GETTING THE BINDER DONE

I have a binder due for school.  It's a binder that represents two years of work toward two different somewhat obscure educational goals.  Last year I put most of the binder together and did the bulk of the boring, routine paperwork, and it took me about 40 hours or more.  This year I have about 15 hours of work left to finish everything.

Since the binder is due within two weeks and I have a life, I spend this weekend attempting to get the binder finished.  This is tough since Friday I come home late and so tired that all I want to do is go to bed.  Saturday I get up early and sort all of my paperwork into piles ... all ... over ... my ... house.  I start working on the binder, and then I'm called away for something really important: a fun afternoon.

A friend needs to get a Brickle Pie from an ice cream shop about fifteen minutes away, so we run down there and pick one up.  I don't know what a Brickle Pie is, so I ask, and I discover that it is something crazy that is made from coffee ice cream, Heath Bars, and a whole slew of other amazing things.  Of course, we must buy ourselves ice cream, too, so we each scarf down kiddie-sized bowls of chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream.

Then, there's a wine tasting.  We taste bubbly, a sauv blanc, a rose, and a pinot noir.  We buy some Sam Adams beer (but no wine), then move on to wine tasting #2, which is all imported roses.  We buy some rose bubbly and head back to my house, where I put out a spread of all kinds of munchies, and my friend and I watch the Bruins game for the rest of the afternoon.

I spend a little bit of time on the infamous binder, then crawl into bed for a decent night's sleep.  That means Sunday I will have to pay the piper.  I roll out of bed around 7:45 a.m., start up the computer, pull out the binder, and spend the day doing the work I've been putting off: calculations and narratives about data and artifacts. 

Go ahead and yawn.  I'm yawning just thinking about it.

I spend all day ... all ... day ... working and never even get out of my pajamas.  I finish the entire binder, plus the cover, at 8:22 p.m., crawl into a shower, and get right back into pajamas (clean ones).  But, it's done.  The binder is finally finished, which is good news because the next two weekends are busy, and this is my last chance to get 'er done. 

Success!  Now, I just have to remember to bring it to school and hand it in.

I CAN WAIT

 Finally, the leaves are starting to open.  It's about time.  I just got back from Washington, DC, where I miss most of the cherry blossoms.  It's okay -- the blossoms that are leftover combine with more blossoms to show that there is hope after the Ice Age.

It's comforting to know that when native New Englanders feel like the only two colors in our lives are white (snow) and brown (dirt), we are only an hour or two away (by plane) from a completely different way of life: leaves on trees, flowers blooming, green lawns already needing to be cut.

For a crowded city, it smells wonderful here.  It looks wonderful here. 

Back home, though, we are about two weeks behind the Mid-Atlantic.  For us, Spring usually happens suddenly.  One day it's snowing, and then we have a couple of days in the eighties and ... boom ... it's like everything pops overnight.  Considering the temperatures will be rising this week, Spring should be in full bloom by Saturday.

In the mean time, I'll enjoy my memories of DC -- all those big white and cream-colored buildings encased in yellow and pink flowers and green leaves, and all the blossoms pushing their way out of the earth, and all of the freshly-planted flowers dancing in the breeze, and all of the people out mowing lawns.

It won't be much longer; leaves are unfurling already.  I can wait ... I can wait ... I think maybe I'll make it.

BEST SPRING SHOT

Even though it's warmer out,
Winter still hangs roundabout -
Wind that cuts right to the bone,
Frost won't leave the cars alone,
Thirty degrees in the morning,
Temps will rise with little warning,
Sixty degrees feels so fine
Plus the sunshine is divine.
But the moment that dusk nears:
Frozen fingers, toes, and ears.
On the sunless side of street
There are patches one will meet
Of relentless piles of snow
(Reminders winter just won't go)
The sunny side completely thawed
Showing grass and sticks and sod.
Spring from zero right to eighty
Without leaves there's nowhere shady.
Come on, Spring, we've had enough
And this season's been quite rough,
Bring on weather good and hot -
Hit us with your best Spring Shot.

QUITE AT HOME WHEN AWAY

How do you know when you're more home than you are away?

We are at the hotel outside of Washington, DC, and we decide that we should probably pick somewhere for dinner.  This would be a great idea except that the weather in DC hasn't turned yet, and it's still cold as a witch's tit outside.  There is a promising-looking place near the hotel, a pizza-restaurant, and we won't freeze to death walking there.

There's a problem, though.  The Bruins are playing.  The Capitals are playing.  They're not, however, playing each other. That's okay; we'll catch the end of the game back at the hotel.  Off we go into the foothills of Arlington.

We get a great table upstairs at the pizza place, and we notice that the Capitals game is on the wide-screen television.  Of course it is.  They're the home team.  We are seated right along the balcony overlooking the charming restaurant, right along the bar.

Guess what's on OUR television in OUR prime dining room location?  The Bruins game.  That's right, the Boston Boys vs. Toronto. No one in the place heckles us at all when the Bruins score.  As a matter of fact, some of the locals cheer right along with us.

Yup, we are completely at home when we're away.  Spoiled, but quite at home.

BIG SALE! GOING OUT OF BUSINESS!

BIG SALE! GOING OUT OF BUSINESS!

I am out and about with a friend when I decide that I need to buy a new game to take with me on a mini-vacation.  When I am away on vacation, it seems like I always bring the same games, so I convince myself that I need a new game of some kind.  Must change it up once in a while, right?

I know.  I'll go to Toy's R Us!  They're having a GREAT sale!  They're going belly-up, so there should be some unbelievable sales. They're in the news, on TV, all over social media: "UP TO 70% OFF!" My friend and I are so very excited about the sale.  Maybe I'll get some weird game I've never seen before, and I'll get it for something crazy like $5 or maybe even less. 
 
There are as many cars in the lot as there might be on any other given weekday, nothing like the crazy traffic between Black Friday and Christmas Eve.  They're still open, so that's a good sign, and people are here, which is also a good sign.  We are practically giggling with glee thinking about the unbelievable mark-downs we are about to see.

We stroll past the signs outside, touting big sales with big discounts and big savings!  Should we get a carriage?  Should we buy more stuff?  After all, the store is CLOSING ... FOREVER.  Right?

Well ... maybe.  Not so fast. 

The store is well-stocked, so well-stocked, in fact, that it is obvious it will not be closing any time soon.  I'm not sure I've ever seen the shelves so full.  Most of it is infant and toddler play-stuff, but still.  It looks like there are so many toys and strollers and articles of clothing that it resembles a brand new store at its grand opening.

Curiously, there are no board games.  None.  Not one.

That's not the kicker, though.  The kicker is that some of the store isn't even on sale, and what is on sale is only 10% off.  That's right, you read that correctly.  10%.  Oh, sure, the video games have some that may be 15%, and there is an occasional 30% on things like New Baby calendars from 2016.  I don't know how they intend to sell off their inventory at 10% discount. 

Even at 90% of the regular Toys R Us prices, they are 20% above Wal-Mart and Amazon prices.  Why on Earth would anyone shop here?  Where's the sale?  Where are the desperate clutches of bankruptcy?  Where should the vultures roost if this is a no-roosting zone?

I don't get any news games, and I go on vacation with the usual entertainment: Yahtzee, Cribbage, and a wide assortment of paper-copy puzzles.  I do have one suggestion, though.  Perhaps Toys R Us should go for truth in advertising: "10% off our prices; 70% off our integrity; 0% fucks given."

FABRIC SOFTENER DETERGENT

Clean clothes; soft clothes; pleasantly fragrant clothes: These are the things that make my daughter's laundry day successful.  She doesn't have many days off, so when she hauls her clothes to the laundromat, she usually sets up at one of the larger, bulk-capable machines.

I am on spring break from my job, and I am trudging through some terrible essays.  No, truly -- they're bad and in desperate need of real editing.  When my daughter calls and invites me to join her on laundry day, it makes my day leaps and bounds better than what it presently is.  We can sneak across the street and have lunch and a beer or two while the laundry is going.

It has been a long time since I've had to rely on the washing machines at the laundromat, so I stay out of the way and let my daughter queue up and add cleaning products.  She starts by adding a huge cap-full of pink liquid, followed by another cap-full.

Then, she walks away from the machine.

Huh.  I pick up the plastic bottle she left on the machine.  It's blue, and I try (without my reading glasses) to make out this new discovery.  I wonder out loud, "Does Downy make detergent now, too?"  I am examining the bottle like it holds the answers to the universe.

My daughter seems dumbfounded.  I repeat the question, "Does Downy make detergent now, too?"

Turns out that for months now my daughter has mistaken fabric softener for laundry detergent.  We laugh so hard about this that the attendant comes over.  When we explain what my girl has done, the clerk quickly gives us the end of her detergent, enough to add today but definitely not enough for more than one load.  Good thing we are using the bulk-clothes machine.

Oh, well.  My daughter's clothes may not be squeaky clean, but she is the softest, most pleasantly fragrant worker on her floor.

P.S. She did buy (and use!) laundry detergent, and she now adds fabric softener when and where it is supposed to be added.

IN A MEETING

I attend a lot of meetings.  We talk about all kinds of things at these meetings: our jobs, our families, our friends, our lives, our coworkers (past and present), our lunches, our other meetings...  We laugh, we cry, we talk, we listen, we yell, we shut up, we laugh more, we laugh even more than more. 

Apparently, mostly we laugh.

The only problem with all of these meetings (I attend at least six in any given week) is that we have strict confidentiality norms.  I know, right?  What good is something happening in a meeting if I cannot gossip about it? 

Imagine The Office without being able to tell someone about the crazy things that happen there.  It would be like watching a dark screen: "Sorry, but due to confidentiality laws, all viewers are blacked-out from watching.  Enjoy the show!"

I'd love to tell you about the time when someone claimed not to be at a presentation, but then we showed him the Tweet of him at the presentation, and then... Ooops.  That's confidential.

Or how about the time we were having tea, and my teammate couldn't find the milk in the fridge.  So, she looked in her purse, and... Ooops.  That's confidential, too.

Hey, there's the one about the guy who looks just like Salvador Dali but crazier, and he was singing this song about ... Damn, that's confidential, too.

I suppose it's a responsible thing to do and all.  No one should be talking about work outside of work, anyway.  That's too much like work!  But, still.  Some of the funniest things happen in our meetings.  It's always like The Office except that we don't get coffee breaks and our lunch breaks are about seventeen minutes.

Oh, crap.  Was I not supposed to tell you that?  Never mind.  Forget I said anything.  Move along, folks; nothing (funny) to see here.  Besides, I am probably supposed to be in a meeting.

ICED COFFEE HIGH

Girl Scout Cookie season passed me by, and I held strong.  Yes, I like contributing to the GSA.  I have been a Girl Scout many times, and I have also been co-leader of several different troops and age groups.  I know exactly what the cookie drive is about and how much work it is.

But, people, I have a waistline to protect.  I have clothes that I must squeeze into for work and a dress for a wedding that I must be able to zipper.

I also have $4.23 left on my Dunkin Donuts app that I need to use up.  Girl Scout Cookie iced coffee, here I come!

It has been a while since I got an iced coffee from Dunks.  The last one I ordered was woefully over-sugared and over-creamed (Caramel Swirl was more like caramel milky crap).  I totally forgot that there is another reason that I steer clear of iced coffee beyond the walls of my own home.

High-test.

That is correct; high-test coffee that is made with hardcore caffeine.  I use the half-caf stuff at home, so this full-force coffee is a jolt to my system.  I'll be honest: caffeine does not bother me and has, up to this point, never affected me.  I could drink a six-pack of Coca-Cola before bed and be bothered by nothing.  No jitters, no sugar high, and no caffeine rush.  Hot chocolate doesn't bother me.  I'm a die-hard tea drinker, and tea has no affect on my system at all.

Coffee, though, is another story.

Halfway through my iced coffee, I realize that I am in overdrive.  The laundry is getting done very quickly, dinner is being pulled together at a record pace, and I am typing up blog entries like it's my day job.  My fingers, brain, and heart rate are moving faster than Superman's cape in flight.

I should know better, especially ordering something with the extra kick of chocolate and mint in it.  Too late now.  The worst of it all is that I discover two more Dunkin Donuts gift cards that I got as Christmas gifts from students.  Oh, no!  The horror!  If I know me, I'll forget about this by the summer, be heading to the beach, and stop off for a frosty cup of Dunkins iced coffee.  If you see someone at the beach racing across the sand like a wild animal, you'll know the gift cards have been used.

LEAVE THE DRIVING TO SOMEONE ELSE

I'm taking a trip.  I'm going by plane, and I'm going to be gone too long to leave my car at the airport like I usually do.  Yes, I am spoiled and like nothing more than to walk through the airport doors and have my car twenty feet away.

I decide that I don't want anyone to drive me, either, because I have to be at Logan during rush-hour traffic on a weekday morning.  I have several options.  One of them is to take the commuter rail, transfer subways a few times to get to a shuttle, and fight crowds of people with my suitcase.  Another is to leave my car near my house in a parking lot that is notorious for break-ins and pay almost as much for the Flight Line van as it would be to park my car at Central Parking at Logan for several days.

The most practical option is to drive myself a few towns away and hop the Logan Express bus while leaving my car in a secure lot at a rate of $7 per day.  The bus service isn't too expensive, either.  I'll be saving myself about $100 in parking fees this way.  Sounds perfect, right?

Well ... it could be perfect and would be perfect except that the transportation center is located right off the busy commuter highway, one I used to drive daily to my job in Woburn and swore I would never, ever do again if possible during rush-hour traffic; the very same highway into Boston that I am trying to avoid.

So, I do what any crazy person would do.  I map out the back route to the transportation center.  Studying the map and routes that I've taken before, I know that there is an easier way.  To my joy, I discover that there are probably seven different ways to get there without ever touching the highway nor commuter traffic.  I have to wonder, though, am I really going to be saving any time at all?

I decide to get in my car and do the drive myself.  I could go down the more traveled routes: 129, 62, 125, 28...  Instead, I map out the route that has zero main roads.  I cross three of the main routes I am trying to avoid.  Each crossing has a traffic signal, making this an easy choice.  I drive through back roads, past schools, through neighborhoods, driving parallel to, then crossing, then driving parallel again to the giant commuter clusterfuck that is route 93, never once having to actually drive ON it.  The only part of the trip that seems remotely populated is the industrial park I must drive through in order to access the transportation center.  It is the only choice in order to avoid the highway. 

Eleven miles and twenty-five minutes later, I arrive at the transportation center, scope out the long-term lot, see the Logan Express bus I will be taking (well, maybe not that exact one, but one just like it), then begin the reverse process.  The ride home is equally serene, often deserted.  All this, and I only have to turn twice once I leave my town's limits (three times if I count entering the station's driveway).

I like driving into Boston and Logan (once I mastered all of the quirks), and the drive is surprisingly easy to maneuver if one is extraordinarily adept at multiple lane changes in sixty-mile-per-hour, bumper-to-bumper, NASCAR-like traffic.  Sometimes, though, it's nice to leave the breakneck, stressful, nerve-wracking driving to someone else.

HIGH BUT NOT YET FLOODING RIVER

Yeah, I'm going to talk about the weather one more time (Okay, in reality, probably a hundred more times).  Today I receive an alert that a street about two miles from my own street is flooded.  First of all, no one should be remotely surprised since the original builder filled in a swamp to put in multi-million-dollar houses.  Of COURSE there will be flooding.  But, it gets me to thinking, so I head out exploring.

I live near the Shawsheen river, maybe about 300 yards away, but I am, luckily, above the high-water mark for flooding.  I cross bridges over the river all the time, and, yes, I have noticed that since yesterday's torrential and continuous downpours, the river is pretty high.  I follow the river to the next town over, and it's high there, too, but not yet high enough to cause traffic concerns.

I head one more town over and check out another river, the Ipswich River, and I follow it off and on for a few miles in my car.  It is high; maybe unreasonably high in places.  Still, it has not covered any roads -- inched dangerously close and infringed on wooded lowlands, but nothing catastrophic.

The swamps near my house are also high, but they haven't spilled into the roadway, either.  Of course, the swamp nearest to my house is in protected land, so no one has filled it in nor tried to build on it.  It just is.  Thank goodness, because the little wetland area is home to turkeys and deer and hawks and all kinds of cool wildlife not normally comfortable so near to the center of town and activity.

By the time I get home from my exploring, it is clear that the flooded street so close and yet so far from my own home is all due to piss-poor building permits and a lax (if not corrupt, at the time) town building department.  The flooded swamp-turned-exclusive-neighborhood backs up to protected wetlands in the city of Lawrence.  That's right: LAWRENCE.  Yes, even the Drug-Capital of the Eastern Seaboard knows enough NOT to build in the fucking swamps. 

Anyway, thank you, bad weather for giving me an entertaining way to pass time today.  Although it's still windy, cold, and raw out there, the sun is shining, and I suspect that Spring may well be right around the next bend in the very high but not yet flooding river.

MY TO-DO LIST THAT IS TO-DON'T

I always believe that I'm going to have more time to get stuff done than I actually do have when I'm on school break.  I make myself a giant To-Do List (completely unattainable) then berate myself for not accomplishing even half of it.

For example, I pledge to clean out the entire basement.  I tried that a year ago and got 75% of it done and put out thirteen bags of trash.  It was awesome!  Now, though, what I have is manageable and probably stuff that will require painstaking sorting (family slides and super-8mm movies from when we were kids, judo trophies that belong to my boys, perfectly usable sleds, sports equipment...).  This is a job that will take more than a day ... days ... weeks, probably.  I do, however, reorganize the containers of candles and put them nicely into the kitchen.  Success!

I pledge to go through all of my files.  I did this last summer, so what is left is probably stuff that I cannot toss, anyway -- taxes within seven years, insurance policies, half-written manuscripts...  Really, this is a job that will also take days because now I'm down to the nitty of the gritty, and each document requires perusal.

I also have a pile of essays to finish correcting.  It has taken weeks to get through half of them because they're not as well edited as they should be.  I spend anywhere from ten to forty-five minutes per essay, and I have about a hundred to complete.  I am down to the last forty or so.  But, of course, there are the hundred poetry projects to grade, as well.  Did I mention the planning, my ed eval, and my license renewal?  Oh, yeah.  There are those things to do, also.

Somewhere in the midst of this, I would love to read a book, plus I am definitely going to take a mini-vacation before I return to work on Monday.  Yup, I'm joining some family members and hopping on a plane. See ya later, crappy Massachusetts weather!

I guess that means this April break will be successful after all.  My To-Do List may not get done, but my Make-Do List certainly will.

SIPPING WINE AFTER SCHOOL

Sometimes when I'm working on paperwork at school, I'll stay later to get it done.  Sometimes I pack it up to bring home with me.  Sometimes I work at my desk at school.  Sometimes I sit at the kitchen table or work at my computer.

Either way, there is something that school offers that home doesn't: access to all of my files and reference materials, and the big copy machine.  There is also something that home offers that school doesn't which often tempts me to bring my work home with me: alcohol.

Oh, I don't drink while I'm correcting because the grades would keep getting better and better.  But, when I'm working on my plan book or getting set up for my upcoming schedule, there's nothing wrong with a glass if  of wine.

Come to think of it, when I print stuff out on my own printer at home, there's nothing wrong with a glass of wine.  I just have to be careful where I balance that glass.  If I spill the wine, or, worse, shatter the crystal, it will break my momentum.  Because it's wine at home and tea at school, a broken wine glass would be a lot more tragic than a shattered "World's Greatest Teacher" mug.

I know!  I'll start sipping wine (at home, of course) out of my school mug.  This way I get the best of both worlds, and my real momentum won't be broken.

CHICKEN NOODLE SOUP FOR THE SICKLY

Sick of being sick; sick of being sick; sick of being sick!

I've really tried.  I've tried taking care of myself,  I've tried sleeping, I've tried resting, I've tried medicating, I've tried sweating, I've tried steaming. 

This damn cold won't go away.

Finally, I give up.  I'm going with the last line of defense.  I reach into the cabinet and pull out ...

Chicken Noodle Soup.

No, not Campbells, although Campbells soup has enough sodium to embalm a mummy, so it should kill whatever ails me.  I open up a can of Progresso, and I attempt to soup my cold to death.

So far, I don't feel as if it has been successful, so I might have to chase it all with yet-another cup of tea with honey.  Just in case, though, there is a little of the soup leftover in the fridge.  If I wake up feeling this way tomorrow, there's a decent possibility that soup will be my breakfast.

Sick of this, though.  I finally get a few days off, and my body rebels.  This soup had better work.  I'm almost out of tissues.

FOUL-WEATHER FANS FOR A SOGGY MARATHON

Not fog ... RAIN!

It pours all day Monday -- not unusual for spring.  Unfortunately, though, it's the Boston Marathon.  About six years ago, it was over 90 degrees on the day of the Marathon as we were having a hot spell.  Monday, though, no such luck.

It's rainy, it's windy, and it's raw.  In other words, those warm weather runners are in for a shock.

I watch most of the Boston Marathon on television, and I can feel the cold seeping through the screen.  People are trying not to be overdressed for the long haul, but they are consequently under-dressed for the minutes (and, in some cases, hours) before their start times.  The wheel-based competitors are going to be soaked to the bone from the rain coming down and the street water coming up from their wheels before they even leave Hopkinton.

With bursts of white breath clogging the starting line, the competitors leave in wave after wave after wave, some wearing heavy gear, some wearing plastic ponchos or bags, and some wearing the same skimpy gear they'd wear to run in the heat of the summer.  I half-expect them all to look like Frosty the Snowman when they're done.

Look carefully - you'll see the lines of rain falling.

I stop watching the coverage a few hours in after the top in each major field finishes.  I guess I'm just a fair-weather Marathon fan.  I look outside.  Nope; it's still raining like someone turned on a giant, sky-sized fire hose.  Fair weather, indeed.  This year we are all officially foul-weather fans, as well.

Congratulations to all the competitors, the runners, the stragglers.  I've walked two twenty-five mile walks in my lifetime, and I'll never do it again.  Run it?  My raincoat and I will be happy to wave as you go by.

SNOW, SLEET, ICE, AND CHORES

More ice.  More sleet.  More snow.

Well, it is only April 15th, so we are still well within our weather limits.  We shouldn't be complaining; the northern Midwestern states are getting slammed, while we are merely getting inconvenienced.

The weather prevents me from taking a trip up north today, which turns out to be a good thing because the cold I have is hanging on, and I would've made a lot of innocent people sick.  Instead, I spend the day working on school stuff and trying to tie up some loose ends before submitting my yearly evaluation packet.

Monday's Boston Marathon is supposed to be a cold, rainy (often pouring rain) day.  Friends invited me to join them in Boston, but crowds aren't my thing, and watching people run is about as exciting to me as watching grass grow.  Although Boston is always a good time, this just sounds like a recipe for Heliand-Meltdown disaster.  It is shaping up to be a good day to hunker down and work on sorting through more of my junk.  Eventually I am going to be moving, and the less crap that I have to take with me, the better.

So, go ahead, weather, and suck all you want.  Suck a whole bunch, as a matter of fact, so that I don't feel guilty trying to get some inside work done.  The fact that this work has been on my list for years shouldn't concern anyone but me, but I'm willing to put on my Busy-Bee hat.  Maybe, just maybe, I'll make some progress if I pretend I'm truly weather-bound.

Then again, I do get distracted easily, and the train station is right across the street.

NO ROAST BEEF

There's no roast beef at the deli.

I'm not even kidding here, people: no roast beef in the pre-cut deli meat case, none in the order-it deli case, and none in the deli back fridge.  The grocery store has run out of roast beef.

I.  Can't.  Even.

The worker who is not the one waiting on me suggests to my deli worker, "We have sirloin..."  My worker kid looks up, sees my face, and realizes that this is probably a stupid suggestion.  He is apologetic, and I laugh it off. 

Really, though, I want roast beef.  Roast beef is not sirloin; sirloin is not roast beef.

I could just order some roast beef at a nearby restaurant and have them make me a sub, but I'm kind of in the mood for roast beef maybe in a roll and maybe not; maybe just rolled up and sprinkled with salt and maybe not.

I wander around the store and debate what I'm going to buy.  I circle back to the deli, grab some roast turkey, pick up the other things on my list, then add bacon and an avocado to my cart. To Hell with you, roast beef! 

When I get home from the store, I build a fabulous turkey club sandwich on toast with veggies, bacon, and avocado slices.  It may not be the bloody rare red meat that my body has been craving (probably some deficiency from being so damn sick this week), but I end up with an outstanding dinner, plus I have enough leftover avocado to make a small bowl of fresh guacamole.

Take THAT, roast beef!  Apparently: I.  Can.  Even.

SAILORS DELIGHT

Red sky at night: Sailors delight;
Red sky at morning: Sailors take warning.

So, it seems it's going to snow, sleet, and ice up this weekend.  Hard to believe when Friday it's nearly 70 degrees outside.  The weather forecasters insist; I just as vehemently deny.

I take the shovel out of my car.  This appears to be the kiss of death, and all mayhem lets loose.  Suddenly, the weather forecast for the weekend turns to shit: snow, sleet, ice storms, lightning, catapults, tacos, orthotic pantyhose, leprechauns, cream of wheat...  You name it; it suddenly shows up in the forecast.

I cannot wrap my head around it.

Yet, the other morning there was snow on my car.  Snow.  Yes, THAT shit.  Today it's nearly 70 degrees, and the sunset is pretty impressive: flaming orb in the sky, pastel colors ... rather pastoral.  It is the proverbial Red sky at night scenario.  This means it's going to be gorgeous tomorrow and all because a children's poem says so.

SAD, PATHETIC, BUT FUNNY

I shared a meme yesterday on Facebook about Mark Zuckerberg sitting on a booster seat to testify in front of Congress.  Funny?  Yes, but the meme refers to being thrown in Facebook jail by a man-child sitting on a booster seat.

That's FUNNY SHIT.

Then a bunch posters started telling me I didn't "get it" because Zuckerberg isn't going to jail.  I was like, "I KNOW, that's why it's funny.  It's FACEBOOK JAIL." 

Then it was even funnier because some of the people who shared the original meme didn't get it and were serious about defending MZ from going to jail.

I was like, "I KNOW, that's why it's funny!  It's FACEBOOK JAIL."

It's ... It's ... It's ...  OMG, people. 

My blog pals and I have all been thrown into Facebook Jail.  Haven't you?  Are there people who don't know what cyber-time-outs are?  I mean, most of my cyber-pals and I have been punished by, put into time-out by, or outright banned by some of the best.  I've been thrown in Facebook Jail, Conversation Nation Jail, Jericho Jail, CBS Jail, Sandbox Jail ...

Hell, I even got banned from my own damn blog. Yes, THIS blog.  The Blogger people BANNED me from MY OWN BLOG.  That takes talent, people.  TALENT.

So, to explain the meme to the many people who thought I was serious and that I really thought MZ was going to jail: NOT ALL OLDER PEOPLE ARE FUCKING STUPID.  Facebook Jail is not real jail.  It's a cyber spanking.  Cyber ... pretend ... not real ... You guys do know that there is a difference between cyber reality and real reality, right?


And THAT is WHY the meme was/is funny.  Your confusion and responses?  THAT'S FUNNY SHIT.  Sad, slightly pathetic, but funny, just the same.

(I won't re-post the meme in case Zuckerberg's minions see it and throw me in Facebook Jail again.)

I'LL TAKE IT

If you'd asked me this morning how my day would go, I'd have told you I'd be leaving work by 1:00 at the latest and heading home to sleep.  Not only was I iced out of my car, but I felt crappy this morning.  Super crappy.  Crappier than crappiest of crappy. 

This afternoon instead of taking my planning period, I sit down and have some tea with a colleague.  Neither of us gets a damn thing done, but we both feel infinitely better for having taken time out of our equally sucky day to unwind and nurture ourselves. 

I leave work at the regular time, still feeling crappy but much more relaxed, so relaxed, in fact, that I run a couple of errands.  One of the errands sends me to the post office.  I could do the drive-through and put the outgoing mail in the box, but I decide to park and go inside, instead.  This way the way-late birthday card gets a head start (at being less late?) on its way.

As I get out of the car, I look behind at the river that hugs the bank by the lot and winds under a nearby bridge.  I haven't seen this part of the river since the town first disassembled the dam a while back.  I probably even posted pictures of it then.  Usually, though, I see the river from the bridge, not the parking lot, and the water just looks like a pile of soggy hay.  From the post office lot, though, the lively part of the river is visible before it disappears under the overgrown plants that grew quickly after the dam's removal.

Even though I feel like crap-on-a-cracker, my spirits lift looking at and listening to the water.  Maybe spring really is coming -- hard to believe when I was iced out of my car and feeling horrible mere hours ago when my day started.  Now that the day is drawing to a close, I'm glad to have pushed myself just a little bit more.  The sight and sound of real spring is enough to make me feel better ... and make me sneeze, but that could still just be the cold I have.  Either way, I'll take it.

BLAME THE HEADACHE

Thursday and Friday I have a headache.  I can sort of kick it with some Tylenol, and I chalk it up to grades closing for the term and a slew of poorly-written essays that I am trying to correct.  I go to bed early on Friday night, hoping that a good night's sleep will help.

Wrong.  I wake up during the night feeling slightly nauseous and am overtaken by a coughing fit.  Ten hours later I roll out of bed with another headache.  This one lasts off and on all day, but I rally to spend time with my daughter and her friends.  We are at a brewery, but all my stomach can take is one beer and one piece of pizza.  I still feel woozy.

My youngest is home for the weekend, which is unusual for him as he is usually out and about.  I am a little embarrassed when I finally turn in on Saturday night at ten.  (If he hadn't been here to witness it, I would've gone to bed at seven.)  I prop myself up in bed, almost in a sitting position, hoping that the angle of my neck and spine will relieve the constant headache that massive amounts of OTC meds haven't kicked (nor nudged, even) all day.

The next morning I get up, do an extensive healthy shopping trip, and finish my long day with a hot shower, hoping to steam out some of the aches and general malaise.  It is a valiant effort.  Despite sleeping off and on for about seven hours, I wake up the next day feeling like crap on a cracker.

My throat is sore, my nose is running, and my eyes sting.  Of course, of course -- my school break is coming up.  No better time than right now to get a bad cold, right?  I am pumping myself full of fruits, veggies, orange juice, tea.  I refuse to fall ill on my days off.  REFUSE!

This is when I realize that my headache is finally gone.  Four days.  Yes, my headache has been bugging me for four straight days.  May this cold go by as quickly.  Oh ... and the essays ... they're still waiting.  Sorry, kids.  Blame the headache.  A little more Tylenol, some cough drops, and a ton or two of tissues and I should be good to go.

PASTEL SKIES AND LONGER DAYS

Finally, it's staying lighter later. 

My brain is so unused to it that I keep thinking it's only 5:00 when it's closer to 7:00 in the evening.  I am also used to missing the best part of the sunsets because I'm either still at work or sitting at my own desk at home. 

I get so excited about seeing a sunset for the first time in weeks that I start snapping pictures like a tourist.  Anyone walking by my house is going to think I'm nuts, but I don't care.  This is the best thing ever.  Of course, I say that about every beautiful sunset, and it's true; they are all the best things ever.

Soon, very soon, sooner than I probably even know, the warmer weather will come in, and the days will be longer, and I'll get to see more sunsets even if I continue with my crazy hours.  Until then, this one will carry me over.

Finally, pastel skies and longer days.

MY STOMACH IS CONTENT

Sunday turns into meal prep and snack prep day.  It isn't intentional.  I don't plan to go to the store -- it just happens.  I'm minding my own business when suddenly my stomach says, "I'd like a steak tip salad later."  The next thing I know, I'm in my car and heading to the grocery store in search of vegetables and meat.

Of course, no trip to the grocery store goes unpunished.  I buy other stuff, too, like blackberries and peanut butter (crunchy and creamy -- it's on sale) and frozen french fries and walnuts.  Apparently, my stomach is branching out since I left the house.  Luckily, I bring limited cash with me, so my stomach has to act within certain limits. 

Sometimes my best intentions for meal planning end up rotting away in the vegetable bin.  There are times when I buy things like zucchini then get sidetracked by late meetings and life in general, and then I'll look in the crisper and the zucchini is as wilted as my original plans for it.  I'm a great planner, but my kitchen follow-through lacks momentum.

It is this reality that spurs me to get right down to business when I get home from the store.  I throw on an apron (dress for success, right?) and line up all of my ingredients.  Soon I have seven individual salads ready and in plastic bins for lunches or dinners or whenever I feel like eating them. 

Next up is a batch of honey and chocolate chip oat-granola bars.  I chop up anything and everything I can find to add to the mixture: peanuts, walnuts, wheat germ, then I spread the glop into a container.  The whole thing needs to freeze before I cut it into bars, so I decide to make one more item.

Bagels.  Yes, a double-batch of Asiago cheese bagels will be perfect.  The recipe requires Greek yogurt, so I convince myself the bagels are healthy.  As soon as they come out of the oven, of course, I convince myself that eating two of them must be doubly-healthy.

Either way, this incredible kitchen production line sounds marvelously inspirational.  Why, I'm even impressing myself with my massive burst of energy.  However, I'd be lying.  Oh, sure, part of this is all about being ready for the upcoming week with lunches and meals.  The true and honest impetus for all of this is actually avoidance. 

I am doing anything and everything to avoid grading essays.

So, Sunday becomes meal prep and snack prep day.  I get to take the day off of schoolwork, and my stomach will be content for days.

CARDS, BEER, AND MINI PIRATE PANTS

Saturday afternoon at the brewery turns into a hilarious game of Cards Against Humanity, and our group takes over a small table in the back by the windows.  Anyone who knows anything about this competitive card game knows that it's a game loaded with foul language and inappropriate situations.  Anyone who knows anything about our local brewery knows children are welcome.

In other words, we spend hours roaring with laughter and apologizing to people who keep trying to sit near us with their kids: "FYI, foul language spoken here."

My daughter, whom I love dearly, is a major klutz, so it's no surprise when half of one of her beer samples suddenly ends up on the table.  No damage to the cards or the game, but this requires a quick trek to the bar for napkins.  Once we clean up the mess, we try to salvage part of (or, even, parts of) the napkins to use with the pizza that arrives, so we tear a napkin in half and share it.

When I get my half of the napkin, I realize that the tearing job (which, in full disclosure, I did the tearing) is a giant clusterfrig.  I put the napkin on the table, spread it out, and realize I have a miniature version of Jack Sparrow's costume.

Yup, for real.  The napkin looks like little pirate pants. 

Perfect.  After all, we are using salty language and drinking beer with names like Inky Depths.  It's only appropriate that our inappropriate language, beer drinking, and uproarious shenanigans are accompanied by a pirate-via-proxy.  Naturally, we take pictures because if it's in poor taste, it's probably noteworthy.  I don't win the card game, but, shiver me timbers, we do have a hilarious afternoon.

WHAT A DIFFERENCE A WEEK MAKES

What a difference a week makes.

Last week -- warm enough outside to wear a fleece vest over a long sleeve shirt.  This week -- cold enough to require thermal socks and a winter coat.  Last week -- I consider unpacking the kayak (I don't).  This week -- boots and snow brushes.  One day we have two seasons at once -- forty degrees and a thunderstorm.

Today at work I am madly figuring the students' term-end grades.  I am about two minutes from finishing and submitting everything via the computer, and I am intent on getting this all done and having it off my plate before the weekend.

My roommate enters (she shares my room for two periods a day when I don't actively have students here), and she says, "How about this weather?"

Huh?  Is it sunny?  Is it raining? 

Despite having three enormous windows in my classroom, I have looked at nothing but my grade book, the computer screen, and the top of my desk for the last hour or so.  Apparently my dumbfounded expression gives me away, and my roomie shakes her head sideways, prompting me to glance to my left.

It's snowing.  And it's not just snowing gently or in fluffy big flakes, it's snowing sideways at a decent clip.  This is a classic sign that it has been coming down for a while.  I look at the cars parked out front and realize that this is no passing squall.

When I leave work over an hour later, the cars need some brushing and defrosting, and the snowflakes are falling at a rate that urges me to drive straight home and park safely in my driveway.  Of course, a few hours later, as dusk sets in, the snow has ceased, and much of it has dissipated.  My son, who works in an office without windows, didn't see a thing.

Amazing.

What a difference a week makes ... or even a couple of days, even hours.  Come on, Arctic air, give it your best shot.  You cannot hang on forever, you know.  Eventually spring really will arrive.  Until then, I'll keep both the coat and the fleece vest handy. 

BEST TWENTY-FIVE CENT INVESTMENT

Every day I haul home papers for work.  If the papers need to be corrected, they are put into a random pile and secured with a fastener.  If the papers are for planning purposes, such as worksheets for upcoming assignments, or if they are notes and important documents, I tend to slide them into a folder that goes back and forth between home and school.

Although the school year is only 75% over, my folder is already showing signs of severe decay.  A few weeks ago, I added duct tape to the side seam so that my papers wouldn't all fall out.  This has seemed to stem the worst of it.  Yesterday, I added some masking tape to the bottom seams to prevent the papers from careening out of the bottom of the folder.

This is not really the problem.

The problem is this: WHY THE FRIG AM I TAPING TOGETHER A FOLDER THAT COSTS TWENTY-FIVE FRIGGING CENTS?!

Honestly, I do have other folders.  I have a whole bunch of the regular file folders that come in different colors, including the popular standard manila variety.  These folders may not keep papers from falling out of the bottom, but they will certainly do the trick of transporting papers from Point A to Point B in my backpack.  I also have a slew of leftover pocket folders that I have collected from my years teaching and from my kids' years as students.  I probably even have some from when I was a graduate student and had to haul around papers, reports, manuscripts, and my oh-so-precious capstone project.

I head over to my bookcase (okay, to one of my many bookcases), and pull out a perfectly fine, perfectly pristine unused pocket folder.  This one has the three-hole addition inside, so this folder was probably worth about forty-five or fifty cents.  Carefully and with extreme organization, I move my papers from beat-up folder #1, the blue one, to the new and improved folder #2, the yellow one.

Just like that, I look professional again.  I will recycle the blue folder, much as it breaks my heart to see it go, but it put up a valiant fight.  One hundred thirty-five (or more) days of daily beat-downs, and that twenty-five cent investment withstood the test of time and wear-and-tear. 

THAT MINUTE OF SPRING WE HAD

It's no secret that I don't care to be inside a house when it's thundering outside.  This morning while sitting at my computer at 5:35, a giant crash of thunder happens.  What. The Hell.  It's forty frigging degrees outside.  What are you doing, Mother Nature?  You're drunk again.

I run around my small room.  Where did I put the headset?  Where are the earphones?  Where are the earbuds?  When was the last time I charged up the MP3 player?  It seems like it takes forever to find the headset and get the music playing.  I'd rather listen to random songs than the sound of the world ending, but everything is tangled.  After a minute or two of machinations, I am finally plugged in, unwound, and safely sheltered from any more big booms.

I look at the clock.  While the world pops outside, I am inside putting on my eye make-up and making my eyes pop.  I run upstairs and grab clothes.  I have to plan a little bit since it's now pouring rain outside, very cold, yet supposed to be warm later.  My hair is flat as a deflated tire, but there is no way I'm wetting it down and re-drying it with an electric dryer with the lightning happening.

Finally, I am ready to leave the house.  It's still raining, but the thunderstorm has moved along, thankfully.  When I arrive at work, it's drizzling a bit.  I listen to a song on the car radio then walk across the lot to the back entry.  As soon as I close the door of the school behind me, the skies open up and it rains so hard that the droplets are smashing the ground and bouncing back up into the air about a foot high.

I stay late at work for meetings, so by the time I leave work, it is already chilly again (I missed the warm weather) and still raining.  By the time I get home, though, the sun is trying to come out for a last gasp, and the rain stops.  Maybe Mother Nature has sobered up after her morning debacle of thunderstorms and forty-degree weather.  Then again, maybe not.  Overnight the winds are supposed to gust up to fifty miles per hour. Oh. well.  That minute of Spring we had sure was nice.

DO NOT GO TO BED WITH DAMP HAIR

I'm going to do something I am actually against doing -- but I must do this for duty and humanity.  I am going to post a picture of myself.  Maybe two. 

I must do it.  It's a public service.  However, I will heavily edit the pictures with some fancy filters to prevent anyone from being too shocked and sickened.  First, though: The Advice. Here it comes.  Are you ready?  Is everyone's food fully digested? Okay, listen up:

DO NOT GO TO BED WITH DAMP HAIR.

I mean it.  Don't do it.  Unless you're impersonating Nick Nolte's mug shot or want to look just like Larry Fine, do NOT do it if your hair is remotely longer than your ears.

I shower, put some mousse in my hair, brush it out, slick it back, and go to sleep with it still a little damp.  When I wake up around 2:30 a.m., my hair is wonky, to say the least.  I zap the freaky side with some spray (just water in a mister) and head back to bed, sleeping on the not wonky side of my head.  I figure I'll do a little styling when I get up for work. The alarm goes off about two and a half hours later.  I stumble down the stairs, catch a glimpse of myself in the bathroom mirror, and --

HOLYMOTHERFUCKEROFHORROR!  Hide the alcohol and bury the car keys; Nick Notle's in the house!  Larry Fine is searching my bathroom for his fiddle!  JesusMaryandJoseph, we are all going to die!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Wait.  Wait a second.  Hold the phone.  This isn't California, and that's not Nick Nolte.  Holy crap, it's just me.  I am the Phantom of the Reflection.  I resemble Medusa on a bad hair day.  I have slops of wavy hair that look like giant dreadlocks gone terrifyingly wrong.  I look like my hair went through the blender and forgot to come out the other end.

Anyway, two pics for your viewing pleasure, but without my exact face because if you think the hair is frightening, you ain't seen nothing yet.  I'll at least spare you that agony.  And, for the love of all things sane, please remember to dry your hair before going to bed.  That is all.

COLORING FOR DIGESTION

Coloring eggs remains the one constant Easter tradition in my house that rarely goes by the wayside.  Part of this is because it's a tradition that reminds me of growing up.  The other part is that I love egg salad and deviled eggs. I suppose that's a bit morbid -- decorating something I'm going to be digesting shortly after.

Sometimes I set up the egg decorating station outside, but the weather is rarely compatible.  This year it's windy and a little chilly, and my sister is visiting, so we set everything up on the kitchen table.  I get out the crayons, and the two of us work to create nine dishes of color: blue, green, yellow, red, orange, violet (more red), purple (more blue), lime green, and teal.  Dumb me remembered to check the food coloring, but I forgot to check the white vinegar.  After reconciling that apple cider vinegar and red wine vinegar aren't going to work, I manage to eke out nine teaspoons of the last of the white stuff, and we are good to go.

Halfway through the process I coerce my youngest into joining us, and I field texts from my daughter, the middle child, who is at work and feeling left out.  (I promise -- we will decorate eggs some other time.  That's the beauty of white eggs; they're always around.)  We end up with a nearly perfect dozen colored eggs.  One does have a small glitch in its shell, so my sister decorates that one with a simple saying: "You crack me up."

It's a fun day of coloring.  No one spills dye on clothing, no eggs land on the floor, no crayons break, and clean-up takes practically no time at all.  Of course, stupid me has crushed the egg carton, so we have to pack the eggs into containers, but if that's our worst disaster for the day, we're having a fabulously successful Easter Egg Coloring Experience.

PASSOVER, EASTER, AND PICTURES OF SPRING

It's Passover and Easter weekend.  This usually means the heralding of Spring, but it's still early in the season.  Easter falls on April Fool's Day, a day that we New Englanders have been fooled by before -- having major snow.  We've also been hit by blizzards the first two weeks of April, as well.  We are all too aware that Spring isn't here quite yet.

However, we've had a string of reasonably warmish weather: days into the forties and even the fifties.  Regardless of the dim forecasts, sun has won out, and the recent snowstorm is just a distant memory if one looks past the still-melting snowbanks along the roads.

Today is beautiful -- sunny, mid-fifties, and a light but subtle breeze.  Spring is in the air today.  People are out biking, running, window-shopping, and cleaning up their yards.  It looks and smells so much like Spring that it's hard to believe we might still get smacked around by the late-great Winter.  Although the trees are still bare and no crocuses have shown their buds, lawns are semi-green (where there isn't snow), and it's easy to imagine this is it; Spring is here.

In the midst of all of my errands today, I take time to stop by the state park and take some pictures.  Part of me wishes I'd packed the kayak in the car -- even though the water is still cold and the air is still crisp, I'd be in that water on my kayak in an absolute heartbeat if I had my gear with me.  Instead, I take some pictures, walk part of the way down the trail, and enjoy every second of this glorious day.

Easter and Passover are both times of faith springing eternal.  I have faith that Spring is springing, and now I have the pictures to back it up.

APRIL FOOL'S MUSIC

April Fool's Day has never been an important holiday to me.  I mean, I like to prank people from time to time, but an entire day dedicated to lying and joking around?  It's exhausting.  Sometimes, though, April Fool's comes early and stays late.

The other night I leave my car parked on the street.  My youngest has a late lacrosse game many towns away, and I hope to be deeply sleeping by the time he arrives home.  The only problem is that he will be deeply sleeping in the morning when I need to get my car out of the driveway, so I will let him pull my car in after he arrives home.

I sort of hear him mosey in around midnight, fall back into a sleep-induced coma, and ignore the state of my car until I peek out of the front window to start it in the morning with the remote.  I make my iced coffee and brush my teeth before leaving the house.  As I lock the front door, I hear loud music outside.

Really?  Truly?  Someone is blasting music so loudly at 6:30 a.m. that nearby houses, including my landlord's, must be bothered.  Who the hell would be having a party so damn early?

As I walk down the driveway, I realize that the racket is coming from MY CAR.

My son, that little shit, has pranked me by setting my car radio to a Sirius Latino party station and turned the sound up VERY loudly.  My car is quite literally rocking.  I unlock the door and turn the music down ... but not off.  I like Latino music, and I decide to pre-set one of my other stations to this one.  I listen to it all the way to work.

Thank goodness I remotely started my car, though.  If I'd been sitting in the quiet car and started it myself, the music probably would've made me shit my pants.  The joke is funny and really effective, but my son doesn't really think this one through.  I mean, payback for pranks like this can be brutal.  Half the fun is the psychological warfare of my victim's nervous anticipation.

April Fool's Day -- not super important, but a holiday with an extension.  If he can prank me days before, I can prank him days after.  Right?  (Insert evil laughter here.)