Thursday, July 28, 2011
Hillbilly Mom Can't Count
How I do go on! This is blog number five since I first started. Don't mind it being labeled number four. The first little orphan had a different title. Just updating to keep this blog kickin'.
Sunday, April 11, 2010
This Blog Is Starting To Smell
I am trying to switch over to a new blog, since this one has 650 posts and is becoming unwieldy. Until I have time to go in and prune some of the overgrowth, I'm going to stash this one under the name of Hillbilly Mansion Four. Blogger willing.
Blogger gets my hopes up by allowing the switch, but then won't give me back my Hillbilly Mansion title like old times. What's up with that, Blogger? Why you wanna do me this way? We had a good thing goin' on. We have five blogs together. And now you want it to be like this? Uh huh. I see how it is.
Blogger gets my hopes up by allowing the switch, but then won't give me back my Hillbilly Mansion title like old times. What's up with that, Blogger? Why you wanna do me this way? We had a good thing goin' on. We have five blogs together. And now you want it to be like this? Uh huh. I see how it is.
Saturday, April 10, 2010
Culinary Critiques
Have you ever tried to eat food that was presented to you, just to be polite and not make waves? Food that is really not at all tasty, but to refuse it would upset the chef?
What can you do, pull a Seinfeld and shake your head at the bite of pie? Stuff mutton into Grandma Memma's napkins until dogs follow you home? Hide your brussel sprouts under the mashed potatoes like Beaver Cleaver? No. That doesn't work in real life. Sometimes, you just have to stuff your piehole.
My dad liked to prepare BBQ hamburgers and pork steaks on the grill. We ate it. We didn't know any better. Until we grew up and tasted other people's BBQ. Who knew that hamburgers were not dry and mealy? That pork steaks could be plump and tender instead of thin and sturdy like the sole of an Italian loafer? Not us.
Somebody in my family must have been food-poisoned somewhere down the line. My mom cooks everything within an inch of its life. Well Done should be a framed needlepoint hanging in her kitchen. No wonder my sister doesn't like meat. Meat loaf was just like those BBQ burgers: dry and crumbly, with only the ketchup on top holding it together. Pork chops: the other leather. Don't even get me started on the Thanksgiving turkey. There's a reason I prefer dark meat. It doesn't suck all the saliva out of my mouth. Wild game suffered the same fate. Quail, rabbit, or squirrel...they all tasted alike: fried to a jerky consistency.
Desserts are not off the hook. The brownies only look like brownies until the first bite. After that, they look like crushed Oreo potting soil. You could put gummy worms in there and they wouldn't know the difference. Those brownies are as dry as that Thanksgiving turkey in Christmas Vacation. I swear you can hear the air go out of them when you make the first slice. The pecan pie somehow shrinks in upon itself, away from the crust. It looks like some freaky mud-flat landscape.
And we don't even want to talk about the cheese-and-broccoli stems.
I would never mention this topic to the chef. It would hurt her feelings. She means well. She likes her food well-done. Even when we take her a perfectly tender piece of meat loaf or pork steak, she re-cooks it, by cracky, until it is charred.
Like we don't know how to cook!
What can you do, pull a Seinfeld and shake your head at the bite of pie? Stuff mutton into Grandma Memma's napkins until dogs follow you home? Hide your brussel sprouts under the mashed potatoes like Beaver Cleaver? No. That doesn't work in real life. Sometimes, you just have to stuff your piehole.
My dad liked to prepare BBQ hamburgers and pork steaks on the grill. We ate it. We didn't know any better. Until we grew up and tasted other people's BBQ. Who knew that hamburgers were not dry and mealy? That pork steaks could be plump and tender instead of thin and sturdy like the sole of an Italian loafer? Not us.
Somebody in my family must have been food-poisoned somewhere down the line. My mom cooks everything within an inch of its life. Well Done should be a framed needlepoint hanging in her kitchen. No wonder my sister doesn't like meat. Meat loaf was just like those BBQ burgers: dry and crumbly, with only the ketchup on top holding it together. Pork chops: the other leather. Don't even get me started on the Thanksgiving turkey. There's a reason I prefer dark meat. It doesn't suck all the saliva out of my mouth. Wild game suffered the same fate. Quail, rabbit, or squirrel...they all tasted alike: fried to a jerky consistency.
Desserts are not off the hook. The brownies only look like brownies until the first bite. After that, they look like crushed Oreo potting soil. You could put gummy worms in there and they wouldn't know the difference. Those brownies are as dry as that Thanksgiving turkey in Christmas Vacation. I swear you can hear the air go out of them when you make the first slice. The pecan pie somehow shrinks in upon itself, away from the crust. It looks like some freaky mud-flat landscape.
And we don't even want to talk about the cheese-and-broccoli stems.
I would never mention this topic to the chef. It would hurt her feelings. She means well. She likes her food well-done. Even when we take her a perfectly tender piece of meat loaf or pork steak, she re-cooks it, by cracky, until it is charred.
Like we don't know how to cook!
Friday, April 9, 2010
Halt The SuperNanny State
Stop. Making. Excuses.
Oh, my gravy! That little expression is courtesy of one of the cowboy brothers on Amazing Race. It is OH SO ANNOYING, but quite appropriate for some of the latest news items that caught my eye. Please remember that Mrs. Hillbilly Mom does not suffer fools gladly. In fact, she would gladly see fools suffer. It's her nature. Much like trying to get blood from a turnip, you can squeeze her cold, cold heart for a month of Sundays and still not harvest a drop of sympathy. Here's some advice from Mrs. HM, people: You can not sue the pants off everyone just because you feel that you have been wronged. Litigation is not the answer. Sometimes, a good old-fashioned butt-kicking is in order.
The cheerleaders who peed in a soda and 'enticed' their fellow yellers to drink? Shame on them! The imbibers should kick their pee-ers' sorry a$$es, and then the administration should kick the leaking ladies off the squad and all extracurricular activities forevah! None of this ban them for the rest of the season crap! Make it permanent. The word needs to get out: When you give your teammates pee to drink, you forfeit the right to have teammates.
The lady who grabbed a three-year old for kicking her airplane seat? Shame on her. But somebody's gotta do it. The mother was obviously not doing her duty. It takes a plane cabin to raise a child. What was that stewardess doing, anyway...blowing the autopilot?
The student-government leaders who posed with a noose? Shame on them! Facebook is forever. Good luck finding a job after graduation, guys.
The bullies who drove a teenage girl to suicide? Shame on them! Somewhere, I saw their names, even though they are minors. How does that work? I thought they were always kept out of the press. Good luck, girlies. You can bet there are some crazies out there waiting to kick your butts. Not that it's right, mind you. But it happens. Bet your 15 minutes of fame don't look so good now, huh? And for the poor deceased girl...whatever happened to parents teaching the sticks and stones method? If something like this put her over the edge, it was likely that something later in life would have done the same thing.
The Notre Dame letter-of-intent football dude who died on Spring Break? Shame on him! What high-schooler deserves a trip to Mexico for Spring Break? And who gives alcohol to high-schoolers? And who is chaperoning this trip? And people who throw away opportunity willy-nilly sometimes find that they ARE NOT invincible after all.
Nature finds a way thin the herd. We don't need to legislate people into submission.
Oh, my gravy! That little expression is courtesy of one of the cowboy brothers on Amazing Race. It is OH SO ANNOYING, but quite appropriate for some of the latest news items that caught my eye. Please remember that Mrs. Hillbilly Mom does not suffer fools gladly. In fact, she would gladly see fools suffer. It's her nature. Much like trying to get blood from a turnip, you can squeeze her cold, cold heart for a month of Sundays and still not harvest a drop of sympathy. Here's some advice from Mrs. HM, people: You can not sue the pants off everyone just because you feel that you have been wronged. Litigation is not the answer. Sometimes, a good old-fashioned butt-kicking is in order.
The cheerleaders who peed in a soda and 'enticed' their fellow yellers to drink? Shame on them! The imbibers should kick their pee-ers' sorry a$$es, and then the administration should kick the leaking ladies off the squad and all extracurricular activities forevah! None of this ban them for the rest of the season crap! Make it permanent. The word needs to get out: When you give your teammates pee to drink, you forfeit the right to have teammates.
The lady who grabbed a three-year old for kicking her airplane seat? Shame on her. But somebody's gotta do it. The mother was obviously not doing her duty. It takes a plane cabin to raise a child. What was that stewardess doing, anyway...blowing the autopilot?
The student-government leaders who posed with a noose? Shame on them! Facebook is forever. Good luck finding a job after graduation, guys.
The bullies who drove a teenage girl to suicide? Shame on them! Somewhere, I saw their names, even though they are minors. How does that work? I thought they were always kept out of the press. Good luck, girlies. You can bet there are some crazies out there waiting to kick your butts. Not that it's right, mind you. But it happens. Bet your 15 minutes of fame don't look so good now, huh? And for the poor deceased girl...whatever happened to parents teaching the sticks and stones method? If something like this put her over the edge, it was likely that something later in life would have done the same thing.
The Notre Dame letter-of-intent football dude who died on Spring Break? Shame on him! What high-schooler deserves a trip to Mexico for Spring Break? And who gives alcohol to high-schoolers? And who is chaperoning this trip? And people who throw away opportunity willy-nilly sometimes find that they ARE NOT invincible after all.
Nature finds a way thin the herd. We don't need to legislate people into submission.
Thursday, April 8, 2010
Cash For Flunkers
I am the Jerry Seinfeld of Hillmomba. After school today, I went out and bought 12 new cars. I don't own my own parking garage in New York City, or even a parking garage in Hillmomba. So maybe the likeness to Seinfeld ends with the plethora of new cars, and my Even Stevenness.
My cars cost a grand total of $12.63. You can bet that receipt is getting stashed with my 2010 tax records. They're phasing out the $250 per year educator expense deduction. How dare they! It costs me that much in tissues and GermX!
Getting back to those new cars...they are Hot Wheels. I am tired of raiding my personal children's stash of toys for lab materials. And forget writing it up on requisitions and trying to find a time that the power that beeees will cough up that Devil's Playground no-tax purchasing card. That makes it OH SO DIFFICULT to schedule spur-of-the-moment lab activities. I'm not like Mr. H and Mabel, who run their copies for an entire year during the August inservice days. No sirree Bob! Not Mrs. Hillbilly Mom. She's a born procrastinator, and a fickle planner, and changes her mind to suit her moods. We are doing a ramp-rolling, graph-making, metric-measuring exercise in potential/kinetic energy tomorrow. Thus, the bevy of Chevys for Mrs. HM.
I really don't like to stay late on Fridays to grade papers. Lab write-ups can be scored in a jiffy, by cracky! And they're easy enough that even the least-motivated students can boost their cumulative points.
Only 6 more Fridays until school is out.
My cars cost a grand total of $12.63. You can bet that receipt is getting stashed with my 2010 tax records. They're phasing out the $250 per year educator expense deduction. How dare they! It costs me that much in tissues and GermX!
Getting back to those new cars...they are Hot Wheels. I am tired of raiding my personal children's stash of toys for lab materials. And forget writing it up on requisitions and trying to find a time that the power that beeees will cough up that Devil's Playground no-tax purchasing card. That makes it OH SO DIFFICULT to schedule spur-of-the-moment lab activities. I'm not like Mr. H and Mabel, who run their copies for an entire year during the August inservice days. No sirree Bob! Not Mrs. Hillbilly Mom. She's a born procrastinator, and a fickle planner, and changes her mind to suit her moods. We are doing a ramp-rolling, graph-making, metric-measuring exercise in potential/kinetic energy tomorrow. Thus, the bevy of Chevys for Mrs. HM.
I really don't like to stay late on Fridays to grade papers. Lab write-ups can be scored in a jiffy, by cracky! And they're easy enough that even the least-motivated students can boost their cumulative points.
Only 6 more Fridays until school is out.
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
I've Got Your Number
Every year, there is a new Eddie Haskell.
"Mrs. Hillbilly Mom, did you and the boys color eggs for Easter?"
"Yes. Yes, we did. Did you color eggs, Concussor?"
"Oh, no. I am too old to color eggs."
"Well, we colored them, and they are in the refrigerator right now."
It's a tradition, you know, to color eggs. Concussor's little brothers might have enjoyed such festivities. Though maybe not, because rumor has it that a couple years ago, one of them told another one to "Quit yer cryin' and get off the tit." Perhaps other families don't exist in a Hillmomba, Leave It To Beaver world. Perhaps my boys are just big ol' girls, as Concussor insinuates daily. Don't you go feelin' sorry for #1 and The Pony. Concussor says that about every dude except the one that sits beside him.
After taking roll, I was explaining formulas for work, power, and mechanical advantage. Concussor kept blurting out his opinions about various topics, some of which may have slightly pertained to work, power, and mechanical advantage. I stopped speaking. I gave him the eye. You know, the look with one eyebrow raised. The stinkeye, as some have accused.
"Concussor, I would think that you are too old to be talking out in class without raising your hand and being called on."
He hung his head. "Uh...well...I am...but I do it anyway. Sorry."
Sometimes, Mrs. Hillbilly Mom just has to lay the smack down.
"Mrs. Hillbilly Mom, did you and the boys color eggs for Easter?"
"Yes. Yes, we did. Did you color eggs, Concussor?"
"Oh, no. I am too old to color eggs."
"Well, we colored them, and they are in the refrigerator right now."
It's a tradition, you know, to color eggs. Concussor's little brothers might have enjoyed such festivities. Though maybe not, because rumor has it that a couple years ago, one of them told another one to "Quit yer cryin' and get off the tit." Perhaps other families don't exist in a Hillmomba, Leave It To Beaver world. Perhaps my boys are just big ol' girls, as Concussor insinuates daily. Don't you go feelin' sorry for #1 and The Pony. Concussor says that about every dude except the one that sits beside him.
After taking roll, I was explaining formulas for work, power, and mechanical advantage. Concussor kept blurting out his opinions about various topics, some of which may have slightly pertained to work, power, and mechanical advantage. I stopped speaking. I gave him the eye. You know, the look with one eyebrow raised. The stinkeye, as some have accused.
"Concussor, I would think that you are too old to be talking out in class without raising your hand and being called on."
He hung his head. "Uh...well...I am...but I do it anyway. Sorry."
Sometimes, Mrs. Hillbilly Mom just has to lay the smack down.
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
Driving Frosh Crazy
How do you drive the freshmen crazy? Just have the custodians install a wall support for a screen and projector. Really. That's all it takes. The support is the same color as the wall. It's a pooched-out oval with dimensions around 2' long and 8" tall and 6" deep. There's a hole about the size of a 50-cent piece in the middle, through which you can see the concrete-block wall.
The students were all abuzz.
"What's that thing?"
"What's it for?"
"What's it do?"
"Where did that come from?"
"When did you get that?"
"Why do you have that?"
"Is that a camera?"
Yeah. It's a camera. An invisible camera. Because you can plainly see the wall through that little hole. There is nothing inside that support. It's a thingamajigger screwed into the wall above the white board, with a hole to put a pole that will hold a projector, and a base to hang a pull-down screen. The teacher next door and the one next to her already have theirs completely installed. You would think that in their many travels throughout Newmentia, the students would have viewed such a contraption already.
So these kids thought there was a camera watching them. I should have told them yes, they're right, it's a direct link to Mr. Principal's office. Joke's on you. You will be surveilled within an inch of your life, so don't try anything foolish like, oh...I don't know...maybe...taking out your cell phone right in the middle of class to send a text.
What do they think this is, anyway...The Devil's Playground? Like we have security guards to monitor each classroom 24/7. A better question is, "Why do you want to know if that's a camera?" Surely you realize that you will be the one I watch closely now.
We teachers are so far advanced in our psychological warfare. It's like taking a cell phone from a freshman.
The students were all abuzz.
"What's that thing?"
"What's it for?"
"What's it do?"
"Where did that come from?"
"When did you get that?"
"Why do you have that?"
"Is that a camera?"
Yeah. It's a camera. An invisible camera. Because you can plainly see the wall through that little hole. There is nothing inside that support. It's a thingamajigger screwed into the wall above the white board, with a hole to put a pole that will hold a projector, and a base to hang a pull-down screen. The teacher next door and the one next to her already have theirs completely installed. You would think that in their many travels throughout Newmentia, the students would have viewed such a contraption already.
So these kids thought there was a camera watching them. I should have told them yes, they're right, it's a direct link to Mr. Principal's office. Joke's on you. You will be surveilled within an inch of your life, so don't try anything foolish like, oh...I don't know...maybe...taking out your cell phone right in the middle of class to send a text.
What do they think this is, anyway...The Devil's Playground? Like we have security guards to monitor each classroom 24/7. A better question is, "Why do you want to know if that's a camera?" Surely you realize that you will be the one I watch closely now.
We teachers are so far advanced in our psychological warfare. It's like taking a cell phone from a freshman.
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