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Before I start receiving emails about my lack of summer posts thus far, I just want all you good people to know that there is a reason. Really. It was imperative that I waited until my blood pressure had gone down enough to sit at a keyboard and type out the whole sordid affair. I also needed about 17 hours of uninterrupted sleep and possibly that many beers to try to forget about it.

Ok. So. My attempt to get to Rochester on Wednesday afternoon. I left my place a little before 11 a.m. , after talking to The Boy and mentioning I was not looking forward to this long-ass haul. (Note: I didn’t know it at the time, but this was karmic retribution, Take 1- don’t complain about things that could be a thousand times worse). Regardless, the six hour drive had started off normally, the sky was overcast and a little menacing, but nothing my little Civic couldn’t handle. I had packed away a granola bar and a diet cherry vanilla Coke as a reserve snack and I was grooving to some shuffled tunes thanks to my little nano. The Mass Pike was smooth sailing, despite the spitting rain, and I made it to NY in just a couple of hours.

As I cruised down the Thruway towards Albany I noticed a giant blinking sign on the side of the highway. THRUWAY CLOSED FROM 25A TO 36. SEEK ALTERNATE ROUTE. “Well that can’t be right,” I thought to myself. “That’s like a 150 mile stretch. They must mean 25 to 26.” In retrospect, this is where it all started to fall apart; the beginning of my downward spiral into a horrendous NY State folly.

Because as soon as I had that thought, I had to slam on my brakes to avoid the bumper to bumper standstill on the highway. (Good thing, too, since I was behind a state trooper. Actually, a trip to jail is probably the only thing that could have made this journey worse.) Still in my naively optimistic mood I thought: must be an accident, it’ll clear up soon enough. It took about a half hour of not moving for me to even start to get concerned, and I textmessaged The Boy. “What’s up with the Thruway being closed?” No immediate response. Hmm.

Another half hour went by of us sloooowly crawling. And another. When The Boy calls back he says, “the website just shows red for traffic the entire length of the Thruway.” Something was starting to click in the back of my mind- something very unpleasant. He was trying to tell me other things, but I was concentrating too hard on getting the stupid earpiece that my sister bought me for $1 at a Florida fleamarket in my ear while driving behind a trooper to hear anything. After an hour and a half, I finally got up to the exit and find that the entire highway is being redirected to Route 20, a one lane road with a speed limit of 35, from Albany to Syracuse. You do the math. So, in a moment of genius, I had The Boy Google Map me different directions, thinking that I am so lucky to have the internet at the tips of my fingers. The new route would lead me down to Binghamton, a good 50 miles out of my way on 88, but would at least get me around this shitfest on the Thruway. I laughed a little at everyone getting off on 20 with the bumper to bumper standstill and zoom off down 88. (Karmic retribution, Take 2). I make it about 30 miles when all of a sudden there are orange cones everywhere, directing me off the highway with one small sign: Detour. I was starting to sweat. I didn’t even know where I was. Oneonta? What the hell is an Oneonta? I drive around there for a good 30 minutes, since there are no actual detour signs up, talking (read: freaking out) to The Boy. Finally I spied a State Police barrack and pulled in there.

When I pulled open the door I was confronted with a crush of people wedged in amongst two startled police officers and xeroxed papers flying all around. I grabbed at one- a partial map of NY highways. I pushed through the nuns and children to get some information. Why is everything closed? What the hell was going on? (Ok, I didn’t swear at the policeman. I should have though, he had a ridiculous mustache.) Officer Snidely Whiplash informed me that 88 had simply been washed away in a storm that morning, creating a 25 foot chasm in the highway, into which two truck drivers had driven their rigs, to their death. The Thruway was also closed due to flooding, and the only possible route that was still open was 20. I got back in my car, cried a little bit, and started out to follow the ridiculous route through Oneonta center that Whiplash had marked out for me through blurry tears. Since they had already closed 88 behind me I went another hour out of my way, past houses submerged in lakes and trailers washed away, just to get back to 20.

Route 20 remained as I had seen it earlier, bumper to bumper. Also of note here: no cell phone reception. I stopped at a pay phone, not even caring that the man before me had been spitting through his two front teeth onto the mouthpiece, and tried calling both The Boy and The Parents. No luck. Tears threatened to leak again, so I bought myself some Chex Party Mix and got back in the driver’s seat. Grimly, I steeled myself to sit through anything, and got out a book.

I sat on that stretch of Route 20 for three and a half hours with my car shut off, reading my book. Finally one of the truckers behind me strolled up. “Just heard on the CB, Route 20 is closed. Flooding. They were rerouting people on some side road and that road collapsed. Guess you should turn around. Oh, and the Thruway won’t be open until noon tomorrow. They sent out the National Guard. Want a cig for the road?” I politely declined the “cig” and started my car back up. To go where, I didn’t know. Back to town? Apparently everyone else had just heard the same news, so getting back to the center of town took another 45 minutes, sitting behind the Oswego police van. I briefly considered faking a heart attack to get them to Medi-Vac me out of that godforsaken area but instead contented myself with the bold flavor of the Chex and studying my map.

To make this story just a little shorter, I tried 4 other routes in this way, with the same results, until 9 p.m. My back hurt, my head hurt, I was sunburnt, tired, thirsty, I had to pee, and if I didn’t get out of my car soon I wouldn’t need to fake a heart attack. I drove past 6 motels with No Vacancy signs before I got to lucky number 7- KC’s Motel and Diner. I actually ran- ran- into the diner to get a room. I almost cried on the waitress’s shoulder, I was so relieved, but I noticed the egg bits on her shirt just in time. After I got the key and stepped out of the diner, two huge dudes whistled over to me. “Heeeey chickadee. Wanna smoke a doob with us?” A weak smile and a “no, thanks” as I grabbed all my stuff and shoved in my room, locked and bolted the door, and shoved the dresser in front of it. All I could think of was that someone must have seen me carrying Guitar Hero through the parking lot (a birthday present for The Boy), and they would obviously break into my room to get their hands on it, shooting me in the head in the process. Scenes from A History of Violence ran through my head. I talked to The Boy, who asked if I had any weapons with me (?!), and The Parents, who just said, “Next time you’ll check the news before you head out on a trip, won’t you?” (?!?!) I turned on some Fresh Prince to calm my nerves and drown out the sounds of drunk men outside my window.

I woke up every 15 minutes to check the traffic outside my window. Finally, at 4:30 a.m., it was magically gone. I grabbed all my stuff up and jumped in my car with my pajamas on, unsure of what to do with the key the motel had given me. Screw it, I took it with me. Giant signs on the side of the road proclaimed the Thruway open from Utica on. Never in my life have I been so happy and relieved. I didn’t care that the rest of 90 eastbound was still under water, I was free to go 90 mph on open highway with no one around me. I made it to Rochester by 7:15 a.m., in time to say good morning to The Boy before he went off to work and to promptly fall into a deep, deep sleep.

Which I have been doing up until this point. In fact, even though I woke up an hour ago, I could nap again right now.

Karma’s a bitch, people. And that is why I didn’t post yesterday. But my long, woeful tale should keep you occupied for a little while, at least, to make up for yesterday’s disappointment. Hope none of you were stuck out there with me.

PS- Only one good thing came of this adventure to the Central Leatherstocking Region: I found the Museum of Petrified Creatures. For real, yo.

I’ve never posted a picture on here, but I just couldn’t help myself. I know, I know… enough about Aidan!

But seriously, could he even be any cuter?

This is it, kids. I am officially done school. Don’t be hatin’. I can’t help it that my life rocks. I’ve said my goodbyes and I’m heading out to start my summer activities: getting a haircut and pedi, hitting up the ‘Bucks, then heading north to see my little Mr. Perfect. And tomorrow: rockin’ it in Rochester. NPW, out.

Peeps. Not much time to post today, but I didn’t want you to cry in my absence. My weekend was jammed full, and I’m sure you’ve all been hitting refresh on your browser just waiting for me to fill you in, so let’s get down to it.

First and foremost, Nahil had her baby, Aidan, on Friday at 10:55 p.m. I got to visit him bright and early on Saturday morning, hooray! He is nothing short of perfection. I must have given him a thousand kisses on his beautiful little peanut head. You know how some babies are wrinkly and look like aliens when they’re first born? Well not my Aidan. He came out as beautiful as his mother. (And didn’t have his father’s orange hair. Phew.)

Also noteworthy but less important, I was named Queen of Sangria on Friday night when I whipped up a batch for a friend’s BBQ. It may have rained on our parade a bit (or all weekend), but that didn’t stop us from enjoying my fruity wine beverage and various grilled things.

The rest of the weekend was spent cleaning like a banshee (banshees totally clean house, so shut it) and getting stuff ready for some NY time.

Because in case you weren’t already insanely jealous of my life, after tomorrow I am on SUMMER VACATION!

True, I had to wake up this morning while both of my roommates were still slumbering pleasantly in their beds because they already finished school. And yes, I had to give a presentation today on search engines. But I am so close to being done I can taste it. Tomorrow the puffer fish will be released into the wild deeps of the Atlantic off the coast of Cape Cod. Tomorrow I will pack up all the summer reading books I want to get through. Tomorrow we will enjoy a teacher luncheon, all together, for one final hurrah before we split up to regroup for a few months. Tomorrow I will wave goodbye to my crumbly, beloved library. For a little while at least.

Tomorrow, tomorrow.

A huge shout out to my boo- she will be giving birth to Aidan Joseph today, June 23rd! Props for going 5 days early, Nonnie. I can’t wait to meet him! Also: hope you don’t mind if I snap a few pictures of him to sell to People, your girl needs mad $$.

It’s been hot as a mofo up in this bibliotheque the past week and I’m feeling like an ant trapped under some sadistic little kid’s magnifying glass. I guess that’s to be expected when you work in a room made entirely of glass? Unpleasant as it is, I’ve resorted to turning off my office lights and staring dully at a blank Word document, which is only open in case someone finds me sitting here in the dark. In my feverish logic, having Word open ostensibly means I am doing something*.

We Bostoners have welcomed in the official start of summer today by entirely skipping that part of spring where the nights are cool and the days are warm. No, here we do things a little differently. We’re a city of extremes, an XCity, if you will. One week it’s cold as a witch’s tit and you think the rain will never end, the next week you’re sweating buckets in the library and wondering when Boston moved to southern Florida. Anyway, the stifling heat and humidity are just a few of the reasons why we should not be forced to stay in school past June 1, but the heat and humidity cause a whole host of other problems not to be taken lightly. For instance, what does one wear to school that is both cool enough to survive the day, but covered enough not to risk 8th graders ogling your breasts? Today I chose a sleeveless shirt- not really a tank top, yet also not a t-shirt. I forgot, however, that I would be cleaning and shelving today and so every time I leeeeaned over to pick up books from the cart, everyone in the library got a great shot of NPW’s bra/cleavage. It’s especially nice when the principal is reading the newspaper and gets a gratuitous skin shot. Hey, even principals like a little Girls Gone Wild, right?

(Good thing I already signed my contract for next year. Still, memo to myself: sweaters for the remaining days of school.)

Also, did I mention I am sick of school? I love my job and all, but I am done. There are so many other things I should be doing right now, and giving detentions for hucking donuts at each other is ranking pretty low on that list. So you may be asking yourself, “Self? What is NPW doing this summer that she feels she ought to be free from having to work like the rest of us poor saps?” The answer: even NPW doesn’t know. Right now it’s looking like tennis camp, maybe mix in a few trips to NY, some beach adventures, sipping iced tea at BBQs, and a lot of general lazing about. I loves me some unemployment time.

*Not that I’m complaining about the heat, mind you. It’s more the fact that I’m here in school and not lying on the beach or out in the grassy park. (3 days. 3 days. 3 days.)

I’d like to pose a very important question to my readers, one that I’ve been pondering all year: why are students constantly running through my library gushing blood from their noses? I mean, I know they are heading to the nurse. But how are so many students bleeding, seemingly on a daily basis? Could this be the reason they chose an orange rug in here? To hide the dull rust stains of thousands of children’s blood?

Does OSHA know about this?

I do seem to recall a lot of bloody noses when I was in middle school as well. I just can’t think of any specific reason. So help a girl out, people. I needs ta know.

Well hello again, my good friend Monday morning. So nice to see you- up and at ‘em, ready to start the week off right. I just wanted to let you know that even though I may not be seeing you for a while, your memory will live on in my heart until September.

A few years back I accompanied my friend L to get her license renewed in the lovely state of New Hampshire. As we were waiting in the cramped DMV office with the toothless, bearded, ripped Harley-Davidson t-shirt wearing crowd (both men and women), we amused ourselves with a running commentary on what the daily lives of these people must be like. While I don’t remember the exact banter, I do remember amusing ourselves so much that by the time it was L’s turn to get her picture taken we were doing that silent, gasping for air, tears streaming down our faces kind of laugh where you almost wished you had never been so funny in the first place. She got up and giggled her way over to the very unamused DMV worker, still clutching her stomach as if to hold in the derisive laughter.

L quickly stopped laughing once the DMV lady had snapped the photo that was to be laminated onto her license for the next 3 years. Mouth open with a half-snort, eyes both squinty and lazy, chins like crazy, skin a translucent white. The ride back to her apartment was silent, new license clutched tightly in her hand. And so for the last 3 years L has had to endure 30 seconds of torture at every bar and every show we’ve been to as bouncer after bouncer glared at her, stared down at the picture, glanced back up her with a little less hostility and a little more curiosity, and finally smirked to themselves and waved us in.

After making the move down to Boston, I tried to assuage my lingering feelings of guilt over the crazed-laughter picture by being overly enthusiastic about her new Mass license. “It’ll be so great. Just think- you’ll be recognizable!” It seemed to cheer her up some.

So I was more than a little surprised when this morning L looked up from her coffee mug with red-rimmed eyes and dully intoned, “I got my Massachusetts license in the mail.” It was then I noticed it, the innocent-seeming little rectangle sitting there on the table next to her bag, as if she was unable to put it in her wallet just yet. I cautiously ventured over to pick it up and before I could register the shock of the picture, words were already coming out of my mouth. “But… why? How? Your eyes… they’re so… dead. And why are you smiling only on the left side, like Katie Holmes? Your hair… was it raining? Were you angry? I just don’t… I don’t think I understand.”

The death glare I received in return was worse than the silent car ride home 3 years ago. Snapping my mouth shut, I gently laid the license next to her now-empty coffee mug and backed away, muttering incoherent things like “not so bad” and “quite presentable” and “at least you can buy beer at Fenway without actually bringing the doctors that pulled you out for proof of birthdate”.

Thank the good lord bird I had to be at work and I managed to escape. Lessons learned:

1. Never comment on a license photo. Ever. Ever, ever, ever.
2. Under no circumstances should you agree to accompany a friend to the DMV, even if you think you are helping.
3. No matter how bad you think something is, it can always get way worse.

At least I can’t be blamed for this one.

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