Week Eighteen: December 21st

(Bearder's Note: This being our last week of school until after the new year, there will now be a two-week interval before my next entry.)

Thus...

"The Bottom Line."

This beard, also known as "The Foundation," is to serve as the building-block from which a full-beard (or at least as full as the next two weeks will allow me) shall spring. Plus, what is a good beard if not doubly-named in the manner of many magazines' year-end double issues (a phenomenon I always viewed as the desperate make-up ploy after some editor's miscount. "Doug, we'd better make this next issue a double! The folks are bound to notice we promised them 53 issues this year, and I just realized there are only 52 weeks this year. How did that slip by me...?)

Even now, as I write in the wake of the intervening week, I have additional growth that probably surpasses The Burgeoning Beard. A solid start if I do say so myself.

Our final week of school, a disastrously-scheduled three day week culminating in a full day on the 23rd, saw most people in our building barely survive with patience intact. Some, suspiciously, did not "survive" at all (missing the last one or two days.) Being at the mercy of the high schools' final exam schedule, and the fact that they take the approach of the Chinese voters for NBA All-Stars--packing the box with representatives when the middle schools and elementaries stay home--we all get stuck with a series of full days despite the fact that the high schools, and their teachers, spend no more than a half day each day. I probably owe my full class roster on the final day solely to my sheer force of intimidation and scary, beardly nature. This is especially impressive considering that our annual (class) "Winter Parties" occurred on Tuesday. Either my out-sized scariness was to blame, or lots of folks were in my position and had enormous amounts of shopping to complete as of the 23rd, and it was far easier to do with no children in tow.

Now that Friday's tribute to capitalistic spending sprees has passed, and the floor to our daughters' room has not seen the light from its one open window shade in days, we are ready to move on. No longer shall I feel as though Target will begin charging us rent for loitering so long within their confines.

At the very least, the Bottom Line will keep my chin and jaw warm in these now snowy conditions. To that end, it has already been a success: I returned from a run on Christmas Day with a spit icicle dangling from my lower left jawbone, clinging firmly to the patch of hair now growing there.

Ah, tis the season.