MERRY CHRISTMAS AND GOD BLESS US EVERY ONE

It's Christmas, and what would Christmas be without Ebenezer Scrooge?

Considering that it's hard to get the students to read anything, it becomes a real challenge to have them read Charles Dickens' A Christmas Carol. No, not some play version, and no, not a modern translation. We read the novel in its original, 19th-century verbosity.  The novel, although extremely short, is painfully pompous and a bit pedantic, especially in Stave Three when Dickens takes Scrooge on a whimsical tour of the coastline and beyond, and when an unmarried couple gets ridiculously fresh with each other behind the drapes at Fred's house.

However, the story is woven quite beautifully and is a marvelous tale that is well-told and survives the test of time.

To keep myself entertained and to engage the students as we go along, I start a chalk drawing on a small board in the back of my room. At first, no one pays it any mind at all. By the time I am ready to add characters, the students start asking me if I'm drawing the novel. Considering that I am no artist, I take this as a tremendous compliment.

A few weeks later, both the reading and drawing have concluded. It may not be the best illustration, not entirely literal as per Charles, and certainly not accurate in its color, but it has kept us all entertained (me, most of all) while we slog through writings of an author who was paid by the word.

Merry Christmas, all, and God bless us every one.

JUST ANOTHER REASON WHY I HATE SHOPPING

Let me be frank right from the start: I used to work retail management. I'm not some a-hole from the street trying to be a "Karen" (I despise that term, by the way, because it implies that only blond white females and those identifying as such are bitches).

I'm in Target. It's crowded. It's the holiday season. People are trying to get shit done. I totally understand this. I am one of these trying-to-get-shit-done shoppers. So, I have zero problem with standing in a line for a register. To a point.

I pick a line, not the shortest line, but I don't care because I understand that time has no meaning when Christmas shopping; it's like we've all entered some parallel universe or some plane of Salvador Dali surrealism. I get up close, almost close enough to put my stuff on the belt. I'm NEXT! Yes, next next next next!

The cashier puts on her flashing light. This is never a good sign. The front-line manager comes over, and the cashier says that she needs to run quickly to the bathroom. The manager, a young person, says, "Shut off your light and close down." Then, and this is a FATAL mistake by management who are just standing around chatting with their coworkers within eyesight of customers, the manager walks away and continues her animated conversation and tapping on her cell phone.

The cashier shuts off her light. I look behind me. I am now the only person in her line. I say, "But you're taking me, right?" She gives me the deer in the headlight stare. "Right?" I repeat.

"But I have to go to the bathroom," she says.

No kidding, sweetheart. I heard that, and I watched your relief walk away. I shake my head because, hey, time has absolutely no legs at this point. I leave the line I finally managed to conquer, and go get behind another long line for a different cashier.

Here is where the Target management staff could've handled this differently. They could have responded this way:

1.  I'll ring for you while you run to the bathroom that is literally twenty feet from the register.

2.  Are you going to be quick? Perhaps the next person can unload her carriage while you run over to the door that's right here next to my foot where I am standing.

3.  Oh, ma'am, I'm so sorry. Let me ring you up over at Customer Service.

4.  Take the next customer and then you can go. Make sure to put up your "closed" sign.

Instead, I get home even later -- Salvador Dali later -- and the cashier is back to her station before I have even unloaded my few items onto the new register in the new line. I get it, I really do. It's retail, and gawd knows we're lucky anyone wants to work these days (although I'm not quite sure what parental or governmental assistance programs these people have managed to locate that I cannot seem to discover). 

However, as the recipient of the "Hey, we're kind of lazy assholes working here" treatment, I am not really in the cheerful mood to be that forgiving. Just another reason why online shopping is booming and your local retail stores . . . well . . . they're not, nor do they deserve to be.

SUGAR FOR LUNCH

 Anyone who teaches knows and cringes at the dreaded term "Professional Development." It's actually a euphemism for "Talking Down to Teachers While They are Tortured Simply for Being Teachers." 

Professional Development, or PD, usually involves hours of wasted time that end with a directive to do more hours of completely different work that has to be done RIGHT NOW without actually giving anyone time to complete whatever random task has been assigned. There is usually zero professionalism and absolutely no development. Ever.

Friday's PD is no different. We are subjected to hours of trying to fit square pegs into round holes. Remember those toys from when you were a toddler? Yes, even two-year-old children know and understand that this task will NEVER work, yet "educated" administrators still assign this task to professional educators as if somehow the toymakers were WRONG.

To quote Cher Horowitz: "As if!"

The only saving grace on Friday is that our wonderful PTO sponsors a hot chocolate bar. We are treated to all kinds of additives, none healthy thank goodness, and all kinds of treats and cookies. It is the only way to fortify for a too-long afternoon of insanity.

I load up my plate with cookies, and I load my hot chocolate with white chocolate bits, and semi-chocolate bits, and peppermint, and marshmallows, and chocolate sticks, and then I top it all off with whipped cream and caramel syrup. I don't even bother with my lunch at this point. I'm just mainlining sugar.

It works in my favor, though. Due to the instant jolt, I am able to stay awake and multitask during the presentation. I write lesson plans, make comments under my breath, somewhat pay attention, and solve an entire Sudoku before I even get to my second meeting. 

Apparently the secret to surviving PD is to skip lunch and go right to the sweets. I hereby dub PD to stand for Post-Dessert from this day forward.

WAYLAID BY WEGMANS

My friend entertains me while my car is being serviced, and we have an epic adventure in and around the Burlington shopping area. This is the same area that is booming with stand-alone stores and small outdoor malls that mimic Southern shopping (hilarious concept here in the North since we can only tolerate being outside in the wind and icy air for about ten seconds for months at a time). 

My friend decides we're going to take a trip to Wegmans. Well, at first it's just a conceptual suggestion until she discovers that I have never been to Wegmans. That's right. I. Have. Never. Been. For those of you who are Wegmans regulars, this must seem like an alien idea to you.

The first thing I notice is that Wegmans has its own parking garage. Yup. Garage. It reminds me of Ikea, which is ironic because Wegmans turns out to be the Ikea of the food world. On our way in, we grab a carriage and turn into the open area. 

And I very nearly crap my drawers.

If ever a place were sensory overload, this is it. It's more enthralling than a street carnival, more flashy than Vegas, and has more stock in it than Market Basket's warehouse. I am shocked (shocked, I tell you) and a bit overwhelmed. Thank goodness I am not here alone because I have no flaming idea where to start.

My pal suggests lunch at the Wegmans café. I mutely follow, completely slack-jawed at the prepared food selection. I can't decide. It's a bit much for my senses. "Pizza" is about the only word that I am able to mumble, so we head toward that area and get our lunch. 

After we eat (which is very tasty; some garlic and cheese and white sauce pizza that I highly recommend), we hit the aisles of the store. At every turn I can only stare as if every damn thing in the place has suddenly become a bevy of shiny objects.

In the end, I am completely overwhelmed. Wegmans is what Christmas would look like if it were strictly a commercial holiday. If Stan Freeberg's Green Christmas could see this place, he wouldn't be singing, "You better cash in while the spirit lingers, it's slipping through your fingers, boys. Christmas can be such a monetary joy!" Green Christmas is Wegman's; Wegmans is Green Christmas (and Einhorn is Finkle).

I manage to get out of Wegmans with some beer -- Sam Adams holiday pack -- but I easily could've and would've dropped a huge wad of cash had I been a little less shell-shocked by the sheer magnitude of the inventory. I'm prepared now, though. The blinders have been ripped away, and I will live to fight Wegmans another day.

WHEN ELITE NO LONGER MEANS ELITE IN THE WORLD OF SPORTS CARS

 Leaving work, I find myself behind a nondescript SUV. SUVs are all starting to look the same to me. I drive a black sedan, and I cannot even count on both hands how many times I've tried to get into someone else's car because I thought it was mine. All these vehicles these days look the same.

Try to imagine my surprise when the somewhat passive looking SUV in front of me bears the insignia Maserati. That's right. Yes, folks, apparently the elite sports car company Maserati makes an ordinary-looking, bland, rather forgettable sports utility vehicle.

And just like that, the idea of Maserati falls feet . . . yards . . . miles in my esteem.

I suppose if you do one thing well, might as well screw it up by making something that is totally not your brand. But what a bargain. The SUV is only about $100,000. At least the Maserati mini van is under $80,000.

Wait. Maserati makes a flipping mini van?

I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. Maserati is owned by Fiat, which produces the most uncomfortable tiny car that I have ever driven: The Fiat 500 Pop. It shakes and rattles and rolls more than Bill Haley. If you're going to mass-produce a crappy small car, might as well pervert the image of your elite sports car company.

Oh, I don't begrudge you buying a Maserati SUV or mini van, but I will and do judge you just a teeny bit. If you want to buy an expensive van that touts you as a big and free spender, Mercedes has an entire division dedicated to vans, from cargo to camping. And Range Rover is the elite SUV for those of you with money burning a hole in your back pocket. I have to be honest, though -- if I ever buy a Maserati, it won't be to haul the soccer team to games.

I know, I know. To each his own, mind my own business, and judge not lest ye be judged. Right? But, come on. Really, Maserati? Do you truly think anyone can take your sports cars seriously when you're also offering the Ken and Karen of motor vehicles on the same damn lot?

Thanks for the laugh, at least. It kind of made my afternoon and made my old sedan feel a little less pedantic.

ENCHANTED BY THE VILLAGE

Jordan Marsh, a mid-scale department store, opened in Boston in 1841. One hundred years later, Jordan Marsh upped its holiday spirit by turning its entire top floor into an Enchanted Village, a display that included the street-level store windows, and eventually included nearly thirty individual holiday scenes and about 250 animated mannequins. 

The annual display ceased in the seventies, but made a brief renaissance in the nineties before the store finally closed up shop for good. Such a shame, too, because Downtown Crossing was the place to go, short of NYC, to see holiday window displays. Oh, sure, there are a few stores still thriving in a redone attempt at Downtown Crossing, but it will never be the heyday that it once was when Jordan Marsh's flagship store and Filene's Basement (famous for the Running of the Brides sale) were the "in" places for holiday visiting. 

The Enchanted Village dissolved into oblivion, nothing but memories for those of us who grew up visiting the Enchanted Village during its reign. Until an auction. Yup. The Enchanted Village actually came into auction, and Eliot Tatelman cast the winning bid in a furious and blisteringly rapid event: Eight minutes. In well-under ten minutes, the Enchanted Village would be getting a new home.

Tatelman, for those unfamiliar with New England retail, is former owner and current CEO of Jordan's Furniture (no relation to Jordan Marsh - just a coincidence) conglomerate. He felt the New England tradition should live on and bought the surviving pieces of the original Enchanted Village, setting up mannequin triage and set design to refurbish the spectacle.

Those of us who remember the original sprawling display may be a little disappointed when we reach the end all too quickly, but the addition of snow machines do make for a fun and free experience. One suggestion -- lose the obligatory photo ops on the way in as it really holds up the already way-too-long lines in the furniture warehouse area. Maybe make separate lines for those wanting photos and let the rest of us mosey on into the display.

Either way, if you've never been, it's worth a walk-through. There are also the original-recipe Jordan Marsh Blueberry Muffins for sale (reasonably priced at $13 for 6). It's about twenty minutes south of Boston in Avon, so it's not too far out of the way. And, for those who find assembled furniture a drag, you can pop down the street to Ikea when you're done.

TOLD YA SO

I don't know who ordered this weather, but, for the love of all things sane, please make it stop.

I am sick and tired of this November heat wave. Some of you think this is the greatest thing since Betty White, but I'm telling you, this weather is crap and I hate it.

I'm ready for the snow. I'm ready for the cold. I'm ready for pre-warmed car seats and I'm ready for windshield scrapers. I'm ready for my heat to be on and for my fireplace to be lit. I'm ready to see snowflakes flying. 

Instead, I see plants blooming and rose bushes covered with colorful flowers. People are walking around in t-shirts and shorts. Windows are open in cars and in houses. Humanity and nature are both totally and completely whacked out by this ridiculous temperature behavior.

It's plus-70 degrees . . . and everyone is so happy. Except for me.

I'm trying to get into the holiday spirit, and this whole back-to-summer garbage is just frying my head. Plus, my allergies are back in overdrive. Air conditioning is off at school, and it's stuffy as hell in that building. I can't properly dress myself because what is appropriate at 7:00 a.m. will be completely overly-dressed by noontime.

I'm glad you're all happy. But, when the snow starts flying and the ice storms knock out your power and your holiday plans are ruined and you lose your big toes to frostbite, don't come crying to me. I'll just chuckle and say, "Told ya so."

MAGIC CARPET SHOPPING

Recently I drag my friends with me to do a family-related errand. They have no dog in the fight, but they drive me around and even cap off the day with soft-serve ice cream from a seemingly rinky-dink place near their home that actually serves epic product. As a thank-you for their assistance, I tag along while they rug shop. 

Before I knew that my new apartment had wall-to-wall carpeting (apparently not one of the updated units), I was rug shopping, too. I remember it as being a not-so-pleasant experience. Either the carpets were the wrong size, or I couldn't order the color I wanted, or it was too heavy for me to carry up the stairs after delivery, or it wouldn't fit in my car . . .  Any number of traumatic pitfalls. 

In short, I had an idea what they were facing.

And the prices. Holy crap, one would think little elves hooked each and every fiber along with gold dust for good measure. I could take a college course or two for the price of one 8x10 rug. The one and only requirement my friends have: NO GEOMETRIC PATTERNS. Simple enough request. Right?

So, among the several places we search, we stop at an actual carpet specialty store. The salesman is pleasant enough, but he is obviously not listening to my friends. They describe the color schemes they want -- he directs them to every sample except those colors. "Is this one available in green?"  GREEN?! Like he hadn't heard them say it two dozen times.

"Let me show you some other ones with patterns and color mixes."  Okay, sounds good. Except my friends say, "Sure, but remember -- no geometric patterns."

Well, there is an occasional wavy looking carpet, and occasional stripe, and even some plaid-type patterns, but most of the carpet samples that the guy shows my friends are humongous, gaudy, tacky, room-devouring geometric patterns.

My friends are trying to be patient with the guy. I start pacing. I leave the area they're in, pace pace pace for a minute, and head back only to find yet another grotesque geometric pattern being foisted upon my pals. I lean to my friend and whisper, "Did this guy fail math? Maybe kindergarten? Does he not know what a geometric pattern means?"

Now, really, if he is that dense, then leave the room for a second and Google the answer. Ask Siri. Ask Alexa. Ask Maxine the cartoon old lady, for crimeny's sake. At this point, at least one of my friends is considering knifing the guy. I just want to smack him upside of his head.  Needless to say, this is a NO SALE day for Bozo the Flying Magic Carpet Clown.

I am pleased to say that my friends did find a wonderful rug at a fabulous price at a home store a little while later. Before the ice cream. The ice cream was a treat for finding the prize carpet and for not rolling the earlier salesmen into one of his own products and dumping him among the geometrically shaped rocks behind the store.

HEIGHT CHALLENGES AT THE AMAZON LOCKER

 There is an Amazon Hub where I live. For anyone unfamiliar, this is a group of multi-sized lockers, and orders such as Amazon and other packages can be delivered here and locked securely until a code is entered. When the code is put in correctly, a random door will open, and, VOILA, there's the package!

I have lived at this same apartment complex for almost two years now, and I have not had any major issues with the Amazon Hub except that once the UPS delivered a super-important document and gave me the code -- but it wasn't even mail for me. Other than that, I have never had an issue with the locker system.

Until recently.

I ordered some books (big surprise), and they were delivered to the Hub locker. No problem. I've done this at least fifty times already. This time, the box is in the very top locker. Well, I am five-foot-two on a good day, so I tried to grab the box while standing on my tippy toes. No suck luck because whoever delivered it pushed the box back into the deep locker.

I cannot back my car any further, so standing on the trunk or hood is not an option. Nor is heading home to get a stepstool since once the door closes, I cannot open it again even with the code. So, I reach for the bike pump. It has a thin handle. Maybe I can catch the box. Nope. It budges a little, but not enough. My fingers are still slipping on the box edge.

I grab my leather driving gloves, figuring maybe my hands are too slippery or something. Nope. The box is simply too heavy for my fingers to move it close enough to grab completely.

I dig out a golf umbrella. Surely that must be long enough. But, no, it is actually too cumbersome to make a positive difference and accidentally pushes the box even further in than it had originally been into the storage cubby. I throw the umbrella into my open trunk, figuring all of the facing apartments and the entire office staff must be having a grand laugh at my expense.

Finally, I grab my scraper-brush. I am able to pull the box just enough to make contact, just enough to pull the damn thing out of the way-too-high bin. I slam the bin shut, but I do so with such force that it bounces open again, and then again, mocking me. I almost leave it open, then I figure I had better close the stupid thing or risk losing delivery privileges.

The following day, I get another notification that I have a package. Well, surely it won't be in the top locker bin again. Right? I mean, what are the odds after all this time with just one height-related insult?

Sonofabitch, it is in the top bin. Not the same exact bin, mind you, but a top locker, just the same. I go right for the scraper-brush, get the package, and head home. Over the weekend I am with friends at a home goods type store. I see a foldable stepstool for $8. SOLD! It now sits in the trunk of my car. Screw you, Amazon and UPS and USPS! I am onto you and your dirty tricks!

Of course, now all of my packages will be delivered to the bottom row of bins because I have hip issues. It's just my rotten luck.

MASKING UP FOR THE CROWN

I am on my way to the dentist to get a crown when I remember I need a mask at the office. Yeah, yeah, yeah; I get it: Covid is the monster still lurking in the air. Right?

I'll probably die of it because I'm over Covid. Completely and 100% over it. I took a few of the shots and got deathly ill from shot #2 and booster #1. I have been medically advised never to take the vaccine ever again, and I never will; not unless the hematologist and I want to get up close and personal for another six months. Thanks, and she's a lovely woman, but no thanks.

I am so over Covid that I don't mask up anywhere anymore. Except, of course, at the dentist. Even my most recent trip to the dermatologist didn't require a mask. I wore one into the office and saw the entire staff unmasked. I asked, "No more mask requirement?" They smiled. "Oh, thank gawd," I replied. 

Over it. So over it.

Which brings me to the dentist.

Imagine my surprise when I get to the dentist office doorway a mere week after my last appointment, and I notice that the sign requiring masks has been taken down. I walk in, masked, of course, because I don't believe this for one red-hot second. I'll bet the sign fell off the door and blew away.

Nope. No one is masked up. No one, that is, except those actually doing the dental work.

And it's a damn good thing that the dentist has taken away the mask requirement because as soon as I get into the office, my new mask decides to throw a shoe -- one of the ear bands snaps apart. I can't wear this mask; I can only hold it plastered against my cheeks. 

In the end, I am saved from the embarrassment of showing up without the proper mask, even though I have probably seventy-five new masks at home. Now the only crown I have to worry about is the one I wear as Queen of my Classroom.

FALL FOLIAGE FORECAST

The fall foliage forecast has been dismal due to the summer drought. Honestly, the last few years the foliage colors have been kind of lackluster, anyway, so what's another sucky year, right?

Much to our spectacular surprise, though, the colors have been amazing. 

The best part is that we don't even have to trek up into the mountains to see this. Peak foliage is just hitting its stride here, and a simple drive down most any back road will cause jaws to drop. Drive a side route instead of the highway and amazed. Cruise along any random neighborhood, and you'll be pulling over to whip out the cellphone camera.

Today, a simple trip to a wine tasting a few miles away turned into a two-hour driving tour of ooooohhhs and aaaahhhhhs, with multiple random pull-overs to take pictures of the autumn colors.

Some people enjoy the sick distress of sitting in highway traffic just to be able to say they saw a few minutes of the foliage from Cathedral Ledge or the Kancamagus or the Adirondacks or the Green Mountains. I say just hold your cameras for a dang minute and the foliage will come to you without the gasoline emissions and the swearing and the never-ending mobs of people.

Enjoy, people. By this time next week, it will almost be over and winter will be here. That's when the real fun starts.

BAD FALL LIMERICKS

There once were some leaves that did change.

We did not think that too strange.

Yellow and red;

They fall cuz they're dead.

It looks like the trees all have mange.

We've entered the season called Fall -

When Summer and Winter both stall.

One minute it's hot;

The next, frozen snot.

We hope to survive it. That's all.

I've been raking these leaves for a while.

I'm gathering them in a pile.

My neighbor walked by

And made the leaves fly.

(I buried his body in style.)

DISJOINTED RAMBLINGS AFTER THREE WEEKS OF SCHOOL

Welcome to my world.

I grind my teeth when I sleep and

Suffer from migraines and stress headaches.

I function well in emergency situations because 

I am quick-witted and fast on my feet.

I am highly-educated and 

Decorated for my abilities.

I have a stellar sense of humor and

Can make up alternate song lyrics on the fly.

I do dramatic orations of hokey Christmas carols.

Most dogs seem to enjoy my company.

I once tamed a wild house cat.

Fitting in at social functions of all levels has

Never been a conundrum.

I can and do drive like a NASCAR racer.

My eighties dance moves are unrivaled.

If I count you as a friend, 

You are a rare and precious commodity.

I sit in my car before going to work and 

Tell myself I am not stupid and useless.

I convince myself that all the 

Dental crowns I pay for are result of

Sleep-deprivation,

Denying any scientific correlation to my job.

I am an intelligent person.

I'm uncertain as to some of those in 

My immediate orbit.

If I dance and whistle in the hallway,

It's probably not to prove how happy I am to

Anyone but myself.

Hear ye, hear ye.

All hail the Queen.

I'd like to keep the few teeth I have left

Because it's easier to recite Rudolph,

The Red-Nosed Reindeer

With a British accent if I have 

Chicklets still firmly inside my jaw.

ALMOST TIME TO TURN ON THE HEAT

Well, well, well. It's almost time to turn on the heat. 

We have already hit that part of the year when we have the heat on in the car in the morning, and the air conditioning comes on in the afternoon. The gas fireplace has been on more than once. Extra blankets are on . . . and off . . . and back on . . . all night long.

It has already started snowing on Mount Washington. Parts of northern New York have seen snow flurries. And the trees, those usually-glorious autumn trees, are taking their sweet time changing colors, most of them going directly from green to brown due to a summer of drought. Windy days send chills straight through from our ribs to our spines.

Fall is here; winter is coming.

So far, the heat inside the apartment has stayed off, a clear advantage to my current living situation. In my old townhouses, which were my last two respective places of living, the heat would've already been blasting uselessly through the ancient, drafty walls and windows. One of my former places boasted a front room with rushes of frigid air coming in through electrical outlets - a wind tunnel of wasted resources.

I'll fight it as long as I can, though. I'll continue to wear flip-flops even while I have on my jeans and sweater and possibly top it with a down vest. I have a few more days of kayaking left in me, too. I'm ready, for sure, but I am by no means happy about it. 

PIRATING STORY LAND

I recently have a chance to go to Story Land.

For those unfamiliar with this weirdly themed fun park, it basically provides kiddie-sized rides loosely based on children's tales, such as Cinderella and Mother Goose. It has the Polar Coaster, Wooden Shoe ride, an antique car track, and things like turtle-themed tilt-a-whirl and flowery tea cups that spin.

They've also added an old-fashioned wooden roller coaster for the older "kids" (aka "adults") that can cause one's Small World mac 'n' cheese to hurl up and over anyone nearby as the puke flies past at seventy-plus miles per hour. This coaster is not for the feint of heart. If you prefer to stay within a decent landing distance should something go wrong, stick to the Polar Coaster, as I do.

For the first time ever in all the times that I have been there, Cinderella's castle is open and her pumpkin coach is running. My grandnieces are thrilled with that, while I am content to sit in the shade of a big tree outside of the castle since it is roughly 90 degrees outside in the sun. 

Of course we must go on the water rides: Dr. Geyser, where I take a good round of direct water hits, and a few passes on the Bamboo Chute, where my sister, who knows I hate heights, decides to duck in time for me to catch the brunt of the incoming wave at the bottom of the free-fall. Yes, we bought the photo of our descent and I managed to look like I am not about to crap my drawers despite feeling that I very well might be.

My grandnieces, who are almost three, peter out after a long day, and the theme park, open for two more hours, becomes my sister's and my playground. We get into the Swan Boats and are warned by the attendant that we may NOT play bumper boats while we are out there. "I know your kind," he says, "and I'll have my eye on you two." Instead, I lead us in several very slow water donuts since I'm not allowed violence even at two miles per hour.

We know darn well that we need to hit our favorite ride: The Pirate Ship. We wait in line and finally make our way on. There are several places that we could sit with make-believe rowing stations, but my sister and I decide to leave those to the kiddos who are on with their families.

"Is it okay if we sit here on this back bench?" we oh-so-innocently ask the young pirate ship captain. 

"Oh, sure. No problem," he smoothly smiles back at us. "What are your names?" he asks us, and we ignorantly oblige.

We take our seats, completely unaware that we are about to become the captain's straight men. About ten seconds in, the kid starts making fun of me, comparing me to Captain Hook and claiming my evil twin is the captive pirate dummy on the nearby shoreline. He also convinces my sister to play-act being hit by a cannonball.

At the end of the ride, he tells his crew of young families that if they have had a good ride on the ship, they can thank Captain Addison (himself), but if they had a bad time, they can thank Captain Heliand. We joke around some more with him on the way out, holding up the last ship ride of the day as the line snakes into dusk.

My sister and I head for one more ride on the carousel before we leave. The nice woman manning the horses smiles at us and says, "Back again?" Yes, indeed we are.

I know, I know. Story Land is for kids, right? I never claimed maturity as one of my strengths, though. The funny thing is -- I hope someone in my family wants to go again next summer because I'm all-in and will gladly give up my pride just to yell out one more "Arrrrr, arrrrr, arrrrr" because, shiver me timbers, I had a helluva good time.

CHILLING BY THE FIRE

It's that time of year again here in New England when it's as cold as death in the mornings and then boiling hot like Satan's doorway by the afternoon. We start our morning commutes with the heat in the car on full blast and end our afternoon commutes with the air conditioning in the car on full blast.  

Normally, this behavior doesn't bother us except that this means summer is truly coming to an end. It also means that even if the pools stay open, we really can't swim in them anymore because the overnight temps are enough to cool the water to unbearable levels. It doesn't matter if it's ninety degrees out (like it will be this weekend) if the pool is at seventy-three. No one really wants to go to the local ER for water-borne hypothermia.

Friday night I find myself coming home from the first week back in school and surprisingly not as exhausted as I expected for a Friday -- except that the exhaustion hit Thursday, instead. So, Friday night I come home, open a can of something illegal to anyone who isn't twenty-one, and sit on the porch. Once the mosquitoes start attacking, I move inside to the living room. I feel a little chill as the thermometer drops twenty-plus degrees in a matter of two hours, but I am also enjoying the fresh air.

What to do, what to do?

I decide to pretend I am outside camping. I set up one of my beach chairs and turn on the gas fireplace. Yes, the windows are still wide open, and yes, I know it's not quite indoor fire weather, but it is now sixty-three degrees outside. That's darn cool enough.

For those of us who drive our cars with the windows open while blasting either the heat or the air conditioner, this behavior is not unusual. I'm a little ashamed, though, that it took me so long to figure this out, and I'm totally grooving to this summer fire concept. After all, if I were outside, I'd be having a firepit. 

This is just the inside, smaller-scale version.

STEALING THE VEGGIES

If you have a garden, 

be on the lookout: 

I am coming to steal your veggies.
My friends down the street and 

around the corner 

have been supplying my 

garden vegetable fix, 

and so far I've made salads, 

enjoyed veggies and dip, 

baked some pretty darn good 

zucchini bread, 

and have roasted eggplant to 

haute cuisine (twice). 

Today I added fresh tomatoes to 

my sandwich and 

it totally rocked.

I am just going to prewarn you -- 

If I cannot find a decent farm stand, 

and if you have a garden, 

I just might invite myself over and start 

rummaging through like a 

human groundhog.

PROVING MOTHER NATURE RIGHT, FOR A CHANGE

I made a passing reference to this in last week's blog post. I hate to be a Summer spoilsport, but it's coming, for real and without compunction. The color confirms it.

Oh, sure, we're about four weeks early, but I noticed some red in a tree the other day when I was in Blue Hill, Maine. Blue Hill is just over two hours north of Portland and is considered Central Maine, so not really up in the boonies that are north of the Canadian border's latitude. I also noticed some yellow leaves on the ground.

Okay, I told myself, it's no big deal. We're in Maine. Right?

Well, today clinches it. I am in Massachusetts, not too terribly far from the New Hampshire border, but still. I am minding my own business when all of a sudden I notice that one tree in a line of many has turned completely yellow. The rest are green, but this one mid-sized leafy tree has already completely transformed itself into Autumn mode. I look at the rest of the trees I happen to pass in my travels and notice that they, too, have smatterings of color, although not to the extent of that one lone tree.

I love Fall in New England. I'm certainly not going to lie about that. However, it's still hot and humid around here. What's the schtick? 

I suppose we can blame drought, but that usually means that the trees won't change color to any deep extent. If these early turners are any indication, I suspect that Mother Nature has a few tricks up her sleeve. She might defy the weather forecasters and put on a brilliant display this Fall. If I believe the early indicators, then I cannot argue with the changing colors and their glory.

I'd like very much to prove Mother Nature right for a change. Let's get this season on its way.

SUMMER IS ALMOST A MEMORY

Summer is winding down. I hate when this happens.

In an effort to cram absolutely everything into one waning day, a friend and I decide to hit our favorite beach. It's a bit breezy, almost chilly, but we manage to get some sun and enjoy the sand and a little bit of the water. We collect a few beach rocks in our travels (not buckets full like we used to, though), and then take a head up the coast.

Driving up route 1A in Rye, NH, is one view everyone should take in their lifetime. Although the scenery is amazing, the true money shot is coming south again from Rye toward Hampton. There's a curve in the road during the descent that feels like you're flying right off the macadam over the water like a drone. (Sorry - no picture of that because I was driving and didn't want to end up in the briny sea.)

When we return to town, we hit the pool, too, because we are on our dwindling days before schools starts again -- this coming week for my friend and the following week for me. It's cram time . . . that crazy moment when suddenly we realize that our bucket list remains unfulfilled.

The bad part about summer in New England is that it happens way too quickly. The good part about summer in New England is that it occasionally stretches itself into September (sometimes brutally so in schools with no air conditioning) and we are able to stuff a few more afternoons of glory into the calendar before it starts getting pitch-dark and freezing by 4:00 p.m.

Technically, summer doesn't officially end until mid-September, but for teachers every day in August is like Sunday night with that gut-clenching sensation of foreboding weighing us down. The only truly great thing about September is that we start getting paid again (no, teachers do NOT get paid summers). Money from our day jobs make our summers possible, so I'll work my brain to its outer limits just to live to see the end of June next year.

Until then, just know summer is ending, and I hate when it happens, so I'll cram everything I can into the next two weeks. My calendar is full . . . until September 1st . . . then reality bites my arse and the beach will be nothing but a memory. But, a wonderful memory, just the same.

NOTHING LIKE A SPRINT TO P-TOWN

Nothing like a yacht race in the dead of night.

Actually, I don't really know what that's like because I didn't participate in the race. I do, however, visit P-Town to revel with those who sailed under the stars. 

For those who might live outside of New England, P-Town is a nickname for Provincetown, the very tip of the very end of the very long arm of Cape Cod. It's the remotest of the remote parts of the peninsula, yet you'd never know it once you get out of your vehicle or off the boat or down from your bike or step off the ferry, depending upon your mode of arrival. 

My friend and I drive down -- on a Saturday -- when it's sunny and ninety degrees -- in the summer.

That sentence alone scares the crap out of anyone who actually lives in eastern Massachusetts. No one in their sane and right mind would even attempt to cross the Bourne or Sagamore Bridges on a sunny, hot Saturday in the dead-center of the high season, but locals also know that if you cross either bridge early enough, the tourists will be none the wiser. 

Since nobody makes it to the Cape without crossing the canal, technically one might argue that Cape Cod an island. Not true, or, perhaps, we just don't care. The islands are MV and Nantucket. MV, by the way, is Martha's Vineyard. Some "I think I'm so clever" writer tried to call it The Martha to piss off locals, but she missed her mark because: your tourist status shows when you call it Martha anything; your wallet shows if you call it the Vineyard; and no real Masshole would ever be pissed off by anything some outsider had to say because you're the same nitwits who refer to Boston as "Beantown."

So on this steamy and sunny summer Saturday, we hop in the car near Neponset (a south of/still technically part of Boston) and happily head toward the Cape. As we near the Sagamore, nearly every car we see has Massachusetts plates because we know, oh how we know, what this crossing will look like one hour from now and for the rest of the bloody day. We have a forty-five second back-up caused by a minor collision between a truck and a car just as we are ready to hit the metal girders. Other than that, it is smooth sailing all the way to Provincetown. 

Door to door, from Neponset Circle to Commercial Street, we make it in two hours flat. (Locals are high-fiving us from afar and we accept your kudos. We totally promise, a few middle fingers may have been thrown, but no random bicyclists were maimed in the course of this endeavor and no Funk Buses were sideswiped.)

We arrive in time for breakfast, while it's only in the mid-eighties temperature-wise, but by the time we hit the streets mid-morning, it is as hot as the fires burning at the Gates of Hell. We head to the marina to meet up with the rest of the weary night-race crew, and I stand in the one piece of shade on the entire labyrinth dock, sweating my skin off. We are all melting, so we head for more shade and a slight breeze along the wharf.

P-Town is full of small shops and little restaurants and people. Lots and lots of people. Despite the tiny streets and the throngs of bodies, it just doesn't feel crowded at all. My friend bails when the heat overtakes her and meets up with one of the sailors to recover in air conditioning with a dash of Pedialyte while I continue exploring and dripping. Maybe that's why it doesn't seem so humanly congested; we are all trying to avoid each other's sweaty stenches.

One of the best things about Provincetown, though, is its large and accepting LGBTQ community. They have some of the best drag shows around, and I keep encountering one fabulous character on the street, who graciously poses for my camera. When I ask how she keeps her make-up from melting in the heat, I am privy to a glowing and knowing smile and the most bashful eyes I have ever seen. There's a show at 3, I'm told, and another at 7. I cannot make either one, but maybe next time. Drag shows are great fun, but it also feels a little too clammy even here with the multiple water breezes, to be inside a theater.

Later in the day we enjoy a patio reception for the racers, and the crew graciously tolerates me as both an outsider to their group and an interloper to their party. We almost make it to dinner, but then we grab one of the crew members and announce that the three of us are heading back to the mainland. It's after six, so travel will be light. On a summer Saturday evening, people are not escaping Cape Cod unless, well, unless they're locals like we are and know that it's the only opening we'll have for the remainder of the weekend.

I'm a little sorry that this may be both my first and last time to see the aftermath of the night yacht race from Boston to P-Town as the crew seems to be leaning toward not doing this race anymore. Today has been so perfect that I'd like to do it again next summer, and the summer after, and maybe even the summer after that.

Of course, it may have nothing at all to do with P-Town or the Cape. It could just be that it's another damn-fun adventure. All-y'all know that I do love a damn-fun adventure, especially when it involves beating the tourists, enjoying the amazing ocean scenery, and besting anyone who calls an island the Martha. 

In the famous words of Cher (not the singer nor the drag queen): UGH! AS IF!

CATCHING UP WITH THE WEEKEND DOG DAYS

 Well, this post is about seventeen hours late. We have been in the Dog Days of Summer up here in New England. I can't even remember when it was last below 85 degrees -- I think it may have been March, at this point.

I end up taking a weekend trip to Maine to visit my sister and her family and their puppy, a rambunctious English Lab named Helen. Helen is a typical baby -- she loves to jump and play and lick and, yes, nip a little because that's what puppies do. When I arrive Friday evening, Helen clearly has forgotten that I used to chase her around the yard mere months ago. Her reaction is very puppy-like except for one teeny problem:

Helen is one of the strongest, sturdiest, silliest puppy I have ever met.

This means that simply meeting Helen can be a lesson in tough love -- tough because she is so strong that it's easy to be bowled over, and tough because she is such a lovey-dovey that it's hard to get kisses and scratches and belly rubs to her with the solid package of her vibrating like a carnival ride.

I manage to play a lot of catch with her. No matter how many times she tries to trick me with her other toys, every time I ask her to get her stuffed Mr. Puppers, she does. No matter where Mr. Puppers is, Helen will go find him. By the time we're done working on our tricks on Saturday, we have mastered drop it, leave it, wait, ready, get it. Even when Helen changes out her squeaky toy for Mr. Puppers, she does not react physically until I instruct her to "Get it."

Then, Sunday comes, and Helen greets me like it's 50 First Dates. She has zero idea who I am and what I'm doing there. Once we start up with Mr. Puppers, though, I can see she really did pay attention the day before.

Anyway, to make a long story even longer, this post is late because in the middle of Summer's Dog Days, I carve out a couple of Dog Days just for myself. The post may be late, but I didn't drop it, readers didn't leave it, you all waited until the post was ready. Now you can get it.

CLEANSING MY CHILDHOOD PALATE IN PURGATORY

For a while when I was young my family lived in the woods. Not Jeremiah Johnson style; more like a big house in the middle of a forest that someone decided might slowly but surely turn into a decent and somewhat secluded neighborhood. Eventually it began to turn into organized house lots, each with an acre or more of land forming a semi-development, but for some time (until it wasn't) our street was a dead-end to nowhere. Our house sat dead-center on three acres of almost entirely trees set on a small hill with an extraordinarily tiny pond which could best be described as a bog hole.

The one constant were the boulders. 

Some of the boulders were huge; some of them just seemed huge because I was so young. I loved climbing them, finding footholds and pulling myself up, even if there were an easier, more practical way to do so on another face of the rock. I guess it could be called early freestyle rock climbing, the most dangerous of which would result in a broken arm or a fat lip for the less capable or the more daring amongst us.

We created trails through the woods, over and around rocks and trees, connecting houses on our plot of land at the end of the street. We used the rocks and boulders as forts, houses, horses, cars, dinosaur parks . . . anything our minds could imagine, those rocks could be. 

When I moved to a more civilized neighborhood in a different state, it was nice to still see rocks and boulders in the nearby state forests, but, alas, the only rocks in my actual yard were from a well-constructed and very suburbanized stone wall covered with prickly rosebushes. I turned into a suburban teenager and went about my suburban coming-of-age and did my suburban camping thing and grew into a suburban adult. The "rock-iest" thing about my life turned into my behavior.

Two things I have always been -- a bit of a loner, and terribly restless. If I am stuck living in the same place for too long, I'll rearrange rooms and furniture and change out curtains and bedspreads until I can pretend I'm somewhere else. Periodically I need to get in my car and go off on my own for hours or a day or longer. People say, "Oh, if I'd known you were going, I would've gone with you." I understand this; I also understand that's precisely why they did not know and I didn't tell them.

I am off on one of these all-day selfish misadventures when I decide to stop at a place about an hour from my house - a place with a name like so many others in this country: Purgatory Chasm. I have no idea what to expect other than my Google investigation: short trails, seemingly harmless gradients, relatively safe online reviews, and only $5 to park. I figure it's a family-type hike through some tame and uneventful trails.

But, when I get there, I see that one of the trails, maybe a third of a mile long or so, goes right through the chasm. The chasm itself is maybe seventy feet at its deepest, but it's kind of impressive to be right here in my stomping area, under my nose and totally off my radar for my entire life. Best of all, though, it's loaded with boulders and I can climb through, over, around, above, under, between -- any and every damn preposition -- those rocks.

A woman with older kids catches my wide eyes and slight grin. She sidles up to me and says, "First time here?" I nod soundlessly. "Impressive, isn't it? And worth the five bucks!" 

I spend the next ninety minutes climbing through the chasm then up and over it, then back down into it, only once worried because the arrows to the trail indicate that I am supposed to slip my fat arse into a crevice and shimmy my way through for about fifteen feet. Instead, I opt to crab-walk down a rock face, both my hands and feet engaged in keeping myself from smashing over the edge, kind of like my childhood but on a small dose of steroids.

I honestly didn't know how much I missed being a little kid in the big woods with some sizeable rocks to climb until I came to Purgatory Chasm and became a big kid with some bigger rocks to climb. I am no serious "rock climber", though. I'm not hanging on any of those seventy-foot sidewalls or attempting any free-climbs to defy my own mortality, but, damn, this is so fun.

When I reach the end, which is back at the beginning of the chasm, a guy about my age comes by to start his trek and says, "Good climb?" I nod. The he says, "You okay?" Yes, I tell him, explaining that the ninety-degree weather and climbing along the top ridge in the direct sun just make me look like a wet mongrel. 

There are more trails, and I'll be back again on a day when it's not scorching hot and try them out, although, if I know me, it will be frightfully tough to pull me off the boulders below to take any scenic path along the upper rim. After all, I grew up in the dead-center of the wooded lot surrounded by trees and boulders. Once that spark is reignited, I'm not so sure a tame trail without challenge will provide the same thrill.

IT'S NOT THE HEAT; IT'S THE HUMIDITY

It's no secret that we are in the throes of a massive heatwave here on the Eastern Seaboard and beyond, and, by beyond, I mean that the extreme heat is causing airport runways to melt and lift from the ground in England. Out here we are merely suffering in the dregs of mid-to-high 90's day after day after day. 

Those of you from the arid Southwest might be saying, "Yeah, big deal. That's like winter for us." Well, this is when we get to remind people: It's not the HEAT; it's the f*****g HUMIDITY." There is nothing worse than sweat on top of sweat -- sweat from the heat, and sweat from the air moisture that immediately bonds to your skin the very moment you step outside.

Imagine an inescapable steaming swamp crawling slowly over every part of your body. All air conditioning will do is literally freeze the sweat into your pores. The moment you step back outside. It's like the fires of Hell and Damnation.

I have three brilliant ideas during this Heat Wave of Horror, all of which I decide to accomplish in one day.

First, I decide to go kayaking. This is a brilliant idea because I usually splash water on myself both accidentally and on purpose, and today is a good day to get splashed. Problem #1 is that I must haul the kayak, which breaks into two pieces, to and from the water. Though it's not far, it is damn hot. Problem #2 is that the sun is blisteringly scorching and I can only tolerate about an hour of paddling in the morning when the temperature at 9:00 a.m. is already hovering at 85 degrees. Problem #3 is that the water, usually refreshing, is somewhere around 90 degrees itself and feels more like bath water.

My second brilliant idea is to go swimming at my friend's pool. I have a perfectly dandy pool here where I live, but it's more fun hanging out with my friend. The water is a relaxing 87 degrees, and even my water-intolerant friend (yes, she has a pool but despises being wet -- just one reason why I love her) spends time soaking and floating around. Problem #1 is that I am not supposed to be out in the sun too long, and I've already maxed out sun time kayaking. Problem #2 is that I have to drive home damp and clammy and be back in the hideous heat of midday. Both are problems that I choose to ignore.

My third and final brilliant idea for today is to mix up a frozen margarita and sit on the porch reading. Problem #1 is that it's almost too hot to be outside, so I bring a spray bottle full of water and complete with a mini fan on top. Problem #2 is that I only have enough alcohol/mix to brew up one margarita.

All in all, heat aside, of course, it is a successful day. As a matter of fact, it's like a three-day vacation all in one singular day: Kayak - Pool - Margarita. However, and I'll be completely transparent here: 

DO NOT GO OUTSIDE FOR ANY REASON WHATSOEVER. 

If you ignore this advice and do go outside, expect immediate spontaneous combustion. It's a real thing, and you should be worried about it. It is the heat, and it is the humidity together. If I see a little puddle surrounding some ashes in the street, I'll know that you didn't listen, and, like the heat . . . I'll just wave.