BEAUTIFUL WEATHER FOR MEMORIAL DAY

Thank you, Weather Forecasters.
Thank you for predicting that Monday, Memorial Day, is going to suck and rain and be shitty all day.
Your forecast allows me to relax outside in the sun for a while.
I think it might've sprinkled ever so slightly this morning because I see water on the patio chairs.
Other than that, today has been glorious.
Of course, I left today to do work, being stuck inside and all.
Oh, Weather Forecasters.
I pick on you people a lot.
It's not like you don't deserve it.
You have the latest technology and still cannot make accurate predictions.
The town in which I work cancelled their parade because of you idiots.
"It's gonna RAIN!!!!  All hell's gonna break loose!  Batten the hatches!!!!!"

Dumb jerks.
Thank you, though.
Thank you for telling me how horrible it is going to be.
Today is like a gift.
The sun is shining and the windows are open.
It's like winning the lottery before returning to work Tuesday.
Thank you from the bottom of my sun-kissed heart and to
The top of my reddened decolletage.
Not gong to lie -- I love it when you're wrong.
AGAIN.

THOUGHTS FOR MEMORIAL DAY

Memorial Day is the day we choose to honor those who died while serving in the American Armed Forces.  It is not Veterans Day, and, although a wonderful thing to do, thanking a veteran is not the intention of the holiday.

Several disgusting things happen this Memorial Day.  Cemeteries in California, Kentucky, and Virginia report various damages to military graves.  These acts of vandalism are despicable, unforgivable even.  The people responsible for this should be rounded up and dropped from the sky into some horrid country like Iraq or North Korea or Somalia.  Same thing with anyone disrespecting our flag.  Don't like America?  Get the fuck out.  We'll even help you.

Obama, who, in my opinion anyway, has been the worst excuse for a politician in my lifetime, is in Hiroshima apologizing for the US ending WWII.  Apologizing.  I mean, I suppose I can forgive him; he probably failed modern world history.  We already know he must've failed civics.  Oh, sure; let the president go to Hiroshima, but for the love of God, man, don't do it on (or near) Memorial Day.  That's a fucking insult.

Agree with me or don't agree with me.  I don't care.  The only thing I do care about on Memorial Day is honoring the fallen servicemen and servicewomen who lost their lives fighting for the belief that all humans are created equal, that they are all endowed with the basic rights of life and of liberty and of the pursuit of happiness.

Since they cannot speak for themselves, here's what I do have to say: Thank you for your ultimate service and godspeed.

WINE OF THE WEEK - 2014 PREDATOR ZINFANDEL

It dawns on me today that I should probably be posting on Sundays the results of my wine tastings on Saturdays.  So, folks, welcome to today's maiden publication of Wine of the Week.

At todays' tasting I get to try nothing but zinfandels, and they're pouring them and serving the zins along with some appetizers at the store. The highlights are, unfortunately, exactly like last week's tasting; every bottle is a WINNER.

The 2014 Federalist Zinfandel is one of my faves, anyway.  It's an all-around decent bottle of red wine and a good grab if you're going anywhere with anyone who likes reds.  The 2014 Cline Ancient Vines is fruity and light, and it's a very drinkable wine, whether you pair it with food or not. 

The 2013 Brazin zinfandel is fruity but not so light.  It's bold and calls for cheese.  Klinker (2013) is not a klunker, and its peppery taste would also be good with food, maybe something like a decent steak.  Any one of these wines, along with a few others I taste, could be coming home with me today.  I try them, then I try a couple of them again just to be sure.

While I'm debating the decision, another round of hamburger sliders comes off the grill, and I decide it would only be polite to try one.  This is when I have a brainstorm.  One of the zinfandels smells like smoky bacon and had a distinct taste of barbecue. 

Aha!  Let's try them together!!!!

Okay, so this is not MY brainstorm, but rather the brainstorm of the wine store.  I take a bite of the barbecued burger then a sip of the smoky bacony zin.

A-FREAKIN-MAZING.

Folks, the first one of you who invites me to have a cook-out will be the lucky recipient of a bottle of 2014 Predator Zinfandel, and I promise you, it's a wine you are not likely to forget.  It's this week's pick in my (hopefully) Sunday wine blog.

BEACH CHAIRS

It's that time of year again! 

I'm driving down the road and I hear "Clink ... kaaaa-linka ... clinky ....chinkachinka ...."  Something is shifting around in the way back of my car, metal scraping against metal, and normally I should be concerned, perhaps even annoyed. 

Instead, though, I am totally excited. 

The noise is not coming from a bad exhaust system nor from bad rims nor from some loose mechanical error.  The noise is coming from the two chairs I just packed into my car.  Not just any chairs,though; my beach chairs.

That's right: I have put both of my beach chairs into my car, ready at a moment's notice for beach adventures.  Weekends, after work ... anytime.  It doesn't matter.  Any time the mood strikes me or the weather cooperates, I can drive thirty minutes to the sandy shores of the North Atlantic. The beach chairs smack together in the back of my car, clapping for summer and for sand and for salty waves; clapping for me and for freedom and for the sunshine we all so desperately need.

I have my chairs; I'm ready.

THE BIRD WHISPERER

I'm outside sweeping my patio, trying to get all the loose twigs and errant worm poop cleaned up.  And, yes, for you doubters, there really IS such a thing as worm poop. Worm pee, too.  I'm minding my own business when I hear my neighbor's kid screaming nasty swears from his third-floor room.

I don't know what's going on.  Maybe he's fighting with his siblings.  Maybe he's losing at a video game.  Maybe he smashed his foot on the edge of the bed frame (which I've done several times, eliciting bad words from my sweet little mouth).  All I hear is the FUCK word, over and over again.

When I take a moment to listen a little more closely, I hear, "Get the fuck away from me, bird.  Damnit!  Shit!"  And, finally, "THERE'S A FUCKING BIRD IN MY ROOM!!!!!!"

The yelling goes on with occasional pleas for his father.  Perhaps his father is a bird whisperer or something.  Mostly, though, it's the same thing over and over again:  "Get the fuck away from me, bird.  Damnit!  Shit!  THERE'S A FUCKING BIRD IN MY ROOM!!!!!!"

I notice his window, once open without benefit of a screen, is now closed,  I'm not entirely certain how he thinks the bird will leave if the egress is blocked. His younger brother enters the room, excited about the bird, and riles the poor thing up even more, causing the room owner to shriek even harder.  I can hear him from my perch in the driveway below the window yelling, "Dad!  DAAAAAAAAAD!!!!!"

His father, a native of Italy, is no stranger to free-roaming birds.  From what I can still hear outside the house, Dad enters the room, sees the frantic bird, and immediately starts cooing.  "Poor scared birdie," he clucks, "peep peep peep peep peep..."

I am told later that accompanying the father's bird noises are also little chicken steps across the room, mimicking some strange Big Bird-like creature.  Who am I to judge?  Apparently this approach works, and the bird, now calm and still, allows Dad to scoop it into his hands, and he carries the little feathered treasure outside, releasing it back into the wild from whence it came.

Holy shit, the father really IS a bird whisperer!

Later, after my sweeping and picking up is done, I sit outside reading for a short while.  I glance up to the third floor window of the front house and notice the boy's window is still closed.  Probably a good call, all things considered.

NORTH CAROLINA ADVENTURES, CHAPTER #4

The trip to North Carolina, much like the one I made on Good Friday, is a quick hit.  My daughter and I have to be back for work on Monday, my son is studying for grad school exams in addition to working remotely, and my daughter-in-law is adjusting to motherhood (quite beautifully, I might add).

After my daughter and I gawk at the giant church then do our brewery errands, we meet my son's family for lunch at a local pizzeria at one of the sprawling strip malls.  I will say this: Charlotte shopping plazas are spectacular.  They are built for efficiency and beauty, have wonderful parking, are dotted with fountains and brickwork, and are gorgeously landscaped.  Add to this some of the best weather I've ever encountered, and I start to wonder why I'm living in Massachusetts.  (Oh, yeah.  Boston.  That's right.)

Later on, we meet at one of the other malls for dinner.  The outdoor areas are expansive, and my daughter and I play Marco Polo trying to locate my son and his family.  We probably should've walked since the shopping plaza is near out hotel, but I have the heebie-jeebies about walking across six-plus lanes of traffic, even with a walk-light.  There are many choices for food, and I have trouble making up my mind, ultimately deciding on a half-sandwich of turkey club with amazing spicy mustard.  The half-sandwich is so big that I actually take some of it back to the hotel to finish later.

The open mall area is family friendly.  There are musicians putting on a show, which happens every Saturday evening, fountains flowing, BYOB (or buy some at the shops or restaurants and bring it outside to the ample seating), and kids are everywhere.  This is not a bad thing.  Kids are enjoying themselves and it's obviously a very safe area.

The following morning before we have to get to the airport, we check out from the hotel.  The same desk clerk from whom I pilfered bedding is behind the desk.  I am silently mouthing, "Oh, please do not call me out for breaking into your office and laundry ... please ... please ... please...."  All systems seem to be a go.

We hit my son's house one more time.  Unfortunately, I over-burp the baby, who christens my fleece jacket (my own fault -- babies either cry or throw up on me, so I'm feeling victorious for the latter).  A quick wash and dry, and I'm absolutely no worse for the wear.  The baby is probably hungry again thanks to my rusty mom-skills, and we wrap up our trip with me feeling slightly guilty but extremely content to have been able to spend time with all of them and to have my daughter along.

Heading back to the airport, I stop for gas exactly where I've planned without getting lost, and I make it back to the rental area without missing the entrance like last time.  Everything is wonderful, right?  Right?  RIGHT?!

Chris the Sweaty Rental Guy is not there.  Instead, It's Cruella DeVille.  She walks around the car and spots ... Oh, SHIT.  There is a huge scrape along the side of the car that was NOT there when we rented it.  It's obvious someone with a white car hit it when they were pulling out or pulling into a spot next to us.  I quickly do a mental check.  Didn't happen at the breweries - I parked away from people at one and we were the only patrons at the other.  Did it happen at Chilis?  At the hotel?  Oh, damn.  Maybe we should've walked to the Saturday mall music evening, after all.

I deny any wrong-doing.  I mean, truly, we have no idea how it happened.  My daughter stays mute while I say things like, "Chris said don't worry about scrapes, only dents.  We went around looking at scrapes, and there were scrapes..."  Blah blah blah.  Cruella insists that the scrapes are NOT on the original walk-about paperwork.

Of course, this is the ONE TIME that I do NOT purchase the frigging extra insurance.  "Well," Cruella says, "we'll have to file a claim with your insurance."

"Okay, then, you do that," I remark as my daughter and I take off toward the terminal.  Scrapes or no scrapes, we're not missing our flight home.  The entire plane ride back to Boston, I am pissed off about the rental car.  They'll probably charge my credit card.  Maybe they'll call my insurance company, though I'm not sure how they do that through my license.  Isn't that a bit of an invasion of privacy?

A week later, I am still wondering.  I've yet to see the credit card bill or hear from my insurance company or the car rental company.  But, I have come to the conclusion that paying for a scraped bumper is a hell of a lot better than what could've happened -- us driving around Charlotte and hitting two breweries without the proper registration in the car as we left it on the hotel suite's table for several hours.

It's all good, though.  As it goes, we land at Logan in excellent time, find my daughter's SUV (no dents or scrapes), the parking is twenty dollars less than I'm expecting it to be, and we avoid most of the traffic back-ups on the highway north.

It kind of sucks, though, that I'll have to go to another car rental company the next time I'm in Charlotte.  I think I'll take another chance on the hotel, though.  I mean, I do know where the extra laundry is and how to make off with it.  That has to count for something.

NORTH CAROLINA ADVENTURES, CHAPTER #3

The Fiat rental car has a mind of its own.  It shakes and dances and basically rocks and rolls all over the place.  We have to be very careful about eating and drinking when getting into the car because we might spill and we might barf.  Basically, the car, with under 17k miles on it, is like a ride at Six Flags -- it's akin to a Tilt-A-Whirl or an old Whip with a Turkish Twist thrown in for fun.  Gripping the wheel is a great workout for my arms, though.

For a regular car, this thing is pretty small, but for a Fiat, this car is a giant.  I think it's a 500X, which means we can put five people inside as opposed to barely squishing in two.  Aside from being unable to find the headlights without special directions and constantly setting off the alarm when we open the back doors, it's a decent little vehicle.  Well, if we forget about the carnival-ride shaking.

The car has a Texas license plate, which is good because the locals should know we're from out of town.  It helps with the forgiveness factor of our poor driving as a result of my horrible navigational skills.  Also, having the Texas license plate makes people slightly more rational about our lane changes as they believe we are fellow Southerners and not the Damn Yanks we truly are.

In addition to visiting the fam and the new bambina, my daughter and I want to explore a couple of breweries: one is to bring back a birthday gift for my youngest, and the other is to bring back gifts for my co-workers.  After my massive highway failure trying to get here from the airport, I figure I should just try the back roads.  Since we've already hit a Chili's, just like back home, we decide to find a Dunkin Donuts, just like back home.  We discover a Dunkins three miles up the road from where we are staying and set out to find it, which we do without incident.  We order iced coffee and two muffins, one blueberry and one chocolate chip.

We haul our loot back to the hotel and warm both muffins in the microwave.  The problem is that we cannot tell one muffin from the other.  Usually the blueberry ones have lots of giant sugar crystals on top; I know this from being an assistant manager at Dunks back in the day.  However, neither muffin seems more remarkable than the other, so we take a chance.

"I have your chocolate chip muffin," I tell my daughter.

"No, you don't," she assures me.  So, I take a peek at hers.  Sure enough, she has a chocolate chip muffin.

I try mine again.  The "blueberries" are melting, and I taste it one more time.  Nope, I got a chocolate chip muffin, too.  I guess I'm eating a chocolate chip muffin today.

We are still too early to go see the baby and also too early to hit the breweries, so we jump back into the Fiat with our Dunks coffee and head out to explore.  We are shaking all over the place, and the ice cubes in the coffees clink with ridiculous fervor as we careen down the road.  Someone told me that the NC police ticket anyone going over the speed limit, so I am being exceptionally mindful of my New England Lead Foot.  Thankfully, Rea Road is a two-laner, so locals can pass the Texas Fiat with ease.

Somewhere along the journey, our road turns into another road without any warning.  My daughter checks Goggle and discovers the road we started out on is now a few roads parallel to us.  How we lost the road is a mystery.  We decide to drive toward the old road which is now the new road.  Hanging a right onto route 51, I casually say, "Maybe we'll find a park or a church to stop at so we can drink our coffee until the breweries open."

Here's where I should probably mention that my son said if we're going to sight-see, we should look for the massive church. Being a Northerner, massive church equals giant steeples and arches and stained glass windows.  I've seen those massive multi-plex churches on television, the ones where they have stadium seating for the masses, but I guess I've never really put to mind what that might look like from outside.  When the humongous church comes into view, both my daughter and I scream blasphemous epithets.

"HOLY SHIT!  JESUS CHRIST!  HOLY CRAP!  OH ... MY ... GOD!"

Yes ... yes ... yes ... and yes.  What we stumble upon is the Calvary Church, which is, without any doubt whatsoever, the biggest big-ass church I have ever seen.  According to information on the Internet, the main sanctuary can seat more then 5,000 people at a time.  My daughter and I get out and start walking around the building, which is like walking a 5k.  We are on the grass taking pictures when we realize that we can hear people inside and that there are a lot of cars there.  Suddenly we are wondering if parishioners inside the glassed windows can see us prancing around outside.

We retreat to the back of the complex, a walk that takes us about four minutes, and sit under a tree at a picnic table.  Something small and white falls from a tree and bites my daughter in the arm.  Oh great.  First we disrupt a church service, and now my daughter will get gangrene from some rare and weird Southern insect.  Of course we blaspheme again, swearing out things at the insect like, "Damn," "fucking bugs," and saying "Holy crap" a few more times.  Apparently we are going to Hell, directly to Hell, do not pass go, do not collect two hundred dollars.

We debate walking through the cemetery, but time is no longer on our side.  The breweries open soon, and we have errands to run and get back to visit the family, which is why we're here in the first place.  We hit the road again, letting Sirri get us to where we need to be.  Our brewery adventures already made last week's blog, but suffice it to say that as we are parking at brewery #2, I have a sudden and horrible thought.

I have forgotten the important car registration paperwork back on the table of our hotel room.  I am now driving an out-of-state car after having a few samples of beer without benefit of legal papers should anything happen.  For a few brief moments I panic at the thought of ending up in a Charlotte jail somewhere for driving an unregistered car (though it really is registered, but still), and possibly earning myself a DUI as I have no idea what the legal limit is here for drinking and driving.

As we shake and shimmy our way back toward Rea Road, this is when I say a little prayer and hope any good juju we picked up at the Calvary Church stays with us until we are safely back at the hotel.   It does ... at least until we deliver the rental back to the airport the following day.  But that's a tale for another day.  I mean, seriously -- Holy crap, indeed.

NORTH CAROLINA ADVENTURES, CHAPTER #2

My daughter and I arrive back at the hotel in NC, and we decide to start getting the bed situation set up.  I don't mind sharing a king bed because I am one of those creepy sleepers -- I snuggle up on the far edge on my side, and I stay that way pretty much all night.  I sleep like a sardine in a can regardless of how spacious the accommodations.  Even though I offer to put up a pillow barrier and give my daughter 3/4 of the bed, she deems it way too creepy and opts for the pull-out couch.

I know from my first visit here that the linens are in the cupboard under the television, except they're not there.  I check the closet.  No linens.  I check the drawers, the bathroom, and every single kitchenette cabinet.  No linens.  So, I head to the main desk.  The young girl there offers me sheets, but, when I return to the room, I realize that we still need a mattress pad and a blanket.  I go back and ask for them.  The girl, sighing, says there are no blankets.  Hmmmm, wrong answer, I say.  She decides she will find them for us and bring them to us, which means she is going off to raid unbooked rooms.

After waiting a very long time, long enough for my daughter to give up and jump in the shower, I go back looking for the desk clerk.  I go back and forth to and from the room four times, but she is neither here nor there.  The last time I try to find her, I go behind the unmanned desk myself to the door marked "Employees Only," the one into which I saw her disappear to get the sheets a half hour ago.  The room is an office stocked with bottle after bottle of wine.  Tempting... but not what I'm after.  I quickly shut the door and step away.

As I turn the corner from the front desk, I see a door marked "Laundry."  Hmmmm.  I used to be a hotel housekeeper.  I know what I'm looking for, but the door will surely be secured.  I used to have to use a master key-pass to open the laundry door.

I try the handle, anyway, just for shits and giggles.

Surprise!  The door opens slightly.  I can see the wire rack with sheets.  I can also see a bedspread and a mattress pad.  I grab one of each and head back toward the room.  Halfway down the hall, I pass the desk clerk.  She gives me the evil eye, but I smile and keep on walking.  She has managed to find two blankets, which she delivers to my daughter while I am busy stalking the front desk.  The only advantage I have is that I do not think the desk clerk is bright enough to realize what I've done.

My daughter and I make up her bed, even though the mattress pad is king-sized and her pull-out is a double.  I throw one extra blanket on her bed and the other on mine.  Although the room's walls make weird electronic noises and we hear people chatting outside all night long, we are secure and comfy.

If I can just make it through the rest of the weekend without anyone checking the security camera tapes and without housekeeping coming in and discovering what we've pilfered, we should be safe and sound for another thirty-six hours.  We put the "Do Not Disturb" sign on the door handle just in case, and it will stay there until we leave to check-out.

NORTH CAROLINA ADVENTURES, CHAPTER #1

My recent adventures in North Carolina give me quite a bit of fodder for writing.  It all starts when my daughter comes to pick me up at work so we can get to the airport.  I watch for her from my window, which faces the visitors' parking area, so when I see her car, I announce, "My ride's here!"  The students rush to the window and start waving, even though her car is about one hundred yards away.  I snap a picture of them in the classroom waving to her, instead.  It has been a long morning of state testing after two other long mornings of state testing, so we're all a little punchy; our waving picture is a silly but endearing.

Even though we are early for our flight, we have no trouble finding a parking spot near the terminal walkway bridge.  This is the same terminal we'll be flying back into, so it will be easy in and easy out.  We get into the security line, which is long, and I see people being frisked and checked and having luggage opened.  Many of them are in socks, having their shoes removed for the check.  A woman comes along and ushers us to the TSA pre-check area, away from this horrid snake of accosted travelers, and we are through security in about ten minutes -- the line is nine minutes and thirty seconds; our security check is thirty seconds.

We get TSA pre-check by proxy.  I had never flown before Good Friday of this year when my friend convinced me to get on an airplane.  She is TSA pre-check via flying with her military son, which made me TSA pre-check for that flight.  Apparently, since I pose no threat to national security, I am now on the TSA pre-check list, too, which means so is my daughter who is traveling with me.  This means that if I ever do have to go through the basic security at an airport, I will have no flaming idea what I am supposed to do.

We are so early we decide to get lunch.  Our waitress has other ideas and decides to chat with a pal after taking our beer order.  Waiting fifteen, maybe even twenty, minutes for draft beer, I get up, go to the bar, and pick the beer up myself.  Strike one for the waitress.  When we're ready to go, it takes almost as long to get the check.  Strike two.  I'm generally a generous tipper, but not today.  She gets what she gets at 15%.

We have a layover in DC.  I had to proctor the test this morning, so we have to work our tickets around the state of Massachusetts and the dreaded PARCC test.  Thank god it's a timed test or I'd never have made the plane to get to DC in the first place.  Dulles is swarmed with people.  It's like someone poked the hornet's nest.  They're everywhere.  We locate a bathroom then locate our gate.  After figuring out where we are, we walk a few gates away and find seats, me on a chair and my daughter on the floor.  I tug at my pocketbook and the leather strap on the zipper snaps off.  Great.  Now every time I need my money or my ID, I have to hook my pinkie into the metal ring that remains.

Our shuttle from DC to Charlotte is so small that we get to walk across the tarmac to it and climb aboard like rock stars.  The seats, even though they're tight, have more leg room than the large plane we were just on.  I am, however, disappointed to note that neither plane today has television screens, so I cannot watch the plane's progress on the map.  An extremely tall man, well over six feet, sits across the aisle from me.  His legs extend beyond the seating area though he folds himself up like a pretzel.

It's a short flight from DC to NC, and as soon as we are in the air it feels like we start descending.  We couldn't see any of DC from Dulles, which is kind of a rip-off, but we can easily see Charlotte as we approach Douglas Airport.  It's a beautiful evening, just before seven o'clock, and the fading sun beams off tall buildings downtown as we prepare for landing.  We are through the airport after a reasonably long trek from the gate, and we end up in line at the car rental place.  They're so busy the guy who checks us into the car is sweating from running around.  After a quick perusal of the bright red Fiat we will be driving, we're off.

Now, it's my turn to return my daughter's favor of getting us to the airport -- I'll be getting us out.  Only one wrong turn on the connecting highway, and we're headed to the hotel.  Good thing, too, because we cannot, for the life of us, locate the switch to turn on the headlights.  The car, with less than 17k miles on it, shakes so much it's like driving a massage car, and we accidentally keep setting off the alarm every time we open the back doors.

We do a quick meet-and-greet at my son and daughter-in-law's house to see them and the baby, but it's later in the evening by the time we get there, mostly because of my wrong turn and because it takes us five minutes to figure out the headlights while we are getting ready to leave the hotel.  We end up eating at Chili's the first night because the strip malls in NC are huge, the sizes of small towns, and it's a bit daunting in the dark.  Our Chili's waitress must be the long-lost twin of the waitress at Logan Airport back in Boston.  I almost have to find our drinks again, which seems to be something at which I need little practice (imagine that).

Tomorrow, I'll clue you in as to how I am probably on the security camera at the hotel, and why I probably will have to find a new place to stay the next time I go down.

STINKY SPRING

Oh, how I love the smell of Spring!

Today I attack the patio: sweep it, clean the furniture, arrange everything.  It is a battle of me against bird and worm poop, which covers pretty much everything.  Twigs and pollen and tree dander stick to the ground, and it takes two brooms to complete the job.  I sweep all the stuff into a pile and shovel it into bags to dump in the woods across the street.

Worse than the crap is the permeating smell of pee.  Worm pee.  The entire outdoors smells like a giant dirty litter box.  Breathe in the fresh air and get a mouthful of ammonia-tinged odor.  Even after I wash everything down, sweep as well as I can, and spray the area with cleaner, the overwhelming stench of worm urine remains.

The weather this spring is so unpredictable that everything blooms early then suffers in the overnight frosts.  My plants are dying off, weeds are growing heartily, and the lilacs last for all of a millisecond.  But the worms?  They just keep on keeping on, dropping from trees but mostly pooping from trees.  Pooping and peeing.

And man, does it stink.

I do love the smell of Spring, for the most part, when it smells like spring.  I just wish the plants' blossoms would last as long as the worm poop does.  Spring sure would smell better if it smelled more like a garden and less like a toilet.

TESTY ABOUT TESTING

I am just coming off two weeks of state-mandated testing at school.  The academic schedule has changed pretty much every day, the kids are toast, and I'm not allowed to give homework, which would normally be fine except that we have a 28-chapter book to get through in the next week or so. 

The classes during testing?  About twenty-five minutes long.

Get through a book?  I'll be lucky to get through a sentence.

My normally sunny demeanor (stop laughing -- I can hear you through the computer screen) is replaced by a drill-sergeant attitude.  "You have to keep up with me," I announce every day, "or we will leave you behind in the dust."  A few times kids ask a question about something we've already covered and covered again and recovered.  "No," I assure them, "I will not answer that a fifth time.  Keep up or be left behind.  Period."

This is not the teacher I want to be.  This is the teacher that six days of state testing created.  Really.  If you're going to test my students, then don't do it with three weeks left and counting.  Plus, every subject has end-of-year tests of our own to give:  Common Assessments, District Determined Measures, reading growth, grammar, unit wrap-up tests... 

When the hell are we supposed to administer these tests?  That, my friends, is the true million-dollar question.

HERE'S TO YOU

It's never easy when friends move, especially if they're moving far away.  I recently had a friend move to Los Angeles, then another to Costa Rica, and now another is moving to San Francisco.

When I walk into my friend's house this evening, her furniture is gone.  Well, not all of it, but a substantial amount.  I am surprised.  I didn't know her house was on the market yet and start wondering how it will be staged without furniture. 

Turns out she will be renting the house out.  Renting.  Hahahaha.  RENT-ING.  You know what that means?

That means eventually she has to come back.  Until then, I'll try to survive should she and her family decide that they miss New England soooo much.

Good luck on the west coast, my friends.  Here's to you!

DRINKING WITH DICKENS

I'm not much of a Dickens fan, stylistically speaking, but when it comes to the man's literary output, one should be properly impressed.  In grade 7 we teach a dramatized version of A Christmas Carol and have always gone to see the musical theatrical production with our students.

The inside joke, though, is that we (grade 7 ELA teachers) secretly hate the whole unit.  We have cleared it with the principal to stop going to the play.  The cost of the tickets plus the buses has made it an impossible field trip to maintain.  We have already had several Jehovah's Witnesses opt out of the unit, making for awkward moments in the classroom, so maybe we should eliminate the whole Christmas theme anyway.  Perhaps it's time. Either way, the life and times of Dickens are sometimes fodder for our ELA curriculum meetings.

While I am in North Carolina, my daughter and I google breweries in the area.  One of the breweries is so new that it didn't register on my original pre-trip inquiry, but it pops right up today on our search: Three Spirits Brewery.  A little research tells me that the three spirits of this brewery have nothing to do with the massive church complex nearby; these three spirits are from Dickens' A Christmas Carol. 

When we make our first pass at the brewery, the parking lot is empty ... absolutely massively deserted.  We turn around and decide to pull into the lot and figure out exactly where we are.  This is when we notice that the front door is open.  That's enough invitation for us -- We're out of the car in seconds. 

After all, once I read the brewery's background story, I am on a mission: bring back paraphernalia for my English teammates in honor of Dickens.

The place doesn't sell much for novelties.  It sells beer and it sells t-shirts.  I tell the bartender my story, and she hands over free stickers while pouring our flight of beer (pretty decent beer, by the way).  It's hard to hide out, as we are the only patrons in the place.  It's still early, and they just opened.  But, I manage to swipe some cork coasters from the table to go along with the stickers.  I top this off with a tactical distraction: I buy a t-shirt for myself, and then we're off, legal and lifted merchandise in our hot hands.

Back at the hotel, I examine the booty.  I feel like Sparsit, Cook, and the charwoman: I've swiped something from Scrooge, and I'm hitting the road with my newly-acquired possessions.  Do I feel the slightest guilt?  Bah, I say.  Bah humbug. After all, it's for the children, right?  It's to better their education since I now feel closer to old Charles's England.

Yup, the only thing better than an unexpected, curriculum-based brewery experience is being able to bring back loot for my pals.  As my buddy Charles Dickens would say, "God bless us every one."

FIGHTING THE FERRULE

We are in testing mode at school.  Last week it was three straight days of my subject; this week it's three straight days of math.  Even though we have all been trained, have devised multiple schedules, and have discussed all kinds of contingencies, testing does not proceed without its problems.

After day one of testing, one of my students' appendix explodes.  Another student severely sprains his wrist while playing goalie in soccer, and yes, it's his writing hand.  We fall victim to faulty directions, slow test materials collection, and a shortage of flimsy plastic rulers.

Worst of all, we discover that our favorite brand-name pencils are not as great as they used to be.  They're tough to sharpen, the graphite keeps falling out (like cheap mechanical pencils, only they're regular pencils), and the end caps keep popping off, erasers and all.  This last event sets off the science teacher, and he sends us all an email bemoaning the pencils' ferrules.

A ferrule is a metal band, and a pencil's ferrule is capped with a rubber eraser.  Most of us, though, just call that end of the pencil the end cap or, more directly, the eraser.  But the science teacher is known for his exactness and also for turning a phrase.  I'm not going to lie: I look up the definition of ferrule because I'm not certain that's what it is called.  I don't know why I question my coworker, though; of course, he is correct.

The school has two more days of testing.  I need to make my stash of pencils last just 160 more minutes total, or else I may end up with a class-wide mutiny on my hands.  After that, word will spread, all hell will break loose, and pretty soon we'll have mass mutiny.

Mass mutiny or not, though, I am anxious for testing to end so our team meetings can resume.  I'm dying to ask my teammate how he pulled the word "ferrule" out of his arsenal.

DISARMING WINDOWS UPGRADE

Windows 10 hijacks my laptop and attempts to install itself while I fold laundry. 

First of all, I don't want Windows 10.  Second of all, this is an old laptop.  I'm not even sure it can handle Windows 10, so I panic.  I panic big time.

I try disarming the install, but I don't even know how it started itself, so I don't know how to halt it.  I click buttons, I press esc five times, and I even press control + alt + delete.

No luck.

Eventually I manage to shut the whole laptop down with a finger pressed on the power button for what seems like an eternity.  When I turn the computer back on, the install has disappeared.  It's like the damn thing never even happened.

Almost twenty-four hours later, after several stints at the computer, I turn it on for maybe the third time since the phantom install attempt.  It's happening again.  The computer demands that I pick an install date and time.  There is no way out.

This time I show it to my son, just to make sure that I'm not completely insane.  He is as perplexed as am I.   There seems to be no way to stop it, no exit strategy, no kill switch, no disarming it.  The laptop is possessed.  I turn the computer off again by leaning hard on the power button.

Damn you, Windows 10.  If only you could get into government computers so easily and take over their minds.  Perhaps you could automatically do my online shopping for me, send emails, post grades, pay my bills.

 Until you do, though, I will fight you tooth and nail from taking over my computer!  I shall prevail!!!! I mean ... I will stave off the attack until I finally succumb to modern technology.  Yes, eventually my own computer will drag me, kicking and screaming, into the current communication age as it truly is smarter than I am.

ICED COFFEE FOR AMATUERS

What happens when people who don't drink coffee decide to drink coffee?

They make dumb mistakes, that's what happens.

I drink hot tea all the time and iced coffee on rare occasions.  I just get back from a weekend in North Carolina around 5:00 p.m., run some laundry, and turn back around for the airport to pick up my sister, who just happens to be flying in from New York at 9:00 p.m.  For some unknown reason, I have a burning desire to drink iced coffee.

"Small caramel iced coffee, regular," I say to the girl.

When people order their coffee "regular," some dumbass behind the counter always asks, "Do you want cream and sugar with that?"

WTF, people.  That's what regular IS.  It has freakin' cream and freakin' sugar in it.  I should know; I used to be a shift supervisor at Dunkins. Regular = Cream + Sugar.  Learn it.  Master it.

The girl behind the counter looks at me.  "No sugar.  Too sweet."

Mistake #2: Telling me how I want MY coffee.  "A little sugar," I implore.

"TOO SWEET!"

I convince myself she is actually yelling "tout suite," but I know she is not when I taste the bitter coffee.  HA!  I'll show her!  I add 3/4 of a packet of sugar to my coffee, take a giant gulp, and walk away.  As a matter of fact, I drink half that coffee down almost immediately.

Wait.  Oh, wait a second.  Doesn't coffee make people stay awake?  Hmmmm.  I have to work in the morning.  Dumb.  Dumb, dumb, dumb.  This is why people who do not know how to drink coffee should not be allowed to drink coffee without supervision. 

Monday when I am cranky and miserable with my classes, I'll have only myself to blame.  I'll show them my coffee cup and assure them that at least one of us (me or the java) is sweet.  I'm certain they'll have no problem deciding which one.

LIMERICK DAY PASSED

Limerick Day happened last week.  I missed it, so I'll start the week off with a few just for fun.  Enjoy!

When someone says, "Heya, great job!"
I don't mean to sound like a snob.
But surely I see
They want something from me,
And my butt doesn't need a corncob.

The weather is warmer than cool,
And soon I will raid sister's pool.
If I'm still alive,
You'll know I've survived
The final few long weeks of school.

I like to go tasting the wine;
A pastime I find mighty fine.
Table to table,
I sip what I'm able.
It tastes like it's straight off the vine.

I didn't plan for Limerick Day.
I'm sorry is all I can say.
I gave it some time
And tried hard to rhyme.
I'll post this crap poem anyway.

WARNING: BEACH IMPROVES MOODS

Apparently there is a study out that claims spending time at the beach can improve our moods.

Ummmm .... DUH.  Did someone really need to do a study on this?  I could've done the study and come up with the same data.

Years ago I worked for an educational government service agency.  The office always received the latest government publications of available grant money (bound larger than New York phone books).  One of the grants was for $35,000 to determine how long it took to cook a three-minute egg.

Hmmmm.  I'll wager a wild guess at three minutes.  And I'll wager that guess for a mere $29,500, saving the taxpayers a substantial chunk of change.

Honestly now.  Of course the beach lifts our moods.  The waves and the salty air are restorative even on a bad day.  I've gone to the beach in the dead of winter during the coldest of days just to get a glimpse of the water.  If I didn't live near the ocean, I don't know what I'd do.  If I lived in the Midwest, I'd probably be in an asylum from salt-air withdrawal.

Sure, people say large lakes are the same.  No, no they are not.  They're especially not the Atlantic.  Can you gaze across Lake Superior (well, no, actually you can't, but stay with me here) and know England is over there?  Nope.  Oh, don't be telling me about Canada or that people can see Russia or any bull like that.  These are merely freshwater envy statements.

The beach -- the ocean beach -- is an unmatched entity.  If people don't know that about the beach by now, they're doing it damn wrong.

BLOWING OUT THE BLOWERS

Our school is in the midst of high-stakes, state-mandated testing.  This week it's my subject; next week it's my teammate's subject.  Either way, the entire school is in test mode, and we're trying to keep the extraneous noise to a minimum. 

For the first time in four years, we are not contending with construction noise.  This should be cause for joy, right?

Hahahahahahahahahahahahahaha.  Excuse me while I take a breath and laugh some more.

Guess what day it is?  It's "Let's Mow the Lawn Right Outside All the School Windows" Day!  Yup, for some reason the school department thinks that not only is it appropriate to mow during regular school hours, but it's also okay to mow in the middle of testing.

Even better than that are the hand dryers in the bathrooms.  You know, the bathrooms that have NO DOORS and open wide to the hallway ten feet from my room.  It's not creepy enough that we can hear everything (and I do mean EVERYTHING) that happens in our "open-air" potties, but we have to listen to the airplane-like hand-dryer noise.

This week, though, we have a hero.  One of the janitorial staff employees has found a way to circumvent the electrical system and the hand dryers have mysteriously been disconnected.  Instead, a chair appears with a giant roll of paper towels.  A recycle bin appears across from the chair. 

We fantasize about raising enough ransom money to permanently disconnect the blowers.  Either way, for the next few school days, this mystery man will be our savior, delivering us from the constant WAH-OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOSH of the electric hand dryers and keeping the test-takers from jumping out windows onto the newly-mowed lawn.

CABLE MISCONNECTIONS

So, here's a true story.

I update to faster internet service, then almost instantly not one but both of my computers die.  I am left with a laptop that gets online but doesn't have Office, so I cannot do any work.  What a shame that I can't do work at home.  Boohoo.  (Bwaaaahaaaaaaa!)

The guy on the phone (somewhere in Pakistan) who sells me this higher speed internet package quotes me a special price -- $30 less a month than I'm paying now.  Woohoo!  New bill arrives two weeks later.  It's $60 MORE than I've been paying.

I call the cable company.  Three times I tell the automated system I have a problem with my bill.  Three times I get disconnected.  So, I call a fourth time and say I want to purchase NEW products!  Internet!  Phone!  Television!  You name it; I will BUY IT!

I instantly get connected to a service person.  Hahahahahaha!  She begrudgingly gets my bill fixed and claims it will be all set in about a week.  We exchange pleasantries and I hang up.

Moments later, my internet disappears.  DISAPPEARS.  It's like it never even existed.  Even my phone says it's gone.

I call back on my cell phone and get connected with service to fix the technical problem (back to Pakistan I go).  It gets fixed almost instantly when I mention, "I was JUST talking to your company about being OVER BILLED..."

Go ahead, cable company.  I DARE you to call me for a customer service satisfaction survey.  I'll sit right by the disconnected-from-cable phone waiting for you to reach out and touch my mad-as-hell self.

Dipshits.

WE'RE ON A ROAD TO NOWHERE

Driving to work:
     Early, too early.
          Ungodly early.
No traffic anywhere:
     Not downtown, not uptown.
          Not even the two-lane highway.
Sun teases landscape:
     Shining through trees, over church steeples.
          Defying clouds when rain starts.
Radio blasting:
     Talk, talk, talk; Stop talking so much.
          Doesn't anyone play music anymore?
Brain in high gear:
     Plan the day, psych myself up.
          Thoughts that never shut off.
Nearing an intersection in my white car:
     Ahead of me now, two white cars.
          Two white trucks pull out behind.
We are a parade of snow-white metal:
     Careening down the road, snaking past sleeping houses.
          Marching to nowhere.

MONDAY, SHMONDAY

Monday, shmonday. 

The alarm goes off too soon, it takes me too long to get lunches ready, I haven't really prepped a lesson for the day, and I don't feel all that well.  Actually, I'm quite surprised when I leave the house and realize that I'm running on time for a change.

As I'm driving to work, a huge dark cloud hangs low overhead even though blue skies are everywhere else.  The sun is (amazingly enough) shining this morning; there is hope it might be a decent day.  Just as I'm driving up the long road into the school lot, it starts to rain -- not hard, but big, fat, juicy plops that explode against the windshield.

I open the car door, grab my backpack, and decide there's no point in running for it; my hair is already all curled up, so it cannot get any worse.  This is when I look up.  I guess I have been so intent on pulling into any one of the hundreds of empty lot spots, that I don't notice the sky anymore, still grayish and part azure blue.

There shining brightly amidst the rain and the rays of sunshine, I see a beautiful, vibrant rainbow.  I grab my cell phone and snap a few pictures, but I'm not wearing my glasses, so I'm not even certain I'm pointing to the correct area of sky.

A coworker pulls into the lot behind me.  "Did you get the rainbow?" she asks.

"I think so."  At that moment, though, I'm not sure.  Later, with my reading glasses on, I can see that I did, indeed, "get the rainbow" and Monday did, indeed, just turn itself around.

A TALE OF HAIR GONE BAD ... AND GOOD ... AND BAD ...

So, I'm letting my hair go gray.  Again.  This is the second time.  The first time I did this, it took years and years because my hair was so long.  It was crazy having so many different shades in my hair at the same time, but I liked how easy it was to take care of -- long needed little cutting maintenance, and gray needed zero color maintenance.

Then I had a really, really bad year at work.  I had a coworker who was bat-shit crazy and attached himself to me like in infected hemorrhoid.  As a result of hating myself and hating him even more, I cut my hair (it took three visits because the stylists were afraid that I was also bat-shit crazy), foiled my hair, let it grow out again, foiled my hair, cut it again, put in keratin to straighten my hair, foiled my hair, let it grow out again, and finally, little by little, I let it go gray again and I chopped it.

Some people are attached to their hair.  I find it a necessary inconvenience in order to cover up what is probably a misshapen head from multiple stupid accidents growing up to beating it against concrete walls as an adult (both literally and figuratively).  I do find it fascinating that my hair cannot decide if it's straight or curly.  Mostly, it's wavy.  When it's long, it vacillates between being straight and being clown-like frizzy.  When I cut it, it often sproings into weird curls, sometimes all of it heading one direction, and sometimes it looks more like an explosion in a spaghetti factory. 

I'm not going to lie; I'm liking the gray.  It's not 100%, so maybe that's why it's kind of bitchin'.  But, if I know me, by the next time I go to the stylist, I'll be saying silly things like, "Throw some low lights in there for me..." because, much as the silver streaks are kind of cool, I'm not really old enough yet to look this old, and, lord knows, I'll never be mature enough for my real age, anyway. 

For now I'm enjoying simple things like not rolling over in my sleep onto a ponytail and giving myself a neck ache, not needing to find that perfect part line in my imperfect skull, or having the perfect blow-dry straight style until I discover it's drizzling out and I arrive at work with super-curly hair.  I'm also enjoying being able to get the brush through my hair without ripping pieces of scalp off.

Best of all, though, there are no long strands of hair clinging to my clothes.  It's unbearably gauche to stroll around in dark clothing only to discover ten-inch silver hair twisted around in squiggly hair-writing stuck to my back for all to see (and attempt to decipher).  Reinvention sometimes requires indecision, but that's the fun of it -- If you don't believe me, just read the hairy, unquestionably wise gray writing on my clothes.

A ROSE IS JUST A ROSE

The Kentucky Derby, also known as the Run for the Roses, fuels a weekend of rose (insert your own accent mark because the f*****g computer won't cooperate no matter how hard I try) tastings.  I don't need another rose.  I have a rose already plus a white zinfandel.  Actually, I shouldn't be buying wine at all.  I have several bottles backed up plus lots of prosecco.

 I should be deeply ashamed of myself. And yet ... a rose comes home with me, anyway.  (And another prosecco, I might add.)

I know, I know.  I sound like I have a problem, but, truly, I sip wine, I share wine, I even cook with wine.  I'm like the Frugal Gourmet!  Besides, red wine is supposed to be good for me, right?  Red wine and dark chocolate.  I should be the healthiest person on the planet by now.

So, I have my rose wine and I make myself an impromptu hat (which I forget to put on in all the excitement), and I pick my horses.  Of course I choose Nyquist for his name and NHL connection, but so does everyone else, so I go with my back-up choices:  Tom's Ready, My Man Sam, and Mo Tom.  For a while, one of them is even in the running, but, in the end, it's a damn good thing I didn't put any money on the race.

It's all right, though, because I still have half a bottle of lovely rose ... plus some back up bottles.  The race may be over, but the party certainly is not.  Happy Kentucky Derby Day (Saturday) and Mothers Day (Sunday).  Cheers!

IT'S BREAKFAST!

It is one of those days.  Actually, it has been one of those weeks.  All day Tuesday I think it's Wednesday.  All day Wednesday, I think it's Thursday.  By the time Friday comes, I'm completely discombobulated.

State testing is next week, so I have copying and more copying to get done as soon as possible.  This means several early mornings this week, arriving almost an hour early, which could explain why I feel like the week should be over already.

While walking back and forth between my classroom and the copy room, I see a woman setting up tables in the open area between the science labs.  It takes a moment or two until I realize what she is doing.

Could it be ...?  Is it?

BREAKFAST!!!!!!!

The PTO is putting on a Teacher Appreciation breakfast for all of us.  There are donuts, bagels, coffee cakes, muffins, quiche, juice, and fruit.

I run back to my room and tuck away the copying that I've done so far.  I'll get back to it.  I mean, really -- there's FOOD.  This is awesome. It started out as a bad week, got worse in the middle, but now it's not so bad.  Now it's all chocolate chips and cran-grape with fresh strawberries on the side. 

If I can just figure out a way to make the weekend feel as long and drawn-out, I might be onto something.

MEXICAN ORIENTAL FOOD

I know, I know.
I even write a blog about it,
So I most definitely know.
Thursday is Cinco de Mayo.
Everyone and his Uncle Clem is eating Mexican food Thursday,
And I could be eating nachos or something.

Instead,
I plug in the electric fry pan,
Coat it with a generous amount of olive oil,
And toss some chicken into it.
Frozen oriental veggies top this,
Into which I randomly pour lemon juice,
Teriyaki marinade,
Wine,
Seasonings,
And whatever else my hands grab from the cabinets.

It tastes great!

Yup.
Only I would take a Mexican-based holiday and
Turn it into an Asian invasion.

AMERICANIZED MEXICAN NON-HOLIDAY

Ah, Cinco de Mayo.  That wonderful American holiday when we pretend Mexico is celebrating.

Oh, Mexico does mark the day.  It is, after all, the day the Mexicans turned back French Imperialism for the first time.  That's right -- France -- all because Mexico owed France money then told the French, "No hay dinero para ti."  France replied back, "Merde, nous vous possedon," and put flags up all over the damn place because that's how it was done during the Franco-Mexican War.  This is not to be confused with the Franco-American war in which Spaghettios invaded dinner tables all across the country and have yet to be eradicated from the U.S. diet.

But, in 1862, the small Mexican town of Puebla decided they'd had enough of France's bullshit.

France yelled, "Nous allons vous faire essuyer nos anes," which basically meant they intended to make the Pueblans wipe the asses of the French soldiers, you know, as if doing so were some kind of luscious prize.  Well, maybe for the French because they do have a large stake in the debauchery stock and trade.

Despite being outnumbered something ridiculous like two-to-one, the Spanish spit back, "Comen nuestras pollas, por favor," which was really just a polite way of inviting the French to have an anatomically specific snack.  After this exchange, the Mexicans in this tiny hamlet kicked the merde out of the French soldiers.  This, of course, was a great victory for morale, but the French continued on to Mexico City, anyway, so it was kind of an ironic ending.

However, the U.S. Civil War raged on at the same time, because god-forbid we be outdone by the French and Mexicans in our bloodlust.  Union soldiers considered the unlikely Pueblan victory a rallying cry for their own seemingly lackluster morale.  "If the damn Mexicans can do it, then so can the Union," which, loosely translated means, "Jesuschristalmighty, we're getting our highly-trained, dumb-fucking asses handed to us on Southern platters, and the goddamn Mexicans are beating the French.  WTF, dudes.  Seriously."

So, just like that, Americans adopted Cinco de Mayo as some kind of Civil War rallying motto.  You've seen it, too.  Great statues of Lincoln, with Honest Abe quoted on the pedestal, "Here's to freeing our Mexican brethren.  Vivan los culos pequenos for four score and seven years!" (By the way, that's a long time to be a little asshole.)

In the end, the victory is for tequila when you really put your mind to it.  Oh, I'm sure they drink tequila in Mexico on Cinco de Mayo, but here in the states it's an art form, a religion, an out-of-body experience, especially if it's Milagro tequila.

We should just rename the holiday to Drink-o de Mayo.

Anyway, as the Mexican might say if the French had been victorious, "Viva la France," but since they weren't, now Mexicans say, "Beban muchas, putas.  Feliz cinco de mayo, idiotas Americanas."

Happy Cinco de Mayo, my friends.  Have a margarita for me.

P.S.  Excuse the translations.  My memory and Google combined to come up with random shit.

GETTING AN A FOR THE OXFORD COMMA

State testing starts next week, and this means that I must do the only teaching to the test that I do anymore: Commas.  I don't particularly care if the students can cite every single minute comma rule, but I do expect them to have a working understanding of where commas must be placed in their writing.

One thing is abundantly clear every single time this topic arises: Someone is teaching them the wrong things.

The students come to me thinking that "a lot," "each other" and "all right" are single words (if I see "eachother" one more time, I'm going to scream bloody murder).  They combine independent clauses by putting the commas behind the conjunctions instead of in front of them.  They cannot read nor write cursive, which in this day and age of enlightenment, is damn maddening.  And, to my horror, it never ceases to shock me that students today have near-zero working knowledge of punctuation in general.

Today, though, a ray of sunshine breaks through the darkness.

While working in small groups attacking the list of comma rules, one student suddenly stops working, sits up straight, and smirks.  It is quite clear that the proverbial light bulb has gone off; I can see him glowing.

"So," he states pensively, "what you're saying is that we ARE supposed to be using the Oxford comma."

I'm not going to lie.  This is when I hear that part of the "1812 Overture" where the Boston Pops start shooting off the howitzers.  I am tempted to jump up on my desk and cheer.  Oxford comma!  Holy shit on a shingle, I have a student who knows what an Oxford comma is and, even better, knows how important it is to the purity and precision of the English language.

For the layman, the Oxford comma appears at the end of a series of three or more items before the final conjunction.  It has been lately vilified in the paper media by reporters and editors who can't get a clear handle on the rule, so they gave up on it -- much like not ending sentences with prepositions, and much like the acceptance of substituting any pronoun + the word "self" for the objective pronoun case ("You can give it to myself..."  No, no I actually cannot.)

Not to drive the blog into the grammatical ground, I will say this student causes me to momentarily lose the power of speech.  When my voice finally returns, I say, "You get an A for the day."

"Really?" he asks.

"Yes.  Anyone who appreciates the Oxford comma deserves an A," I tell him.  "You honestly comma truly comma and totally deserve it."

He laughs.  "I see what you did there."

And that, my friends, is how a twelve year old gets rewarded in my class.

TUESDAY WILL BE TERRIFIC ... RIGHT?

Mondays are rarely good. 

I start my day early, arriving at work forty-five minutes before I need to just so I can get into the copy machine before the kind but completely bat-shit crazy elderly volunteer arrives and commandeers the machine for the remainder of the day.  My favorite co-teacher emails me that she cannot attend my class today because she has to prep for the upcoming state testing that happens next week, which means, in short, that she is abandoning me with the minions.  I am reminded that I have a meeting in school that I forgot about (and must madly run around prepping for) and a meeting after school that I knew about but am trying to forget.

All the while, it is raining out, a complete deluge, and the sound of the rain pounding on the roof, usually soothing, unnerves me to the point that I put on Pandora radio through the ceiling speakers.  Each class today consists of some on-my-feet teaching and some group work for the students, during which I rapidly grade their homework and hand it right back to them.  I sneak a cup of tea, Constant Comment brand, in between my late school-day meeting and my after-school meeting, but it doesn't help; I still start dozing during the Powerpoint presentation at the faculty meeting.

When I arrive home finally, I decide to pay some bills and get all of my financial ducks in a row.  The trouble with bills, other than the fact that they suck up my money, is with the envelopes.  If only all the envelopes were the same size, getting them ready to mail out would be easier.  I never seem to have enough spit to lick the envelopes well enough for them to stay closed, so all of my outgoing mail has tape on the back.  I have stamps, amazingly enough, so I tag everything and collect a pile of envelopes to go out to the mailbox in the morning.

I decide to go to the post office Monday evening instead so I can actually find a space and so I can step into the unlocked lobby and mail the stuff directly.  The entire errand, including driving to and from the post office, takes about six minutes, and I am relieved and pumped when I return home knowing that Tuesday morning won't be a run-around shit-show on my way to work.

Finally.  Finally!  Ahhhhh, the day is over.  I can sit down, relax, have some dinner -- Wait.  Wait, wiat, wait, wait, wait.  What the ...

Oh.  You.  Asshole.

Sitting all by itself in the middle of my kitchen table is one of the bills I just supposedly paid, left behind when it slipped out from between the other envelopes sometime during the tape and stamp process.  No, I do not go out again.  It will have to find its own way in the world on Tuesday or maybe Wednesday.  Thursday, perhaps. 

So much for my productive Monday, which is fine because now it's Tuesday, and Tuesday will be terrific, right?  Just agree with me; I'm having a tough start to the week as it is.