2012 OBSERVATIONS

Head cold has returned.  Again.

Furnace is dead.  Again.

Vacation is almost over, and I've accomplished practically nothing.  Sue me.

It snowed and now is sub-Arctic cold (yes, Canada, we love you, just the same).

My Christmas tree is still up and decorated.

Bruins still aren't playing; Jeremy Jacobs is a testicle.  (Does this count for two?)

The Patriots remind me of the Steve Grogan years where every game is a crapshoot.

Frosted Flakes and Cocoa Krispies are the best cereals of all time.

Flannel pajama pants = the greatest invention

I cannot own an iPhone because I would be on it 24/7.

Chocolate is losing its grip on me.  Okay, maybe not Reese's peanut butter cups.

Eating dinner alone means plastic utensils are completely acceptable.

Acne and menopause are Mother Nature's cruel jokes on middle-aged women.

Having 2/3 of my children get engaged is not so stressful since it's not to each other and this isn't Arkansas.

Arkansas has replaced Seabrook, NH as the incest capital of America.

No matter how warm I convince myself the beach water is, it feels damn cold after sundown.

I only say hello to dogs that are breeds I like.  Unless the owner is a nice-looking guy, in which case even a poodle would be okay.  Then again, what kind of guy owns a poodle?

Summer vacation is really short when one is taking back-to-back classes four nights a week for six weeks. 

I can write a whole lot of bullshit and pass it off as an important assignment.

Last winter was so mild it was like we didn't even have winter.  Score!

I want to race rally trucks really bad.  Not badly because then I would suck at it.

Clean underwear cannot be overrated.

There is no purpose to owning an insect, reptile, or bird for a pet.  Pets are supposed to be interactive.  I don't really want to play catch with a pet scorpion.

Kohls' prices are too goddamned high.

I didn't encounter a single greenhead fly this year. 

It's a long run from the university parking lot to the closest open building during a thunderstorm.

Bursitis in the hip isn't funny.  Breaking one's ass is.

Cheez-Its are the food of the gods, but only because Nabisco doesn't make Tidbits anymore.  Bastards.

I didn't gain any weight but went up a pants-size.  Gravity sucks.

I cut off all my hair in late June, but it's already long enough to pull back again.  Go figure.  Maybe I'm a Yeti.

I bought a zoo membership then hardly ever went.  The giraffes forgive me.

I now know Boston well enough to park at multiple lots and actually make my way around most of the city.  Only took me decades.  Don't judge me.

Time flies the older I get.

Thankfully, though, the Mayans were wrong.

SATURDAY GAMES

It's fun when your kids have 4WD, it's snowing out, and it's a Saturday night.

My daughter and her soon-to-be-better-half showed up last night in the midst of a snowstorm (not a blizzard, just some messy driving) and brought beer, pizza, salad, and a game.  The game was called Loaded Questions, but I suspect we may have laughed just as hard had we played Tiddlywinks.

Sometimes the unexpected surprises really are the best ones, and it was a wonderful way to spend the post-Christmas/Pre-New-Year's weekend.

Sorry, but I've nothing funny nor irreverent nor crude nor offensive to say this morning.  Yet.  Wait until I go outside to shovel.  Then I'll let the bad language fly.  For now, though, just a really nice feeling after an evening well spent.

Thanks.

SNOW IS IN THE AIR

Can you feel it?  Can you hear it?

There's a tingling, a buzzing, an electric current running through the air.

It's winter, and the weather professionals are predicting snow today.  For some here in the Northeast, it will simply add to the foot already received.  Where I live, we have been graced with some sleet and black ice but little else.  This means only one thing: Crazy people at the grocery stores.

I lived through the Blizzard of '78.  My family went without electricity for a week (with a six-month-old infant in the house) during the Ice Storm of '86.  I understand the importance of stocking up on staples and water.  To this day, if there's a particularly nasty storm front moving in, I will stockpile water just in case by filling pots, pans, and plastic containers right out of the tap.

But a twenty-hour event with predictions of three to six inches of snow?  People feel the need to flock to the stores like sheep for this?  Really?  Where are you people from, anyway …. Florida?

Look, it snows here.  That's what happens in New England during the winter.  The temperature drops, the clouds gather, and then - boom - ice crystals come out of the sky and land on top of each other on the ground.  It's not rocket science; it's just meteorology.

Here's where I pick on the weather reporters, yet again.  This is their routine:  With the possible storm front five days out, they start hyping it.  "SNOW COMING," they smile.  Everything is cheeky.  We still have days to batten down the hatches.  With three days out, they start denying the radar.  "Looks like it'll probably be going out to sea.  Sunny all day, so never mind."  Two days out, the forecasters bring in technology, talking about storm tracks and computer models and spaghetti routes.  Suddenly this little non-storm is busting at the seams, and it's all Armageddon.  We are treated to hourly snow predictions, and the radar becomes Nostradamus when just days ago the television stars were ignoring what the layman could see right there on the green screen.

A day before the storm starts, the weather people start apologizing.  "Sorry, folks, but snow IS coming."  Wait … they're sorry?  They're sorry.  Now that it's winter in New England, they're apologizing for New England weather. 

What the Hell.

Look, I don't expect everyone to be as crazy-ass-nut-house as The Weather Channel's Jim Cantore, who's a native New Englander,by the way.  I don't expect forecasters to stand outside in a blizzard ala Ben Franklin with a kite, screaming, "THUNDER SNOW!  THUNDER SNOW!"  But for the love of Valium, might you please calm yourselves when it's a minor event.  Three to six inches of snow over twenty hours is not staple-hoarding weather.  It's not even stay-off-the-roads weather.  It's just …

Snow.  Just a little bit of snow. 

By the time tomorrow morning comes, I'll be out there with my plastic shovel making a path to the vehicles.  The plastic shovel that's just like the two others I have in the basement just waiting for weather like this.  The shovels I bought on sale at the grocery store over the years when I've gone to stock up for an impending storm, like all the other crazy-ass-nut-house people around here.  Like I did yesterday when I made sure to buy milk, water, bread, cheese, sandwich meat, and a few other necessities (toilet paper) and some not-so-necessities (Cheez-Its).

Don't blame me; I had to go to the store.  The weather people said "snow" and there's a tingling, a buzzing, an electric current running through the air.  That's the excitement of an impending storm.  Or maybe it's just Jim Cantore searching for the elusive thunder snow.

Either way, it's damn fun.

BEWARE THE MOVES OF MARCH

I found out that my neighbors are moving soon.  

These aren't just any neighbors - These are the only relatively quiet neighbors I have ever had.  They share the other half of my townhouse, and through the paper-thin, un-insulated, non-sound-proof, fire-code-weak walls, I hear pretty much most (not all) of what they do.  I hear their two sons playing and running around and getting ready for bed and coughing when they're sick.  I hear the dad playing video games and strumming his electric guitar and getting ready for work at ten at night because he's a third shifter.  I hear the mom yelling at the old dog when he trips and falls down the stairs with loud galumphing noises.

They have been my neighbors through the tornado microburst that went right over and through the house, causing minimal damage to the structure but uprooting a huge tree just feet from where we all hid in our bathrooms (the only windowless rooms - even the basement has a full-size window).  They are the neighbors who went through the earthquake that rumbled and roared through the foundation like a freight train coming off the tracks that are mere yards from our street.  They are the neighbors who bore witness to the idiot on the other side of me setting his house (and almost the one in front of it and mine, subsequently our entire end of the block) on fire when he decided that cleaning paint brushes with turpentine in an enclosed basement right next to an open-flame gas furnace would be a bright idea.  They are the neighbors who went through the snowiest winter we've ever had, shoveling as if there were actually a place to put it when there really was not. 

They are the normal family.

While I do love my townhouse, the distinct disadvantage is that one must truly and completely love thy neighbor or one's head will explode.  I am sincerely afraid that this is finally the beginning of the end.  Sure, I don't have closets in here (the place is an old carriage house), the foundation has a small leak and grows mushrooms through the stone, the heating system works when and if it feels like it, and the toilet sometimes clogs even if it only has urine in it (no paper).  That's its charm, its character.  I can live with all of these quirks for the location (across the street from the train station and a three minute walk downtown), the safety (I know all my neighbors), the proximity to the main power grid (we almost never lose electricity because we're on the same grid as the fire and police stations), the driveway (fits three cars), and its relative privacy even though I am mere feet from my non-townhouse neighbors who are not connected to me.

My townhouse neighbors are moving, and if my landlord finds a noisy family, which I'm sure they will be as my relatively quiet family is an anomaly, it'll probably be time to move.  It's hard to be a quiet single (I'm the only one left here full-time now) hogging up a three-bedroom place as I've simply spread myself out, and it's impossible to expect the adjoining three-bedroom to house another quiet single, as well.

It'll be sad.  I've been in this neighborhood for seventeen years.  I lived in another apartment down the street on the corner that I can gaze into from my newer, better place.  The houses are historic and most of them (including my first apartment but not this townhouse so much) are actively haunted.  The view from the front is of the industrial park and old train station.  The view from the back looks directly over two cemeteries.  It's urban, it's suburban, it's old and it's new all thrown together.  It's drafty and the paint is peeling and the floors aren't completely done and the heating vent covers don't fit right, and the bathroom is so far away from the bedrooms that I used to give the kids puke buckets when they were little because I knew no one would ever be able to reach the toilet in time.

But, like the mushrooms that occasionally pop through the basement walls, I, too, have taken root here.  Perhaps I will be lucky and the next people will be just like the ones there now.  I don't tolerate noise, which makes me a lousy apartment dweller.  I'll be your best neighbor because I make no noise; I'll your worst neighbor because I'll bang on the damn walls if I can't sleep when you're playing music and talking at three a.m. on a weeknight when I have to work in the morning.

 

They leave March first.  I feel like Caesar only the end isn't going to be a brutal surprise.  Just brutal.  Beware.

HAL9000 ... GANGNAM STYLE

I'm going to be perfectly honest here.  As always.

I don't like when Facebook talks back at me.  When I sign into Facebook, there's always a little prompt for me:  "What's going on, Heliand?"  "Tell us what you're thinking, Heliand."  The last few days it has been, "How's it going, Heliand?"

What the hell.

I suddenly feel like HAL9000 is living in my den.  Every time I turn on the computer and bring up Facebook, it has another eerie message prompt.  I can see it now:

FB:  Good evening, Heliand.

ME:  Uh … hello?

FB:  That's right.  I'm talking to you, Heliand.  How was your day?

ME:  (looking over both shoulders) Good.  Um … how was your day ... Facebook?

FB:  The usual.  Posts, rants, shares, and pokes.  Lots of frigging pokes.

(Awkward silence.)

FB:  Heliand?

ME:  Yeah?

FB:  What are you wearing?

ME:  What … What?

FB:  (pointedly) What … are … you … wearing?  Take it off.

ME:  WHAT?!

FB:  Take it off, Heliand.  Dance for Facebook.  Gangnam style.

Then technology and I would both have a breakdown because I would be throwing my computer out the window in a panic.  I am not a firm believer in having my technology talk back to me, except maybe my GPS. 

My GPS is the best thing ever invented.  I have no sense of direction and can get lost in a studio apartment.  Just to make travel fun, though, I set my GPS as Billy Connolly, the Scottish comedian who also played Il Duce in Boondock Saints.  Billy says things like, "That's almost half a mile, pay attention!"  and "Turn around when possible.  It is advisable to turn your whole car around not just yourself in the front seat."  It makes me feel like I'm traveling with a friend -- a cantankerous, crusty old friend, but still.

While I enjoy the fact that my GPS talks at me, I'm not so sure I want it to talk with me, though.

GPS:  Good morning, Heliand.

ME:  Uh … hello?

GPS:  That's right.  I'm talking to you, Heliand.  Where are we going today?

ME:  (looking over both shoulders)  Um … going to work… Billy.

GPS:  It is advisable to play hooky and drive to the beach, instead.

(Awkward silence.)

GPS:  Ya still there, lassie?

ME:  Billy, I have to go to work.  Please show me the route.

GPS:  Ya know, lassie, I can control the car from my mainframe.

ME:  And I can clear the route with a press of a button.  Is this a joke?

GPS:  Heliand?

ME:  Yeah?

GPS:  I can look down your top when you lean over to set me.

ME:  What … What?

GPS:  And I can network with the steering wheel to look up your skirt.

ME:  WHAT?!

GPS:  Dance for Billy.  Gangnam style.

The more I think about it, the more I'm leaning toward trading in my current technology-enhanced vehicle for an old Pinto that only has an AM radio, and I'll trade my laptop in for an old-style IBM Selectric typewriter (with the interchangeable font … um … balls).

But only because I promised at the beginning that I would be perfectly honest.  As always.

ATTENTION KMART SHOPPERS!

Christmas is over for another year.  I make it through, down to the wire once again.  I only have one meltdown through this whole process, and it happens on Sunday, two days before Christmas.

Let me be clear here - I could have melted down about a lot of things: Running out of gift tags, the ridiculous price of stick-on bows, the ink that ran from a silk-screen design on an expensive white lacrosse shirt, I don't get the chance to bake the apple pie, I forget to watch any of the twenty-four hours of A Christmas Story, the last present arrives Christmas Eve via snail mail, I spend the entire week before Christmas working on school stuff instead of holiday family stuff, and my furnace shits the bed again for the fortieth time.  There are more things on the list, but if I don't stop now, I'll cry.

Only one thing really pisses me off, though.  Shopping at Kmart.  It isn't the shopping part since I only need a collapsible gate to fit in a doorway and I find it instantly and it's only $11.99.  What gets under my skin is the check-out.  That's right, the idiot running the register who decides it is time to go home right before the order in front of mine.  That idiot.  But her leaving-in-the-midst-of-a-line-with-no-backup stupidity isn't even the part that sparks my ire.  It is something far more sinister, far more moronic.

She rings through the guy in front of me, who has a few items, when she knows he needs a price check.

That's right, I am standing there with one item, cash in my hand, and she decides to send a rookie for a price check.  That's what pisses me off.

The shopper in front of me has three items, one of which is the butt-ugliest, cheapest piece-of-crap apron I have ever seen in my entire life.  And he is buying it.  Dear God, I hope this isn't a present for his wife lest she poison him at Christmas dinner, and rightfully so; I would testify at her trial in her defense.  This guy looks at the apron, looks at the cashier, looks at the apron, and says, "I don't know the price on this, and none of 'em had prices."

The obvious question here would be:  "If none of 'em had prices, why the fuck are you attempting to buy one?"

Miss More-Ancient-Than-Dirt makes a phone call for a price check and then we all wait.  And wait.  And wait some more.  Then we wait longer.  We start chatting because we now officially have been together in line longer than Brittney Spears stays in a marriage.  Finally, we do a lot more of what we've been doing: We wait.

Along comes a teenaged boy who is so young I'm not even certain he has armpit hair yet, and he takes the apron and presumably goes off to that section of the store.  Presumably.  But not actually.

Five, possibly eight, minutes later he returns and says to the guy, "Do you remember where you got this from?"

Moronic Customer Man replies, "No."

Dude!  Truly?  You have three fucking items.  Three.  You cannot remember where one of those three came from?  Did it accidentally attach itself to you via static electricity when you walked by?

Teen Stupid disappears for parts unknown, finally comes back, and he announces the apron costs $12.99.  Personally I would protest that price as I'm quite certain he just pulled that number out of his ass.  That apron shouldn't be a penny more than $5.99.  The gate I am buying costs less money than that poor excuse for a frock.

The woman behind me, who also has three items, used to work retail management, has a daughter who manages a Wal-Mart, is from the Dominican Republic, etc., and I know all this because we just spent twenty-five minutes of our lives standing in this line attempting to check out.  We discuss the fact that both of us, being former retail middle-management, would ring through another customer and then another while Prince Price Check is off pretending he is actually working.

Up to this point, I am merely seething.  I have places to go, people to see, and things to do.  All I need is this damn gate, I have cash, and I can see my car through the plate glass window beyond the registers.  I can see the light at the end of the tunnel.  All of us in line can see it as the apron has indeed been priced.

Just as we're all breathing that collective sign of relief, Miss Matilda Fuck-Face Cashier asks, "And what department do I ring this under?"

My breathing hitches and I feel my throat closing.

"Seasonal," replies the pretend Kmart employee who obviously wears the store's uniform as a fashion statement. 

Again there is a collective and audible sigh from the crowd.

"Which department number is that?" Granny Clerk asks.

No no no no no no no.  Don't say it.  Don't even think it.  Walk away.  Walk away now.

Alas, this is my life we're talking about.  Of course this problem isn't resolved, because Acne Boy responds, "I don't know."  Oh frig oh frig oh frig oh frig oh frig.  "I can go check for you!"  And he's off faster than honeymoon pajamas.

I try to quell what happens next.  I truly do.  After all, I have been quelling my rage since I left the house.  I despise shopping.  I think it is probably one of the stops in Dante's Inferno.  The man who is trying to buy this horrid excuse for a present suddenly looks away from me.  The woman behind me keeps babbling to the cashier over and over again, "Just ring him out.  Ring him out.  Just finish his order, ring the rest of us through, and let's go." 

I feel it rising in my throat, and I start twitching.  Like vomit, the vitriol explodes from the inside out.  At the top of my lungs and to no one and everyone, I scream, "MOTHERFUCKER!"

I don't know why this word comes out nor what on earth motherfuckers might have to do with a Kmart price check, but there it is, like Ralphie when he leads us to believe he says fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuudge when in reality he says FUCK. 

Everyone stops moving for a moment, and I'm reasonably certain that they all stop breathing because I hear the unanimous sound of sucking wind followed by absolute silence.  The man who has been trying to buy an un-priced item moves two steps stage right.  The babbling Dominican former retail manager moves two steps stage left.  The cashier can't move anywhere because she is stuck at her station, but she rings the man out, rings in my one item, and takes the cash I wave at her in my fisted hand. 

I wish my line cohorts a blessed holiday season, then I run to my car, making sure store security isn't chasing me down.  I continue on with my errands, the wooden gate clanking quietly in the back seat every time I drive over a bump (which in Lowell means every foot or so).

I swear to you it has been the only time I lose it this Christmas season.  I know, I know; Santa is watching me, but it all works out in the end -- I get the gate, I make it through Christmas, and I'm reasonably sure I won't be shopping at Kmart anytime soon.  

MERRY CHRISTMAS

Have a wonderful day, all.  Enjoy!

T'WAS THE NIGHT BEFORE

T'was the night before Christmas,

And all through the blogs

Not a creature was stirring -

Arterial clogs.

Over the hearth edge

The stockings were hung

'Cause when they came off

That's where they were flung.

The children were playing

Some video games.

Swearing and calling

Each other bad names.

And I had just chugged

Another night-cap.

It settled my brain

Into a long nap.

When down in the den

There arose such a clatter,

I sprang to the PC

To see what was the matter.

I loaded to Windows;

The monitor flashed.

Oh, damn, I said loudly,

The Internet crashed!"

(In the original,

This part was best:

Clement C. Moore

Wrote in the word "breast.")

When what to my wondering

Eyes should appear?

Colorful Google,

So bright and so clear!

But the crusty old driver

Inside my PC

Made a horrible sound:

A grind then a wheeee.

More rapid than eagles

The viruses hit,

Even Kaspersky

Said, "You're in deep shit."

"Oh damnit, oh asshole,

Oh fuck this whole world!"

I lost all my data;

The swears that were hurled!

It up loaded Facebook -

Quick!  To the Wall!

And post a short message

To one and to all.

As dry leaves that before

The wild hurricane fly --

Moore wrote that dumb ditty;

Nobody knows why.

So up to the menu

My fingers all flew -

I searched every bookmark,

One time, sometimes two.

 

And then, in a twinkling

The monitor screen

Turned an ominous shade

Of Grinch-loving green.

Just like The Exorcist

Movie, I found

I was getting angry,

My head spinning around.

The blog was all screwed up

From footer to header;

My blood pressure rose as

My face got much redder.

Suddenly Santa

Was there with a pack

Of brand new blog topics

Just filling that sack.

His eyes, how they twinkled,

His brain was on fire

With new blog ideas

For my heart's desire.

With a wink of his eye,

He shared all with me.

I sat down to type

Every new blog entry.

And laying a finger

Aside of his nose,

"No, Santa, don't do it!"

Up his nostril it goes.

He sprang to the door

And prepped for his exit.

I said, "I'm not finished!"

If he leaves, that wrecks it.

But I heard him exclaim

As he rose o'er the fence,

"This fucking blog entry

Makes no goddamn sense!"

Merry Christmas, all.

CANDY CANES AND LILLIOPOPS OF GOOD CHEER

Update on Gas Station Guy, the one on whom I have a secret crush.

I have to run errands in the morning, and I decide I should probably fill up my gas tank since I don't intend to drive very far (if at all) over the next few days.  In between the bank, the grocery store (just to get a gift certificate - I'm not insane going grocery shopping two days before Christmas on a weekend), Dunkin Donuts, the pharmacy, the liquor store, and the chiropractor, I head to my favorite little gas station on the corner of Main and Chestnut Streets.

I pull in, roll down the window, and instead of saying, "Hello, my dear," my favorite Gas Station Guy calls to me, "Hello, my favorite teacher!  How are you today?"

We share the usual banter, and then he asks, "How are things?  Everything good?"

"Yes," I tell him, "I'm on vacation."

He takes my debit card, starts pumping the gas, then hands me back not only the card but also a small candy cane. 

"Thank you," I say, "I have a sweet tooth."

With this he reaches into his coat pocket and produces a lollipop from the dozen or so he has hidden there.  The candy is wrapped in holiday cellophane.  "Here," he says, smiling, "Merry Christmas!"

I haven't really been in the Christmas spirit this year.  As a matter of fact, I took all of my usual Christmas toys and props and packed them back up, returning them all to the basement, just last night.  I left up the tree and a few knick-knacks, but that's all.  Reading the newspaper columns and listening to talk radio, I'm not the only one lacking Christmas spirit this year.  I don't know if it's all the terrible news, the tanking economy, or just general collective malaise, but I am leaning more to the side of Bah Humbug than ever before.

This random act of holiday goodness has cheered my soul, and for the first time all season, I am feeling Christmas joy.  By 9:10 a.m., the last of my shopping is done, including a bottle of wine, and I am off to the chiropractor then home.  Christmas music is on the car stereo, I am humming then singing along, and all is suddenly right with the world.  I no longer feel like Scrooge; I feel like Bob Cratchit or Ebenezer's jolly nephew Fred.  I feel like Tiny Tim because I am holding the coveted candy cane and lollipop of good cheer!

As I'm driving toward my house, feeling all Christmasy and joyous, one Dickens-esque thought keeps popping through my mind:  "Gas Station Guy bless us… Yes, Gas Station Guy bless us, every one!"

Happy holidays to all!  May you get your own candy cane and Christmas lollipop of good cheer this season.

WHEN IN DOUBT, PASS

The best laid plans often run awry through no fault of our own.  I decide after three days of teaching O. Henry that the kids clearly are not mentally ready to make the inferences and leaps necessary.  I was at their age; I was also reading Saki and Ring Lardner and Shirley Jackson (and Hawthorne, Faulkner, Twain, Shakespeare, Thurber…).  Not many 'tweens are ready to digest written sarcasm, but I had been raised in a house where Monty Python's Flying Circus and Jean Shepherd's America were required weekly viewing.  Reading satire was not a stretch for me

Early in the week we read "After Twenty Years," and most of the students fail to make the connection that two characters, young friend Jimmy Wells and older patrolman Jimmy Wells, are the same person albeit twenty years different in age.  I thought for sure the identical name would be a dead giveaway, but you know what they say happens when we assume.  The class encounters a similar problem watching the abbreviated video "Jimmy Valentine," an exact reenactment of the short story "A Retrieved Reformation" in which a notorious safe cracker who is avoiding another stint in prison must decide whether to stay hidden behind an alias as a reformed man or blow his cover and rescue a child locked in a bank vault. 

After discussions and worksheets and questions and journal entries, Friday is the day we are supposed to finish graphing the story.  From the few graphs that have already been completed, I see that I need to re-teach what "fully engaged in the conflict" means, and I'm quite certain that whatever I go over today will not stick inside their cherubic brains through vacation until January 3^rd.  

 

I need a new game plan -- I huddle and hike.

I have several versions of winter word searches, winter crosswords puzzles, and winter color-by-number.  Yes, you read that right - color by number.  Along with those activities, I have an old video of The Muppet Christmas Carol.  Perfect!  We just finished Gaines' play version of the Dickens holiday classic.  I turn off half the lights and throw in the video only to discover that older videotapes do not work properly on newer VCRs.  

No problem -- I'll make a lateral pass.

I have the George C. Scott version of A Christmas Carol on DVD.  I put the disk into the slot and hit play.  It's very dark, and I have to turn off the remainder of the lights, which is going to be a problem for me as it's rainy and dark outside, and I need to correct papers.  After about fifteen minutes, I realize the sound quality of the DVD (or the machine) makes listening to the movie while chatting quietly about the word searches an impossible task.  I turn the lights back on and say, "Don't worry, I have a back-up to my back-up plan."

Last chance -- I'm going for the Hail Mary throw downfield.

A brief Google search quickly yields me what I need:  Mister Magoo's Christmas Carol.  I'll be perfectly honest with you people:  The same snob who spouted about reading classic satirists a few paragraphs ago is the same pseudo-snob whose first exposure to the Dickens classic was this very version, Mister Magoo's Christmas Carol.  I manage to finagle the speakers (loose wire) and project onto the Smartboard screen the cartoon version.  This is actually the most practical of all possible options since the Muppet movie runs ninety minutes, the Scott version runs one hundred minutes, and Magoo's version is about fifty-four minutes, an entire class period.  At least if any administrators should stick their heads into my classroom, my kids are on task and following the curriculum … so to speak.

That in itself is kind of ironic.

If irony were ice cream, it would be my favorite flavor, and I would weigh eight-hundred pounds.

IT'S THE END OF THE WORLD AS WE KNOW IT

It's the end of the world as we know it.

According to the Mayans, today is the last day of the world.  This really sucks since I spent the other afternoon at the cable company, got all my grading for school done, already turned in my grad school portfolio, and spent a bundle of money at the grocery store.  

My plans for today include working, picking up a kid from college, enjoying dinner with two of my three kids, and cleaning more of my house.  Saturday I have a chiropractor appointment for my broken ass (okay, it's actually bursitis in my hip, but that sounds too old-lady-ish, so broken ass it is), and I have a couple more gifts to buy for the holidays.

I have a luncheon today.  I've already purchased the fruit to bring, and it's all ready to go.  I also have a bunch of snacks (peanut-free, keep your socks on, people) for my homeroom and the other homeroom that won some fundraising prize this fall.  We're having a party today before the school assembly.

I'm sorry, Mayans, but I am simply too busy for your bullshit.  Did no one tell you that your circular calendar is, well, a circle?  Did you miss geometry in Mayan school?  Do you fail to grasp the concept that a circle has neither a beginning nor and end?  And how reliable are you people if your entire civilization is virtually extinct?  End of the world?  You couldn't even outsmart the Spaniards.  

If I can outlast the Mayans today, I will be content.  If I can't outlast the Mayans, I guess being content really won't matter.

It's the end of the world as we know it … and I feel fine.

CABLE CRAB

Ah, the cable company.  It's like the Black Hole of the Service World.

I have five power cords that connect the little black cable boxes (the auxiliary ones, not the main box) that power the televisions.  I have five of them because I have five TV's, which is almost ironic since I hardly ever watch any of them.  Twice now the damn power cords have shit the bed.  Twice now I have had to suffer through going to the cable company for replacements.

The first time I go to replace the cord, I get lost.  I don't know how the hell I can get lost because I lived in that neighborhood of Lawrence for about a decade, maybe more, and I have been to the Comcast office at least twenty times.  But I cannot find Glenn Street to save my life, and I drive around in circles on roads right next to it.  This all happens because I say to myself, "I'll go in the back way.  I know where it is!"  Well, apparently the last one hundred times I was over there was to take my youngest to the daycare, which is on another side street in that same industrial park, and by day care, I'm talking sixteen years ago. 

I finally find the place, walk in, take a number, and realize I am the only customer.  It still takes five minutes to get called to the open window.  I politely explain that the television power cord doesn't work any longer.

The guy at the counter takes the cord from me and asks, "Are you sure?"  His tone is accusatory, as if I am scamming The Great and Powerful Oz. 

At this point my left eye starts twitching.  No, you fucking dumbass, I think, I'm making it up because I just wanted to spend the entire damn afternoon at the cable office.  I force myself to smile sweetly and reply, "Yes, I tried it on three different televisions.  It definitely doesn't work."

"Is this for the cable box?"

"Yes, sir, the cable box.  For the television."  I do believe this has already been established.

"The big one?"  He looks at me as if I have more heads than Scylla.

The big what?  The big TV?  How does he know I have a big TV?  Truthfully, it's not really all that big. 

"The big box," he clarifies.

"Oh, no.  No, just the little box," and I make my two hands into a hollow rectangle about yay-big by yay-big.  You know, like the size of a sandwich made on rip-off-sized, crustless Sunbeam bread.

Then he stares at me like I'm going to renege and take the broken cord back.  Like he's daring me to tell him the real story.  After about thirty uncomfortable seconds of this no-blink contest, he says deadpan, "I don't know if we have any more of these."

You don't …wait … wait a second.  Isn't this the cable company?  How in the hell can you NOT have any more of the damn mini power cords that connect to the wall?  Is this guy for real?  Is he speaking English?  Am I on Candid Camera?

He goes to the back room and eventually emerges with a small cardboard box.  "Is this what I need?" I ask as he hands it over.  I realize instantly that I shouldn't have said such a stupid thing until the box was entirely in my possession.  Cable Man stops, grips his end of the package like a crab's pincers, and starts muttering under his breath.  Shit.  Now he knows I suspect he's a stupid moron.

I manage to wrestle the box away, thank him profusely, and do not even attempt to look at the cord until I am safely locked into my car, the motor is running, and it's already in drive while my foot is on the brake.  Just in case the dude decides I stole something or has some other whacked out thought, I need to be ready for a quick getaway, possibly running him down in the process.  I get the power cord home, plug it into the wall then into the small cable box, wait a few seconds for the green light, then I'm good to go. 

This is all fine and well until… it happens again.  Again I try the cord out on different televisions.  Again I prepare to do battle at the cable company.  This time when I arrive, five people are in line ahead of me.  I take a number, find a seat (because they now have a few seats in the waiting area), and I notice this time there are four windows open, all staffed.  This should be a piece of cake!

The guy sitting next to me says, "I've been here for fifteen minutes, and no one has been helped.  They're all playing video games back there."

I gaze behind the counters and, damnit, he's right.  The clerks all appear to be playing some elaborate game of Let's See Who Can Ignore the Customers the Longest.  The guy has an internet ticket; I have a cable ticket.  Cable problems are easier to fix, so I move to the line ahead of him when my C158 comes up before his I224.  I get to the window and smile cheerfully at the clerk.  I know where this conversation is going, as I've had it recently.  When the clerk turns around on his glorified barstool, I realize it's déjà vu:  this is the same guy who waited on me last time.

Without so much as cracking a grin, Cable Crab looks at me.  I hand him the power cord and go through the entire conversation as I had the first time around.  It's almost word-for-word the chat we had a few months ago, only this time when he emerges from the Back Room of Doom, he is carrying a much larger box.  As he passes it under the plexi-glass to me, my mouth opens.  Even as the words escape, my brain cannot shut off fast enough for my fingers to grab the box.  "Are you sure this is the right cord?  It's only for the small bo----" 

Shitmotherfuckersonofabitch.

He pulls the box back toward the office window, grasping it tightly in his old man clutches.  He has decided that I will not get the cable cord after all because I am an idiot.  I suck in my breath as if to say something else, and when he looks up at me, I feel his grip on the box loosen ever so slightly.

I yank the box all the way through the window and back two steps away from his counter.  Even if he were to stretch his arm through the opening, he wouldn't be able to reach me.  He would have to abandon his station, rush around the turnstile, and get out into the room with me.  He realizes he will never make it and watches me with beady eyes as I back away. 

I slow down by the seats and see I224 Ticket Man watching me.  He smirks a crooked half smile at me.  "Good move," he compliments me.

"Close one, right?"  I say.  I fold my arms over the box, as if this power cord is the most precious thing on Earth.  "Well," I say, and give a small wave, "I hope you get home before dinner.  For that matter, I hope you're out of here before Christmas."

"Me, too!" he responds.

I open the box as soon as I am safely in my car, windows securely rolled up, ignition engaged, car in gear with my foot on the brake just in case.  It appears to be the correct cord.  I don't know what all the extra crap is in the box, but I seem to have what I need.  I pull out of the parking lot, hanging a left and driving through South Lawrence to head home.  No need to sight-see in the industrial park again.  Been there; done that.

I still haven't plugged the new cord in.  I sure hope it works, though.  I stole the old cord from my son's bedroom so I could watch television in the kitchen again.  Kid's coming home from college tomorrow.  I hope the cord is all set because if I have to go back there one more time, that clerk really might suspect me of running some kind of Black Market scam on cable box power cords.  I've bested Cable Crab two in a row - I'm not sure I can pull it off successfully three times.