IT'S DRESS-UP DAY!

Today is Dress-Up Day. 

I've made a few pacts with gal pals that we will dress up and go out for a meal or two or three.  Today my daughter has to go for some routine medical tests and has been fasting, so we decide that I'll tag along so we can go out to eat afterward. 

I text her.  "What are we wearing?  Shorts, jeans, or dresses?"

Lately my daughter has been dressing up a lot for no other reason than she can.  Occasionally I'll dress up for work, but I haven't dressed up as often as I could.  I'm just more comfy in jeans and sneakers.

"Dresses," she responds.

Yay!  Spontaneous Dress-Up Day!  This. Is. Great!

The only problem with a Spontaneous Dress-Up Day is that it is also Semi-Overcast, Almost-Rainy, Wicked-Humid Day, as well.  I pick an airy, sleeveless dress that will give me a lot of space and prevent that nasty stuck-to-oneself feeling when the humidity levels are nearing unbearable.

Next comes jewelry.  Hmmmm.  Necklace?  I try on two; both seem too fancy.  I try on a chunky bracelet; too much, as well.  I end up with simple hoop earrings, a couple of rings, and an ankle chain. 

Shoes are always a problem.  Even though one of my feet has been rebuilt, I still have problems.  My "bionic" foot has Intermetatarsal Neuroma, which basically means I have random phantom pain that makes me want to shoot my foot off.  The other foot has permanent nerve damage from an accident when I was a teen.  I pick out a pair of mid-heel sandals but also bring along a pair of flat sandals, just in case.

I ask her what time she'll be picking me up, and she tells me I have about thirty minutes.  Excellent.  Just enough time to paint my toenails and fingernails with a quick single coat of champagne crystal chrome polish.

I worry that I'm overdressed even though I really just threw a polyester sun dress on, but it has been so long since I played dress-up (for fun or for work) that I almost forget how.  My daughter shows up in a cute cotton sun dress, and we are color-coordinated without meaning to be -- both wearing black-based prints.

After her labs are done, we go to lunch.  After lunch, we end up at the store.  After the store, she has one more appointment.  After the appointment, she drops me off at home.

Alas, I am all dressed up with no place left to go.

The jewelry comes off, sandals are flung toward the stairs, the dress ends up back on a hanger, and my "yoga" pants (officially known as the "I Ate Too Much" pants) go on.  Oh, well.  It was fun while at lasted.

Who's up for the next Dress-Up Day?  I'm thinking a winery is the next logical outing. 

AVOID THE DREADED AND CONTAGIOUS WHOOPING ASS

Here's something I'm ashamed to admit: Sometimes I purposefully go a different way (or I out-and-out hide) when I see people I know.  Sometimes it's them in particular, meaning they're on my mental shit-list for some reason.  Sometimes it's because I'm generally anti-social.  (Oh, I can be pleasant enough in public, but I want near-total control over my time and my energy.)

Often I just don't have anything to say to people.  Maybe the person is a talk-a-holic and I just do not have the time, interest, nor energy.  Perhaps it is someone I personally despise.  (It's a short list but still a list.)

No matter.  I'm pretty good at avoiding common pleasantries when I'm in an uncommonly foul mood.  I have been known to move parking spaces, turn and double-back in grocery store aisles, and attempt to hide behind infant clothing displays.

I suppose it's all good in the end, though.  If people happen to catch a glimpse of me as I disappear to avoid interaction, don't take it personally.  It's most likely just me having an off day.

However, and this is a HUGE PIECE OF ADVICE: If you know you've pissed me off or lied to me lately, and I do NOT avoid the confrontation, this means I'm probably going to unload whoop-ass on you ... and you inevitably deserve it.

There. You've be forewarned.   

NOT IN COMCAST/XFINITY HELL (FOR A CHANGE)

I have to do an errand today that I've been putting off for a couple of weeks.  I have to return some equipment to Comcast/Xfinity. 

I choose today because I figure since it's an absolutely spectacular day (mid-80's, sunny, slight breeze), no one will want to be inside waiting in a line at the cable company. Not only is the weather forecast an important factor, I also wait until 2:00 in the afternoon (post-lunch rush and pre-after-work rush). 

There is a delicate science to this.  Anyone who has been stuck in line at the cable company (or the Registry or a public bathroom at a sporting event or the Enchanted Village, for that matter) knows exactly what I mean.

Timing is everything.  EVERYTHING.

When I pull into the parking lot, there aren't too many cars, and all but one of the front row spaces are wide open.  I back in, grab the box containing two modems, one cable box, and my check for this month, and I prepare for battle.

Several people are leaving as I arrive and there is a pack of wild children swarming the double door entry.  Not a good sign, I tell myself.  With the large cardboard box under one arm, I swing open the final glass door with my other arm.

Except for one elderly woman, there isn't a single other person in line.  The woman nods to the number machine.  "Better take one!" she teases me, waving her numbered paper at me.

There are three clerks behind the counter, but only one of them is working.  An elderly man shuffles in and cuts in front of me, but it's okay.  He sidles up to the elderly woman, and it's obvious they're a couple.  We three chat each other up, joking about the "big crowd" and the length of time we have to wait (about 90 seconds) to be assisted.

Finally, a second clerk opens up, takes my check for the monthly cable fee (might as well save a stamp; I'm here, after all), processes the cable box return, and checks in the modems.  Total time: about four minutes.

Amazing.  No Comcast/Xfinity Hell for me today.  My planning works!  Yes, small things like this please me.  Anyone who has tried interacting with Comcast/Xfinity via telephone knows exactly what a victory I have scored today.

PUZZLED

I like puzzles -- all kinds of them.  I like crosswords, sudokus, word searches, jumbles, any most word puzzles like Words with Friends and Hanging with Friends .  My favorites are cryptograms (words, ciphers, and statistical probability letter combinations).

Every so often, though, it's good to pull out a jigsaw puzzle.  I can't do the 3D ones because I can't wrap my head around the visual directions, which is the same weakness that prevents me from following visual directions for origami.

I won't go near 1,000 piece puzzles, either, because my eyesight isn't good enough to pick out the images on the individual pieces.  I like the 250 piece puzzles because they're doable in one sitting.  While doing some cleaning and sorting, I find an unopened puzzle box, a sea scene, of 550 jigsaw pieces. 

Here's the thing about jigsaw puzzles: The cardboard boxes they come in are completely useless.  The only way to open them is to take a knife to the bottom seals, and, in doing so, inevitably the bottom box gets sliced, as well, rendering the entire thing worthless.  Several of the puzzles I still have are in plastic zip-lock bags with the picture cut off the top and placed inside the bag with the pieces.  This time, however, I'm in luck, and the bottom stays intact.

I dump all 550 pieces on the living room coffee table, which is plenty big enough for the 18x24" puzzle, and I promptly walk away from the puzzle for about 24 hours.  When I do get back to it, I start sorting pieces by color and shade, picking out all of the outside edge pieces and keeping them separated from the rest.  The outside comes together reasonably quickly, but I am missing two pieces.  Actually, that's not too bad for me -- sorting 550 items and only bypassing two.  One of the pieces I locate relatively quickly; the other piece takes a while longer, after I've started assembling the inside.

I've finished about one third of the puzzle when my youngest comes home and decides he wants to eat dinner in the living room with his girl friend, except that my puzzle is taking up the table.  Oh, well, I guess we're all eating together at the kitchen table like civilized humans.  After dinner, I head back to the puzzle and make some more headway.

I'm not going to finish it tonight, and maybe I won't even finish it tomorrow.  But I'm on summer break, so I  have time to spare.  I'll set a goal for myself.  I will have the puzzle finished and broken back down again by ... oh ... I'll say ... Friday.  I'll have it done by Friday, July 1.  Remind me to post a picture when it's done not so much to prove that I can put together a puzzle (I can) but to prove that I really can set a goal and stick to it.  These days, that's not always my strongest, most consistent accomplishment.

WINE OF THE WEEK

Oh, boy!  Another week of winners on the table for Wine of the Week.  I am starting to think this new weekly feature is going to be tougher than I originally planned.  So, this time I will have my top three of the week.

Coming in at third place is a charming red that retails around $18 a bottle.  This wine does fine on its own but would probably be best paired with food, perhaps a cheesy pasta dish.  I ate about a pound of sharp cheddar and almost as much turkey salami while tasting this, bringing it into the top three: Sususmaniello Oltreme Tenute Rubino.

Second place this week goes to a white port ... yes, WHITE port ... but not as a stand-alone wine.  If you like dessert wines or port in general, you'll probably go for this in a big way, but if you add some tonic water and a twist of lime (ala gin and tonic but replacing the gin with white port) -- HUZZAH!  Delicious and tempting, Quinta de La Rosa White Port falls into the runner-up spot.  However, at about $25 per bottle, and since I only liked it mixed (I'm raving about that drink), I'll save the $25 for a bottle of decent gin.  That being said, though, for its unusual taste and unbelievable mixability, the white port beats out the red Tenute by a slice of lime.

(Drum roll)  Coming in at the top spot this week, though, is a Riesling.  I tasted some great Rieslings this weekend, from sweet to sweeter, fruity to slightly nutty.  Two of them, both German, are Dr. Loosen Dr L Rieslings, but the winner of the two is the 2015 Dry Riesling.  The dry, as opposed to the standard Dr L, has a long finish that isn't offensive or overbearing.  The wine shop describes it as "penetrating and deliciously persistent" and packing "a surprising punch."  So many Rieslings are overly sweet, almost syrupy, but this one is a welcome addition to the line-up.  I try it first then go back at the end and try it last.

Yes.  It's still as pleasant and interesting as I first thought.  Therefore, this week's winner-winner-chicken-dinner goes to Dr. Loosen Dr L Dry Riesling, 2015 vintage, retailing around $10 per bottle (another wonderful surprise).

DAY #1 OF VACATION

Day #1 of Vacation:

4:55 a.m. --  Wake up but refuse to get up; go back to sleep


7:00 a.m. -- Drag self out of bed.

8:30 a.m. -- Go out for a walk/jog (walk uphill; jog downhill = 2.4 miles)

9:30 a.m. -- Make extra thick fruit smoothie; tastes like black raspberry ice cream

10:00 a.m. --  Run load of laundry

10:30 - 11:45 a.m. -- Sit outside in sun; start reading a book

Noon -- Make fresh guacamole; Eat almost all of it.

12:30 p.m. -- Go through bills; realize one credit card statement is missing

1:30 p.m. -- Finally discover that I paid off that credit card last month

1:30 - 4:00 p.m. -- Work on organizing desk; Try to fix computer: DEAD

4:00 p.m. -- Dump 550 puzzle pieces on to coffee table; pretend to start puzzle

5:30 p.m. -- Go to wine tasting; eat most of the cheese and a lot of the turkey salami; try new wine drink

6:30 p.m. -- Buy some Greek veggies and an orange vodka nip

7:00 p.m. --  Make leftover Sloppy Joe to have with Greek veggies

8:00 p.m. -- Take a shower and get into p.j.'s

9:00 p.m. -- Futz with puzzle; pretend to read book

Midnight -- After dozing off several times, drag self back to bed

All in all, a successful first day off!

SCHOOL'S FINALLY OUT

Finally.  The end of another school year has arrived.

When I was a kid, I loved the last day of school.  It was all about freedom and those long summer days of doing everything and nothing all at the same time.  The summer seemed to go on and on forever.

Today, though, I take my time, doing some last minute stuff in my classroom, stuff that needs to be done and stuff that can easily wait.  I don't get everything done that I need to; if you open up my file cabinets, you'll find boxes of tissues that didn't fit in the packed closet, electronics that need a home, papers that are semi-filed, and a handful of documents that I forgot to bring home with me for the break.

Oooops.

The last day is remarkably leisurely.  This is unusual because I'm used to moving rooms or, even grander, moving buildings.  For the first time in the history of my employment in the district, which is nearly two decades, I don't have to pack any boxes.  None.  Not a single box.  Not even my personal library books for the kids to borrow, the entirety of which makes it to two shelves in the classroom closet.  I sit down to draw a map of my room so the cleaners who wax the floor will know how to put it back correctly  I am so relaxed that I take a fifteen minute break to color in my room map.

On the way out the door, I say so-long to my buddies, then add, "See you in eleven weeks."  This depresses them.  Wait until they figure out it's more like nine weeks; they're really going to be pissed.

When I get home, though ... It's The Wall I mentioned in a recent post.  The minute I sit down (my own mistake), I cannot seem to get up again.  It takes me twenty minutes to motivate my body to move enough to pull down the bed so I can eventually climb into it.

I don't know much, but I do know this: Anyone who wakes me before nine tomorrow morning had better run a lot faster than I do.

LAST DAY WITH SUGAR ON TOP

There's nothing better than sugaring the kiddos up on their last day of school.

I teach four classes in a row and then I'm done for the day.  Well, not really done -- I have meetings daily, sometimes with co-teachers, sometimes with my entire team, sometimes with administration, and sometimes with parents.  It's a schedule that melts my brain by the time we're in our meeting time, but it's great for teaching because it's breakneck from the moment the students arrive until I can take a breath about 4.75 hours later.

Since I have all of my students back-to-back-to-back-to-back, and since today is the students' last day (not mine, but theirs), I decide to sugar them up before sending them off to their next classes.  Of course, I spend hours internet searching and print out dozens and dozens of pages of peanut-free, gluten-free, egg-free candy.  I spend $40 on candy, but that's only enough for about eight pieces of candy per student.  Thinking of how I want to rile them all up on sugar highs, I truly hope that's enough.

By the end of each class, all of the candy wrappers have been picked up and put into the trash, the Apples to Apples game (which is rip-roaringly successful) has been put back, and the kiddos participate in singing a rap about writing (which we found online months ago).  After they leave me, I may be done, but they still have two more classes (both the beauty and curse of our schedule) -- art, gym, French, robotics, etc.  They and their other teachers are now facing the effects of the candy.

My team of teachers and I?  We are off the hook.  These kids aren't even in our wing anymore, and it's slightly disappointing that we cannot witness them pinging off the walls of the music room or the health room like overly-stimulated human ping-pong balls.

Ahhhh, there really is nothing like the last day of school ... on sugar.

HITTING THE WALL

Pink Floyd sings about "The Wall."  The group is wrong, though.  Teachers are not just bricks in The Wall; teachers are the gelatinous residue left on The Wall when we finally hit it in June.

I bumped into that proverbial wall about three hours ago.  It snuck up on me, tapped me on the shoulder, then promptly cold-cocked me right in the face.  Every muscle in my body aches.  Of course, that could be from the mile-long march in the broiling heat yesterday so that the 53% of my students who actually came to school could participate in field day.  The turf area was easily 98 degrees with zero shade, and the walk was downhill the entire way there and uphill the whole way back.

I melted, plain and simple.

It does not help today when a nearby thunderstorm awakens me at 4:00 a.m., robbing me of that last hour of comfy sleep.  I get to work and discover that my later-this-week meeting has been moved up to 12:45 today, so I have to do some fancy footwork to prep.  Thankfully, I just so happen to be working on that exact project when I arrive at school almost a half-hour ahead of my usual time because, hey, I'm up, so why not, right?

I'm thinking about all of these things, or suspect that I am, when I doze off, only it's not a little nap, it's a big time, mini-dream inducing, head-snapping, where-the-fuck-am-I snooze.  Couple this with my complete physical exhaustion and I can almost see it looming ahead of me.

The Wall.

Damn you, Pink Floyd.  I may not be one of your bricks, but I think I've been hit by one.  If I can drag myself through the next two days, I'm going to sleep for an entire week propped right up against that damn Wall.  Then and only then will this teacher "leave them kids alone."

BRINGING HOME THE RESCUE PLANTS

Plants are migrating.

The four plants I keep on my windowsill at school move to my house today.  This isn't the truly amazing part, although it is pretty amazing that the school year is coming to an end.  It's also amazing that the plants survive the trip home, but that's not the good stuff yet, either.

What is most amazing and absolutely mind-blowing is that the plants have survived at all. 

I bought them in the fall when I found them on the "These plants for sale because they're hideous and ready to die" cart at Wal-Mart.  I bought four plants, expecting all of them to die fairly quickly.  I paid about $11 for all of them together, so, at the time, I figured I'd get about $10 worth of life from them.

Funny thing: Only one plant croaked. The other three plants thrived.

Now that the school year is ending, I pack up my plants and bring them home.  I don't have places for them yet, so they're on my kitchen table for the time being, and they need to be re-potted desperately.  I guess that means another trip to Wal-Mart to search for containers.

Who knows?  Maybe I'll mosey over to the garden center and see if any more plants need to be rescued.

SUMMER IS A STATE OF MIND

Friday I stay at work for an extra hour.  I am determined to tie up some loose ends and file some important paperwork, so the teacher next door to me (who is also staying late) and I make a pact: Neither of us may stay past 3:30.  At 3:27, I go to her room and demand she exit the building with me.  We get distracted by others who are also in the building.  Honestly, I'm tired.  Two hours of professional development after a break-neck half day with students has left me deflated.  I am so close to the finish line that I can taste it, but I ... am ... tired.

I get outside and discover it is a beautiful, warm day. 

Last week, for some reason that I cannot explain, I bought a season pass to the pond near my house.  When my own children were young, the pond was plagued with bacteria issues and other blights.  We had a family membership at the Y, so swimming didn't need to be done at the pond.  This summer, though, I figure I can haul the kayaks down there, or maybe I'll sit in a chair along the shore and do some reading and writing.

Suddenly I have a strong urge to go to the pond.  I run home, change, grab a book and a towel, and head over to the little beach along the water.  I am somewhat surprised and somewhat not surprised to see that the pond is still exactly the same as it was the last time I was here, maybe twenty-five years ago.  It's also the same as when I was a teenager and made a few visits here.  The bathroom is still exactly the same, the cinder block building is still the same, and I'm shocked to admit the canoes even look the same. 

You know what else is still the same?  The gritty sand is still the same, and the smell of pond water is still the same.  Yes, it is so hot that after a bit I end up wading into the semi-clear water, ducking down, and coming back out to sit along the shore.  The sun bakes the smell into my pores.  When I get home, I jump into the shower, wash my hair twice (even though I didn't get it wet in the pond), wash my body with soap, then scrub with body wash.

Saturday morning I wake up around 8:00 and decide that I need a trip to the beach (the ocean this time).  I don't give myself a chance to change my mind -- I get into my swimsuit and shorts, throw on flip-flops and a sweatshirt, and off I go, grabbing a book on my way out the door.  The beach is chilly and the tide is coming in, so I walk along the sidewalk above the beach before I settle into my chair on a rock about five feet from where the surf is cresting on the sand.  The sun is strong enough to allow me some tanning time, but I only put two hours into the meter, just in case. 

When I come home around noon time, it's ten degrees warmer on my patio than it had been on the rocks at the beach, so I sit out in the sun for a little while longer.  It's not the same, though.  There's no stinky pond and there's no windy beach, which means my view is limited to cement and my fence. 

This is when it hits me: Summer is not just about the temperature and the sun.  Summer is also sitting at (or in) the pond and watching the water ripple from the old sand pits toward the scout camp on the other side.  Summer is about the smell of salt and the sound of the waves hitting the shore at the coast.  Summer is a state of mind.

If I can just make it through the next few days, staying late and getting organized and wrapping up the year, I, too, will find that state of mind.  Come on, summer.  I've got a pond pass and I've already warmed up my favorite parking space at the beach.  I'm ready.  Bring it.

WINE OF THE WEEK: THANK YOU, FIREMEN!

I'm not going to lie.  Picking this week's wine is not going to be easy.  I find about a dozen I can easily nominate for the Sunday blog spot. 

First, let me say that I have been searching for a decent white for weeks.  Today, my expectations are about the same, meaning I expect that I won't find anything at all.  Instead, I find two whites, both Sauvignon Blancs, but, since I like them both equally, I cannot nominate either.  If you need a decent white, though, check out the Sauvignon Blancs from Jules Taylor and Fat Bastard.

I can't nominate the Pinot Noirs, either, because I like two this week, as well: One from Fat Bastard, which has a smooth finish, and one from Ritual that tastes surprisingly like Beaujolais.  Four other reds almost make the cut, as well: Fat Bastard's Syrah (very good), Chacras Malbec (which doesn't need to breathe as long as some other Malbecs), Beran Zinfandel (salivating for a burger or steak with this one), and Faust Cabernet Sauvignon (way outside my comfortable price range for a Cab Sauv but not outside a comfy price for wine at about $40 per bottle).

So, this week I will nominate a decent red wine with a story.  This week's wine choice is Hook & Ladder The Tillerman Red, a 2013 Californian blend of Cabernet Sauvignon, Cabernet Franc, Sangiovese, and Merlot grapes.  This wine has a multi-facet of flavors and a strong finish. 

That's not the story, though.

The story is the name of the wine.  Before the vineyard owners made their own wine, they sold their vineyard grapes to other wineries.  Before they owned the vineyard, owner Cecil DeLoach was a San Francisco firefighter, a tillerman on a hook and ladder truck.  The tillerman drives the rear part of the truck.  Hook & Ladder is their second foray into the wine business, and is named for Cecil's old job, including the tillerman handle. 

Best of all, Hook & Ladder The Tillerman Red retails around $15, so you won't need a firefighter to put out any smoke from your wallet.

LIMERICKS FOR PROFESSIONAL DEVELOPMENT

Today we have a speaker come to school for professional development.  The topic is how to reinforce positive behavior, as if we are all undergrads and have never been in front of a middle school classroom before.  At one point, the speaker stays on the same slide for nearly twenty-five minutes.  I start to doze off, as do several people near me, and we synchronize our head-bobs.

 More than ninety minutes pass before we get to pretend we are doing busy work in groups, but, even then, the groups comprise the people around us, so still we are not allowed to get out of our seats.  If this woman is a professional presenter, and apparently she is because we imported her from somewhere in New York state, she really needs to work on her delivery.  Oh, and maybe she should update her information.  The stuff she is "teaching" us (that most of us already know) is copyrighted "1995."  That's almost half a decade prior to me getting my Master's degree in curriculum and instruction.  Hell, MY education is more updated than her presentation, and I've been teaching for a long, long time.

I completely tune out when she tells us that all the kids who cannot make it in a typical school setting will become citizens with NO VALUE to or in their community.  Um ... say, what?!  Way to disenfranchise voke kids, alternative education kids, and anyone who doesn't fit the limited "perfect mold" perpetuated by people who haven't set foot in a classroom for years ... or, possibly, NEVER set foot in a classroom.

So, rather than sleep through the professional development and risk the wrath of the administration, I decide to write limericks.  YOU'RE WELCOME, people; you're truly welcome.

There once was PD on a Friday
That put quite a damper on my day.
I tried to attend;
My brain would not bend,
Instead it took off down the highway.

One slide stayed up for an hour;
It made my poor brain go all sour.
I'm bobbing my head,
My lids feel like lead:
Under the table I'll cower.

Some of these rules sure are glaring!
"Behavior" is what we are wearing.
The kids in our school
Don't follow these rules,
So why is it I should stop swearing?!

I am incredibly sleepy.
I wish I were bright-eyed and peepy.
If this doesn't stop,
My eyelids will flop,
And I'll fall from my chair (which is creepy).

Oh, holy crap, I'm so tired!
I wish that I felt more inspired.
If only the time
Would suddenly chime
Before my short life has expired.

IT'S THE END OF THE WEEK AS WE KNOW IT

I'm having a bad week.

First, I squish my finger so badly at work that I have to show it to the nurse the following day.  It's not broken, but it's not comfy, either.  Tylenol and some tape seem to work wonders for the time being.

Then, my washing machine decides to start being temperamental.  Sometimes it starts the spin cycle on its own, and sometimes it needs a little help with the dial movement.  A new washer (and probably a dryer) are somewhere in my future, I'm sure.  It's okay; I'm long overdue.  I'd just prefer it hold out just a tad bit longer as I am already mentally and physically overextended.

Oh, and financially overextended, too.

For some strange reason, I decide it's a good idea to pay one education loan, oh, and why don't I just make the last payment on this other one over here because it's only $600, and maybe I'll pay off a credit card or two before summer starts.  This is all fine and well except that about a year ago I started having panic attacks over my cyber-shopping and cyber-banking.  All of a sudden there are card skimmers everywhere around where I live and shop.  Plus, I know the dangers of shopping online, regardless of how well-protected the companies claim to be.  There's always a big-ass breach somewhere along the line, so I transferred money out of my checking account and into a savings account, instead.  I keep my checking account balance pretty low to pay for bills and other expenses.

This month, after having the brainstorm to pay all the bills and pay some of the loans and cards either down or off, I made one slight miscalculation in my finances.  Okay, let's be honest: I frikkin' spaced out and forgot to do the transfer of funds.  Yup, I have that "Aw, SHIT" moment at the Stop and Shop check-out line when my card goes belly-up.  Luckily, I am also into paying cash a lot more, so I have some cash on me, run the groceries home, then fly up to the bank to correct the error of my ways and beg for mercy.  I haven't overdrawn my account for over twenty years, so I am totally freaked out by this.

The bank teller is terrific and refunds the fees into my account.  "We can link your checking to your savings, if you want..." he says, trying to sell me a deal.  NO!  I have the accounts separated for a reason.  I'm already paranoid about cyber-siphoning!

I'm also overextended at work.  A little project we are starting in September suddenly needs to be implemented RIGHT NOW, perhaps even yesterday or last month.  This means that I have to rework plans (I have very few teaching days left as it is) and work with a document that hasn't been properly proofed.  Of course, the kiddos find typos and all.  If only they'd proofread it originally instead of me, we might have a workable product.

On top of that, data has to be collected, and data has to be recorded, and data has to be uploaded to the proper documents in Google drive, and data has to be spit back at the kiddos so they know how the data supports their term-end grades.

Meanwhile, the landlord decides it's time to power-wash the house.  This means that the brand new air conditioners I bought and installed now have to be uninstalled for a day or two.  Terrific.  And it's hot.  And I'm antsy.  I go two days without the air conditioners in the windows, but finally they're back in.  (Bless you, my child, for helping me put them back into the windows.  My sweaty armpits, etc., thank you.)

My car is acting a little hinky, as well.  It's nothing it doesn't usually do, I suppose, but now that I drive a lot with the windows open, it just seems to sound hinkier than its usual hinky self.  The very last thing I want to be doing right now is car-shopping.  I mean, I might be washer-dryer shopping in a few weeks.  One mechanical tragedy at a time, if you please.

In the midst of entering grades and test data, the Internet goes on the fritz.  No phone; no Edline.  Pissah.  I call the company from my cell phone and immediately go to Comcast Hell.  I am thrilled when I get someone who speaks English and sounds American, but not because I am prejudiced; it's because I don't know any technical terms, so I really need someone who understands me and whom I can totally understand.

"Look on the back at the teeny tiny little number that's on the teeny tiny little sticker that's all covered with wires," he tells me.  I find the number after I sit back about four feet so my bad eyes can adjust to my bad glasses.  I tell the technician what is wrong, and he says, "Have you plugged in your laptop to the modem?"  Um .... NO because it's wireLESS.  If I plug it in, I'm WIRED."  Just tell me which button on this brand new modem is the fucking RESET, will ya?  Nope, he won't.

In the midst of me insisting that I do NOT understand what he is telling me to do ("Plug in ... no, take apart ... change the filter .... Put your left foot in ... take your right foot out ... stick your booty in and shake it all about ..."), my son arrives home to rescue me and the technician from an aggravating phone call.  My son tries to explain the problem (that he just walked into) while I'm behind him mumbling, "I will pack this shit right up and send it right back there and shove it up someone's--"

After having the company reset the modem (which I'm sure I could do if they'd tell where the FUCKING BUTTON is), the Internet comes back up, and all is right with the world.  I finish entering all the data into the shared document, double-check my final grades, and call it an afternoon/evening.  I get the last of this paperwork completed while my son, the new hero, goes to get his hair cut.  When he comes back, he is hoping for dinner.

Well, this is the point of the blog.  I cannot make dinner.  I'm temporarily broke (I'm nervous about using the account without giving the bank time to truly swap money over) and exhausted.  I offer him pre-made gold-fever wings, some green beans, and some freshly made guacamole, and even this is not without its aggravation.  While making the guac, half of the lime decides to squirt my foot instead of the bowl.  I completely miss the container, the counter, and my clothing.  Yup, big plop of lime spew sitting on my bare foot.

Thank goodness it's Friday.  I need this week to be OVER before I really hurt myself or cause permanent damage to the universe.

DRIVING UP TO THE TELLER

The other day I'm at the bank.  Usually I go inside or go to the drive-up ATM.  Today I have to hit the regular drive-up.

I like the drive-up teller station.  I like hitting the button and watching my bank errands whoosh away, up and over the parking lot into the arms of the human teller behind the tinted glass hundreds of yards away.  It used to be that an audio exchange would happen, then, VOILA, the money would shoot back at me all nice and impersonal.

Now, though, there are little computer screens at the drive-up stations.  Suddenly, I am face-timing with the guy at the bank.  The teller they put here is super-friendly.  And I do mean SUPER friendly.  He is upbeat, energetic, and efficient.  If he could send his energy through the screen or back through the machine with my money, I probably wouldn't need to sleep for a week.

The other interesting thing about the human-computer teller is that he can cheat on me, and it doesn't even faze me.  I can overhear his conversations with the car in the lane to my right and the car on the right of that car.  Teller guy is equally pleasant and charming to us all, and he is adept at juggling us separately and collectively.

When my transaction is done and we say our good-byes, the screen suddenly goes blank.  Teller Guy vaporizes, yet I hear his voice lingering near my car as other patrons interact with him.  I look once more at the mini-screen, perhaps wondering if he will reappear, but all I see is a gray-scale version of my own reflection.

OVEREXTINDING THE BRUISED MIDDLE FINGER

I can tell that the end of the school year is close.  How can I tell?

I am overextending myself to the wicked-nth degree.

 There are papers to grade and reports to write and files to update and materials to collect and binders to clean out and books to collect and cabinets to pack and portfolios to be completed and final grades to be calculated and all of this ... exhausts ... me.

I am so exhausted, in fact, that I get careless; I misjudge what I am doing when  sitting down to attend our teacher team meeting. Somehow in all the commotion that is my brain and its disengagement from the moment, I slam my middle finger between the semi-heavy chair I intend to use and the heavy desk behind me.

Immediately I hear a crunch and sharply draw in my breath.  This is not my first bone injury, and I have a high tolerance for pain.  I mentally try to count to five, but the reality is, I am in pain.  I am actually ready to howl. I.  WANT.  TO.  SCREAM. That's how much my finger hurts.

A teammate sees what I've done.  "Are you all right?" she asks me.

I want to say, "Oh, yeah, no problem, I'm fine."  But the reality of it is I think I may have broken my finger.  I try to shake my hand and dissipate the pain, but it only hurts worse.  I start with the mantra, "Oh, that hurt that hurt that hurt that hurt..." then draw in a gulp of air and quietly recite, "Fuck ... fuck .... fuck fuck fuck fuck ..."

I walk toward the back of the room because I really cannot face anyone at the moment.  I look down to see that my finger is already turning blue and purple along the top knuckle about a centimeter south of the nail bed.  I'm wondering if I should go see the nurse and get some ice.  I bend it.  It stings like hell and is boiling hot inside when I move it.

However, I CAN move it.  I am quite certain, though, that the bone is badly bruised, at the bare minimum.

Now I have no choice but to slow down.  The finger I injured is on my right hand.  My CORRECTING
hand.  Oh, well.  I hadn't quite mastered the wicked-nth degree over-extension, anyway.  Might as well really pile it on.  Hey, I'll give it all the bruised middle finger!

BUSTED FLIP-FLOPS

My damn flip-flops are broken.

I need to get to the store to get milk, so I run out to my car thinking this will be a quick trip.  I have four stores all within a stone's throw that sell milk, so this should be a no brainer.  I'd walk to a store, but I need the milk ten minutes ago, so I'm driving.  Or, I'm trying to drive.  I throw on my pink and black beach flip-flops and head outside.

I get out to the end of the driveway, where I'm parked so my son can get his car in and out as needed by going around me.  I'm about to get into my car and zoom away when I notice a neighborhood kid's scooter under my tires.  I'm nice enough not to run over it, but I'm not nice enough to forgive the kid's lazy behavior, so I pick the scooter up and whip it onto the sidewalk.  If someone steals it, that's not really my problem.

As I'm madly (and I do mean mad-ly) trouncing around the scooter, I trip and almost fall over.  Then I almost fall over again.  What. The. Hell.  I'm not drunk.  Not yet, anyway.  What is the issue here?

I look down.  My flip-flop has fallen apart.  It hasn't broken the normal way, like when the toe prong breaks apart.  No, this one has to be difficult.  The entire pink bottom half of the foot part itself has separated from the black top half.  I've never seen anything like it.

Having broken a flip-flop before and been left without any shoes, and, because sometimes I will take an impromptu trip to the beach after work (school -- where I am banned from wearing flip-flops), I always keep a spare pair of flip-flops in my car.  I don't even bother to go back into my house.  I take the broken flip-flop and its mate and I pitch them back toward the house, landing next to my son's car way up in the driveway.

"Fucking scooter.  Fucking shoes.  Fucking milk."  This is the mantra I am muttering under my breath to no one in particular.  Thankfully, I think I am the only witness to my tirade.

I run to the store, get the milk, come back, re-park my car at the end of the driveway, toss my emergency beach flip-flops back into the car, and gather up my busted usual beach flip-flops from the driveway.  I'd like to say all is right with the world, but, to be honest, any time beach shoes break, it depresses me.

Oh, well.  I guess it's time to spend another couple of dollars on new beach flip-flops.  After all, it has probably been four years that I've worn that pair, probably longer.  Time to splurge!

ICED COFFEE IDIOCY

Coffee.  Yup, trying to teach myself to like coffee. 

I sort of like coffee.  I can tolerate coffee ice cream but not coffee yogurt.  I don't like coffee shakes (sorry, those of you from outside of New England, but there is such a thing as coffee shakes, and they rock) so much, but I mix an incredible Caffe Moka shake that will knock your socks off and knock you so far onto your ass that you won't find your socks, anyway.  I drink hot tea but not iced tea, and I drink iced coffee on occasion but never hot coffee.

Therein lies the problem.  I really want to start bringing iced coffee to work, but I'm too lazy to park my car and stand in line at Dunkins to get it.  There are two other Dunkins on my way to work, both with drive-through service, but they're either on the wrong side of the road or too far with slow traffic lights.

So, I get a brilliant idea.  I'll make my own.

I have sugar already (must have sugar with coffee, not so much with tea), so I need flavored creamer. The only flavors I care for are caramel, pumpkin spice (out of season), and sometimes peppermint (also out of season).  I peruse the dairy aisle and decide on a brand of caramel additive and head out on my way.

I have coffee at home.  It's a cheap brand, a store brand, but I know from working in the grocery industry that it's actually a name brand product, just not their actual finished product.  Chances are I am really brewing Maxwell House coffee for a dollar less per canister.  I let the pot cool down, pour the coffee into a container, and stick most of it in the fridge overnight. 

Before I do this, though, I pour some in a cup, mix in the sugar, add the creamer, throw in some ice, and test-drive the iced coffee.

Now let me just say this: Caffeine has never, ever bothered me.  I can drink a six-pack of Coca-Cola and go to sleep with no residual effects (except having to pee).  Buy a caffeine-infused drink to stay awake driving?  Useless.  I might as well be drinking water.

It's about 7:00 p.m., so I probably shouldn't be trying this experiment with the coffee, but, as I just said, caffeine and I have a nonexistent relationship.  That is, until now.  Within minutes of sipping the coffee, my heart starts racing and I develop a sudden and severe headache.  Not only that, but my stomach is feeling a little jukey.  I pop a Tylenol, go to bed around midnight, and feel fine in the morning.

Maybe I felt like that because of all the pollen in the air, which is as thick as fog.  Let me give coffee a second shot.  I make a large travel mug full of sugar-caramel creamer-coffee-ice, stick a straw through the drinking hole, and start sipping on my way to work.  I continue to sip while at my desk getting prepped for the day.

Well, well, well.  This doesn't seem so .... wait ... what the ...By 8:30 a.m., my brain is firing at Mach speed.  My stomach feels a little queasy, and I'm getting a headache.  Damn you, coffee; damn you to Hell.  I really and truly want to like you, but this relationship seems to be extremely one-sided.  Worst of all, this doesn't happen with the Dunkins coffee.  It only happens with the coffee I brew.

A few days later I head back out to the store (a different store) in search of decaf.  Not quite certain my problem is linked to caffeine (of course it is; I'm in denial), I buy half-caf coffee, instead.  I go through the same process: brew, cool, put it in the fridge.  I finally get the nerve to try it, and it's decent - tastes the same and all that, but I'm really in the mood for a beer, so I end up tossing it out.

I'm going to try my iced coffee again tomorrow morning.  The worst thing that can happen is that I develop a severe case of motor-mouth along with another vise-grip headache.  Then I will know for sure that I'll have to up the total available dollars on my Dunkins app.

WINE OF THE WEEK

Francis Ford Coppola is known for movies.  A screenwriter, director, and producer known primarily for The Godfather, Coppola is also owner of a California winery (or two ... or three).  After purchasing the old Inglenook winery, Coppola set to work stocking the winery with some of his most valuable assets: talented winemakers.  His wine line includes FC Reserve, Diamond Collection, Votre Sante, and Sofia (named after his daughter), plus many more.

Thank goodness for both Coppola and Sofia because this week's wine pick not only comes from their vineyard in California, it comes in cans.

CANS.

Sofia Blanc de Blancs, an effervescent sparkling white wine, is fruity, zesty, and refreshing.  It certainly is available in a larger, rotund bottle (seems all Sofia wines are in slightly unusually shaped bottles), but it is also available in single-serving cans.  Yes, cans.  Did I mention cans? 

Make no mistake -- this wine is good.  Making the wine even better, I won't get busted driving with a re-corked "open" bottle, and this is because each can is its own container.  The best thing about the Sofia Blanc de Blancs is that now people (and by "people," I, of course, mean ME) can make drinks like Mimosas (et al) on the fly.

The wine doesn't taste tinny; it doesn't taste metallic; it doesn't flatten out as soon as it's poured.  From a can.  So, folks, this week's wine choice is Sofia Blanc de Blancs.  Can it ... or don't. 

STEALING THE MINI-VAN

There was a time when the city next door was the car-theft capital of America.  This year the city doesn't even break the top ten (nor did anywhere in the entire state of Massachusetts).  Apparently, we have extraordinarily lazy car thieves.  Perhaps the cold weather keeps them on the down-low.

Many people in the Merrimack Valley drive tricked-out, foreign-made tin cans.  If your car doesn't get stolen at some point living so close to, or actually in, bucolic Lawrence, then you obviously drive a shit-box.  A super shit-box.  The shittiest of shitty shit-boxes.

Perhaps it is a cultural thing, a generational thing, or a passing fancy, but apparently the value of your shit-box can increase with the addition of giant stickers announcing the maker of your car.  For example, a brand new Toyota, complete with neon flashing running lights and chrome rims and a sound system that can give heart attacks by sound wave osmosis, will become even more valuable with the giamundo word TOYOTA glued to the windshield.  Conversely, a crappy old rust-bucket can be made into a sought-after super-ride if you paste it together with stickers that say such interesting things as FORD, MOPAR, and MY STICK FIGURE FAMILY CAN KICK YOUR STICK FIGURE FAMILY'S ASS.

All of a sudden, your car will become a magnet for car thieves.  No, really.  This is true.  And, best of all, you can trick out any vehicle just by adding these car-thief magnets: custom vinyl windshield stickers.

I know this because today I see a mini van all tricked out with these stickers.  Oh, other than the stickers, it is a basic stock model, but add in those stickers, and suddenly you're at the top of the hit list for gangs, haters, and car thieves.  In the van are small children bouncing their heads around in the back seats, probably tossing Cheerios around for fun, and a single male driver in the front.  At first, it seems like any ordinary charcoal gray mini van.  But, when it starts heading toward me, I see the sign glued to the inside windshield, a sign that screeches HONDA.

I am tempted to yell something as the van passes me.  I want to laugh ironically twice: once for the fact that they need such a big-ass sticker to remember what kind of vehicle they're driving, and once because now their vehicle enters the realm of steal-worthy.

"Guy," I want to say to him, "get those kids to a safe location.  That sticker is an invitation to chop-shop heaven!"

Okay, so maybe not even the stickers can make a mini van tricked out enough for lazy Lawrence car thieves, but it all makes for an unusual story, whether it's true or not.  Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go peel some stickers off my car windows and throw some stale Cheerios on the floor mats to prevent it from being stolen.

IF A TREE FALLS

Work is crazy right now.  I'm trying to wrap up the year, and that means filing away my library, giving a final exam, DDM tests, common assessments, meetings, new curriculum discussions, etc. I stay at work a little later than I'd like, then get side-tracked in the hallway not once, not twice, but three times.  I finally get home and decide to enjoy the beautiful day; it's cool, breezy, partly sunny, and perfect for walking.

I need to change out of my work clothes, which cuts into my time.  I decide that my Saucony sneakers, which I bought at DSW off the clearance rack, have done their time on my feet already today, so I change into a pair of factory-outlet New Balance sneakers with decent grip in case I go off road.

A quick text to my daughter holds me up a little longer.  Sure would be nice to have company, but she is still at work.  This changes my possible route.  On my way home today I drove down a street that I walk all the time but never bothered to clock the mileage until now.  From my house to the top of the hill, it's about 6/10ths of a mile.  It's uphill the whole way out, and it's downhill the whole way back: Perfect for a warm-up walk followed by a jog back home with the possibility of going off road toward the end.

I finally get out of the house, later than I hope and start chugging my way on the first incline.  I hate that my top half wants to go faster than my bottom half.  It's the curse of being out of shape coupled with blown out Achilles tendons that will never, ever recover and a bad case of Morton's neuroma in my right foot.  I cross the street from the church to the elementary school and start up the long, final incline, the one that makes up the bulk of the route.

This is where I start debating: Do I keep walking at a decent clip or should I jog a little, maybe to the street sign a few hundred yards away? 

"Jog!" my brain screams. 

"Walk!" my legs retort. 

I really should jog; my pants are tight and not because of the dryer.  It takes me one second to hesitate.  I swear, it's only one second, but it feels like an eternity.

I'm on the sidewalk because, unlike pedestrians with death wishes, I do not walk nor jog in the street (too often).  The sidewalk is wedged between a strip of tree-lined grass and sturdy stone walls that protect the old mansions from common folk like me.  

Suddenly, the tree not ten feet in front of me keels over.  Honestly, it doesn't creak, it doesn't scream, it doesn't snap.  It simply topples like a drunk on his way to the floor after blacking out.  It's not a small tree, either.  This tree is ... was ... forty-plus feet tall.  As it falls in front of me and to the left, it blocks my path, takes out a chunk of the stone wall, and completely annihilates the only driveway in and out of the elementary school.

What amazes me is that I have a front row seat to the falling. What flabbergasts me is that even on this semi-busy street, I am the only witness.  What shocks me is the realization that had I started jogging a second or two ago, I'd be dead right now.

I step around the tree trunk.  The roots are still in the ground, but it is obvious that termites or tree rot ate the poor thing from its inside out.  I can see through the branches people in the schoolyard examining the tree from fifty yards away.  I look quickly to assess property damage.  Other than blocking in the teachers and parents left straggling at the school and taking out masonry from the wall, wires are intact and the tree missed a nearby house by less than one foot.

I call the police, who, at first anyway, seem completely disinterested.  They insist that this is a private property issue.  I tell them a street is blocked.  "It's a private street," the dispatcher tells me.  "Not our concern."  Well, then.  I guess I'll just be on my way and hope the school has a bazillion chainsaws handy. I walk fast up the rest of the hill, circle a brick building on the prep school campus, and jog my way back down, a slow jog because my damn Achilles tendons hurt already as I hit the mile marker.

As I near the bottom of the big hill, I see a police car pulling a u-turn in the street.  It looks like they showed up after all.  Maybe the school principal called them and maybe he or she is someone far more important than I, a lowly out-of-district teacher and sometime jogger.

As I get closer, I cross the street and introduce myself to the officer as the person who made the initial call. "If I started jogging a second sooner," I joke, "you'd be scraping my brains off the pavement."

We get to talking, and the cop wants to know what exactly happened.  "Did the wind knock it over?  Did it snap?  Did you hear it cracking as it came down?"  No, no, and no.  The tree didn't do any of those things.  I wrack my brain trying to think of a way to describe what I witnessed.

"It's like ... it sort of ... "  I gather my thoughts for a quick sec.  "It's like the tree fainted.  One second it was standing, and the next it wasn't.  It didn't make a sound."

We chat for a bit.  The fact that I was seconds from biting The Big One isn't the part that has my brain befuddled.  The tree fell exactly where all the elementary school children and their parents stand for drop-off in the morning and pick-up in the afternoon.  It is a mere ninety minutes after the end of the school day for them.  Even though some kids are still on the playground with after-school activities, had that tree fallen at the height of parent pick-up, children and adults could be ... WOULD BE ... dead.

Do I feel lucky?  Yes.  I thank the angel on my shoulder (those close to me know exactly who that is, and the poor guy has been working overtime on all of us lately).  Actually, right after it happened, I thanked him out loud while standing right there on the sidewalk before I even grabbed my phone to contact the police or to take pictures.  But, had I been hit, either mortally or brutally, it still is a better scenario than school children being taken out.

After speaking with the officer, I continue on my jog, cross the street by a different church (I live near a lot of churches, so maybe I have good karma from that), then I take off into the woods and jog through the nearby town land, the same land where the turkeys chased me a few weeks ago.  Since the leaves filled in, I am no longer visible to the street nor to the houses in the neighborhood, and I'm starting to think this isn't one of my brighter ideas hightailing through the woods by myself.  It gets even sketchier when trees nearby start creaking in a threatening manner.

I realize that today I almost get sent to the forest's version of the Davy Jones Locker.  There's only one logical thing to do next: Get my ass back inside the house and try not to get killed for the rest of the day.

TIME FOR HOLIDAY STAMPS

I forget to stock up on stamps before sending out the monthly bills.

This simple fact leads to a fine juggling act: which bills get mailed immediately and which ones wait until I buy more stamps.  Of course, the birthday cards get mailed out immediately.  I try to mail birthday wishes on time, and I'm damn proud of myself that I mail the two cards out using the last of the stamps.  Yup, proud, proud, proud.

Until I remember that there are three birthdays this week, not two.  I totally spaced out and forgot a friend's birthday.  (Happy birthday -- sorry.  All of my blog friends say "Happy birthday," so I hope that qualifies.  Yes, it's today.)  Pride evaporates pretty quickly at this point.

Four days pass before I remember to buy stamps, and I don't actually remember.  I happen to be grocery shopping and pass the courtesy counter on my way out.  There's no line, so I ask the clerk, "Do you sell stamps?"  Yes, yes they do sell stamps, but they sell them in books of twenty.  Um ... duh.  Do people truly go to stores and say, "Sell me one .... no, sell me three stamps!  Yes!  Three!  Just three!  No more, no less!"?

The clerk checks the register drawer.  "I'll have to go to the office," he says apologetically, "because all I have are holiday stamps."

Holiday stamps?  They can't be Memorial Day stamps nor Flag Day stamps nor Independence Day stamps because the mainstream stamps have flags on them, which means they already cover those holidays.  I doubt he means Bastille Day, which is a little over a month away, because our stamps are not French.  So, what, then?  Father's Day stamps?  End of the School Year stamps? 

I'll bite.  "What do the holiday stamps look like?"

He pulls out Christmas stamps.  Not just any Christmas stamps; Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer stamps.  I instantly feel the smirk spreading across my face.  This.  Is.  Awesome.

"I'll take two books, if you have them."

He seems surprised at first, but, within moments, he is on board with me.  Perhaps my face gives me up.  Perhaps his sense of humor is as sickly ironic as is mine.  No matter.  I leave the store with my groceries and forty Rudolph holiday stamps.

Get ready, credit card payment centers.  Prep yourself, AAA yearly dues.  Pay attention, car and life insurance companies.  You better watch out; you better not cry; you better not pout, I'm telling you why: Santa Claus is mailing to you.

MINDING THE WHITE-OUT AND MY OWN BUSINESS

I'm minding my own business at my desk today, trying to put my extensive library away for the summer.  The students are working on review activities for a test they're taking tomorrow.  At this point, someone asks for White-Out.

For some strange reason, the students are not allowed to have liquid White-Out.  Okay, the reason is probably because some adult believes all children sniff liquid White-Out to get high.  That adult would be wrong.  That's what copy room workers do.  (No, they don't.  Relax.  Sniff some White-Out.)  Today, however, one of the students hands over a container of liquid to a kiddo nearby.

"What the ... Dude!  This is NOT White-Out."

The student who owns the liquid reminds me of Flower Children from the 60's.  You know the ones -- Hippies' children.  Kids who think coffee is mud and Oreos are dried poop because their parents are raising them eating grains from the fields alongside the family goats.  My student is a charming young man but laid back.  Very laid back.

"Yes, it is!"

The recipient holds up the squeeze bottle.  "It's PAINT."

"White-Out!"

"PAINT, Dude, PAINT, PAINT, PAINT!"  At this point, the student who tried to use the makeshift White-Out starts blowing on the wet blob and watches it drip across his paper. 

I head over, somewhat glad for the interruption to my book sorting, and I put my hand out for the bottle.  Sure enough, it's a container of craft paint, a puffy-style paint, to be exact.  My student's White-Out is actually clothing paint sold in fabric stores and craft stores.

"It IS paint," I announce. 

The first student starts to protest.  I toss it back to him and return to my original task.  It is here that I notice white paint all over my hands and some on my brown pants.  Pissah.  Now I have fabric paint on my fabric clothing. 

Aha!  I get it now.  This is the reason students are not allowed to have liquid White-Out -- They'll ruin their clothes.  Or my clothes, as the case may be.  That's what I get for not minding my own business.

CHILI-ING TIME AT THE BAR

My friend and I are sitting in the bar in a booth at Chilis.  It's a Monday night, not a particularly busy evening, for sure, so we have time to hog the table and yak.  As we do so, we start to notice the people dotting the bar itself.

On our side of the wrap-around bar sit three men.  They are not together, at least not physically.  One guy in a suit sits three stools from a guy in business casual who is four stools away from another business casual guy.

This is not the unusual part.

We notice that each of the men wears dress socks -- the loose, semi-polyester knit calf socks with interesting designs.  Suit Guy has dark socks with little decorations interspersed throughout the material.  Business Casual #1 is wearing hideous tan socks with some kind of red and yellow diamonds running up the outside like misaligned fishnet stockings.  Business Casual #2 is wearing dark socks, possibly blue, which a striped design.  This anomaly of work socks should render them a group, but that's still not the weird part.

The bizarre thing about these three gentlemen is that each one is decadently sipping a glass of red wine.

Seriously.  Wine.  At Chilis.  At the bar.  Alone.  Each one alone as alone can possibly be when sitting mere feet from one's bar-stooled doppelgangers.

Chilis has an extensive bar list, from beer selections to alcohol.  Granted they do not make coconut margaritas, but still they have a good stock of hard liquor and quite a few taps of beer (not to mention the bottled back-up list).  This isn't the place where wine would be first on my list of things to order, and not because I'm a snob. Sweetie, I am one of the least wine-snobbish people you will ever meet.  Shit, I'll drink wine out of a box, for chrissakes.  But this -- This is awkward.  Three guys, all wearing slightly saggy office-style socks, all sitting a few seats apart, all sipping red wine.

Alone.

Is it a conspiracy?  Some kind of signal?  Some secret CIA-style sting?  Are they part of a dating ring, waiting for the women and using each other as back-up in case they need to bail before introductions?  "I'll be the guy drinking the red wine at the bar.  Pretend you know me and I'll get you out clean."

Whatever it may be -- predetermined or coincidence -- we find it wildly entertaining and giggle-worthy, which, of course, means another successful dinner out.  Thank you, Chilis, and thank you, gentlemen.  Cheers!

NAP TIME

Last week was a long, tough week at school.  Friday night I came home, took a ninety-minute nap, stayed up for a bit, then went to bed.

Saturday was a busy but fun day.  I sat out in the sun for an hour and started reading a book.  I had company, we ate lunch, then we went wine tasting.  I came home, read for a bit, then took a nap.

Sunday I worked on school stuff all day long, ran laundry (five loads for me and the kiddos), paid bills, and read my book.  In between all of this, I took a nap.

I can tell the school year is almost over.  Even my exhaustion has exhaustion.  It's to the point where I shouldn't sit down, especially not on the big, comfy, tempting chair in the living room with the giant ottoman that has easy-to-reach blankets hidden inside. It's like a Nap Trap just waiting for me to fall into it.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have one more chapter to go in the book, and I suspect a nap is calling.

WINE OF THE WEEK: THE PESSIMIST RED BLEND 2014

I'm at my favorite wine store for the Saturday tasting, and it's like the tour bus just stopped.  Wall-to-wall people.  Best of all, though, Bob, the guest pourer, is making his usual magic with conversation and marveling us all with his ability to remember exactly which bottle each of us is on without ever missing a beat.

Some mighty tasty wines are on today's list, all picked by the guest host, and most of them are reds.  I am still searching for a decent white, so it looks like today's efforts might be for naught.  There is a decent French Voignier, but it's not quite what my palate has been craving, and there is a rose, but I've been rose-d quite a bit since the Kentucky Derby.

It looks like another Battle of the Reds.

Out of the seven reds on today's list, I am thrilled to see a chianti, which is a red I don't see often at tastings.  It's a contender, to be sure, as is the pinot noir from Oregon.  But today's battle is really between just two.  First up is Le Cirque Rouge, a 2013 red from France that is smooth and drinkable with a great finish.  You know how some reds beg for cheese?  Not this one -- It stands on its own.

The second contender is a red blend from California. It's dark, a red-violet color and texture, and clings to the glass like blood.  This wine earned a 91-point rating from Wine Advocate, which sometimes means nothing to me because I like what I like, but we seem to agree on this one.  Better yet, it's less than $20 per bottle.

The only problem is that I simply cannot buy another red just yet.  My wine rack is half full, it's packed with reds, and I'm the sole consumer of these bottles at the moment.  I should be deeply ashamed of myself, yet, of course, I am not.

Ultimately, though, no wine comes home with me today, not even when I come across a second tasting closer to home.  The guy at Tasting #2 pours a chenin blanc from Cotes du Rhone (I did not write down which vineyard) that is very nice, close to what I'm searching for in a white wine, but not close enough to convince me to adopt a bottle.

I come home with a six-pack of Bad Martha Vineyard Summer Ale to tide me over, but I keep the hand-out from today's tasting.  When my wine rack springs an empty slot (okay, a half-empty slot since it's half-full), I'm filling it with this week's wine winner:  THE PESSIMIST RED BLEND, a 2014 wine from Daou Vineyard in California.

TECHNO-GENIUS OPTIONS

Thank you, techno-wizards, for inventing the "hide posts" and "unfollow" options on websites such as Facebook. This function allows me to bitch-slap people without them even realizing I'm bitch-slapping them, and it prevents me from being arrested.

Someone posts something so radically and socially retarded that you shake your head wondering how he or she remembers to wipe (its) own asshole in the morning?  CLICK.  Gone.  Gone faster than the lingering smell of the brain-dump he/she produced.

It works, for real. I don't need a gun, there's no bloodshed, and nobody has to come bail me out of jail in the middle of the day.  Best of all, the dimwit has NO IDEA its posts are being ignored.

If only this could translate into real life, though.  Imagine for a moment that someone says something to you that is so incredibly heinous that all you can do is stand there staring with your mouth completely agape.  Instead of wasting brain cells plotting ways to yank this person's tongue out and hog-tie him with it, there would be some cosmic "unfollow" that would automatically happen with a nod of your Jeannie head or a twitch of your Samantha mouth.

POOF.  Gone.

Now, take it one step further.  Imagine for a moment that we could apply this same strategy to things like work.  Imagine if you could "unfollow" a boss whose long-winded rambling at a meeting is causing you to lose precious post-work social time.  A simple "hide post" flick of an index finger, and BOOM ... Freedom.

Step it up one more notch -- "Unfollow" the political machinations associated with the presidential (or any) election.  How cool would it be if every single medium just suddenly stopped inundating us all with puke-worthy political pablum?  Good lord, our collective blood pressure would drop to normal levels.

While people complain to Facebook and other social media websites about the stickers and icons that we lack, such as The Finger, I'll be thanking them for the "hide post" and "unfollow" options that we do have available.

But really, you techno-geniuses should work on more practical, real-world applications if you honestly want to make a difference in the world.

Now, for more real-world applications, I'm going to laugh my ass all the way to the I-Don't-Give-A-Fuck-About-You place when you unfollow me.  See my caring face?  You can't?  Hmmmm... Hey, techno-geniuses: Next invention!