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.

LIGHT UP THE STORM!

This weather is all my fault.

I decide to replace the string lights on my porch. I had left an old string of Christmas color lights up on the railing until the bulbs finally died on their own a couple of months ago. Even batteries couldn't help after so many years. I didn't mind going through the summer without replacing them because it stayed light out until later, and I didn't actually sit out after dark because of mosquitoes. 

A couple of weeks ago, though, I knew I needed new lights. I spent days searching to find what I wanted. I decided on simple blue and white ocean-themed lights. I ordered them, then went away on vacation and left the new lights in the box. 

Finally, though, I am ready to string those babies up!

I get them all set up and strung around the railing; I get them all set up with fresh batteries. They even have remote control, so I can program them to all kinds of options, like blinking and glowing, and for hours and hours of illumination.

Now, my porch is completely redone. Earlier this summer I replaced the bulkier metal chairs and table with colorful new deck chairs and small tile-top side tables. I even set out a fake palm tree and a rattan rug. The lights? Perfect cap to the summer vibe. Now that autumn is here and soon enough winter, as well, I can enjoy that beachy feeling all year long. Sit outside with a hot chocolate during a storm? I won't care because the lit-up seashells will shine through the snow and tease me about warmer days.

However, I expected a little more time with my revamped aesthetic before the first Nor'Easter arrived. How silly of me. Because not two weeks after putting the lights up, we are due for a major rain and wind monsoon. Batten the hatches, tie things down, bring things in . . . the whole shebang. The apartment complex sends out an alert: Secure your belongings! It's like the apocalypse is coming.

So, folks, I apologize, deeply and from the bottom of my usually black heart. I tried to be cheerful. I tried to be positive. I tried to embrace my inner peaceful and restful summer side. Instead, all I did was tempt fate and piss off the weather gods. 

It's my fault that this entire weekend is going to suck, that it will rain sideways for days, that the winds will knock out power, and that your weekend plans are totally ruined.

I bought new lights and dared to enjoy my porch. I should've known better. 

MOVIE FOR ONE

I take myself to a movie.

I'm not a loser ... most of the time. This is not the first time in my life that I have gone to a movie alone. To be honest, Every time I go to a movie with friends or family, I always see at least one person going solo. It is actually a brilliant concept because no one distracts a solo movie watcher nor distorts the experience.

The only reason I jump on a late afternoon weekday movie ticket is because the movie has its play extended. I thought I had missed my opportunity to see it, but, as it turns out, the movie's popularity resonates with the theater's cash flow.

At the time that I buy my ticket the night before, I am the only one who has reserved a seat. I have a pick of ANY seat that I want. I am slightly skeeved out, so I choose a near-end seat about four rows back on the left side of the theater. It is close to two different exits, just in case something feels creepy.

And it is creepy. For a about fifteen minutes, I am the only person in the theater. Then one person sits a row in front of me but more toward the middle. Eventually, his buddy arrives with popcorn. Shortly thereafter, a single woman sits in my row but about six seats away. There may be a few more people behind us. 

Basically, though, the theater is deserted.

We enjoy the previews, settle in for the movie, and think we are about to enjoy a bang-'em-up buddy movie. There are twists, though. Deep, dark twists. When the lights come up, the few of us in the place stand up in stunned silence, glance at each other, and file out of the theater. Seriously. No one is uttering a word. 

Oh, the movie is spectacular. It is well-written, well-acted, and well-filmed. It simply gets very dark very suddenly, and it successfully takes us all by surprise.

It is at that moment, near-catatonic as I exit the building, that I am truly glad I went alone to see the film. There are times when words don't work nor would they nor should they. The seat may have been comfortable, but the movie wasn't. 

Taking myself to the movie alone is empowering; driving home alone after is like therapy. Five stars - I highly recommend the activity.

ONE SHOE ON AND ONE SHOE OFF

Never before, never since, but twice while on vacation in DC.

Sounds like the start of a riddle or perhaps a political joke, right? Nope. Apparently, it's some kind of weird trend. I don't mean that officially. At least, I sure hope that I don't. 

We are in a waterfront restaurant in DC, higher end, nice place, fancy seating and bar, both inside and out. We are having a lovely dinner, enjoying some seafood and some restaurant-week shenanigans, when we notice a couple at the bar. Well, we suspect that it's a couple. They are seated very close, leaning toward each other, and each has a drink. 

The woman, perhaps mid-twenties, is wearing a white dress and has a pocketbook with her. The young man has a shirt and tie, and his backpack (yes, a backpack, not a sling-type bag) is on the next stool over. He turns toward the young woman and we all kind of glance at one another. The man --- er, boy --- possesses a very young face. Very. Young. Very young. He looks possibly fourteen, maybe fifteen if we stretch it. 

Bless him. It might just be his family's incredible genes.

But, that's not the awkward part. Okay, it kind of is, considering that the couple is seated at the bar. The awkward part is that, despite being professionally dressed, he has one shoe off. One shoe and sock is on, and one shoe is off but the sock is on.

Naturally, I find this fascinating and start quietly singing the old nursery rhyme, "Deedle-deedle dumpling, my son John went to bed with his stockings on. One shoe off, one shoe on ..."

For some reason, we find this odd look to be fascinating. We end up sneaking glances at the socked foot off and on throughout our evening. Is he going to make a move using it? Is it a smell thing? Is he wearing his father's shoes and they're too big so one fell off? Is it a fetish? Is it a new dating tactic? Are they dating? Is he even of consenting age?

I snap a picture because of course I do. It's not often you see a one-foot-shod young man in a bar seemingly on a serious date. Inquiring minds want to know. Alas, we never find out because asking him would draw attention to it, and we don't want actual dirty laundry to wreck the relationship before proverbial dirty laundry can do it.

About forty hours later, after a long trek through Dulles Airport, I stand at the gate with a hundred or so of my best friends as we patiently wait to board the plane back to Boston. I stand near some chairs when a person deplaning decides that instead of going along with the other deboarding passengers, she wants to cut through the waiting, departing queue. This pushes me toward the people who are sitting and I nearly collide with ...

A socked foot. No shoe. There is a shoe on the other foot, but this foot is in the passing lane of Dulles, sock only. Another Deedle-Deedle little dumpling, apparently. Again. my only coherent thought is that I must try to get a picture of this without the guy noticing, which is hard since I, too, am practically in his lap at this point.

It just seems a bit strange. Weird. Licentious.

If this is some new male pick-up trick being bandied about in DC, I can speak as a single woman and say that it is not working. Also, it's creepy. I am pleased to say that the two men sitting alongside of me on the flight do keep their shoes on, as far as I can tell. However, now that I think on it, I have been on flights where this isn't the case. 

Let's try to stick to decorum. If your feet don't smell and you're on a plane and need to stretch those feet, I'll give you grace. If you're in the airport, preparing to board and smooshed amongst a multitude of other people, please refrain from presenting your shoeless stockinged foot. I will not concede the date thing, though. That was then and still now remains disturbing to me. If Socked Foot Fetish is part of your dating profile, maybe try it in a diner or fast food place before bringing the show on the road to a place where shoes are more than a suggestion.

THE GREAT DC NAPKIN CAPER

There are so very many things to see and do in Washington, DC, that bringing home souvenirs is practically a given. Apparently, my family is obsessed with collecting DC napkins.

That's right. You read that correctly. Napkins. Nondescript, unassuming, undecorated, cheap, paper napkins.

I meet my brother (older of the two) and his wife at Dulles. Yes, it's on the outskirts, and yes, it takes an hour to get there from DC proper. Two main reasons why we fly into Dulles instead of Reagan, which is actually in the city, are because their North Country New York airport only connects with Dulles, and because it is closer to the Udvar-Hazy National Air and Space Museum (which is different from and has a more spectacular collection of air and space machines than the air and space museum in the National Mall downtown, it's just not as flashy nor interactive).

Our niece who lives in DC picks us up, and we head over to Udvar-Hazy for the afternoon. First stop, though, is food. Inside the museum used to be Mickey D's or some such low-level fast food. Now it's Shake Shack. We tuck in and order food. As our trays come up and we make our way to the table, I grab a handful of napkins -- four, to be exact because there are four of us. My niece sits down, and she, too, has grabbed us napkins. My brother also grabs napkins. So does my sister-in-law. 

Haha. We have napkins galore!

After the museum, we head to my niece's house, then past John Philip Sousa's (Stars and Stripes Forever) house, to the Capitol, the Botanic Garden, a special event at the Library of Congress, and then to dinner, where, of course, there are napkins. 

The next day, breakfast is from Starbucks, which is attached to the hotel, and it involves beverages and egg sandwiches. And napkins. Must have napkins. We hit up a bunch of monuments, spontaneously walk into a nationally press-covered rally, see police horse stables, tour a couple of museums, and stop for lunch. It is another order-at-the-counter style restaurant, so we wait to pick up our bowls and salads and wraps. When we finally sit at a table, I have a handful of napkins. So does my niece. So does my brother. So does my sister-in-law. 

Now, before you go judging us, we actually take the unused paper napkins with us because we might need them later at the hotel (which is true because I am so tired that I miss the table with my glass of red wine and it lands on the carpet) and because we are sweating bullets so we need an occasional forehead swipe. At dinner, there are actual woven napkins. We do not bring those back to the hotel with us.

The following day, we diversify. My niece and brother go for a walk around the basin, then my brother heads to the Spy Museum. My sister-in-law and I head to the Museum of Natural Wonders, where we stop for a light lunch at the cafe. We both order spinach-and-cheese filled pastries and tea and coffee. As we sit at the high-top counter, I notice that she has grabbed napkins and so have I. (I also accidentally grab three forks instead of two because apparently we have a ghost guest with us, perhaps John Philip Sousa.)

We hit up the Nationals Park for an MLB game. My brother gets a bunch of food for us, and, like a great host, he grabs mounds of napkins. This is good because we are messy eaters and we are sweaty. Back at the hotel, my sister-in-law and I grab ice cream bars from the hotel lobby and, of course, napkins since perhaps we might need them. (We don't. We have a stockpile already.)

Our final day involves Starbucks for breakfast and more napkins. We head over the Eastern Market, where we eat some brunch and some sweet treats. Of course, since it's hot out and the chocolate in the baked goods is gooey, we need -- you guessed it -- napkins. We walk around, visit a book store, then make our way via Metro to Dulles, where my brother and his wife and I eat an early dinner, and we all naturally gravitate toward the napkins. I stuff some extras into my carry-on backpack because I might need them on the plane.

When I arrive home, I am exhausted, but I still feel the need to unpack and get organized. As I work my way through the bag of dirty laundry and my various toiletries, I come across a small collection of paper napkins.

Most people bring home t-shirts or magnets or postcards or gifts from DC. Not my family. Only the best for us! If someone asks us what we brought back for souvenirs, the answer is simple: Photos (thousands), memories (hundreds of thousands), and napkins (a gazillion). 

THAT IS THE QUESTION

To suitcase or not to suitcase? That is the question. 

I think Shakespeare said this -- probably on his way to vacation. 

Honestly, I would like nothing better than to fit four days' worth of clothes into a backpack that fits under the airline seat. It would make my life so much better and my flying experience so much easier. I hate fighting for overhead space, and I hate even more the people deplaning who do not understand the concept of getting their luggage and getting off of the aircraft. 

However, where I am traveling is going to be in the 90s with some rain and humidity. The place where I am staying does not have guest laundry. I have played this game before when I under-packed for a trip to Delaware for one of my kiddos' lacrosse tournaments. It was 104 degrees with high humidity every day for the whole week, and, despite the website's insistence, there was no guest laundry at the hotel. 

Do you know how many times a day one must change underwear when one is outside in the sun or dodging rain-soaked tornado-force storms over the course of five to seven days? The answer is: A LOT.

Just ask the housekeeping crew who saw all of my handwashed clothing hang-drying in the bathroom and all over the room when they came in to change sheets and replenish towels halfway through my stay. It looked like a squatter situation.

For this upcoming trip, I have packed and unpacked and repacked and unpacked again and under-packed and over-packed and packed everything so many times and so many ways that I could teach a master class on minimalist vs. comfort-level clothes packing.

The truth of the matter is simple and three-fold: ONE = I don't want to re-wear sweaty clothing nor do I want to handwash anything; TWO = I want room to bring my better camera this time rather than relying on my phone with its blind view in the light of day; and THREE = (the true reason) I want room for souvenirs.

I understand the issues here, as well. A backpack that fits under the seat eliminates jockeying for overhead space. As a later boarder with a forward seat, the risk of luggage space running out is real. Carrying a suitcase through the city, on public transportation, and around the streets until hotel check-in time (or until we are even near to the hotel) is going to be a pain. But, and this is huge, I won't get overheated with a backpack pressed against my boiling hot spine while summer attempts to kill me. Even if I did, my suitcase has extra clothes to spare.

I am repacking the suitcase for the third time after unpacking the backpack yet again for the same amount of times. I leave the suitcase open. I try to sleep. At 2:00 a.m., I wake with a brainstorm, creep out to the living room, unpack the suitcase, and let piles of clothing sit out while my brain stews. I go back to sleep. I am up and repacking the backpack shortly after dawn.

Be aware that I am still 48 hours from leaving. (I am busy the day before, so I am trying to get this task off of my plate.) Off and on all day I stare at the backpack, but it stays packed. Unzipped, mind you, but packed. This is progress. For now.

I sincerely doubt that this question, to suitcase or not to suitcase, will be answered until moments before I need to leave for the airport. Whichever packing option wins, I promise that I will not arrive at my destination without at least one change of clothes and some clean pajamas. 

I fold a fabric zipper bag into the bottom of the backpack in case I do want souvenirs and decide to put the backpack itself into the overhead bin for the trip home. Then again, I can always buy a suitcase for the return trip when I get there, if I change my mind yet again.

Thank goodness I'm not going to Vegas or Atlantic City -- I'm having enough trouble gambling on my luggage. I'll let you know which wins.

HE'S JUST A POE BOY

Once upon an outing dreary

On a Friday - we weren't weary -

(That is all I'll steal from Poe,

Lest I cause the readers woe)

A buddy and I both did go

Away to Lowell to see a show

Based on works by Edgar Allan

(Talked to raven with its talon

Sitting high above the floor,

Tapping, rapping at the door).

Acting serious and cheesy

At the E A Poe Speakeasy,

Watching, watching through the veils,

Drinking, drinking small cocktails.

Tales of terror total four;

Entire evening - not a bore.

If you get a chance to see,

It's a recommend from me, 

If some tickets you do score,

You can thank me ... nevermore.