BACK TO SCROOGE

This morning I have my first official "Return to School" nightmare.  I am in a school, not my school, more similar to my own elementary school.  The seventh grade has decided not to go to see the musical A Christmas Carol anymore (for real, this isn't the nightmare part), so in my dream, a low-budget version of the Dickens classic, complete with actors (some in swan wings for whatever reason), comes to the school.

I am stuck watching the performance, which is part of the nightmare.  I go into complete panic mode when I believe I may recognize Scrooge as an actor/teacher with whom I used to work, and by "work," I mean only one of us was really working between the two of us, and the slacker in our relationship was not I.

It is at this point, the point where Scrooge raises his head from his stooped over perch at a table (which has nothing whatsoever to do with the actual script) that I make the identity mistake.  I run from the room.  Down the hallway I go, skidding around corners, but I cannot escape the sound of the play booming and belching behind me.

I awaken expecting there to be thunder and lightning -- my dream certainly has enough noise in it.  No, though.  The house is quiet, the day dawning, and there is no noise in my room except for the hum of the air conditioner and the whir of the fan.  I shake the sleep out of my eyes and the dream out of my brain.

I'm down to ten days.  That's all.  Oh, don't be jealous; I do not get paid for any of this time off, and I have been working (albeit lightly) on curriculum.  No teacher truly takes the summer off.  Next week sometime I expect my class rosters to be posted, and I will begin the monotonous work of setting up my classroom on paper while I am supposed to be enjoying the last of my leisure time.

In the meantime, I have become Bob Cratchit, or maybe I'm Scrooge.  If these dreams think they're going to get the better of me, they are sadly mistaken.  However, I am extremely satisfied that my "Back to School" nightmare #1 is cleanly under my proverbial bah humbug belt.

DON'T "TEAS" ME, SISTER

Sitting at Starbucks inside Barnes and Noble, my pal and I witness the following exchange between a young woman and a young man.

Man:  "So, what is 10 divided by 3?"
Woman:  "Ummmmm... I ... uhhhhh... I can't tell you that.  I need a calculator."
Man:  "So ... okay.  Let's try this.  3 times 3 is ...
Woman:  "I can tell you if I had a calculator."
Man:  "9.  It's 9.  3 times itself makes a square.  3 times 3 is 9, so nine is the square of 3."
(Woman sits blankly.)
Man:  "Let's try this.  4 times 4 is...?"
Woman: (fumbling for cell phone) "If I have a calculator, I can tell you."
Man:  "No, no, don't think about the answer yet.  It's a number times itself, okay?  It's a square."
Woman:  "What do you mean square?  It's a number, not a shape."
Man:  "Okay, okay.  16.  16 divided by 4 is what?
Woman:  "I need the other number."
Man:  "What other number?"
Woman:  "I can't divide 16 by 4 without the other number."
Man:  "The other number is your answer."
Woman:  "Answer to what?"
Man:  "16 divided by 4.  Remember, it's a square."
Woman:  "Which square?  There's a square?  Where?"
Man:  "4.  It's 4.  4 times 4 is 16, so 16 divided by 4 is 4.  It's the square root."
Woman:  "Squares have roots?  I need a calculator.  I'm not sure..."

(The wall at the Barnes and Noble Starbucks)

The very patient young man has four or five books open in front of him, piled willy-nilly on top of each other.  He seems to be the young woman's tutor, and he is infinitely patient with her.  The book on the top clearly is a test-prep book.  My pal and I toss ideas back and forth: GED?  Prep school entrance exam?  PSAT?  SAT?  Math course?  Summer AP work? What test could this math-challenged young woman be studying for, and, based on this snippet of conversation, how on earth will she ever pass what is probably a high-school level exam? 

TEAS.  Hmmmm.  My pal and I are both teachers, and neither of us has ever heard of test-prep for TEAS, so we Goggle the acronym.  It stands for the Test for Essential Academic Skills.  It is given to people applying to nursing schools.

Nurses.  Wait -- nurses?  Folks, nurses who do not know what squares and square roots are, or, even worse, who cannot fathom how 3 times 3 equals 9, should not be nurses.  Nurses calculate medication doses and work with medical numbers all day long, day in and day out: Blood pressure, pulse rates, heartbeats, temperatures, and on and on.

While I truly appreciate that this young woman is attempting to better herself, my pal and I both raise concerns about a nurse who needs a calculator to determine the answer of 3 times 3.  I decide to do a little research.  There are TEAS test preps for reading, math, science, and English, and some of the questions require background knowledge.

The math test, though?  Oh, honey; you had better master basic math skills or your ass is grass ... and so will be whomever you are taking care of when (if) you become a nurse.

MONTREAL BRUINS

I started watching hockey when I was about eight years old.  Baseball came earlier because by age seven I was already watching Red Sox games pitch by pitch, and football came much later, perhaps my early teens, when I cared enough to sit down, watch, and figure out the rules.  Once I discovered the Boston Bruins, though, no other Boston team nor sport of any kind truly topped that feeling of love and loyalty for the game.

I liked some of the other hockey teams, as well, some from the "original six," teams like Chicago and Detroit, though the NY Rangers took a while to de-ice any portion of my heart.  There were a few expansion teams I enjoyed, too -- Hartford Whalers (of course, a no brainer), Quebec Nordiques (for the Stasny Brothers, especially when the home-ice announcer said, "Ahhhnnnn-tooooooohhhnnnn STAHHHHHH-SHNEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!"), and the Buffalo Sabres strictly for their old-school uniforms.

One team, though, one team loomed as the Evil Empire, the red-jerseyed Darth Vaders of the entire NHL, and this perception wasn't mine alone.  Most Bruins fans you happened to meet back then (and some even now) hated... HATED the Montreal Canadiens, myself included.  Oh, they had some amazing players over the years, some who played during my own childhood bloodlust (Cournoyer, Beliveau, Rocket Richard, and Rogie Vachon, who ended up being a beloved Bruin), and then later players to just flat out detest (Roy, Subban), but for those who don't understand hockey, the love and the hate are what make the heart of the game so strong.

For many years, decades even, the hottest rivalry in all of sports involved the Boston Bruins vs. the Montreal Canadiens.  In its heyday it made the Red Sox-Yankees rivalry look like toddlers kicking sand in the sandbox; Bruins vs. Canadiens was the only fight ticket in town.  Bostonians detested Montrealais, and the feeling was mutual. 

Fast forward to present day.  I am in Montreal in the Old Port, wandering around aimlessly with two pals.  We are pretending to shop, but we really are searching for somewhere to have a kick-ass Montreal meal.  In one of the shops is a display of t-shirts with  innocuous references to Montreal, Canada, and the sports teams (what's left of them -- The Expos took off). 

Hanging in a position of prominence, blocking some of the Montreal shirts and clearly King of This Display, is a youth-sized, long-sleeved Boston Bruins shirt.  Yup, a taste of home right here in the Old Port of Montreal.

You want to know what that means?  It means ... WE WIN.

MAKING A NEW BEACH FRIEND

My friend and I are at the beach, minding our own business, when a stout older woman makes a beeline to us.  I look up, make eye contact, and she starts talking to us as if she knows us.  (She does not.)

She puts her blanket and her shoes down and says, "I'm going to spread out here with you."

Um. Okay.  I guess.

She is pleasant enough, tells us some story about her daughter needing to take the dog to the car, and that she should be easy for her daughter to find because she is wearing a yellow shirt.  She leaves her belongings and trots down to the water.

My friend and I look at the blanket and shoes then to the old lady who is ankle-deep in the waves.  We both shrug.

"Hey, YOU made eye contact with her," my friend laughs.

"I ... did nnnnnnnn... Yeah, I did."

After fifteen minutes or so, we start to get worried.  It's 97 degrees out, and, if this woman's daughter has a dog in the car, that means she is choosing between her mother and her pet, neither a good choice for an adult child and an animal lover.

This time, it is my friend who makes contact.  She ambles down to the water and begins a conversation with the lady.  After a few minutes, I wander down and join in.  Turns out this lovely woman is 90 years young, used to be a secretary at an elementary school, lives in Syracuse but summers in Kennebunkport, and is one of the nicest people I've ever encountered.  Plus, her perfume is lovely and she smells fabulous.  You know how at the beach you can smell coconut in everyone's suntan lotion?  This woman's flowery scent drifts across the sand toward me like a beautiful beach rose.

My friend and I need to pack up (fold our chairs and pick up our bags -- we travel light) and get back to the car, so we walk the older woman over to the stairs, which are accessible only over some treacherous rocks.  We help her, guiding her to the easiest perches.  We are halfway up the rocky outcropping when the daughter shows up.

"Mom, I've been waving to you from the stairs.  I have the car running."

While this is wonderful that there will be an air-conditioned car to greet our new friend, it is a little crazy that the daughter thought her mother could manage by herself up the labyrinth of granite.  They are both grateful for our help, and we bid our new pal a good afternoon. 

Truly, God bless her.  May we all be so lucky still to be walking the beach and putting our feet in the surf at 90 years old.

POCKETBOOKS AND KARMA

I am madly packing for my trip to Montreal.  I'm almost done when my daughter needs a ride to Urgent Care for an injured right foot.  That, in and of itself, is a story of its own, but I have to admit, her foot may have saved my vacation.

You see, I am planning on bringing a cross-body black pocketbook.  I even pack all kind of black clothing so that everything coordinates, which makes packing really easy.  I use this pocketbook daily, so I grab it as my daughter and I rush out the door.  As I walk across the driveway to the car, the strap on the pocketbook snaps.  It completely comes apart and the bag of treasures (like gum and tissues and eye shadow) flies to the ground and tumbles about four feet away.

Had my daughter not had her semi-emergency (which turned out to be strained ligaments), I would be exiting the house in the morning and suffering a fashion disaster, leaving me without a pocketbook for Montreal. 

Karma?  Possibly, but my daughter is suffering more than I am because I have a second cross-body black pocketbook. Of course, she has a second foot, too, so I guess we're even in the end.

WINE OF THE WEEK = BAREFOOT

Here's proof that people who are wine snobs do not necessarily know shit about what tastes good. I'm not talking about professional sommeliers nor am I referring to wine shop owners because these people will steer you right no matter what, and they don't care what you buy to drink or else they wouldn't sell it.

I'm talking about people like the main character in Sideways (who is a spitting image of a former beau of mine who was also a wine snob), people who turn their noses up at you when you buy a $10 bottle of red because the label kicks ass rather than a $45 "name" bottle that probably tastes exactly the same.

This week is a sort of hit but mostly miss week.   I attend two tastings, one from a winery that I've visited, raved about, and bought a case of wine from, but that tasting was a bust.  The second tasting had two wines that I could recommend (and might in the future) but nothing felt like it needed to come home with me.

Instead, I am recommending Barefoot wine.  That's right, Barefoot.  I liked their wines when I went to a fundraiser at the zoo two years ago, and I recently stumbled across their Refresh wines when I attended a pool party.  The red  Barefoot Refresh is excellent, especially with frozen fruit thrown in, and there's a rose Refresh that I have yet to open.

The Barefoot white Refresh, though, is this week's #1 and only official recommendation.  Fruity yet mild, not overpowering, with a touch of bubble to it, this wine does exactly what it says it will: Refresh you.  Even my son loved it, and he has a picky wine palate.  At $7 a bottle, it's a no-brainer.

It's damn hot out here in the Northeast, and I hear it's somewhat toasty everywhere else, too.  Do it.  You know you want to.  Check out the Barefoot Refresh wines and let me know which of the three you like best.  You won't be disappointed ... unless you're Miles from Sideways or my idiot ex.

CELL PHONE SUCKAGE

I'm going to Montreal for a few days.  If you're a Facebook follower of this blog, know that the blog will post automatically every morning at 4:30 even if Facebook doesn't remind you.  I am hoping to stay in internet contact, but I will be out of cell phone range.  You might have to bookmark this page in case I can't post the link.

How do I know this?  I know this because my cell and coverage suck ass.

Oh, I could pussyfoot around and play coy: "My service, which is one of those pay-as-you-go plans, is a little iffy..." Fuck that shit. 

I have Virgin Mobile.  It used to be that Virgin Mobile got service even in places other cell phone carriers didn't, such as up in the boonies of Vermont.  I could get phone calls at Smuggler's Notch, but my hostess, who owned the time-share place, could not, and it pissed her off (which sickly made me happy).  It isn't so anymore.  I had to buy a new phone just to get calls at work, and I had to trade up my plan.

Then, my "new" phone had so many glitches that it didn't get group texts and won't get picture texts unless I shut off wi-fi, turn my phone off then on again, and use up data from the Virgin Mobile network.  Hahahaha "Network," because the network sucks ass.  My sister and I recently drove north of Lewiston, Maine.  Well, I think we did.  Her phone says we did, but she has AT&T. 

My phone?  My phone says we died somewhere outside of Auburn on route 108 and had our bodies dumped behind a shed because I had no cell phone service and no internet (no Waze, no Google maps, no way to call AAA or the cops) until we hit route 95 outside of Lewiston coming home ten hours later.  I could take pictures, but I couldn't post them for hours, so the hilarity of our logging road potty run lost its immediate humor.

But, now: MONTREAL.  I know Virgin Mobile Canada exists because I see it on the website.  I already know from trying to get my Samsung piece of shit phone reset that I will never, ever reach a human at Virgin Mobile customer service again.  It must be monsoon season in Pakistan, so "George" isn't available any more.  I also know that Virgin Mobile refuses to answer email inquiries because, apparently, that service is also affected by storms coming in off the Indian Ocean.

I finally Google the answer to my question about how to get coverage while in Montreal, and the answer is that VM Canada has an agreement with VM USA, but it doesn't work the other way.  Apparently, Quebecois can use their phones in America, but we Americans cannot, should not, will not use our phones in Canada.  End of discussion.

Well, damnit, I've put up with a lot of bullshit from Virgin Mobile.  I went an entire two years unable to receive or make any phone calls at work.  I didn't know my first grandchild was arriving because the group text never arrived.  I could've been killed by upstate Maine zombie lumberjacks and no one would find the body because my phone wouldn't ping the location of my cadaver.  Now, this?

Fuck you, Virgin Mobile, you piece of shit.  When I get back from Canada (where my "airplane mode" phone will make a lovely fucking camera, thank you very much), I'm not only switching carriers to one where I can get human, English-speaking customer service, I'm getting a damn iPhone.

Android and Virgin Mobile and Samsung, you can all bite me. But, you'll have to wait until I'm back from Montreal to do it.  Montreal ... where I'll be if I turn up missing.  Just FYI.