SPRING REARS ITS HEAD

Spring has been rearing its head here in New England: many days in the mid-to-high 50's, a few days in the 60's, a day in the 70's.  Hard to believe it's February, almost March, usually a time of snow and miserable, biting winds.

I do get a real taste of spring - maybe even summer - when I visit my son's family.  North Carolina weather, at least where my kiddo lives, is fabulous.  I've never had bad weather when I've been there.  Oh, sure, there was one thunderstorm (lasted maybe twenty minutes) and some spotty rain every so often, but it's gorgeous there. 

The difference, though, is that no matter how much spring pretends to be here in New England, everything is still bleak.  Lawns are still brownish, trees are still leafless, and flowers are nonexistent.  In North Carolina the lawns are lush, the trees are covered with blossoms, and there are some flowers peeking out and greeting the season that isn't quite here officially just yet.

Amazing how a touch of the future weather can assist in attitude adjustment.  Oh, don't get me wrong!  Seeing my son and his family is definitely the tonic that cures what ails me, but wearing short sleeves and not needing socks outside in February?  Knowing that it's already spring somewhere and soon to be so here?

It's downright rejuvenating (and incredibly tempting).

BRUINS AND SUCCESSFUL PARENTING

How do you know you raised your kid right?

My oldest son and his family relocated to Charlotte, North Carolina, several years ago.  Although they have assimilated to life in a place that doesn't really see winter (maybe a day or two or three a year), their Boston sports roots, especially the cold weather sports, remain strong.

As young parents, they are raising their children right, as well.  For Superheroes Day, their daughter wears a Tom Brady shirt.  They have a Boston sports team (Bruins) decal on their southern SUV.  The playroom is scattered with many children's books set in Boston.

I'm reasonably sure I did an okay job, though, when I visit to see the newest addition to the family.  While still in the hospital maternity wing, my son sets up the iPad and starts streaming the Bruins hockey game.  The little nugget sleeps through it, but still.  One of Baby's first televised sporting events turns out to be a Boston game.

I don't get to watch the whole game, mostly because I am cuddling with the new baby, but also because I have a plane to catch.  There's little reason (none, actually) for the Charlotte airport to be broadcasting a Boston-Buffalo hockey game, although we locals waiting at Gate C6 understand exactly how poignant the rivalry is.

In the end, the Bruins lose but I win -- Not only do I get a couple of gorgeous spring-winter days in Charlotte and with my son and his family, but I also get to see that my own kid has been raised right: Boston lives right there in a North Carolina hospital room.

That, my friends, is successful parenting.

QUEEN OF CARDBOARD

When recycling comes around this week, I will be the Queen of Cardboard.

So far I have broken down about twenty-five boxes, a bunch of cardboard packing items (beer boxes, cereal boxes...), toilet paper and paper towel rolls, oatmeal canisters, and various other items.I have two bags full of magazines I've finally caught up on, along with smaller bags stuffed with the confetti because I started the dreaded job of shredding unnecessary paperwork.

I have great intentions of building a desk that has been sitting in a box in my house for years, waiting for me to figure out where it will go and why exactly I need yet another desk.  I get so far as pulling out all the pieces and making sure that I have all the parts.  Then, to be really, really sure I'm going to build the desk, I break down that giant box, as well.

Of course, the newest family member arrives early, so I'm going on a plane trip, instead.  But, I do make sure all the cardboard (and other recycling) is ready for my return.  I even put the piles of it all in plastic to protect it from the snow and rain we're having off and on.

I don't know what the neighbors nor what the recycling company will think when they see the massive amount of stuff I'm putting out this week, but one thing will be certain: I am the Queen of Cardboard ... for a few hours, anyway.

AHA MOMENTS IN AND OUT OF BOSTON

My friend and I decide to go into Boston so she can buy a whole bunch of concert tickets for the summer.  She will save $7 per ticket by coming into the city and going to the box office.  Based on the amount of tickets she is buying, she will be saving $98 by our madcap misadventure.

We start by driving to the nearest T-stop, Oak Grove, but the lot is full and there are no spaces left on the street.  I hate the Malden T-stop because there is parking for about twenty cars, so we decide to go to Wellington.  Wellington has tons of parking, but it's located on the oft-clogged commuter routes in and out of Boston, and we are traveling during the height of the work-week.  Wellington is better parking for a weekend or evening venue.  On our way from Oak Grove to Wellington, we get adventurous and search for a garage near the Malden T-stop.  We have an "Aha!" moment when we find a garage nearby and it's not too expensive, so we convince ourselves that the expense of the garage is equal to or lesser than the headache of commuter traffic.

Once we arrive at the station, our wait for an inbound train is about three minutes, and we start debating while on the train which T-stop we want.  Since I have no idea which box office we are headed to (I only know the one at North Station), I'm just guessing based on the T-map above our heads.  We are headed to Park Street, near the Common and the State House, but that requires a train change.  I suggest Downtown Crossing, and my friend assures me we can walk the difference.

This is the same friend that also convinces me that any "quick trip" to Boston often involves seven miles of walking (which is fine with me), so it's hard to gauge where she is going with this revelation.  We get off the subway at Downtown Crossing, a place I have not been to in decades for some strange reason.  The last time I knowingly came in here was when a gaggle of us walked through to show my then-boyfriend's Texan brother-in-law the amazing and horrifying Combat Zone (porn hub) of Boston.  When I was a kid, we used to take family trips to Jordan Marsh to see the Enchanted Village at Christmas time and look in the decorated storefront windows in Downtown Crossing.  Now, though, Jordan Marsh has been replaced by more modern stores, and the old porn theaters have been restored to such wonders as The Paramount and, shockingly, the Boston Opera House (where I saw a ballet years ago - so I guess I have been here more recently).

All this time I've lived here and traveled in and out of the city, for some reason I didn't know that Downtown Crossing was within spitting distance of the State House.  Of course, it makes perfect sense, especially thinking back on some of Massachusetts' more sexually liberal male politicians, that the Combat Zone be within lunch-hour distance to their offices.  It's another one of those "Aha!" moments.  For some reason, I just figured the seedier parts of Boston (or what used to be the seedier parts) were more removed from the everyday happenings.  Go figure.

I also think it's hilarious that the porn district evolved into the theater district.  I mean, it's all along the same line of entertainment, if you really think about it: costumes, acting, shattered dreams, hopeful big breaks, music, dancing, schmoozing with the audience, money changing hands...

It's the box office stop that truly convinces me that I do not know Boston at all.  We are facing the Park Street Church, a place I have walked past probably a thousand times in my lifetime.  I have taken pictures of it many times (and again today).  It has a fascinating cemetery attached to it here in the midst of high-rises and skyscrapers, the Granary Burying Ground, where Paul Revere and Samuel Adams are buried.  To me, this is Hallowed Ground, and I've never, not once that I can consciously recall, never, ever turned around to see what's behind me.

Directly behind me is exactly where we are going: The Orpheum Theater.  How have I managed to miss this?  It's right here, in its own alley, tucked away and looking a little worn but still fabulous.  I mean, I must've seen this before.  I used to visit my friend when she lived right next to the State House.  There's no way that I did NOT know the Orpheum is located right here at Park Street Church.  And yet ... it never registered in my brain, and here is yet another "Aha!" moment for the day.  Just like it never registered in my brain that Downtown Crossing is two blocks (if even) away.

In the end, my friend gets her tickets, saves all that money, then we promptly spend it going out to lunch with her son who works a few streets away.  All the work to make a killing on ticket fees, and we spend it having fun, instead, so it appears to be a winning situation.  It is also a winning situation that I figure out more of my beloved home city.  I can't help it; I am directionally challenged and cannot find my way out of a paper bag.  But, I can recognize enough landmarks and streets to eventually find my way somewhere wherever it is that I happen to be. 

And now, if you need tickets, I can get you in and out of the Orpheum from several different T-stops.

I am so confident in my new-found ability to actually notice things that we leave the Malden parking garage and start randomly taking streets in the general direction where we want to go.  Never once getting on the highway, we manage to find our way back home with no wrong turns, eventually hitching up with a road by the Stone Zoo where we were in the first place trying to park at Oak Grove, another "Aha!" moment.  Although my friend is a highway driver and tells me every time we glimpse the highway on our travels, "Oh, look, there are people going seventy miles an hour," I am the driver today, and we are taking our time going home, never once interacting with other commuters.

It is, of course, another day full of misadventures and "Aha" moments, but mostly it's a day to spend with my friend.  That right there is worth any money saved or spent.

TEN MILLION THINGS ON THE TO-DO LIST

I hate when break is almost over and I haven't finished the ten million things I intended to do.  It just depresses me into thinking I am a worthless slug.  Honestly, though, I have been on the move since the moment I got home after work last Friday (the 16th), and I've accomplished quite a bit.

(Ready for the shredder)

My problem is that I start projects and don't finish them in succession.  I start one thing, then I realize that I have to do something else before I can finish up the project I started because there's something else that I've been meaning to take care of that's in the way.  For example, the back room that used to be my bedroom needs to have the last of the stuff cleared out of it.  I have old family photos that I promised to go through about four years ago, wrapping paper that finally finds a home, an electric keyboard that is plugged in and gets turned on periodically, and a huge pile of filing that is left over from the Clinton administration ... maybe even before.

This is all fine and well except for the box and the bag full of paperwork.  Some of this paperwork is legit, but most of it needs to be shredded (old receipts, old checks, and taxes older than seven years).  I have been happily ignoring all of this, only occasionally putting things in order (hence how the electric keyboard managed to find a home).  The other day I finished organizing old craft supplies and was surprised to discover modeling clay and knitting needles that range from very small to humongous. Guess what?  I really can't knit.  I can knit and purl rectangles, but that's the extent of it.

I am not a hoarder.  There are simply some things I cannot let go, like handwritten documents from both grandmothers that trace the family geneaology, all of the family slides from my childhood, and books ... even after much pruning, so many books.

(Pretending I can knit)

I've had a good week, though.  I've shoveled snow a couple of times and enjoyed two glorious days of summer-like weather right smack-dab in the middle of the week.  I've spent time with family and friends.  I've gone on several marvelous adventures over the past few days.  I took out a file of drafts that I have not worked on nor edited in a while, but they're out, in plain sight, and waiting for me to dig in once again.

I do hate when break is over and my To-Do List is still staring me in the face, mostly not done.  However, I absolutely love when my Done List far outweighs anything I expected and keeps me happily connected to family and friends.  So I didn't sleep as much nor read as much nor write as much nor clean as much.

Obviously, if it has taken me years to prune down to where I am, clearing out the junk in my life isn't nearly as important to me as clinging to those things and people who are the most important to me.  I'd have to say that's successfully accomplishing a To-Do List after all.

ANSWERING THE QUESTIONS

Today I come across a book of daily questions.  This is really good because I could use some things to ponder in my life other than:

• What's for dinner?
• Do I really have to get out of this warm bed and go to work?
• Will I ever finish downsizing my belongings?
• When will my hair be long enough to pull back out of my eyes?
• What happened to all of my matching socks?

I start perusing through the book and stop on today's question:

• What do you see outside your window?

Snow.  That's what I see.  After being outside in a t-shirt and capri pants yesterday, today it is snowing outside. It is overcast and gray and it is sleeting then becoming a steady snowfall.  Awesome.  I mean, it truly is because, for the most part, I get very excited when I see snow.  It's a lovely sight even when it's blowing sideways and requires shoveling.  But, after having the windows open wide for two days, this question has a bite to it.

I decide to look at tomorrow's question since the blog will post tomorrow (well, today, if you're reading it). 

• What struggle are you happy to have behind you?

Good gravy.  I can only pick one?  Seriously?  The book only gives me a few lines to write on because it is supposed to be a book you take several years to fill.  I guess that means that this year I can come up with one struggle, then next year I can list another, then the year after that...  How fabulous would it be to be able to answer this question with only one short paragraph a year!  Lucky, lucky people who can answer such a question in a few sentences.

Truth is, though, no struggle makes me happy to leave behind.  That implies that I have been unhappy during times of change and accomplishment.  Not every struggle is a result of tragedy or hardship or depression or illness or disaster.  Some struggles are those of climbing hills that are physical, mental, academic, familial, metaphysical, and beyond.  Why would I be happy to forget about those? 

Struggle is growth.  Growth is good for the body and soul, regardless of how it comes along. 

Hmmmm.  An interesting book, a thoughtful book.  I turn the book over and look at the price.  Maybe I'll buy myself the book and see what else it holds.  That's when I see the price.  $29.95.  No word of a lie -- $29.95 for a small book of daily questions to ponder.

Here's today's struggle that I'm happy to put behind me: Whether or not to buy the book.  The answer is NO.  Struggle over.  See?  I guess I can answer that question in a paragraph or less.

SUMMER, DON'T BE A STRANGER

Just like that, suddenly it's 70+ degrees in the dead of winter here in New England.  We know it won't last, but this is an opportunity to have a touch of summer in the midst of high heating bills and icy temperatures. This is a chance to get outside in tee-shirts and flip-flops.

I decide to do something I haven't done in a while: Take a walk.

It has been hard to take any walks other than snowshoeing because the sidewalks spend the winter turning into sheer ice patches as temperatures stay well-below normal for extended periods of time.  Walking down to the corner pizza parlor becomes an exercise in agility, balance, and prayer.

Today, though, except for melting snow piles in various parking lots, it's as if winter never happened.  The sun is shining, and so are people's attitudes.  I fill up my water bottle, put on a tee-shirt and capri pants, then head outside. 

I don't know where I'm going exactly, so I retrace my steps a few times.  I decide against walking through the prep school campus because NO strangers should be on school campuses these days.  NOT ONE.  Instead, I walk past the shops, toward the prep school, turn, go up a big hill, jog down the other side, circle around, cross the street to avoid the tree-limb trimmers, cross back, zigzag through the park, head north again then turn south a block or two over, cut through the alley, yell at a woman who is stopped in her car and texting while blocking the crosswalk, then jog down another hill toward my house.

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Once home, I open windows to let in the air -- fresh and a little too warm, but a welcome relief just the same.  It feels like summer, it looks like spring, but it still smells like winter.  Not surprisingly, winter returns tomorrow as temperatures drop steadily, bringing snow and freezing rain back, allowing February's reality to smack us back to our senses.

Just like that, suddenly the thermometer goes down twenty degrees.  By morning, it will be down another thirty.  Goodbye, Summer, it was so nice of you to visit.  Don't be a stranger!

80 - 80 - 80 - 80

My sister is dress shopping for her daughter's wedding.  No, not for the bridal gown -- my niece already took care of that.  Two appointments and done!  She knew exactly what she wanted and found it, just like that, at a lovely store in Portland, Maine.

My sister also knows what she wants, so she contacts the nearest shop that carries this particular designer of MOTB (Mother-of-the-Bride) dresses.  She makes an appointment, is assigned a consultant over the phone, and excitedly makes plans to visit the shop eighty miles away, a shop which conveniently is located a half-mile from my house.

When we go into the shop, an old fixture in this town, we are immediately ignored.  The consultant never materializes, but an elderly woman does.  No one seems to know what we're talking about, nor is anyone willing to move from the computer at the register.  No one except Nana.

Mamere is not very helpful.  Her one helpful suggestion is to try on a glitzy, feather-encrusted long gown that is exactly NOT the color my sister is looking for.  "Pewter," my sister explains, showing a picture of the dress she thought she was coming to see, "like a silver or gray."

"This one is gray ... a little ..." explains Granny, attempting to hang the dress on a hook.  The dress clearly weighs more than Aunt Bee does and is most probably straining what is left of the woman's back muscles.  This dress is a nude-shade underneath with a smoky black overlay, giving my sister the appearance of being naked in a fog storm while holding green and aqua disco chickens that are molting.  Oh, SHE looks fabulous; the DRESS, not so much.

Finally, my niece, daughter, and I start pulling dresses for my sister, since Aunt Clara certainly isn't going to do it, and Lead Butt is still sitting at the computer, completely disinterested in the fact that my sister, a concert soloist, has money to spend on this dress.  As a matter of fact, she could also be shopping for concert attire, for all these women know, but no one ... NO ONE ... bothers to ask.

While my sister is madly trying on things we throw in at her, we decide to have some fun and start moving dresses around from rack to rack and size to size.  We happen across an orange and black tiger number that looks like Lawrence Streetwalker wear, and we top it off with a black feather jacket.  We take a raspberry-colored alien dress, hand it through the curtain, and tell my sister, "Try and find the head and arm hole, we dare you!" 

What pains me is that this is an "upscale" store.  Their customer service is bullshit, and their dress selection rivals the Salvation Army -- lots of old crepe from the seventies, sequins/crystals too heavy to hold up, and hooker wear. With the small selection and the lack of attention to people spending money, I'm quite shocked that they're still in business.


As if anyone at the register cares, which they don't, we leave.  Eighty miles here, eighty miles home, eighty-year-old sales woman, and eighty minutes of ignorance by the staff at the bridal shop.  Amazing.  I wonder if they realize the magnitude of the sale they could have made (plus the others from the family), but, obviously, they don't care.  Keep it up, ladies, because when the rent comes due, you'll wonder why you don't have the sales receipts to back it up.

SHOVELING THE STEW

It's supposed to get warm here over the next couple of days.  Oh, don't worry; we're not that stupid.  We are well aware that winter isn't remotely over.  I predict at least one more big storm in our future this season.

As soon as the forecasters mention "sixties, maybe even seventy in places," we are already thinking "Spring."  There are people standing outside in short-sleeve shirts, shorts, and others are flocking to the beaches for walks and photo ops.  Problem is ... it's still rather windy and cold outside.  I'm guilty, too.  I am already thinking about barbecuing, yet the grill is still covered with about an inch-thick layer of snow and ice.

Planning my shopping trip today, I realize that a summer-type meal really isn't appropriate.  Not yet, anyway.  The thermometer says 42, but the biting wind screams otherwise.  In the store I head to the vegetable aisle first, grabbing fresh potatoes, carrots, onions, peppers, and a bunch of other healthy stuff.  When I approach the meat counter, though, I cannot help but gravitate toward the roasts.  My brain is telling me the warm front is coming; my bones are telling me it's still winter.

I pick up a rump roast, put it down, pick it up, put it down, then, finally, pick it up and put it in my cart.  Yup, I'm cooking a good old-fashioned pot roast for dinner tonight.  It's still chilly, the heat is still on, and it's not "Spring" just yet (nor will it be for weeks, warm front or not).

I'm trying to get on board with this whole "It's going to be seventy degrees" vibe, but really, truly, there's nothing quite like a Yankee pot roast dinner.  It doesn't matter if it's forty degrees (which it is) or forty-below.

Comfort food is comfort food.

It may be warm outside soon, but right now it's warm inside.  The stew is simmering, the gravy is thickening, and the table is set.  Come on in, Spring, if you want, but you'll have to sit through winter dinner to get here.  After all, it's still February; we New Englanders know how this works.  I may be shoveling in stew tonight, but I very well could be shoveling snow in a few days, and I need to be ready.

HEY, GET HEALTHY ... OR NOT

So far my "Hey, Get healthy!" week has started off badly. 

Friday night I eat pasta and drink soda.  This is bad mostly because I don't really drink soda anymore as soda is basically mainlining sugar.  I work all day Friday, so I suppose my break-neck speed at work can be considered some form of exercise.  Seriously, though, this is not a stellar start.

Saturday I go wine tasting and mead tasting.  Oh, sure, I eat a salad for dinner, but I cannot decide on water, wine, mead, prosecco, or beer for refreshment.  I end mixing orange juice with raspberry mead and some prosecco to improvise a mimosa-like drink.  Hmmm.  Prosecco is like mainlining sugar, too, though.  Exercise for today consists of walking around the wine store, the liquor store, and the grocery store.  I don't think that really counts.

Sunday isn't much better.  I start with the improvised mimosas again, but I make some Greek yogurt bagels.  These are healthy.  The problem is that I eat several over the course of the day.  Three, to be exact.  Today's exercise plan is to break down empty boxes and start sorting through the spare room.  Believe me, no sweat is being wasted on this.  I do shovel a little bit because it snows about four inches overnight, but snowshoeing isn't really an option by the time I'm done because everything is melting already.

So far my "Hey, Get Healthy!" plan is not working.  I might have to do something drastic like clear off the universal weight machine in the basement or take the piles of holiday wrapping paper off the rowing machine.  I'm not sure I'll actually use the machines, but I do have to move stuff.  That counts as exercise, right?

Work with me, folks.  My intentions are solid.

THE PIZZA GAME

There's one piece of pizza leftover in the fridge.

My son and I debate who will get to eat it.  I paid for it and walked down (after another long, shitty day) to get it.  He called it in and settled for yet-another pizza dinner before rushing off to lacrosse.  This piece is the only remainder.

At first I say, "I guess you can have it," like a good mom should.  He grabs the piece of pizza and walks away from me, but then I remember that he's an adult.  So, I quickly change my tune and yell, "Let's shoot for it."

This challenge, much like the dreaded Triple Dog Dare challenge, involves Rock, Paper, Scissors Shoot.  I am reasonably adept at this game. I run into the living room where he is watching television (or playing video games - it varies from moment to moment now that college lacrosse season has started). 

I challenge him: "Best two out of three."

Round #1, I throw scissors and he throws rock.  I'm down one immediately.  Round #2, we both throw rock.  Round #3, I win by throwing scissors to his paper, so now it's all even.  We're tied.

At this point, "rock" seems to be the heavy hitter.  I have to think.  If he has thrown rock twice and I've thrown scissors twice, I'm thinking that he will think I'm going for scissors again.  I am figuring he will throw rock to crush my scissors.

So, I shoot "paper."

I look down.  He has thrown rock.  I win.  I WIN!  I win the piece of pizza.  When I look at the pizza slice though, I see that he has already taken a huge bite out of the pizza.  He didn't even heat it up!  He's a HEATHEN.

"Rock, paper, scissors, shoot," he announces and throws up his middle finger, tossing me The Bird.

Ah, well.  I have only myself to blame.  I taught him everything he knows.

EVERYTHING I DO

When I arrive at work in the morning, I'm usually one of the early birds.  There are three or four of us who arrive at roughly the same time to get our acts in gear before the day starts.  Sometimes we straggle.  Occasionally two of us will arrive around the same time and walk in together. 

The other morning for some odd reason, four of us pulled in at the same time.  One entered from the left, one from the right, one came whipping across the back part of the lot, and the other was already turning into the parking area. 

The result?

It looked like Pit Lane at the Daytona 500.

This morning, my coworker and I arrive at exactly the same time.  We are the only two in the lot, and we both have our radios going -- not quite as funny as the other day when we arrive like the synchronized swim team.  I am listening to Sirius radio, a channel I don't listen to often: the 90s station.  It's playing "Everything I Do" by Bryan Adams.  I'm not a huge fan of the song, but I am a huge fan of the Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves movie, despite Costner's inability to master a British accent. 

I roll down my window, wait until my coworker opens her door, and I start singing to her along with the radio.  Unfortunately, it's near the end of the song: "You know it's true ... everything I do ... Ohhhhhhhh ... I do it for YOU!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

She has been listening to the exact same song and same station, so she thinks I'm just being a silly karaoke gal, but honestly, my coworkers totally rock.  So, guess what, coworkers?  I do love you.  It's true.  So maybe when I see you all after our winter break, I might just serenade you, especially if you arrive when I do.

Of course, if you're smart, you'll re-plan your arrival time to spare your eardrums.  If not, well -- Everything I do ...

LONG DAY ... BEER AND PIZZA

I am having a very long day.  I am on my feet teaching straight through, four long classes in a row.  I work through lunch.  I have three meetings in a row: one in the far end of the building, one next to my own room, and one way out in the library that connects our middle school to the high school. 

I get to work at 6:50 a.m.  I leave work at 5:15 p.m.  The only times I have to sit down and relax are the three times I pee in the ten-plus hours that I've been here.

My youngest, who still lives with me, has lacrosse tonight.  Making dinner at this late hour is out of the question.  When I finally get home, I ask him to call in a pizza.  Somehow, though, between his phone call and me walking down and picking up the pizza, there is a snafu; the pizza place claims he never called in the pizzas.  We have the pizza place on speed dial, so I know this is just a mistake on someone's part ... ours or theirs. 

"Did he call a different pizza place?" they ask me.  NEVER, I tell them, we would NEVER get our pizza anywhere else.  

They offer to give me a pizza that is already in the oven.  This means someone else will have to wait for a pizza.   No way will I do that to another harried customer.  "You have beer here, right?"

Finally, yes, finally I get to sit down.  This pizza order mistake is the best thing that has happened to me all day long.  I sit by myself, chatting with the pizza people (I love them all), and watching Sports Center on the telly.  A cold beer, my own booth, and some downtime.  This is exactly what I need, and I only get it because of a snafu.

I don't care what happened or how it happened, but my pizza is ready right about the same time my beer is finished.  Life is wonderful, I don't have to cook dinner, and I'm out of work for the day.  If the rest of my evening is like this, I think I can handle it.

SALSA ATTACK

I want salsa.

I have been looking forward to this salsa ever since I remember halfway through my day that the salsa is in the fridge and that my son (who owns the salsa) will not be home this evening. This means that I can eat the salsa and play dumb tomorrow when he figures out that it's gone.

I get home from another arduous day at work and go straight for the fridge -- do not pass Go; do not collect $200.   I take the store-bought container of salsa out and open the lid. I ... open ... the ... I ... open ... open... OPEN ...  DAMNATION. 

I cannot even believe that the top won't come off.  I know the damn thing CAN open because my son was eating the stuff the other night.  I try prying the cover off with what's left of my fingernails.  I try using a spoon under the edges.  I run it under warm water in case it's salsa-sealed.

Nothing.  Nothing ... except that I WANT THE SALSA.

I give the top a few more tries, then I go into the drawer and find the old, mismatched serrated knife that I keep for such auspicious occasions as sawing down larger cardboard boxes.  I try using it as a miniature crowbar, but nothing works.

That's it.  I'm done with you, salsa container!

I arc the knife carefully above the lid of the container, then I stab that sonofabitch.  Once the knife is in securely, I saw around
the inside lip of the cover, eventually popping out the entire top piece like the pane of a window.

I don't care what people think!  I don't care if I have to transfer the leftovers to another container and explain myself to my son when he comes home tomorrow.  Actually, I don't even have to worry about any of that because I eat all of the salsa, every last wonderful morsel of it, then toss away the container.  It's the beauty of the "no evidence" defense.

It's both disturbing to me and fascinating to know that if I ever truly have to live alone, I have some coping mechanisms and am still very skillful with a blade -- I certainly won't starve to death, that's for sure.

CANDLEPIN GIRL AT HEART

For some odd reason, my daughter, her friend, and I decide to go bowling. 

They want to go ten-pin bowling, but here in New England, ten-pin is a somewhat rare event.  The few local places that offer ten-pin are usually mobbed because they're multi-plexes that offer indoor golf and video arcades and rides for little kids.  Plus, it's raining out and it's a weekend.  That means everyone and his brother and uncle will be piled into the popular bowling alleys.

Instead, I convince them to go for the candlepins. 

Candlepin bowling is unheard of in most of the continental United States.  That's because Massachusetts invented it.  Players roll Revolutionary War cannonball-sized bowling balls with which the players get three chances instead of two to knock down all the pins on each turn, and there's none of that stupid clearing of the downed pins in between a player's own turn -- using the dead wood as play is what makes this whole game so damn entertaining.

Besides, I know an out-of-the-way bowling alley that offers glow bowling and doesn't laugh at me when I say, "Bumper lane, please."

I love bowling.  When I first moved to Massachusetts from a tiny village in New Hampshire, I discovered a bowling alley within walking distance of my junior high.  I spent babysitting money there after school, despite the fact that the balls often fell off the ball-return and rolled back down the lanes at me while I bowled.  The place was right next to the junk yard, so very fitting, and it was one of the greatest places I ever found to go in my entire life.

Yes, I do love bowling, but I only go an average of once every three years or so.  You see, I totally suck at it.  That's why I like bumper lanes.  I don't often use the bumpers, but I hate gutter balls.  Even worse than gutter balls, though: I am notorious for hitting the 7-10 split.  This means that first I peg off only the farthest pin to the left, and then I peg off the farthest pin to the right.  This is often followed by rolling a ball to either side exactly where it has already been.

Yup, even with the bumpers, I can roll a two like it's my damn job.

I get excited when I break sixty in a game, especially if I do it without the bumpers.  Actually, I bowl a spare in one of the three games we play.  Of course, I follow that up with another 7-10 split, so I get to add one stinking point to my score.

If you've never bowled, definitely go glow bowling.  It's a blast, and you can blame the colors and effects for your score.  But, if you're not from these parts (parts of Canada and the entire New England area - or, at least, the only parts that matter), you've got to try candlepin bowling when you're here. 

Unless, of course, you're easily frustrated, easily embarrassed, or both.  If that's the case, go hang out with the ten-pin crowd.  Me?  I have no shame.  I'm a candlepin girl at heart.

PENCILS AND ANTIBACTERIA

I work in Germ Central.  I am a school teacher, and my life is one gargantuan Petri dish full of horrifying bacteria.  I am more adept with my small, personal container of hand sanitizer than a drum major is with a baton.

I had that weird (but quick-moving) cold last month, the one that is almost (but not quite) the flu.  Since recovering, I avoid coughing co-workers, sneezing students, and infectious minions as if they have the plague because, quite frankly as far as I am concerned, they DO.

So, the other day when a student says to me, "I have a sore throat," my immediate response is so nurturing and so caring and so motherly and so tender.

Yes, it truly is.  I point toward the door and scream, "GET OUT OF MY ROOM!  TAKE A PASS AND GO ... TO ... THE .. NUUUUUUUUUUUURSE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

The young man returns about fifteen minutes later holding a large white piece of paper.  "I'm sick," he announces, "and I'm going home."  Then, because children often do not understand the concept, he hands the pass in my direction.

My arms flail back and I push my rolling chair away from my desk. "I am NOT touching THAT!"  I say, shock registering in my expression.  He tries to give the nurse's note to me again and again.  Finally, he drops the paper on my desk.

The entire class emits a sound that resembles a train whistle and a fog horn all at the same time, deeply sucking in their collective breath and holding their words in like water balloons on the verge of bursting their contents over anything and everything.  We can hardly believe that this poor, sickly cherub has done the unthinkable: infected my desk.

I quickly grab two pencils and use them to pick the paper up off of my desk.  I start past the rows of students on my way to the recycle bin.  That piece of paper is so outta here.  As I approach groups of children, they all lean far away from me, some flailing their arms to get away. 

Suddenly the air resistance gives way, and the paper starts to slip from between the #2 Ticonderogas.  One girl screams and a couple of boys audibly shriek.  I quickly maneuver the pencils, smoosh the paper between them, and continue toward the recycle bin.  Once there, I let the paper float away into the green plastic receptacle, then I put the pencils down next to the container of antibacterial wipes.

I apologize to the youngster who is being dismissed to go home and rest for the day.  He understands: vacation break is next week.  No one wants to be sick for that.

POST 2K

Post #2,000.  Hard to believe.  Every single day for 2,000 days in a row I have written something ... sometimes short, sometimes long, sometimes a decent narrative, sometimes an inappropriate poem.  Here it is, though.  Post 2K.

I'm not much of a speech-giver.  Oh, I can talk and talk for hours about lots and lots of things.  But, when it comes to talking about myself, I tend to guard that by sharing only want I want to and need to.  I don't suppose I'd make much of a talk show guest, and it probably explains why my dating life is guardedly nonexistent. 

I sincerely mean it when I retort in an argument, "You don't KNOW me!"  It's the truth.  Go ahead and think you do.  You're right ... and so very wrong.

And that's totally my fault. 

For 2,000 days I've opened a few windows and pointed a few bright lights into the madness of my mind.  Still, you don't know me, but, then I again, I don't completely know me, either.  Stick around for another 2,000 days, though.  We might both be surprised by what we find.

Happy 2K, and thanks for reading. 

DE-ICING THE STAIRS ... INSIDE

Of course I find the container of ice melt after the ice all melts off the driveway. 

Yup.  I am finally putting stuff away, and I move a pile of junk that has been sitting on the stairs.  I have been walking up and down past this pile of paperwork for days, just waiting to organize it.  My strategy is to leave it on the stairs because if I actually take it and put it somewhere, I'll forget about it and forget to file important papers.

Today, though, I decide to move the pile.

There, right there, and I do mean RIGHT THERE on the stairs, the same stairs I use at least two dozen times a day, is the partially-filled container of ice melt that I swore I had but couldn't find during the last three days of ice.  I have been slipping and sliding my way to and from the car, and I resorted to buying three containers of table salt when I couldn't find a store with the driveway version.  Yes, the damn ice melt has been under my nose the entire time.

Turns out the empty container I thought was the empty ice melt is actually the old container of ice melt that was refilled with kitty litter.  I am out of kitty litter, not ice melt.

This complete and total blind spot to the ice melt seems almost unfathomable, except that my son has walked past the container, as well.  I am having company today and I don't want anyone slipping and dying in the driveway, so I head outside to spread some ice melt.

Good choice.  Right?  Wrong.  It's in the mid-forties outside, and most of the ice has melted away. 

Oh, well.  I try.  My heart is in the right place (even if the ice melt isn't). 

MAGICAL PEA SOUP POTION OF WONDER

I have a coworker who makes the best pea soup in the entire world.

No, truly.  My mother didn't cook much, but the few things she could actually cook, she cooked well, and pea soup was one of them.  My coworker's pea soup blows my mother's pea soup right out of the pan.  I mean, it's life-changing.

The last few weeks at work have been brutal.  B-R-U-T-A-L.  I have never seen one group of adults so in need of time away from each other and their desks as this particular group at this particular moment in time.  One minute we are crying on each other's shoulders, and the next minute we are ripping each others' brains out with more precision than the ancient Egyptians.

In the midst of all of these post conference nights and during all of our personal and professional implosions, my coworker walks into school one day and hands me a bag.  Apparently my expression clearly shows my confusion.

"I had a ham bone in the freezer," she says with a huge grin, "so I made pea soup.  This is for you."

She knows I love her pea soup.  Now, she knows I love her.  I dance around and sing her praises right there in the hallway.  The video cameras are probably registering a disturbance in our wing.  I don't care.  No, truly, I DON'T CARE.  They can send the loony bin people after me, and I could not care any less than I do right now about anything else in the world other than this canister of pea soup.

This is instant and total attitude adjustment with the simple handing over of the bag containing the magical potion.  Magical pea soup.  Pea soup potion.  Magical pea soup potion of wonder.

Do not underestimate the power of homemade soup, people.  It really does cure ALL.

THANKS TO ALL THE ICE GODS

I hear the tires spinning
The cars can't make the hill
There's ice and snow and white crap
On the roadways still
I ran us out of ice melt
Technically my fault
To make it down the driveway
I'll use some table salt
It's not as if the admin
Could claim they hadn't known
And so I get up early
Just waiting for the phone
Alas - it starts another
Dangerous school day
Why, oh, why? This weather!
Damnit! Just call DELAY.
Oh, well, so now it's seven
Off to work I drive
Thanks to all the Ice Gods
I get to work alive

SALT HAS A NEW PURPOSE

The brilliant idea of having a full day of school today means that my drive home is slippery, dangerous, treacherous, and nearly crash-worthy.  My car, small and without snow tires, slips and slides all over the road, barely climbing small hills and pushing me and my heavy pile of metal vehicle precariously close to the pond as I head home.

The only benefit of the day is that the freezing rain starts as I am driving home, so my car is merely snow-covered when I leave work, an easy clean-off in the school lot.  My son, home early, shovels the driveway so I can back into my space, but within mere minutes of parking, the driveway is completely ice-coated. 

I quite literally make it home in the nick of time.

The predicted deep-freeze tonight poses a problem: icy driveway means I will slip and slide to, and possibly past, my car tomorrow morning.  I check the ice melt supply.  I am reasonably sure that I have half of a container left, enough for the morning melt. 

It turns out to be a bad bet; I have almost no ice melt left.

There is no way I'm going out in search of the damn stuff.  It's too dangerous, and, now that I've helped finish the shoveling in the freezing rain, I am soaked through my outerwear.  I do, though, have a semi-fabulous idea.  I have lots of salt in the cabinet.  For some reason, I kept forgetting to buy salt, and then I kept remembering to buy salt.  This craziness results in having three containers full of regular table salt stashed away.

So, tomorrow morning, when you read about stupid stuff and silly stunts people pull to get to their iced-in cars, remember I said I have that table salt because I am going to use it and hope to the ice gods above that I am able to get to my car (not sail past it) without breaking any bones in my old body. 

Update later; hopefully NO film at 11.

KNEE FORECASTING

Red sky at morning: Sailors take warning.

On the way to work today, the sky is gorgeous.  It's red and orange and yellow and purple, and while the view is magnificent, the old adage stays with me.  It is the 40th anniversary of the Blizzard of '78, and we are due for snow tomorrow.

I am already annoyed that the school district hasn't called an early release or cancelled school for tomorrow.  Maybe I'll be lucky and I won't get caught in it, but I know that luck has zero to do with it.  The weather forecasters say snow IS coming, the red sky morning says snow IS coming, and now, the truest predictor of all ...

My knee.

My knee trouble started two nights ago when the temperature change and the first quick snow system moved through.  I couldn't sleep for a long time because of knee pain.  Since then, my knee pain has been off and on, Tonight, though, I cannot go down stairs without pain.

Guess what, kids!  IT'S GOING TO SNOW. Red sky at morning is sign #1.  A screaming knee is the other.  My forecast = Worse storm than anyone is expecting, but about two feet of snow less than the Blizzard of '78.

SUPER BOWLIEST POST

Look, kids, I'm really sorry about the Patriots.  I had flashbacks watching them crash and burn, which they did, even if you don't want to admit it.  They looked like a mid-level team having a mediocre game.  That was NOT Super Bowl quality ball work out there by the Boys from Boston; this was classic 80's inconsistency.

The Eagles, on the other hand, looked great.  You can argue that the officials tipped the scales a little, but, in the end, there was no way the Patriots were going to win.  They bobbled and wobbled all over that field.  They stunk the joint out a bit. The Eagles played better, stayed better, and prevailed.  Good for them!  Clearly the better team at the game won that game.

The commercials, though, ranged from hilarious to lame.  It was horrible ... HORRIBLE ... trying to get through the game with the number of commercials.  I don't think I'll ever watch a Super Bowl again that is 75% ad time and 25% play time.  It was boring as hell.  I finally resorted to taking a shower during the third quarter, and I only missed two minutes of play time and twelve minutes of commercials.  Why, why, why so many ads for TV shows? I mean, I'm watching TV and would love NOT to be reminded of that every thirty seconds.  I. Am. Trying. To. Watch. Sports. 

The half-time show was okay.  I know some people hated it and some people loved it.  I put it somewhere in the middle.  No Janet Jackson nipple.  JT did all right for an aging teeny-bopper.  But, again, did it have to be so frigging long?  Honestly, this is no longer a sporting even.  It was like watching a cross between America's Funniest Home Videos and the MTV Music Awards, only longer and more monotonously boring. 

But, JT did bring out the best social media post of the night.  Nope, it wasn't the game; nope, it wasn't the commercials.  Justin Timberlake did this with his outfit.  First of all, what was with his pants?  Did he forget his pants and borrow some from a female dancer half his height?  Am I the only who noticed his crotch was between his knees and his dance moves resembled an arthritic geriatric?  It looked like his thighs were rubber-banded together.

That shirt, though.  Oh, that shirt. 

And so the best post on social media belongs to Justin Timberlake's shirt, courtesy of the late Bob Ross.  Folks, if you get this, you might be older than dirt, but it's the funniest thing on the Internet that came out of the Super Bowl.  Enjoy, and to the late Bob Ross, social media thanks you.  It really, really thanks you.

BEST BAGELS BY ME!

While trolling through social media, I come across a post aimed at me.  I know it's aimed at me because the tag-line says, "Heliand, here's a post YOU might LIKE!!!!"  Most of these posts and ads pop up based on something bizarre that I searched for work, like Komodo dragons or the functions of prepositional phrases or how many minutes does it REALLY take to cook a three-minute egg.  I'll admit, though, the photo looks kind of good, and I am kind of hungry.

The post is a recipe for bagels.  "EASY BAGEL RECIPE" it claims.  I peek at the recipe and discover that it requires no yeast, so I can't fuck up that part, and it claims a prep time of about five minutes.  The only downside is that it requires Greek yogurt, the smell of which makes me want to hurl.  Hmmmmm.  A true conundrum.

So I go to the store and add to my list "non-fat plain Greek yogurt."  I need one cup of it, so I buy two small containers.  No way do I want an open container of that Greek yogurt shit in my fridge, stinking up everything else.  Even if it's covered, I swear I can still smell it.

It's about a week before I can drum up the courage to open the yogurt containers necessary to make the dough.  The dough, by the way, is ridiculously easy, and it actually turns out the way the recipe says, even though I am a little loose with the instructions.  I add the yogurt, attempt to hold my nose, but realize that I need both hands for kneading the dough that I need to knead.  (Ya see what I did there?)

I get the dough all ready, separate it into four balls, roll the balls into snakes, form the bagels, and am surprised as hell that my shit looks just like the fancy picture.  It's fucking amazing to me!  After I add the egg white wash on each, I am able to add toppings.  I don't have much in the house, so I make one with sea salt on it, one has cinnamon with brown sugar, and one has cheddar jack cheese.  The fourth one I leave plain.

I do not have high hopes.  I mean, there's no yeast, I don't like Greek yogurt, and I'm a marginal cook.  I fully expect everything to crash and burn, especially when I re-read the instructions and realize that I am supposed to finish it all with a quick stint at 550 degrees.  Jesus, my kitchen is going to catch fire.

I put the bagels into the oven and watch them with utter fascination.  Holy shit!  They're actually cooking, and they look edible!  When the final step comes, my oven barely reaches 500 degrees when I decide the bagels are just right -- golden brown on the edges with crispy bottoms.  I can hardly wrap my head around the fact that they look just like the picture says they should.  It's baffling.

I let the bagels cool down just until I can handle them without saying "Ouch-ouch-ouch" over and over again.  I cut into each one and steal about 1/8th of each bagel.  This is where I don't even have to lie -- each bite tastes better than the one before it.  I seriously cannot decide which one tastes the best.

These bagels are fucking amazing.

So, I'll hook all-y'all up with the recipe and just say the last part of the baking ... don't worry if your oven never reaches 550.  I only set mine to 525 when I realized it would take less time to finish the cooking process than it would to be at the right temperature.  I also just noticed there's a video for them along with the tagline "We are obsessed with these bagels," and I totally believe that the collective "they" truly are obsessed.  I am, too.

Okay, the only recipe I can find is exactly the same except mine cooked at 350 for 22 minutes then I cranked up the oven and left them in for 4-8 more minutes as it warmed up toward 525.  Here's what I found:   https://www.skinnytaste.com/easy-bagel-recipe/

ONE OF THOSE DAYS

I'm having "one of those days."  You know the kind -- Things aren't going right but they're not going wrong, either.  I have a pile of work to get done, plus it's Super Bowl weekend; I have errands to run, and it's chilly and a bit icy outside; I still have that cold a little bit, but I'm feeling better when I wake up (it doesn't take ninety minutes to clear my head).

I'm stuck at the kitchen table doing some work, correcting electronic papers against a rubric -- a monotonous but necessary activity -- when a twinkle catches my attention.  I follow the sparkling ray of light to the tile floor across the room.

It's the light spectrum.  Rainbow-colored shards of light dance across the ceramic, distracting me from the important business of being a teacher.  I follow it up to the window in the back door.  I have forgotten that this morning I tied up the fabric shade to allow sunlight into the back hall.  Actually, I had totally forgotten that I even have a window in the back door.

Sometimes all we need are little signs, small distractions injected into hectic days to remind us that we need to slow down.  You know, a little sign like a window-generated rainbow.

NAMASTE, ASSHOLE

My old college textbooks can never, ever be used by anyone else, so most of them go to the recycle bin as soon as the courses finish.  The reason why my textbooks cannot go back on the shelf as "used" is because I write things in them.

Bad things.  Honest things, but bad, just the same.

Plato's cave allegory?  I make notes in the margins about being one of the wall-dwellers laughing at the enlightened shadows, and my notes are full of colorful language.  As if Plato isn't bad enough, I also insult everyone from Faulkner to Shakespeare, Freud to Piaget, Cotton Mather to Bill Gates. 

Very few are safe from the foul-penned rants of a bored adult college student sitting through a monotonous lecture aimed at younger students.  Many of my text-rants are directed at the instructor and the dry, slow-death delivery of some of those three-plus hour weekly lectures.  I hold on to those memories and, true to a promise to myself, I rarely, if ever, lecture my classes for any length of time lest I totally kill my students' interest in learning.

I am under the mistaken belief that defacing my own textbooks is over, a sport long-gone.  But, I am taking a course through work, and we're reading a book on mindfulness theory and how if affects our teaching.  Not only am I supposed to read and absorb the material, I am supposed to do it calmly and with mindful intent.  Unfortunately, I am mere pages into the book when something the author writes raises my hackles.

I write in the margin: F.U.  I read a little further and write F.U. again.  The next chapter is better, though, with suggestions and strategies to be a better teacher.  I'm excited!  This is the information for which I've been waiting.  And then ... an then ...

And then I read the fateful line: To help individual teachers - and especially young teachers... 

Excuse me?!  Only young teachers are capable of being mindful?  What -- we elderly buggahs are too stupid?  Experienced teachers don't need to relax? 

I have flashbacks to college; I have flashbacks to Plato's cave.  I am academically, intellectually, and professionally insulted all over again, but it's all cool.  I mindfully write Thanks, asshole in the margin, calmly put down the book mid-chapter, breathe deeply, and call it an evening. 

Alas, another textbook that will end up in the trash.  Namaste.

BEER AND BLACKBERRIES

I've fallen off the wagon, so to speak.  No, not THAT wagon.  I've fallen off the Take Good Care of Myself wagon.

Sure, when I go out snowshoeing or walking, I do just fine, but I've gotten out of the habit.  I'd love to jog, but it's not something my body enjoys AT ALL.  My lungs hate it, my back hates it, and my capacity for boredom hates it. Jogging.  Is.  Boring.

I know, I know; you're going to tell me if I find jogging boring, I must be doing it wrong.  True.  I love jogging through the woods and all that cross-country stuff, but I also know that as a lone woman and living near wildlife, jogging alone in the woods isn't a very bright idea.  I did it a few times, even after the turkeys surprised me on the wooden bridge over the pond.  I never "jogged" so damn fast in my life.

I used to lift weights.  I liked that just fine, but, again, boring.  BORING.  Do this machine, follow this circuit, stop at this weight bench... Worse than the repetitive monotony, the people at the gym around me refused to wipe down the equipment.  Thanks, but no thanks, I am WELL AWARE of how ringworm spreads.

And how, pray tell, am I aware of that?  Martial Arts.  For a while, since my boys were doing it, I tried judo.  Loved it; sucked at it.  (And, no, I never got ringworm, but men, for the love of gawd, wash your damn gis!)  I need much more repetitive practice than I could get in ninety-minute judo classes twice a week or so, but I didn't have any other time available.  It helped with my balance and all, and I had fabulous abs for a while, but foot surgery ended judo for me for good.

I've been rather aimless lately without any kind of organized physical activity, so instead I've concentrated on eating better, cutting out synthetic vitamin supplements and relying on healthier food choices.  Well, except for an occasional chocolate and my worst passion, which is crackers.  Damn, I do love crackers and almost every kind of bread there is in the entire world.

Tonight, while feeling somewhat guilty after eating a piece and a half of cheese pizza and having some French fries, I attempt to be healthy (not that pizza is horrible, but fries sure are).  I try, but it's not working for me.  My work life is stressful and sucks somewhat right about now.

So, folks, I'm here to admit that tonight's health regimen is BEER AND BLACKBERRIES.  I figure the beer has hops and grains and things like that, and the blackberries are loaded with antioxidants.  There must be something healthy happening in there somewhere.  I'm not eating crackers and I have almost entirely given up any kind of soda.  Beer and blackberries must be healthier, right?

Oh, well.  I just have to make it through the week.  January was a tough, tough, TOUGH month at work, but now that it's February, I'm going to pay more attention to me and my health.  I don't know if I will be successful in that endeavor, but I can tell you with great gusto that I have successfully completed something:

The beer and blackberries are gone ... and it only took fifteen minutes!  There has to be some merit in that.

IRONIC ICE LIMERICK

Yesterday there was some snow
And winds that did cause it to blow
Although it did suck
To my car snow was stuck
And so I did scrape to and fro

Today when I get out of work
I walk to my car with a smirk
Finally, I'm free!
Wait! What's this that I see?
Ice clings to my car?!  Damn!  YOU JERK!

(Yup.  A clump of ice still clings to my windshield.  Everyone else's cars?  Clean and clear.  I hate my life.)