MAKE IT WORK (ON MULTIPLE CHANNELS)

There used to be a time when television meant ABC, NBC, and CBS.  If you were really desperate, you could sit through PBS (pre-Sesame Street, of course).  If you had tin foil and a roof antenna, you could pick up some UHF stations, which in our area meant channels 25, 38, and 56.  In addition to such network shows as The Monkees, Mod Squad, Marcus Welby,, Wide World of Sports, and Medical Center, we could supplement our bored viewing with the extra UHF stations' fare of Creature Double Feature, Willie Whistle, local Boston sports (Bruins and Red Sox), and a continuous feed of Star Trek.

If you didn't care for the offerings,or, even worse, if you missed an episode of your favorite show, you were shit out of luck.

When cable came along (at $8 a month ... let that sink in for a moment ... $8 per MONTH), television became a place to watch semi-current movies.  Unfortunately, that often meant repeat after repeat after repeat of Willie Nelson's Honeysuckle Rose.  If I never again hear Amy Irving talking about how she is "haired over," I might be able to eventually recover from the trauma of awkwardness associated with that one fateful line.

As cable television companies became richer at our expense, TV choices became richer for us at their expense.  Starting with MTV's reality series, cable stations started to create their own programming.  It took a few decades, but the television fare suddenly became competitive.

Yes, kids, there really was a time when we really could say, "There's nothing on television."  But now with hundreds of channels, dozens of which produce their own programming,  there's always something on we can watch.

It's amazing to me that I can watch anything from the Hallmark channel (tame fare) to Starz original programming (often borderline pornographic) to Cartoon Network to Home and Garden TV.  Sports exist twenty-four hours a day in Cable Land, and one can almost always find a re-run of Law and Order.  I am totally psyched about the fact that I can watch Income Property, Say Yes to the Dress, Wicked Tuna, and round-the-clock weather updates all day and all night long. 

It truly is an amazing time to be a television watcher.

Even better, the progression of special effects and the ability to create computer-generated characters could very well mean the end of Hollywood all together, which, to be honest, would not break my heart.  Imagine how much more California real estate will be available when Kim Kardashian's ass is no longer taking up acres of space, or when the Jolie-Pitt family stops having babies because no one is paying them tens of millions of dollars to pretend they can act, or when Michael Moore can no longer set up shop inside the Hollywood McDonald's because he's just another obese charlatan on his way to a heart attack.

People today don't know how lucky they have it.  Cable may be expensive (it's hardly $8 anymore), but spending hours and hours with our televisions is no longer taboo.  Being stingy New Englanders, it's all about getting our money's worth, even if it means watching and re-watching episodes of Project Runway.  After all, if Tim Gunn can "Make it work," we should be able to do the same, and now we have choices to do so.

KNIFING THE TONIC

All I want is a drink. 

It has been a seriously crappy week at work pulling double duty two days/nights plus a third afternoon with conferences, the higher admin is collectively acting like spoiled brat idiots, the new term starts so I have to post grades and hope no one bitches too much, I almost get killed on the highway to the airport (and get semi-lost on the way out), my cell phone is possessed, and I have to pay bills or risk going to debtors' prison.

All I want is a gin and tonic tall.  You know what that means?  It means one shot of gin to a tall glass of tonic water -- basically, a slightly salty soda with a large twist of lime.

I usually buy the cheapo tonic water at 2 for $1, but I think, "Wow, the tall bottles go flat so fast, so I should buy the small six-pack of tonic waters!"  What I forget is that the small bottles are a bitch to open.  I think I'm saving money and being smart about not wasting excess flat tonic water, but, honestly, the hassle isn't worth it.  Now, instead of a glass, a lime, some tonic water, and some gin, I need a lot more equipment to make a drink.

Yup.  I need leather gloves, a rubber jar opener, a serrated-edged steak knife, and some Tylenol.

For some ridiculous reason, the plastic tops on these small bottles of tonic water are made without proper perforations.  Instead of having a twist-away top with a small plastic neck ring left behind, the entire top is one melted-together piece of plastic that is un-openable, fused-shut, and  locked tighter than Fort Knox's vault.  In other words, the workmanship of making these bottle caps sucks ass.

In order to make a drink, I have to cut away at the glass bottle holding the tonic water hostage.  I take the serrated knife and saw back and forth, around and around, over and over again until I can hear metal scraping glass all around.  Then, I put on the leather gloves and attempt to get a grip for twisting off the cap.  Sometimes this works, but usually I need to saw a little more then use the rubber-matted jar opener to finish the job. 

Finally, after blowing out veins in my forehead and popping blood vessels in my eyes from straining so hard, the fucking miniature tonic water bottle opens.  This is where the Tylenol comes in -- to prevent a migraine from bursting part of my brain trying to twist off a cap.  Fuck my life, because I have to now repeat this process five more times to open the entire six-pack of Schwepps or Canada Dry.  (I avoid Polar because, even though it's made locally, it has bad chemicals in it ... worse than the others ... from what I've read, but what the hell do I really know.  I use leather gloves to mix drinks, for chrissakes.)

Don't panic, though.  I slice my limes with a completely different knife, not the one infused with plastic shards.  I mean, seriously.  I want a clean drink, after all; I'm not a complete heathen.

GO NORTH, LOGAN TRAVELER

I'm not stupid.  Okay, maybe I am.

I have to drive to the airport this morning.  I'm dropping off son #2 to go visit son #1, and I need to dump him by 6:00 a.m. at the curb of Terminal C at Boston's Logan Airport.  Otherwise he may be late to check in for his flight, and I will be late to work.

The drive in to the city isn't completely without its trauma.  Traffic starts to back up around route 128, a major tech thoroughfare.  If this isn't frustrating enough, we come to a sudden and extremely dangerous stop around Somerville while tooling along I-93, which isn't so bad except the driver behind us is paying zero attention and ends up sideways in the breakdown lane to avoid plowing into the back of my car.  (FYI - Had he hit me, I'd have crawled from the wreckage to kill him for making my son miss his flight.)

After dumping my boy unceremoniously in the "don't stop here" zone of the airport, I head toward the exit.  Now, I really do know how to get out of the airport.  I made this trip twice already this summer without incident.  For some stupid reason this morning, I get in the wrong lane, go through the wrong tunnel, and start heading south instead of north toward work.

No problem.  I have GPS.  I figure I'll just turn around somewhere or get off at the nearest exit.  Really.  I mean, Government Center at 5:57 a.m. -- how bad can it be?  I'm still in Boston, and I'm not stuck in commuter traffic coming north into the city.  Seriously.  That part of the expressway backs up even on a slow Sunday in summer.

My GPS, set to Scottish comedian Billy Connolly, leads me through the mostly-deserted streets of the business district.  Take a left.  Stay right.  At the end of the road, take a left...

Suddenly, I see it.  I'm facing Jerry Remy's restaurant. I've never been here, but this place is a tourist trap extraordinaire, and I've walked by it hundreds of times. 

Am I in Seaport?  I think I'm in Seaport.  Wait.  I don't know if I recognize all the construction.  New fences, new girders, new real estate.  Hold it ... wait for it ... I recognize that condo building.  And there's the World Trade Center.  Hey, Whiskey Priest and Atlantic Beer Garden!

Hot damn!  I know where I am, and, even better, I know how to get to 93 north.  I've even made this drive with a few drinks in me after the Harpoon Brewery Oktoberfest.  I should be able to pull this off sober in the ebbing darkness of early winter morning.

I arrive at work at 6:27.  I know the fob for the door won't work until 6:30, so I listen to the radio until 6:34 then walk over to the middle school teacher entrance.

Locked.  LOCKED.  Damnit.  Even work doesn't want me to take the direct route.

I trudge all the way over to the high school entrance, reasonably certain that it will be open since it's largely an unsecured, unlocked, "come in, anybody and everybody, as our staff and students are sitting ducks" kind of door and walk in without a single hesitation. 

A near miss, a trip to the airport, a brief tour of the tunnel through Southie, a lovely jaunt through the outskirts of Government Center, a sightseeing tour of the Seaport district, over the bridge, a lock-out from my employers, and still I manage to be to work on time and ready to start the day.  It seems like way more work than it needs to be, but, hey, I'm not stupid. 

Oh, all right -- I go south instead of north.  Go ahead and laugh.  Maybe I'm a little bit stupid, but it all works out in the end.

IMPOSSIBLE CHOCOLATE TASK

I don't know who keeps putting candy in the bowl in our lunchroom at work, but she had better cut that out.  I'm getting fat.

The other day she loaded the bowl with a mix of candy, among which were small Reese's Peanut Butter Cups -- five of them in the bowl with other assorted candy.

I took all five.  I got dirty looks from my coworkers, but I didn't care.

Yesterday, the bowl mysteriously refilled.  Remembering my teammates' judging eyes, I only took one.  Just one.

Today (through Friday) is a half day.  We have conferences later; two evenings' worth and one afternoon filled with them.  There will be no lunch today because of our altered schedule and because we must return around suppertime for evening conferences.

But, I simply MUST make copies.

Why, you ask?  Because the copier is in the lunchroom where the bowl is, and, like Aladdin's magic lamp, something magical resides there.

In the bowl are more Reese's Peanut Butter Cups.

I hear someone coming down the hall, so I quickly eat one (yes, chocolate candy at 7 a.m.  Sue me.).  I rapidly move away from the bowl, then I casually sidle. over to it, pretending I've never seen that bowl before.  Ever so craftily, I act totally surprised when my coworker enters the lunchroom to borrow one of the iPad carts because this room, in addition to being a lunchroom and a copy room, is also tech workroom.

"Oh, look!" I exclaim with wide eyes, "More peanut butter cups!"

 I have no self-restraint, and I say this as if having no self-restraint against Reese's Peanut Butter Cups is a horrible thing.  Then again, I dare any one of you to walk past an entire bowl loaded with peanut butter cups.

It's an impossible chocolate task.

MAKING AN ASS OUT OF MY ASS

I arrive at work early every morning.  I do this for two reasons -- One is to get set up for the day; the other is to avoid traffic.  Most mornings I am the first teacher there.  Sometimes I am second and occasionally third, but rarely am I fourth or later. 

The other teachers who arrive early are all coincidentally named Catherine/Katherine:  Cathy, Cathy, and Kathryn.  I sometimes joke that I need to change my name.  Once in a while if I see any of them pulling in to the lot, I'll wait for Cathy or Cathy or Kathryn.  Lately it has been too cold in the mornings to hang around, but today it's relatively warm at 21 degrees, and I see Cathy's SUV pulling in.

At least, I think it's Cathy -- New Hampshire Cathy.  But, the SUV looks slightly reddish.  Oh, it must by Cathy -- Local Cathy.  It's not Kathryn, of that I'm sure, because she drives a sedan.

Certain it's Cathy or Cathy, I stand in the access road, begging to be hit.  As the SUV gets closer, I cannot tell which Cathy's vehicle it is, but it has to be one of them.  No one else is this early who parks down in our teacher lot.  So, as I stand there, I stick my ass out and point. 

"Hit me," I dare the driver.  "Hit me and put me out of my misery."

It isn't until the SUV is practically on top of me that I realize it's NOT New Hampshire Cathy.  It's not Local Cathy.  It's not even Kathryn.  As a matter of fact, the driver zooms past me, through our lot, and backtracks to the high school lot.

I realize, to my horror and embarrassment that it is either a teacher I do not know, a student, or, worse, a parent.  I have just butt-battled a nameless SUV operator.

By the time I let myself into the building, I am laughing so hard I am choking.  I'd pay money to see that driver's face and pay even more money to hear the expletives coming out of his/her mouth  trying to maneuver around me and my giant ass.

Ah, well.  At least I keep myself entertained.  After all, it's going to be a long, contentious day.  Might as well start it off with a damn good chuckle at my own expense.

HALL DUTY AND MY LIVER

Hall duty! 

Yes, that one hour a week when my teammate and I must sit at a table in the space between two giant plate-glass windows directly in front of the semi-secure main entrance.  Given all the recent school violence and our flairs for the dramatic, we dub hall duty "Waiting to Be Shot."  After all, she and I are realists.

We have spotted other teachers taking their turns at hall duty.  Instead of sitting directly in the sight-line of the parking lot and the woods beyond, teachers are setting up in the more secure open work space between the science labs, about one hundred yards away from the glassed-in entryway.

During lunch, the grade-level teachers briefly discuss the hall duty dilemma.  Slowly it dawns on my teammate and me that we are the only two teachers still doing our hall duty in the see-through vestibule.  "It's cold," "It's drafty," "it's creepy."  (Just an assortment of unscripted lunchtime commentary.)  Maybe we realists should talk it out for clarity.


TEAMMATE:  What I don't like about hall duty is when parents show up and expect us to let them in to the building.

ME:  What I don't like about hall duty is that the people in the office can watch us like we're fish in a bowl.

TEAMMATE:  What I don't like about hall duty is that it's freezing cold in the front entryway and our tea gets cold too fast. 

ME:  What I don't like about hall duty is that we're near the nurse's office so all the sick kids stroll by and breathe on us.

TEAMMATE:  What I don't like about hall duty is that I always forget something important in my room and can't go get it.

ME:  What I don't like about hall duty is that I'm directly in the firing line of anyone and everyone doing target practice.

TEAMMATE:  Yes, we both worry about an intruder invasion.

ME:  Damn straight!  If I get shot and my entrails end up all over the windows, everyone will see what's left of my liver. 

We both return happily to our lunches, suddenly realizing that everyone else has stopped eating theirs.  Uh-oh.  Too much?  A woman across the table from us starts to giggle.  A couple of others are frozen mid-bite with arched eyebrows.  A few roll their eyes.

Ooops.  My visual has ruined lunch again, apparently.  Oh, well.  Hopefully no one's having liver for dinner.  Personally, I believe the privacy surrounding the state of my liver a valid concern, but, then again, I am a realist.

UNEXPECTED OCEAN

I'm on my way to my sister's house, where she has lived for decades.  I know she lives sort of near the ocean because I walked past the beach two years ago during a 5k.  For many, many years I have passed Sea Street.  Where does it go?  How far is the beach?

Inquiring minds want to know.

I pass Sea Street, look at the clock, decide I'm plenty early enough, and make a pact with myself:  I'll drive down Sea Road for no more than four or five miles.  If there's no water anywhere, then I'll turn around.

A little over three miles in, my GPS is showing blue.  Could it be? 

Suddenly the road ends, the scenic vistas opens up, and I am at the shoreline.  It's a gray day, the kind a photographer loves more than a beach bum.  It also could be the fact that it's about 17 degrees outside as to why it's pretty much deserted out here.

There's a major storm hitting south of here, but the sky for miles shows natures wrath.  I snap some pictures and open the windows so I can hear the surf.  I close the windows relatively quickly in case seagulls fly into my car and reenact a scene from Hitchcock's The Birds.

I don't know why I've never ventured this way before, but I'm glad that I did.  It may be a monochromatic kind of beach day, but a beach day beats any other kind of day no matter what the weather.  (I know some of you are nodding in agreement and some of you think we're whacked in our heads.)

 By the way, my sister lives about 3.7 miles from the ocean.  I hope she knows how lucky she truly is ... about the ocean; not about having me for a sister.  Okay, maybe about both.

BATTLING THE DEODORANT SPRAY CAN

Am I the only one who cannot open things?

I once broke a toe trying to open a bottle of wine.  The cork would not yield, so I finally gave up and decided to make a gin and tonic.  While twisting the ice tray to release the cubes, one of the cubes flew into the air and landed on my small toe, breaking it and cutting it open.

I always have to ask people to open things: jars, boxes, plastic-encased items.  It's downright pathetic.  So, imagine, if you will, my mortification when I cannot open the deodorant.

It's all about the stupid plastic top.  And, to be truthful, this isn't the first time I've had trouble getting the top off the spray deodorant.  The problem is that I need to be out of the house like ten minutes ago, and I need deodorant.

What to do, what to do?  I'm desperate here.  I have to get to work, and I cannot be smelly all day.

The closest thing at hand is my hairbrush.  Pulling the brush into a high arc, I smash at the plastic cover.  Over and over again I attack the deodorant until shards of blue plastic litter the sink.  The cover finally falls off, gaping open like it has been through a shark attack.

Finally, my armpits and I can go to school.

Am I really the only one who cannot open this shit?  Wait; don't tell me.  If my life is so pathetic that it takes violence to keep me from smelling (and I'm the only one this happens to), then I'd prefer to keep that shame to myself.  But, at least I'll smell great while doing so.

PUTTING SOME ICE ON IT

My sister suggests that we go ice skating near her house in Maine. 

This is an epic idea since we spent much of our childhood winters on the ice.  Eventually, as an adult, I turned in my figure skates for hockey skates, never mastering anything more challenging than some casual pond hockey but still spending inordinate amounts of time on frozen New England surfaces.

I still have figure skates and hockey skates, so that simple part of the equation is not an issue.  I even have my hockey stick. 

The problem is that I haven't been on ice skates in probably eighteen years. 

After a few nasty and inventive injuries and years of cheap footwear, my feet (one in particular) decided to rebel.  It became too painful to wear most shoes.  Skates?  Forget about it.  The pain was not worth the pleasure.  I packed away my skates and eventually succumbed to some major foot surgery.  Within a year of the reconstruction of my driving foot, I could wear sneakers without pain, branching out oh-so gingerly to heels and boots and things I used to love wearing, though most of my pre-surgery shoes ended up in the donation box because of the new shape of my foot.

And yet I was and still am nervous about putting the skates back on.  What if they don't fit?  What if my ankles give out?  What if -- after learning to skate before my basic recall skills had cemented themselves all those decades ago -- what if I have forgotten how to ice skate?

So, I do what any normal, apartment-dweller would do; I create a miniature ice rink on my patio.  I start when it's so cold and windy out that I have to bundle up and put on hiking boots to go outside.  There's some snow on the ground, so I create a sort of crater.  The patio slopes downward a bit, and I don't bother with a plastic tarp base (even though I have several large sheets of the stuff in the basement).  I load the already semi-icy cement with bucket after bucket of water.

Three times a day I make fresh ice on the patio.  I do this four days in a row.  Eventually I get so efficient at making ice that I have several giant pitchers filling at a time in the sink, throwing two to three pitchers' worth of water out the front door and the same amount out the back door, watching the water meet in the middle and begin to freeze over.  I'm so good at this routine that I stop putting shoes and jacket on and just stand on the steps in socks.  In the early morning when I throw water down, I am still in my pajamas, that's how casually I take this venture.  I have it down to a science of three minutes per fresh ice coat.

Finally, on Friday enough ice exists for me to try going back and forth in my skates on a space about four by ten feet (if even).  This ice is not here for any real skating to happen; this ice is for me to try out my skates after nearly two decades to see if my feet and, more importantly, if my ankles will hold up. 

Seriously.  I would rather look like an ass hanging on to my own fence before I attempt to skate on a rink in public and in front of my sister.

I am pleased to report that my ancient skates still fit, my feet do not hurt, and my ankles do not wobble.  I am also pleased to report that I can let my patio ice melt away now.  It's not enough to actually skate on, anyway, but it certainly has been enough to prevent my mid-life skating embarrassment.

The only thing left is to actually drive to Maine (waiting out any possible nasty weekend weather from the storm in case it turns at the last minute) and get my lazy self onto the rink.  It's okay if I fall -- I have medical insurance -- but I'd prefer not to mess up my feet again.  First of all, it's nice to wear shoes (thank you, DSW) again, but mostly I'll have to drive myself home, which is infinitely more difficult if I mess up my right foot again. 

I'll keep the blog posted.

RANSOM NOTE PROSE/POETRY

Eight times a term (or so) we have a special class where we get the kids into some hands-on fun stuff that we normally wouldn't be able to do in class time.  Random rosters are handed out to teachers, and my two English pals and I rotate our groups throughout the eight-class session. So far, I've moved about eighty kids through my activity, including the group I have now.

My kiddos are working on Ransom Note Prose/Poetry.  It involves newspapers and magazines along with scissors, glue, rulers, colored pencils, Sharpie markers, and construction paper.  Oh, and stickers.  Lots and lots of stickers.  The object is to cut out phrases, words, or letters, then arrange these random cut-outs into syntactically and grammatically coherent final products that we can decorate to our hearts' content.

The results have been spectacular and run the gamut of short verse to long prose to clever turns of phrases to some really interesting contemporary art.

I'm not much of a color-er, so when I see people with those coloring books for grown-ups (the complicated mandalas, the flower art, the elaborate landscapes), I start twitching and get the heebie-jeebies.  But, I have no problem sitting down and writing for hours and hours and hours, so every time I get a new crop of students, I start a new Ransom Note project of my own.  It's like freewriting with someone else's brain: until I start putting the phrases and words together into some kind of order, I truly never know what will come to fruition.

The best part is I've finally found a use for all of those magazines and newspapers I read.  I simply pull out anything that might be offensive or too mature (menstrual pad advertisements, articles about breasts, and anything that might deal with alcohol, tobacco, impotence, or illegal activity) -- Yes, I censor the material to a point, but, so far anyway, it hasn't stunted anyone's creativity.

I'll keep you posted on the progress once the more political articles come out closer to the primary.  Now, THAT might prove censor-worthy.

JONAS THE WIMPY ONE

Oh, for crimeney's sake.  Cut it out.  Just cut that shit out right now.  Seriously.

I comment about the weather a lot, but, to be fair, New England has to be the American capital of screwed up weather.  It's practically a requirement during the spring and the fall to run the heat in the morning and the air conditioner in the afternoon, and, if one does not do this regularly, one may very well lose his or her native New England status.

Or, so I thought.

The major storm that may or may not hit us on the weekend is currently creeping over the southeast, getting ready to take a huge winter dump on places like the Carolinas, the Virginias, and DC.  This is not really startling news since these storms do happen every so often during the season.  What is kind of weird is the new trend about naming these storms.

All of a sudden, it's not a storm anymore.  What used to be a good old-fashioned Nor'easter now has some wimpy-ass name: Jonas.  Look, I am deeply sorry (on many, many levels) if your first name is Jonas, but a snowstorm needs a much better name, a manlier name, a name with some teeth in it: Brutus, Iago, Cutter, Vinny... 

Jonas?  Who the freak is afraid of Jonas?  Jonas means "gift from God."  Seriously?  This storm is just one of Mother Nature's bitch-slaps.  Call it Cruella or Bitchina or Gonadia or something interesting.  Jonas (insert exasperated sigh of disgust).  For a major winter storm.  I can hear the people now: "Let's go get skim milk and scones and poppy-seed bread and brie!  Jonas is coming over tonight!"  

I do not know who started naming these winter storms, but stop.  Just stop.  If you work at the National Weather Service, quit now.  You're too big a wussy to challenge Mother Nature.  Go home.  Shutter your windows.  Put on your baby pants.  Cry in the corner.  Get a job cleaning up dog poop because that's all the stress you can handle.

Bring it on, baby.  Bring on winter.  It's long, long overdue.  A dusting of snow and some bitter cold winds is NOT winter, and wasting it all on ill-prepared south Atlantic areas is not remotely funny.  I have a new shovel, new scrapers, and new snowshoes.  Get with the program already. 

Damn Jonas.  With a limp name like that, it's small wonder he's afraid of New England.  Good luck, my Mid-Atlantic friends.  If you really love your New England friends, you'll tell Jonas to pack up his white shit and move north.

WELL, I THINK IT'S FUNNY

Sometimes my twisted sense of humor bites me in the fat ass.  Who am I kidding?  Sometimes?  More like always.

Take for example the time I embarrassed my sister at the mall.  We had all of our kids with us, and we were at the toy store letting the minions loose amongst the treasures.  In front of the store at the mall entryway was a huge display of mini-replica robots from Lost In Space.  The robot toys were motion-sensored and would yell out "Danger, Will Robinson, danger, danger!" whenever anyone walked by.  I waited until my sister and the kids were happily sidetracked, then I stood completely still in front of the display until all of the robots stropped chattering.  As soon as my sister came to look for me, I frantically waved my arms and legs as far and wide as I could, setting off all two hundred or so Lost in Space toy robots, echoing a chorus of "Danger, danger, Will, Will, Will Robinson, Robinson, Robinson, danger danger danger danger danger..."  Anyway, I thought it was hysterical; my immediate and extended family, though, not so much. 

There was also the time when I was in a college class studying Beowulf.  The professor's name was nearly identical to the name of the whale/person (can't remember at this point) in the story, and one night will studying (translation: drinking mead and eating Medieval snacks) we changed the name of the whale to the professor's name.  This was all fine and good until we started covering that part of the story in a seminar, all sitting around a table, all facing each other, with said professor leading the discussion.  Once someone grinned, I lost it and started laughing so hard and so loud that the professor threw me out of class to compose myself.  The girls' room was directly across the hall from the seminar room, and she and the class could still hear me howling with a serious case of the giggles all the way through the corridor.  Again, I thought then (and still think) that the whole thing from start to finish was crazy funny.  Worst of all, I was in my thirties when I pulled that stunt.  Maturity is not my strongest attribute.

And then ... there is last week when I fly the miniature white flag on my ENO board (interactive whiteboard) because it's useless.  Ha ha, aren't I so funny making a flag that says, "ENO board, we surrender."  After our school tech guy fixes my ENO board (yet again), I put the flag aside, sticking it out of one of the many electrical orifices in the rolling cart on which my desktop computer resides, and I promptly forget about it.

During my class right before lunch, into my room traipse six people:  three district tech support people and reps from the ENO board company.  They gather around the technology while I attempt to finish the lesson without losing any more of the students' attention.  The head of technology for the entire public school department asks me to sign in to my account.  After reminding the visitors, "I'm working here," I finally make my way over to see what they need from me.

This is when I notice that a camera phone has come out from one of our visitors.  "Nice flag," the district techs tell me.

What?  Huh?  What .... Oh.  Shit.  

The white flag is still saluting the sometimes-dead ENO board.

Trying not to further offend our visitors, I apologize profusely for my flag of surrender, but it's too late.  One of the ENO tech guys has already taken and forwarded the picture of my creation on to other techs back at their main office.  I find out later that they even told the tech crew covering another grade about my flag.  The ENO board company reps think my flag of surrender is hilarious, which is a huge relief to my bosses and to me because it means that I still have a job, for now, anyway..

My joke-turned-insult seems to be turning back to joke status.  Thank goodness, because sometimes my own sense of humor comes back to bite me in my own fat ass, and sometimes (okay, all the time) I just think I'm fucking hilarious.  Plus, I really cannot afford to be in trouble at work yet again, although I'm sure I'd find a way to make that kind of funny, too.

GOSSIP SAYS MAJOR STORM

Gossip.  All of it, gossip, gossip, gossip. 

The weather people are hinting about a major storm coming in for Friday and Saturday.  Honestly, whenever anyone says "major storm," I think "Blizzard of '78."  Unless I am housebound for three days and unable to drive for a week after that, this is NOT a "major storm."

Since, however, it is the first time this winter that anyone has even hinted that we might be getting some snow, I am certain of one thing: the grocery stores are going to be a madhouse on Thursday. 

This house is loaded up with staples already.  I have cans and boxes and cannisters of breakfast, lunch, and dinner stuff already stashed and ready in case of a true emergency, like an I'm-too-lazy-to-go-shopping emergency.  If I do not participate in the running of the pre-snow gauntlet, it won't be breaking my heart.

However, this is not my first trip to the rodeo.

Tuesday, if all goes as planned, I will rush out of work at the exact time, drive my little car over to the big grocery store, and attempt to speed shop in forty-five minutes enough groceries for the next five days -- perishables to supplement the non-perishables already crammed into the cabinets.  I'll buy a little extra milk, just in case, maybe some extra eggs since I just made the other dozen into egg salad the other day.  I'll stock up on toilet paper and tissues.  I'll make a few extra bags of ice, just in case.  I usually don't lose electricity because I'm on the same grid as the police and fire department, but that doesn't mean crap when it's a true major storm.

IF it's a true major storm.  IF.  I don't feel it in my bones.  Of course, these weary bones shoveled over 100 inches of snow last winter, so I'm not sure anything is going to be scaring me this season.  I'm an optimist, though.  After all, when it was 70 degrees over Christmas, I went out and bought a brand new shovel just in case ... you know ... in case we get a "major storm."

READING THAT ONE BOOK ... AGAIN

Finally, for the first time in months, some time frees up.  Okay, it doesn't exactly "free up"; I force it.  I work my ass off over the course of the week with one ultimate target in my view: Three-Day Weekend.

I have a backlog of books that I desperately want to and need to read --some of these books are ones that friends have sent me, some of these books are ones that friends have lent me, some of these books are ones that I received for Christmas, and some of these books are ones that I bought myself and just haven't gotten around to reading.

I decide to catch up on a series I've been reading for years now.  I have book #21 and received book #22 for Christmas.  I pick up #21, anxious to finally get caught up so I can read the newest book in the series.  After all, I have this one weekend to read, but only if I get some other things done, too.  I have a checklist of minutiae to accomplish, and, damnit, I'm going to do some reading if I have to stay up all night to do it.

Friday night I open book #21 and start reading.  It's already late when I start, but somehow the plot seems vaguely familiar.  I doze off around chapter #3, put the book aside, and do not pick it back up again until early Saturday evening after accomplishing my checklist for the day.  By chapter #5, I realize that I have read the book before, but I cannot for the life of me piece together the entire plot.

This is not the first time I have pulled this stunt.  I have one paperback book that I re-read every few years because I keep saying, "This looks interesting...." and get about halfway through before I realize it's a repeat offender.

So, I read the book.  Again.  I finish the book by late Sunday afternoon, reach into the pile of "must-read-right-away books," and pull out #22.  By Sunday evening, I'm halfway through this one, as well. 

It figures.  The one time in months that I actually schedule time to read, turns out I've already read the book I pick up.  Like an exercise in futility, like Groundhog Day, I live through the entire plot one more time ... oh, yeah, I remember this ...oh, yeah, I forgot about this part ... and on and on.  It's okay, though.  The book is worth a second read, especially since I totally forget how it ends. 

When I get through #22, I promise my pals who have been so kind to me, that I will read the books you lent me and get them back to you.  Well, not this weekend, but I swear to you, they're on my to-do checklist.

MULLED WINE KIND OF DAY

Rain.  Again.  Rain, rain, rain.  Lazy, lazy day.

I'm not really complaining, but I guess I sort of am complaining.  I bought snowshoes last winter, and, after having to return the wrong ones I was sent, by the time mine arrived, I only got to use them once.  This winter?  Well, it was 70 degrees on Christmas Day, so I guess my snowshoes are staying put in the closet.

Today brings rain.  Oh, it snows for about a millisecond, but, for the most part, it's like spring outside.

I spend the day finally putting Christmas away, cooking meatballs, baking banana and pumpkin breads, and switching channels between football and hockey.  My biggest decision today is what to drink.  I head to the wine rack (not exceptionally far since it's in the kitchen right now), and decide on a summery bottle of red.  I bought it at a local winery on the way home from the beach this past summer.  The label and the cork have sunglasses artistically decorated onto them, and the rainy (slightly snowy) day seems slightly brighter just opening the bottle.

I pour a glass of red wine, sip a bit, then decide that it's really a rather raw and dreary day.  Tearing apart the spice cabinet, I locate an unopened container of cinnamon sticks and a semi-full container of whole cloves.  I don't have much for fruit -- a lime and some strawberries -- but that should do.  After all, it's just me drinking the red wine.

I set a saucepan on the burner, add some water and sugar, boil it all together, add the spices and fruit, then pour in the rest of the red wine from the bottle.  All it needs is some honey and it's almost ... almost, but not quite ... like the homemade mead my buddy used to make. 

A mug of mulled wine, some munchies, two sports, and I regain my living room today after ten weeks.  I look back now, sitting in front of the television watching hockey, realizing I actually worked my butt off today, but it seems like a lazy day and evening, so that's my story, and I'm sticking to it.  Here's to hoping tomorrow is equally unproductive!

LOOKING UP MIDDLE SCHOOLERS' NOSTRILS

I mentioned earlier this week that I am the school test case for our quasi-technology known as the ENO Board.  An ENO Board is a semi-interactive whiteboard that is about as user-friendly as a dead cat.  The only reason I am the test case is because I didn't realize everyone else had given up and stopped using the pieces of shit; I thought just mine was busted, so I waited fifteen weeks and finally emailed the Powers That Be and asked for a timeline to a technological breakthrough -- when, oh when, might I actually be able to USE this crappy thing?.

Bingo!  Now I'm the test case.

Supposedly the only reason that these crappy technological "advances" (that have been misplaced all through our new school) are not working is because document cameras have been installed in our rooms.  Document cameras ... that have nothing at all to do with the technology and wiring of the ENO Boards; document cameras that are merely plugged into the USB ports of our semi-usable desktop computers. 

All of our technological brilliance is supposedly being taken down by document cameras.

If this were even remotely true, then Congress should send document cameras to our military, and teams of SEALS and Army Rangers can secretly install document cameras into computers in every foreign country with questionable intentions.  Imagine that -- North Korea sidelined by a camera the size of a super tampon.  Now, that would be a headline worth reading.

Sadly, it's not true.  The document cameras have nothing to do with the shit product that is the ENO Board.  Oh, I'm sure ENO Boards are great in the business world because the egocentric boss can make colorful presentations with colorful dotted lines.  Other than that, though, at least in the world of students and tactile interactive learning, the ENO Board is the dirty, shit-filled diaper of the interactive educational world.  (Go ahead and sue me -- I don't own anything but a nine-year-old car.)


Anyway, to solve the problems of the world, my job is to play with the ENO Board every day to see if they strategies the tech team recommends are actually working.  By the fourth time I am teaching the same lesson today, I am starting to get loopy.  I am supposed to be working the document camera every day, but today I don't have anything to project.  What to do, what to do.

I activate the document camera and covertly turn it on the unaware students.  I don't have the actual projection screen on, so the students and the classroom appear on my computer screen.  My co-teacher, who is equally fascinated with this new turn of events, and I start telling the students that we can see what they're doing, though clearly we are not looking in their direction.

"Sit down, Michael. ... Don't pinch Kyle, Frankie. ... Meaghan, we're writing, not reading. ... This is not Star Wars, and you are not Obi Wan Kenobi.  Put the rulers DOWN!"

It takes the students a few moments to realize what we're doing.  After all, we are not even facing their desks.  We are staring at the computer and giggling like a couple of drunken idiots.  My co-teacher and I turn the camera on ourselves and snap some screenshots.  A couple of the students walk right up and look into the camera, trying to figure out what we are looking at.  My co-teacher and I stare at the computer screen images of the insides of the students' nostrils, their eyeballs, and their braces-lined smiles.

Finally, we turn the computer screen toward them so they can see what we are doing.  Yes, even teachers get punchy, especially during the last five minutes of the fourth class in a row on a Friday before a long weekend.  Once we get really stealthy at this, maybe we'll randomly project this scene on the ENO Board for the whole class to see.

After all, I am under STRICT ORDERS to play with the technology.  Might as well make it worth our while.

ENJOYING THE WEEKEND, EVEN IF IT KILLS ME

Friday's here!  The long weekend is coming!  The whole world is my oyster.  This is going to be great!   This is going to be ...

Wait.

What's this?  A headache?  A stinkin' HEADACHE?  And why are my cheeks hot and why are my eyes burning all of a sudden?

No.  No way.  NO FAIR.

Over the holiday break for Christmas and New Year's, I hurt my hip and back.  Now, with the three-day weekend coming, I am starting to feel sick.

Come on, body; you owe me one.

Please.  Please, please, please. Please don't waste this long weekend being sick.  I have plans -- big plans -- NOBLE plans.  I'm going to finally put Christmas away (after reorganizing and putting everything in new storage bins) and work on the house.  Maybe, just maybe I'll read a book. 

 It's my time!  IT'S MY TIME!

The good news is that in an effort to kill my hip and back pain over the last two weeks, I now have a full stock of OTC pain relief and meds.  I have acetaminophen, ibuprofen, naproxen, and aspirin.  I also have cough meds and chicken noodle soup and tea and honey and lemons.  If things really go bad, I also have heat wraps and lots and lots of Icy Hot topical cream that I can lather on to my skull.

I won't go down without a fight.  It's MY TIME, damnit, and I'll make the most of it.  I'm going to enjoy this weekend if it kills me.

TWELVE OBVIOUS SEMI-POLITICAL TRUTHS

TWELVE OBVIOUS SEMI-POLITICAL TRUTHS

1.  Hillary Clinton's picture keeps showing up in my spam folder where she belongs. 

2.  Ted Cruz is ineligible to be president. NOT being born in the USA means NOT being born in the USA.  It's not fucking rocket science.

3.  Donald Trump's hair is either a really long comb-over or the remainder of an unfilled Twinkie.

4.  The sound of Obama's voice works better than Syrup of Ipecac.

5.  "Illegal" means "breaking the law."  It's not fucking rocket science.

6.  There is no separation of church and state in the Constitution.  Really.

7.  If I were legally allowed to carry a gun at school, my laptop would have been shot a long time ago.

8.  Caitlyn Jenner : Kate Middleton :: Michael Jackson : Diana Ross

9.  Joe Biden looks like everybody's creepy Uncle Floyd.

10.  Why are we still talking about skin color in 2016?  We all have skin.  Mine has liver spots.  Wanna trade?

11.   Anyone who wants to rule a country is mentally whacked.

12.   Rocket science is not fucking rocket science.  Oh, wait a sec; yes, yes, it is.

MUGGING IT THE F#@& UP

Most of the time I say what I mean and I mean what I say.  Sometimes I say too much, and it annoys the hell out of people and gets me into trouble; sometimes I don't say enough, and it annoys the hell out of people and gets me into trouble. 

This is not anything new to me.  I have been fighting this mouth-brain battle for all of my life, probably since the moment I first spoke.  I am painfully honest.  When people do not respond in kind, I run the gamut from mildly annoyed to wildly, explosively enraged.  Best of all, I can vacillate between these two extremes in a millisecond because I am that good at being me.

More times that I can count people have told me that they either like me or hate me for the same reason: "I always know where I stand with you."

Well, DUH.  Wouldn't we ALL like the truth and to know where we stand with each other?  Wouldn't that be ... I don't know ... um ... CIVILIZED.

The flip side of my smart mouth means that not only will I tell you the truth about pretty much anything, I'll also tell you where the dog died.  Like the time I got called out by the principal for telling the truth about an upcoming poor policy while sitting in a packed faculty meeting with a guest speaker who was lying through his bleached overbite.  For stating the obvious, I was branded as "ornery."  Or, how about that tale I related the other day on the blog when I kept telling my boss at the fabric store that there was a coup coming.  She told me to stop causing trouble ... until she was fired and needed MY help.

I'll be honest.  I hear this a lot: "Hey, Heliand -- Go fuck yourself."

Luckily, I have been teamed up with a few people at my school who are less jaded than the average voter.  They are not so easily snowed and tend to err on the side of honesty being perhaps not the best policy, but at least the most tolerable policy.  We call each other names like Bitch and Cunt and Tatas.  We call other people names, sometimes to their faces, like Bozehole and Pecker and Shithead. 

I do so love this team of people around me, both my assigned team and my extended acquaintance team, because we don't pull any punches with each other.  We might tell each other to go screw while sipping English Breakfast or Green Pomegranate herbal tea and munching on mint Milano cookies.  See?  Civilized.

Today one of my esteemed colleagues brings me a new tea mug all bundled up in box, and I am overjoyed to open it.  This mug speaks the truth, but, unfortunately, it is a truth that I can show just to my colleagues but cannot leave on my desk.  After all, sometimes the truth hurts, but it's always the truth.  The only way this mug's sentiments will burn my ego is if I accidentally spill its contents into my lap or if my students happen to see it and tell on me.  Other than that, I love this mug and its honesty. 

Bless the bitch who bought it for me; I owe you one.

EMO FOR ENO

Someone stole my SmartBoard!  Oh, all right, I'll admit it:  My school claims it's too expensive to buy the teachers' access subscriptions for our SmartBoards, so they replaced them with crappy ENO boards that don't work.

Where did our old, perfectly fine SmartBoards go?  To the elementary schools ... because apparently THOSE teachers ARE worth buying access subscriptions for. 

Sucks to be us.

Meanwhile, the ENO boards in the school have worked off and on for about three weeks over the course of the seventeen weeks we have been in school.  I finally complain loudly enough that my ENO board has become the "test board."  Every day the technology needs to be unplugged, reset, and retooled.  My ENO board has gone through three stylus pens, four new receivers, and has required service to supposedly fix the Bluetooth technology.

I can sometimes trick it into working for days if I never, ever shut off my computer. Over the weekend we have a massive rain storm and gusty winds, losing electricity at the school.  You know what's coming, don't you?  Yup.  I walk in Monday morning to a red light ENO board; no connection available.

I file another tech ticket, which, since I am still the test case, moves my ticket along fairly efficiently because  God cannot even help us if word gets out to the community that the technology they shelled out hundreds of thousands of dollars for is nothing more than useless crap.  I've smartened up, though.  In addition to filing a tech ticket, I "cc" the tech guru directly because this conundrum of techno-shit-storm fascinates him, so he beats the recovery team to my room.

Lest anyone thinks we teachers do not have a sense of humor about technology being useless around here, I decide to greet the tech crew with my own response to the inconvenience of having a completely useless "white board" in my room.  I take out a pencil, an index card, a Sharpie marker and some tape.  Then, I make a white flag that says, "ENO Board -- We surrender."  I tape it to the ENO board receiver and call it a day.

Thankfully, the tech guru has a sense of humor.  The ENO board?  Not so much.  Eventually the ENO light goes from red (not working) to blue (working), but it's okay.  Unlike the SmartBoard, I can write on this sucker with white board marker.  I'm not supposed to, but, hey, if I have to keep punting every morning, I might as well surrender to that reality.  Unlike technology, the regular markers work, don't give me any trouble at all, and are not controlled by the whims of electricity.

Long live regular old felt-tipped markers!  Damn this new-fangled technology.  By the way, innovative technology couldn't save the Titanic, either, so I rest my case.  If you want an ENO board, you know where to find one.  Please.  My white flag and I will thank you in the end.

IT AIN'T OVER 'TIL IT'S OVER

Christmas is slowly leaving my house.  Very, very slowly. 

Okay, it's migrating into the living room.  All of the decorations are making their way to a corner near the tree, which is still up.  I know it's past Epiphany, but I'd like to think I have more holiday spirit than the Magi. 

Besides, I have been so incredibly busy with school, the class I was taking, and life in general that I didn't get to enjoy a lot of the musical decorations.  Seriously.  Right now the Santa Band is playing its entire repertoire.  All twenty-seven or so songs.  It's great.

Sure, I would've taken everything down over New Year's if I hadn't been incapacitated with my hip and back being out of whack.  Today, though, no pain.  None.  I feel like a million bucks. But not a million bucks' worth of Scrooge ... yet.  No, not yet.

Therefore, Christmas lives on, albeit briefly.  All of the boxes are up from the basement, ready and waiting to be repacked and put away for another eleven months, and I'll start filling them up tonight:  Holiday glassware, some of the larger decorations, and the garland that donned the doorways. 

The tree lives on, though.  Sorry, but I'm in no mood tonight to fight with strings of lights.  Maybe tomorrow.  Maybe the next day.  Who knows.  A wise person understands her limitations, and I am, after all, full of more holiday cheer than the Magi.

That is MY epiphany.

FABRIC F$@#-UP

I don't know why I keep going to the fabric store that is sort of close to my house.  There's one a little further away that's markedly better, even though it's the same chain.  I suppose it's because I used to work management at the first store.  The last three times I've gone there, though, it has been a horror show.

One time it was so filthy that I half-expected rats to come flying out from the fabric piles.  Another time my sister and I waited in line twenty minutes to buy a zipper.  This time is no different.  Today there are two people working.  TWO.  One on the cutting table and one on the register.  I've no idea how they handle breaks and lunch time with two employees.

How do I know only two employees are in the store?  Because a woman with a sewing machine question asks, "Are you the only two people working?" and the cutting table girl answers, "Yes."  The woman wants to buy the sewing machine that she saw in the add.  It's a $450 machine on sale for $200, but the employees won't sell it to her for that price because "it's online, only." At this point, I direct her up the street to the sewing machine store, but she is determined to get the sale, and I don't blame her.

Eventually, after waiting twenty minutes to have my fabric cut, I move into line.  With only two people in front of me, this should be quick.  Hahahahahahahahahahahahahaha (breath) hahahahahahahahahahahahahaha.  That's the sound of me being an idiot.  As soon as it's my turn, the male cashier says, "Just leave your stuff on the counter.  I'll be back," and he abandons the register to go help the woman with the sewing machine question.

I wait.  And I wait.  And I wait some more.  I wait seven minutes.  I could easily take my pile of fabric and two spools of thread and leave the store.  When he finally returns, he is carrying a sewing machine in  a box.  This is when everything starts to go wrong.

ME:  Oh, good.  So, you're going to sell that woman the machine on sale, after all.

CASHIER:  No.  No I'm not.  It's ONLIIIIINE (whining) only.

ME:  But, it's the same machine.

CASHIER:  But ... it's ... on ... LIIIIIIINE!

ME:  By the way, I forgot my teacher discount card at home, but here is my teacher ID and my regular ID.

CASHIER:  Technically, we can't give you a discount without---

(At this point, I've pretty much heard enough out of this guy.  He should be offering me and the twelve people waiting in line behind me discounts.)

ME:  Let me tell you how this is going to go.  I used to be the assistant manager at THIS store.  If I don't have my discount card but I do have proof that I am a teacher, you WILL give me the 15% off because that's the policy.  Do you understand?  I don't NEED my card.  I have my ID.  So you just go ahead and ring in this order and then I'll give you the money.  That's how this works.

I leave the store reasonably happy with my purchases but not the customer service, vowing never to shop here ever again.  Oh, I voiced this same sentiment after the third-to-last time when it looked like a bomb went off in the place, and I also made that vow after the second-to-last time when my sister and I waited nearly forever to buy one stinking zipper.  But, this time, this really-last time, I mean it.

Honestly, when I worked here, they illegally fired my wonderful boss during a hostile takeover, fired me after I copied records for said fired boss, then lost lawsuits to both of us for illegally firing us.  For a while, going in there just to piss off the new management team was sport.  Now, it seems like management is nonexistent.  And really -- having two employees working the store in the middle of the day on a Saturday?  Who's going to cover breaks?  Close-out registers?  Set up the sale for the coming week?  Put fabric back?  Order notions?  Sweep the place?  Make the deposit?  Watch the register while waiting on customers?  What if there's a goddamn emergency?


I ... WILL ... NEVER ... SHOP ... IN ... THIS ... STORE ... EVER ... AGAIN. 

This time, I truly mean it.

BANGS ARE BACK!

The bangs are back!

The hair is getting shorter, little by little.  It's still not as short as it's going to get, but some of my students don't like severe and unexpected change.  To be frank, most of the time I don't care for sudden change, either.  Over the next few hair appointments, I'll work toward cutting it right away from my face.  But, for now, anyway -- Be patient.  Once late-June arrives and brings the end of school with it, this long hair is history.  Back to a short cut.

A few years ago, I cut off all my long, graying hair because I looked like a crazy old creative writing teacher -- not that far from the truth.  I loved the shorter cut, but then two of my kids got engaged (not too each other), and I had to start growing my hair out for the weddings. Then, old habits died hard, and I kept growing it out.  I even tried growing out the bangs.

All I got for my efforts was The Return of the Crazy Old Creative Writing Teacher.

Tonight, I get some of that ratty, old, frizzy, Medusa-like hair chopped, and ... drum roll ... I get back my bangs.  Sure, sure, so my bangs will curl up on my in the rain and snow.  Oh. Well. Oh well oh well oh well oh well oh well.

I feel younger and look younger a tiny bit, but, most of all, my head feels a little lighter.  The bangs are back!  Long live the bangs.

SITTING AROUND ON MY FAT ASS

Apparently, sitting around on my fat ass is hazardous to my health.

For the second time in recent history, sitting in chairs for extended time while writing a paper causes my back and hip to rebel.  For days I am incapacitated to the point that I sleep sitting up, eat an entire bottle of rapid-release acetaminophen (after naproxen and ibuprofen both prove themselves useless) to minimal relief, and buy out the local pharmacy of every tube of menthol-infused pain-relief gel they sell.  It takes twelve days of slow recovery, amidst panicking that perhaps I have ruptured a kidney, before I feel ready to attack the grocery store for a much-needed resupply of such important items as hummus and crackers and paper towels.

This semi-recovery surprises my son who arrives home Wednesday to find dinner has been cooked: Chicken broccoli ziti and crescent rolls.  And I don't just cook a small batch; I cook enough to feed the entire neighborhood.  After cleaning up from my kitchen adventure, I lather my right flank with the peppermint-stench of heat-relief and flop into bed. 

For the first time in weeks, I sleep comfortably and soundly for six straight hours and wake up feeling almost normal.  There are even stretches of time during the day that I forget I hurt myself.  Well, until the school Geography Bee.  I have to fold myself into the small seat in the auditorium, and that lasts about twenty minutes before I have to get up, hobble to the back of the theater, and press my back against the flat wall for some pain relief.

Based on my extreme ziti cooking and by my recent gimpiness, my son has begun to lose faith in my ability to keep up my end of the housekeeping bargain, mainly my ability to put food on the table. Late this afternoon, I receive the following text as he is leaving work for the day --

SON:  Gonna head to Game Stop.  I assume you're having leftovers, judging by the amount (of chicken broccoli ziti) that's left?

This is child-speak for "I'm going to get myself a fabulous take-out dinner and won't worry about ma because she's probably picking broccoli out of her teeth as I type this message."

ME:  Nope.  Making sloppy joes and Annie's white cheddar pasta.

There is a slight pause here.  Annie's is the new go-to junk food in our house.  As a matter of fact, I bought my son an entire case of the stuff when I went shopping.  Suddenly my phone dings with a new text message.

SON:  Okay.  I'm heading home.

Victory is mine, proving to me, mentally anyway, that I truly am on the road to recovery.  Later, we cooperate while baking some Pillsbury reindeer sugar cookies.

The only problem is that all this eating and sitting around causes my already fat ass to get even fatter, which started this whole fiasco in the first place.  Oh, well.  The pharmacy must've stocked up on menthol pain gel by now, anyway, so I'm good to go.

DARCY VS. DARCY

In the case of Darcy vs. Darcy, 1995 Mr. Darcy beats 2005 Mr. Darcy hands down.  This decision is made with neither Pride nor Prejudice; there's actually a science to it all.

Oh, I'll confess that Matthew Macfadyen does an okay job, probably even stellar if Mr. Darcy were to wear his heart on his sleeve.  But, he plays Darcy as if he were too obvious, too readable, too ... too ... metro.  Macfadyen's Darcy is an overly emotional metrosexual.

Colin Firth's Darcy is an enigma.  He is the puzzle that must be solved, and he rarely falters or shows chinks in his armor.  Unlike Macfadyen's Darcy, emotions are not things Firth's Darcy is willing to express.  If Firth played Darcy with any more restraint, he'd be in a strait jacket.

Perhaps it isn't fair to compare Darcy vs. Darcy.  After all, the 1995 mini-series has hours and hours upon end in which to flesh out characters, whereas the 2005 film has merely two hours.  The 2005 version favors panoramic characterization as opposed to the minutiae studied and added to make the 1995 version the go-to adaptation.

The deciding factor in Darcy vs. Darcy, though, results from the main actresses -- those playing Elizabeth.  Keira Knightley is a beautiful, talented actress, as is Jennifer Ehle.  However, Ehle's facial expressions rank her as the winner if this were a true battle.  Ehle can play an entire scene with her eyes alone, no dialogue needed.  Ehle's left eyebrow could win its own Emmy, for shit's sake.  In order to have an actor worthy of an eyebrow as a costar, one must have its foil stoically thwarting that eyebrow's every move.

So, apologies to my friend who put out the challenge today.  Even more so, I am amazed by the serendipitious coincidence that the 2005 film version just happens to be on Cable at 6:30 this same evening, the exact day my pal throws down the gauntlet.  You may have your Macfadyen Mr. Darcy, but I'm still rooting for Darcy the Firth.

Therefore, may the Firth be with you!  Which reminds me of another movie...

HIDING INSIDE THE BUSTED COPY MACHINE

Somewhere in an alternate universe, a gentler, more patient Heliand exists.  Here, though, in this reality -- not so much.  For example, I fully support the concept of senior citizens volunteering in public offices in order to reduce their tax burdens.  However, much like a liberal claiming to support the poor, NIMBY.

You see, our senior citizen, as lovely a person as she may be, is more of Typhoid Mary than a school assistant.  Back in the old school when we all shared one copy room, she was notorious for misprinting orders and busting machinery.

 Akin to an anti-Midas, everything she touches go haywire.

On the flip side, though, against these self-created odds, she manages to be remarkably productive, sometimes too much so (like the time I ordered 250 copies of a graphic organizer and ended up with 780).  During her previous tenure with our school, luckily she managed to complete copy orders in an almost I-Love-Lucy way.  This means that I have a love/hate relationship with our senior citizen: I love her help, but I hate when she parks herself in front of the copy machine to the peril of the rest of us who need to get simple and/or immediate jobs done.

I am somewhat ashamed and yet somewhat unsurprised by my negative reaction to the email notification that Typhoid Mary is returning.  I am under a deadline to get a major paper done and my presentation copied and stapled; plus, I don't feel all that well and would feel better having a few days' worth of work prepped.  Now that there are three prep/copy rooms in the school, one for each grade level, I figure I'm golden.

Wrong.

Our hapless senior is assigned to my planning room, my copy machine, my space.  Please, do not misunderstand me: I do not wish her any ill will; what I wish is for her to go to another copy room.  Why?  Because I remember all too well the debacle of the 780 random copies and the endless tales of busted copiers.  I remember that she is Typhoid Mary.

I am not disappointed.  Within six hours of her arrival, the brand new copy machine in the planning room has seized up so badly, been damaged so severely, that service must be called.  My temperature rises as I start wondering if I am just super-pissed or if she is spreading her typhoid germs around my entire wing of the school.

Yup.  Somewhere in an alternate universe, a kinder, gentler Heliand exists.  I suspect she's hiding inside the broken copy machine because she sure as hell isn't standing here with me.