FREAK SHOW STRAWBERRY FRUIT SALAD

I'm on a health-food kick.  It started a while ago, but I kick it into high gear when I get on the scale at the doctor's office and the number basically causes me to crap myself.  (Not literally -- if that actually happened, I'd weigh less.)

So, in addition to the ridiculous amounts of greens and salads that I have been eating (enough to make my entire digestive tract go into processed foods and chocolate withdrawal along with serious health shock), I am adding fresh fruits in again.  Usually I freeze the fresh fruits and make smoothies with juice, but now I figure I better mainline as many fruits and vegetables as possible.

I may not lose any weight, but I'll be a damn healthy, unprocessed, unchocolatey chunky person.

I  spend three hours (yes, THREE HOURS) prepping my salads and fruits for the next few days, cutting, mixing, storing, and finding room on the fridge for it all.  I realize too late that I forgot to get the pineapple and the watermelon, but I have enough fruit in my fruit salad to feed the entire block should we suddenly run out of food.  No matter, I chop and slice and dice until my heart's content: spinach, lettuce, peppers, carrots, cucumbers, tomatoes, then grapes, cherries, blueberries, blackberries, and strawberries.

The fruit is amazingly healthy for this time of year.  A lot of times this early in the season, the stores sell the not-so-ripe strawberries that have been sprayed with food coloring (don't think we don't notice this shit).  This time, though, the strawberries are practically farm-worthy.  This makes me very happy.  Making me even happier is the fact that these wonderful strawberries are extra-large.  Not huge, but damn close.  And they are sweet, just like the ones at the pick-your-own places.

Making me the happiest, though, is the freak strawberry.  It's like Rosie Greer and Ray Milland in The Thing With Two Heads.  It's the Frankenstein of berries.  It's the Ringling Brothers and Barnum and Bailey freak show of strawberries.  It's Todd Browning's freakiest of Freaks in the strawberry world.

It is the best freakiest strawberry I've seen in a long time.  I truly hate to cut it up.

Alas, that is what strawberries are for, my friends, and so, with serrated knife in hand, I hack that motherfreaking strawberry like I'm Norman Bates.  Tomorrow, when I eat my fruit salad with yogurt, I'll think about the carnage and the freak I hacked up, and I'll smile all the way because I know that the strawberries in my fruit salad are the closest I can get at this point of the season to taking them right off the vine myself.

Okay, so my body is getting healthier.  I never made any such disclaimer about the health of my mind; that, my little pretties, is still circling the Outer Limits, or perhaps the Twilight Zone, where my chunky little body can exist in another dimension ... the dimension of processed food and chocolate.

TOO MUCH EXCITEMENT FOR ONE DAY

Today is the day I attempt to start digging out my spare room.  It's not really a spare room -- it was my bedroom for years.  It's a long but mostly useless room under the eaves at the back of the house that loses half of its space to the slanted ceiling. 

Mostly, though, it's a dump.  I semi-cleaned it out when my daughter stayed with me for a few weeks, but then it became my dumping ground.  All of my grad school work and papers and final products ended up in there, and all of my SEI class papers ended up in there, and it sort of serves as my closet since there are no closets in this 150+-year-old townhouse.

So, today is the day.  Yes, I actually get some of the room cleared and ready for being used again.  Or maybe ready to be moved.  Depends on the noise level of my new neighbors once they settle in. 

My main goal today is to attack the big bookcase where my notebooks need to go -- school stuff, professional stuff, and writing.  It all goes there.  Once I have that corner organized, I get the brilliant idea to move the sewing machine and its table into the same corner, give or take a few feet.  It will fit there perfectly if I just roll the table sideways.  Since the table really does have casters, this is easy.

Until ... because we all know with me that nothing is ever easy ... the sewing machine starts making a terrible sound.  I realize that the needle is going up and down at breakneck speed.  Faster and faster the machine wheel is spinning.  I don't even sew that fast when I do sew (which is rare).  What the hell is happening here?

I search everywhere under the table and around the table.  Where is the damn machine foot?  Why is this machine running all by itself?  I finally locate the cord under all the other crap lying around, and I yank the connection from the machine.  Slowly, and with a bit of attitude, the machine slows and finally stalls with the needle in mid-stride.

I notice that one of the card table chairs that has been folded and leaning against the sewing table has fallen over during my roll-around redecorating, and, when it fell, it fell directly onto the sewing machine foot mechanism. 

I pick up the fallen chair, move it away from my work space, and sit down in the already unfolded chair I'd set up earlier.  I look down at the machine and notice that there is no longer a tail of thread protruding from the needle.  Carefully I use a long quilting needle to tug at the thread and bring what I can back to the surface.  Then, I open the bobbin casing area.

Hoe.  Lee.  Sheeee.  It.

There is thread everywhere, and by everywhere, I mean EVERYWHERE.  I work the needle up and down by hand, turning the wheel on the right side of the sewing machine while carefully releasing what I can of the polyester mess springing from the bobbin.  When I finally get the tangled knot half out, It looks like my machine has a super-bad 1970's perm.  There are curlicue threads sprouting in every direction.

Once I get the mess out, I leave the bobbin and its casing out.  I'll replace everything next time.  Right now I am still organizing, which will take me days, and I won't be sewing any time soon.  I do, however, move the folded chair that caused the disaster far, far across the little room and stuff it back under the eaves.  I don't need it falling over and scaring the crap out of me a second time.  I'm old.  I can't take that much excitement all in one day.

BANNER DAY FOR A 5K

The weather today is perfect for a 5k.  Good thing, because that's exactly what some family members and I are doing today.  The weather is slightly overcast with smidgens of sun, and the light breeze keeps the temperature around 64 degrees.

We are up in Portsmouth, New Hampshire, at the Runners Alley Red Hook Memorial 5k Road Race.  This means when we are done, there is free food for runners and also a free beer.  All of the proceeds are donated, and 100% of the profits go to a charity for the treatment of traumatic brain injuries.

Three of my immediate family and one extended family member are running the race today, and by "running" I mean THEY are running and I am walking really fast.  I have always been a sprinter not a miler, and no amount of training can change my bad habits.  This means that my niece finishes in about 20 minutes, my sister in about 30 minutes, and I bring up the rear at about 43 minutes.

To be honest, I do jog the first half mile and several spurts thereafter, but my body doesn't respond well internally to this whole running for long distances thing.  I tend to get physically sick, so I know my limits.  When I start to feel crappy, I just walk until about the last one hundred yards.  Also, I am still recovering from a bruised ankle bone that left me unable to walk just seven days ago.  Around the two-mile mark, my braceless ankle starts talking to me, and I don't mean sweetly.

In other words, I am making up random excuses as to why I am so frigging slow.

Either way, the weather cooperates, the company is wonderful, and the course (almost 100% flat grade) is amazingly forgiving.  People are great -- chatting up at the starting gate, bands playing, cheering us as we run and as we cross the finish line, and knocking plastic cups with us in cheer after it's over. 

My unofficial results are that I finish 121st in my age group for women.  I'll take it!  Other than the fact that I'm ready to conk out sleeping at 5:00 p.m., it is a banner day for success.

CALLS FROM THE GRAVEYARD

I'm thinking that snycing my cell phone with my new-used car is going to be simple.  I mean, there are directions and everything.  I am a reasonably intelligent, if not completely technologically challenged, person.  I read the directions, play with the system, and figure this is going to be easy pickings.

I sit in my car in my driveway in my incredibly congested neighborhood and realize that my cell phone is syncing with any and every car within spitting distance.  Not good.  Oh, well.  Now my neighbors have all of my contact information.  Sorry, people.

So, I quickly shut down the uploading process and drive to a nearby cemetery.  I have to assume that the dead and buried do not have cell phone reception nor Blue Tooth capability.

This idea works.  I am able to sync my phone to my car, but it wants all of my contacts.  Hmmm, I don't really need the car to have all of my contacts, so I try to enter favorites.  But the car insists that I MUST put in my contacts, so I figure out how to do that then press the phone buttons.

I try a voice command.  "Call home" turns into "Call Val."  Val's phone starts ringing.  I shut off the car quickly.  Sorry, Val.  Then I try the phone button on the steering wheel.  It calls the first contact in my cell without me even doing anything.  I shut the car off again and text my pal that I butt-dialed her.  Sorry, Lynn.

I hit a few more buttons and try to follow a few more instructions.  This brings up other phones.  Damnit, I forgot to delete the phones of previous owners from the system.  (Why the owners and dealer didn't do this, I've no idea.)  There's "Alison's phone" plus 3 others, all iphones.  I have an android, so no cross-cellination will occur.  I delete all the phones, including mine because I am determined to elminiate my contacts and just put in the ones I want as favorites so I don't continue to accidentally dial everyone in the known universe.

However, when I try to re-enter everything, this time the contacts sync option will NOT reappear.  I get pissed and delete the whole thing and head home.  I am somewhat creeped out by the cemetery-phone experience, but, as I sit at home, I get even more pissed off.  How come I cannot do this?  It's making me mad and sad, and I feel like a pathetic loser who cannot do something as simple as program Blue Tooth in my own damn car.

I decide to go back to the cemetery, but I don't want the people there for Memorial Day to think I'm some kind of weirdo, so I drive to a different cemetery.  Seriously, how many people do you know who need to go to a cemetery to make technology work?  (One, I hope, just one.)  I park under a tree and enjoy the peace and quiet as I battle again with the whole syncing contacts crap.

After four tries, I believe I have the whole phone set up, and I carefully find my own home phone number, make the call, wait for the answering machine, then I leave myself a message.  I hit the disconnect button on the steering wheel.  So far, so good.  I have to run some errands.  I'll check the message when I get home later.

I have to hit the bank, the gas station, the wine store (zins and sliders today), CVS, and the grocery store.  When I get home, my answering machine is blinking.  Who left me a message, I wonder.  I hit the button and at first think it's my sister.  Nope, it's me.  I have already forgotten that I left myself a message from the cemetery.  I guess I can call this winning.  After all, if one is going to call oneself from the graveyard, it's a really good sign if the caller and the recipient are both alive for the process.

BATMOBILE ISSUES

I discovered one bad thing (so far) about my new Batmobile.  Oh, sure. some might think I'm overreacting, but this is a serious problem, and it affects my ability to drive the car.

Such a disappointment; such a disaster.  I dislike getting new vehicles and having things wrong with them.  It bothers me. 

First of all, it's damn aggravating to get something you're expecting to be in decent shape and finding out that it's not.  There should be a reasonable expectation, regardless of how ephemeral, of perfection. Secondly, it's damn annoying and time-consuming to have to go back and forth to the dealer.  Now, I'm going to be without my car for an extended period of time.

So, folks, don't even try to reach me Saturday morning.  I'll be sitting at the car dealer having the service department repair the damn thing.  When it's all said and done, my stupid driver's side windshield wiper WILL swipe the water off the windshield BOTH ways, not just to the left with a giant smear going to the right. 

I know, I know, it'll be a horrible inconvenience being without my newest car for ten minutes, but I will be strong.  I'll remain vigilant.  I shall persevere! 

DESERVING SOME VODKA

After finally arriving home from work and errands that include a follow-up to a bruised ankle that incapacitates me for a week, I decide I deserve a cold beverage.

This past summer I cleared out an entire cabinet just to house the liquor and my son's massive collection of beer glasses.  This means that my desire for something icy and refreshing has several options.  Options that include everything from chocolate liqueur to chocolate wine and an assortment of lots of colorful clear liquid in between.

I opt for the vodka.  There are two small nips of vodka in addition to a larger bottle.  The nips are flavored, giving me a choice of raspberry or orange.  I decide to try them both.

I usually mix my liquor and tonic water with a much, much larger ratio of tonic and a much, much smaller jigger of alcohol.  Since I'm not sure I'll even like the flavored stuff, I use a juice-sized glass and start experimenting.

Here are my results:

The raspberry vodka is way too sweet to mix with tonic water, and no amount of lemon nor lime (nor both) could salvage its cotton candy flavor.  If you like a sweet drink, this may be for you.  The orange vodka plus the lime plus the lemon that were still in the glass from my first experiment complimented the tonic water quite pleasantly.

Of course, hankering for an icy beverage qualifies me for little less than idle commentary.  No matter what I pour myself, it's going to do what it needs to do: quench the thirst and wash away the crappy week I've put together so far.

LIKE FREAKING BATMAN LIVES HERE

My car died. This makes me very sad because I loved my car ... love it still ... even though it is dead.

I  suspect for weeks it is something catastrophic, so for these same weeks I start researching used cars versus new cars versus leasing a car.  I check dealers' websites and do all kinds of car reviews and reports.  I become an expert on what to expect for my own old car, especially now that it's $3,600 away from just being ready to run (with no guarantee of its health thereafter).  Not a sound investment, therefore ... death.

I have no intention of buying a sedan.  I don't like sedans.  Well, not entirely true: I really enjoyed driving my son's Lancer until he traded it in, and that thing was a very sporty sedan. 

Don't panic, folks.  I am an experienced used car wrangler, and I love the hunt for cars.  I enjoy being oh-so-sweet to the salespeople until they make one wrong, sinister move, then I pounce on them, eat them alive, and spit them quite publicly back onto the sales floor.  Ask my son -- he witnessed a recent tirade after he was victim of a dealer's bait-and-switch routine just to get us to drive far out of our way through rush-hour traffic.  "Oh, THAT car you've been calling about JUST sold earlier today..."  Bullshit, asshole, that's why we called before we left this afternoon.  Liar, liar, pants on fire trying to sell my son a more expensive car, like we just fell off the damn turnip truck.  My son, initially embarrassed and pissed at me, learned valuable lessons about car shopping and his mother that afternoon.

Unfortunately, as I approach my decision that now HAS to be made, I know in advance that out of the dozen or so cars I intend to test drive, one of them is the cream of the crop: black sedan with low miles, good gas mileage, reliable Japanese engine, top scores for used vehicle from multiple reliable outlets, and a steal of a price.  But, the salesman (the only one I semi-trust in the whole business, even though I know most of it's shtick), knows I want a hatchback, wagon, or SUV.  That's what I want; that's what I need for the gear I haul and the way I travel.

I walk into the dealer, let him lead me around, and he beelines right for the car that I've already researched extensively.  "I know, I know.  It's a sedan.  But it's the car that meets your requirements and it's reliable and safe.  I want to see you in this car."

I hem and I haw.  It's a SEDAN, for chrissakes, and, to be perfectly honest, it's not at all what I WANT.  However, I know in my brain that logically it is the car that I NEED.  I hesitate.  Play the game a little. Look around.  Pull out my folder of research.  Ask about other vehicles on the lot.  Throw out some cheap cars that I can afford to buy brand new if I so choose.

He talks me down.  He thinks he knows where this is going.  He pushes the team to give me more for my car.  It's not much.  The car needs too much work.  We start playing Let's Make a Deal.  I ask about a spare tire; it's there.  I ask them to throw in a remote starter; they say they won't because it's not a car from their specific dealership.  I pout.  Throw in a second key, I say, and I might think about it.

The salesman comes back with a second key and a huge smile.  Nowhere in the paperwork does it say that the car has a remote starter.  This is huge.  It's like having an additional $500+ tacked onto my trade-in.  A few haggles later, including lifetime free-stickers for the car, cheap oil changes, and a cherry of an extended warranty deal, I sign on the line.  I drive the car off the lot, leave my beloved car behind (so sad), and need only to return the following day for my new registration, a full tank of gas, and an inspection sticker.

I don't even have to go to the DMV.

Of course, now I'm driving a black sedan, just like every other schmoe on the road.  Plus, my son has a black sedan, and so does the neighbor who shares our driveway.  It looks like freaking Batman lives here.  When the salesman calls to see how I like the car, I tell him that it's okay and that I'm learning to like it.  He calls a few days later to ask again, and I tell him that I like it, but I don't love it.  Yet.

I will, though.  If I know me, and I do, every car that I've ever owned has endeared itself to me somehow.  Once I learn what every damn gadget is for, though, I'll like it a lot more.  I went from a 2007 to a 2013 and didn't even know how to start the car (no physical key), so the two of us have a lot to learn from each other.  Once I figure out how to connect the Blue Tooth, we'll probably be able to communicate a little better, and maybe, just maybe, the new baby will get a name that endears it to me and earns a spot in my heart.

EXPLETIVE COOKING

My daughter stops by after work, so I invite her for dinner.  I'm doing something I haven't done in a long time -- following a recipe and trying something new.  Meanwhile, my girl keeps trying to video me to post on Snap Chat, Instagram, and other social media arenas to show people that I am not normal because I don't cook a great variety of things, and usually when I try recipes, they fail in epic fashion.  Here is some of her commentary in italics (with my commentary in parentheses):


Things my mom says while trying to follow a recipe:

"Shit fuck cunt cocksucker dickface"  
 (To be fair ... this IS a new recipe.)

"'Cut fajitas in half.... fuck do I have to!?!?"  
(Seriously, it's a waste of perfectly good fajitas, especially since I am spreading them out in the pan anyway.  Why not leave them whole?  I leave them whole.)

"'Stir occasionally'.... oh fuck this is all burning on... no wonder why it says stir occasionally..."
 (Okay, so I'm not one to follow directions exactly ... or at all.)

Takes knife off the table to stir her vodka and tonic: "Oh, fuck.  I just cut the onion with that knife."
(Truth.  My vodka and tonic doesn't taste at all like onion until I suck a small piece of diced onion up through my straw.  Then my drink tastes like onion.)

In all honesty, yes, I really do say these things and more.  However, in my defense, dinner is very tasty.

STAYING ALIVE, STAYING ALIVE...

FIRE ALARM!  FIRE ALARM!

I'm recovering from a bruised ankle bone, so I bring my crutches to school with me, just in case I have to walk down the long hall or in case we have a fire drill or some such stupidity.  The nurse brings me a couple of ice packs for my ankle, and I'm doing a pretty good job shuffling around the classroom ala Tim Conway on The Carol Burnett Show. 

Halfway through the morning I look outside.  My classroom overlooks the main entrance and parking lot, so I see a lot of stuff going on in the course of my workday.  Today I see the big red fire truck.  Not too long after that, the alarm in my room goes off.

"There is an emergency in your building.  At the sound of the evacuation tone at the end of this recorded message, proceed to the nearest exit..."

Oh.  Shit.  Olski.

I grab my attendance binder (god forbid I lose a kid anywhere), one crutch, and start booking it as fast as my gimpy ass will go across the parking lot to a safe spot.  Within minutes, the alarm stops blaring, the lights stop blinking, and we are allowed back into the classroom.

But, seriously.  Why would I ever think that this would be easy? 

Once we are all safely back in my classroom, I notice that the strobe light fire alarm is still flashing in my room. The vice principal cannot fix it, so he covers the strobe light with paper and calls maintenance.  Maintenance guys arrive, and instantly start poking fun of my predicament. 

ME:  I like the strobe effect.  It's very disco.  Maybe I'll see the Bee Gees.

MAINTENANCE:  It is very 1970's in here.

ME (singing):  Staying alive, staying alive, oooh-oooh-oooh-ooooooh, staying alive!  Thanks to my strobe light alarm, we can ALL stay alive.

Ten minutes later, my expected group of students pops in from lunch.  One of the students starts singing the exact Bee Gees song I was just singing, "Staying Alive." 

ME:  Did you hear me singing that?  Were you in the hallway during lunch?

STUDENT (clearly dumbfounded):  No.  It's a Bee Gees song.

Good lord, I cannot even wrap my head around the fact that he knows who the Bee Gees are.  Even stranger, what are the odds that he and I would be singing the same exact obscure Bee Gees song within minutes of each other? 

But, wait.  That's not the weird part.

I stay at work very late.  We are doing interviews for a new hire.  I hobble out to my car sometime after 4:00, dragging my crutches back home with me, sit in my car, take a few deep breaths to rid myself of the school day, and start my car. 

On overly-stimulating days like today, I prefer not to have music on when I drive.  I just need the world to slow down a bit, but I'd forgotten to shut off the car radio this morning.  In a bizarre twist, the radio is already tuned to a station to which I never listen.  The song?  Yup.

Staying alive, staying alive, ooh oooh, ooooh, ooooooooh, staying aliiiiiiiiive!"

What are the odds OF THAT?  These are the things that happen to me.  I take it as a sign to get my hurt ankle and myself home and stay there.  Staying alive, indeed.

SAVING US ALL FROM THE STICK

Sitting outside on a perfect evening while sipping a few adult beverages, it's hard not to people-watch as the world goes by.  A small group of us are having a cold one (or two or three) on the front lawn, chatting with people and saying hello to their dogs, while generally having a lovely time.

Until the Escalade. 

An older woman wearing orthotic shoes, white knit slacks, and a flower polyester shirt shuffles out of the Cadillac monster.  Parking it takes up a space and a half as it is, and the woman carefully shuts the heavy door of the $75,000 vehicle.  So far, nothing seems amiss.  She is probably parking to get a coffee at the swanky java joint that is directly across from Dunkins.  Yes, she looks like a hoity-toity espresso type; I'm much more iced caramel swirl.

(Twiggy -- Yes, I brought it home with me.)

Suddenly, the old lady leans over, picks up a twig from the street, and whips it with disgust onto the lawn.  Honestly, it's as if she is totally freaked by the fact that a twig in the street might possibly cause severe damage to her $5,000 tires.  After all, when one drives a giant SUV, one should probably be careful of a stick the size of which wouldn't cause harm to a roller skate.

We chat about the scene, laughing at the old woman's behavior, and no one else gives it a second thought.  No one, of course, except for me.

I wait until I see the old lady shuffle back to the Caddy.  As she is attempting to hoist her fat ass back into the driver's seat, I pick up the twig from the lawn, run in front of her, then cross the street, yelling, "It's okay!  I got the stick!  Really!  You can drive now!  Nothing will happen.  YOU'RE SAFE!  You're safe!  We are all safe!  I GOT THE STICK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

It's worth a laugh, but truly it's not funny.  What kind of bitch picks up a twig off the street and throws it onto someone's property?  It isn't a branch, for chrissakes.  It's a damn twig.  It's about the length of a chopstick and the width of a toothpick.  The Caddy was in no real danger.  I swear to it.

Look, kids, sometimes I exaggerate for effect, and sometimes I exaggerate because I can.  This story is the pathetic truth. If you park like an asshole in your giant asshole-mobile and throw sticks around like you're a total dickhead-asshole, expect me to give you the public asshole-shaming you deserve.

NOTE TO JOB APPLICANTS

NOTE TO JOB APPLICANTS:

If you're going to apply for a job teaching children in an American public school, you should probably have a rudimentary understanding of the English language and the rudimentary ability to form a coherent, intelligible, meaningful sentence.

I have just wasted hours upon hours going through applicants' paperwork with my editor's eye.  Here's the verdict:

• One candidate writes a shorter cover letter but neither personalizes it nor masters simple subject-verb agreement.
• One candidate has mastered the Oxford comma but doesn't properly capitalize proper nouns.   For example, this candidate went to Diddley college and teaches at Gingerbread Middle school.  (Not really - I made them up, but I didn't make up the capitalization errors.)
• One candidate wrote a gushing novel-length cover letter, riddled with comma errors and run-on sentences.

Before you judge me for judging others, think about this for a few minutes -- the position is for a middle school English teacher.  I wouldn't expect perfect English skills from a science teacher, but jesuschristalmighty.  A bit of advice, people:

IF YOU HAVEN'T MASTERED FOURTH GRADE GRAMMAR AND MECHANICS BY THE TIME YOU EARN SEVERAL DEGREES IN THE FIELD OF ENGLISH EDUCATION, YOU MIGHT WANT TO HAVE SOMEONE PROOFREAD YOUR DAMN COVER LETTER BEFORE YOU HIT "SEND."

Rant over.  Period.  (P.S. Please excuse MY errors.  My eyes gave out hours ago while reading this application/bullshit stuff.)

YHGUTRT877655rFTYFGiy7gyf

My sleeping habits have been lackluster at best these last few weeks.  In the last four nights, I have slept a total of 18 hours, which is roughly 4.5 hours on average a night.  Doing the math doesn't truly justify it, though.  For instance, last night, I barely clocked 3.5 hours total.

I'm used to getting by on less sleep.  For many years, I never slept more than five hours a night, anyway.  Also, one week I totally survived on nineteen hours from Sunday to Saturday.  That was epic considering that I was in school taking classes and raising three kids at the same time.  I'm surprised everyone survived unscathed, including me.

Finally, though, my sheer exhaustion catches up to me.  This afternoon while responding to a text message, I doze off in the middle of typing.  It isn't a huge nap; it's more like one of those momentary reality interruptions.  Either way, I am very lucky to awaken before I hit "send."  My message looks something like this:

"That was a good line of storms last night.  I watched the radar from about jjkawhbl;olkipoijn ,jbaskhbvuhpiu4e908iojk  nbudhco8y09jeidk,."

Yup.  My fingers were resting on and pressing the keys of my cell phone.

I immediately start erasing (backspacing) through the entire text.  This is pathetic.  I mean, I'm no geriatric (yet), and this whole dozing in mid-afternoon causes me to feel about 108 years old.  I have a trivia fundraiser tonight (it's for the children, damnit).  Maybe I'll be able to sleep tonight.

If not, I'll try texting again.  If you receive a text from me that says, "lirjlcdh2ol38e7u083yuoubk," you'll know I finally managed to get some shut-eye.

INVASION!

THE INVASION HAS BEGUN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

My house is covered with them.  My car is covered with them.  My driveway, walkway, and patio are all covered with them, and by "covered," I mean blanketed in layers.  They're everywhere!  they're taking over! 

OOOOHHHH MMMMYYYYYY GODDDDDDDDDD... It's ... it's ... it's ...

MAPLE TREE WHIRLIGIG SPRING SEASON.

Now, hold off a sec.  Some of you will try and convince me that maple trees only produce and shed their seeds, or samaras, in the fall.  Well, here's what I have to say about that:  Fuck off.  No, truly, fuck off and come over here and sweep my house, patio, and driveway every day several times a day.

I spend hours upon hours and days upon days sweeping the piles of seeds and droppings from the maple trees.  Granted, in the autumn there is no tree more spectacular in color and magnificance than the maple.  Okay, the white birch comes close, but still, maple is the best.  Sugar maples are the most colorful fall trees I have ever seen. 

But, to get to that stage, they shed their seedlings twice a year.  In the fall, they're simply whirligig, miniature helicopters that float and spin and are impossible to rake or sweep.  In the spring, though, the maples shed mini-whirligigs and tons of weedy chafe.  When the combination of seedlings and brownish plant crap gets wet in spring rain, it's like bringing booger-laced cement into the house.

I will persevere, though.  I will fight this invasion until the trees have fully budded.  I will sweep on even though I am hit continuously by the little bastards falling from the trees even as I am clearing them from the patio.  Screw you, spring maples.  I am NOT Donald Sutherland, and this is NOT Invasion of the Body Snatchers.  I have two brooms, a small bristled one and a regular hard bristled outdoor broom, and I will battle you until one of us gives up.

PRODUCING JOY ALL BLOODY SUMMER LONG

The cellar has recovered from the accidental Mother's Day flood.  Luckily, I've been down this flood plain before, and everything is either off the floor or in plastic bins that can, if necessary, float on their own. 

Today, though, I simply must go into the basement.  First of all, I have to run laundry.  I've been putting it off since the flood debacle, so I turn on the cold water hose just long enough to run two loads of laundry, then I shut it right off.  Lesson learned, folks.  I'm a slow learner, but, once the knowledge sinks in, I'm relatively astute.

The main reason to venture into the cellar is far more dire:  AIR CONDITIONERS.

Last fall I packed up the air conditioners and made sure they were well covered and protected from basement-type elements (like ... oh ... a flood, perhaps).  I have four of air conditioning units -- small air conditioners to place strategically around the not-so-well planned out floor plan.  One goes in the kitchen near the bathroom to keep us from frying when we eat or shower.  One goes in the living room so we can actually use the room that gets way too much sun in the summer.  One goes in my son's bedroom, and one goes in my bedroom. 

It's kind of ironic that just a couple of days ago, we were running the heat off and on.  Honestly, it snowed in Western Massachusetts on Sunday.  But, that's all gone now.  The weather forecast for today?  Muggy, mid-90's.  That's butt-crack-sweat weather, kids.  That's help-me-I'm-melting weather.  That's I-can't-possibly-sleep-in-these-boiling-hot-sheets weather.

So, the air conditioners are up from the basement, and soon to be unwrapped like presents on Christmas morning, only better, because they'll keep on producing joy all bloody summer long.

GROWLING THROUGH MCAS

Today is state testing, also known as MCAS 2.0, the "new and improved" same old shitty test.  It's high stakes testing at its worst, but I'm not supposed to comment on things like that because, hey, I'm a professional.

Anyway, I know I will be walking the room today to make sure the kiddos are all working diligently.  This time around it is math testing.  Two weeks ago it was ELA testing.  Back on ELA days, I ate good breakfasts, and still my stomach grumbled so loudly that students near my desk could hear it.  I decide that I do better on an empty stomach as most days I go without until lunch, and my stomach is perfectly content.

So, today for math testing, I consider two things: non-squeaky shoes (I wear New Balance walking sneakers) and NOT eating breakfast.  This combination works for the first two and a half hours, too, but as we trickle into hour three, I make a fateful miscalculation. 

I start walking the room as I still have a few kids working on the test.  As I get close to the front row of desks, my stomach grumbles, and by "grumbles," I mean it makes a noise so long and so loud that the students near me jump and stare.  My stomach's commentary sounds a bit more like a nasty growl from a large zoo animal than a small appetite noise.

Great.  Just great.  We are supposed to be proctoring the test and making sure that conditions are silent, and I've got the incredible, growling belly.

Oh, well.  Sorry, math teachers.  I distracted your students.  It wasn't intentional.  Maybe tomorrow I'll bring a small but silent snack, just in case.  After all, we still have three hours of testing left to conquer, and that probably should be done on a full stomach.

KARMA PISSES ALL OVER ME

I know I've been out of the game for a long time, but this is ridiculous.

My landlord recently raised my rent, which is fine because I've been living here in a townhouse for a steal for years.  But I've also put up with a lot of noise and other problems that old houses have, ranging from rusted out water heaters, to broken furnaces, to mice, to silverfish, to roof leaks.  In other words, reasonable wear and tear for a house that has a field stone basement and used to be housing for (most probably) farm animals.

The water here is so full of iron that things rust out very quickly.  So far three water heaters have rusted out on me here and flooded my basement and the basement connected to my townhouse.  Also, the attachments to my washer have rusted through, causing me to finally replace my washer and dryer last summer.  I bought anti-rust hoses and have been washing and drying to my heart's content.

Until Mother's Day.  On Mother's Day, we think we've blown through another hot water heater when I notice washing dishes that there is zero hot water.  Surprise!  There is water ALL over the basement.  Again.  Yes, again.  I trudge downstairs with my pants rolled up, calling the landlord at the same time.

But, no, it's not the hot water heater.  Instead, it's the hot water to the washer.  The hose has rusted clear off, and water is spraying everywhere.  Decent.  Not only is my basement getting flooded, but so is the brand new, re-done, not yet occupied but already rented townhouse next door.

Two of my three kids are here for Mother's Day.  they run out and buy two more mops so we can all have a lovely time together as a family mopping up the damn basement.  Between this townhouse and my previous apartment two houses over, this crappy water has rusted out a total of seven of my appliances over the years, so I'm getting to be an expert basement mopper.  Not, though, the way I want to spend family time.

So, I have been toying with moving to another place.  I don't need three bedrooms anymore, and these rooms are so tiny that I'm not sure they qualify as bedrooms, anyway.  I start the search as I did decades ago.  I have not actively searched for an apartment really since 1995.  I am expecting first and last plus the usual security deposit.

What shocks me, though, is that it is now standard to ask for three-month's rent along with ... wait for it ... here it comes ... an application fee.  A FUCKING APPLICATION FEE.  It seems that to move I will have to pony up upwards of $5,000.

If I had $5,000, I'd put it toward a down payment on something.  I would love to have my own house, but after the basement debacle and the five times it took to fix my furnace over the years (that always seemed to crap out during sub-zero times and forced me to buy two electric fireplaces just so I wouldn't freeze to death in my sleep), I think I'm all set with that.

I know I've been out of the game for a while, but it seems to me that landlords should be begging for people like me to fill up their empty places.  I guess I'm an idiot.  So I'll stay here and mop up my basement and hope to gawd the new people who are moving in soon are not noisy or filthy or bringing bugs into the property because I think I might soon end up living in my car at this point.  Oh, except that my car is crapping out because, you know, when your basement floods, karma pisses all over you, too.

PUSH-ME-PULL-YOU WEEKEND

My weekend:

Friday   -/+

-  I stay an extra 90 minutes at work to copy; will run out of curriculum time so copies are useless.  Waste time and paper.

+ Find paperwork I am not even supposed to have that the state requires for an audit on our school district.  Just open a drawer for the heck of it, and there it is.  Save the day!


Saturday -/+  

-  Go grocery shopping because I need turkey.  Buy turkey.  Only thing NOT in bags when I get home is turkey.  Suspect the old couple in front of me arguing with cashier over ten-cent coupon took my turkey.  Start tearing bags apart to find receipt and knock an entire shake over onto the table, the chair, the groceries, and the floor.  Have to go back and get more turkey.

+  Have lunch with two gal pals and hit two wine tastings.


Sunday -/+

-   Washer hose (hot water intake) rusts, even though it's a non-rusting hose and less than a year old, and sprays an entire hot water heater worth of water all over the basement.  Takes three mops and about an hour to clean it all up.

+  Two of my three kids are here to rescue me with mops, and the mess is contained pretty much.  We have a lovely breakfast (daughter cooks) and play games, and we get to connect with #1 birth-order son and his family via facetime.

--------------------------

It is a push-me-pull-you sort of weekend, but honestly, if karma could just hold off shitting on me for a while ... I am due to take my car in for some more tests, and I suspect it's going to be catastrophic.  I'm kind of on the edge of the cliff looking over at the moment.  Please, karma, please don't kick me anymore.
 

NO LUNCH MENU

On my way to weekly Saturday wine tastings, I always walk past the front windows of an upscale restaurant that piques my curiosity.  No one ever seems to be inside.  Once (and only once) I saw people going in, obviously arriving for a wedding reception or other very special occasion because they were all dressed to the nines.  Other than that, the place constantly seems deserted.

I know they must do a decent business in order to afford the rental.  I've read reviews of the place, too.   I've never seen it look open, but the front doors say they are open every Saturday when I go to the wine shop next door to it.

A wine tasting pal who recently moved to North Carolina is back in the area to attend some meetings.  She, another wine tasting friend, and I decide to do lunch and then do the wine circuit here in town.  Plans are made to meet at the restaurant, the one that never appears to be open.

When we arrive, the place has just opened, and it is deserted.  The restaurant itself is magnificent, beautifully decorated with artfully arranged tables and flawless settings.  Since we are the only ones there, we don't have to wait for a table.  One glance at the menu tells us why this place doesn't do a booming Saturday lunch business: There is no lunch menu.  The prices run from reasonable to expensive, and I opt for a salad with grilled chicken.

Although a little pricier than that with which I would normally feel comfortable, the salad portion is huge.  I will easily get two meals out of this, and I think of at least one other friend and one  relative who would like this place.

But, still.  The whole time we are seated. no one else enters the restaurant.  No one.  It's creepy and refreshing all at the same time; we get personal service and undivided attention.  Best of all, though, we are mere steps from wine tasting #1, which is substantially more crowded but equally attentive.

FRIDAY AFTERNOON IN THE COPY ROOM

What better way to spend a Friday afternoon than staying an extra ninety minutes at work, right?

I have so much to do over the next few weeks, and I can already see the time slipping away from me: time to start the last reading unit with the kiddos, time to get the new computer-based curriculum up and running, time to finish up the brand new grammar program, time to do all the end-of-year testing, time to get my classroom in order, time to copy the last of the papers that need to be copied, etc.  The List goes on.  As a matter of fact, I'm more than a little terrified of The List.

I cram as much into my planning period as possible, but, even then, I'm after school trying to get organized.  Finally, though, about forty-five minutes after everyone has left in my wing of the building, my desk is clear enough to try and make some copies so I can be remotely ready for Monday and beyond.  We have state testing next week, so I have to plan carefully and to avoid burn-out (mine and the students').

The good news about staying late is that there is a wine tasting one place and a beer tasting at another place.  If I manage my time correctly, I could theoretically make it to both -- it is not a mathematical impossibility.  I set up my binder and papers in the copy room and have at it.

Forty-five minutes later, I'm nearing the end of my copying.  I had pre-filled the copy machine with several reams of paper before I started, but I don't dare look at what's left.  It's okay, though.  No one else is copying until Monday, and I'm usually #1 or #2 here, anyway because ... well ... because I cannot seem to get out of my own way.

On my way out the door, I see another teacher in the next wing.  We chat for a few minutes.  She is finishing up her professional goals binder (due by Monday), and, like me, she is on a roll and so close, so close, so close.  I suddenly feel like a quitter.  I have so much to do that I shouldn't be leaving, not now and maybe not ever.

However, it is Friday.  A couple of sips of wine and a few small samples of local beer await me, and, as this blog attests, I am not one to shirk my duties.  I make it out to my car and start the auto-pilot to the wine store.  The List will still be there next week, and right now the item on The List says, "Get out will you still can!"

HAIR TODAY; GONE TOMORROW

Hair today; gone tomorrow.

Tonight I get my hair cut -- all of it -- yet again.  I really prefer it shorter, as long as I can get to the mirror and put on some make-up before I put on my glasses.  That way when I look in the mirror, I see myself and not my mother.

I usually go to the salon with my daughter, and tonight is no exception.  She is getting her hair foiled and lightened, and I'm getting mine dyed and cut.  Her hair comes out fabulous; mine is lovely but pales in comparison to the spectacular effect of her shading and color.  (At least, that's what my brain tells me.)

Or, it could be the wine.  We have been sipping a red blend  since we arrived fifteen minutes early to the salon, and our appointments end up running about three hours.  This means that the wine finishes the same time we do.  While her hair (still attached to her head) is under the dryer, my hair scatters on the floor.  I am firmly holding a plastic pseudo-wine-glass in my hand.

In other words, it is another successful outing to the salon.

"YOU EFF, OH" PIZZA

Sometime it might be nice to have a little down-time from life.

No, Fickle Finger of Fate, that does not mean I want the Noro-virus nor a broken bone.  I'm just tired. I'm tired from worrying if I might have to move, I'm tired of personal crap going on with the family, I'm tired of dumb stuff happening at work, I'm tired of my car being on the brink of destruction, I'm tired of not having time to cook or eat decent meals, and I'm tired of being damn tired in general.

I am also thinking that I need to branch out a little more on my take-out options.  I keep rotating through the same few, and it gets annoying after a while -- and embarrassing when the employees think I'm part of the staff because I'm there so often.

However, I will say this: In Salem (the REAL Salem, not the NH pretender) the other day, I had a chance to eat pizza.  Yeah, you're thinking, "So what?  She ate pizza.  What's the big fucking deal?" 

Well, the big fucking deal is that it was some of the best pizza I have ever eaten.  It was thin crust and smothered in cheese, with some kind of mild queso-like sauce thinly spread on.  This was all there to hold the main ingredients onto the pie:  pineapple, scallions, and I cannot even remember what else because once I took a bite of the pizza, I was spellbound.  (Get it?  Salem?  SPELLbound?)

Flying Saucer Pizza (the restaurant) is also a haven for Trekkies, Wookies, and all kinds of scifi addicts and aficionados.  Salem is a haven for people who think they're witches.  I'm just damn glad to have a place to sit down and relax for a short while while the rest of the world outside of good pizza and strange wall decor moves along without me for a few. 

Yes, I have convinced myself that the simple earthly act of rotation is making me tired, too, but at least it's not the same-old-same-old few take-outs I haunt when I'm back home.

CREEPY LANDLORD GUY

I'm considering down-sizing from my current living arrangement.  This would all be wonderful except that the housing market here in the northeast rivals frigging LA for prices.  I don't know who all these people are who can afford the rents, but it ain't me.

I still have my youngest living with me for probably a few more months, maybe a year, as he gets his financial feet under him.  It works -- he's hardly here, anyway, so it's sort of like living alone with the benefit of an occasional extra snow shoveler.  He sees a great apartment available on, of all places, Craigslist, which is the one place I wouldn't look.

Surprisingly, the place looks good in the pictures, and the price isn't too horrible.  We set up an appointment to see it, and I go wild getting my references in order.  You know, just in case, right?  This place sounds amazing -- small yard, washer/dryer hook-ups, residential area, quiet street, off-street parking, two bedrooms, and (ta-da!) a wood stove.

Turns out, though, to have no parking unless we put our cars on the street-ish, the floors are trashed, the ceiling in the kitchen has clearly had serious water damage and is bubbled and bowing about eight inches below the edges of the room, the grill area is actually someone else's yard (with little kids because their toys are within arm's distance), and the wood stove is probably because the tiny, ancient radiators might not necessarily work.

Then, there is the basement.  It is packed with boxed junk.  The landlord says, "I've told them to move it, but it's a fire hazard down here.  You can store stuff here, though, and the garage is also full of junk."  Awesome.  A fire trap with a useless garage, to boot.

He also keeps talking about money.  He says he wants this money and that money and then more money.  When he's done calculating, we can see his eyes rolling like slot machines, cha-chinging up the nearly $5,000 he thinks he will bilk from me.     

The piece de resistance, though, remains the landlord's creep factor.  He leers at us, follows way too closely, then tells us both that he Googled me and read all about me.  Um, say, what?  Dude, we never filled out any application.  You have my son's email address and you know I'm a teacher.  You effing GOOGLED ME?!  You don't even frigging KNOW ME.


I know now why I insist that my son comes along, even though it makes him late to a lacrosse game.  This landlord guy could be a Craigslist killer.

We get back outside and the guy is at his SUV watching us.  I follow my son to his car, have him roll down the window, smile for the creepy guy's benefit, and say through gritted teeth, "Dude.  No.  Just no."  I give him the short version.  I don't even mention the rusty, ancient, failing refrigerator that sounds like it's spitting out its last breath, nor the stove from the 1970's that looks like it has never been cleaned.  I'll tell him that later after he gets home from lacrosse.  He's already on it, though.  He totally gets it.  He is starting to see the sad state of the Massachusetts housing market.

All we want to do presently is get the hell out of this neighborhood and as far away from creepy Craigslist man as humanly possible, all considerations of downsizing suddenly dashed, filed, and locked away.

FIFTEEN PERCENT INSULTING

Come on, Kohl's.  Really? 

Today in the mail I get my intermittent percentage-off coupon card from Kohl's.  I haven't had a thirty percent coupon for a while, and my credit card is paid off.  The corporate office in charge of marketing should be able to track buying habits of its customers and automatically generate the thirty percent coupons to people whose shopping and charging habits follow that pattern.  Maybe throw me a twenty percent, even.

But, christalmighty, a measly fifteen percent?  I won't even use the gas it takes to drive over to Kohl's for fifteen percent.  That's my savings right there, gone with the gas fumes.  Insulting.

Nice try, Kohl's, but I actually passed math in school.  Fifteen percent is about as tempting as having diarrhea -- might eventually make me feel better, but the paltry payoff isn't worth the effort.

REPAYING THE SALEM FAMILY FAVOR

Nothing is quite like spending the day in Salem, Massachusetts.  To be honest, I didn't spend the entire day in Salem today, either, but I have done so many times, and it still somehow gets under my skin that there are people who cash in on the whole witch thing.

Don't get me wrong.  I think the Witch City theme is brilliant, catchy, and monetarily viable.  However, as someone who has accused witches (hanging) in her family tree, it still irks me when newbies come to town to practice their dark arts.

Puhleeze.  The Salem Witch Scare, Witch Hunt, and Witch Trials (whatever gimmicky name you want to assign to the 1692-1693 debacle) were politically motivated and legally sanctioned land-grabbing.  Nobody was really practicing death-inducing chants and spells.  Okay, except Tituba.  Tituba might've been doing that.

Sometimes when I'm in Salem I go to Judge Hathorne's grave just to admonish him.  Stupid, stupid man.  Dumb idiot.  Such an embarrassment to the family that Nathaniel had to change the spelling of his own name.  Sometimes I drive past Gallows Hill, aka Proctor's Ledge, which is in Salem.  Much of the witch hysteria, though, really happened in Danvers . . . and Amesbury and Andover, too.

So, Salem, I continue my love-hate relationship with you.  I stare awestruck at the statue of my birthday-buddy Nathaniel, and I scoff kiddingly at the statue of Samantha from Bewitched. Since May 10, 2017, is coming up, and since I've been in Salem, I just think now might be the time to bring up this great commemorative moment:

May 10, 1717, marks the death of John Hathorne, magistrate who presided over the pretrial examinations of those accused of witchcraft.  Three hundred years later, I certainly hope you are not resting peacefully.  If I practiced the dark arts myself, I'd see to it personally - repay the family favor.

TEARING THROUGH ART

I am on my way to smuggle myself into one of the events at the Massachusetts Poetry Festival.

In order to pull off my great stunt, I find myself with thirty minutes to kill at the Peabody Essex Museum.  I go to my favorite of the exhibits - US Maritime - and putter around for a bit.  I still have twenty more minutes until I am meeting a friend (who will also help smuggle me into one of the MPF events).

On my way to another event, I happen across the collection from the Pacific Northwest.  We are about to start a unit on the native cultures in the Vancouver area, so I snap a few pictures of the artifacts and of some of the background placards.  I'll set up a short presentation or create a lesson with the pictures.  You know, real world colliding with school world combined with cyber world.

After I am done watching the video loop of a young Tlingit hip hop artist dancing to native music interspersed with a Tlingit elder dancing traditional native steps to hip hop music, I tear through one more exhibit before meeting the pal who will help me with my quest to be a guest at the next event.

(P.S. I do manage to get into the event without breaking too many rules.  Thanks, TH!)

AS READY AS I'LL EVER BE

Damnit.  The heat is on again. I should know by now.  This is New England, after all. 

Once at a high school lacrosse game many miles from my house, I was outside in the brutal cold, desperately trying to wrap my winter jacket and gloves and hat and scarf around me while the coach's wife wrapped herself and her two boys up in flannel-lined sleeping bags while we sat in the stands.  We huddled in the corner of the bleachers, wishing and hoping for the horrifyingly chilled wind to abate (it never did), barely able to walk to our cars afterward because our feet were frozen solid.

It was well-past the middle of May when that happened not too many years ago.

Yes, welcome to New England, where you need your heater turned on in the morning and your air conditioner on by the afternoon.

I am trying to accept that it is May and it's time to start opening windows and enjoying fresh air.  This would be so easy if it would just get above 49 degrees with some sense of regularity.  I should be careful; now it will be my fault if it's 96 degrees tomorrow. 

Bring it; I'm as ready as I'll ever be.

MAY DAVE BRUBECK BE WITH YOU

May 4th may be Star Wars Day to many people ("May the fourth be with you"), but it is also Dave Brubeck Day.  If you don't know why it's Dave Brubeck Day, we are probably not true and deep friends.  We can still be pals, though, and I'll explain why.

Dave Brubeck, one of America's greatest jazz composers and performers, would be 96 if he were still alive.  No, May fourth is not his birthday; his birthday is in December.  Like crazy dates and other mathematical oddities, Brubeck loved to play with musical meter. You know, beats per measure; things that make your toes tap or hands clap. 

Brubeck liked to stand meter on its head, spin it around, saber it, then serve it up to audiences on a silver platter. 

He's not the only one to do so.  As a matter of fact, anyone who has heard Zeppelin's "Black Dog" or "Possum Kingdom" by The Toadies has had their ears assaulted by this unbelievably jarring and coincidentally amazing musical rhythm of 5/4 time.  The most familiar, though, is Brubeck's musical masterpiece "Take Five."

5/4 time.  5/4 meter.  5/4 rhythm.  Get it?  5/4 . . . May 4th.  Not Star Wars Day; Dave Brubeck Day.

Okay, I'm willing to grant it can be both of those special days.  After all, Star Wars only has "May the force (fourth) be with you."  Brubeck has "Take Five," but he also has "Unsquare Dance," the fabulous and haunting 7/4 time.  Since 7/4 is my birthday, I hereby declare Dave Brubeck Day to be both 5/4 and 7/4, making him the best damn jazz musician and composer of all time since he warrants not one but two days in his honor.

Click here to see the Dave Brubeck Quartet perform"Take Five" (and I dare you to count 5/4 time):
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zFk-kiDW_tA

Click here to see the late Jon Lord of Deep Purple perform "Unsquare Dance" (and I dare you to clap along in 7/4 time):
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2WrK0UrqyE0

I'M IN NO RUSH, RIGHT?

I'm on my way to work.  I'm not late; as a matter of fact, I usually get to work weirdly early.  There are a few of us who have accidentally and unintentionally started competing as to who draws first blood in the parking lot for a front row spot.

In other words, I have no reason to be in a rush.

I decide to go the back way, the scenic way.  There are two slow lights going this way, though: one at the entrance to a busy state highway, and the next light about one hundred yards away where I turn immediately off the state highway.  But, since I'm not late, who really cares how long the light takes, right?

Wrong.

On my way toward the light, a fancy-schmancy, expensive, luxury SUV pulls out right in front of me from a side street of large, nouveau-riche, eighty-bedroom castles.  This SUV, with more horsepower than all the cars on my little mid-town street, decides it is appropriate to go twenty miles per hour in a thirty-five mile per hour zone.

Remember, I'm in no rush.  But, pleeeeeeeeesee.  If you're going to cut me off on the road, at least make an attempt not to make a total dick out of yourself.

We get to the light, and dopey is going so slowly that we actually miss it.  We MISS it.  We.  Miss.  It.  We miss the damn light, and now I know it's a good three-minute wait for our next opportunity.

Unless . . . Aha!  Score!  The traffic opposite us has a turning light, which means that we have clear egress to turn right onto the highway, something that, if the SUV's blinker is telling the truth, we both intend to do.  But, the SUV sits there.  I can't believe this.  First, this a-hole pretends I am driving the invisible car, and now it wants to pretend it cannot read traffic patterns.  

So, I do what any other offended yet intelligent driver would do mere miles from the state police barracks in the middle of stopped traffic: I drive around the jackass and make my right turn directly in front of the SUV.

Screw you, SUV.  Drive like a dink then sit at the light like a tool?  I don't care if I'm early for work or late for work.  I don't care if a cop sees me and follows me across the intersection to write me a ticket.  I.  Don't.  Care.  I am having a bit of a rough patch in my life on many levels, and I'm at the end of my tolerance for ignorant people; this includes self-important, pompous nouveau-riche Mr. Magoo drivers.

In the end, I don't get a ticket, and I still arrive at work at the usual time.  Best of all, I feel good because the SUV followed me (at a slow pace and considerable distance) for another few miles, and I would've lost my frigging mind being behind it another second.

THUNDER POMP AND CRICUMSTANCE

Driving to work I like to listen to the radio.  Full volume.  And sing along.  Especially to bad 80's music.  I used to have Sirius radio, then I stopped paying for it because, at the time, it actually sucked.  Now, though, I spend more time flipping stations than I do actually listening to music.

I'm driving along to work yesterday, and I hear Bob Seger (sorry, kids, not a fan).  Before I can hit the scan button, I hear him croak out, "Woke last night to the sound of thunder.  How far off, I sat and wondered..."  Then I told myself, "Well, no worries of that for a while since it's only forty-fucking-degrees outside."

Later on while watching the news, the weather people start talking about all the massive thunderstorms we will be having overnight, mostly between 2 a.m. and 6 a.m.  Now, we all know how I feel about the weather forecasters and their dumb-ass snow mis-predictions, but, for some odd reason, they tend to be spot-on with thunder and lightning, like they're idiot savants of Doppler radar when electricity is involved.  Perhaps they all channel their inner Ben Franklin - I just don't know.

Of course, not being a huge fan of thunderstorms anymore, I am now glued to the radar myself.  (I like them when I'm in some buildings and in the car, but I don't like them in a house, a school, or when I'm outside.)  I am watching this unbelievable line of storms along a front that is probably about 500 miles long, and the storms just keep spawning and spawning.  It does appear, though, that my little pocket of the world will be left unscathed because it is inside a bubble of cold air.

Yes, it may be in the 60's everywhere else, including well to the north, but here in my area it's still only forty-fucking-degrees outside.

During the night I awaken for no reason (no noise - the house and world are silent), and I leave my bedroom, which is upstairs and too near the eaves and trees for me to not be restless with predicted storms.  I alternate between playing a few rounds of Solitaire on my phone and watching the radar online.  Just when I think I'll head back to bed, I am shaken from oblivion by a huge crash of thunder.  Huge.  Huuuuuuuuuuuge. 

Unbeknownst to me, I have dozed off moving virtual cards around, and now I'm paying the piper by living the Bob Seger dream.  Yup, I'm waking up to the sound of thunder.  No need to wonder about how far off it is -- it's on top of the house right this moment. 

By the time it all winds down, it's 4:30 a.m., so I decide to stay up and maybe get myself to work a little early since I have a full day planned and haven't set anything up yet.  Nope, though.  It continues to downpour, I still have to take out the trash, and I'm having a dilemma as to whether I should wear pants or a dress (pants win).  It downpours a few more times off and on during the day and into the late afternoon, and the warm front finally arrives twelve hours later than the dawn thunderstorm with little pomp and no circumstance. 

MY POETRY IS OH-SO BAD

Apparently, my poems suck;
I know because today I learned
That my poor poems will have no luck,
All my verses will be spurned.
You see, I sent some poems in
To a literary magazine.
I finally heard from them again -
I thought my poems had not been seen -
Instead the comment said REJECT,
Which takes the wind out from one's sail.
I felt a sense of deep deject
All because of dumb email.
Here are the parts that really blow,
Break my ego, get to me:
That fucking magazine, you know,
Publishes poetry for FREE!
Here's my life and how it's sad,
And though I really hate to say:
My poetry is oh-so bad
I cannot GIVE the shit away.

PEDESTRIAN LIGHT(WEIGHT)

I don't mind pedestrian lights.  When I'm in Boston or any other big city with tons of traffic, I think pedestrian lights are essential.  However, if I can safely figure out how to cross the street all by myself like a big girl, I don't bother hitting the pedestrian light.  Why on earth would I inconvenience traffic if I can cross without holding anyone up?

Apparently, that's just me, though.  Everyone loves hitting the light.  One thing that aggravates the hell out of me is when someone hits the pedestrian light as they cross the street (without waiting for their own pedestrian light), leaving us all to hesitate for twenty or so seconds because the walker just wants to piss off the drivers.

Then, though, there are the Nervous Nellies, the people who won't cross a car-less street unless there is a crosswalk light blinking.  They could be the only humans on the planet, and still they would not cross without a light and a voice booming, "WALK LIGHT IS ON FOR ALL CROSSINGS..."

Today, we encounter a boy of about thirteen, maybe older, and he is on his bike.  He is wearing bright gold clothing so we can see him, he is wearing a helmet, and he is observing the rules of the road, for the most part, by waiting for the pedestrian-light to cross.  However, there isn't anyone coming.  It's just me, waiting at the light, and the boy with a clear and open egress.

Still, he hits the light and waits.  And waits.  And waits.  Finally, the walk-light comes on, making my red light last even longer.  Bicycle Boy heads across the street in front of my car, and pedals down the sidewalk.  Hmmmm.  Funny how the rules of the road (Don't ride your bike on the sidewalk.) can be broken, after all, huh, kid?

I watch him roll down the way, wait for the green light, and go one block over to my daughter's house.  I am today's DD, so I drop my daughter and her neighbor, then I turn around and head right back out to the street again.  This whole process takes about one minute.

After we wave good-bye, I head back toward the center of town.  Even though no one is coming in any direction, the lights are all red.  I hear the voice from the light mechanism, 'WALK LIGHT IS ON FOR ALL CROSSINGS..."

Damnation.  It's that kid again, and now he's coming back across the same intersection he just sat for an entire two minutes waiting to cross in the first place.  This kid is like a pilot practicing touch-and-go's:  Here's here, then he's gone, then he's back, then he's gone, then he's back...

In general, I'm proud of this young man for wearing a bike helmet and for trying to stick to at least some of the rules of the road.  In particular, though, I am disappointed that this kiddo doesn't have the sense God gave him to cross the road when it's clear of traffic, even if the light doesn't recommend that he does.