MIND OVER MELTING

I don't have the air conditioners in the windows yet. 

I know, I know -- I should, and usually I do by now, but I've been too busy to haul the units up from the basement.  I will, though.  It's getting too hot and humid for my sleeping comfort.

In the meantime, I am keeping cool with fans and keeping windows closed during the hottest part of the day.  I'm also using a visual trick, and I'm not going to lie; it's kind of working for me.

I have a Christmas decoration that's only a holiday theme if I look at it really closely.  Otherwise, it disguises itself as an ordinary work of art.  It's an empty wine bottle stuffed with lights, topped off by a lovely bow and some other cool decorative baubles.  If I shut off the lights in the living room and plug in the wine bottle lights, it reminds me of winter.  Winter is cool, and so am I by imaginative osmosis.

It's not quite as effective as having the air conditioners in the windows, but it's an interesting experiment in mind-over-melting.  So far, it seems to be working.

NOT-SO-HORRIFYING HORRIBLE MORNING

My morning is not horrifying, but it is shaping up to be horrible.  Looking on the positive side, there's stuff in the fridge for lunch even though I haven't gone shopping since ... I cannot even remember when.  My car starts, there's gas in it, and traffic is only moving at a snail's pace; it's not at a standstill.  No, not completely horrible, but certainly not stellar.

It starts with a giant silverfish (hairy centipede) crawling around in my bathroom sink.  I grab a broom and whack the bug then rinse it down the drain with water.  In the reflection in the mirror, I see a spider crawling on the wall behind me, so I take the broom that's already in hand and swipe at the spider, which promptly falls onto my pants.  About twenty minutes later when I go to brush my teeth, I turn on the faucet and that damn silverfish crawls back out of the drain at me.  This time I whack it with a dustpan brush so hard that its legs scatter and twitch all over the formerly-clean porcelain sink.

My semi-awful day continues at work when I slice my finger open on a pile of papers.  It doesn't bleed immediately -- most deep cuts don't for about seven seconds -- but eventually it starts spewing blood like I've nicked an artery.  I put a bandaid on it, but the blood just laughs at the bandaid and spurts out all over my desk.  I put two bandaids over and around it, cutting off the blood supply.  This pretty much works until after lunch when I decide to take off the bandaid tourniquet.

Bad idea.  Bad, bad idea.

Within minutes I have a second gusher on my hands.  Old Faithful can't hold a geyser to the amount of blood shooting out of my finger.  My middle finger, no less.  Seriously.  I NEED this finger for driving.  How am I supposed to gesture at other drivers without it!?  I wrap up the finger again with one bandaid, but the finger just laughs and laughs and laughs at one bandaid and gushes out of that one, too.  Again I do triage on my paper cut ... a mere paper cut, folks ... so that I don't bleed out and die.

When I get home, I discover that I have a ton of gauze and a decent amount of medical tape but very few bandaids.  Well, middle finger, you best behave yourself unless you want me to tape you up like Gretzky's hockey stick.  Besides, I'm afraid to rewrap the dang thing because it means going back into the bathroom where spiders and silverfish roam.

That's all I need.  I'm liable to jump out of my skin and slice my finger clean off on something stupid like the towel rack.  I'd better just take the rest of the day and evening off.

UNEXPECTED SUN BEFORE THE RAIN

The long weekend is over.  I did manage to get a bunch of stuff done, although I expected to try and squeeze in a few more chores from my To-Do List.  However, the sun surprised me Saturday morning; I wasn't expecting it at all.  For some reason, I told myself that it was going to be dreary and overcast all weekend.

The lovely burst of sunshine was accompanied by some intensely warm weather, but it wasn't humid yet.  The humidity moved in during the afternoon along with the rain.  So, I mixed up a smoothie with frozen fruit, threw on my bathing suit top and some shorts, grabbed a pair of sandals, and smudged some sunscreen on my nose.  I took a book with me, along with a towel and a sun chair.

For ninety minutes, it was summer.  Gloriously, wonderfully summer.  And then, just like that, it vanished for the rest of the weekend.

GOING TO SCHOOL ON A NO-SCHOOL DAY

What do teachers do when they have a day off from school and they happen across an authentic, restored one-room schoolhouse?  Instinct would urge them to run away!  Run far and run fast!

I find myself with some time to kill on my way to a get-together in Eliot, Maine, so I pass by my destination and continue up the road to explore.  I drive past some nice old houses, a cemetery, and then ...

There's a flag on the side of the road.  The flag is attached to a sign that says, "Open house at one-room school today 11-2."   I glance at my clock.  It's 1:46.  Hmmmmm.  Maybe on my return trip I might stop by and check it out. 

I get to the nearest safe turn-around, which just happens to be the elementary school, and head back where I came from, trying to remember where I saw the flag.  Suddenly I see it, right along the cemetery and down a small side road.  I pull into the dirt lot and park next to three cars.  I have about eight minutes before the little schoolhouse closes for the day (and, as I discover, for another few weeks -- it's only open the last weekend of the month).

What I find is amazing. 

The schoolhouse has pristine, wide-planked floors, several old clocks, desks, books, an old wood-burning stove, and it even has some clothing from the time-period.  On the walls are pictures and articles and artifacts from and about the school.  I am so excited that I snap pictures and even donate some money toward its operational and restoration costs.

When I go back to my own classroom tomorrow, I'll definitely appreciate my modern school conveniences and the conditioned-air ventilation system, but there's something wistfully wonderful about the one-room schoolhouse's simplicity.  If I can't work there, I wish I could live there.  That way I'd never have a day off from school.

I mean, let's be serious: You can take the teacher out of the classroom, but you can't take the classroom out of the teacher.  

FLOWERS AND A REDUX

Two weeks after Mother's Day, the flowers from my kids are still blooming, and the Gardenia plant I got last year is also still thriving.  That's right, folks, you read that correctly.  I haven't killed the plants yet.

I just wanted to boast that I haven't smothered the plant nor the flowers yet.  For me, this is a real accomplishment because I can really only grow mold.  It could be a testimony to me, but it's really a testimony to the hardiness of the plants themselves.  Truly, I take no credit here.

Let's see how long the cut flowers make it.  I trimmed the survivors down again today, and I know they're on borrowed time.  Either way, Mother's Day lives on to make it through another glorious Sunday.

Happy Mother's Day Redux.  Enjoy your Sunday, everyone.

LET THE WEEKEND RACES BEGIN

When I leave work Friday, a cool eight minutes after the day's official end time, the parking lot is a ghost town.  Even the bosses have vacated the premises in Formula One green-flag time.

The temperature is a sizzling 89 degrees, and I'd really like to get home and enjoy some downtime as the three-day weekend begins, but I have several errands to run.  I could put off the errands, but then I'd just have to do them during the heart of the weekend, and that would suck eggs.

So, despite the feeling that I am already several laps behind everyone else in starting my mini-break from work, I trudge along, do a couple of the things on my Must-Do List, then hit the bank.  After all, I cannot survive the entire weekend on the $6 left in my wallet.

When I pull up to the bank at 3:30, I am thankful that the parking lot is almost empty.  This will be a quick errand -- in and out with moola in no time.  I pull into a front-row space, am just about to open my car door, and I notice the sign.  "CLOSED."

Sonofabitch.  Even the bankers left early for the weekend.

Luckily, the drive-up is still open, so I bang a uey in the lot, head back around, and get into the open lane.  Before long, my $200 is on its way back to me through the tubular express system.  But, when I open the envelope, the teller has slipped me two one-hundred dollar bills.

What in the Hell am I supposed to do with this shit?  Have the gas station break them?  Is CVS going to give me change for a c-note when I buy a pack of Life Savers?

I hit the Teller Call Button.  "Uhhhh ... hello?  Ummmmm ... I can't really spend these bills.  The money is going different places.  Hello?  HELLO?"  A few minutes later, I have a handful of twenties and am prepped for the weekend.  I have a stash of cash for gas, a stash of cash for food, a stash of cash for refreshments, and a stash of cash for travel.

Finally, around 4:15, I make it home from my day.  It seems like everyone else in the world has already been released for the weekend.  This includes my son, whose car is already in the driveway.  That's okay.  We get an early start on dinner, and he'll get an early start going away for four days.  Yes, four.  He has Tuesday off, as well.

I may have missed the green flag at work, but I see the checkered flag at home.  Let the weekend races begin.

CANNOT FORGET THE MERRELLS

My shoes squeak.  I'm not talking about a little creaking here and there; I'm talking about huge, loud, obnoxious, nails-on-chalkboard squeaking.  There will be no sneaking up on anyone with these shoes.  Not today.  Not ever.

The problem is that these are expensive shoes.  Well, not expensive to me because I bought them off the DSW clearance rack, but essentially these are expensive shoes.  They're Merrells, so they probably retail around $75, but, if I know me, I paid $30 or less.  Still.  These shoes ... these Merrells ... shouldn't be squeaking. 

That's just bullshit.

However, bullshit or not, I don't want to return them; I want to wear them.

I tell a pal about my expensive, squeaky shoes.  I tell her the same thing I'm telling you: "They're Merrells!  Merrells, for crying out loud."  (This is code-speak for "I paid more than Wal-Mart prices, and I expect shoes that don't squeak!")  She tells me that her husband had squeaky sneakers and that she had some good shoes that squeaked, so she consulted a small, independent shoe store for advice.

The trick?  Powder.  Yes, powder.  Pull up the the foot pad inside and sprinkle generously with talcum powder of some kind.

Of course I forget all about the recommendation until I decide that today is the day I will wear those shoes again.  I put them on, secure the strap, and ... the noise is so loud, even on my carpeted floors, that I am seriously afraid of waking my son, who is sleeping in the room across the hall from where my squeaky shoes and I are getting ready to leave for work.

I decide to try the powder trick.  I generously put baby powder under the foot pad, reconstruct my shoe, and take a step.

Not much squeak.

I walk some more, down the stairs, around the kitchen.  My shoes squeak some, but it is definitely better than before.  I grab a container of Gold Bond medicated powder, pull up the heel part of the foot pad, shoot in generous pops of powder, and reassemble the shoes once more.

Silence.  I swear to you: SILENCE.  My squeaky shoes are completely soundless.

This is wonderful news since I must walk around my classroom while the kiddos listen to an audio version of a chapter from a novel.  I can sneak up on them, rather than "squeak" up on them, to check if they're reading along in the text.

Even better than being in cognito, my shoes smell fabulous thanks to the baby powder, and my feet feel great thanks to the Gold Bond powder ... and the Merrells.  Cannot forget the Merrells.

MY DAY TODAY

My day today:

1. Teach four classes straight through
2. Work on PD activity for Friday
3. Attend team meeting
4. Leave team meeting to go to Ed Eval meeting
5. Leave Ed Eval meeting to co-plan with teammate
6. Leave co-planning meeting to attend contract voting
7. Finish work and get packed up
8. Rush to make it to mechanic before it's too late to get a sticker on the car.
9. Get a sticker on the car (with ten minutes to spare)
10. Go to grocery store
11. Hit UPS to get my invalid sister's mail
12. Run next door and get beer
13. Get home and start laundry
14. Plan for tomorrow's workday
15. Make something for dinner
16. Fold laundry
17. Wash dishes
18. Iron pants
19. Do more work
20. Do even more work

The funniest thing is that I told someone that today was my "easy day," and that I didn't "have anything to do after work." 

Holy crap.

I'd hate to see a busy day if this is an easy one.

ALL ABOUT THE CUPCAKES

There is a superpower associated with surprise desserts.

Truly.

Imagine having a crappy day, or even a semi-crappy day, or maybe you're not having a crappy a day at all, but you walk into the lunchroom at work to see a three-tier bakery display rack filled with homemade cupcakes.

Truly.

The cupcakes are for two employees: one who has been accepted at a prestigious writers' conference and one who earned a Master's degree.  Now, I am neither honoree, but I am a lunch-eater, and I do sit at the table where the cupcakes are, so I think that means that I get to eat one, you know, purely by proxy.  And this is wonderful news because I am having a rather poopy day, and these cupcakes make me very, very happy.

The cupcakes are chocolate (very fluffy and light) covered with purple buttercream frosting.  The sight of them alone makes my day instantly better.  I double (maybe even triple or quadruple) that fabulous feeling by shoving my salad aside and digging right into a cupcake as my main course.

Lunch is only twenty minutes long, so I don't really eat much of my salad, but I do eat that entire cupcake in no time flat.  I'm not going to lie: I FEEL WONDERFUL!

Truly.

Surprise desserts really do have the superpower to make a day infinitely better.  Thank you, cupcakes, and thank you, cupcake baker!  I vote you the next Marvel superhero for saving not just lunch but for saving the whole damn day.

WHIRLYGIG SEASON

And so it starts.  Whirlygig season; the season that almost never ends.

They fall out of the trees and stick to everything.  They're a bitch to clean up -- I have to sweep backwards, which means I am wearing most of them.  They cling to the walkway and patio like wet cement. 

They.  Are.  All.  Over.  My.  House.

They spin when sailing through the air, and they travel in packs.  If I step on one whirlygig, I can be certain that fifty have adhered themselves to that one whirlygig.  It may be months before I see the patio outside and my floors inside uncluttered.

By the time I sweep the patio, I notice that behind me are more whirlygigs.  Insulting!

So, I'll keep the broom handy, the industrial outdoor broom, and do my best to keep up with them.  Right now, they're winning.  It's on, though.  The whirlygigs might be ahead of me, but they have yet to beat me.

So it starts -- the season that almost never ends.

FLYING SPIDER COUNTERATTACK

This morning I have a nice leisurely late snooze before finally rolling out of bed around 9:00.  Oh, sure, I am up at 3:00, 5:00, 7:00 ... But I don't actually jostle myself fully awake until late enough that I already feel unproductive. 

Deciding I've already let too much of the day get away from me, I get right to work at my computer.  I am happily typing away when I hear something behind me that sounds like a beetle.  My townhouse is notorious for weird nature sightings.  I've had bees, potato bugs, silverfish, mice, chipmunks, squirrels, stink bugs, and giant beetles, not to mention a menagerie of other things, so I recognize what sounds to be a beetle pinging off the light bulb across the room.

When I turn and search, there is no beetle, but there is a spider crawling along the line that separates the wall from my dormer ceiling.  Ahhhh, ya little bastard.  Second spider in two weeks. 

Ever since the bee sightings last year, I keep a swatter attached to the bulletin board that hangs above my computer.  I grab the swatter, make my move, and whack at the spider.

Instead of falling dead like it's supposed to, the force of the air from the swatter combined with the wide arc of my swinging arm causes the spider to spring from the wall and fly through the air like it's performing in Cirque du Soleil.  It catapults itself three feet from the wall, hits my shirt, and ... disappears. 

I search the carpet, the swatter, my hair, my pants, my feet, the furniture, but I don't see the spider.  I start fluffing my shirt out, hoping if it went down there, that it falls out on its own.  I don't ever find the spider, and I am relieved to report it is not crawling on my person.

The truly strange part is that the other spider I found in my kitchen two weeks ago was whacked with a different swatter but performed the same aerial stunt.  It was also first thing in the morning, only that time I swore my head off when it landed on the kitchen table, then I smacked it until its legs were all in different counties.

I think it might be time to go back to squishing spiders with errant shoes.  It might leave marks all over the walls and ceilings, but I'll have less chance of the mysterious flying counterattacks.

WE HAVE SHORT SLIPS ... AND WE KNOW HOW TO USE THEM

My sister, who is a professional singer and soloist, has a recital.  She and another soloist are raising money for a local charity that provides meals for low-income families.  The recital location is two hours from my house, so I book north through the major Friday afternoon traffic, still wearing my work clothes.

With the aid of my lead driving foot and the 70 mph speed limit in Maine, along with some fancy lane shifts, I make it to the meeting point a mere fifteen minutes later than I hope and fifteen minutes sooner than I anticipate.  In other words, I leave everybody else in the dust once I'm past the giant clog in Massachusetts.

In quick turnaround time, I help my sister get ready by zipping her dress and hooking the top of it closed.  I am redoing my own make-up when I hear her yell that her dress is semi-see-through and she doesn't think she has a short slip.

I am still wearing my school clothes: a printed jumper and leggings.  To prevent static cling, I am wearing a short slip.  I yell back at her to hold on a second or two.  "I can solve that problem!" I call out.

By the time I arrive back in her room, she has found a short slip in one of her drawers.  I know this because she flips the hem of her dress up and shows me.  I respond by flipping the hem of my jumper up to expose the short slip I have on under my static-cling jumper.  After a quick laugh, we pile into her car and head the rest of the way north to her recital.

On our way through the toll, a car to our right decides that it wants our lane (well, the driver makes the decision).  My sister shrieks at the car, "Ohhhhh, noooooooo you don't!"

I turn, look over my shoulder at the car, and sternly announce, "Dude!  We're wearing short slips ... AND WE KNOW HOW TO USE THEM!"  I'm not sure the driver understands the absolute super-power of the slips, but he does back off and yield the lane back to us. 

Perhaps he thinks we are daft, and he wouldn't be far off.  Not many people run around trying to save recitals with slips they are wearing for work.  Perhaps Marvel will come looking for new superheroes and find us.  You never know!  After all, slips are powerful, and we do know how to use them.

LITTLE POEM ABOUT SOME FLOWERS

The flowers I receive
for Mother's Day still

days later look
fabulous.

Some smaller flowers seem less
robust

and wilt, but
the larger buds finally

open and make themselves
 known.

The bouquet is spectacular.
(Pun intended.)

Just like real life,
Pick out the souring petals and

cast them aside so healthier
shoots thrive.

HAWAIIAN KRAKATOA

Well, Hawaii, it has been fun. 

Right now your charming island is doing a dance that has already been done and has already won the award for being the most horrifying and the loudest dance of recorded history.  Your volcanic activity and earthquakes and seismic happenings are mimicking an infamous series of explosive volcanic eruptions that ended with the 1883 annihilation of Krakatoa.

When Krakatoa exploded (and exploded and exploded and then exploded again), more than 70% of the island vaporized.  The sound, which could be heard over 3,000 miles away, was so loud that sailors' ear drums burst.  The energy wave circled the entire earth something like three or four times.

It all started with some eruptions.  Some rumblings.  Some volcanic activity. This went on for months until finally ... BAHBOOM.  BAHBOOOOOM.  BAHFREAKINGBOOOOM.  And then, finally and without mercy, BAAAAAAAHFUCKINGBOOOOOOMBAH.

I'm not a betting person, but, kids, if I were anywhere near Hawaii right now, Big Island or not, my ass would be on an airplane so fast my damn underpants would have to fly separately to catch up to it.

It has been fun, Hawaii.  Enjoy the eruptions ... but consider a one-way ticket.

FROG LIP SING ALONG

Today is Sing Along Day inside my car.

Yup, I'm singing along to some obscure stuff, surfing from station to station.  I'm belting out oldies, like Tom Jones "It's Not Unusual" and The Monkees "Pleasant Valley Sunday" and Moody Blues "Forever Autumn" and Emerson, Lake, and Palmer "Karn Evil 9" and Linda Ronstadt "You're No Good."  (I know you just sang that last one a little bit in your head.)

I'm singing along to all kinds of stuff -- INXS and Depeche Mode and The Clash and a combination of punk and New Wave.  I don't always know the words, especially if there are indecipherable lyrics to start with, but, damn it, I am singing along anyway.  Sometimes I change the words, like Stevie Ray Vaughn: "HE'S my little lover boooooooooooy!!!!"  I mean, I should at least attempt to be gender-correct, if possible, although that seems slightly politically incorrect as

I type it.

I do have to stop singing at one point.  Frank Zappa comes on, and it's one of his more obscure ditties that, well, is slightly cacophonous.  I can sing along with a lot of Zappa's more mainstream stuff (not even the tip of his musical repertoire), but this one is beyond me.  "Frogs With Dirty Little Lips" isn't exactly "Big Legga Emma," you know, so I park the car in front of my house and listen wistfully.

Okay, so it's Sing Along and Enjoy Zappa Day inside my car.  That works for me, too.

WEIRD ELECTRICAL THINGEES

Weird electrical thingees are appearing all around my neighborhood.  I call them "thingees" because I have no bloody idea what they are.

For example, my friend and I are walking by the middle school that's up the hill from my house.  Hanging from the wires in the school driveway is what can only be described as a giant plastic electric tampon.  It's swinging around, bobbing way too low from the wires, and it's about the same height as a bus windshield.  We wonder what it might be and if it's dangerous.

Well, it's not dangerous because two weeks later, the giant plastic electric tampon is still hanging out and swinging around the school's access road.  Apparently, it's safe to drive by ... or hit ... or blow into the high tension wires.

But then, something else springs up; another electrical thingee is springing from the earth. 

Today I come home late from a meeting, pull my car toward my driveway, and notice a strange item stuck into the ground at the end of the street.  It looks like a fishing rod for aliens, and it is planted right next to the fire hydrant.  I don't know what it is; as a matter of fact, I cannot even wager a damn guess.  Is it for the electric company?  Gas company?  Water department?  Kids fooling around and seeing if anyone will notice a prank?

I don't get it.  Tampons for giants and fishing poles for aliens all around town.  It's a scary world, folks.  Unless, of course, someone wants to explain to me what the hell these things are, then maybe it won't be so scary ... or weird ... or joke-worthy.

ONE MORE DAY OF LILACS

When my old neighbor sold the house next door, the new owner, an idiot, tore out all of the lilacs and threw them away.  Yes, he ripped the plants right out of the ground like they were useless weeds. For several years, I no longer had lilacs shooting over my fence into my yard, essentially becoming "my" lilacs.  It depressed me this life without lilacs.

In the last couple of weeks I have written two blogs about encountering lilacs.  Yesterday's blog even had me tempted to cut some and bring them home, but the lilac bushes belong to the church, and I think that borders on sacrilege.

Today I arrive home from work, and, peeking over the remaining few stretches of fence that separate my "side" of the property from the neighbor's property, there are several sprigs of lilac hanging around.  I notice the smell first before I notice the plants.

Holy petals!

I quickly run into my house, grab scissors, and chop off a couple of small lilac blossoms.  As I'm carrying them into the house, I notice through the rest of the open space where the fence has fallen away: TWO more lilac bushes, huge things probably badly in need of pruning.

What the ... I thought they were gone.  I thought the neighbor destroyed every little root and every stem and every shred of lilac evidence.  Apparently, since the house is on owner number three or four since I've moved here, no one knows a damn thing about gardening. 

It does my heart and nose proud to see those brave lilacs ignoring the previous moron who pulled them all up.  HA!  You missed some roots, and now the lilac bushes are back.

Oh, and my bathroom, where I put the prigs, now smells fabulous, so thanks for that, too.

SMELLING THE LILACS

In the continuing saga of pollen:

I go for a walk today.  Okay, actually I am walking home from a friend's house, but that still counts.  It's finally warm today after a chilly and grayish start to the day, so I tie my sweatshirt around my waist and head toward home.

Crossing the street by the churches, I decide to cut through the grass-covered alley instead of staying on the sidewalk.  The path is lush, green, and, best of all, in the shade. 

At the end of the walkway is a tall bush.  Yup, lilacs.  Again.

The last time lilacs and I ran into each other, I avoided them as much as I could so I wouldn't keep sneezing.  Today, pollen be damned!  It rained this weekend, it was cold this weekend, it was overcast this weekend.

I decide to change my attitude with the sun.  Since it's warm now and finally spring for real, I walk up to those lilacs, take a deep breath, savor the moment, and move on.

Now, if I can just translate that into my everyday life, the lilacs (and the pollen) can teach me life lessons.  Right now all I've got is "Stop to smell the lilacs."  I suppose "Damn the pollen!" works, too.

POLLEN, POLLEN ... EVERYWHERE!

Pollen, pollen, everywhere
Pollen, pollen, makes me swear

Nastiest stuff I've ever seen
Shit that makes my car turn green

Falls in clouds from every breeze
Clouds of crap that make me sneeze

First my car is white with snow
Then the petals that do blow

Coat my car and house and grass
Pollen- pains me in the ass

Sure, it signals changing gear
Yes, it means that Spring is here

But could I have just one fine day
Where shovel and broom can go away

ROSSINI STRIKES AGAIN

I am reasonably certain that I've written about this before, but it always fascinates me when it happens, which is once in a blue moon.

My clock-radio (yes, I STILL have one of those) is set for 5:05 a.m.  Sometimes I change the station around.  It's usually on the local Spanish station, but occasionally I will branch out to classical music or to funny morning talk.

During the night I do something that I never, ever do:  I sleep through the night.  Oh, sure, I wake up around 3:30, but I'm too tired to drag myself out of bed to pee, so, when I do get the call, I convince myself that I'll get up to pee when I roll over in ... threeeeeee, twooooo, ooooone ...  Back to sleep I go.

Then next thing I know, the alarm is going off, and it's the William Tell Overture.  You may know this as the theme song from the old television show The Lone Ranger.  Instantly I am up-and-at-'em.  It's amazing to me how the music (and having to pee) can set my day into motion.  If the music is slow and quiet, Brahms perhaps, my day starts out a lot calmer.  If it's talk radio and it's sports (and my team lost), I end up starting my day in a foul mood.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c7O91GDWGPU

Starting my day with Rossini, much like starting it with Mendelssohn, sets into motion a quick-start, and I am up and running at a break-neck pace.  Of course, by the end of the day my head is resting on my arm on the kitchen table, and I'm napping at 4:30 in the afternoon, but it's okay because I started my day at high speed and maintained that pace until the bitter end.

If only I were a Kentucky Derby horse, there might be a pay-off for this energy.  Unfortunately, I'll have to be happy with the humor I see in it all and the crazy pace I set for myself because my clock-radio happens to be set to WCRB this morning instead of WODS (oldies) or Power Ochociento or EEI Sports Talk... 

TOOTH-SNAPPING AND OTHER DISASTERS

I'm having a rough week.  Right smack in the middle of it, I crack a tooth.  Actually, I do more than crack it; I snap a piece of that sucker right off.

It all starts when I steal my son's late-night dinner.  He arrives home from playing flag football, and I wander into the living room, following my nose.  I openly steal right from his take-out container.  When I grab a piece of chicken, I bite down hard without paying much attention to what I'm doing.

Unfortunately, the place in my mouth that I use to put the biggest force on the chicken is a place that is already compromised.  There's a part of my jaw that has been beaten down since I was a small kid and fell into a coffee table, whacking out several teeth.  Years later, a failed root canal and a surgical procedure to fix a gum/jaw infection did little to help that section of bone structure.  Last year I had some facial surgery right at the same spot, too.  It's like there's a target over my left cheek.

Oh, but my poor broken tooth.  I feel so guilty.  I feel like a bad human, a bad skeleton.  I feel like I've let the Tooth Fairy down.  This poor tooth has been through so much already and has a massive filling holding it together. The tooth has shifted ever-so-slightly from its mooring, and that sucker has been on borrowed time for most of my life.

Still, however, it has always been the Little Tooth That Could.  Tonight, it's The Little Tooth That Couldn't Any Longer.

Unfortunately for my tooth, the dentist is out of town and will be for about four days.  I could see another dentist, but I'm not in any pain (yet), and I'm not letting anyone touch my tooth except Dr. P, anyway, so there's no point.  Besides, I'm slightly afraid that another dentist will knock the filling out, expose the nerve, and leave me writhing and miserable until Dr. P comes back.  It's not a front tooth; I'm not looking like a hockey player or anything like that.  The tooth only snapped in the back.  The front of the tooth still looks fabulous.  Of course, the jagged little edge annoys the hell out of my tongue, but I'm trying not to loosen anything else.

This is a long, sad saga, for sure.  There is some good news, though.  I will be seeing Dr. P on Monday afternoon.  I'm taking it all as a good sign because I believe in humor and coincidence.  You see, my dentist appointment is actually at the perfect time --  2:30.  Yes, tooth-hurty.  The irony is not lost on me.  I do, however, hope that there is NO "hurty" in this tooth situation.  I already feel horrible for breaking the poor baby in the first place.  I hope that's pain enough for me.

PARKING LOT PROBLEMS

Are you even kidding me right now?  Where are the cameras?  Candid Camera must be nearby.  I mean, this isn't the first time this has happened, but come on.

I need to stop at AC Moore for some candy-making supplies.  Luckily, AC Moore isn't very crowded on a weekday afternoon, but I park out in the lot, anyway.  I like to be away from people, and I could use the walk.  There isn't another car in the square area of the lot where my car is all by its lonesome.

I run in, buy the stuff I need, and am out of the store less than fifteen minutes later.  I start walking toward my car and I see ... MOTHERFUCKER. 

Parked right up next to the driver's side of my car, less than fifteen inches away, is another car.  It is so close that there is no way I'm getting into my car without smacking theirs with my door.  I peer inside the car.  It looks like everything this person owns is inside, all higgley-piggley. 

What. An. Asshole.

I get into my car, then I sidle out again, take some pictures, and scooch back into the driver's seat.  Honestly, I am flypaper for freaks, fiends, and fuck-heads.  I could park in an isolation chamber and some asshole would find a way to park right next to me.  I consider waiting for the driver to come out of the store, but I figure if everything the person owns is inside the car, there's a good possibility there's also a loaded gun in there.

No need to get shot over poor parking.  Besides, once an asshole, always an asshole.  I pack my AC Moore supplies into the front passenger seat, and I'm back into traffic where I expect people to be right alongside.

MORE WALKING, RIGHT?

I am trying to do more walking.  When in DC, I walk about twenty-five miles over three days ... probably more than twenty-five miles.  I go for walks around town with friends but also more often by myself.  I also do a 5k (mostly walking but some jogging) over the weekend.

I'm trying to keep up the momentum, so today I do my favorite route forward: 1.25 miles up a long, gradual, but intense hill.  Once I get to the top of the hill, I have a multitude of ways to come back down the hill, but it's okay because I must descend since the entire first half of the walk has been climbing.  Regardless of my return route, I'm moving in the right direction: NOT uphill.

The best part of this route is that I go past a lot of residential older homes before hitting civilization.  Today the blossoms are out on bushes, and the tree leaves have nearly unfurled.  This is great news for the coming of summer.  This is horrible news for my nose.

Halfway through today's walk, my nose starts running, which is depressing because this is not the body part that should be doing the running; it should be my stumpy legs running my lard-ass back to base camp at my house at the bottom of the hill. 

Oh, I almost make it.  Yup, I keep away from the worst of the pollen until I pass the lilacs.  Then I pass more lilacs.  Then more.  And even more.  By the time I pass the fourth stone wall covered in semi-blooming lilacs, my nose is running faster than an escaped convict.

Thank goodness I thought to bring a tissue with me.  Unfortunately, it's only one tissue, so I have to cut my walk short.  I jog the last 3/10ths of a mile to my house, sitting on the front step and blowing my nose into the nearly threadbare tissue.  I only make it two miles today, which is better than I planned (my plan was to sit on my fat butt when I got home).  That counts as "more walking," right?

DARTH VADER IN DC

I know, I know -- It's not May 4th anymore; it's past Star Wars Day.  In Washington, DC, it's Star Wars Day every day if you visit the Washington Cathedral.

The Cathedral is an amazing piece of architecture that took many decades to build.  Inside are a major sanctuary and lots of little side sanctuaries honoring different ages, occupations, and nations.  While we are there, we are the only people touring the downstairs chapels when we stumble across the Cathedral organist practicing Benjamin Britten's "Rejoice In the Lamb."  It is, quite amazingly, a damn-near holy experience.

Inside the church is the Canterbury Pulpit, from which Rev. Martin Luther King, Jr., gave his last Sunday sermon before his assassination, and everyone from world leaders to the Dalai Lama has spoken from this pulpit.
 

There are statues and stained glass and incredible arches.  President Woodrow Wilson is interred in Washington Cathedral.  There's even a lunar moon rock in a stained glass window.  There's a walkway around the seventh floor from which post-earthquake repairs can be seen in process.  (I cannot even fathom being inside this massive structure during an earthquake,although if one needed prayer, this would certainly be the right venue.)

Yes, it seems like the place just cannot get any cooler.  Except that it can.

On the outside of the Cathedral, high amongst the tall windows near the peak of its tower, is a special gargoyle, perhaps the most revered of all the gargoyles.  Darth Vader is on the Washington Cathedral.  We spot Darth while we are hanging outside and doing our cell-phone online check-in for the upcoming flight home.  I vaguely recall hearing a story that Vader is a gargoyle, but I never believe we will spot him.

I look up, and, to a wandering docent's surprise, we spot Darth Vader.  Okay, at first I believe it is a gargoyle just left of the actual Vader, but still.  Not every Jedi has perfect aim, right?  Sure, the rest of the Cathedral is stunning and absolutely mind-blowing, but Darth Vader has to be one of the cooler parts of this journey.

Although it's a few days late, I bring to you greetings from DV in DC.  May the Fourth be with you, my friends ... and also with you.  (Hey, it IS a Cathedral, after all.)

GOTTA GET HER STEPS IN

We're on the DC Metro, far, far below the streets of the city.  The escalators down to and up from the subway system are enough to strike fear into people with height issues (like me).  Riding up from the station to daylight can be a trek that rivals Montreal's Tower Olympique -- it keeps going and going and going and finally the sights of the city come into view.

One of the stations has an escalator ride out of the deep fathoms that takes about two minutes.  The gears scream, and the ride sounds like the continuous trumpeting of an elephant... maybe even a herd of elephants.  Like all cities, sometimes travelers spill out to bums begging for change.  Most of the time, though, like the Arlington stop and Pentagon City, travelers emerge from the depths to music. 

A couple of the Metro stops are having elevator issues.  Knowing this and knowing the severe slants and lengths of the alternate escalator system, I am surprised to see a woman in a wheelchair getting out at one of the stops that I am reasonably certain has no elevator.  Perhaps she is switching trains, but even that usually requires movement to another platform level.

My niece, with whom I am sitting, and I watch as the wheelchair-bound woman maneuvers out of our subway car and onto the platform.  I'm worried about her, at least for a moment.  As the doors close, the woman leans forward in the wheelchair and starts walking it along while she is sitting, much like Fred Flintstone does to power his car (running along the road while inside the vehicle).

I look at the woman then I glance at my niece, who shrugs and says, "Gotta get her steps in."

Indeed. 

The woman may end up like Charlie on the MTA -- riding forever 'neath the streets of DC, wheeling and stepping along the subway platforms, waiting for someone to come by and toss her lunch from the train car.

ZOO PEOPLE

The best thing about visiting a zoo is that the animals are not always the most fascinating things on display.  Actually, sometimes the animals aren't on display at all.  Of course, this is what happens when I visit a zoo off-season but on a nice day. 

Due to the weather and school vacation, the zoo is mobbed -- wall to wall people everywhere.  Due to the fact that it's not yet consistently good weather, some of the animals are not out on display.  That's okay, though.  The throngs of people everywhere are interesting enough and make the visit well worth the price of admission.  Okay, admission is free, but still.

First is the young man walking around in the t-shirt that has written in big letters "DRUNK AS SHIT."  Now, I'm not a scientist nor a doctor, but I am reasonably certain that shit doesn't drink, nor does alcohol go directly into the sphincter, so I must surmise that this young man isn't drunk at all.  It's a long shot, but even if he were, advertising such a state at the zoo is probably not a proud nor intelligent thing to do.  I mean, are the gorillas going to care?  Will the alligators be concerned?  Are the elephants going to stampede simply because this human claims to be "DRUNK AS SHIT"?  I am doubtful, but I'd kind of like to see it happen.

Then there's the woman who is yelling at her husband/date.  They are standing in front of the reptile house, blocking the sidewalk, nose to nose, and the man is standing stone-still while the woman is in his face, screeching loudly over and over again, "WHATDOYOUWANNADO! WHATDOYOUWANNADO! WHATDOYOUWANNADO! WHATDOYOUWANNADO! WHATDOYOUWANNADO! WHATDOYOUWANNADO! WHATDOYOUWANNADO! WHATDOYOUWANNADO!..."  I don't advocate violence, but how this woman does not get punched in the face is beyond me.  I even wanted to punch her in the face.  Her voice and demeanor are more annoying than the birds, and the kookaburra wouldn't beat her in a cackling contest.  The woman is still screaming and repeating herself thirty seconds later when I finally get out of ear range. 

The strangest sight at the zoo has to be the carriage situation.  Out of all the children in carriages that I see, almost none of them is small enough to belong in one.  In other words, the toddlers and infants are either walking or being carried.  The children in carriages are all HUGE.  Ridiculously huge.  The youngest one I see looks to be about eight and the oldest is ... well ... maybe ... fourteen.  I understand children getting tired and the zoo is built on a massive hill, but seriously.  It's like watching the donkeys riding in the cart instead of pulling it.  It's shocking to me how large these children are riding in carriages.  It takes one strong parent, sometimes two or more adults, to push these lazy lard-asses up the paths.  The whole thing is weirdly compelling: once I notice it, it's impossible to look away, especially if the large pre-teen is whining. 

It's more fun than the monkey house.

As I'm heading toward the exit, I pass a guy wearing a t-shirt that clearly states, "JESUS SAVES, BRO."  I almost flag him down because I figure he might be able to help the kid who is "DRUNK AS SHIT."  In the end, though, just like real animals in the wild, when it comes to maneuvering through the bizarre zoo crowd, it truly is survival of the fittest.  I am relieved to report that I made it out of there alive and with all my limbs intact.

EARNING THE WINE

What happens when I combine a busy Thursday with a restless sleeping night into Friday and add in a long day Friday of work that runs late, then I top this all off with a glass or two of wine?

I doze off during the Bruins game.

Luckily I am watching the game on television  and not actually attending it at TD Garden.  Seriously.  By 9:30 p.m., I am battling fatigue so great that it knocks me on my ass.  One late afternoon glass of wine has rendered me completely useless.

Dinner?  Nah.  That implies work.  I'd either have to make it, heat it up, or go get it.  None of those options seems appealing nor manageable.  Cheese and crackers are manageable, plus they go with wine.  That works for me.

Also, the house is hot.  Really hot.  And a bit humid.  My hair, completely straight when I leave for work in the morning, starts to curl up like a terrier's coat.  Everything in the house, including me, sweats.  Too soon; truly, too soon.  I hoped for 70's before it went right to "unbearably boiling."

No matter.  The wine does its job.  If I'm lucky, I'll sleep.  I doubt it, but I'm willing to give it a try.  After all, it has been a brutal week at work, and I've earned this snooze ... and wine.  I earned that bad boy glass big time.

I'M SOMEWHAT SANE

The weather is in such a flux
That the temperature rising amucks
It's too hot too fast
Although it won't last
Right now it's so hot that it sucks.

Of course, last week while in DC
(A place I just happened to be)
A cold witch's tit
Didn't like it one bit
My toes, nose and fingers?  Icy.

I guess I've no right to complain
My patio's set up again
It's time to sit out
And sip vino and stout
It's the only way I'm somewhat sane

SPIRALING TO THE STAIRCASE

Yesterday's surprise DC architecture (due to being lost) is replaced today by planned architecture.  Our first stop, the National Archives, is fascinating, but we are forbidden from taking pictures, which to me is a fate worse than torture.  Not only are the documents amazing (Declaration of Independence, Constitution, bill of sale for Charles Ingalls' property, and an amazingly intact original copy of the Magna Carta), but the building itself is phenomenal inside.  Alas, you'll have to Google it or trust me on this.

Our second stop is the Supreme Court, where we can take pictures.  My niece has been inside one of the courtrooms as part of her law school rotation through DC, so she is adept at taking us through the building.  First of all, this building is one of my all-time favorites.  When people see the other amazing structures and ask, "Is THAT the Supreme Court?" I respond with a wry smile and shake my head.  Wait for it, I assure them, just wait for it.

The outside of the Supreme Court is magnificent, and the inside is just a grand.  The halls are wide, the ceilings are high and covered in designs, and the pillars and artifacts are awe-inspiring.  There is a long, straight staircase that leads to the courtrooms, complete with a Caesar-like bust of John Jay that monitors the corridor.  At the bottom of the staircase is an elevator with decorated gold doors.  It is so much like a Greek temple that stepping inside is like stepping into another world, another time.

The most impressive thing, though, is the engineering marvel known as the Spiral Staircase.  There are photos of it being built (upside down, then disassembled, then reassembled as it was put into place), and I feel like I'm ready to see it.  I mean, it's a giant spiral staircase.  I've seen one before years ago in a DC office building when on a Girl Scout tour with some local Congressional muck-a-mucks.  So what, right?

So wrong.

The view of the Spiral Staircase can only be seen from a small landing the size of a doorway.  My niece, who directs me to it, knows exactly what's coming.  I, apparently, do not.  I tuck myself into the alcove, look up, and ... exclaim ... "Hoooooooooly shiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit!"  The Spiral Staircase is not only impressive, it's inspiring; it's magnificent; it's ridiculous because it's that cool.

I have to turn my phone's camera screen around, lean a little over the railing, and extend my arm.  If I drop my phone, I'm never, ever getting it back.  I snap a few pictures, step away, and wait for my sister to take her turn.  Her reaction is a nearly perfect instant replay of my reaction.  It would almost be funny if it weren't so damn amazing.

Okay, seeing the Magna Carta was also flipping amazing, but I cannot get a photo of it, so I'll settle for posting the Spiral Staircase because that's almost as fascinating as things like the copper plate copy of the original Declaration.  No accidental lost-tourist stuff today, but without my niece as a personal guide, I would've missed the courtroom staircase (hidden down the end of a hall) and the Spiral Staircase (hidden in an alcove).

SURPRISE ARCHITECTURE

I have a horrible sense of direction.  Apparently, my sister and brother-in-law have a bit of it, too, because when we arrive in DC, we promptly head the wrong way off the subway.  It's not entirely our fault.  We are searching for D Street.  What we don't know is that there are four different D Streets in DC.  Yes.  Four.

The bad news is that we are almost late to meet my niece when she gets out of work.  The other bad news is that DC is having a wicked cold spell -- cutting winds, icy temperatures -- and we are absolutely chafed right through our clothes down to our skulls and every bone inside of our bodies.  The good news is that we are from New England, so screw the cold weather.  The other good news is that our confusion yields outstanding tourist results.

We wander off and on between Pennsylvania and Constitution Avenues, running into such gems as Ben Franklin, the Department of Justice, The US EPA, and everyone's favorite organization the IRS.  Suddenly, tucked in the midst of Grecian style architecture, we stumble across a building that looks more like it belongs in the backstreets of Boston.  The brick building has large arched windows, and I surmise that it may have been a fire station.  The building boasts a simple, archaic inscription near the top: U.S.S. Co.

Turns out the U.S.Storage Company is an old storage building, and it is the tallest structure on DC's Square 348.  Built in the late Romanesque style, it is an architectural masterpiece in the neighborhood, and I stop in my tracks to take its picture.  The building is only 110 years old, but it looks older by design.  I briefly imagine how incredibly cool it would be to see the inside of the U.S.S. Co. or perhaps live close enough to see it every day.  Yes, it is that aesthetically pleasing.

Thank you, horrible sense of direction!  Without you, we would've missed all the cool stuff we manage to fit in as we weave our way back to the exact spot where we already have been.  My niece is meeting us back near the subway station by the US Navy Memorial, another sight we would've missed had we headed straight for the tourist traps.  Thank goodness the memorial is at the Metro -- no chance to mess up that sight, even with our dismal location challenges.

WHO MIGHT CARRY THE BOOKS?

Thank goodness we take a plane to and from DC.  I have my mid-sized rolling suitcase and a carry-on bag.  The suitcase is packed tightly; the carry-on has a lot of space.  I guess this means that technically I could haul more stuff home to Boston with me.

But, truly -- thank goodness for flying because it means I must resist temptation of bringing things home with me.  Things I do not need -- like books.  More books.

Our hotel is next door to a book store cafe.  As if that's not bad enough, we find another book store near my niece's place in Dupont Circle.

The hotel-area book store is Busboys and Poets.  The selection is limited but eclectic, and I very nearly walk out of there with Seamus Heaney's translation of Beowulf.  The one in Dupont Circle that we find is Kramerbooks, and I darn-near walk out of there with several literature-based card games, some magazines, and a few new books.

However, even though I do have some room in my carry-on bag, I don't have the energy left to bring the stuff home with me, so I ultimately decide against buying anything heavier than a postcard.  Unusual for me to out-walk my wallet where books are concerned.  I am weirdly proud of and ashamed of myself all at the same time.

Thank goodness, though.  Imagine my suitcase or carry-on being weighed at the airport?  I'd have to explain to them that I'm trying to see how many books the floors in my apartment can hold, and, judging by the heft, I'd probably have to buy my books their own airline seat.  That would be bad since my sister is occupying the seat already.

Hey, maybe I could get her to carry the books ...