RECHARGE YOUR OWN BATTERIES

I'm really tired.
Maybe "tired" is the wrong word. 

Weary. 

That's it. 

That's what I am: 

Weary.

Fatigued.

Worn out.

It's not uncommon at this time of the year.

It is, though, uncommon to me.

So, I will take today off.

Easter.

Spend time with family.

Recharge my own batteries.

And remind myself that Monday is an amazing day:

Holiday chocolate goes on sale on Monday.

Amen.

IT'S SUMMER INSIDE

The weekend forecast is for snow, sleet, freezing rain, and general rainy and crappy weather. This is largely due to the fact that many people have been hoodwinked into thinking that Spring is here because:

A. The calendar says so

B. People have put shovels and snowblowers away

C. Winter tires have been replaced by the regular tires 

Sure, my snow shovel is still handy. I'm not a complete idiot. However, I prefer to dwell in a different reality, one that involves sunshine, warm weather, and flip-flops.

Just in case, I make sure I get to the store (days in advance because I'm not a masochist) to shop because, to be honest, I haven't bought groceries in a couple of weeks, and, by this I mean that the milk in my fridge has long passed cottage cheese stage and become a full-on science experiment. Yes, I buy milk (I needed some) and bread (sub rolls, actually), but I also buy salad fixings and bacon because fancy BLTs sound pretty darn good right about now.

I also restock the fridge with beverages. I have fresh fruit, frozen fruit, and various kinds of juices already at home that I plan to mix with red wine and make Sangria. Why? Because Sangria is a summer beverage, and I am more than ready for summer, despite the despicable weather forecast. 

I should grab some beer, too. I'm not a huge beer drinker, but, when I do drink beer, I'm not loyal to any specific brewer. It kind of depends on my mood. Imagine, if you will, my feeling of joyous jubilation when I spot this bad boy in the cooler: Sam's Summer. That is correct: Samuel Adams Citrus Wheat Ale. 

While most people rush to the store and grab pre-storm milk, bread, and eggs, I pile my cart full of what looks more like party fixings for the Fourth of July. I throw in a bouquet of flowers as the final middle finger to this weekend's weather. As the internet ticker rolls across the screen with the dire warning of "one more inch of snow overnight due," I am enjoying a lovely glass of fruit-infused Sangria while watching the Red Sox game. 

OFF-THE-CHARTS LUNCH FOR A LONG DAY AT WORK

One more quick post connected to my intense dislike of shopping:

Work sucks. Not even joking, as the MCAS state testing gets closer, my life feels like more of a pressure cooker. For anyone who doesn't understand state testing, for my particular subject matter, the year-end cumulative test for 100% of the state standards takes place in two weeks. This is prior to the end of third term. This means that before my students have completed 75% of their academic year, they are being tested on 100% of the curriculum. 

The best part is that over two days, these twelve and thirteen year olds will be writing four to six entire 10,000 character essays. For those unfamiliar with what a 10,000 character (including spaces) essay looks like, it's five to eight complete and expansive paragraphs; four or five of these essays, and, for some students who are lucky enough to get the "practice" question, six full-length essays.

In. Two. Days. I know English graduate students who cannot pull that shit off. But, I digress.

While this is hanging over everyone's heads, I also have an entire day of professional development, which means that I have zero time in my classroom to do important things like planning and preparing for the upcoming lessons. This is in addition to those regular days of going to multiple meetings, helping to substitute in other classrooms, and doing the important bathroom patrol (Doodie Duty) since we cannot trust the middle schoolers not to smear feces all over the walls nor to pee in the sinks nor to cram the toilets so full of paper towels (or shoes or clothing or schoolwork) that the entire septic system backs up.

So, yeah, I'm really too exhausted at the end of the extended day to fight irate shoppers, long lines at the cashiers, or malfunctioning self-checkouts. (Let's not even throw in the insult of paying for bags that break faster than tissues.) I need lunch for Friday's PD (Professional Development -- a time to sit in bored silence while people treat us like morons) day, so I should get some food and snacks. My mind tells me that I have bread in the freezer and probably have enough peanut butter and jelly on hand. I might even have a yogurt of questionable date in my fridge. Yup, I should be okay. I convince myself that I probably have enough food, and, hopefully, enough toilet paper to survive the next twenty-four hours.

This is when I remember that I have rapid-rise yeast. I have bread flour. I have shredded mozzarella cheese. I have sliced pepperoni. I even have a jar of pizza sauce. All of these items I have at home. I also have a damn good, incredibly easy pizza dough recipe that only takes thirty minutes to rise (though I always give it an hour, just because).

Take THAT, you stupid grocery store! Suck on it, you crazy-ass shoppers! Bite my arse, you malfunctioning self-service machines!

Yes, I would quite literally rather make a homemade pizza than stop for fifteen minutes at the store. I don't know if that makes me an idiot or a hero, but the results are amazing and my PD lunch is off the charts.

FROZEN DRINKS ON A FROZEN DAY

Continuing the misadventures from last week, I am still with the same two pals as we cruise around the South Shore of Massachusetts. It has been an unseasonably warm week up until the day we decide to get together and drive around. Of course, for the first time in five days, the temperature drops and the wind chill becomes ear-piercingly frigid. 

We stop at a scenic overlook, part of a farm-type school, and encounter snow. No, not a lot of snow, but patches of it here and there in small bucket-sized splotches. This is amazing to us since our area of New England has gotten about as much snow as South Carolina has gotten this winter. Ridiculously excited, we take a picture with the snow just to prove that we found some. Honestly, though, it is so cold, so numbingly freezing, that we run back to the car and grab more layers and hats and scarves and anything we can find to wrap around ourselves. The outing lasts less than ten minutes, and we are cold-hobbled by the time we stagger back to the vehicle.

Next we drive along the coast to perhaps fly a kite. Oh, the wind for kite-flying is strong, but the only way the kite will fly is if we suffer hypothermia and frostbite. We walk along the beach for longer than we probably should but ultimately decide that kite flying is not worth death.

We run a few errands that require us to cross great distances in parking lots because everyone and his brother and uncle seem to be out and about. Eventually, the day draws near to its end when someone suggests a quick drink, perhaps an appetizer, to finish off the day. As long as it's indoors, I'm game.

We get ourselves into the restaurant and sit near the window so we can watch the bay as the sun sets, casting long shadows over the water. When the waitress asks us for our drink order, we should probably say something warm like hot coffee, or rich with biting alcohol like brandy. After all, we are still trying to thaw out from an awesome but chilly day of adventure.

We are New Englanders, and because we probably have no brain cells left that have not been chilled to oblivion, we order a round of mudslides. You read that correctly: We order frozen drinks. But, you see, there is a method to our madness. This way, the frozen drink comes with a straw, and we won't have to pick up and hold the glasses that are covered with frost. We can simply tilt the straws as the drinks sit on the table, totally not molesting our defrosting fingers.

Brilliance, apparently, never freezes. By the time we are ready to truly finish up the day,  we've warmed ourselves up by belly-laughing for hours. 

WHY I HATE SHOPPING

I. Hate. Shopping.

Shopping is an enormous time-suck. Driving to the store, driving home from the store, looking around the store, and, the truest of all time-sucks, waiting in line. I will starve myself before going to the grocery store. 

I find very little more frustrating than going to a store with on-line confirmation of stock only to discover that the store does not really have what I am looking for, despite their insistence otherwise.  If the computer says that the store has "ten items in stock," then there should be at least one somewhere on the shelves, in the "to be re-shelved" pile, or out in the back waiting to be stocked in the first place. 

Remember Service Merchandise? This was the first self-serve store: Pick items from an onsite catalogue or computer list, go wait by the mini roller coaster, and grab your order as it came out from the backroom in a plastic bin that resembled a coal miner's cart. Best store ever, and zero inventory loss to theft.

The main reason that I despise shopping is the people. 

Recently, my friends and I decide to brave the crowds at a busy grocery store. Usually, this isn't a problem, but the aisles in this particular store seem tighter than necessary for a place with such high volume. There is a lot of pushing, of shoving, and an alarming number of people just stopping in the middle with their carts so that no one else can move. Most of the people are idiots, but, for those few moments of knowing glances with other like-minded shoppers, the entire debacle becomes worth every painful moment.

Me (to myself): This feels like a full-contact sport.

Woman (shopping nearby): And it's like this all the time. All the time. 

We laugh, and, as she turns a corner, she runs right into another shopper.

Not even two aisles later, an elderly man with a completely empty cart (despite being in the middle aisle of the store amidst hundreds of us with semi-full carriages), stops dead in the middle, blocking anyone trying to travel north or south through the baking supplies. I try, I truly do try, to hold my face in neutral, and I feel like I'm doing a bang-up job of it. That is, until I glance past the old guy and see a man about my age blocked from coming the other direction. He catches my expression and busts out a huge bark of laughter. 

"Oh," I say as we finally maneuver through the bottleneck and pass each other, "was my face too loud back there?"

The final coup de grace happens at the check-out. A couple gets in line behind me. The woman says, "We could maybe sneak through the express aisle."

I respond, "I don't have much stuff." Then I smirk. "Trust me. With the day I'm having, this is sure to be entertaining."

The two girls running this particular register and bagging station are not the brightest bulbs in the store's chandelier. I ask for my groceries to be packed into the heavier, ten-cent bags. You see, I'm not going straight home, so I want the stuff in bags that will hold up for the long ride. The cashier looks at me blankly, reaches over, grabs a huge section of the container, and hands me six or seven empty bags. Then, she just stands there. 

"Uhhhhh, no. For bagging. My groceries."

Both girls stare at me as I push the bags back toward them. No one says a word. No one moves. We are standing in a tableau of stupidity.

Finally, I make huge gestures with my arms and hands, sweeping from the left to the right, as I say, "Just riiiiiiiiiiiiing my stuff through and send it dooooooooooooooooown to the bottom and paaaaaaaaaaaaaack everything in those big plastic baaaaaaaaaaaaaags." 

Still, nothing. I spot my friends in the next checkout aisle, clearly not having the same problem. I turn to the couple behind me. "I told you that you wouldn't be disappointed!" Them, to the cashier, I say, "Go! Ring! Let's get these puppies home!"

This. All this. This is why I hate shopping.