TAKE A HIKE, SUMMER

Okay, okay.  It has been a wonderful summer.  Best weather we've had in decades.  Hot days and warm nights that feel like they'll never end.

Yup.  Never. end.  Never. Neeeeeeeeeeeevvvvvvvveeeeeeerrrrrr.

Honestly, I am damn tired of having my air conditioners running.  I'm ready for some fresh air and cold nights.  I'm ready for some frost on the windows.  I'm ready for fall flowers and pumpkins and hot chocolate.

Of course, the sun going down earlier doesn't make me very happy.  The end of lazy days at the beach doesn't make me happy.  I'm going to miss the ease of leaving the house within seconds of deciding to go out because all I need to put on are flip-flops. 

Yup, I'll miss summer in a way that one misses company that has overstayed its welcome.  Please, though, bring on sweatshirt weather.  Please let me wear socks again.  Please help me step outside without drenching my own body in sweat as if I am stewing myself.

Autumn isn't that far off.  I'm ready.  I love you, Summer, but I need a break.  I know, I know; you'll throw this blog in my face when I'm freezing my butt off in January, but right now I need some New England color and some New England cooling.

God willing, I'll see you next summer, Summer, but until then, I'll say this as nicely as possible: Take a hike, dude; it's time for a change.

FULL MOON FRIDAY

I have been trying to watch the moon these last few nights.  The moon is waxing Gibbous right now, about 78% illuminated, working toward Friday's full phase.

I realized a long time ago that I have the wrong shades for moon gazing.  When I lived in the apartment two houses over, my bedroom window was three stories above the street, and I could leave the blinds open and fall asleep by moonlight, especially every visible full moon.  Now that I live two houses over, I have shades instead of blinds upstairs, plus my bedroom window overlooks the neighbors' hall window.  If they choose to angle it just right and maybe stand on a step ladder, they can watch me sleep on a clear night.

I miss the monthly moonlight and the fabulous natural nightlight it provides.  When I take the recycling to the curb this evening, I notice the moon rising over the trees.  This month it's the Full Harvest Moon, officially happening at 3:05 p.m. Friday.  This full moon is also supposed to have a penumbral lunar eclipse, but not one visible to the naked eye.  The sun, moon, and Earth will align, and there will be a slight shadow cast upon the full moon.

How cool is this?

I try to get a picture of the moon after dropping the recycle bins at the street.  I've never been very good at taking night pictures, but I snap the waxing orb, just the same.  The moon is fascinating and wonderful and romantic and exotic and spooky.  I may just have to replace the room darkening shades I have now with a good, old-fashioned set of plastic blinds.  I miss the moonlight lulling me to sleep at night and waking me before dawn in the morning.

I have a couple of more days before the moon hits its fullest phase for the month.  If you cannot find me, there's a good possibility that I'm at Home Depot getting new blinds for upstairs.

PROTESTING THE ANTHEM ON 9/11 MAKES YOU AN ASSHOLE

I haven't weighed in on the whole athletes sitting out the national anthem thing yet, at least not on this blog, but I am writing this entry on 9/11, and, you know, there is Hallowed Ground in this world, and the sites involved in the 9/11 radical Islamist attacks are amongst them.

So, here's my advice to you overpaid, under-talented pieces of shit athletes: Stand up and shut up and keep your fucking black panther salutes to your goddamned selves, especially on 9/11.

You suck. You're nothing but ignorant multi-millionaire dickwads whose opinions and voices mean nothing.  NOTHING.  Until you put your money where your big fat mouths are, you are nothing but straw men (and women) leaning over bonfires.

Eventually you will crash and burn, and no one will care nor remember you.  No one.

We remember Pat Tillman.  We remember the heroes of 9/11 where skin color didn't matter.  As a matter of fact, the issue of skin color was pretty much nationally resolved until 2008, but that's not my axe to grind, at least not today.

It's September 11th.

Show some damn respect, you damn communist, self-centered, moronic dillweeds.  If you hate America, LEAVE.  Give all your money to your favorite religious or racial charity and get the fuck out.  You may have the right to, oh, pretend to say something important.  You're all talk and no action.  I don't see any of you volunteering or giving back to the community in ways that matter.  Go rebuild Detroit if you care so much about black communities. While you're at it, send some cash to Appalachia, too, or are those poor kids too light-skinned for you to care about?  What about the Native Americans who are once again being screwed by the government?  Do THEIR lives matter?  No?  They're too light-skinned for you, too?

Fuck you.  Stand up, shut up, and keep your damn hand over your heart.  The national anthem isn't your protest song; it's America's rallying cry.  You want to protest?  Go distribute cash to your causes and give time and education and sponsorship to schools and neighborhoods.  Stop being useless show-offs and respect something beyond your fame and fortunes.

It might be your right to be an asshole, but it's my right to tell you so.  Be an asshole any other day you want, but don't be an asshole on 9/11.  That just makes you look even dumber and phonier than you already are.  You don't care about America or blacks or whites or anyone but yourselves.

Too bad, because you're doing it wrong.  With the platform you  have, you're doing it so, so wrong.  We don't support you; we dismiss you.  For all of our sakes, if you're going to sit down, then please just stay down, and put some duct tape over your mouth while you're there.  Actions speak louder than your empty words.  For the love of this country, SHOW us, don't TELL us.  If you're not willing to do that, just ... go ... away.

WINE OF THE WEEK

I have a friend who likes Malbec.  This same friend's son spent some time in Patagonia, which is the southernmost part of South America.  I'm rather fond of Malbec myself, so it is serendipitous when I come across a Patagonian Malbec for $18.

Bodega del Fin del Mundo Reserva 2013 Malbec is aged in French and American oak barrels for ten to twelve months, but it doesn't have that overpowering oaked aftertaste.  The process softens the tannins, and the result is a smooth combination of fruit and earth.  The wine is textured but not complex because it hits the palate with its own character and personality all while sustaining flavor and consistency.  Previous Reserva Malbecs have won wine awards from Argentina to France.

In other words, you don't have to take my word for it.

But, should you want to, this wine is one of the pricier ones I'll recommend.  Under $20 but more than I usually spend on myself, it's still reasonably priced as a gift to bring to share with my friend in honor of Patagonia and Malbec and life in general.

BACK TO SCHOOL

The students and I have successfully survived the first week of school.  Okay, for me it has been four days, and for the kids it has been three, but it is a seamless transition.  By Friday, even the students are saying how it seems like they've been in seventh grade all along. 

It is like we are all instantly comfortable with each other and the routines we are mastering.  Of course, we are flying by the seats of our pants this fall as a newly mandated but undefined pilot program is germinating in the classroom.  Not just my classroom, either.  As usual, my cohorts and I are doing the grunt work while we will get very little glory for our blood, sweat, and tears.

Honestly, though, being glorified is not first and foremost in the daily grind of teachers, although it is stupendous when it happens spontaneously.  On the third day, my last class breaks out into spontaneous cheering and clapping several times: for one student, for each other, and for the accomplishments of their entire grade in general. 

Apparently, they will celebrate anything. 

This is great news because I, too, like to celebrate anything and everything, and, for some strange reason, I find myself whistling lately.  Truly, for the last four days, I have been whistling anything, everything, nothing, and something: Armed Forces songs, classical music, toddler songs, music from the radio, hard rock, jazz, foreign songs...

It just happens; I cannot stop myself. Quite frankly, my whistling is driving me out of my mind.

It seems, though, that my whistling is simply an extension of the transition to a new school year.  On day one, I drove to work saying over and over again. "I don't want to go back.  I hate going back.  It gets worse every year.  Please, don't make me go back."  By day four, I am randomly whistling so incessantly that I have to really think about it to stop myself.  I whistle in the halls at school, in the car, around the house...

Damn you, positive school year!  You're ruining my foul mood!  Next thing I know I will wake up early on Saturday, and probably in a good mood, as well.  Here's to another school year of undue angst, unprepared teaching, endless whistling, and spontaneous cheering.

WEARING THE HEELS

Today is my second day of "Wear Heels to Work" mode.  I'm dressing up, and I'm wearing kick-ass shoes to match my outfits.

I do not know why I am doing this.  I'm going to be on my feet all day long, both days.  I guess my DSW and Famous Footwear addiction has caused enough guilt for me to suffer for two days.  I mean, if I buy the shoes, I really should wear the shoes.

Actually, the shoes are not uncomfortable.  It's all about my feet -- broken several times in several places, cut through the nerves, rebuilt better than the bionic woman's feet, and suffering Morton's neuroma (which causes real and phantom pain). 

It doesn't matter if I wear heels or flats, my feet are going to complain by the end of the day.

My feet are reasonably comfortable through day #1, and they're actually comfy on Day #2 for the most part.  The shoes are on the sexier side, but they're made by Naturalizer, a known practical shoe brand, so my paws aren't crying.  Well, until I've been on them for eight hours.  I push one more hour, hour #9, when I go to vote in the state primary.

I don't know why I vote in the state primary because most people on the ballot are running unopposed for local things like Head Salt Miner and Grand Poohpah of Pittances and Sheriff of Schlock.  Walking back to my car across the lot after voting, my right foot finally starts screaming.  By the time I get home, it feels as if and entire section with the ball of my foot is being ripped out.

It's not the shoes' fault, though.  This is my badder foot of the two bad feet -- the one that has been surgically made to look like a foot again; the one with the weird nerve disorder; the one that pretends to be hurt when there's nothing actually wrong with it.  Don't blame the comfy Naturalizers.

Tomorrow I'm going to wear another dress because it is going to be 90 degrees.  I'm going to wear more practical sandals, though, because we haven't yet had our annual fall fire drill.  I want to make sure that I can get out of the building safely, but I also want to make sure my feet look kick-ass while doing so.

In the meantime, my paws and I will rest tonight.  Maybe there's something worth watching on television.  Maybe I'll play games on my phone.  Maybe I'll go to bed early.  No matter.  My feet will be ready for tomorrow.  I've already lined up five possible choices for tomorrow's fire drill extravaganza, so I'm sure something will match my outfit, yet again.

WINE - SURVIVING THE FIRST DAY

The first official day back at school goes reasonably well. 

I am still recovering from the plague, so my voice, already tenuous, gives out during extended homeroom.  Thankfully I have created a word search based on my syllabus, so I will have fifteen or so minutes in every class to recover a little bit while the kiddos get a chance to work together.

My pals, teachers from another grade, bring me a big hunk of chocolate cake during my last teaching class, and I inhale it during my planning period when no one is around to watch me smear fudge frosting all over my face.  This is the high point of my day.

I only have to stay an extra hour to get everything (almost everything) done for tomorrow.  No way am I repeating last night's work-a-thon until after ten o'clock at night.  Of course, I copy the wrong worksheet, but it all works out in the end.  My co-worker and I decide to go with this worksheet anyway, which makes me really happy and extremely relieved.

The only glitch in the entire day happens before I even leave the house to go to school. 

I pack my lunch for school, and, since it's my first packed school lunch in several weeks, I try to cover all of my bases.  I bring fruit and veggies and snacks and a roast beef sandwich and way too much food because I cannot decide what I might want to eat hours later.  I do know that I need a small water for lunch.  This is easy.

Well, this should be easy.

I reach around on the top shelf of the fridge.  First, I find the tall waters.  Those are for my son's lunches.  I blindly move my hand around to find the small water bottles that I bring for lunch.  I grasp something from the shelf, pull it out, and discover...

WINE.  I have pulled out a mini bottle of wine. 

Oh, if only, if only.  Sadly, I replace the wine to the fridge, grab a water bottle, and finish putting my lunch together.  It's all right, though.  I'll drink the wine later, after I survive the first day.  IF I survive the first day.  WHEN I survive the first day (which I do).