STILL MARCH

I know it's still March, at least for 24 more hours.  But I'm ready.  I am so ready to replace those damn things.  I am sick and tired of  changing them in and out and in and out between the same two sets.  It's annoying.  It's gotta be spring soon because I am sooo ready for ....

Cotton sheets.

That's right, plain old, ordinary, high-thread-count, decorative, cool, freshly-laundered cotton sheets.  The kind of sheets that are crisp when you crawl into them, especially fresh out of a shower.  The kind of sheets that have that permanent linen smell to them.  The kind of sheets that scream refreshment.

But no.  I am re-applying flannel sheets.  Clean ones, yes, but still.  Flannel sheets.  And this time I had to put on the blue ones with the ... oh ... I can barely make myself say it ... with ... the ...

Snowflakes.

Ugh.  I think I just threw up a little bit in my mouth.  Snowflake-patterned flannel sheets on my bed.  In spring.  And it's not even that we New Englanders expect winter to just stop.  We are fully aware that we are in the danger zone for nor'easters with heavy snow for at least two more weeks.  We get that.  Totally.  It's just that ... well ... this winter has been so damn long.  Really, really long.

So please, I know Tuesday is April Fool's Day, and I also hear tales told that Wednesday and Thursday might actually be (dare I say it?) WARM.  I do suppose that being inside the plywood classroom with zero air flow and hot temperatures already, I should be careful what I wish for. 

But I am ready.  I am ready for short sleeves and flip-flops and warmth.  Just once this year I'd like my fingers and toes to go 24 hours without frostbite.

Someone kick Mother Nature square in her ass, will ya?  Save me from the flannel sheets already!

THREE STRIKES ... YOU'RE OUT

I have a friend who wants to move to Los Angeles.  He isn't an actor, he doesn't want to write screenplays, and he's not a spring chicken with a body-superiority complex.  He wants to valet cars for his retirement.  He is sick of the cold and the snow, so he has decided he is in an LA frame of mind.

My response?  "Dude, there are freaking EARTHQUAKES in Los Angeles."

His response?  "When was the last time you heard about an earthquake in LA?"

Today, dude.  Today.

************************************************************

I am at a college lacrosse game, and one of our players gets slashed up and under his helmet.  His chin splits wide open, and blood is pouring everywhere.  The referee, one of them anyway, throws a flag and calls a slashing penalty.  On our player.  The one who is bleeding.  Profusely.  All over his white uniform.  Da fuq.

After the game, the ref says to our player, who is still bleeding, "Uh, I think I might've made the wrong call on that play."

Ya think?

************************************************************

That's not the only bad call today at the game.  Now, I'm not bitching about it too badly.  I've seen some pretty rotten calls, like when the Hamilton-Wenhem refs extended the sudden-death because our team won and theirs still didn't.  But today, let's just say there was very little logical, legal flag-throwing going on.  The coach's wife and I are going nuts in the stands, as is the hockey team sitting next to us who came to watch the game.

Coach's wife yells, "Where else can ya find a job that pays you to be wrong?!"

I turn to her and say, "Weather forecaster, my friend.  Weather forecaster."

THE WEEK ENDS IN THE TOILET ... LITERALLY

It's no secret that I had a nasty week at work.  No, really.  We've changed our schedule seven times in the last ten days, I encountered alien life forms amongst the staff, and my brief visit to the boss's office resulted in my experiencing a lobotomy via osmosis.

So Friday's fiasco is the icing on the cake.  Friday during my planning period, I get stuck in the bathroom.

Next to my room and tucked into a nearly abandoned alcove beneath the staircase is a teacher's bathroom.  It's a one-seater with a thick metal fire door (you know, in case the toilet self-combusts), concrete block walls, no window, and it is about the size of a small broom closet.  There is a metal handle to operate the latch itself so that the door doesn't automatically swing open, but there is also a cheap hand-bolt lock about two feet above the handle to actually lock the door.

With about fifteen minutes until my last class of the day, I decide to pee.  I mean, I can live without going to the bathroom, but I'm still over an hour away from leaving for the day, which, on this particular Friday afternoon means heading to the pub at 3:00.  Might as well do a PBE, as my friend Sal puts it:  Preventive Bladder Emptying.

I head down into the alcove to see if anyone is in the teacher's bathroom.  I don't see any light coming from the crack at the bottom of the door, so I hit the handle that releases the latch, go in, close the door, and hit the hand lock that is at eye level.  All is right with the world. 

I do my business, wash my hands, and, less than a minute after occupying the bathroom, I am ready to unoccupy the bathroom.  I undo the lock, push down the door handle and …

Nothing.

The handle moves up and own, but the latch itself, the metal bar that rotates in and out of the handle connecting the inner mechanism to the abutting flash plate in the door frame, does not move.  I don't panic at first, but this sure is a conundrum.  It will be at least an hour before the only teacher in the area, the Spanish teacher, is done with her class and might happen to walk by.  Meanwhile, though, I have a class coming to my room in fifteen minutes, and no way to contact anyone.  I do not have my phone with me, and there is no window for me to open and crawl out.

I have had a door handle break on me before, so I start going through the mental possibilities.  If I can get someone's attention, the janitor can come, unscrew the handle, and … Wait.  No.  The screws are on the inside of the door handle.  I'd have to unscrew the mechanism in order to hand-operate the latch.  I look at the bottom of the door.  Nope.  Not enough room to pass a screwdriver through.

Well, the janitor can punch the metal bolts from the door and remove the door from the outside, and then I'll be free!  This will certainly work except for the one main problem: the bolts are inside … with me.

I try the handle again and again and again and again.  I have now been captive in the bathroom for about three minutes.  There is nothing to do except call out for help.  I refuse to scream and yell.  There are hundreds of students in this end of the building.  If I'm going to make an ass of myself, I certainly hope it's in front of another teacher.

I decide to try knocking from the inside.  No one will hear me, probably, but maybe when the students pass the nearby hallway in fifteen minutes, someone will alert a teacher.  I bang on the door three times. 

Suddenly from the other side I hear, "Are you stuck in there?"

God!  God heard me!  And God is a woman!  Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you!

"I believe I am," I reply.

"I'll go get help!" she yells, and I hear her feet take off down the hallway.

In the meantime, I try the handle again and again and again and … it clicks.  I pull.  The door opens.  I stand there awaiting my would-be rescuers and try the handle again with the door open.  It doesn't work.  By some miracle, it caught once and let me loose but will not catch again.

I tell the janitor who has come to my aid what has happened, and, after some teasing, he promises to fix the latch mechanism.  Meanwhile, the young woman who rescued me comes by.

"I was just about to go in there," she explains. 

"Well," I assure her, "your timing is perfect.  I had just realized I was trapped."  We laugh together, and we both vow never to use that bathroom again.  Truthfully, I'm not sure I'm going to use any of the self-contained, closet-sized potties at that school for the rest of my life.  I'll go into the girls' rooms and tinkle with the children because at least I can crawl under the stall door if need be.

Honestly, though, as funny as it is and as minor as it is -- I am only stuck in there for about five minutes -- I am extremely claustrophobic, and I truly did start having a panic attack while I was in there.  Although I'm chuckling about it now, it really isn't that funny.  Granted I had plenty of toilet paper, a potty, and all the water from the sink I could drink, but I am not one for enclosed spaces.  I've been stuck in an elevator, too, and I didn't care for that, either.

Of all people, and after the absolute suck-ass week I had at work, to get stuck in the lone, out of the way, never passed by, concrete mausoleum of a bathroom is poetic justice.  My week certainly couldn't have ended any other way.

But if I'd missed the pub because I was stuck in the bathroom, someone would've had to pass me a very long straw through the vent and made sure it was connected to a margarita.  That's all I'm going to say about that.

WHERE AM I GOING?

I have had an upside down schedule at work for the last two weeks.

First we had MCAS (state testing in English) for three straight days last week, which wreaked havoc with our schedule.  Then we had to flip our schedule around to accommodate the MCAS testing in other grades, so for four days this week, we've had all of our afternoon classes in the morning and have had numerous classes sliced in half to accommodate lunch.

I am so damn tired that I don't know if I can function.  Today, Friday, we have yet another schedule change. 
It's flipping exhausting, to be honest.

The kids are confused by it, too, and don't really like the uncertainty of which classes they have when, but, like the good kids they are, they roll along with each change, including today's. But they want to know why ... Why do WE have to change our schedules seven times in ten days?

Easy -- Because we CAN.  If anyone can pull off  multiple, on-the-fly, off-the-cuff schedules changes, it's the perpetual middle children of the middle school, the grade seven students and teachers.  After all, we survived the MCAS essay prompt and lived to tell the tale.

We can survive anything!  Well ,,, except another schedule change.  I think we're good with that one for now.  Sooooooo ... How about Spring?  Anyone want to help THAT schedule along?  Anyone??????

MARCH MAKES ME SHIVER

Oh.  My.  Gawd.  It's.  Damn.  Cold..........

I'm not even kidding.  Wednesday the southeastern part of the state gets whacked with a blizzard.  Where I live we get nothing, for a change, but the winds from the storm's backlash have been relentless.  For hours it has sounded like the walls are going to tear away from the framing of the house with the violent, strong, sustained gusts.  The wind drives the temperatures down.  It is, in a word: Motherfuckingcold.

It makes me tired.  Tired of being cold.  Tired of winter -- er --- spring.  Tired of my fingers splitting from the dry, frozen air.  Tired of shivering.  Tired of wearing slippers.  Tired of fleece sweatpants.

Look, March, take your crazy-ass, frigid self and get the hell out.  Seriously, your bags are packed and sitting on the snowbank.  Here's to seeing March's ass booted out of the calendar!

March is a lion
It roars its lazy ass off
Then hobbles away

It might get warm soon
That would be fucking awesome
If only it's true

Why am I frozen?
Why am I hypothermic?
Oh, yeah.  It is Spring.

WORKING IN THE CUCKOO'S NEST

Today I am told that I am unprofessional for standing by the current standards of my place of employment when in reality I am supposed to be following a vision that is two years down the road, as if it has already been adopted and instituted.

I am often capable of incredible feats of psychic ability. 

I am notorious for looking at the clock or waking up precisely when it's a certain time, like 12:34 or 4:44 (which I saw three times yesterday -- once on my alarm clock when I woke up during the night, once on the train ticker while waiting to go into Boston, and once on the stopped clock during the Bruins game at the Garden) or our personal family favorite, 6:22 because for some reason, every morning we look at the clock before school/work and it's always 6:22. 

I sometimes "smell" goals in sporting events before they happen, or smell approaching snow when none is predicted.  Sometimes I can sense what songs will be playing on the radio, start humming them, and then find they're played right afterward.  Once I was explaining to someone the meaning of synchronicities and how often they happen to me when the exact Sting song "Synchronicity" came on the radio.

I am also well-known for my penchant of bringing up people's names in conversation only to have them suddenly appear out of nowhere right behind me.  This can happen even if I am in Boston and they are in another state.  I swear they teleport to where I am.  I could be talking about the Queen of England, and the bitch would knock on my door.  I have perennial Foot-In-Mouth Disease.

I'm like some mutated form of idiot savant.

However clairvoyant I may seem, though, I am not precognitive.  I do not have the actual physiological ability to intellectually predict what will happen two years down the road, therefore how can I possibly be so professional as to practice a workplace tenet that does not exist yet? 

I mean, I'm good, but I'm not that good.

Seriously.  I am so fucking unprofessional that I do not know what is being planned behind everyone's backs for the next twenty-four months.  How in the name of all frigging things holy can I possibly still even be employed?  I must be the stupidest person on the planet if I don't know that what we have in place today certainly cannot be correct since it's not the plan for 2016. 

Dumb, dumb. Dumb.  Dense, dense, dense.

So, for the second time in less than four weeks, I am rendered speechless at my job.  Speechless.  Me.  The woman of multi-syllabic words, contorted clauses, phrenetic phrases, and run-on sentences.  Worldess.  Mute.  Abso-fucking-lutely unable to utter a response.

I return to my post completely shell-shocked.  It takes me forty-five minutes just to calm myself down, muttering to myself under my breath like a mental patient.  Feeling like I'm in some alternate bell-jar-like, Plath-riddled Nowhere Land.  I feel like any zest I had before this moment has been scraped down to the quick.  Quite frankly, I'm starting to wonder if I've gone insane.

Today there is no reserve left in my seemingly boundless tank of optimism.  Today in addition to being rendered speechless, my spirit has been crushed.  I feel like the butt of some giant cosmic joke, and that I am the idiot that didn't "get it."  The moron.  The lunatic.

I am Randle Patrick McMurphy after Nurse Ratched got to him.  I am RP McMurphy waiting in the hospital in a vegetative state for my savior the Chief to come and smother me with a fucking pillow.  There's nothing left but to count down the weeks, days, hours, minutes, seconds until this year is over.  After all, apparently it's 2016 and I don't even fucking know it. 

Might as well just fire me now.

DANGER: THIN BRAIN

I feel really bad about those three people who fell through the ice on the pond south of Boston two days ago.  Not.  They all survived, which proves that Darwinism is false.  Funny this story happened on the same day I experienced the following revelation.

When I drive by Massabesic Lake in New Hampshire on Sunday, there is a lot of open water.  I think, "How wonderful!  The lake is melting!  This means spring is coming, right?"  Until I see the half-dozen fishermen out on the ice, and by ice I mean slushy slush.

What in the hell is wrong with these people?  Do they not see the open water a mere feet from where they are galoomphing around?

Anyway, the Massachusetts idiots included two men who fell through the "ice," and by "ice" I mean the thin layer of slush sitting on the surface of a very wet and melted pond, and the woman who tried to save them.  She fell in, too, pulled herself out, and went for help... you know, like going for help in the first place might make too much sense.

It's amazing what ice and booze together will do.  Next time, put the ice in your drink, not your drink in the ice.

As for what can be learned from this stupidity--

Here's something for ya:  Don't go out on thin ice.

Here's something for me to chew on:  It can't be Darwinism if the dumbasses are still alive and procreating.

DAMN WEEKENDS!

Damn weekends.  They go by so damn fast. 

I was supposed to drive to Sleepy Hollow, NY this weekend for a lacrosse game, which turned into such a close game that I almost popped a cranial artery while watching it online (son's team won by a goal).  I had plans to go early and take pictures at the cemetery and church yard used in the Washington Irving story.  I had plans to spend the day with my eldest as we drove out there and back, round trip, in one day. 

In the end, my jaw won out.  I am still in recovery mode from oral surgery.  It still bloody-well hurts, I can assure you.  Saturday, after missing the big road trip, I took a mini-road trip with friends and went out for steak.  I couldn't stand it any longer, this eating of soft foods crap.  I have been eating cottage cheese, apple sauce, yogurt, pudding, and soup until I wanted to cry.  I also had a drink Saturday night.  That's right - I have been sipping water and milk and tea for eight days now, mostly waiting until the antibiotic finished.  No point in giving myself stomach issues on top of everything else.

Sunday my youngest had to come home from college and get his car for a couple of internship opportunities and interviews he has lined up.  I ran up to his college in New Hampshire and got him, did some laundry for him, had some lunch.  He brought his girlfriend along, thankfully, because #1 she's a great girl, and #2 she could keep him entertained so I could work on homework.  I had eleven profile papers to do track changes for and email them out to my grad school classmates.  Then I had to send my weekly paper to the professor.

Meanwhile I have been madly putting papers together trying to bring some kind of cohesion to my thesis, only I discovered that the cloud I chose to save my files reformatted them, and to turn them back into PDF files, it will cost money.  I spent most of this weekend reformatting each line by hand.  Waste of my precious time.

And now the weekend is over.  Damnitall.  Did I have a great weekend?  YES.  Would I do it all the same if I had a second chance?  SURE.  But am I still going to bitch and moan because I want even more time? 

REALLY … do you people not know me by now?  Of course I'm going to bitch about the weekend being too short!  I'm still suffering for that hour I got ripped off when the clocks sprang ahead.  I won't see that sucker again until the fall, but I could use it right now!\

Damn weekends.  They should be four days long.  Don't you agree?

I HATE YOU, SUNDAY

(Not our team ... but it could be the same weather conditions.)

Sunday, Sunday.  How I love you, Sunday.  Then comes Monday.  I hate that.

Plus the predictions are for more snow.  The one day I requested off.  To drive to Vermont.  To see a game ... outside, in the snow.

Snow?  Really?

Sure it can and does snow big into April.  But haven't we had enough (she asks innocently)? 

People all around are ignoring the wind chills (for the time being) and concentrating all their energy on NO SNOW.  Personally, I'm done with it.  My shovels are in the cellar -- well, one is in the cellar, the other is next to the door to the cellar.  One of those shovels had to make an appearance last week.

Look, Everywhere That Isn't New England, we are damn sick of this winter.  Wind chills are going to be in the teens again this week, too.  All I need is Lambchop, Shari Lewis's puppet friend, to make an appearance, singing:

This is the snow that doen't end
Yes, it falls on and on again
Some people started shoveling
They made it to the street
But then it started snowing more
And they just claimed defeat
This is the snow that doesn't end...
(repeat ad nauseum)

So, Sunday, I do not love you.  Sure, I don't have to work at my desk today nor worry about the boss looking over my shoulder.  But Monday is looking right back at me no matter where I turn, and for that, Sunday, for that ... I hate you.

FRIDAY IN THE TRENCHES

Friday morning I have to go back to the oral surgeon.  He needs to remove the clove oil pack he shoved into the gaping hole in my jaw.  When he jammed that sucker into the wound on Tuesday afternoon, my jaw felt a lot better, but I started breathing, tasting, and swallowing cloves.  I had clove stench emanating out of my nostrils, even, and I had a sudden and urgent hankering for baked ham.

Friday before work, I have to head into the oral surgeon's office and have the medicine pack yanked back out again.  It feels like a worm squirming out of my jaw when he extracts it, but it only takes a second.  There is a residual taste of cloves, and then I'm good to go.  It isn't until later I realize how much I wish the damn pack were back inside my jaw.  Vicodin, oh Vicodin, my meager supply is almost gone.  How will I sleep without you?  Tylenol, here I come.

But this is not a tragedy.  This is a melodrama.  I wish it were a comedy, and I certainly set all those possibilities into motion knowing I was going to be late to school, but even the best artists can be thwarted by their detractors. 

But I digress.  Let me explain.

I know I am going to miss homeroom and most of my first period class, so I arrange to have an adult sit at my desk for about forty-five minutes Friday morning. On Thursday I spend my entire planning period setting up the board and the room for the following day, leaving explicit instructions for the classes.  Once my last period class arrives, a study hall, I recruit some of my students to be in charge for Friday.  Alex and Joey will take attendance and deliver the list to the office on their way to science class.  Chloe, Kelly, Dylan, and Kyle will run my A block class and take attendance.  In case I run even later, Michael and Keith will be in charge of B block.

I type up these notes, complete with instruction sheets and profuse "thank yous" for the students and for the lone adult.  I am relaxed and confident that my classes are in great hands while I force myself to relax in the oral surgeon's chair, awaiting the packet removal from my jaw bone.  Everything is good.  I am completely confident that all is going to go well.

Until I walk into my classroom at school.

The adult in charge has actually taken charge, and the kids are horrified.  They are extremely upset that they have not been allowed to do the jobs they looked forward to since Thursday.  I can sense it and see it before I excuse the adult in charge with profuse and genuine gratitude.  No sooner is she out the door then the children start whining.  She didn't let us do this; she didn't let us do that ...

It takes a few minutes before I hear the rest of the story:  Some were chatting during announcements.  Dante got sent into the hall.  The adult announced that she was in charge and no one would be working in groups (even though the desks were set up that way, and it was clearly stated on the board).

Now, I know this adult.  She's a lovely woman without a mean bone in her body, but I've also taken her from her regular work to sit at my desk.  I'm laying the blame at a 30-70:  30% her and 70% the kiddos.  And then ... we move on.  I get my four helpers and have them do other jobs for me, making sure the homework is read off the board, that papers are all handed back, etc.  When B block arrives, the two boys I put in charge seem disappointed, so I assure them, "Oh no, my jaw is sore.  You guys are STILL in charge."

Truth be told, they did a fantastic job.  I even let the next class lead the lesson because Joey and Alex are in that class, and they didn't really get to do much for attendance and homeroom.  And I'm not lying -- my damn jaw is still hurting.  Ugh.

For the remainder of the day, I keep hearing, "Oh, she's here!  I thought she was absent..."  I hear this from students on my team and from students on the other team who have lockers near my room or who are in my study hall.  They are talking about me.  I didn't realize they would notice.  I didn't realize I'd be missed.  And, honestly, it's kind of nice to know this.  It's kind of cool to hear what the kids say about you when they don't know you can truly hear them.  Oh, I know sometimes to them I'm a miserable, evil, uncaring bitch, like when I give them a zero for homework after waiting five days for it.  But it feels warm and fuzzy to get a cheering reception when they see me in the room after believing I'd abandoned them for the day.

The bad news is that I have to be out two more times -- Once to go to St. Mike's for a lacrosse game (if the personal day gets approved), and once to sit on a thesis presentation panel ... as a presenter ... in May.  I'm already in a panic.  I want them to lead the class again, and now I'm worried about that, worried that my plans will fall apart.  It's such a relief, though, to be worried that my kiddos are too helpful.

If only I could have these problems all the time.  Life is good.  My jaw isn't so great, but at least I can count on my twelve year olds to cover for me.  That is the best gift of all.

ELA MCAS -- CHECK!

State testing for my grade and for my subject is done.  English Language Arts is over.  Long composition = done.  Reading Comprehension = done.  Pressure = done.

I can see the end of the year.  Finish myths, read a few more stories, write some more, sink the Titanic and "save" only a few of my students, and read a novel.  It's a sprint to the finish line now.

The long comp question involves the students describing a sacrifice they made for someone.  This is the first time it has been an all-out fake question.  These kids are twelve.  Half of them don't even know what the word sacrifice means.  They come to my room after the test, telling me about the tales they wrote:

"I gave up my kidney!"

"I gave away all the chickens I raised!"

"I gave a plane ticket to an old lady!"

What?  You lost a kidney?  And you raise chickens?  And you helped an old lady?  Really?!

"No," they all answer almost in unison.  "We made it up!"

Oy.  Crap.  Damnit. This can never end well.

I shake my head and remind them about the boy who wrote that his favorite family pastime was to bungee jump in the Grand Canyon.  "Didn't that end badly for him?" I say. 

Some of the kids have written essays about Lent and the spirit of giving and sacrifice.  You know, like when they had to give up television or hand over the XBox.

Ack.  My head hurts just thinking about it.

But the more they tell me, the more they string it all together like vignettes.  As they recount what they wrote, I realize they're telling some convoluted but quite plausible stories with beginnings and middles and ends. 

Hmmmmm, narratives.... NARRATIVES!

And that's how we circle the Maypole in March.  The only difference is that we'll keep our chickens, we won't be helping Grandma get to Miami, and our kidneys, for the most part, are still intact.

VIOLETS ARE BLUE

I tried to write a witty spring poem to commemorate our seasonal change-over.
But I thought about Spring so far, and it sucks.
Spring is rotten to its core right now.
I damn-near froze my own ass off at a lacrosse game the other day.
And the storms -- please!
Rain here, snow there; typhoon here, blizzard there.

I might see flowers popping up at some point ... at the melting point.
Is there such a thing as a melting point?
Will the ice on the rivers ever crack and float downstream?
Will I ever feel warm again?
What do my toes feel like?
I cannot even remember since I have been cold for that long.
But write a witty spring poem?
I got one for you:
          Violets are blue and roses are red.
          I'm so fucking cold, I think I may be dead.
          Twinkle, twinkle little star,
          Wait, that's not a star.  That's another fucking snowflake.
Welcome, Spring, I hope you're happy.
Here's my poem; I hope it's sappy.

DENTAL MELODRAMA

I had dental surgery last Friday.  I had to take the day out of work, and then I did what any normal person would do.  Oh, wait.  No, I didn't  -- I didn't rest.  That's right, I ran to the pharmacy, I ran to the grocery store, I made pudding, I ate yogurt, I took the penicillin and the super-Motrin.  I went to my daughter's house.  I baked cookies for the lacrosse game.  That was Friday after the surgery.

Saturday I went to the lacrosse game (it was freezing, by the way).  I delivered the cookies to the lacrosse team.  I spent all day Sunday working on my thesis and "resting."  Monday I was back at work, and Tuesday I am back at work proctoring the state long composition test.

Yup, to me this is resting.  I don't climb any mountains; I don't ford any streams; I don't follow any rainbows; I don't find any hills that are alive.  Therefore, I must be "resting."

What I do find Tuesday afternoon is that the meds are not really doing their job.  Tuesday is the first day I can actually open my mouth enough to eat applesauce and cottage cheese and really soft pumpkin bread with other humans without totally grossing them out with the way I semi-chew as we sit in the teachers' lunchroom.  Linda, who has been down the tooth-route before, asks me how I'm feeling.  She knows.  She knows how bad this can get.  When I tell her it still hurts, and hurts a lot, she urges me to go back to the oral surgeon.

I make it through the day and realize as I pull into my driveway that my jaw feels funny.  It feels … chilly.  I can't describe it, but it's like there is pain in the jaw and cold air shooting out of my front teeth.  I have a reasonably high tolerance for pain, so I figure the situation is probably worse than I'm letting on. 

I remember after my wisdom teeth, which were impacted completely into my jaw bone and growing in the wrong direction, I developed dry sockets.  That oral surgeon yelled at me because I didn't come to his office as soon as I felt the pain.  Honestly, guy, the pain was no better nor worse than the usual wisdom teeth stuff.  How am I supposed to know?  We are also a family that tends to have painless ear infections, too.  Took a load of crap from pediatricians and my own physician over the years on that one, but that's a story for another day.

Where was I?  So, I am still sitting in the driveway when I reach into the glovebox and retrieve the flashlight.  I open my mouth as wide as I can, because remember today I can open my mouth without drool and blood and food oozing out, shine the light right on that sucker and ..

Holytoothfairy, I can see the goddamn roots of the next tooth.  I can frigging see my entire tooth from that hole in my jaw. 

Now, this does not make me feel confident.  I have had gum and tooth problems all of my life, and I struggle to save each and every bit of my jaw and its contents.  I remember my wisdom teeth experience, and I recall the oral surgeon on Friday saying to me, "Oh, I see you have another hole in your jaw.  That must be for leftovers."  I immediately call the surgeon's office and am told he will call me back.  At 4:35, more than an hour later, I still have not heard back, and the office closes at 5:00 -- not the office near my house; the one in the city of Lawrence several miles and a shitload of traffic away.

"Can you be here in ten minutes?" the nurse asks.

"No, but I can be there in twenty," I assure her.  And then I race like Richard Petty (cut me some slack - we're both old here) through the charming streets of Lawrence, driving right around an accident, running a light, and barely moving over for an ambulance.  When I get to the office at 4:53, there are still four patients in front of me. 

Shit.  Not only are they running late, now the emergency patient (me) is going to make them run later.  They're going to hate me… more than they already do..

I finally get in there, and the doctor has to irrigate the area.  There was a clot there, but it's gone.  I have a dry socket, but a new clot has formed and it's starting to heal itself.  He's going to pack it.  For anyone unfamiliar with this process, it's basically a small cloth soaked in some kind of extreme clove oil and shoved unceremoniously and quite forceably into the hole in one's jaw.  It tastes like clove gum on steroids.

My late emergency causes the surgeon to miss his meeting with another doctor in the building, and he tells me has to go by the hospital to see a patient, anyway.  His nurse has to clear up yet another room (sorry) because of me.  The janitor comes in the room, starts cleaning, and jumps nearly out of his skin when I speak to him because he doesn't notice nor expect me to be there.

Finally I get up to leave the office.  All is good, life is good, my jaw is feeling better, and everyone can finally lock up and get out of there.  The oral surgeon reaches into the office refrigerator (they give ice cream and a little cooler to all of their wisdom teeth patients), and pulls out a bunch of frozen Kit-Kat bars.  He smiles and holds one in my direction. 

"Do you want one?" he says to me.  "But you can't eat it for an hour.  Nothing to eat or drink for an hour now."

I am figuring after all the trouble I've given him, the last thing I should be doing is adding more sugar into my dental work.  "No thanks," I answer.  "I'm trying to cut down."

He zips up his fleece jacket to leave right on my heels.  "I know I should stop," the oral surgeon smirks, "but my dentist loves me."

MCAS MANIA

Two weeks ago the principal sidles up to me in the hallway and says, "So, you must be nervous, huh?"

Nervous?  Why would I be nervous?

"In two weeks?  Nervous, huh?"  She is clearly making a point.  I am clearly not getting it.

I start wondering if she's asking about my thesis.  Yes, I am damn worried about that, to be honest.  Damn, damn worried.  Well, semi-worried.  At the time I was wicked worried; now I'm only a little anxious.

"MCAS," she explains, like I'm some idiot from another planet.  MCAS, for you out-of-staters, is the Massachusetts Comprehensive Assessment System, or something like that.  We here in-state call it the Massachusetts Child Abuse System.  It's like those old bubble tests but on steroids.

In short, the MCAS is a state-funded ploy to keep Ticonderoga #2 pencils in business.

It takes me about five seconds to compute what the principal is saying and where she's going with it.  Clearly she knows I take the test seriously, but she mustn't know me too well.  My students are ready for the MCAS.  I teach them everything I know about the test.

I don't teach to the test; I teach them about the test.

I teach them what the graders are looking for and how the graders are all trained like lemmings to follow the same check-sheet rubric.  I teach them to play Where's Waldo with the multiple choice: "The answers are in there," I assure them.  "You just have to find 'em."  The stuff they do daily in all of their classes are the same kinds of things they'll be doing on the test.  It's a reasonably valid test.  If I'm teaching to the test, then I haven't actually taught them anything except how to waste a huge chunk of academic time.

Why should that make me nervous? Now I'm nervous that I'm not nervous.  Should I be nervous?  Should I be nervous that I'm starting to get nervous about not being nervous?

I take a deep breath and look at the principal.  "Nervous?  Nah.  These kids are ready.  They'll be fine.  Just fine."

I mean that.  I honestly mean that.

Today is day #1 of the state-mandated testing for Massachusetts.  It is the most tightly policed portion of all of the state tests:  The Long Composition for grades 4, 7, and 10.  By 8:15 in the morning, we will all know what the long comp prompt is for my grade level, as no one is allowed to sneak a peek until we crack the test open at the same time across the entire state.  It's like Fort Knox in the school today.  This portion of the state testing gets more security than the president.

I'm not nervous.  I'm absolutely psyched.  I can't wait.  I am so totally excited by this part of the test that I can barely stand myself.  The adults who designed the test always think they'll outsmart the kids with a grammar trick, or a capitalization trick, or including commonly misspelled/confusing words like accept vs. except.  But we're ready.  Bring it on, MCAS.

Nervous?  Nah.  The most nerve-wracking thing about the MCAS is whether or not someone will give me a potty break when I need it.  Maybe that's what the principal is asking me.  I should've answered, "Yes, I am nervous!  Make sure someone comes down to relieve my around 9:30 so I can pee!"

And I should've walked away.

Then the principal would be the nervous one.  And she'd be nervous about being nervous because she would think I am serious.  And folks, the thought of me being serious really should make people nervous.  I know it makes me nervous.  I'm serious.

And there you have it.  See you on the other side of the long composition, folks.  I'll be in lock-down until noon-time.  Wish me luck!

MONDAY, MONDAY

Guess what today is?
Come on, we all know it:
It's Monday - Monday -
They day we feel like shit.
For another long week
It's the very first day.
We hate it oh so much
That we don't know what to say.
Monday, you suck,
You're an arrogant jerk!
You kill off the weekend,
You make us go to work!
Go back where you came from
You'll never be our friend --
Besides, in six more days
You'll be bugging us again.
Monday, we despise you
For waking us so early.
If we were bullies we might
Give you a swirlie.
The only thing good about
Monday that we know
Is that in four more days
To the weekend we will go.

(That's all I've got.  Sue me.  I've had a rough weekend.  Happy Monday, everybody.  Hope it doesn't suck too much.)

DEATH TO WEATHER PREDICTORS

What the hell.

I bash the meteorologists a lot on this blog, but for crimeny's sake, they're damn easy marks.  How the hell is it possible to be paid to have all that technology, all that radar, all those computer models, and still be motherfucking WRONG most of the time?

We are outside at a lacrosse game today.  Weather is predicted to be in the 50s.  We are in the bleachers maybe five minutes when all of a sudden it starts to rain.  Then it sleets.  Then it snows a little.  The breeze picks up fiercely, and we are suddenly in wind chills well below 30, maybe even below 20.  Within minutes, my gloved hands and two-socked-hiking-booted feet are so frozen I have to limp to walk.  I cannot even imagine how cold the boys on the field are.

I have Raynaud's, sometimes called a syndrome and sometimes called a disease and sometimes called a phenomenon, so when I get cold, my toes and fingers turn white then a light blue.  After they painfully thaw out, which sometimes takes hours, these frozen digits turn a bright red as if they've been sunburned, and the painful stabbing sensations can last off and on for days.  On top of this, today while hobbling from the stands, my right knee locks up.

Honestly, I look like a fucking marionette trying to get over to the boys' bus for the tailgate.  And then I fight off the Science Olympiad kids, who are having their competition at the same college where the boys have their lacrosse game, from stealing the food we brought for the players.  (Yes, I see one of my students there.  Weird.)

Luckily, I do not trust the meteorologists and bring my heavy coat with me.  But I don't bring a hat.  I don't put those  peel-off warmers on my feet.  I don't have warm gloves - just my leather driving ones.  Damn meteorologists.  How in the name of paid professionals everywhere can these people even be allowed to get on television and claim to know what the weather is going to be like?  Frigging charlatans.  They suck.

Fuckers.  Each and every one of them is a fucker.  A paid, incompetent fucker.  And when my fingers finish defrosting sometime over the next 48 hours, I might email them all and tell them so.

BRRRRRP! BRRRRP BRRRRP BRRRRRRRRRP!

Okay, so I'm immature. This shouldn't be news to anyone who knows me. 

Anyone who knows me also knows that the classroom in which I teach has been completely boarded up and swallowed by the construction zone of the new high school.  It was fascinating and creepy all at the same time when the workers and I shared the same space separated by mere plexiglass windows.  Now, with the plywood up and the plexiglass gone, I can still hear the work but have no idea what's going on.  It's all left to my imagination.

When I hear giant clanging noises followed by men yelling, I imagine someone has dropped either a steel girder or a a support pole.  When I hear beeping, I imagine the forklift is backing up, hopefully not over someone.

Thursday I hear the distinct sound of rivets being screwed in with hydraulic machinery.  It sounds like the tire changing area of a pit crew in a NASCAR race: 


Brrrrrrrrrrp!  Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrp!  Brrrrp brrrp brrrrrrrp!

The students are taking an open-binder quiz, so they're all nose-into-their books.  I am sitting in the back of the room entering data on the computer.  The only one who seems bothered by the noise is me, and I start to giggle.  Honestly, I have been listening to these noises for two-and-a-half hours straight before this class, and it's starting to get on my nerves.

A couple of the kids turn around.  I force myself to look stoic and disinterested.

Brrrrrrrrrrp!  Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrp!  Brrrrp brrrp brrrrrrrp!

I smile and will myself not to react, but I cannot stop.  The noise reminds me of... And then my mouth opens and words fall out.

"Has anyone here ever seen the movie Blazing Saddles?" I ask.  Nope.  Nobody.  "There's a scene where the cowboys are sitting around a campfire eating beans," I explain to no one and everyone, "and they all start farting.  The sounds from the construction zone reminded me of that."  Then I apologize and urge them to get back to work.  They do, and I attempt to, also.  Suddenly --

Brrrrrrrrrrp!  Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrp!  Brrrrp brrrp brrrrrrrp!  Brrrrrrrrrrp!  Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrp!  Brrrrp brrrp brrrrrrrp!

Ohmigodohmigodohmigod, don't laugh.  Do not... But I cannot help it.  I giggle some more.  A couple of the students look at me, clearly annoyed.  I have to get a grip.  I have to hold it together. I have to --

Brrrrrrrrrrp!  Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrp!  Brrrrp brrrp brrrrrrrp!  Brrrrrrrrrrp!  Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrp!  Brrrrp brrrp brrrrrrrp!  Brrrrrrrrrrp!  Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrp!  Brrrrp brrrp brrrrrrrp!  Brrrrrrrrrrp!  Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrp!  Brrrrp brrrp brrrrrrrp!

I stare at my computer screen and my fingers stop moving.  I know if I move one muscle, I'm going to crack myself up over the industrial farting noises coming from the other side of the plywood.  I take a deep breath and notice movement out of the corner of my eye.  I turn and make visual contact with a girl who sits in the last seat of the middle row of desks.  She starts giggling, as well.  Clearly, even though she didn't see the movie, she totally gets it.

Once she starts, a couple of other students start giggling, and I completely lose it.  I start laughing so hard that I am crying a little bit.

"I'm sorry," I apologize in earnest.  "I am so immature."  As soon as the word "immature" rolls off of my tongue...  Brrrrrrrrrrp!  Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrp!  Brrrrp brrrp brrrrrrrp!

This time everybody laughs.  If we can hear the construction guys, I'm quite certain they can hear us.  I'd like to think at least one of them finds it as funny as we do.  To my disappointment, though, the noises stop, so the children get back to work on their quizzes, and I get back to work updating school files.

The superintendent did a walk-through recently and thanked those of us inside the construction zone for being patient and being good sports.  I'm not so sure that laughing at accidental artificial fart noises is exactly what she meant, but we have to keep our optimism up.  After all, joy trumps professionalism every time.    It was one of those teachable moments, and I apparently failed miserably in reminding the students that it's time to suck it up and act like the mature young adults they are and the mature adult I am supposed to be.

Screw it.

They'll have plenty of other opportunities to act appropriately.  I mean, get real.  We're taking a quiz and there are fart noises everywhere.  Things like this just don't happen every day, so for today, anyway, we're going to live on the edge.  The edge of the construction.  The edge of Mr. Taggart's bean-fueled campfire.  The edge of maturity.  They have the rest of their lives to grow up and behave, but for now it's okay to be twelve and giggle: That's the real sound that makes me smile.

I'M STILL STANDING

How can it still be so cold?  Seriously.  We had a winter like this when I was young, and I remember thinking, "March is the worst month."  It was so icy and frigid and blustery that it stayed with me.  I've been convinced ever since that March is, indeed, the suckiest month of all.

Today I wake up to ice and snow and wind.  It snows for a few hours then is so blustery that the wind blows sideways off of snowbanks and rises yards into the air, re-blanketing everything anew. The snow has formed drifts that are six to eight inches deep around one of the cars and all through the walkway.  I'm going to have to shovel.

Shit.

The last thing I said to my shovels just a few days ago was, "I'm done with you!"  Now I have to take that all back.  Thanks, Mother Nature.  Nice payback, bitch. 

It only takes fifteen minutes to shovel because the snow is like light crystals.  It's so damn cold that even the snow is freeze-dried. 

This sucks.  Snow sucks.  Cold air sucks.  March sucks.

I won't surrender yet, Mother Nature.  I'm still standing.  Well, okay, I'm still hunched over shoveling, but that's a form of standing ... right?

MILANO GRIGIO

Would you like to know

What goes with Pinot Grigio?

A Pepperidge Farm Milano.

I have been working on a paper all night.  I am writing a profile for my class, so I interviewed my sister, who is incredibly interesting and a remarkably talented singer.  Once I have the notes done and the first draft underway, my eldest stops by for ten minutes between the train arriving at the station across the street and his wife picking him up.  

At some point in this endeavor, I open a small bottle of pinot grigio and pour myself a glass.  A scant glass, but still.

Then I crave a snack, so I go right for the Milanos.  I figure if people can eat chocolate-covered strawberries while sipping wine, certainly I can munch on a Milano cookie without too much agita.

Truth be told, that damn cookie and that damn wine both taste better.  

First draft?  Done.

Even better, a story I was sure I wrote but couldn't find -- well, I finally found it tonight under a misnamed file on my computer.  And, even better, the story is about five pages long.  Score.

Better than that?  A glass of pinot grigio and a Milano cookie to celebrate a finished draft and a found draft. 

Hey, don't judge me.  We should celebrate all victories, regardless of how minute.  Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to refill me glass and grab another Milano.  Life is good. 

HONORARY POLITICS

Today I became an honorary Republican.

Wait a minute, wait a minute.  Don't go getting all political and crazy-ass on me here, folks.  THEY called ME.  No, truly, they did.

First of all, I'm an unenrolled voter.  That means I am registered to vote but do not belong to any organized political party.  I get to choose whichever primary ballot sounds more enticing, and I can vote the issues more readily.  I don't vote along party lines.  Ever.  Sometimes I even vote for the most freaked-up, smacked-out party I can find. 

For example, if I don't know who the hell is running for Sheriff, and I see Cleavon Lillypad is running from the Balding Birdwatchers Party of Northern Bumshoe, I just might vote for him simply because I flirted with a balding guy last week at the café.  Once I voted for the Republican candidate for some obscure office because he was better looking than the other candidate.  I told myself, "They're all a bunch of lying assholes, anyway.  Might as well have the lying asshole who's worth looking at."

The one thing I truly enjoy, though, is taking political phone surveys.  I get all tingly and my heart starts beating wildly when the caller ID indicates a political pollster is calling (and no, it's from real excitement not dietary-induced tachycardia).  I not only like answering the questions, I like interjecting hyperbole and throwing them off their game.  Some of them roll with it, but most of them get really pissed that I'm not letting them keep to their pre-ordained spiel.

Frankly, it's some of the best entertainment on the planet.

But I have to hand it to the Republicans -- They're willing to work for their cause.  Never once in all the time I have been a registered and unenrolled voter has the Democratic party tried to lure me to its side.  Maybe it's because I'm not on the Welfare rolls or because I have an Anglo-Saxon surname.  Maybe it's because they're afraid I speak English and they won't be able to communicate with me, but I can assure them, me hablo enough espanol to answer sus preguntas.  Maybe because I'm a forced member of the NEA, they figure I'm already voting their way.

I find that kind of hubris rather offensive.

I am equally surprised, though, when the Republicans call because I'm no trust-fund baby, I haven't been to church since the 90s, I own nothing more dangerous than BB and air guns, and my bank account is so small I'm not even sure the bank knows that I exist.  I'm not exactly their kind of people, either.  But, like a blind date gone almost well, they're willing to take a chance.

I answer the phone because I suspect it's a survey only to be greeted by the sweetest, most sincere and zealous old Republican woman I think I've ever encountered via telephone.  Like me, she is widowed (though I doubt as early as I), and we have a good old chat on and off the books.  I tell her she is probably out of luck if she's looking for money because I'm a public school teacher (pegs me as a bleeding heart liberal, which I am not), and that I am in grad school and paying for every cent of it myself (pegs me as an anti-handout conservative).  By the time we're done talking, she doesn't know what the hell to think.

But here's the thing.  She blesses me anyway.

That's right.  She wishes me so many blessings and God-given thanks that I actually feel … well … lighter.  And I may well be lighter because I think I may have said I'd try to send someone somewhere $20 if they'd only send me an envelope because I never, ever use the credit card for anything like this (or anything, period).  Good God, I've been bamboozled and converted on paper!  Yet, I feel so damn blessed that I start humming Snap!'s "I've Got the Power."

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_BRv9wGf5pk 

Then comes the "Oh, crap" moment.  I hope my sudden anointing doesn't mean I have to pick a real political party.  Dear Lord, do not let me be converted from my fence-sitting ways!  Granted I'm conservative on some things, liberal on others, which makes me the Pushme-Pullyou of the voting demographic, but still.  Pick just one?  That's like opening a box of chocolates and making me decide -- It means having to leave another poor chocolate behind.  That will never, ever happen, and my waistline is proof.

Let me be very clear:  I DO NOT TRUST ANY POLITICIANS.  THEY ARE ALL LYING THUGS.

However, I also kind of enjoy being blessed.  I've been having a rough few weeks, and I don't see how being nice to another widow is going to hurt.  Then again, I can't see how it's really going to help, either.

Damnit.  Politics are so confusing, and politicians are so sneaky sending nice and honest people to do their evil, dirty, dishonest work.  I never should've answered the phone.

The next time it says "Political Survey" on my caller ID, I'm going to …

Oh, who the hell am I kidding?  Of course I'm going to answer it.  Sometimes it's the only fun I have all day long.