CHOCOLATE WINE - DON'T MIND IF I DO

It's Valentine's Day -- that infamous day when you are considered a loser if you are without a significant other.  

Funny.  I don't feel like a loser, nor do I feel any great gaping hole in my life due to my current state of independence.  I also do not feel sorry for myself, nor do I pine away for that "special person" who might magically make my life whole by sending me a heart-laced card or buying me chocolate. 

You see, I have already treated myself to a little something: Chocolate-infused wine.

Yup, this wine is made with real chocolate.  It smells like chocolate and yet tastes very much like red wine.  But, with chocolate.  It's very difficult to describe.  To be honest, I've never tasted anything quite like it.  

The wine is from Washington state, a place where they know how to make a fabulous American wine.  This crimson-red wine has overtones of dark fruit and presents like a bold red blend.  However, and this is huge, it has dark chocolate overtones and whispers of cocoa.  It could very well be the drink of the gods.

It is Valentine's Day, after all.  I deserve something chocolatey.  For $10, I'm more than worthy when it comes to Chocolate Shop Chocolate Lover's Wine.  Best of all, I don't have anyone waiting at home to say, "Honey, wanna pour me a glass of that chocolate wine?"  Nope, this one is all for me.

The perfect combo:  Wine and chocolate, all together without any middleman.  Seriously -- don't mind if I do.

SPONTANEOUS SNOWSHOEING

My daughter decides that today, Snowstorm Day, she is going to drop off massive amounts of laundry.  She has to work this weekend, so I take a break from all the work that I brought home and get her three loads of laundry done, folded, and put into bags so the snow doesn't make them damp and clammy.  I decide that I should probably deliver the laundry to her as the weather is going to deteriorate rapidly this afternoon.

As I am packing everything up to deliver to her work, a colleague from my work texts me:  Any interest in snowshoeing before the storm ramps up?

Oh. My. Goodness. YES!  I enjoy snowshoeing and haven't had a chance to go yet this year.  Yes, of course!  YES! 

After dropping my daughter's laundry at her place of employment, I boogie up the road to my co-worker's house.  She lives right near one of the town's protected trails through the woods.  I actually live near two such trails, but the trails where I live are short.  The trails near her house crisscross and intersect and comprise over ten miles of open forest land.

I somehow misplace my gators, the lower leg protectors to deter wet and snow-encrusted ankles, within minutes of taking them out to pack them for the trek.  I am stuck wearing my old snow pants (that I believe were handed across by the boys).  It doesn't matter what we are wearing because we are the only people out in the woods.  We can look as dorky as we want because the trees don't care.

It is a wonderful circuit, probably two miles or so.  It takes us an hour to complete as we decide against some of the longer, more intricate trails, and thank goodness for that because I am woefully out of shape and huffing and puffing a bit by the time we finish.  I am also covered in sweat because I am now overdressed with the snow pants added in.

I don't stay after we finish the trail.  My co-worker hospitably tells me that I don't have to run off, but truly the snow is getting steadier, so I should probably get myself home before my slippery driveway gets any worse.  I decide to leave my snowshoes and poles in the car, where they probably should've been all along.  Like my kayaks, which stay in my car pretty much all summer long, I never know when the mood will strike to go out -- a truth my colleague now knows when I answer her invitation with a resounding, "Good lord, don't change your mind, I'm on my way!!!!!"

ASS CHEEK MAN

What do the evening sky and the guy I see at the gas station have in common?

The New England weather forecast for "a little bit of snow on Sunday" has turned into a whopping potential blizzard with predictions of anywhere from eight to eighteen inches of snow for my area and hurricane force winds.

After shoveling out yet again from a passing Saturday storm, I decide to run a couple of errands before going wine tasting.  One thing I know -- I'm not going anywhere near a grocery store.  Not before a storm.  People are insane out there.  I need to spend money at CVS in order to use coupons that expire in a couple of days, and I need to get ink at Staples for my printer.  Sounds easy, right?

On my way to the closest CVS, I encounter the first of the blizzard maniacs: everyone is turning into the gas station to fill up the cars' gas tanks.  The station is located on an almost impossible corner, difficult to maneuver to the pumps and annoyingly flanked by the traffic light.  Due to the heavy weekend traffic, I am sitting at the light for a few cycles. 

As I inch closer to the gas station (which is within spitting distance of CVS, my destination), there is an SUV blocking entrance to the gas station.  This backs up the cars as people are trying to get their pre-blizzard share of gasoline because God forbid these people be stuck in their driveways with half a tank of gas.  Finally, the SUV backs into the limited parking area along the fence, allowing traffic to flow again, at least in the other direction.  I am still waiting for the next light.

The driver exits the SUV and turns his back toward the line of cars in which I am sitting.  This is when I see it. This is when we all see it.  The driver, who is a larger man about my age, has his pants sagging down.  Not just his pants, though, his underwear, as well, and his shirt is riding high on his back. 

The man is showing his entire ass, crack and all, chubby cheeks fully included, to the entire center of town.  Even more mesmerizing, he makes no attempt to rectify the situation for a good ten to fifteen seconds.  This may sound like a very short time, but women in labor know that fifteen seconds can pass by at an interminable pace.  I do not know about the drivers in front of nor behind me, but my eyes are glued to the pinkish-white spectacle. The light turns green, and I continue on my way, leaving Ass Cheek Man back at the gas station.

So, folks, what do the evening sky and the guy I see at the gas station have in common?  The answer to my original question is simple: FULL MOON. 

LONG LIVE BREAKFAST

Shortly after shoveling out the two cars and the walkway in the dark after the blizzard finally stops raging, I get the automated phone call informing me that school has a ninety-minute delay the next morning.

This news doesn't really affect me since I will be leaving for work at my usual time.  My car is already clear, the driveway is shoveled, and I have to move my car anyway so my kid can get to work on time.  A crew of my colleagues and I start texting back and forth.  I am sort of participating in the text chain as I am trying to get out of my snowy clothes, get into the shower, and maybe stuff some more food into my face before attempting to get a few hours of sleep.

This is when it hits me.  The PTO is supposed to be putting on a breakfast for the teachers in the morning.  If there's a delay, does that mean breakfast is off? This thought depresses me, so I  text it out to my co-workers.  No one seems to know if the breakfast is on or off. 

In the morning I arrive at work early, exceptionally early actually since there is a delay.  I am the only non-janitorial staff at my school, though I do see one or two high school teachers entering the attached building through the far door that goes directly into their work area.  I make myself a mug of Constant Comment tea and do the copying (that I forgot to do pre-storm) while the tea steeps.  I check my mail and get my boards and plans all set up for the day.

People filter in slowly, and at one point I realize that my tea mug is gone.  I try re-tracing my steps, but I cannot find the mug that I swear I have just been drinking from moments before.  One of my co-workers and I walk together back toward the copy room.  Maybe I left it there, but I'm reasonably certain I had it more recently.

As the two of us amble down the hallway, I see movement in the break-out space to my left.  Could it possibly be?

Yes!  YES!  Breakfast is served!  BREAKFAST IS SERVED!

I pile my plate high with pumpkin bread and homemade applesauce and fruit and two different kinds of quiche and a few other fabulous items.  As a matter of fact, I take so much breakfast that I am still eating it when lunchtime rolls around a couple of hours later (which happens pretty quickly since it's a late start to the day).

Thank goodness for the PTO and for breakfast and for people who can still function even when a ninety-minute monkey wrench gets wedged into the plans.  Long live the PTO, and, by God, LONG LIVE BREAKFAST.

TOO DAMN OLD TO SHOVEL

I am too old to shovel and too young to retire to Florida.  This reality leaves me in a pickle.

Lately, my old house has been showing its age.  I have mice in the kitchen and today I am sitting at my computer in my bedroom when a hornet flies into my face.  No, I did not react fast enough to swipe at it before it disappeared presumably back into my tiny closet.

As for today's snowfall, any time the snow comes with winds, my side of the driveway gets clobbered.  Years ago my landlords were in a fight with the neighbor, so they put up a huge fence along the property line.  Problem is all the snow that could blow into the neighbor's yard gets stuck in my fence.  We could have a four inch snowstorm, but I would be shoveling a foot of snow because it ends along my fence.

Tonight, though, my son and I are outside in the dark, in the wind, and in the 11 degree weather to shovel the walkway, the driveway, and to clear off two vehicles.  We trudge through about fourteen inches of snow on my side of the driveway.  My neighbor who parks next to me?  Bare spots on the driveway.  BARE.  No snow.  And his car has blown all of its snow into my side.

As soon as we are done shoveling the entire driveway and partly into the street (because the town is full of plow drivers who do not know that a street isn't a footpath), as soon as we are inside the house eating or showering or watching television, the landlord starts up the snowblower.

Fuck. My. Life.

Between the critters, the creepy crawlies, and the snow crystals, I do believe at my age that I've had enough.

Do I live in the best neighborhood ever?  Yes.  I live directly behind two cemeteries (quiet neighbors), and my landlords have not raised my rent forever.  Before this house, I lived two houses over.  I love being close to town, to stores, and to the train station.

But, there really isn't any house big enough for me and rodents and insects, and now I'm thinking there's no room for snow anymore, either.  I mean, I shoveled all 109" (or whatever it was) of that snow four years ago.  Mother Nature crapped on us every other day.  I had no one home to help me (son was at college) and had two cars, the walkway, and the entire driveway to do by myself.  Really.  Honestly.  I think I'm done.

I'll get some sleep and see how I feel in the morning.  Right now, though, I suspect the itch is too strong as I sit here with sore muscles and a raging headache from the barometric changes . . . and searching realtor.com.

SNOW DAY!

Snow day!  Yay!  I mean, booooooooo.

Having a snow day from school is great this time of year because it gives the sick kids (there are way too many) a chance to recover a little longer.  I know it's only an old wives' tale, but I also believe that the snow will help eradicate some of the surface germs we have floating around making the flu more virulent.

Whenever there's a snow day, I imagine myself curled up on the couch with a book.  The reality is that I will be perched at the kitchen table correcting papers.  I brought home enough work to keep me busy for twelve straight hours and then some, but it's my own fault for spending my time on other tasks, like planning and teaching. 

You know . . . the useless stuff. I'll probably cap it all off by shoveling in the dark.  Oh, a fun time had by all.  

Really, though, it will be fun.  I can correct papers while watching the snow through windows.  I won't like it too much in June, but I'm liking it fine for now.

SCRAPE, SCRAPE, SCRAPE

Goddamnit.  What the hell.  Seriously. Again . . . still . . . I pick on the weather forecasters. 

The local weather on TV tells me that the temperatures will be rising during the afternoon and evening following a day of snow and sleet.  "Rain," it claims, "with temperatures rising into the 40's."

It rains while I shovel the driveway after work, making the snow weigh about as much as concrete, but sleet has clearly taken hold by the time I finish.  I feel it pinging off my forehead and hear it gently dinging off my car.

But, the weather channel is still singing the tune of warmer evening temperatures.  It also yells about a major snowstorm moving in the day after tomorrow. 

Pissah.  I need one damn thing at the store: turkey for sandwiches. No worries.  The temperatures are rising, right?  I'll go right now to avoid the crazies at the store shopping pre-storm tomorrow.

I step outside, expecting rain and warmer temperatures, but it's a chilly 31 degrees, and my car is caked solid with ice.  Instead of letting the car idle and start defrosting, I scrape, scrape, scrape, scrape, scrape the ice off the windshield and side windows. 

The roads are much sloppier this evening than they were mere hours ago, almost like all the plow drivers are in the midst of siestas.  The store is just over a half-mile from my house, and I decide to buy turkey and bread and eggs and hamburgers and hamburg buns.  This whole shopping trip including check-out is maybe fifteen minutes in-store.

When I get outside, I notice my car is iced over again.  I turn on my vehicle and check the temperature, which goes from 31 degrees, to 29 ... 28 ... 27 ...  It doesn't take long for the temperature to settle in at 24 degrees in the half-mile to and from the store.

Okay, weather people, I have already proven time and again what absolute dopes you can be, but this is dangerous.  My kid is out there driving around to and from lacrosse because you said it would be in the 40's.  We believed you.  Damnit, weather channel, how many times do you have to be wrong before I catch on?

By the way, weather channel: Can you do something about the impending snowstorm . . . ?  I mean, I figure by now you must owe me at least ONE.