DARCY VS. DARCY

In the case of Darcy vs. Darcy, 1995 Mr. Darcy beats 2005 Mr. Darcy hands down.  This decision is made with neither Pride nor Prejudice; there's actually a science to it all.

Oh, I'll confess that Matthew Macfadyen does an okay job, probably even stellar if Mr. Darcy were to wear his heart on his sleeve.  But, he plays Darcy as if he were too obvious, too readable, too ... too ... metro.  Macfadyen's Darcy is an overly emotional metrosexual.

Colin Firth's Darcy is an enigma.  He is the puzzle that must be solved, and he rarely falters or shows chinks in his armor.  Unlike Macfadyen's Darcy, emotions are not things Firth's Darcy is willing to express.  If Firth played Darcy with any more restraint, he'd be in a strait jacket.

Perhaps it isn't fair to compare Darcy vs. Darcy.  After all, the 1995 mini-series has hours and hours upon end in which to flesh out characters, whereas the 2005 film has merely two hours.  The 2005 version favors panoramic characterization as opposed to the minutiae studied and added to make the 1995 version the go-to adaptation.

The deciding factor in Darcy vs. Darcy, though, results from the main actresses -- those playing Elizabeth.  Keira Knightley is a beautiful, talented actress, as is Jennifer Ehle.  However, Ehle's facial expressions rank her as the winner if this were a true battle.  Ehle can play an entire scene with her eyes alone, no dialogue needed.  Ehle's left eyebrow could win its own Emmy, for shit's sake.  In order to have an actor worthy of an eyebrow as a costar, one must have its foil stoically thwarting that eyebrow's every move.

So, apologies to my friend who put out the challenge today.  Even more so, I am amazed by the serendipitious coincidence that the 2005 film version just happens to be on Cable at 6:30 this same evening, the exact day my pal throws down the gauntlet.  You may have your Macfadyen Mr. Darcy, but I'm still rooting for Darcy the Firth.

Therefore, may the Firth be with you!  Which reminds me of another movie...

HIDING INSIDE THE BUSTED COPY MACHINE

Somewhere in an alternate universe, a gentler, more patient Heliand exists.  Here, though, in this reality -- not so much.  For example, I fully support the concept of senior citizens volunteering in public offices in order to reduce their tax burdens.  However, much like a liberal claiming to support the poor, NIMBY.

You see, our senior citizen, as lovely a person as she may be, is more of Typhoid Mary than a school assistant.  Back in the old school when we all shared one copy room, she was notorious for misprinting orders and busting machinery.

 Akin to an anti-Midas, everything she touches go haywire.

On the flip side, though, against these self-created odds, she manages to be remarkably productive, sometimes too much so (like the time I ordered 250 copies of a graphic organizer and ended up with 780).  During her previous tenure with our school, luckily she managed to complete copy orders in an almost I-Love-Lucy way.  This means that I have a love/hate relationship with our senior citizen: I love her help, but I hate when she parks herself in front of the copy machine to the peril of the rest of us who need to get simple and/or immediate jobs done.

I am somewhat ashamed and yet somewhat unsurprised by my negative reaction to the email notification that Typhoid Mary is returning.  I am under a deadline to get a major paper done and my presentation copied and stapled; plus, I don't feel all that well and would feel better having a few days' worth of work prepped.  Now that there are three prep/copy rooms in the school, one for each grade level, I figure I'm golden.

Wrong.

Our hapless senior is assigned to my planning room, my copy machine, my space.  Please, do not misunderstand me: I do not wish her any ill will; what I wish is for her to go to another copy room.  Why?  Because I remember all too well the debacle of the 780 random copies and the endless tales of busted copiers.  I remember that she is Typhoid Mary.

I am not disappointed.  Within six hours of her arrival, the brand new copy machine in the planning room has seized up so badly, been damaged so severely, that service must be called.  My temperature rises as I start wondering if I am just super-pissed or if she is spreading her typhoid germs around my entire wing of the school.

Yup.  Somewhere in an alternate universe, a kinder, gentler Heliand exists.  I suspect she's hiding inside the broken copy machine because she sure as hell isn't standing here with me.

SING FOR YOUR LUNCH

For some unknown reason, I decide that my first day back from break should be a teaching day on my feet.  This would be a wonderful idea if I felt well, but I don't.  My back and entire right flank are still giving me problems.  Maybe I fried a kidney.  Who knows?  All I know is that I'm not quite right.  I feel like my back has a perpetual toothache.

I start the lesson with some general housekeeping -- collect the reading logs that are due and handing out new ones due next week.  Then, I queue up six short videos on the Writing Process and the Six Trait Writing methodology.  The videos are homemade (not by me - I found them in cyberspace) using semi-advanced web-based programs, pre-set templates with cheesy soundtracks that sound like they may have been recorded inside tin cans.

No matter.  One of the videos is a rap-like rock song, with the lyrics and colorful illustrations to go with each transition.  The kids start singing along for some reason -- first thing in the morning, fresh back from break, fighting off boredom and disgust, or just because ... I don't have the answer. 

By the time I get class #3, the one right before lunch, I tell the kiddos that they cannot go to lunch until they successfully sing two choruses of the song.  After such a long break from school and each others' company, I'm not sure what to expect, but I am pleasantly surprised.

By the last class, the students have already heard what I've done and what they'll be doing.  We have to SING? they bemoan as they file in and take their seats.   

Yes, you HAVE to sing, and you're going to LIKE it, whether you want to or not.

I have the video all ready (I set it back up and pause it while they are working on their journals).  As soon as writing notebooks and text books are put away in proper places, the chairs go on the desks and the children stand around the room waiting.  They can see what I'm doing because everything is still being shown on my (useless and completely inefficient) white board projector.

I click the start arrow and ...

Now, I have to be honest here, because honesty is sort of my thing.  Okay, I like to lie and embellish, but stay with me for a moment.  I truly do not expect anyone to sing.  I didn't expect it earlier during first block when it spontaneously happened, nor before lunch, nor right now.  This, though -- this is one of those moments that make teaching middle school the absolute best thing in the entire world.

Suddenly the music comes up, the beat begins, and the students open their mouths and start singing (rapping) along and dancing, too.  They're writing; they're singing; they're moving.  Amazingly, they're truly working on day #1 back after the long holiday break. 

Apparently, writing really does rock.  Who knew?

UNPUZZLING THE CLOSET

Small closets infuriate and instill wonder -- infuriate because barely anything fits into small closets, and instill wonder because once you get through the overstuffed contents, you often find treasure.

Take today, for example.  Today a puzzle, unsolved for months, finally gets its pieces put together. 

All summer long I am missing two pairs of glasses: blue reading glasses and brown sunglasses.  I tell myself they'll turn up when I start reorganizing rooms, but after the furniture has been moved and, in some cases, broken down and given away, I still cannot find the two pairs of glasses.

I retrace my steps.  I swear I had them early in the beach season.  I start looking through various beach bags.  I tear the car apart, including looking under the seats and inside the cubby near the spare tire.  I check through old pocketbooks and school bags.  I wonder if I took them on a lacrosse trip, though my sunglasses wouldn't be in a suitcase, but no matter.  I look anyway. 

Nothing makes sense. 

Today I head out to a concert in Portland, ME.  I'll probably have to walk around the center of the city for a short bit, so I need a coat better than my shoveling jacket.  I wonder what I have.  I don't really own a nice parka. Just in case a better idea strikes me, I head to the magic, double-stuffed closet in the spare room, anyway.  There's nothing to lose.

I notice a coat with a large, fur-lined hood.  Hmmm, that's funny.  I could've sworn I got rid of that coat years ago when the zipper broke.  I grab it anyway.

Oh.  Surprise!  It's not my crappy old coat; it's a Columbia parka, long with a huge, warm hood.  I remember it now.  My co-worker gave it to me last year when she didn't want it anymore.  Still in brand-new condition, it became my lacrosse coat.

I put it on, so happy to have a decent parka to wear to the concert.  I won't look like one of the city's homeless now.  (Don't write me hate mail -- Portland has homeless people.  We all do.  Shut up and do something about it instead of pick on me.)  The pockets are bulging, probably full of tissues and dead camera batteries leftover from my last collegiate sideline lacrosse camera-mom experience. 

I reach into pocket #1: Driving gloves I totally forgot that I was missing.  Score.  I reach into pocket #2 and pull out ... blue glasses ... and ... brown sunglasses. I never thought to look in coat pockets.  All this time I've assumed I lost them early in the summer when, in fact, it was late in the spring. 

I do a little happy dance and wrap myself up in my magical coat from my magical closet.  Treasure discovered!  Puzzle solved!  I do start wondering, though, if perhaps I should dig a little deeper into that closet.  Who knows?  Maybe we'll find Geraldo's secret content from Al Capone's vault; maybe we'll find Jimmy Hoffa!  Wonders never cease.

SWASHBUCKLING NEW YEAR'S

New Year's Eve ends up being a multitude of adventures.

In addition to finishing my capstone paper that's due this week, I also sit with friends and watch Clemson's football team kick ass.  In between these events, though, I am involved in some swashbuckling.

I go to a champagne tasting where sabres are involved.

That's correct: Sabres are used to open some of the bottles.  Several people, both employees and customers, under supervision, of course, are ushered out to the parking lot to open bottles of champagne using swords.  It takes a few tries, but eventually the corks go flying and the champagne bursts out like fountains.

What's strange about this whole sabre-opening technique is that in addition to making missiles out of the corks, it also shears of the top of the bottle ... cleanly.  So we pour and we drink from the sabre-sheared champagne bottles.  Glass shards, be damned (there are none, by the way).

I'm not going to lie.  Knowing we killed those bottles before we ... um .. killed those bottles made this some of the best champagne I've ever tasted.  Okay, to be fair, some of the sabre-sheared bottles were just plain old sparkling wine and Brut, and some of them were the real champagne deal.  My wallet may recognize the differences between these wines, but my palate is not so discerning.

When I go back to work and am asked how I spent my break, it'll be fun to say with all honesty and a perfectly straight face, "Swashbuckling," and mean it with all of my bubbly heart.

FIRST DAY IN BOSTON

First Night in Boston --  Actually the last night of 2015, New Year's Eve, hundreds of thousands of people, ice sculptures, a giant tree, and lots of celebrating.

First night of 2016 -- The true "first night" of the year, New Year's Day, hundreds of people, ice sculptures, a giant tree, and a fair amount of celebrating.

There's something magical about the city during the holiday season.  This is especially heightened by the addition of First Night.  But, I despise crowds. 

The beauty of First Day in Boston is that all the cool stuff and decorations are still up, but the throngs of people are not there.  It's just a regular tourist day, which is almost hard to believe since the major hoopla happened less than seventeen hours prior.

Here's a little something to whet your appetite.  Enjoy!

HAPPY 2016

2015 is gone.  Finally!  :)

Actually, it wasn't so bad, and, when I have more time, I'll tell you about the New Year's sabre and champagne experience, and how friends fed me and stuffed me full of pizza.

But, in the meantime, I dozed off at the keyboard and woke up just as the ball was dropping in Times Square via television ... but I was on the wrong channel, so I missed it.

Oh, well.  Apparently 2016 is going to be a year of "Ooops, I just missed it."  I can live with that.

Happy New Year, kids.  Thanks for another wonderful 365, and here's to 365 more.  You're the best!