Val Feels the Cold Like a Thin Man

It's been pretty cold around Backroads lately. Cold in my house, cold outside, cold in my classroom, cold in the cafeteria. The only place I am truly warm is plopped upon the leather heated seats of T-Hoe, with the heater set at 76 degrees, blowing on feet and face. Ahhhh...the best part of my day is the drive to school. And the drive home.

The workday itself is chilling. My desk is positioned directly in front of a window that lets the door suck in cold air, even when closed. I think it has something to do with the way the kitchen is ventilated, since my classroom is directly across the hall from the kitchen. So that frigid draft swirls up the back of my neck, down to my toes on the industrial tile floor, and across me on its way to the door and freedom once again as it exits through the kitchen vents.

You don't know how disappointed I am each time I reach down to fire up my space heater that sits under my desk, and remember that my space heater is BACK HOME IN MY DARK BASEMENT LAIR.

Today I was busy tying up some loose ends, and couldn't wear my flannel jacket that I drape over the back of my rolly chair for this season. The jacket is borrowed from Hick, and has cuffs that want to sweep the very papers that I am working on right off my desk and onto the floor. But it's warm.

Since I wasn't wearing my Hick jacket when the bell rang for lunch at 10:53, I went to lunch without my Hick jacket. Woe was me. The drafts in that lunchroom are incredible. I had to stick my fingers into my armpits like Mary Katherine Gallagher to keep them from dropping off due to frostbite. Let the record show that I did NOT sniff them.

When the bell rang to end lunch, I waited a minute as usual. I don't have a class after lunch, so I wait until the cafeteria has emptied. My lunchtime companion who is also a relative waits as well. Even though she has a class. And today, the colleague who insists on sitting by me also stayed, telling a tale to Mr. Principal. I don't mind listening in on a good tale. But I prefer the teller to be a skosh less dramatic. Every time she made a point, Teller waved her arms expansively. And on the end of that arm right beside my head, as I was still sitting and she was standing, was a plate she had used for lunch. If only it had been a palm frond, and us on a tropical beach, I might not be complaining now. But complain I must.

Teller fanned that plate like she was trying to restart a fire with the last dying ember. Oh, if only there had been an ember to fan. Not a Val to draft. I felt like Demi Moore as Jules, trying to commit suicide by sitting in front of the open window with the billowing curtains in one of the more ridiculous scenes from St. Elmo's Fire.

I was almost ready to grab the hot sauce off the condiment cart and douse myself to generate some heat.

(Feel free to find the source of that partial quote in the title without consulting my BFF Google)