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.