It is cold and lonely in a big ol' school after dark with no shades on the windows and a thermostat that has been set to stop heating at 4:00 and is not to be tampered with. The #1 son had practice from 5:00 to 7:00, and Petri Dish H woke up with a bug after being off last week for vacation, so I stayed after school to bring #1 home to the Mansion. The Pony was pawned off on grandma, who is truly a lifesaver, what with Pony-minding and picking up my Christmas shopping from the Post Office. The Post Office that smells like a dead mouse. I hope my Christmas presents don't smell like dead mouse. That would be OH SO HILLBILLY to give gifts smelling of dead mouse. One thing that doesn't smell like expired rodent is my 2nd Hour class, they who leave my classroom to take a shower and whatnot, always spraying cologne or perfume or slathering on the smelly lotion, even though I have told them I am a fragrance Nazi. Not in so many words, of course. I wouldn't want one of them to go home saying that I'm a Nazi. Like my friend Jim, the 5th Grade teacher who told his students on the first day of school that if they didn't turn in their homework, he would turn into a holy horror, and a little urchin went home that very night and asked his daddy if a man could be a whore, because Mr. Jim said he was going to turn into one. Or like my friend Karen, who told her 8th Grade basketball players to get serious about practice and stop acting like such twits, and a young lass whose daddy was on the school board told her brother at the dinner table one night, "Stop being such a twat." When Mommy and Daddy chastised her for her language, she said, "I don't know why I'm in trouble for saying that! Miss Karen calls us twats every day at practice."
And that's where I'm going to leave this free-association exercise.
Monday, November 30, 2009
Sunday, November 29, 2009
Holiday Countdown
Three weeks until Christmas break. It's a four-day week for me, what with having a date with some radioactive iodine on Wednesday morning around 7:30. I can not say that I am looking forward to that day off from school.
The #1 son has late practice all week. That means that Chauffeur H will have to pick him up at 7:00. My duty ends at 5:00. Except on Thursdays, which is conveniently Pro Bowler H's league night. Only a week until #1's first basketball game, where we will proudly turn out to watch him ride the bench.
On that note, let me add that after four weeks of practice with these boys, Coacher was overheard to instruct The Pony to come out and shoot his free throw at the end of practice. That's right. Four weeks, and he calls #1 by his little brother's name. His little brother, who never had Coacher for class, who never steps foot into the gym, and who has picked up a basketball fewer times than I can count on two hands. Yeah. Coacher is sure giving everyone a fair chance to earn those playing minutes. Guess it's kind of hard to remember the names of players you shove off to a side basket all day, every day.
Another thing that was overheard, while I was talking to a star's mom while waiting for practice to end 30 minutes late: "We only have 10 days until the first game! You should know these plays!" Just a suggestion, but perhaps the lads would remember the plays if they had practiced them for the past four weeks, rather than playing 4 on 4 every day. Uh huh. Just a thought, from a woman who does not know basketball.
Next weekend I will prepare my holiday Chex Mix for the grand poobahs and my advisory kids. We still have a Christmas Concert to attend, and four basketball games, and building a pen for the partridge in a pear tree that I expect Hoarder H to drag home from the auction. Thank the Gummi Mary, I talked him down from buying that llama.
I regret to inform my students that there will only be ONE more test until the quarter ends, not two. We have other things to do that will eat up the time needed to cover another chapter. It's OK. We have covered the CLEs. Anything goes! If you can't wing it at the end of the semester, just before Christmas break, after covering the CLEs found in that text, ready to check out the new textbook...when CAN you wing it?
I love this time of year.
The #1 son has late practice all week. That means that Chauffeur H will have to pick him up at 7:00. My duty ends at 5:00. Except on Thursdays, which is conveniently Pro Bowler H's league night. Only a week until #1's first basketball game, where we will proudly turn out to watch him ride the bench.
On that note, let me add that after four weeks of practice with these boys, Coacher was overheard to instruct The Pony to come out and shoot his free throw at the end of practice. That's right. Four weeks, and he calls #1 by his little brother's name. His little brother, who never had Coacher for class, who never steps foot into the gym, and who has picked up a basketball fewer times than I can count on two hands. Yeah. Coacher is sure giving everyone a fair chance to earn those playing minutes. Guess it's kind of hard to remember the names of players you shove off to a side basket all day, every day.
Another thing that was overheard, while I was talking to a star's mom while waiting for practice to end 30 minutes late: "We only have 10 days until the first game! You should know these plays!" Just a suggestion, but perhaps the lads would remember the plays if they had practiced them for the past four weeks, rather than playing 4 on 4 every day. Uh huh. Just a thought, from a woman who does not know basketball.
Next weekend I will prepare my holiday Chex Mix for the grand poobahs and my advisory kids. We still have a Christmas Concert to attend, and four basketball games, and building a pen for the partridge in a pear tree that I expect Hoarder H to drag home from the auction. Thank the Gummi Mary, I talked him down from buying that llama.
I regret to inform my students that there will only be ONE more test until the quarter ends, not two. We have other things to do that will eat up the time needed to cover another chapter. It's OK. We have covered the CLEs. Anything goes! If you can't wing it at the end of the semester, just before Christmas break, after covering the CLEs found in that text, ready to check out the new textbook...when CAN you wing it?
I love this time of year.
Saturday, November 28, 2009
Christmas, Bloody Christmas
Farmer H decreed that the Mansion would be draped in Christmas decorations by the end of today. There must be something about a 67-degree Saturday that brings out his Christmas spirit. In their shirtsleeves, #1 and The Pony dragged Farmer H's light show into place. Or as #1 referred to them: the really crappy decorations. He is right, you know. I can make excuses for the plastic light-up Santa and snowman, because they used to reside on my grandma's front porch. I wanted a little something from my childhood to pass on to my spawn. But the rest of the crappy decorations are all Farmer H's doings. I don't know where he got some of them. There are foot-high Santas and snowmen who sit on spikes with a light up their butt. There are snowflakes on spikes that Farmer H arranges with surgical precision. There are giant balls to hang on the cedar tree by the driveway.
The #1 son replaced about 20 lights in the string that we leave up around the front porch all year. Most chain gang workers (which is what he called himself and The Pony--Dad's chain gang) would have gotten a ladder. Not #1. He brought out a kitchen chair, set it with two legs on the edge of the porch, and climbed up to lean out over the yawning abyss to reach the light bulbs.
The Pony was injured in a freak lighting ceremony. Farmer H plugged in a string of lights and told The Pony to unscrew one of them. The Pony promptly broke the bulb, and shed his red, red blood all over the porch until he was told to hang his hand over the rail by the fish pond until Farmer H could get a band-aid. Then, adding insult to injury, Farmer H made the little chain gangster wipe up his own spilled blood with a paper towel, and commented, "Yeah, I should have remembered--I always break those lights trying to get them out."
And another holiday display is born.
The #1 son replaced about 20 lights in the string that we leave up around the front porch all year. Most chain gang workers (which is what he called himself and The Pony--Dad's chain gang) would have gotten a ladder. Not #1. He brought out a kitchen chair, set it with two legs on the edge of the porch, and climbed up to lean out over the yawning abyss to reach the light bulbs.
The Pony was injured in a freak lighting ceremony. Farmer H plugged in a string of lights and told The Pony to unscrew one of them. The Pony promptly broke the bulb, and shed his red, red blood all over the porch until he was told to hang his hand over the rail by the fish pond until Farmer H could get a band-aid. Then, adding insult to injury, Farmer H made the little chain gangster wipe up his own spilled blood with a paper towel, and commented, "Yeah, I should have remembered--I always break those lights trying to get them out."
And another holiday display is born.
Friday, November 27, 2009
The Bottomless Gift
Farmer H got an 8-point buck. Notice I didn't say he shot an 8-point buck. Farmer H doesn't hunt. So when he called me after school on Wednesday and said he got an 8-point buck, I was eager to hear the latest installment of the Farmer H Unbelievable Coincidence Saga. The same saga that brought us the wild boars for Farmer H to butcher into bacon, the Hatfield & McCoy shotgun incident, and too-good-to-be-true Free Hairwad Hot Tub giveaway. The gist of this story is that Farmer H now has an 8-point rack hanging in his MiniMansion down by the creek.
Here's how it went down. A neighbor from up the road stopped Farmer H, and told him that he had a big deer laying on his upper 10 acres. That's the land we bought as an investment for #1 and The Pony, which does not adjoin our Mansion 20 acres. Farmer H drives past it regularly on his way to and from work, but he's been off this week. Farmer H went to investigate and found a big ol' buck laying there dead. As Farmer H put it: "He looked like he'd been gut-shot."
Farmer H called the game warden. Or the Missouri Conservation rep. Or whatever name they go by.
I found a dead deer on my property, and I'm going to cut off the antlers.
Funny how you found that dead deer the day after the season ended.
I wouldn't have called you if I shot it myself. It's on my land. Nobody would know. Why would I turn myself in?
Why are you calling now, if nobody would know?
I want to do things right. I found a dead deer, and I want the antlers.
I'm just kidding you. I'll give you a number.
That's so in case a conservation agent catches Farmer H stroking his rack, Farmer H can prove that he didn't take the deer illegally. I don't know what Farmer H did with the rest of the deer, but he went and sawed off that 8-point rack. I know, because I was sitting at the kitchen table peeling eggs for my famous Thanksgiving deviled-egg side dish, and Farmer H strolled in the back door proudly holding out that bloody rack. I sent him packing. He came right back without the rack to brag about it. "Who's minding the rack? Those dogs will be on it." Farmer H said they would leave it alone, but he beat a hasty retreat within a minute or two.
Farmer H. Big Game Hunter. Supplier of endless blog posts. The gift that keeps on giving.
Here's how it went down. A neighbor from up the road stopped Farmer H, and told him that he had a big deer laying on his upper 10 acres. That's the land we bought as an investment for #1 and The Pony, which does not adjoin our Mansion 20 acres. Farmer H drives past it regularly on his way to and from work, but he's been off this week. Farmer H went to investigate and found a big ol' buck laying there dead. As Farmer H put it: "He looked like he'd been gut-shot."
Farmer H called the game warden. Or the Missouri Conservation rep. Or whatever name they go by.
I found a dead deer on my property, and I'm going to cut off the antlers.
Funny how you found that dead deer the day after the season ended.
I wouldn't have called you if I shot it myself. It's on my land. Nobody would know. Why would I turn myself in?
Why are you calling now, if nobody would know?
I want to do things right. I found a dead deer, and I want the antlers.
I'm just kidding you. I'll give you a number.
That's so in case a conservation agent catches Farmer H stroking his rack, Farmer H can prove that he didn't take the deer illegally. I don't know what Farmer H did with the rest of the deer, but he went and sawed off that 8-point rack. I know, because I was sitting at the kitchen table peeling eggs for my famous Thanksgiving deviled-egg side dish, and Farmer H strolled in the back door proudly holding out that bloody rack. I sent him packing. He came right back without the rack to brag about it. "Who's minding the rack? Those dogs will be on it." Farmer H said they would leave it alone, but he beat a hasty retreat within a minute or two.
Farmer H. Big Game Hunter. Supplier of endless blog posts. The gift that keeps on giving.
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Five Questions And A Statement
How do you know HH has been off work? There are food particles stuck in the kitchen sink drain, gritty dirt on the kitchen floor, and mysterious grease blots on the kitchen counter. I might need to go count the chickens.
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How does The Pony do his Christmas shopping? The same way any 11-year-old boy would like to do his Christmas shopping--out of the grabber machine at The Devil's Playground. The Pony has become quite adept at snagging partially-buried jewelry. He already harvested enough bling to give two presents each to Grandma, Aunt, Cousin, other Cousin's Girlfriend. Plus, he also derived the entertainment value from his shopping spree.
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What kind of redneck lowlife do you have to be to write on the freakin' wall of the classroom when the teacher is replaced for 4 class periods with a substitute? Not artistic graffiti. Not a pencil on concrete block reproduction of the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. Scribbles. Graphite scribbles. What we need is a Rent-A-Mr.-Hand, like from Fast Times at Ridgemont High. A Rent-A-Mr.-Hand to go to the homes of the scribblers, and tag their domicile with unsightly etchings on drywall. Because that would be about as easy to remove as graphite on concrete blocks.
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For all of you Mabelish label-readers out there, a surprisingly protein-rich and low-cal treat can be found in The Devil's shrimp eggrolls and mini beef-and-cheese tacos, found near the deli section. The shrimp eggroll has 110 calories and 10 grams of protein, while the 4 mini-tacos per serving sport 200 calories and 7 grams of protein. Just sayin'. Because I don't want Mabel to have to strain herself by holding the package over her head to read the nutritional information like the side-by-side comparison of those two pumpkin pies this afternoon.
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Do shoes make the team? The #1 son's basketball cronies are dropping like flies. It's so bad that HE even got to play full-court five-on-five at practice, instead of being shuttled to a side basket. I blame those new team shoes, lightweight, but at the price of little lateral support. Two sprained ankles and a foot problem do not speak well for the Nike Hyperize. I want to get him a separate pair of shoes for practice, since I've already had to get him sports insoles due to lack of cushioning, and he said his ankle took a turn for the worse during the suicides. #1 might just be the last man standing if he can keep his hooves healthy. He even scored twice while playing against Concussor today.
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How self-absorbed do you have to be to get hit by an oncoming car while walking to school? Game of chicken, or an unfortunate texting accident? I know that when I used to drive past the school my kids should go to, the students would NOT get off the road. Several times I had to come to a complete stop to wait for an oncoming car to pass, so stubborn were those urchins, demanding three feet of roadway to hoof it to school. They wouldn't step off the road for anything. Not even after that dude was whacked by the state representative's truck mirror on New Year's Eve and landed in a coma for a couple weeks.
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How does The Pony do his Christmas shopping? The same way any 11-year-old boy would like to do his Christmas shopping--out of the grabber machine at The Devil's Playground. The Pony has become quite adept at snagging partially-buried jewelry. He already harvested enough bling to give two presents each to Grandma, Aunt, Cousin, other Cousin's Girlfriend. Plus, he also derived the entertainment value from his shopping spree.
******************************************************
What kind of redneck lowlife do you have to be to write on the freakin' wall of the classroom when the teacher is replaced for 4 class periods with a substitute? Not artistic graffiti. Not a pencil on concrete block reproduction of the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. Scribbles. Graphite scribbles. What we need is a Rent-A-Mr.-Hand, like from Fast Times at Ridgemont High. A Rent-A-Mr.-Hand to go to the homes of the scribblers, and tag their domicile with unsightly etchings on drywall. Because that would be about as easy to remove as graphite on concrete blocks.
******************************************************
For all of you Mabelish label-readers out there, a surprisingly protein-rich and low-cal treat can be found in The Devil's shrimp eggrolls and mini beef-and-cheese tacos, found near the deli section. The shrimp eggroll has 110 calories and 10 grams of protein, while the 4 mini-tacos per serving sport 200 calories and 7 grams of protein. Just sayin'. Because I don't want Mabel to have to strain herself by holding the package over her head to read the nutritional information like the side-by-side comparison of those two pumpkin pies this afternoon.
******************************************************
Do shoes make the team? The #1 son's basketball cronies are dropping like flies. It's so bad that HE even got to play full-court five-on-five at practice, instead of being shuttled to a side basket. I blame those new team shoes, lightweight, but at the price of little lateral support. Two sprained ankles and a foot problem do not speak well for the Nike Hyperize. I want to get him a separate pair of shoes for practice, since I've already had to get him sports insoles due to lack of cushioning, and he said his ankle took a turn for the worse during the suicides. #1 might just be the last man standing if he can keep his hooves healthy. He even scored twice while playing against Concussor today.
******************************************************
How self-absorbed do you have to be to get hit by an oncoming car while walking to school? Game of chicken, or an unfortunate texting accident? I know that when I used to drive past the school my kids should go to, the students would NOT get off the road. Several times I had to come to a complete stop to wait for an oncoming car to pass, so stubborn were those urchins, demanding three feet of roadway to hoof it to school. They wouldn't step off the road for anything. Not even after that dude was whacked by the state representative's truck mirror on New Year's Eve and landed in a coma for a couple weeks.
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Tuesday, November 24, 2009
We Have A Diagnosis
Mr. M was supposed to be on our trivia team Saturday night. It was $100 per table, and we thought we had 10 people. Eight of us showed up, with Mr. M and friend being among the missing. We paid our money, and told the trivia-runners that we were expecting two more. When we first arrived, I asked my teammies which one was going to inquire as to whether Mr. M had something up his butt. You know, because that's what a disgruntled student told me. They had a good laugh at that, but there were no takers to ascertain the health of Mr. M's posterior. And Mr. I wanted to know if the kid said that HE had something up HIS butt. I assured him that she was indeed talking about Mr. M, but secretly wondered if Mr. I truly held some contraband in his nether region, what with making it all about HIM.
When he didn't arrive, I chalked it up to Mr. M having something up his butt. "You know, I hear that it's hard to move around with something up your butt. That would surely cause someone to run late." Only nine chairs fit comfortably at our table. One was set off to the side, along the trophy case. "That can be Mr. M's chair. He might prefer not to be crammed in with us, since he could already be feeling a little crammed with that something up his butt." But when Mr. M and his lady-friend arrived, Mr. M carried that chair around the table over his head, and scooched it right up with the rest of us.
Between rounds, I leaned over the #1 son to ask Mr. M the burning question. Since nobody else would do the deed. "Last week, a student told me that you had something up your butt. Are you all right?" Mr. M eyed me for a minute.
"WHO said that?"
I'm not telling you WHO, because you will retaliate.
Was it music appreciation or concert choir?
I'm not telling you that so you can narrow it down.
Boy or girl?
I'm not telling. You will use your powers of deduction.
Well, several of them have been crying all week.
I'm surprised you weren't the one crying, with that something up your butt.
I don't have anything up my butt.
OK. If you say so.
While I wasn't minding him, since I was too busy recording the answers for our winning trivia performance, the #1 son gave Mr. M enough clues to deduce the disgruntled. I didn't find out until the ride home. I scolded #1 soundly. "But Mom! All I told him was that she wasn't in music appreciation, because I didn't want the freshmen being blamed, and then he said 'Alto or soprano?' and I said she wasn't a soprano, so he doesn't know WHO said it, because there are three altos!" Great. Narrow it down to three people from 60 people, and expect Mr. M not to guess the right one. "But Mom! I only improved his odds by 80%!" Spoken like a true mathlete. And traitor. I need to corral Mr. M and warn him that if he retaliates against the disgruntled, I will put in the announcements that Mr. M will be absent next week because he is having surgery to have something removed from his butt.
During the intermission, Mr. M got up to fetch a beverage for his lady-friend. One of the eleventy-hundred basketball-bouncing urchins who had spent the evening running amuck threw a basketball at Mr. M's butt. It bounced off. When Mr. M returned with the lady-beverage, I said, "Now we have proof." Mr. M replied, "I DO feel so much better now that that basketball fell out of my butt."
Because he was a good sport, I didn't bring up the issue of Mr. M holding students hostage in his classroom, or farming them out begging for batteries like his own personal UNICEF squad.
When he didn't arrive, I chalked it up to Mr. M having something up his butt. "You know, I hear that it's hard to move around with something up your butt. That would surely cause someone to run late." Only nine chairs fit comfortably at our table. One was set off to the side, along the trophy case. "That can be Mr. M's chair. He might prefer not to be crammed in with us, since he could already be feeling a little crammed with that something up his butt." But when Mr. M and his lady-friend arrived, Mr. M carried that chair around the table over his head, and scooched it right up with the rest of us.
Between rounds, I leaned over the #1 son to ask Mr. M the burning question. Since nobody else would do the deed. "Last week, a student told me that you had something up your butt. Are you all right?" Mr. M eyed me for a minute.
"WHO said that?"
I'm not telling you WHO, because you will retaliate.
Was it music appreciation or concert choir?
I'm not telling you that so you can narrow it down.
Boy or girl?
I'm not telling. You will use your powers of deduction.
Well, several of them have been crying all week.
I'm surprised you weren't the one crying, with that something up your butt.
I don't have anything up my butt.
OK. If you say so.
While I wasn't minding him, since I was too busy recording the answers for our winning trivia performance, the #1 son gave Mr. M enough clues to deduce the disgruntled. I didn't find out until the ride home. I scolded #1 soundly. "But Mom! All I told him was that she wasn't in music appreciation, because I didn't want the freshmen being blamed, and then he said 'Alto or soprano?' and I said she wasn't a soprano, so he doesn't know WHO said it, because there are three altos!" Great. Narrow it down to three people from 60 people, and expect Mr. M not to guess the right one. "But Mom! I only improved his odds by 80%!" Spoken like a true mathlete. And traitor. I need to corral Mr. M and warn him that if he retaliates against the disgruntled, I will put in the announcements that Mr. M will be absent next week because he is having surgery to have something removed from his butt.
During the intermission, Mr. M got up to fetch a beverage for his lady-friend. One of the eleventy-hundred basketball-bouncing urchins who had spent the evening running amuck threw a basketball at Mr. M's butt. It bounced off. When Mr. M returned with the lady-beverage, I said, "Now we have proof." Mr. M replied, "I DO feel so much better now that that basketball fell out of my butt."
Because he was a good sport, I didn't bring up the issue of Mr. M holding students hostage in his classroom, or farming them out begging for batteries like his own personal UNICEF squad.
Monday, November 23, 2009
Up The Butt Syndrome
Last week, a disgruntled student told me that Mr. M has something up his butt.
It all started when she came into my room and asked if I had a AA battery.
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What do I look like, a convenience store?
No. But Mr. M sent me to find a AA battery.
You can tell Mr. M that even if I HAD a AA battery, I would not give it to him. In fact, it could be the last AA battery on Earth, a battery that I had no use for, and I STILL would not give it to him.
Oh.
Yesterday, I called down there to see if my son could come up to my room for the last 5 minutes of class. Did he show up? NO. And my son told me that Mr. M would not let out a kid that the office called out. Mr. M told him, "You can go when the bell rings."
Yeah. He wouldn't even let the seniors out to order their gowns.
See? That's why I have no AA battery for Mr. M. He has changed.
I KNOW! He's got something up his butt.
******************************************************
She parted ways amicably, still clutching her drained AA battery that I can only assume was a trade-in for a working AA battery, perhaps to tell Mr. M the reason for his batterylessness, perhaps not. Please let it be noted that if I truly had a problem with Mr. M, I would not speak this way of him in front of a student. Mr. M and I go way back. He organized our very first trivia team. I usually greet him as Mr. A$$hole. That's how I roll.
I had a bit of fun with his up-the-butt syndrome on Trivia Night. But that's a story for tomorrow.
It all started when she came into my room and asked if I had a AA battery.
******************************************************
What do I look like, a convenience store?
No. But Mr. M sent me to find a AA battery.
You can tell Mr. M that even if I HAD a AA battery, I would not give it to him. In fact, it could be the last AA battery on Earth, a battery that I had no use for, and I STILL would not give it to him.
Oh.
Yesterday, I called down there to see if my son could come up to my room for the last 5 minutes of class. Did he show up? NO. And my son told me that Mr. M would not let out a kid that the office called out. Mr. M told him, "You can go when the bell rings."
Yeah. He wouldn't even let the seniors out to order their gowns.
See? That's why I have no AA battery for Mr. M. He has changed.
I KNOW! He's got something up his butt.
******************************************************
She parted ways amicably, still clutching her drained AA battery that I can only assume was a trade-in for a working AA battery, perhaps to tell Mr. M the reason for his batterylessness, perhaps not. Please let it be noted that if I truly had a problem with Mr. M, I would not speak this way of him in front of a student. Mr. M and I go way back. He organized our very first trivia team. I usually greet him as Mr. A$$hole. That's how I roll.
I had a bit of fun with his up-the-butt syndrome on Trivia Night. But that's a story for tomorrow.
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