Overheard in the hall outside the teacher workroom, the bantering of freshmen after school.
Hey, Big Shoulders is pregnant.
No I'm not.
Concussor said so.
I'm surprised he didn't just tell her she had big pecs.
Hey, that was an honest mistake. I thought that's what biceps were called.
Don't you know that you can't comment on Big Shoulders' appearance?
Except to say that she has big shoulders.
I was just repeating what Concussor said.
I didn't say she was pregnant.
You said she was showing.
She said she was strong, and I said "It shows."
See what I have to put up with?
Welcome to my world, Big Shoulders. It's one big ol' Mad Hatter's tea party.
Monday, December 7, 2009
Sunday, December 6, 2009
Round One
My third child, Little H, is driving me crazy today. First cat out of the bag, he engineered a tantrum to rival a five-year-old over the difference between a tax receipt and a tax return. There I was, elbow deep in the second of my seven loads of laundry, when Little H stormed into the laundry room (where, I might add, against my home-building wishes and against my direct command, he installed a laundry sink between my washer and my dryer, necessitating a four-foot toss of the heavy soaked apparel into the maw of the Dryenator), waving last year's tax receipt.
This is not what I asked for!
You wanted the tax receipt and the tax return.
This is NOT a tax return.
I know that. It's the tax receipt.
You said you laid out the tax return last night.
No, I said 'the tax receipt'. It's all I found so far.
You said the tax return got water on it from the sink.
No, I said the tax receipt got wet.
I don't need this. I need the taxes.
I thought you needed the tax return.
This is not it!
I know that.
I need the tax return with your SS# on it.
I know right where it is.
This is not the tax return.
I KNOW! Would you quit saying that?
You don't know what you're talking about.
That is a tax RECEIPT!
I KNOW THAT! You are the one who called it a tax return.
No I didn't. Why would I do that? I know what it is.
The tax return is what I need.
I know. I just didn't get it yet.
This is not the tax return.
I KNOW!!! Will you quit?
I should know better than to try to talk to you.
You never could say what you mean.
You're the one who can't understand.
I'm not the only one.
Who? Who else?
Everybody at work that you yell at, and the kids, and my mom.
I can't take it anymore!
With that, Little H stomped back into the kitchen, threw his home-laid chicken eggs back in the carton, took his ham out of the skillet, rinsed the skillet like it had never been used, and took off for parts unknown, flapping his arms, badmouthing me.
Earlier in the week, he had asked for last year's tax receipt, and a copy of the tax return. Two items, you see. He needed the receipt for auto licensing, and the return for some retirement mumbo-jumbo. He said he didn't need them right away. It was kind of a busy week. Friday, I laid the tax receipt on the kitchen counter by Little H's phone, figuring that's where he would notice it. I did not yet have a copy of the tax return. After the laundry room kerflulffle, I went to the kitchen table and picked up the tax booklet (which housed the tax return) to make a copy. Little H had rematerialized and was plopped in the La-Z-Boy. He mocked me as I walked down the basement stairs. "I don't need it NOW."
Hillbilly Mansion. We fight more before 8:00 a.m. than most people do all year.
This is not what I asked for!
You wanted the tax receipt and the tax return.
This is NOT a tax return.
I know that. It's the tax receipt.
You said you laid out the tax return last night.
No, I said 'the tax receipt'. It's all I found so far.
You said the tax return got water on it from the sink.
No, I said the tax receipt got wet.
I don't need this. I need the taxes.
I thought you needed the tax return.
This is not it!
I know that.
I need the tax return with your SS# on it.
I know right where it is.
This is not the tax return.
I KNOW! Would you quit saying that?
You don't know what you're talking about.
That is a tax RECEIPT!
I KNOW THAT! You are the one who called it a tax return.
No I didn't. Why would I do that? I know what it is.
The tax return is what I need.
I know. I just didn't get it yet.
This is not the tax return.
I KNOW!!! Will you quit?
I should know better than to try to talk to you.
You never could say what you mean.
You're the one who can't understand.
I'm not the only one.
Who? Who else?
Everybody at work that you yell at, and the kids, and my mom.
I can't take it anymore!
With that, Little H stomped back into the kitchen, threw his home-laid chicken eggs back in the carton, took his ham out of the skillet, rinsed the skillet like it had never been used, and took off for parts unknown, flapping his arms, badmouthing me.
Earlier in the week, he had asked for last year's tax receipt, and a copy of the tax return. Two items, you see. He needed the receipt for auto licensing, and the return for some retirement mumbo-jumbo. He said he didn't need them right away. It was kind of a busy week. Friday, I laid the tax receipt on the kitchen counter by Little H's phone, figuring that's where he would notice it. I did not yet have a copy of the tax return. After the laundry room kerflulffle, I went to the kitchen table and picked up the tax booklet (which housed the tax return) to make a copy. Little H had rematerialized and was plopped in the La-Z-Boy. He mocked me as I walked down the basement stairs. "I don't need it NOW."
Hillbilly Mansion. We fight more before 8:00 a.m. than most people do all year.
Saturday, December 5, 2009
Height Is In The Eye Of The Beholder
Mrs. Hillbilly Mom spreads joy throughout Hillmomba on a regular basis. Sometimes, it is a calculated effort. Sometimes, it is inadvertent. Case in point:
Last Monday, I was standing in the hall between classes as required by the faculty handbook, but ignored by the hoity-toities. Starter came traipsing down the hall, all cherub-faced and Boy Scoutish, his tongue no doubt wound tight as the rubber-band propeller on a Balsa Sky Streak glider in preparation to disrupt my class.
Yet something was different about Starter. I couldn't quite put my finger on it. I hadn't seen the lad for four days, what with Thanksgiving break, and he looked different, by cracky! It wasn't the hair length or the facial features or the manner of dress or glasses or braces or hair color. Then it hit me. The little imp looked taller!
Hey! You look taller today. Did you get new shoes?
What? Are you kidding me?
No. You look taller.
You just made my day!
It wasn't intentional.
Seriously. Finally!
No different shoes?
No. This is great! I'm so happy!
Well, you DO look taller.
Maybe I'm five four and a HALF now, instead of five four!
I didn't know he would flip out. He really did look taller. Of course, he talked about it at lunch, and saw me making copies on my plan time and stopped outside the teacher workroom door to thank me again, and told all his teammates again at basketball practice until they razzed him unmercifully.
But he really DID look taller.
Last Monday, I was standing in the hall between classes as required by the faculty handbook, but ignored by the hoity-toities. Starter came traipsing down the hall, all cherub-faced and Boy Scoutish, his tongue no doubt wound tight as the rubber-band propeller on a Balsa Sky Streak glider in preparation to disrupt my class.
Yet something was different about Starter. I couldn't quite put my finger on it. I hadn't seen the lad for four days, what with Thanksgiving break, and he looked different, by cracky! It wasn't the hair length or the facial features or the manner of dress or glasses or braces or hair color. Then it hit me. The little imp looked taller!
Hey! You look taller today. Did you get new shoes?
What? Are you kidding me?
No. You look taller.
You just made my day!
It wasn't intentional.
Seriously. Finally!
No different shoes?
No. This is great! I'm so happy!
Well, you DO look taller.
Maybe I'm five four and a HALF now, instead of five four!
I didn't know he would flip out. He really did look taller. Of course, he talked about it at lunch, and saw me making copies on my plan time and stopped outside the teacher workroom door to thank me again, and told all his teammates again at basketball practice until they razzed him unmercifully.
But he really DID look taller.
Friday, December 4, 2009
Putting #1 Back Together Again
Last night the #1 son came downstairs during the end of Survivor to torment me. Nothing like watching 99% of a show and then being distracted.
Feel my head.
Why? Do you have a fever?
No. Right here.
I don't want to feel that lump in your stitch area again.
Look. What do you see?
It looks like a scab.
No.
Yeah. Here, I'll get it.
See? It won't come off. It's not a scab.
Then what is it?
It's a piece of thread.
No. They took out your stitches.
The black ones. This is a white thread.
The boy was right. I could even see it from where he sat down on the couch. About 5 feet way, with bad lighting. It was at the top of the cut above his eye, where he bashed his face on the concrete-block wall during basketball practice. A little white thread was sticking out, about a half-inch long. Surely that was not normal. He split his head open three weeks ago. The stitches have been out for two weeks. Or so we thought.
"Since the swelling went down, it's been more noticeable. I thought it was a scab. But it wouldn't come off. It's that thread he used to sew me up."
That's what you get when you let the doctor's office bully you into taking an appointment with a nurse practitioner, because only the nurse practitioners remove stitches in this office. So I did what any normal mommy would have done, and called the ER that put in #1's stitches.
I brought my son there for stitches three weeks ago. The next week we had them taken out at his doctor's office by a nurse practitioner. She got all the black stitches, but now there's a white thread sticking out the top of his scar. What should we do about that? Cut it off? Leave it alone? Take him back to the doctor?
Oh. Let me ask the doctor.
Ma'am? Didn't the doctor do a double-layer repair? I think he did. He says that the white stitches will dissolve. Can you pull on it? Yank it out. Or just cut it off. The inside will dissolve.
Oh, I can't yank it out. But I'll tell him to try that. Thank you so much.
Hey, I'm off the phone. The doctor said to yank it out. Come here.
NO. You're not yanking it.
Or he said to cut it off. It won't hurt anything.
I'll do it.
Just yank it.
I'm going to look in the mirror.
Hey! It came out when I yanked really hard. Look at it.
Yeah. It's a white thread.
But it has red on it. Well, it used to be red. It's kind of brown now.
Whatever.
Hey, Pony! Wanna see my stitch?
Not really. The Pony doesn't get excited about much. But I'm certainly glad this latest crisis is over. Can't have my boy running around with a loose thread flopping over his eyebrow.
Feel my head.
Why? Do you have a fever?
No. Right here.
I don't want to feel that lump in your stitch area again.
Look. What do you see?
It looks like a scab.
No.
Yeah. Here, I'll get it.
See? It won't come off. It's not a scab.
Then what is it?
It's a piece of thread.
No. They took out your stitches.
The black ones. This is a white thread.
The boy was right. I could even see it from where he sat down on the couch. About 5 feet way, with bad lighting. It was at the top of the cut above his eye, where he bashed his face on the concrete-block wall during basketball practice. A little white thread was sticking out, about a half-inch long. Surely that was not normal. He split his head open three weeks ago. The stitches have been out for two weeks. Or so we thought.
"Since the swelling went down, it's been more noticeable. I thought it was a scab. But it wouldn't come off. It's that thread he used to sew me up."
That's what you get when you let the doctor's office bully you into taking an appointment with a nurse practitioner, because only the nurse practitioners remove stitches in this office. So I did what any normal mommy would have done, and called the ER that put in #1's stitches.
I brought my son there for stitches three weeks ago. The next week we had them taken out at his doctor's office by a nurse practitioner. She got all the black stitches, but now there's a white thread sticking out the top of his scar. What should we do about that? Cut it off? Leave it alone? Take him back to the doctor?
Oh. Let me ask the doctor.
Ma'am? Didn't the doctor do a double-layer repair? I think he did. He says that the white stitches will dissolve. Can you pull on it? Yank it out. Or just cut it off. The inside will dissolve.
Oh, I can't yank it out. But I'll tell him to try that. Thank you so much.
Hey, I'm off the phone. The doctor said to yank it out. Come here.
NO. You're not yanking it.
Or he said to cut it off. It won't hurt anything.
I'll do it.
Just yank it.
I'm going to look in the mirror.
Hey! It came out when I yanked really hard. Look at it.
Yeah. It's a white thread.
But it has red on it. Well, it used to be red. It's kind of brown now.
Whatever.
Hey, Pony! Wanna see my stitch?
Not really. The Pony doesn't get excited about much. But I'm certainly glad this latest crisis is over. Can't have my boy running around with a loose thread flopping over his eyebrow.
Thursday, December 3, 2009
Subzilla Wreaks Havoc
Today I learned that my substitute yesterday turned up the thermostat to 80. I didn't know it was that flagrant a violation of the Don't Mess With The Thermostat rule. When I entered the room to pick up The Pony after my radioactive-iodine-drinking binge, the heat hit me like a slap to the face. It was 75 at that time. My 5th hour said they almost died of heat stroke. Of course, if they had shut their mouths, the hot air might have dissipated more quickly.
Upon logging onto my school laptop, I found that the sub had been on it under the moniker hslab. That is just NOT an option in my room. I should have known when I saw that the lid was closed. I can only hope that she undocked it and fiddled about trying to connect to wireless, which is NOT an option in my room and several others. I'm not sure what we pay Tech Dude for. Perhaps for sending out snide little messages about not logging off even though the laptop won't log off. Which is beside the point anyway, because I turned the freakin' power off when I left Tuesday afternoon. Then there was the issue last year about all computers shutting down automatically every night to save electricity. Apparently we are gobbling kilowatts willy-nilly this year, as the instructions are to leave on your computers so they can run the updates overnight. But getting back to Subzilla...she had no business on my laptop. She did not use it for taking attendance. That is the only reason it would possibly be necessary, and paper forms are provided for attendance for subs, which she used.
Subzilla did not give out the make-up work that I left on my desk in plain sight, labeled Make-Up Work, sorted by class period. She did not manage the classroom in an acceptable manner, as evidenced by writing in the dust on the bottom of my future assignment cart, where today's tests were stored, and anecdotal evidence from students selling out other students, and complaints from office workers. There was also the matter of the poster that fell off the wall. Did Subzilla stick it back up? NO. She laid it on my desk. No wonder it fell off, what with the blazing dry heat of 10,000 suns pumping out near the ceiling. I told Mr. Principal in the hall after academic team practice that I was NOT happy with Subzilla's services, and I would prefer not to have Subzilla in my classroom ever again. We'll see how effective that is.
Letting students switch seats and slither around on the floor and verbally assault people who enter the classroom is just not acceptable for Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's classroom.
Upon logging onto my school laptop, I found that the sub had been on it under the moniker hslab. That is just NOT an option in my room. I should have known when I saw that the lid was closed. I can only hope that she undocked it and fiddled about trying to connect to wireless, which is NOT an option in my room and several others. I'm not sure what we pay Tech Dude for. Perhaps for sending out snide little messages about not logging off even though the laptop won't log off. Which is beside the point anyway, because I turned the freakin' power off when I left Tuesday afternoon. Then there was the issue last year about all computers shutting down automatically every night to save electricity. Apparently we are gobbling kilowatts willy-nilly this year, as the instructions are to leave on your computers so they can run the updates overnight. But getting back to Subzilla...she had no business on my laptop. She did not use it for taking attendance. That is the only reason it would possibly be necessary, and paper forms are provided for attendance for subs, which she used.
Subzilla did not give out the make-up work that I left on my desk in plain sight, labeled Make-Up Work, sorted by class period. She did not manage the classroom in an acceptable manner, as evidenced by writing in the dust on the bottom of my future assignment cart, where today's tests were stored, and anecdotal evidence from students selling out other students, and complaints from office workers. There was also the matter of the poster that fell off the wall. Did Subzilla stick it back up? NO. She laid it on my desk. No wonder it fell off, what with the blazing dry heat of 10,000 suns pumping out near the ceiling. I told Mr. Principal in the hall after academic team practice that I was NOT happy with Subzilla's services, and I would prefer not to have Subzilla in my classroom ever again. We'll see how effective that is.
Letting students switch seats and slither around on the floor and verbally assault people who enter the classroom is just not acceptable for Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's classroom.
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
Mrs. Hillbilly Mom Is Hot
Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is hot. HOT! As in Karen Silkwood hot. Radioactive!
Today I had to chug some radioactive iodine for a thyroid scan. That's done in the nuclear medicine department, you know. And they run a tight ship. I was told to arrive at 7:30 a.m., and I was taken in at 7:30 a.m. Jim, my nuclear med tech, gave me a wee bottle of water. He said I could use it to swallow my two large orange horse pills of radiation. They were capsules, actually, but still quite large and orange. I have no trouble swallowing pills, even after no water since midnight. They reminded me of one of those camera capsules that people ingest to take pictures of their digestive tract.
The only apprehensive moment of my morning foray into the world of nuclear medicine was that Jim was a bit palsied during the handing out of the hot capsules. Why did Jim's hands shake so? Was he nervous about handling radiation on a daily basis? Was he a secret alcoholic with morning tremors? Was he coming down with Michael J. Fox disease? I don't know. But that's what was on my mind while I took the pills. That vial of radioactive iodine capsules was in a special little cannister, and when Jim took the lid off of the vial, there was a lead liner on top. It looked kind of like a watch battery, but something tells me that Jim wasn't storing his watch battery in the radioactive iodine. If I may, Jim, let me recommend a self-winding watch, what with your tremors and all, because that thing would run for eternity.
Jim passed me on to Rachel, who did an ultrasound that I had been happily ignorant of until she laid me down on that gray-mattressed table. Nobody mentioned an ultrasound. But Rachel was all gung-ho about it, declaring that she had given my goiter its very first ultrasound several years ago. This is entirely plausible. I didn't know Rachel from Adam, but I took her word for it. It's not like my goiter gets around on the down-low, having liasons with lab techs all willy-nilly. Rachel needs to changer her name to Even Steven for my intents and purposes. She got off on the wrong foot by sliding her scanner into that jelly on my neck and declaring, "That thing is a monster." Thank you OH SO MUCH, Rachel, for pointing out how I must be at death's door, with a goiter the size to rival that of the old woman that Elaine volunteered for on Seinfeld, a goiter so big that the woman kept the lights off to tell Elaine the story of her flaming passion for Mohondas. Ghandi. Rachel redeemed herself, though, by looking back at my 2005 thyroid ultrasound, and telling me that it is now 1 cm larger. Which is not good news to me, but a check in the good column to bring Rachel back up to even. Because she didn't have to do that.
After that, I was free to roam about the county until 1:30. At that time, I had a hot date with a bearded dude who had informed me during Jim's mini-quake that he had poured all of his thyroid medication down the sink. He had meant to run himself a glass of water, and had dropped the pill he was shaking into his hand, and all of them poured down the sink. Guess that's why they let Shaky Jim handle the radioactive stuff. Anyhoo, MedicineWaster said that he tried to refill his prescription, but that the recording told him he had to wait 17 days. I told him I had some thyroid meds cooling their heels in my kitchen cabinet, since I had to go off them 22 days ago for this thyroid scan. MW was probably a mole for the DEA.
For the next step in my torture, MW took me into a room with a little hard hammock. That's what it looked like. It was about 16 inches across, and 10 feet long. It reminded me of something an alien would strap you on for an anal probe. Not that I was ever abducted by aliens. MW told me to get comfortable on that thingy, and I told him I didn't think I would fit, and he said of course I would. He placed a folded-up pillowcase for me to rest my head upon, got me a wedge thingy to go under my knees, and a large fur-less muff dealy to place my arms in so they didn't hang over the sides, and a WARM BLANKET. It was the warmest I'd been all day.
Then the torture began. MW informed me that I would have to lie perfectly still while a giant machine hovered over me to take pictures. It's not like I was in a tube or anything, but I feel trapped when I think I can't get up and run out. I told MW. He said that the sides were open, but the machine would be right over me, and might even touch me, and that maybe I should just close my eyes. So I did. I heard that behemoth whirring into place. I could feel its hot breath upon my face. Then MW told me the first picture would take 2 minutes. I counted by a-thousand-ones to get through it. It worked. Then MW told me after different positioning of the behemoth, I would have a 4-minute, 5-minute, 5-minute, and 5-minute series of pictures. I did not think I could endure such torture. MW asked if I wanted some music, which soothed my savage panic, and I somewhat counted and listened to the Eagles (In the Long Run), the Doobies (Black Water), Jackson Browne (Doctor My Eyes), and Elton John (Bennie and the Jets). I hope there's no cryptic message there. MW told his assistant to turn on Pandora, and that's what came out.
When I had been soundly photographed, MW told me to sit in the outer room for a doctor to come talk to me. But the doctor wouldn't talk to me. I assume it was the radiologist who reads the results. MW came back and said the doctor said he had all he needed, and that my own doctor would be getting the results in one or two days, and would contact me. Which doesn't bode well with me. Because if there was nothing wrong, wouldn't the doctor dude just come out and tell me?
But at least I'm still hot for another couple of days.
Today I had to chug some radioactive iodine for a thyroid scan. That's done in the nuclear medicine department, you know. And they run a tight ship. I was told to arrive at 7:30 a.m., and I was taken in at 7:30 a.m. Jim, my nuclear med tech, gave me a wee bottle of water. He said I could use it to swallow my two large orange horse pills of radiation. They were capsules, actually, but still quite large and orange. I have no trouble swallowing pills, even after no water since midnight. They reminded me of one of those camera capsules that people ingest to take pictures of their digestive tract.
The only apprehensive moment of my morning foray into the world of nuclear medicine was that Jim was a bit palsied during the handing out of the hot capsules. Why did Jim's hands shake so? Was he nervous about handling radiation on a daily basis? Was he a secret alcoholic with morning tremors? Was he coming down with Michael J. Fox disease? I don't know. But that's what was on my mind while I took the pills. That vial of radioactive iodine capsules was in a special little cannister, and when Jim took the lid off of the vial, there was a lead liner on top. It looked kind of like a watch battery, but something tells me that Jim wasn't storing his watch battery in the radioactive iodine. If I may, Jim, let me recommend a self-winding watch, what with your tremors and all, because that thing would run for eternity.
Jim passed me on to Rachel, who did an ultrasound that I had been happily ignorant of until she laid me down on that gray-mattressed table. Nobody mentioned an ultrasound. But Rachel was all gung-ho about it, declaring that she had given my goiter its very first ultrasound several years ago. This is entirely plausible. I didn't know Rachel from Adam, but I took her word for it. It's not like my goiter gets around on the down-low, having liasons with lab techs all willy-nilly. Rachel needs to changer her name to Even Steven for my intents and purposes. She got off on the wrong foot by sliding her scanner into that jelly on my neck and declaring, "That thing is a monster." Thank you OH SO MUCH, Rachel, for pointing out how I must be at death's door, with a goiter the size to rival that of the old woman that Elaine volunteered for on Seinfeld, a goiter so big that the woman kept the lights off to tell Elaine the story of her flaming passion for Mohondas. Ghandi. Rachel redeemed herself, though, by looking back at my 2005 thyroid ultrasound, and telling me that it is now 1 cm larger. Which is not good news to me, but a check in the good column to bring Rachel back up to even. Because she didn't have to do that.
After that, I was free to roam about the county until 1:30. At that time, I had a hot date with a bearded dude who had informed me during Jim's mini-quake that he had poured all of his thyroid medication down the sink. He had meant to run himself a glass of water, and had dropped the pill he was shaking into his hand, and all of them poured down the sink. Guess that's why they let Shaky Jim handle the radioactive stuff. Anyhoo, MedicineWaster said that he tried to refill his prescription, but that the recording told him he had to wait 17 days. I told him I had some thyroid meds cooling their heels in my kitchen cabinet, since I had to go off them 22 days ago for this thyroid scan. MW was probably a mole for the DEA.
For the next step in my torture, MW took me into a room with a little hard hammock. That's what it looked like. It was about 16 inches across, and 10 feet long. It reminded me of something an alien would strap you on for an anal probe. Not that I was ever abducted by aliens. MW told me to get comfortable on that thingy, and I told him I didn't think I would fit, and he said of course I would. He placed a folded-up pillowcase for me to rest my head upon, got me a wedge thingy to go under my knees, and a large fur-less muff dealy to place my arms in so they didn't hang over the sides, and a WARM BLANKET. It was the warmest I'd been all day.
Then the torture began. MW informed me that I would have to lie perfectly still while a giant machine hovered over me to take pictures. It's not like I was in a tube or anything, but I feel trapped when I think I can't get up and run out. I told MW. He said that the sides were open, but the machine would be right over me, and might even touch me, and that maybe I should just close my eyes. So I did. I heard that behemoth whirring into place. I could feel its hot breath upon my face. Then MW told me the first picture would take 2 minutes. I counted by a-thousand-ones to get through it. It worked. Then MW told me after different positioning of the behemoth, I would have a 4-minute, 5-minute, 5-minute, and 5-minute series of pictures. I did not think I could endure such torture. MW asked if I wanted some music, which soothed my savage panic, and I somewhat counted and listened to the Eagles (In the Long Run), the Doobies (Black Water), Jackson Browne (Doctor My Eyes), and Elton John (Bennie and the Jets). I hope there's no cryptic message there. MW told his assistant to turn on Pandora, and that's what came out.
When I had been soundly photographed, MW told me to sit in the outer room for a doctor to come talk to me. But the doctor wouldn't talk to me. I assume it was the radiologist who reads the results. MW came back and said the doctor said he had all he needed, and that my own doctor would be getting the results in one or two days, and would contact me. Which doesn't bode well with me. Because if there was nothing wrong, wouldn't the doctor dude just come out and tell me?
But at least I'm still hot for another couple of days.
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Ripping The Ripper
The student who ripped me off for $10 in the candle fundraiser says she is moving. I think that's a bit extreme to get out of a debt, but perhaps this time it's not all about me. Thing is, she says I should be nice to her because she is leaving. I say she should be nice to me, because she ripped me off for $10.
Hey, I lost it.
That's not my problem.
It's not MY problem.
Yes, it is. It was your responsibility.
Well, I'm going to pay you back.
Anytime.
Won't you miss me when I leave?
I don't know. It depends on if anyone else takes $10 from me.
You should throw me a party.
I just might. After you leave.
How's that a party for ME?
Well, when you pay me back that $10, I can spend it on a party for the class.
But I won't be here.
No, but it will be your party.
How?
It will be your gone-away party. In your honor.
But it won't be a party for ME.
Yes, it will. We can all enjoy your party after you're gone. Except maybe YOU.
You're mean.
I'm $10 poorer than I was at the beginning of the school year. That makes me mean.
Which may sound kind of cruel, but she didn't have to 'lose' my $10 and then tell me that it was stolen and then tell me it was lost and say she's going to pay me back when she's had a month to do that already and then act like it is totally no big deal and I should just forget about it and not expect her to pay.
Try that in the real world, girly. I'm teaching you a life lesson. People do not react kindly when you rip them off.
Hey, I lost it.
That's not my problem.
It's not MY problem.
Yes, it is. It was your responsibility.
Well, I'm going to pay you back.
Anytime.
Won't you miss me when I leave?
I don't know. It depends on if anyone else takes $10 from me.
You should throw me a party.
I just might. After you leave.
How's that a party for ME?
Well, when you pay me back that $10, I can spend it on a party for the class.
But I won't be here.
No, but it will be your party.
How?
It will be your gone-away party. In your honor.
But it won't be a party for ME.
Yes, it will. We can all enjoy your party after you're gone. Except maybe YOU.
You're mean.
I'm $10 poorer than I was at the beginning of the school year. That makes me mean.
Which may sound kind of cruel, but she didn't have to 'lose' my $10 and then tell me that it was stolen and then tell me it was lost and say she's going to pay me back when she's had a month to do that already and then act like it is totally no big deal and I should just forget about it and not expect her to pay.
Try that in the real world, girly. I'm teaching you a life lesson. People do not react kindly when you rip them off.
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