I HEAR SCHOOL BELLS AND ICE CUBES

I can't drink alcohol until Saturday because of the antibiotics I'm on for pneumonia.  The first full week of school finishes officially on Saturday.  

Coincidence? 

I think not.

Here's to all the people, otherwise known as teachers, who keep the kids educated, maintain order against overwhelming odds, and who are raving lunatics by June. 

In other words:  My People.

School is in session.  Welcome back.

IT'S THE TIDY BOWL MAN!

I have pneumonia.  Again. 

This bout isn't so bad.  I feel sorta kinda maybe a bit under the weather, but I cave and finally go to the walk-in because I cannot stop coughing and it prevents me (and probably most of the neighborhood) from getting a full night's (or any) sleep.  Kind of surprises me when the doc announces, "Well, of course you don't feel well.  You've got this spot of crap in your lung, you idiot."  (Okay, she doesn't quite say it like that, but I know she thinks it inside her head.)  She gives me a print-out on pneumonia, like I'm not already an expert after going toe to toe with it for eight rounds, and she also gives me a print-out on chronic acute bronchial infections simply because she knows eventually I will be back sometime down the road, and she wants to be able to say this time, "I flippin' told you so!" 

School starts, though, both for me as a teacher and for me as a grad student, so I have to keep going, and, truth be told, I really don't feel that bad… until I stop moving and sit still. 

I have been on my feet for days getting my classroom ready.  I perform for nearly six hours straight today because the students arrive for Day One and I am en pointe.  After teaching I drive an hour to attend my afternoon class at the university.  A two-and-a-half-hour class.  Except that about one hour into it I discover that the Z-pack meds and Dunkins Coffee Oreo Coolattas do not mix.  In fact, they don't even digest together.  One of them has to go, and go right then and there.  The meds would be easy: one puke and the pill comes up.  But no.  It has to be the Colossal Coolatta  Rejection.  Four times.  In forty minutes.  What a terrific introduction to my new professor and unsuspecting classmates:  "Hello, I'm the student who resides in the bathroom.  My office hours will be as follows…"

The professor mercifully lets class out early, but I remain behind, keeping my office hours for a little while longer because, let's be honest, it's a long ride home with an upset digestive tract.  Thankfully there is nothing left of the Coolatta in any nook or cranny of my system, but I can't say the same for the university's plumbing.  I subconsciously high-five myself for having the foresight to keep a puke bucket in the car, and I arrive home safely and without incident but about four pounds lighter than when I left the house this morning, and I am, ironically enough, ravenously hungry. 

Gosh, I love the first day of school.  Nothing like hacking chunks of a lung all over your students and making an ass of yourself in front of your fellow grad-mates and new professor.  I have to admit, though, it makes one hell of a funny story - to someone else. 

BECAUSE NO ONE WANTS AN ASS THE SIZE OF MICHELLE'S

All this hoopla about healthy food choices for school lunches is starting to irk me. 

First of all, school lunches are supposed to be gross.  The mashed potatoes are supposed to mimic paste, and the hot dogs are supposed to bounce.  Anyone who doesn't know this from direct experience either never honestly purchased a school lunch or is obviously unclear on the concept.

The problem, according to the government do-gooders, is that our children are getting too "sedentary."  For those of you who are not fluent in Double-Speak-ese, "Your kids are fat lard-butts."  Someone on Capitol Hill believes that serving our children more leafy lettuce and stewed prunes will make them healthy when in actuality it will simply make them regular.

There is a VERY simple solution to this problem, and it isn't about the food.  It's called: RECESS.

We used to get three recesses in elementary school -- 15 minutes in the morning, 30 minutes after lunch, and 15 minutes in the afternoon. That was an hour of outdoor time every day unless it was subzero, and, even then in New Hampshire, if you didn't know how to dress for the weather, you damn well better know how to run and stay warm.  Elementary school recess is now once a day, and it has morphed into a huge security fiasco:  No Dodgeball (Louie cries when he isn't picked for the team and Jenny has a huge bruise oh her arm from missing the incoming ball), no Red Rover (compound fractures on the playground are discouraged), no jump ropes ("This isn't a whip, young man!  Wait … no… NO!  Untie me, you little shit!"), no climbing the Jungle Gym (it's really just a separated shoulder waiting to happen), no relay races (everybody's a winner; everybody gets a trophy).

In middle school,  kids don't get recess anymore, and they are never moving unless it's an occasional phys-ed class, which may occur once or twice a week in a term-long rotation.  High school students have self-made recess; it's called "going out to the woods to smoke dope during study hall." (Okay, maybe they don't have that one anymore, but they did when I was in high school.)

Kids should be required to play or just to go outside every day for at least an hour, even if they choose to sit outside and read or stare at a wall. Get some air; get some sun; get some energy going.  Eat all the carrots you want, but if you don't move around, even the carrots will make you fat. And orange. Fatty orange. Orangey fat. You'll be Garfield.

That's my Garfield Theory of Healthy School Children.  I'm like the Einstein of Edibles with the Theory of Recesstivity.  You're welcome.

IT'S THE MOST WONDERFUL TIME OF THE YEAR

Another summer blown to Hell. 

Honestly, when the vacation starts in late June, I always have such grand hopes that it will be weeks packed with getting stuff done around the house.  Then September rolls in, and the lament starts: I didn't get ANYTHING done.

Well, that's not entirely accurate because I got the filing done and the spare room 90% done, but the basement is still a mess, and I haven't balanced my check book since the Clinton administration.  I decide to take inventory of the things that prevent me from getting my To-Do List done because this is serious business, kids. 

June 16:  My friend Sally and I trek into Boston to see the Corpse Flower at the zoo.  It is about to blossom and stink the joint up, and we don't want to miss it.  We arrive days early and spend the extra time in Boston at Whiskey Priest holding up the bar.

June 17:  Sally and I drag my daughter with us to see the Corpse flower because the idiots on the news keep saying, "It's time, it's time!"  Just Braxton Hicks contractions.  We chat with the head horticulturalist and decide the zoo's Facebook page will tell us all.  Screw the news people; what do they know about the news?

June 20:  The Corpse flower blooms and stinks during the day.  It is supposed to bloom and stink for twenty-four to forty-eight hours.  Boston is hit with an unusually strong heat wave, and the temperatures cause the flower to rot completely in less than two hours. By the time Sally and I arrive, the stench has dissipated, and we must wait five to fifteen years before we get another chance to smell its cadaverous odor.  This depresses us, and we find ourselves parallel parking near the Moakley Courthouse and sitting on the roof deck at Whiskey Priest.  Again.

June 22:  I go to get my hair cut.  I have not been to a hairdresser in over five years and have hair down my back.  Hairdresser gets cold feet and only takes a few inches off.  I go home, look in the mirror, and decide I still look like me.  This makes me cry.  A lot.

June 23:  Go back to hair salon and have different girl cut my hair.  She dares to add bangs and make layers.  It is still fairly long and looks fantastic… when I leave.

June 26:  Cannot recreate hair style for the life of me.  Pick up a friend at her house and go to meet other friends for lunch at a nice restaurant.  We are seated next to a bunch of teens on an outing and a large group of lactating mothers.  We order pitchers of Margaritas and pretend not to notice anyone around us.  It damn near works.

June 28:  Totally pissed off that my new hairdo is a one-time-only style.  Go back to first stylist and insist that she cut it all off.  She does.  Hairstyle looks like a squirrel, but I can actually recreate the look, so it's all good.  Son #2 has late lacrosse game at a school that backs up to woods.  I get eaten alive by mosquitoes because I forget that short hair means my neck is exposed.  Stupid, stupid, stupid!  I live on calamine lotion for days.

June 30:  Party!  Someone actually notices that I cut off all my hair.  Amazing.  

July 2:  Another trek into The Hub for OpSail Boston with Sally to see the tall ships.  Someone is shooting cannons off as soon as we walk to the pier.  Headset goes on and I pretend I haven't had the buhjeezus scared out of me.  We meet Son #1 for a nice evening and still somehow end up at Whiskey Priest yet again.  How does that happen?

July 8:  Soccer starts for Son #2.  It's a long, hot walk from the dusty, rocky parking lot, down the stairs, across boiling fake grass.  I decide that an umbrella would be a great idea for next time because it could be used over my head to deflect the sun above or pointed at the ground to prevent toxic heat stroke from the rubber pellets in the turf. 

July 9:  Grad school starts, four nights a week, two different classes.  This process repeats itself for the next six weeks.  I live in a fog and wonder why I have done this to myself. 

July 13:  Friday the 13^th - Might as well run the gauntlet and drive to Maine to spend the day with sister #2.  After being insulted on our walk by old men pretending to play golf, we float around her pool.  My hair still looks good … curly and squirrely but passable.  Amazing.

July 24:  Daughter has recently gotten engaged, so we begin the dress search.  Appointment #1 is today.  We are relieved that our budget actually allows her to try stuff on that doesn't look like old sheets and togas.  After about a dozen dresses, two possibilities are on hold, but neither lights a fire, which is probably good since a burning wedding dress might not go over really well in an enclosed church service.

July 28:  Two more bridal appointments today, one at a nice place and one at a discount place that is a bit scary and slightly creepy.  Daughter has officially tried on about three dozen dresses, and we are left wondering what in the hell goes on in the minds of some of these designers.  Apparently they are designing for drag queens - not that it's a bad thing, except not as many drag queens as young women actually buy and wear the gowns.

August 1: Team meeting with my teacher mates because one of them is moving away, and by team meeting I mean we pore over some school records and pour some beer.  But I can't stay because Daughter has another bridal appointment back at place #1.  She tries on more dresses after re-trying the two on hold and decides all the dresses here suck.  We leave without a dress, now up to about four dozen gowns tried on, but the wallet is intact.

August 3:  Another bridal appointment, and this time Daughter goes through at least another dozen dresses (we are up to about sixty-five rejected gowns now, and they are all worthy of said rejection).  The place requires brides to ring a bell when they choose a gown.  A little old lady chases Daughter down with the bell on a puffy pillow, all the while screaming, "RING THE BELL, BITCH, RING THE DAMN BELL!!!!"  We are terrified and run away.  The only thing that saves us is some other poor girl who sacrifices herself.  We see her smiling and ringing the bell.  Honestly, the dress she chose looks like crap on her, but I jump behind the steering wheel and navigate us to safety.

August 5-6:  Soccer tournament; bloody hot; I get heat stroke; boys play well; I feel like the Ancient Mariner in search of water; in all the years I have been attending sporting events in this weather, I have never felt so horrid.  Life is good.

August 7:  We have been searching for the perfect wedding gown and think we may have found it.  It is only available at a small boutique we'd never heard of, but we take a chance.  After another dozen gowns, we are down to the last one, the one we came to see.  We are ready, steeled for that stomach-pit of disappointment.  The curtain parts, my eyes are covered with my hands.  I cannot look.  Do NOT make me look.  I finally peek.  Clouds part, sun streaks across the salon, and somewhere angels are singing:  This IS the dress.  My check book whips out faster than an exhibitionist's junk, and we seal the deal.  Life is good, only this time, I truly mean it.

August 8:  Beach Day.  Now, some may wonder why I hadn't gone to the beach before this when I am a beach addict.  Well, we seem to be having a little shark problem around here.  All right, it's not so little.  The sharks are great whites and have already stalked a kayaker and bitten a man's legs, all in shallow water.  I decide to go in up to my knees and keep an eye out for fins.

August 9-10:  Lunch days with friends.  After hiding and doing so much homework for my grad classes, it's a wonder I have any friends left.  Maybe they're just doing their civic duty of taking a shut-in out in public.  Either way, I thank them profusely.

August 14:  Beach Day #2.  I have grad school finals this week, but I need a mental health break.  We go in the water, float around, and forget to worry about sharks.  We find out later there is a shark sighting mere miles north of where we have been swimming.  We are idiots, but our limbs are intact.  We collect lots of rocks to bring home for a friend's garden.  We consider it weight training and feel good about ourselves.

August 15-16:  I pull an all-nighter partially because it keeps thundering all night and also because I have to finish my final portfolio.  After sleeping for about three hours and working for hours more, I decide the only thing that will help me is an Oreo Coolatta.  After my final presentation, I am still wired.  The caffeine doesn't wear off for twenty-four hours. When I finally do crash, I sleep for something like five days, though I have it written down that I attend dinner and a party or two in that time.  I have no recollection of August 17-22, but my date book says I had a wonderful time.

August 23:  I awaken from my coma and spend another day at the beach.  The beach is empty, for the most part, but people still feel the need to set up right on top of where we are sitting.  We are fly paper for freaks.  One family is so close that we can all hold hands and sing Kumbaya.  When they go to the water to frolic, we put crackers and cheese under their chairs.  The seagulls go nuts and start attacking their stuff.  Serves them right.  We gather more rocks, partially for the garden and partially to defend ourselves from the angry beach-goers who return to find bird crap all over their stuff.

August 27:  Fun day of accompanying youngest to get all of his necessary shots, tests, check-ups, and fillings before he returns to college (why no, I am not counting the days … yes I am).  His car needs tires, so we go hang out at the tire place in Lawrence.  I decide to go the back way home and realize the city kids are already in school.  The end of summer hits me right between the eyes, which is a lot safer than having a student hit my windshield because he crossed the street when I wasn't looking.  Damnit.  The countdown is on.

August 30:  Open House at school.  I wake up deathly ill with what feels like another bout of pneumonia.  I go to school anyway and spread my germs around like a responsible adult.  This really is the last hurrah.  I think I need one more road trip.

August 31:  Road trip to Maine for a day of games, food, and Christmas shopping.  Yes, you read that right.  What summer is complete without Christmas shopping?  What's wrong with you people, anyway?!  After all, it is the most wonderful time of the year.

Sept. 3:  Drive Son #2 back to college.  Enjoy a few hours of freedom.

September 4:  Back to work at my school, back to grad school, and back into the grind.

I am so depressed.  I mean, seriously.  I didn't have time to do ANYTHING this summer on my household To-Do List.  Thank goodness for that.

WEEKEND THOUGHTS AND THEN SOME - POST #3 OF 3

Part III:  A brief glimpse inside the warped minds of writers, brought to you by some other writers only these ones are talented and published.  Today's installment = R-Z, with some editorial commentary to wrap it all up.  The ranting will be back on Tuesday, all y'all!

Writers are schizophrenic.  (Ken Rand)

I totally get this.  You do?  Yeah, don't you?  No, and you're wicked pissing me off.  I am pissing YOU off?  Get out of my head.  No, YOU get out of MY head!  I was here first.  No you weren't, I was.  I'm getting a knife.  Great, I've got the chainsaw.  Let's rumble.

Every writer must acknowledge and be able to handle the unalterable fact that he has, in effect, given himself a life sentence in solitary confinement.  (Peter Straub)   

Frikkin' explains why I have no social life.  Damnit.

Inside every fat book is a thin book trying to get out. (Unknown)

I know the feeling, kid.

The art of writing is the art of applying the seat of the pants to the seat of the chair.  (Mary Heaton Vorse)

So every time someone says, "Wow, you're a bit of a cow," I can proudly state that it's my Writer's Ass.  Pass the Oreos!

A poet can survive everything but a misprint.  (Oscar Wilde)

I think that I shall never see a poem so lovely as Aunt Bea.  Once upon a midnight dreary while I pondered Dennis Leary.  Listen my children and you shall hear all the thugs and perverts who live in Revere.  I heard a fly buzz when I died because I had already started to decompose.  There once was a man from Nantucket who tried the high dive and stuck it.   

I'm writing a book. I've got the page numbers done.  (Stephen Wright)

Really, who wants to improve on Stephen Wright?  Forget I commented at all.

Trust your demon.  (Roger Zelazny)

And if that fails, serve him up some frozen Mudslides.

Writing is thinking on paper.  (William Zinsser)

Thanks for sharing my brain.

WEEKEND THOUGHTS PLUS!!!! - POST #2 OF 3

Part II:  A brief glimpse inside the warped minds of writers, brought to you by some other writers only these ones are talented and published.  Today's installment = I-Q … well, almost Q.  There were only flowery prosaic quotes for Q, and I ain't no flowery prose kind of writer.  I'm more of a "Bite me" writer.  Today I added some advice of my own, too.

Half my life is an act of revision.  (John Irving)  The other half I spend poking sharpened pencils into my eye because I can't get a scene to work the way I want it to.

Nobody but a blockhead ever wrote except for money.  (Samuel Johnson)  Of course, I always thought Gumby was the brains of that bunch, but the Blockheads were okay, too.

I get up in the morning, torture a typewriter until it screams, then stop.  (Clarence Budington Kelland)  Wait, that's what I do to my students.  Never mind, then.

Poets are interested mostly in death and commas.  (Carolyn Kizer)  And most poets should die (comma) die (comma) die!

Fiction is about stuff that's screwed up.  (Nancy Kress)  But memoir is about stuff that's totally fucked up.

We are a species that needs and wants to understand who we are. Sheep lice do not seem to share this longing, which is one reason why they write so little.  (Anne Lamott)  Actually, they write so little because they are sheep lice and they are really, really, really small.

Writing is a fairly lonely business unless you invite people in to watch you do it, which is often distracting and then have to ask them to leave.  (Marc Lawrence)  Or you could write about them, which is better because you can edit out loud as you go and totally piss them off.

That's the essential goal of the writer: you slice out a piece of yourself and slap it down on the desk in front of you.  (Stephen Leigh)  I'm slicing off some of my belly fat right now!

Writing is not a genteel profession; it's quite nasty and tough and kind of dirty.  (Rosemary Mahoney)  Unless you're a romance writer.  Then it's a little nasty, not tough at all, and extremely dirty.

There are three rules for writing. Unfortunately, no one can agree what they are.  (Somerset Maugham)  Sure we can: #1-Start  #2-Typing  #3-Words

A person who publishes a book willfully appears before the populace with his pants down.  (Edna St. Vincent Millay)  In that case, I hope Hugh Jackman publishes a book really soon.

I can't write five words but that I change seven.  (Dorothy Parker)  And Dorothy Parker can't do math, either.

There's no such thing as writer's block. That was invented by people in California who couldn't write.  (Terry Pratchett)  People in California can write?!  ;-P

WEEKEND THOUGHTS - POST #1 OF 3

For the weekend, a little fun and nonsense for you, and a little respite for me.  Okay, I'm still writing, just a different project.  My brain will be back in full gear Tuesday; for the next seventy-two hours it's coasting, so enjoy other writers' brains for a couple of days.

Part I:  A brief glimpse inside the warped minds of writers, brought to you by some other writers only these ones are talented and published.  Today's installment = A-H.  Enjoy!

I love deadlines. I like the whooshing sound they make as they fly by.  (Douglas Adams)

It took me fifteen years to discover I had no talent for writing, but I couldn't give it up because by that time I was too famous.  (Robert Benchley)

Finishing (writing) a book is just like you took a child out in the back yard and shot it.  (Truman Capote)

Most writers can write books faster than publishers can write checks.  (Richard Curtis)

Never throw up on an editor.  (Ellen Datlow)

There is no mistaking the dismay on the face of a writer who has just heard that his brain child is a deformed idiot.  (L. Sprague de Camp)

I love being a writer. What I can't stand is the paperwork.  (Peter de Vries)

Nothing, not love, not greed, not passion or hatred, is stronger than a writer's need to change another writer's copy.  (Arthur Evans)

Writing is easy; all you do is sit staring at a blank sheet of paper until the drops of blood form on your forehead.  (Gene Fowler)

Half of being smart is knowing what you're dumb at.  (David Gerrold)

There's no money in poetry, but then there's no poetry in money either.  (Robert Graves)

Asking a working writer what he thinks about critics is like asking a lamppost how it feels about dogs.  (Christopher Hampton)

Writing is not necessarily something to be ashamed of, but do it in private and wash your hands afterwards.  (Robert A. Heinlein)