EATING MY WORDS

I hate eating my words.

Just today I said the words, "Lawrence isn't so bad," about the city I used to call home, the city run by a criminal mayor and his criminal thugs.  It's the city that thinks it's tough but would run screaming into New Hampshire if Philadelphia ever came calling.

Later the same day, I went grocery shopping in Lawrence (because that's where the Market Basket is, the grocery store where I can actually afford to shop).  Everything was fine until I got to the produce aisle.  I heard this horrible hacking sound, the sound of severe toddler croup, and I noticed a shaggy man with two children in one of those massive cart/multi-seat/doublewide grocery carriages.  They were parked in front of the fruits and vegetables, and the youngest one had its mouth wide open and was coughing sputum and snot all over everything nearby.  I made a mental note to avoid any food I knew they'd been near, when suddenly kid #2 started spewing germs everywhere, too.

That's when I noticed twitchy, unkempt, skuzzy-looking "dad" (or random adult pushing them) stuffing food into his many pockets.  He was wearing baggy pants and multiple shirts, and he parked in such a way that the kids hacked on the produce while he backed up to the loose Brach's candy display and started loading up every pocket he had available.  He even put some of the stuff into his crotch (I really hope he was wearing underwear - or that would give new meaning to gumBALLS).

At this point I was close to the shoplifter and his mucousy minions because I needed to get something out of the freezer case across from where they were situated.  I started to approach them to say that people had to pay for the candy he was stealing, and that it wasn't free just because it was loose with a scoop and bags… the same scoop and bags he should've been using to collect the candy.

But I hesitated.

Not only were the kids incredibly ill with green goop coming out of every facial orifice, but the man hiding the candy was twitching, sweating, and sniffling.  I thought, "What if he has a gun?  What if he has a needle?  What if he's a nut-job who will wait for me in the parking lot and stab me for turning him over to Market Basket employees who probably don't give a rat's ass what he steals, anyway?"  Being stabbed would be truly inconvenient since I still wanted to stop at the packie (liquor store, for you out-of-New-Englanders) and get some of those Capri Suns for adults (also known as pre-mixed margarita pouches). 

So I did what any other Lawrence-Survivor (lived there for a dozen years) would do:  I pretended I never even saw the guy and walked away.

Blame me the next time you go into Market Basket and there isn't any candy left in the Brach's bins.  Blame me if you eat produce that makes you deathly ill even after you've washed it.  Blame me if some random guy with kids who belong in pediatric ICU are eating free food they didn't even have to use an EBT card for because to me it wasn't worth getting a scar over, losing a kidney, or ending up in a pine box.

You can also blame me for saying the words that I knew would come back to bite me in the ass sooner rather than later.  Lawrence IS bad, kids.  Sooooooo baaaaaad  … unless you want to catch the plague or sit in Lawrence General Hospital ER waiting to get your faced stitched back on, which explains why there are so many Massachusetts plates in the New Hampshire store parking lots.  Well, that and tax-free shopping, but that's a story for another day.

I'M TIRED ... BUT NOT IN A LILY VON SHTUPP WAY

I try to write this blog entry three times.  First I write about how I hit the wall today and can't even function after teaching all day and having grad school after.  

The entry sucks.  I delete it.

Then I write about the douche bag in my class who writes scathing commentary to all of us while touting his own crap as Pulitzer Prize material.  It's more like Poultry Prize material, but I would certainly never write that kind of stuff on his paper when peer editing or work-shopping a piece of his writing.  I realize that it's just too mean, even if it's the truth.  I self-edit this second blog attempt, meaning I delete it.  (But I still think he's a major douche.)

So, folks, I guess that just leaves you and me here, and I'll be honest with you:  I'm damn tired.  I truly am.  I think I'm getting too old for these thirteen-hour days where I have to be (or at least act) engaged every moment except for commuting time, and even then I have to stay alert lest I cause a major accident on 114.  

I guess that brings me to the two things I wanted to tell you today.  Wait.  I just dozed off and now I cannot remember what I was going to type.  Oh, yeah:  I'm tired, and one of my classmates is a douche.  Which leads my to this:  I may not be funny today, maybe not even tomorrow, but I hope I'm at least mildly entertaining.  

Along that same thought line, just a shout-out to anyone still reading.  You people may not be funny today, either, but you're always entertaining.  In an imperfect and exhaustive world, that's better than winning the Powerball Jackpot of about a billions dollars.

Okay, not it's not.  But I did manage to type that with a straight face, just the same.

SNIFF HENRY DAY

Sometimes I do shit that I know is going to backfire on me, but I simply cannot stop myself.  No, really.  I think in my head, "You are so going to regret this, but you are so going to do it anyway because you are a dumbass."  And then I actually do what I tried to stop myself from doing simply because I am partially (or perhaps completely) insane.

For instance, today I was trying to maintain some semblance of order in my classroom when I blew the whole thing to Hell not once, not twice, but three goddamn times.  That's right, you read that correctly, and better yet, I didn't even spread the wealth - I screwed up three times all in the same class period.

And it was awesome.

Before I tell you exactly what I did to cause multiple mayhem, I should probably give a little background for clarity's sake.  Every day I write on my side board interesting facts about that date in history.  Like if someone infamous happened to get beheaded that day, or if something incredible were achieved that day, or if an important historical footnote occurred that day, I write it on my board.  I write between three and five facts every day, depending on the significance of the events.  I also write down unusual holidays, like National Pasta Fazool Day, or Unicorns Are Our Friends Day, or Go Hug A Porcupine Day.  I do try to avoid holidays such as Go Juggle Sharp Knives Day and Take A Serial Killer To Work Day, but other than that, I'm reasonably open to celebration.

Today while taking attendance in my first class (which is also my homeroom), I noticed a smell in the air.  I know, I know; you're thinking, "Middle schoolers … probably a fart joke coming here."  Well, to be honest, I had warmed up an asiago cheese bagel in the microwave I keep hidden under my computer printer on a rolling cart that's in a corner behind some book shelves, so there was a distinct odor that resembled smelly feet.  But this smell was different.  It was familiar.  It was pleasant.  It was … maple syrup.  I had it narrowed down to one quadrant of the room, but no one would fess up to being the maple syrup-scented culprit.  Finally I asked a simpler question: "Who ate pancakes or waffles or French toast for breakfast?"  One arm shot up.  "Oh, so you're the one who smells like maple syrup."

With that simple statement, everyone jumped out of their chairs and ran over to sniff the boy.  They were all excited because he really did smell good, like a country breakfast, like comfort foods, like Vermont.  If he'd only eaten bacon, too, it would've been Nirvana.  So I did what any teacher who causes mayhem in her room would do; I added to the daily holiday:  Today is Sniff Henry Day.

Later in that same class after all the quizzes had been taken, we decided to clean out our binders of stuff we no longer needed.  Recycling our papers usually means the kids shoot balled-up wads of old assignments into the large bin in the front of the room.  Sometimes, though, I let them have snowball fights, meaning they get to shoot at each other (no eyes, no winding up), but they have to have permission because it can get a little crazy if not properly supervised.  Today a spontaneous snowball fight broke out even though I had not sanctioned it.  Considering we just read about the Vietnam War … or … Conflict … it seemed apt that a sudden skirmish had broken loose.  I gave them the thirty-second notice and let them have at it.  Then we picked up errant paper snowballs, gathered the recycling, and brought it out to the large bin down the hall.

The last thing I did to cause mayhem in the middle of what should be considered educational time was preventable.  I started it.  It was totally my fault and I actually debated with myself as to whether or not I was going to light the fuse.  I knew full-well what would happen.  I have been teaching for decades, and I was also a middle schooler myself once, believe it or not.  I knew what dark and dangerous territory I was walking into, but I walked in anyway.  I only hoped the teacher next to me would forgive me, and I knew for the price of a chocolate bar, I could buy my way out of the Teacher Dog House if needed.

There were about two minutes left of class, and I stood in front of the kiddos explaining the upcoming literature unit that starts tomorrow.  I faced the windows and the students faced me, so as soon as I saw it happening, I abruptly stopped talking mid-sentence.  Those wonderful children who had sniffed Henry and tossed paper missiles at each other now paid rapt attention without even flinching.  So I paused.  And I paused.  Then I paused for a full thirty seconds before finally saying, "I am waiting patiently for one of you to turn around and notice what it is that has my attention outside."

Twenty-four heads all turned in unison.  Twenty-four voices all gasped in unison.  Twenty-four young teens in unison erupted from their seats, ran to the windows, and started yelling, "IT'S SNOWING!!!!!!!!!!!"  Suddenly they broke out in song and began singing, "Ole! Ole, ole, ole…. Ole …. Ole …" like they were at a European football match.

And it was awesome.

Later that morning, I heard lots of loud revelry coming from the classroom next door.  I found the teacher at lunch and asked, "Did you just have my homeroom?  Were they the ones making all that noise?"

He nodded and replied, "Yeah, they were off the wall today."

"Hmmmmm," I smiled back, "I can't imagine what got into them." 

He gave me the did-you-forget-I-heard-them-first-thing-this-morning look with the customary "tsk tsk" to which I've grown systematically immune.  After all, he knows the same thing I do:  I am partially (or perhaps completely) insane, and I have to admit, it's pretty damn awesome.

CRUEL AND UNUSUAL PUNISHMENT

Cruel and unusual punishment.

That's what going back to work Monday was - cruel and unusual punishment of the worst kind.  First we had the hurricane interrupt school, after that was Veteran's Day that wasn't even Veteran's Day, then we had four straight days of half days with conferences in the afternoons and evenings so my sleep pattern got all fried, then we had a short week with another half day, then four days off.  Today was back to the grind full-on with no relief in sight for weeks.

Oh, sure, there are those of you who think my job is all cushy and fluff.  It can be - if everyone is behaving and no one's hormones are out of whack (including mine), but you try convincing one hundred thirteen year olds of that.  We can't even convince them to shower and use deodorant more often than bi-weekly.  Truth be known, though, it's a great job.  Middle school is the only place other than a mental institution where the "inmates" are as equally unstable as the "staff." 

If life is a box of chocolates, then middle school is Pop Rocks.  Think of it this way.  Pop Rocks is predominantly carbonated sugar that explodes or fizzles at the most inopportune moments.  Kids are made up of carbon, are hyped up on sugar most of the time, and can laugh/cry/dance/read/sleep/love/hate/smile/frown/act-out/shut-down all within the course of an hour (maybe even less - I've seen them run the gamut at alarming rates that rival Indy qualifying lap speeds).

And so it goes that messing up our normal routine as teachers is bad enough, but add in the conferences and the mixed-up schedule and the Thanksgiving break and the end of term report cards… and we become quivering masses of babbling gel, occasionally staring blankly out the window wondering what we're doing in here while also occasionally slobbering rabidly, wondering if we are accidentally re-teaching material we just shared with them … and they being too comatose themselves to mention it.  Almost as comatose as we teachers are.

Unusual.

Cruel.

Unusual and cruel.

Cruel and unusual.  And that's just Monday.

It's going to be a loooooooooooooooong month.  (Insert winking face here, kids.)  

BACKPACK BENCH PRESS

My work backpack has become my new exercise routine.  I load it up with work, carry it around, never open it, carry everything back to work, and repeat this process nightly.  The only thing I am actually accomplishing is some weightlifting practice and some loosening of my rotator cuffs. 

Case in point - I brought work home with me on Wednesday before the Thanksgiving break.  That same work is still sitting in the backpack.  I did do some of my own homework, due Wednesday along with a revised portfolio due in a week, so it's not like I've been sitting idly watching nonexistent wet paint dry.  Plus we had a series of half days for conferences before the break, and I have spent the last eight school days juggling instruction and correcting papers until I was ready to pass out from exhaustion at my desk. 

But this does not excuse me from the constant routine of hauling home piles of work that I intend to correct … but never do.  It will get done during planning time and lunches and after school and sitting in meetings and between classes, I suppose, and it will take days longer than if I just sat at my kitchen table for hours on end and worked at it.

Truth be known, I didn't want to do it this past weekend.  I have been too busy with the holiday and travel and setting up Christmas and shopping and driving people around and on the hunt for the elusive (yet finally captured) tree skirt.  If it takes an extra few days to get essays returned, so be it.  Sue me.  Fire me.  Put me in front of a spitball firing squad. 

I simply cannot correct those papers at home.  I will have to carry them with me for a few days until new papers are collected with which to replace them.  After all, this is my exercise routine we're talking about.  If I catch up on everything, my arms will develop bat wings and my shoulders will droop.

Or I'll have to actually go to the gym.   Either way, the options are ugly.

MULTI-TASKING FOR PROCRASTINATORS

Multi-tasking is not my forte.  Planning out multi-tasking is, but actually accomplishing it all, that's another story entirely.  Right now I am sitting in a giant mess of multi-tasking.  Yup, one big pile of … multi-tasking.

It all starts with the Christmas decorations.  I get halfway through when I realize that I cannot find the tree skirt.  I go back to the basement looking for possibly one more box that I may have missed.  That's when I notice that there are many things that need to be reorganized down there, like some recent storage deliveries my daughter has dropped by.  She is working and going to school at the same time, so her stuff is a little willy-nilly, and it seems like it needs to be repacked and better protected from basement-like elements.  So I take time out of my current task, finding the tree skirt and finishing the decorating, to reorganize her things and get them to a better location.  Right now there are several items of hers, all repacked and safely covered from the elements, just waiting to leave my den and go back into the depths of the stone cellar.

I still have not located the tree skirt.  But I have located the card table I believe would go well in the semi-organized spare room.  I haul it out of its hiding space near the hot water heater, clean it of cobwebs, and set it up as Santa's Makeshift Workshop up in the boonies under the rafters where I am trying to set up an office (also partially done).  I clean off a couple of chairs and take a few hours away from what I am doing (organizing my daughter's stuff and searching for the tree skirt so I can finish setting up the Christmas decorations) to wrap the random gifts and stocking stuffers that I have already purchased.  This leads me to making a list of what I still need to buy.

After I get most of the gifts wrapped (those I have - there are still dozens I need to purchase), I start laundry so my college kid can return to school with clean clothes rather than the duffle full of filthy ones he brought home with him.  Since the laundry is in the basement, I decide to continue looking for the tree skirt.  Instead I locate candles and realize that I haven't purchased the Advent candles for the wreath.  I start tearing apart the three boxes of candles -- one with the tapers, one with the tea light and votives, and one with the candle holders.  It suddenly seems terribly important to take stock of what I have and what I need for the Christmas season.  So now these boxes come upstairs and sit in the den along with my daughter's stuff that has been repacked and needs to go back down again.

After the first load of laundry is done, I have an appointment for the car to get serviced.  It doesn't really need that oil change just yet, but it's running a little rough, so I have the oil changed anyway, the air filter checked, and have a few other things taken care of.  The car and I will be traveling quite a bit come college lacrosse season, so I want to make sure it's in good shape before the cold weather sets in too deeply.  I take a magazine, two puzzles, and my newly-created holiday shopping list with me.  If I'm going to be sitting there for a while, I don't want to waste time reading about the latest Hollywood scandals or the election fall-out.  I manage to get through an entire issue of Boston Magazine (that is actually two months old because I am too busy multi-tasking to read it before now), start a puzzle, and glance at my list.  I make a mental note that I should also be looking to buy a new tree skirt as I still have not found the other one. 

After the car is done, I hit Small Business Saturday, which is lame so I buy nothing except stuff I need at CVS (which is the antithesis of a small business), and briefly consider grabbing the camera and photographing my sons' high school alumni lacrosse game.  When I realize the game is outside on the windy and cold turf, I change my mind and take my future daughter-in-law with me to Pier One, where I buy pillows that are on sale and don't really match the living room, so I think I'll put them in the den where they sort of match better.  I have to move stuff off the couch, stuff that includes wrapped presents, to see if the pillows look good.  I start to put the wrapped presents under the tree then remember that I can't do that yet because I still haven't found the damn missing tree skirt.

It seems like it must be just about supper time, so I scrounge around the refrigerator for the last of the Thanksgiving leftovers from my sister and brother-in-law's feast.  I realize that I don't have any gravy made, so I grab a packet of gravy that I keep handy.  When I grab one, several fall down.  I get distracted cleaning out the cabinet and discovering that only one of the six packages of gravy is even still near date.  I cook that up while microwaving the leftovers and go through another magazine so I'm at least up to November now with the reading.  Then I remember that it's Saturday, and I haven't checked the mail, so I go to the mailbox and … surprise … there's another magazine there.  I put it on the pile with other unread periodicals and as I fuss about in the living room, I remember, Oh yeah, I really need to find that flippin' tree skirt.

Now I'm writing the blog, with a pile of post-lacrosse laundry at my feet waiting to go into the washing machine, several boxes and bags waiting to go back into the basement (along with a cooler from Thanksgiving that needs to be put away), a bag of gifts waiting to go upstairs to Santa's Workshop, dishes from my leftovers waiting to go into the dishwasher, new pillows that are ready and waiting to be de-tagged, magazines that need to be sorted and read, Advent candles that are waiting for the wreath (which I also mysteriously cannot locate), Christmas boxes that need to be unpacked, and, damnitall, I still have yet to find that motherf***ing tree skirt that started this whole mess in the first place.

I finally get the last load of clothes into the washing machine, and I start bringing stuff from the den back into the basement.  I notice that son #1 left his lacrosse bag on the cement floor (bad idea) and way too close to the semi-functional and extremely dysfunctional furnace (worse idea).  I begrudgingly pick up the large sports bag, go to put it on top of the container of extra sporting equipment when I notice under the helmets…a …. box.  A brown box.  A brown cardboard box with my handwriting on it. 

Oh … my … god … could it be?!

I bring the box upstairs and tear it open.  Inside I find first the wire base for the Advent wreath.  Then I find the faux green wreath that goes over the base into which the candles go (which I need by next Sunday because that's the first week of Advent).  I unwrap a few old-fashioned Saint Nicholas figurines that I now realize were also missing.  And the stockings.  DOH!  Can't have Christmas without stockings to fill.  Then I find the small red velveteen tree mini-skirt that goes around the three-foot tree that I haven't set up in years, and I think, "Well, thankfully I can use that one since I can't seem to … find … the …

Suddenly I hear the voices of angels.  I hear coronets and bells.  I hear the sound of my own skull cracking open because I can finally stop worrying and obsessing.  In the last bag in the last box found in a place that makes no sense whatsoever as the sporting equipment is clear across the basement from where everything else is and always has been neatly stacked on shelves every Christmas since I started living in this house, I find it. 

The tree skirt. 

The official, full-sized, wrap-it-around-a-six-foot-tree tree skirt.  The quilted, decades-old tree skirt for the Christmas tree that is now fully decorated and lit up just waiting for the gifts to be piled under it, has finally made its appearance.  And it's all because of my terrible and completely mish-mashed multi-tasking.  It may not be my forte, but it sure does add excitement to the chaos that is my life.

Merry Christmas Season to all.  Now let the games begin.

SMALL BUSINESS SAD-URDAY

I went for a three-mile walk Friday, which isn't much except that my left glut muscle still feels like it's covering a broken hip socket.  (Old age blows.)  The purpose of this walk was three-fold:  exercise off some of Thanksgiving dinner from the day before; enjoy one of the last nice days before winter gets us fully into its grip; and check out the sales for Small Business Saturday. 

I am not a Black Friday shopper.  I plan for months in advance what to do to completely avoid Black Friday crowds.  I won't even drive anywhere near a mall nor a department store.  This determination meant that no grocery shopping could be done on Friday because my main store is right next to Kohl's, so I am sipping the last of the milk like it's fine scotch.  (Okay, so I could've walked to the store down the street and bought milk if I really wanted to, but that wasn't the purpose of the walk.  I did not write: reason #4 = buy milk, did I?  I didn't think so.)

Small Business Saturday, for those who do not follow the news, is a holiday after Black Friday where locally-owned shops compete for holiday consumer business.  I fully expected to do some shopping Saturday, today, after my car was serviced.  But what I saw yesterday was that all the shops had their sales on Friday, Black Friday.  Not Small Business Saturday. 

I mean, really.  What the freak. 

Perhaps they will have sales on both days, but that's not what the signs in the store windows claimed.  So here's my major gripe for today:  If small businesses truly want our business and want (and expect) consumers to support such events as Small Business Saturday, shouldn't they perhaps cater toward that end?  Why should consumers make an effort (other than major guilt over greedy conglomerates) to support small businesses if the businesses are not going to make an effort to embrace consumers?

We are losing the locally-owned shops at a rate that rivals the number of times freaks are photographed shopping at Wal-Mart.  If truth be told, I'm willing to bet that the rate of small businesses declining and failing is directly correlative to the increase in weirdos posted on peopleofwalmart.com.  Yes, I expect small business owners and their clerks to fawn over me, to wine and dine me, to trip over themselves trying to capture and maintain my loyal business.  If that's too much work for them, I hope their businesses do fail, and rightfully so.

If I wanted to be ignored or mistreated, I'd go out on Black Friday with the masses and suffer the agida associated with gross consumerism.  I prefer the personal touch, and I'm willing to pay for it.  It's too bad so many people feel simply unlocking their door and hanging up an "open" sign is good enough. 

I walked three miles today looking for signs of hope and prosperous invitations for Small Business Saturday.  If it's not equally important to shop owners, believe me, broken hip socket or not, I'm just going to keep on walking.

YAHTZEE ... MA'AM!

I'm all for helping out the Marines, but seriously.  This is just too much.

It's Thanksgiving, and my niece, who is a Marine, brought home two other Marines with her for the holiday.  First, let me say they are three of the nicest young women anyone might ever hope to meet.  Second, let me assure you these women can single-handedly beat just about anyone's ass as they have muscles of steel and the true grit that goes with their military calling.

When we get the message that dinner is going to be about another fifteen minutes (translation: Settle in for a while; the turkey's not done yet), I head to the game table with two of my kids and another relative to play a rabid game of Yahtzee.  The Texas Marine hasn't played Yahtzee before, but we discover she knows poker.  If you know poker, you know the hierarchy and basic principles of Yahtzee, so we pull her into the game and get her all set up. 

The first roll on the table is by the relative, who scores a Yahtzee almost immediately.  My son follows with a full house.  Then the Marine goes and starts out her score with something equally impressive, a small straight.  My daughter gets on the board filling in the top portion of the score sheet, three-of-a-kind of anything from aces to sixes, and my turn is about as exciting as hers.

We go round and round the card table like this for several more turns until all workable spots are filled in, including the chance spots, and I am forced to take the first zero.  I put it in four of a kind because even if I do get four of a kind, I can put it into three of a kind.  Booyah.   As we're checking our progress, we realize that the Marine is wiping the table with us.  She who has never played Yahtzee before is suddenly kicking our collective butts, even the relative who started out with the fifty-point roll.

For a fleeting moment, I start having flashbacks of my grandfather who always claimed he didn't know the rules of Hearts then would shoot the moon and win the game, all the while playing dumb.  I am beginning to suspect that maybe we are being played and what we have on our hands is a bona fide shark.  But when I look at the officer, she is clearly having a good time, clearly engaged in learning the game, and there isn't a penny of money exchanging our hands.  She is quite simply having some terrific beginner's luck.  And, to be perfectly frank, the rest of us totally suck at this game at the moment.

The final scores are tallied and announced, and it is clear that not only did I score the worst of the five of us, but the Marine out-scored me by more than one hundred points.  Presently there is an announcement:  Dinner is served.  Good thing because I'm not sure I could stand another ass-whomping like the one I just got.  

Honestly, though, and without any pomp nor circumstance, I appreciate the brave people who serve in our Armed Forces, and it is a great privilege and an absolute pleasure to share our day with these fantastic women.  We have many military vets in the family, and it is because of them we are able to sit around the table and play Yahtzee with our families while prepping the Thanksgiving meal.  

To American military personnel everywhere, I thank you.  To my niece and her mates, Semper Fidelis.  It is an honor to break bread with you.

THAT MOST GLUTTONOUS OF HOLIDAYS

Thanksgiving, that most gluttonous of holidays, is finally here. 

I am not cooking the turkey nor the trimming this year.  However, I am baking pumpkin bread and making some pumpkin butter (if all goes well).  Let me be somewhat honest here: I do know how to bake from scratch.  Now let me be completely honest here: If it tastes great from a box, why go through all the trouble?  I'll do this with cake mixes (Duncan Hines totally rules) and pudding (instant sugar-free chocolate is the bomb).  I will also do this usually for brownies, too.  I'm not sure my kids can even remember the last time I made brownies from scratch, which involves a double-boiler and a lot of patience, only one of which I have and it's in a cabinet next to the sink.

Some things are not nearly as good when created using pre-made mixes or refrigerator dough.  Chocolate chip cookies are a fine example.  Sure you can tolerate them, but Toll House cookies are all about savoring not tolerating.  If I'm in a pinch to make cookies for a crowd, I usually throw in the pre-made dough at 350.  But if I'm trying to impress my audience and intend to eat most of the cookies myself, then I'll religiously follow the recipe on the back of the Nestles semi-sweet chocolate bits package.  Pies are another thing better homemade than store-bought.  Even if it's baked at a farm stand or specialty shop, it's never, ever as good as homemade.

There are some things that the store does better than packaged mixes or hand-crafted delights from the dark recesses of the kitchen.  Two items that come to mind immediately are corn bread and roasted chicken.  The chickens that are cooked on the spits are delicious.  They cost about $5 for a whole chicken or $7 for breast/white meat only.  I am addicted to those chickens and buy one just about every week when I go grocery shopping.  I also tend to buy the mini corn bread the in-store bakery makes - it's moist and golden and heats up in seconds in the nuke.  Awesome with some salted butter melted onto it.

But, like I said before, I am not doing the major cooking this year.  Someone else is doing the turkey and the stuffing and the veggies and the desserts. (I am in withdrawal not making my famous apple pie, so I will make one for Christmas, instead.  Actually, the people hosting this year are outstanding cooks and bakers, so my pie would have been redundant.)  I must admit when people mentioned that they were hitting the grocery stores Wednesday afternoon, I got goose bumps and not in a good way.  That's major insanity. 

Plus, there's no point in buying the roast chicken if you're just having turkey the next day.  That would just be gluttonous.

DOWN TALK

There are few things in life more insulting than being talked down to.

(Properly draped and displayed)

I was in a fabric store with a friend the other day.  It wasn't just any fabric store - It was the one where I had worked for a while.  It was a lifetime ago when I was employed there, but still it broke my heart to see the place looking the way it did.  There was very little fabric, and what they had was simply shoved into make-shift shelves without rhyme nor reason.  Not a single bolt was draped nor section colorized.  Even the expensive special occasion fabrics were slammed together willy-nilly, completely trashing the integrity of the material.  The place was filthy beyond belief, as if no one had cleaned, dusted, vacuumed, nor swept since I left the place decades ago.  I also discovered that the clerks and staff were practicing price-gouging and ripping off customers of deserved price breaks on end-bolts (the last of the fabric on a roll).  When I questioned this practice, the clerk screamed at us, "We have to PAY for that fabric, you know!"  There was a huge crowd of people listening to our exchange.  When I suggested that the clerk and now also the floor supervisor had the policy wrong and were actually over-charging people, I was told rudely that they had NEVER had such a policy as trying to sell the end of the bolt at a reduction, and just who did I think I was to ask for such a discount?  HA!  They were telling ME off in front of all those other customers!  They'd show ME!

I took a deep breath, looked them both in the eyes, took a step forward as to command an audience because it's always fun to have an audience when making a scene, and I replied calmly, "I am the former assistant manager of this store, and this place is a shit hole.  You should be ashamed.  I'll never shop here again, and I'm going to tell everyone I know how rude the staff is here and how filthy your store is."  When I got home (after finding out that their "coupons" were also only for special items not listed anywhere - another bait and switch) I sent a scathing email to the company headquarters.  Not that it will amount to anything.  It was so insulting being talked down to, especially when it concerns a business I actually know.

This happened to me at two doctors' offices, as well.  Not the fabric and discount part of it, but the "being talked down to" part of it.  I had the same doctor for years and years and years and years, and suddenly one annual physical I started getting the physician's assistant.  This woman spoke to me like I was a two-year-old, and it made me feel stupid, like I was too dumb to take care of myself.  Granted this may have been true as I didn't realize I had pneumonia … not once … not twice … but three times.  (I've since had it four or five more times.  Now I'm so good at it that I don't even miss work when I get it.  I prop myself up at the desk and pray for Z-Pack meds.  I am the Queen of Pneumonia.)  All of a sudden, I couldn't even book a physical with my doctor but kept getting the PA, who said things like, "And how are we doing?  Are we taking our vitamins?  Are we eating right?  Are we being careful?"  No, you stupid douche, we are shooting heroin and we are jumping out of airplanes without parachutes while eating razor blades.  "Let's check our weight.  That would be the scale.  This machine here.  You stand on it and I move the weights.  Weights, you know, because this is a special machine called a scale and we use it to measure our weight."  No shit.  Really!  It's fucking AMAZING what technology can do these days.

I took my daughter with me once to my medical follow-up so she could tell me if I were insane (well, I am, and she told me, but I mean about this situation).  I wanted her professional nurse's opinion as to if I were truly being treated like I was a complete and utter moron.  It took my daughter about thirty seconds before her Bullshit Meter went off.  She gave me a head-slap, and by the end of the day I had a new doctor and was having all of my records transferred.  (Doc never asked why - must've been a mutual break-up.)

The next doctor I saw immediately sent me for some tests, not because it would cost money but because I really needed them.  I ended up seeing a specialist.  Ah yes, the dreaded specialist.  She was a young thing, probably fresh out of medical school and without any bedside manner at all.  She wasn't rude, she was just … she was … well … dumb.  And she spoke to me like I was just as dumb.  I didn't really feel too confident while she was holding a scalpel to me, to be honest.  Honestly, after she said, "We're going to draw some blood.  We do it with a needle.  A needle.  A needle is sharp, and we use it to get into your vein and take out some blood."  (Insert sweet but clueless smile here.)  I somehow felt it necessary to tell her that I had delivered three babies and had several dental surgeries and knew full-well what a needle was, but I was afraid if I let on I was smarter than a first grader, she might break down into tears.

Recently I was recommended to the same practice but was to see another specialist, and I balked.  I had to fess up that I didn't want Dr. K because, as I explained, "she's not the brightest bulb in the chandelier."  Oh, don't worry, they insisted, she doesn't work here anymore.  Big surprise.  Did they finally send her to pediatrics where she belonged?  One can only hope.

The last incident happened at a work meeting.  The presenter was one of the staff members, and the poor, sweet thing (for she is a lovely lady) gave a talk on blah blankety blam.  Or maybe it was about some new policy.  Her talk, however, was all about stuff we already knew and had in place, so it sounded to me like Charlie Brown's teacher talking; my brain filter simply shut down.  It was a complete and utter waste of otherwise productive time.  We had handouts and wrote things on them like I need a gun.  Shoot me now.  No really right now, quick, shoot me before my sleeping face hits the table top.  I spent the time practicing writing with my left hand.  (This is where I would talk down to you and say, "It's my non-dominant hand.  Non-dominant means I don't normally use it to write with, hence why I am practicing.  Practicing… that means trying over and over again.") 

Of course, when we suspected that the surveys we handed in were the ones we wrote all that gun shit/shoot me shit on, we did have a flooding sensation of I am a stupid dumbass. Crap.  Maybe they really should talk down to me.  Perhaps I really am as stupid as people treat me to be.  Oh the irony!  (Irony is the rhetorical term used to convey a meaning that is opposite of its literal meaning.  You know, in case you're a dumbass like me.)  Good to know we handed in the unadulterated surveys and not the threatening ones.  Maybe I don't need that sign after all... just yet.

A LOT OF SEAGULLS

I went to the grocery store today to get three items.  Nice and simple.  In and out.  No mess; no fuss; no lines; no drama.  My kind of shopping.  No terrifying encounters inside the store. 

Outside, though, that was another story.

You see, I have been thinking about ways to get healthy (and trying to convince myself that Reese's Peanut Butter Cups are health food since they contain peanut butter which has protein, right?), so I parked my car way out in the lot at the store.  It was fine when I walked to the building because my mind was on a mission: Remembering my list items (which, remarkably, I did).  When I exited the store, I patted myself on the back.  After all, I had walked a little, found the items I intended to find, and was preparing to walk back to my car at a reasonably brisk pace.

That's when I heard it.

Far above me and getting louder and closer, a strange screeching noise shattered the relative quiet of the semi-busy lot.  I craned my neck to see what was making the sound:  A seagull.

Now let it be known that we live about 20 miles inland and are such an inconsequential town that even the pigeons don't bother hanging around.  But every so often we get some errant, retarded seagulls that seem to think our tiny river (that only swells when it's spring sports season and it buries the lower fields) is the highway to the ocean.  They are wrong, of course, because as I already mentioned they are retarded.  And errant.  They are errantly retarded.  Maybe retardedly errant.  Either way, they damn well shouldn't be here.

As I stepped off the curb to begin the half-mile hike to my vehicle, I noticed something I hadn't seen except in a movie.  I noticed that there were hundreds of gulls littering the parking lot like balls of trash.  I also noticed a few dozen in the sky actually dive-bombing toward people about ten feet above our heads.

My first thought, of course, was to shoo the dirty bastards away from my car so I might be able to unlock it and get in, hopefully still carrying my bag of goodies.  (There was a huge gull at the beach, you know, the beach twenty miles to the east, that could steal two large lobsters off a take-out tray in one fell swoop, and he'd been dubbed The General.)  As I ran, as did several others, across the pavement, I thought to myself, "Come on, kid.  How often do ya get pooped on by a bird?  What are the odds?" 

And then it hit me - no, not turd, but an observation.  I noticed that the tar all around me was coated with white bird bombs.  Honestly, it looked like some kind of a bizarre game:  It was Pooh City all around my car.  Not ON my car, thankfully, since I just washed it.  Well, I washed it the day before it rained, but that's another story.

I finally reached my car after performing several tactical swerves in the lot trying to avoid becoming some kind of doodoo target.  The birds sat there, mocking me like extras in an Alfred Hitchcock movie.  I was sorely tempted to beep my horn at them when I drove by, or maybe even take a pass through the whole lot and wipe out the minions.

But I got scared.  I chickened out, got bird-brained, was a few feathers short of a pillow.  Besides, those gulls had been watching me, mocking me since I parked.  I'll bet they even called The General with my location and took down my license plate number.  I shifted the car quietly and crawled my way out of my parking spot - any sudden movement might spook them - then drove carefully around and through the massive squalls of birds everywhere.

Damn birds.  Damn Alfred Hitchcock.

Filthy bastards.

STRANGE NAMES

Bills.  Hate 'em; gotta pay 'em. 

When our oldest was born, we gave him a name that truly does exist in baby books and was actually quite popular at the time, but it was still an unusual name.  One friend of ours, Bill, was extremely offended by our choice of names.  After all, Bill came from a family of Williams and Marks and other strong Anglo-Saxon names.

Finally, one fall Friday afternoon, our friend erupted about our terrible naming ability, as if we had failed parenting school or something.  He didn't have any kids; he didn't have any responsibilities; he didn't even have a steady girlfriend.  He started yelling, "I just don't like your kid's name!"

I let him talk himself out and waited until he and the rest of the guys took uncomfortably long swigs of beer to avoid the conversation lull.  Calmly I picked the baby up and brought him right over to our friend.  I plopped the child into the big man's lap, announcing, "We don't care much for BILLS either, but we put up with you, don't we?"

If your name is a common homonym, you might want to consider its dual meaning before hurling stones at someone else's name.  Bill.  Dick.  Fanny. 

And that goes for people who run immigration centers, too.  We knew a boy who came to America with his parents from Asia.  They wanted to Americanize their son, so they decided to name him Alan.  The only problem was that their pronunciation and the worker's intelligence level resulted in the poor boy being registered as Airline.  That's right, you heard that correctly:  Airline.  His name will forever be Airline.

Another case that grates on me is that of the Middle Eastern family whose daughter is named something that sounds much like Shih-THEE-yud.  That's fine; name your kid(s) whatever you want.  I did … three times.  However, this is another spelling error even more serious than Airline's.  This time the paperwork was filled out for Shi-thee-ud but spelled (without the hyphens) -- Shi-the-ad.  Yup, exactly.  SHITHEAD.  Her parents had been allowed to register her for school  and even for life as SHIT HEAD.

There's one name that'll NEVER be written on the class room board.

Okay, I'm off.  Gotta pay some BILLS.

HAUL OUT THE HOLLY

It took me hours of procrastination last night, but the fake tree is finally standing and its lights are on.  Today I am hoping to trick two of my children (I would like to trick all three, but one of them managed to escape) into putting the ornaments onto it.  I had great intentions of finishing it all in one day, but that didn't happen, and a simple tree-raising has turned into a major ordeal.  

I was sidetracked by a sale, driving to Manchester, and fretting about son's highway flat tire (coupled with a dead cell phone so I couldn't reach him, though he did manage a distress signal to AAA).  I was (and am) still exhausted from ten+ hours of parent conferences that took place over four straight evenings and afternoons.  I was (and am) fuming still about that fact that the university where I am getting my second Master's degree seems to have no options in my major next semester, leaving me at a dead standstill with two manuscripts partially-finished.  

I can be pissed about weather, recent headline news, and even sports scores, but I cannot be pissed about the upcoming holidays.  After all, the tree is up and has lights.  That's more than half the battle right there.