DEAR BUD LIGHT

Dear Bud Light:

I just wanted to tell you how very much I love you after a long, strenuous day at work dealing with unnecessary minutiae and incredibly far-fetched gobbledy-goop.  Having temperatures in the 90's with humidity levels damn near the same really isn't helping, either.

I crawl through the townhouse door, open the fridge anticipating something like ice water or juice or something healthy, but there you are.  Yup, there you peek out from behind the Gatorade, smiling at me in your long, brown, glassy suit, a hint of frost at your hips.

Yup.  I see you.  I see what you're doing there, enticing me, calling to me.

You're a beer-siren.  You bastard.

And though I have enough wax in my ears to rival Odysseus, I can still hear you whispering, singing a song that sounds vaguely like a beer commercial.

I'm thirsty, so very thirsty; I'm  tired, so very tired; I am disgusted, so very disgusted.

Help me, O-Bud-Light-Kenobi.  Help me battle the minutiae that plagues me during this September heat wave, this Death Star of Senselessness.

Bless you, and thank you for being icy chill when I need you.

Your friend,

Heliand

SO CLEVER

I think I am so clever.

I hid my school printer from last year and connected it to my computer at work.  This is important because otherwise I would have to print things out remotely, sensitive things like parent emails, guidance information on students, and IEP's.  You know, confidential shit that gets sent to a remote location and printed out in front of god only knows who, or, worse, accidentally gets picked up and left somewhere in the open.

I've known since last spring that my printer is almost out of ink.  I shake the toner cartridge every time I need to print something, so smartypants me looks online today for replacement cartridges on sale.

Guess what!  My work printer is so fancy-schmancy that the cheapest replacement toner is $90.

Well, aren't I just the most brilliant fucking idiot on the planet.

Tomorrow I'm going to WalMart and buying a $25 Cannon printer that comes with $45 worth of ink already loaded.  If I can't get that sucker to connect to the school computer, I can always add it to my printer repertoire here at home.

It's cheaper than $90.  Besides, knowing how things go at work, someone will steal my printer, anyway. This way I'm only out $25 instead of an expensive printer plus a brand new $90 toner cartridge.

Clever?  Who, me?  Dumb as a fucking stump, apparently.

And so it begins.

SAVING THE TUSHIES

I'm at work the other day, setting up my room, when another teacher comes in and stands near my computer.  The computer is on a tall rolling cart, the same set up as every single classroom in the school, and the only way to use it is while standing on both feet.

"If only we had stools," she says.

Hey, I'm still in purging mode.  I'm reasonably certain I have an old stool or two in the cellar from my last residence where I had a breakfast bar in the kitchen.  I offer to search for the stools later and see if they're salvageable.

Once I'm home, I pick past the cobwebs of the far corner of the basement and discover not one, not two, but three old wooden stools.  They're completely mangled from my old cat, and I'm not sure I can save them. 

A few Clorox wipes and a whole lotta duct tape later, I start to believe there is hope.  I cut nine batting (quilt stuffing) circles, three for each stool, and then I cut three squares out of the old bedspread I am tossing.  I know I should cut the fabric into circles and iron down the edges, but this is for school.  I don't really give a rat's ass what they look like underneath.

Many staple gun shots later, I have three stools: One for me, one for my teacher friend, and one for another teacher who rounds out our Trouble-making Trio.  I don't care that these are semi-refurbished stools.  I only care that our lovely tushies will be comfy at our computer stations and that we won't get (more) varicose veins from standing all day long.

THE LITTLE PLANTS THAT COULD

Everybody knows I love the beach, so for my birthday this summer, one of my brothers decided to give me some beach toys.  I didn't laugh -- My pal and I collect beach rocks, and anything that sifts sand and can carry rocks is okay by me.

I didn't go to the beach this weekend partly because I cannot tolerate crowds but mostly because I have finally started tearing my house to shreds while I rearrange and purge.  Once the bug hits to do this, it cannot be stopped, and this place is desperately in need of some TLC.  It has been two years since I really put any time into this townhouse, and it has finally caught up to me.

Today I have a list of things I need/want for the house and for work.  I go from place to place, pricing out some things like shelving units, and actually buying things like a new fan so I can haul the old one to school.  It's going to be 94 this week.  Of course the worst heatwave of the summer hits when I go back to school. 

While I'm shopping, though, I remember that my new classroom has great windows and windowsills, so I peruse the plant section at Wal-Mart.  I ignore the mums and fall plants and go right for the clearance table.  Among the plants being peddled are four sad looking plants of various types.  I grab each one, cradling them in my arms until I can walk all the way across the store to reach the carriages. I don't think I pay more than $7 or $8 for the four plants together.

Once I get my new plants home, I re-pot them with fresh soil and feed them some water with plant food.  I scoot them outside with the other plants, watering everything with my big green watering can, when it hits me:  If I bring these plants to work, how will I water them?  I need a watering can of some kind.

This is when I remember the birthday beach toys.  Is there ...?  Might there be ...?  I cannot recall.  I tear into the pail of toys to reveal a plastic watering can of the exact size that I need for school. 

SCORE!

I didn't finish my purging, sorting, or cleaning, and I only got a few of the items on my list, but now I can look at those little plants every day.  Hopefully, the kids' carbon dioxide emissions will keep my little babies healthy.

I'll let you know how it goes.

PURGE ON

I'm still in purging mode.

 Last week, the old VHS tapes went, taking everything from Don Cherry's Hockey Fights to March of the Toy Soldiers (a movie that has always creeped me out).  Today I tear apart my full-size bed frame and, instead of hoarding it away in the basement, I put it on the curb with instructions and all of the hardware, including a free Allen wrench (hex key).

Honestly, I have been sleeping in that bed for decades, and the box spring is leftover from when the kids were young and busted it jumping on it like a trampoline.  The top mattress, though still in decent shape, will accompany its mate in the trash on Tuesday evening.  But, the frame -- it's a nice metal frame with a header and a footer -- is up for grabs, and I honestly hope someone gives it a new home.  It's still in excellent shape.  Dusty, but sturdy.

While mayhem remains between my room and the connecting den, which used to be my room, there is still much chaos, but the progress cannot be denied.  Well, except for the shoes.  Since having my foot repaired, I've become a bit of a shoe nut.  If you saw my shoes and how infrequently some are worn, you'd be rightfully just in labeling me a hoarder.

I haven't had a chance to go through all of my clothes yet, but two bags (one of shoes, one of clothing) are ready to be donated.  I still need a shower, but the good news is that I have a new set-up in my room, complete with a thick foam topper and clean sheets.  I'm looking forward to it so I can get up tomorrow and do much of the same.

I'll find time to sit in the sun, too, but really -- I'm in purging mode, and that's a wave worth riding.

SCHOOL STARTS SOON ... OR DOES IT?

School officially opens on Tuesday.  I think.  Maybe.  Possibly.  I hope.  Chances are.  We’re taking bets on it, though.

I have been working in a construction zone for four years now.  It started with rock crushing machinery and the entire construction site’s port-a-potty right outside my window.  Then, when spring arrived and I complained about the potty stench mere feet away, my room’s windows were swallowed into the new high school gym that was being attached to my school.  For a year I got to watch the new high school being built from the ground up.

Two years ago, my windows became plywood, and my classroom became an airless, lightless sweat box.  For the first time in my professional life, I begged the powers-that-be to shut off the heat in the dead of winter.  The students and I were being slowly roasted in the cinderblock box that became my weekday prison. 

Last year we occupied the old high school, fighting with busted windows and hallways so long it took a full four minutes to run from my classroom to the nurse’s office about a mile away.  Our wing was in Massachusetts, but the faculty bathrooms were in New Jersey.  No one dared drink tea or coffee in the morning because getting to a toilet was nearly impossible for 180+ days.

Now we have a beautiful school … except there are multiple problems with things, and, worst of all, it’s not ready yet.  Truly.  It’s still a bit of a hard-hat area, ladders are everywhere, furniture is littered all over the hallways, and guess what’s right outside my window … again!  Go ahead.  Guess.  Past practice plus a roll of toilet paper handed through the open window should be strong clues.

Yup.  School opens Tuesday, and we’re not ready.  Not only that, but there’s that wafting stench of shit leaking in from outside, and it seems to me like it just might be some kind of a terrible omen.  

WELL PLAYED, MALL

My son needs some shirts for work.  We've already gone on a khakis quest, so now we just have to match the pants with some button-down shirts (for most days) and some casual shirts (for Fridays).  He has some shirts already, but he is cycling the same ones through every week.  He needs variety.

Mall, here we come.

Let me admit right up front that I detest shopping.  I know that's not normal, but if there is a Hell, it's an endless mall with indoor thunder and lightning, and, probably, lots of helium balloons.  The good thing is that I am shopping for son's clothes because the only thing worse than shopping itself is trying clothes on and discovering how awful I look in most fashions.  Tonight I'm safe from such self-flagellation.

Son's first stop is Macy's, where, surprisingly, we find great sales but not so great selection.  We end up with socks and one button-down shirt, which is on some phenomenal sale.  The socks are more expensive, and, including an extra coupon I have, the total is somewhere around $22.

Not willing to give up, I drag son to JC Penney to check their men's section.  We drift from one display to another to another, quickly amassing several button-down work shirts and a couple of casual Friday shirts.  In the end, JC Penney yields maybe six shirts.  Including my coupon and a discount for using the store credit card, I pay $52.

Unbelievable.  All this, seven or so shirts and six pairs of socks for under $75.  Considering how much shopping and I don't get along, this is a real coup.  Well played, mall.  Well played.