The 2-4 inches of snow that was forecast for our region did not materialize yesterday. The folks in the Winter Storm Advisory counties acquired only two of their promised 5-7 inches. What up, weathermen?
I found four clean, crisp, crinkly dollars in the dryer this morning. That's after four loads of laundry. I suppose a small tip is better than none.
At the Trivia competition last night, our team took 3rd Place. That's a money position, people. Not bad for four adults and three teenagers. The Unwritten Book of Trivia Etiquette states that "Thou shalt cheerfully donate all proceeds back to the sponsor of the event." That is OH SO HARD for kids to understand. It was actually the #1 son's team, and he asked me and Basementia Buddy and she asked another Basementia denizen and then a former Basementian joined us when a child dropped out. The #1 son had said several weeks ago, "I'm so glad we have you guys on our team. Now we won't get the dead last sign on our table. If we win anything, we're not giving it back!" The other adults and I declared that we would give OUR part of any winning back, but the kids could do what they wanted. After it was over, I was handed an envelope with the winnings. I told the boys to divide $50 by seven, and that's how much they each would get. They came out of the money zone muttering, "We had the wrong envelope! We were only supposed to get $25 for 3rd place." I told them I looked in the envelope, and there were two twenties and a ten. After conferring with the head honcho, the boys went back to the money zone and gave back their portion, explaining the mix-up. They decided not to keep any money, because $3 wasn't worth it, and besides, it was a fundraiser. Somebody raised those boys right.
That's an issue I have with Trivia--the handing back of the winnings. Granted, our event was a small one. It's $10 per person to play. That's $80 per team if you have a full team, which everyone but us did. The prize money totaled $150. So there were still funds raised off the event. I would donate my winnings back anyway, because you don't even get back enough to cover your entry fee if you win 1st Place. But still...people should have a choice, and not feel obligated to give the money back. Same way with the 50-50 Drawing. The winner is pretty much expected to donate it back. What's the fun of winning if you have to give it back? That's why I stopped buying a 50-50 ticket. Why not just bring around a jar and ask, "Would you like to donate more money to our fundraiser?" Because that's all you are doing, really, and the ones who buy the tickets would still donate. The winner last night could have kept his $74, and the sponsor would still have had the other $74. This is where the Catholic Trivia event differs. They have oodles of teams. I don't know their prize distribution, having never won anything there, but they command winners to wait until people have left the building if they plan to donate their winnings back. Oh, and they sell beer, too!
On March 20, the Hillbilly family has tickets to see a Master Hypnotist. That's another fundraiser, at $10 per ticket. I'm hoping HH will volunteer to be hypnotized. Basementia Buddy and I would like to see him act like a chicken.
I hauled out the income tax info this morning. No need to rush to send it in. We have a regular Christmas here at the Mansion, not a Redneck Christmas on refund day. What I found was that the annoying new payroll company that HH's work uses has a major malfunction with the W-2 forms they sent out. You know how the instructions say 'Tear at perforation and attach to Federal Tax Return' or some such nonsense, like you wouldn't be able to figure that out? Be careful about following the directions. They had their printer set all funky, because if I tear at the perforation, the entire first line is left on the other half of the perforation. That is kind of an important first line, as it includes HH's social security number and wage info. I'll be using scissors to snip that bad boy. The ones lower down the form, especially the last one for employee records, are fine. Incompetency does not make the world go round. What a sorry lesson the world is learning lately.
Sunday, March 1, 2009
Saturday, February 28, 2009
Electricity From A Goat
All week we presented Science Projects. One by one, two by two, students stood in front of the class with their magnificent creations, spouting scientifica to Mrs. HM's content. Friday, the unflappable Mrs. HM flapped. A never-before heard sentence was uttered.
"I took a piece of waxed paper outside and rubbed it on my goat."
Mind you, this was an experiment about capturing electricity in a jar. These kids had a great diagram, and explained everything well. When I asked how they got the static electricity that they eventually captured in a jar, that was the answer I got. "I took a piece of waxed paper outside and rubbed it on my goat."
I thought it was a joke. "No. Really. How did you get the static?"
I'm telling the truth. I rubbed waxed paper on my goat.
What kind of goat do you have?
I have a white goat and a black goat.
Which one did you rub the waxed paper on?
The white goat.
Why did you pick the white goat. Was it because the other one was BLACK?
I picked the white goat because the black goat isn't right. He jumps all around.
How many legs does your goat have?
My goat has all four legs.
(A kid in that class told a substitute one time that he had a pet goat, and that it stepped in a hole and had to have a leg amputated. Then later that summer, his dad ran over another leg with the lawnmower because the three-legged goat couldn't get out of the way in time. Next thing you know, a dog attacked the goat and ripped off one of the two remaining legs. Now he has a goat that has to reach out with its one leg and drag itself forward. He never really had a goat, but the story took all hour, and the sub believed him.)
How long did you rub the waxed paper on the goat?
Thirty seconds.
Did he mind?
No.
In your procedure, does it say to rub waxed paper on a goat?
No. It says to rub an acrylic sheet with wool, but we didn't have an acrylic sheet or wool, so we used the closest things we had, which was waxed paper and a goat. It worked.
Like HM always says...nobody can make the environment work for him like a Hillbilly.
"I took a piece of waxed paper outside and rubbed it on my goat."
Mind you, this was an experiment about capturing electricity in a jar. These kids had a great diagram, and explained everything well. When I asked how they got the static electricity that they eventually captured in a jar, that was the answer I got. "I took a piece of waxed paper outside and rubbed it on my goat."
I thought it was a joke. "No. Really. How did you get the static?"
I'm telling the truth. I rubbed waxed paper on my goat.
What kind of goat do you have?
I have a white goat and a black goat.
Which one did you rub the waxed paper on?
The white goat.
Why did you pick the white goat. Was it because the other one was BLACK?
I picked the white goat because the black goat isn't right. He jumps all around.
How many legs does your goat have?
My goat has all four legs.
(A kid in that class told a substitute one time that he had a pet goat, and that it stepped in a hole and had to have a leg amputated. Then later that summer, his dad ran over another leg with the lawnmower because the three-legged goat couldn't get out of the way in time. Next thing you know, a dog attacked the goat and ripped off one of the two remaining legs. Now he has a goat that has to reach out with its one leg and drag itself forward. He never really had a goat, but the story took all hour, and the sub believed him.)
How long did you rub the waxed paper on the goat?
Thirty seconds.
Did he mind?
No.
In your procedure, does it say to rub waxed paper on a goat?
No. It says to rub an acrylic sheet with wool, but we didn't have an acrylic sheet or wool, so we used the closest things we had, which was waxed paper and a goat. It worked.
Like HM always says...nobody can make the environment work for him like a Hillbilly.
Friday, February 27, 2009
The Clicker Ticks Me Off
People piss me off. Royally.
In the hall between 1st and 2nd hour, a kid who is four days late in presenting his project said that he only had to 'type up two more parts of it and it would be ready'. First of all, we spent FIVE freakin' days in the computer lab so students could type up their project info. FIVE freakin' days in which I asked for a specific step each day to be typed and presented to me for a grade. FIVE freakin' days during which I asked numerous people numerous times, "Do you have your project finished, because you haven't turned in (insert specific part here) yet? And they would turn from the online games on their screens and assure me that yes, it was done, but at home. Uh huh.
So anyway, this kid asked to use my computer, the one that I let kids use, to print his info before his presentation. Seeing as how I had to stand in the hall until the bell, I told him, "Yes. It is on. Just turn on the monitor and log on. It is slow." That's my standard instruction for this computer. Overnight, the school automatically shuts down ALL computers, and when I get to school, I hit the power button on both of mine. If the students don't need it, I don't mess with this one until The Pony gets there after school, and I log it on for him to play games. I logged him off yesterday around 4:00, and didn't give it a second thought.
Halfway through class, I hear a strange clicking noise coming from the back of the room. I go back there, and it is that kid, left-clicking that mouse about 300 times per minute. "WHAT are you doing?" He looked confused, like he didn't speak English. "It won't come on. It's just a black screen." It was all I could do to keep from ripping that mouse out of his hand. "So you think clicking the mouse is going to speed it up?" He shrugged his shoulders. "I don't know." I looked at the screen and it was in that start-up mode saying that it had failed to start, and I could start it normally or I could start it at the last successful configuration or I could start it in safe mode or two other options concerning safe mode that escape me at the moment. I tried three different options, but it still kept up the loop of looking like it was going to start, then going back to that screen. The kid swore that he had not hit the power button or done anything funky, though his clicking habits give me pause.
I called my #1 son who happened to be in his computer class at Basementia, and he didn't know how to fix it. His teacher joined in and offered me a replacement laptop, which I declined, because this is a computer that I bought out of fundraising money, and I want it to work again. I called LunchBuddy down in her computer lab, and she suggested the same things as they did, which did not work. She offered to put in a work order, which I accepted, even though I could have done it myself on my school computer, because when SHE types, people listen. I could not even print, because my printer is hooked up to that computer, and my other one is set to share the printer.
Fifteen minutes before school was out, the Computer Guy walked in and poked around on it. As he walked out, I asked if he needed the bells and whistles that came with it. He said to set them out, so I dug out the carefully marked box and propped it up by my dear, departed one. The kids in classes all day tried to help, the most poignant suggestion being: "Have you tried turning on the monitor?" After school, my boy at least set up my printer for the good computer.
I am not sure what caused my computer crisis. Since I am not privy to the inner workings of technological systems, I have no idea if that kid had anything to do with it. Some catastrophe could have occurred overnight, perhaps, totally unrelated to his clicking. Like the early people who saw the sun slide into the sea, sure each night would be their death, I judge The Clicker to be guilty, based solely on circumstantial evidence. He was the last one to touch it before I found out it was dead. Therefore, he must be the murderer.
The Computer Guy said he was coming back. I set out the accoutrements for his browsing pleasure. Time will tell.
I am not optimistic. It seems like performing CPR on a dinosaur.
And in other People-Pissing-Me-Off News...a half mile up our private gravel road this evening, we discovered a lovely water heater and washing machine that some thoughtful soul had deposited near the creek. Because we country people don't have enough of our own worn-out appliances. The rich are so nice to drop these nonworking worksavers off to us poor people, what with the economy in such a condition. I'm sure they will sleep better for their efforts.
In the hall between 1st and 2nd hour, a kid who is four days late in presenting his project said that he only had to 'type up two more parts of it and it would be ready'. First of all, we spent FIVE freakin' days in the computer lab so students could type up their project info. FIVE freakin' days in which I asked for a specific step each day to be typed and presented to me for a grade. FIVE freakin' days during which I asked numerous people numerous times, "Do you have your project finished, because you haven't turned in (insert specific part here) yet? And they would turn from the online games on their screens and assure me that yes, it was done, but at home. Uh huh.
So anyway, this kid asked to use my computer, the one that I let kids use, to print his info before his presentation. Seeing as how I had to stand in the hall until the bell, I told him, "Yes. It is on. Just turn on the monitor and log on. It is slow." That's my standard instruction for this computer. Overnight, the school automatically shuts down ALL computers, and when I get to school, I hit the power button on both of mine. If the students don't need it, I don't mess with this one until The Pony gets there after school, and I log it on for him to play games. I logged him off yesterday around 4:00, and didn't give it a second thought.
Halfway through class, I hear a strange clicking noise coming from the back of the room. I go back there, and it is that kid, left-clicking that mouse about 300 times per minute. "WHAT are you doing?" He looked confused, like he didn't speak English. "It won't come on. It's just a black screen." It was all I could do to keep from ripping that mouse out of his hand. "So you think clicking the mouse is going to speed it up?" He shrugged his shoulders. "I don't know." I looked at the screen and it was in that start-up mode saying that it had failed to start, and I could start it normally or I could start it at the last successful configuration or I could start it in safe mode or two other options concerning safe mode that escape me at the moment. I tried three different options, but it still kept up the loop of looking like it was going to start, then going back to that screen. The kid swore that he had not hit the power button or done anything funky, though his clicking habits give me pause.
I called my #1 son who happened to be in his computer class at Basementia, and he didn't know how to fix it. His teacher joined in and offered me a replacement laptop, which I declined, because this is a computer that I bought out of fundraising money, and I want it to work again. I called LunchBuddy down in her computer lab, and she suggested the same things as they did, which did not work. She offered to put in a work order, which I accepted, even though I could have done it myself on my school computer, because when SHE types, people listen. I could not even print, because my printer is hooked up to that computer, and my other one is set to share the printer.
Fifteen minutes before school was out, the Computer Guy walked in and poked around on it. As he walked out, I asked if he needed the bells and whistles that came with it. He said to set them out, so I dug out the carefully marked box and propped it up by my dear, departed one. The kids in classes all day tried to help, the most poignant suggestion being: "Have you tried turning on the monitor?" After school, my boy at least set up my printer for the good computer.
I am not sure what caused my computer crisis. Since I am not privy to the inner workings of technological systems, I have no idea if that kid had anything to do with it. Some catastrophe could have occurred overnight, perhaps, totally unrelated to his clicking. Like the early people who saw the sun slide into the sea, sure each night would be their death, I judge The Clicker to be guilty, based solely on circumstantial evidence. He was the last one to touch it before I found out it was dead. Therefore, he must be the murderer.
The Computer Guy said he was coming back. I set out the accoutrements for his browsing pleasure. Time will tell.
I am not optimistic. It seems like performing CPR on a dinosaur.
And in other People-Pissing-Me-Off News...a half mile up our private gravel road this evening, we discovered a lovely water heater and washing machine that some thoughtful soul had deposited near the creek. Because we country people don't have enough of our own worn-out appliances. The rich are so nice to drop these nonworking worksavers off to us poor people, what with the economy in such a condition. I'm sure they will sleep better for their efforts.
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Boulevard Of Stifled Screams
I walk this empty street, on the Boulevard of Stifled Screams.
It's that time of year. No matter how much a teacher loves the job, the middle of 3rd Quarter will grab him and yank knot in his tail. In the public schools, no one can hear you scream.
Things you should not hear in a classroom:
Can I make that cow noise again?
You took his seat. Get up and move to another desk.
WHY?
(Umm...maybe because you took his seat?)
Why did you move across the room to hear the presentation when it was right in front of you?
I don't know.
Why are you hassling them about moving?
Well, Miss Take Bob's Notebook And Run Across The Room And Hold It Out The Window While I Was In The Hall, what business is it of yours? Because I certainly wouldn't want to draw attention to myself if I were you.
I didn't run.
Sneaky is drinking water!
Why did you tell? I'm going to bust your head for that.
The better question is 'Why can't you take responsibility for your own actions?' You know that is against the rules. If you hadn't done it, he wouldn't be telling.
I am sick.
Oh, that makes it all right? Everybody bring a beverage. Better yet, everybody bring a steak dinner. It's only school. Why should you be inconvenienced?
I know somebody who texts in your class.
I don't really care. I would like to think that I have better things to do than patrol the classroom every hour to monitor something that the school should outlaw anyway.
What do you mean?
You don't need a cell phone in the classroom. My generation survived without them. I can't have mine during class.
That's stupid. We need them. We're not bothering anybody.
You need to lay off about the texting. I got caught ONE TIME, and you won't let it go.
That's because you were caught by the principal when he entered my class while you were sitting in the front row right by the door. I'm surprised you don't just stand in front of the office and hold it up to the camera while you text. You do the crime, be prepared to hear about it for the next four years. YOU gave me the opportunity.
I think it's really unfair that some people had to give their presentation on the first day, and others don't have to do it until Friday.
I drew numbers at random. You and three other people came up on Monday. And if you remember right, I moved it back until Tuesday to begin the presentations.
Well, I think that sucks, because its not fair that some people have until Friday.
Would that be because yours is two days late?
That's not MY fault. I told you my printer broke. I can't print out the information. You can talk to my dad about how poor we are.
That won't be necessary. I see that your hand is not broke. Did you ever think of writing out your information and putting it on your board? (Never mind the five days we spent in the computer lab so you could print).
How do I know what it is? It's on my computer.
Oh, is your computer broken as well as your printer?
No, but it's at home.
Surely the information you typed into your computer came out of your head. How about putting it in writing out of your head?
We can DO that?
Please make it stop. Soon.
It's that time of year. No matter how much a teacher loves the job, the middle of 3rd Quarter will grab him and yank knot in his tail. In the public schools, no one can hear you scream.
Things you should not hear in a classroom:
Can I make that cow noise again?
You took his seat. Get up and move to another desk.
WHY?
(Umm...maybe because you took his seat?)
Why did you move across the room to hear the presentation when it was right in front of you?
I don't know.
Why are you hassling them about moving?
Well, Miss Take Bob's Notebook And Run Across The Room And Hold It Out The Window While I Was In The Hall, what business is it of yours? Because I certainly wouldn't want to draw attention to myself if I were you.
I didn't run.
Sneaky is drinking water!
Why did you tell? I'm going to bust your head for that.
The better question is 'Why can't you take responsibility for your own actions?' You know that is against the rules. If you hadn't done it, he wouldn't be telling.
I am sick.
Oh, that makes it all right? Everybody bring a beverage. Better yet, everybody bring a steak dinner. It's only school. Why should you be inconvenienced?
I know somebody who texts in your class.
I don't really care. I would like to think that I have better things to do than patrol the classroom every hour to monitor something that the school should outlaw anyway.
What do you mean?
You don't need a cell phone in the classroom. My generation survived without them. I can't have mine during class.
That's stupid. We need them. We're not bothering anybody.
You need to lay off about the texting. I got caught ONE TIME, and you won't let it go.
That's because you were caught by the principal when he entered my class while you were sitting in the front row right by the door. I'm surprised you don't just stand in front of the office and hold it up to the camera while you text. You do the crime, be prepared to hear about it for the next four years. YOU gave me the opportunity.
I think it's really unfair that some people had to give their presentation on the first day, and others don't have to do it until Friday.
I drew numbers at random. You and three other people came up on Monday. And if you remember right, I moved it back until Tuesday to begin the presentations.
Well, I think that sucks, because its not fair that some people have until Friday.
Would that be because yours is two days late?
That's not MY fault. I told you my printer broke. I can't print out the information. You can talk to my dad about how poor we are.
That won't be necessary. I see that your hand is not broke. Did you ever think of writing out your information and putting it on your board? (Never mind the five days we spent in the computer lab so you could print).
How do I know what it is? It's on my computer.
Oh, is your computer broken as well as your printer?
No, but it's at home.
Surely the information you typed into your computer came out of your head. How about putting it in writing out of your head?
We can DO that?
Please make it stop. Soon.
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Feed Me Thrice, Shame On Me
I can't stop talking about it. I am obsessed. I have lunch duty this week, so I don't have time to heat up any food from home, and I am at the mercy of the lunch ladies. They haven't had much mercy on me.
Monday, the menu was 'hamburgers, fries, pudding'. I thought maybe we were having the special BBQ hamburger, which is fluffier than the regular everyday burger (that is offered, um, every day), probably due to some type of filler. But no. It was just regular hamburgers, which is like a cruel trick, since what it really meant was we are not having lunch today, just the usual choices of hamburger, pizza, salad, or NOTHING. So I took the rectangular pizza because I have an aversion to the regular hamburgers ever since that year the long-gone coach got one that had mold on the meat part of the burger, and the cooks offered him another one, saying, "I thought we took out all the moldy ones in that bag." I used to partake of the salad, but after the last two incidents in which the salad tried to fight its way out of my small intestine within an hour of eating, I figured that maybe they weren't rinsing their greens and perhaps another E. coli event was in the works.
Tuesday, we were promised 'chicken nuggets, pork and beans, jello'. It was the ol' bait & switch again. What we really had were chicken rings, which are not so delicious as the nuggets, due to a funky aftertaste. To make matters worse, as I went through the line, there was a tray laid up on top of the foil covering a big vat of green beans. I asked innocently enough, "Is that my tray?" Because they put more on a teacher's tray, which is why we pay more than the kids. Those kids that pay, I mean. The first lunch lady who usually announces "TEACHER" when she passes it over said, "No." The second lunch lady said, "Oh...The Vegetator has your tray. Vegetator! That is Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's tray. Give that one to her." OK. Um, I really did not want the tray that the Vegetator just had in his hands, but what else could I do besides go hungry. The Vegetator looked at it, looked at the one they wanted to give him, and said, "I really don't see a difference." Neither did I. We both had told them to hold the beans. There were the same amounts of chicken rings and green beans on the tray. Like, about a 1/4 inch deep section of green beans, which had not been on the menu, but which are pretty good. The Vegetator took his carton of milk off the tray and handed it to me. The tray, not the milk, since I don't get the milk ever since we had some soured milk that was still a day before the expiration. I proceeded to snare myself a clear plastic sour-cream-in-a-restaurant-container sized portion of Jello. They were only half-full. Did I mention that this week? I think I did. This was the first time all year we've had pork and beans, but just like when they used to serve it years ago, Mr. S declared, "You'd think they could warm the beans." Because they are served right out of the can, just like the chocolate pudding that we had two spoonfuls of on Monday. They also threw in two tater tris, though Mr. S had three, what with getting a real teacher's tray, piled high with green beany goodness, not just a recycled Vegetator tray.
Today, I'd like to inform the parents that the vegetable served to your children was CORN CHIPS. That's the section they were place in, and that was all we got, except for the 14 mini corn dogs and the square of chocolate cake. I needed 14 mini corn dogs like a hole in the head. They were not the bite-sized round mini corn dogs, but the toddler big-toe-sized mini corn dogs. They were as soggy as the chicken rings, and did not go well with mustard OR ketchup. Oh. Maybe that was the vegetable: ketchup. The cake was passable, if you could mush the icing into the cake crumbs to get them to your mouth. I left 9 corn dogs to chase each other around the trash can.
Two more days. Tomorrow is supposed to be vegetable soup and grilled cheese. I hope the sandwiches are rock-hard and so greasy that they slip out of my hand like money in HH's palm. That's when they taste best.
I don't even want to know what this fare is doing to my arteries. I picture my left ventricle squeezing out a single drop of blood akin to the garbage Indian tear.
Monday, the menu was 'hamburgers, fries, pudding'. I thought maybe we were having the special BBQ hamburger, which is fluffier than the regular everyday burger (that is offered, um, every day), probably due to some type of filler. But no. It was just regular hamburgers, which is like a cruel trick, since what it really meant was we are not having lunch today, just the usual choices of hamburger, pizza, salad, or NOTHING. So I took the rectangular pizza because I have an aversion to the regular hamburgers ever since that year the long-gone coach got one that had mold on the meat part of the burger, and the cooks offered him another one, saying, "I thought we took out all the moldy ones in that bag." I used to partake of the salad, but after the last two incidents in which the salad tried to fight its way out of my small intestine within an hour of eating, I figured that maybe they weren't rinsing their greens and perhaps another E. coli event was in the works.
Tuesday, we were promised 'chicken nuggets, pork and beans, jello'. It was the ol' bait & switch again. What we really had were chicken rings, which are not so delicious as the nuggets, due to a funky aftertaste. To make matters worse, as I went through the line, there was a tray laid up on top of the foil covering a big vat of green beans. I asked innocently enough, "Is that my tray?" Because they put more on a teacher's tray, which is why we pay more than the kids. Those kids that pay, I mean. The first lunch lady who usually announces "TEACHER" when she passes it over said, "No." The second lunch lady said, "Oh...The Vegetator has your tray. Vegetator! That is Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's tray. Give that one to her." OK. Um, I really did not want the tray that the Vegetator just had in his hands, but what else could I do besides go hungry. The Vegetator looked at it, looked at the one they wanted to give him, and said, "I really don't see a difference." Neither did I. We both had told them to hold the beans. There were the same amounts of chicken rings and green beans on the tray. Like, about a 1/4 inch deep section of green beans, which had not been on the menu, but which are pretty good. The Vegetator took his carton of milk off the tray and handed it to me. The tray, not the milk, since I don't get the milk ever since we had some soured milk that was still a day before the expiration. I proceeded to snare myself a clear plastic sour-cream-in-a-restaurant-container sized portion of Jello. They were only half-full. Did I mention that this week? I think I did. This was the first time all year we've had pork and beans, but just like when they used to serve it years ago, Mr. S declared, "You'd think they could warm the beans." Because they are served right out of the can, just like the chocolate pudding that we had two spoonfuls of on Monday. They also threw in two tater tris, though Mr. S had three, what with getting a real teacher's tray, piled high with green beany goodness, not just a recycled Vegetator tray.
Today, I'd like to inform the parents that the vegetable served to your children was CORN CHIPS. That's the section they were place in, and that was all we got, except for the 14 mini corn dogs and the square of chocolate cake. I needed 14 mini corn dogs like a hole in the head. They were not the bite-sized round mini corn dogs, but the toddler big-toe-sized mini corn dogs. They were as soggy as the chicken rings, and did not go well with mustard OR ketchup. Oh. Maybe that was the vegetable: ketchup. The cake was passable, if you could mush the icing into the cake crumbs to get them to your mouth. I left 9 corn dogs to chase each other around the trash can.
Two more days. Tomorrow is supposed to be vegetable soup and grilled cheese. I hope the sandwiches are rock-hard and so greasy that they slip out of my hand like money in HH's palm. That's when they taste best.
I don't even want to know what this fare is doing to my arteries. I picture my left ventricle squeezing out a single drop of blood akin to the garbage Indian tear.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Ode To Common Sense
Call the Common Sense Police. Call them now, and demand that they come and take away students who can not see the forest for the trees. NOW!
Two students who presented their science project today compared a Big Mac to a Subway sandwich. They had the right idea. Their hypothesis was that the Big Mac had more calories than the Subway sandwich. Quite plausible. Then they went about researching and proving their hypothesis. After checking the McDonald's nutritional website, they reported that a Big Mac contains 590 calories. Seems reasonable. Then they reported that a Subway sandwich has 250 calories. Which would be believable, except that they had a picture and a label on the side of their display touting the bread of a six-inch sub as having 220 calories. So I asked them what kind of sandwich this was, at Subway, that had 250 calories. What kind of rip-off is Subway trying to pull, what with only 30 calories of meat on a sandwich. They thought for a minute. They stammered. They declared it was, you know, a sandwich--a bread sandwich!
At the academic team contest this afternoon, a math question reared its ugly head. Sam bought a meal for $8.60 (obviously not a BREAD SANDWICH). The tax on Sam's meal was 5 percent. How much tax did Sam have to pay? One young lad rang in and answered, "$13.20." No. Just NO! Why would tax be more than the meal, son? THINK! Ten percent of $8.60 is $.86, and half of that is $.43. How hard was that? Not very. It's common sense.
Whatever happened to common sense, people? Please tell me. Not everybody knows higher math. My own son, for one, who buzzed in on: What is y to the fourth power, squared? Did my boy think, hmm...that's y to the fourth times y to the fourth...add the exponents when you multiply...that would mean..."Y to the eighth power." NOPE! My boy decided that the answer was y to the seventh power. Don't ask me how he reached this illogical decision. It's a mystery to me.
Oh, and on a side note, my ArchNemesis was reading the questions this evening. Here is a gem that I can't wait to repeat at Newmentia tomorrow. "What creature is known for having 8 long and two short testicles?" Oh, yeah! We had conniptions over that one. Both teams had 4 boys sitting at their tables during this round. They blushed. They sniggered. We heehawed! ArchNemesis said, "Mrs. Hillbilly Mom, this will not enter the other building." Uh huh. Then she told the teams, "Sorry. My braces get in the way sometimes."
CAN TONGUES NOT BE TRAINED?
Two students who presented their science project today compared a Big Mac to a Subway sandwich. They had the right idea. Their hypothesis was that the Big Mac had more calories than the Subway sandwich. Quite plausible. Then they went about researching and proving their hypothesis. After checking the McDonald's nutritional website, they reported that a Big Mac contains 590 calories. Seems reasonable. Then they reported that a Subway sandwich has 250 calories. Which would be believable, except that they had a picture and a label on the side of their display touting the bread of a six-inch sub as having 220 calories. So I asked them what kind of sandwich this was, at Subway, that had 250 calories. What kind of rip-off is Subway trying to pull, what with only 30 calories of meat on a sandwich. They thought for a minute. They stammered. They declared it was, you know, a sandwich--a bread sandwich!
At the academic team contest this afternoon, a math question reared its ugly head. Sam bought a meal for $8.60 (obviously not a BREAD SANDWICH). The tax on Sam's meal was 5 percent. How much tax did Sam have to pay? One young lad rang in and answered, "$13.20." No. Just NO! Why would tax be more than the meal, son? THINK! Ten percent of $8.60 is $.86, and half of that is $.43. How hard was that? Not very. It's common sense.
Whatever happened to common sense, people? Please tell me. Not everybody knows higher math. My own son, for one, who buzzed in on: What is y to the fourth power, squared? Did my boy think, hmm...that's y to the fourth times y to the fourth...add the exponents when you multiply...that would mean..."Y to the eighth power." NOPE! My boy decided that the answer was y to the seventh power. Don't ask me how he reached this illogical decision. It's a mystery to me.
Oh, and on a side note, my ArchNemesis was reading the questions this evening. Here is a gem that I can't wait to repeat at Newmentia tomorrow. "What creature is known for having 8 long and two short testicles?" Oh, yeah! We had conniptions over that one. Both teams had 4 boys sitting at their tables during this round. They blushed. They sniggered. We heehawed! ArchNemesis said, "Mrs. Hillbilly Mom, this will not enter the other building." Uh huh. Then she told the teams, "Sorry. My braces get in the way sometimes."
CAN TONGUES NOT BE TRAINED?
Monday, February 23, 2009
If You Need Some Old-Fashioned Fun
Mrs. HM is a bit under the weather today. Headache and nausea are competing to be her new best friend. Sorry, Mabel. They didn't know that HM already has a best friend. It probably wouldn't have mattered if they knew. They maliciously prevented HM from enjoying her school lunch of soggy crinkle fries, a rectangular pizza, and a thimbleful of canned chocolate pudding.
Sometimes the only thing that gets me through the day is the thought that the students are NOT my children. You may think I'd wish they were, what with being able to discipline my own children as I see fit. They've turned out fairly well, in my opinion. But no. I could not deal with some of these students at home. At most, I have some of them for two 50-minute sessions per day. The thought of living with the knowledge that they are mine until the end of time is quite unsettling. How many times must one woman hear a fake Mexican accent from an albino boy?
In the good news, bad news department, I received a call from the doctor this evening informing me that I must return for further tests. That's the BAD news. The GOOD news is that the office kindly scheduled my test for me, and it so happens that it is at 8:30 a.m. next Wednesday, and HELLO my duty day is Wednesdays. Let's just hope results show that surgery is not on the table, since last time HM was on the table, she WOKE UP in the middle of the procedure. Even 10 fake vicodin are not enough good news to go through that again.
I have been checking horoscope.com daily for a former student's science project. Here's my horoscope from last Friday, the day I went for the test that is going to be repeated:
A sudden burst of common sense will provide the clarity you need: a tricky choice or decision can be simplified, if you look at it from an objective point of view. Be wise to people overreacting; they might make the situation appear far more dismal than it really is!
Of course, I haven't noticed this site to be overly accurate. The TV Guide has a weekly horoscope that has seemed to apply more to my situations, and also those of family members. Not that I believe in horoscopes. They are at best good bathroom reading. And I haven't read the TV Guide horoscope in about a month. Which is not to say that I haven't been to the bathroom in a month.
For the record, today's horoscope.com told me:
You’ll feel as though you need some good old-fashioned TLC today. It could be that you’re feeling neglected or overlooked, and you might believe that some attention and being noticed will solve your problems, but you’ll be barking up the wrong tree! What you need is some good old-fashioned fun instead!
Since I need old-fashioned fun, let me share with you HH's latest pronouncement:
Can hair not be trained?
He was quite forceful in his oratory. Almost Shakespearean. He was in an argument with the #1 son about how if he combed his hair every day, it would eventually lie in the proper configuration and not demand such high maintenance. I disagreed. HH demanded, "Then how come your hair stays parted in the same place every day?" And I calmly explained, as if HH was simple, "Because I part it with a comb every day." DUH!
The conflict arose because the #1 son wants me to comb his hair for him. Not that he has an elaborate bouffant that requires hours of teasing with a silver rat-tailed comb or anything. He just wants the sticking-up parts to be slicked down with water. That's because he showers at night, goes to bed with damp hair, and it is unruly in the morning. HH argued that when HE was #1's age, he didn't have his mom or dad comb HIS hair for him. Which is a moot point, because his mother was sick and in the hospital a lot, and his father was blind. Anyhoo...I agree that the boy should certainly comb his own hair, since he washes his face, puts on medicine, brushes his teeth, shaves his chin whiskers, and puts on his Axe every morning. But HH needs to stop the theatrics.
HH was a bit miffed at me just before the hair-training incident, because I poked fun at him for asking if there was a movie playing that he wanted to see: Meduna Goes To Prison. I said I was not familiar with it. HH said, "A big black gal gets put in prison and a white girl says 'What you gonna do about it?' and she picks her up by the collar." Oh. I think he meant Madea Goes To Jail. But it wasn't on, so HH and #1 went to see Paul Blart, Mall Cop.
HH told me: "You can make a sane man crazy!" I told him I didn't know about that, but one thing was for sure: "I can make the SAME man crazy."
CAN HAIR NOT BE TRAINED?
Sometimes the only thing that gets me through the day is the thought that the students are NOT my children. You may think I'd wish they were, what with being able to discipline my own children as I see fit. They've turned out fairly well, in my opinion. But no. I could not deal with some of these students at home. At most, I have some of them for two 50-minute sessions per day. The thought of living with the knowledge that they are mine until the end of time is quite unsettling. How many times must one woman hear a fake Mexican accent from an albino boy?
In the good news, bad news department, I received a call from the doctor this evening informing me that I must return for further tests. That's the BAD news. The GOOD news is that the office kindly scheduled my test for me, and it so happens that it is at 8:30 a.m. next Wednesday, and HELLO my duty day is Wednesdays. Let's just hope results show that surgery is not on the table, since last time HM was on the table, she WOKE UP in the middle of the procedure. Even 10 fake vicodin are not enough good news to go through that again.
I have been checking horoscope.com daily for a former student's science project. Here's my horoscope from last Friday, the day I went for the test that is going to be repeated:
A sudden burst of common sense will provide the clarity you need: a tricky choice or decision can be simplified, if you look at it from an objective point of view. Be wise to people overreacting; they might make the situation appear far more dismal than it really is!
Of course, I haven't noticed this site to be overly accurate. The TV Guide has a weekly horoscope that has seemed to apply more to my situations, and also those of family members. Not that I believe in horoscopes. They are at best good bathroom reading. And I haven't read the TV Guide horoscope in about a month. Which is not to say that I haven't been to the bathroom in a month.
For the record, today's horoscope.com told me:
You’ll feel as though you need some good old-fashioned TLC today. It could be that you’re feeling neglected or overlooked, and you might believe that some attention and being noticed will solve your problems, but you’ll be barking up the wrong tree! What you need is some good old-fashioned fun instead!
Since I need old-fashioned fun, let me share with you HH's latest pronouncement:
Can hair not be trained?
He was quite forceful in his oratory. Almost Shakespearean. He was in an argument with the #1 son about how if he combed his hair every day, it would eventually lie in the proper configuration and not demand such high maintenance. I disagreed. HH demanded, "Then how come your hair stays parted in the same place every day?" And I calmly explained, as if HH was simple, "Because I part it with a comb every day." DUH!
The conflict arose because the #1 son wants me to comb his hair for him. Not that he has an elaborate bouffant that requires hours of teasing with a silver rat-tailed comb or anything. He just wants the sticking-up parts to be slicked down with water. That's because he showers at night, goes to bed with damp hair, and it is unruly in the morning. HH argued that when HE was #1's age, he didn't have his mom or dad comb HIS hair for him. Which is a moot point, because his mother was sick and in the hospital a lot, and his father was blind. Anyhoo...I agree that the boy should certainly comb his own hair, since he washes his face, puts on medicine, brushes his teeth, shaves his chin whiskers, and puts on his Axe every morning. But HH needs to stop the theatrics.
HH was a bit miffed at me just before the hair-training incident, because I poked fun at him for asking if there was a movie playing that he wanted to see: Meduna Goes To Prison. I said I was not familiar with it. HH said, "A big black gal gets put in prison and a white girl says 'What you gonna do about it?' and she picks her up by the collar." Oh. I think he meant Madea Goes To Jail. But it wasn't on, so HH and #1 went to see Paul Blart, Mall Cop.
HH told me: "You can make a sane man crazy!" I told him I didn't know about that, but one thing was for sure: "I can make the SAME man crazy."
CAN HAIR NOT BE TRAINED?
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