HUMID BRIDE OF FRANKENSTEIN

I’ve fucking had it with this weather.  No, really, I’m not playing around.  I’m sick of it.  Sick to fucking death of it.

A friend called from L.A. today to complain that it is an exceptionally hot September out there.  OUT THERE?!?!  What the … Dude!  It’s fucking eighty-three degrees out here and humid.  My clothing sticks to me in places I didn’t know were stick-able.  I can’t wear make-up for fear it will melt off like some Halloween mask. 

And, my hair – Good jesus, don’t even ask about my hair.  If the humidity goes up any higher, even the Bride of Frankenstein will have to concede defeat. 

Thankfully I am smart enough not to take the air conditioners out of the window too soon.  Right now those babies are cranking away, doing everything they can to keep me from sweating my skin right off.

Oh, sure, if this were the height of summer, I might even consider this weather to be coolish, but, dear god, it’s going to be October in less than twenty-four hours.  For the love of all things sane, shut the fucking heat off already.  If I could sit at the beach all damn day, then, by all means crank it up.  The minions I spend all damn day with have yet to unilaterally discover deodorant and, dare I say for many of them, showering and using soap.

I’ve had it.  I mean, I do love summer; don’t get me wrong.  But truly, enough is enough is enough.  Bring on the snow.   I. Have. Had.  ENOUGH.

PADDLING AROUND

My kayak hides under a blanket in the back of my car, waiting for its final paddles of the season. Since I get out of work mid-afternoon, taking a long trip somewhere isn't an option, so I've been concentrating on venues that are close by.

My great plan to kayak the local river ended up shitting the bed completely when the dam broke near the put-in spot, essentially drying up the access point.  Last week would've been great for kayaking except the access road to the pond was shut down.

The weather won't cooperate for much longer.

Today when I leave work, my car tells me the outside temperature is 83.  My instantly sweaty body tells me it's humid out, as well.  The sky is partly cloudy, and some of the cloud cover looks unfriendly, so I sneak out of work the moment the clock strikes time-to-get-the-hell-outta-here o'clock.

When I get to the pond, there are maybe four other cars there, but I see no one.  The drivers of these vehicles are either fishing or walking the trails.  I get set up and put in at the usual spot, paddling for fifteen minutes before I see one lone kayaker.  I am armed only with a crappy, cheapo camera that takes semi-tolerable pictures, but it's better than nothing.

After an hour on the water, I'm ready to pack it in.  I still have to stop at the grocery store before I go home, and my pants are slightly damp around the outer thighs where I splashed water while maneuvering the paddles through various plant life and downed trees along the shoreline. In minutes I have everything ready to go, as easy as it is to set up. 

Hopefully, there will be a few more kayaking days before autumn gets its grip.

SURRENDERING TO EXHAUSTION

Have you ever been so tired that even your tiredness is tired?

This happens twice a week to teachers:  Friday evenings after a long week of being on our feet, and Sunday evening as soon as the sun goes down and we realize another week has us in its stranglehold.

Simple things like eating and doing laundry and emptying the dishwasher become torturous on Fridays and Sundays because once I catch my breath, my eyes close and my head rolls sideways.

I am, quite literally, asleep on my feet.

I’m no Winston Churchill.  Churchill reportedly napped for twenty minute intervals and yet functioned as one of the greatest statesmen of all time.  I have no idea how he managed to ever be photographed without blood-red eyes.  Oh yeah – black and white photography.

Still, photos or no, I’m exhausted.  I need about a week of sleep, or so it feels.  Even my eyelids need a vacation.  It’s not that I mind being back in the grind again; it’s just that I forgot how very much bullshit goes along with it.  And I’ve got to tell you, bullshit is frigging tiring.

Okay, Winston, I surrender.  I’m waving the white flag of defeat.  It’s Sunday evening, and right after I check out that lunar eclipse, I’m going to let my eyeballs eclipse.

NO TOILET PAPER? GOODBYE, SOCKS.

I spend my Saturday working on putting shoes away.

Don't get me wrong.  Since I had foot surgery almost seven years ago, I started to accumulate shoes, which I haven't been able to wear for years ... decades.  Still, I don't believe that I have an unusual amount of shoes.  Including boots and sneakers and sandals, I have maybe forty-five pairs.

Is that too many?  Seems low to me.

I spend hours and hours organizing by category and color.  Honestly, I do not have THAT many shoes.  It just seems that way until I try to find a pair to wear.

The best part about getting my shoes organized is that I now have two bags full of cardboard to recycle.  I'm committed to purging; the recyclers show up early Tuesday morning, so there's no going back.  The worst part about getting my shoes organized is that now they have to stay that way, which means keeping them neat and where they belong.

Looks like it'll take a lot more than just one Saturday to work on putting my shoes away.

PS - The title of this blog entry is from a friend.  It's from a tagged post on Facebook.  Don't ask unless you want to be assigned a new moniker, as well.  :)

ROAD CLOSED AND OTHER DEFINITIONS OF IRONY

The definition of irony is: FUCKING ROAD BLOCK.

I have had a modular kayak in the back of my car for about a week now.  Every day after work I plan on stopping by the pond and paddling around for an hour.  Every day after work I have even more work to do and do not have time to stop.

Finally, after staying up until midnight on Thursday trying to get work done, I decide that on Friday I really will stop and put in at the pond.  I pack up my gear, make sure I'm wearing pants to work that can get wet if necessary, and I bring along flip flops for the ride home after I've soaked my water shoes.

I am so psyched. 

On my way to work, I drive by the backside of the pond like I do pretty much every morning so I can catch the sun rising across the water.  As I turn to the rear access road, I notice a sign on the road that veers left, the road where the parking lot is, the road where the pond's kayak/canoe launch is.

ROAD CLOSED ALL DAY.

Honestly.  I finally clear a block of time from my ridiculous work schedule, and I get hit with a block right back.  I'd like to say it really is ironic, but, truly, this is the kind of shit that makes my world spin. 

Fucking road block; irony at its finest.

Well played, DPW workers, well-played, indeed.

LEAVE THE DESSERT AND RUN

I tried to buy a coffee and a muffin today.  I really did. But, you see, the frozen yogurt place was calling to me.

I should not have listened.

Next to Dunkins near my hairdresser is a frozen yogurt shop that always looks inviting, but I never accept the invitation.  Today I thought I would stick my head in and check it out, maybe get some yogurt.

Mistake.

When I walk in, no one is there but me and the super-creepy guy behind the counter. Fleeing is no longer an option.  I'll look like an idiot. 

I grab the smallest bowl available (luckily they have a kiddie sized cup) and start working my way toward the frozen yogurt, expecting great flavor choices as I am very used to being spoiled by its competitor Orange Leaf.

Wow.  I have a choice of chocolate, vanilla, some fruity stuff, and peanut butter.  That's it.  No wedding cake, no brownie batter, and no pineapple.  Oh, sure, they have cookies and cream, but after seeing the gritty, sand-like consistency of the vanilla, I'm kind of afraid to try anything else.  I cover it all with chocolate and head to the counter.

I am scared of the jimmies.  Maybe creepy man has had his fingers in it or something, so I opt for hot fudge.  Hot ... fudge ... fudge ...

Damnit.  The fucking shit is so cold that I can barely get a globule to come out.

If I were smart, right here and right now I would run and leave the ice cream behind, but I am feeling really stupid right about now.  I pay for my small bowl's worth (a little over $3), slink back out to my car, and eat the semi-edible frozen yogurt while correcting papers until it is time to go to my hair appointment.

Next time, no frozen yogurt.  Next time, no hot fudge.  Next time, coffee and a muffin.  Next time, just leave the dessert and run ... run ... RUN.

MY LIFE AS AN IGLOO

I know.  Truly, I know. 

You people think it's tough living with someone who constantly has hot flashes.  Heat on; heat off.  Windows open; windows shut.  Air conditioners on; air conditioners off.

 I KNOW. 

You think living with crazy sweaty-icy people sucks.

Well, guess what!  Try BEING the person constantly having hot flashes.  People like us have no temperature gauge anymore.


The weather people can tell me all they want what the temperature is outside, but these numbers mean nothing.  To me, it is either 30 degrees in the sun, or it is 110 degrees in the shade, doesn't matter if I'm inside or outside.  My body no longer has a regulator valve.

This terrible condition causes me to open way too many windows on chilly mornings like we've had lately.  When it's not chilly, I close up the house and crank the air conditioning, essentially turning the entire house into a refrigerator, which, for me, is grand.

For my son who still lives at home, it's not so grand.  As a matter of fact, it sucks eggs.

Here is our usual morning conversation --

SON:  It's freezing in here.

ME:  Really?  I'm comfortable. (Lie.  I'm dripping perspiration.)  Do you want me to turn off the fans?

SON:  Can you close some of the windows?

ME:  (grudgingly) I guess.  How many should I close?

SON:  ALL of them.

ME:  I can't.  I'll sweat to death.

SON:  But, I'm freezing!  I've been freezing since August.

ME:  Wait until winter gets here.

SON:  It IS winter.  Every morning I wake up in an igloo.

Kids, middle age bites.  It scratches.  It melts.  But the one thing middle age won't allow is the closing of windows, so surrender.  Surrender or put on more layers.  Those are your choices because from now until menopause passes (if it ever does), my entire life will be an igloo.

HIGHLAND ENCOUNTER

I attend the New Hampshire Highland Games, which is, at its most basic level, a bunch of men walking around in kilts.  Oh, there's much more to it -- food, music, athletic and dance competitions, pipe bands, and lots of incredible vendors.  That's all fine and good, but, ladies, there are men in kilts; lots and lots of men in kilts.

Before I leave for the The Games, I have a brief conversation with a jealous friend that goes like this.

FRIEND:  "I hope you have a great time at the Highland Games."

ME:  "I hope it's WINDY!"

So many people are trying to send texts and pictures and make cell phone calls, that I lose all cell reception within about an hour of my arrival at Loon Mountain.  Unable to meet up with my sister, and leaving my daughter behind, I troll the entire grounds in search of some cell phone bars.  I meander back to the hillside by the athletic field, cross back and forth from food courts to trinket tents, round the parade grounds, and introduce myself to mutual clan members (MacKenzie being the dominant of the many), all the while searching for a glimpse of my family.

Finally, the 87 degree heat and the blaring sun force me inside for a respite.  I sit myself down in the front row to enjoy a small band of fiddlers, drummer, guitarist, and bass violin/banjo (one guy plays both but not simultaneously).  I assume (incorrectly) that their set is almost done when, in fact, I have arrived right after the beginning.

About an hour later, I decide I should probably find my kin.  We enjoy two more hours of music (Albannach and Preydein/Catamount Pipe Band) before my sister and I hit the bathrooms one last time.  No one knows how long the shuttles will take to get back to where we are parked, so better to be safe than pee ourselves.  We rush in (no lines, for the first time today), do our business, and rush back out again without properly checking for oncoming foot traffic.

This is a mistake.

I can hear my sister make a rapid apology as I careen out of the bathroom entrance, but there really isn't time for me to stop and assess what I'm hearing nor is there time for my sister to warn me.  As I step back into the sun-drenched hallway, I walk smack into a very tall, extremely handsome man.

The gentleman grasps my arms, ever-so-slightly lifts me off the ground, then repositions me next to him before gently releasing my arms, making sure I'm steady on my feet again.  We laugh, exchange pleasantries, then continue on our ways; my sister and I head off to meet the rest of our family in the bus lines, and the handsome man continues down the hall to the men's room.

I look at my sister and she at me, and we both gape open-mouthed at each other, near-silently whispering oooohhhh .... my ... gaaaaaaaaaaawd.  

Yup, with all the things that I see, taste, smell, touch, and hear at The Games, this is quite the moment to remember.  Too bad he is wearing jeans and not a kilt -- Truly, the only thing missing is the kilt.  Oh, that and a strong and hardy breeze.

LONG DAYS

Every time I turn around, someone at work is throwing another initiative, another online training, another new responsibility, or an inconvenient requirement at me with no extra time nor support to accomplish it all.  In order to try and balance it all, I email team members after midnight on Saturday and spend fourteen hours on paperwork on Sunday.

I nearly break my spine carrying an overloaded backpack to and from work.  Thank goodness the backpack is an old L. L. Bean one, so it is lifetime-sturdy.  My packed backpack will outlive me, I'm sure.

The clock doesn't have enough hours to cover it all.

Today I have to attend two meetings and miss most of my planning period, sucking up even more of my limited prep time.  I decide that today is yet another day that I will stay late and get more work done here at my desk before lugging the rest of it home with me.

Alas, I am incorrect. I have forgotten about my after-school meeting.  What is the topic of this third meeting of the day? 

Another initiative, another online training, another new responsibility, another inconvenient requirement with no extra time nor support to accomplish it all.

I lug more papers from work to home tonight, nine hours after I originally left carrying a stuffed-full backpack from home to work this morning.  It doesn't matter.  Once I sit down at home, I find it difficult ... impossible ... to function beyond breathing.

This much I know:  I cannot keep this pace of fourteen-plus hours a day. 

FOLDING UP PAPER

It has been one of those weeks.  Well, it has been two of those weeks, actually.  I am surrounded by ineptitude.

So far I have spent hours and hours and hours on school stuff that should've been completed during the school day.  But, no, I have to waste my valuable time playing catch-up and fixing things and rewriting things and taking surveys for people who have no clue what I do all day long.

I get administrative emails instructing me to do important things, who-what-where-when-why type emails, like where to take the kids for a fire drill.  When do these emails arrive to my in box?  Moments before the actual fire drill, while I am on my feet teaching.

"Why didn't you pay attention to the notice I sent?" I am asked. 

Because.

"Because WHY?"

Because I AM TEACHING!"  Damnit.  Isn't that what I'm being paid to do?  I could be wrong.  I've been wrong before; I'll probably be wrong again in my lifetime.

I'll tell you what.  I'll leave some paper and some writing implements near the door.  Write a note to someone who cares, fold it up, and eat the sonofabitch because it will get processed a lot faster that way than if you pile one more thing on my plate right now.

UNCLE FOR FALL

Uncle.

Uncle Uncle Uncle Uncle Uncle Uncle Uncle Uncle Uncle Uncle Uncle Uncle Uncle.

I am officially calling UNCLE on this weather.  I give up.  No, seriously.

If you've ever had a hot flash (or keep getting them, oh JOY) in the dead of summer, then you know what I'm talking about.  Those motherfuckers (hot flashes, not the women who endure them) suck in the dead of winter; how they feel in the summer is like having a raging fever.  All the time.  For no reason.  Sweat pours down your back and oozes out of every inch of skin, including but not limited to your upper facial lip and your butt crack.  You go from zero to boil in about five minutes, and from boil to BROIL in the span of about a millisecond.

I'm ready.

Sure, sure, sure; throw this back in my face once the snowflakes are flying.  Right now, though, I wish every night to be able to sleep without the air conditioner running, and wonder every day how many outfit changes  I can survive before doing laundry since everything I own is soaked with sweat.

Uncle Uncle Uncle Uncle Uncle Uncle Uncle Uncle Uncle Uncle Uncle Uncle Uncle.

Come on, Fall; I'm so damn ready.

JOKE BABAR

Joy Behar – an overstuffed, loud-mouthed ignoramus make-believe television star – recently insulted nurses everywhere.  How did she do this?  She did this by saying that nurses are pretending to be doctors because they wear stethoscopes.

Now, no one will be able to convince me that Behar has never seen a nurse.  I mean, honestly, she must’ve had plastic surgery at some point being as vain and incessantly conceited as she is.  Who did she think was taking care of her?  Doctors? 

Fat-headed bitch.

Oh, sure, the fascists amongst us will bicker, “Haven’t you ever made a mistake, said something you wished you hadn’t?”

Sure, I have.  Probably ten times a day, every damn day of my life.

But, here’s the rub:

Stupid moron Behar responded to critics with: “I’m sorry … THAT YOU’RE OFFENDED.”

Say, what?

Not “I’m sorry for what I said because I’m so damn dumb that I almost cannot tolerate myself.”

Not “Let me volunteer in a hospital and see what it’s really like.”

Not “Let me donate some of my salary to a nursing school instead of buying myself another éclair.”

No, Behar is not remotely sorry for the absolutely fucking bullshit thing she said.  She’s simply SORRY that intelligent people everywhere, and that nurses everywhere, are OFFENDED.  Tough shit if you’re smarter and have more class than Behar; you can suck it.  You can kiss her royal chunky ass.

This is just one shining example of the low-life, brain-dead people who are admired and revered.  And, if you think Behar is an anomaly, you’re sadly mistaken.  Just look at the music industry, the film industry, Twitter.  Hell, look at Congress and our executive branch.

Morons.  Fucking morons everywhere.

You want to know something, Joy baby?  I’m not sorry you’re so deeply and completely STUPID, and I’m not the slightest bit sorry if you are OFFENDED by the wave of criticism headed your way like a tsunami.  I know you won’t be offended, though, because you’re too shallow to even understand what that might entail.

I hope your television show gets cancelled immediately, Joke Babar (or whatever your real name is).  It will be one step closer to redeeming my faith in humanity that we might very possibly have more intelligent people in this country than we do boobs on the boob-tube.

PAINT NIGHT

I am convinced that my daughter is trying to kill me.

First, she drags me to kickboxing so we can pay people to beat the crap out of us (which is mysteriously and somewhat sickly FUN).  The, she convinces me to go to a Paint Night fundraiser so I can embarrass myself.

Okay, it's not entirely my fault.  The instructor is painting really, really fast.  White here, yellow here, black here, moosh it all together, wet the brush, don't wet the brush...  I need the directions given to me several ways, and I need to closely watch what people are doing.  So, maybe it IS entirely my fault.

I tried to paint the way the teacher instructed us to paint, but I've never painted anything more than watercolor kids' painting booklets.  I also don't understand what it means to put one color on one side of the brush tip and another color on the other, and somehow make them meld together fluidly.

Basically, my stuff looks like shit most of the evening.  My daughter walks away with her second (third?) decent painting.

In the end, I think I am able to salvage something.  I don't know, though.  I'll leave that judgment up to you.

KICKBOXING 102

Ow.  My ass muscles hurt.

My daughter convinces me to again try the kickboxing class near her house.  Tonight the cardio is mainly line drills led by the jiu-jitsu sensei, and it's tough stuff.  I keep expecting my old judo coach to materialize and start yelling at me, maybe even kicking my ass (literally -- he would kick us in the ass sometimes if we were screwing up).  I wimp out of a couple of drills, as does my daughter -- we're still the newbies, and this is only Day #2.  We're not the only ones sucking wind, either.

By the time we get to punch things, we're pumped.  My daughter's punches are getting more solid, stronger, with more force behind them.  Everyone is incredibly kind to us and very patient.  It's hard not to come back because, even though we're getting our butts royally kicked, everyone is so incredibly nice. Seriously nice. So nice that even after we've been beaten to nearly senseless limits, we still can't wait to come back.


It might take us a while to get there.  You see, my daughter's legs hurt, my shoulders and neck are a little tender, and both of us desperately need showers lest someone sniffs us and thinks we just wandered out from three weeks in the forest rolling around in animal feces. 

But, I'm not going to lie.  It's a thirty-

minute drive from the tatami to my driveway.  When I arrive and try to get out of the car, my legs are tight and my feet are begging to know what torture lies ahead should this continue.  Worst of all, my ass muscles hurt.

And to think that we pay money to have someone kick our asses.

KICKBOXING 101

My daughter emails me at work (I have no cell service, so no one can text or call me) to find out what I am doing tonight.  She has decided that kickboxing might be fun.

Not cardio-kickboxing.  Super-cardio Kickboxing.  Taught by martial arts instructors, not aerobics instructors, still with bags (not each other).

She has gone so far as to email a place near her house, which is about a half hour from my house on a good day, and an hour away with commuter traffic. 

Oh, boy.

I decide to go.  I mean, I’ve done cardio-kickboxing, and I did years of judo (I sucked, but I did it), and lately I have been walking/jogging and also kayaking.  I’m in reasonably good shape.  Plus, I have full boxing gloves for her (plus wraps), and I have fingerless gloves for me.  We’re good to go.

We show up to the place, and the girl behind the counter tries to talk me into jiu-jitsu.  Hmmm. Maybe.  But let me get through this class, first.  As soon as we are situated, the other people in the class show us two things:

The puke bucket and the bathroom.  Better to rush to the bathroom than puke in the bucket in front of everyone, they assure us.

Oh, crap.  What have we done?  Should we bail?  What the hell.

The first half hour is super-cardio, like boot camp.  This would be almost, fine except that it’s all barefoot.  I’ve always wished kickboxing were barefoot … until I had extensive foot surgery and developed an extremely painful neuroma.  My daughter fights fatigue and I fight pain as we attempt to keep up with the class and not look like boobs.

As the bags are rolled out, we realize we have made it through the trial by fire and not puked in the barrel (or anywhere else).   The gloves go on.  My daughter, who has never learned any of the punches nor hit anything more than her brothers, takes to it slowly at first then with more gusto.  For me, the punching comes back quickly.  A classmate teaches my daughter about turning her knee out with one leg to kick with the other.  For me, this all comes back naturally.

We decide to skip two nights in a row, which is good.  I’m not as sore as I expect to be, but I have a lot of stuff to get done at work and could use a few extra hours in my classroom after school.  But tomorrow … that’s another story.  If my daughter is up to another beating, I’m in.  I’m so in.

Besides, after the week I’ve had at work, punching the shit out of an inanimate object might be infinitely better than the alternative.