TANK TOP SAVES ME FROM BEING ARRESTED

Gosh, it's HOT. 

Recently, I am on a trip to North Carolina. It has been very hot both here and there. So, for the trip down, I decide on a loose, lightweight fabric sleeveless top for the plane ride. I've worn this top before, so I don't even give it a second thought when I put it on.

It isn't until I am seated on the plane hours later that I realize -- Oh, crap; I always wear this shirt with a camisole-style bralette underneath because it is a little too loose when I bend over. 

Huh. I wonder how many people I flashed in the airport and as I put my luggage in the overhead bin on the plane? 

I mean, I am wearing a bra, albeit a smaller version of a lightweight sports-type bra. (Yeah, I know -- sexy, right? I gave up on underwires years ago, folks.) But, still. I am suddenly very self-conscious about flashing most of Logan airport and a good portion of those seated on the American Airlines flight. I don't think I need to be flashing the entire city of Charlotte.

The car rental line is ridiculously long because they seem to be short-staffed, so I check and double-check and triple-check my shifting shirt as I wait to get into my car. Once I am finally situated, I put the GPS coordinates to my destination, but I also ask my phone to avoid highways. I know there are several stores on my way to my destination if I stay on the main drag but away from the thruway.

I locate a Wal-Mart close to my destination. I run inside and buy two cheapo tank tops (since I cannot decide on a white that matches the design in the shirt, or a light blue to complement the navy). Then, I run over to Panera, sneak one tank top into my purse, and head for the bathroom. Yes, I add the layer under my shirt so I can stop flashing my boobies all over the Eastern seaboard.

It's not my first fashion malfunction, and it sure as heck won't be my last, knowing me. But, at least I have not been arrested in North Carolina for indecent exposure nor for scaring the masses, so there is that.

SANGRIA SUMMER

 Apparently, it is Sangria Summer.

We blame the retirees at my work. If they hadn't started having all of those retirement parties, my coworkers and I wouldn't have started sipping sangria. This sangria craze started out as a welcome for the coming of summer. Then, summer arrived, and it started to rain. And rain. And rain more. Sangria became the salve to sip away the desolation and despair. When the sun finally comes back out (in September when we are back at our desks), sangria will be our celebration of survival, as well as a bolstering to the approaching clusterfuck.

There are two very good things about sangria. 

The first thing is that it is made with fruit. Fruit is healthy. When I go for my physical in a few weeks, I can truthfully say that yes, I have been indulging in lots of fruit this summer. Yessiree. The second good thing about sangria is that my palate for red wine is faulty. If I end up with a red that doesn't strike my fancy, or if I end up with a partial bottle of red that sits just a tad too long, I can always turn it into a lovely and refreshing and tasty red sangria.

So, go ahead and rain. Be crappy. Be sunny. Be a good day. Be a bad day. Wane away, summer. Bring on the nightmare of scheduling mishegas that summons in a new school year.

We are armed with sangria -- and we know how to use it.

A FOGGY DAY AT THE BEACH IS BETTER THAN NO DAY AT THE BEACH

I make it to the beach this summer! It is foggy, damp, and dreary, but I make it.

I understand that this blog complains an awful lot about the weather. This is, after all, New England, which means that the weather is often center stage for complaining. That being said, no decent New Englander worth one's salt would ever live permanently anywhere else because the weather is what makes us so damn tough. It can be ninety degrees out one day, and we could endure a blizzard the next -- and yet, we don't all die of pneumonia. It's almost a fluke.

But, let's be reasonable. This summer's weather has sucked. SUCKED. And done so big time.

So far I think we  may have had four days, possibly five, since June 21st that it has not rained. Lately it has been pouring. You know, that pounding, drenching, unforgiving crap that never seems to stop. The radar has been crazy. There can be completely clear skies. then, without any warning at all, a huge green and orange and red splotch appears on the map, the skies darken like midnight, and -- BAM! -- umbrellas everywhere.

I am on my way to Maine, and I am early for arrival. I decide, since the tide is receding, that I should walk to coast along The Wall, which is a part of the limited New Hampshire coastline that loses almost the entire beach during high tide but leaves a mile and a half of the softest sand known to man during low tide. The problem is that the entire coastline for miles and miles and miles is socked in with thick fog. I park my car anyway, and prepare for my walk.

I am not wearing my bathing suit today (shorts and a tank top), but I would gladly wade into the water, which is much warmer than I am expecting for this time of year and these weather conditions. I walk almost three miles before heading back to the car. When I do get back to the car, I am soaked, anyway. The fog is so incredibly hideous that the water condenses on my skin, and I am so slippery that I might as well have jumped into the surf. My hair, once straight, is curling like Shirley Temple and dripping like I've just showered. 

By the time I arrive at my destination, I have dried out considerably but still smell of salt. I have to pull my hair back because its sheer volume interferes with my driving. But, I have been to the beach. It didn't rain (although it pours like crazy on my ride home from Maine) and I only get one greenhead fly bite that happens when I head to the bath house to use the facilities -- not a bug on the actual beach. 

If it ever, EVER stops raining, I would love to go back to the beach before school starts again. Knowing my luck, the weather will change to gorgeous and perfect daily as soon as Labor Day passes.

SWANKY TANKY

What do you do when you're staying at an old inn and the toilet gets fussy?

My sister and I are sharing a room for an out-of-state wedding that we are attending. Two post-middle-aged (not elderly) women and one bathroom means that toilet is going to get a workout during the night. I notice right away that the handle on the toilet needs aggressive reminders to actually flush. 

So, when we wake up after the first night, my sister says, "Sorry if I woke you up during the night. I was trying to be quiet, but the toilet wasn't behaving." (Or some such words.) 

I say, "No worries. You just have to hold the handle down for a bit." 

For the rest of the day, that's how we treat the toilet: Fluuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuush.

My brother arrives to get ready for the wedding. He is staying at a different hotel, but is getting ready with us. He comes out of the bathroom and says, "Uhhhh, you know your toilet doesn't flush?" Then, he adds sheepishly, "It's just pee. Don't worry."

I repeat what I had said earlier. "No worries. You just have to hold the handle down for a bit."

"Yeah, I tried that. But, it didn't work."

We all agree that the chain must've come loose from the rubber floater inside the tank. I am already dressed in my gown and sparkly earrings and fake hair bun on my head, with all of my make-up on, so I decide to fix the chain while everyone else finishes prepping and primping. I open the top of the tank, prepare to make the adjustment, and discover . . .

No water in the tank. Nope, not a drop. It's like The Rime of the Ancient Mariner, but the bathroom saga. The chain is fine, but we are in deep, deep trouble without a functioning toilet. 

Well, I am a reasonably intelligent person. I have a couple of options here. I can fill the tank using the sink or tub faucet and the ice bucket, or I can pretend that I know anything at all about plumbing. I examine the tank and see a little tube that has an arrow on it, seemingly instructing me to turn it to the right for water. Okay, then. I turn that puppy to the right, and the tank starts filling with water.

And filling . . . and filling . . . and, damnit, I am standing in the bathroom in my gown and my shoes, dressed to the nines, and watching the toilet tank nearing to the overflow level. I spin the little arrow back to the left and say a quick prayer while stepping backward because there is no damn way I am ruining this dress.

Suddenly, the tank hisses and the water stops about two inches from the top. Just to tempt fate, I flush the toilet and watch in awe as I have actually managed to fix something without a disaster. I leave the top of the tank off, just in case, and as a reminder when we return after the wedding that things might still go awry. 

Maybe I'll start my own plumbing company, or, at least, toilet specialist service: DRESS FOR YOUR MESS, or FLUSHING FASHION, or GOWN FOR POOPTOWN, or ROYAL FLUSH, or SWANKY TANKY, or something. If you have any suggestions, let me know!

I'M NOT READY FOR THE BACK TO SCHOOL DISPLAYS

 Target, you are a sneaky and horrid witch. A hateful, evil, disgusting corporation.

Why?

Because Target already has BACK TO SCHOOL merchandise going up. This picture was from days ago. School just ended. Just. Seriously. Like, less than a week from when this display appeared.

I know Target is a national company, and I know that the Southern states finish up school a month before we do (and, subsequently, start about a month before we do) here in New England. 

But, to quote Chris O'Dowd's character from Bridesmaids: "COME ON!"

For the love of all things sacred, could you wait a damn second?! Can businesses please, please, PLEASE consider the mental health of teachers, many of whom work for these very same businesses during the summer (and after school and on weekends). Can't you hide the pens and pencils and notebooks and lunchboxes for maybe another week or two or three?

I needed something in Staples the other day. Instead of going in, I parked my car, sat still, and stared at the automatic doors. Oh, sure. People went in; people came out. In the end, I couldn't do it. Intellectually I understand that Staples sells office supplies all year long. However, I couldn't face the cheery BACK TO SCHOOL displays I might see. 

I'm not ready.

I just finally touched the pile of work I brought home from school and carefully moved it to another corner of the room, terrified that it or I might burst into blasphemous flames at any moment.

Nope. Not ready at all. Come to think of it, I might not be ready in September, either.

SCHOOL'S OUT FOR SUMMER

 School is out for the summer. I survived! Truth be told, I had an excellent group of students, and I wish I could hold them all back for a year just to have them again. I doubt their parents would like that very much, though.

Summer starts with a bang -- literally. The apartment upstairs is being renovated, and the only road in and out of my complex is being repaired and redone, so today the workers are breaking up the macadam. I have to get to an out-of-state wedding, but Friday there will be little to no road access, and, what access there will be, might damage shoes, car tires, and anything it touches (glue and oil day). So, I will get out of Dodge a day early, go to Maine, then go to New Jersey, and enjoy the sweet, sweet summer . . .

Rain. Rain, rain, rain, rain, rain. That's all it has been doing for weeks now. Goshdang, ridiculous, disgusting, constant, downpouring RAIN. That's even the forecast for the places I am going: RAIN.

The last day of work was supposed to be partly sunny. Just after the students left and around our lunch-meeting time, someone said, "Oh, look! It's raining!"

"Gee," I responded, completely deadpan, "what a surprise."

Before you start bemoaning my lament, please remember that teachers get the summers off for two reasons: One is for everyone's mental health. If we didn't have an extended break right as burnout maxes, no one would want to continue being in school with us. The second reason is economic. Teachers do NOT get PAID over the summer. Nope. We go eight weeks (or more if it's a 27-biweekly year like this one is) without earning or being paid a single cent (even though most of us do curriculum over the summer -- for free). You can be jealous all you want, but that's coin in the taxpayers' pockets. 

You're welcome.

That's right, I said it. You're welcome for me being unpaid while fighting renovators in my building and tar-smashers on my access road. Don't be mad when I post beach pictures or mountain photos or scenic vista panoramas. Just remember that every adventure I'm on is money in your wallet because I'm not sitting in a classroom . . . missing my students already . . . wondering if they'll remember to come by and say hello when September rolls around.

PICKING OUT THE SEVEN OF SWORDS

 Pick a card, any card. Go ahead! Pick one. What can possibly go wrong?

Well, what can possibly go wrong is that I have a reasonable working knowledge of Tarot cards. And I am familiar enough to know that the card I pick isn't necessarily something that I need in my life right now.

You see, people like to tell me secrets. I don't know if it's because I started out in the journalism program and had to interview people, or if it's because I sometimes appear to care. (Generally speaking, I do not care, so proceed with caution when approaching.) But, people tell me stuff. Either that or I have really sensitive ESP, which has also been true.

There's a decent amount of bullshit going on at work right now. It seems to be much more BS than the usual year-end BS at school, but, for some reason that still baffles me, I know stuff. I know stuff before other people know it, people who should know who don't know it, but I know it. I try to explain to people that no, I was not eavesdropping somewhere. I just know shit. Even holding a gun to my head could not get me to confess my sources: I simply don't have any.

Oh, it's rumor, you say? I'm making it up? 

Decades ago (when I was a teenager) I was babysitting at a house when an adult friend called the adult member of the household (not home -- I was babysitting, remember). The caller did not leave a message. When the homeowner arrived home, I said, "Oh, Lady called. No message. But. I think ..." And I proceeded to tell her the secret the caller would indeed divulge in the future, yet I had zero knowledge as to the secret's existence. A few days later, the woman for whom I babysat asked me how in the world I knew what the caller was going to divulge. I was dumbfounded. 

I. Don't. Know.

Back to the Tarot Card. I'm at an event that is supposed to be relaxing. I pick a card from one deck, a meditation (not Tarot) deck, and it is a card assuring me that I have the power to make positive things happen in my life. That's good. I'll take it. Then a human voice nearby says, "Oh, pick a card from the Tarot deck, too. Why not?"

Why not?  Because it's a Tarot deck, you doofus. Do you know nothing? And so I pick out a card because I'm not very good at telling people no. 

Seven of Swords. At least it's not the Hanged Man nor the reversed Wheel of Fortune, right? Well, it might as well be. Taken in a work context, this card couldn't be worse. It represents lies and trickery and deceitful coworkers. Enemies who masquerade as friends. Or, it could be bad news for my finances. Or, it could mean that my health is not as good as it should be. It's like a giant black cloud just settled over my life, and this is not very relaxing as I am going into a relaxation class.

This is why I don't go to fortune tellers or have my cards read or let anyone look at my palm. I don't want to know this crap. I already have enough of that going on inside my own head. 

Or, I could just be making it up. After all, this is the Tarot card of mental manipulation. Perhaps I'm just playing along.