WHY WINE AND COLLEGE GO TOGETHER ... SORT OF

I am drinking wine because my youngest is going back to college tomorrow.

Wait.  That doesn’t sound right.  Let me explain how I got here.

#2 son is going back to college tomorrow.  He has one semester left, and this will be my last foray into scholastic sports.  While I’m a bit nostalgic, I’m also a realist and am kind of, just a bit, sort of looking forward to having the sports seasons off for a change.  I have been carting and following my kids around to school sports for over twenty years, and I’m at the point where traveling to sporting events means going by myself, and it’s kind of boring being by myself on a long car trip.  But I digress.  Sports or no sports, the kid is going back to his university tomorrow, and the car will need to be packed.

The kid needs a few supplies heading back.  It’s wonderful because at this late stage of his academic career, the list of items is remarkably short.  I’m thinking that if we stop on the way back to the school, the short list might get longer and longer, so I take his written note and turn it into a grocery store run during the second period of the Bruins game.  (Seriously, the Patriots’ playoff game is later, and one must weigh the importance of each event.  Besides, nothing happens in period 2 of the hockey game, anyway.)

The grocery stores nearest my house are small, somewhat overpriced, with limited selection of items.  I scour the flyers and jot down on the list some things that I also need that are on sale.  Armed with a good idea of what I’m buying and no adult child in tow, I head to the store.

While I’m at the store, I’m hunting for avocados because I’m suddenly having a guacamole fixation.  I need limes and I also need some medium-hot salsa.  I need various other things from my list and my son’s list, so I am traipsing up and down the aisles with very little clear vision as to what I’m doing. 

Oh, look.  Hot chocolate.  University students drink hot chocolate, right?  Into the cart it goes.  Gatorade is on sale.  I try calling son #2 to see which flavor he would like.  He doesn’t answer (rarely does), so I wing it and make an executive decision on fruit punch.  The kid needs toilet paper; my house needs toilet paper.  He needs water; I need milk.  He wants Cheezits; I want a block of Vermont cheddar cheese.

The only meat I need, and I don’t really even “need” need it I just might kind of need it, is packaged neatly in a carton next to the fish and seafood counter.  I know damn well that cod is on sale because I read it in the flyer.  What I don’t expect to find is cod on sale from the sale, and, strangely enough, the fish counter doesn’t stink like fish.  (Fresh fish shouldn’t smell fishy.)  I buy myself a nice chunk of cod to cook, and it costs me less than $5.

Later, when I decide to cook the fish during the Patriots’ game, I look up some recipes online to decide if I want to go old school (lemon, butter, and crackers) or a little something more exotic.  I compromise with a recipe that involves white wine.  I have white wine; I like white wine.  Usually on weekends I go to local wine tastings, and I didn’t get a chance to do that today, so this satisfies the weekend wine requirement. 

As I’m pouring the wine over the half-cooked fish, I realize that I am a little thirsty.  I reach up and grab a goblet from the top shelf of the cabinet, and I pour some into the glass.  I sip white wine while dinner is cooking, while I’m eating dinner, and later after I’ve started the dishwasher.  Thank goodness for cod, or I probably would’ve grabbed a beer or something unexciting to sip along with the game.

So, you see, if my son didn’t have a list, I wouldn’t have gone shopping.  And if there hadn’t been a Bruins game then a Patriots game on today, I might’ve gone to another store.  And if I hadn’t reached down to grab hamburger in the case near the fish counter, I wouldn’t have bothered with the cod on sale.  Had I not bought and cooked the cod, I wouldn’t have opened the wine.

To make a very long story much more succinct, it’s because my son is returning to college that I am drinking wine.  It may sound like I have a problem, but, as you can see, I have a perfectly logical explanation.

SO SHOCKING!

Friday is National Static Electricity Day.

With the weather blanketing the northeast, the timing could not be more perfect.  It’s cold, it’s dry, and it’s windy.  Everything is charged up with natural electricity, including the air, my hair, and my clothing.

Since the temperature dropped on Thursday, I manage the following weather-related injuries:

·         index finger splits while buttoning my pants (skin too dry)

·         I zap myself with a decent-sized shock when turning on my school computer  (same finger)

·         I shock myself numerous times with my sweater and/or fleece … neither is beneficial

·         A long surge of sparks shoots from the file cabinet lock when my finger, the key, and the lock tumbler make connectivity

·         I touch the metal grate over the classroom heater and shock myself so completely that my co-teacher can hear it across the room

I am going to try and make it into the flannel bed sheets without shocking myself into oblivion.  If I don’t add to the blog tomorrow, consider that I may be nothing more than a pile of dust on a chair, zapped into winter’s obscurity (ironically enough) on National Static Electricity Day.

NANOOKS OF THE NORTH

Good gravy, it’s cold outside.  It’s so cold that many of the local schools are closed or have delays, but not my school district.  We are the Nanooks of the North.  We stay open for everything: Arctic blasts, blizzards, monsoons, plague… Bring it; we’ll kick its ass.

I run outside this morning to start my car, my gloved fingers crossed that it will start at all.  After a brief and heart-stopping few seconds of the engine gasping, the motor roars to life.  I put on the defroster and run back into the house.  I realize as I’m doing this that it’s not so bad outside.  Sure, it’s cold at -5 degrees, but the wind isn’t nearly as bad as the forecast predicted.  To be frank, I don’t even feel that snot-freezing sensation that usually accompanies weather like this.  I’ve ice skated outdoors in these temperatures with less outerwear than I am currently donning, and I’m starting to wonder what all the panic is about.

So, it’s chilly.  Buck up.  This is New England. It’s what we do.

Five minutes later I’m in my car and ready to leave for work.  Not only am I ready, but I’m early, running ahead of myself by a solid three minutes.  The entire eight miles to work, I am humming, sometimes to myself and sometimes along with the radio.  The Blue Danube Waltz comes on, which I mistakenly think is the Skater’s Waltz, and I get all excited thinking some clever DJ is celebrating the weather.

This thought starts an earworm:  Frank Zappa’s Don’t Eat the Yellow Snow. 

I start singing the song in my head, over and over again – not the whole song, just the very beginning.  Years ago when a nearby radio station went off the air, my brother and I convinced the DJ to play Zappa for the last song.  I know it was Zappa; I’m positive it was Zappa.  (My brother can and will confirm this story.)  What I’m only ninety percent certain about is the song.  I’m almost positive it was this song, Don’t Eat the Yellow Snow, which precedes on the album the song my brother and I have adopted as our Christmas anthem, St. Alfonzo’s Pancake Breakfast.  Yes, since we started the tradition of eating pancakes every Christmas before presents can be opened, this song makes its way to the Christmas breakfast table every single year.

As soon as I arrive in my classroom at work, I fire up the laptop, crank up the attached speakers, and blast out a couple of rounds of Zappa’s Nanook tale … Dreamed I was an Eskimo … Frozen wind began to blow …  Everyone who ventures down my hallway, trickling in to open their rooms before students arrive, hears the song, sees me dancing (if they peek past the door).

So, it’s chilly.  So, we’re in school.  We are the Nanooks of the North, and we’ve got the theme song and the dance moves to prove it.  When you lightweights are still in school late in June, I’ll be reminding you, “Watch out where the huskies go, and don’t you eat that yellow snow.”

TIME TO FEEL BAD ABOUT MYSELF

I finally have a moment to myself tonight.  I refuse to bring work home with me, I don’t feel like putting away Christmas stuff yet (maybe this weekend … maybe not), and it’s too damn cold to work in the basement.  Instead, I decide to go through the December magazines that have been sitting in my house since before Thanksgiving; you know, the magazines with the holiday ideas inside.

Obviously, these great ideas do not help me with this most recent holiday season.  I see a few ideas that will help me next year, but mostly I notice that there are a lot of articles about menopausal women and diets.

Look, these publishers need to get with the damn program.  This is the one time of year that I can forget, pretend, deny that I am both menopausal and a little paunchy.  I know I shouldn’t eat the Reese’s peanut butter cups in the candy bowl.  I understand that an entire candy cane is not exactly equal to a Tic-Tac.  I accept the fact that family parties mean food will be served, and that it would be impolite not to indulge.  I want cookies and sweets and drinks and dips and cooked foods and crackers and processed cheese.

Isn’t it enough that Christmas has been relegated to mere “holiday” status?  Do the Powers That Be now have to bring so much attention to my somewhat rotund belly? 

Here’s a newsflash to any svelte and professionally-toned pseudo-realists in the publishing world:  I’m not only middle-aged and menopausal, I’ve birthed three children.  I’m carrying around some body fat.  So there.

I eat as well as I can, but sometimes during this ridiculously busy time of year, I only have time to grab a glass of wine and a Hershey’s kiss.  Sometimes I reason that wine is okay because it’s made from grapes, and grapes are fruits, so technically wine qualifies as juice … in my brain.

Note to magazine publishers:  Keep the December issues focused on the holidays – concentrate on Christmas and Hanukkah (and Kwanzaa, if you must, but I’m not yet completely on board with a holiday that was invented in my lifetime) crafts and food.  Write about blessings and gifts and memories and celebrations.  Keep your writing slim and focused, and spend more time cutting the fat from your own bottom line before preaching at me about cutting the fat from my bottom … line.

When January comes along, and by the way this month’s issues ARE distributed in December before the holidays, then you may focus on helping us help ourselves.  Let January be the month of resolutions and betterment.  But, for the love of all things holiday, leave December alone and let us for one simple month suspend the reality of our over-indulgent, fat-bottomed ways.

Now, if you don’t mind, my detox water and light lunch have given way to crescent rolls and a nice chunk of last night’s homemade lasagna.  December can bite my fat ass, and January can tone it back up again.  This is the reality of a middle-aged, menopausal woman’s life.

Oh, yes, and we are extremely hormonal.  Publishers might want to consider that and stick to the happy, nostalgic side of the holidays and leave the rest to the New Year, when we already feel bad about ourselves.

LASANGA ENERGY BOOSTER

I have a strange burst of energy over the last two days.  Perhaps it’s being back in a routine; perhaps it’s starting to feel better from the cold I’ve been fighting off.  Whatever it is, it starts last night when, at 9:50 p.m., hours after making chicken broccoli ziti alfredo, I start cooking up hamburger and dicing peppers and onions.  I clean up the kitchen and call it a night.

This morning I dump these ingredients into the crock pot along with some kitchen ready tomatoes, some tomato paste, and a boat-load of seasonings. All day long I think about that tomato sauce cooking away, waiting for me to get home.  Even the snow squalls don’t phase me because my youngest, who is home from college, shovels and puts down icy melt before I arrive. 

When I open the front door, the house smells amazing.

I throw together a lasagna and some crescent rolls, along with a pumpkin bread because I want some to go with my lunch tomorrow.  I also do a load of laundry and a few chores in the basement (another dent in that project), pack away leftovers (some in the fridge and some in the freezer), load the dishwasher, and I order some stuff online (for myself, of course).

Nearing 10:00 p.m., I am wired and ready to take on the world, but if I don’t get some sleep, I’ll be shit-on-a-shingle tomorrow at work.  Maybe it’s stemming from two-days straight of truly homemade dinners.  I don’t know, but I sure hope I wake with this much ambition tomorrow.  I have an awful lot of crap to get done at school, and this energized roll would make my entire desk (file cabinet, shelves…) look a hell of a lot better.

Here’s to Wednesday – I’ll see if I can stretch that strange burst of energy one more day.