W-A-T-E-R!

Speaking of work... We moved into a new school building three years ago.  Well, it's not entirely new; it's our old building all redone.  I have the lucky classroom across the hall from the kiddos' bathrooms.  There are no doors to the bathrooms.  That's right -- no doors.  There are doors on the stalls, but nothing separates the boys' nor girls' bathrooms from the hallway.  The cavernous dual entryway causes everything to echo out into the hallway and beyond.

In other words, my students and I can hear everything ... EVERYTHING ... that is said or done in both bathrooms.  Gossip?  Got it.  Singing?  Heard it.  Peeing?  Nothing is private.  Farting?  The entire seventh grade wing probably hears it. 

It's a little embarrassing and a lot annoying.

Even more annoying, though, is the fact that the girls' room has two sinks, but only one actually has water.  Imagine that.  A brand new refurbished school where the faucet hasn't worked since Day One.  Every so often we check it (you know, put our soapy hands under the faucet and marvel when, yet again, it still doesn't work), expecting the miracle like Helen Keller with Annie Sullivan.  WATER!  W-A-T-E-R! WATER WATER WATER WATER WATER!!!!!

On the second-to-last day of school, I decide to wash my erasers so they can dry overnight and I can pack them away in the closet before I leave for the summer.  I could take them to the teacher lunch room, which I probably should, but the girls' room is right across from my classroom, and it is after school, so I shouldn't be bothering anyone.  I hog up the working sink and make a huge black-marker-residue mess all over the basin.

Before I can clean up, a teacher steps into the bathroom to wash her hands.  "Hold on," I say quickly, "let me grab some toilet paper and wipe the marker out of this sink so you can--"  I don't even have the rest of the sentence out of my mouth when the teacher instinctively puts her hands under the broken faucet.

IT'S A MIRACLE! Water spurts out of the faucet as if it had never done otherwise.

We both stop breathing for a moment, look at each other, make that "Oh my God, what alternate universe may this be" face, shrug, then bust out laughing.  Neither of us can believe what we are witnessing right here before our very eyes.  Water, just like Annie Sullivan convinced us to believe, right here pouring into cupped hands as if we've never seen such a spectacle in all of our lives.

Amazing.  Three years of 180+ school days and multiple professional development days (easily 550 days) later, and on the second-to-last day of school, someone finally fixes the broken faucet.  Also amazing is the sound of our laughter and wonder, echoing out into the empty hallways from the cavernous, open-air bathroom chamber -- a truly superior way to end the long school year.

FORGETTING THE FILE

I am not out of school for thirty-six hours when I realize I have forgotten something that I need in my desk.  Yup, everything is safely locked away where it belongs in my school closet and my school file cabinets and my school desk, except that I need four papers with the final statistics to close out my two-year long educator evaluation and prep for the next round.

I could wait until September, I'm sure, but then I'll be perseverating about it all summer.  I'll be mentally beating myself up over leaving one stupid binder behind with four stupid papers inside my stupid locked desk.  Well, to be honest, I'm sure it won't bother me that much, but I'd rather not be bothered at all.  So, I call the school to make sure the janitorial staff hasn't started stripping the floors in my hallway.

Once I receive the all-clear, I head over to school.  It's raining a little bit when I get into my car.  By the time I make the eight-mile drive, though, we are in complete and utter deluge conditions.  One thing is for certain: I'm going to look like a drowned rat by the time I make it across the administrative parking lot, which is exactly where I park since I'm technically not a regular staff employee today.

I have the papers I need within three minutes, run down the hall to make one copy of the statistical analysis key just in case, lock everything back up, and exit the building between downpours.  I have one more errand, and I know my luck won't hold out forever.  Of course, running in and out of the store is a crap-shoot based on today's on-again-off-again storms, and I get completely caught in the worst of it running back to my car when my errand is done.

Contrary to what the students and their parents say and believe, I do NOT melt when I'm in water, therefore I cannot be The Wicked Witch.  As soon as I'm home and the rain lets up somewhat, a tree promptly smacks my shoulder with a huge splotch of water before I can make it safely inside.  Now that the errand is done and I can get that off of my mind, I pile the oh-so-important papers on top of all the other oh-so-important papers and promptly forget all about them.

I mean, it is finally school break, right?  Now my summer can begin.  

LAST DAY OF SCHOOL

The Last Day of School doesn't really feel like "the last day of school."

Sure, my room is packed up and ready, the grades have been finalized and sent, and it's only a half day.  The kids are totally into it, even if the rest of us aren't quite there.

It has been one interruption to our schedule after another, so the race to the finish is fraught with unusual days and plan changes.  In addition, the weather has not been super-cooperative.  The last few days have been rainy and cool, often imitating fall conditions, which makes the whole ending of school feel more like the beginning of school.

In our teacher hearts (which we really DO have), though, our senses know it's the ending of another year because all of our nerves are frayed.  We spend days snapping (at each other, at administration, at the students, at the janitorial staff, at the birds that crap on our cars in the parking lot) and snarking, a pattern that winds itself down to sheer exhaustion and the setting in of the "I just don't care anymore" attitude.

Thankfully, this final morning of the school year is cool and bright.  Sure, it'll warm up later while I'm still sitting at my desk working, but the kiddos get to leave early and enjoy the day, and that's what The Last Day of School is about: the kids have that sense of anxious clock-watching, then they burst out of the building like confetti from a can of compressed air, spraying every which-way in colorful craziness when that final bell sounds.

PILLOWS FOR PEOPLE

Someone asks me the other day how many pillows I own.  This question is not intended for the in-use pillows.  This question is meant for the guest pillows.

The person who asks the question counts mentally then admits to having about a dozen extra pillows on hand for guests.  My friend, who is also involved in the conversation, mentally counts out loud and admits to having about eighteen.  Then, it's my turn.

"Well, let's see," I say to them all, "I have three pillows on my bed--"

"THREE?!"

"Yes, three in case I want to prop myself up and read in bed or maybe watch television," I explain.  "But," I continue, "I'm going to rearrange the room so the television is higher.  Then I'll only need the extra pillows for reading in bed." 

We all agree that my three bed pillows do not count as guest pillows, especially since I'd probably never give up any of my coveted bed pillows to a guest, regardless of how much I love that person.  I simply love my sleep (when it arrives) more. 

I start counting mentally, but it doesn't take long (no, not because I have no brain).  This is the easy part.  I have two guest pillows.  That's all.  Two. 

Of course, I have decorative pillows of various sizes: five in the living room, three in the den, and six on my bed (in addition to the three big pillows).  I suppose this means I have enough pillows should the army decide to quarter here at any point. 

I do have about fifty blankets, though.  You may not be able to rest your noggin, but you'll never go cold here, that's for darn sure. 

Now, if we want to start talking bolsters here, I'm sure I beat all of you on that one.

L IS FOR MAPS, NOT FOR LOSERS

We're going on an impromptu overnight trip.

My daughter helps to book the hotel, and she books a hotel close to our intended destination.  The problem is we have a meeting point that turns out to be about 25 miles from the destination... backward.

This reality doesn't make sense to either of us.  How can we be passing our meeting point yet closer to our destination but not overshooting it, but still we are about 20 miles away from each (the meeting point and the final point).  I cannot wrap my head around it at all.

Finally, I make the map on the computer really small yet still big enough to see the various colored routes.

Eureka!

This is the problem: We aren't really going in a straight line.  Well, we are passing through point A (meeting point) to get to point B (our hotel), to return back to point A, but the actual end point C (the destination) is completely north of where we are going to be at either point A or point B.

Yes, we are geometrically challenged when it comes to map reading.  Apparently our trip is a giant L.  Our hotel in at the lower left (the elbow of the L).  We are going to the top point (our destination), but our meeting point is back at the bottom right of the L (a part of the highway we're already passing by to get to out hotel ... which is closer to the destination).

Either we cannot read a map, or the people at the destination think they're doing us a favor by making the meeting point east of our hotel when we are coming from the east.  Of course, they have no idea which hotel we've booked, which is west of where they expected us to be east of the destination, which is north of either point, both of which are south and in a straight line to each other, while C is perpendicular to B but not to A, which is more of a quadrant change on the map graph.

See?  it's not just we who are geometrically map-challenged.  You're confused, as well, right?  I'm used to the whole "straight line from here to there" thing, but I guess the mountains and rivers separating us from A to B to C (hence the giant L) could confuse anyone.  Or, maybe it really is just us, which wouldn't be a surprise at all, either.

By the way: Who's on first...

OH, SCHIST ... AND THEN SOME

I had "one of THOSE weeks" and I'm really excited for Monday.  I may have gotten myself into a teeny bit of trouble at work, but I have my defense all set and ready: "SAFETY FIRST!"  That's my mantra, and I'm sticking to it.  I'll let you know if my defensive stragety works.

So, when the opportunity comes to buy some wine, I buy some German riesling to give to my sister and her husband, whose anniversary is this weekend.  Plus, they're going to Germany soon, so it's a win-win purchase.  I get them some Dr Loosen, a German vineyard that sits on the Mosel River and has been family-owned for over 200 years.

Also from the Mosel region in Germany is another riesling.  I am tempted to buy it for myself because it fits the kind of week I've had and the kind of week I'm probably going to have (being in trouble, and all).  Alas, I do not buy it.  Maybe next time. 

My sister and her husband end up with the Dr Loosen, and I narrowly miss the Oh Schist.  With any luck at all, I will narrowly miss the "oh schist" this week at work, as well.  I mean, I only have 1.5 days left.  Don't blow it now.

NAMASTE, GOOGLE PHOTOS ... NAMASTE.

Today has been the first day in many that I can actually relax.  Well, not completely.  I have errands to do and people to see, but I'm not running around like a chicken without its head, nor am I playing Beat the School Clock.  Plus, I actually slept last night -- deeply and with connectivity.  I only woke up twice during the night, and that's practically a miracle worthy of papal anointing.

The only truly annoying thing I encounter today has to do with Google Photos.  They're not really user-friendly in a "Hey, let's combine albums and make a slideshow" kind of way when using different accounts.  All I want to do is combine cell phone photos with 35mm digital camera photos.  You'd think I am trying to break into the Pentagon's National Defense System for all the trouble it's worth.  I end up copying the individual pictures one by one and posting them into the new account's albums.  Really, Google.  Way to make this difficult.

So, to "namaste" my aggravation over this ridiculously complicated "should be easy" procedure, I start my Insight Timer App with nature sounds and soothing interval bells.  Seriously -- Google is NOT going to ruin my world today.  If it takes mindful meditation sounds, I'm willing to do it.

It works, for the most part.  I am able to put together a fabulous slideshow for school.  Excellent!  Now, If I could just add music...  Never mind.  I'll take a deep cleansing breath, hold it for a moment, think happy thoughts, and let it go.  It has been a great weekend up until this point.  I'm not going to ruin it now.

STILL FABULOUS FLOWERS

I can't grow anything.  Mold; That's it -- I can grow mold.  Honestly, everything I try to grow just keels over and dies or commits plant-a-cide.

So, when my sister gives me a wonderful clay pot with flowers in it, I don't hold out much hope.  I'm reasonably certain that I will manage to kill these lovely buds within days, perhaps hours.  Honestly, when she gives me the plants, I am very excited, but I also panic and begin calculating how long I have until I must admit to her that I've committed a gardening felony.

I put the clay pot on my patio and remember to water the flowers ... and then I forget ... and then I remember again.  This is why plants would rather strangle themselves than put up with me tending to them.

Shockingly enough, the plants are still alive a month later.

I know, right?  Too bad Vegas didn't take the over/under on it because I'm sure someone would've made a freaking fortune betting I'd have killed the damn things by now.  I am truly as dumbfounded as are you.

Oh, and I'm amazed because the flowers still look fabulous to me.

PIZZA AND HITTING THE WALL

I have finally hit the End of the Year Wall.

I can't move. I can't think.  My red pen is empty, my grades are done, and my classroom is half-packed up and ready for summer.

However, in the mayhem to get everything done and clear my brain of To-Do lists, I haven't been sleeping.  I've been staying up too late and taking my scatterbrain with me to bed.

Today is a day like any other.  I'm overworked and under-rested.  Tonight I decide will be a pizza night. I bring home the pizza, eat a piece, then promptly put my head on the kitchen table.  I'm so tired and the house is so hot. 

About three minutes later I realize that I've fallen into a deep and intense sleep right then and there.  I'm disoriented and sweaty and I need to pack up and put away the remainder of the pizza.

The bad news is that I have seriously hit the wall.  The good news is that my brain is finally relaxed enough to sleep.  Of course, I still have to get up around 5:00 a.m., but at least I won't still be restlessly awaiting sleep when the alarm goes off.

IN THE SAND

Everybody cheers for summer;
Right now, though, it's still a bummer.
Sure, I'll cheer along with you,
But so you know: My grades are due.
While you're at the beach all cool,
I am still stuck inside school -
Thankfully conditioned air
Keeps the frizzies from my hair;
The temp inside still ebbs and flows
But I'm not sweating through my clothes.
All is not quite doom and gloom
Except I haven't packed my room.
I thought I had it done until,
"LEAVE NOTHING ON THE WINDOWSILL"
Great. That email gets sent now?
I'll move the crap - I don't know how

Nor whom nor what nor why nor where,
Frankly, I'm at "I don't care."
I'm oh-so-close to a good, long cry
As the first of summer rolls on by,
Yet I can make it; patience pays:
My summer break is in three days.
I'll be relaxed; I'll be all tanned;
My butt and toes will be in the sand.

BATHROOM CHAOS

Continuing yesterday's saga ... the bathroom supply cabinet and the two drawers are completely emptied in what seems like a smart mid-week reorganization idea.  In addition to finding enough sunscreen to protect an entire small town, I am shocked to discover that my medicine supply is low.

Well, it is and it isn't.

Usually I have a nearly-endless supply of aspirin, naproxen, acetaminophen, cough medicine, etc.  Instead, I find no aspirin, limited acetaminophen, some cough medicine, and three open bottles of naproxen because, hey, my muscles ache and my brain cannot remember that I already bought medicine.

Before I organize the few meds I have left, I come across a stash of stuff I've forgotten all about: allergy capsules and inhalers and heat wraps.  I check the dates on the containers.  2011.  2013.  2015.

What the ... Now, I know damn well that I've purged bathroom supplies between now and 2015 (not to mention 2011).  But, should the authorities arrive (I don't know -- maybe there are Bathroom Supply Cabinet Inspectors), it appears that my housekeeping skills are sadly lacking.

The bad news is that I have to toss out the heat wraps.  Boo.  The good news is that now I have a bunch of empty containers from all the crap I disposed of, and, even better, I now have sunscreen and naproxen enough to get me through the summer.  The best news is that the organizing of bathroom chaos is complete.

Amen to that shit.

SO MUCH SUNSCREEN

How can you tell that your grown children are still involved in outdoor team sports?

Well, the answer could be "from the amount of dirty laundry that will suddenly, all in one day, turn up in the laundry hamper."  The answer could also be "from the wafting odor of eau de sweaty (insert: socks, cleats, shin guards, goalie pads, shoulder pads, gloves, helmet ...)."  The answer could even be "from the massive pile-up near the front door of sports equipment, such as golf clubs and lacrosse sticks and soccer balls."

The true answer: You can tell that your grown children are still involved in outdoor team sports by the number of semi-full canisters of sports-grade-SPF sunscreen you have littering your house.  (Bonus points if you count the canisters in the kids' cars.)

Today I discover eight containers of sunscreen at various levels of use.  To be honest, the three bottles and one squeeze container are mine.  Also, to be honest, three of my four containers are almost completely empty, and the fourth bottle is less than half full.  My son's four canisters, though, are all three-quarters full or more.

How do I know that the four canisters of sunscreen belong to my son?  They're all sports formulas, specifically made to stand up to the sweating body.  The only time I use sports-formula sunscreen is for our school's Field Day (coming up Friday) when I have to be on the artificial turf, where the temperature is considerably higher due to the turf's synthetic composition, and where there is no shade ... NONE.  Zero.  Nada. 

Yup, if I use my usual coconut-smelling low-number sunscreen, I'll fry up like a piece of crispy bacon and will look like a boiled lobster before I even make the half-mile trek back up the hill to the school.  That's my version of outdoor team sports, and I'll be glad when it's over and I can get back to my beach-sunscreen mode. 

Bring on summer!

HERE'S MY "SHOW MUST GO ON" ATTITUDE

My landlord is finally fixing up the backyard.  It's a little ironic now that his children are older, but he's out there every day working on the patio area, putting down stones, building a giant stone fire pit. It's a little depressing to me that now there will be noise and sparks flying into my windows. 

I've enjoyed about fifteen years of complete and utter peaceful bliss here.  Now, though, there are workmen peering onto my patio (which sits eye-level to their backyard).  This cuts into my sunbathing BIG TIME.  It's weird enough having them all seeing me in my shorts and bathing suit top, but now their eyeballs are right at my stretch-out level; in other words, my reclining cleavage is on full display, and, if I turn just right, I'm willing to bet there's a decent up-my-shorts view of my underwear.


I love my patio, but it's no longer private and it will be even less private when my landlord's patio is completely finished.  I certainly don't begrudge them using their own backyard.  I mean, seriously: It's about damn time.  But there is a huge part of me that hates to see the last of my privacy evaporate, especially just as summer is getting started.

I guess I'll have to plan my sunbathing a little more strategically now.  Either that, or I'll need to adopt a "show must go on" attitude and invest in much, much better shorts and bathing suit tops.

RECALLING THE OLDIES

Today I'm at a wine tasting when I run into a former colleague who retired a couple of years ago.  Of course, like all retired teachers, she suddenly looks fabulous.  I offer to carry her case of wine to her car, and she offers to have me over for a glass of wine.

In addition to a glass of wine, another colleague arrives, and we proceed to have a party on my friend's expansive screened-in porch.  We eat pizza, drink wine, munch on salad, and listen to oldies music, trying to guess the musical artists and trying to remember all the words to the songs.

It's a fabulous evening -- cool and refreshing, clear sky, fingernail moon -- and over far too soon.  Driving home I briefly consider the dozens of things that I have to finish before school on Monday.  This is tempered by the reality that tonight has been all about me, all about friends, and all about relaxing.

I change the radio to the oldies station and continue the evening in my car for the drive home.  Hey, it's the weekend.  I can stretch it out as far as I want to.  I sing along as I drive, trying to recall the words, reveling in the memories of a perfect and perfectly unexpected evening.

MORE THAN READY FOR SUMMER

Finally.  Even though today is cool and pleasant and fleece-worthy, today is the day the air conditioners finally go into the windows.  This is the absolute latest we have ever put the units into the windows. Sure, there have been a couple of warm days and evenings, but so far, anyway, the overnights have been reasonably cool. 

Monday, though ... Monday is supposed to be a meltdown.  Monday will be burn-my-hands-on-the-steering-wheel-after-work hot.  There is no way I want to come home from work Monday to a House of Humid Horror.  So, today the ac units make their ways to their respective windows: one in the living room, one in the kitchen, and one each in the bedrooms because, hey, who doesn't want to sleep with a quilt inside when it's ninety degrees outside. 

To celebrate this momentous occasion, I change the empty gas canister out of the grill (well, my son does because I can't turn the damn thing) and cook up some burgers.  It's like a pre-summer bonanza over here.  Burgers on the grill, air conditioners in the window, and it's still cool enough to be tolerable. 

We're ready, though.  We're all burgered-up and plugged in and the fans are all set, too.  Show us what you've got, Summer.  We are more than ready for you.

MOUSE HOUSE

I live in an old house.  It's not super-old by New England standards.  It's maybe about 200 years old, and it was built on old farmland.  It may have even been the carriage house at some point.  Yup -- I'm probably living in an old barn surrounded by ghosts of cow pies.

The house is so old that it has some creatures sharing the walls -- silverfish, ants, and an occasional field mouse.  Now, though, my stone basement has some real mice in it.  I've managed to kill a few by poisoning them.  I know this because my landlady mentions that the mice are eating the bait then crawling to the unoccupied side (that she owns) and dying on the floor over there.

Despite traps set, the damn mice are avoiding the spring-loaded peanut butter snacks, so I throw down even more poison plus some anti-mouse tricks of peppermint-based expensive remedies.  Today, I finally catch one of the little bastards on my own.  Well, I don't actually catch it.  It eats the poison and meets its end buns-up-kneeling on the floor at the base of the stairs.

Usually I creep down the stairs and peek carefully, almost fearfully, at the unsprung traps.  Actually, I have been so successful in deterring the little shits that I'm overly confident heading down to do laundry.  Instead of my slow creep down into the semi-lit basement, I almost skip happily down.  I have the silly and insane belief that I have won the battle of the mice.

Well, my rigor-mortis buddy convinces me that the battle has really just begun.  Instead of buying more of the expensive stuff at the store, I mix up a spray of peppermint and water, and I spray down the areas of highest mouse-evidence (and the scene of the crime).

I don't know if I will win this battle, but it truly is an old house.  I'm just not willing to share it.

POTENTIAL AND DINNER MOTIVATION

Sometimes even the best of intentions can be derailed by my motivation (or lack thereof).  Take dinner, for example  Dinner has potential, but the potential crashes and burns quickly after being on my feet all day at work.

On my way home I stop at the store and buy fresh vegetables, a couple of plump chicken breasts, and some hamburg.  My best of intentions is to make chicken broccoli ziti or to fire up the grill and cook burgers.  Or, maybe I'll make baked chicken since the house is cool enough to start the oven.  Maybe I'll create another on-the-fly stir-fry and throw in any ingredients and marinades that strike my fancy.

Oh, the possibilities!

By the time I get home from the store, though, I am leaning toward grilling burgers.  A few minutes later when the groceries are all put away, even that motivation has vanished.  Grilling means cleaning the grill afterward, and that seems like too much work.  All of a sudden, I cannot even get out of my own way.

Thank goodness for bacon, cheese, and bread.  I pull out a fry pan, make some grilled cheese and bacon sandwiches, cut up a cucumber into slices, and .... voila!  Dinner for all!

Hey, I may not be motivated enough to be the Galloping Gourmet, but at least dinner is ready.  There must be potential in that.

LOST CREDIT CARDS AND LOST KEYS

I am notorious for putting things "in safe places" then promptly forgetting where those safe places are.  I've done this with money, credit cards, gifts, important papers, jewelry, and clothes, to name a few.  One would think after so many decades of making this stupid mistake that I would stop "hiding" shit and just take my chances that stuff will get stolen or lost or dropped.

No way.  I just keep on keeping on.

I am at a small event in a safe place with people I either know or am introduced to on the spot.  There is not one nefarious character in the bunch, but, for some reason, I decide that I must tuck my spare car key far down into my bag of clothes, as if having my car stolen is undesirable.  (Actually, I am bored of my car already, and I've only had it for a year.  Steal it.  Please.)

When I arrive home, I unpack my stuff and don't think about anything related to the bag or the event.  It isn't until two days later that I realize I don't have my spare car key.  But, the worst part is that it's my auto-starter fob.  That will be substantially more money to replace.

I don't panic immediately.  I assume I lost the damn thing like I always do, but I do recall that I simply slid the key fob into the open-topped bag without much thought as to its safety nor safe-keeping.  I tear through the house.  I check and recheck my pocketbook and the key basket and my clothes and the laundry.  I tear apart my car in case the bag tipped over in transit and the key fob is rolling around the trunk or under a seat.

Once I have exhausted all options, I send out an email to the event hostess who contacts the venue, a place not only 70 miles away, but a place that holds a big event there the day after I misplaced my extra key.  This means that my chance of actually finding it is probably zero.  Cha-ching, cha-ching to replace it.

I go through the day pretty much resolved that my stupidity will cost me money.  It's okay, though. I mean, nobody died, right?  It's a damn electronic starter key.

After work I am wandering around the house when I remember the last time I "lost" something (my credit card ... that I had to cancel and replace).  It turned up in my toiletry bag from a plane trip.  Oh, that's right.  I put it there so I wouldn't use THAT card at the parking garage when I got back to Boston.  I forgot it was there and threw the toiletry bag back in the bathroom cabinet for my next trip months later, which is when I found the cancelled card.

I cannot even imagine this.  I only took a small toiletry bag with me with a mini hairspray and some body spray.  I wouldn't have... I didn't think I'd need to keep it safe ... I'm positive I just threw the loose key into my bag.

Damnit, the key fob IS in the toiletry bag.  I don't remember for the life of me even putting it there, but the event was mayhem.  I quite literally threw the key into a bag inside another bag and put that inside another bag.

Yup, I find the key in the same way the old lady swallowed the fly ... I put the key inside the bag to hide it in the bigger bag to prevent it from dropping from the biggest bag; I don't know why she swallowed the fly...

Next time I hide something then lose it, remind me to check the toiletry bag.  Who knows what I'll find in there!  Oh, wait, I know: credit cards and keys.

I'M GOING TO BE READY

Summer is officially arriving soon, both on the school calendar and on the Gregorian calendar.  I have started practicing for my summer beach antics.

Yes, I drink wine out of cans.

Sometimes the wine comes in containers with straws made specifically for the can itself.  Sofia Blanc de Blancs is sparkling wine in small pink canisters with small pink straws that extend like juice box straws.  And that's exactly what these are: juice boxes for adults.

Sometimes the wine needs to be poured from the container.  The mini-mimosas do not have straws and need to be shaken up.  I'm a little hesitant to bring these to the beach because even after shaking, these drinks really need to be poured.

Either way, I assure you: I am a professional.  Sipping cool wine on a hot day while sitting with my toes in the sand...  It'll be here soon, and I'm going to be ready.

WINNING WEEKEND

I'm having a terrible-great weekend.

Friday I feel crappy while recovering from a field trip where I am bitten by a water spider.  However, it's Friday, it's a half-day, and my department's professional development is hanging with my peeps and chatting and moving from room to room checking out amazing work my colleagues are doing.

Saturday I pull a muscle in my chest so badly I think I am dying, then I drop chunks of ice on my non-driving foot and end up with a bruise the size of a D battery.  But, I get to see extended family, and my sister and I take a long walk on the beach before heading out to dinner.

Sunday I have tons of work to do to get ready for the last two weeks of school so I can cram everything in.  Yet, I do take ninety minutes to sit outside, get some sun, tend my two newest plants (a small geranium and a basil plant), and cook a fabulous stir-fry dinner.

All in all, it's a yucky-sensational weekend, the best of both worlds.  Since the weather is unbelievably fabulous BOTH days that I have off (a first in months), I'm tilting toward it being a winning weekend.

WISHING FOR A STATE POLICE RESCUE

Today I pull a muscle in my chest.

Yup, I try to lift something, and, despite my best intentions, I feel a pop in the right side, all around my rib cage.   The pain is so sharp that it kills me even to take a breath.  It feels like a have a hot knife piercing my chest and sticking out of my back, and every inflation of my right lung is pure white-hot agony.

Well, it's on the right side.  Can't be a heart attack.  Must be that heavy lifting I did earlier when I tried to move a cooler full of ice and cava wine.

I am out of naproxen (Alleve) and I am currently driving on the highway.  I pass by a state police car on the drive and secretly wish he would pull me over so I can scream, "TAKE ME TO THE ER!  I'M NOT GOING TO MAKE IT!"  It takes me almost thirty minutes from the onset of the pain until I am able to pull into a store parking lot.  By this time, I am moaning "Jesus Christ!" over and over again.  If I want that naproxen, I'm going to have to go into the store and buy some.

When I'm in an empty aisle so people won't look at me funny, I whimper.  The wait in line is unbearable.  I am in so much pain that my eyeballs and bulging out of their sockets.  "Hurry," I pray, "hurry, hurry, hurry."

Finally, I make it to the car and down two naproxen.  It takes about fifteen minutes for them to start kicking in.  Oh thank the pharmaceutical gods, I'm not dying anymore.  Now I'm merely suffering from what feels like broken ribs.

Ninety minutes later I am able to move and feel almost normal.  Even now, twelve hours later, I cannot take a deep breath, but I'm not wishing for the state police to rescue me anymore. 

SPIDER BITE BUT NO SUPER-POWERS

I do not get bitten by a tick during our field trip to the wetlands.  However, I do get paid back for performing a good deed.

My group is the last at the far pond, the one with the boardwalk extending out about thirty feet with a sitting area.  Turns out the sitting area is loaded with hornets -- we are apparently sitting on their nest.  We can't just pack up and run; we are, as I said, the last group in this area, so we need to empty the containers, clean out the sieves, and carry the equipment back to base camp at the visitors' center.

The students are excited to show off what they've found: nymphs and isopods and dragon fly larvae and water spiders (one of which semi-escapes) and all kinds of really cool stuff.  To expedite the process while the kiddos are presenting their findings, I carefully reintroduce our aquatic insects back into their environment then pile the containers together.  I sort and organize because, hey, I used to be a Girl Scout.  When it comes time to leave the pond, I volunteer to carry all the containers and utensils.

We have several more stops along the glacial ridge to examine what used to be a river bed thousands of years ago.  I put the containers down, pick them up.  We move along; I repeat the process. It takes us about thirty minutes to get back up the hill.  Near the edge of the field by the visitors' center, our guide asks for the containers, assuring me that I shouldn't be carrying them.  I don't want her to get in trouble ... again ... we got yelled at already because I'm so short and the guide is so tall that the program director thought my guide was taking off without a second supervisor ... so I hand off the equipment and escort my kids back to the bus.

While waiting for the bathroom kids to rejoin us, I feel something in my sleeve up near the inside of my elbow.  Before I can get the sleeve rolled up, the missing water spider from the containers bites me.  Little bastard!  I squish the living shit out of it and toss it to the ground.  So much for nature.

The bite has a nice pink pin-prick-sized center and swells up around it, but, other than that, I am relatively unscathed.  One of the other teachers wants to know if it was a radioactive spider and if I will get special powers.  I attempt to climb the wall.  Nope.  Apparently it really had been a regular old spider.

That's what I get for being helpful: a spider bite and no super-powers.  Figures.

LONG LIVE THE TURTLES

Today's field trip is to a real field ... along with some marshes and the river.  My students and I will be exploring some wetlands formed by glaciers that used to cover New England.

Along our pond stop, we encounter a muskrat, a woodpecker that comes right up to us and lands not two feet away, and turtles.  The kids are fascinated with the turtles, for some odd reason, and we spend a longer-than-planned amount of time at the pond.

While we are at the pond, our guide shows us a recently-dug-open snapping turtle nest.  She hands around pieces of shell from the hatchlings, and then the students are back searching the pond's surface for turtles (finding them, naming them, etc.).

Finally, after a long day of fresh air and sunshine, it's time to head back to school.  Soon after, it's time to head home.  I take off going the back way; I have an errand to run.  I finish my after-school errand and start heading home, realizing that I got maybe a touch too much sun.

This is where I see it.  A truck on the other side of the road has stopped to let a substantially large turtle cross the road.  Awwwwwwww.  What a nice driver."  I slow down to almost stopping, but this is dangerous here.  There's a blind curve that I just came around, and someone coming up behind me won't even see my car before hitting it.  I continue on my way until...

Chah-LUNK, chah-LUNK!!!!

I don't dare glance in my rearview mirror.  Look, I really didn't see the other turtle.  Apparently, though, I found it, or, rather, my tire found it.

Ooops.  Sorry.  I may have even just broken a conservation law.  Truly, truly sorry. 

I don't think I'll let my students know, though.  They should just go on believing that every turtle is sacred; long live the marsh turtles!

WELCOME TO TICK CENTRAL

"Welcome to Tick Central.  You are now free to roam about the woods and get ticks all over you.  Please feel free to take ticks home with you; they make wonderful pests .... er ... pets."

Today is the day I venture into the woods with students.  Inevitably, someone brings a tick or two or twenty back with him or her.  Last year when we did this, a tick was discovered crawling across my classroom floor.

Growing up I lived in the woods.  Literally.  My house was set on three acres of wall to wall trees, and I never, NEVER got a tick on me.  I don't know if ticks don't like me or what.  I know the things that do like me: black flies, horse flies, deer flies, mosquitoes, and greenheads.  Ticks, though -- I've been remarkably lucky.  I've had one on me -- one -- in my life.

However, I know what my hubris can bring.  I'll be the one with the dozen ticks on me today unless I'm proactive.  The problem is that my skin reacts to so many damn topical things that I'm nervous to buy any heavy-duty anti-tick spray products.  With my luck, I'll ward off ticks and then bloat up like Marlon Brando in Last Tango in Paris.

 I get the brilliant idea to try a homemade anti-tick remedy.

It's easy enough.  All I need is a vial of eucalyptus oil, a vial of lemongrass oil, some water, and a spray bottle.  This sounds so easy that I cannot even screw it up, so I order the oils online (total cost is about five dollars) and buy two cheap plastic atomizers at the local pharmacy store.  I mix up two spray bottles and promptly hand one of them to my teammate.

Yes, I do.  I share!  Okay, so it turns out that my teammate is going on the same field trip a day before I am, so I use her as my test run.  I spray her clothes in the morning, and, I'm not going to lie, she smells pretty darn good with the combination of scents.  The lemongrass smells stronger than the eucalyptus, but they're both pleasant.  She is gone for four hours.  I've no idea what to expect. When she returns, she still smells good and, best of all, she appears to be tick-less.

I'll see if I am equally lucky today.  Into the woods I go, and I'm bringing my spray along with me, just in case.

PRE-SUMMER OPERATIONS

Summer is one step closer to being a reality. 

I know this because I haul the kayaks out of the basement and put one of them into the car.  Yes, I do.  Regular readers of this blog know that I am the lucky owner of two break-apart kayaks, modular beauties that can fit into the back of a compact car.  I can fit both of them into my small sedan, but right now I only need one.

After getting the kayak into the car, I clean out the entire trunk and repack it properly for summer.  I have a beach chair, three pairs of summer sandals, and a towel all set to go at a moment's notice.  After the important beach stuff is organized, I add the kayak gear: waterproof bags, carabiners, twine, a small tool set to tighten any loose fittings, and, of course, I pack the paddles.  My life jacket goes in between the kayak halves to prevent them from bouncing together while I drive.

When I've inspected my handiwork and decided it's all acceptable, I crack open a beer and declare pre-summer operations a complete and total success.  Bring it on!  I'm ready.

TRAVELING UNTIL OUR EARS BLEED

Whenever my sister and I go on road trips together, we listen to music to help us stay awake, especially on late-night return trips after her concerts.  Sometimes this works, and sometimes it doesn't and we end up yawning.  Sometimes I have to start shaking my head all around and leaning from side to side.  This really serves no purpose except to annoy my sister, the driver, and keep her awake and alert.

This most recent road trip, though, I actually have some control over the music.  As soon as we hit Lewiston (aka "The Last Bastion of Civilization"), the radio DJ announces that he will be playing Deep Purple after a brief commercial break.  Hmmmm. I'm thinking if he plays "Highway Star" or "Smoke On the Water," my sister (who is a classically trained soloist) will change the channel to Met Radio or Broadway.

I urge her to keep the radio exactly where it is.  "Maybe he'll play 'My Woman From Tokyo,'" I say, "or, even better, 'Hush.'"  I know she'll recognize "Hush."  Or, at least, she should have heard the chorus at some point in her life, especially after sharing a room with me for so long.  The commercial break comes, and "Hush" starts.  We sing along for most of it, and, for a choral arts geek, she doesn't do too badly.

Of course, this unleashes a monster, and before I can stop her, we are listening to all kinds of weird stuff.  We even listen to "Rump Shaka."  I know, right?  Hip-hop and rap and oldies and newer stuff and classical and blue grass... We listen to them all, and we sing along to them all like Mitch Miller rejects.

This is what happens when you take a road trip with us, and it explains completely why we usually have to travel alone, just the two of us.  For some reason, people claim their ears bleed when they're with us.  Can't imagine why.

CONCERT TIME IN THE BOONIES OF MAINE

I accompany my sister on a trip to University of Maine at Farmington, where she will be performing in a choral concert at Nordica Hall.  This is not her first rodeo at UMF, but it is mine.  Ever the explorer, I trace out a few things for us to do while we're up there.

Okay, to be honest, I map out things for me to do while she's rehearsing.  There's a Dunkins, a Mickey D's, and a public library all within walking eye-shot of the hall where she will be performing.  That's all fine and good, but I also like to do weird, off-the-beaten-path things.

With this in mind, I map out two possible things for us to do.  Well, really three things, but we end up going a different way, so we miss passing by the tattoo parlor.

There are two things in Farmington we should do.  One is around the corner from the concert hall: the Octagonal House.  Yup, someone actually built a brick house into the shape of an octagon.  Imagine living inside a giant geometric STOP sign.  It's a lovely house but somewhat deflating.  We stop and snap two pictures and quickly move on.

We are headed to the homestead of the woman for whom the concert hall is named; the homestead of Lillian Nordica.

 

First of all, Nordica isn't her real name.  Her real name is Lillian Bumstead, or some other boonies-type name.  (It's Lillian Allen Norton.)  When researching the homestead, I see reviews that claim the woman running the place will talk off your ear.  This happened to my sister and me last year at the Martha Mary Chapel in Concord, so we plan strategically: We give ourselves NO MORE than twenty minutes before the place closes and she has to leave for the concert hall to rehearse and warm up her voice.

True to the comments, the woman is VERY versed in Lillian Nordica's life, and don't we all wish we had about four more hours to cover everything.  But, and this is a huge BUT, Lillian is damn fascinating.  Not even going to lie about it; the woman came from nothing, became an international singing superstar, traveled alone, left husbands behind, fought for women's rights, had a ship named after her (every sailor returned from battle safely on the "Lucky Lil"), and even did a benefit concert for the families of the Titanic victims.

And ... she became the face of Coca-Cola and saved their company with her amazing ad campaign.

So, we learn a lot and avoid a repeat of Martha Mary Chapel.  I probably would survive maybe another twenty minutes, but I actually see enough.  Every room we enter brings a new gasp and a very near mouthing of "HOLY SHIT."

Of course, this is Weird Back Roads of New England here, and we are talking about the boonies of Maine.  Sorry, those of you who actually went to University of Maine at Farmington on a voluntary basis.  Perhaps someday I'll attempt to visit U Maine at Unity.  Hey, there's a stove and music museum (who knew they went together????), a winery, AND and alpaca farm!

Road trip, anyone?

CITY SCULPTURES

By Scotland's Tom Allan

This weekend celebrates the installation of new art pieces as part of the city of Nashua's International Sculpture symposium for 2018.  Before the weekend tour of the sculptures in their permanent placements, I have the opportunity to visit the three sculptors in action.

The pieces are stone - granite - me metal worked in to one sculpture.  The finished projects are, in one word, AMAZING.  The Symposium, now in its eleventh year, sponsors art all over the city.  The finished products can be seen on the main streets, in neighborhoods, along walking and biking trails, and are the cousins to similar granite and metal sculptures at the Andres Institute of Art in nearby Brookline.

Although the art is impressive, seeing these amazing creators work is even more impressive.  Mesmerizing.  Awe-inspiring.  I suddenly feel like the luckiest person in the world to catch glimpses of them working.

Nashua may not be the first place in New England that comes to mind when conversing about fine art, but you're selling yourself incredibly short to ignore it.  Walk around the city.  See the sculptures.  Touch the art.

Best of all, remember that next year this Symposium will come around again.  I'm already looking forward to 2019, and I'm kicking myself for missing it for the first ten years.

ONE OF "THOSE" WEEKS

I'm having one of "those" weeks.  It seems like a never-ending series of little things. 

My week starts with the Great Insect Battle around the house, where silverfish/centipedes and spiders seem to be invading my territory.  Then, I have to rearrange my room at work to keep my students semi-engaged as the year winds down.  I am plagues by silly little things, like running out of iced coffee, forgetting my checkbook, and knocking over a container full of writing utensils.  I even get an entire large glass of red sangria dumped on me by a nervous, first-day waitress.

I do, however, take an evening to have some friend-time and some culture-time.  It seems fitting when I overshoot my destination (on purpose) and (accidentally) find myself across the street from a park with sculptures and artwork installed in it.  I leave my car in the strip mall lot, cross four lanes of semi-busy traffic on foot, and walk immediately to the back of the park. 

I know this park.  I've been here before.  I know exactly what I'm looking for, exactly what I need.

Tucked into the back of the small park is a labyrinth. I don't have time to walk the entire thing, even though no one else is there.  I mean, I could hop right to the middle, and no one would know or care or witness my debacle.  However, just seeing it, knowing it's there, and having it to myself is enough to put my mind in a much better mood. 

Suddenly, my week is less hectic, more peaceful, which is kind of ironic since this labyrinth is smack-dab in the middle of a busy city.  Best of all, the week closes, and it's no longer one of "those weeks.

KARMA: MY LATEST MEAL

Karma is what happens when you display a little too much hubris. 

The kiddos are starting to get restless.  Summer is approaching, and we've really reached our limits for attention spans, even teachers.  So, I have to do something to regain control and direction in my classes.  I decide to do something I rarely, if ever, do:

I put the kids in rows in assigned seats.

This shocks the students because I prefer to run a cooperative, collaborative classroom.  Even if we are taking notes, I like buddies around to bolster others if I lose them along the route.  I have a full thirty minutes to acclimate myself to the room's new order before students arrive, but their unsuspecting reaction is exactly as planned.

Shock and awe.  Complete and utterly horrifying shock and awe.

They should've known it was coming, though.  I told them all on the very first day, and I repeat this mantra over and over and over to the point that one student made me my own sign: "I don't care how we play this game.  I win.  I ALWAYS win."

But karma bites me in the ass, as always. 

You see, the students are so shocked that they are silent.  That's correct.  Through the entire hour-long class, times four full classes, I do not hear one peep.  They read when we are supposed to be reading, type when we are supposed to be typing, and clean up when we are supposed to be cleaning up.  The vacuum of soundlessness (I know that's probably not even a word, but it fits perfectly what is happening in the room) is so profound that it freaks me out.  I have to physically restrain my voice from calling out, "Never mind.  Just kidding!  Find partners and finish the worksheets!"

I don't know if I can handle such a sudden shift in the discipline and classroom management aspects of my day.  I'm as used to noise and mayhem as are they. This is what I get, what I deserve.  My hubris in the morning over the students' shock and awe is rapidly replaced by this disquiet of my own shock and awe. 

Karma: Apparently it's what I'm eating for breakfast and lunch, along with a huge helping of crow.