BOOKING THE LONG WEEKEND

I go into this long weekend without too many grand plans. I have a few commitments to keep, several places that I need to be, but no big trips, no hotel stays, no rushing to find a spot on the beach -- just a desperately needed respite from work and possibly attacking some general housekeeping stuff. Those are my loose plans, anyway. 

Until I receive the email. Yes, THE EMAIL. The email that announces an incredible weekend sale at the local Used Books Superstore that is six miles from my home.

Let me preface this by saying that I do not need any more books. No, I do not. I have a constant turnover here (and I donate almost every book after I read it), plus I have a packed Kindle along with the Barnes & Noble app. If that's not bad enough, I have about 700 YA novels in my classroom library (which I've also started going through to donate). Even worse, one of my internet book suppliers (aka pushers because I am a book addict) is having a weekend sale, as well, so I order seven books from that site to light the weekend on fire.

I stay up late reading on Friday after I get home from work (and after I order those seven books), finishing a novel I started reading the day before then starting another one to carry me into the weekend. I wake up early on  Saturday, a little after 5:00, and try to convince myself that I should just get up and get ready for work -- then realize that it's Saturday and promptly fall back to sleep. Something important is today, though, so I do know I must get up and get moving at some point.

That's when I remember: BOOK SALE! 

I arrive less than ten minutes after the store opens, and the lot is already filling up. It takes all of us a few minutes to get acclimated because the super-sale books have been moved. We gather around the carts and shelves, trying to make it look like we aren't desperate book hoarders, but I recognize another book addict when I see one. Methodically we peruse the stacks, circling, redirecting, and doing the basic hunting-gathering thing. We all seem very polite on the surface, but if someone reaches for a book that looks interesting to me, I will start throwing some serious punches, and I fully expect the same from my fellow shoppers.

In the end I only buy twelve books, spending a mere sixteen dollars. I come home with a western, historical fiction, murder mystery, memoir, and several summer beach novels. This is a conservative day at the register for me. The guy at the register beside me is shopping with his son, and they have, quite easily, fifty books between them. 

I have already finished two books this weekend and just started from today's pile, so I could reasonably have three books read this weekend by the time this posts on Sunday. I will have to hide the beach novels lest I start on those, as well. Yup, I have a problem, a deep and disturbing problem, but as long as authors keep writing, I should be good for a few more weeks.

I'll let you know if you need to send reinforcements in the form of published novels.

BEING AMERICAN WITH WALKERS CRISPS

I've never been to England. My long-ago relatives have, so I suppose there's still a little British leaning somewhere, but I am truly a rebel patriot through and through. That doesn't mean I can't enjoy some of the finer things in life, such as English tea, London dry gin, and Walkers products.

That's right. WALKERS. Walkers shortbread cookies and Walkers crisps, to be specific.

Walkers shortbread cookies can be found in grocery stores, particularly Stop 'N' Shop, as well as the specialty food aisles at TJ Maxx. I had to stop myself from buying them because I eat them. No, not one or two at a time; one or two boxes at a time. You might be familiar with the American low-rent shortbread cookie also known as the Girl Scout Trefoil. Once you try a Walkers shortbread cookie, you'll never go back to a Trefoil. Not ever.

The crisps, however, are on a separate plane of existence. Sure, there are strange ones that no sane American would touch: marmite and prawn cocktail. But, people, listen up. Walkers crisps come in smoky bacon flavor. You read that correctly; I said what I said. Smoky bacon. Bacon . . . that's smoky . . . in a chip.

Imagine my delight at accidentally running into the Scottish-British section of food products on my way to an event in nearby Concord. Coming face to face with the displays, I am gobsmacked (that's informal British, by the way). Pawing through the various tea flavors, I suddenly brighten at the random thought: Perhaps, if they have British and Scottish tea, they may sell Walkers, too!

Lo and behold, this store certainly does sell Walkers crisps (and other products). While I am deflated and desolate that there are no smoky bacon crisps, I do settle for the British version of salt and vinegar. Full disclosure, I am addicted to the Lays American version, as well, but, hey, I mean . . . WALKERS. 

I am proud to say that I left the store after purchasing just one bag of Walkers crisps. I should've snagged that Scottish breakfast tea, as well, but there is a method to my madness. Since I failed to purchase the tea, I will have to go back to the store soon to do so. Perfectly logical. Maybe by then there will be a fresh shipment of Walkers crisps, and maybe they'll have smoky bacon flavor.

What could be more appropriate than making this conquest at a market in Concord, whistling distance to the Old North Bridge? I'll invade the aisles like the good and decent rebel patriot American I am, capture the Walkers crisps, and liberate them to my kitchen pantry until such time as it becomes necessary to show them who rules the flavor buds now. 

HAIKU FOR MOMS

Roses may be red.

Violets are not blue -- Purple.

Flowers can be weird.

Use the word "Mother"

And many think of swear words;

Sometimes George Carlin.

In the expression

"Mother's Day", aren't there more than

One? Apostrophes!

I bought chocolates,

But they melted in my car.

Now you get nothing.

Hallmark charged too much

For holiday greeting cards

(To fund their movies)

If you get a gift

From me it's an accident.

I always forget!

Don't forget today

To hug and kiss your mother.

She can kick your ass.

JUVENILE HOCKEY HUMOR

I have a remarkably juvenile sense of humor. 

I'm watching sports on TV. Hockey, to be specific. I've watched hockey for 89% of my life (according to my phone calculator). My great-uncle invented the modern hockey stick . . . which, I guess means it was modern for its time and bore his name. So, I have a relatively secure working knowledge of the sport. 

As I am watching the commentators during period breaks, I see them using white boards and markers while trying really hard to explain the nuances of hockey to the average layman, as if the average layman actually watches hockey without a basic understanding of the sport. I suppose if I were to watch Cricket being played on TV, I'd need such elementary sketches. I commend these professionals for their expertise, but, with all the technological advances these days, why are we using Little League white boards?

The problem with these boards, other than being gauche, is the basic hockey zone set up. A hockey board should look like the rink. The whole rink. Blue lines, center ice, and all four (offensive and defensive) zone circles. This is basic stuff. I can buy myself one of these hockey clipboard items at a local sporting goods store. 

So, tell me, please, please, please -- explain to me why on national television the NHL broadcasters think a white board with two large red circles containing red dots is even appropriate? 

DO YOU NOT SEE WHAT I SEE? 

BOOBIES.

That's what I see. Boobs and nipples. You are drawing hockey plays all across Chesty Morgan. 

It's really hard to take seriously any hockey advice from someone drawing little blocks skating across BOOBS on national television. All I see and hear is this:  "Well, first Frank skates over the chest wall and passes the pectoralis muscle to the small ducts. Once Freddy comes across that massive areola, he's able to take the puck as it's passed from the inflamed mammary lymph nodes right smack into the major ducts. If there's no lactation, Floyd should be able to overtake the nipple and have the breast game of the playoffs!"

Yes, I'm just snickering over here every time that board makes its way to the viewing audience. Yes, I have a juvenile sense of humor. Yes, that's probably why I teach middle school. And yes, now every single time that board flashes across your TV screen, you'll be yelling BOOBIES, too.

You are sincerely welcome!