IT'S AN OLD-SCHOOL SUCK

Well, I'm back in my old school again.  I guess Steely Dan was wrong (And I'm never going back to my old school).  This isn't just any old school; this is the school where I lived through freshman year and, decades later, completed my student teaching and a long-term sub gig.

I'm back, ironically enough, for a class that will be once a week for about four months.  Ah, four long months of memories.

What a suck.

You want to know why it sucks?  It sucks because the school is a dump.  A living, breathing, mold-infested, smelly, cringe-worthy dump.

Oh, sure, they updated the girls' bathroom so it almost looks modern-ish in a 1970's way.  They even installed new security doors around the building so you can only walk in the front doors without being stopped.  Safety first, right?  But, the rooms are still dinky and full of old wood that has years of mildew crawling all over it, and the stench -- The stench alone could knock a buzzard off a shit wagon.

The class that I'm taking is being held in an area the size of most living rooms.  It claims to be a science room, but I suspect it used to be a supply closet.  Thirty or so adults are stuffed into small chairs around awkward geometrically shaped tables, most of us trying to crane our neck to watch a Powerpoint that is predominantly blocked by the presenter and her rolling cart of technology.

I'll be honest with you: The town where I live, the town where this old school is located, is going to be ponying up another several million dollars to put that school down very soon.  It's like one gimundo Petri dish of disgust.  Okay, to be fair, someone did randomly plop a medium-sized rubber tree in the back hallway, which totally fascinated my classmate, and the teacher of my class looks quite a bit like Rocky Dennis, which totally fascinated me.

All in all, it is going to be a long few months of trudging through Bacteriaville for probably the last time(s).  Nostalgia lost its flavor the minute I stuck my head into one of my old classrooms only to be assaulted by the mold.  Perhaps it wasn't the mold at all -- Perhaps it is the stink of my own doubt that this class I'm taking is going to be remotely beneficial.

Either way, this sucks.  This royally and magnificently sucks.

VERTIGO - NOT THE HITCHCOCK KIND

Every so often I get a case of vertigo.  Sometimes it happens when I'm sick; sometimes it happens when I'm tired; sometimes it happens when I have a bad headache.

Sometimes, like today, it just happens.

A couple of times today I lose my footing, almost fall off a chair I'm standing on to write on the board, or I teeter toward a wall.  It sucks.  I turn my head to look at something, and my eyes and brain feel completely separated.  The vertigo makes me sick to my stomach, and a couple of times today I suspect I might even puke.

But, I don't.  I make it through the day.

Just when I believe I am feeling better, I glance at the clock.  It is my planning period at the end of the day, and I suspect it's somewhere around 2:00.

My suspicions are wrong. 

It is actually 2:40.  Yup, 2:40, meaning I didn't do hall duty at 2:21.  As a matter of fact, I didn't even hear the hundreds of students making a commotion right outside of my open door.

I'm hopeful that this is just another weird bout of vertigo and not a precursor to the flu or a sinus infection or one of the near-deadly colds that tear-ass through schools in the fall.  I'm also hopeful that the dizziness will be gone by tomorrow.  It kind of sucks coming down the stairs in the morning and walking smack into a wall because I cannot regulate my balance.

But, hey -- Sometimes it just happens.

INTERNATIONAL MUNCHIES

Scotland two weeks ago; Germany on Friday; Ireland today.  Apparently I am eating and drinking my way across Europe.

Today, my daughter's birthday, we trek to the Holy Grail restaurant for a celebratory dinner.  Most of us order traditional fare -- shepherd's pie, boiled dinner -- except my youngest son, who orders baked panne pasta.  Most of us stick to craft beers (Holy Grail Ale, etc.) except my youngest son, who sticks with a Budweiser.

Ah, yes.  This is the same child who rejected a German chicken hat on Friday.


Perhaps I'll make this a sport.  Maybe I'll eat and drink my way around the globe in the next five weeks so I can land back in America in time for a traditional Thanksgiving meal. 

Anyone interested?  I'm craving a little baba ganoush.

BEST TEN DOLLARS I EVER SPENT

Oh, Oktoberfest!  It sure has been a while.  All right, it has been decades since I went to any Oktoberfest, so this will be a treat.

On Friday I attend Harpoon Brewery's Oktoberfest (they spell it Octoberfest, but I'm old-school) with my daughter and her friend, who, for the sake of saving any undue ass-busting, I'll call K.  We do all the things Oktoberfest attendees are supposed to do: listen to Oompah bands, eat brisket and potato soup, and, of course, drink beer.  Lots and lots of beer - Pumpkin beer, IPA beer, white beer, stout beer, craft beer, and, of course, Oktoberfest beer.

We accidentally discover a beer tent all by its lonesome because it is behind the tent with the stage for the rock and roll, which doesn't start for two hours.  We also discover a cache of clean and line-free port-a-potties that only lack one thing: balance stability.  Peeing becomes as much fun as a carnival ride, and most of us consider the incredible feat of preventing potty-tipping to be the ultimate thigh exercise.

The best thing we discover, though, are the chicken hats.  That's right: chicken hats.  Everybody who has ever been to a roller skating rink or to a semi-cheesy wedding knows the German Chicken Dance.  Dah-dah-dah-dah-dah-dah-daaaaah (Dah-dah-dah-dah-dah-dah-daaaaah) dah-dah-dah-dah-dah-dah-dummm (cluck cluck cluck cluck)!!!!  There is no Chicken Dance contest tonight (that's for Saturday's entertainment), but there are hats, and K wants one.

She wants one baaaaaaaaaad.

She is also hesitant to ask the guy she sees wearing one about its origin.  So, being the old fart I am, I walk right over to him.  "Hey," I say pointing, "the hat.  It's bitchin'.  Where did you get it?"

He tells me about the guy walking around selling them.  "Best ten dollars I ever spent," he assures me.  I seriously doubt that, but I report back to K and my daughter.  Hahahaha, we chuckle, ten dollars!  For a chicken hat!  Who does that?

We wait until K has gone in search of more stout (only sold in tent #1, and we are currently in tent #4), then we spot the upside-down rake sporting all of the chicken hats.

"What's K's favorite color?" I call to my daughter.

"Green!"

That's it; I'm going in.  I serpentine my way through the crowd and tap Mr. Vendor on the back of his shoulder.  Within moments I am ten dollars lighter and the proud adoptive parent of a lime green felt chicken hat.  I stuff it into the inside of my coat, creating a uni-boob fashion statement, and rush back to my daughter.  I am mere seconds ahead of K.  Like some kind of perverse magician, I whip the chicken hat from the front of my coat and hand it to her.

The weird thing we notice is that once K puts on the chicken hat, people start talking to her and to us.  Okay, so it's mostly chicken people, but still.  Plus, now her head is warm, protected from the wind, rain, and near-freezing temperatures whipping through the open-air tents (glorified tarps).  My daughter and I want "in" on this chicken popularity thing, so we all go in search of Chicken Hat Man.

We spot his hat-filled upside-down rake about a hundred yards away, and we begin sprinting as fast as my daughter's recently sprained ankle will take us.  My daughter gets a pink zebra chicken hat, and I get a white one.  Oh, sure, we claim that the white chicken hat is for my youngest, who shows up shortly thereafter with his friends.  His bud Cam is wearing the exact same pink zebra one as my daughter, proving that excellent taste really has no gender specifications.

However, my son rejects the chicken hat.  Rejects it!  He is a wonderful boy but sometimes he lacks comedic timing.

Now, we gals are proud owners of chicken hats.  All three of us have on our newly-acquired felt appendages, when three things happen.  The first is that our heads stay warm; the second is that we (meaning "I") photobomb some young adults standing nearby.  Yup, I am somewhere on the Internet in my chicken hat with strangers.

The third thing that happens is kind of an extension of the photobomb sensation.  We are suddenly part of some secret chicken hat cult.  We become popular and sought-after.  Everyone wants to know where we got our chicken hats.

We point out Chicken Hat Man and pass on the secret mantra that convinced us to buy the lime green chicken hat in the first place:  "Best ten dollars we ever spent!"

Truth. 

TURTLENECKS

I finally buckled down and
Broke out the heavy socks.
Hiking boots followed.
Then a fleece.
I drew the line at the purple
Turtleneck shirt,
Which I put on then
Pulled off.
Fuck the turtleneck.
It doesn't matter that it is
Forty-Seven degrees.
I am not going to wear
A goddamned turtleneck.
It's only the start of
October.
Sure, I'm hanging around
Outside,
In the rain,
In windy conditions,
But it's too soon.
It's too soon for turtlenecks.
Not too soon for
Winter jackets.
(But too soon for turtlenecks.)

CHOCOLATE PEANUT BUTTER CAKE HAPPINESS

My friend brings me cake today.  Chocolate cake.  Not just any chocolate cake.

Chocolate Peanut Butter Cup Cake.

The hunk of chocolate cake is about four inches tall, coated with a thick layer of peanut butter, and crusted with a substantial layer of chocolate.  On the chocolate crust are pieces of peanut butter cups.

Just smelling the cake hidden in my desk drawer is exponentially raising my blood sugar levels. I hardly wait for my planning period to inhale that cake before the aroma drives me insane.

Sometimes, when I'm having a bad day or just having any kind of day, chocolate cake makes it all worthwhile.  Chocolate Peanut Butter Cup Cake, though -- only four words can properly explain its significance:

HOLY CRAP THAT'S GOOD

RAIN, RAIN ...

Rain, rain, go away...

Actually, we need the rain, so I don't mind it at all.  I finally dig out an old raincoat from the basement, give it the Fabreeze treatment, and wear that sucker to work.  When I tell you it's raining here, I'm talking Biblical deluge.

We are attending an all-school assembly in the new auditorium when I turn to the teacher next to me and whisper, "I can't shake the feeling that the ceiling is going to let go."

The ceiling remains intact, despite the tremendous pounding that can be heard from above and despite the commotion in the giant room.  Later, the HVAC system fails in my wing of the building, and just around the corner in a science room, a portion of the ceiling lets loose.  I guess my early-warning system is slightly off.

Either way, I find myself pulling down the semi-opaque shades over my windows.  I can't take it.  I just cannot tolerate how much it is raining.  It's raining scary; that's the only way to describe what's happening on the other side of the glass.  It's as dark as night with sheet after sheet of straight-down water rushing in torrents all over the parking lot.  Thank God (and Noah) we're on a high hill here at school.

Later, I run a few errands, texting my son to pre-warn him his access road to home from work has one section almost completely washed out near the Fed-Ex building.  Of course, I follow other crazy-ass people right on through, completely aware that my car could stall out in the mini-pond and yet completely willing to Captain Nemo my way by.

Sure, we need rain, but Friday is Oktoberfest at the brewery, and I suspect many of us will be stuck in the parking lot area.  If the rain can just avoid spoiling that experience, it would be great.  Rain, rain, go away on Friday, if you please.  Isn't that how the nursery rhyme goes?  No?

It should be.