ARE WE ALL HAPPY?

Today we return to school after the long, long, loooong holiday break.  Too long.  I was ready to go back last Thursday.  Well, I was ready to teach last week.  What I was not prepared to do was drive in the snow to get home.

Been there; done that.

A few years ago, the Powers That Be decided to keep us in school all day and try and fight the eight inches of wet, slippery, dangerous snow that was already on the roads (and still falling) that had yet to be plowed.  We had kids stuck on buses for five hours, teachers stuck in traffic for seven hours, and it took me two hours to drive about eight miles down the street.

I wasn't looking forward to reliving that shit again.

I jumped up and down like a little kid when the phone call came through calling off school for two more days.  Today, though -- Today I am not jumping up and down.

I am having a hard time adjusting my sleep patterns back into teacher mode.  When I arrive at school, I am already feeling behind the eight-ball because of losing two days, so I am trying to hit the ground running.  Then the first bell rings.

Great.  Hall duty.

I meet the kiddos in the hallway, watching their sorrowful expressions, their lethargic trudging to their lockers.  There is one corner of lockers that used to be part of a hallway that connected modular classrooms to the rest of the building.  Due to construction, the mods have moved to the other side of the school.  Now we have a hall to nowhere with some lockers lining one wall.  I wait until a gaggle of students gathers in the area, tromping over each other like sardines trying to flop out of the can, and ask them a simple question in a loud and cheery voice:

"Aren't you glad to be back?"  I yell boldly.

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" they scream at me in unison.

I feign disappointment.  "Oh, come on, you guys, aren't you glaaaaaaaaad to be back?"

Louder and with a bit of piss and vinegar, they respond, "NNNNNNOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!"

I throw my head back and laugh, like I often do first thing in the morning before my proper senses have kicked in.  The rest of the day is spent automatically going through the motions, trying to stay one step ahead of the students on a reading activity, and telling the ones whose sleep patterns are still completely decimated to wake up and pay attention (though I feel complete and total sympathy with them as I cannot wrap my head around my new schedule either).

At the end of the day, I meet the children at their lockers once again.  I have never seen them move this fast.  Ever.

"Aren't you glad to be going home?"

"YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEESSSSS!" they say, all worn out and tired, but still they say this in unison.

I tell the children that I missed them while we were all on break, and I truly mean it, then I tell them all to go home.

Except for Riley getting stuck in his own sweatshirt, the day has gone off without a hitch.

SAYING GOODBYE TO VACATION

You want to know what sucks?  What sucks is having a couple of extra days of vacation and being plagued by a stabbing headache.  Another cluster headache. That's what sucks.

Sunday evening is when I usually meet friends (and sometimes family) to play trivia at a restaurant/bar.  The food is passable, but the company is unmatchable.  We have fun, we laugh, and sometimes we even know the answers. I would think that after a long break and a lull in company, I would be completely rested and ready for trivia this week.  After all, it has been a few weeks since we've been to trivia, what with all the holiday hubbub going on.

But I wake up on Sunday morning without the headache.  I am almost scared to stand up and feel the familiar ache shooting out of one eye and one ear.  My headache has been playing ping pong inside my head for days, careening from one side of my skull to the other.  Just yesterday I planned out how to survive the MRI I would certainly need to determine the cause of this hideous pain only to face Sunday ... sssshhhhh ... without it.

I take it easy on Sunday, staying completely inside, not once braving the elements, and monitoring everything I eat and drink in case I trigger another headache.  I sort through computer files, pay some bills, and watch a lot of marginal television -- HGTV, a couple of movies, an episode of Farscape, and will maybe even stay up for the premier of Downton Abbey's fourth season.

Or, maybe not.  Maybe I'll go to bed early and get ready for the inevitable: A return to the mundane routine of work when I have to set the alarm for 5:15, teach, attend meetings, and get back into the grind again.

Man.  That totally sucks. But it sucks a lot less than a cluster headache, and for that I feel very lucky, indeed.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO SOMEBODY

Sunday, January 5th -- BIRTH DATE OF THE INFAMOUS

1592 Shah Jahan Mughal emperor of India (1628-58), built Taj Mahal (Yes, but when he was done building the Taj Mahal, he supposedly had the right hand of his chief architect chopped off so the building could never be replicated.  Or maybe it was because the architect was hammering in a dome and caused major leakage into the structure.  Perhaps there was no hand-chopping at all.  Anyway, it's such a romantic notion, maiming our closest employees because we are overcome by the beauty of their craftsmanship.  Makes me want to run off and not build anything.)

1779 Zebulon Montgomery Pike explorer - Pike's Peak  (Sure Pike's Peak is named after him, but really, let's be honest.  He didn't discover the freaking thing -- It was there all along and presumably named something else by the natives who lived in the area.  Such a great explorer that he and his band of merry men got lost and were captured by Mexicans in Colorado.  Stop laughing, yes, Mexicans. In. Colorado.  Then they were taken to Chihuahua, which is Mexico, and were subsequently released at the border of Louisiana.  It seems that punishment for being lost in Colorado means you're dragged to a sunny locale, force-fed fruity drinks by scantily clad Spanish women, then dropped off near Baton Rouge just for shits and giggles.  And you get a huge mountain named after you.  Frigging SWEET.)

1855 King Camp Gillette inventor of the disposable safety razor  (The lesson here is obvious: Give your kid a stupid-ass name, and he will either grow up to become a serial killer or grow up to be the evil, sick, twisted psycho who markets blades capable of slashing throats to make serial killers's jobs easier and completely disposable.  Stole his business models from competitors but still took sole credit.  Bastard.  Also, he has a football stadium named after him, but only hid last name because the rest of his name is just fucking ridiculously stupid.  Whoever witnessed his parents signing the birth certificate should've smacked the mom and dad and done so repeatedly.)

 1908 George Dolenz Trieste Italy, actor in A Bullet for Joey and starred as Count of Monte Cristo in the television series of the same name ... (Yadda yadda yadda ... Most importantly, father of Mickey "Hey, hey, we're the Monkees" Dolenz.  He may have been your dad, Mickey, but heeeeeeeeeeeeee's not your stepping stone, no, no, no.)

1980 Garette Patrick Ratliff  [aka Garette Henson aka Patrick Henson aka Garette Ratliff Henson aka Garette Patrick Ratliff Henson] actor who plays in movie Return to Blue Lagoon  (Ummmm... Who?  What?  There was a second movie?  Kid, hire yourself a new agent, figure out what name you'll call yourself, and read more scripts.  Seriously.  Duh.  Apparently played in the Mighty Ducks movies, too, and according to his bio he played hockey even after the movies!  Wow, such an important factoid that it almost makes him a god.  Almost.  Except he cannot decide on a name, so I guess he cannot be anything or anyone.  Period.) 

Just thought I'd share those with you.  Why?  because it's Sunday, I'm bored, and now I want birthday cake.  And so do you.  You're welcome.

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THE BOWELS OF WINTER (YES, I SAID BOWELS)

Have you ever been so tired that you can't move?

I just napped here in my computer chair.  It's barely 7:00 p.m. on a Friday night, and I'm falling out of my desk because I'm so damn tired.  What a lame Friday night.  I'm too tired to open a beer.  I'm willing to bet I can rally, though.

It all starts Thursday afternoon.  My daughter works a mile from my house, and the giant snow storm makes it too dangerous for her to drive to her house and then try to be back to work at 6:45 a.m.  She decides to stay at my house (her old house) for the night.  The problem is that we already have a foot of snow on the ground and no one has plowed the street yet, so I start shoveling, and I keep shoveling until she arrives and is safely inside my house.

I decide to play with some new software that connects my cell phone to my computer.  Then I decide to put my phone pictures into computer files.  Then I insist on showing my daughter a slide show.  She goes to bed at a reasonable hour, but I am too worried about the storm and getting her to work safely in the morning, so I stay up late and watch the news and the weather on every station I can locate.

Once I get worried and watch the news, I can't sleep and piece together about four hours of sleep.  I am awake when daughter's alarm goes off at 5:00 a.m., and I get up with her, get into my snow clothes, and walk with her to work.  There's no way anyone is driving -- my street is snowed in.  We walk to Dunkins so she can grab an iced coffee (yes, iced coffee in a snow storm where the temp is 2 degrees with wind chills of -20 because this is what hearty New Englanders do).  I walk her another quarter mile then leave her to go on the last quarter mile alone while I start trekking back to the house.

I shovel a little bit this early a.m., then I head back in the house, doze for about ten minutes, give up, and start my day.  At 10:00, I decide I need to get started clearing the snow from the cars and the driveway.  With some help from the landlady and the snow blower (and by some I mean when I am almost done then she comes by with the snow blower but the gas runs out which causes the machine to flood and won't start but then it finally does but I am almost completely shoveled out by that time).  Youngest son manages to sleep through the entire ordeal.  At 11:30 I am back in the house.

Eventually I shower, lest I have to call in a hazmat team.  I head off to the grocery store for the few items I desperately need (paper towels, Gatorade, and Cheez-Its, because in this house we know our priorities) and then to the liquor store to return bottles and buy more beer.

By this time, daughter has informed me that I will not be picking her up at 3:00 because she is pulling a double shift so might I be able to pick her up tonight at 11:15 p.m.  I tell her that I can bring her car up to work, but I am not really up to walking the mile home again because by now I am just damn cold through my bones even though I am currently sitting in the house in front of an electric heater and with the gas furnace blasting out Florida temperatures.  Youngest, who owes me since he slept through the shoveling, drives his sister's car and I lead him along with my own car, run in and drop off keys and dinner (leftovers) and an extra fleece to my daughter, then I come home and make dinner for me and the boy.

Dinner consists of leftover lasagna and some kick-ass chili dip that I throw together without a recipe that turns out to be one of the best things I have ever eaten, but I have no recipe because it's just mish-mash.  I run a load of laundry and I run a load of dishes and I start going through some of the Christmas stuff that I've no real intention of putting away just yet.  But my computer calls me.  It's making that biiiirrrrrrriiiip sound that means someone is messaging me or posting on my Facebook page.

And this, THIS is where I make my fatal mistake.  Not the lack of sleep, not the hours of being out in the wind chills, not the errands, not the chores, not the cooking, not the sorting.  I ... sit ... down ... at ... my ... computer... fatal ... mistake.

The next thing I know I am nearly crashing to the floor in a dead sleep.

The bad news is that I am practically ready for bed on a Friday night at 7:00 p.m.  The good news is that I've taken a mini-nap and can probably go straight-on for another few hours.  Good thing, too, because I have a dryer full of laundry to fold, a dishwasher full of clean dishes to unload, and will not be able to fall into a rhythmic sleep until my daughter tells me she is finally home, at her home, safe and sound.  That should be around midnight.

I just have one simple question, though:  IS IT SPRING YET?

Wishing everyone a safe and warm ride through the bowels of winter.  Oh, that almost sounds warm in a really hideous way.  (Insert any version you want of smiley face here.)

SNOW PANTS AND SMARTY-PANTS

I am pleased to report that the local superintendents and the regional weather forecasters are not complete and utter morons today.  As a matter of fact, they're darn-tootin' smarty-pantsies.

By 4:00 p.m. Thursday, there is a foot of light, fluffy, extremely moveable snow on the ground, but the streets have yet to be plowed.  We actually shovel our street, as far as we can to make sure my middle child can swing into the driveway.  This we decide just after watching a guy in a mini-van, brakes completely locked solid, slide fifty yards down our street, straight into a five way intersection, entering said intersection from the blind end, and nearly miss getting smooshed by a transit authority bus.  (I'm sure there's a Chicago musical group joke in there somewhere.)

By 6:00 p.m., it looks as if we never shoveled nor cleaned off vehicles.  At 10:30 p.m. it is still snowing like crazy, but the temperature has leveled off at about 5 degrees, which is where it has been most of the day.  Middle child has to walk a mile to work Friday, very early in the morning.  I will get up with great plans to clean off her car and possibly get her there via motor vehicle, but it doesn't look good.

We are in "The Jackpot" spot.

This is not the first time she has walked to work uptown from our house in a blizzard.  Usually I walk with her or go to meet her.  Occasionally we have had to walk backward against the wind and driving snow.  We usually have to walk in the street and risk getting hit by someone just like the goober in the lock-wheeled mini-van.  But she doesn't work at the same place she used to.  She has to walk an additional half-mile beyond her old place of employment.  And now that she's a nurse, people count on her to be where she needs to be when she needs to be there.

I have Raynaud's, which means my circulation, especially in this cold weather, leaves a lot to be desired.  My feet are still in pain from the cold air and the earlier shoveling, and that was with heavy boots and two pairs of thick socks on each foot.  Still, I want to cry as my toes continue to thaw.

I will admit, I cannot tell you whether or not I will be able to get my daughter to work this frigid, snowy, brutal morning.  By the time this blog posts, I will just be getting up with her to make sure she's ready to go.  I'll offer her heavy gloves, scarves, hats, socks.  I'll hope the snow has abated and the street is plowed so maybe she can drive herself rather than risk the walk.  By the time you read this, the entire conundrum will probably be resolved already.

One thing, though, is clear.  The school boards listened to the forecasters, and the forecasters in turn have been correct in their assessments of this storm.  It may not be a doozie -- The winds have yet to really kick our butts, and the snow continues to be fluffy and light, so light that the landlord's son used a leaf blower to clear the walkways; the snow blower just laughed at the stuff.

This is New England.  To rail at and/or about the snow is not only useless, it's counterproductive.  This is life; this is the way things are.  To devote entire mornings full of news stories about the snow and cold implies that we are such stupid people that we never suspect it might actually be winter.  Nothing could be further from the truth.  We know it, we own it, we accept it, and we revel in it.

However, getting up at 5:00 a.m. in the middle of a sub-zero nor'easter to trek through it a mile to work is still a goddamn mother-f***ing pain in the big fat ass.  That's not whining; that's just common sense, folks.

[P.S.  We both survive the walk, and the winds don't kick in until the last half mile.  It is stunning outside, absolutely beautiful.  By the time I get home at 6:30 a.m., I am sweating.  I have my cell phone out (though I am not sure yet if pictures will come out clearly), and I sit  outside on the step for a few extra minutes and enjoy the falling snow.  Other than the two idiots out running in dark clothing this morning and the few workers hitting Dunkins for some caffeine, the roads were relatively clear but ridiculously slippery.  It may be 2 degrees out with a wind chill of -20, but it feels wonderful.  It's so quiet and so magical.  Sure, I have to shovel it all ... later ... but for now, this is why I live in New England.  Happy snowy Friday, folks.]  

NO DAYS LIKE SNOW DAYS

It's not that I don't want to go back to work after the holiday break.  I actually do want to get back and get into the grind (and away from all the food and drink at my house). 

It's this damn snow.  Or, rather, it's this damn threat of snow.

I'm very manic-depressive when it comes to snow; I love it and I hate it.

I love to look at it.  I love when a storm is brewing.  I love the smell of it (yes, those who live in snowy places understand exactly what I'm talking about).  I love how it makes everything look clean for a day, even the innermost dark crevices of the cities.  I love walking in snow.  I love seeing snow piled high from the plows (anyone remember the giant snow mountain at The Loop?).  I love the first real snow of the season, and, eventually after dealing with it for months, I love seeing the last snowfall in the spring.

I hate driving in snow.  I hate shoveling snow.  I hate when the snow blows back in my face when I'm cleaning off my car.  I hate the dirty crust snow gets after the plows have made a few passes and after car exhaust has spent days blackening the snow banks.  I hate the idiots in the city who use chairs and cones and furniture to hold "their" spaces, like they own the street.

I hate that with all the computer models, the forecasters still can't seem to get it right.

Here's what we've been told: By mid-morning Thursday, there should be an inch of snow on the ground.  By the afternoon there should be four inches of snow on the ground.  Overnight into Friday, we would be looking at as much as twenty inches in spots.

This could all be a huge pile of bullshit. 

However, schools all over New England are cancelling classes ahead of the storm, most as early as Wednesday evening, and most cancelling for two days, Thursday and Friday.  I hope this maneuver doesn't come back to bite us as, it has so many times, when storms and winds and various other natural phenomena never materialized.  I understand that part of this is an economic decision because it's just too damn expensive to heat the schools for one day (assuming Friday will be a bonafide snow day) after the long, cold Christmas/Holiday break.

But, still.

Can't people wait until morning to call off school?  Can't superintendents wait to see the snow situation, the latest reports, and then make educated, common sense decisions?

Here's what I'm going to do.  I'm going to get up, look outside, listen to the weather report, and then decide if calling off school for two days has turned into a great gamble.  The thing of it is, though, that I'll be doing this investigation later than usual, posting commentary about this blog entry a few hours after when I usually do during a work week.

You see, I have these next two days off from work due to the snow ...

HAPPY 2014

New Year's Eve starts officially at 5:45 p.m. with a chili dinner.  This is followed up by a spirited and highly contested game of Cards Against Humanity (like incredibly tasteless, filthy Apples to Apples) and some frozen Margaritas.  We watch a luckluster Bruins performance, and now the peanut gallery is watching an episode of American Horror Story.  Since the only television I watch that isn't HGTV would be Downton Abbey and Sherlock (the Cumberbatch version, not the make-believe Americanized series), I am out of the room but still being subjected to the eerie dialogue.

Spending time with the family beats going out and sitting at a bar because I control the blender and the rest of 'em control the channel changer.  It's a match made in New Year's Eve heaven. 

Have a safe and happy New Year, all, and may 2014 be the best year yet -- though beating out two weddings (eldest child then middle child) and my youngest finally getting out from between the lacrosse goal posts and seeing some field time (thank you, coaches, you totally rock) are events that will be hard to beat this coming year.

Happy, Healthy, Hopeful 2014.