ONE MUG AT A TIME

I'm trying to eat a healthier diet.  Don't take me too seriously, though.  I haven't completely forsaken my old bad habits.  I still like chocolate every now and again, and I don't mind indulging my inner tippler.  My choice of trail mix isn't completely healthy unless one counts M&Ms and chocolate morsels as health foods.  I figure if chocolate is good enough for the Aztecs, it's good enough for me.  I haven't quite quit processed foods yet, either.  I mean, come on: Cheez-Its come in extra-toasty flavor now.

I do eat a lot more salads now.  Okay, salads with feta and walnuts and croutons and maybe a little too much dressing, but the veggies are fresh and I mix up my greens to include lettuce and spinach.  No kale, though.  Kale is bitter.  I snack a lot on homemade oat-nut peanut butter honey granola bars (for which I cannot provide a recipe because I wing it every time).  Even my homemade blueberry muffins have gone the way of oats and unsweetened applesauce.

In other words, I'm trying.  At my age, every healthy choice is probably a wise one. But, sometimes I just need to let the chocoholic in me take over.  On Friday I let myself be tempted and completely won over at work by a slice of chocolate cake.  Then, on Saturday I ate a few Milano dark chocolate cookies. Still, though, I need more.

So, on Sunday to stop myself from thinking about chocolate, I make myself a chocolate chip mug cake.

If you've never made a mug cake, here's the one thing I can tell you: it is practically instantaneous.  From start to finish, the entire process takes less than five minutes, and that includes cooking time.  Of course, if you include time to take the ingredients off the shelf and find measuring equipment, it might take you a total of eight minutes.  Once everything is mixed together inside the mug, the mug goes into the microwave.  A few minutes later, out comes a warm, freshly-baked giant cupcake/mini cake in its own ceramic container.

Best of all, the directions say to eat the cake while it's still warm.

It's not my healthiest habit, and I don't make mug cakes very often - just in an extreme chocolate emergency.  This way I can treat myself to a piece of cake without any leftover cake tempting me to eat it all.  The chocolate chip mug cake is exactly perfect for the Marie Antoinette in all of us.  After all, when someone serves us a salad, it is probably best for them to "let us eat cake" lest we take a bite out of our salad-server when dessert time rolls around.

I'm trying to be healthy.  Really, I am.  But, let me be practical and take it one mug at a time.

FINALLY SOME FREE TIME

Finally.

I have been waiting months for this.  Yes, more than mere weeks.  Months.

Finally, I have  a week with an open post-work schedule.

Oh, sure, I have a meeting on Monday and then I have to hit the grocery store.  There are a couple of small things like that.  However, I don't have to get to the doctor, nor to an eye appointment, nor do I need to have surgery, nor do I need to pick anyone up nor drop anyone off, I do not have to go out of state, I don't need to get to the post office.

I do not have any weekend obligations nor any evening obligations.  It's like ... it's like ... Christmas ... without all the work and hoopla. 

Don't get me wrong.  I love being social.  I like having my schedule in order.  I enjoy doing things and going places.

But, for crying out loud, it seems like I haven't had a break since August.  It's like Roseanne Roseannadanna: It's always something.  This week, it's a whole bunch of nothing.  May it remain so.  May everyone around me stay healthy and be safe, and the same to me. 

Please, let me not have cursed myself and others.  Oh, and Mother Nature, if you're listening, keep your damn Nor'easters to yourself.  I have this week to relax before February gears up and shits all over me, so keep your seasonal debauchery in check for the next seven days, if you don't mind.

Finally.  Let's see if it truly comes to pass.

WINTER SCENE IN WHITEBOARD MARKERS

Our grade-level workroom has a large white board in it.  I suppose we should be using it for important things, like reminders for meetings and things like that, but we don't.  First of all, no one can reach it because it is set on the wall above large built-in shelves.  Unless one is seven feet tall, nobody is writing on that board.

No one, that is, except for me.

I'm tired of looking at the white space.  It reminds me of blank paper, mocking me until I write something.  I decide to create a winter scene on the board, and, because I am so short, this means I will need to climb up onto the shelves and make a spectacle of myself.  For this reason, I only work on my idea while people are out of the building or out of my immediate area.

Early in the winter, I start adding things to the board: a slope, a tree, a sledder, a skier.  Over the next few weeks I occasionally go in and add something else: a skater on a pond, more trees, a house with smoke coming from the chimney.

After that, the board sits for a long time.  I don't mind if anyone wants to add anything to the board.  I mean, it's not "my" board.  But, no one does.

Finally, during conference week, I arrive back at school an hour early for one of the evening rounds.  I gather every color of marker that I can find in my classroom and head back down to the workroom.  Tonight I add a snowboarder, a snowball fight with a fort, a small bonfire, a dog, a person roasting marshmallows, and the final snowflakes.  (Yes, I know the snowflakes have too many points, but I'm not an artist.)

We still have eight more weeks of winter, so I suppose the picture can stay.  Maybe I'll add flowers as things thaw.  Maybe I'll melt the pond and have the skater fall in.  Maybe I'll add some deciduous trees as the weather warms or have a bear awaken from hibernation and chase someone across the board.  

Until then, perhaps my drawing will brighten up everybody's day when they're stuck in the workroom fighting with the copy machine.

TO YAWN OR NOT TO YAWN

Today is day three of conferences, and by 2:35 p.m., I am so tired that I swear I am speaking in tongues.  Through the last few conferences, I am speaking in  languages that have no word translations in English. Even I don't know what I'm saying anymore.

We are under pressure to fill the last few spots that haven't been taken up yet.  We have two openings, and three of the parents have not responded yet. Too bad.  So sad.  Time to move on.  But no, the administration pressures us to fill all of the spots, so we do.

We fill the last two spots with kiddos whose grades are  really good.  We haul these people out of work, out of fun, out of important errands, to tell them that their son or daughter is doing so well that we wish we could repay in kisses.  I guess that's a good thing, but seriously.  I mean, we all love to hear about our kids' achievements, but perhaps an email or a card would be better than a black mark on employee records as one who "left work early on a Friday afternoon for some school thing."

By conference number thirteen I am yawning my head off.  By conference number eighteen I am toast.  I don't even know who I am anymore.  I could be saying such crazy shit as, "Your rutabaga hand-knits Majorcan lumberjack beards," and it wouldn't be any more meaningful than the words spilling out of my mouth. 

I watch the clock.  So close, so close. 

I'm sorry, parents.  I'm so very sorry if you're one of the last few conferences. We really do have brains and we truly could string a sentence together a few days ago, even a few hours ago, but right now there isn't a cohesive brain cell between the entire team of teachers stuck inside this room after three days.

Here are my final thoughts:  Your kid is great; you're great; the sun is shining; the school year is half over; and, just in case we didn't already say so, your kid is great. Can I go home and crawl into bed now?  I need to sleep for about thirty hours.

GREAT WALL OF PAPER

I have several hours in between the end of the half-school-day and evening parent conferences.  I could go home, or I could organize and file the mounds of paper that have slowly and completely surrounded me on my desk, on student desks attached to my desk, on top of file cabinets, and stuffed into drawers.

Essentially, my work space has become the Great Wall of China in paper form.  I haven't seen my desk's top surface in over a week, but I can totally hide from sneak-attack administration visits should the need arise.

This morning I ponder staying for a little while and pack myself a lunch -- sub sandwich, salad, and various snacks (both healthy and not) -- so I have enough food to keep myself nourished for three or four days.  I suppose this is good planning if one is tackling the Great Wall of Filing, and I do despise filing, so snacks will be helpful.

(Almost there . . .)

The sucky thing about filing is that it rarely ends with a few folders into a few file drawers.  One file usually connects to another and then another and then... before I know what's happening, I have filed half of the crap on the furniture and have only bothered the office twice for extra hanging file folders.

Four hours later I can see part of my desk.  An hour after that, I can sit at my desk and eat half of my sub sandwich in the small area of cleanliness that resembles a tiny voting booth.  One more hour and my desk is organized enough that I dare to breathe a sigh of semi-relaxation.  I make myself a cup of tea and head off to conferences, rounding out a fourteen hour day at work.

The bad news is that there's still more filing to be done the following day, but not much.  The good news is that the extremely long day seems to have cured my insomnia, at least for one night.

CONFERENCE TIME SALADS

Ahhhh, it's that time of year again.  It's .... CONFERENCE TIME!  Yes, folks, two straight nights and a long afternoon of parent conferences.  I like meeting the parents and I like talking about the kiddos, but I do not like ... no, I despise ... sitting still for so long.  It makes my hip hurt, to be honest.

I usually come home in between school and the evening conferences, but I might stay through at least one of the days.  I'm also on a semi-health kick, so I stop at the store and get salad fixings and stuff to make sub sandwiches. 

Deli meat is easy.  I can get as much or as little as I want of anything -- turkey, ham, roast beef.  The produce is another story.  Even the small containers of lettuce or baby spinach are not really small at all.  Open the plastic top or rip the plastic bag open and ... BOOM!  Explosion of greens.

My solution is to set up several containers of salads.  I have an assortment of containers, so I dole everything out into five square containers, but still there is way too much lettuce.  Not one to be wasteful, I grab two more containers and keep going.  I cut up cukes and tomatoes and a pepper, then I shave carrot into each bin.

Before I take a salad for lunch (or just to eat right then and there), I add feta cheese, croutons, walnuts, and sometimes deli meat.  I'm not sure this keeps my salad on the lower calorie end, but it tastes fabulous, even if I cannot finish it until later on in the day when my planning period comes along. 

This is all fine and wonderful except for one very minor problem: fitting all the salad containers into the fridge.  I pile them up into a non-leaning tower, do a little geometry to angle everything in, and suddenly I am all packed and ready for conference week.  My stomach will be extraordinarily comfy.

Now, if I can just figure out how to avoid sitting for three straight days so my hip doesn't pop out, I'd be truly and deeply happy.

IMPROMPTU MORNING MUSIC VIDEO

On the heels of yesterday's all-winter-in-a-day, this morning's weather is an absolute shit show.  All around my town is sleet, snow, and ice.  My town and the town where I work both have snowy, rainy slush.

Worse than that, my town has a one-hour school delay.  That means the plow drivers, sanders, and salt truck drivers are all getting an extra hour of sleep and/or hanging out at Dunk's having coffee.  (Kidding - they're out there because I pass a salt truck.)  Actually, it truly means no one is in any great hurry to get side streets cleaned up.

Pissah.  It's trash day in my neighborhood.  That means I must slog through the two inches of marshy Slurpee-coated driveway, sidewalk, and street just to throw my trash at the corner.  I decide to do this while going out to start my car, then I drag some of the wet crap back into my house to get my work gear.

Slog #2 happens when I make the return trek back outside to leave for work in earnest.  The street, a hill of slippery proportions, has not been touched yet, not by plow and not by sander.  I live right at the crest, but my driveway is a slightly lower elevation.  I have two choices: continue downhill and risk sliding nose-first into an extremely dangerous blind five-way intersection, or attempt to continue uphill through the semi-icy crap and risk sliding backward, heading ass-first into that same dangerous intersection.

Success!  I make it up and over the crest.

The ride to work is a bit scary because even when I hit the main road, it has not been properly cleared (if at all), and there is no way to see the lines.  It is a four-lane drag strip with traffic passing mere inches apart, and we all run the risk of a head-on crash (at decent speeds) at any given second.  I only almost get hit four times before I turn onto the road toward school.

I am a little pissed off when I arrive and the parking lot has not been cleared.  I attempt to park in my usual space, slowly creeping my all-wheel drive through about three inches of disgusting white muck.  I decide I am not really in the space and attempt to move forward, but my car has already frozen into place.  Guess I'm staying right where I am, lines be damned.

The janitorial staff is snow-blowing the sidewalk ... to the superintendent's office.  The doorway where I enter is still a cruddy mess, so I slog right on through, making this trip from my car to the door a long one hundred yard ford through slushy streams and slippery sleet-covered walkways.

When I enter the building, there is a huge mat on which to wipe my feet.  If I happen to drag ice with me beyond the mat, I will most likely careen down the long hallway, fall onto the linoleum, and smash my skull open.  This would be very bad because I am the first to arrive in the building (other than the secretary who is three hallways away), and I will most probably bleed out before anyone else shows up for school.

I slide my feet along the mat, then I stamp them, then I wipe them.  I repeat this action several times, back and forth across the large rug.

For some strange reason, I suppose because my brain isn't wired correctly, I start humming The Mexican Hat Dance song.  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_g8CEOpVSZU

Not the whole song.  Just the middle part.  I use my feet as I hum the song:
Slide - slide - slide (stamp! stamp!)
(Duh - dah- dah- dah- dah- duh- duh!)
Slide - slide - slide (stamp! stamp!)
(Duh - dah- dah- dah- dah- duh- duh!)
Wiiiiiiiiipe - wiiiiiiipe - wiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiipe ....
(etc., etc., etc.)

This is when I remember that there is a camera in the ceiling recording my every move.  I look up, wave, snap a picture of the doorway for the blog (because this is a blog-worthy moment), and continue down the hall saying out loud (because I am, after all, the only one in this end of the building), "I crack my bad self right up."

Thank goodness the only thing I crack up is myself.  I don't crack up my car, I don't crack any bones walking to and from my car, and I don't crack my skull open on the wet school floors after entering the building.

Still, my antics have been recorded via camera for all of posterity, so somewhere there's a tech (probably holed up in the connected high school computer lab deep in the basement) wondering what the hell I am doing, which makes my slush-inspired Mexican Hat Dance even funnier.  Perhaps I'll join the tech and we can both laugh while we watch my impromptu music video.

ALL WINTER IN A DAY

An old story by Ray Bradbury titled "All Summer in a Day" tells a tale of children reacting (somewhat poorly) to the one hour every seven years when the sun shines on Venus (where they live).  Only one child in the schoolroom remembers the sun because she moved to Venus from Earth five years prior and has actually seen the sun for real, so the children bully her and lock her away until the sun is gone again.

I feel that way a little bit today as we experience all winter in a day. 

I wake up early, around 4:30 a.m., and listen for the rain that the weather people predicted we would get.  It is supposed to be a large and intense system with downpours and high winds.  Instead, all we have gotten in the last few hours has been a gentle, misting drizzle, silent against the windows with no winds at all.  I don't hear anything, so I doze back off until the radio alarm pipes classical music into my room just after 5:00. 

I have to plan the day's wardrobe to get through teaching all day, plus a stint of hall duty, and a meeting after school.  All of this planning is tempered by the fact that I still get hot flashes that can take down a horse, so I need outerwear (sweaters or fleeces) that can go on and off at my body's whim.

I debate dresses and then jumpers and finally settle on pants, a short-sleeved shirt, an open-front sweater, and some light, spring-type shoes.  After all, it's just drizzling a little bit and I'll be inside all day.  I sneak another peek outside to see if it's still damp out.  It is, but it's still only misting.  No big deal.  This outfit should do and my shoes will keep my feet cool during those lovely heated moments.  It's not like I have to trudge through snowbanks.

I putter around getting my lunch packed, my bangs straightened, my eye liner crayoned on, and my iced coffee (yes, here in New England even in the throes of winter, we suck down iced coffee like it's air) ready.  Before I brush my teeth and put on lipstick, I need to run outside (no auto-starter) to warm up my car.   I open the front door.

It is snowing.  Not just a little bit; a lot.  It has snowed enough since I last looked outside (twenty minutes earlier) that it is already sticking and my windshield is covered. 

This is just too damn bad because I am already dressed and ready to go, so my springy, breezy shoes are staying right on my feet where they belong.  I head back inside for five minutes, finish my morning prep, then head to work.  I drive through giant snowflakes, usually the hallmark of the start or end of a storm.  By the time I park in my work spot, it's raining again.  My car, covered with snow still, looks ridiculous in the empty lot where there isn't another flake of snow in sight.

During the course of the day, it snows again, then rains, then snows again, then rains, then snows again, then rains, then the sun comes out, then it snows, then it rains, then it snows, then it stops.  By the time I head to my after-school meeting, it's snowing again.  I love it when it snows, and I'm stuck inside, excited every time I see it snow (and pulling the shades open) then depressed when it turns to rain (shutting the shades again).

I cannot see out the windows of the room where we are all gathered for over an hour.  Apparently, this is my "locked in the closet" time where I cannot see what the weather is doing outside.  When I stroll outside with my coworkers, it is simply raw and icy and the air is sharp and biting.  A small amount of mist sticks to my windshield, and it is easily and quickly rectified with one forward-back motion of the wipers.

Driving home it drizzles a tiny bit at one point then stops.  Two miles from my house the sky abruptly lets loose another torrent of giant snowflakes. 

All winter in a day, I tell myself, just like the story only opposite seasons.  Some will say that's simply New England, for sure, but I prefer to think of it as literary magic.

TALE OF THE SINK

And now, after long last, the tale of the sink.  May it be worth the wait.

For some unknown reason about ten months ago, my landlord changed out my kitchen faucet for a new one.  The new faucet isn't an expensive model or anything like that, which is fine because my tastes run simple, anyway.  It's like when I watch those home improvement shows and they say things like, "Well, we cannot put a toilet in your bathroom because we ran out of money, but we did get you this $5,000 refrigerator that wipes your ass for you when you walk by it!"  I'll take the toilet and the $800 fridge, thank you very much.

Anyway, the new faucet works out very well for a while.  Of course, the real problem is that the disposal died years ago and now I have to plunge the sink out a few times week even when I catch all of the stuff that might go down the drain.  Again, the pipes in this old house are no surprise -- one can pee in the toilet and not put any toilet paper into the bowl whatsoever, and the dang toilet still backs up.  I guess here is where I should admit that I have not yet taken stock in the plunger company, but I probably should.

About seven months ago, the new faucet started acting up.  It would continue to run for up to ten seconds after it had been shut off.  I notified the landlord with the disclaimer, "It's not really a big issue, so no worries.  Just FYI."

Truly, it wasn't a big issue, even though the problem steadily got worse.  The faucet would run for twenty seconds after being shut off.  Then it progressed to a point that no hot water would come through for about two minutes, and then it would be so hot that our hands got burned.  Again, I notified the landlord with the same "It's not really a big issue, so no worries.  Just FYI."

About two months ago, the faucet stopped producing much water at all.  My kitchen sink was like a dried up well on the Oregon Trail -- no matter how much we cranked the handles, water trickled out.  We took to using only the sprayer to wash things.  I again tell the landlord I need to have the faucet looked at, but still -- I have water.  I have a sink.  I have a great rental rate.  It really IS NO BIG DEAL.

Now, I'm not a stupid woman.  Of course, I'm sure there are some out there who will dispute this, but I'm telling you, I have enough common sense and basic knowledge to fix a faucet.  I'm reasonably certain that the small screen inside the end of the faucet is faulty.  Easy fix, right?  Just loosen the end of the faucet, replace, return the faucet to its original state, and voila! 

I have wrenches.  I have brains.  I can put them together, right?  I should be able to solve this problem without inconveniencing anyone else.  I wear big girl pants, after all.

I grab the wrenches, two different sizes, both expandable, and head for the sink.  For some reason, this fancy new faucet doesn't want to behave.  I work at the faucet end, which is fluted and very difficult to grab.  I can work the wrench into position, but I cannot get the damn thing to budge.

At this point, I am scraping away the metal, and I am now afraid that I will bust the entire faucet and have water shooting all over my kitchen.  So, at the beginning of this month, I say to the landlord, "Look, I've tried to fix it.  Now I'm just afraid I'm going to bust the thing."  We make a date for the repair, but it passes without any luck.  Before anyone blames this on my landlord, please don't.  The landlord has been and continues to be fabulous, is trying to redo the townhouse connected to mine, has many children, and works full time.  In other words, the landlord is as exasperated in daily life as am I.  As long as the sprayer works, neither one of us really has a problem here.

However, I am determined to fix this sink.  I am determined to prove that I am not a helpless tenant who cannot even do the simplest of repairs on my own house.  I mean, this isn't an apartment in a multi-unit complex with a full-time maintenance staff.  What would I do if I really truly owned the house and had to figure this out?  I start in with the wrenches again.  I use paper towels and washcloths and even rubber jar openers trying to grip the fluted faucet end and make it turn.  I manage to budge it a little bit, but it's ... just ... not ... moving.

I am extremely frustrated at this point and take out a sharp knife.  I start poking at the screen inside the faucet's end.  If I cannot take the thing out by conventional methods, I am willing to pull it out in parts.  I jam that knife point up over and over again.  I'm totally pulling a Norman Bates on the kitchen sink.

Enter my daughter. 

She is strong and strong-willed, so, like me, she is determined to loosen the faucet so we can fix it because now zero water is coming out.  I show her what I have been doing with the wrench, and I do manage to move it a little tiny bit.  She elbows me out of the way and steps up to take a turn. 

Have you ever seen in real life or in the movies when the strapping man steps up to the contraption that is rigged to ring a bell at the top if he slams the giant sledge hammer down hard enough to make a stone fly up?  This is what my daughter looks like attacking the sink.  She is going to ring that damn bell if it's the last thing she does.  And, by god, she actually manages to move the faucet end a little bit more. 

We are very excited at this point.  We are laughing and smiling and high-fiving each other.  Damnation, we are going to FIX this damn faucet if it takes us all bloody evening.  She turns the wrench a little more and then says, "Um, I'm tightening this.  Am I turning it the wrong way?  Mom!  You've been turning it the WRONG WAY!"

Righty tighty, lefty loosey.  I chant this over and over again and assure her that no, I have NOT been trying to loosen the faucet the wrong way.  She insists that I am incorrect and shows me. 

"Look," she tells me, "you told me to turn it to the RIGHT!"

"Um... you're actually turning it LEFT."  She looks and realizes she is turning the wrench to the left.

Silence.  Giggles.  Laughter.

She gives it another huge tug, but the faucet end will not budge.  The entire faucet fixture, on the other hand, starts to bend a little bit like it might be suffering under the duress.  "That's as far as it will go," she says and leans in to turn on the handles and see if any water comes out.

We are silently watching the faucet, bending forward, faces close to observe any changes we may have affected, though we really expect nothing at all to happen.  A low moan sweeps up the pipes, the same sound it has been making for weeks.

BLAM!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

A huge explosive burst of power blows out of the faucet.  Something large and solid is shooting around the sink, bounces off the backsplash, hits the fluorescent light, and careens across the counter.  With a giant BOOM, water comes flowing out of the faucet as if there had never been anything wrong with it.

My daughter and I look at each other, stare at the sink, look back at each other again, and bust out laughing.  I am laughing so hard that I think I might just possibly pee my pants, and I mean that for real and not as an expression.

When we finally compose ourselves, we discover that the projectile bouncing around the kitchen is the inner piece of the faucet with the screen inside of it.  Apparently, pressure has built up behind it enough, and we loosened it enough, to combine and create what basically amounts to the launching of the space shuttle from my faucet.

After running to pee in the bathroom (because I'm not sure I can even attend to this situation if I don't), we determine that the faucet isn't so much as fixed as it's at least functioning again.  Of course, because the piece is not back inside the faucet where it belongs, technically the faucet is still broken, probably more than it was a minute prior.  Also, when I snap a picture of the faucet from underneath, it looks a little bit like the explosion may have damaged the original shape of the faucet, as well.

Surprisingly, though, and somewhat frustratingly so, the end of the faucet that we have been trying to loosen all along remains intact.  The bastard.

Well, I'm not sure if I will fess up the true story in its entirety if and when the landlord does come by to take a gander at the situation.  But, in all fairness, the faucet is in better shape than it has been for ten months.  Also, in all fairness, I did find a way to fix it (sort of) without professional assistance.  I suppose that makes this a success story.  Oh, and I didn't need to change my underwear.  Winning!

MARCHING FOR THE GRAPES

My daughter is waiting for me to tell the sink story.  By the time we get to it, we'd have hyped it so much that it won't be funny anymore.  Okay, it will still be funny to those of us who witnessed it.  In truth, the sink story requires finesse, and this week has been too exhausting for finesse.  I promise, though, the sink story is forthcoming, probably tomorrow.

In the meantime, today, as everybody with a brain knows, is the Women's March on Washington.  I support those who decide to march today, but it's not my thing.  I need to be near a port-a-potty at all times these days as my bladder works about as well as a leaky sponge.  You go, ladies... Well, you march; I'll go... and go ... and go.

Feeling a little left out, I decide to march on my own.  First I march to the bank and cash a check so I can continue to eat and fun things like that.  As an independent woman who has been the family's sole breadwinner since 1993, I have to do things like banking and all that fun shit all by myself.

Then I march (okay, my car marches) to the gas station where I let the friendly guys who work there pump my gas.  It's a full service station that has gas at highly competitive prices, and it's the closest station to my house.  I suppose one could argue that I'm not a feminist because sometimes I let someone else, usually a male, pump the gas into my car.  I like to think of it as my entrepreneurial contribution in keeping these guys employed.  I like to think I'm actually being a market-forward thinker.

After this, I march down to the small chain grocery store that competes with the huge chain grocery store several miles away.  This store doesn't have a big selection, but I rarely have to wait in a line, and I can usually get a parking space (because it's never crowded) within spitting distance of the door.  I really want to buy a pot roast to cook for the Patriots' game, but the roasts are all huge and really pricey.  There are three meat counters at the store: self-service pre-packaged meats, organic meats, and the meat counter where you take a ticket and wait for the butcher-person to assist you.  The organic guy is stocking the shelves and asks if he can help me.  No, damnit, I'm a woman!  I can choose for myself ... right?  I settle on pre-packaged chicken instead of a roast.  Maybe I'll make coq au vin or some crazy experiment. 

After marching home, I make myself a tuna sandwich using about a third of a giant pita.  I need to go to Staples to check out some stuff, so I start heading in that general direction.  I swear at myself when I realize that I've completely passed the turn to go to the strip mall where Staples is located, but I am thrilled to see that I am on autopilot toward my usual Saturday wine tasting, and so I soldier on.

This is tasting number one today.  I have already strategically planned tasting number two as my "Sip wine, chat a little, then grab the Bud Light for the game" excursion.  This first tasting is my serious wine stop.  If I'm going to buy wine, it's usually here.  The selection is decent, the staff is knowledgeable, and the prices are unbeatable.  Today it's an All Bordeaux tasting, which means that I will be marching into France. 

After tasting two whites and five reds, I decide that Bordeaux is someplace I should probably visit at some point, but, since I cannot march across the Atlantic at the moment, I have to choose one bottle of Bordeaux wine as my favorite.  I narrow it down to two: One white and one red, because, in true solidarity with the whole marching theme, I want to be inclusive. 

The red for this week ends up being the one that isn't the favorite of my sipping compadres, but, then again, I've never been much of a follower.  My favorite red on the table is the Chateau Haut Pourjac Bordeaux, a 2015 vintage that has a nose that first hints of butter then blends into dark fruit.  It's not a very complex wine, but it is smoothly drinkable.  The tannins give it a little nip at the finish, but overall this wine is expressive and economical at $13 a bottle.

The white is my winner suggestion for this week.  At $12 a bottle, it is worth every penny.  Fruity and robust without being overpowering, the Chateau Beauregard Ducourt Entre Deux Mers Blanc is boldly yellow-green in color in the glass.  This wine stays on the palate with citrus and floral playing together.  It's a blend of Semillon and Muscadelle added to predominantly Sauvignon Blanc grapes.  My first written note on this wine:  YUM!

In the end, though, I make note of the Bordeauxs but march out of the tasting with a different bottle of wine, one I've never tried -- a red blend that bears the middle name of my daughter.  I must feel guilty for not telling the sink story yet.  I promise that I will march my rearend to the computer chair tomorrow and attempt to retell the story of how my daughter and I took on the kitchen plumbing.  Maybe she'll be so pleased with the way I tell it that she will march on over here and help me drink the bottle of wine I bought in her honor.

FRESH AIR AND THE MUCK WALK

I don't know why, but after work today I decide to take a walk.  That's right, a walk.  Outside.

I know ... THE HORROR.

I hate Fridays because I'm always exhausted, but, for some reason (probably my ever-ballooning weight) I decided that today would be a good day to get my fat ass back outside and do myself some good.  After all, it's a mild 33 degrees out, no wind, overcast -- a perfect day to be outside.  Plus, there's almost zero snow on the ground.

My intention is to go up the street, down the long connecting street, and double-back the somewhat dangerous, semi-secluded back road that leads exactly one-half mile back to my house.  Instead, I do part of my usual (when I actually DO walk regularly) route straight uphill for one mile, turn at the campus museum, and turn down a side street, skipping out on the extra half-mile through the small cemetery. Sorry, Harriet Beecher Stowe, but I just don't have the stamina to visit you and the fam today.

The best part about this route is that almost the entire second half of it is downhill.  Sometimes (I mean to say "in the summer when I sometimes do this semi-routinely") I jog most of the way home (about a mile), but today I am a little overdressed for a jog, plus I'm rusty and pudgy. 

The worst part is that there are sections of this particular circuit without sidewalks.  I am surprised to find parts of the existing sidewalk still covered in melting snow and ice, which puts me into the street for a while.  Where the sidewalk ends (not Shel Silverstein -- I mean the "for real" sidewalk), I have to sling through some mud and muck to prevent being run down by cars and trucks that occasionally happen to fly by.

I end up doing 2.46 miles despite the whole affair being a whim and me being woefully out of practice.  Of course, I have to reward myself with tuna on a bulky roll, some homemade peanut butter granola oat bars, a salad, and two light beers -- far exceeding the calories shed.

That's okay, though.  I walked, I got fresh air, I didn't get run over, and I was damn-well going to eat that shit anyway.

BEING A BLITHERING MORON

This morning is not going very well.

First, I forget to separate the students into numbered groups until about a minute before they arrive in the morning. Then, I realize that the way I numbered the seven groups of desks makes no sense whatsoever as #5 isn't anywhere near #4 nor #6.

As soon as the students file in for the first class, I panic because I forget to send the attendance electronically, so I must run to my computer and send the information before the office calls me on the room phone and starts chiding me.

I hand a pile of papers to a student.  "Here.  Pass these back for me." This would be an easy task except that I have handed her the wrong class's papers.  I quickly exchange that pile for another.  As I am about to send the attendance, I look up and realize the papers I gave her to hand back are the WRONG papers.

"Sorry," I say hurriedly.  "Hand them in, hand them in!"

Finally, the attendance has been sent, and the correct papers are being handed back while the incorrect papers (both piles) have made their return trip to my desk.  Right about now, I'm looking like a flaming lunatic.

"You see this?" I say, making a sweeping motion to my own desk.  "What you are witnessing is a moron in action right here.  A blithering moron."

A little humor plus a lot of embarrassment later, we are deep into the day's lesson.  I avoid the dreaded office phone call, the students all get their own corrected papers back (though I repeat the "wrong papers" trick to a second class a little later), and after several failed attempts, I finally get the computer program to run the correct student reports, though it costs me my twenty-minute lunch break.

It's okay, though.  After all, this is kind of the way it should be for the blithering moron I turn into for the day.

HARBINGER OF HORRIBLE NEWS

We've been having a problem at work with substitute teachers: We don't have enough.

It's not that we call out sick all the time; we do not.  Part of it is the pay scale (welcome to education, kids), and part of it is that some of the subs are working multiple districts.  When I subbed, I got called in to work every day, sometimes several times a day as the coordinators would jockey in position for us, trying to move us from one school to another as more teachers called out. 

This morning one of the administrators strolls down the long, long hallway leading toward my end of the building.  This means that someone has called out, and there probably isn't a sub.  If I end up in the rotation to sub again during my meeting/planning time, at least so soon since I did so last week, I might blow a head gasket -- not because I have to pitch in, but because grades are due Friday, and I have a lot left to do.

I greet the administrator with, "Here comes the Harbinger of Horrible News.  Who are we covering today?"

"Nobody here," is the reply.  "I'm heading to the next wing."

Whew.  And ... ooops.  If it were I who had to be out, I would hope people wouldn't view my absence as a harbinger of ill will.  I have a moment of guilt, but just a moment, then I rejoice a little inside because I won't have my day chopped up having to cover a class in another room away from my piles of correcting and planning and disorganization.

Seriously, though.  I think admin should have to wear black hooded capes like the Grim Reaper.  If they're going to be harbingers of doom to our days, they should at least have the fun of dressing the part.

SHUT. UP.

Oh.  My.  God.  Shut.  Up.  Shut.  The.  Fuck.  Up.

I am so tired of hearing about this fucking election and this goddamned inauguration.  I am tired of hearing about marches.  I am tired of reading idiot tweets from the president-elect.  I am tired of mentally unstable left-wing communists claiming that we need martial law imposed.

Martial law?  MARTIAL LAW?  Are you fucking insane?  Seriously?  MARTIAL FUCKING LAW?  Do you even know what the fuck you're talking about?  What you're suggesting?

Listen up -- I do NOT need nor want to hear about your views on "golden showers" while I'm trying to eat my damn lunch.  SHUT.  THE.  FUCK.  UP.

We all have the right of free speech.  I guess this means that I cannot FORCE people to shut up, but please.  Please, please, please just for a minute, an hour, a day, or (in my wildest dreams) a week -- shut up for a week.  Holy crap, the world would be a better place if we could go one week without hearing about Hillary or Bernie or Trump or celebrities or Black Lives Matter or Blue Lives Matter or Russia or if we didn't have to see Putin's disgusting nipples.

The discussion has officially jumped the shark.  When this country starts throwing around words like "martial law" and people don't bat a fucking eyelash, I have officially awakened in Motherfucking Crazy Ass World.

Okay, I guess this rant proves that I'm just as bad as the rest.  Apparently, none of us is planning on shutting up any time soon.  On to plan #2 -- Send me earplugs.  Lots and lots of earplugs.  Oh, and some duct tape -- for my mouth and my typing fingers. Maybe, just maybe it will be a fashion trend that spreads.

RECIPE FOR TEMPTATION

(Not mine)

I keep getting notifications about recipes to try.  These notifications come via email and on Facebook, and I am always so very tempted to try the recipes. 

Then I remember that I totally suck at cooking.  No matter how precisely I follow the recipes, something always goes kaflooey.  Yesterday I tried to make some protein bar recipe with mashed bananas.  Result = Even my worst enemies are not worthy of such horrid torture as was the result.  Disgusting.  Absolutely barf worthy.

There was another recipe that caught my eye, one about roasting a pork loin in a slow cooker, but no liquid is added during cooking.  It's as if the pork loin will cook by osmosis.  You know what would happen if I cooked meat dry like that in my crock pot?  A fire.  A goddamn, motherfucking conflagration.  That's what would happen.

Today, though, a recipe comes in via Facebook from a reputedly reliable recipe source.  It's a recipe for making Panera's broccoli cheddar cheese soup.  Simple, right?  Simple ingredients and simple directions.  I run to the store, buy all of the supplies, and cannot wait until I throw together this incredible dinner.  I even buy some organic 92% ground beef to make hamburgers. 

It's going to be terrific!

Yup, it sure is.  Except that the soup isn't cooking very well and the veggies are still too al dente.  When I melt the cheese in, the liquid thickens so severely that I am afraid I might have to use it to fill cracks in the basement walls as my dinner is turning into concrete.  Not only that but the hamburgers are so fat-free that they are actually too fat free.  They have neither juice nor flavor.

In the end we eat semi-hockey pucks in bulky rolls with a side of what is nothing more than glorified creamed veggies. 

(Also not mine)

That's it.  I'm done with those stupid internet sites about recipes.  I'm going to unlike all those dumbass sites that tell me how easy it is to cook prime rib.  I'm going to ...

Oh, look!  Healthy chocolate chip cookies!  Maybe I'll swear off the recipe sites tomorrow.  I mean, one never knows when the jackpot recipe might come along, right?

PUTTING AWAY CHRISTMAS

I knew it was time
And therefore today
I packed it all up --
I put Christmas away.

This year was late
Going up, coming down.
The season - so busy
I thought I might drown.

Last night I knew
All would pack in a bit,
So I watched the Pats' game
With the Christmas tree lit.

This morning while doing
The laundry downstairs
I brought up the boxes,
Sometimes in pairs.

I started it all
By stripping the tree.
No one was home so
The job fell to me.

First came the garland,
Then ornaments, too
(Some from my childhood
And others brand new).

Carefully off of the tree
Strands of light.
I wrapped them up safely
And wound them up tight.

Then all of the toys
Went back in the bin.
Another ten months
'Til I see them again.

I packed up the glassware
And each Christmas plate,
Carefully wrapping,
Securing each fate.

The wreaths went, and
All of the jingling bells.
Each candle holder
Still with Christmas smells.

Well, almost them all--
I thought I was set.
Somehow there's always
One thing I forget.

No matter how cleverly
Scoured my home,
No matter how carefully
Through it I comb,

The last piece of Christmas
Hides in its place,
Right under my nose,
In front of my face.

An old candle holder
 Escapes from my packing.
Apparently, Christmas
Around here is slacking.

Now all packed up
And put on the shelves
Until next December --
Sleep well, little elves.

WINE OF THE WEEK IS BACK

A month has passed since I've been to a regular wine tasting.  December was very busy, and then we had nasty weather last weekend.  I did manage to get to the pre-New Year's champagne/brut sabering, but it has been a long time since I've sipped a variety of reds and whites.  So long, as a matter of fact, that my wine rack is woefully empty.

Today there are two tastings.  One is a Grand Tasting later this evening that runs right up until the Patriots' game, so I figure I'd better write about the first tasting, which claims to have twelve bottles open but really has thirteen.  Believe me, I am not complaining.

Except ... it makes my choices more difficult. 

I go into the tastings today knowing that I have two reds left, but I am flat out of whites.  I could convince myself to bring a red home, but I truly need a white wine for balance.  So, I'll tell you what I discover at tasting #1 of 2017.

Reds = I find three I really like, all $12. 

The first is a 2013 Colle Secco Montepulciano D'Abruzzo, and Italian red that apparently is mostly distributed in Italy and Germany.  It's a fruity red yet mild and earthy on the palate.  Absolutely delicious, I have to fight with myself not to bring it home because the next red is even better.

Bodegas Eco Fuerza, a 2011 vintage from Spain, is a well-balanced red.  It's not too forceful on the palate, and it is drinkable all by itself (as opposed to needing food, as is the case with so many robust reds).  This is a young winery, and the main grapes of the region are Monastrell.  A medium-bodied wine, this is a steal at $12.  But, still, not yet do I pick a wine for my wine rack.

There's also a terrific Washington state Cabernet Sauvignon by Grace Lane.  This 2013 vintage from the Columbia Valley has a nice start, not too robust, and a smooth finish.  The best thing I can say about this $12 red is that it has a pleasant and likeable personality, like my daughter, a serious cab sauv drinker, who would love this one.

In the end, though, I get what I come in for -- a fabulous white, also $12.  If you like Sauvignon Blanc, I can definitely recommend the Patrick Ladoucette Les Du Tour Sauv Blanc (2015) as a pale but complex and extremely drinkable wine.  Close, though, this is not the one I covet.

The winner today is the Nora Albarino, a 2015 Spanish white.  This wine is bright in color, fresh, fun, and has character and texture.  I taste it twice before heading to the reds, then I eat a bunch of cheese and come back for another go-round with the Nora just to make sure.  I almost cannnot believe how much I like it, as if my opinion might change, which it does sometimes. 

Go for the Nora Albarino.  For $12, it's a damn steal.  Actually, all of these are steals.  Get them all.

ANTECEDENT WARFARE

A company that specializes in computer-based home-schooling keeps advertising on television.  Its spokespeople are dressed in smart business attire, and all of the students presented are well-dressed with every head-hair firmly in place.

If one is to believe the commercials, children everywhere could become instant geniuses simply from buying into the company's program.  Look!  Look how happy and brilliant these children are!

But, then ... then the spokespeople talk at the television viewers:  "Each student can enhance their education..."  "Your child can improve their knowledge..."

Um, really? 

Here's where the grammarian puffs up her chest.  Oh, do not panic; I never judge social media grammar.  We are supposed to have fun with language (and symbols and GIFs and texts and postings) on social media.  These people, though, are selling their educational product.  They are essentially selling their own brilliance. 

However, these "expert educators/salespeople" cannot even properly match a personal pronoun to its own antecedent.

Correct grammar = "Each student can enhance his or her education" or "Students can enhance their education" is also acceptable.  Student is singular while their is plural; together connected to each other in a sentence, the two must never connect.  Same with "Your child" and "their knowledge."  This is only correct if your one-bodied child has multiple heads with individual brains.

Unfortunately for the idiots acting in the commercial and for the idiots who wrote it, this basic, fourth-grade grammatical mistake is repeated by adults over and over again on screen.  I know this is a mistake because grammar is one of my areas of basic knowledge. 

Grammar should also be an area of basic knowledge for someone selling a supposedly superior educational program.

Again, folks, I don't give a rat's patootie about your grammar.  However, if you're going to sell it as part and parcel of your product line and DIS MY JOB IN THE PROCESS, you're damn right I'll be coming for you.

I'VE HAD ENOUGH OF MENOPAUSE

I've had enough of menopause.  No, I'm serious; deadly, motherfucking serious.

The hot flashes are bad enough, but in the last couple of weeks, two dreadful things have happened: The maintenance staff fixed the heat at work, and the weather has been unseasonably warm.

It's like everyone's trying to kill me.

This is my day:

2:00 a.m. -- Throw covers off in fit of heat rage even though heat is off and fan is on

2:15 a.m. -- Pull covers back on as I am now frozen

4:00 a.m. --  Repeat 2:00 and 2:15 a.m. performance

5:00 a.m. -- Wake up for work; start making bed; have another hot flash

6:30 a.m. -- Run outside to defrost car; no need for a coat because I am sweating bullets

6:40 a.m. -- Drive to work with heat on the windshield to keep it frost free but with windows open so I don't die of heat prostration

7:00 a.m. - 3:00 p.m. -- Spend my day at work turning fan on, turning fan off, putting sweater on, taking sweater off, turning beet red from hot flashes, turning blue from being icy cold

3:00 p.m. --  Drive home with all the windows wide open so I don't sweat to death

3:30 p.m. - 11:00 p.m. -- Alternate between being boiling hot and freezing cold; fans on, fans off; sweatshirt on, sweatshirt off; windows open, windows closed.  Take a shower (sometimes the second or third of the day)

11:00 p.m. -- Turn on fan in bedroom and attempt to go to sleep.  Wake up about ten minutes later having hot flash

Midnight -- Have another hot flash, roll around kicking covers off then pull them back on frantically when body temperature drops suddenly

I've had enough.  This is going on year number five of this crap.  And don't tell me stupid shit like, "Oh, you should eat more soy," or "Try cayenne pepper pills," or "Ask your doctor about hormone therapy."  Hormone therapy?  FUCK HORMONES.  HORMONES SUCK.

  When the fuck does this bullshit end?  Don't tell me "never," because I will come to your house and cut you.  Yes, I'm mentally done with menopause, and I'm not even remotely kidding.

REAL, TRUE, HONEST, "VERIFIED" NEWS STORIES

 MOSCOW- Today Vladimir Putin dressed up as a flower girl to infiltrate the American political machine by attending the wedding of one of the Obama daughters.  Turns out it was just a fake email and Putin actually ended up attending Paris fashion week as a guest of Heidi Klum and Tim Gunn.  After being covered in more flowers in the infamous unconventional materials challenge, Putin flew home in a UFO with Bernie Sanders. 

MOSCOW - Today Vladimir Putin underwent extensive plastic surgery to turn himself into Greta Garbo.  Unfortunately, the doctor had never heard of Greta Garbo and turned him into Meryl Streep, instead.  Putin could be heard singing Abba songs from Mama Mia while in the post-op recovery room.  It has been reported  that he wants to star in a special remake of Kramer vs. Kremlin this summer.

 MOSCOW - This morning it was reported that Vladimir Putin attempted to become the scariest person on Earth.  Professionals hired to turn him into the Angel of Death II ran out of funding halfway through and simply turned Putin into an angel.  He was last spotted flying around St. Petersburg like Sister Batrille.  Sally Field has no comment at this time.

 MOSCOW - Vladimir Putin was escorted out of the country after he was discovered attempting to enter the Pentagon dressed as Harry Potter.  Putin's receding hairline revealed no lightning-shaped scar, and the Russian leader was quickly detained.  He was last heard screaming, "I am Grishna Potterskov!  I am not a muggleski!"  It is rumored that Slytherins have bailed Putin out of jail and are moving him out of the country via railway and platform 9 3/4.

MOSCOW - It seems that the language barrier has once again thwarted Vladimir Putin's attempt to infiltrate American culture.  When told to blend in he must "dress like a honey," his translators misread the directive and turned him into a honey bee.  Catch all the buzz later on the program All the News You Have to HIVE.

MOSCOW - The truth has been revealed.  Numerous extraordinarily reliable and unquestionably trustworthy  news outlets (such as FOX and CNN) are reporting today that Vladimir Putin is really BAMBI.  This explains why viewers have never seen Putin and the animated deer in the same room together.  Film at 11 ... and again two hours later ... and again two hours after that. 

MORE PATHETIC LIMERICKS

It's winter, I know, here's the thing:
The weather gives me static cling.
My hair stands on end,
And shocks I do send.
It's only ten weeks more 'til spring.

Students there are I can't reach
No matter how smartly I teach.
It makes me quite sad
And a little bit mad
That some don't know the parts of speech.

Correcting can make me quite tired,
Although late at night I feel wired.
The list in my head
Keeps me up, not in bed.
I certainly hope I'm not fired.

This is a bad limerick poem
I wrote while sitting at home.
I'd hope it be gold -
It's silver, I'm told -
But I think it looks more like chrome.

I'm just trying to fill up some time
Creating this ditty in rhyme.
It's not very good
(I'd write if I could).
I'll contemplate gin with a lime.

HOLLYWEED AND HOLLOW HOLLERING

I wasn't going to comment on the recent rash of Hollywood types attempting to indoctrinate the country into their warped, twisted world of debauchery by insulting everyday Americans.  Yeah, but I think I will.

I'm not talking about Meryl Streep.  I'm not talking about Mark Wahlberg.  I'm not talking about Oprah Winfrey.  I'm not talking about Chuck Woolery or Rosie O'Donnell or Ted Nugent or Miley Cyrus.  Honestly?  I don't give a flying fuck what any of them has to say.  I don't care if they kiss Trump.  I don't care if they lick Obama's rearend. 

I don't care if they threaten to leave the country because of a damn election.  LEAVE.  For the love of God, LEAVE already. 

You see, you actors and you musicians -- you still think you're relevant; you still think people care what you think and what you say and what movies you make and what songs you sing.  If you're one of the people who does still think anything anyone in the entertainment business has to say is remotely important or will change your own life, you're a straw man on a slippery slope.

The other day when the Hollywood sign became Hollyweed (not for the first time) ... Do you have any idea how well-policed that sign is?  That's a soft target for terrorists.  And yet, someone (anyone at all) got up onto that protected, policed hill and changed the sign over.  Hollywood, you are NOT invincible, and you are NOT relevant.  Nobody, not even the terror-watch, cares.

Do you want to know what rendered you irrelevant?  Technology.

Yes, technology.  Technology has already outsourced stunt people and make-up artists by going entirely green-screen and computer animation.  The big screen has already toyed with replacing actors with computer-generated imagery of actors.  Do you honestly believe people in the industry need you anymore?  High-powered producers and deal-makers and petulant actors, you're dinosaurs.

Don't believe me?  Look at television.  Remember when people like Aaron Spelling ruled Hollywood?  The Big Three (ABC, NBC, CBS)  ruled our lives and fed us propaganda via the Boob Tube.  Then, cable stations came along.  Anyone can run a television station now.  There is no Big Three anymore. 

And it's not limited to television.  I can watch dramas and comedies and what-have-you on my computer.  That's right -- HULU and ACORN and NETFLIX, to name a few.  I don't even need the frigging cable company anymore.  Imagine what will happen to that industry when people wise up.  Cable companies thought they were taking over the industry when they gained access to phone lines. 

Idiots, the lot of them. 

Wait until Verizon and Sprint realize that they can stream their own broadcasts, essentially take over the "cable" streams.  Already people are leaving the desk top industry behind, and soon the lap top industry will follow as we move toward tablets and expanded phone capabilities and product-based technology like Goggle Chromebooks. 

Who the hell needs a television anymore?  I watch more stuff via my computer than I do via television (except maybe sports).

We don't need Hollywood/Hollyweed anymore.  Computer animation creates perfectly acceptable actors all on its own.  Don't believe me?  Just peek at the latest video game animation and how realistic and interactive it is. 

We don't need the music industry anymore, either.  Seriously, how many of these recent flash-in-the-pan singers are only where they are thanks to studio auto-tuning?  Hell, we can create our own music.  Vox humanas and Moog Syntehsizers have been capable of it for decades.  Technology is finally catching up to them, not the other way around.  We don't need crack-heads and coke fiends and industry "insiders" making our music choices anymore.  Still doubt me?  Check out Sirrius and Pandora radio. 

Wake up, Los Angeles. We don't need you anymore, and, surprise, you don't run the damn country.  Hell, you don't even represent the damn country.

So, go ahead and spout your rhetoric (liberal, conservative, communist, fascists, libertarian -- I don't care).  But remember -- you are completely and totally expendable and replaceable.  It will happen, maybe not in Betty White's lifetime, but probably in mine.

Here's my one question to Hollywood -- Since you're all so passionate, will you house the illegals and the refugees and the poor and the sick and the suffering and the disenfranchised in your mansions when your gilded city collapses?

If your answer is no, shut the fuck up and go back to the rat hole from whence you crawled.  YOU ARE THE PROBLEM.  Take your useless, gilded figurines and your hideous fashion choices and understand that your time as the industry elite is rapidly heading toward the wall faster than crash test dummies hitting the concrete end wall.  A word to the wise, though: the more often you open your mouths, the faster you're sucking the life out of what's left of your crystal castle on the Hollyweed hill.

EPIPHANY CONTINUES

Up early to shovel the snow.  Thank goodness it is light and fluffy, so the clean-up goes quickly and easily.  It's cold out, maybe 7 degrees, but there is no wind.  I find that boots, gloves, snow pants, fleece jacket, down vest, and a hat are all I need to protect me from the elements this morning.

My son has missed shoveling for the past five years --  four of them because he was away at college and one year because we had just about no snow last winter.  He missed the year of 102" of snow, so I need to retrain him on how to successfully shovel with the minimum effort for maximum efficiency.

After all, we are both in a hurry this morning.  He needs to get west of Boston, and I need to get to a concert in Maine. 

It's a sloppy, crappy, shitty mess out on the roads; even the highways spit up salt and slush all over my car.  By the time I get to my sister's house outside of Kennebunk, my once-white car is encrusted with brown.  I don't care, though.  The trip is totally worth it.  My sister's concerts are always worth the trip, not only for the music but for the venues.  Everything is breathtaking.

But, I cannot lie.  The most breathtaking thing I see today in Maine is my sister's Christmas tree.  It is perched on her porch, waiting for its turn in the woods to be mulched.  It stands perfectly tall and  sparkles with newly fallen snow on its branches.  Remarkably, the tree seems like it is part of the porch, as if it belongs there.

I know in my heart and my brain that the twelve days of Christmas are officially over.  Epiphany has just passed.  Coincidentally, today's concert is the group's Epiphany concert.  Truly, the only epiphany that I have today is how wonderful the Christmas tree looks all undecked on the deck, decorated only in the crystals nature intended for it all along.

This will have to hold me over for ten months until the holidays roll around again.  Well, that memory and the fact that my tree is still up and decorated and lit.  That's what happens when Epiphany comes on a busy and stormy weekend.  My sister's tree gets more time on the porch, and my tree gets to stay up a few extra days.

Happy Holidays, all.  It's not quite over yet, even though it is, but I'll enjoy the scenery until the bitter winter's end.

SNOW AND MUFFINS

Snowing, snowing, snowing, snowing!  Finally.  First real snow of the year.  The other two or three snow appearances barely warranted shovels, and this one, though not epic, is certainly not disappointing.  As I write this blog, it has been snowing steadily and quietly for over ten hours.

I'm not one of those crazy people who goes grocery shopping before a storm, although I do make sure there's gas in my car.  I always have food and basic staples in the house, anyway.  My recent Whole Foods obsession means that I also have some blueberries (bagged when they were fresh) that I threw in the freezer recently.

By mid-morning the snow has started, and I decide to bake.  I've also been on a health kick lately, so rather than my usual brownies or cookies, I bake blueberry muffins with oats and cinnamon.  When I take them out of the oven, I steal one and slather it with butter.  The muffin is still piping hot, and the butter melts easily. 

Over the course of the day and into the evening, I eat a second muffin and my son steals one, as well.  At the end of the night, it is still snowing.  The rest of the muffins will be saved for shovel-ready energy boosts in the morning.  For now, though -- snow, snow, snow -- snow on.  It's absolutely breathtaking.