I'M ALL BREAD

This has been an exhausting week.

In the midst of this exhausting week, my daughter and I have appointments to get our hair cut, and, although we are both beyond tired, we agree to go anyway.  Nothing like a little pampering, right?  And it almost works.  We almost get through the evening unscathed.

After we get out hair cut, we head over to a local steakhouse for some red meat and one beer each.  Easy pickings, right?  Except that we are so tired, we probably shouldn't be near alcohol at all.

Our waitress at dinner asks us if we want some bread brought to the table.  This, for me, is a no-brainer.  I love bread, so any time anyone offers me warm, fresh bread, I'm taking it.  The waitress brings a mini-loaf of steaming bread to the table, and my daughter and I attack it like unfed vultures.

(Last bite before the bread heel)

The remainder of the bread, basically one of the heels, stays on the table.  As we prepare for the resolution of the meal, the waitress comes to take the last of the bread from the table.

WAITRESS:  Are you all done with the bread?

ME:  (after a slight pause) Yes, I'm all done.

This is when my daughter decides to add the words "I'm all done," indicating that she's on board with the server removing the last of the bread from the table.  Instead, though, these words come out of her mouth --

DAUGHTER:  I'm all bread!

The three of us stare at each other for a moment.  Did she just say what we think she said?  Did we hear her wrong?  Are we on Planet Insomnia?

Finally, the waitress acknowledges what we all heard, and my daughter quickly tries to refrain from further commentary.  Who knows what else might shoot out of her mouth.  Maybe she'll be all steak or all broccoli with cheese or, god forbid, maybe we'll hear, "I'm all jelly beans!"  Who knows?

All I know is that I am NOT all bread, but I am taking the rest of my steak and fries home. Too late for the bread heel, though.  It has already been cleared away by the smiling waitress.

BRIDGE OF NINJA

Just when I think the world cannot get any more awesome, I get a phone call from my brother in Pennsylvania.

BRO:  Remember when I told you last week that I was driving over the bridge on my way to poker and a bird shat right through my sunroof onto my head?

ME:  Oh, yes!  That was classic.

BRO:  Well --

ME: (interrupting) IT HAPPENED AGAIN!

BRO:  Nope.  (pause) So, I'm driving along and I see this jogger.

ME:  And a bird shat on him?

BRO:  Well, maybe, but that's not it.  Guess how the jogger was dressed?

ME:  Uhhhhhh... (That's me without any clue whatsoever.)

BRO:  NINJA!  The jogger was dressed like a ninja, complete with a sword.

ME:  Uhhhhhh...

BRO:  A NINJA! A MOTHERF*****G NINJA!!!!!!!

ME:  A ninja was jogging over the bridge?

BRO:  With a sword!  I had to call the police.  I told them that I'm not drunk and they might not believe me, but they should probably have someone check it out.  It's not every day you see a ninja with a sword jogging on a bridge.

ME:  True. I can't even remember the last time I saw a ninja (never), let alone a jogging ninja, and especially not a jogging ninja on a bridge.  A jogging ninja with a sword, though -- that's a new one.

This is how most of the conversations go between my brother and me.  Seriously, if it isn't Alfred Hitchcock's birds shitting all over one of us, it's damn ninjas, who, by the way, are supposed to be invisible, so this sword-carrying jogging ninja is a major fail to his tribe.

Go ahead and be jealous.  I'm not going to lie -- it's good to be us.

TEA PERSONALITY

I am a tea drinker, and I work with tea drinkers.  Every team meeting, we have tea.  Sometimes we have tea just because, even when we don't have meetings.

Each of us has a tea personality.  For instance, the health-conscious, sweet youngster amongst us is a green tea with pomegranate (plus two sugars) gal.  The environmentalist drinks green tea straight up.  The logical one (with mad cooking skills) drinks her black tea (usually English Breakfast) neat.

I am as far from green tea as one can get.  Tea isn't supposed to be green.  When the Sons of Liberty dumped tea in Boston Harbor, that shit didn't turn green.  That was tea from the British East India Company, not some health-conscious crunchy-granola company.  Tea isn't supposed to be absorbed through one's pores along with a mellow mantra; tea is supposed to go directly to your brain like it has been mainlined.

Black tea.  Black tea all the way.

I do like plain old black tea.  I also like tea from the UK, and  I like the orange pekoe and Oolong strains from the Far East.  However, my true tea personality is, of course, no surprise to anyone:

CONSTANT COMMENT.

Constant Comment is like mulled wine in a tea bag.  It doesn't need sugar or honey, and it's perfect for a motor-mouth like me.  Of course, I run out of Constant Comment (tea, that is -- I'm rarely at a loss for words), and the elderly copy lady at work hands me a huge bag of Earl Grey tea.  I've been trying to tough it out, but it's simply too refined; too fancy; too stiff-upper-lip.

It's all good, though; fear not!  I have restocked the stash!  The next time we have tea at work, I will be back to my chatterbox self, doing what I do best: sipping and making Constant Comment.

CELEBRATING MONDAY

Sometimes you just have to celebrate Monday.

On the heels of a fabulous weekend seeing my granddaughter, the week back north turns a little ugly and crazy with weirdness.  This continues from Tuesday through Sunday to the point where I am having nightmares about Shakespeare's now-long-dead wife and other strange people appearing out of nowhere and chasing me.  I awaken Monday morning from this same dream in which I am screaming bloody murder (thankfully only in my dream and not for real).

I am on serious overload.  Serious.

Monday afternoon I am making my way through the tiny grocery store, planning on cooking dinner when I get home, when my daughter texts and asks if I want to go out to eat.  I look in my grocery cart.  I am halfway done with the shopping, and I've already picked out what to cook tonight.

No matter.  I can make tonight's dinner tomorrow just as easily.

I do, however, have to finish the shopping.  I need important things like eggs and milk and paper towels and laundry detergent and my son has a special request for cinnamon raisin bagels.  Of course, today of all days the lines at the store are longer than I've ever seen them.  Usually I am through the checkout in a quarter of the time.  When I get home, I unload everything, leave non-perishables on the table, and rush over to pick her up.

After "the week that was," an icy Cold Snap is the cure-all.  Even though the soup arrives after the gold fever wings, it's all good.  And, other than the fact that after specifically requesting NO CHILDREN near us, the hostess sits not one, not two, but three toddlers next to us.
I guess it's all good.  Because, really, it all comes down to the basic reason for our dinner out:

Sometimes you just have to celebrate Monday.

SNACK CRACK

There is no better way to wrap up a crappy week and start what will hopefully be a better week than having siblings around.  We drink a little wine, then drink a little more wine.  We have cheese and crackers.  Then we have more wine. 

Cards are in order, Cribbage and rummy, and we also play a few rounds of Yahtzee.  Sometimes we bring out the board games, but not today.  Eventually we give up on Yahtzee about four games in. 

We've killed a couple of bottles of wine, and the cheese is almost gone, but it's okay.  We have a secret weapon: Monster Trail Mix.

Oh, sure, other stores offer their own lame versions of trail mix, but Target's Monster Trail Mix is the ultimate trail mix of the gods.  It has peanuts, M&Ms, chocolate chips, peanut butter chips, and raisins.  It's like crack.  It's also a snack.  It's Snack Crack.

The back of the bag says, "Archer Farms -- 100% satisfaction guaranteed."  Well, Archer Farms, your snack crack is a Monster hit after an exceptionally poopy week, and we're all enjoying the trail mix very much.  No, the wine doesn't cloud our judgment. 

Spending time with my siblings and eating Monster Trail Mix = 100% satisfaction.  Yup, guaranteed.

BACK IN BOSTON

Back in Boston again.  Starting to feel like I live here.

I love Boston.  The best thing about Boston is that if you don't know it well, you might as well forget about driving here; nothing makes sense.  The second best thing about Boston is that it's normal to have a sarcastic attitude.

Look, we are NOT the city of brotherly love, we are NOT the city of friendship, and we are NOT the city of hospitality.

We are and always have been a city of rebels, patriots, and smart-asses.

If you come into the city, this is what you should expect - patriotism and sarcasm.  I love this place.  I wish I could afford to live here, but I can't, so I keep coming back like I do live here.  Lately, it certainly feels like I do, anyway.

It's rainy today, then sleeting, then just plain raw.  It's okay; it's spring time in the city.  Welcome to Boston -- where the people can be as cold as the weather, and we damn well like it that way.

HITTING THE WALL VIA TOOTHBRUSH

I officially hit the wall today.  Well, to be truthful, it started last evening with the following conversation via text about electric toothbrushes:

ME:  Hey, which toothbrush is mine?

SON:  What do you mean? 

ME:  I moved our toothbrushes to clean, and now I can't remember which one is mine.

SON: (following a very long pause)  You've had your toothbrush for a year now.  Can't you tell the difference?

ME:  Maybe.  Yes.  No.  I'm not sure.

SON:  Mine has a puddle under it because I just used it before I left the house.

ME:  That doesn't help.  I already moved them and cleaned up the counter.

SON:  Mine's the newer one.

ME:  That doesn't help, either.  They're both the same brand and look the same except for the brush head.  Is yours the one with bigger bristles or smaller bristles?

SON:  I don't know.  Send me a picture.

(I send him a picture.)

SON:  Mine's the one on the left.

ME:  (even though that's exactly what I suspected) Are you SURE?

SON:  Yes.  I'm sure.

(I'm still not sure even though I'm pretty sure.  I'm at about 98% sure.  No, his is newer-looking.  He's right.  We're right.  His is left.)

Okay, so truthfully the conversation was much shorter, but it did involve a few texts and a picture.  I am so tired that I cannot even tell which toothbrush is mine, although I've used it daily for a long time.  I should be able to pick my own toothbrush out of a line-up.  In my defense, I never wear my glasses when brushing my teeth.  I simply know that my toothbrush is the wavery form closest to the wavery mirror that I can just make out with my wavery vision.   

Lately I've had a bit of insomnia, but not tonight.  I don't even remember putting my head down on the pillow.  Moments later (or so it seems -- it's really hours), my alarm goes off.  It's an old-school radio alarm set to pop/latest hits KISS 108 because classical WCRB 99.5 hasn't been coming in lately.  The music comes on a little too loudly, and I wake from my fog.  A second later (or so it seems -- it's really ten minutes), my cell phone back-up alarm goes off.

I am so tired that I have dozed off and am actually dreaming that I am awake while sleeping right through my alarm.  I make it through the day at work, but by 4:30 in the afternoon, I am snoozing sitting at the table trying to check my email.

This is all my toothbrush's fault.  If it had just behaved itself when I cleaned the counter, I never would've realized how crazy-tired I am, and my son might've been able to pretend that I'm not just plain crazy.  But, the good news is he now has a picture of our electric toothbrushes, should I ever need his expertise detective skills again.

CHROMEBOOK CRISIS

Well, I am an asshole.  Dennis Leary thinks the asshole is he; he even sings a song about it.  But he is wrong, dead wrong.  The asshole is I; I am the asshole.

I am having a shitty week, absolutely horrid.  It started out great and just tanked halfway through.  My nerves are shot to hell, and I'm in no mood for anyone's bullshit. 

This is when my recently-borrowed Chromebook cart comes back to my room.

First of all, it's left outside of the classroom.  Oh, that's okay.  Don't worry about it.  I'll just put it back myself, even though I didn't take it out in the first place.  No problem.  Let me just miss part of my 18-minute lunch to take care of that for you.

Then, when I go to put the cart away, the front is locked up tight (to protect the Chromebooks from being stolen), but the back is wide open.  Great.  Reach in and steal one, then expect me to know where it went.  Pissah.  Wonderful.  There goes more of my 18-minute lunch.  Okay, it's officially 22 minutes, but I've spent 4 minutes trying to hurry along the slowpokes who think it's okay to knit socks after passing time.

I finally get the cart in its place, and I decide to check it out and make sure that I did, indeed, get all of the devices back.  This is when I notice that not one, not two, not three, but eight Chromebooks are not charging because no one bothered to plug them into the charging ports inside the cart.  So, now I'm losing even more time because I have to stop and plug everything in. 

By the time I sit at my desk to eat lunch, I have twelve minutes, and this includes pee-time at the bathroom that is about 100 yards away.

This pisses me off for some strange reason, and I blow a head gasket on an unsuspecting tech person.  Like it's her fault . . . which it isn't.  And really -- so what if someone just kind of left me in the lurch returning the technology he/she borrowed from my room.  So what if I miss half of my lunch.  Is this REALLY what's bothering me?

Probably not.  My day sucks.  It has sucked since I woke up, and it continues to suck all day long, and it sucks from something that will not go away in a day or two.  This is going to be a long-term suck. 

I apologize profusely over and over and over again to the tech who caught my wrath.  Thankfully, she is incredibly understanding. 

I need to be in the old school building, the building before we moved to this beautiful new one.  I need a concrete wall on which to bash my head.  These damn wallboard walls don't do shit for my self-flagellation.  Right now I wish I were Rip Van Winkle, at least in part.  If I could sleep for a week or two and have my issues resolve themselves while I slumber, life would be fabulous. 

But, no, that's not going to happen.

So, please, for my sanity and yours, if you borrow my damn Chromebook cart, please, for the love of god, please, please, please don't leave it in my hallway like I'm your slave, and please, please, please don't forget to plug the devices ALL into the charging ports.  I'm NOT your damn slave, and I'd like to eat my damn lunch at some point today.

Rant over.

COLD-EEZE AND LAVA MOUTH

You know how people sometimes say, "The cure is worse than the disease"?  I find this out big time when I try to cure the tail end of a cold that has left me almost voiceless, a really bad condition for a teacher.

I had been sucking on Cold-Eeze lozenges for about a week.  I decide that before I go to bed, I'll hit up the Cold-Eeze one more time.  I dissolve the thing (over time) and finally the whole lozenge is gone.  I am thinking I should probably get to bed soon, so I start walking toward the bathroom to brush my teeth.

All of a sudden, my tongue is on fire, and by fire, I mean I am holding molten lava on my tongue.  I stick my tongue out and scrape away at it with my finger.  Obviously, the end of the lozenge is stuck on my tongue and menthol-ing it all out, right?

Wrong.  There is nothing on my tongue except a boiling hot spot that is now starting to bubble up like burning plastic.  I run to the large mirror and stick out my tongue.  An oval in the center of my tongue is turning a blackish color, and boils of tongue skin are erupting as I am starting to self-combust via my mouth.

All I can think of is that a hole will burn through, like Chernobyl, and I'll have to stick something into my tongue like a giant disc or some stopper to prevent food from falling through the chasm that used to be my tongue.  I run to the freezer, grab an ice cube, and immediately start icing the burning area of my tongue.  The ice melts quickly.

While holding the cube on my tongue, I use my other hand to Google "Cold-Eeze burnt tongue."  Amazingly enough, many posts come pinging up.  Apparently, this is a common side-effect.  Great.  So, in order to feel better from this cold, I guess I have to burn a giant hole through my tongue.

Hours later, there is still a fairly significant indentation in my tongue, surrounded by blistered skin.  Also, I still have crap in my lungs and my voice is shot to Hell, only now I cannot talk because I've barbecued the inside of my mouth with a damn Cold-Eeze lozenge. 

I should've just stayed sick.  This cure is totally worse than the disease.

TEA CUP DISASTERS

Listen, styrofoam cup manufacturers, life is tough enough.

Getting up in the morning can be torturous.  Sometimes I stumble around blindly until I have tea, and sometimes I have my cup of tea at a more civilized hour, like halfway through my work day.  Either way, I don't want to fight with my tea cup.  Truly, I have enough issues.

So, explain to me why the covers for your cups end up chewing into the rims and not fitting?  Do you know what happens when the cover of the tea cup doesn't fit? 

A damn tea mess -- that's what happens.

Please, please, please manufacture the tea cups and covers so that they actually match each other.  Now, I know that some of you actually do this correctly because the brands I buy at home have covers that actually fit.  But the lower end ones at the hotel continental breakfasts?  The cups that people presumably want to and need to take on the road with them? 

Yeah, these ones suck.

In conclusion, just because the white styrofoam cups are cheap to make doesn't mean the covers should be ill-fitting pieces of crap.  I need my clothes, and I need my clothes to be tea-free.  Life is tough enough without wearing my tea to work.  Most of all, though, I NEED MY TEA AND I NEED IT TO STAY INSIDE THE CUP.

Thank you, cup manufacturers.  Now, get right on this.

POEMS FOR SPRING

Spring has sprung
But I can't see
Roses, violets,
Nor pansies.
"Why?" you ask.
This much I know -
Spring is buried
'Neath the snow.

Suppose there's a season called spring.
The flowers and birds it doth bring.
But here north of Boston,
We get such a frostin'
Our fingers to nature we fling.

How much snow would the snowchuck chuck
If a snowchuck would chuck snow?
It would chuck much snow as a snowchuck go,
If a snowchuck would chuck snow.

MARCH OR NOT, I HATE YOU

So not fair.
Two weeks ago - a taste of Spring.
I almost put my patio table out to enjoy a book and some fresh air.
The trees started to bud.
I know this because my Spring allergies kicked into gear.
Then . . . snow.
Ice.
Biting winds.
Frozen toes.
Frozen fingers.
Frozen windshields.
It is March, yes;
This I know.
But, seriously.
Do not makes the grass grow, plants appear, and bugs fly around.
Do not make the sun so warm we take off our shoes.
Do not make us take off coats and gloves for days on end.
No, do not do these things if you are not serious.

Damn you.
It's.
Cold.
I.
Hate.
You.
Winter.
You gave us Spring before you were through with us.
March or not.
I hate you.

TO NORTH CAROLINA AND BEYOND

If you're reading this and there hasn't been news of some major air disaster, there's a good chance I'm in North Carolina right now.  (If there has been an air disaster, maybe parts of me are all over parts of North Carolina.)

According to the NC weather, the low will be in the 30's, and the high will be in the mid-sixties.  This is good.  It's just like a regular spring or fall day back home in New England when the heat comes on in the morning, and the air conditioner gets fired up in the afternoon.

Here's what I do wish, though.  I wish I could stay longer.  As I type this blog, I haven't even left Boston yet.  I love Boston, I truly do.  I don't think anywhere else in the world could possibly tolerate my foul mouth, my smart-ass attitude, nor my sarcasm. 

I love the people down South, but it's tough for me to be so happy and laid back for sustained amounts of time.  I'm jealous of all-y'all for your hospitable ways, though.  And, man, I do love your weather.

Alas, this trip is a quick hit-and-run.  I've used up my personal days at work already, and I can only make this a weekend flight down and back.  As I write this, I hear I'll be returning to Boston in snow conditions -- not as bad as what we've had so far this March, but still.  It will be a rotten surprise when I drive my car out of the airport lot if the forecasters have their way.

But, then again, this is why I really do belong in Boston.  Much as I love the warmer weather, we New Englanders do so enjoy bitching about the foul weather conditions.  There's nothing more satisfying than telling semi-tall tales about surviving the howling winds and sub-zero temperatures, as if braving a Nor'easter on the streets of the city is as daunting as trying not to get blown off the Mount Washington Observatory patio with hurricane force gusts and windchills of negative a bazillion degrees.

North Carolina, as of this blog writing, I'm not even there yet, and I miss you already knowing I'll have to leave and come back.  Be thankful, though.  I'm not sure my smart mouth can control itself for longer than a couple of days, anyway.

WEARING OF THE GREEN AND ORANGE

In keeping with the St. Patrick's Weekend theme ---

I have Irish lineage on both sides of my family, but it's definitely dominant on my mother's side.  Her father, full-blooded Irish, was supposedly first-generation Irish American, but we never knew a whole lot about him.  As a matter of fact, we knew nothing of his life before my grandmother. My grandmother was full-blooded Scot and supposedly first-generation Scottish-American.  (I really should verify this information via Ancestry.com, but it's one of those things for which I never have time.  I should, though.)

Anyone who knows anything about life in the early 1900s and Irish-Scottish relationships can sympathize with my grandparents' plight.  We never even knew my grandfather had siblings until he died and some of them came to his wake and funeral.  Even stranger, we didn't know until two years ago that my grandfather changed his Irish last name and started spelling it with two r's rather than the familial one r --  Kerigan to Kerrigan.

Every year on St. Patrick's Day, I'd shy away from celebrating.  My family was not Irish Catholic; we were loosely Protestant.  My grandmother the Scot had been born into a Christian Scientist family.  Sometimes I'd wear something orange under my St. Pat's clothing to feel camaraderie with my Irish Protestant roots.  The minority in Ireland, I exercised my longstanding connection to William of Orange, but I'd do so discreetly so as not to offend my Irish Catholic friends (of which I have many).

A few years before mysteriously hearing from my grandfather's family, I suspected that the rift between him and his kin stemmed from more than my grandmother being Scottish and also being a Christian Scientist.  I started to suspect that perhaps my grandfather had been Irish Catholic, after all.  My grandfather's family unknowingly confirmed this when they told me that my grandfather's parents and some of his siblings were buried at a Catholic cemetery in western Massachusetts.

Hmmmmm.  Seems I might be Irish Catholic, after all.  Who knew?  Well, someone in the family knew, but I certainly didn't.  I guess this means I don't have to feel out-of-place wearing green on St. Patrick's Day (and weekend) after all. 

I kind of wish I'd known about this decades ago.  I kind of wish I'd known a lot more about my grandfather and his family decades ago.  I guess I'll have to make time to get onto Ancestry.com.  No matter.  It's really not important, this meshing of cultures and religions.  It's why my father's side, the Pilgrims in the family, came over here in the first place.  There also some Welsh connections thrown in to the mix, and somehow there's a connection to the court of Queen Elizabeth I (probably at the end of a burning stake, if I know my relatives).

Who knows?  Maybe this is just the tip of the pot of gold.  So, for this weekend, I'll trade in my orange for my green.  If my grandparents could find a way to get along, I suppose I can bring together William of Orange and St. Patrick, whether it's historically correct or not. 

HAPPY ST. PATRICK'S DAY

Happy St. Patrick's Day, also known as Bostonians Get Shit-Faced Day. 

I'll be missing the Irish drummers and bagpipers stopping by the local Irish watering hole on their way out of Southie after the parade.  It's okay, though,  I've missed them before.  (Besides, I have a lovely young lady's first birthday to attend, and that's way better than post-parade frivolity.)

In the meantime, though, may the weather cooperate.  I hear it's going to snow in Boston on Sunday morning.  We shall see if the Luck of the Irish wins out or not.  Remember, there be nothin' under the kilts, lads and lassies.  It could make for a fun parade if the wind shifts.

Tomorrow, I'll tell a story about my crazy Irish roots, which turn out to be even stranger than I thought for my entire life.  Life can be like that sometimes.  It's simply the luck, in this case, of the Irish.

Eirinn go Brach, my friends.  Is ait an mac an saol.

POST-STORM MUSINGS

Post-storm update --

My neighborhood is lucky.  We have some branches down and a lot of snow and ice, but we keep our electricity, cable, phone, Internet, and heat.  Just a half mile away, those people are not so lucky.  People all over my town and the towns surrounding us have no power and no heat.  Some of them get it back about twenty-four hours later; some are still waiting.

I cannot wrap my head around the pockets of damage, even as I watch two different angles of a tractor trailer jackknifing on the Zakim Bridge on the interstate in Boston.  As I'm driving to work early this morning, there are police cars with blue flashing lights at the top of the hill, about 1/10th of a mile from my house.  The entire stretch of stores uptown (about 2/10ths of a mile from my house) is powerless.  My daughter's street is without power.  Trees are down.  One tree completely blocks the opposite lane on a main roadway between my house and my work.

I'm a bit astounded.  It seems the aftermath is far worse than the storm itself.

When I arrive at work, the entire parking lot is a skating rink.  Everything has frozen solidly over.  By the time I leave work, it is still damn cold outside, but the sheer will of the sun has melted quite a bit of the ice and snow on the parking lot and on the streets.  I wonder when the town will get workers out to cut the snow banks around the street corners.

I'm thinking that the world looks a lot safer this afternoon until I pull up to a light by the prep school.  This is when I see the traffic light.  The light has suffered significantly in the storm.  The top red light is partially covered by snow and ice, the second two lights below it (both yellow and green) are encrusted with slush, ice, and snow.  I have to rely on the driver in front of me because even when the traffic light turns green, it's nearly impossible to see the colors.

I was a little smug yesterday, claiming this storm was nothing out of the ordinary, and that still may well be true.  However, to my neighbors suffering without power and dealing with closed streets and downed power and cable lines, I apologize if it seems I minimized your predicament.  

SNOW PAIN AND KNEE PAIN

The storm ends up being just as I called it.

Sure, we have some downed trees and branches, and some people have lost power.  Once the rain starts, the snow becomes heavy as iron and the consistency of concrete.  But, it's over early, there's a foot less than they predict, and it never snows as hard as they claim it will.  The wind, though impressive, isn't anything unusual for a Nor'easter.

In other words, this storm is a damn dud.

The landlord's son manages to get the snowblower going, then it breaks, then it's going again.  We shovel about half of the snow; he snowblows about half of the snow.  This assistance saves my son and me about an hour or so of extremely hard labor.  Still, though, that hour we already put in leaves us sore and soaked as the blowing snow turns to errant large plops of cold rain.

It isn't until I get inside and out of my soaking snow pants and dripping wet parka that I realize how sore I am.  So sore, in fact, that my knee starts screaming at me.  Apparently, I really am feeling as old as I am.  I root around my room because I know I have a knee brace.  I also have a flexible ankle brace and two sturdier, inflexible ankle braces.  I have multiple ace bandages in varying widths and lengths tucked away in a plastic bin under the bathroom sink, as well.  Yup, my body sometimes rebels.

In the end, the storm, though a nuisance, is not the most significant pain I will suffer today.  With any luck at all, by tomorrow, both my knee pain and the snow will be on the way out of my life.  Like my great storm prediction, I'm betting on this scenario, as well.  I'll be two for two, mark my words.

If I'm wrong, though, it's okay.  Snow and aches/pains are part of a traditional Nor'easter.  It's just what we do around here, and that's what makes it all so much fun.

SNOW AND THE JAWS THEME SONG

It's the night before the storm of epic proportions, or so it is being called.  I'm not going to lie; I hope the weather people are wrong.  I hope the radar models all suck eggs.  I hope the computer projections are all bullshit.

I like snow.  Don't get me wrong.  I'm a New Englander at heart and come from generations of New Englanders before me (about 400 years' worth).  But even I've had enough.  It's too much.  One station puts our area in a pocket of 24" snowfall.  Seriously.  Pardon my filthy mouth during Lent, but where the Christ am I supposed to put this shit?

I'm still tired from a few years ago when I pretty much single-handedly shoveled something like 110" of snow in a season.  That's like nine frigging feet of snow.  I still haven't recovered from the trauma.  And now, this.  This debacle of a snowstorm.

It's not that it's too late for such a storm.  We've gotten these asshole storms right into April - a couple of times into May.  Come on, though.  On the heels of two weeks in the 60's and 70's?  Really?  REALLY?!

As I sit here typing this, wondering if I'll even have electricity by the afternoon, it is silent outside.  Silent.  No cars are out, the trains seem less frequent.  It's eerie, like everyone has battened the hatches and is just waiting.  For some strange reason, this forces the theme song from Jaws to play in a continuous loop through my brain.

All the times the weather people are wrong -- BE WRONG NOW.  My money is on the forecast being wrong.  HA!  Let's see if I'M the one who is RIGHT this time.  Besides, it's always fun to watch the people who bombarded the grocery store prior to the storm end up kicking themselves when it all ends without pomp and circumstance within hours.

HEADACHE-INDUCED SLOW DAY

There's only one thing worse than going to bed with a headache, and that one thing would be waking up with the same headache. 

Last night I had a headache around bedtime.  No biggie.  I probably overdid it, or the changing weather is finally getting to me.  I was a little concerned because I couldn't get warm last night, something unusual for a menopausal woman -- we're always hot, and I don't mean looks-wise.  No problem, right?  Nothing a good night's sleep won't cure.

Until very early this morning.

I awaken around 6:00, and my head is screaming.  I have pain behind my right eye, and I feel like I'm going to puke.  Great.  Migraine.  Wonderful.  Or, worse, it may be the first of a series of headaches to come -- the notorious cluster headaches (short, of course, for clusterfuck). 

It takes me about fifteen minutes to convince myself to go downstairs to the bathroom and find the pain meds.  Panic sets in when I realize that I have only two left.  I take one and crawl back upstairs.  Maybe if I sleep for another hour, I'll feel better. 

This plan seems doomed when around 7:00, I am still trying to get comfortable. I figure I should probably get up and get moving, but I try propping my head up with a few more pillows.  I'll just hang here for another few minutes.

Next thing I know, the digital clock is turning over.  It's something :59.  Looks like 8:59.  I don't know, really, because I don't have my glasses on yet.  Wow.  I managed to get another couple of hours of sleep.  Better yet, my head is feeling better.  I'm so comfortable, I decide maybe it's still early enough to hang in bed a little longer.

Then I see the clock clearly as it changes over for the hour.  It's not 9:00.  It's 10:00.  Holy smokes, the whole day is getting away from me!  Slowly I pull myself out of the warm covers and meander downstairs to turn up the heat in the house.  Right now it's hovering around 60 degrees inside and -60 with wind chill outside.  (Oh, all right, it's warmer than that with an outside temp of about 11.)

I can't believe I managed to sleep so late, but I am thrilled the migraine appears to have dissipated.  I take it slow for the rest of the day, changing my flannel pj bottoms to sweatpants and throwing an old sweatshirt over my nightshirt.  I don't shower until later, and I never even attempt to put a bra on all day. 

The only bad part is when my daughter stops by.  "Are you drunk?" she asks when she sees me.  No, I tell her.  I'm post-migraine.  This is my reality today.  It sucks that it ruined my day off, but it's better on a Sunday with peace and quiet at home than on Monday with classes packed full of pre-blizzard wound-up children.  That's what the last pain pill is for . . . just in case.

BEEPING BEEP

I almost forget to change the clocks.  It totally slips my mind until I see someone post a reminder on Facebook.  I run around at 9:30 p.m. and turn all the clocks to 10:30 p.m.  This is a great strategy until I try to watch the 11 o'clock news.  Wrong.  It's only 10 o'clock.  First I forget to set them forward, then thirty minutes later I forget I already did.

The real problem isn't the time change.  The real problem stems from the "spring forward, check the batteries in your detectors" mentality.  The real problem continues to be the CO monitors in my house.  Lest you worry that I am dying from carbon monoxide, I can assure you that this house is so poorly insulated and has so many gaps (like the front door) that there is probably more fresh air circulating in here than if I were outside in a tent with the flaps open.  It doesn't matter if I have the battery-only monitors or the battery/plug-in kinds -- They chirp, they chirp, they chirp.

These monitors don't screech like I'm going to asphyxiate.  Nope.  They chirp.  I'll put in new batteries, test the monitors, then within hours they start to chirp like the batteries are dying.  You know the chirp.  The piercing half-chirp that happens once every hour or so.  That little blip that makes you jump for a moment then swear your head off because it's so annoying.

Chances are if the noises keep happening that I will pull the batteries out and toss the bastards into the trash -- like I did with one already today.  If I'm dying from poisonous gas, let me know; if you're trying to disrupt my sleep patterns and make me mental, you're doing a great job, CO monitors.

I should've forgotten about the clock.  If I did, the batteries never would've been replaced in the CO monitors, and I wouldn't be sitting here anticipating the next ear splitting BOOP from the wall.  Of course, if I wake up dead from CO, this blog can become evidence.  I tried. Really, I did.  I guess I'm just seasonally challenged.

Morning update -- I had a terrible headache last night, so I took the batteries out and unplugged CO monitor.  It continued to make a quiet whining sound as if wires were crossed inside.  I tossed it onto the patio, where it remains in the 7 degree cold air.  Apparently there is CO outside because it is still whining just a teeny bit.  :(

SCHOOL, SALAD, AND SNOW

I like technology when it works.  Let's be honest, who really likes it when it doesn't work?  (Although I will admit that sometimes when my phone's battery dies and when the cable/landline is out and no one can reach me, it's kind of relaxing and liberating.)

This week at school it is a grade-posting week.  This means that our ancient automated grading program (that is so outdated that the program doesn't even exist on the market anymore) needs to be shared with students and their parents.  It also means that I need to get about 600 grades into the system so I can post and share the recent scores with my classes.

It's my own fault, really.  If I entered grades as I write them into my handy-dandy hard-copy grade book, then these bi-weekly postings wouldn't be so daunting.  But, it's flu season right now.  That means a lot of absenteeism, which also means re-entering and catching up grades of kiddos I missed on the initial grade entry as their make-up work trickles in.  Sometimes it's just easier to leave the whole process until I've filled in all the blanks.

Of course, the Internet took a tumble last week, so no work was getting done for a day or two, anyway.  Now, though, it's the end of the week, and I have to post the latest round of grades.  I enter one class, about 150 grades' worth, no problem, and print out a hard copy for my safekeeping.  I enter class number two, my largest class, and get all six assignments into the system, so about 170 grades.  As I prepare to print out this class's grades, a glitch occurs.

Suddenly, my grade program flashes a message across the screen, something about needing to reboot the program, yadda yadda yadda.  No worries because this system has auto-save.  I bash the mouse buttons, anyway, hoping to bypass the error code, but to no avail.  With three minutes until my eighteen-minute lunch break, I figure I'm good to go, right?

Wrong.

I re-boot the program to make sure is all is well and discover that all is not well.  I have lost about 130 of the grades I just spent time entering into the computer.  The last thing I intend to do on a snowy Friday is stay late to enter and post grades, so I decide to work through lunch and re-enter the damn numbers.  I sit at my desk, alternating between entering data and trying to stuff salad into my mouth.

Finally, with my planning period coming at the end of the day, I have one class left to enter, about 130 grades. I get sidetracked with an impromptu meeting.  Then, I get sidetracked helping a co-worker renew his teaching license via the Internet.  I get sucked into a conversation.  I have to pee.  I need to pack up my backpack for the weekend of work to prep for next week. I have three student reports to write out and file.  I'm also trying to eat the salad that I didn't get to finish during my working lunch.

Before I know it, my planning period has come and gone.  I end up staying until 4:00, anyway; that's the bad news.  The good news is that as far as I can tell the grades have gone through and are safely posted where they are supposed to be.  Oh, and the other good news is that I can eat my salad for dinner because it's still only half-eaten at the end of my nine-and-a-half-hour day.  I have to clean the snow off my car first, though.  Can't blame that part on technology, although there would be much less snow on my car had the system not crashed in the first place preventing me from leaving at the regular time.  TGIF.

TALES OF QUIZ CORRECTING

I'm sorry that I yelled at you;
Patience not withstanding,
Just answer all the questions and
Please do so sans grandstanding.
It really isn't difficult.
By this time you should know
All about the parts of speech.
(It's fourth grade work, you know.)
You tell me that you know a noun:
"A person, place, or thing!"
And yet I see that you don't know.
My hands I start to wring.
And then I try to tell you that
Your answers seem to me
Like saying 2 times 3 is equal
To Rhesus monkey.
How is it that by this late grade
Your knowledge's such a sieve
That you cannot tell me "handsome"
Is just an adjective;
That "go" and "scream" and "wander"
Are action verbs, you see;
That pronouns like to hang around
With them, and you, and me.
So, sorry that I yelled so much.
I guess it isn't you,
But basic English grammar, folks,
I guess I thought you knew.

BITING MY TONGUE . . . FOR REAL

I have the strangest dreams. Sometimes I remember them and sometimes not.  Two nights ago, though, I must've had a doozey because when I woke up in the morning, I had bitten my tongue on the back left side.  Actually, I did more than bite it.  I mangled it so badly that my tongue has been swollen in that area ever since.

Of course, it is remarkably painful, as well.  It stings to swallow, and it is incredibly difficult to chew lest I bite my tongue again . . . you know, because it's swollen on that side a little bit.  Just enough to get in my way.  Just enough to affect my eating habits.

Oh, and, of course, my somewhat-swollen tongue is interfering with my ability to speak.  I know, I know.  Yay for the rest of civilization!  I can't speak clearly!  However, I make my living via public speaking of sorts in a grade seven classroom.  The results have been comical.

Today, for example, I keep trying to spit out the words "evacuation" and "excavation."  Go ahead.  Say them out loud.  Notice how your tongue naturally tilts back when you get to the letter c in both words.  My injured tongue won't do that.  I cannot form the words with any semblance of coherence.

By the fourth class of the day and after I attempt to eat some lunch (unsuccessfully), my tongue expires in its effectiveness.  I try the words, and try again, and try a third time.  Finally, I stick my tongue out a little and make a giant raspberry sound.  Yup, that's as good as it will get today.  "Whatever," I say a bit awkwardly.  "You know what I mean."

I don't know how tomorrow will go, but I might rearrange my lesson plans to do a little less speaking.  What will truly help, though, is if I have restful sleep tonight and do not wake up after maiming myself overnight.  I'm just saying . . . as best as my tongue will allow.

BRAIN GOES OUT WITH THE TRASH

Insomnia plagues me off and on, and it gets so severe that I call ahead to reserve my own room for an upcoming trip to North Carolina with my daughter and her gal pal.  I know I will be walking the hotel room floors all night, and I don't want to disturb the two girls with my wanderings.  After making the reservation, I decide that I am tired and should attempt to go to bed.

This brilliant bedtime decision yields me seven hours of nearly uninterrupted sleep (I only get up three times).  It also invigorates me to start my mental engine in the morning, and right now my morning is going well.  Very well.  Quite well.

Until it's time to leave for work.

It's Tuesday (trash day), and I'm running ten minutes early, which is like a record for me since I usually run late on trash day.  Normally this isn't a problem because everyone on our streets puts out their trash barrels the night before, so I tend to pop my one weekly trash bag into a barrel and head to work. 

As far as I know, it really is Tuesday, so naturally I am expecting the trash men to come by.  My modus operandi is to stealthily add my bag to an existing barrel that is out on the street, so I take my one lightweight bag of trash to the corner of the driveway, expecting the usual barrels at the beautiful houses.  You know, my Tuesday routine, right?

Wrong.  No barrels of trash are in sight.  Not a single trash barrel is visible on my street or behind my street and around the other street. I double-check the time.  I am only leaving about eight minutes early, but still.  The neighbors always put out their barrels.  Always.

Did I sleep trough Tuesday?  I went to bed early enough; my alarm clock works sporadically; I seem to be awake now.  Where is everyone's trash?

I leave the trash bag on the curb, hoping no animals get into it. In my car on the way to work, I see that most people one street further over have their trash cans out, but no one else does.  Not my street, not the street behind me, and not the streets fronting the churches. 

I wonder the entire way to work: How could I have slept through a day?  Where did Tuesday go?  How did I miss Trash Day?  Is there a holiday this week?  Did people receive a call from the town about a schedule change?  Is it really Tuesday, or am I completely losing it?  Has my insomnia caused me to crash and sleep for twenty-four hours? 

When I get home, my questions are answered: My trash is gone, and everyone else's empty barrels are rolling around in the street. Guess it really is Tuesday.  Thank goodness, because I was starting to feel like my brain went out with the trash, too.

BOOK FAIR DAY!

It's Book Fair Day!  Whooohoooo!!!!!  I get to take all of my classes to the school book fair today, and I know some of you aren't remotely excited about this, but I am thrilled.

When I was a kid, I loved the book fair.  I loved when class Scholastic orders came out, too.  I was a voracious reader then, and I still would be if I only had more time in my life.  Even now when I hand out Scholastic orders to my students, I always manage to get extra books for my class library -- books I hope to read but rarely do.

Now, though, I have to make sure that I don't bring any cash with me when I go to the book fair at school.  I'd buy everything in sight: fictions novels, cookbooks, posters, pencils, dictionaries, DVDs.  Pretty much whatever the book fair is selling, I'm buying (in my mind). 

My problem is that I don't like the library.  I mean, I like it fine, but I cannot keep the books.  That makes me very sad because I really like books.  I don't have a Kindle or any e-books loaded on my phone.  I need the physical presence of a book in my hands.  To me, reading a book involves all of my senses, and I cannot accomplish that with a computer.

So, today is Book Fair Day, and I will go to the fair and try very hard not to buy anything  until I've read the hundred or so books on my shelves that are waiting to be read first.  I know, I know; it's a sick thing to stockpile like I do, binging on books.  I wish I were able to purge, but it's too painful. 

I'm very excited about going to the fair, but I know my limits.  Let's see if I can make it out of there alive and unbooked.

NOTHING PERSONAL, WINTER

Dear Winter:

When I suggested that maybe you should return, I wasn't really specific enough.

For example, I'd like to see a little more snow, maybe 4 inches of it, so I can snowshoe one more time this season.  Please, though, please do not snow when I am trying to get on a plane and fly to North Carolina.  That will just piss me off, and it will defeat the purpose of snowshoeing if I am out of the region.

Another thing, Winter.  When I said that the temperature being in the 70s in February wasn't my favorite thing, I didn't mean to imply that it should be 74 degrees one day and 3 with a windchill of -17 a couple of days later.  That's just stupid talk, Winter.  I never said that.  I never implied it, so stop being a shit head and turn the temperature back up to normal limits.

Lastly, these terrible thunderstorms spawning tornadoes in New England in February.  What the hell is that all about?  You'd better not pull that shit in March.  Our spring athletes are outside starting now, and, even though they're freezing their asses off, let's not strike them dead with electricity in the meantime, if you please.

To be fair, Winter, you're right; I wasn't specific when I started asking around, "Where is Winter?  Have you seen Winter?  Is Winter on vacation?  When is Winter expected to return to town?"  It's my own damn fault.  But, please.  Either be windy or be subzero.  Try not to be both at once.  Just try.  You might find out that people actually enjoy you more if you make March just a little more approachable.

I'm just saying.  Just a thought.  Nothing personal.

WHAT THE HECK ARE THE TURKEYS DOING?

Here in Massachusetts, crazy stuff is happening.  Winds are toppling over trees and smooshing people in their cars, the air is so cold it freezes snot inside of noses the instant one steps outside, and turkeys hold a funeral for a dead cat.

You read that correctly.

In a video that appears to be going viral, a Massachusetts man filmed a bizarre scene happening in the middle of the road.  Turkeys formed a wide circle and marched single-file around and around a dead cat.  Was it a wake?  A funeral?  A celebration?  What the heck were the turkeys doing?

Whatever it was, it was geometrically perfect, and it was perfectly strange.

Many years ago my family and I lived in a nearby city.  The city held a St. Patrick's Day parade every year, and it was usually televised on the local cable access channel.  My kids and I sat on the couch, glued to the television, watching for their school friends to march by with their dance troupes, scout troops, or bands.

Halfway through the parade, three Irish wolfhounds came by on leashes.  For anyone who has never seen an Irish wolfhound, they are the tallest breed of dog.  Not only are the dogs huge, but their crap is huge, as well.  How do I know this?  I know this because one of the dogs laid a giant turd right in the middle of the street and right in front of one of the main television cameras.

Back before the time of plastic bags being required for dog owners, the person walking the dog looked at the crap, looked at the dog, looked at the paraders in front and behind him, looked at the crap again, and kept on marching, leaving the steaming pile of pooh right in the street where it landed.

An older gentleman marched a few paces behind.  I cannot remember right now if he had a musical instrument with him or if he were merely another character marching along the parade route.  The moment the older gentleman spotted the poop, he began dancing around it, pointing to it, and doing circles around it.  At first we thought he was trying to warn other marchers not to step in the pile, but it soon became obvious that he was just some crazy old coot enjoying a pooh dance.

The turkey circle video reminded me of the parade as the turkeys also inappropriately paid homage to a pile of steaming something in the middle of the road.  I half-expected one of the turkeys to start squawking, "Bring out yer dead!  Bring out yer dead!"

I kind of wish I had an answer to the question, what the heck were the turkeys doing.  Wait!  Maybe I do.  They were doing an Irish step dance in preparation for taking over for the Irish wolfhounds.

I'M AN ASSHOLE

I wasted ninety minutes of my time today, ninety minutes that I will NEVER get back.


My school invited (ie: paid) a speaker to come and talk to the kiddos about drug abuse.  Instead, it was pretty much a monotone, very slow chat about how awful the world is for a rich person who decides the money he has to burn will go into his veins.

The timing couldn't be worse.  Today is the 23rd anniversary of the death of my husband to cancer.

How pompous and presumptuous this speaker was.  Oh, boohoo, how fucking horrible a life you led with a two-parent family that owned multiple properties, how gut-wrenching your life as a pro-athlete.

Yup, I'm sure it has been.  And, fuck you, while you're at it.

Tell someone who is dying of cancer (or some other slow, horrible, terminal death) how horrifying your life is, dude.  Watch me not cry as you drone on and on about how you decided to become addicted to drugs and drink.  Yup, my fucking heart fucking bleeds for you.  Or perhaps it doesn't.

Not for nothing, but your presentation sucked.  No affect.  Very little emotion behind your words.  Slow and halted delivery of your speech.  No connection to the kids except the one you high-fived as she left the room crying.

One of my students started crying back in homeroom after your speech.  Why?  Because you said quite casually, "My mother died of cancer."  This kid's mother has battled cancer three times, and the kid is terrified she is going to die because of it.  Thanks, dude.  Thanks for confirming his worst nightmare.

Yup, the timing sucks.  Couldn't be a worse day.  Well, except for the fact that now I have ninety minutes I'll never recover at the whim of a selfish rich kid with too much money in his pocket.

Yeah, I'm an asshole.  I'm an asshole who cares about the people who want to live (and won't) rather than those who are so cavalier about the preciousness of life and think they are somehow heroes for being zeroes.  Yup, a real tragedy.  SMFH.

40 BAGS IN 40 DAYS

I have to give something up for Lent.  I'm not particularly religious, but I like to try and at least attempt to be part of the movement, support somewhat the religion I adopted as a teenager, much to the dismay and disgust of my atheist and agnostic parents.

I do know my limits.  I'm not giving up swearing or wine or red meat or Solitaire on my cell phone.  Although I am working very hard to eat healthier, I'm not willing to say "no" to chocolate nor to extra-toasty Cheez-Its just yet.

Here's what I will do, though.  There is cyber-challenge going around to donate 40 bags of stuff to charity during Lent -- a bag a day.  I'm not sure I can do a bag a day, necessarily, as my life is pretty much a clusterfuck most of the time.  However, I do think I can commit to 40 bags over the course of 40 days.

I hope this is fair.  My intentions are pure.  I do live in the shadow of four churches and can see them pretty much any direction I face from my house, from almost every window, so I feel like the oversight part of this is covered; I've cornered the market on religious guilt by visual association.  Plus, I have collected many plastic grocery bags since switching up my shopping habits.  I have more than forty bags to spare.

I am thinking that when I run out of personal items to donate (books, clothes, shoes, craft supplies, fabric, yarn, and sports equipment), I'll work on items for the animal shelters and food pantries around me.  Either way, I am determined to make 40 bags before Easter.  I may not be particularly religious, but I am wildly dedicated.

WINTER SHMINTER

It's Read Across America Day, honoring Dr. Seuss's birthday.  I have decided to create a Seuss-like poem to express my current feelings on winter.  Enjoy.  Or don't.  Worry?  I won't.  (Did you see what I did there?)


WINTER SHMINTER

Why can't we just get some snow?
It's winter, after all, you know,

And winter is when air is cold,
Noses freeze, and knees feel old.

Time to snowshoe, time to ski
If the world were wintery,

But it seems like spring has sprung.
No more snowflakes will be flung.

No more sledding in this slush
Unless I want a soaking tush.

No more shovels in the dark.
No more noisy plows that park

Across the street or down the lane.
Nope, this weather is insane.

Way too warm this time of year.
Birds have started to appear!

February was a funk,
But GO HOME, MARCH, 'CUZ YOU ARE DRUNK.

LIKE I NEVER SLEPT

Damnit, I'm tired.  I go to sleep with plenty of time to spare, but then I cannot stay asleep.  Sometimes I'm up once, maybe twice, but then there are nights that I am up and down and up and down six or seven times.  When my alarm goes off, it's like I never slept.

One positive of this horrible behavior is that I can look at the clock and tell myself, "Oh, great.  Two hours and fifteen minutes until the alarm goes off," or whatever happens to be left of the night.  Another positive is that I do enjoy numbers, and sometimes I awaken at a clever number.  "Hey, it's 1-2-3-4!" (at 12:34 a.m.), or maybe it's 11:11 or 1:11, 2:22. 3:33. 4:44, or perhaps 1:23 or 2:34, or 4:56. 

My alarm is set for 5:05 so my digital clock says SOS.  My mind works that way.

I dislike awakening at 3:00 a.m.  One faction holds that 3 a.m. is the Witches' Hour, the Dark Heart and Dark Soul of the night.  Some call it the Time of Heart and Soul and only see positive.  I dislike 3 a.m. because it's too late to be considered night, too early to be considered morning.  Once Spring really sets in, 3 a.m. is the hour when the birds and their chicks start warbling like a miniature marching band. 

Sometimes I push myself to stay up late enough so that I doze off at the table, in a chair, on the couch, at the computer, solving a puzzle -- even if I catnap for only a moment.  I tell myself that I am really tired, staggeringly tired, and yet when I finally get into bed, I fall into REM sleep only to awaken ten minutes later, an hour later, two hours later.

I do not have trouble falling asleep; I have trouble staying asleep.

There is one final positive about this whole debacle.  When I talk to other people, mostly women about my age, it becomes obvious that many of us are unwilling night owls who function normally by day and malfunction horribly by night, crashing badly when there is finally a day without alarm clocks.  We should have some secret cyber spot where we can chat: Hey, I'm awake.  What are you doing?  Anything good on television other than infomercials?  Hello?

Well, I'd love to write more, but I am thinking I might take a nap, maybe even go to bed.  Don't worry, though.  I'm sure it will be a short-lived adventure.