KITE-FLYING WEATHER

A tornado cut a five-mile swath through Western Massachusetts Saturday evening when a cold front moved through the area.  By the time it got to my end of Northeastern Massachusetts, the storm packed heavy rain, moderate winds, and sent my semi-full recycle bin flying, dumping its entire contents all over my patio.

Last week we had about eight inches of fresh snow that melted when we hit 70 degrees a couple of times.  Today it hit the low 50s, and this evening it is 27.  Wednesday it might hit mid-60s, while Friday I'll be heading to work with a temperature outside of about 16 degrees. 

This is New England at her best.

When the winds aren't wreaking havoc destroying buildings or strewing bottles and cans all over the yard, this is also the time of year when kite flying starts.  March is notoriously windy, but February's winds combined with unusually mild temperatures bring many people with kites outside earlier than planned.

One of the kite flyers we encounter is a grown man with two kites attached to the same string but anchored several yards apart.  I have never seen a two-kite contraption quite like this one, and I am impressed not only when the gentlemen, sitting next to his mini-van in the Hampton State Park lot, flies the kites; I am equally impressed watching him carefully bring the kites back to Earth one painstaking step at a time.  He still manages to fly his second kite through the breezy ocean air while working to detach the first one that has floated to the ground.

Further up the beach, more toward Hampton center, a family of kite flyers is at work sending up three kites.  The youngest daughter's kite is soaring well up into the sky.  Dad runs back and forth and back and forth like a duck in a shooting gallery, finally managing to get kite number two airborne.  The older daughter is having a rough time.  She moves down the beach, paying out the string but getting naught for her efforts; the kite careens downward and noses into the sand over and over again.  Finally, a small downdraft hits the kite, nudging it at first then carrying the kite aloft a bit when the wind shifts off the land.

"There you go!  You have it now!" I say as she passes near me.  With this encouragement, she lets more of the string out until finally, like a bird out of the nest, the kite makes wing into the sky.

If every day could be a kite-flying day of cool mornings and evenings with spectacular mid-days of 70 degrees and kites, this would be Utopia.  For now, though, I'll take the crazy temperature-changing, tornado-spawning, snowing, raining, kite-flying weather pre-season Spring sends us.  After all, it is New England.  If you don't like the weather, just wait a minute.

REALITY HITS

Reality hits again Monday morning when I return to work after a week-long break, but reality has to wait because Sunday is the last hurrah. 

First thing I do is join my daughter and her entourage for breakfast at a popular diner just over the border in New Hampshire.  The music is pure fifties and sixties and I know most of the song lyrics, so I embarrass my kid by singing along while we are waiting in line on the sidewalk.  It's a bit of a wait, so I get to run through a gamut of songs.

Next is a trip to the coast for a birthday celebration for a friend at Throwback Brewery.  The brewery is about four miles in from the coast, so we make a side trip to my favorite beach.  It's my second trip to this beach in the last few days.  As a matter of fact, it is the eighth beach stop of my week off.  Amazing how tempting the coast is when the weather cooperates.

The brewery is surprisingly busy considering it opened less than an hour earlier.  Great beer, great ambiance, great appetizers, and games.  Yes, there is a cabinet full of games, so I grab a stack of Trivial Pursuit cards, and our tables begins a heated round of trivia questions for fun while we sample different beers.  Best of all, we have a KISS bobble-head as our table marker.

I'm not going to lie: I usually drink very light beers and am more of a pilsner drinker, but my two favorites today are both dark beers and both considered experimental beers.  The first runner-up is the Nitro Vanilla Irish Stout (and I even think it could use a touch more vanilla).  The winner today, though, is El Chupbrewcabra, a Mexican chocolate porter. 

After a lot of trivia and a lot of beer samples, the ride home is just as the sun sets.  The sky, like the previous week, is spectacular.  I am a passenger in my daughter's car, and I snap four pictures, trying to get one that's just right before the colors fade away.  It's tough, but, like the pictures I have taken all week, I manage to capture the exact sentiment so I can hold on to the day just a little bit longer.

It's starting to get dark when I arrive home.  I need to finish up what I started this morning before leaving for breakfast and the final day of adventure.  There's laundry to fold and a stripped bed to re-make, plans to type up for work, and lunches to pack for tomorrow.  Now, back to Monday, back to work, and back to reality.

RELOCKING THE "HOPE I NEVER HAVE TO SEE THAT ASSHOLE EVER AGAIN" FILE

There's a reason why we file people in our subconscious "Hope I Never Have to See that Asshole Ever Again" file  -- It's because we truly hope we never have to see those assholes again.  And then, damnitall, if we are truly unlucky, we see those people again.  It is especially annoying if those people show up somewhere that is near and dear to you.

Take for instance my penchant for going to wine tastings.  I have a circuit.  I like my circuit; it's my routine and it's my social time.  I've been at this for a few years, so I consider it MY TIME.  I know a lot of the sommeliers, shop owners, shop workers, and fellow tasters.  Going to the local shops for these wine tastings is a treat that I do just for me.  I usually meet pals at the tastings, but I've no problem going alone. 

Today I am at my usual Saturday haunt, schmoozing and chatting like I always do.  It's very crowded today, and that makes me happy for the shop owners.  I am with a gal pal, one who will be leaving me soon for the warmer climes of North Carolina, and we are on the second to last wine of the day.  I look up over her shoulder to talk to her when I notice someone I used to know, someone I forgot existed.  Someone from my locked and dismissed "Hope I Never Have to See that Asshole Ever Again" file.

I truly hope this person doesn't approach me.  It's obvious that Persona non Grata has recognized me, but, in the throng of people, I can pretend I do not notice.  And truly, it's not that I care.  I don't.  But, still.  Really.  It's like when you accidentally step in dog shit and then you have to wipe your shoe, and, even though it looks completely and totally clean, you can still smell the faint aroma of dog shit, like it's stuck inside your nostrils.  You forget about the dog shit for a while, but later when you least expect it, the scent wafts back to your nostrils like a really sour memory.

That's what today's near encounter is -- the lingering stench of dog shit. 

After leaving the shop and clearing my senses, the memory fades away and goes right back where it belongs, right back into the subconscious file.  Well, almost all the way into the file.  I do still have the briefest thought, nagging at me enough to write about it for now.  Good gawd, though.  I truly, seriously, honestly hope I never, ever have to see that horrible, demeaning, evil asshole ever again in my lifetime.  With that thought, I shut and lock the file.

OCCASIONS OF FABULOUS WEATHER

Last official day of school break on Friday.  Sure, I still have Saturday and Sunday, but those are my usual days off, so those don't count "officially."  As usual, I have accomplished very little of what is on my list.

To be fair, the weather has been completely uncooperative.  When the February break first appears on paper, we plan for it being too cold to be outside, too snowy to fly, and too infectious a time period to voluntarily be around other humans.  This year, though, Mother Nature decides she's having a major hot flash, and by Wednesday, any snow we have is pretty much melted and gone.  Instead of being shut in, everybody is outside soaking up the sun and warmth.

So, my boring plan of getting work done while sitting at the kitchen table with the heat cranked up full blast also melts away.  I go to lunch in Cambridge; I go snowshoeing up in Maine wearing a long-sleeved t-shirt rather than a down parka; I walk several beaches and go out to lunch and to dessert, which is eaten with my feet on the dock railing while soaking up the sun.  I go for walks.  I open windows.  I get my car washed and then take it for an inspection sticker.  I sit outside reading.

It is the strangest February school break I have ever had.

Reality starts to set in, though.  I still have correcting to finish.  I did the difficult, time-consuming correcting earlier in the week, and things go very well.  By 8:00 p.m., I am done with it, or so I believe.  Turns out I mis-graded one paper at 5 points when it is supposed to be 10 points.  Minor challenge: I go through and grade them all again.  Even this goes smoothly.

If I don't cool it with this whole efficiency thing, I might actually get something meaningful accomplished before I go back to work on Monday.  There's no one to blame for my plight except Mother Nature; damn her and her occasions of fabulous weather.

EVERYONE'S AT THE BEACH

Apparently, everyone on the northeastern seaboard decides to visit the beach today.  I am surprised by this since:
1.  It's February
2.  It's a workday.
3.  New Hampshire doesn't have school break this week.

This is what happens when it hits 66 degrees when we should be looking at 66 inches of snow, instead.  We are all in withdrawal from being stuck inside due to snow and cold temperatures.  This week's weather has been a gift . . . to everyone . . . everyone who is at the beach today, and that is EVERYONE.

A pal and I work on maxing out our February school break, and this includes a trip along the coast.  She is determined to get her feet in the ice-freaking-cold waves; I am determined not to develop hypothermia.  I was in Newburyport yesterday, so today I decide to finish the coast.

Stop #1 is in Salisbury center.  This place has changed a lot and yet stayed the same.  Gone are the rides and amusement park and many of the cheesier shops and stands.  Much of it is still the same, though, especially at the center.  We find that Salisbury sand is gritty, dark, and difficult to maneuver.

After a car tour of Seabrook's coastal living (and Google searches for prices on property for sale), we head across the bridge to Hampton, NH, also known as Stop #2.  It may be warm, but along the coast, it is windy enough to fly kites. Already we can see the change in the sand from brown and grainy to gray and smooth.

Stop #3 is the center of Hampton with its boarded-up arcades and shops and restaurants.  We have to park near the north end of the beach just to find a spot, it is that crowded.  It reminds me of a typical weekend during the summer, dodging people and vehicles and jockeying for a space.  We walk from our spot to the water and then over to some rocks before moving on.

Stop #4 is my spot, The Wall.  Tide is coming in, so there isn't a lot of sand left, but there are tons of rocks, so my friend and I grab a few to bring home with us.  I have to back the car out of the spot, but the traffic pattern makes this nearly impossible.  I am still having a hard time believing there are this many Maine and Massachusetts people up here for the day.

Stop #5 comes only after a long drive up the Rye coast past several more small beaches and spectacular, massive homes.  We stop in Portsmouth, do some major-league window shopping, then hit a well-stocked tap house for lunch.

I'd ask, "Who doesn't want to be me?" because it has been a spectacular winter break, except the answer is simple -- Judging from the number of people outside and at the beaches on a Thursday, everybody IS me (I), and we are all very lucky.

NAKED NEPTUNE ON THE PATIO

The Epic February Break Extravaganza continues!

Today's adventure begins with my gal pal driving us the scenic route toward Newburyport.  My scenic way is through the city of Haverhill, and the towns of Groveland and Newbury, winding along following the Merrimack River until it spills into the Atlantic Ocean.  My friend prefers the Boxford-Rowley-Newbury leg of the triangle, which brings us to Plum Island.

I haven't been to Plum Island in a very long time, probably thirty-plus years, and it is surprisingly unchanged except for the addition of about a gazillion houses in the sand dunes.  I doubt there is room anywhere on Plum Island for one more inch of physical structure without taking over the nature reserve.  We find a small alcove of parking spaces halfway between the nature reserve (where I have always gone to the beach) and the public town beach (which I didn't even know existed).  We have to wait for a space (there are only about seven spaces here for non-residents), then head out to the beach.

The first thing I notice is how gritty the sand is, grainy and weathered.  It's also rather deep.  It has been so long since I have been to a beach requiring a trek so far over the sand from spot to shore that I am instantly glad I am wearing hiking boots to prevent spillover into my shoes.  We walk down to the waves, moving briskly when a few get too close, snap some pictures, then head back to the car where we are stopped by a girl wearing way too much hiking gear.  She looks like she is ready to climb Mount Washington rather than walk in the sand.

"Excuse me," she says, "but can you tell me where the Bay Circuit trail is?"  She goes on to explain that the trail connects with the airport, which is a considerable distance down the street, and that it winds through a business district.

My friend and I stare at the girl, glance at each other, stare at the girl some more, glance at each other, and shrug.  We passed the airport on our way.  It is surrounded on two sides by salt marsh, and the "business district" the girl is referring to cannot possibly be semi-abandoned wintertime Plum Island. She must mean Newburyport up the road a bit.  Not only that, but the if the girl is hiking along the road to the airport and through the center of the village, why does she need hiking poles, a full backpack, and toothy-soled boots?  We suggest that she walk the beach, instead, as it is a gorgeous day and the island beaches are right under her feet.  She shakes her head and tells us she is here to do the Bay Circuit Trail.  Unable to help direct the hiker, we part ways, wishing her well.

Back in the car, we head to the end of the island and to the public beach - the one I never knew existed - only getting stuck twice when we accidentally turn into unmarked no-outlet lanes, and getting an eye-full of statuesque, naked Neptune on someone's front patio.

The public beach has an area for the shuttle from Newburyport and it also has lots of parking spaces.  There's a boardwalk at this beach and strict signs to stay on the walkway or on the marked trails.  Clearly, few people adhere to this as there are rampant footprints all over the restricted and protected dunes.  We snap some photos but do not make the sandy trek to the shoreline.

This beach is more of an inlet.  It looks a little less wave-active than the beaches at the nature reserve, but it's an illusion.  This part of the island is dangerously close to the mouth of the Merrimack River just beyond the nearby breakwall.  The undertow at the river's spillage into the ocean is one of the most dangerous tidal areas on the New England coast and has claimed a few boats and several lives, including people sitting on or fishing from the breakwall. I have been in a decent-sized boat with seasoned crew and still had a harrowing trip out into the open water via the channel.  The inlet, though, protects this area more than its sister beach, Salisbury, across the way. 

Time to move on, so we head back to the car.  We have more on our dance card for today, but right now to get off the island we must head back in the direction from which we came.  As we drive down the narrow streets and off the island, we pass Hiker Girl, who is walking in the breakdown lane, sucking in carbon monoxide from passing vehicles.  We briefly consider offering her a ride, at least to the airport, but we decide against it.  She clearly has prepped for a three-day journey.  Besides, it might be embarrassing to pass by naked Neptune with a stranger in the car.

TREKKING THE FARM

Snowshoeing again today.  Another perfect spring day invades winter as my school break extravaganza continues.  I drive to Maine for a day of lazy, crazy sisterly activities with the sibling I had to share a room with for seven years.

My Maine sister lives about two miles inland from the Atlantic Ocean, maybe less.  I have walked a 5k along the beach near her house, and we have paddled kayaks out through the inlet and into the mouth of the ocean.  Near to her house is a reserve in Wells, Maine, called Laudholm Farm.  This is a natural estuarine research reserve that spans 2, 250 acres, and boasts seven-or-so miles of interlooping trails that lead through the woods, to the salt marshes, to the ocean, and to each other.

Today we trek to one salt marsh and to the ocean.  The sky is bright blue, and the sun is strong.  We cover half of the trails before we decide to conquer the main field with its rolling sledding slope.  Cutting a trail across open land, the only things behind us are the crusty trails, beaten down by overzealous winter people, and our snowshoe prints in the snow from our off-trail exploration.

Spring can come, or Spring can go.  I wouldn't mind more snow this season, and I wouldn't mind some warmth. either -- snow to make the snowshoe trip possible, and warmth to make it spectacular. 

PAHKING THE CAH AND OTHER CAMBRIDGE ANOMALIES

My pals and I decide to take a spontaneous lunch trip to Cambridge.  The weather is gorgeous, so it's great to be outside.  I'm always up for a spontaneous adventure.  Truth be told, I'd rather do spontaneous than mark something on my calendar -- I'm much better when I don't have time to think through my decisions.  "That sounds great!" with ten minutes to spare is a hell of a lot easier for me than, "Gee, that sounded great two weeks ago.  Now I'd rather just stay home."

Anyway, we spontaneously decide that we need a burger, and we're a little bored with our usual trek into Boston's Seaport, so we weave our way into Cambridge.  I know most of the way in because of a judo club my boys attended near Union Square in Somerville.  I'm not driving today, though, so I help navigate from the back seat.

The main problem with Cambridge is that parking sucks.  Well, honestly, the main problem with Cambridge is that it's full of crazy social justice warriors who have lots of cash and very little brain cells.  Secondly, however, parking sucks.  We drive around searching for spots and get rejected at the garage because it's full.  For anyone who claims to "pahk the cah in Hahvahd Yahd," that's really an anomaly because there are no spots to be had in the Yard nor anywhere else.  The garage guy directs us to another lot down the street, and for a mere $24 (not including tip), we can park via valet for a couple of hours.  Talk about bending over and taking it.  So, apparently parking alone is worth a pound of flesh.  (Where's Portia when I need her?)

We walk about a half a mile to Boston Burger Company.  The walk isn't the problem; the problem is the crowd.  There are so many people here, it's crazy.  Even crazier is the idea that Harvard Square, the Jewel in the Crown worn by the young hipsters who do not know any better, is actually a bit of a dump.  Oh, sure, it is littered with high-end stores that sell patchouli-smelling woven blankets leftover from the seventies and sold by people with straggly long hair who haven't bathed in decades and wear only gauze clothing with fringe.

But, it is also littered with homeless people.  It disgusts me that in a Sanctuary City of SJWs these homeless people are begging, living, and sleeping right out in the open in broad daylight.  We are walking around them and stepping over them to get to the burger place.  Cambridge is the city that is packed with people who want to be SJWs as long as it's NIMBY.

Throngs of people are pushing along the sidewalks, and idiots are jogging through it all, smacking directly into people without any concern that maybe one shouldn't try to run the gauntlet when thousands of people are packed like sardines on conveyor belts moving down the walkways like the Great Molasses Flood, only with skin.  We are swept up to the crosswalk to get to Boston Burger Company, make our way to the opposite side of Mass Ave, and are thrilled to discover no line at the restaurant.

We get seated in the back because I insist on not sitting anywhere near children.  I am on school break, and by "break" I mean it will break my spirit if I am near school-aged children for the first forty-eight hours of decompression.  My pals and I order local beer on tap: Harpoon Spring Pale Ale (highly recommend this).  Then comes the menu.

There are many amazing burgers on this menu.  I end up with the Killer Bee, a burger smothered in barbecue sauce, and topped with several deep-fried onion rings, large to small, creating what looks like a beehive on my burger.  I have to put the top bun on and squish everything down in order to start attacking it.  The cole slaw is pretty good, but the homemade potato chips are absolutely outstanding.

On the way back to the car, we stop into Harvard Square's Out of Town News to check out some of the newspapers they carry, which are far and wide and even foreign, only to find out they don't sell the newspapers anymore -- just local and the NY Times.  Lame.  So damn lame.  Sure, everything is online now, but there's something about having the print right there in  one's hands.  Alas, it is not to be.  Out of Town News should change its sign to Out of News Town.

We try everywhere to find some ice cream because the line at JP Licks is ridiculously long, but the only other shop advertising ice cream is actually a hole in the wall that has a couple of prepackaged chocolates for sale and looks more like a bookie's office than a real store, especially with the old guy sitting alone at the table with nothing but a phone and a folded up piece of paper.

Back to the car we go, pay the highway robbery fee, tip the valet, and get out of Dodge.  The GPS takes us the long way home, around to the west and over instead of straight north and back through Somerville, but we get a lovely tour of Cambridge's lusher side, the side where people in their glass and mahogany houses preach to us common folk about the importance of taking in more needy, all the while stepping on or over the ones we already have.

The burger is definitely worth the trip, and Cambridge does have some eclectic architecture.  I'm not sure I feel the need to go back any time soon.  It has been over two decades since my last trip in to Harvard Square, and it may well be that long again before I go back.  Probably take me that long to save up enough quarters to pahk my cah again, anyway.

 

56 AND CLIMBING

56 and climbing.  This is today's temperature, right on the heels of several snowstorms and sub-zero wind chills.  The sun is out, and it's like late spring has plopped itself right in the midst of February.

People are outside.  As a matter of fact, it seems like everyone is outside. 

People are driving around with the tops down on their convertible cars.  This may be folly because the warmth is melting the snow, so the roads are wet with rivulets of water, sending spray up and into the open cars.  I see a man in his semi-ice-covered driveway, washing his car with a hose.  Throngs of runners are enjoying the day despite the fact that they are running far into the street due to snowbanks.  Short sleeved shirts are everywhere, people are wearing light shoes without socks, outdoor tables are crowded with patrons anxious to eat outside in the fresh air, and windows are open on cars and in houses.

Thursday it might hit 60.  In New England, that's considered bathing suit weather.

I don't know where winter is right now, but I do know Mother Nature is fickle.  Things can be and will be worse, and the very worst probably hasn't even begun to play with us yet.  For now, I'm going to get outside, breathe the air, and enjoy this brief preview of the spring to come.

WINTER'S WONDER OF SNOW

For some masochistic reason, I decide to go snowshoeing this morning.  I have been exhausting myself at work, so I slept a reasonably solid eight-plus hours the night before.  I see the sun is out and there's a short thaw heading this way, so if I am going to get outside, today would be a great day to do that.

I suspect that heading out into the forest by myself is not the brightest idea.  I used to live in the woods when I was a kid.  I had an unrealistic fear of the Boogey Man roaming the trails, but I also had a realistic fear of falling branches and errant wild animals crossing my path.  My town is loaded with trails, but I am unfamiliar with a large percentage of them, and some of the ones closer to my house cross swamps.  The possibility of me taking a wrong showshoe turn into an unfrozen bog while all alone is too strong for me to go on a forest adventure today.

I want something a little more exciting than an open field, though.  Much like I bore easily at walking and running in circles, I see no need to snowshoe in circles, either.  I head up to the church cemetery that backs up to one of the large reservations.  This is a multi-faceted cemetery; it has open spaces, woods, flat areas, a pond, an inspiration garden area, and an old chapel with Tiffany windows.  Best of all, it's close enough to the street to be a safe balance between nature and the emergency room should I do anything stupid like break an ankle or get whacked by a tree limb.

This cemetery is a popular walking and cross-country skiing area, so I am surprised when I strap on my snowshoes and trek up and over the snow bank.  All I see is pristine snow, untouched and unbroken by anyone else's footprints.

I start across the open area when I see bunny tracks.  Apparently a bunny lives (or, in this case, lived) under a bush here, and it looks like it came out to explore.  It also looks like it might have been chased as its tracks go round and round then snake out about thirty feet where they suddenly disappear.  It seems like the bunny just vanished into thin air, which probably means a hawk got it.  That might explain the frantic circular pattern around the bush, as well.

I see more tracks when I near a small grove of trees.  I think I see dog tracks, but the paws are larger and a little wider.  I doubt they are bobcat tracks, but who knows.  This place does back up to a busy road on one side, town conservation land on the other.  I also see some tracks that look like razor cuts in the snow.  I surmise these to be eagle or hawk tracks, dragging its talons through the snow as it encounters and closes in on its prey.  It's kind of cool but also unnerving thinking about an animal hiding in the grove of trees, so I circle the grove but do not attempt the trail that disappears into the clump of woods.

The cemetery is busy with trucks today, two pick-ups with plows and a box truck.  I do not realize until later when I am set to leave and see the sign that there is a funeral being held at the stone chapel shortly.  I feel a little self-conscious with the workers as audience as I am a novice snowshoe-er, so I work my way back up toward the inspiration garden, which is blanketed in snow.

Backing up to take a better picture, I forget that snowshoes only work going forward, catch the blade in a deep rut, and fall over hard backward, angling to save the cell phone I am holding in my bare hands.  I start laughing, attracting the attention of the man shoveling the roof of the building attached to the church.  I am not sure he can see me struggling in the snow since the stone wall blocks a full-on view.  When I finally right myself, I am minus one snowshoe, covered with white, and have left a giant ass print in the snow behind me.

It's a successful trek this morning, but I have things to do and places to go.  I've cut a wonderful trail of criss-cross patterns through the cemetery, breaking that pristine sight-line.  I also probably should get my car out of the lot before the funeral attendees arrive or I might find myself in a longer procession than just a walk in winter's wonder of snow.

CHILI'S CHILL

My daughter and I like to go out to dinner after our hair appointments.  We usually hit Outback, but the place is mobbed for a Thursday night.  Instead, we head toward home and stop at Chili's.

Mistake.

I've eaten at this Chili's before, many times actually, but this time the experience is horrible, like the Land of the Zombies.  We walk in and the hostess doesn't acknowledge us nor speak to us.  It's like she's wasted.  Finally, my daughter says, "Two."  The hostess leads us down toward the back, even though she has just seated two people in a booth that's not in the boonies.  No, we get the booth closest to the toilets and the backside of the kitchen.

Then, our waiter arrives.  He seems nice enough but in an awful hurry.  He doesn't seem particularly interested in telling us about the menu nor interacting with us at all.  After the meal comes, he walks briskly by and says, "How is everything?" while trucking along so quickly that he is there and gone before we can say anything.

Then, he disappears.

Oh, we see him waiting on other people, but he never comes back again.  He never asks us how the meals are, if we want more beer, if we want dessert, or if we want to pack up our leftovers.  I have to circle the entire restaurant, go through the bar, get ignored by the barmaid, and walk into the other end of the kitchen, away from where we are seated.  It isn't until my presence is noticed inside the kitchen that someone acknowledges me, all so I can get a take-out container for my meal.

Meanwhile, it is well-past eight p.m., yet the restaurant is smattered with screaming babies and yowling toddlers and a few kindergarten-aged children who think that the booth seats all around them are a giant connected jungle gym.  This is a school night (Thursday).  What in the hell are these kids doing out right now?

I think tonight will probably be my last experience at Chilis, at least at the one in my town, anyway.  I certainly don't need to be paying people to treat me like shit.  If I want that experience, I'll go to the professionals at Durgin Park or Dick's Last Resort and have a party with it.

It isn't completely horrible, though.  The Newport Pale Ale on tap is decent enough.  Too bad no one ever asks us if we'd like second mugs.

HEAVENLY SNOW

There are these moments when I love where I live. 

Oh, sure, there are those times (like now) when it is so cold that my feet and hands crack, and times when it rains for so many weeks in a row that the sun scares me when it finally shows itself, and stretches when it is so ungodly hot that eggs fry on sidewalks.

Then, there are moments like my commute home today.  This ... This is why I live where I live, at least for now.  Spectacular.  Mesmerizing.  Magnificent.  For all of you who cannot be me - because this is as close to Heaven as some of us will ever get.

COME ON, BREAK

I cannot wait for school break.

Many schools get their break in March -- some for one week and some for two.  In Massachusetts, we take a week in February and a week in April.  (Technically it's eight school days not ten because of holidays.)  There are two important things people need to understand:

#1. We need the break because kids are puking all over the place.  Just last week we had three pukers in the hallway and bathroom across from my room.  Not a single one of them made it to the actual toilet without a splash or two or five of explosive stall and floor decorating.  The teachers are dropping like dead flies, as well.  We all need breaks from each other and the never-ending germ exchange.

#2. We don't get paid for these days off.  Nope.  Teachers do not have paid vacations nor paid snow days.  Well, private school teachers do get paid snow days, but that's not my concern.  I do not get paid for those days.  They are unpaid leaves.  We only get paid for the days under our contract, 184, and we work every damn one of them.  Period.

I am so ready.  I need to get away from germs and stench and coughing and bleach wipes and the constant sound of gagging.  Come on, break.  One more day.  You can do it!  I can do it!  We can all do it!

I CAN FEEL THE LOVE

I love my friends.

We get away with calling each other such lovely things as Bitcherella and Cuntessa, and we totally own it.  We wear crowns at work.  We fix a waiter's ripped pants with a stapler.  We wear helmets to hide our identities when doing drive-by reconnaissance missions.  We get on tour buses and go to Montreal for no better reason than because we can.  We laugh until we suddenly remember how old we are (and how many children we've birthed) and worry about wetting our pants.

Some would call this absolute idiocy.  I prefer to call it living . . . damn good living, at that.

My circle of female friends is my mental lifeline.  I'd take my life and my job and myself far too seriously without them.  Today is a bevy of such warm sentiments as, "Happy Valentine's Day, Bitch.  I love you."  We are kind of like that strange man on YouTube who pretends to have (or perhaps does have) Tourette's Syndrome and aptly names himself Tourettes Guy.  He says out loud and in public the kinds of things my friends and I say to each other on the sly.


This idiocy isn't limited to my female pals.  I have a gaggle of male pals who are as close to me as any of my female friends.  One of them sends me a Valentine's message via text.  Correcting both of our fingers' bad grammar, the conversation goes something like this:

HE: "Hey, Happy Valentines, Ducky."

ME:  "Lord knows if I had a Valentine, it would probably be you."

HE:  "Dumpster diving, for sure."

ME:  "We deserve each other.  Okay, I'm driving. Leave me alone."

HE:  "Leave me the fuck alone.  I'm working."

I can feel the love.  For me, Valentine's Day is a gender-neutral festival of warm but distant hugs (because I'm really not a hugger) and a steady stream of expletive-laden, homegrown Valentine sentiments.  Hallmark should be jealous.

CHOCOLATE WINE - DON'T MIND IF I DO

It's Valentine's Day -- that infamous day when you are considered a loser if you are without a significant other.  

Funny.  I don't feel like a loser, nor do I feel any great gaping hole in my life due to my current state of independence.  I also do not feel sorry for myself, nor do I pine away for that "special person" who might magically make my life whole by sending me a heart-laced card or buying me chocolate. 

You see, I have already treated myself to a little something: Chocolate-infused wine.

Yup, this wine is made with real chocolate.  It smells like chocolate and yet tastes very much like red wine.  But, with chocolate.  It's very difficult to describe.  To be honest, I've never tasted anything quite like it.  

The wine is from Washington state, a place where they know how to make a fabulous American wine.  This crimson-red wine has overtones of dark fruit and presents like a bold red blend.  However, and this is huge, it has dark chocolate overtones and whispers of cocoa.  It could very well be the drink of the gods.

It is Valentine's Day, after all.  I deserve something chocolatey.  For $10, I'm more than worthy when it comes to Chocolate Shop Chocolate Lover's Wine.  Best of all, I don't have anyone waiting at home to say, "Honey, wanna pour me a glass of that chocolate wine?"  Nope, this one is all for me.

The perfect combo:  Wine and chocolate, all together without any middleman.  Seriously -- don't mind if I do.

SPONTANEOUS SNOWSHOEING

My daughter decides that today, Snowstorm Day, she is going to drop off massive amounts of laundry.  She has to work this weekend, so I take a break from all the work that I brought home and get her three loads of laundry done, folded, and put into bags so the snow doesn't make them damp and clammy.  I decide that I should probably deliver the laundry to her as the weather is going to deteriorate rapidly this afternoon.

As I am packing everything up to deliver to her work, a colleague from my work texts me:  Any interest in snowshoeing before the storm ramps up?

Oh. My. Goodness. YES!  I enjoy snowshoeing and haven't had a chance to go yet this year.  Yes, of course!  YES! 

After dropping my daughter's laundry at her place of employment, I boogie up the road to my co-worker's house.  She lives right near one of the town's protected trails through the woods.  I actually live near two such trails, but the trails where I live are short.  The trails near her house crisscross and intersect and comprise over ten miles of open forest land.

I somehow misplace my gators, the lower leg protectors to deter wet and snow-encrusted ankles, within minutes of taking them out to pack them for the trek.  I am stuck wearing my old snow pants (that I believe were handed across by the boys).  It doesn't matter what we are wearing because we are the only people out in the woods.  We can look as dorky as we want because the trees don't care.

It is a wonderful circuit, probably two miles or so.  It takes us an hour to complete as we decide against some of the longer, more intricate trails, and thank goodness for that because I am woefully out of shape and huffing and puffing a bit by the time we finish.  I am also covered in sweat because I am now overdressed with the snow pants added in.

I don't stay after we finish the trail.  My co-worker hospitably tells me that I don't have to run off, but truly the snow is getting steadier, so I should probably get myself home before my slippery driveway gets any worse.  I decide to leave my snowshoes and poles in the car, where they probably should've been all along.  Like my kayaks, which stay in my car pretty much all summer long, I never know when the mood will strike to go out -- a truth my colleague now knows when I answer her invitation with a resounding, "Good lord, don't change your mind, I'm on my way!!!!!"

ASS CHEEK MAN

What do the evening sky and the guy I see at the gas station have in common?

The New England weather forecast for "a little bit of snow on Sunday" has turned into a whopping potential blizzard with predictions of anywhere from eight to eighteen inches of snow for my area and hurricane force winds.

After shoveling out yet again from a passing Saturday storm, I decide to run a couple of errands before going wine tasting.  One thing I know -- I'm not going anywhere near a grocery store.  Not before a storm.  People are insane out there.  I need to spend money at CVS in order to use coupons that expire in a couple of days, and I need to get ink at Staples for my printer.  Sounds easy, right?

On my way to the closest CVS, I encounter the first of the blizzard maniacs: everyone is turning into the gas station to fill up the cars' gas tanks.  The station is located on an almost impossible corner, difficult to maneuver to the pumps and annoyingly flanked by the traffic light.  Due to the heavy weekend traffic, I am sitting at the light for a few cycles. 

As I inch closer to the gas station (which is within spitting distance of CVS, my destination), there is an SUV blocking entrance to the gas station.  This backs up the cars as people are trying to get their pre-blizzard share of gasoline because God forbid these people be stuck in their driveways with half a tank of gas.  Finally, the SUV backs into the limited parking area along the fence, allowing traffic to flow again, at least in the other direction.  I am still waiting for the next light.

The driver exits the SUV and turns his back toward the line of cars in which I am sitting.  This is when I see it. This is when we all see it.  The driver, who is a larger man about my age, has his pants sagging down.  Not just his pants, though, his underwear, as well, and his shirt is riding high on his back. 

The man is showing his entire ass, crack and all, chubby cheeks fully included, to the entire center of town.  Even more mesmerizing, he makes no attempt to rectify the situation for a good ten to fifteen seconds.  This may sound like a very short time, but women in labor know that fifteen seconds can pass by at an interminable pace.  I do not know about the drivers in front of nor behind me, but my eyes are glued to the pinkish-white spectacle. The light turns green, and I continue on my way, leaving Ass Cheek Man back at the gas station.

So, folks, what do the evening sky and the guy I see at the gas station have in common?  The answer to my original question is simple: FULL MOON. 

LONG LIVE BREAKFAST

Shortly after shoveling out the two cars and the walkway in the dark after the blizzard finally stops raging, I get the automated phone call informing me that school has a ninety-minute delay the next morning.

This news doesn't really affect me since I will be leaving for work at my usual time.  My car is already clear, the driveway is shoveled, and I have to move my car anyway so my kid can get to work on time.  A crew of my colleagues and I start texting back and forth.  I am sort of participating in the text chain as I am trying to get out of my snowy clothes, get into the shower, and maybe stuff some more food into my face before attempting to get a few hours of sleep.

This is when it hits me.  The PTO is supposed to be putting on a breakfast for the teachers in the morning.  If there's a delay, does that mean breakfast is off? This thought depresses me, so I  text it out to my co-workers.  No one seems to know if the breakfast is on or off. 

In the morning I arrive at work early, exceptionally early actually since there is a delay.  I am the only non-janitorial staff at my school, though I do see one or two high school teachers entering the attached building through the far door that goes directly into their work area.  I make myself a mug of Constant Comment tea and do the copying (that I forgot to do pre-storm) while the tea steeps.  I check my mail and get my boards and plans all set up for the day.

People filter in slowly, and at one point I realize that my tea mug is gone.  I try re-tracing my steps, but I cannot find the mug that I swear I have just been drinking from moments before.  One of my co-workers and I walk together back toward the copy room.  Maybe I left it there, but I'm reasonably certain I had it more recently.

As the two of us amble down the hallway, I see movement in the break-out space to my left.  Could it possibly be?

Yes!  YES!  Breakfast is served!  BREAKFAST IS SERVED!

I pile my plate high with pumpkin bread and homemade applesauce and fruit and two different kinds of quiche and a few other fabulous items.  As a matter of fact, I take so much breakfast that I am still eating it when lunchtime rolls around a couple of hours later (which happens pretty quickly since it's a late start to the day).

Thank goodness for the PTO and for breakfast and for people who can still function even when a ninety-minute monkey wrench gets wedged into the plans.  Long live the PTO, and, by God, LONG LIVE BREAKFAST.

TOO DAMN OLD TO SHOVEL

I am too old to shovel and too young to retire to Florida.  This reality leaves me in a pickle.

Lately, my old house has been showing its age.  I have mice in the kitchen and today I am sitting at my computer in my bedroom when a hornet flies into my face.  No, I did not react fast enough to swipe at it before it disappeared presumably back into my tiny closet.

As for today's snowfall, any time the snow comes with winds, my side of the driveway gets clobbered.  Years ago my landlords were in a fight with the neighbor, so they put up a huge fence along the property line.  Problem is all the snow that could blow into the neighbor's yard gets stuck in my fence.  We could have a four inch snowstorm, but I would be shoveling a foot of snow because it ends along my fence.

Tonight, though, my son and I are outside in the dark, in the wind, and in the 11 degree weather to shovel the walkway, the driveway, and to clear off two vehicles.  We trudge through about fourteen inches of snow on my side of the driveway.  My neighbor who parks next to me?  Bare spots on the driveway.  BARE.  No snow.  And his car has blown all of its snow into my side.

As soon as we are done shoveling the entire driveway and partly into the street (because the town is full of plow drivers who do not know that a street isn't a footpath), as soon as we are inside the house eating or showering or watching television, the landlord starts up the snowblower.

Fuck. My. Life.

Between the critters, the creepy crawlies, and the snow crystals, I do believe at my age that I've had enough.

Do I live in the best neighborhood ever?  Yes.  I live directly behind two cemeteries (quiet neighbors), and my landlords have not raised my rent forever.  Before this house, I lived two houses over.  I love being close to town, to stores, and to the train station.

But, there really isn't any house big enough for me and rodents and insects, and now I'm thinking there's no room for snow anymore, either.  I mean, I shoveled all 109" (or whatever it was) of that snow four years ago.  Mother Nature crapped on us every other day.  I had no one home to help me (son was at college) and had two cars, the walkway, and the entire driveway to do by myself.  Really.  Honestly.  I think I'm done.

I'll get some sleep and see how I feel in the morning.  Right now, though, I suspect the itch is too strong as I sit here with sore muscles and a raging headache from the barometric changes . . . and searching realtor.com.

SNOW DAY!

Snow day!  Yay!  I mean, booooooooo.

Having a snow day from school is great this time of year because it gives the sick kids (there are way too many) a chance to recover a little longer.  I know it's only an old wives' tale, but I also believe that the snow will help eradicate some of the surface germs we have floating around making the flu more virulent.

Whenever there's a snow day, I imagine myself curled up on the couch with a book.  The reality is that I will be perched at the kitchen table correcting papers.  I brought home enough work to keep me busy for twelve straight hours and then some, but it's my own fault for spending my time on other tasks, like planning and teaching. 

You know . . . the useless stuff. I'll probably cap it all off by shoveling in the dark.  Oh, a fun time had by all.  

Really, though, it will be fun.  I can correct papers while watching the snow through windows.  I won't like it too much in June, but I'm liking it fine for now.