I've found a commercial almost as creepy as those thumb faces texting. It's the whiskers with the guy's face on every one of them on a shaver commercial. Ick!
The Very Special Chicken is no more. HH said he found it dead in the pen this morning. That thing better not have had Bird Flu! I'm not feeling so well. I picked up a cough on Thursday night. HH and the boys have been sick for a week, and they finally succeeded in their grand plan of infecting me. But back to the Very Special Chicken tragedy. HH has not yet broken the news to The Pony. As for the disposition of the remains, HH declared that he took it down in the woods, and that it is not in a sinkhole. Further questioning revealed that HH deposited The Very Special Chicken on the land that we bought from the LandStealer, on top of a brush pile. WTF? I don't know what's in that man's mind sometimes. How hard could it be to scoop out some soil, deposit the chicken, and cover it with stones? I suppose he is planning a grand funeral pyre one evening when he thinks we won't notice. Why would anybody put a dead chicken on top of a brush pile? How is it supposed to decay up there? HH. The Very Special Husband.
Groundhog Day is tomorrow. Happy Birthday to Mabel's son! Not that he's a groundhog or anything...that's just how to remember his birthday. I don't know about Punxsutawney Phil, but I think we're going to have six more week of winter.
I also predict the Cardinals win the Super Bowl.
It's not like I can edit posts to make my predictions 100% correct.
Sunday, February 1, 2009
Saturday, January 31, 2009
Baker's Dozen Minus Two
One month down, 11 more to go! Enjoy...remember that the end of the world is coming in 2012. I'm surprised that people don't just stop working and live off the fat of the land until then. What with all this global warming talk, I'm sure the polar icecaps will melt, the temperatures will even out, and we'll all be lolling about on floaties, drinking out of coconut shells, eating sea-kittens to our hearts' content.
I'm looking forward to the Super Bowl for the commercials, and to see if Kurt Warner can do it again. I've been a fan of Kurt since back when the Rams were a respectable team. He's a class act.
Is everybody working on their income tax forms? Time to pay the reaper. Or not. I think now you can just let those taxes go, and when you're caught several years down the line, just pay them then. That's how it works in Washington.
February brings birthdays for Hillbilly Mom and her little Pony, Valentine's Day for people who give a rip, the science convention that Mrs. HM will not be attending this year (which was agreed to by the person who told her she had to go last year, and she is fervently hoping that he did not forget that conversation by the copier last November), President's Day on which we will be attending school, a Trivia contest for which Mrs. HM, Basementia Buddy, and Mr. History have signed to play with the #1 son and friends, and a trip to see Jerry Seinfeld at the Fabulous Fox next Sunday.
Something in Mrs. HM's bones tells her that winter may not have given its last gasp yet. We are at 9 days missed and still counting.
The school year is not nearly over.
I'm looking forward to the Super Bowl for the commercials, and to see if Kurt Warner can do it again. I've been a fan of Kurt since back when the Rams were a respectable team. He's a class act.
Is everybody working on their income tax forms? Time to pay the reaper. Or not. I think now you can just let those taxes go, and when you're caught several years down the line, just pay them then. That's how it works in Washington.
February brings birthdays for Hillbilly Mom and her little Pony, Valentine's Day for people who give a rip, the science convention that Mrs. HM will not be attending this year (which was agreed to by the person who told her she had to go last year, and she is fervently hoping that he did not forget that conversation by the copier last November), President's Day on which we will be attending school, a Trivia contest for which Mrs. HM, Basementia Buddy, and Mr. History have signed to play with the #1 son and friends, and a trip to see Jerry Seinfeld at the Fabulous Fox next Sunday.
Something in Mrs. HM's bones tells her that winter may not have given its last gasp yet. We are at 9 days missed and still counting.
The school year is not nearly over.
Friday, January 30, 2009
OctoMom, A Cautionary Tale
I am thankful today. Thankful that I did not just deliver 8 babies who don't have a dad, babies I will eventually be taking home to my parents' house because I had to declare bankruptcy a couple years ago, home to meet their six siblings under the age of seven, siblings who will be missing their grandpa, an Iraqi, who is going back to Iraq to earn money for the family, money which is probably the last thing on his mind, his mind which tells him life will be more peaceful in Iraq than in a three-bedroom house with 14 kids under the age of seven.
Putting myself in the shoes of the OctoMom, I am even more thankful. Thankful that I won't have to pay any medical bills for the seven or more weeks of intensive care my eight babies will need, because I don't have any money, so I can't pay. Thankful that I had that eighth baby hidden deep within my womb, because only seven babies would not have been such a good news story, and I would not be able to sell my story to the Globe and various other magazines around the world. Thankful that baby products companies will donate stuff to me to get their names in the news, which is really giving them a better deal with worldwide publicity than any monetary value of the goods they provide for me and my miracles.
Yes, I, OctoMom, am OH SO THANKFUL for my miracles. Who woulda thunk that if you implant eight embryos, all eight will develop? I am thankful that I could have this in vitro procedure, what with just having filed bankruptcy, because heaven knows the best thing that could happen when you're broke and raising six kids under the age of seven is to bring eight more hungry mouths into this flailing economy.
As OctoMom, I am thankful that my eight little miracles were only nine weeks premature, and even though I can't hold them yet because they are still growing intestines, I know they will turn out healthy, only just maybe a little bit developmentally delayed, nothing severe, just so that I can get some disability money for them, maybe to help buy eight car seats and eight cribs and eight high chairs and a car big enough to haul them around in and a nanny to help take care of my family of 14 kids.
I am thankful because now that I am OctoMom, nobody will expect me to work. HELLO! I have 14 kids! Take that, Kate Gosselin, and that henpecked Jon, too! Yoo hoo...oh, Duggar family...I'm comin' after y'all next. Don't think you can hide down there in Arkansas, procreatin' and such. One more pregnancy, and I can leave your 18-and-counting in the dust.
Thank the Gummi Mary, I have those six other kids. As OctoMom, I decree that each one of you will take an Octo for your own, and help me raise it up the way it should be, just like Dolly Parton's family assigned each new baby to an older kid.
I am OctoMom, hear me roar. I am thankful that I can have my own baseball team, football team, two basketball teams, and pert near an orchestra if I want to. Surely the Discovery Channel will give us our own show.
Life is grand when you've just birthed 8 babies!
Putting myself in the shoes of the OctoMom, I am even more thankful. Thankful that I won't have to pay any medical bills for the seven or more weeks of intensive care my eight babies will need, because I don't have any money, so I can't pay. Thankful that I had that eighth baby hidden deep within my womb, because only seven babies would not have been such a good news story, and I would not be able to sell my story to the Globe and various other magazines around the world. Thankful that baby products companies will donate stuff to me to get their names in the news, which is really giving them a better deal with worldwide publicity than any monetary value of the goods they provide for me and my miracles.
Yes, I, OctoMom, am OH SO THANKFUL for my miracles. Who woulda thunk that if you implant eight embryos, all eight will develop? I am thankful that I could have this in vitro procedure, what with just having filed bankruptcy, because heaven knows the best thing that could happen when you're broke and raising six kids under the age of seven is to bring eight more hungry mouths into this flailing economy.
As OctoMom, I am thankful that my eight little miracles were only nine weeks premature, and even though I can't hold them yet because they are still growing intestines, I know they will turn out healthy, only just maybe a little bit developmentally delayed, nothing severe, just so that I can get some disability money for them, maybe to help buy eight car seats and eight cribs and eight high chairs and a car big enough to haul them around in and a nanny to help take care of my family of 14 kids.
I am thankful because now that I am OctoMom, nobody will expect me to work. HELLO! I have 14 kids! Take that, Kate Gosselin, and that henpecked Jon, too! Yoo hoo...oh, Duggar family...I'm comin' after y'all next. Don't think you can hide down there in Arkansas, procreatin' and such. One more pregnancy, and I can leave your 18-and-counting in the dust.
Thank the Gummi Mary, I have those six other kids. As OctoMom, I decree that each one of you will take an Octo for your own, and help me raise it up the way it should be, just like Dolly Parton's family assigned each new baby to an older kid.
I am OctoMom, hear me roar. I am thankful that I can have my own baseball team, football team, two basketball teams, and pert near an orchestra if I want to. Surely the Discovery Channel will give us our own show.
Life is grand when you've just birthed 8 babies!
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Random Thought Thursday, 1/29/09
I just love 6-day weekends, don't you?
I have a new invention that I'd like to share. It's even better than the Armpit Fart Straw. It's a menthol and methyl salicylate foot balm for treating a cough. It will come in a container shaped like a bare foot, and the toes will be a cap that pops off so you can roll it on like deodorant. That way, no messy hands from rubbing salve on the feet. Sure, it's a rip-off of the Vicks foot treatment home remedy for kids' coughs, but so much more convenient. Don't tell anybody.
The Pony just might have brain damage from all the years of the #1 son thumping him in the head. My first clue is that The Pony doesn't know enough to come in out of the snow. I opened the door yesterday to tell the boys it was time to come in, and The Pony, sitting in the snow beside the pen that houses the Very Special Chicken, sighed and said, "Good. It's really cold out here." When I asked him if he was too stupid to come in when he got cold, he said, "#1 wouldn't let me. He's been throwing sleet balls at my head."
The #1 son is turning into that little girl, Rhoda, in The Bad Seed. He is evil personified. At least he hasn't drowned Claude Daigle by stomping his hands off the dock to get his penmanship medal, or burnt up the Super by setting the apartment house of fire, or made a date to tan on the roof with Aunt Monica to inherit her lovebird in the event that a terrible accident occurs. But other than that, except for not being a precocious little blond girl who is followed by the sound of a piano riff just before she does something psychopathic, he's just like her.
We have to venture to town tomorrow to pay some bills and stock up on necessities. Thank the Gummi Mary, we had enough bread and milk to get us through this storm. We had about 8 inches, half of it sleet. I caught the #1 son carrying a slab of ice the size and thickness of a large pizza box. He never did explain what he was going to do with it. Pony? Beware.
I read I Was Told There'd Be Cake while we've been off. I kept waiting for it to get laugh-out-loud funny, but it never did. My favorite LOL funny book was Kick Me: Adventures in Adolescence by Paul Feig. That one brought tears to my eyes, and made me laugh so hard I couldn't explain my mirth to those who asked about it. His other book, Superstud: Or How I Became a 24-Year-Old Virgin, was almost as funny.
According to Mabel, I probably could have had this post done by 5:30 this morning, since I have nothing else to do all day. I have boxed up my boys, with their mouths flapping like starving baby birds, demanding FOOD all day long, to ship to one Mabel Q. Mathie, but I may have to unwrap them, what with this talk of the Post Office cutting out a day of delivery. Unfortunately, I missed Miss Mabel's phone call this afternoon, what with being away from my Loretta Lynn-singing Samsung in anticipation of Jeopardy. I've got to stay sharp. Trivia is coming up at the end of February.
I have a new invention that I'd like to share. It's even better than the Armpit Fart Straw. It's a menthol and methyl salicylate foot balm for treating a cough. It will come in a container shaped like a bare foot, and the toes will be a cap that pops off so you can roll it on like deodorant. That way, no messy hands from rubbing salve on the feet. Sure, it's a rip-off of the Vicks foot treatment home remedy for kids' coughs, but so much more convenient. Don't tell anybody.
The Pony just might have brain damage from all the years of the #1 son thumping him in the head. My first clue is that The Pony doesn't know enough to come in out of the snow. I opened the door yesterday to tell the boys it was time to come in, and The Pony, sitting in the snow beside the pen that houses the Very Special Chicken, sighed and said, "Good. It's really cold out here." When I asked him if he was too stupid to come in when he got cold, he said, "#1 wouldn't let me. He's been throwing sleet balls at my head."
The #1 son is turning into that little girl, Rhoda, in The Bad Seed. He is evil personified. At least he hasn't drowned Claude Daigle by stomping his hands off the dock to get his penmanship medal, or burnt up the Super by setting the apartment house of fire, or made a date to tan on the roof with Aunt Monica to inherit her lovebird in the event that a terrible accident occurs. But other than that, except for not being a precocious little blond girl who is followed by the sound of a piano riff just before she does something psychopathic, he's just like her.
We have to venture to town tomorrow to pay some bills and stock up on necessities. Thank the Gummi Mary, we had enough bread and milk to get us through this storm. We had about 8 inches, half of it sleet. I caught the #1 son carrying a slab of ice the size and thickness of a large pizza box. He never did explain what he was going to do with it. Pony? Beware.
I read I Was Told There'd Be Cake while we've been off. I kept waiting for it to get laugh-out-loud funny, but it never did. My favorite LOL funny book was Kick Me: Adventures in Adolescence by Paul Feig. That one brought tears to my eyes, and made me laugh so hard I couldn't explain my mirth to those who asked about it. His other book, Superstud: Or How I Became a 24-Year-Old Virgin, was almost as funny.
According to Mabel, I probably could have had this post done by 5:30 this morning, since I have nothing else to do all day. I have boxed up my boys, with their mouths flapping like starving baby birds, demanding FOOD all day long, to ship to one Mabel Q. Mathie, but I may have to unwrap them, what with this talk of the Post Office cutting out a day of delivery. Unfortunately, I missed Miss Mabel's phone call this afternoon, what with being away from my Loretta Lynn-singing Samsung in anticipation of Jeopardy. I've got to stay sharp. Trivia is coming up at the end of February.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
BrokeNeck Poutin'
I broke my neck yesterday. Today, I seem to have made a miraculous recovery.
It all started when I got up to gloat over my snow day. I sat down in the La-Z-Boy to watch Morning Joe and switch to the local weather every five minutes. That way, I could wave bye bye to HH as he left for work in the sleety mess.
The Pony got up at 6:05, ten minutes earlier that he gets up on a school day, and wallowed around on the short couch. Around 7:00, I took a little nap in the recliner. When I woke at 8:00, I stretched. Wouldn't you, after sleeping for an hour in a La-Z-Boy?
That's when I heard the POP and felt the sharp pain in the back right side of my neck, just where it turns into shoulder. The name of that muscle escapes me now, but I know it wasn't the sternocleidomastoid. That's in the front. Did you know it's the only muscle that lets the movement go in the opposite direction when it contracts? Because normally, when a muscle contracts, it shortens, and pulls the two insertion areas closer together. But the sternocleidomastoid contracts on the left to let you turn your head to the right. Try it! Put your hand across the front of your neck, and turn your head. See? Told you so! Amazing what you retain from an Anatomy & Physiology class OH SO LONG ago, huh? Anyhoo, that sharp pain stayed with me all day. It was tender to the touch. It hurt when I moved. It hurt when I sat still.
Round about 9:00 p.m., I decided to stuff my hair up under a cap and slather that aching expanse of shoulderneck with some BenGay. I wanted to use Thera-Gesic, but that's kind of atomic, so I figured I could always work my way up to more heat, but could not squelch the flames if I started with the Habanero of skin balms.
It worked! Sure, it was only hot for about 15 minutes, but the relief from the pain lasted about an hour. Even after that, it wasn't quite so stiff. This morning, I tried the Thera-Gesic. Whee doggies, that stuff is sizzlin'! But it has kept the pain bearable all day. Yay, me! The Emperor of Hillmomba has healed herself. Don't even start with that 'Empress' crap. You know how I feel about that!
I googled the dorsal neck musculature, and found out that my pain originated in the trapezius. Who knew it went all the way up your neck? I though that was just the back-shoulder muscle. So much for killing those brain cells in college.
The boys will be glad that I'm on the mend. The Pony was puzzled as to why I made him turn all the jeans inside out. Actually, they were already inside out, and he had to turn them inside out again to make them normal. I wash their jeans inside out so the color does not fade as much from rubbing together in the washer and dryer. I usually turn them back when I take them out of the dryer, but my trapezius was throbbing to beat the band, so I decreed that The Pony would do it. He would not have sense to do this without being told, as evidenced Monday morning when he got dressed, and put on a pair of jeans with the white pockets flapping on his thighs, unable to zip them up. I had to tell him how to fix them. The #1 son had a good laugh, though he probably would have done the same. His job yesterday was to take the new load of jeans out of the deep, deep washer and put them in the dryer. AND turn it on. He usually neglects that last part.
We are looking at Day Off #8 on Thursday. Don't hate me because I can loll around in the La-Z-Boy. Hate me because I know my sternocleidomastoid.
It all started when I got up to gloat over my snow day. I sat down in the La-Z-Boy to watch Morning Joe and switch to the local weather every five minutes. That way, I could wave bye bye to HH as he left for work in the sleety mess.
The Pony got up at 6:05, ten minutes earlier that he gets up on a school day, and wallowed around on the short couch. Around 7:00, I took a little nap in the recliner. When I woke at 8:00, I stretched. Wouldn't you, after sleeping for an hour in a La-Z-Boy?
That's when I heard the POP and felt the sharp pain in the back right side of my neck, just where it turns into shoulder. The name of that muscle escapes me now, but I know it wasn't the sternocleidomastoid. That's in the front. Did you know it's the only muscle that lets the movement go in the opposite direction when it contracts? Because normally, when a muscle contracts, it shortens, and pulls the two insertion areas closer together. But the sternocleidomastoid contracts on the left to let you turn your head to the right. Try it! Put your hand across the front of your neck, and turn your head. See? Told you so! Amazing what you retain from an Anatomy & Physiology class OH SO LONG ago, huh? Anyhoo, that sharp pain stayed with me all day. It was tender to the touch. It hurt when I moved. It hurt when I sat still.
Round about 9:00 p.m., I decided to stuff my hair up under a cap and slather that aching expanse of shoulderneck with some BenGay. I wanted to use Thera-Gesic, but that's kind of atomic, so I figured I could always work my way up to more heat, but could not squelch the flames if I started with the Habanero of skin balms.
It worked! Sure, it was only hot for about 15 minutes, but the relief from the pain lasted about an hour. Even after that, it wasn't quite so stiff. This morning, I tried the Thera-Gesic. Whee doggies, that stuff is sizzlin'! But it has kept the pain bearable all day. Yay, me! The Emperor of Hillmomba has healed herself. Don't even start with that 'Empress' crap. You know how I feel about that!
I googled the dorsal neck musculature, and found out that my pain originated in the trapezius. Who knew it went all the way up your neck? I though that was just the back-shoulder muscle. So much for killing those brain cells in college.
The boys will be glad that I'm on the mend. The Pony was puzzled as to why I made him turn all the jeans inside out. Actually, they were already inside out, and he had to turn them inside out again to make them normal. I wash their jeans inside out so the color does not fade as much from rubbing together in the washer and dryer. I usually turn them back when I take them out of the dryer, but my trapezius was throbbing to beat the band, so I decreed that The Pony would do it. He would not have sense to do this without being told, as evidenced Monday morning when he got dressed, and put on a pair of jeans with the white pockets flapping on his thighs, unable to zip them up. I had to tell him how to fix them. The #1 son had a good laugh, though he probably would have done the same. His job yesterday was to take the new load of jeans out of the deep, deep washer and put them in the dryer. AND turn it on. He usually neglects that last part.
We are looking at Day Off #8 on Thursday. Don't hate me because I can loll around in the La-Z-Boy. Hate me because I know my sternocleidomastoid.
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Do You Know HM's Hidden Talent?
No school again tomorrow for Mrs. Hillbilly Mom. That's Day 7 of the days to be made up before we get out of school for the summer. But who's counting? I'm happy as a pig on ice. Which is a saying that's always puzzled me, perhaps because that's not really the saying, but just something I've heard from the hillbillies around here that should really be something else. I would imagine that a pig on ice would be dead, and being preserved for somebody to eat. You don't see pigs out playing hockey like those Clydesdales like to play football.
Maybe that saying is 'happy as a pig in sh*t', which is not really polite, what with a cuss word tossed in there. I don't think pigs are dirty animals who play in sh*t. They just like to roll around in mud because they have no sweat glands, and they need to keep cool, and the sun is not kind to their pink, piggy skin. You know that pigs have hair, don't you? It's really course and not something you'd want to pet. But those pink little baby piglets are cute as a bug's ear. Don't pick them up by their corkscrew curly tails, though. They squeal, and then their momma comes after you to take a bite out of your leg if you don't run really fast and hurdle the fence like your cousin, in case your grandpa isn't there to whack that ol' sow with a stick. I'm sure you knew that a woman pig was called a sow. Everybody knows that from watching Coal Miner's Daughter, where Loretty catches Doo driving a girl down the railroad tracks in his Jeep, and calls her a sow and whacks HER with a stick, right after Sissy Spacek goes to town to the doctor and finds out she's pregnant. Tommy Lee Jones tells her he thinks she's finally found something she can do. Because we all know she don't know how to clean the house, and she don't know how to cook, and she don't know how to love her man. Another thing about pigs is that they'll eat anything you give them, like garbage or corn from a bucket scattered out on the dusty ground, or a leather belt, or a human you want to kill and get rid of the evidence. I know that from the Hannibal Lecter book, but the rest of the stuff from my grandpa's pig farm. And another thing...if your husband calls you in town and tells you he's found two wild pigs and is going to make sausage out of one, tell him NO, because they might just be a 12-year-old neighbor's pet pot-bellied pigs. But I wasn't really planning on making this post a pigapalooza.
Yes, the call canceling school came around 2:30 or so. I know it was before Jeopardy. Did anybody catch Jeopardy today? They started out with the 'champion', a teacher, and some banker dude and a retail technician. When they came back from commercial after emptying three categories, they had freakin' different contestants. What's up with THAT? The teacher guy was in the middle, and another guy was champion, and the token woman had black hair instead of blond, and I was all discombobulated. Heads better roll over that programming faux pas. It's not nice to fool Hillbilly Mom.
Speaking of TV, last week's TV Guide Horoscope said that next weekend I would find out what my real talent was. All I know is that if it was on the weekend, my talent is not teaching and it's not cleaning house. And did it mean the weekend that just passed, or the weekend that isn't here yet? Is 'next weekend' the one that is immediately next, or the next one? That's like, say, on a Sunday, you tell me, "Next Monday, I'm going to the Bahamas." Does that mean you are going the next day, or a week from the next day? It's baffling. Apparently, my talent is not in interpreting horoscopes, either.
I wish I knew if I'd already discovered my talent, or if it's yet to come. Let's see...what did I do last weekend? I watched a basketball game through some cheerleaders and large people. I read a book and a lot of internet. I wrote on my blog.
Something tells me I'm not going to be paid for such talents.
Maybe that saying is 'happy as a pig in sh*t', which is not really polite, what with a cuss word tossed in there. I don't think pigs are dirty animals who play in sh*t. They just like to roll around in mud because they have no sweat glands, and they need to keep cool, and the sun is not kind to their pink, piggy skin. You know that pigs have hair, don't you? It's really course and not something you'd want to pet. But those pink little baby piglets are cute as a bug's ear. Don't pick them up by their corkscrew curly tails, though. They squeal, and then their momma comes after you to take a bite out of your leg if you don't run really fast and hurdle the fence like your cousin, in case your grandpa isn't there to whack that ol' sow with a stick. I'm sure you knew that a woman pig was called a sow. Everybody knows that from watching Coal Miner's Daughter, where Loretty catches Doo driving a girl down the railroad tracks in his Jeep, and calls her a sow and whacks HER with a stick, right after Sissy Spacek goes to town to the doctor and finds out she's pregnant. Tommy Lee Jones tells her he thinks she's finally found something she can do. Because we all know she don't know how to clean the house, and she don't know how to cook, and she don't know how to love her man. Another thing about pigs is that they'll eat anything you give them, like garbage or corn from a bucket scattered out on the dusty ground, or a leather belt, or a human you want to kill and get rid of the evidence. I know that from the Hannibal Lecter book, but the rest of the stuff from my grandpa's pig farm. And another thing...if your husband calls you in town and tells you he's found two wild pigs and is going to make sausage out of one, tell him NO, because they might just be a 12-year-old neighbor's pet pot-bellied pigs. But I wasn't really planning on making this post a pigapalooza.
Yes, the call canceling school came around 2:30 or so. I know it was before Jeopardy. Did anybody catch Jeopardy today? They started out with the 'champion', a teacher, and some banker dude and a retail technician. When they came back from commercial after emptying three categories, they had freakin' different contestants. What's up with THAT? The teacher guy was in the middle, and another guy was champion, and the token woman had black hair instead of blond, and I was all discombobulated. Heads better roll over that programming faux pas. It's not nice to fool Hillbilly Mom.
Speaking of TV, last week's TV Guide Horoscope said that next weekend I would find out what my real talent was. All I know is that if it was on the weekend, my talent is not teaching and it's not cleaning house. And did it mean the weekend that just passed, or the weekend that isn't here yet? Is 'next weekend' the one that is immediately next, or the next one? That's like, say, on a Sunday, you tell me, "Next Monday, I'm going to the Bahamas." Does that mean you are going the next day, or a week from the next day? It's baffling. Apparently, my talent is not in interpreting horoscopes, either.
I wish I knew if I'd already discovered my talent, or if it's yet to come. Let's see...what did I do last weekend? I watched a basketball game through some cheerleaders and large people. I read a book and a lot of internet. I wrote on my blog.
Something tells me I'm not going to be paid for such talents.
Monday, January 26, 2009
The Lunch Hour Of Living Dangerously*
It is that time of year when lunch is the only thing we look forward to. That, and the 2:56 bell. You know how it is. We're in the 3rd Quarter doldrums. We are stalled, marooned, stuck in this endless winter pattern of scholastica where we are going through the motions, keeping order, trying to motivate the unmotivatable, seeking to ramp up our lessons in any way we can to placate those who have become complacent with our routine. Actually, we appreciate those who have become complacent. If only they would all become complacent, instead of fermenting falsely-perceived wrongs until they erupt into a full-blown fracas. Twice today, I heard that somebody was ready to 'bash his head in' if he didn't stop talking. That's it. Just talking. It's like a terminal case of Cabin Fever. There is no cure...except for a SNOW DAY.
That's what they were all hoping for today, a snow day. They are so sure, they left the classroom each hour, saying, "See you next Monday." Kids today. A single snow day is not good enough for them. It must be a six-day weekend to make them happy. Nothing brewing yet, though the forecasters are calling for 6-8 inches. We'll see. I've given my heart to those weathermen before, and they have crushed it to dust, not crystal, not a drop, not a flurry the next morning. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me 37 times, shame on ME.
But let's get back to lunch. Today it was hamburgers. Not the plump, must-be-some-filler-mixed-with-the-meat BBQ burgers that we usually have when hamburgers are the main entree. No, they were the run-of-the-mill everyday hamburgers. When Mr. S de-bunned, it looked like his burgers were left from last week and re-heated. That's illegal, you know. But there ain't no cafeteria cop stationed at Newmentia. I opted for the sausage pizza, the rectangle kind with about 8 eraser-sized pellets of sausage on a bed of white cheese and tasteless crust. Yum! But my pizza had something extra. It was a spot of yellow on one section of the white cheese. I took a quick survey to see if everybody thought it was safe. Was it some nacho cheese spilled on my pizza, or a couple of errant shreds of cheddar from one of the salads that only a couple of people order, or, my worst case scenario: some odd mold that grows on cheese over the weekend? By a unanimous vote, my lunchies declared that it was just some other cheese, and would be safe to eat. They probably had a secret pool over how many minutes it would take me to croak after ingesting the yellow spot. Let's hope it has nothing to do with yellow snow.
I felt a bit odd at the end of the lunch period. Kind of woozy, like things were surreal. It was like when Homer found out Marge threw his giant sub sandwich out because it was rancid, yet sneaked out to the garbage can, rescued Sammy, stroked him like a chinchilla, then ate him. Homer had some 60s-worthy hallucinations, like an acid trip, I suppose, though I've certainly never had one, nor hung out with acid-trippers in the 60s. Of course I blamed the yellow cheese, but I'm still kickin' and that woozy feeling went away after about two hours.
"But why did you eat the yellow-cheese pizza? Why didn't you just take it back, Mrs. Hillbilly Mom?" you might ask. You might, if you were reading this, which I doubt many people are, but let's pretend. IF you asked this question, it means you have never eaten regularly in a school cafeteria as a member of the faculty. You don't second-guess the lunch lady. Miss Ann knows what I'm talkin' about. Because for the rest of the year, you'll get the rock-hard tater tots, the burnt chili crispito, the stem in the green beans, the smallest sliver of Easter Dinner pie, the chicken nuggets that could be taken on Survivor and be used as flint to chip arrowheads or start a fire, the peanut butter sandwich that is all bread with a quarter-sized dollop of peanut butter right in the middle, the plastic cup of nacho cheese with the pudding-like skin on top (well, not that, because everybody gets that), the chicken patty that is pink in the middle, the ham and cheese with the rainbow-y colored ham, the ice cream bar that has been pulverized, and other less-savory items that you do not desire.
I've really got to start taking my lunch more than three days a week.
*Do not think that by 'hour', I mean 60 minutes. Much like a prison year, a school lunch hour is shorter than real time. My lunch hour is actually 23 minutes from tardy bell to dismissal bell. Bon Appetit!
FYI: at 8:25, the automated phone system called me to report that there will be no school tomorrow. WooHoo! Day 6 of the days to be made up before we get out for the summer.
That's what they were all hoping for today, a snow day. They are so sure, they left the classroom each hour, saying, "See you next Monday." Kids today. A single snow day is not good enough for them. It must be a six-day weekend to make them happy. Nothing brewing yet, though the forecasters are calling for 6-8 inches. We'll see. I've given my heart to those weathermen before, and they have crushed it to dust, not crystal, not a drop, not a flurry the next morning. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me 37 times, shame on ME.
But let's get back to lunch. Today it was hamburgers. Not the plump, must-be-some-filler-mixed-with-the-meat BBQ burgers that we usually have when hamburgers are the main entree. No, they were the run-of-the-mill everyday hamburgers. When Mr. S de-bunned, it looked like his burgers were left from last week and re-heated. That's illegal, you know. But there ain't no cafeteria cop stationed at Newmentia. I opted for the sausage pizza, the rectangle kind with about 8 eraser-sized pellets of sausage on a bed of white cheese and tasteless crust. Yum! But my pizza had something extra. It was a spot of yellow on one section of the white cheese. I took a quick survey to see if everybody thought it was safe. Was it some nacho cheese spilled on my pizza, or a couple of errant shreds of cheddar from one of the salads that only a couple of people order, or, my worst case scenario: some odd mold that grows on cheese over the weekend? By a unanimous vote, my lunchies declared that it was just some other cheese, and would be safe to eat. They probably had a secret pool over how many minutes it would take me to croak after ingesting the yellow spot. Let's hope it has nothing to do with yellow snow.
I felt a bit odd at the end of the lunch period. Kind of woozy, like things were surreal. It was like when Homer found out Marge threw his giant sub sandwich out because it was rancid, yet sneaked out to the garbage can, rescued Sammy, stroked him like a chinchilla, then ate him. Homer had some 60s-worthy hallucinations, like an acid trip, I suppose, though I've certainly never had one, nor hung out with acid-trippers in the 60s. Of course I blamed the yellow cheese, but I'm still kickin' and that woozy feeling went away after about two hours.
"But why did you eat the yellow-cheese pizza? Why didn't you just take it back, Mrs. Hillbilly Mom?" you might ask. You might, if you were reading this, which I doubt many people are, but let's pretend. IF you asked this question, it means you have never eaten regularly in a school cafeteria as a member of the faculty. You don't second-guess the lunch lady. Miss Ann knows what I'm talkin' about. Because for the rest of the year, you'll get the rock-hard tater tots, the burnt chili crispito, the stem in the green beans, the smallest sliver of Easter Dinner pie, the chicken nuggets that could be taken on Survivor and be used as flint to chip arrowheads or start a fire, the peanut butter sandwich that is all bread with a quarter-sized dollop of peanut butter right in the middle, the plastic cup of nacho cheese with the pudding-like skin on top (well, not that, because everybody gets that), the chicken patty that is pink in the middle, the ham and cheese with the rainbow-y colored ham, the ice cream bar that has been pulverized, and other less-savory items that you do not desire.
I've really got to start taking my lunch more than three days a week.
*Do not think that by 'hour', I mean 60 minutes. Much like a prison year, a school lunch hour is shorter than real time. My lunch hour is actually 23 minutes from tardy bell to dismissal bell. Bon Appetit!
FYI: at 8:25, the automated phone system called me to report that there will be no school tomorrow. WooHoo! Day 6 of the days to be made up before we get out for the summer.
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