reach up and into the broken copy machine at work to retrieve bits of paper that no one else can access without barbecue tongs (which we do not keep in the teachers' room). 

However, my limited grip berth is detrimental when trying to open things like jars and bottles. More than once, I have had to take serrated knives to the plastic caps on bottles in order to open them. Oh, sure, I can lift cases of these bottles. I just don't have the brute hand span to get a decent grip for torque.

Imagine, if you will, my limited grip versus a very well-sealed bottle of sangria.

I try and try and try to turn the cap, but it is fused metal-to-metal. I get one of those rubber grippy things and work at it, but it doesn't budge. I even try leather gloves, which have a much better grip than tiny hands alone do. Finally, I grab my handy serrated knife (that I keep for such occasions and for breaking down large boxes) and start pecking apart the metal ring holding the cap to the bottle neck.

Nothing is working. Not a dang thing. I can't even budge the cap. (Remember, I am not a weakling.)

Finally, I grab a wrench. Yes, a wrench. an industrial sized wrench, not some small one. I am going to open this bottle or break it and dump its contents down the sink. I use a washcloth, too, just in case the glass does break, to add an element of safety to this endeavor.

Once I get the bottle open (after several attempts), I take a look at the cap. It is bent, and not just bent a little bit, but bent in a way that the manufacturer seemed to intend that no one could ever break into the bottle. It's like the makers of Fort Knox created the sealant to this bottle. As I am adding fruit to my glass and preparing to pour the sangria in, I swear I hear the theme song from Mission Impossible playing.

I think I'm done with these bottles. I understand now why people gravitate toward pop-top sodas and boxed wines. At least I won't need the power tools to have some refreshment.

SPICY PEANUT SAUCE AND OTHER OBSESSIONS

I just happen to be running errands when I pass a Whole Foods grocery store. I have zero business buying more food. My refrigerator is decently stocked, as is my back-up supply of dry goods. I have every intention of steering my car straight up the hill and away from Whole Foods. I even get into the lane that does not turn toward the road where Whole Foods is located.

Somehow, though, I suddenly find myself changing lanes and swerving right to head toward the parking lot. Apparently, I have a hankering for some vegetable spring rolls. If you don't know what those are, vegetable spring rolls are sushi for people who hate raw fish. 

Not every Whole Foods has the vegetable spring rolls, or, if they do, they're not readily available on a regular basis. For example, I've never seen them in Whole Foods in Charlotte, North Carolina. Doesn't mean that they don't have them; I've just never seen them when I've gone looking for a snack while visiting.

So, my car and I end up at Whole Foods. (I'm blaming the car, of course.) I go into the store and find the spring rolls. Score! But, the display case also has cucumber avocado rolls. I've never tried those, but they look good, too. Oh, great. Now I've gone from "I shouldn't be stopping here" to "I cannot decide which specialty item to choose."

In the spirit of generosity and because I don't want to offend any yummy vegetables in the case, I opt to buy both. I actually tell myself that I will have a few of each and maybe bring the rest to school for lunch.  (Insert evil laughter here.) 

What actually happens is that I scarf down all of the cucumber avocado rolls plus half of the vegetable spring rolls. I do not bring the rest of the spring rolls for my work lunch because the spicy peanut sauce is messy, so I inhale those the following evening.

This is not the worst part of the story. The worst part of the story is that now I have an obsession with these darn things. I cannot stop thinking about the vegetable spring rolls, and it's to the point that I am Googling spicy peanut sauce recipes. I also used an avocado and other vegetables (string beans, peppers, tomatoes, spinach...) along with couscous and created my own bowl version.

Thank goodness Halloween just passed by. I have enough disguises to go back into Whole Foods as often as I like and buy the vegetable spring rolls and the cucumber avocado rolls without being recognized and dubbed mentally and nutritionally unbalanced. I pay cash, too, so no one will be able to track my purchasing history.

I suppose there could be worse obsessions, but this one is borderline weird. That being said, if you have a decent and easy spicy peanut sauce recipe, send it my way. 

HALLOWEEN FUN

Halloween is coming.

As readers know, I already set up for Christmas (mostly) when one of the grands came over to help decorate. Same grandchild is here with me this weekend, so I decided to bring home my school Halloween toys. Not only will I be retiring within the next year or two so stuff has to come home, but this kiddo loves, loves, loves scary stuff and all things Halloween. She is the perfect audience for such shenanigans.

As soon as the little missy wakes up from her nap, we are going to town with the toys. I have a two-foot tall dancing skeleton who sings Super Freak, a dancing and singing purple people eater, an animated witch,  and a full-sized (but flat) plastic skeleton with moving joints.

I might have set up Christmas first, but that was just to throw off the holidays. I am fully ready for Halloween around here, and I have the decorated cookies and cupcakes to prove it. Today we drove nearby to inspect fairy houses and mini villages. The kiddo pointed out Halloween houses the entire ride there and back, short as it was. Later, after nap time and toy time, she will be having a play-date with another young'un who just so happens to be one house away from a huge animated Halloween house.

It's great when a holiday (or two) can give children so much pleasure. It's fun to be with the little kids (and the bigger ones) at any given moment, but it sure eases the entertainment factor around the holidays.

Happy Halloween, and may the trick-or-treat gremlins be generous!

BOOOOOOOOO -- IT'S THE HOLIDAY SEASON

Booooo! It's Christmas in my house.

I know, I know. It's not even Halloween yet. But when a three-year-old comes over to decorate a tree, you decorate a damn tree. That's just the way life is. 

I have a small tree, only about four feet tall. I live in an apartment that lacks storage. For some reason, every place that I've lived in has seriously lacked closet space. Not only that, this place doesn't have attic storage, either. So, I had to decide: full-size washer and dryer, or another closet. Hmmmm... time to down-size the Christmas tree, I guess.

I will say that having a three-year-old decorator certainly made my share of the work more tolerable. The older I get, the less I like hanging ornaments on the tree. I've dumped more than half of my original ornaments, and tossed a lot of the decorations because I don't host anymore, so the whole "deck the halls" routine is ridiculously streamlined now, much to my amazement and pleasure.

I do, however, still have several fragile antique ornaments, as well as many lovely glass ones, so this whole "toddler-tree" symbiosis may not have been my brightest idea. In the end, though, no glass was broken. There were casualties, though. The Bruins chair lost its hockey stick, and Bob Ross suffered a half-severed foot. Nothing a little hot glue won't fix once I get around to it.

I did notice, after the fact, that a couple of bulbs on the tree are out, but I'm not touching those until after the season ends. I refuse to risk short-circuiting the whole tree. That would mean undoing everything, adding strings of lights, and re-hanging all of the garland and decorations.

Bah-freaking-humbug to that, Ebenezer!

I guess for Halloween I will be Santa's elf. Considering that I haven't given the holidays any thought other than that, the tree will be scary enough.

WEATHER AND DUMB-ASSERY

 New England weather is at its "dumb-ass" level -- 40 degrees in the morning and 85 degrees in the afternoon. This means that we are unable to properly dress for simple things like work, shopping, or stepping outside for a moment.

I decide to bring in the last of my porch plants. I figure that if the frost comes, which it does a few days later, I want to save the few plants that I hadn't brought back to school. This seems like a smart decision.

Until I start moving the few pieces of furniture that I have out there.

It all starts innocently enough. "Bring in the plants; sweep the porch off." There isn't a whole lot of room to move around out there. The porch is some silly measurement like 3.5 feet by 6 feet., so I am even tripping over myself. I have a couple of wire shelf units for plants, so those have to come inside, as well. Then, I have to maneuver the other furniture from side to side so that I can get the broom working.

It all goes well, for the most part. Yes, the wind might take a bit of the dirt I sweep over the balcony and deposit said dirt onto the patio below. Ooopsies. But, really, it wasn't like I dumped leaves or big branches. Just some dirt. The bulky metal table and the matching medium-weight chairs move easily enough. Pretty soon, the porch is looking all right, so I sit out there for a couple of hours (since it's 80 degrees now).

I am now minding my own business, reading on my Kindle while enjoying my plant-less porch. It seems like a win-win for me. 

Until I glance down.

Just as an FYI - I was born with long toes. It's the reason why I have a larger shoe size for someone of my limited height. This means that I'm always catching my toes on things, and I have broken no less than eight of my toes over my lifetime. This knowledge alone should prove that what I am about to type is no big mystery. And yet, the true mystery is that I have zero recollection of doing this.

I seem to have taken a substantial chunk of skin out of my foot right near my big toe. 

I figure it's just a scratch, so I let it congeal and continue reading. Later, as I prepare to shower, I realize that I should probably clean the toe off. After all, it's going to sting like Charles Dickens when I get under the water.

Except instead of a scratch or normal injury, I discover a hole. A pretty substantial hole. A hole about the size of my pinkie fingernail, and about as deep as the thickness of a quarter.

You would think that I might remember such an injury, but you'd be wrong.

Apparently, I have somehow managed to gouge a nice divot into my big toe, probably on some piece of furniture, and have now bled to softball stage. Even worse, the dang thing is starting to show signs of infection. I treat it with both anti-infection stuff (smells like tar) and triple-antibacterial cream. It hurts a bit, but not that badly. But, man, oh, man, does it look hideous. 

Let this be a lesson to all of you: If you're thinking of doing fall cleaning and bringing in random porch furniture -- DON'T. If summer isn't over, which ours clearly is not yet, don't bite Mother Nature -- she bites back (and uses outdoor furniture in her arsenal).

ADVENTURES IN PENMANSHIP

It is said that students can't write anymore, can't use punctuation, can't identify nor write a complex sentence (or worse). In many cases, this is absolutely true. But, let me break it down to an even more basic problem:

Students cannot write legibly anymore. For me, this is the crux of the problem.  

When I first started teaching in my current district, all of my students were required to write in pen and in cursive. After a few years, we relaxed that standard. Somewhere along the frameworks-pushed way, handwriting and penmanship gave way in elementary schools to things like social-emotional wellness. By the time the kiddos got to me, they had socialized victim mentality and writing that resembled chicken scratch written in a foreign alphabet system.

So, this year, I have a poster that depicts what the regular printed alphabet looks like, letter by letter, with little arrows teaching the students exactly how to stroke out the letters in pencil or pen. On day one, I announced, "If your letters don't look more like these," and I pointed to the poster, "then you will be rewriting and rewriting and rewriting your work until it does look like this."

I also announced that anyone who masters the printed alphabet is welcome to experiment with the cursive alphabet, of which I also have a poster. Every day I post an inspirational quote on the board, always written in cursive, with the challenge, "Read this, if you can!" It  has proven to be a popular activity.

Before you blast me about IEPs and 504s and PT and OT, understand that unless the child is actually physically missing a hand, or has a degenerative hand or arm condition, or a temporary issue such as a brace or cast, or is mentally unable to write, then that child can produce writing that resembles or even emulates the printed letters on the poster. Period. 

One boy boasted that he didn't have to follow my directive. My expression clearly stated otherwise. He stood up and said, "Yeah, that's not going to work because I have terrible handwriting."

I gave the child my caring face (hint: I don't have one), and replied, "Oh, pumpkin. That sounds like a you problem, not a me problem. Feel free to have a seat."

I am pleased to report that we are three weeks into the school year, and it has been a very long time since I have been able to clearly decipher (and grade) the students' work, until now, that is. They seem to understand that illegible handwriting isn't just good practice. It is also brainpower, willpower, and academic power. Being careful writers also helps them to be careful thinkers. It seems that how they write something directly corresponds with the actual initiative to write something.

For now, I don't have any scientific data beyond my own observations. I do, however, look forward to practicing cursive with them eventually. There are many studies on the interconnectedness of contiguous writing and contiguous thought. It's kind of like playing Connect the Dots with a captive audience. 

Mastering basic writing skills at ages twelve and thirteen really is too late. Unfortunately, the state only allows teachers minimal time and support to work on handwriting skills. I shouldn't have to teach them the basics all over again, but, dagnabbit, I will. If any group can pull it off, it's the group I have now. Maybe then I truly will give them a real caring face, after all.