BECAUSE APPARENTLY I'M STUPID

ANSWER:  Because apparently I'm stupid.

I am informed that an important day of curriculum at the end of this year will be forfeited for me and my subject-specific cohorts to attend a day of professional development to which we have been "invited" (summonsed).  Unable to give up any more of my teaching time, I react to this "invitation" with a sudden spike to my blood pressure and a loss of control over my verbal faculties as the words Fuck that shit fly out of my mouth.  Normally it would be okay for me to say Fuck that shit after school hours, which it is, except that I am sitting in a curriculum meeting with my colleagues and my immediate (low on the totem pole but significantly more important than am I) superior.

I discover that this incredible, unparalleled, special event is to be done on an afternoon of the last full week of school, during which I will lose a planning period that everyone else who is attending will still get in the morning.  Not one to throw the word contract around, I decide to anyway since I have already said Fuck that shit.  The only thing I have to lose at this point is my job

The resulting brouhaha resolves itself when I am offered, albeit half-heartedly, a chance to opt out.  Well, I guess no one expects me to actually choose what's behind door number two.  I opt out so fast and furiously that my finger actually bruises when I hit "send."   My classes, my curriculum, and my students are more important than test-driving another flash-in-the-pan writing program that's gone the way of all the other writing programs before it:  John Collins (with whom I worked before he was JOHN COLLINS!!!!! when he was just john collins), Write Source, Six Traits, and now, Writing With Colors.

I decide since I'm going to miss the presentation that I should probably do a little research.  What I discover is that this program is something that has been around for decades and just keeps getting recycled as more people claim to discover it and stick a flag on it.  I click on link after link after link, going up the gamut until I hit the most recent Internet entry:  MY BOSS (and two of his compadres).  Not the Low-Totem Boss and not the High-Totem Boss (which is really ass-backward since it's customary to have the most significant person at the bottom of the totem, is it not?) but the Almost-High-Totem Boss.

So it seems that my day of teaching is being interrupted for a colleague's research project, a patent-pending endeavor, a future one-man road show, an overpaid consultant's version of a wet dream.

And therein lies the rub (uhhhh…. no pun intended).

The added beauty of it all is that if this blog entry sees the light of day, I can lose my job over it for bitching.  Apparently when MY writing is colorful, it's not such a great thing.  I guess this realization calls for an additional if anti-climactic Fuck this shit, too.

What in the hell is the matter with people?  I mean truly -- WTF.  Who hires himself and his friends as a paid professional consulting team to deliver a regurgitated program as their own at the end of a school year so we cannot possibly make any use of it whatsoever?  Are we just their guinea pigs for their first trial run?  And why hasn't someone informed them that the Writing With Colors program has been here … and gone … and come back around … and receded … and orbited the public education community more times than Halley's Comet has through the cosmos?

Which brings me back to the Big Bang, as in banging my head against the cinderblock walls because I cannot for the life of me figure out what passes for avant-garde academia these days.

QUESTION:  Why do I always let common sense, logic, the good of the students, and my big defiant mouth get in the way of my career advancement and an afternoon of napping in a student desk?

ANSWER:  Because apparently I'm stupid.

I am tremendously thankful to the Totems-That-Be for pointing that out.  I certainly couldn't have done it without them.

KILLING OFF SOME BRAIN CELLS THAT I CAN'T AFFORD TO LOSE

Today I think I killed a bunch of brain cells. 

Well, I didn't kill them; the construction workers did.  The crew worked at my windows again today, and the excavators and shovels and loaders were swinging so close that the kids could put their faces against the panes and risk having plexi-glass shatter all over them. 

It was actually quite fascinating, like being on an old Merry-Mixer (aka "Psychodrome") at the amusement park, carriages flying directly at one another only to pull away inches from contact. 

The fumes, however, were not nearly so visually intoxicating; they were physically intoxicating.  As a matter of fact, the fumes in my room were so bad today that I was dizzy, almost fell over in the hallway, and damn near hurled in the nurse's office. 

I am not prone to melodrama, but my day started with a fingertip (not mine) being split wide open in a locker incident.  The student never made a sound, just grabbed his hand, gaped as if trying to catch his breath, then proceeded to spurt blood all over the adjoining lockers, the floor, and anything and everything in his path.  By 7:55 a.m., I was quite full of melodrama, thank you kindly.  So when I insist that I was really hurting today by 1:30, I'm not stretching the truth in the slightest.  In fact, judging by the adjoining classrooms and their occupants' reactions, I'm probably downplaying it quite a bit. 

Because the machinery was up against my windows and no one else's today, I was in the direct path of the exhaust.  The good news is that I had no students in my room after 12:45 today.  The bad news is that I had work that absolutely had to be finished and sucked in the fumes for another two hours before I could breathe in fresh air.

I understand progress.  I like progress.  If I stay with this job, I will benefit greatly from this progress by having a newly remodeled classroom connected to the brand new school that the crew is building … outside my window… where construction workers lean against the windows and say such things as, "Oh, those motherfucking Bruins…" completely oblivious to the fact that twelve and thirteen year olds are on the other side of the flimsy partition.

The language I can tolerate; but if these fumes don't stop killing off my brain cells, there may not be much left of my brain to be able to teach anybody anything. 

Progress is great; Brain cells are better.  I'd like to find a way to keep both going for just a smidgen longer.

CLOAK OF INVISIBILITY

Harry Potter's cloak of invisibility is amateur hour compared to mine.

Sometimes I drive the invisible car.  You know that car, the one that you're driving down the street and from this car you can see everyone else driving in their cars but they mysteriously cannot see you in your car.  They pull out at you, in front of you, into you, beside you, park too close, back up too far, and basically act as if they don't even know you are there because apparently you're not.  You are, after all, driving the invisible car.

Sometimes I push the invisible shopping cart.  This is the one that pseudo-suicidal kids jump in front of while you're pushing it, attempting to commit some form of hari-kari in the cereal aisle.  Often other shoppers step directly into your path, narrowing missing the oncoming, fully-loaded cart, then they stand in front of you blocking any hope of advance while they decide what fabric softener they simply cannot live without.  The best is when the invisible cart suddenly materializes at the hands of someone else who doesn't realize that he has your cart and you are left turning circles in the aisle like a dog in need of a hydrant as you wonder where the hell your groceries went.  You start perusing the store knowing full well that the young college kid will eventually realize he has the wrong cart when he starts unloading bulk quantities of Tampax and Kotex products along with his chips and dip onto the conveyor belt.

But today is the coup de gras. 

Today I become not only the invisible spectator but the invisible teacher all in one.  It completely amazes me.  Sometimes I exaggerate, but this time, I am telling you just about the honest to god truth, pretty much word for word and sound for sound. 

This afternoon I am sitting at a high school lacrosse game in which several of my former students are playing.  It's post-season, and this is the first elimination round.  It's also the first chance I've had to get to one of their games.  I am sitting all alone in a deserted section of the stands, sitting in the farthest row with my back against the fencing that prevents spectators from falling to their deaths onto the pavement below.  Suddenly a trio of boys from my school come blasting around the corner, up the steps, and sit right next to me. 

In fact, they are so close to me that I have to move lest I am touching outer thighs with at least one of them.  This I find a bit physically creepy and somewhat mentally disturbing.  Apparently I don't exist in their world (which is fine).  After about three minutes, maybe even more, one of them cuts an enormous fart, then he follows it up with two more.  His friends giggle.  I say, "Wow.  That was impressive."

Well, it's a damn good thing that fencing has been installed as a backboard because those three boys just about crap their drawers and fall over themselves.  I startle them simply by breathing, I guess, and they are suddenly very aware of my presence. 

Yet they do not move.

I realize they think I'm just another person at the game, a parent perhaps or a grandparent.  They look right at me and still haven't figured out that I am I (Don Quixote, the Lord of La Mancha, my destiny calls and I go… sorry, had a song going on there).  They continue chattering about, throwing stuff off the stands and generally being middle-school-silly.

Then one of their cell phones starts to ring.  Their voices and mannerisms suddenly become animated.  "Oh, it's Alex Delmonico (name has been changed to protect the … uh … um … er …. Never mind.  I changed the name just because, okay?) calling me.  I'm not going to answer it.  YOU answer it!"  And the cell gets passed from person to person. 

Now, I just want to put it out there that this Alex Delmonico is a decent kid.  I don't know why these slightly older boys seem to think poking fun of Alex just for calling is so hysterically awkward.  They're all on the same after-school lacrosse team.  I'm thinking, "Just answer your phone, ya little dink-baby; answer your phone!" 

After listening to the trio play a rapid but intense game of Hot Potato with the call, I look at them, hold out my hand, and say sweetly, "I'll talk to Alex."

It is at this moment that their eyes grow as wide as saucers.  They are babbling like idiots now, saying things like, "Oh, Mrs. Heliand, we didn't see you there… blah blah blahbbiddy blah blah…"

How in the name of fuck's sake do they NOT see me here?  First of all, NOBODY is in this section EXCEPT me, I have actually been speaking to them, and I'm wearing a sweatshirt with giant neon letters that scream RAPTOR'S LACROSSE.  I comment when they fart.  I offer to field their phone calls.  They are practically sitting in my lap.  HELLO, people!

This may prove to some of you, especially those of you currently parenting young teenagers, that kids only see and hear what they want to see and hear.  I'll tell you that's a flat-out lie.  Kids see all, hear all, and believe that they know all.  To me this proves that I have a greater cloak of invisibility than Harry Potter. 

Think about it.

In the movies and the books, when Harry is invisible, does anyone fart in front of him not once, not twice, but multiple times?  I don't think so.  Does Harry offer to answer the other Hogwarts students' cell phones, causing them all to go apoplectic and speak in tongues while trying to throw themselves into the nearest precipice?  HA!  I think not.

Therefore, it is only logical to conclude that my cloak of invisibility is far superior to anything that silly little wizard uses.  I mean, seriously:  I AM EVEN INVISIBLE TO MY STUDENTS.  Of course, this is not a one-time deal, either.  This is a daily occurrence, solidifying once and for all that the middle school teacher's cloak of invisibility blows the doors off of anything Harry Potter could scheme up.

Remember, Harry is just a teenaged student.  He may have magical powers and be able to outplay me at Quidditch, but I guarantee I can outfox him with the whole cloak of invisibility bullshit.  Seriously.  I've been bitching about this for, what, like ten minutes now, and where's Harry Potter to defend himself? 

Nowhere.

You know why?  Because I truly am invisible to my students and anyone their age.  It's what allows them to pass notes in front of me thinking that they won't be caught, or to chew gum in my class thinking I won't tell them to spit it out and pull an old one off from under their desk as payback.  I am the master of the cloak of invisibility, and these kids are merely amateurs.  If they don't believe me, let them confront me … if they can find me … or really and truly see me.

I rest my case.

LAST THOUGHTS ON MEMORIAL DAY ... I PROMISE

I'm on a journey to start running.  It's a semi-serious journey. 

I really do want to start running, but time is not my friend.  Neither is my knee, my hip, my lung strength, nor my bladder.  I have a max capacity of three miles before knees and hips start to creak, squeak, tear, or moan.  Trying to walk or run with me as your sidekick is like being accompanied by a box of Rice Krispies cereal.  After I've snapped, crackled, and popped every movable joint below the navel, I'm hit with the sudden realization that no matter how little or much water I've consumed, three miles is my bladder's limit.  Maybe four.  Never five.  And thanks to my multiple bouts with pneumonia and a strange tendency toward exercise-induced asthma, I'm huffing and puffing like the Big Bad Wolf about to blow down a house, except that there's no actual air power behind it.

The other day my daughter and I found a great training circuit.  There aren't too many inclines, and those we encounter are relatively mild.  Our walk-run cycles don't happen in any major metropolitan areas where too much traffic will gawk, and we finish up in the cemetery.  That means we can stretch and look like dorks without too many people actually seeing us stretch and look like dorks.

Today we take a different turn as we enter the cemetery, and it forces our last jogging cycle to be up a small hill.  The grade of the slant isn't too terrible, but our legs for some reason are totally spent.  It feels like our own miniature Heartbreak Hill.  When we get to the top and realize the whole circuit (except for cool down and stretch) is complete, I proudly point out that we ran faster than anybody in the entire place.  Of course, it being a cemetery, the irony isn't lost, but I know she won't chase me down and beat on me for my black humor since we are both ready to sit (or fall) down.

We walk along until the app on my daughter's phone tells us to stretch.  We put down our water bottles and… realize we are in the military part of the cemetery.  Considering how expansive the place is and our round-about route, it seems fitting that on Memorial Day we are stretching and looking out over dozens of flags, some wreaths, and several interesting monuments.  I wish for my camera but settle for daughter's cell phone.  She takes a few pictures for me, and we're off again, not running, but finally on our way home.

Moments like this are brought to us by soldiers who fight to and swear to uphold our freedoms.  It is both a spiritual and physical honor to be where we are at this time and in this place.  I promise you that these are my last Memorial Day musings until next year.  I also promise that I will never forget this moment, at least not until next year when a new Memorial Day memory pushes it aside, shelves it like a photograph in a scrap book.

It's all about the journey.  Somehow my legs and body aren't so tired anymore.

MEMORIAL DAY AND A LITTLE-KNOWN FACT

Memorial Day started out as Decoration Day, a day to decorate the graves of fallen soldiers.  On May 30, 1868, there was a memorial ceremony held at Arlington National Cemetery, which was located in Confederate General Robert E. Lee's plantation, and presided over by President Ulysses S. Grant, himself a Union man. 

The main speaker that day was a war hero by the name of James Garfield, who later became president, and whose only crowning achievement in office was to be shot by a disappointed office-seeker.  Well, that fact plus the fact that he gave a long-winded speech that mainly complained about long-winded speeches, and he talked for something like three straight days before his voice gave out.

Here is the opening sequence:

"I am oppressed with a sense of the impropriety of uttering words on this occasion. If silence is ever golden, it must be here, beside the graves of fifteen thousand men, whose lives were more significant than speech and whose death was a poem, the music of which can never be sung."
 
Then he talked and he talked and he talked and he talked for another ninety or so minutes.

Let me take a lesson from Garfield but, unlike James himself, actually heed the advice.  There are no words except "Thank you" to our current service members and veterans, and "Rest in peace" to those we memorialize on this day.

Perhaps their music can never be sung, but neither will it be forgotten.

MEMORIALIZED

Memorial Day Weekend means more than just paying homage to our military service people.  It's also the weekend of the NCAA Men's Lacrosse Championship.  Saturday was the final elimination round for Division I.  Today, Sunday, will be the finals for both Division II and Division III.  The final Division I game will be on Monday. 

There has been some bone of contention about whether or not lacrosse is indeed the fastest sport on two feet.  Hockey has to be eliminated because it's not played on two feet; it's played on two skates.  Baseball is the tortoise of sports, and base-running, when it happens, doesn't really make it "fast."  Soccer players can run, but the ball movement isn't rapid-fire, and shots routinely clock in the 60+ mph range.  Even when passing the ball up-field, a soccer ball either competes with the ground or uses an aerial arc to slow its momentum.

Lacrosse has its merits as the fastest game on two feet based on foot movement, for starters.  A full run from end to end is done without having to dribble a ball ala soccer or basketball.  In lacrosse, even a dodge requires precise, agile, and rapid movement.  But the main reason why lacrosse might be considered the fastest sport on two feet may well be due to the ball movement.  Passes can be made down-field in split-second time, and shots routinely travel at 90+ mph.  

It is probably the most insane sport since goalies wear very little protective gear:  chest protector, throat guard, helmet, gloves, and a cup; no shoulder pads, no elbow pads, no shin guards.  Compared to the amount of goalie gear worn in other sports, including the ridiculously over-padded box lacrosse (indoor) players, it's goddamned insane.  Even baseball catchers wear more protective gear than field lacrosse goalies.

Lacrosse originated as a traditional Native American sport, a game that started as a ritual and evolved into the national pastime.  It is considered Canada's national sport, though hockey now shares that honor.  What's America's national sport?  Baseball.  A sport so slow even fat men can play it.  A sport so slow that even the players have to take steroids to stay awake.  A sport where people get paid to stand at a bag, strike out, and walk back to the dug-out without even breaking a sweat.

Good lord, we should be ashamed of ourselves.

To stave off that shame, I'll be watching the lacrosse games on television.  I doubt that the D II or D III games will be televised; they never are, but we do have a bizarre number of television stations now and a high percentage are various sports stations, even college sports stations.  D I finals are always on TV, though, so I'll at least catch that on Monday.

Seems like the season just started yesterday, but I know college lacrosse season started in mid-February while mounds of snow lined the fields.  An entire weather season has passed since lacrosse started with weeks left of winter and ends now during the calendar start to summer with the Memorial Day celebrations. 

This is a Weekend of Warriors -- Those we remember for their service to America and those Native warriors who gave us lacrosse.  It is a weekend of memorials and a weekend to become memorialized.

Play on, gentlemen.  Glory awaits.

MEMORIAL DAY WEEKEND

 Rain.  Rain rain rain rain rain - as sure as my odds are at betting, if there's a long weekend to be had, it'll rain.

The one and only party to which I have been invited has been cancelled.  It's supposed to be crappy for the next few days, and nobody wants to be stuck in a humid house with guests who can't behave themselves when in enclosed spaces.  (We'll go invade the yard when the weather clears.)

It is Memorial Day weekend, and in addition to paying homage to those who have served, and those who continue to serve, our country, I will not abstain from BBQ sauce.  Very shortly the crock pot will be plugged in, and the slow cooking of the pulled pork shall begin.  I have fresh rolls ready and a Vadalia onion with my name on it.

The best part about this weekend, though, is the chance to recognize our military.  My niece the Marine will be visiting home (in Maine) for a few weeks.  Also home (but in Tennessee to his post and not truly back to Massachusetts) is my friend's son, who has just returned from his first tour of duty in Afghanistan.  Welcome home, Katie; Welcome home and back, Michael.  There are so many more of you out there, too, so don't think I've forgotten you (Shelly, Will, Shari, Bob, friends, friends of friends, relatives, relatives of relatives, relatives of friends, friends of relatives…)  You are my heroes; my BBQ sauce and I salute you.

But this rain.  Ugh.  I used to love to listen to it against the windows, the roof, the ground.  Now I simply find the sound of rain to be annoying and meddlesome.  It vexes my sleep.  It messes with my metabolism.  It nullifies and alters plans.  It is, in short, annoying.

This weekend if the rain should annoy you, or parties get altered or moved, or the BBQ sauce isn't quite right, or your grill gets drizzled on, or you lose your cable reception and cannot watch the NCAA lacrosse tournament (although that just sounds like a horror movie in the making), give yourself a dose of reality.  Go talk to a veteran, preferably one who has seen the disturbing visions at the end of a scope, and get some perspective.  My dad was a WWII vet - I heard some of the stories while growing up.  I heard enough to know he did something I never could ; he entered a warn-torn country for the greater good.

You may not want to salute the flag, but as long as you're in my presence and within my eye-shot and ear-shot, you'll at the very least respect those who do want to salute, those who've served their country and those who continue to serve. 

You may not respect your government, but respect your country and those who stand on the front lines to keep this country safe and strong.

Have a happy, blessed, and introspective holiday weekend.

WRITING PROMPTS AND THE POLITICAL PROCESS

Writing Prompt:  One morning you awake to find yourself in a straight jacket, being taken off to an asylum. How do you prove your sanity? What do the guards and psychiatrists say you did?

Ahhhh, the fun of storytelling.  And so it goes.

Writer's Digest has a website that offers weekly writing prompts.  I come across this one coincidentally after answering the phone from an unknown number that simply reads "Somerville."  The only people I know in Somerville are judo people, and I know even if they're calling me, the name of the dojo will come up on the machine. 

Curiosity gets the better of me, and I answer the phone.

Turns out it's the Massachusetts Teachers Association.  Well, it's not the entire association; it's just one lady from the MTA.  She wants to ask me a few questions.

Ha.  I know how this game goes.  Better yet, I know how to play it.

MTA:  Hi, I'm calling about the upcoming special senate election.  Are you planning on voting for (singing and giggling and vocally painting pretty pictures) Democrat Ed Markey, or are you planning on voting for (sneering, suddenly channeling Mercedes McCambridge via Linda Blair from The Exorcist) that horrible Republican Gabriel (gagging and wretching) Gomez?

(The MTA is nothing if not left-wing subtle.  And predictable.  And pedantic.  And oh-so gullible.  If I say Markey, I'll be on the phone for at least fifteen more minutes while I answer their skewed questions, listening to the political pabulum about homelessness, communism, and the horrors of owning a handgun.) 

Me:  Gomez-------

(Click.)

When one works in public education, the only answer to any political question is, "I'm a liberal Democrat," even if one isn't.  Make no mistake: I'm not a religious right-wing zealot, either, nor am I registered as an Independent (which is about as effective as writing in Nose Picker Party on the registration card).  I am officially registered as unenrolled.  This means I can vote in either primary and that I can always vote with a clean conscience rather than simply checking off across party lines.

Someone at the MTA must've found out that I'm not a huge supporter of the socialist agenda.  Once she hears the word "Gomez" come out of my mouth, she unceremoniously hangs up, never asking me those "few questions" she claims she would.  Clearly I am mentally unsound since I am not a normal, natural member of the MTA machine.

However, if I were to admit that I really am a registered Democrat (though I am not), even the educational guards and psychiatrists will have to admit I'm sane; it's their only litmus test.  I could prove my sanity simply by adhering an old "Obama '12" bumper sticker to my pristine car.  It's so easy, in fact, that it borders on insanity. . . insanity that prompts me to answer the phone and start this mess; insanity that gets me committed in the first place.

This folks . . . this is exactly how I end up in that straight jacket being carted off to the nut house. 

This is my answer to the writing prompt.  This is my story.  I'm sticking to it, kids.

HUMANITY EX POST FACTO

I didn't sleep well last night.

A wave of storm lines raced across the area all night long, booming and blustering and blasting the rain for a while.  The front woke me up around 12:15 and again around 4:00 with massive claps of thunder. 

Of course, I didn't sleep much in my bed last night -- I was dozing in front of the computer watching the radar.  Much as I despise being in a house or school or, worse, being outside, during a thunderstorm, I am fascinated by bad weather.  I don't enjoy being in a house when a thunderstorm hits, but I'll sit at the windows at Panera and watch the storm roll across the city next door, and I'll get in my car and drive straight into a storm, knowing full well I'm not Dorothy.

This phobia stems from my house being hit when I was twelve.  Actually, the property suffered three hits in two weeks:  the first strike missed a huge propane tank by less than a foot and took out a tree with a diameter the size of a mini-van.  The second strike hit the house about ten feet from where my sister was sitting in the attic play area, and the strike caused a small electrical fire in the eaves.  The third strike took out a birch tree at the front corner of the property along the driveway.

Putting it mildly, I freak the frig out when it thunders.

That being said, however, I feel like an insignificant little pissmeyer when I discuss this phobia and then I reflect upon the devastation suffered in Oklahoma.  I know I just blogged about tornadoes and bad weather the other day, but truly I am not nearly so hardy nor hopeful as those who put themselves in the direct path of an angry Mother Nature every single day.

Yes, I literally fell off my computer chair last night, and it was a result of the storm and the thunder.  However, if I hadn't been sleeping at the computer in the middle of the night, I never would've been flailing around on the floor like a hooked halibut.  And it gave me a chance to watch the storms form and reform along the front line on the radar.

Thank you Ma Nature, and thanks to you crazy people who put yourselves last to become First Responders.  Amazingly horrible loss of life in OK, but it's also a great show of humanity in the aftermath.

PATIENCE ... NOT MY VIRTUE

I try to be polite.

I know that's hard to believe coming from me, but I really do try.  I'm not a noisy neighbor, I don't huck lit butts out the windows of moving vehicles, I don't spit on the sidewalk, I know how to wait in line. 

But man oh man, I do NOT suffer fools wisely.

Ask my kids; they'll tell you.  Their favorite expression any time we go anywhere in public is, "Try not to make a scene."

Today at the car dealer, after a grueling day of playing One-Up-Manship with my superiors, I'd finally had enough.  I was toast.  I was the only person in the waiting area, and, after warming up the same chair for over an hour, I'd seen the NECN news reel three times, going on four.  I had my phone out, pretending to text friends I don't have and play games with people who always win.  I even solved a few sudokus, and I'm reasonably sure I napped a bit.

A woman came in and sat two seats away from me.  Now, please bear in mind that there were at least nine more chairs there plus another waiting area with tables, chairs, coffee, and vending machines.  However, I am Flypaper for Freaks, so, of course, she had to sit as close to me as possible without actually sitting in my lap. 

I tried to quiet my phone so the only sound would be the tap-tap-tap of whatever email, Facebook post, or game app I happened to be working on at the moment. After all, she might be really interested in the news, and I'd already memorized the entire feed.  I was just about back into the zone when. . .

Holy motherfucker, what in the hell is going on?

A sudden racket filled the air, loud voices, so loud that my eyeballs hurt.  I swear the sound was so loud that my inner ear started hemorrhaging. 

After sufficiently calming my blood pressure back to semi-normal limits and coaxing my eardrums back into my ear canals, I tried to figure out from where the noise was coming.  Loudspeaker?  TV in the other waiting area?  Brain misfiring? 

It took me about forty-five seconds to realize it was the woman sitting close to me.  She had opened up an iPad and was blasting it at a volume level usually reserved for rock concerts and Communist political rallies.  She wasn't blasting music; she was blasting dueling news that was complementing and yet assaulting the NECN coverage.  It was enough to knock me clear out of my chair.  I was definitely not snoozing anymore.

And there I was worrying about my little fingers tap-tap-tapping on my cell phone with the audio off so the alerts wouldn't disturb anyone.  Boob.

This is the point in the story when my kids all roll their eyes, sigh knowingly, and murmur, "Here it comes…"

I almost asked her nicely to turn the volume to a level that didn't require the entire county to hear her broadcast.  I almost sneered at her with a disgusted harumph.  I almost asked her, "Hey, can you turn that thing up a little?  I'm not sure my hippocampus has been entirely severed from my cerebral cortex yet."  I almost mouthed what my brain was thinking to itself: "Bitch, seriously?  Are you seriously doing this to me and everyone sitting in this car dealership right now?" 

I almost pulled a Heliand.

Luckily for her, though, I'd already gone several rounds with the Powers That Be at my job.  I'd already had to do something that I hate doing because it strikes me as petty and futile -- I pulled "contract" on my cohorts and forced a skirmish via email.

In short, I was in no mood to play Speaker Volume Stratego.

So I did something entirely out of character that I'm sure my kids, especially my daughter, will never believe:  I kept my damn mouth shut.  I didn't twitch, I didn't mumble under my breath, I didn't even glare with the Anglo-Saxon version of the Evil Eye.  I pretended I was deaf, which was dangerously close to becoming the truth since her iPad really was excruciatingly, painfully loud. 

I swear I am not lying; I truly did keep my damn mouth shut.

Her stay was short, thank the car gods or the patron saint of car mechanics everywhere.  After the day I had, I was in no mood.  Had she not gotten out of there when she did, there's a good chance her iPad would've ended up sailing through one of those vending machines, followed seamlessly and with adept precision by her skull.

No, I don't have any anger issues.  Not a one.

Aw, come one, people; cut me some slack.

After all, I'm just trying to be polite.

HAPPY PEOPLE

Recently a friend posted an article on her Facebook page.  The article is called "22 Things Happy People Do Differently."  I consider myself a relatively happy person, so I decided to check it out.  Here's what I discovered about both the article and myself.  The article insights are in bold; mine are not.  Enjoy!

There are two types of people in the world: those who choose to be happy, and those who choose to be unhappy.  The problem is in deciding what actually makes these choosy people happy.  Guns?  Drugs?  Jif Peanut Butter?  Sunshine?  Friday?  This is really too open an assumption to make when so many unbalanced, yet seemingly happy, people are running loose.

Happy people are happy because they make themselves happy.  I plead the fifth, and make that fifth Bombay gin, Jose Cuervo Especial tequila, or an expensive vodka.

1. Don’t hold grudges.  This is just bullshit.  The secret to maintaining balance is maintaining grudges.  Really.  There's no point in being nice and forgiving to people who continually use you as a doormat.  People who were mean to me in high school, or, worse, who were unspeakably cruel after my husband died of cancer …. Yeah, I see no reason to forget what they did and said and be all chummy-chummy.  There's nothing in it for me.  Besides, that chip looks damn fine on my shoulder, and it makes me very, very happy to remember it's there, and that I control it.  Keeping a large chip on each shoulder, after all, is a good way to keep balanced; one giant chip might make me topple over, and I cannot be having that happen.  Besides, shoulder chips are non-fattening, so it's all good.

2. Treat everyone with kindness.  True.  But the minute they act like assholes back to me or to those important to me, I squish those nasty people like cockroaches.  Kindness works only so many times, and it can be exhausting being kind if there's no return on the investment.  A good solid smack, though, usually works instantly and can be extremely gratifying.

3. See problems as challenges.  Problems are challenges.  It's kind of like the dictionary definition.  Duh.  I mean, really.  If a problem doesn't challenge you, I have a news flash for you:  It's NOT a problem.

4. Express gratitude for what they already have.  Well, this is just crap because if this were really true, the lottery commission would go out of business.  Sure, I'm thankful for what I have; I'd be thankful to have what I have, what you have, what Bill Gates has, what Oprah Winfrey has, and I'm just speaking financially here.  (Honestly, I'm reasonably lucky and very thankful.  But that doesn't make me gracious.  I would never use my name and that word in the same sentence without a denying adverb.)

5. Dream big.  Holy shit, I dream all the time.  I dream so much that I can't get a good night's sleep.  How about if I dream little?  Then maybe I can sleep through the night and wake up refreshed enough to work on my proverbial " life dreams."  Gotta get rid of those nasty subconscious-while-I'm-trying-to-sleep big dreams first, though.

6. Don’t sweat the small stuff.  Look, you want to be happy?  Don't sweat.  Seriously, nobody wants to be near a sweaty person.  Does the song go, "Don't worry …. Be sweaty"?  Didn't think so.

7. Speak well of others… As they would speak of me, which they don't, so fuck 'em.

8. Never make excuses.  I rarely make excuses, which is probably why I can never be president of the United States nor the head of hospitality at a resort nor an executive of the White Star Line after the sinking of the Titanic.  Take responsibility and move on.  Unless of course it involves jail time.  In that case, by all means, make excuses and run like hell.

9. Get absorbed into the present.  Presents?  It's not my birthday!  Presents definitely are the secret to making people happy, especially presents presented presently.  Those present presents are the most presentable. 

10. Wake up at the same time every morning.  WTH.  This should simply read, "Wake up every morning."  Certainly the secret to happiness is in actually waking up because otherwise I'd be dead, and that most assuredly would not make me happy.

11. Avoid social comparison.  Please.  If I didn't compare myself to others, I'd weigh 700 pounds and never shower. 

12. Choose friends wisely.  This is easy because I have no friends.  Apparently it is they who choose wisely.

13. Never seek approval from others.  Is this one okay to leave in?  I can take it out if you don't approve.  I'm so ashamed … aren't I?  Should I be?  What do you think?  Help.

14. Take the time to listen.  What?  Hello?  I think we have a bad connection.  Huh?!  (Phew.  That was a close one.)

15. Nurture social relationships.  I'm free for dinner.  Who's buying?  Nose game!  Not it! 

16. Meditate.  Hahahahahahahahahahahahahaha Om, NO.

17. Eat well.  Eat often.  Eat chocolate.  Amen.

18. Exercise.  Argh.  I hate to admit it, but this one is true.  Damnit.  I hate to get to the gym, but once I'm there, it feels good.  But, when it's all over, I am super-duper happy. 

19. Live minimally.  Seriously?  Really?  I've lived minimally and done without; it sucks.  This one is a lie.

20. Tell the truth.  Right, because the truth will set you free.  Not.  Listen, if you need to be honest, be honest.  But if a little white lie will do to prevent an argument or hurt feelings, it's one way to keep everybody happy.  Lie, lie, lie like a shag rug on an adhesive floor.

21. Establish personal control.  At my age, I'd settle for establishing bladder control, especially when I sneeze.

22. Accept what cannot be changed.  (See #21 and always pack extra undies so you can accept change whenever necessary.)

In the end, being happy is all about perspective.  Most days I'm very happy; some days life sucks and I'm generally pissed at everything and everyone.  If I needed to be happy all the time, I'd be a Valium addict and a drunk, not necessarily in that order.  Some of us can choose to be happy, and some of us are just rotten assholes right to our cores.  Either way, the thing that would make me the happiest right now is to post this diatribe.  

Apparently the secret to leading a happy life is hitting the "new post" button on the blog.  Ahhhhhhhhhhhh. 
See?  Simple.  I feel better already.

IT'S A TWISTER, IT'S A TWISTER!

I have friends scattered all over the country.  One of our frequent topics of conversation is the weather.  In the winter, everyone usually feels sorry for me: "We hear you're having another Nor'Easter!"  In the fall, we usually feel sorry for the many who live along the mid-Atlantic coast in the path of the late-season hurricanes.  In the spring, we usually send our thoughts to the Colorado contingency (and the Canadians, too) because it's still snowing there until the fourth of July.  During the summer, though, our hearts ache for our Midwestern pals.

The weather.  Holy crap, the weather.

For the Midwestern states, it starts in the mid-to-late spring with those first few tornado reports we get to see on the local and regional news stations.  I would imagine there are a heck of a lot more of those "warning" days that our Midwestern pals take as commonplace on the news much like we do here in New England when the meteorologists forecast anything less than a foot of snow.

There is a semi-monster storm front moving across some of the Midwest and Southern states tonight.  It is spawning tornadoes all over the place, so far none deadly like the storms the other night.  Local reports, however, have said that a cow needed to be put down.  Part of me sees the cow from Twister flying by while the woman on her cell phone mutters, "Julia, I gotta go.  We got COWS." 

That would be me.

Look, we have tornadoes here; not often, but we have them.  Rarely do they touch down.  We are more apt to get the weather phenomenon known as a microburst.  As a matter of fact, one passed right along my house, right over the room in which I had taken refuge with my youngest kid when we heard the roaring tell-tale sound approaching.  It took out part of a tree and fence behind the house before tearing a path for several miles and leaving trees, debris, and roofs in its wake.  But we have nothing, nothing like Texas and Oklahoma and Kansas are seeing tonight. 

I live in New England partly by default.  My family has been here since the Mayflower, and I guess we're just stubborn enough fools not to wander too terribly far, as if that damn Plymouth Rock actually exists.  (I know we've all viewed it, but how many huge boulders have you seen just sitting in the middle of a New England beach, put there by its own volition?  The Mayflower beached; it didn't just errantly hit a lone rock like the Titanic hitting an iceberg.  I call bullshit.) 

I live here because I love the beach, Hampton in particular -- the north beach up along the wall -- and I refuse to leave the shore.  I also live here because it's too cold in North Dakota and too hot in Florida.  There are too many earthquakes in California, too great a danger of tsunamis in Alaska, not enough land in Hawaii, not enough water in the Great Lakes, too many scorpions and sidewinders in the Southwest, and too many tornadoes in the Midwest.

In other words, I'm scared shitless to live anywhere else.

Be safe tonight, my friends.  Take cover, heed the sirens, and watch the radar like, well, like I do.  And remember, it's only weather.  (Gawd-frickin' awful weather, but weather, just the same.)

(P.S. Discovered this morning at least one death from the storms.  I may poke fun at the weather, but this isn't funny.  My thoughts and prayers to anyone in the storms' paths.)
 

GOOD NORMAL DAY = BAD BLOG DAY

Daughter's college graduation was today, and, as truly noteworthy an event that it was, it wasn't blog-worthy.

Thank the gods for small favors.

It went something like this:

I woke up on time, and I had enough time to shower.  I transferred old pics off the memory card and had the camera packed and ready to go in no time.  I packed snacks and a couple of magazines and some puzzles for the long day of college commencement activities.  My daughter and her fiance arrived at my house on time.  We hit no traffic on the way to the school.  The parking lot was less than half-full, and we had our pick of spaces.  Everything was inside a giant tent even though the weather was perfect -- sunny, high 60's, light breeze.  We had our choice of seats.  The people sitting around us were friendly and interesting.  The tiny infant sitting near us didn't make a sound yet was awake through the ceremony.  The nursing students graduated first but had to hang around for the pinning ceremony, but more than half the graduates listed on the program never showed (certificate programs, graduated earlier in the year, etc.) so everything sailed along.  The pinning ceremony took place right there on the same stage, and we all got to move forward to take the best seats.  Tons of pictures were taken, and I even looked decent in most of them.  All three of my kids were together, and we all went out to a nice lunch afterward.  We even stopped at the MSPCA to look at adoptable animals.  We were thrilled to find multiple cats who needed good homes and at least six dogs that weren't pit bulls (or larger) and might even fit inside my tiny house if I were so inclined.

In other words, nothing happened.  Everything happened but nothing happened.

It was an absolutely perfect day.

I know how few and far between these are, so I'll shut my mouth and take it.

Amen.