"Hameggandcheesemediumcoffeeonev'rythingbagelhashbrowns?"

Gall dern me and my...my...whatever it is that makes me like this.

Every once in awhle, maybe once per week -- sometimes once every few weeks -- I will stop at a Dunkin' Donuts on the way to work. Each time, I pull up to the speaker and order the same thing: a ham, egg and cheese bagel and a medium coffee with cream and sugar.

To my surprise/horror/delight, the guy behind the speaker eventually started recognizing me (I guess they have a camera) and saying, in what I am pretty sure is a slight Lebanese accent:

"Hey, bahddy. Hameggandcheesemediumcoffeeonev'rythingbagel?"

(Don't worry. He never actually puts the coffee on the bagel.)

To which I reply, "You got it! Thanks." Or some variation, thereof. (I actually do try to remember what I said the previous time, so it doesn't become a scripted dialogue. I find is useful to add a "thank you, sir" to the end. Anything to break the repetition. My counterpart behind the speaker never seems concerned about this: "Hey, bahddy. Hameggandcheesemediumcoffeeonev'rythingbagel?" Every time.)

Ample Space to Breathe

Albert Bierstadt

We in the field of education are lucky, about one thing in particular: vacation time. Some think the life of a teacher is easy. No, it is not. In fact, I would argue (and have argued, I think) that the months during which we work are more intense than those of many occupations. The fact remains, however, that we do get some nice, extended stints of time off. This is good.

I've been on Easter Break (it's okay for me to say that, because I work in a Catholic school -- I recall reading once, in a piece by Dave Barry, that he found it strange that kids in public school, at holiday concerts, were only allowed to sing about the weather) and, this morning, it occurred to me what a wonderful thing it is to wake up and not have a destination to reach or a pressing thing to achieve, at least immediately.

True Suffering

I could be lonely. I could be sick. I could have a child and have no means to care for it and no paper on which to write a letter to the Sisters of Mercy for his doorstep basket. I could be starving, or under fire. I could be losing my wife to man with big muscles and golden hair and more income. I could be disabled. I could have just accidentally swallowed some poison that looked exactly like lemonade. I could be the thrall of some alien tyrant on a frozen planet in another solar system where thralls are worked mercilessly for twenty years and then tortured to death for thirty. I could be really, really ugly. (Like, bulldog ugly.) I could be friendless (perhaps as a result of my extreme ugliness). I could be dying. I could be wanted for a crime I did not commit. I could be inexplicably depressed. I could be a brilliant singer who was born without a voice.

But I am not.

I'll tell you one thing, though: if this idiot behind the drive-through window doesn't hurry up with my coffee, I'm going to lose control. One thing I cannot take is slow service. It drives me nuts.

Degas: Melancholy

From Muzzle to Mitt

Exhaustion has set in. The end of the school year is like that last winded push for the goal line when you have nothing left.

(I know a million other professionals out there are saying: "Yeah, teachers. They get off in the summer... " 1) I don’t, for the record. 2) If teachers are good, they work all summer on their own. 3) Imagine if your job were to “perform” five to eight shows a day and then spend your nights and weekends preparing lessons and grading papers. Trust me, hardworking non-teachers: It is, contrary to popular belief, a “real job.” You even get a daily evaluation from your kids, who can make you life heaven or hell with a slight shift in attitude. Can you control 30 teenagers in a room and keep them interested in what you have to say for seventy minutes? I didn’t THINK so. Now what? What? That’s what I thought. Hmmpf.)

Anyway, I thought I would give you a quick run down of my day, today, in all of its surrealistic insanity:

6:00 AM: Awakened to a soft white fuzzy muzzle against my cheek. Smiled at cute dog. Scratched cute dog’s warm snoot. Pushed dog lovingly away. Vigorously rubbed my own face, pushing up with neck. Felt neck go p-toing! Neck has been loath to turn from side to side since then. Went into shower and washed head like an agitated monkey with really short arms, cursing the pain.

7:05 AM: Ran out front door, late. Stopped at fast food place for an eggish sandwich. Opened eggish sandwich. Sandwich was more greasy film than sandwich. It looked like a herring made of English muffin. Ate it anyway, because…what are you gonna do?

The Moments After Motion: Rabbit on a Leash

The other day, I got off of the treadmill and it felt like the floor under my feet was moving. You know the feeling? Or, did you ever sit at the back of a train and watch the track moving away from you toward the vanishing point? When the train stops, it appears that the track is still  moving slowly into the distance.

In both of these cases, the temporary state of being (in this case, motion) becomes sort of absorbed by our minds and bodies. Somewhere inside, the little dudes who run the machine in our brains say, "Okay -- we're moving. This is the way it is going to be. Time to internalize and react the current situation. Flip all necessary switches." Then, when it changes (the train stops, for instance) the little guys who just sat down to rest sigh and get back up again, "Reset switches, fellows!" But it takes a little time, so, the ground feels like its moving or the tracks look like they are moving away. Just until the switches get flipped again.

Lao Tzu

Lately, I have been on the literal treadmill, as mentioned above. I have also been on the figurative treadmill: busy at work; busy at home (both sons in the thick of activities with karate and baseball); busy with music (the band had been playing a lot); busy with a million other responsibilities... But the big thing has been that I found myself putting in days that ran from 6 AM to 8:30 PM, or beyond, before I could sit and breathe.

Then, one night, baseball practice was canceled. There was no karate. Band rehearsal was called off. I came home from school at around four o'clock and had nowhere to go and nothing pressing to do.

And what happened? Mr. Solitude; Mr. Self-reflection; Mr. Creative (who never has enough time for his arts) found himself pacing around the house for a few minutes, feeling stir-crazy. Me. After all my yapping about the joys of solitude and the quest for the time enough to enjoy it, I found myself feeling like a rabbit on a leash.