TELL ME, MAGIC 8-BALL, TELL ME TRUE

 My students and I rely on an old-school method to make important decisions:

THE MAGIC 8-BALL

That's right. Good old-fashioned make-believe voodoo. You remember the Magic 8-Ball, right? It's a plastic dome, black in color, with a white 8 on it. When shaken, it gives yes or no answers, often with a flair of sassiness.

We always start out the same way when asking a question. I shake the Magic 8-Ball and say, "Oh, Magic 8-Ball, (insert question here), tell me, tell me, Magic 8-Ball, tell me true!"

For example, sometimes I will ask the Magic 8-Ball if we are going to have a great weekend, or will we do well on a test, or if the weather will be favorable. Sometimes we get "You can rely on it!" and sometimes "Ask again later" and sometimes just the simple "Yes" or "No."

Recently we had some outlandish behavior in the class, and someone wanted to know if I would be tolerating that for much longer, since there are days when I am stricter than others. So, we decided to ask the Magic 8-Ball how things might progress in the area of their behavior and my temper/tolerance level.

As you can see, the rest of the class went very well . . . for me.  Bless you, Mattel. Long live the Magic 8-Ball!

COFFEE -- AND THE DAY -- DOWN!

 Coffee and I do not get along.

It took me years of trial and error to discover that I like my hot coffee much like I like my hot tea: Black with a shot of sugar. I always thought I would like coffee with milk or cream, like a coffee shake. (Apologies to those of you outside of New England who have zero idea what a coffee shake might be.) Mostly, though, I stay far, far away from hot coffee. 

On the flipside, when I see people add milk to hot tea, it turns my stomach. Why in the name of Lady Gray would you ever ruin a decent cup of tea with dairy products? What in the wide, wide world of tea leaves would possess anyone to commit such a treasonous, heathen act? Tea should be served neat with a dollop of local honey stirred into it. If honey is unavailable, then the first thing you do is look down your nose at your hosts. The second thing you do is demand to see the sugar jar. Iced tea is for Southerners and large front porches, both of which I sorely lack, therefore I don't drink the stuff unless my hot tea goes cold.

Iced coffee is a year-round staple. Again, apologies to anyone outside of New England who doesn't understand that when it is 10 degrees below zero with a wind chill of -60 degrees and the snot is frozen in your scarf-covered nose and you haven't had feeling in your fingers or toes since October, the only sane drink is a tall iced coffee with a shot of extra ice. Iced coffee is the sole time anything remotely dairy should be added, and I lean toward caramel cream.

That being said, I really am a hot tea drinker. Every once in a while, though, I get to jonesing for an iced coffee. And by "jonesing," I mean that if I don't have it instantly, heads are going to roll and the entire day will end in ruins. This is when coffee teases me most. 

A Monday or two ago, I made myself an iced coffee. Just a wee one, though, because I knew I'd be having tea later at my desk. I mixed it up just the way I like it -- 2/3 coffee, 1/3 creamer, and a decent spoonful of sugar. Top that with more ice than a frozen margarita, and life is perfect. Perfect, until I dump the entire contents of the cup all over my desk, laptop, and onto the floor. 

Coffee down!

I try the same on Friday of this week. I mix the coffee exactly the way I like it, drive to work, walk in with a colleague, shuffle through the long hallways to my classroom, and . . . 

Where's my iced coffee?

Luckily for all people involved in my day - meetings and classes alike - the coffee is in my car and not on my kitchen counter. I trudge back outside, backpack still on, ignoring people who wonder where I am going. 

Is everything all right? Are you leaving? What happened?

Coffee happened. 

One of these good, fine days I might learn my lesson. I should stick to my cup of hot tea and stop trying to pose as a crossover drinker. If I know me, and I do know me, this strategy will work for a couple of weeks. Then, without warning, I'll be jonesing for iced coffee again because, hey, when it comes right down to it, I am a born-and-bred New Englander.

A MOST AWKWARD SHAMROCK

Well, it's that time of year again. Time for green beer, strong whiskey, bagpipes, and corned beef. Time for boisterous choruses of "What do you do with a drunken sailor..." and errant hand-clapping to the no-nay-never denials. It's time for someone who thinks he can sing to belt out Danny Boy.

I

t's time for anyone with a smidgen of Irish heritage to wear green -- or orange, if you're so inclined - although white should probably be the unifying color, but where's the Irish history in that?

Every retail store around is trying to make a buck off Irish-wannabes. Even the craft stores. I have nothing against a decent Irish-themed decoration, and some of the stuff is tolerable and even kind of adorable in a purely Irish way.

Until we get to the giant shamrock. What the serious fuc-saus is going on here?

This thing looks like it's supposed to be made of peat moss. Unfortunately, it is more like a skin graft from the Jolly Green Giant. It's brittle and disturbing and has a faint odor of road apples, and it's green only in the clinical sense.

This item was probably made in China, and I'm not making a political statement when I say this. It's more an indictment on the level of familiarity the factory workers have with Irish heritage (zero, obviously).  It's equally creepy from the front as it is from the back, and we're not even sure which side is supposed to be which.

But, hey, on St. Patrick's Day, everyone can be Irish, not just Celts, Gaels, and Saxons. If an imitation-peat-moss over-sized shamrock is your thing, then let me know. I'll tell you where to find one. Until then, you'll find me singing, clapping my hands, and attempting to tell you where that dang boy named Danny has taken himself.

Happy St. Paddy's Day!

WICKED BIG THINGS ON RATHER SMALL SHELVES

 In my continuing saga of retail shopping, I just want to say that while I am pleased stores are stocking inventory, it would be nice if they stocked inventory people actually needed, like toilet paper, oatmeal, cat food. Instead, in addition to last week's pot-head plant containers, I am mystified this week by:

Wicked big things on rather small shelves!

My sister and I are on one of our usual shopping adventures. This one involves a craft store. To be honest, neither one of us needs any more crafty type materials or supplies. The difference between my sister and me is that she can actually knit and sew and do crafty stuff. I can knit rectangles, sew a semi-straight line, and hot glue my fingers together.

I am not totally sure what crafts these might be for, but we encounter ceramic trays. Okay, I suppose someone talented could paint them or do that cri-cri thing to them, but I am not quite sure what to do with a glass plate that says "Nice buns." Ummmm, thanks . . . I guess. 

I am equally mystified by the giant cheetah heads. No, folks, these are not planters. They're heads. Just heads, like something you'd come across in a furniture store as decoration in a living room display. Random giamundo cheetah heads just waiting patiently to come home with me. Unfortunately, those sort-of grinning animals will be sheltering at the store for a while longer.

There are also humongous wine and martini glasses. Okay, I totally understand these. These could be centerpieces at a really tacky wedding or incredibly inappropriate baby shower. Or they could use them as candy holders at meetings for people with the DT's. Or I could just buy one and say, "Here's my one-a-day glass of wine. Bully for me!"

I think, however, my favorite giant find of the day has to be the incredibly large buttons. I don't mean big buttons like Tweedle-Dee wears on his suspenders to keep his checkered pants up. I mean buttons the size of Duane Johnson's head. These things are bigger than dinner plates (plates that don't say "Nice Buns"). What on this great and ridiculous Earth could warrant a button that large? And how would I sew it on (if I could sew)? Would I use a hawser? I can see it now. I run up to the nearest tugboat (assuming that I might be near to one), and yell, "'Excuse me, may I steal your tow rope? I need to sew on a button for Goliath."

Maybe it's me, but I really want to see things like food or batteries or meat returning to shelves. I'd like to see clothing and writing utensils and glue return to shelves. But, I guess in the meantime, while I'm stuck sitting on the potty waiting for the toilet paper aisle to be restocked yet again, I can stare longingly at my cheetah head while toasting with a super-sized martini using the button as a coaster and think, "Wow, it's a great day to have nice buns!"