CONTINUING THE EGG SALAD SAGA

Continuing the egg salad saga, I boil the eggs (the large ones and the two small ones), and let them cool while I go back to work to conduct Back to School Night in my classroom.  I hate Back to School Night because it's my annual Dog and Pony Show, and I'm really not good at it.  I'm fine in front of the kiddos; I'm not so fond of adults.

Luckily, my grueling schedule of four in a row without a bathroom break pays off at Back to School Night because it means I can sneak out of school a little early and beat the traffic jam of everyone trying to exit at once.  When I arrive home and open the door, the smell of boiled eggs assaults my nose.  Yes, my house smells like a giant fart.  Of course, with middle school children who don't know yet what deodorant is, it kind of smells just like work does.

I make the egg salad, complete with the usual onion powder and garlic powder and dry mustard and salt and pepper and lite mayonnaise.  I don't top it with paprika this time because ... well ... sue me, I forget to do this step.  I am thinking about paprika while mixing the egg salad, then I space out.

I make myself a half an egg salad sandwich before sealing up the container to be put away.  As I reach to place the container into the fridge, the whole concoction slips from my hand, and by "slips," I mean to say the container flies through the air, does three triple loops, a double-back somersault, and I swear it performs a flawless jackknife before landing upside down on the floor.

Afraid to look, I slowly turn my gaze downward, fully expecting the cheapo container's cover to have sailed away on its own, and fully anticipating egg salad carnage spread out over the entire kitchen floor and cabinets.  I am sad all of a sudden, sad that I worked so artfully on my egg salad only to have it potentially strewn at my feet.

I cannot stand here forever, though, fridge gaping open and egg salad container in distress.  When my eyesight clears enough to see the damage, I realize with incredulous recognition that the lid ... has ... stayed ... in ... place.

Yes, yes, yes!  Egg Salad is saved!  Huzzah!  Kalloo-kallay!  Whoooooopie!

I grab the container, turn it over, tamp it down slightly, then lift the lid to see.  The contents may be slightly askew, but most of the egg salad is safe.  Some of it clings to the lid, refusing to reunite with its brethren, traumatized by its horrifying decent past the shelf and onto the ceramic tile.  That's okay because I will scrape those stragglers right onto my bread tomorrow when I make my lunch for work.

Take THAT, egg salad.  You may put up a good fight, but I will definitely get in the last licks.

Dear Stop N Shop:

Just an FYI about eggs. 

I have been buying eggs for a very long time.  I have been eating them and baking with them for even longer.  I am by no means an expert, but I think I've got a good handle on eggs in general.

I don't have perfect eyesight, either; this I know.  Perhaps this is all my fault.  Had I checked inside the carton and had I been wearing my better glasses, maybe I wouldn't be sending you this letter today. 

But, alas, so be it.

I'm no expert, and I'm no 20/20 visionary, but I can tell when I'm being duped.  So, Stop N Shop, from now on, not only will I be opening and touching each and every egg in the cartons until I find a decent dozen, I will also be wearing my best glasses to catch the next time you put small eggs into a carton and label it "Large eggs."

Sincerely,

The Woman Whose Batch of Egg Salad Came Up Short

BOOKS AND BEER DAY

I am all excited.  Today is Read a Child a Book You Like Day. This is a fabulous holiday.  I could celebrate this holiday every single day of the year. 

I still have some of my picture books from being a kid, and I also re-bought several of them when I worked at the book store: The Enormous Turnip, The Lonely Doll, The Country Bunny and the Little Gold Shoes, Harry the Dirty Dog, Blueberries for Sal, and, one of my all-time favorites, Sam, Bangs, and Moonshine. There are many more I still need to replace, including Lyle Lyle Crocodile and Andrew Henry's Meadow.

Being a middle school teacher, I am also fond of ordering books I remember (along with new ones), such as Harriet the Spy  and From the Mixed Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler.  Ironically, I skipped over many of the young adult recommendations and went right to adult fiction (starting with horror, but it's no surprise since I was a huge Poe fan) only to have to revisit the novels I avoided in order to teach them to my students: The Cay, Island of the Blue Dolphins, and The Pearl (by the way -- Kino kills Coyotito; count the shots).

Needless to say, this day is very, very exciting.  There's nothing like reading a child a book that you enjoyed yourself when you were young.  However, this holiday is not the only one celebrated today.  No, siree. Today is also National Strawberry Cream Pie Day, National Good Neighbor Day, World Rabies Day, World Maritime Day, Fish Tank Floorshow Night, and International Right to Know Day, which is crazy-funny since it is also National Ask a Stupid Question Day.

Today is also National Drink Beer Day. 

Not that reading your favorite book to children isn't enough, because it is.  It's just a little twisted that the day you're supposed to entertain children is also a day to imbibe in beer.  Hence, my friends, why I am all excited!

THE TOE(S) KNOWS

As if my week hasn't started off shakily enough, I decide to leave work on time and maybe get some stuff done at home, for a change.  A smart idea, right?

First, I stop at the store for a few items we need: milk, dinner, etc.  I have to take the long way there because of traffic, and still, I get stuck behind more traffic.  Great.  A quick drive turns into a scenic tortoise pace.

Then, I get home to start laundry, and I only have a load and a half.  I decide to wash the jumper that I'm wearing, since there is room.  When I pull it off over my head, it takes the shirt I am wearing along with it.  No, I need that shirt.  I put the shirt back on, but I somehow have the darn thing partially inside out, so I have one arm through the arm hole that is inside out while the rest of the shirt is outside out.

I get that straightened up, but now I need shorts because I can't run around in underwear.  Well, I CAN; it's my house.  I head over to the new location of my shorts (since I rearranged everything this summer), and I misjudge the rowing machine I have in my room. 

Not only do I catch my pinky toe, I snap it back to a ninety degree angle.  I hear it and feel it crunch, but, when I finally can breathe enough to look down, it is back where it belongs.  Throbbing, reddish, and screaming, but definitely back in its original position.  Basically, anyway.  When the initial throbbing settles to a dull ache, I haul the machine into the spare room and dump it in the middle of the floor.

Oh, well.  It has been a bit of a half-assed week, anyway; might as well pile it on.  I wonder what tomorrow will bring!  Maybe an earthquake.  Tsunami.  Satellite through the car windshield.  I may not be ready, but I sure as hell won't be surprised.

SHREDDING MY LIFE

Since I am stuck inside on Sunday due to the incredible heat outside and the football games on television inside, I aim to be productive.  I start cleaning out my files. I decide to get rid of the files for my old cars (who cares if spark plugs were changed in a car I don't own anymore), taxes older than ten years, paperwork from old loans, and a whole bunch of medical receipts from ages ago.

I don't even get to my writing files, and I already have a pile of recyclable papers that is twelve inches thick. Today is a good day to run the shredder because no one else is home.  Sometimes when I turn the shredder on, it affects the cable reception and pixelates the television screens, so the only person being bothered by the shredder today is I.

I start running the machine, and eventually it stops working.  This is not the first shredder I've killed, so I know the drill.  First thing to check is the paper receptacle.  Yes, it's full; problem solved.  I continue shredding, emptying every so often as I go.

But, it doesn't take long for me to jam the gears for real.  I unplug the machine, grab the large tweezers, clear several shreds of paper, and then I am back in business.  This happens twice more before I finally unplug, check the gears, and find ...

Nothing.

There is no jam.  I play with the gears, anyway, because every time I plug it back in and turn it on, it just sits there with the light on but no action.  After about ten minutes of this, I declare the shredder DEAD, put the rest of the papers aside, and whistle taps.  The top of the shredder goes to the trash; the bottom will become another trash can somewhere around the house.

Oh, well.  Guess that means I can stop going through the files.  Recycling goes out Tuesday, and I doubt I'm going to run out and buy shredder #3 before then.  I'll have another two weeks before the recycling company picks up again.  I should be good to go within two weeks.. 

Until then, FOOTBALL!  Life is good, and the television picture isn't pixelating anymore.

FOOTBALL RECOVERY TIME

Recovery mode continues.

The bug itself is clearly gone -- fast, furious, and fleeting.  The upside is that I am quickly over the sickly part of being .... well .... sick.  However, I've been over-extending myself for the last three weeks, and all it takes to knock me completely down is twelve hours of bleeeeeeech.  The downside is that my body thinks it's on an energy vacation.

Today is a perfect beach day.  PERFECT. I have been salivating about today for a week, knowing that I will get in one more for-real, summer-like ocean adventure.  I set my alarm for 8:00 a.m., which gives me time to grab my gear, get on the road, and be on the shore by 9:30.  That means three hours at the beach before I rush home for Sunday sports on television.

Except that when I wake up at 7:00 a.m., I clearly will not be rallying for a walk on the beach.  There's no way I want to sit in the hot sun and melt.  I don't have the energy for any of it.  I shut off the alarm and sleep for another hour and a half.  Well, my beach morning may be off, but my football afternoon doesn't rely on me expending any energy whatsoever.

Looks like today's big non-beach adventure is a trip to the supermarket for food, crackers, croissants, and ginger ale.  I may be in recovery mode body-wise, but my mind is all about football today.  Nothing brings on a better rally than sports, so if anyone is looking for me, I promise that I am relaxing in the big comfy chair with all the necessary food groups except the beer.  Ginger ale will have to suffice.

ABANDONING MY PATIO POST

I'm recovering from a bout of stomach flu.  It's a beautiful day out, so I hobble to my patio for some fresh air.  Unfortunately, my patio is directly under a maple tree that has been infected with blight.  This means that my patio is loaded with fallen leaves.

I creep down to the basement, grab a rake, and make my way outside.  It only takes me about ten minutes to clear the patio and the front walkway of leaves, but I'm not up to hauling them across the street to the small wooded area, so I leave a large pile out front, then rake a huge pile off the back of my patio into the oblivion of the backyard.

I sit outside and try to do a little school work.  This is a good way to pass the time of just being still while working on my recovery.  Until, of course, more nature invades my territory.

First, a butterfly decides my hair is a good place to dive-bomb.  Then, a grasshopper jumps and jumps and jumps into the wall where I am trying to enjoy some solitude, and it keeps bouncing backward and smacking into my feet.  Finally, a little beetle lands on my work and refuses to be shooed away.

Add to this the fact that the sun is beating down directly on me, and it's hot as semi-Hades today.  Suddenly, I am not feeling as recovered as I originally thought I might be.  Twenty minutes after settling at my patio table, I abandon my post for the cool fans of the inside world.

Oh, well.  A little fresh air is good for mind and body.  Time for ice water and crackers, anyway.  Hopefully, tomorrow will be a better day, perhaps even a beach day.  My stomach will be sure to let me know.

DEAR BLOG

Dear Blog:

I am sick today.  Last night, too. 

I thought it was from the PTO breakfast, but then I realized that I felt out-of-sorts all day yesterday.  It hit me full force after having a late lunch and a couple of beers with friends.  No, it wasn't the beer.  Sorry to my mates who went out yesterday, but I have the full-on stomach flu.

Blame me if and when you get sick.  I'm sorry. 

I should've known.  I felt weird all day.  ALL DAY.  I even told several people, "I don't know what's wrong with me.  I feel out-of-sorts."  And that's exactly it.  Not myself.  Thought I was tired or just maybe in a bad mood about something at work.  Couldn't peg it.

Nope.  Just hugging the bucket.  Oh, kids.  Oh, adolescents and the things they bring to school with them.  Oh, germs!

Now that the dawn has broken, I can at least sit up, but I'm not going anywhere today.  Two grand wine tastings, even.  Dang.  Right now, I am scared to even sip water, though I know I must replace fluids.

Anyway, I am semi-sitting and have managed to change clothes and put on deodorant.  I even brushed my squirrel's nest of a hair-do.  This is progress.  Again, sorry to my mates.  Blame me.

COFFEE LITE AND A THREE-DAY BET

I'm not much of a coffee drinker.  I just started drinking it in the last year, though I've always loved the smell of it.  I drink iced coffee, not the hot stuff, and I prefer it with a shot of flavor: caramel, pumpkin, or peppermint.  But, if all else fails, I'll drink an iced regular without batting an eyelash.

Strangely enough, when I order iced coffee out, I'll order high-test (fully caffeinated) without any residual after-effects.  When I make my own iced coffee at home, though, the caffeine makes me jittery.  I don't understand this at all, except perhaps that I tend to make my coffee strong enough to peel paint off of the walls.

Still, caffeine has never been my enemy.  Before I gave up soda, I could drink a six-pack of Coca-Cola and fall asleep with no problems (except my bladder).  I am not, however, a fan of caffeine-free anything.  That's just wrong on so many levels.  The only time I went caffeine-free was for a month before massive foot surgery because it was screwing up my circulation.  It was a choice of chocolate or my foot, so I gave up the chocolate ... for a few weeks.

Until tonight, I've been combining hi-test coffee grounds with semi-hi-test coffee grounds: Half of the filter is filled with full-on caffeinated, and half of the filter is filled with the lite version (half-caf).  I guess that puts me at about 75% revved up.

Now, I am empty of both canisters of coffee.

I replace the hal-caf, but I do not replace the high-test.  I am about the enjoy my last few rounds of the semi-caffeinated concoction, and I'm not entirely certain that the lite version is going to be able to keep me going through what is rapidly becoming a series on ten, eleven, and even twelve-hour work days.  I can't get ahead of myself (nor on-par with myself, for that matter).

Considering I've entered the coffee-drinking game very late in my working life, I'm more than a little shocked at my concern over my dependence on the stuff, even though I sip at what can be considered a reasonably small amount of coffee in my large travel mug (lots of ice gets my coffee through lunch).  I figure I have a week more of my 75%-high/low-test grounds combo before I take the 100% lite version for a whirl.  I am betting I go no more than three days before breaking down and buying another canister of high-test to add to the coffee maker.

Wish me luck.  And, if you work with me, wish us ALL luck.

PART OF ME IS READY

Part of me is ready for fall.

I know, I know.  I'll bitch and moan and complain when I'm cold and when my skin itches from the dry air.  I'll talk about how my growing-out hair is constantly electrified and that I give myself shocks everywhere I go.  And the snow.  Man, oh man, will I ever bitch about the snow. 

But, I am a little tired of this sweating thing.  Yeah, yeah, yeah, I'm still having hot flashes (thanks, youthful constitution), so part of the whole sweating thing will never go away, apparently.  I am ready, though, so very, very ready for that fabulous sleeping weather of autumn.

Of course, I am also very excited that it looks like beach weather for at least part of the weekend.

Okay, so maybe I'm not totally ready for fall.  To be fair, I did say that at the outset.  The same part of me that loves the beach is also the part of me that loves  cool, leafless walks through the woods.  I'm a conundrum ... a sweaty, uncomfortable conundrum.  Only part of me, though.

TREE DOWN!

My back door has a landing with steps going two different ways.  If I exit the door and turn right, I end up on my patio.  If I exit the door and turn left, I walk down two steps and fall into the oblivion of the backyard, a drop of about six feet.  The left turn is officially the Path to Nowhere, which also has a distinct advantage: If I cannot get to the backyard from my patio steps, no one can get to my patio steps from the backyard.

This is a win-win situation.

Directly outside of my back door is a seven-foot tall, dead tree trunk.  Before I moved here, when I lived in an apartment two houses over before the current owners took possession of this property, there were massive trees here.  One of the trees was so large that there was no room for a driveway and the roots encroached on the buildings (a main house out front and the converted carriage house out back).  That giant tree had to come down.  Several other trees came down, too, and one of them was the tree that left behind the seven-foot tall, dead trunk.

The trunk may seem like an eyesore, but I see it as eclectic in a naturalist, artsy kind of way.  Not only does it have decades of rotting personality, a team of boring (as in: making giant holes) bees nests inside of it every spring.  I actually have to yield my patio to them in April for a few weeks until they leave for the safety of the new leaves in the small grove behind the backyard.

I photograph that dead tree trunk when the autumn comes because ivy grows up it and turns wonderful colors.  I photograph that dead tree trunk when it snows because it happens to be in the sight line of a great natural scene with a bit of creep thrown in from the cemetery up the hill.  I photograph that dead tree trunk sometimes just because ... because it is rotting away with an interesting and expanding pattern.

Today, though, after living here for over a dozen years, I receive a text from my youngest, who has arrived home from work for his lunch hour of food and video games.  "Tree by the back door fell over.  What was left of it."  And, he attaches a picture.  Eventually he returns to work, and that's the last photo contact the tree and I have until I can make my way home to witness the horror for myself.

When I finally do get home, the first thing I notice is how naked the far end of my patio is.  Now, my stairs to nowhere really do go nowhere because there is nothing in my sight line anymore.  I walk to the edge of the concrete and peer down six feet.

There, sprawled on the ground with a fence post still jabbed into its side, is the tree trunk, resting like a dead soldier on the hard ground.  The freshly broken end has rolled away from my house, and part of the stone wall (along with the fence post) has rolled away with it.

Poor dead tree.  Poor old trunk.  Poor bees and termites and other creepy crawly things that called it home until its untimely demise sometime over the course of this morning.

Part of me is a little pleased that next April, if I am still living here, my patio will not be commandeered by those wood-boring bees.  Mostly, though, I am just sad for my decrepit, departed pal.

When the first snowfall comes, I will probably forget the tree is gone and head out for that same picture I have taken every snowfall for years and years, the one with the giant snowflakes reflecting in the back door light with the tree trunk in front and the distant trees behind.  The tree won't be there, though.

The chunks of rotted stem of its former trunk remain, constantly reminding me that my time here in this house, like the tree that once was, is probably coming to an end.

BEER AT THE OUTLETS

I am not much of a shopper.  Actually, shopping causes me great distress, and I often look at it as a full-contact sport.  Saturday, I find myself within spitting distance of the Kittery outlets, which, just knowing this, gives me the heeby-jeebies where traffic is concerned.

After the Great Stump Removal Adventure at my niece's house, my sister and I decide to stop for a beverage before heading our respective ways: She on I-95 North; I on I-95 South.  We throw around the idea of iced coffee, which would be just fine with us both, but then I get a brilliant idea.

"Okay, Google, breweries near me."

There are several, of course.  We've been to Red Hook when we did a 5k on Memorial Day weekend, and there are several in Portsmouth, which involves another level of traffic nightmare that makes Kittery pale in comparison.

Aha!  A couple of miles away near both I-95 ramps is a little place called Woodland Farms Brewery.  The only disadvantage is that it is smack-dab in the midst of the Kittery outlets.  Oh, what the hell.  We have battled stumps and heat and humidity and near-broken bones today.  We are warriors!  We can take on the crazy shoppers and their crazy driving.

The brewery is tucked into a mini-strip mall near the south end of the route 1 strip, which means we really don't have to sit through too many traffic lights.  The parking lot is reasonably expansive, so we find side-by-side spots along the side of the building.  When we get out of our cars, we are equal distance from the brewery front door and from the Starbucks front door in the next strip mall.

Decisions, decisions.  We could still go for that coffee.  Nah.

Inside the brewery, a small but clean little place, we get some advice on the various beers and end up with a flight to share.  Yes, to share.  We have been sweating all day long and have not eaten dinner yet; considering our drives, splitting a flight is a smart choice.  She picks two; and I pick two.  This is a great idea because one of the two beers that she picks, I never would've considered; one of the two beers that I pick; she never would've considered.

Without realizing that the place is fully stocked with games (because we are semi-exhausted and probably not thinking straight), I run out to my car for a deck of cards.  We proceed to have a heated game of Rummy and then several heated rounds of Gin Rummy while we sip.

I cannot at this moment recall the names of the beers we try, but the brewery just rolled them out this week, and the beers are not necessarily posted on their website.  We try a pilsner, their Oktobetfest beer, a blueberry beer (of which we want a second, but we get the last of it, much to the other customers' dismay), and a chocolate and coffee stout (of which we order a second).  Every single one of them is outstanding.  OUTSTANDING ... and not just because we are hot, tired, and thirsty.

I am now rethinking my shopping mentality.  Perhaps hitting the Kittery outlets isn't going to be as painful as I remember from the one time I've done it before.  After all, chocolate (ale) and blueberry (ale) await me when I finish shopping.  I'm not really seeing any downside to that.

STUMPED

My sister is going to help one of her daughters remove some stumps from the yard.  My niece's house is halfway between my house and my sister's house, not an unpleasant ride, so I decide to run up and help.  Besides, I had a successful run on some other stumps the last time I attempted this at her house.  I am bound and determined to repeat my performance.

The first thing I notice when I arrive is that we are working on a short but steep hill down near the edge of the river that borders the property.  That's okay; my balance isn't the best, but I'll work with it.  The second thing I notice is that I forgot to bring gardening gloves with me.  That's okay; I have paddling gloves with leather paddling; I'll use those.

The stumps we all attacked last time were up near the house and were relatively self-contained: small tree stumps and leftover bushes that needed to be replaced.  These stumps, however, are a lot more involved.  These stumps and clumps of stumps are the size of small cars, and the roots are as wide around as my thigh.

This is not going to be an easy task.

We dig, we clip, we cut, we saw, and we jiggle the stumps.  Some of them come loose and come out of the ground.  Some of them, though, are connected with gargantuan umbilical cord-like underground structures.  When we move the root near the stump, the ground vibrates four feet away.

I am completely convinced that if we pull the roots of all these stumps, we will pull down her entire house thirty yards away.  I am Hawthorne's character Alymer, and my mind plays the same trick on me as his, only instead of cutting out a birthmark only to find it connected to his wife's heart (a dream), I believe I will pull on a root and collapse my niece's entire house and lot.

Determined to try one last stump, I attack the thing a little over-zealously.  I jab the shovel in under the loose part of the stump and figure I will get a little leverage if I can gain about four more inches of soil.  With the shovel poised, I balance myself on the hill on my right foot, place my left foot against the shovel's edge, and push all my weight against the shovel with a strong kick.

Remember those Wile E. Coyote cartoons?  Remember how he would run into something and fold up like an accordion as the object, such as an anvil, refused to yield?  This is what my ankle does -- It pulls a Wile E. Coyote.  I not only feel, but I can hear the sproooooiiiiiinggggg sound my ankle makes when it comes in contact with the shovel that has made contact with the mega-giant-root system.

Instantly I yowl and continue to yowl and suck in my breath as my sister runs over.  She asks me if I am all right, what did I do, and do I need help.  I still cannot speak, it hurts that much.  I am afraid to look down, so sure am I that I have given myself a compound fracture.  I don't even care that the ground below me is damp and slightly muddy from the digging; I sink to the ground and sit there, giggling stupidly but really wanting to burst into tears.

After about two minutes I am able to speak coherently.  No, there is no bone sticking out of my ankle, but my leg is still zinging and my ass is now crusted with mud.  As an added insult, the stump is still firmly in the ground.

RUNNING THE GAUNTLET AND CHOCOLATE, TOO

I took a new job at work.  Technically it's only half a job because I share it with someone, and it's only really an additional duty with a lot of minutiae, so I suppose I'm down to about an eighth of a job.  Either way, it's a boatload of paperwork.

Data is involved, which is fine because I love math and I am one of those sick people who often picks up old algebra or trig books and starts going through problems for fun.  Don't judge me, especially if you're a person who does puzzles, cryptograms, or Sudokus; it's the same mindset.

The problem this year with my new eighth of a job is that the data we usually use to start our school year isn't coming on time.  This means we have to create the data we need. Pissah.  Luckily, my cohort and I have back-up data, and, with the help of our whole fabulous team, we manage to collect 67% of the data we need by Friday, with the other 33% due at any moment.

The data processing will take about four hours total with two of us working, including making all the copies we need to distribute to various WIP (Wicked Important People).  This is all fine and good, except that we only have forty-five minutes to accomplish this goal.

We start by signing out the machine that will score the data for about 400 Scantron sheets.  As we are rolling the machine down the hall, another teacher comes up to us and attempts to hijack the machine.  I, Wimpy Dumpy One, almost give in.  After all, he only has 200 items; we have 400 items.

My cohort, Mighty Tiny One, steps into the line of fire and wields her sword.  Clearly, if anyone gets in the way of our data collection, he or she will resemble the Black Knight standing in the way of the search for the Holy Grail, and no one is biting off our legs today.

We run our data through the machine, and our co-planning time is almost up.  While I wheel the Scantron machine to the patient teacher so he can run his data, my cohort starts the slow, painful process of entering and calculating data.  Well, I suspect that she suspects that's it is painful.  I figure we will do all the calculating at another time because, hey, our time is done and it's Friday afternoon, and we are supposed to pretend that we have lives.

The problem is: I am itching to process the data.  I mean, it's MATH!  This is the shit I do for FUN!  I try to talk Mighty Tiny One down: We have time; this isn't due today; we still have another week until we really need to worry about this.

Turns out to my cohort is as much a data geek as am I.  We agree to work only fifteen more minutes on the data and split the chore in half.  Fifteen minutes turns into thirty minutes.  I have work that I really must do, so I take a twenty minute hiatus, as does she, to get prepped for Monday.  When the day ends and my Parking Lot Pals come by to collect me, I have about ten more minutes of prep to do rearranging group formations of desks and putting piles of paper where they belong on my own desk, so I release my Parking Lot Pals to their weekend lives and continue moving furniture around.

This is where I should say that after ten minutes, I pack up and leave for the weekend.  I should say this.  This, however, is far from the truth.

My cohort and I decide to finish the data.  We are more than halfway through.  Besides, it frees up time next week if we finish this here, now, today.  The thought of picking it up mid-calculations next week will only give both of us agida over the weekend.  So, I sit my fat ass back down in a student desk and finish the damn data.

Once the data is done, we need to make copies.  If we make copies, we can actually return all of the random worksheets to whom they belong and get this minutiae permanently off of our plates.  It is a maximum of fifteen more minutes.  I'm in; she's in; we are all in.  All we need are five copies of each data set.  Five.  This is very simple math.  Five plus the original set equals six copies.  5+1=6.

I make my five copies of my data.  She makes her five copies of her data.  We return to the room with six copies of the data in our hands.  We each take one set of the data and put it into our own data files, which means that we are down to four copies.  6-2=4.  Then, we attach one copy of the data to the original Scantron sheets, which means we are down to three copies, right?  4-1=3.

So far, the math is flawless.  We run the original papers down to the mailboxes.  But wait.  The door is locked.  Actually two of the four access doors are locked.  This leaves us two options: Go all the way around and hope the far door in the connecting school is open, or run the gauntlet past a few stragglers in another office.  This is a great idea except that if any single one of the stragglers should see us and ask us a question, we will be obligated to engage in a very long conversation for which we do not have the time.

We carefully open the door, casually sneak past the open doors of the people working at their desks in their offices, then run as fast as we can.  I, of course, am faster because, although I am the Wimpy Dumpy One, my legs are far longer and faster than the legs of the Mighty Tiny One.  I reach the far brick wall and hide behind it like a secret agent from Mission Impossible, playing the theme song in my head as I go.

Success!  The mailboxes are filled, and we sneak back through one of the locked doors (because we can access them from the inside), jaunt down the hallway, and giggle at our success.

We have three folders left for three WIP (Wicked Important People) who need this data.  I have three copies of my data.  I put one into each folder.  Yay!  I'm done!  I can finally go home!  I ask my cohort for her three copies.  She produces two.

Two.  Not three.  Holy Hell, we fucked up our math!  We spend fifteen minutes checking and rechecking everything.  We count and recount.  I look through my stuff; she looks through hers.  We check the copy machine.  We check every corner of her room and of mine.  Nowhere can we find the last set of papers that we are quite certain, without a shadow of a doubt, that we copied.

Oh, shit.  What if we accidentally put them in the mailboxes?

Down we go again.  My cohort and I have to make a second pass through the Offices of Possible Blab, running the gauntlet without being shanghaied into a conversation for which we've no time.  I assume we are going to do this together as she swings the door wide open.

No.  She lets me go first and hesitates.  Clearly if anyone is being shanghaied, she will blast past to freedom and leave me to sail off on some unknown ship to my doom.

Damnit.

Once I realize she has put me out as bait, I give a quick glance behind me and run.  I not only run, I book it.  The cameras inside the office hallway will attest to that should anyone review the footage on Monday.  I wait at my hiding spot behind the brick wall until Mighty Tiny One turns the corner, her feet scuttling as fast as they can, her hair sailing behind her.

We check the mailboxes.  Nope.  The extra copy of papers is not there.  It's not anywhere.

This time, we take a different way back, straight through the main office, stopping to steal chocolate from the candy jar the secretary left behind.  We earned it.  Then, we go back to the copy room and make another set of the papers.  Now, we have seven copies with one in absentia.

Finally, all we have to do is fill the last of the folders with her three copies and go home.  We put the copies into the folders, put the folders aside, and close our own binders.  It's starting to get dark out as the weather changes, and it seems like it is much later than it actually is.  I am suddenly exhausted and quite ready to start my weekend.

This is when my cohort giggles.  She makes a face, hesitates, then picks up a pile of loose papers.  The sixth set of copies has been hiding under her binder the entire time.  How it got under her binder is a mystery to both of us since we clearly organize everything in piles as we  go along.  This, my friends, is what we call a clear sign to stop working.

We stay too late, we laugh too long, and we have way too much fun on our recon mission to the mailboxes.  However, the work is done.  Well, it's 67% done.  The stuff we have today is done, and that's all that matters.  Oh, and we get chocolate.  That's important, too.

SAYING GOOD-BYE TO REPO MAN'S MENTOR

My brothers and I speak Old Movie.  It's like regular language, only better.  Some people speak gibberish and pig Latin, and often we speak in subtle and not-so-subtle profanity.  But, our true medium is made up of quotes from obscure and not-so-obscure movies.

Our favorites include The Cowboys, Airplane, Blazing Saddles, and Dr. Strangelove, or How I learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb.  One of my brothers set his phone's ringtone to Slim Pickens riding the nuke in the end of Dr. Strangelove.  Every time his phone rings in his pocket, his butt cheek screams, "Yeeeeeehaaaawwww!  Yaw!!!!!! Yeeeeeaaaaahhhhhh!"

It's fucking classic.

There is also one other film that rounds out the top five quotable movies for us: Repo Man, a true American classic by executive producer Michael Nesmith.  Yes, THAT Michael Nesmith; the Michael Nesmith from The Monkees.  He read the script when a clever writer presented it to him in comic book format, and the rest is cult history. 


Repo Man stars a young Emilio Estevez as a punk turned repo guy and an old Harry Dean Stanton as his repo boss mentor.  Bud (Stanton) tells Otto (Estevez) such wise things as: "The life of a repo man is always intense," and "If you dress like a detective, people think you're packing something."

There will be no more great advice for the Repo Man, though; Harry Dean Stanton is dead.  He died this week at age 91.  Stanton, an amazing actor with hundreds of acting credits to his name, was one of those character actors you see everywhere but remember from nowhere.  He transformed himself over and over again so that you'd think you had seen him before (you had) but you could never quite place him.

HDS will always be Bud to me.  It was and remains my favorite role he ever did, and, though the movie lives on, it just won't be the same without Stanton.  So, to honor Bud and to semi-quote both Bud and my brothers, I wish the late Harry Dean Stanton the kind of advice only a Repo Man's mentor could muster:

"Have a nice day. Uh, night. Night.  Day.  Doesn't mean shit."  It's all the same now, Bud.  Enjoy the endless ride in that '71 Impala.

MONSTER MISTAKE TRAIL MIX

(Picture ... NOT see-through)

I should know better. 

I've fallen for this trick before at Market Basket and at CVS.  Now, I allow Stop 'N' Shop to dupe me.  I. Should. Know. Better.  Shame on me.

There is only ONE Monster Trail Mix.  ONE.  And it's only sold at Target. 

Sure, sometimes when I'm jonesing for Monster Trail Mix, I will simply buy the best, sweetest trail mix I can find, but none (other that Target) dares to call itself Monster Trail Mix.  Imagine my extreme joy and ultimate shock when I am in line at the register and see a packet of Monster Trail Mix at Stop 'N' Shop.

I immediately start thinking, "Is Monster Trail Mix a generic term?  Nah.  Wait.  Is it?  Nah.  But, then again..."  I look at the picture on the small packet; it sure looks like the real deal.  What the hell; it's only ninety-nine cents.  Why not, right?

(Again ... picture, NOT see-through)

Why not, indeed.

When I get the packet home and open it, I am greeted with almonds (not in real Monster Trail Mix) and raisins the size of my thumb.  It sure looks like someone stuck figs in here instead of raisins, and there's no way in hell that I am attempting to eat that shit in case they really are figs, or worse, prunes.

Halfway through the small packet I realize that I have not yet come across the miniature chocolate chips nor the miniature peanut butter chips that are in Monster Trail Mix and that are pictured on the packaging of this imposter.  By the way, two M&Ms do not constitute actually adding M&Ms, in my humble opinion.

Note to self:  Monster Trail Mix (in small packets, in bags, in plastic tubs) is ONLY available at Target.  All other imitators will go directly into the trash after opening.

GETTING THE LAST OUT OF SUMMER - PART THREE

First of all, it's damn depressing that summer has decided to actually be here once I return to school.  Thanks for that, summer; just thanks.  Second of all, it's damn depressing that the weekend isn't supposed to be as decent as it is during the week (of course).  However, I am still managing to pull summer out of my ass.

I have been wearing summery dresses to work, wearing sandals, and wearing light sweaters even though in the morning it's more like thick jacket weather.  Yes, the heat is on in the car going to work, and the air conditioner is on in the car coming home.  Today, I even turned on the air conditioners in the house for a while.

With all the struggling to wring the neck of summer until there's very little left (maybe a touch for Indian Summer -- no, that's not racist; that's what it's called -- in the dead of winter would be nice), it's heartening to see a little bit of it in return.  Yes, even though the neighbor's maple tree has been dumping dead leaves on my car and patio all summer, there is a ray of hope in the dwindling season.

My gardenia plant is blossoming.

My son and daughter-in-law and granddaughter sent me a gardenia plant for Mother's Day.  Too late for spring blossoms, I've attempted to care for the plant all summer long, knowing full-well that I'll probably kill it through no fault of my own.  I am cursed when it comes to plants.

To my surprise, the plant sprung a blossom about two weeks ago.  I was so excited that I pretty much texted every person I knew to tell all of them.  Today, though ... today, fall blossom number 2 makes an appearance. 

I know, I know; autumn blossoms don't really count, but it is still technically summer, and I did tend to the plant all season. I should think this qualifies.

So, ladies and gents and anyone else in between or beyond, I now present to you: Heliand, Plant Whisperer!  Blossom #2! Sure, it may be its fall blossoming, but it reminds me of summer, and I already miss summer, even though, technically, it's still here but gone.  Gardenia blossom, you beautiful little open bud of sunshine, YOU are my summer extension #3.

GETTING THE LAST OUT OF SUMMER - PART TWO

Work, work, work.  Today it's go-go-go all day, from the moment I get to work until I get out of a late meeting, making it a nine-and-a-half hour day.  When I leave work, it's warm and sunny and gorgeous out.

I know exactly what today needs.

I head to the store, spontaneously shopping as I go:  Bananas, strawberries, tomatoes, mozzarella, and some hamburg.  I have hamburger buns and cheese at home already.  I have not eaten anything for about six hours, and I am craving barbecued burgers and caprese salad with some fresh basil from my Frankenbasil plant.

Within an hour of entering the store to shop, I am home, and there is a juicy burger sitting in front of me on a plate garnished with the salad I've thrown together.  Barbecues can go on all year (providing the snow doesn't bury the grill like it did a few years ago with 100+ inches of the white, frozen crap), but there's something about a spontaneous, post-work-day barbecue on a sunny, warm, fabulous late summer day that makes the burgers taste better than ever.

Work, work, work turns into eat, eat, eat, and I forget all about the work I brought home with me.  It's all okay, though.  Technically, it's still summer, and sometimes that's enough mindset to make everything better.

GETTING THE LAST OUT OF SUMMER - PART I

A few wonderful days in a row have finally materialized post-Harvey afterthoughts.  Yup, Harvey's leftovers caused us some crappy weather for a few days, but now it is finally pretty darn nice. My sister has a recital in Maine, so I shoot up there early and take a quick Kennebunkport tour.  I figure most of the people should've gone home by now.

I figure incorrectly.  The place is still mobbed with people, tourists who cannot cross the street without making assholes out of themselves, and people who do not understand the concept of actually pulling off the pavement to glance at the ocean or the Bush mansion. 

The drive through leaves me feeling about as comfortable as my run through the street fair gauntlet: I'm suffocating.  I work my way down Ocean Avenue, disgusted at the lazy woman who takes her time getting out of the passenger side of a New Jersey car that decides to stop dead in the middle of the intersection.

"Yes," I say out my window at her, "because it's ALL ABOUT YOUUUUUUU."

Finally, I break away from the masses.  Several years ago I walked/semi-jogged a 5k here on a post-Thanksgiving day when my Achilles tendons were still blown and when the temperature never got above 17 degrees.  It's quiet back here, beautiful, and I pull over often (into designated areas) to snap photos.

I stop at Blowing Cave Park, a place where high tide spews surf spray into the air.  It is not high tide, though, but the views of the ocean and the Bush compound on Walkers Point are impressive.  Decades ago when I was accidentally elected to student council in junior high (the girl who was elected stopped going and I somehow ended up next in line), our end-of-year party was at a house on Walkers Point.  Bush senior was governor then, and no one was home there, so we raided his beach of sand dollars and crept onto the porch to peer inside.

When wrapping up my Kennebunkport adventure, I don't return through the Lower Village.  Instead, I go the back way, stop at Patten's Berry Farm for a few goodies, and sneak into Arundel.  I arrive in plenty of time for my sister's recital, time enough to eat lunch and eat the blackberries I bring from the farm stand.  Much like the slow tourist from New Jersey, I've come to realize that this glorious day is all about MEEEEEEEEE.  Okay, and my sister ... but a lot about me, just the same.

PEACE, QUIET, AND WAY TOO MANY PEOPLE

Generally speaking, I prefer peace and quiet.

Today there is a fair in the center of town.  It's not the kind of fair that rivals a real fair; it's more of a mini street fair with some stuff to buy, some stuff to eat, some music to listen to, and lots of companies and groups handing out flyers and hosting booths.  At the far end of the street fair is the farmer's market, which, compared to real farmers' markets, is also rather tame, but, considering the crowds, is just the right size.  In the middle of it all are rides for kids, and there are people dressed up as princesses handing out trinkets to children.

I don't like crowds.  This is really no secret to anyone who knows me.  I tolerate crowded situations, but my aversion really stems from the fact that I hate most people, so being among multitudes of them makes my skin crawl.  However, I am on a quest for local honey, so I must face my fears and make my way through the street fair, from one end to the other.

I have great hopes for myself.  I even have a pocket full of money.  Okay, not full, but I have $100 with me, and I have honest intentions to stop and peruse some of the stuff for sale as I go by.  I start at the end of the fair where the giant stage is, but, instead of music, politicians are speaking.  Ugh.  Boring.  Save me.

I pass the first table, a flea sale of used items.  I am trying to get rid of stuff, not add to it, so I walk by.  Next up is a booth of fur coats and stoles.  I have only walked about ten feet into the fair, and I am already picking up speed.

Slow down, feet.  Slow down.

I weave from one side of the street to the other in an attempt to avoid people handing things out and wanting to talk.  I pass free pens and free food samples and free cards, and realize that I am halfway through the street fair, and I haven't stopped anywhere.  I also realize that I am halfway through the street fair, and miraculously I have not run into a single person I know.

I see people in martial arts uniforms: karate, tae kwan do.  I am a judo girl myself, so I don't stop for these booths, either.  Suddenly, a tall man is in the street, and two teenaged girls cut in front of me to get to him.  Is he a pop star?  A famous actor?  Someone I should know?  I stop and for the first time today make eye contact with a human.  The man smiles and hands me a plastic bag with something inside of it and says cheerily, "Free fidget spinners!"

The girls grab them and hoot and holler.  I back away as if the man has suddenly slapped me.  "Oh, God NO!" I reply.  "I'm a teacher.  I HATE those things."

I have almost completely run the gauntlet when I see my daughter and her neighbor.  They are walking from their apartments right near the farmer's market end of the street fair.  "What's down there?" they ask me, seeing as I have emerged from the thick mass of wall-to-wall people.

"Fidget spinners," I tell them, as if that is the only thing there in the throng of booths and demonstrations and music and food.

We hit the farmer's market, buy some sunflowers, taste some wine, and finish my quest, the quest that brought me here in the first place: local honey.  Before I head home (not through the gauntlet this time -- I will take a short cut past the empty book store building), I wander over to my daughter's street where the neighborhood is having a mini-impromptu party in honor of the street fair.  The sunflowers are now decorative lawn art, there are snacks and refreshments for all ages, and I enjoy a mimosa.

I'm really sorry, street fair.  I tried.  I did make it through the crowds, and I did make it from one end of the fair to the other without swearing, pushing, screaming, nor hyperventilating.  People and I?  We don't get along, and that's the truth.  Two hours later I take my honey, cut through the far parking lot, and mosey home, sneaking through the cemetery to take a picture through the trees of my house.

I apologize to friends and acquaintances at the street fair who, by all social media posts, have a wonderful time, but I just can't do crowds.  I run the gauntlet, I get my local honey, and I enjoy the mini block party, but I am really, truly, honestly happy when the music and noise and chatter fades behind me about a block from my house.  I take a deep breath and listen ... to the peace and quiet.

THE GAME OF SLEEP

The first few days of school, I'm tired, but not so tired that I can sleep.  I am restless every night -- first unable to fall asleep, then unable to stay asleep.  I know me and Fridays in general: I'm going to be asleep by 9:00 p.m., and I'll sleep great!

Right?

Not so much.  I am a bit wired when I get home.  I've had a strange first week, and a couple of emails and professional conversations have made my teeth rattle, but, all in all, I am really happy to be back in the educational saddle again.  I come home late on Friday, worked up and worked out but, surprisingly, not tired.

I make dinner, watch some truly horrible reality television, dabble on social media, attempt to create a Web-based lesson plan, then figure I should go to bed.  I mean, I might feel a little tired, so it must be 8:30 or so.  I glance at the clock.  10:41. 

Huh.  Still not truly nor wearily tired.  That's weird.

I start playing games online.  I play three games of Yahtzee against the computer, and I win two of them.  Yay, champion!  I play Spades online, too.  I don't really understand the scoring system, but I know the rules, so I play several hands of that.  At first, I am wide awake.  Then, I start to notice that cards are being played, and the other three make-believe players at the make-believe card table are waiting for me to make a move.

Yes!  Finally tired!

I head to bed somewhere around midnight with high hopes for a great night's sleep.  No storms tonight, no rain for the first time in three nights, and it's great sleeping weather (heading into the fifties for temperature).  I fall asleep only to wake up about an hour later.

What the hell.

I am up again about two hours after that and again around 5:30 a.m.  I am starting to think I should get up and get my day going.  I am usually up at 5:00, anyway, during the week.  Just as I embrace that thought, I realize that more than three hours have passed, and it is nearly 9:00.  Honestly -- my best sleep happens when I figure that I don't have another second of shut-eye available.

With any luck, next week's sleeping will be a little more consistent and rhythmic.  After all, it has been weeks since I've been in the groove, and I need to get myself back into the habit of going to bed at a decent hour and actually using sleep to my advantage. 

In the meantime, don't worry if I speak in tongues or look at you with glassy-eyed stupor in broad daylight.  I'm just a teacher suffering from back-to-schoolitis.  It will pass ... by June.

LOVING TOMATOES

Thank you, friends with gardens.

Although I am currently having remarkable success with my $6 basil plant, I usually cannot grow anything.  I am the most untalented gardener I've ever met.  I don't know shit about ... well ... shit.  I wouldn't know what to feed a plant if it spoke to me and told me.  I don't have a green thumb; I have a black thumb.  Everything I plant in the ground, dies.

So, it is wonderful when my garden-capable pals give me fresh vegetables.  This season I have been especially joyous over the tomatoes that keep coming my way.  Because I do actually have basil, I can use the fresh tomatoes to make amazing caprese salads.  I broke down and got myself some dried cilantro, and I also use the fresh tomatoes to make a kick-ass fresh salsa recipe that one of my sisters-in-law taught me.

I am probably going to cry when the first frost arrives.  Oh, sure, I'll move my basil plant inside and hope for the best over the cold months.  Remember, though, this was a $6 investment.  I'm not going to kill myself over the basil plant.  I will cry, though, over the fact that my fresh tomatoes will now have to be make-believe fresh tomatoes from the grocery store.

Please don't even try to convince me that a tomato grown down south or way out west and transported here via truck is anywhere near as fresh as the ones my pals snap off the vines and hand to me.  I'll be stuck with those transplant-tomatoes all winter, and I will cry a little bit at every salad until next summer rolls around and, with it, farm-fresh vegetables.

So, thank you, my gardening friends.  Thank you for making my summer worthwhile.  I love you dearly, but I love the tomatoes ever-so-slightly more.

I'M JUST NOT READY

What the ... Hey .... No.  Just noooooooooooooooooooo.

It's 7:30 p.m., and it is so dark outside that I have to turn on both the outside and the inside lights.  7:30.  Seriously.  When did that happen?  It seems like just yesterday it was summer vacation.  Okay, maybe a few days ago, but still.  7:30?  7:30. 

Depressing.

I do like the fall.  I even have a semi-fondness for the winter, although I dislike shoveling snow more and more and more and more the older I get.  I'm not ready, though.  I am not quite ready to give up summer.  I'm already back in the saddle of work, so vacation really is done.  I have to throw in the summer towel, but does Mother Nature really have to follow suit so damn quickly?

It's stormy just west of here, so I'm going to pretend that the clouds are obscuring the last of the daylight along the horizon.  It may not be scientifically accurate without fault, but I am really having a hard time with this whole "gets darker earlier" crap.

I am NOT ready.  I'm not ready, Mother Nature.  I'm not ready, Science.  I'm not ready, Earth.  I'm not ready, Autumn.  I just want a little bit more time, a little bit more daylight before November, when it's pitch-black dark by 4:45.  Sure, you'll give me September and October to get acclimated, and that's very noble of you.  I'd really like to accept your gift of six to eight weeks turnover time.

But, the truth is, I am not ready.  Not yet.  Nope, not quite yet; I'm just not ready.

WATCH OUT FOR MY GLASSES

Has anybody seen my glasses?

I am scheduled to go to the opthamologist in November, and I know what he is going to say because it is the same thing he has said for two years: I need progressive lenses.

So far, I have managed to pass the eye test enough to be able to drive without glasses.  Still, I like +1.25 and +1.50 when I drive at night because the lights blur my clear vision enough that it bothers me.  I can still see, but it's a little wavy, and that makes me nervous.  I have since graduated to wearing them most of the time when I drive during the day, as well.

For reading I need about +2.50, but I buy +2.75.  My eyesight has worsened over the years, and it depresses me.  I used to be an eagle-eye; now I'm turning into a wishy-washy eye.  Years ago when I had foot surgery (and when +1.50 was all I needed for reading), I ordered six pairs of glasses to place strategically around the house.  Nothing was more depressing than hobbling at a snail's pace from one room to another only to realize that I had to hobble right back again and get my glasses.


While in North Carolina about a year ago, I was driving a rental car at night when I realized that I had on my reading glasses and not my driving glasses.  My driving glasses were back at the hotel.  So, my daughter and I hopped over the state line into South Carolina, found a Wal-Mart, and I bought myself +1.50 glasses.  Phew!  I could see again.

I spend my entire day, whether at work or at home or on the road, changing over one pair of glasses for another.  It's annoying, but it's very cost effective.  I buy my glasses on sale at Christmas Tree Shop, where I get three pairs for $12.  Recently, I had a coupon, so I actually got two pairs for free.

Today, though, as I sort and get ready for the new school year, I realize that I have enough +1.50 glasses to open my own store.  I guess I should've invested in more of a variety of my +2.75s.  Oh well.  I only have to pick some coordinating glasses to complement my ensemble, and life will be grand every single day.

Don't judge me.  I could be spending my money on worse things, like cigarettes or escorts for hire.  Instead, I am buying myself cheap-ass glasses that I will eventually recycle to others who may need them.  In the meantime, enjoy my glasses; I have about forty pairs of them, and I like wearing different styles just to screw with people's minds.

I HAVE WOOL SOCKS; I CAN WAIT IT OUT IF I HAVE TO

I refuse.  Nope.  It's too early, too soon, too ... summer.  That's right; it's still summer.  I refuse to turn on my heat.

I close most of the windows the night before because the radar shows massive heavy rain coming our way on Sunday, and I'd rather not be mopping up water in the morning.  Still, I leave a few windows downstairs open slightly, and I leave windows open upstairs.

When I wake up in the morning, it's cold in my house.  Not chilly.  COLD.

I put on socks and a sweater to go with my knit pajama pants and shirt, and I go about my business for a while.  I close all of the windows that are still open, and I debate adding slippers and a knit hat to my ensemble.

I refuse to turn on my heat.  No way, no how; that furnace is not coming on today. I do, however, have an ace in the hole.  I have an electric fireplace.

I used to have two of them but one finally died.  I bought them when my furnace kept breaking during the coldest of cold spells.  It pulled the same stunt multiple times for three years in a row.  No matter how many times the landlord had the furnace people out, and no matter how many repairs they attempted, it still kept crapping out when the temperature would go below zero degrees.

Since I refuse to unplug the air conditioner, which I will need this week as temperatures soar again, I move the lightweight electric fireplace across the living room, plug it into a different outlet, and start it up.  It smells a little musty and dusty after not running since April, but it still heats up the entire downstairs in no time.  Heat even rises up the stairs and makes the upstairs a decent temperature, as well.

I have no objection to adding a little warmth to a chilly, rainy September day.  I do, however, have an objection to firing up my furnace unless it is absolutely necessary.  So, bring it, late summer.  Go ahead.  Give it your best cold shot.  Unless there's snow outside and frost on the inside (wouldn't be the first time), that furnace won't see the "on" switch flipped until October.  Besides, I have wool socks.  I can wait it out a little bit longer if I have to.

PEPTO-BISMOL TIME OF YEAR

Argh.  Night-Before-School agida starts the morning before Day #1.  Yup, the whole entire day long the stomach lets me know school is starting.  That tight-fisted grip in the center of my belly curls itself up into a tiny spiral of anxiety.

I have found multiple mistakes in my kiddos' schedules just comparing lists as I get my rosters set up.  Great.  I already color-coded stickers for their desks.  There's $6 out the frigging window.  I might as well have just opened the car door and started tossing money behind me as I drove away from Staples.  It would've produced the same effect.

I met some of the students during the Walk-About last week.  Oh, it was a hoot and a half, I tell ya.  One girl stage-whispered to her mother while leaving my classroom, "I like this teacher already."

I yelled back, "Oh, don't worry.  That won't last!"

I know what tonight will bring.  Tonight, the night before Teachers Return to School Day, I will toss and turn and maybe have a nightmare or two, and I'll probably show up to work with my hair in a tizzy.  Then, Day #1 of Show Time, which happens the following day, I will be unable to sleep through the night, and I'll show up to school with jets on my heels and bags under my eyes.

By Friday, I will look like someone purposefully slammed my face into a wall of concrete blocks.

There you have it.  Parents think kids are the only ones who suffer with Back-To-School anxiety.  You are wrong, so wrong.  So, if it seems like your children's teachers are walking zombies or hyper mental cases the first few days, cut us some slack.  Don't call us, email us, or meet with us until at least the first week has passed. 

Which reminds me: the parents with whom I have a meeting this Friday afternoon?  I apologize in advance.  I'll take notes and nod appropriately, but I have to be honest with you; I am not going to be able to recall a damn thing you tell me.  I'll be comatose by then.

September.  School.  The most Pepto-Bismol time of year.  Welcome back, everybody.

DO NOT THROW OBJECTS

My sister and I take an impromptu day trip to North Conway just for fun and as an end of the summer hurrah.  We have a couple of destinations in the GPS, but, other than that, we're winging it.

In between our start and end points is Cathedral Ledge, a cliff overlooking Echo Lake State Park and a popular spot of rock climbers and, in winter, ice climbers.  It's not exceptionally tall; it's about 500 feet, but it still would hurt like hell to tumble off the edge and bounce off one of the lower rock faces, and it would scare the hell out of the climbers and hikers.

We could hike to the top of Cathedral Ledge via a path that is just over one mile long, but we don't really have the time today.  This is stop number two out of three, and we need to be mindful of the daylight available to us.  We drive up the paved access road instead, unpack our lunches, and head toward the scenic overlook at the top.

I spy a path off to the right, the opposite direction of the other tourists, and my sister and I find ourselves on a relatively flat rock outcropping overlooking the connecting cliff, White Horse Ledge.  White Horse is only accessible via trails in the woods, so our view is completely people-free.  My sister, ever the daring one, edges toward the steep drop-off, causing me great agida.  I've never been one for heights, and I am especially wary after watching a youngster almost swan dive off White Face Mountain near Lake Placid several years ago.

We eat our lunch in relative peace, only bothered by half a dozen other daring people who assure me that there is another ledge below the drop-off, maybe twenty feet or so.  Yes, of course.  I'd only break my spine if I fall over, unless I bounce off that lower part and twirl into the eternity of the abyss between Cathedral and White Horse Ledges.

On our way back to the car, we circle the entire top of the ledge.  There's a fence over part of it, a short fence easily scaled by climbers reaching the summit and easily fallen over by anyone with a sudden case of vertigo.  Other times we have been here, hundreds of climbers are scaling Cathedral Ledge.  From the top we search the exposed part of the cliff and spot one climber about 250 feet up.  My soon-to-be nephew-in-law climbs this ledge for fun, and I get slightly dizzy peering over the fenced edge, part of me thinking the young man soon to be family is brave and another part of my brain thinking he must be slightly insane (for both climbing the ledge and marrying into our crazy family).

The one thing that really bothers me, though - even more than the sheer edges, the height, and the vertigo -- is the sign at the entrance to the summit.  I cannot even wrap my head around the fact that this sign is posted, that it NEEDS to be posted.  I am ashamed of people when I see this sign, ashamed that we have people so incredibly evil, or perhaps so incredibly stupid, that this sign even exists.

"Do not throw objects.  Rock climbers below."

How absolutely frigging much of an asshole as a person or even as a parent do you have to be that you or your children would even think this is something to do?  If I am up there and I see someone throw anything at the climbers, the next thing going over that cliff will be the thrower.  I try to imagine assholes throwing things at my soon-to-be family member or his friends, and it makes my blood boil.  It makes me nuts.

It blows my mind.  BLOWS.  MY.  MIND.

I take a deep breath (and a picture) and head back to the car with my sister.  We still have one more stop to make, and we are burning daylight.  Other than that moment of frighteningly baseless humanity, the trip is wonderful, the views are fabulous, and my lunch is delicious.  All in all, the company (my sister) isn't too bad, either.