REUNION OF A MOTLEY CREW

A friend and former classmate decides to get a few of us together for some beers at the local brewery.  This is great because I live within walking distance of the place, but I decide to drive because the brewery is at the bottom of a somewhat steep hill.  This means it's an easy trip to get there but a long uphill trek home.

What's ironic is that this friend is a wine drinker, not a beer drinker.  This is just one of the things that makes her great, though -- she's flexible with her friends, putting fun and convenient location ahead of her own personal comfort level.

The result?  A perfect combination of a few people, some of whom haven't connected since junior high school. 

Even better, we chat like we've never been apart.  Our conversations are animated, and our words weave over each other like kite strings on a windy day.  We laugh hard and we laugh loudly, and we're all trying to pay for drinks at the same time.  We're crowded in close at a small table like teenagers at school lunch, and we giggle ridiculously when any of us stand up, causing the benches to upend and dump the stragglers nearly into the aisles.

It would be nice to do this more often ... the gathering together part; not the dumping people off the bench seats part (okay, maybe that part, too).  Next time, though, let's consider the hostess who is the glue to this motley crew and find a nearby winery or someplace that serves her favorite wine.

Besides, if we keep being rowdy at the same place over and over again, we might pull a junior high move and get ourselves permanently suspended from the joint.

STRANGE THINGS YOU SEE IN A STORM

Growing up I was always taught that during a thunderstorm, one does not go outside. Of course, that doesn't include driving, which is what I do during the storm.  This allows me to see some crazy people doing exactly what they're not supposed to do: They go outside during a storm.

First of all, there are the errant exercise walkers and joggers.  It's bad enough these people are placing their lives in danger by exercising amongst carbon monoxide on main thoroughfares.  Couple that with an errant electrical storm, and these health-conscious people suddenly seem very unhealthy.

Secondly, there are gas station attendants.  Hey, I stop for gas in between storms, too, but when the attendant tells me he is outside PUMPING GAS when a lightning bolt hits nearby, well, kids, that's crazy talk right there.

Then, there's this third happening.  The grocery store I pull into when it's raining so hard that I cannot see anymore has a teenage boy walking people to their cars while carrying a metal-based umbrella.  Kid!  Your manager hates you; quit now.

By far, though, the Best Person Outside During a Thunderstorm goes to... drum roll ... the couple walking near the churches.  He is wearing a Batman emblem t-shirt and cape, and she is wearing a Superman t-shirt and is carrying ... in the rain ... a ukulele. Wait.  Not just carrying. 

PLAYING.  A UKULELE.  IN A THUNDERSTORM. 

What the heck is she singing?  "Hit me with your best shot..."

I'm not quite sure to which god or goddess she might be singing, but she is strumming along and belting out some tune for us all.  If she were smart, she'd be singing, "Gimme shelter..."  I imagine that the rain cannot be good for the ukulele, and, besides, it's thundering, people; GET INSIDE. 

STORM OPPORTUNITIES

Anyone who truly knows me also knows that I am not overly fond of thunderstorms.  Well, this isn't entirely true.  I don't like storms if I am in quiet buildings, like a house or a school, or a small shop, and I sure as hell don't want to be caught outside in the wide open.  I don't mind much being in a big store or a mall or a restaurant, and, for the most part, I don't mind being in a car.

Today while kayaking with my daughter, half of the sky turns bright blue while half is an ominous grayish-blue.  We decide that we don't like the looks of the sky at all, and we pack up and head a few miles toward home.  By the time we reach my street about five minutes later, thunder has started. 

Not one to hang out comfortably in my house during a storm, I decide to drive around.  I out-drive the first storm and am circling around for storm wave number 2 when a pal calls and wants to meet right about where the storm is headed. 

I do what any intelligent person does: I drive straight into the storm.

After what seems like nothing short of a twenty minute deluge, I manage to park my car, grab some things from the trunk (like dry clothes and shoes since I'm still in kayak gear, and my pocketbook), and get inside the pub before storm round #3 rolls through. 

When I leave to head home, I stop for gas just as small waves 5 and 6 are rumbling through.  The gas station attendant tells me one bolt of lightning from storm #2 (or perhaps #3) hit like an explosion nearby.  I joke that I hope it's not my house (which, actually, isn't a joke because my house is old and keeps finding itself in the path of errant microbursts).  Turns out that it's not my house.

I snap a picture of the ominous sky off to the right of the gas pumps, to the south, where the storms are.  I need to circle around to try and get the rainbow, which has faded almost away by the time I find a place to pull over.  I may not be overly fond of storms, but the photo ops are magnificent, and I'd be remiss in my duty as a building-scared but car-thrilled storm person.

THE INVASION HAS BEGUN

THE INVASION HAS BEGUN!

My town is home to a prep school and a college.  Technically the college has an address of the next town over, but the damn thing is in my town.  What this means is that every September, the stores, sidewalks, and restaurants are inundated with minions between the ages of fourteen and twenty-something. 

This is expected.

What is often forgotten is the invasion of the summer preppies.  Many of these summer students have never left home before, and many of them are city kids replanted in suburbia for the very first time.  They arrive wide-eyed and surprised at the small-town experience (ie: They have to actually WALK to get from point A to point B, usually a mile or so apart).

Today is the day.  Today, 650 preppies arrive.  This means I need to stay away from pharmacies, grocery stores, office supply stores, department stores, restaurants, pizza and sub shops, and any place the wave of walking teenagers happens to move.  They're like starlings, all swaying and turning in unison, and then they're like mice descending on businesses and gleefully clearing the shelves.

I might be safe at the library and at gas stations, but, other than that, I'm avoiding my own town center like the plague.  Summer is glorious, and, to be honest, the kiddos are a delight.  But, facts are facts.  Batten the hatches, people. 

THE INVASION HAS BEGUN.

FEEDING OUR HAPPINESS

My daughter and I head up to our hair appointments at a new place in New Hampshire.  Expecting horrible traffic (aka "The Usual"), we leave early and arrive way ahead of schedule because, contrary to every other afternoon we've hit the highway northbound, there is no heavy traffic whatsoever.

This leads to the important question: What to do to fill the time?

There's an orchard with a large farm stand building up the street, so we head in that direction.  When we get there, though, it turns out the place is an ice cream stand that maybe in the fall might have apples.  What a rip.

Turning around we pass a sign that points off to the right and claims "Pick your own strawberries, 2 miles..."  We don't have time to pick, but we do have time to kill, so off we go on an adventure.

Turns out this place is a pretty big deal.  They have all kinds of fields and orchards with several different "pick your own" options.  The farm stand (which is open and stocked) sells fresh vegetables and fruit, but it also sells specialty sauces, local honey, various other items, and home-baked goods.  I opt for a zucchini, and I throw in a slice of lemon blueberry zucchini bread and a slab of strawberry rhubarb crumble.

I pay at the register and look around for my daughter.  I find her across the street standing at a chicken wire fence.  She is reaching into her pocket and tossing quarters into a modified gumball dispenser.  By the time I get across the street to join her, I realize what she is doing.

My grown daughter is feeding the farm animals... and she is absolutely delighted.

Ten minutes and three handfuls of food pellets later, we leave the goats and sheep behind, landing at the hair salon exactly at the scheduled time.  Once our hands are washed (and our hair), we dive into the baked goodies, vowing to return to the farm stand long before our next hair appointment rolls around.

EPIC FINISH

I survive the last day of school, which is epic.  Trust me.  If you know anyone who teaches, they will confirm this -- the survival part, anyway.  On the last day, though, we have to stay for a while after the kids leave the building. 

This is where careful planning comes in.

The filing is mostly done, so I finish that up.  The chairs are up, but I'm not cleaning desks; there's no point until September.  I don't even wash my boards this June; someone will probably write on them during the summer, anyway.  My desk has been completely cleaned and reorganized.

Only one thing remains: sorting out the junk pile from the totem project that I decided was soooo important with three days left.  To prep for the project, I cut craft and construction paper, purchased 2500 little stickers, cut ribbon, bought glue sticks, created templates, found small coloring ideas, and ... (drum roll here) ... scooped thousands of sequins and small metallic decorations.

The last hour of school this year is spent sorting through the mound of leftover materials: little paper pieces go in one pile, stickers go in another, and the sequins are put back into little bags for next time.  If there is a next time.  I'm not so sure there will be because cleaning and sorting this stuff is almost maddening.

It's all done, though.  Next year when I debate the totem project, remind me of this moment because I will totally forget.  It's like childbirth: you forget how much of a painful process it is until you do it again, and again, and maybe even again.  When I open up my desk and see all the sequins in little bags, I'm sure I'll think to myself, "Hey, that wasn't so bad!" 

Sitting at my desk on the last day sorting it all out? 

Epic.  Epic finish.  As usual.

RENEWAL TIME

Ah, the joys of the electronic age.

I recently bought a used car.  I drove it off the lot in the evening, went back the following day and was handed all of the completed registration information.  I didn't even have to lift a finger.  I never went to the registry to stand in line for half of my lifetime, and I never even went to my insurance company.  The dealer even slapped on a sticker for me. 

I did nothing except sign a mountain of paperwork and drive.

My birthday is coming up soon.  Guess what year it is in the world of drivers' licenses?  Yup, it's a renewal year.  I started strategizing early: find a AA that has registry services, check the registry parking lot, perhaps block off an entire day to wait in line, make sure I have a good hair day ...

Then, the mail arrives.

Good gawd, the world is a fabulous place.  I can renew my license ONLINE.  This is wonderful news because my last license picture is the best picture I've ever had taken of myself, which is hilarious since I'd been driving around on an expired license for weeks and happened to notice it, so I ran to the registry that exact moment looking like a normal frazzled person.

I can hardly believe how easy this is.  A few clicks and a credit card later, and I'm in business.  Guess what!  My new license will arrive in seven to ten business days!  In the meantime, I've printed out the final page of the RMV transaction, and I'll save the confirmation email on my phone.  You know, juuuuuuuuust in case.

I love the internet almost as much as I despise waiting in line at the RMV.  Thank you, electronic age; you truly are amazing.

EXHAUSTION, FRUIT, AND SANGRIA

What happens when you start the day at an assembly, spend the middle of the day outside on a warm turf field, and finish it up monitoring a movie in the auditorium?

Exhaustion.  That's what happens; pure and unadulterated exhaustion.

In addition to being exhausted, I am starving.  STARVING.  Because I am slightly dehydrated and covered in sunscreen and sweat, I am craving fruit.

No problem.  I live near two stores that sell fruit - organic fruit, even. 

This all starts out innocently enough: red grapes and blackberries.  But, when I get to the store, green grapes are on sale, as are strawberries and bananas.  I come home with waaaaaaaaaay too much fruit; enough fruit for the entire neighborhood. 

No matter.  I put the fruit into small containers and pick at some of it before dropping into bed.  I am too exhausted to do much more, and, by the morning, I am not nearly so enamored with the thought of grapes, blackberries, bananas, nor strawberries.  However, they will make excellent additions to sangria once I have recovered enough strength to mix up a batch.

THAT'S A WRAP

Just a few more hours and this school year will be a wrap.  Of course, I have educator evaluation hoops to jump through this summer, so it's not really a wrap, but we do have to wrap up our rooms.

My teammate and I spend many late afternoons hanging out and getting our rooms packed up into the closets and various other places where we can hide our mountains of junk.  Today, day almost-done, we are both there way-too late (she later than I).

Yup, this sight is getting to be pretty regular.  It means we have no social lives, at least not for another few work hours.  After that, all bets are off, and my car won't see this parking lot for many weeks.  Until then, our cars will keep each other company, but at 2:45, kids ... That's a wrap.

I NEED A BREAK NOW

I need a break. 
I'm not sure I'm going to make it two more days.
My bullshit meter is already on overload.
I have lost the ability to be patient in the face of utter and extreme density.
I mutter under my breath ... and maybe over my breath, too.
I honestly don't mind field day at school, except it's late;
By this time of the year, I am as much toast as are the students.
I stay late at work to pack up my room.
I cannot get ahead of the paperwork.
The copy machine won't feed my original papers because of the humidity.
Anyone in my way gets whacked with a figurative sledgehammer.
I've turned into the Hulk.
I'm the woman in Airplane:

"I just gotta get outta here!  I just gotta get outta here!"
I cannot function anymore.
Yesterday I spent an hour doing important paperwork that I could not find this morning;
Lost the papers.
Gone.
Gone, most probably, into the recycling bin.
Of course, I printed them back out today and promptly broke my printer.
Yup.
Broke my printer when humid paper jammed in the machine.
I will find the papers in September when I return.
That's how it always happens.
But, right now, I'm mentally fried.

I'm psychologically tapped.
Everyone ... EVERYONE ... who interacts with me knows this:
I NEED A BREAK.
NOW.

TOTEM PROJECT DAY

Today is project day!  Yay!

I spend all day Saturday prepping multiple packets of stuff for a project I've suddenly decided that I must do: paper-towel tube totem poles.  I cut up pieces of craft paper, construction paper, buy 2,500 stickers, invest in eighteen glue sticks, and cut and tape shut twelve plastic snack baggies so that I have twenty-four packets of sequins and other metallic charms to distribute evenly amongst the classes and groupings.

In other words, the project is a GO.

I've never done anything like this.  The idea came to me while I was recycling paper towel tubes, and, since it is the end of the year and I'm short on time, I figure the worst that can happen is that kids glue charms onto their heads.  They're middle schoolers, so I kind of hope that they don't even joke about this, but, yes, apparently at least one child who shall remain nameless (Ryan) decides that gluing charms to himself will help his social life.

The project does not crash and burn as I am expecting it to.  Instead, it works out pretty darn well -- except for the pile of paper scraps and glittery metallic sequins and charms I have to sweep up using a very short, very small broom.  I know the janitorial staff will not be too mad at me; other than moving my desks around constantly, the layout of my room is relatively easy for sweeping, but I don't want to leave that kind of mess behind me.

Besides, if the totems start falling apart tomorrow, no one can trace them back to my classroom because my floor is practically spotless.

HEADACHE HORRORS

Saturday I evening I develop a headache.  No big surprise -- it's that time of year: crunch-time at work, plus it's allergy season.  So, when the ache starts, I don't really pay much attention to it.  I assume I will sleep it off and wake up feeling fabulous.

I fall asleep and promptly wake up within a half hour with a neck cramp and a headache, then I doze off again.  I wake up about two hours later with a headache, then I doze off again.  Three more times I wake up with aches, cramps, pains, and general malaise.
 

Finally, around 4:30, I force down a Tylenol.  Why didn't I take one sooner?  Because anyone who has migraines will tell you that putting anything into the stomach once a migraine has started is a sure way to need a bucket for several hours.

I continue my wake-pain-sleep-wake-pain-sleep pattern until 9:30 a.m.  At this point, my neck still hurts, but I can move my head around.  I wander into the bathroom to get a look at myself:  one eye lid is puffier than the other, my cheeks are red and swollen a bit, and my hair looks like something Medusa would've styled before saying, "Fuck it; the snakes will be an improvement."

To be honest, I look like Nick Nolte's mug shot.

I move slowly, making sure I really am still alive and that my head hasn't exploded sometime between rolling out of bed and putting on a clean shirt.  I decide tea is in order and hope the caffeine helps the last of the migraine on its way, then I sit quietly on the patio to sip the mug while listening to a fifteen-minute meditation through one ear bud.  Two ear buds is too much assaulting on my brain.

I finish my patio occupation with an hour of Pandora radio (Steely Dan radio), also through one ear bud, and finally give up when the humidity level outside surpasses "sweat-yer-ass-off" levels.  Between the humidity and the sweat, my hair now looks more like Little Orphan Annie's, which, I suppose is an improvement of sorts.

Hopefully this will be the last of the headache crap for the day because I still have work to do.  Maybe, if I'm super-lucky, I'll sleep soundly tonight and wake up not only feeling but also looking fabulous tomorrow, Nick Nolte be damned.

KAYAK IN THE CAR

It's official.  My two break-apart kayaks do not fit inside my new/used car.

I knew better when I bought the car.  I should've held off and kept looking.  I can fit 1.5 kayaks in the car but not both.  Dang it.

Actually, I only try to fit one into my car, anyway.  I am too lazy to carry the second one up from the basement, so I have to eyeball the space in the car.  I've never been very good with visual calculations, so it's still possible that I can somehow manage to get the second kayak completely into the car.  Perhaps I can jury rig the space including the trunk (although the trunk-to-back-seat area actually hogs up rather than adds space).

For now, though, one kayak is in the car, and I have the oars in, as well.  All I have to do is pack my life jacket and I'm good to go.

BEING RESPONSIBLE IN D.C.

Last Friday the vice principal came around and begged teachers to chaperone the Washington, DC, trip happening this week.  There were several last-minute emergencies, and the group needed one more responsible adult to take the spot.

This counts me out because even though I am an adult (on paper, anyway), I am not responsible.

One of the younger, wiser, far more responsible teachers took the spot.  It was probably a good decision since she is well-liked, fun, and is incredibly patriotic.  Besides, she hadn't yet been to DC, and I knew she was in for an eye-opening experience.

I'm not going to lie -- I was and still am a little jealous that she went on the trip.  Lucky, lucky girl.  Of course, right this moment after the week of high temperatures and humidity and a long, long, loooooong bus ride home (she kept updating the buses' extended arrival times), she probably doesn't feel lucky; she's probably already asleep.

Anyway, to make sure she knew we hadn't forgotten her, we kept in touch via texts.  I sent her a picture of the deserted school hallway, and I sent her a picture of her car sitting out all alone in the parking lot, waiting for her to return and drive it home.  I guess since I sort of watched out for her car, that makes me semi-responsible, right?  Right?  Maybe even responsible enough to volunteer next year...

TO SNOOZE OR NOT TO SNOOZE

I stay up way too late last night.  I am grading some gawd-awful open responses because the students are as done with the school year as the staff is, and nobody proofread anything before handing it in.  By the time I am ready for bed, my eyeballs are falling out of their sockets.

Then I remember that I haven't paid the credit card bills due next week.  Damnit.  After I get those bills ready to mail, I figure I might as well pay some others.  I suddenly remember that I received a notice about renewing my license, but I cannot for the life of me remember into which pile it was put.  I search the kitchen, the den, the living room, upstairs, downstairs, and then I make these rounds four more times before writing myself a huge note:  LICENSE RENEWAL.

By the time I get to bed, it's after midnight and I am pissed as Hell at myself for losing the DMV notification.

I toss and turn for a while because I am now completely agitated.  I finally fall asleep.  Usually I get up at least once, which I kind of like because I can tell myself things like, "Three more hours to sleep ... two more hours to sleep..." or whatever it happens to be.  When I wake up during the night this time, though, I glance at the clock, preparing to calculate my sleep-leftover time.

I try to decipher the clock from across the room, and I think it says 1:30.  I have to get up and pee, anyway, and now I can get back to the business of snoozing.  Right?

Wrong.  I am not quite sure what the clock really does say, so I slide on my glasses and glance over.  4:50.  Wait.  Wait a second.  4:50?!  First of all, I rarely sleep through like that, and, second of all, damnation -- I have to get up in twenty minutes.

By the time I get back upstairs from the long trek to the bathroom, which is inconveniently located at a distance from the bedrooms that corresponds roughly with the distance between Boston and Istanbul, the clock reads 4:53.

Pissah.  Wicked.  Wicked pissah.

Now, the conundrum.  Do I stay up or try to get back to sleep?  As I contemplate the state of my universe, I am hit by a massive hot flash.  Covers off, fan on, window open. Holy motherfucker, I'm melting like the damn Wicked Witch of the West.  Still trying to decide if I should roll off the bed and get on with my day or not, I think about how nice the fan feels as I start returning to normalcy post sweat episode.

The next thing I know, the radio-alarm is playing something, I'm not quite sure what because my brain is completely shut off.  Not only did I doze off again, apparently I have been comatose for about fifteen minutes.  I feel surprisingly refreshed after my extra shut-eye, which is good because I see my note to myself sitting on the kitchen table and start tearing things apart looking for that stupid DMV paperwork with no success.

I stay at work way too late and finally leave the parking lot a full twelve hours after my initial early-morning wake-up (4:53 p.m.), bring home a pile of work, and start packing it all away around 9:00 p.m.  I decide to do one more perusal through the same piles of paperwork that I have already searched at least a half-dozen times now for that missing DMV crap.

Guess what I find sitting right out in the open, mocking me and my exhausted ways?  Yup, the damn DMV paperwork, and it is exactly where I thought it might be in the first place.

I'd love to stay and chat some more about the sad state of my life right now, but it's getting late, I have to enter grades that I just completed, I have to get up early for work, and I am damn tired from last night's and this morning's sleep fiasco ... sleep-asco ... fia-sleep ...

Yup.  Once again, my eyeballs are falling out of their sockets. I'll be back during the night, or maybe around 4:50 a.m., if I'm really, really lucky enough to make it straight through two nights in a row.

MENTALLY, SUMMER IS HERE

Summer is here.
Okay, so it's not really here, but it feels like it is.
I'm craving some relaxation and a cold drink, so I hit the grocery store.
One lime, one lemon, and two bottles of tonic water later, I'm on my way home.
I should be doing some paperwork;

I should be cleaning the house;
I should be sorting junk that is piling up;
I should be prepping tomorrow's lunch;
I should be doing laundry (which I am).
What I actually do is sit on the patio;
What I actually do is play a game on my phone;
What I actually do is eat some fruit;
What I actually do is mix a cold drink.
Summer is here, not officially and not physically.
Mentally, though -- Mentally summer is here.

BEATING THE GARDEN HEAT.

Bloody hot as Hell here in New England lately.

It's not that it's too hot nor that it's too hot too soon.  It's just that the chilly season lasted way too long this year, and last week we had the damn heat on in our houses.  This week it's like a blast furnace outside.

These are New England extremes.

While I'm up in North Conway, basking in the shadow of a still-snowy Mount Washington yet melting in 94 degree heat in the valley, I am hanging around outside the church waiting for my sister's concert.  There are two benches near a tree, but there is also a lovely little reflection garden.

The reflection garden has stone seating and a bench, and I'd love to go and sit down, but the water jets are on, watering the plants and grass, keeping me at bay.  I want some pictures, though, so I edge a little closer.

What I fail to notice, or perhaps I just don't care, is that one sprinkler jet in particular is misaligned and is shooting up and over the garden while it rotates.  In the midst of snapping pictures, my thighs and knees and shins and feet get a bit soaked when the water stream passes by me.  At first I jump back a step or two, but then I realize what a welcome relief it is to be cooled down just a slight bit.

The watering system shuts off after about ten minutes, and my heat-relief vanishes with it.  Three black fly bites later and nearing heat stroke, I realize that the church where the concert chorus is rehearsing, and in which it they will perform, actually has decent air conditioning.  I probably should've sat my sweaty butt inside in the first place, but, truth be told, the garden and the benches and being outside in the presence of the White Mountains . . . spectacular.

It may be bloody hot as Hell right now, but it is also as peaceful and beautiful as Heaven, and these are extremes a New Englander can truly appreciate.

CONCERT ADVENTURE

My sister has a concert in North Conway, so I drive to her house in Maine and we make the trek together in her car.  We always have fun when we travel, even day trips, but this one seems too brief.  It's a shorter driving trip than I am anticipating, surprisingly less than two hours from driveway to parking lot.

Our sightseeing is even quicker. By the time we arrive in downtown North Conway, we have just enough time to trot over to the scenic vista on 302, snap some pictures, and head back to the church.  It's bloody hot out today, 97 according to the car's external temperature gauge.   Mercifully, the church is air conditioned.

What is fascinating about the trip, though, is the conundrum.  It may be scorchingly hot in North Conway, but nearby Mt. Washington still has a hefty blanket of snow cover.  We snap a bunch of postcard-worthy photos as proof, including one of the dash with the outside temperature registered. 

The church also has a Mount Washington theme (what doesn't around here), and there is a colorful stained glass window depicting the vista similar to the one we just photographed.  The church, with its strong acoustics, serves as a wonderful venue for the madrigals and the early music the group is performing. 

It's a beautiful late afternoon when we get back on the road, singing mostly made-up lyrics to oldies we barely remember.  It's okay to cut loose on the way home because the concert for today is over, and my sister's voice can have a little fun.  We arrive back in Maine too soon, the fun wrapping up so I can hop into my car and make the drive home since I have to teach the next day.

As far as sisterly adventures go, it's another successful outing, and we have the photos to prove it.

LOSERS' BRACKET

Cribbage is a card game that requires a little bit of skill and a whole lot of amazing luck, neither of which I have.  This extends to anything that requires bets to be placed, as well.  I don't gamble, play Bingo, buy lottery tickets, or play any games of any kind for money.


I have had enough close hits and close encounters to know that I have the worst luck of anyone I know when it comes games of chance and financial investments of any type.  Gambling is for me a giant Black Hole.

In case I forget this concept, I happen to be dealt this Cribbage hand today.  For your information, this isn't an optimal Cribbage hand.  It is, however, a relatively exceptional poker hand, which would be fabulous if we were playing poker.

I guess I'll go back to playing Solitaire on my cell phone.  At least when I fail at that, I'm just a click away from the Losers' Bracket.

IN CASE YOU MISSED IT

The other day at work the vice principal comes in to my room.  I think he's there to observe the final book project, the one I invited him to see.

No.  Something far more sinister is a-foot.

Turns out that some last-minute emergencies have left the school short two chaperones for the trip to Washington, DC, that starts on the Monday that is three days away (from when I get this news).

It's a tempting offer -- go to DC and not pay a dime.  Of course, there is the one small item of watching kiddos 24/7 while I'm there.  Also, New England finally has a stretch of decent weather in the forecast, while in DC, it's going to be in the 90's and 100's and HUMID.  I don't have enough clean underwear to get through a week of sweat-drenched sightseeing.

No matter.  In case you missed it,  WE ARE GOING TO HAVE SOME DECENT WEATHER DAYS. I'm staying put.  DC can wait.

DEER IN MY SIGHTS

Sometimes I look at the time and play Beat the Clock on my way to work; some days I don't even look at the clock until I realize that there are no other cars in the lot because it's 6:40 a.m.  Today is an early day, and I arrive ahead of almost everyone. 

As I come around one corner and near the massive school complex, I see a deer.  Certain that it will have gone into the woods by the time I inch up to it in my car, I am surprised to find it staring at me from about forty yards.

"Hello," I say casually as I stop the car for a better look.  I roll down the windows slowly.  "Hi, sweetie," I sing from my car.

The deer seems to be unconcerned with my presence.  As soon as I speak, the deer stops in its tracks and stares at me.  It stands there, rapt in my conversation, even when I threaten it with my cell phone camera.  I snap a few pictures, even at a distance.  I continue to take photos and chat smoothly.  The deer, in return, waves its stubby tail at me.

Finally, after about a minute or two, I say out loud, "Well, I have to get to work, deer.  Thanks for hanging out."

With a shake of its head, the deer turns and ambles down a long, freshly mowed path toward the soccer field far below my school and I turn my car into the parking lot, both of us getting back to our too-early day.

GASLIGHTED BY THE GAS METER

About four months ago: Postcard arrives in the mail.  I must schedule an appointment to get my gas meter changed to a new one.  I call the gas company. 

ME:  I don't own the house.
THEM:  It doesn't matter.  Gotta be done.
ME:  I don't own the house.
THEM:  We'll need to get into your house.
ME:  For the love of ... I don't OWN the house.
THEM:  Gas in your name?
ME:  Yes.
THEM:  Then we're coming in to change the meter in your house.
ME:  I don't own the house.
THEM:  Do you pay for the gas?
ME:  Yes, but --
THEM: -- And the account is in your name?
ME:  Fine.  When will you be here?

About two months ago:  My sister is visiting.  I cannot leave the house for four hours to eat dinner, nor can I cook dinner.  Why?  Because the gas company is coming to swap out my meter.  No one shows.  I call the gas company. 

THEM:  Our guy was there.  No one was home.
(I go on seven minute tirade in which every swear ever invented, some in different languages, comes out of my mouth.)
THEM:  Bitch, you CRAY-CRAY.  We gonna give you $50 in your account to STFU, girl.  But, if you don't let us in to change over the meter, we gonna shut down your gas.  How do you like them apples?
ME:  Shove them apples up your ass, bitch.
THEM:  Say, what?!
ME:  I said, "Come on back and let's do this meter change thing."

Today:  I put signs all over the place -- out front on the stone wall, on the fence post, on the house, on the side of the house, on the door.  Finally, the guy shows up.  He tells me he had a close encounter with my landlady the last time he was here.  I don't understand what my landlady has to do with this.  My name is on the account; I pay the bill; even though I do not own the house, the gas company is definitely coming to the house.  They guy seems legit, pleasant, even.  I cannot imagine how or why the landlady would turn him away the first time, though.  He replaces the meter, reignites the various pilot lights, and heads off on his merry way about fifteen minutes later. 

A few hours go by, and I am stepping out of a shower when the phone rings.  I don't have on my glasses, plus it's foggy in the bathroom since I never remember to turn on the fan until after I shower, anyway.  Not sure who it is, I answer it.  It's the landlady wanting to know why the gas company is on her property.  I tell her the saga of "not my house, not my meter, please don't shut off my gas."

LANDLADY:  That idiot was here a few weeks ago, skulking around the other side of your building and looking into the windows of the empty townhouse next door.  I asked him who he was and what he was doing, and he refused to tell me, so I booted him off the property.


And people wonder why I have to put out signs for clarity.  FML.

SMACKING THE SHIT OUT OF SILVERFISH

I live in an old house, a very old house to be exact, and it has its share of vermin.  For a short while I had an extremely bold field mouse that wreaked havoc with my kitchen counters and would sit out in the wide open, waving at us like Max the dog on the back of the Grinch's sleigh.  There has also been the occasional wasp in the house, a squirrel in the wall, and one year I was on perpetual stink bug duty.

One constant, however, has been silverfish.  I've talked about these creatures before -- extremely hairy, leggy insects that resemble overly-dressed centipedes.  Unfortunately, the field stone foundation and ancient wood frame of the house make my townhouse and the one attached to it very attractive to silverfish.  They're usually nocturnal (but not exclusively), and they like to crawl out of the bath tub drain and the heating vents.

Don't be freaked out.  It's not like an infestation or anything.  They don't invade like ants.  But, when it rains a lot, as has been the recent case, I'll see one or two or three in random places: walls, basement, bathroom. 

Personally, I despise the bastards.  Anything that can move faster than I can and resides in the plumbing just plain skeeves me out.  After a week of rain, though, I am not remotely surprised to see a small silverfish hiding in the tub when I get up around 4:00 a.m. and wander to the bathroom.  It's just a bit of a thing, not at all jumpy, and it freezes in place the moment I turn on the light.  This makes it easy pickings when I grab a nearby broom and smoosh the insect into about a million pieces, smashed body parts and hundreds of tentacled legs flying around in different directions.

Take that, ya little asshole.  Come bother me in my bathroom and suffer the consequences.

I turn around to put the broom back and damn near step on a much bigger, madrecita version of the silverfish.  This one is about four inches long and is right smack in the middle of the doorway between the bathroom and the nearby closet where I keep the broom.

I jump about two feet into the air and yell at the bug, as if calling it a motherfucking bastard is going to have any effect.  This one is unaffected by the light and by my presence, and it hatches its escape plan back toward the nearby heating duct. I quickly maneuver the broom around, which is amazing since I'm technically still half-asleep, and I attempt to crush the larger silverfish with the bristles.  I pick up the broom after the beating, and the fucker starts moving. 

Smoosh, smoosh, smoosh, whap whap, whap, smack, smack, smack!

Finally, I lift the broom again.  Severed thorax and other silvery fishy parts squirm across the floor (because these things keep moving long after the killing is done), and its disattached legs twitch independently for a few seconds.  I open the back door and, after three attempts, manage to sweep most of the silverfish up and over the door jamb and onto the stoop.

That's what I get for my false bravado.  Kill the little one, then nearly piss my pants over the big one.  Damn you, silverfish, and damn you rainy conditions that encourage the little shits to abandon their darker digs.  Thank goodness the sun is out when I come home from work because eventually I'll need a shower tonight, and I'll be happy to do it without an uninvited, rain-inspired, bug-eyed audience.

MEETING THE QUOTE-AH

Life does not present itself with enough opportunities to inject movie quotes into it, so, when the perfect moment actually does present itself, one should definitely seize the moment. 

Take today, for example.

New Englanders might suspect that it's early spring the way it keeps raining... and raining ... and raining.  In no mood to go to the store, I realize that I probably should if my son intends to eat this evening.  I sprint across the puddle-riddled parking lot, through the drenching, cold rain, then hem and haw far too long over what to cook for dinner. 

I don't want to use the self-check-out line because something goes wrong every time I use it, and I'm getting a great deal on chicken today.  No way am I taking any chances that the coupon won't compute.  I slide into line behind a charming elderly gentleman.  We chat for a few moments, then he motions to the front window through which we watch the rain pour down from the sky and flood down from the sidewalk overhang.

"We're gonna need a bigger boat," he laughs.  Indeed.

Earlier today I attend a somewhat contentious meeting, a continuation of yesterday's other somewhat contentious meeting.  I am trying really hard not to say anything out loud because everyone in the room knows that when I speak, I usually do so with pruning shears and a hack saw.  Occasionally, I use an axe, and every once in a while I go right for the bucket of acid, but today I am trying to show some restraint.

Namaste, I repeat silently over and over again.  Namaste, namaste, NAMASTE.

I listen to the other voices in the room, the other input, the other output.  Finally, I cannot stand it any longer, or perhaps my mouth and brain simply cannot remain disengaged for this long period of time.  Five times I try to speak, and each time someone else beats me to it. 

Finally, it's my turn.  By now, I'm a little ... agitated.

"At the risk," I say loudly, "of being a fatalist ... much like Slim Pickens riding the bomb at the end of Dr. Strangelove ..."  I glance around.  The science teacher starts swinging an imaginary lasso.  "What happens if this whole program should crash and burn?"

 Yup, this is my not-so-subtle way of telling the attendees that the proposal in front of us risks not merely crashing and burning; it risks crashing and burning on a huge scale, an epic way, an incendiary and nuclear way.

However, and I mean this in all honesty, if any team of people can pull off a miracle, it is this group, my people, my immediate co-workers.  There are times, though, that I feel like Major Kong when the airplane trap doors open and I'm yelling, "Wooooohooooooo!" the whole way to the crater.

For now, though, I'll steal a television quote and simply smile.  "Make it work," I tell myself quietly.  Just make it work.

WILDLIFE SANCTUARY

Yesterday I was a little iffy about an outdoor field trip in the rain scheduled for the following day.  This morning the sound of pounding rain wakes me around 4:30 a.m.  The forecast doesn't look good -- big downpours again around 10:00, right about the time we will be outside in the woods at the Ipswich River Wildlife Sanctuary.  Oh, well.  It's supposed to be chilly today, too.  Maybe between the rain and the cold, bugs will be at a minimum.

The rain subsides early, and it mists a little bit a couple of times while we are out on the trails.  Overall, though, it's a decent experience.  The mud isn't too terrible, enough to get our feet covered, but I'm wearing hiking boots, so I don't mind.  Besides, I am a mud lover, and this is kind of fun.  Lots of fun, actually.

The only bugs we see are samples from the wetlands and a solitary June bug that attaches itself to my coat, sending the youngsters near me into squeals of terror and an awed sense of admiration when I flick the large beetle to the ground, feel sorry for it struggling on its back, and turn the armored insect onto its legs again.

We are the only group from our team that gets to climb the tower overlooking the marsh, and I take two different groups to the top.  It's not a tall tower, but it has open-air stairs and sways badly as we walk up to the platform, which, as anyone who knows me will testify, is an amazing accomplishment for me as I despise both heights and towers of any kind. 

After taking soil samples and catching pond creatures in sieves (and encouraging the kiddos to touch the clay and the mud -- sooooo fun, and I mean that), my group meanders past the bat boxes (another signal for the girls to scream) toward the main area where we will meet the other team of students to eat lunch together.  The rain is picking up a little bit and the wind is biting more, but our team of one hundred kids is ready to go back to school.

Except for attempting to bring (and actually bringing) about ten ticks back with us, it's an exceptionally uneventful but successful trip in the teacher realm.  In the personal realm, any time I can be out in the woods is an excellent day by my standards, rain or shine.

FABULOUS DAY FOR A MEMORIAL SERVICE

Today is a memorial service for my friend's mother.  The weather report for the entire week is supposed to be rain, which doesn't bode well for my class's outdoor field trip tomorrow, but the report for the day is overcast and low 70's.  My friend's yard is set up with tables and chairs and audio equipment, so rain would be very bad for the service and for the guests, and it would mean technical sogginess and damp footprints being tracked through my friend's house.

The sky and the weather, indeed the entire universe, however, is no match for my friend's mom.  As soon as the service starts and as soon as the family starts to speak into the microphone, the sun breaks out and shines down onto the gathering.  A solitary hawk dances on the lofty drafts and loops over the service, circling and drifting as the speakers' words trail up into the air.  My friend's mother, a lover of nature, would probably find the surprise aerial guest a good conversation starter and would give us all a lesson on hawks and other birds of prey.

The air is slightly humid, and, just as it seems to be slightly too hot, a gentle but cool breeze comes along to make us all comfortable again, Mother Nature nurturing us all to be patient and keep our attention on the service.  Some high clouds reveal a burst of blue sky, and the day remains sunny and glorious until almost everyone has left to go home.

When the clouds return and gray up the afternoon, the flowers remain, reminding us of the bright and varied colors some people bring into our lives.

TWO HOURS -- LOCKED IN AND GONE!

It's my own fault. 

I know better.  I have better morals and better values than this.  I feel so ashamed for myself and for my entire family.  I am seriously pathetic and perhaps should branch out and get more of a social life.

I have options, I truly do: over two hundred channel options, to be exact.  Dozens of other activities call me.  I could be sorting the rest of the spare room, cleaning out the basement, paying bills, or posting grades.  I could be reading a book.  I could be grouting my bathroom.

But, no.  I am far, far too pitiful a person.

I suspect that confessing will not make me feel any better, either.  I suspect that it will make me even more atrocious than I already am.  I'd like to say that this is unusual for me, but it turns out that many of my weekends play out the same.

I'm not lying when I say that much of the time I am doing work for the final stretch of school, and it is soothing and helps me pace myself to have the television on in the background.  I can use this as an excuse, but I could be watching sports or listening to the music channels at the top of the dial.

Nope.  I.  Am.  Pathetic.

I am watching television; I am watching the Hallmark channel.  That's right -- Hallmark, as in really cheesy romance movies.  Once in a while a relatively watchable movie comes on, but tonight's movie (one of their all-new ones) is awful.  God fucking awful.  It's so incredibly awful that I still cannot believe (now that it's over) that I semi-watched it.

I am pathetic, and I have no social life.  Okay, that last part isn't really true, but, still.  I am pathetic, and that's two hours I will never, ever recover.

MANIACAL ENDING TO THE YEAR

Here we go again . . . the maniacal finish to another jam-packed school year.  Although there are still twelve-and-a-half more days, it's really more like eight with all the hoopla we have going on.  In true disorganized fashion, the students and I screech to the finish line like it's a NASCAR race.

It's my own fault.  As usual, I cram too many things into the year, and this is while cutting a lot of stuff out of the curriculum at the expense of new ideas handed down by state and federal mandates via people who've never been in a public school classroom except maybe to give a speech and piss all over the people working there.


I stay late at work Friday because the extra two hours I put in mean I can go home with just a heavy backpack and not a back-breaking backpack, the difference of about fifteen pounds.  As it is, my backpack is almost unmanageable even with two hours' less work in it.

One of my plans for the weekend: re-type part of or all of my test to turn it into a Scantron test.  Yes, I am going all fill-in-the-bubble-sheet.  Sure, I could re-type the whole thing and load it onto Google classroom as a cyber-exam, but, to be honest, the Scantron is faster, and the machine isn't backed up like the line at the copy machine to print pertinent results.

Once we have the final book exam under our belts, we still have several other assessments to pass through for the state and district, and, after those are finished, we have two projects to complete.  One night I'm so cranked up over planning everything and making it work that I can barely piece together three hours of sleep; the next night I'm so tired I sleep like the dead for seven hours straight.

It's all okay, though.  It's the usual end-of-school-year dash of the crazies.  We'll make it.  We might have a few scrapes and bruises, but we will not crash and burn.  At least, I don't think we will.  Come back and ask me in a few weeks when I've properly recovered from the race.

A CLOUDLESS, CLOUDY, PARTLY-CLOUDY DAY

Work at 7:00 a.m.

My children mock me for my cloud fascination.  It's true -- I've missed highway exits and probably caused multi-car wrecks behind me when driving distracted by clouds.  I'm a decent weather forecaster, though, based on my cloud observance.

I am completely unprepared on Wednesday evening when I hear what I believe to be the train (the tracks are within spitting distance) and realize that it's thunder.  Seriously?  I'm trying to work on the computer, but I check the radar and see a small but powerful storm almost on top of my location with a huge-ass line of bright, bold red (thankfully not purple) weather heading toward me several miles later.

Work at 3:00 p.m.

The payoff to this distracting and inconvenient line of storms is that Thursday should be pleasant.  It isn't.  There are low clouds hanging in the sky on my way to work.  Oh, wait, now the sun is out.  Nope, gone again.  A little ways up the road, sunny.  Cloudy.  Sunny.  In my eight-mile morning commute, my sunglasses and driver's-side visor become their own comedy show.  When I finally park my car in the work lot, there is a swirl of clouds in the sky with a blue-sky hole in the center.

Yes, it's going to be a good day.  Until it isn't.

It stays grayish off and on, but, as I leave work by the side door, it's sunny and hot and very humid.  I look up expecting blue skies, but, no, it looks like all Hell is about to break loose again.  Several times on the ride home, large splotches of rain tease the windshield.  I have a dentist appointment today, and I had been planning to walk there, but now, I'm not so sure.  I check my phone for weather alerts and discover that severe weather is threatening, yet again.

Home at 3:30 p.m.

A half hour after arriving home, I'm still planning to drive to the appointment, but a quick look outside proves that it's a crap-shoot guess as to what the weather will do.  The storms the alert alludes to are breaking into random showers across the nearby area, so I open my door and look outside.  Half of the sky looks like a perfect summer day, and the other half looks like a giant white-wash wave of snow.  If I am driving, I don't have any change for the meters, so I scrounge around my son's room and steal two dollars in quarters.  Yup, I'm not taking any chances; I'm driving.

When I emerge from the dentist after an hour, the air isn't as humid.  As a matter of fact, it's quite pleasant.  They sky is a gorgeous, cloudless blue.  Somehow, without any pomp nor circumstance, the entire day is saved.  Except that now it is after five o'clock in the evening.  I guess the evening is saved.

Home at 5:15 p.m.

No matter.  I get some cloud pictures (not as great as my pal's professional storm photography of yesterday's approaching boomers) to add to the blog.  If I don't post my cloud pics to be mocked, what fun would life be, anyway?  It's just a little something to share with my kids ... that drives them all absolutely nuts.