IMPATIENT FOR SUMMER

I'm impatient for summer.

There are many reasons, but the main reason is that for the first time in over a decade, I'm cold. (Menopause is not for sissies.) I'm cold, and I'm tired of being cold. I'm tired of having to warm up my car in the morning, I'm tired of turning on the heat in my home, and I'm tired of standing under boiling hot showers to ease the ice that has settled deep into my bones. I'm tired of wearing socks with my shoes. I am tired of shoes, period.

A recent trip to Maine brings me along the coast. 

Oh, I can see summer. It's all along the beaches and it's creeping into the marinas that are slowly waking back to life. It's not here yet, but the air is full of summer. Low tide's stench seeps into the car because the windows are cracked wide (while the car's heat blasts on my feet), and the aroma reminds me that soon, very soon, perhaps not soon enough, I will be sitting in a canvas beach chair, book spread open, watching the waves hit the sand and hiding my snacks from aggressive seagulls.

I hope the summer lingers for as long as it seems to be taking to get here.

It's a short but wonderful season up here. I know that when I retire I can and will drive or fly or teleport myself to any beach I want to at any time so that I can have summer at a moment's notice. Of course, then I will complain about missing the snow and how those first flakes are magical and how amazing it is to be inside while a storm rages outside, trapping us all under piles of whiteness.

For now, though, I am impatient for summer, and I'll count the days until it finally arrives.

PLAYING WITH THE YOUNG ONE

Playing with a three-year-old

Can bring a lot of joys.

It also means strange happenings

When playing with the toys.

Sorting out the characters

Can often be a hassle.

Pretty soon you'll find Tarzan

Skateboarding on a castle.

Barbies playing make-believe,

Zooming round in cars.

Stuffies fly across the room

Orbiting toward Mars.

Styling dolls' heads full of hair

With fake brushes and clippers.

Stuffing little princesses

Inside some football slippers.

It may not always make much sense

But when the time is done,

Being in that magic world

Is fascinating fun.

TACO TOILET SIGNS AND THE SNEAKER CAPER

My friend and I are on an afternoon road trip adventure when we both realize that it has been a while -- a long while -- since we peed. We have more errands to run, including adding one more gang member to our shenanigans, so we set our sights on the nearest public restroom. We are on a busy multi-lane street with no safe crossings, so we are trying to limit our choices to major intersections with traffic lights or something on our side of the road.

Like magic, Taco Bell appears around the corner. 

The place isn't very busy for midday on a Saturday, which makes parking easy. We pull right up to a space near the entrance and clamber out to make haste to the potty. Except, of course, we are instantly sidetracked because strange things seem to happen when we are out together exploring. 

Despite a genuine need to get to the bathroom, we are distracted by a shoe. Not just any shoe. A sneaker. Not just any sneaker. A lone burnt-orange sneaker sitting all by its lonesome on the sidewalk right outside the door to Taco Bell.

Of course we take a picture of it. That's part of today's adventures, the whole documentation and proof piece of it all. But this just seems strange. Is it a worker's shoe? In which case, is an employee walking around with one bare foot? Or, did someone run so fast to get food that they simply ran right out of their own shoe? Even more frightening, was the shoe leftover from a patron whose Taco Bell lunch simply caused him to literally blow right out of his own footwear?

We find this shoe weird but also humorous, which is a dangerous thing for women in desperate need of restroom. We make our way to the bathroom corner of Taco Bell and discover two things: The ladies' room is a single-seater (horrifying), and the gender signs are hilarious. Naturally, while one of us is using the facilities, the other snaps pics of the placards.

Both bathroom gender signs are modernistic geometric designs, and both are clever and clear. The designs start with two long hooks. For the men's room, the hooks are crossed in the middle, indicating waist and hips leading to long legs, and the top curves of both hooks appear to be brawny shoulders. On top is a small circle. Apparently, only bulked-up men with tiny heads can use this potty.

The women's sign, on the other hand, takes the hook design to another level. The tops of the hooks represent delicate shoulders and arms, and a triangular design for a dress provides the assumption of gender. However, and this is the part the suddenly sends me into a giggling fit in Taco Bell while waiting for my friend to emerge from the bathroom: The pattern is designed in a way that the poor young lady's legs are crossed, presenting an image of someone who really, really, really needs to pee.

Now that we have caused a bit of a stir taking a photo of the sidewalk and also photos of the bathroom doors, my friend and I quickly and quite audibly (because we are howling with laughter) sneak-er our way back to the car, wishing that perhaps we were not so close to the entrance nor within eyesight of the entire (possible semi-shoeless) staff. 

SCAVENGER HUNT BINGO

What do we do on a gloomy, cold April day? My friends and I go on a South Shore scavenger hunt.

Planning a scavenger hunt is pretty easy. If you're a normal person, you probably start with touristy things to do. If you're a little twisted like I am, you'd start with Roadside America, the website where people post about oddities and strange places to see and visit.

Once I have a possible map area of where we can (and might) go in one day, I start researching more things for the list. In addition to the Roadside America website, Google maps is very good at marking local landmarks and interesting stops -- you just have to be willing to scrounge around a bit with the map.

Next step is plotting the course.  If something is too far out of the way, off the beaten path, or not recommended, I cross it off the list immediately. Then, I narrow the list down to about twenty-two or so possibilities. Every location is added to Master List. This includes order or visit based on location, and detailed directions on where each oddity is located.

The last step before traveling is to create a Bingo card. Using a 25x25 grid system, insert FREE to the center space. Take all of the locations and enter them randomly into the Bingo card. Any leftover spots become breakfast, lunch, or dinner spots (or just snack break). 

My friends and I randomly start the scavenger hunt too late to get to everything in a single day, but we have fun finding things and adding stickers to our Bingo card:  Jet on a pole, Land of Lincolns statue and plaque, statues of  Lone Sailor and Abigail Adams and John Adams and John Hancock, United First Parish Church, a very nearly perfect granite sphere weighing 9.5 tons, and the first Dunkin Donuts. We also find s shoe sitting by itself outside of Taco Bell.

We have many more things on the Bingo card for next time, including a log cabin replica, USS Salem (which, apparently, is tricky to get near), a memorial to Sacco and Vanzetti (convicted murderers who may or may not have been guilty), and the grave of the donut-hole inventor. 

Instead of saying, "What do you want to do today?" try doing something different. Odd. Strange. Twisted. Try playing Scavenger Hunt Bingo with other like-minded weirdos.

IT'S BARELY APRIL

I understand that it is barely April. 

I understand that we survived March without holidays nor random days off.

I understand that we sprang ahead an hour so we gained some daylight.

I understand that we had just as many weekends last month as every month.

I understand that it is still cold out and might snow at any given moment.

I understand that the temperature fluctuates sharper than a menopausal woman.

I understand that my skin is tired of cracking and itching.

I understand that humans cannot live on soups and stews alone.

I understand that people shouldn't be cooped up inside for extended time periods.

What I don't understand is how one warm day in New England resets my entire inner circuit board into thinking it is summer already.

I'm ready. You're ready.

Everyone is ready.

(Except my bathing suit body. 

My bathing suit body is most definitely not ready.)

MAKE MY DAY -- THEN STEP AWAY

March is the worst month to be an English/Language Arts public school teacher up here in Massachusetts. 

There are zero holidays, so no long weekends, there is no Spring Break (we are per diem employees, so don't even go there), and we are gearing up for state testing in two weeks. Yes, 75% of the way through the school year, the kiddos are being tested on 100% of the curriculum. This means that we need to take down and hide any and all materials related to what is taught to prevent cheating, plus assure our students that they are, indeed, prepared for two days of rigorous and unrealistic testing conditions.

This is also the time when someone on the scheduling committee decides to add in an Academic Open House evening.

I have nothing against sharing the students' work. Come in (almost) anytime! I have stuff posted around my room. I have binders full of projects and papers. I have a file cabinet brimming with students' folders and papers.

But, truly? During the longest stretch? At the most arduous time? The point where the stress level is bursting? When we are trying to mitigate any resources that might compromise the outcome of a state test that is geared more toward college students than middle schoolers? When the weather itself is iffy, at its best?

Small wonder we are all dragging ourselves through the days, or that our sick-out rate is at its highest, or that our nerves and patience levels are shot. 

If you are not a part of my student or immediate teaching team and walk into my room now, and a few idiots have done so, I'm going to take your head off and serve it to you on a paper-lined clipboard.

During the filming of Midnight Cowboy, an unplanned and unscripted line happened when a taxi cab almost hit actor Dustin Hoffman. Briefly breaking character, Hoffman banged on the cab's hood and yelled, "Hey! I'm walkin' here!" (Then cussed out the equally irate driver as the cab took off.)

This is how I feel. This is how we all feel in the Massachusetts public school system right now. Get out of our way. Stay out of our way. Let us do the work we are trained, hired, and scripted to do.

If you dare to cross into my lair right now, or at any time before I am done with the state testing in my subject, I will tear you a new body orifice and serve it back to you charred to perfection. I might be reprimanded, or, if I'm lucky, maybe I'll even be relieved of my duty. 

That would be fine. I'm ready for anything at this point. After all, it's March. It's the very worst time to do what I do. This is stroke-level stuff. 

But, go ahead. Make my day. Walk this way. Cross that line. I dare you to, because you might have forgotten: I'm walkin' here.

VEGAS MEETS THE GRAND CANYON

The final full day of the Vegas adventure involves a side trip: My daughter and I decide to visit the Grand Canyon. Bear in mind that the closest rim of the Canyon to Vegas is the West Rim, where the Skywalk is, and it is not part of the National Park system. This part of the Canyon is operated by the Hualapi Native Americans, so it's not the usual flashy tourist trap.

We sign up for the bus tour, an excellent decision if anyone is considering this, and pass through some of the most amazing scenery I have ever seen up close. Of course, we goof a bit, too, like making fun of the mini-mountain that appears to have a nipple on top, but it wouldn't be a true adventure without some shenanigans on our part. 

The first stop is at the Hoover Dam. Lake Mead is slowly disappearing, which makes the entire Hoover Dam project an exercise in irony, and it's a bit mind-boggling walking across the bridge and trying not to think about falling to one's demise over the railing. We don't have time for the full tour, but we get some great pictures of the dam and the surrounding rock structures and hills.

In order to get to the West Rim, the bus drives through the Joshua Tree National Park in Arizona. It's still winter and has recently snowed, so there isn't a lot of greenery nor blossoming going on, but it's still amazing and so very different than what we are used to in New England. 

After that, we are on the Hualapi Reservation, a place where the "People of the Tall Pines" have lived since around 600 A.D. (C.E. for you modernists). The place is both beautiful and heartbreaking. It's tough to see how many of these people live on land that is so amazing in conditions that are limited. Of course, the counter to that is the way the scenic areas surrounding Vegas have given way to gated cul-de-sacs, and that is equally bothersome. 

Once we arrive at the West Rim, the skies are blue but the air is cold. It is windy and chilly, and we seem to have brought our New England weather with us. We decide against the Skywalk as it is rather expensive for the experience, and opt instead for a glassed-in corner table view over the Canyon and Skywalk where we will eat our lunch. The meal is one of the best things we have ever eaten: tortilla/taco toppings on traditional Hualapi fried bread and a salad with fresh nuts from nearby groves. The experience is stunning and mind-bending. We are literally sitting in and above the Grand Canyon!

After that, we explore both Eagle Point and Guano Point (yes, guano). By the time we get to the second location, Guano Point, the weather has started to deteriorate. The winds have picked up, the sky has clouded, and we watch as a snow squall moves all the way through the Canyon, following the Little Colorado River as it barrels toward us, wee little people standing precariously 4,000+ feet in the air on ledges less than ten feet wide that have zero barriers to oblivion. Some people are climbing the huge rock mountains for better views. I'm praying that a wind gust doesn't send us flying to our demise.

Finally, we make our way back to the gift shop and then to the bus. We are so cold at this point because the temperature is now in the 30s, at best. We pass across a time zone (Arizona doesn't change its clocks), and make it back to Vegas in time for dinner. We wish we had one more day to hit a couple more Vegas sites and museums, but there is no way in the world that we regret taking that bus tour and seeing what we experienced. We didn't get a chance to see any Hualapi demonstrations (it was too cold and snowy for even the crafters to come out), but it was wonderful to walk with the Native people in their own lands and see what they have been seeing for centuries. 

Yes, I'd like to see the South Rim someday, and the North Rim if it ever reopens after the fires. The true cultural experience, though, is through the eyes of the people who live amongst the Canyon itself, who share their traditions and their food and their knowledge and their talents. It's not a tourist experience, it's a spiritual one, and well worth the travel.