TRAUMATIZING THE MAILMAN ... AGAIN

Apparently I have traumatized the mailman.  Again.

Today we finally get sun and almost no rain.  I actually see blue skies … BLUE SKIES … for the first time since Tuesday.  I decide shortly after noontime to sit outside and read.  Since I threw my hip out to left field on Wednesday, I have read three books already while sitting around in recovery mode.  The only reason I didn't read a fourth is because I discovered I'm into a series, and book #4 is on its way via Amazon.  So I set myself up with a couple of magazines. 

To catch the full angle of the sun … THE SUN … I have to angle my chair, as well.  I am wearing a strapless bathing suit top and a pair of shorts rolled high enough to expose a decent stretch of thigh.  It's okay -- I'm on my own patio facing my neighbor's window; if the little bastard next door wants to stare at my cellulite, let him.  Might scare him enough to stop bothering me through his screen. 

I hear someone walking up behind me while I am reading, carefully angled toward the sun (did I mention THE SUN is visible today).  I haven't gotten a mail delivery on Saturday in two weeks, so I kind of assumed that Saturday delivery had already stopped.  I turn my head over my right shoulder and look at the mailman to say hello. 

Our eyes do not meet.

And our eyes do not meet because he is quickly looking down and away and racing to get away from the mailbox and my patio.  Perhaps he is in a hurry.  Perhaps he just wants to finish his route.  Perhaps it is because from where he is standing, all that can be seen are my bare shoulders and arms and my uncovered legs.

Holy shit, he thinks I'm sunbathing naked.

Wait!  Come back, mailman.  I'm not naked!  Look, look!  My suit top is just low.  See?  I'm merely trying to tan my cleavage!

Holy shit, I'm actually debating using my semi-covered boobs as a proof that I am not nude nor topless.

JesusMaryandJoseph, it's a wonder I get mail delivery at all.  This mailman isn't the same one I accidentally pajama-flashed.  I think that guy had to be reassigned for trauma and PTSD.  Sometimes I see him on the School Street route when I am jogging (walking kind of fast), and I swear he runs and hides in his truck.  Now the new guy thinks I'm a topless floozy sunbather who enjoys burning not just the bra but everything beneath it, as well.  I've turned into a one-woman flash-mob -- and by flash I mean literally.

You know how the post office tacks up the pictures of the Ten Most Wanted Criminals?  I'll bet there's a bulletin board in the back for the mail carriers, too:  Bad dog at this address, kids that throw crap at this address, bee's nest under mailbox at this address, and watch out for the Mad Flasher who lives in the townhouse near the river.

What really fries my ass is that once upon a time some mistaken moment like this, a moment where someone thinks I'm flashing when I am actually not, might be cause for better mail service.  Now that I'm nearing National Geographic age, I guess it's not nearly as exciting as it must be downright scary as all shit. 

Middle age definitely has its disadvantages.  But hey, AARP still loves me, that much I know.  After all, the mailmen brings me a card from AARP at least once a week.  Hmmmm, maybe that was the mailman's first tip-off.  Damn you, Senior Citizens of America!  It's all because of you that the poor mailman thinks I'm sunbathing naked.

I'm no boob-flashing, patio-skulking, mailman stalking freak!  I'm a victim of peri-ancientness!  I've been mistaken for an old broad!  It simply must be some kind of mix-up!  I'm too young for AARP … aren't I?

That's my version of what happened, anyway.  I just want to get that straight in case the mail stops all together or the poor guy drops dead of sheer fright.  If the latter happens, I sure as heck hope it's after he has delivered the mail.

I'm just saying.

CAN YOU FEEL THE LOVE? (OF COURSE YOU CAN'T)

I hate to keep bitching on the weather, but lately it has been an easy mark.

First it is the heat wave -- several days over 90, including Field Day that comes in at a whopping 96 degrees.  Then the heat part of the wave breaks but not the humidity.  We immediately fall into a pattern of humid days followed by afternoons and evenings full of some of the most spectacular thunder storms we have had in years.  This latest pattern of "sun-clouds-boomers-repeat" has been going on for three days with no break in sight, at least not until the Fourth of July next week at the earliest.  

It's annoying. 

Today I try to sit outside and get some sun.  The clouds and occasional passing showers make it more of an elaborate game of Hide-'N-Seek than an afternoon of sunning.  The few times the sun peeks out from behind the clouds, it is hot as Hell.  Most of the time, the clouds invade, and, because I am on the east side of the thunder boomers, it keeps getting chilly.  I change constantly between a bathing suit/shorts combo and sweatpants/shirt combo.  In 'em; out of 'em; in 'em; out of 'em.

My friends from the Mid-Atlantic mention sudden downpours and spectacular lightning today.  I advise them to stop sending us their leftovers and get on with some sunshine.

I really, truly hate to keep bitching on the weather, but really.  Enough is enough already.

I DON'T OWN IT

One of these days my house is going to be clean and the shades won't be broken.

I know I say that all the time.  I've only been living here for years, and this place still needs new shades since the temporary paper shades that I have been trying to keep in the windows gave up years ago.  The strings have snapped off, so I have to jerry-rig most of the shades.  This place also needs some new curtains.  Artwork on the walls would be nice, too.  And speaking of the walls, I am so tired of the yellow that's painted on them.  I am a huge fan of pure white semi-gloss.  I suppose I could paint if I wanted to, but I don't want to.

Here's the deal:  I don't own it.

I know, I know; I should at least make it my own while living here, and I'm working on that, slowly but surely.  I cannot help thinking that this place isn't mine, I'm a tenant at will, I could be booted out (or decide to leave) at any moment.

But still.  I should do something with it.

It has a great location, parking for three cars (in single file, though), a semi-private patio, and right now my neighbors on both sides are extremely quiet.  I live in an attached townhouse with no sound-board in between me and my neighbors on the left, and the  neighbors on the right who are not attached might as well be as their front door and side windows are only ten feet from mine.  I can walk to anywhere from here -- stores, schools, restaurants, and the train to Boston.

 I could and should do so much to this place.  I finally bought some cheap furniture to replace hand-me-down stuff I had been using, and I'm trying to weed through archaic furniture as the children move out.  There are still boxes of their stuff in the basement, all stuff that needs to go so I can move eventually.  The rooms are small and there are no closets, but still.  Still.  I do live here.  It should look like my own.

But it's not really mine.

Okay, okay.  I'll order new shades and build the new desk I bought last summer that is still in its box and maybe weed through all the boxes of pictures and get the kids to go through their stuff in the cellar and maybe, just maybe finally decide to settle in after about a decade of living here. 

Perhaps because we used to move so much as kids, every year for a while, I adapted to the transient lifestyle.  Or maybe I'm just making excuses.  Either way, one of these days the shades will truly be fixed and my house will be organized enough for company.  Knowing my luck, the moving van will show up the following week.

After all, I don't own it; it's not really mine.  Sometimes that's a concept that's just too elusive to accept.

FIRST DAY OF VACATION IS A HIP-BUSTER

FIRST DAY OF SUMMER VACATION

5:15 a.m.         Alarms goes off

                        (Hey, it's the first day of vacation.  Might as well get up and enjoy it!)

5:45 a.m.         Dressed and ready for the gym

                        (Put out the clothes last night so I can't change my mind.)

5:55 a.m.         Daughter arrives so we can go to the gym

                        (We are wearing identical color combination.  I have new running sneakers.)

6:05 a.m.         Arrive at the gym

                        (Daughter forgets headphones.  She will have to talk to me instead.)

6:06 a.m.         Stationary bike 2+ miles; circuit training; lift weights

                        (Avoid Smith Machine today in case I hurt myself in front of the guys.)

6:50 a.m.         Stand up from weight bench and something goes kaflooey in my right hip

                        (So much for avoiding hurting myself in front of the guys.)

6:55 a.m.         Attempt to fold myself into Daughter's compact, low-to-the-ground car

                        (Laugh, it's okay.  It must be funny to watch.)

7:00 a.m.         Attempt to get out of Daughter's car by hanging on to the door for dear life

                        (Okay, don't laugh.  This part isn't funny.  I actually cannot get out of the car.)

7:05 a.m.         Start swallowing Naproxen

                        (It's the "other little blue pill" -- you know, the one that actually works.)

7:30 a.m.         Hobble to the door to wish Daughter a good day at work

                        (She is still laughing at me.  I don't blame her.  This is sickly humorous.)

7:45 a.m.         Look up phone number for chiropractor, just in case

                        (Self-treat first; Professional help second.)

7:55 a.m.         Attempt to walk off injury

                        (My mantra even when I sliced my foot in half:  "Walk it off!")

8:00 a.m.         Sit on the couch and watch a repeat of NCIS

                        (Hip only hurts when standing, walking, or bending … or breathing)

9:00 a.m.         Attempt to stand and walk to kitchen

                        (I teeter and resemble a 3-footed armadillo tottering toward a rollover.)

9:15 a.m.         Sit at the computer

                        (Chair is high enough that I can catapult myself to a standing position.)

                        (If not, chair has wheels.  I'll find a way to get around.)

10:30 a.m.       Make a vanilla shake

                        (Pretend I am making a breakfast shake for son but make a double batch.)

12:00 p.m.       Sit at kitchen table and eat crackers and cheese

                        (Watch some HGTV because the Hernandez arrest coverage is boring.)

1:00 p.m.         Stretch hip out.

                        (Yeah.  That didn't go over too well.  Many, many swears spoken.)

2:00 p.m.         Gather recommendations for OTC pain meds.  Motrin wins.

                        (Never taken Motrin that I'm aware of, so I've no idea what it is exactly.)

3:00 p.m.         Drive up to CVS and hobble to the pain relief aisle in search of Motrin.

                        (No Motrin on shelves.  Apparently there has been a recall of Motrin.)

                        (Discover Motrin is 200 mg Ibuprofen.  Buy shampoo instead.)

4:30 p.m.         Sister calls to check on my hip.

                        (We both laugh because I deserve it.  Hell, it is pretty damn funny.)

5:00 p.m.         Ibuprofen ingested. 

                        (Margarita pouch defrosting.)

6:00 p.m.         400 mg of ibuprofen + 1 slightly frozen margarita = Range of Motion

                        (Not ready for a marathon, but I could run from an attacker if necessary.)

7:00 p.m.         Resting on the couch twelve hours post hip snafu

                        (Okay, actually I'm sleeping.  Is it bedtime yet?  Jeezus, I am old.)

AND THAT, MY FRIENDS, IS A PLAY-BY-PLAY OF MY FIRST DAY OF SUMMER VACATION.  --  THE END

 

ON THE CHOPPING BLOCK

I'm having bad luck with restaurants lately -- really, really bad luck.

I order pizza from a place where I have ordered pizza for years.  One evening recently I got a shitty pizza.  Very little cheese, hardly any sauce -- a total rip-off for the price.  Cross that place off my list.  Amazing how one bad experience can make that decision for me.  Done.  Just like that, as if the pizza maker forgot to kiss my ring, they're dead to me now.

I go to eat out at a Mexican restaurant that is highly regarded.  I take my entire family to eat there, anticipating a terrific meal considering the prices and the rave reviews.  What I get is a huge bill and a meal that I take two bites of before I feel like I might vomit.  Worst.  Meal.  Ever.  I won't go back there now even if someone paid me money to do it.

We often go to a local chain restaurant, a lower-end Mexican restaurant that isn't really all that Mexican.  It's like quasi-Mexican food.  I don't know why we keep going there because every time we do go there, the service is horrible.  I guess it's all about location, location, location as its proximity to work is integral for those post-workday strategy sessions.  Truly, though, it's hard to justify a $5 Margarita that comes in a juice glass and takes fifteen minutes to make it to the table.

Subs are a staple in our house, particularly chicken cutlet with lettuce, tomato, and mayo.  We have a pizza joint that has been our sub go-to place for a long, long time.  Years and years.  I order us up a couple of those bad boys and we cannot wait to go pick them up.  When we get there fifteen minutes later, the subs still are not ready.  When we get them home, we discover why.  Someone must've left the chicken in the fry-a-lator because the chicken is so overcooked that it practically breaks off our teeth as we attempt to take bites.  Now even this place is off the table.

Sometimes when we're bored we go to a local watering hole that is considered "swanky" by town standards.  I have gotten food poisoning there twice (or general gastro-intestinal distress as a result of eating their cream-based chowders or sauces), yet I go back because that's where most people want to meet.  It's centrally located.  But it smells.  Somehow and someway this place always smells bad.  It smells like the inside of a dirty bathroom, that sharp industrial solvent smell.  The service is always spotty, but we usually start at the bar.  Today we start at a table.  And this is the beginning of the end for this place, too.

You see, as soon as we sit down, we are greeted by semi-clean utensils.  I order ice water with lemon to start and receive tap water sans anything but a straw stuck into it.  It takes the waitress about twelve minutes to acknowledge us, and once we order food, it takes her another ten minutes to bring over our beer.  I guess pouring from the tap must be an extremely difficult and complicated task.  Alas, the beer arrives semi-warm.

Two older women are seated immediately behind us in a booth.  While they are deciding what to order for lunch, their waiter brings them each glasses of ice cold water -- garnished with lemon.

"Hey," I say loudly and to no one in particular, "they got lemon in their water!"

My friend nods, acknowledging the obvious faux pas.  We chat for a moment when all of a sudden the women behind us call over a waiter and exclaim, "There must be a mistake.  Our waters have (wait for it wait for it wait for it….) LEMON WEDGES IN THEM!"

"Hey," I say loudly and to no one in particular, but the rest of my sentence never comes out.  My friend and I begin laughing about the lemon.  The waitress we have totally sucks, and it takes forever to get a second round.

So now this place, like the rest before it, will be put onto the chopping block.

I also suppose the obvious solution:  Maybe, just maybe, I should be cooking my own damn dinners.

FLAMING HOT FIELD DAY

What a day.  I probably should've stayed under the covers.

It is hot today -- bloody, horribly, humidly, unbearably hot.  I am already dripping sweat in my classroom by 7:30.  I have a trivia game for the kids, and my first period class shows little interest.  Four cherubs rip up the paper and throw it in the recycling bin.  I make them do it again with a minute left of class.  I hope they are late to math because now I hate them.  Okay, I don't really… Oh, screw it.  They ruined my fun; I hate them.

We are having shortened classes today so we can go to field day down at the local park.  It's going to be about 94 today (my car says 96), humid, and not weather anyone should be running around in, but, of course, we are.  But I digress.  By the third shortened class, I feel like I might vomit.  I turn one of my fans toward me and let it blow on me until I start to feel better.  I must've turned ten shades of green because I see a couple of the students looking at me strangely.  I gasp out, "I feel sick."  They nod and return to their trivia challenge, unconcerned that their teacher is ill yet secretly hoping I'll hurl so they have a good story for the park later.

Speaking of the park later, my class is the latest of later because the school is one bus short, and somehow my homeroom draws the short straw.  As I am yelling at the usual suspects, the bus driver addresses the children by name; alas, we have drawn the lucky driver who is stuck picking up and dropping off the worst of the worst of the worst behaved out of my bunch (which really isn't horrible) and knows each one's name, address, and probably even serial number.  We are the last of more than four hundred staff and students to arrive at the park.

While at Field Day in the park, I am monitoring the soccer field.  Since I am already draining every ounce of water I've had all day, I decide the best way to play is to let them all have at it so I can catch my breath..  "Who's on a team?" they ask.  You all are.  I am stuck in the sun for more than two hours, just melting like old wax crayons left out on a hot day. 

Because we were the last bus to Field Day, we get to be the first back.  Doesn't matter; two girls hold us all up, and we end up melting away on the bus, instead.  After dismissing the students and putzing around the room, I am ready to go home and shower, which I do.

At first, everything is fine.  Then, a rip-roaring headache starts its attack.  About twenty minutes after that, I hear thunder … very close thunder.  The storm isn't even on the radar, and yet here it is.  Turns out we are in an electrical vortex that lasts two hours and just keeps coming at us and coming at us.  Normally this would be considered a good thing -- time to read or sit still, which I rarely have time to do anymore.  Tonight, though, is game #6 of the Stanley Cup Finals.  It is still thundering at 8:00.  

I am also trying to run laundry because I would like to wear tomorrow the bra that I completely sweated through all day today.  I finally wrap everything up, attempt to watch the hockey game, and find myself dozing off.  And I still haven't eaten, now that I think of it. 

I am not going to make it; I am finally going to crash and burn. 

Yes, indeed, one of these days when I should've stayed under the covers … but didn't.

MOB FLASHING

I have a bad habit of flashing the neighborhood.

First it was the mailman after I answered the doorbell while wearing my summer pajamas.  Then it was one of the former coaches while wearing my spring pajamas.  This weekend, while trying to tan certain areas that might need to be more visible than others depending on which dress I pick for my eldest's wedding in September, I attempt to flash the entire lower end of School Street.  And this time, pajamas are not an issue.

Look, I have a couple of gown options to wear to this wedding.  I found two dresses on sale, and I bought them both.  While I am still looking because I also need a dress for my daughter's late fall wedding, I haven't decided on anything yet.  I could buy another dress that wouldn't require any cleavage tanning contortions.  I could also go the easy way and just dust a little bronzer between the girls.

But that would take all the fun out of the tanning process.

I am extremely fair-skinned.  All someone has to do is whisper the word "sunshine" and my skin burns.  I am an ideal candidate for skin cancer with all the time I've spent outside with and without sunscreen.  I am, though, a firm believer in vitamin D, and I have no problems with allowing myself up to an hour a day of real, honest to goodness, un-SPF sunshine. 

Since I have such a rigid time constraint, and since I am the only one home this weekend, I decide to go old school with a bikini top that even on a good day tends to slip a little low on the front side from time to time.  It does, however, provide the best line-less tanning of that infamous "needs-to-be-tanned" cleavage area.  Hoping the mailman doesn't make a sneak attack, I decide to go for it, and I stretch my bad self across the back stoop, towel and all, and expose some of the whiter parts of most of my breast area to the sun.

Naturally, I have to go through the usual contortions:  I need water, I forgot my book, I need different glasses, my phone needs to be charged, etc, so there is a lot of readjustment of the top and the girls.  Finally, after reaching the 30 minute limit on the front, I lean up slightly to turn over when… my right side busts out of the bikini top faster than a breast escaping from a mammogram vise clamp. 

As I readjust, because there really isn't any other option except to put the damn thing back where it came from, I glance around to see who might be in Boob Radar Range.  Well, there's the entire cemetery up the hill, but I don't think anyone in there really gives a crap about a little glimpse of pink.  Then there's the house with the little kids and the yard that is high enough to look directly onto my patio, but no one is out there - thankfully they are all in the pool which is safely out of my site line.  I am low enough on the stoop that the guys at Elm Street Auto cannot see anything risqué.  The mailman isn't anywhere close by (though he does sneak up on me later when I am fully dressed and sitting in the shade reading), but the neighbor's window does look ten feet straight down onto my patio.  This means if anyone were to see my boob, it's the little bastard next door, but he's only five years old.  Probably wouldn't recognize a boob if he saw one, anyway.

I decide to go in and change into a different top.  Yes, I need to tan my cleavage (no, not the entire boob area, so relax there Roberto), and yes, I will probably bring out the too-small bikini top again this summer, maybe even multiple times, but I'm going to be a little more cautious and scientific about sun angles and movement. 

Oh, and I won't attempt to sit up.  Not quite sure how I'll get up from the supine position, but I'll figure it out.  Oh, I know.  I'll just follow my boob -- It certainly knows its way around the area from all its exploration, that's for damn sure.

DRIVING SLOWLY DOESN'T ALWAYS STINK

Did you ever get behind someone who was driving so slowly that you thought your head might explode … only to realize that if you had been going the actual speed limit, some disaster would've befallen you?

I've done this numerous times with major accidents, where I come upon them right after they've happened, often times right after the injured party has blown by me on the highway, and right before the cops and ambulances arrive.  First thought is always, "Wow, a minute faster and I probably would've been in the middle of that!"

Of course this sucks royally when it's the lottery ticket line and you end up letting someone cut in front of you who quick-picks the $590,000,000 sole winning ticket.  It also sucks when you're a second too slow and an angry bee flies into your car right as you shut the door (and while all the windows are still closed).

Tonight leaving North Andover after watching the Bruins put in a lackluster performance and enduring bad refereeing, I pulled out onto busy route 114 to get home.  114 isn't always an easy trick, especially if traffic is coming, and it's damn-near impossible to pull across both lanes at any time of the day or night.  

The van I pulled out after seemed to be tooling along at a decent pace, so I was a bit annoyed when it turned onto Elm Street and decided to drive along at five miles per hour under the speed limit.  Its brakes kept jamming on, and I was starting to wonder if the mini-van driver were having a seizure or a heart attack.  Finally, after a painfully slow half mile, the van turned left and allowed me to get up to a rational speed of about thirty-eight miles per hour, which for me is exactly three miles per hour slower than I normally drive on this road.

As I drove around a corner heading into town, I saw a stout animal slithering across the road.  Its body held low to the ground, and I wondered if it might be a rabbit or a neighbor's cat or one of the infamous river rats making its way from one side to the other.  When I got up close to it with my car, I noticed the white markings running the length of its otherwise dark body.  

Skunk.

I had damn-near run over a skunk.  Not only would it feel gross bumping up and over a little body as I turned it into pavement pelt, but the oils and smooshed fur would create a stench in and on my car rivaled by none.  Overnight the stench would spread around the neighborhood, and by morning it would be in the air until the next snowstorm.

So, thank you, crazy-slow mini-van driver.  Had you not appeared to be lost pulling in to someone's driveway, there's no telling what might've happened, but one thing is definite -- It woulda stunk like skunk!

BREAD SPORES

I am on my way to work minding my own business, which means either I am yelling at talk radio, laughing at sports radio, singing along to anything music-related on the radio, or having an imaginary conversation with someone who's sure to piss me off during the day so I'm fortifying my defenses.  I'm driving east on route 62, minding my own damn business, when a box truck pulls out in front of me.

This box truck isn't really that close to me.  I mean, it's not like I need to slam my brakes on or anything.  But it is still pretty early in the morning at 7:15 a.m.  Heading east is blindingly sunny, and the road has some turns and some traffic lights.  Pulling out into traffic when you don't have all the room to do so, especially with a box truck, isn't the wisest decision considering the extenuating factors.

So I'm tooling along behind the box truck when I finally notice it has a giant slice of bread painted onto the back door.  It's a rolling door, so the hinged areas add some peaks and valleys to the bread, creating a semi-realistic picture (as though five-foot wide bread is an everyday occurrence).  The truck is a little dirty and weather-worn, so the bread on its rear has a pock-marked, grayish, dingy appearance.  It's definitely bread; I'm just uncertain as to whether or not it's the healthiest five-foot wide bread I've ever seen.  You know, as if I see five-foot wide slices of bread every single day, maybe to take with me to work as sandwiches or something.

I notice there are words printed across the bottom of the box truck, a script decorating the lower border just under the handle the driver uses to pull up the door and unpack his truck.  I am suddenly aghast at what I am reading.  Surely there must be some kind of misprint!  No one could possibly have a box truck with this written on it and expect to get any business.  No wonder the bread looks sickly!

Runner like a banner across the bottom under the handle, it says, "MOLD BREAD."

Honest to God, the truck in front of me is loaded with giant, moldy, penicillin-infested yeast products that are probably producing alien spores at this very moment.  No wonder I'm turning into a mindless automaton at work.  I've probably been eating MOLD BREAD for weeks, maybe even months, probably even years.  My God, I've probably ingested enough MOLD BREAD to be qualified as an alternative life form.

The truck prepares to turn right, a turn I do not take as I continue straight for about another half-mile before turning left up the street toward work.  As the truck slows to make the turn, I get right up into its personal space and realize there is rust, and lots of it, running like a painted-on brown river from the handle and blotting out some of the writing below it.  The fancy written script on the truck is supposed to read, 'Arnold Bread." 

The rust has destroyed the A and part of the R.  The script is in cursive, so the "r" and the "n" roll together in the rusty umbra to form what appears to be a letter "m." The truck may whisper "Arnold Bread," but it actually screams at potential customers driving behind it, "mold bread."  Oh, yummy, I think to myself (since no one else is inside my brain with me at the moment), just what I always wanted!  Mold bread!  Brilliant advertising NOT. 

Mold Bread continues on its merry way, perpendicular from my car and fading fast into the distance.  I don't think about Mold Bread until later at lunch when people around me are eating sandwiches.  Yuck.  Five-foot moldy bread.  Gross.

I take my lunch out, a yogurt, and peel off the cover.  This is when it hits me - not literally but figuratively.  Yogurt is kind of moldy and pukey itself.  It's all I brought with me today.  I'm stuck with it.

Damn.

Well played, Mold Bread.  Well played, indeed.

SUCK

I woke up the other morning (that's not the funny part) around 5:00 a.m.

 I thought it was Saturday (still not the funny part).

The alarm went off (not the funny part yet) at 5:15 a.m.

It was actually Wednesday (okay, that's the funny part).

Suck.

INVASION OF THE BRAIN SNATCHERS

I get an email at 2:18 p.m., one minute after the official end of the school day, that my schedule for tomorrow is going into the toilet because we're going to spontaneously do a fifteen-minute activity with the entire grade.  I'm all for fun and giggles, but this interruption happens as I am going into the final three days of teaching a unit, and I literally cannot spare the "fifteen" (when they say "fifteen," they actually mean "forty-five") minutes to do what can easily be accomplished during lunch.

After going from zero to tantrum in less than five seconds, my frustration explodes.  Grades close Friday.  I have some students in the borderline zone, and now I have to scrap the unit that might have been able to bring these kids out of the breakdown lane and back into the passing lane.  I let fly, and for those who know me, you know that means every swear word I have ever been taught in multiple languages is spilling endlessly, tirelessly, and eloquently out of my petite but powerful mouth. 

Later, on the way to the grocery store (because I actually found all my little lists and turned them into one giant list), my blood pressure starts to come down.  Why am I fighting this battle?  Why am I trying to educate kids and get students to pass when it seems like all we're supposed to be doing is patting them on the back, telling them how wonderful they all are, and handing them all trophies?

It suddenly dawns on me that I am Donald Sutherland.  Stay with me here, folks. 

You see, I am one of those who "stays awake."  Remember the movie Invasion of the Body Snatchers?  Yup, just like that.  I see people's minds snapping all around me, drinking the Kool-Aid of No Child Left Behind and the National CORE Curriculum movement and the national PARCC test that says your kid in Massachusetts needs to be as smart (or as dumb) as the kids in Idaho, and vice versa.  It frightens the hell out of me, and I have been swimming, swimming, swimming against the rip tide that says, "Don't give homework to the kids, make sure you teach them in a way they really learn, don't teach traditional methods, don't expect them to memorize anything including times tables, and for the love of God make sure they all pass that damn state test!"

Well, today, I drowned.  That's right, my SCUBA tank full of ambition totally exploded today in a major crash and burn that lasted about an hour.

And now … I'm done.

Bring me the clown nose and the calliope with the monkey dancing on top.  I have joined the circus.  I'm like Mr. Dark's Pandemonium Carnival parade in Something Wicked This Way Comes. I have traded my sanity for the dream of complacency.  My brain has been infected and an alien, mindless automaton has taken its place.

Grades close soon, but until they do, my classes are going to play games and run wild and sign our names to things and do word searches and color pictures and make nose pinchers and throw paper snowballs and pretend we actually have a curriculum to finish.  I will be happy.  I will be compliant.  I will smile my plastic, etched-on smile.

I have been invaded by the anti-achievement spores, and I am Matthew Bennell (Sutherland), and my colleagues who are still left standing next to the Kool-Aid with full but untouched cups are the few Elizabeth Driscolls (Brooke Adams) left. 

I'm sorry, my dear but gullible friends; I am too tired to fight it any longer.  My brain has been snatched.  I cannot give a shit anymore.

LOSING MY LIST AND MY MARBLES

I don't know what the frig is the matter with me.

I have put off grocery shopping for over a week, but I have been madly making little lists of things I want to add to my main list when I do finally go.  I am thinking about going today, but I have lots of correcting to finish up, and it's raining out.  Normally the rain isn't a deterrent; I'm not going to melt ala Wicked Witch of the West.  But I am wearing a dress, pump shoes, and the temperature has managed to drop like crazy during the early afternoon so my light sweater is no longer substantial enough to keep frostbite at bay.

I actually thought about going several times before this, but I keep losing the lists.  I put them in my backpack to take to work, but they keep getting lost.  I lost them last Wednesday then found them, lost them again Thursday and found them later, lost them Friday and found them Tuesday on the floor at school (must've been attached to something I took out of my bag).  I am reasonably positive that I have them inside the backpack when I get home so that I can actually make a list, a real list, one that includes all the essentials like toilet paper, deodorant, and Cheez Its.

I sit down, ready to compile my final list, confident that everything including trash bags and Cocoa Krispies will not be forgotten.  I open my bag to take out the lists and …

Nothing.

That's right, damnit, I lost the lists.  AGAIN.  I lost the Post-It notes, the various scraps of paper, and the original one on lined paper.  Gone.  All of it just GONE.

I know that if I go to the grocery store now, I'm going to forget something like I did last Friday when I went out for Wheat Thins and came home with Nilla Wafers.  Although it has been years, maybe even decades since I have eaten Nilla Wafers, they are surprisingly tasty, even in place of salty crackers.  But, Nilla Wafers?  Not on my list.

Now I have to try and recreate my list and hope that the teeny scraps in the huge pile of other scraps have made it through unscathed.  I hope to be able to add things I have forgotten, like toothpaste and laundry detergent, things from the original list that I have since forgotten existed.

No matter.  Except that I am obsessed with making certain I haven't forgotten any key items.  I sit down to make the list and decide …

Oh, what the hell difference will one more day make.  Maybe the lists will turn up one more time and I can do this without injuring my brain and shaky short-term memory.  Besides, I hear it might be sunny later.  I'm not sure that's grocery shopping weather, anyway.

WHEN IT RAINS, IT POURS ... AND I CRAP MY DRAWERS

It's no secret that I hate thunder and lightning.

When I was a kid, lightning struck the fence surrounding the giant propane tank that we used to heat our pool and then it took out a giant, and I mean GIANT, tree.  The lightning strike missed the propane tank by less than a foot.  We would've been toast.  Then a week later, lightning struck our house while we were in it, damn near striking my sister who was about twelve feet from the edge of the roof where it hit.  Less than a week after that, lightning took down a birch tree at the end of our circular driveway.

This afternoon after coming home from school, I parked my car so it blocked my son's car in, figuring I would move it before he had to leave for work.  I was watching the radar like a maniac because I knew storms were coming.  I suggested that we move cars right away, but son insisted on waiting fifteen minutes until he was actually ready to leave.

Bad decision, at least from my perspective.

The storm moved in, and I refused to leave the safety of the house, which usually translates into the safety of the bathroom, which is relatively unsafe due to all the metal piping, but don't tell me that because I simply do not want to hear it.  I figure in the bathroom I have no window, white noise from the fan, all the water I can drink, and plenty of toilet paper should I shit myself when the house starts shaking.

So I did the unthinkable: I tossed my keys to my son and told him to move my car.  

No one has ever driven my car but me.  No one.  But desperate times call for desperate measures, and there was no way I was going out there.  Of course, the strange thing about my phobia is that I enjoy driving my car straight into a storm with my radio on full tilt.  Sometimes I'll go sit in a restaurant or coffee shop, order something to snack on, and watch the show from the windows.  I do not, however, like being in a house, a school, or outside (been caught several times outside during storms -- didn't care for it, thank you, anyway).

Son was a good kid about it, though, and acted as if he genuinely enjoyed the little trip around the block with my Dodge before tooling to Beverly in his Mitsubishi.  He didn't whine or throw a tantrum about having to do it, either.  I think he knew deep down that it was a battle unworthy of waging; I wasn't caving.  Totally not happening.

It was a relatively quick wall of storms.  Two came through almost on top of one another, and it was all done in less than ninety minutes.  I went outside, moved my seat back to the normal position (son is over six-feet tall, and I am barely five-two), and re-parked by backing my car into the driveway for the bleary-eyed morning getaway. 

It's no secret that I love my kids, and I'd do just about anything for them, including moving my car so one can get to work on time.  But it's no secret that I hate thunder and lightning, too, so I guess we all have to pick our skirmishes.  This time Mother Nature beat me. 

Thanks for rescuing me from having to crap my drawers, Kiddo.  I owe ya one.

HOW MY BURNING BOOBS BROKE MY ELBOW

I smashed my elbow yesterday. 

It's not my fault.  I was trying to type up my portfolio that's due this week.  It's all because of my pajamas.  Actually, I blame it on my boobs.

Let me start at the beginning.

I have been putting off writing up my Professional Growth Plan Year III portfolio all school year long.  It's not that I haven't been working on it; nothing could be further from the truth.  I have been busting my ass compiling this portfolio all year.  You see, after a teacher has been employed for three years, he or she goes onto the Professional Growth track, the one that requires us to defend our professional status every year.  It's a four-year cycle.  I am on Year III for the third time.  Year I and Year II are "type up a paper and hand it in" years.  Year III is a "present your portfolio to prove you've been worthy these last two years" year.  Next year, Year IV, doesn't even matter anymore because we're changing over the Teacher Evaluation System, which is something I cannot even talk about with a huge knot in my intestine.

I decide that I will present at out next available team meeting.  Unfortunately, it is also our last team meeting.  I've left myself no options: Tuesday is the day.  I send out the email, inviting my team members and my administrators to my presentation, knowing full-well that some of them probably cannot attend, which means a one-on-one meeting with the principal at a later date.  I hate that -- not because there's anything wrong with the principal, but because I got an "F" in conduct in second grade, and found myself in trouble more times than I can count from that school year on.  In other words, I have severe Principal's Office Phobia, or Principaloffobia.

I intend to type up my portfolio on Saturday, but an outing with my daughter and another session of Cat TV in my friend's backyard beckon me.  It is the first truly sunny day we've had in over a week, and I'm not about to waste it sitting in front of a computer screen. 

This turns out to be my first mistake.

I have two weddings to attend in a parental capacity this fall, so not only do I need to fit into dresses, I need to make sure whatever summer tan I get is actually uniform so I have multiple options for dress bodices.  After all, I will actually be in these pictures.  My middle-aged belly is causing me enough agida without adding "uneven tan lines" to the mix.  So I wear my strapless bathing suit top to Cat TV because the cats, birds, squirrels, chipmunks, bunnies, and the errant deer that runs behind our chairs, really don't give a rat's patootie if I'm showing a little too much flesh in the privacy of a wooded lot.

My friend and I enjoy some tahini and crackers along with ice water and lemon, chatting away for a couple of hours and not paying much attention to anything except relaxing.  By the time I decide to move to the shade, I've over-roasted my front and caused some reddening to the upper boob area, or, shall I say, the décolletage.  We decide to head out for a quick helping of frozen yogurt and a Mystery Trip around town just for fun (or, as it is sometimes called, a "Figawi Adventure").  This means I have to put my bra and shirt back on, which is okay for about an hour until the burn I've acquired starts to let itself be known. 

Yes, for the love of all things holy, the upper edge of my boobage is starting to sting.

As soon as I get home, the bra comes off and doesn't move from where I fling it until… until … I'm getting ahead of myself.  Hold that thought.

Sunday is Father's Day.  Neither of my parents is alive, and I have been widowed for an incredibly long time, so Father's Day really is a suck-ass holiday in our house.  All of my kids are celebrating at other fathers' houses, and that's okay with me because I have a Professional Growth Plan Year III portfolio to type up and compile, and it's going to take hours. 

I debate getting dressed then decide that my "pajamas" (which are actually sweatpants and a long sleeve shirt -- sexy mama!) will do for the day.  After all, I'm alone, it's Father's Day, so the chance of company coming over is nil.  Besides, my boobage is still burned along the edges, and I'm not entirely certain that adding underwire and a little push-up is going to ease the discomfort of raw skin.  I sit down at the computer, get through my morning routine of checking email and Facebook and the various blogs I find myself party to, then I begin the arduous task of conquering the professional paperwork.

Three hours later, I am still madly typing away.  It is now about 12:20, and I again consider getting dressed but nix the idea.  I'm on a roll; a couple more paragraphs, and I'm done.  I'm not stopping now.

Until … until … (release that thought you've been holding) … the doorbell rings.  The doorbell rings.  Damnation, I'm braless, haven't brushed my hair, am wearing zero make-up, and am still in my pajamas after noontime, and there's someone at my door.

Last time this happened, the mailman was on the other side, and my pajamas were a little less conservative -- still tactful, but much less coverage, more of a tunic than the sweats I'm currently wearing.  Knowing that there's no mail delivery on Sunday, I am fully aware that what's behind door number one will NOT be a delivery guy.

Answering the door turns out to be my second mistake.

It turns out to be a family friend who was stopping by to drop off something while he and his own son were on their way out for a Father's Day lunch.  And though I am MORTIFIED that anyone is seeing me in such a disarray, I thank my lucky stars that it is someone who has seen me at sporting events where I have been wilted by the heat and humidity, soaked to the skin during rain storms, covered up like an Eskimo in the dead of winter, and raging my bloody head off at bad referees.  He has also seen me at the gym covered in sweat and in spandex, disgustingly dirty while helping them move, and in a bathing suit that probably doesn't really show off anything that can be considered an asset.  I think he may have even stopped by to pick up my son for a tournament the day after I had foot surgery and was heaving my guts into a bucket on the couch.  In other words, this is probably not the worse side of me he has seen.

And while these rampant and fleeting thoughts comfort me in knowing this guy has seen me looking reasonably pathetic, I am suddenly extremely aware that I am still braless.

He only stays a few minutes at the door, with me blabbering away about how I have been working, yadda yadda yadda, still in my sweats, yadda yadda yadda, He graciously excuses himself and probably has to go home again and completely power-wash his eyeballs.  I decide at this point that the possibility of surprise guests, who are always welcome at my house, has now increased exponentially, and I would be wise to go get dressed and quickly.  Besides, once I'm done typing, I have to go to the store and buy ink for the printer because it is bone dry. 

This turns out to be mistake number three.

I collect my bra, my jeans, clean underwear, and a shirt, and I pile into the bathroom to get dressed.  I figure with all the shades up in my house, I don't need to be giving anyone else a free show today.  The bathroom space is small, and I am, for some odd reason that is still inexplicable, rushing to get dressed, perhaps believing that if I put on my clothes really quickly I can backtrack the humiliation of flashing anything I might have flashed through the thin t-shirt material.  I lean over to pull on my jeans, jerking my hands back with authority to crank the denim up over my knees.

This, my dear friends and special guests, turns out to be the final mistake of this debacle.

As I pull on the waistband of the pants, my left hand loses its grip, and my elbow cranks wildly, directly, and full-tilt into the door knob. 

Let me be very clear: It is ONLY called the Funny Bone because when people hit it, it is funny to everyone else. 

For a brief moment in time, I find myself completely breathless.  I have sucked in so much air that my exploding lungs cannot allow me to form coherent words nor thoughts.  I am momentarily shocked as stars swim in front of me and I consider the fact that I am going to pass out from the pain and crack my skull on the porcelain throne, probably an apt and fitting scenario for my demise.  Half-dressed woman cracks skull open like a ripe cantaloupe while pants are at half-mast.  Toilet cover mysteriously closed -- not quite sure what the hell she was doing in there.  Yup, that would make a helluva headline.  My tombstone could read: Here lies Heliand -- Shitter out of luck.

When my lungs finally release themselves after the initial adrenaline rush, I bend over in complete and totally agony, unable to move my arm, feeling searing pain like I have never known, and I birthed three children and survived an Austin Bunionectomy (look up the procedure online - it was a gas … not).  I am trying to scream, but even screaming makes my arm hurt, so I quietly mouth over and over again, "Oooooowwwwww, ooooooooohhhhhhhh,  ooooouuuuuchhhhhhh…." Like some meditative mantra.  This goes on for about two minutes until I feel my stomach cramp.  Honest to god, the pain is so intense that I am going to vomit.  Of course, while waiting to vomit, I realize that the toilet cover is down, and I cannot move an inch to even try and lift it because any air movement in the tiny room is causing my elbow stabbing jabs of horror.

In the end, I refrain from puking.  It takes about twelve minutes until I can move my arm again, and some rotation of movement indicates that apparently I haven't truly broken anything, though I simply cannot even wrap my mind around that reality after the pain I just experienced.  I continue to have pinches of discomfort into my pinkie all afternoon and evening as I am sure I have probably permanently damaged the nerve in my left arm.

I am such an ass.

You see, this is all my boobs' fault.  Had they not allowed themselves to burn and just behaved their bad selves by tanning in the first place, I never would've opted to go braless, embarrassing myself to my friend and the entire neighborhood who saw me on the stoop. 

So here's my warning -- Ladies, if you choose to go braless, even on a Sunday in your own home, be prepared to break your elbow, and don't you dare tell anyone that I didn't pre-warn you.

You're welcome.