LACROSSE CHOCOLATE CHIP COOKIES

In honor of college lacrosse season starting, I am baking chocolate chip cookies.

Not my famous (infamous?) chocolate chip cookies, though, because I'm not really in lacrosse season anymore.  My youngest graduated last May, so my lacrosse baking is pretty much behind me.

But, still.  It is lacrosse season, after all.

Hiding in the refrigerator is cookie dough.  Ex-Lacrosse Boy comes downstairs, opens the fridge, looks at the package of cookie dough, and turns on the oven.

I know, I know: It's just not the same as true homemade.  I do, however, have to bake them, so technically they are at least home-cooked.  And technically they are for Ex-Lacrosse Boy, who is really Still-Lacrosse Boy because he is playing leagues and coaching.  This means that we are technically in lacrosse season. 

Apparently, we are making lacrosse chocolate chip cookies after all.

SERIOUS WINE TASTING

I take wine tasting very seriously.  Very.  Seriously.  As a matter of fact, it's a full-contact sport.

I start off at my usual Saturday wine tasting.  I don't feel any great need to have a wing man; I can find friends wherever I go, and I fly better solo, anyway.  There's a gentleman there with his entourage.  I remember him from a few weeks ago, and we spend the entire time reminiscing about the bad jokes we told last time we were together.

And drinking wine.  Always drinking wine.

Then, later, I go to a grand tasting two miles from my house.  I run into some people from the New Year's Eve Champagne Sword-Opening Extravaganza, and I run into a lot of people I have never met before.  We share all kinds of conversation about the wines, about the tables, about the venue, about fighting our way into tables.

I wait in line for no one.  No one.

I gather a bit of a following as it is obvious that I do not take no for an answer when approaching one of the six tables. Wait to be served?  Ha!  That's for amateurs. I even get back to two tables I already mastered.

Though I have a list of outstanding, relatively inexpensive wines in my possession, I have my eye on the real prize: The peach Bellini mix that I missed out on the last time I was here.  And, I gained a huge list of wines that I really, really like, including a tropical mango Moscato that, at $15 a bottle, is to die for.

Sitting in the parking lot, I make sure I'm sober and can drive, especially since I'm traveling in a major traffic zone.  Yup; I dumped enough, I deferred enough, and I ate enough before I left the house. 

I should probably wear a helmet and shoulder pads next time, though.  When it comes to Grand Tastings, it's all about maneuvering, taking out the other tasters, and making it into the end zone where the wine is.

Full contact.  And I'm damn good at it, if I do say so myself.

DEAR SATURDAY

Saturday.
Dear, dear Saturday.
Thank you, Saturday.
I thought you'd never get here.
Seriously, though,
What took you so frigging long?
I waited for you all week.
All week.
Counting the days, the hours, the seconds,
From one end of the week to the other,
And still it seemed as if you didn't care
Who suffered in the interim.
You took your bloody sweet time.
But still.
Thank you.
Thank you for being you,
Saturday.
Don't ever change.
Except maybe this one tiny thing:
Get your ass here more than once a week.
Two Saturdays every week would be super.
Sincerely,
Every full time employee in the entire fucking Universe

DO YOU FEEL ... LIKE FETA CHEESE?

How old am I?  (That's rhetorical.  Don't answer that.)

Shopping in the grocery store, I notice that the music certainly isn't what it used to be.  Gone is the store owner's daughter singing/caterwauling canned holiday music.  Gone is the piped in elevator music.  Over the last few years, the store has gotten more and more progressive in their musical choices: Linda Ronstadt, Todd Rundgren, ELO.

Today, though, the grocery store is playing The Fixx and Heart.  There's even some Michael Jackson thrown in.  Suddenly, I'm in the classic hard rock zone, humming along, singing along softly.  This isn't that makeshift instrumental shit.  This is the real deal.

I get to the check-out, which always takes forever.  The lady bagging walks away at one point while packing the groceries of the woman ahead of me, and so I wait ... and I wait ...  Over the ceiling speakers I hear a distinctive yet simplistic guitar rift and the sound of people cheering.

Woke up this morning with a wine glass in my hand...

What the hell.  Holy flashback.

Whose wine?  What wine?  Where the hell did I dine?

I've suddenly been transported to the mid-1970's.  Yup.  Peter Frampton, after graduating from various bands including Humble Pie, had about one and a half semi-hits on the rock charts.  My then-boyfriend got us tickets to see Frampton when he came to Boston -- eighth row center at the Garden.  I remember being incredibly bored twenty minutes in.

My friend got busted just the other day ...

Somehow reliving my teenage years while shopping for feta cheese and wax paper just seems so wrong.  I try hustling the bagger along, but she's unbearably sociable and unnervingly slow.  I do manage to escape before Frampton whips out the guitar-linked Talk Box.

The saddest part of all of it is suddenly realizing that the soundtrack of my life is now reduced to glorified Muzak.  Next thing you know, AC/DC will be standard elevator fare.  And, please, please, please don't tell me if that has already happened.  I'm not quite ready to completely give up the ghost of my youth, not even for feta cheese and wax paper.

IT'S OFFICIALLY BEACH PRE-SEASON

Ah, yes, it's the first official beach day of the year.  Well, the beach doesn't quite know that, but the rest of the local population does. 

We are having a small stretch of unseasonably warm weather.  To be honest, it has been an incredibly mild winter with three or four small snow storms and a few days of sub-zero blustery horror, so this stretch of warmth isn't as unusual as it seems.  If I'm going to be completely transparent, I've already been to the beach, albeit briefly and accidentally while on my way to my sister's house outside of Kennebunk.  Today, though, is my first planned, conscious, intentional beach day, even if it is impromptu.

I pack up my camera, including fresh batteries since the last time I changed them was in Poughkeepsie in the fall.  I grab a down vest in case it's chilly at the coast, my leftover water bottle, some gloves, and my keys.  Hard to believe that at 9:30 a.m. I toyed with the idea of going to the beach, and by 10:15 I'm filling up my gas tank and heading northeast.

I arrive at stop #1 with little incident and proceed to exit my car, parked right along the breakwall, when I see a man and two kids come running from the access stairs.  They are laughing and somewhat dampish from the waves, which, despite it being an hour past high tide, are smashing against the wall, sending spray high into the air and over into parts of the parking spaces.  I grab a few pictures of the ocean, clearly showing its attitude.  Apparently it knows summer isn't here yet and has no intention of allowing anyone on the sand for a stroll.  Not for another six hours, anyway.

My next stop is Hampton center, where I have some difficulty finding a decent space because hundreds, possibly even thousands, of people have the same idea I do: Hit the beach for a preview of the summer yet to come.  I try to snap a few pictures, but there are so many people that it's impossible to get a clean shot.  I don't know whether I find the plethora of people frustrating or comforting, but I do know that I do not want them in my photos.

I drive over the bridge into Seabrook, stop by the small harbor which is an unusual shade of green today, and snap a picture or two of the moored fishing boats with the nuclear power plant as the backdrop.  I maneuver my car from there down one of the deserted side streets and park in a restricted area that clearly screams TOW ZONE.  I trudge over the small boardwalk through the dunes and look at the ocean.  It's quieter here, the surf still large but not as violent as it had been in North Hampton.  I like it here because the beach grass creates a buffer between the sound of the surf and the sounds from civilization just a half block away.

There's no need to pause in Salisbury.  The recent storm damage has been all over the internet and the news, so I continue south, over a second bridge, and stop for a few minutes in Newburyport.  I could put money in the parking machine and grab myself a cup of tea at Plum Island Coffee Roasters for old times sake.  This is where two grad pals and I spent hours and hours of our academic lives as we raced to the thesis finish line two years ago.  I don't know, though.  It's starting to cloud up.

Three hours later I roll back into my driveway.  It has been a good day, a crowded day, a refreshing day.  An official beach day, to be sure.  I don't have the parking receipt to show for it, but summer isn't even here yet.  There will be plenty of time for that when June finally rolls around.

SEND IN THE PARTY VULTURE

On my last official weekday off before returning to school, I take a well-deserved break from blogging and correcting and paying bills and organizing the house to attend a friend's impromptu birthday party.  I say "impromptu" because she doesn't know we are all bringing her stuff. 

In order to make time for this, I have to run some errands before I pick up friend #1 to meet friend #2 and friend #3 (The Birthday Girl) at Bertuccis near the airport.  I spend the morning madly getting stuff done, then hitting the store for lottery tickets, the post office to mail the bills off, and stopping by a clothing box to donate the one bag of stuff I missed the other day when clearing out closets.

Friend #1 and I decide to drive the back way, avoiding the highway except for the few miles it takes between her house and the alternate route.  It's a lovely, scenic drive, and we arrive so early that I have time to introduce her to The Paper Store.  She spends money; I cover my hands in smelly lotion from an open test bottle.  Then, we're off to lunch.

The best part about these friends is that we are mutually generous.  It's crazy, but we're always doing for or gifting or supporting each other.  Somehow we know it's not just the birthday celebrant who will be dragging loot home.  Friend #1 hands me a bottle of cabernet sauvignon.  Friend #2 gives us all roses.  I hand out lottery tickets (two of which are winners right there) plus hand more to the Birthday Girl.  There is also a stuffed vulture and a bracelet involved in the exchanges.

Oh, and lunch.  That's supposed to be the best part, the whole idea of lunch, but we just use lunch as an excuse.  What we really want is to sit together and laugh until our sides hurt or we are thrown out of the restaurant for being too boisterous.  Or both; we don't even care.

By the time this blog posts, I will be back in school, longing for a do-over of my break because I will be feeling like it has passed too quickly (which is true), but what a great week.  I get some work done, some chores done, some bills paid, do some snowshoeing, accomplish some crazy-savings while shopping, do some cooking and some baking, go bowling, have multiple meals out, and probably will need to have my facial features realigned from laughing so hard all week.

I guess if I could do it over the exact same way (maybe minus the school work), that would be even better than winning on those lottery tickets.

BOWLING FOR LAUGHTER

My friends and I decide to go bowling.

There are two things wrong with this idea: #1 - It's school vacation week, so there are minions everywhere; #2 - we all suck at bowling.

The new bowling alley, only open for a few months, has several really cool features.  It has multiple golf simulators that are like separate rooms yet all connected to a bar/tavern room.  It has  another tavern room/restaurant, it has a special room for parties with its own set of lanes, it has a grill service mini-restaurant, and it has a small pro shop.  It even has a giant tree in the middle of it all.

It also has both candlepin and duckpin bowling.  That's right -- small balls and big balls.  Balls for everyone.  All kinds of balls: colored balls, solid balls, marbled balls, heavy balls, medium balls, light balls, amateur balls, and professional balls.  All these balls under one roof.  In honor of the bowling minions, they even have official minion bowling balls.  It's like a bowling ball extravaganza.

We decide on candlepins, partly because one of the women is a ringer with duck pins, but mostly because it's a real northern New England tradition.  The best part is that we can choose to have bumper lanes or not all at the same time.  Out of the four of us bowling, I want bumper lanes.  I know how badly I suck at bowling, and I hope to break a score of fifty after ten frames.  The alleys, completely technologically controlled, will set up the bumpers when I go to bowl and retract them when I'm done with my turn.

It doesn't take long before we all decide to put up the bumpers.  Thank goodness for the in-lane iPads.  All we have to do is edit the names on the scoreboard and choose "bumpers."  No one is the wiser (except people to our immediate left and right) that we need bumper lanes to keep from throwing continual gutter balls.

The only crick in the game is the kiddo next to us who has no concept of personal space and keeps walking into our alley as we are trying to bowl.  Well, that and the fact that one of us (not me) tries to bowl the wrong direction when winding up for the toss and losing the ball behind her.  It's okay, though, because it scares Alley Stealing Boy back into his respective lane.

The only true casualties of the day are our facial muscles, which suffer greatly at the laughter.  We may suck at bowling (we all broke fifty ... barely, but we did it), but we are truly winners when it comes to entertaining ourselves.

GIVING UP HOPE AND CLOTHING FOR LENT

A long time has passed since I actually paid attention the Lent.  To be honest, I've always been a miserable Lent failure.  Raised by an atheist and an agnostic, I jumped on the religion bandwagon late in the game, so I don't have that whole inherent guilt thing going on.

Lent is just something I tend to forget about.

This year on Facebook someone posts that a good thing to do is to donate forty clothing items, one for each day of Lent.  This sounds like a win-win for me as I have lots of clothing that doesn't fit me anymore, and no amount of dieting or exercise is ever going to make this stuff fit.  Quite frankly, my boobs and hips just aren't what nor where they used to be.

I spend hours going through stuff, trying stuff on, strutting in front of the mirror to see how (rarely) good I look, but mostly how ridiculous I look.  One dress makes me look like a black stretchy bag of potatoes.  A lot of this stuff still has tags on it, which makes me sad and pissed off all at the same time.  I could take a vacation with all the money I spent on clothes I'll never wear.

Oh, well.  It's all over but the crying.  I not only fill five grocery bags with clothing, I immediately go and drop it in the clothing bin that is, coincidentally, located behind the church where I first decided to partake in Lent.  What goes around, comes around, I suppose.  I certainly hope my purging goes to a good cause.

I'VE FILED ... AND I CAN'T GET UP

Not quite done, but at least the den is coming along.  I decided to finally take a look at my filing, which is super scary because I despise filing things.  Oh, I like order, don't get me wrong; I just prefer that order would happen organically.

I decide to dedicate a day of my school break to my den.  This becomes several days as I have to hit different areas of the room: the sewing corner, the closet, the books, the Christmas stuff, the craft stuff, my school stuff, my writing stuff, grad school stuff, school/professional documentation, four boxes of family pictures and documents spanning four generations, and multiple boxes of filed material (plus the entire box full of paperwork still waiting to be filed).

Today is the day I am going through the file boxes.  I start weeding stuff out, although some of it, like taxes from twelve years ago, does not seem to make it to the shredder.  Credit cards that expired three years ago and more, however, do actually make it to the shredder.  Everything is going along smoothly.

Smoothly, that is, until I hit the files of my writing.

Once I started taking grad classes again, my writing file exploded.  Half-written manuscripts started reproducing until I didn't know what I had anymore.  By the time my thesis rolled around, I was still writing the blog every day, as well.  My writing files have somehow turned into piles worthy of the Library of Congress. Worse, even, I discover that I have started multiple folders in separate file boxes for duplicate topics.

I am thrilled to report that I clear out one box to file more writing, and that I venture out to Staples and buy another file box, more hanging files, and 100 manila folders, ensuring that this project will keep me busy for at least another three days.  If you don't hear from me within seventy-two hours, send rescuers.  I'm probably lying incapacitated under some file folders.

LUNCHTIME CHAOS

Lunch date!  Yay!  I like lunch dates.  Lunch dates are good for relieving stress, right?  Right?

Finally, I have a chance to get together with two friends, and we decide to go to lunch.  Sure, I shouldn't be going.  I have a pot roast cooking in the crock pot, so I don't need a big lunch, but I don't get to see these friends often enough, so I'm in.  I am totally in.

One of my friends lives down a long street attached to another street that abuts to yet another street.  It's always fun to get to her house -- it's really easy to misjudge the roads in because two of them are connected with a giant telephone pole in the middle, and, if there has been a snow storm recently, who knows how much of her long, secluded street will be plowed.  Turns out the street is mostly clear, so I bomb on in, slog through the leftover snow, park my car, and slop through the slushy melting stuff to reach her house.

We decide to take her SUV to pick up our other pal so we can all chat on the way to lunch ... and all through lunch ... and all the way home again.  Since my car is parked in my friend's driveway, I am the last one to get dropped off.

Or am I?

As we make our final approach to my friend's street, a police car blocks our way.  We are still a mile short of her road, though.  Surely we should be able to get through.  Nope, we are told.  We can try to go around, but there is a house fire on the street that abuts my friend's property, the street separated from hers by a telephone pole.

This brings on several problems.  First and foremost, is my friend's house okay?  Second, and also very important, is her dog safe?  Third, will she able to get down her street?  And, lastly, will I be able to get my car out to rescue the pot roast from the crock pot (and make sure the liquid doesn't all cook out, creating my own fire hazard)?

Cop #1sends us in a huge circle.  We end up about a quarter of a mile from my friend's house but cannot go any further because of the way her road connects to another road, the road where the fire is.  A large firetruck and two cruisers block our entry (and my exit).  Leaving my leftover salad in her car, we hoof it over to where the action is.  Will she be able to get home?  Will I be able to get out?

Cop #2 says I can get out but I have to go right now, this minute, or it might be hours until they let me leave.  Technically I have almost ninety minutes until the crock pot causes the fire department to come to my house, too.  We debate: Do I stay and take a chance I will be blocked in too long?  Does my friend have to drive me miles out of my way to rescue my damn pot roast? 

In the end, I abandon my friend.  We hoof it through the slushy roads to get my car.  We make sure her dog and house are both safe, then I make my way around the firetruck and cruisers and circle the long way home.  By the time I park in my own driveway, my friend texts me that the activity is over and all the emergency people have left.  I could've stayed, after all.

The pot roast is saved, but, alas, the salad stayed in my friend's car.  Small sacrifices to stave off a second fire of the day.  Needless to say, lunch is an adventure, as always, which is why my friends and I only see each other occasionally.  Such chaos is bad for the blood pressure.

SNOWSHOEING WITH THE DEAD

Argh, this week.  What a suck.  No, really.  Suck, suck, suck. 

You see, I have the week as a break, which means I have the week off but I don't get paid for it (common public misconception about teachers -- we do NOT get paid for snow days or for breaks), and the weather is being its usual crazy self.  If a person wants to snowshoe during break, apparently it must be planned according to the weather, which means I have about a two-hour window of opportunity.

I start by getting up early to shovel the four inches of ice-topped snow that crusts the driveway.  This is followed by fifteen minutes of de-icing and scraping my son's car so he can get to work.  (We even have to crack the ice around the gas tank cover so he can stop at the gas station on his way out.)  Once he is safely out of the driveway and down the black-ice covered street, I head back inside to get comfy. 

After studying the radar maps, it is obvious that by noontime, the temperatures will be warm, and by two o'clock, the monsoons will arrive. Quickly and efficiently, I grab my snowshoes and poles.  I re-throw my semi-snow-covered-from-shoveling sweatpants over the yoga pants I wore to bed, throw a sports bra on under my t-shirt, add an extra layer of socks, pull on my snow boots, and test out my new black and pink gaiters.

My car is much quicker to clean off than my son's since mine has a thick layer of snow separating the windshield from the inch of ice.  Within moments, I am ready to go and bomb my way through the remaining unshoveled snow.  I drive by the open fields of the high school and by some of the town's woodsy trails but decide on the scenic nearby cemetery, instead.  I can snowshoe close to the stone wall by the road if I need help, but I also won't be showing off my lack of skills to everyone passing by. 

The beauty of snowshoeing in the cemetery, in addition to being nearby yet faraway from civilization, is that I can park, put on my snowshoes at the car, and instantly be in the snow.  Also, it's very scenic and somewhat hilly, so I can get a decent workout while also stopping to take pictures without the pressure of trying to keep up or get out of the way of others more adept at snowshoeing.

It's nine o'clock when I arrive, and the temperature, already rising quickly, creates an eerie fog that rolls through, making it impossible to see much more than about one hundred yards.  By the time I get through the meditation garden and past the stone arch, I can barely see my car behind me.  The snow is crusty on top, soft and feathery underneath.  The sound of my tethered feet kaloomping through the stillness is the only thing I can hear.

I make my way down toward the granite chapel with the Tiffany windows but cannot see it clearly through the fog.  I circle a few trees then notice several huge branches are down.  This is when I start to realize what an idiot I am and how glad I am that I didn't decide to go through a woodsy trails and how I probably should've opted for the open school fields.  By now, the heat of the day is melting all of the ice-lined tree limbs, and it sounds like Niagara as water and puffs of snow pelt the ground around me.

Just last week, two people, a child and an adult, were killed in two separate and unrelated tree limb incidents following the storms that brought in the deep freeze.  How could I be so stupid to be out here by myself knowing that the trees are already laden with ice and the weather changes might affect them!  Dumb, dumb, dumb. I snowshoe for open territory and continue about my business for another half hour, carefully and quickly "running" when I have to pass under the trees.  Between the exercise and the fear, I up my cardio to optimal levels. 

When I get home around an hour later, I finish shoveling, knowing that the rain will take care of the rest of it but also figuring it will ice up later, which it does, but not until it hits 50 glorious degrees and the monsoons wipe out all of our snow.  The week's break is nice (other than the fact that I am correcting hundreds of essays and open responses, so it's a working break anyway), but it's certainly hard to plan activities when Mother Nature is thwarting me at every turn.  However, I do feel good about outsmarting her for an hour of snowshoeing, and I appreciate it very much that she didn't bring a random tree limb down on me in the interim.

SHOCKING SHOPPING

Driving home I suddenly start craving bananas.  I cannot explain this, especially since the last dozen times I bought bananas, they end up rotted and in the trash, but I am really, truly trying to treat my body better, so I crave to the craving. I have a choice: Go to Stop and Shop and get bananas, or go to Whole Foods and get bananas.

Let me just say this -- Up until a few months ago, I was a loyal and staunch supporter of the DeMoulas/Market Basket chain.  I would drive to other towns, other states, and brave ridiculous traffic just to grocery shop.  The lines in Market Basket pre-holidays and pre-snowstorms make the apocalypse seem like a minor event.  Lately, though, I have noticed quite a bit of price gouging at my favorite grocery chain, so much so that it's no longer smart to buy meats (and many other things) there.

I decide to go to Whole Foods.  The few times I've shopped there, the only things beyond my budget are cleaning supplies, which I can buy anywhere, and Pie Guy Pies, which I only buy for special occasions.  I know they have excellent fruit and vegetables there, and it's only about a quarter of a mile from my house.  This seems like a no-brainer.

When I get inside the store, I start trolling the aisles.  Since I started comparison pricing last summer when Market Basket went on strike, I have come to realize that maybe I have been brainwashed into believing that I'm getting "more for (my) dollar," when, in fact, the words "sometimes" or "often" should be added in front of that claim.  Milk and orange juice prices at all of the grocery stores are the same.  Whole Foods healthier brand 365 food is pretty inexpensive, as well. 

The meat prices at Whole Foods?  Better than Market Basket, and better quality, too, according to those who swear by it (my oldest among them).  Same with the seafood, and it doesn't smell like week-old fish, a common stench at the more reasonably priced other chains.  Huh.  Maybe people are on to something here.

I make a pass through the health type products -- protein powder and vitamins and supplements enough to make my head spin.  I wouldn't even know where to begin with any addition to my diet that isn't a multi-vitamin or calcium, but it's interesting to look and see what might ail me.  Stomach settlers?  Herbal shakes?  Fish oil byproducts?  It's like being in GNC except there are bakery items on the end-stops.

Of course, I have to stroll by the bakery.  It hurts me to do so because I have finally come to the realization that bread and crackers are my downfall.  Seeing all that freshly baked bread and all of those tempting cookies and cakes is damn-near killing me, so I head back to the produce section, which is why I am here.

Everything in the produce section looks and smells great.  I am thoroughly convinced that Whole Foods is directly connected to God when it comes to fresh fruits and vegetables.  I have cash in my pocket, and I know the mantra well: "Whole Foods equals Whole Paycheck."  That's what I've always been told; that's what I always believed.  But, look ... sales.  Sales everywhere. 

I pick up bananas (on sale).  Then I see strawberries (on sale) and grab a container of those.  Oh, wow, blueberries!  The look fabulous, and, hey, they're on sale.  Hmmm, wouldn't it be nice to have some pineapple, too?  Sure it would.  If I'm going to bring home those lovely blueberries, maybe I should also get some eggs to make muffins.

Okay, okay, so the organic eggs are about a dollar more than I'm used to paying, but it saves me a trip to another store.  Besides, they're probably healthier and fresher than the ones at Stop and Shop.  I convince myself to grab them and get to the checkout counter.

The checkout.  Where people often suffer heart attacks (I know I do at Market Basket on a weekly basis).  Here it comes.  Containers full of strawberries and blueberries and pineapple, a bunch of bananas, a dozen eggs... I close my eyes and wince, waiting for that Whole Paycheck moment.

$11.00.  Yup, you see that correctly.  Eleven stinking dollars is all I paid.  And ... and ... the woman who put my groceries in a recyclable paper bag asks me, "Would you like a free rose?"

"Ummmmm ... what?"

"A free rose," she says again, "would you like a free rose?"

She must read my shocked expression.  She reaches over to the next register and grabs a beautiful, healthy long-stemmed red rose and hands it to me.

"Oh, that's so nice," I reply, smiling yet still somewhat shocked.  "I didn't get any valentines."  Then I joke, "Nobody loves me."  (Just so you all know, I didn't get any valentines, but I didn't GIVE any, either.  It's simply a Hallmark holiday in my household.)

"Well, WE love you," she says, smiling back at me.

Whole Foods is my new favorite store.  How can it not be?  Prices and selection are decent, it's close to home, and they love me.  Who could ask for anything more in a shopping experience?

BEING PRODUCTIVE ON SALE

I admitted yesterday that I am a jeans kind of gal.  I also have mentioned that the temperatures here have been sub-zero at best, so going outside is pretty much against the law.  My intent is to stay inside and tear my den into a million fragments.  Okay, it's not really a den.  It used to be my bedroom rather than a child's room because it is the room with half a ceiling (under the eaves) and it's the farthest from an exit in case of a fire.  Better mom than children jumping out the window in an emergency.  Now, though, it's more of a glorified closet.  Anyway, the glorified closet project plus the weather equals my great idea to stay at home one more day.

Until my son says, "I need boxers.  I don't know where all of mine went."  (I do.  They disappeared into the Vortex of Oblivion and Perpetual Piles, the nether region of post-college life wherein a human form of Tasmanian Devil resides.)  For some reason inexplicable to any mind but that of the young adult, he needs these boxers right ... this ... second.  Oh, and if I just happen to be going to the store, might I get a dozen or so pairs of Nike white athletic socks, please and thank you.

I hate shopping.  I've said it many times before, but it is a sentiment that bears constant repeating.  Hate.  It.  Hate, hate, hate.  Avoid it like it's one of Dante's Circles of Hell.  But, I have a coupon, so there's no time to waste!  I get myself dressed, run out quickly to start the car (because my "remote start" means I go someplace remote where the car is parked and actually turn the key in the ignition) so my ass won't freeze to the seat when I finally get out there after letting the car sit idle for two days in subzero conditions.

When I get inside of the store, there are sales going on in every department.  I decide that the kid needs some new work pants.  This is more for me than for him: the more pairs of pants he has, the more I can iron and prep ahead of time for some mornings off.  Same with the shirts; more dress shirts for him means less morning stress for me because he will have a bunch already ironed and queued up.  I decide I will only buy if things are on sale.

Things are on sale.

I find him two pairs of pants, then I find four dress shirts that should do nicely.  Oh yeah, socks and boxers, also on sale, and then over to get a baby gift because Carters are on sale, and we all know about Carters.  I am rounding the corner, minding my own business, when I forget which store location I am in.  I am expecting to pass the young men's department, but instead I am at the section where I usually buy clothes when I'm here (which is rarely because I detest shopping, especially for clothing).

What the heck.  Maybe I can find just one pair of pants on sale.  I scour the racks, hoping for a match with the corduroys since it has been so bloody cold at work.  Nope.  Nothing.  Phew.  Turning to head toward the checkout, which is within arms' reach, I see a sale on colored jeans.

It's okay.  They won't have my size, and, even if they do, they won't fit.

I take a giant armful into the changing room with me.  No way am I doing my usual "try on stuff then re-dress to go find different sizes."  No way.  If these pants don't fit, too bad, I'm moving on.  I try on nine pairs, five of which fit and look decent.  And they're on sale.  And I have a coupon.  Score.

Next up I see a bunch of v-neck shirts.  Sure, they're short-sleeved, but my original plan for today was to sort out my sweaters and get them all organized along with adding some more storage to the den.  I am getting tired of pulling the crew-neck shirts away from my throat; the neckline is like a perpetual strangulation.  I can wear these short-sleeved shirts with sweaters (and new pants) and be perfectly content at work and not feel like I'm close to death by choking.

I pop every pattern of shirt into the merchandise mesh bag I am carrying.  I mean, I didn't get a cart.  I came in for boxers and socks.  Why would I need a carriage?

By the time I haul all of my purchases to the conveyor belt at the check-out, I have seven pairs of pants, a baby gift, six boxers, a dozen pair of socks, four dress shirts, ten work shirts, and I'm sure there is probably something else I've forgotten.  I ask the cashier for a flyer so I can cut out the additional $10 clothing coupon to go along with my 20% flyer.

There are no more flyers, so I don't get the $10 off.  Instead, though, the cashier rings in everything, even all of my sale items which is everything, and whacks 30% off the price instead of 20%.  I get out of the store for well under $290 ... and the company issues me another $50 in store bucks to come back and spend more money.

I survive the shopping trip, I don't freak out about things not fitting, and my son and I can go to work wearing something other than the same old same old.  Best of all, the temperature has doubled by the time I leave the store.  Instead of 7 degrees, it's a damn heatwave at 14.  When I get home, I start tearing the den apart, too.  That, my friends, makes for a good day all around.

MODERN FASHION

I have to be the stupidest person on the face of Earth.  Seriously, I do, because I don't get fashion at all.

Now, to be fair, I've always been a bit of a jeans and t-shirt kind of a gal.  I appreciate nice clothing but never quite caught on the sense of some of the recent fashion trends.  For example, boys wearing their pants around their ankles.  Unless you're two and potty training, it's not a look worth sporting.

I like watching Project Runway and poring over pattern catalogs.  Of course, I can only sew straight lines, so that limits me a bit in my creativity, but still it's a bit of an addiction.  Then, after living vicariously through the pages of Simplicity or the Lifetime channel, I go back to jeans, sweats, and fleece.  It's fun to look, though, and this is what gets me into trouble.

I am trolling through Facebook when I come across a suggested post: Couture Week in Paris.  Ooooh, laaaa laaaa!  I wonder what fashions there are!  They must be so exciting since it's couture, whatever the frik that means.  The first few fashions don't intrigue me -- see-through clothing, like completely sheer.  Oh yes, my three-times-through-childbirth hips and waistline and my middle-aged lopsided boobs would look ravishing in a see-through gown.  But, there are a few almost-normal outfits that interest me: simple yet elegant, and totally and completely copy-able.

Then, though .... then arrives The Fashion Freak Show.

I'll digress for a moment and admit that I have been to the ICA in Boston.  The ICA stands for the Institute of Contemporary Art, which is shorthand speak for "pathetic excuses for art that wouldn't earn a grade school student a D on the best of days."  Some of the "fine art" displayed there includes a ream of white paper glued together in a neat pile, a wooden chair nailed to the wall, and a pile of old television sets.  Thank goodness I got in there on a free-pass day or else I would've punched out the smug docent who followed us around trying to educate us on the finer points of why crap passes for art in his world.

It was all akin to the Emperor's New Clothes.

Bring it back to present day couture fashion, which is the Emperor's clothing at worst and the ICA crap at best.  Suddenly my eyes are barraged with what passes for modern clothing: dresses with cut out lips pasted on them, sequined lobster shirts, white go-go boots, and see-through/peekaboo privates.

Either I just don't "get" fashion, or else I am the stupidest person on the face of Earth.  Either way, I would neither buy nor wear this shit ... unless I'm going to the ICA.  In that case, I'd stand in a corner of the room and pretend to be a display.  I could totally pull that one off.

HAIKU MONDAY --- BECAUSE ... WHY NOT

My school is on break.
It's too cold to go outside.
So far my break sucks.
----------------------------------
Oh, look - The forecast:
They say, "More snow on the way."
Someone get shovels!
---------------------------------
I have the heat on,
But it is so dry in here
Damn, static hair frizz.
--------------------------------
My ears are so cold
That I have a fleece hat on
Inside of my house.
-------------------------------
Thank god for flannel
Sheets and for heavy blankets
And for fuzzy socks.
-------------------------------
Negative thirty
On Sunday with the wind chill.
Fifty on Tuesday.
-------------------------------
Lovely New England
Good thing you are so pretty
Because the temps bite.
-------------------------------

Good thing we have such
Extreme weather conditions --
Things to write about.
------------------------------
Batten the hatches:
February - not gone yet
But March sucks ass, too.
------------------------------
Another boring
Blog entry to start the day;
Fuck you.  Sue me.  Ha.

COUPLETS FOR VALENTINES DAY

Roses are red; cardinals are, too.
My toes are quite frozen and now they are blue.
 --------------------------------------------------------

Valentines Day is only for daters,
So give me some chocolate to fend of the haters.
 --------------------------------------------------------
 How do you love me? Let us count the ways.
This ought to be good; should take you days.
 --------------------------------------------------------
 I would like to send you a Valentine
I'm making believe that you can be mine.
 --------------------------------------------------------
 Valentines Day - when everyone shares
Little boxed cards ... but nobody cares.
--------------------------------------------------------

Roses are red, but violets are not blue.
Whoever wrote that is as stupid as pooh.
--------------------------------------------------------
Daisies are white; my heart is red:
Good thing it is, or else I'd be dead.
--------------------------------------------------------
Happy Valentine's Day, everyone.  Make it a great day!
That's it - no jokes - It's all I want to say.

ZEN TAKES A BREAK

What happens when you go to a meditation class then decide to drink wine afterward?

Oh, you think you know the answer, don't you?

WRONG!

You get home to find out your youngest child is about to go meet people for drinks about 2/10ths of a mile away.

"Wanna go,"'you're asked.

"Hell. yes."

And so one night of relaxation turns into an evening of wine and relaxation the beer and relaxation.  The best part?  I'm on break until 2/22.

Oh, sure, tomorrow I will wake up and it will be way too cold to walk to/from a bar like it was tonight.  Tomorrow the wind chill will suck, and I will have to correct papers and maybe, if I'm really lucky, go to a wine tasting.

But, until then, I have found Zen, and maybe, just maybe, Zen has found me.  In the meantime, I'll be at the bar on Essex Street, searching for the meaning of life.

P.S.  Wear your mittens.  (We're not complete savages.)

TRUE STORY SPUN AS ONLY I WILL

The company that makes Viagra is jonesing for tax breaks in my town. 

The company wants to expand, make itself larger, and show us all how big it is.  The problem seems to be that it's taking longer to get it up to the board, who is taking a slow, long, hard look at the numbers.

The company claims it will add "hundreds of jobs," then actually admits that it will only add maybe one hundred.  As the makers of Viagra, it probably goes without saying that they exaggerate the actual numbers of their research, and that cold weather and stress may be contributing factors to the significant discrepancies in the perceived numbers and the true numbers.  Some claim it's all about how you look at the numbers - frontal or side view.

Both sides are banging away, forcing the climax of this serious issue.  Matters will come before the hard-line board members, who will be steeled against giving more than a few inches in the encounter.  The Viagra manufacturer hasn't been able to penetrate the private areas where the board meets except in explicit, open, scant meetings where the dance between members often happens in bare chambers without benefit of press coverage.

Either way, both sides feel they are being shafted.  If breakage occurs during negotiations, the whole deal could go bust and need to be aborted.  If this happens, we'd really be screwed.

VIRTUALLY OUT OF BUSINESS

Retail shopping is dead.  If it isn't dead, it's damn near there.

Don't believe me?  Witness the store closings at JC Penney, Macy's, Wal-Mart, and now Sears and KMart.  It's not just department stores, either.  Barnes and Nobel and Walden Books and other hands-on book stores have fallen to the mighty online industry (which doesn't treat authors well, either through royalties or through the remainder perks).  Fast food chains are closing their doors partially because of the health craze and GMO awareness, but also because people who don't deserve to earn $15 an hour are demanding $15 an hour and putting businesses right out of ... well ... business. 

Let's face the music:  People are tired of paying top shit to buy mediocre shit and to be treated by employees like lowest shit.

I remember working retail when we were not allowed to speak to other employees on the floor about anything non-customer or work related.  When I worked for Market Basket, people were fired for such behavior.  It was considered unprofessional -- we were there to work.  Period.

Now you go into a store and the check-out people are talking about what kind of lubricant they use.  They eat at their stations.  They ignore customers to chat with their friends.  They would rather stand around and socialize than actually help anyone, and they socialize in any goddamn language they please while customers wait and wait and wait and wait.

Sears?  Please, I'll shop there for jeans or tools or exercise equipment, but their customer services blows chunks.  You can die of old age waiting for a salesperson to help you even though there are hundreds of them milling about on the sales floor.  I have little sympathy for Sears' current sales plight. 

Unfortunately, the Wal-Mart closings are affecting my retirement plan as I will either die at my desk or live out my golden years in a beat-up van, which I was hoping to park in Wal-Mart parking lots as I hobo-ed my way around the country. 

What will I ever do if there's nothing left but empty, abandoned malls?  I went to the Pheasant Lane Mall for the first time ever the other night, and I was shocked at how empty the place was.  Dead.  Deserted.  I could've driven my car through the place and not hit a single shopper.  Okay, maybe three or four, but it was a ghost town considering it is in such an urban area (and tax-free zone only seconds from the Taxachusetts border).

I'm guilty, I know, of abandoning retail physical stores for the virtual ones.  It totally sucks when I go into a store looking for something, trying to find a sale item, or with a certain item in mind, only to find that it doesn't exist on their real shelves -- only their online shelves.  One of the main reasons that I cannot move from my current location is because the FedEx and UPS drivers know where I live and know how to safely hide my package deliveries.  (Except the super heavy kayak boxes... they left those out front by the street and I had to drag them to my door in the back.)

I'm sorry for these stores, truly and deeply.  But, the writing has been on the wall for a very long time.  Maybe if they'd brought virtual shopping/virtual customer service into their stores, they'd still be in their glory.  Remember Service Merchandise?  Remember picking items out of a catalog, entering the catalog numbers into the computer, and then your order would come out to you on a roller-style conveyor belt?  It's a damn shame they went out of business: They were pioneers ahead of their time when you could do virtual shopping in an actual store.  No mess, no fuss, instant service, and instant products.

Hmmm, I wonder if I'll have to change my retirement plan now.  I need to find someplace cheap with overnight parking and free WiFi.  Maybe Dunkins will turn every store into 24-hours, or maybe those select CVS stores will start offering WiFi.  Either way, retail may not be totally dead, but, if it doesn't step up its game, seeing a box-style department store will be like seeing a dinosaur replica in a museum.

Well, in a virtual museum, of course.

PAPER SNOWBALL FIGHT

What do you do when twelve year olds come to school after an unexpected, snow-fueled four-day weekend and are only four days away from a week's break from school?  How do you keep them from crawling up the walls with energy?

I need the kiddos to sit relatively still and write science fiction tales in their journals.  I need them to sit relatively still while I read the fifteen possible writing prompts, but they're antsy-in-their-pantsy and are having a tough time settling in, especially since it has started snowing lightly outside.

They open up their binders and clean out anything related to last week's reading.  All of my students just took the final exam on that unit, so they don't need all the study guides, worksheets, and story notes that clutter up their lives.  We recycle everything except one paper of their choosing.  They roll the paper into balls and put the paper balls on their desks. 

They figure I'm going to let them shoot baskets into the recycle bin.  They are so wrong.

I divide the class in half and have them line up along opposite walls.  I explain the rules about paper being fair game as long as no one crosses the center line through the room.  And then ... we throw. Paper "snowballs" are flying all over the place.  I kick them back into play when they roll under my desk.  As long as no one gets hurt, they can shoot at each other for a full minute. 

No one gets hurt but me.  I take a direct hit to the collar bone near my throat and bust out laughing.  The horrified face of the student who fired the missile is enough to crack me up even more.  Maybe she whipped at me on purpose and maybe she didn't, but it's still hilarious.

Once the energy is spent, we all get down to business.  Journals are distributed and writing happens (for some more than others).  It's okay.  It's day one of the assignment, and we'll put the stories aside for another day or two and then attack them anew before the long break.  By the end of the week, the energy level will be high again, walls will be crawled again, and maybe we'll be ready to toss a few more "snowballs" for old times sake.

SNOW DAYS POEM

Since there's no school and I'm here at home,
I figured it must be time for a poem.
Monday the shoveling of snow really bit;
Friday the snow was heavy as shit
It would've been nice to catch up on work,
But, because the weather is being a jerk,
I did not plan well enough, no plan in kind --
So all the correcting?  Forgotten behind.
I dabbled with housework and tried for a book,
Instead I got bored and decided to cook:
Pumpkin bread, chicken pie, and a beef stew,
More than enough for my household of two.
But now it's all over, back to work I go.
Thanks for the break, and thanks for the snow.
If people don't like snow, please tell me clear:
Just what exactly are they still doing here?
This is New England; Snow's what we do.
Good-bye, my Snow Days, I'll be missing you.

RIPPING OFF THE BOONDOCK SAINTS

Almost half-time in the Super Bowl (or Superbowl, depending on which website you check), and I've yet to see a commercial worth writing home about.  The Bud Light one was kind of funny, but, since this country's politics are in the toilet right now, that kind of ruined the moment.

But let's talk about Willem Dafoe in a dress, shall we?  Hahaha, isn't he so funny!  Oh.  Wait. We've seen Dafoe in a dress before.  Yes, yes, we here in Boston most certainly have.  (I could do the research, but Dafoe strikes me as the kind of guy who would pull this stunt a few times since he does it so well.)

The commercial in question is a Snickers commercial.  Sorry, Snickers, but there's no way you'll ever top the Betty White football shtick, although Danny Trejo as Marcia Brady was pretty stinking funny the first time I saw it.  In the 2016 Super Bowl commercial, Dafoe is a cranky Marilyn Monroe, and it's ... well ... just ... not ... funny.  It's not funny, at least not to me.

Instead, the commercial is giving me a major flashback to the first time (and every time since) that I ever saw the 1999 classic film The Boondock Saints.  Dafoe plays agent Paul Smecker, who, over the course of pursuing the MacManus brothers (and father, eventually), comes unglued when he starts blurring the lines between the written law and the moral right.  To gain access and abet the bloody take-down of some Boston-area bad guys, Smecker (Dafoe) dons a wig, a skirt, garters, and a few other feminine essentials to transform himself into the precursor of Caitlin Jenner.

Anyone who has witnessed the scene I'm referring to will instantly understand why seeing Dafoe in a dress, any dress, is ultimately more disturbing than the fact that he/she needs a Snickers bar to morph into Marilyn Monroe.  In the movie, he kicks ass (maybe a little more frontal) in high heels, and the lip quiver after shooting the bad guy is epic.  Nearly as epic, I might add, as his posturing to classical music at the scene of a gang-style massacre in which he sings out, "It was a FIREFIGHT!!!!!!!!!!!!"

Snickers, I know you and your ad people had good intentions.  Maybe you wanted to dredge up the murderous imagery and maybe you didn't, but it's not cool.  So not cool.  The only unglued Dafoe in a dress belongs to the streets of Boston, to our moment in film history. 

The Super Bowl already robbed us of Tom Brady.  Don't rob us of The Boondock Saints, as well.  Bastards.