MOTHER NATURE AND SMALL FAVORS

Well, well, well.  Perhaps Mother Nature and I are reaching an impasse after all.

Tuesday night is the NCAA Division II play-off lacrosse game between Bentley and Southern New Hampshire University.  The weather people have predicted rain, and, indeed, it is drizzling off and on on my way down to Waltham for the game.

Imagine my surprise when the sun tries to pop out, though it doesn't quite make it.  I find my way to the parking area that will be nearest to the field and my son's school's bus, grab my umbrella, a fleece blanket, and head to the field.  I mean, it's supposed to rain, right?

It's a little windy, not too bad, but it's cold.  Not frigid freeze-my-ass off cold, but definitely cold enough for jacket, hats, gloves, and little heater thingees that stick onto my socks.  But no rain.  Hallelujah, no rain!

Amazingly enough, it stays that way through the whole game and even after.  My drive home through the highway construction and down route 125 (where the speed limit is 50 but I go 60+ near the State Police barracks), is clear sailing from a weather standpoint.

The cold, I can live with.  The heat is tolerable, too.  But when it's frick-ass bone-chilling cold and it's freezing rain?  That just blows.  Glad that only happens once or twice this season, and really glad it doesn't happen Tuesday night.

Thanks, Mother Nature, for either coming around to my way of thinking, or to simply giving up on me and moving on to better things ... like the snow you dumped in Northern New England the other day/  Those people must've really pissed you off, Mother Nature, at least more than I have.

And now that we're friends again, Mother Nature, maybe add just a little more heat in the temperature.  No need to go nuts!  Just a teeny bit. Please?  My blog says nice things about you, after all...

LOST IN SSU SPACE

So apparently the university screwed up their copy of my thesis, missed printing out 40 pages when their printer ran out of paper, and forgot to pass the thesis manuscript along through the chain of command to get registered. 

THEIR missteps; not mine.

I am guilty of only pestering people enough for them to say, "Silence, minion.  Doest thou not knoweth who we thinketh we art?  Thou art but toe-jam beneath fungus-filled nails.  Away, gnat, away!"

What I should have done is kick the living shit out of them.  All of them.  Every last one of them.

The long of it is that I wanted to throw people out windows (a favorite tactic of mine since Sunday school when I was a toddler).  The short of it is that I don't give a Flying Dutchman anymore.  I don't.  I have been sitting on 127 pages of a manuscript for two weeks, trying to beat their deadline, waiting for their reply, and playing by their rules. 

I'm over it.  I own the copyright.  THEY can bite ME.

Perhaps I should take a page from my eldest, who is deep into the essay-writing portion of graduate school applications himself (business, not English, because he's the bright one and I am not).  When trying to determine his short term and long term goals, he simply tells me: Short team goals = take a dump and go to sleep; Long term goal = don't die.

I suspect he's on to something.

No, really.  It would be nice if I could take a proverbial academic dump and sleep with a sound conscience, instead of being shit all over and being rendered sleepless from the constant anxiety.  Just once.  I should be so used to it by now, though.   

I have several emails out there, trying desperately to get this thesis paperwork done, but this is academia we're talking about.  Educated people who claim to have read my entire thesis a week ago … but never noticed they didn't print out the last 40 pages.  I mean, it clearly states that it has 127 pages, and it clearly ends in the middle of a sentence when you only print out to page 87. 

But what the hell do I know?  I mean, I only have integrity.  There's no damn room for integrity in academia.  What the hell was I thinking?

I'll tell you what I was thinking.  I was thinking that since I informally filed my thesis on April 18^th and formally filed it on April 21^st, that I got my thesis in well-before the April 30^th deadline.

Now leave me alone.  I'm thinking about listening my son's advice to take a dump and go to sleep, and if I'm wicked lucky, maybe I won't die in the interim.

BACK TO SCHOOL...

A brief poem to my misery:

April break is over; time to go to school
I hate when break is over because it really isn't cool
I'll go see all the students, pretend I really care
When all I want to do is sit at home and eat eclairs

It's late at night on Sunday and I still have work to do
I didn't even do the work I brought home (just a few)
But 5 a.m. will happen quick, my sleep it will not last
And when the alarm wakes me up I'll have to get dressed fast
If truth be known, I'm unprepared to teach so with some luck
I might get through my Monday back that probably will suck
June, you take it way too slow, I need you here right now
If I survive I might see summer break come anyhow
Until then, friends, just be assured your children will all learn
April break is over, now for summer break I yearn
However there's still one more thing to live through: Math MCAS
I hope to survive testing schedules (pains in my fat ass)
And if I make it through this last few weeks then I can say
That come September, back I'll come, and repeat anyway

Happy Monday, everyone.  (To my NH friends -- enjoy your break.)

LIFE IS HARD

Thesis Presentation Preparation Day - Time to Make the Donuts!  Actually, Time to Plan the Presentation, which can clog up the mental system as readily as fried, shortening-filled, dough ringlets can clog up the physical one.

The day starts out well enough.  The car has enough gas to make the trip from my house to Newburyport, I've already packed my paperwork, and the sun is shining.  I even manage to leave the house on time.  Everything seems to be going well, too.  I'm going the speed limit when I pass the cop with the radar gun, and I manage to squeeze my car between the truck that's going too slowly (I'm now ahead of it) and the truck that's going along just fine (I'm still behind it, only closer).

Life is good until Hair-and-Make-Up Chick. 

Hair-and-Make-Up Chick runs a red light and gets in front of my car in Bradford by the fire station.  She screams out of a side street, tires squealing, hell-bent on getting in front of me.  Just Me.  Nobody else behind nor in front.  Just Me.  And as soon as she is ahead of Just Me, her car goes into slowpoke mode, and she angles the rearview mirror toward herself.

I see her finger-brushing her hair.  Brush brush brush - head swing hair toss - brush brush brush - inspect self in mirror, and then she repeats the whole thing.  After the fourth head swing hair toss thing, she starts inspecting and reapplying her make-up.  I do not honk my horn until she has driven onto the shoulder and nearly off the road for the fifth time.

I also notice that she has a sticker on her Acura that says "NBPT."  Pissah.  I'm going to be stuck behind Hair-and-Make-Up Chick all the way to Newburyport.  She's probably going to the same place I am, and I'll have to beat the crap out of her and toss her off the nearest pier.

Not to worry because another Acura with another bimbo pulls in between our cars and almost causes an accident.  She promptly leans over, way over, as if she is inspecting her center floor mat while driving, her head completely disappearing way below dashboard level.  Her Acura starts careening toward the river, and, for a moment, I think this may be a fitting end or her.  Instead I honk, and her head pops back up.  If there were a man in the car with her, I'd suspect that maybe she should've stayed in bed rather than gotten into the car.  I honestly don't know WTF she is doing.  Maybe she's looking for the hair brush that finger-brushing Hair-and-Make-Up Chick seems to have lost …. Brush brush brush…

Eventually Head-Up-Her-Own-Ass Woman turns, and I am left following Hair-and-Make-Up Chick again.  My phone starts chirping, letting me know I have a text.  I decide to pull over and read the text, giving me a wider berth from Hair-and-Make-Up Chick, perhaps even saving her life.  The text is from one of the two women I am going to meet.  She's running late and will be to the meeting place in about an hour.  Not a problem, I'm still trying to out-run Hair-and-Make-Up Chick to get to "NBPT" myself.

It is mid-morning on Friday, and I arrive at the coffee shop for our meeting right about on time, but there are no parking spaces open.  This could be because the ice has melted and all of the spots normally taken by coffee drinkers are now occupied by their rightful owners -- marina people.  I see my first boat of the season moving through the thawed waterway, making its way out toward open water.  It's the Coast Guard.  Behind it come a few more boats.  The illusion of summer moves across the calm river like an unfulfilled promise.  It was winter here a few short weeks ago, and the lack of ice only presents the possibility that someday maybe it just might possibly get warm enough to go without a down parka over everything.

I see my writer-friend Michaela pull in and park in a space next to the handicapped space.  I quickly edge in next to her on the opposite side, hoping this is indeed a legal parking spot.  We go into the shop together, and she does what she frequently does - takes out her wallet and pays for my tea and banana bread.  (Love her!)  She orders an iced coffee and a scone.  A few minutes later, we are getting down to business and working on our presentation for next week.

Jessica (not my partner-in-crime pal Jessi, but equally pretty and nice) arrives earlier than she anticipated, and we commiserate for a few minutes about the state of our collective theses writing projects.  By the time we get back on track, we have decided that this entire odyssey, this production of pretentious papers, seems less like an exercise in academic integrity and more like an exercise in futility of Lucy and Ethel proportions.  Somehow the candy-packing scene from "I Love Lucy" worms its way into our presentation, and, ridiculously enough, it makes perfect sense.

We decide that coffee and tea will no longer sustain us as it is noontime, so we decide to go to a nearby Mexican restaurant.  It is only a few streets away, but Michaela offers to drive us.  I know, I know, we should walk, but I exercised the day before, and my legs are cramping.  Besides, it's only a dollar or less to park.  I'll pay that to avoid walking like stiff-legged Frankenstein across historic Newburyport where everyone will be thinking, "Oh, look at that those two beautiful women, and how nice that they've taken their homely, crippled friend out for a walk."

It's still a little windy out, so we decide to sit inside.  At the bar.  At a tall table.  Near the wall.  Jessica notices that there is one area on the wall that isn't bricked and looks all smooth and cemented like -- we all say in unison -- "Cask of Amontillado."  Yes, we are English Geeks.  Ten minutes later there are chips, salsa, guacamole, and three drinks on the table:  Jessica and Michaela have raspberry margaritas, and I have a pomegranate margarita.

Life is good. 

We chatter some more, plan some more, eat some more, and drink some more.  Eventually the word thesis becomes nonsensical to me: "Thesis?  What thesis?  What is a thesis?  Who's got a thesis.  Thee.  Sis.  These is.  Theeze iz.  Thsssuhssss…"

Okay, so life may be good, but sometimes tequila is better.

After paying the bill, we spill into the afternoon sun and walk straight over to my favorite store in Newburyport, which turns out to be a regular haunt of Michaela's, as well.  We drag Jessica in with us, look at funky clothes, oooh and aaahhh over the jewelry, and bask in the heady stench of patchouli. 

We decide to get semi-matching earrings for our presentations: each set contains a combination of silver and gold.  I also buy a small ring, Jessica gets more jewelry, and Michaela buys miniature Worry Dolls in pouches for us to hand out to our audience, should we have one for our presentation next week.  We're betting against it, and bet that the audience will be just ourselves and our moderator, but the Worry Dolls, tiny as they are, aren't too expensive.  It's a worthwhile investment.  We also plan to take selfies with our audience … of no one.  It's going to be fun!  And now we all have new earrings.  It's so worth it!

We agree to meet one more time before the presentation, and then we'll just damn the torpedoes and jump into the whole thing with all six of our feet.  Who cares if we crash and burn (which we won't because we are spectacular women and English Geeks Extraordinaire) since we probably won't have an audience, anyway. 

As I drive back toward home, remembering where the cop with the radar gun had been hiding, I start trying to plan my portion of the presentation.  I don't want to suck too badly.  I can't wait to get home and start working on details.  I mean, really, I can't wait to get home and start … I can't wait … I … home … Damnit, why am I sitting at this stupid traffic light behind ten cars when I'm in the middle of west Bumfrick?

There seems to be something wrong with the bridge that separates Groveland from Haverhill.  Our line of traffic is stuck for about twelve minutes just waiting waiting waiting.  I could turn left instead of right over the bridge, but I recall other construction going on and the other bridge has been closed for a while.  If I turn left and away from the traffic, I'll end up too far south.  Nope.  I'm waiting this one out (and making a mental note to find an alternate route for next time).

Traffic finally starts moving, and I am pleased that no hair-finger-brushing, make-up applying, carpet-sniffing Acura drivers are in front of me.  I have spent my entire April break week working on university stuff to get the last two classes finished up so I can graduate in May.  I'm not walking, but I still want the paperwork to go through, paperwork that never would be filed, never would be finished, without the support of my two thesis mates, Jessica and Michaela. 

Here's to us, and here's to our Friday presentation -- complete with Lucy and Ethel working the candy conveyor belt.  Screw the audience if they can't take a joke.  After all, life is like a box of chocolates, right?  Or is it more like what John Wayne says:  "Life is hard.  It's harder if you're stupid."

Either way, we'll get through this, and I suspect there will be margaritas (or something cool and refreshing) waiting for us on the other side.

WHY MY QUADS AND GLUTES HATE ME

I'm signing up for a 5k walk-run.

I used to be in pretty good shape.  I don't think I'm terribly out of shape, either.  I sort of ran a few weeks ago when I had a bronchial infection.  Last summer my daughter and I tried doing some training, and we got up to walk-running about four miles.  We'd have gone further if I didn't have to stop and pee from drinking so much water. 

My friend Sally and I walk six to eight miles every time we're in Boston, and this is no problem because we've already earmarked where every public toilet is in the city.  Every one.  Every single one.

For today, though, I've mapped myself a route; it's the large circular block around my house.  This entire route is exactly .5 miles.  It's a good route, too: 1/10^th mile relatively flat, then 2/10^th mile slow but steady upgrade, another 1/10^th mile of exactly flat surface, followed by 2/10^th mile straight down, the last of which is an extreme upgrade for about fifty yards. 

Normal people would probably walk the upgrades, jog the straight-aways, and possibly jog the downgrade.  I am not a normal person, however.

I decide that I am going to try and jog the whole thing. 

It starts out well enough.  The streets are quiet, and I set my sights on the stop sign at the top of the hill 2/10^th of a mile ahead.  I have to remind myself to slow down.  I tend to get exercise-induced asthma, and though I don't mind the extreme red face so much, the wheezing sounds from my lungs scare the neighbors.  I make it to the stop sign, walk the straight-away, then haul-ass run down the hill.  I turn up the steep incline, stop at my driveway where I have strategically hidden water and tissues to blow my pollen-infested nose, then get back on track.

This second time around the circuit, I only make it halfway up the hill jogging, about 1/10^th mile, and have to walk the other 1/10^th mile up, across the straight zone, then I run run run run run down the hill.  I stop for water and a tissue break, then go out again.  I am determined to run-walk this 5k rather than walk-run it.

My third time around, I walk halfway up the hill then jog the second part of it, jog across the straight area a little bit, and still run my tush down the bigger hill.  I stop for the usual routine: Water, snots, continue.

The fourth time around, the jogging is getting less like jogging and more like walking sort of at a little bit of a faster pace.  I walk walk walk across the straight areas, and I run run run down the hill.

When I come up the steep part toward the driveway.  I see the mailman park his truck on my street.  He opens his truck door but doesn't get out yet as he is still sorting the neighborhood mail.  I don't want to give him a heart attack, so I say hello and wave as I go by.

The fifth time around, I figure I should just walk.  I walk the first straight-away.  I walk up the 2/10^th mile upgrade.  I walk the strait-away at the top, and …. Ohhhhhh, doggie!!!!!! 

I love most dogs.  Okay, I love many dogs.  Some dogs I do not like.  Dogs that look like hamsters?  Nope.  Do not like those.  Not a tiny-dog fru-fru fan.  This one is a Siberian Husky with the most beautiful eyes and a fluffy white and silver and black coat.

"May I say hello to your dog?" I ask the man holding the leash.  I always ask in case the dog isn't friendly or the owner is a lunatic.

"Sure, but I can't guarantee he won't jump up on you."

With these words, the dog jumps up on me and plants a big slobbery kiss on my cheek.  In truth, he probably wants the salt I've sweated out during this debacle.  I wipe the slobber while looking down, way down, way way way down the hill.

Come on.  I can do this.  I can totally do this.

But my legs have turned to Jell-O.  I can't believe it!  All the times I walked from one end of Boston to the other, and I cannot do this?  I can do this, and inside my head some dumb-ass agrees with me, and I run down the hill.

After stopping for water and the by-now complimentary nose-blow, I decide to push that last .5 mile. 

I run and I run and I run right into the mailman. 

"I don't know why I do this," I say through short, raspy breaths.  "I'm too old!"

He smiles.  "No you're not!  Keep it up.  You're doing fine."

I laugh, thank him, start walking.

This time my legs will not let me run.  I have to walk.  I tell myself that I will walk the whole way.  I am "cooling down."  This is a fine plan until I get to the big hill and see a couple of the prep school boys on their way to the train. 

Well, no young preppies are going to go faster than I am simply because they want to make it to the commuter rail.  I run that last bit then crawl to my driveway.  I'm done; I'm spent.  I am not going to make it more than 1.5 miles this time.

All this would be reason to celebrate except …

… Except that I cannot move my legs the following morning.  My calves are upset with me, my thighs are not speaking to me, and my butt cheek muscles have gone on strike.  I am walking like my spine has malfunctioned, a fact not lost on at least one of the two women I am meeting to work on our presentation for next week.  Getting into a chair?  Easy.  Getting back up again?  Not so much.  It hurts terribly to move, and I simply want to stand still for the rest of the day and evening. 

The good part about all of this is that I am now back on the exercise track.  No point going through all that to blow it now.

The even better news is that I do not have to train at all.  I am not going to run-walk the 5k, and I'm probably not going to walk-run it.  I suspect I am just going for the "walk" part of it. 

The best part?  The very last leg of the 5k is downhill, so maybe I can run a little bit to make sure I don't come in dead-last and have a "loser" sign stamped across my sweaty forehead.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to hobble to the couch to sit down and try to figure out if the off-road part of the 5k has port-a-potties.  Otherwise I have to re-plan that part of the training, as well.

ALLITERATIVE ADVENTURES

Today is a day loaded with accidental alliteration.

 

I meet a friend in Lowell for a few hours of mayhem.  We have been friends since old Miss Gregg's English class in third grade at Wilkins Elementary School in Amherst, New Hampshire.  Miss Gregg was a half-crazed poet with impeccable handwriting, and I think she may have been a dwarf.  Cheryl, in addition to being a classmate, also lived up the street from me, and our mothers were our Girl Scout Troop leaders.  Between school, scouts, streets, and one dwarf, Cheryl and I have been friends for a very long time.

We try to get together several times a year.  Though we live less than an hour apart, we are in constant motion between our kids, our careers, and the general circumstances of life in general.  Pathetic excuses, all of them, but when we see each other, sometimes it's like we never left third grade.

Take today for example.

We start out with breakfast, choosing a small, out-of-the-way Greek restaurant called Maria's run by a charming older woman whose name is, no surprise, Maria.  I get stuck in ridiculous amounts of traffic trying to get there, and the twenty minutes I leave for the thirteen minute trip turns out to be ten minutes short. 

Note to self: Avoid the highway at all cost or you'll have to do advanced math in your head.

To make up for the lost time, we engage in triple overtime, sitting and chatting long after the coffee and tea has been emptied and the bill has been paid.  We ask Maria if we may leave one of our cars in her parking lot while we carouse around Lowell, but she promises us they lock it with a chain around noontime.  I move my car to a spot on the street, and then we're off.

After a cross-city odyssey that includes cutting through my old semi-stomping ground of Prince Spaghettiville (honestly a section of Lowell -- Google it; I'm not lying) and travelling under the Spaghettiville Bridge, we roll out by UMass Lowell to inspect the new buildings.  When I went there (one of my four colleges -- hey, don't judge me), I was mainly on the West Campus, a series of old, cold, sad brick buildings that housed the original Lowell Normal School in 1898, where they gave abnormal me a degree in 1999.

We eventually spill onto the Boulevard, making an infamous Massachusetts u-turn across several lanes of traffic so we can enter the parking lot of the Brunswick Zone Bowling Alley.  This is a ten-pin bowling facility, meaning we're throwing the big balls down the alleys.  I'm used to candlepin bowling where you wail what is essentially a pregnant bocce ball down a polished wooden alley at really teeny tiny skinny little white sticks.  Cheryl and I immediately search for 8-pound (the lightest) bowling balls.

I start out with a gutter ball then roll a strike.  It does little good, though, because I already rolled a gutter ball.  I end up with a spare.  I'll take it.  I haven't embarrassed myself too terribly.  One other thing about ten-pin: you only get two rolls down the alley, not three like candelpin.  The other thing about ten-pin: Once you get the hang of it, it's pretty easy to knock over something.  Scores in ten-pin tend to average about 100 per game, well over twenty points differential from my average candlepin scores.

We get the lane for an hour at cheap money, so we bowl two-and-a-half strings.  When we've reached what will become our personal bests, we decide to pack it in.  Cheryl bowls better, but I beat her in gutter balls with seven or eight total on the day, not bad if I consider that I rolled the ball fifty times.

Checking the clock, we discover that it is noontime (somewhere, anyway) and head over to the restaurant/bar next door, JJ Boomers, for a beer.  We're both driving (eventually), so we limit ourselves, but we talk and talk and talk just like we did after breakfast earlier when we stayed and stayed and stayed at Maria's.  Mostly when we bitch, we're bitching about our jobs (we are both teachers in different districts), but luckily we're not mostly bitching. 

To be honest, the day has been completely stuffed with laughter, as always.  It's amazing the shit we find to laugh about, especially after decades and decades and decades of troublemaking we did as neighbors, scout-mates, classmates, and friends. 

Eventually we make our way back through Spaghettiville, back past Lowell Cemetery, back under the "Welcome to Spaghettiville" Bridge, back to my car.  Good thing I moved it to the street because Maria's aged better-half is locking the chain across the now-empty lot as we arrive.  We greeted with real hugs, but we part with air ones, me pantomiming a hug across the car so Cheryl can get back on her way to New Hampshire, and I can roll the dice and get back on the highway toward home.

Somewhere in all of this, though, the epiphany hits us that all day we have been experiencing alliteration: Breakfast, Bridge, Boulevard, Brunswick, Bowling, Boomers, and Beer.

Apparently, we are teachers to the core (not the Common Core but our own cores).  We may be on April break, but we still manage to fit in curriculum work when we notice the alliteration.  Good thing we're both trained profession educators --  Otherwise, we'd just be a couple of old geeks who get together for alliterative misadventures and mayhem a couple of times a year to relive our Glory Days.

Miss Gregg would be proud.  Oh, who am I kidding?  She'd have a damn stroke, just like she did when she had us as students.  It's okay, though.  She was a tiny wisp of a woman. We could totally tag-team it and take her out.

(PS.  Happy anniversary, Cheryl and Alfredo.  Love you guys!)
 

YANKEES SUCK

Michael Pineda is a dumbass.

So very many ways to cheat in professional sports, and he decides to put pine tar on his neck.  What did he think?  Did he think it looked like sweat?  Did he think it wouldn't be noticed? 

Obviously the only answer is that yes, he did indeed believe he would get away with smearing pine tar on his skin.

Not only that, but this is not the first time this fucktard has pulled this crap on the Red Sox.


This makes him worse than a dumbass.  It makes him a douche.  A douche of epic proportions.

Someone in the MLB should probably review tape of every game this idiot has played in against every team, and overturn any wins for the Cheating Yankees. Truly, New York.  You're not helping your image, your credibility, nor baseball in general by letting this jerk get off so easily representing (and disrespecting) your city.

Throw the fucker out of baseball.  I mean, seriously.  At least put that pine tar shit somewhere that it isn't going to be seen so obviously.

Cheating is one thing.  Cheating like a dumb fuck?  That's just insulting.

41 MPH IN A 35 MPH ZONE

I'm driving down Elm Street around 1:30 p.m., heading from 125 toward Andover Center.  The speed limit is 35 mph, and, for some reason that still escapes me, I always seem to drive 41 mph.  Today, though, there's a police cruiser hiding along the road near Merrimack College, so I crawl along at the exact speed, 35 mph.

As soon as I get within eye sight of the Center at the junction with Main Street, a woman comes walking up the sidewalk with a beautiful golden lab on a leash. She is about twenty feet west of the actual crosswalk, which pisses me off.  Seriously, cross at the frigging crosswalk, you lazy bitch. 

Then she does something that not only sets my teeth on edge, it causes me to slam on my brakes:

She walks directly into the street, directly in front of my moving car, without even looking in either direction.

When she hears the screaming of my tires, she looks up, makes a terrified face, then stops like a deer-walking-a-dog in the headlights.  It takes about two seconds for her to deduce that she is about to become my hood ornament, so she assumes the "scared shitless stance" -- her face registers shock, and her hand comes up signalling me to stop.  You know, like she's a traffic cop and not about to become a pavement pelt.

She hurries herself across the street, still holding the leash.  Honestly, the only reason I hit the brake is because her dog is gorgeous and guiltless.  Dogs don't know how to cross the damn street.  Humans, on the other hand, especially adult humans, certainly do.

As she sweeps past my front end, I start making fun of her out my open window with some choice words, the last of which is "dumbass."

Had I been going my usual 41 mph, the stupid bitch would be dead now, and I'd have blood on my hood, a huge dent in the front end, and possibly even a cracked windshield.  Then I would be really pissed, even more pissed than I am.  I'd be uber-pissed.

I am still shaking my head and gearing back up when a huge, confused-looking raccoon comes flying across the street in the other direction.  Honestly, it is the biggest, fattest raccoon I have ever seen.  Loping along the way it is in broad daylight, I can only assume it's rabid. 

I brake again and let this fur-covered jaywalker cross Elm Street, as well, then secretly hope the raccoon turns tail, runs back the other way, and bites the damn bitch who stepped off the curb into my driving lane, almost smooshing a perfectly fine dog in the process.

After all, causing me to leave rubber on the street makes my blood boil.  The least fate that can befall that ignorant woman is rabies.

HEY, YOU -- GET OUTTA MY SPACE

Monday I am meeting my professor at Salem State University.  She is both my current classroom teacher as well as my thesis advisor.  We agree to meet in the SSU library.

I arrive in Salem super-early, so I start exploring Highland Avenue, looking for the animal shelter, but I get distracted by a Dunkin Donuts.  I go in and order a cheddar cheese bagel.  Even after sitting in the car and picking away at the bagel, I still have time to kill.  I figure I'll head over and wait for my advisor, who lives almost spitting distance from the campus.  I, on the other hand, have driven across six towns to get here, so my timing is off.

My text message sounds when I am two stop lights from school.  My advisor is texting me to park at the top of the hill, where the street is empty of cars and rich on spaces.  This is a good idea in theory, except the way is easier coming in from the regular commuter lot. 

I turn down the windy entryway, past all the open street spots, and weave my way down into the bowels of the university.

There are probably five other cars there scattered around the lot.  Nearly every single space is open, so I turn my car around and take a front-row spot that faces out.  I'm good to go!

The library itself is closed because it's a Massachusetts (and Maine) holiday, Patriots' Day, commemorating the Shot Heard Round the World.  The main library building foyer is open, though.  We hold our meeting, chat some, then go our separate ways.

Back to the commuter lot go I, where my little white car is parked all by its lonesome.  As I sit in the driver's seat, gathering myself together and sorting paperwork, a car pulls into the lot.

Now, the entire lot is empty.  The whole thing.  The whole entire fucking parking lot. 

So, where do you think this little asshole parks? 

Right.  Next.  To.  Me.

As if my spot is the best spot in the entire world!  As if I am fly paper for freaks.

I putter around for another minute or two then put my car in gear.  There's a campus cop in the lot by now, so I exit more slowly than usual.  Besides, it's a beautiful day.  Might as well enjoy it, right? 

As I pull away, Weirdo Car swings around and practically pushes me out of my spot, as if the one spot next to me weren't close enough.  As if the entire expanse of pavement with about 100 steps to the library entrance weren't good enough, Weirdo Car wants to cut the step count down to 99.

Either this driver is the King of Creeps, or else he is the Laziest Loser.  Or perhaps I am simply in "HIS" spot. 

Ahhhh yes, the joys of college life.  Two more drives to Salem and it will all finally be over.  After that, the little asshole can have my spot any damn time he wants it.

BUILT LIKE IT'S 1965

Today I go out for a drive with a teacher friend of mine.  We go to check out the new school that is being built in our town, a replacement for a castle-like, once-modern, open-classroom, deteriorating monstrosity.

This is the part where readers say to themselves, "Oh, good.  progress!"  But readers would be wrong.

The new building is nothing like the old building and carries none of the neighborhood's ambiance.  As a matter of fact, the new school doesn't look new at all.  It looks like it predates the school it's replacing. 

It has bricks and wide wooden panels ... all mashed together.  The wooden panels go one way ... and then another way ... and they're red and brown and a few other colors.  Giant blue-hued fake glass covers large open areas, windows that do not open and cannot possibly be anything but open hall space.  The glass in the gym (yup, in the GYM) arcs up to an angle that makes it look like a giant Brady Bunch house.

Yes, the brand new school in our town looks remarkably like 1965.

This is either negative progress or really horrible architecture.  Either way, it looks like shit.  Thanks a lot, tax collectors.  Way to make way for ... progress.

THE (LACROSSE) LEGEND IS TRUE!

No one sits with us at lacrosse games, and this may be one of life's biggest mysteries.

My eldest and I go to a local high school lacrosse game on Saturday night.  We don't really know why we do it as we have no dog in the fight.  One might think that we could behave ourselves for one evening at a game that means absolutely nothing to us.

One might be wrong.

We pretty much wait until the second half of the game.  Pretty much.  Okay, maybe not so much, but we try.  Those who know us will completely acknowledge that we have more than just a passing, rabid interest in lacrosse, so attending a game at the high school where all three of my children competed in sports provides us some excuse for being there.

It doesn't take long to fall into our old bad habits, and we begin berating the referee for some minor infraction.  But it gets worse.  As the idiot's reffing deteriorates, so does our resolve, until ... finally ...

"Hey, which number is your son?"

The security guy in the raincoat looks up.  The coaches look up.  And the team on the field starts cracking up.

(Olmec says the legend is true!)

It's not so much that we're funny.  Oh, we think we are hilarious, so what others think means very little to us and will not prevent us from giggling.  What's so damn funny is that we are so predictable.  So damn predictable.  This realization sends my son to his feet.

"Yes," he yells, "We really do exist!  The legend is true!"

And now you, too, know why no one sits with us at lacrosse games, though I've yet to figure out why.  After all, we paid good money to get in to the game; might as well have a good time while we're here.

BREAK TIME!

April break is on here in Massachusetts.  I have to be honest: I don't know why we have it.

No, truly.

 It's so late.  It can't be in case of a blizzard because it's really late for that.  And it can't be in case of flu because we've already been hit by waves of flu (and I do mean waves).

So, why do we have it?

I'm all for eliminating February and April breaks in exchange for a week in March, which has no holidays or long weekends.

Don't get me wrong.  As a public school teacher, I'm thrilled to have a week to recharge and regroup.

But seriously.  Do I need it? 

I suddenly have The Who's "Magic Bus" running through my mind.  You know which part I mean; the part when Roger Daltrey sings, "I want it ... I waaant it ... I want it I want it I want it...."

Truth is I'd rather have one week in March and get out of school sometime before June 30th for a change.  That's the real change I'd like to see. 

Don't be teasing me with any stinkin' April vacation -- Come back in June when you really mean it!

NEW SHIRT NONO

I am so incredibly excited to be wearing a shirt I bought a while ago but never wore to work.  It looks great with my black pants, I can wear a nice silver necklace, and all is right with the world.

Until I brush my teeth before leaving the house.

Holy crap!  I have boobs.  I know this because I can see my cleavage in the shirt.

I stand up straight and decide I just won't lean over any desks today at school.  Then I realize if I move a certain way, the top moves enough and … whoop, there it is.  Cleavage.

Let me say this right off the bat:  As a medium-chested woman, I'm loving that I still have cleavage at my age.  Decent cleavage.  Cleavage that hasn't started to wrinkle at the in-seam.  TMI?  Tough.  I have boobs, and I'm damn proud at my age that they're not banging against my knees.

I'm running it close to time to leave for work.  I have to decide:  Do I want to spend the day worrying about boob angles with prepubescent students, or do I risk being late and changing my shirt?  My beautiful, new, never-been-worn shirt?

Let's weigh the odds here.  I work for an administration that believes adults in the school can wear mini-dresses and go-go boots but not jeans because jeans indicates you are the Antichrist in Indigo.  People can wear their hair up in beehive bouffants that defy gravity, but god forbid there's a leg hair showing (tough luck for that one-year teacher who had lived in Europe, never shaved anything, and always wore sleeveless dresses to school -- ew).  Spaghetti straps are totally out, but stretch yoga pants that ride the butt crack are perfectly acceptable.  Bra strap showing through the sleeve?  No good.  Entire colored bra visible through sheer top?  That's fine.

But this is me we're talking about.  I could wear a turtleneck to my nose and still get in trouble. 

Cleavage?  Me?  As much as it thrills me to see it and flaunt it, I decide to be late to work.  I change into my usual long-sleeved black shirt with a colorfully patterned nylon shirt over it.  The black pants stay.

Sure, I doubt anyone would see my cleavage, anyway, but I really wanted to break in that shirt.  Maybe I'll pair it with some go-go boots and a beehive bouffant hairdo -- then I'll look like I belong.

S - N - O - W = W - T - H

Tuesday into Wednesday .... Dead tired, can't wait to go to sleep, stay up as late as I can so I might sleep soundly.

Doesn't work.

I awaken a dozen times:  Too hot; too cold; rain smacking against the window; sleet bouncing off the window; thirsty from the head cold I have; sore throat from the head cold I have; nightmare; general agita...

I turn the fan on low to move some air and to drown out the sound of the rain. This works for about two hours until the rain turns into ice cubs pounding against the siding.  So I turn the fan to high.  This is great until it drowns out my radio/alarm and I sleep an extra ten minutes.  Sleeping an extra ten minutes is fine until I realize I miss the weather on NECN (Matt Noyes is never wrong).

Matt Noyes says a very bad four-letter word.  S-N-O-W.

I look outside.

Dmanit.  Damnitall.

It snows somewhere in between rain-sleet-fan-radio.  Not only do I sleep like shit, now I have to contend with snow and ice.  Matt Noyes says we're in the "treacherous driving zone."

I don't even bother to wait and hear what Scott Montminy has to say about traffic.  I don't need anyone else telling me the roads suck.  Besides, I'm thinking ahead: I'm going to be outside at a lacrosse game tonight, and I'm already mentally packing for it -- heavy jacket, blanket, foam bleacher seat, extra socks, stick-on heat pads for the toes, gloves, hat, scarf, etc., etc., etc...

Mother Nature, you really are a bitch.  Spring, when the hell are you going to get here for good?

Seriously.  I think I speak for most of us here in New England when I say, "Enough of this shit, already.  Bring on the sun!"

(Now watch it be 90 tomorrow just to bite my ass.)

TITANIC DISASTER IN MY CLASSROOM

Today is the Great Sinking of the Titanic.

Okay, it was actually yesterday the 15th, historically speaking.  However, today in my classroom it is the Great Sinking of the Titanic. 

It is the day the students drown.  Not all of them.  A few of them get into lifeboats.  The rest, though?  Ka-put.

Don't panic!  Don't report me to the school board or the police!

The kids all make little pictures of themselves or whatever they like; Ninja, giraffe, Lizard Man, high society people, scuba divers, kayakers, canoeists, inflatable suit person...  It doesn't help them, though.  No amount of pre-planning will determine their fate.

It is these little facsimiles that become the players in the game.  Elaborate scenarios have been created, and each student gets to pick one, two, sometimes three times out of the basket to read his or her fate the night the Titanic hit the iceberg.

But these are not just any fates written on paper.  These are creative ones:  Doesn't the band sound great?  You are patiently waiting for their last song when you begin to wonder if the set will ever end.  Ooops, you missed another lifeboat...

This is one way the students get a feel for the random shit-luck of it all without risking anything more than a little paper person who gets attached to a bulletin board with a staple.  And it makes great fodder for their postmortem/rescue stories.

The kids love the game, but for me it's a little more sinister.  It's cathartic in a way.  Just in a way, though.  It never fails.  Every year I have one or two students who manage to get under my skin, and every year those one or two students are always first into the lifeboats.  This is my way of reminding myself with only weeks left to go in the final semester of the school year to chill ... literally ... and remember these are just kiddos, and not bad young kiddos, truth be told.

Now, if I could play this game with some of my bosses, present and former (all of my jobs, not just this one) ... Then I might have something.  Even if nothing comes of it, I'd get to voodoo-staple their asses to my bulletin board, and that alone might be just enough to make me feel better.

Climb aboard, kiddies, the Titanic sinks ... er ... sails today.  Take your boarding pass and find a comfy desk because it's going to be a bumpy few hours in my classroom.

TAKE COVER, LITTLE THESIS!

The flu has finally hit my thesis.

Not me.  Not yet, anyway.  Not directly.

Today I missed an important email through no fault but my own.  Had we not had a faculty meeting, I would've gotten the email in time, but I have to keep my phone off during these things.  I should've checked and been late to the meeting, so I guess that is on me.  My professor for class is sick and has to cancel.  This also means that my final thesis edits are not getting back to me today.  (Honestly, if flu germs are attached, it's all good.)

I feel bad, though.  My poor professor.  If she has the flu strain that's going around, she's going to be down and out for three or four days.  I feel like a wienie complaining about a cold I am semi-battling.  I'm a wimp.

Unfortunately this means my thesis may not make it to the finish line, but I can live with that.  I just hope this isn't karma.  After all, the very first class I took with this teacher, I was the one who got ill suddenly during class.  If my bad karma bit her by mistake, I will feel terribly guilty.

And yet ... I'm not willing to take the flu hit for her.  She can have it.  I don't want it!

Take cover, little thesis!  And whatever you do, don't let any germs get on you and make your way over to me.  School vacation is coming up, and I'd rather spend it being healthy ... for a change.

(Feel better, Professor.  Thesis is replaceable; you are not.)

IF IT WEREN'T FOR BAD LUCK

My daughter bought a new car.  Today she brings it by after she finishes her shift to show it to me.  It's a beautiful, shiny, blue Jeep Compass.  And I want a ride in it.

I convince her to take me to Staples.  She offers to let me drive her new car.

Seriously?

And then I remember the week I've had with cars:  My car broke down in the left passing lane of crowded rush-hour traffic on route 28.  The rental car Hertz put me in had a broken lighter port and no other ports anywhere in it, so I was stranded in th bowels of New Hampshire without cell phone or GPS.  Worse than that, the little car, a Toyota Yaris, is so uncomfortable that by the time I do get home, my back hurts and my knee has locked up.  When I finally got my own car back two days later, the dealer had reprogrammed my settings so that the car no longer beeps to lock, the doors all unlock when I open my door, and the doors do not lock when driving over 35 mph.

Maybe I'd better not drive her brand new, just-registered car.

After we run to Staples, we head over to one of the local schools.  My daughter steps out of the driver's seat, and I come around from the passenger seat.  In a bizarre role reversal, my daughter lets me drive her car around in a safe zone much like I used to let her when she first started driving.

I imagine it looks funny to the people nearby, but I don't care.  I do not want my horrible luck rubbing off on my daughter's car.

Although it's a new week, I can only imagine that the rest of my crappy luck will continue, whether it's with my car or my job or my thesis or whatever it may be this week... head cold, flu, severed artery ... IRS audit ... I'm sure there's something nasty awaiting me.

At least it won't be my daughter's brand new Jeep, though.  I know when my luck is running low.  No sense in pushing it.