SPRING, DON'T TAKE OFF NOW

How do I know it's really Spring?

The armored bee is back.  I am typing at my computer, which is on the second floor, and I spot movement at the screen in the window.  It's the bee that bothers me every year, the bee that has a hard shell on its outside, the bee that cannot be killed by sprays or beatings, so a few years ago, we agreed to just get along and share my patio. The bee appears every Spring and disappears as soon as the leaves are completely unfurled. 

Until the leaves are completely unfurled, green stringy things drop from the branches above the patio and plop onto the cement.  My patio goes from clear to coated (with green decorations) in about eight minutes flat.  I attempt to sit outside and enjoy a few minutes of peace and quiet this afternoon (late enough in the day that Bee has given up until tomorrow), but I am innundated with green sprigs dive-bombing me.  Totally ruins the moment, so in I go.

Mostly, though, the pollen is killing me.  Even when I'm inside the house, I throw a few monstrous, unpredictable, pollen-fueled sneeze attacks.  My nose runs, my throat is scratchy, and my eyes water so badly that my make-up runs in lines down my cheeks if I don't have a tissue immediately on hand.

Ah, Spring; I love you, but you do not love me back.  So unfair.  However, I'm damn glad you're here, so don't even consider taking off on me now.

TIRED (OF) TESTING

Why is it that I seem to be more tired than the students after state testing? I swear it's true: Teachers are exhausted after the state testing finishes. 

Sure, the kiddos do all the hard work, some to the point of putting their heads down on their desks and dozing off when it's all done.  True, all I have to do is pick up the materials, keep them locked and/or in my direct sight at all times, pass everything out, read the novel-length directions out loud, distribute all the pencils and accommodating materials, walk around constantly, remind students to bubble in the same number answer as question, monitor them from accidentally marking highlighter in the answer booklets, watch the clock, communicate with administration with updates on our progress, collect all materials, secure all materials, count all materials (including the pencils), return all the materials to the holding closet and count all materials again, and make the long walk to and from the test materials safe location twice a day.

How could I possibly feel like I've been through a marathon after two days of this?  I'll think about it while I'm sleeping at 7:00 p.m.  Do you think the neighbors would mind if I just fall asleep out on the patio still dressed in my teacher clothes?  I'm not even certain I have the strength to unlock my front door.  But, seriously, I don't do any heavy lifting during state testing, right?  Isn't that the word on the street? 

BE GOOD TO ME, FRIDAY

It's Friday.  Damn good thing, too.

Lately I've had a lot less patience and tolerance for ignorance around me.  Okay, true, when have I ever tolerated that shit?  But now, instead of the momentarily delayed reaction of exasperated disbelief followed by indifferent flippancy, I go directly to RAGE: zero to sixty in a millisecond, sometimes so damn furious so damn quickly that it takes my blood pressure and foul mouth a fraction of a second to sync with each other, spewing forth the most gloriously indignant swear words anyone with an ear has ever heard, all fueled by my rapidly escalating BP.

Other drivers on the road receive my rage; unnecessary changes to my schedule feed my rage; technicians and work crews who do not show up or, worse, lie to their supervisors to avoid doing a job feel the burn of my rage.

Thank goodness it's finally Friday.  I'm afraid if I don't cool down this attitude with a frosty mug of something cold and refreshing, I might flap my mouth just a little too tartly at someone who may or may not deserve it, but will certainly be left with marks from the verbal beating I'll hand down, anyway, just because. 

Be good to me, Friday; I truly need it.

GLASSES DRAMA, PART 2

An update to yesterday's glasses drama.

First, a recap:  While visiting North Carolina a few months ago, I catch myself wearing my reading glasses instead of my distance glasses while driving a rental car.  This isn't a big deal because I actually pass my eye test for driving every year, but I am in unfamiliar territory, so I drive the rental car to a Wal-Mart over the state line in South Carolina, spend $7 on+ +1.50 glasses, and call it a victory.

These glasses quickly become my go-to pair for distance, as they fit perfectly and are large enough to accord me exceptional peripheral night vision.  I wear them to work almost daily, and I rapidly become attached to them, coveting them as if I'd never owned another pair . . . though I have about a dozen +1.50s.

I rarely misplace glasses because they're usually on my head, but, for some strange reason, I lose my distance glasses three times in one day while switching them between my readers and my drivers.  It takes a team of students to locate my glasses, and all is right with the world until I lose them again on the way home, which is stupid because I should be wearing them to drive home, right?

Fast forward to this morning.  Maybe I dropped my glasses in the staff parking lot.  I don't remember driving over them (I'd have heard the crunch).  Perhaps they're next to my usual parking spot.  I arrive early, search around on the ground, see nothing that remotely resembles glasses, then head into the school.  Perhaps I'll have better luck inside.

I hope to find  my glasses on my desk.  Even though I am reasonably certain that I put them into my coat pocket the day before so they wouldn't get covered in rain as I ran to my car, I am hopeful that I am a total nutcase and simply left them at work.  I open the door, turn on the lights, and glance to the left.

Nope.  No glasses.  

I really need to get over this.  These glasses cost me $7 at Wal-Mart, and I bought them as a temporary solution for the glasses I forgot at the North Carolina hotel when driving to a dinner date.   These glasses weren't even supposed to make it to the plane back to Logan.  I can go to a local Wal-Mart and look for an identical pair if I care that much.

Late in the school day, I hear the assistant principal in the hallway.  We are about to go into state testing mode, so I am surprised that he is out of the test-prep cave.  He is probably heading to the superintendent's office, which is three doors down from my room.  Suddenly, he pops into my room.

"Are these yours?" he asks, holding up my lost glasses.  "One of the math teachers found them in the parking lot yesterday."

I am smiling now.  This is such a good thing.  Sure, they're cheapo, replaceable glasses, but I missed them so much in the twenty-two hours in which they were missing.   "Yes!  Oh, my goodness, how did you know they were mine?"

He laughs a little bit, hands the glasses to me, and starts to walk away.  "Word is you keep losing glasses, so we all figured they MUST be yours."

Ah, well.  It's good to be famous for something, I suppose.  Even better, though, it's good to have my glasses back.

EASY COME, EASY GO

About six months ago, I was driving around in North Carolina while wearing the wrong glasses.  I had on my reading glasses, not my driving glasses.  Yup, I would rather wear two different pairs of $4 glasses than invest $500 in one pair of dual-purpose glasses.  Rather than risk an accident after dark driving in a new place, I jumped the border to South Carolina, hit Wal-Mart, and bought myself some $7 glasses.

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I love these glasses.  They're a good color (teal) and fit my face perfectly.  They're not too tight nor too loose around my head, and they're large enough to keep my peripheral driving vision fully functional.  I wear these glasses to work every day.

Or, rather, I hope to wear them to work every day.

Today, for the first time since buying the glasses, I lose them.  One second they are on my head; the next, they are not.  I look all over my classroom and cannot find them, knowing full-well I had them on my head less than five minutes prior.  I even enlist the math teacher who shares my room and the students she teaches.  Finally, while re-tracing my steps to my mailbox, the students find my glasses back in my room.

Score!

Then things get weird.  I lose the glasses again before I leave school.  I find them again, and I am quite certain that they are on my head as I rush outside to head home.  It's pouring rain, so I am pretty sure I tuck them into my coat pocket, the pocket on my left; the pocket on my right holds my cell phone.  I swear that this happens: I put them on my head in the car and wipe the rain off them so I can read an incoming text.

However, when I arrive home (without ever getting out of my car), the glasses are gone.  I check the car twice, looking under seats, along the sides of things, but still, no glasses.  Did they fall out of my pocket in the parking lot at school?  Did I hallucinate that I brought them home in the first place?  I go through my backpack not once, not twice, but four times.  FOUR.  I am so sure that I had them in the car that now I am questioning my sanity.

Oh, well.  The glasses are probably in the parking lot somewhere, and I probably ran them over on my way out of the parking spot.  If I'm super-lucky, I forgot them on my desk at school and will find them there in the morning, but I am not holding out much hope.

DESK-TOP HALLELUJAH!

First day back from break, and I am not looking forward to seeing my desk at work.  My desk is usually a mess -- an organized mess, but a mess, just the same.  Piles of papers to correct; piles of papers to return; piles of papers to file; binders to organize; folders of copying to be done; absentee work to hand out ... and on and on.

When I left work ten days ago, I felt like crap warmed over.  I was just starting round two of a cold, a new and improved cold that knocked me for a huge loop for my entire break.  I didn't stay late that Friday, and I brought home a bunch of work to do.  I am still finishing up a unit on the Titanic, and I have a bunch of side lessons to work into my repertoire. 

I amble to my room Monday morning, fully expecting to be greeted by an incredible towering mess of paper chaos.  I almost don't want to open the door, but I know that I must.  I have to face it, get it over with, sit down, and sort through it all. The key goes in the door lock, and I slip into the dark room.  Taking a deep breath, I hit the fluorescent lights and gaze at the desk.

What ... the ... HALLELUJAH!

Slowly, very slowly, I remember what I did the Friday before break, the morning I woke up feeling like dung warmed over.  It was a half day, and the students were creating their mini-me game characters for the simulated sinking of the Titanic, which is happening this week post-break.  I remember sitting at my desk, not feeling like talking much because my throat hurt. 

Oh, yeah!  I passed back a bunch of papers and did a slew of filing and recycled a bunch of stuff from my file boxes, file cabinets and from my ... DESK!

That's right!  I cleaned off my desk so I could come back to an organized room!

It may be my first day back after ten days off, but this is rapidly turning into the Best Day Ever!  Thank you, clean desk, thank you, thank you, thank you!  And thank you, selective memory, for allowing me this wonderful moment, this unexpected gift.  Sometimes having a sieve brain is a wonderful thing.  Either that or it's old age, but I'm going for sieve brain.  That's my story, and I'm sticking to it, right here at my ultra-organized desk.

FINISHING THE 5K

Last day of April break, and I'm packing as much fun as I can into today.  Before going to Maine to do some landscaping and stump removal (I actually consider this fun) around my niece's (and her fiance's) house, I am doing a 5k.

By "doing" a 5k, I mean "mostly walking."  Today I jog about a third of it, maybe a bit more.  I wish I could run it, but I'm a sprinter, not a miler.  I simply cannot train myself to keep the pace, but I'm a reasonably fast walker, so it all evens out.  I am doing this 5k solo today, so I have no one to pace but myself, anyway.

This 5k is called Run for the Troops, and it raises money to benefit different organizations that directly serve veterans.  The organizers purposefully designed the course to have the biggest and most critical hill near the end, after mile marker 2, and it is dubbed the town's own version of the Boston Marathon's Heartbreak Hill.

I am doing pretty well keeping pace.  I have my own water with me, and I'm alternating between walking quickly and jogging (until our local Heartbreak Hill - then I walk).  My only issues are that I haven't been training for this, and I am just coming off a week of being sick with a cold (and possibly a touch of the flu).  My stomach isn't happy with me, but I treat it to a muffin top and a banana when I finish the race.

As soon as I cross the finish line (jogging), an ambulance pulls up.  Not for me.  This in itself is a victory.  Turns out I am in the top 75 of people my age running, and I am just over the 1,000th female finisher.  I have no problem with that.  I mean, I paid the money and got the shirt, so, technically, I already made my contribution.  Any place I finish is fine with me because ... I FINISH THE RUN.

I have another 5k fundraiser coming up in two weeks, so maybe I'd better train a little bit more seriously, especially since I am sponsoring a team.  In the meantime, 5k behind me, time to go pull some stumps out of the ground in Maine (I love the challenge).  Then it's home to shower, iron some clothes, and watch a little television before heading back to the grind at work.

PASS ON THE PASTA SPOON

My daughter and I are going to Paint Night.  This usually involves alcohol, though I am feeling less than spectacular, so I will probably hold my drinking to a minimum.  However, food should definitely be consumed before the event.

We decide to eat at a restaurant near her apartment since she is gimping along on a booted fractured foot.  The Italian restaurant we are going to is a chain restaurant, mainly a pizza place but serving all kinds of fabulous dishes.  We decide to split an order of spaghetti and meatballs.

Beer arrives, as do rolls and dipping oil, so we are chattering away and munching away when the plates of food arrive.  Each of us gets a huge plate of pasta and two giant meatballs.  Thank goodness we didn't order separate meals because I am not going to be able to eat completely the half portion now sitting in front of me.  I pick up my fork to dig in when I notice something strange.

"They gave me a giant spoon," I announce.

"Yup," my daughter answers.

"Why would I need a spoon?  It's spaghetti."

My daughter is Sicilian by birth; I am Sicilian by osmosis.  She looks at me funny and announces, as if I should know this, "You twirl your spaghetti on the spoon."

Say, what?  I start thinking back to all the times I ate dinner with my late husband's family.  I recall the giant anniversary party for his grandparents - a dining hall at an Italian restaurant that was filled to the brim with Italians and Sicilians (yes, there is a difference).  Nope, I cannot recall ever seeing anyone twirl their spaghetti with anything but a fork and the plate.

I start thinking about my own upbringing.  My parents, both tracing their lineages to the United Kingdom and Ireland, were sticklers for table manners, some to which I still adhere: where to place the silverware, no elbows on the table (break this one all the time), and don't drag your bread through your gravy (right - like that one should even be a rule).  Spaghetti?  We were told that if we didn't have the coordination and good sense to twirl it properly onto the fork using the plate surface, we should cut it up like a baby and eat it in small forks-full like a baby.  In other words, we learned to twirl.

I argue with my daughter at the table.  "No one uses a spoon to twirl their spaghetti."

"Mom, EVERYONE uses a spoon to twirl their spaghetti.  That's how it's done."

Suddenly, I feel like a failure as a parent.  How could I have gone so wrong?  Have I truly raised children who need a spoon to eat spaghetti?  I thought I broke them of that when they were two years old.  All my years of believing I had raised my children to be meaningful participants in society swirl down the proverbial drain: My children believe spoons are for pasta.  I almost start crying.

Later, my daughter posts on social media that I apparently don't get out enough because I had never seen a spoon served with spaghetti.  This opens up a huge debate.  There are Purists (no spoon fanatics), there are Spooners (spoons are for pasta twirling), and there are IDGAFF (people who either cut up their pasta or who do not eat pasta or who just don't give a flying ----).

The debate rages for a while, with several people deriding me because I cannot fathom why anyone in good conscience and with an ounce of sense knocked into them would ever bring spaghetti to the table with a giant goddamned spoon stuck into the middle of it.  It's sacrilege and it's gauche.

Finally, I've had enough.  I turn to the experts: Google.  I find several articles on this very topic.  Who knew?  I figured it was a horrid restaurant faux pas.  Finally, I find an article that interviews Italian restaurant owners in New York City.

Guess what, folks?

They ALL agree.  The spoon is a huge no-no.  HUGE.  NO-NO.  HUUUUUUUGE NOOOO-NOOOO!

I may not be Italian or even Sicilian, but I do know this:  If you cannot twirl your pasta onto your fork without assistance, order the damn elbow macaroni and pretend you know what you're doing.  I'll even spring for your spoon.

NEAR-DISASTROUS APRIL BREAK

Last month I had a cold.  Sounds pretty normal for a teacher, but I had to kill it because I was going to see my granddaughter in North Carolina, and there was no way I would miss seeing her.  I went old school: Vick's Vaporub, cough syrup, acetaminophen, steam, and lots of tea with honey.  Except for a major coughing fit at Logan while waiting for my flight down (it brought tears to my eyes), I cured myself pretty quickly.

Then, weeks later . . . April Break.

The last day of school before break is a half-day, Good Friday, and I wake up in the middle of the night feeling like a plow has hit me.  I don't have a fever (yay!  NOT the flu), but my throat is on fire.  Great.  Pissah.  Here I go again.  I have plans for my break, and now -- another flippin' cold.

That's it.  I am going to Lysol the crap out of my classroom from now on.  But, for the time being, it's too late.

I have major plans this week.  My sister and I are going to Strubridge Village.  I have an appointment for my car.  I am having lunch with a friend.  I am going to a paint night.  I am having dinner with my daughter (who also needs an emergency hospital visit for a broken foot).  I am walking/jogging a 5k.

In other words, I have stuff to do, and being sick doesn't fit on that list anywhere.

So, folks, I am stocking up yet again on Vick's Vaporub, buying more cough syrup, restocking Tylenol, and investing in sinus medication.  I'm back in my comfy clothes (sweats and fuzzy socks) by 4:00 p.m. Friday afternoon.  There will be no wine tastings for me this weekend -- I'm going to baby myself (except for the 5k) for the rest of the weekend before going back to work.  And, hey, I may even try to sleep in a prone position since I have been sleeping sitting up for several nights now.

Oh, I should also empty my bedroom trash can.  It's loaded with snot-filled tissues from days of absolute physical and immune-system meltdown.  It's the perfect ending to a near-disastrous April break.

SOCK(S) IT TO ME

I'm getting a little tired of not being able to find matching socks in the morning.  I've been cycling through pretty much the same four pairs of socks for months now because I can't seem to locate other socks that actually match two at a time.

Today, though -- Today is the day!  Today I'm going to match up my socks and rearrange my sock drawer!

Oh, sure, this may not sound exciting to you, but to me this is massively exciting.  Just think.  I'm going to be able to find a couple more pairs of socks to throw into the cycle.  I know that I have socks because the drawer is exploding with them.  They just need mates and some organization.

The whole process takes less time than I anticipate because once I dig deep enough, most of the socks in the drawer are already matched to their mates.  Still, though, I need to find an efficient way to tell the difference between the black socks and the navy socks when I'm still a bit bleary-eyed in the morning.

Suddenly . . . brilliance!

I decide that the most logical re-packing of the drawer means black socks go on the left, blue socks go on the right, and both shall be separated by the brown and other color socks that I own.  This isn't quite as OCD as I would like; black and blue are alphabetical, but brown in the middle throws off the alphabet.

In the end, it all works out: The sock drawer fits back into the night stand, the colors are organized, and I only have two socks without mates.  Oh, and I pick out a pair of black socks to wear, socks with a pattern knitted in (Who knew such foolery?), socks I haven't worn in months, socks I had forgotten I own.

Maybe tomorrow I'll take on the entire dresser.  Who knows?  I could have a brand new outfit for work on Monday without ever having to leave my bedroom.

TOUGH BREAK

My phone rings at 8:00 p.m.  It's my daughter.

"Mom?  Ummmm . . . so, I was at a friend's house, and . . . my foot fell asleep, but not the tingly kind of asleep, the 'oh, my foot is completely dead numb' kind of asleep.  And, so, I kind of got up and tried to walk on it, but it only flopped about halfway, and . . .  I kinda stepped on with all my weight . . . and I heard something snap a little bit."

Silence on my end.  I have been sick and also numbingly tired.  I am having some processing issues here.  "Where are you?" I ask.

"In the car.  Driving home."

This comment takes zero processing time.  "Please tell me it's your left foot."

"Duh."

We do some quick back and forth.  The walk-ins are closed.  She doesn't want to go to the ER, so we decide to go together to the walk-in in the morning.  "Do you have crutches?" I ask, knowing full-well that she does.  We all do.  Each son has a pair, she has a pair, and I have two pairs.  Don't judge us; we are mobility-challenged as a family.  I live about a half mile from her.  "Come by on your way home," I tell her, "and I'll wrap your foot in an ace bandage."

She shows up about twenty minutes later.  I prop her foot on a couch pillow on the kitchen table to wrap her up for the night.  Hmmmm.  Looks broken to me.  Not a bad one, but I've seen this before on my own foot.  "Fifth metatarsal," I announce.

After some back and forth, we decide to go to the ER.  She'll be more comfortable if a professional wraps this until a cast can be put on.  If she's lucky, she'll get a boot.  After all, she's an RN and on her feet pretty much 24/7.  My daughter gimps out to the car while I run around trying to get myself ready.  My cell phone is almost dead, but I bring it along, anyway.  I put on shoes.  I am halfway out the door when I realize that I am not wearing a bra.  Back in the house I go to get a bra on.  No need to scare anyone at the ER.

As we approach the exit on the highway, we notice night construction has the hospital off-ramp shut down.  Good thing we know the back way and that this is not a dire emergency, otherwise I might be tempted to direct us over the median and right through the line of trucks and workers pretending to get something done.  We circle around through the quiet neighborhood of the town that opens up to the city where the hospital is located.

We arrive around 9:00 p.m. on a weeknight.  Surprisingly, the ER is relatively quiet.  There's a young man with what appears to be a back injury (perhaps the girl he has with him whacked him with a heavy object when he oogled another teenager).  There are also a few people in their pajamas because what would an inner-city ER be without adults in their frigging cartoon character pajamas, right?  We see no trace of the enormously pregnant woman who managed to waddle in front of us as my daughter gimp-waddled across the parking garage to the ER entrance a few minutes prior.

In case you didn't know, the ER here is a funny place.  The other night it was on lock-down due to a shooting.  Tonight local and state cops are wandering around, but nothing really seems amiss.  At one point some businessmen arrive, announcing that they are state politicians searching for another state politician who is in the ER.

Then, the circus starts.

First, a man wanders in and announces that he has had the flu for days (oh, please do NOT sit near me) and now his "stomach is on FIRE!"  Dude, you're SICK.  That's what stomachs DO.  Then, a woman wrapped up in a quilt arrives with her boyfriend and says, "I had my appendix out here three days ago, and I can't stop vomiting and haven't been able to poop since then."  Even I know this isn't good.  She, like the vanishing pregnant lady, will probably disappear into the bowels of ER rapid admittance.

The capper, though, is the woman who arrives at 9:30 p.m. with two very active two-year-olds in their pajamas and lightweight coats.  The issue?  "They haven't eaten or slept in days and their tongues are white and bumpy."

My daughter and I glance at each other and say, "Thrush," at the same time.  Also, we do not believe that two active toddlers who are playing, running around, and laughing, have not slept for days.  Best of all, these children who "haven't eaten . . . in days" are each stuffing their faces -- one with a bowl full of food, the other with large cut up quesadilla slices.  Lady, your issue is NOT a fucking emergency.  Get the hell out of here.

Finally, my daughter is called in.  The doctor and nurses have a grand old time with us because we are in a joking mood.  I mean, seriously.  How many people break a foot because it fell asleep?  The doctor lets me look at the x-ray and proves that my layman's call of broken fifth metatarsal is spot on, except that there's a small break where it connects to another bone higher in the foot arch.  I find this all fascinating.  My daughter is bored of us taking entertainment time while she is waiting to have her Queen-For-The-Day-Break assessed and bandaged.

The doctor starts making a joke about my daughter's job (she is an elder care nurse), something about how she'd better take good care of him when he ends up in The Home.  This is when my kid announces that actually in a couple of weeks, she will be working right here in the hospital.

At this point, the doctor stops, looks up from the chart and deadpans.  "Good thing I was nice to you."

All in all, it's not a bad night.  I am back at my house around 10:45 p.m., less than two hours at the ER from start to finish.  It's probably a record.  No matter if it is a record or not, it's an adventure, always an adventure wherever we go.  Amazingly enough, even broken bones are funny in this family.  Go figure.

APRIL VACATION - I WISH

It's April break at school right now.  Everyone seems to think teachers are on vacation.  This isn't vacation.

First of all, it's not vacation because I brought tons of work home with me and have been sitting at my kitchen table most of the day going through a foot-tall stack of folders and papers.  In other words, I'm working here.  I am not even close to being done.

Secondly, I am still fielding emails and administrative communication pertaining to school.  How is this a vacation if I am still attached to the job by the cordless quasi-umbilical?  Yeah, that's what I thought: Not on vacation.

Thirdly, I'm not on vacation because I'm not getting paid.  That's right; you read that correctly.  Teachers do NOT get paid for these week-long breaks.  We only get paid for the days that we are required to be at school (barring sick days).  In other words, I get paid to teach and/or to be in school for 184 days a year.  I only get paid for those days.  Please don't call my unpaid time off "vacation."  It's not vacation; it's unpaid leave.

Lastly, I am not on vacation because I am sick.  SICK.  That's right.  Last Friday was a half day and I woke up feeling like someone stuffed my head into a locker and slammed it a gazillion times.  My throat felt like sandpaper on fire with gunpowder and hot pepper thrown in for fun.  Now, five days later, I feel like I have been hit by Wile E. Coyote's anvil and stepped on by the entire Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade.  Thanks, April break, for making me sick near death over the few days I might've enjoyed.  You suck.

So, folks, I will continue to muddle through my April break then head back to school after being sick, sick, sick and after having spent my unpaid time off doing curriculum work that people complain I don't do anyway because I'm a teacher, and all I do is take vacations. 

April vacation?  I wish.

BOOKING FROM THE PRINTER'S OFFICE

My sister and I are at Sturbridge Village, a re-created 1830's working town that is populated with real-life actors who role-play populate the town during its working hours.  We are traveling from building to building, taking in the history on a gloriously uncrowded day of picture-perfect weather.

There are several demonstrations going on throughout the day.  We watch the potter throwing clay on the wheel, making clay pitchers and ink wells.  We watch the blacksmiths at work with the fire and anvil and hammer.  We see the tin smith crafting such things as candle molds and reflective sconces.

There are two things I want to see:  the printer's office and the school.  We find the school first.  It may seem ironic and somewhat counter-intuitive to have time off from school to seek out a schoolroom, but it's kind of interesting to see all of the wooden benches and to stand at the teacher's dais. This classroom, moved from another location to this living museum, would've housed students from grade one to eight.  Piece of cake.  Plus, it's so quiet at Sturbridge, my sister and I are the only ones inside the school for the entire ten or so minutes we are there exploring.

The other place I want to see is the printer's shop, where a printing demo is going on.  We walk into the building, explore the front room, then move on to the back room where the printer is working.  There are a few others in the room, as well.

Suddenly, I smell something horrid.  It's not the ink nor the machinery that smells.  It stinks like someone pooped his or her pants.  This is something that happens when there are children around, except that there are not any children around.  Only adults.  So, one of the adults pooped his or her pants.  Or cut a fart.  A really bad, baaaaaad fart.  My sister and I exit quickly, booking it (so to speak), but not before I announce a little too loudly, "Someone shit their pants!"

Oh, well.  At least I got to spend some time in the school.  That, and the fact that my sister and I are keeling over laughing.  This is important, too, maybe the most important thing, capping off a perfect day.

SORRY, APRIL - THIS IS HOW IT'S DONE

For all the people who have been addicted to and obsessed with April, the incessantly pregnant giraffe: Suck it, kids; you've wasted your time.

Oh, sure, the birth, which finally happened this past weekend, was weirdly fascinating as April pranced around with two hooves sticking out of her rear-end.  It was a little creepy as zookeepers with cell phones jockeyed for the best video angle of April's bulging and swollen lady-bottom. 

Easter morning finds me at Sturbridge Village with my sister.  Every time we drive out this way, we always say we're going to stop and visit this recreation 1830's farm mini-town.  This time, that's exactly what we do. 

Many people just walk through the living museum of the village and never interact with the period-players.  My sister, though, asks a lot of questions.  This is how we learn that the oxen teams are not all village-centered, as some of the teams are from real, modern-day nearby local farms.  It's how we discover secrets of the potter, the blacksmith, the tin smith.

It's how we discover that a calf has been born this morning and we get to see it.

How about that, April?  This big beefy mama just did her business without any hoopla whatsoever.  She didn't need a live Internet feed 24/7, nor did she need zoologist-vets who apparently cannot discover the gestation periods of their own zoo animals. 

Sorry, April, but in the realm of natural progression, YOU LOSE. My sister and I get to see the baby, along with the little lambs that have also recently arrived.

Don't get me wrong; spending hours and days waiting and spending weeks watching the live-feed camera can be fascinating.  But, April the giraffe sucks when it comes to perfect timing.  What are the odds I actually stop this once at Sturbridge Village after all of my travels through there over the past few years between family business and countless college lacrosse games? 

Thank you, Sturbridge Village, for being open on Easter Sunday, and thank you, livestock, for not wasting a lot of time with your birthing show.  Welcome, little calf.  See, April?  THIS is how it's done.

HAPPY EASTER

Happy Easter!

Not going to color eggs today.  If all goes as planned, I'm on an impromptu road trip with one of my siblings.

It has been a stressful year -- running the gamut from personal to professional to political, including surgery and other health scares.  We have earned this, so nothing had better f**k with our plans. 

However, we are still siblings.  We may not be wearing our Easter finest today, but (with luck) we are having one of our finest Easters today.

Sometimes that's all that matters.

PATIO MUSINGS

The patio is moving a little closer to being set up completely.  Today the grill gets cleaned and moved into place.  After scrubbing and wiping and scraping, I decide to dirty the grill up and start cooking dinner on the barbecue.

It is a perfect evening.  The blue sky is fading away, and hamburgers are on the grill. Oh, and I began April break at noontime.

The patio is not quite finished -- chairs to be put out, perhaps a plant or two.  Like summer, though, everything inches along until all of a sudden everything is in its place. I'm not hurrying summer.  Spring is, after all, a wonderful time of year. 

Okay, I lied.  Maybe I am hurrying summer just a bit, but after a spectacular day like today and a few more on tap this week, it's hard not to. 

Enjoy the weekend, all, and to my local teacher pals, enjoy the next nine days.

TITANIC -- GAME ON

It's the most wonderful time of the year!  Well, almost the most wonderful time because THAT happens in about nine weeks when school ends for a the summer.  But, it's the second most wonderful time of the year:  TITANIC TIME.  Game on, folks.


Today is the anniversary of the Titanic striking an iceberg in the frigid North Atlantic Ocean.  My students and I have been hashing out the subtle nuance of fact vs. opinion in a nonfiction article, and today the group quiz happens in class.  April break starts Friday, and I will not have time to complete the unit beforehand, so here's what will happen now that my bulletin board is updated.

1.  We will be making small card-stock images of ourselves, characterizations that will meet their fates aboard the Titanic when break ends.

2.  April break will serve as our unwitting cruise time.  This is the semi-recreation of April 10 through 11:39 p.m. April 14, 1912.  Everybody is going on holiday, and it's a party atmosphere, right?

3.  Postcards -- Sure, the kiddos all know how this ends, but they don't know how it ends for them individually.  We will be writing out and decorating facsimiles of an original Titanic postcard, and we all pretend we are having a marvelous time.

4. Videos will be shown with simulations of the sinking, and we will watch two eerie short films: Captain Smith's final inspection ten minutes prior to setting sail; an interview with the elderly Eva Hart, who, at seven years old, survived the sinking of the Titanic and recalls the event with startling detail and accuracy.

5.  Fickle Finger of Fate Time -- The students' mini-versions will play a game that ends with each and every one meeting his or her fate.  Some will be saved, that's true; most will not.

Yup, a wonderful time will be had by all . . . or some . . . or a small few.  Either way, the Titanic bulletin board is up.  GAME ON.

PLAYOFF HOCKEY

Bruins are up one game to none after one play-off game. This is good news.

I've watched Bruins hockey since the early Bobby Orr era.  I watched them win two Stanley cups  - 1970 and 1972 - before their more recent success.  I've watched players crash and burn, like Bobby Orr's knee and Derek Sanderson's bridge living and Norman Leveille's brain bleed.

I'd like to see them win a round or two or three. 

Better yet, the Canadiens fall to the Rangers 0-2.   I'm not sure I can tolerate so much excitement for one night, but, if I know me (and I do), I'll certainly try.

Good start to 2017 playoff hockey.

MIGHT AS WELL BE ME

I know, I know.  It's near the beginning of the week.  I should be ashamed of myself.

But, really.  It's 85 degrees outside at 6 p.m. in April.  I have to do it.  Someone has to do it.  Somebody has to sit on the patio with a juicy burger and an ice cold beer.  Might as well be me.

I want to barbecue, but I've been having a rough couple of weeks, and today my body finally gives out.  I'm tired.  I am incredibly, heavily tired.  So, I order a burger from the place up the street.  The burger is perfect: medium rare, smothered in cheese with a giant mega-ring of red onion slapped on top. 

The beer is nearly perfect: a little light but icy cold and ridiculously refreshing.  I'm not sure if it tastes good because it's so hot out or because I'm so exhausted.  Perhaps both.

Sure, it may be only Tuesday evening, but that's okay.  It's after 5 p.m. somewhere, right?  And, like I said, someone has to step up to the plate; might as well be me.

IMPROMPTU MONDAY PARTY

Impromptu party!

My sister is coming down from Maine for a quick overnight.  We have some family business to attend to, and she is going to hang out with me tonight so she can make it to an appointment near my house in Massachusetts first thing in the morning.

This means I will be staying up late, of course, because of cards.  Yup.  Cribbage and Rummy.  Maybe we will have time to throw in a quick game of Barbie, Queen of the Prom.  Or Yahtzee.  Perhaps Quiddler. 

Definitely Cribbage, though.  The more I practice, the better I'll get.  Of course, I'll never be good enough to take on my sister-in-law in New York, who is a Cribbage savant.  I have never seen anyone get nor play the cards as well as she does.  But, for now, every once in a while, I can beat my sister at Cribbage, so I know I'm doing something right; she always beat the tar out of me at Cribbage when we were kids.

Either way, I know we will have time for at least one game tonight after we are done doing what needs to be done before her meeting tomorrow. 

So . . . Impromptu party, people!  Nothing is crazier than a semi-wild Monday night of cards and reliving our childhood rivalry.

IT'S NOT REALLY A PREGNANT GIRAFFE

It's not really a pregnant giraffe.
I'm telling you, it's a male giraffe with feeding issues.
He's gender confused.
He thinks his name is April.
There's no baby.
No baby.
Get over it, people.
Stop watching the live feed.
Just stop.
How do you even know it's live feed?
Maybe it's looped like in the movie Speed.
That's it!
They looped Gino-Gina the Gender-Confused Giraffe;
Everyone thinks they're watching it live.
They're not.
Really.
How bad are the zoologists that they cannot figure out the gestation period of a giraffe?
Hasn't this giraffe supposedly done this before a few times?
Please stop clogging my news feed.
No matter how many things I block, it keeps coming back:
There's the News 8 feed, the Toys R Us feed, the zoo feed.
The giraffe vulva feed.
Enough already.
I think there's a limit on how many sites I can block.
Maybe there's a quota on anti-giraffers.
Stop.
Just stop.
That giraffe is never having a baby because it's not really a giraffe at all.
It's an android.
Andrew the Android Giraffe . . . who is not pregnant.
Seriously, people.
Go live your lives.
Trust me.
If April is a real giraffe that is truly pregnant,  you'll see it on the Internet.
You can watch it over and over and over and over and over again.
You can watch it with as much catatonic fervor as you do now.
You can save it to your phone and show all your friends
(If you have any left post-giraffe-baby-watch).
There's no baby.
She's hefty.
He's really a male giraffe.
She's delusional.
All I ask of my addicted friends:
Please, for love of my sanity, let me know when it's finally over.

SPRING HAS SPRUNG (LIKE ROAD RAGE)

The first real sign of spring has sprung.


Nope, not longer days of sunlight.
Nope, not trees starting to bud.
Nope, not the birds chirping at annoyingly early hours.
Nope, not plants sprouting out of the ground.
Nope, not relentless rain causing floods.
Nope, not kids playing sports outside on fields.
Nope, not the mulch delivery at the soon-to-open farm stand.
Nope, not the sudden appearance of tulips in the stores.
Nope, not swimsuits taking over clothing departments.
Nope, not the sound of children running around outside.

The first real sign of spring is people driving like assholes,
merging onto highways without looking,
then trying to run my car off the road --
like it's MY fault I am driving along in the lane THEY want.

Yup, there it is, folks.
Today I am almost hit not once, not twice, not three times.
Today four different vehicles play chicken with me,
two of them at speeds exceeding 70 mph,
acting like it's my fault they want the lane my car and I occupy.

Ah, yes.
When my middle finger can actually
make it out of the OPEN WINDOW
faster than my voice can yell,
"FUCK YOU, DICKWEED!" --

I know for certain that spring has sprung.

YOU'RE WELCOME

Ever since I put the patio furniture out, it has been raining.

I just want to take this opportunity to apologize to everyone here in the Northeast.  It's my fault.  I'm sorry.

However, it could be worse.  Just in case. I am keeping the snowshoes in my car, in the back seat to be exact.  I also have an old shovel back there, you know, just in case.

So, for this, you're welcome.

You see, if I hadn't put out the furniture, it wouldn't be raining; if I didn't have snowshoes and a shovel in my car, the rain would be snow.

SCIENCE!!!!

Again . . . you're welcome.

ALIEN WILDEBEEST RIDER

What would a normal teacher do when receiving a plastic alien from a student?

We are studying Ray Bradbury and reading a story from The Martian Chronicles.  Mars is the focus of our study, and we are immersing ourselves in Bradbury's science fiction culture.  We illustrate the story using colors and features that exist in the writer's strange, other-worldly setting. We toss around some of the invented Martian words we lift right from the pages of the text.

So, I am not the least bit surprised to receive a small plastic alien figurine from one of my savvy charges.  I pick the alien up, hold it in my hands for a moment, then wistfully say out loud, "I wonder how Alien would look riding a wildebeest."


This is when I look up from my desk and notice that all eyes are on me.  For once in their lives, the students are silent and paying absolute attention to everything I say.

"You have a wildebeest?" one asks.

I turn around and grab a small brown plastic blob from the shelf under my whiteboard.  For years I have had a toy wildebeest figurine, the kind that might come with a child's bucket of plastic zoo animals.  I've always liked the word "gnu," which is what a wildebeest is, and now that it has a cool name that is much cooler than "gnu," I like the animal even more.

Years ago we owned two lifted SUVs that some people might call monster trucks.  One of those vehicles was nicknamed "The Wildebeest" after something Marlin Perkins might say on Wild Kingdom -- "Me and Hank were eating baloney and pine cone sandwiches and drinking boiled sap from the trees when we spotted a wildebeest being chased by a lioness.."

The plastic wildebeest is a perfect size.  Alien doesn't even need to ride side-saddle.  It's a match made in ... well ... Mars, apparently.  Bradbury would've appreciated the story-starter, I'm sure, because this is definitely what normal teachers do when receiving an alien from a student.

SPRING MIMOSA #1

Blame me.  BLAME ME.

As soon as the recent snow starts (not finishes ... starts) melting, I haul my patio table outside.  First I sweep the entire patio, chucking errant branches out of my way, then I set up my seating area.  After I have the two chairs in place, I sit outside and enjoy a Spring Mimosa.

Of course, the very next day it rains and the temperature drops dangerously close to the snow meter, but I am confident.  After all, I didn't set up the whole patio.  The grill is still tucked away near the recycling bins, and the plastic chairs are still stacked next to the grill.

I'm not completely insane.  I know what happens the minute I get the patio ready for summer: BLIZZARD.  That's what happens.

It looks like it might work.  I hear rumor that the temperature on Tuesday will hit 80 degrees.  When (not if ... when) that happens, Spring Mimosa #2 will be served.

DOUBLE-FINGER-PRESS-PRESS

I didn't know I had so many friends who want to call me all the time.   Apparently, I have friends in all states, friends who want to make sure I win a cruise or donate to some charity or pay some bill I don't even have or change my cable company or date someone I've never met.

It's amazing the friends I have!  And none of them has caller ID.  They are all either random states or blocked callers.  Yes, those are definitely the kinds of friends I would have.

So, imagine, if you will, the great disappointment of tonight's caller from Lansing.  He makes the mistake of ringing me at 8:47 p.m.  My usual modus operandi is to answer the phone with one finger then hang the phone up directly using a second finger.  I never, ever speak. 

Until tonight, that is.

To be fair, 8:47 isn't horribly tardy, but I'm in kind of a pissy mood.  When the phone rings, I start the double-finger-press-press routine, but, for some inexplicable reason, I decide to speak.

I do not say "Hello."

I do not ask the caller to identify himself or herself.

Instead, I speak forcefully into the receiver: "DO YOU HAVE ANY FUCKING IDEA WHAT TIME IT IS?"  And then, I do something I never do.  I hesitate, waiting for a response.

The shocked voice on the other end stammers, "I'm ... oh ... sorry ... I --"

Click.  The double-finger-press-press routine is complete.  Goodnight, telemarketer; goodnight, telephone; goodnight, annoyance.

Note to real friends -- I will speak to you after 9:00 p.m., but you've got to show up on my caller I.D. to make it worth my while to stay up past a toddler's bedtime.  I'm just saying.

SNOW MISSILES

Okay, people, really.  Seriously.  It's only the first week of April.  I'm loving all the complaining about the snow we are having.  I will admit, that shit is heavy as hell.  It starts snowing Friday, turns to rain, then starts snowing again on Saturday.  Shoveling?  I might as well be lifting cement.

So I give up and head out wine tasting and rum sipping, instead. The roads are clear even as the snow piles up on land.

Sunday, though, the temperature soars quickly.  A hopeful trek into the woods for snowshoeing is a bust because the snow that initially clings to the branches is now falling off like hand grenades.  The tufts of puffy white coldness that look so charming in the morning sun are dropping from above and smashing everything underneath like freaking Dresden. 

So much for beauty and majesty of winter.

A giant tree-launched snowball smacks the top of my car so loudly that I suspect there is a huge dent there now.  A ball of snow rolls from the roof of the house and lands on the porch behind me while we are sitting outside.  The ensuing explosion sends water and snow so high into the air from impact that I actually get water sprayed into my face, hair, and right ear.  The roof of the house continues to melt so fast it is like rain pouring down, as if there is a new water feature in the yard.  Luckily, we are inside when the snow starts to let loose in larger batches, and we are somewhat afraid that the entire roof-load will come down and prevent us from leaving the house.  (Except that there are several other exits, but that ruins the dramatic effect.)

No matter.  It's snow, and it's New England, and this is what we do.  For all the complaining, we love it.  We'd be lying to say otherwise.  If you live here and truly hate the snow, you might consider moving for real. 

And it would be a nice thought to believe spring is here in earnest, but please do not be foolish. This is, after all, New England.  A mid-April blizzard is not out of the norm for us. 

For now, I'll enjoy how pretty it all is, wait for it to do a quick melt, and know in my darkest heart that this may not be (and probably won't be) the end of it this season. 

Dang, though, this one really is a beaut -- if only the falling missiles didn't hurt so damn much.

DUCT TAPE ADVENTURES

I hate when I take something to be fixed, and it comes back broken in ways it wasn't even broken before I took the damn thing to be fixed in the first place.

You know -- like cars.

I take my car in to have a check-up, and it dies the next day after it passes with a clean bill of health.  Supposedly it's because I put "bad gas" into the tank, but now my car sounds like an airplane when I drive it.  Bad gas?  Bullfuckingshit.

And I tell the garage please fix the broken windshield wiper dispenser line on the passenger side.  The little connector nozzle at the dispensing end broke off.  Okay, sure, that gets fixed, but now the driver's side is busted, like they yanked the line and snapped off the original one.

I'm too tired and too busy and too disgusted to bring my car back to them yet a third time in so many weeks, so I decide I'll jury rig it myself. 

On my way to the hair salon for a trim, I stop at the grocery store and buy wine and duct tape because in New Hampshire you can buy wine and duct tape in the grocery store and not look like a complete and total alcoholic nutcase.  Well, except that I also buy a get well card for someone, and the cashier comments, "This is an interesting collection of stuff," as if a get well card, wine, and duct tape doesn't make sense as a combo choice.

I drive to the salon parking lot, which is right on busy route 28, and park my car nose in.  I know what I'm doing, but I must look pretty damn stupid doing it, so I'd rather not advertise that I fix my car with duct tape to the entire traffic pattern on route 28 in Salem.  I don't know why I'm self-conscious, like I'm the only one driving in NH with a vehicle held together by duct tape.  Not!

I start to open the package of duct tape and discover that the scored lines on the plastic coating are not really scored at all.  I start fighting with the packaging, even taking my keys and trying to cut the plastic.  This takes about three minutes.  Finally, after getting a few pieces loose, I am able to peel away the plastic wrapper.  Great, I'm good to ...

Wait.  What the ... Motherfuckeryoubitchassholecunt.  There's a SECOND layer of plastic wrap over the duct tape, and it's just as much of a dink as the first layer.  It takes me another three minutes plus my keys plus my teeth plus an endless string of obscenities before I wrangle the second layer of plastic off the tape.  I swear to God, if there's a third layer under here, I'm going to stab something.

Luckily, there is no third layer of wrapping.  I get out of the car, open the hood, push the tubing back into place, duct tape the crap out of it, and get back into my car.  When I push the dispenser, some fluid actually hits the windshield.  It's not perfect, but, as long as the tape holds, it'll do for now.

I'll get back to the garage at some point, but, presently, I'm just damn happy I don't have to go to the gym after the duct tape wrapping work-out.

ON HAVING A BAD DAY - OR NOT

How do I know when I'm having a bad day?

First of all, I am not having a bad day at work.  I get to work early, get everything ready, have most of my grades ready to close, sail through the lessons, get an extra prep because my teammates are either absent or leaving early (so I finish the worst of the grading), and get out on time.

I'm not having a bad day driving because the snow that's falling isn't even sticking to the ground yet, and there is very little traffic on the roads, anyway.

I'm not having a bad day when I stop for alcohol because, even though I would love to find small individual bottles of sparkling wine, I do get a front row parking space to buy beer for the weekend, and I'm in and out of the packie in less than three minutes.

I'm not having a bad day when I get home because the driveway is clear and I back right into my spot.  The mail is already here, too, which is unusual because it usually arrives around 5:30.  The rent is due, so I write out the check, slip-slide down the driveway that is now starting to accumulate a little snow, and deliver the check to my landlord.  This whole process takes less than two minutes.

I'm home, errands are done, and I have multiple leftovers to choose from for dinner.  I opt for the leftover fries, broccoli, and filet mignon.  Time to open one of those beers I just brought home.  Right?

THIS is when I know I'm having a bad day. 

I am so tired from the week that was, the week from Hell (except today), that I do not even have the strength or motivation to attack the cardboard container that holds the beer.  I try getting my fingernails under the edges, I try pulling at the sides, and I even try attacking a loose edge with my teeth.

Nope.  Gotta get out the knife.  I am so tired that it takes a damn sandwich knife to open the 12-pack of beer.

It's all good, though.  I have a great dinner and an ice cold beer.  All the rest of the beer fits into the fridge, I don't lose power during the storm, and I sleep with very little interruption for ten hours, catching up on all my lost zzzzz's.

Guess I really don't know when I'm having a bad day ... because I'm not.  Cheers!

RED SKY AT MORNING

Red sky at night - sailors delight;
Red sky at morning - sailors take warning.

I can't sleep.  It's really aggravating me.  The weird thing is that I don't feel tired.  I sleep maybe  four or so hours, roll around wide awake for about forty minutes, finally give up, and start my day well before the alarm.  I expect to be dragging midday, but that doesn't happen.

I intend to get to work early and get some correcting done; grades close today, and I have some creative writing to enter into my grade book.  I don't leave as early as I plan to, but I am still ten minutes or so ahead of my usual time, so I am surprised and quite annoyed at all the traffic at 6:18 a.m. on the main drag.

So, I veer off to the back roads. 

This is when I notice the sky.  It isn't the usual breakthrough morning glory color.  It's more of a muted gray-rose, and it glows a bit.  I snap a quick picture with my cell phone while sitting at a stop light, but it doesn't capture the ominous aura of color. 

It just doesn't look right; it just doesn't seem right.

When I get to the top of the hill at work, I can see the front line in the sky, the line that separates yesterday's good weather from today's impending doom of a snowstorm.  The sky, though eerily tinted, is magnificent.

I hold out some hope that we might stave off the snowflakes that have been forecast in our immediate future.  By mid-morning, my hopes are dashed.  Although it snows most of the day, the ground is warm and will not tolerate accumulation.  Of course, as the strange sky turns dark and night falls, all bets will be off.  The snow starts to stick, and by tomorrow morning, I could be dragging the shovels back up from the basement (no, I did not "put them away" - that's where my shovels live all year long, so don't blame me for cursing us).

There is no red sky as the day rolls away.  There has only been that disconcerting pinkish thick sky from the morning.  That sky and the weather forecasters tell me pretty much all I need to know.