I am at Parent Teacher Conferences this very minute. I am very tired. My feet hurt. It has been a long day. I had my teacher observation visit this morning. We had Pasta House for supper while waiting for parents to show up. And I pre-programmed this to post now when I typed it last night. Fooled you. Thank the Gummi Mary I am psychic.
Kids nowadays have no respect. I unlocked my classroom after lunch, kicked out the doorstop, stepped into the hall...and turned around to see The Vegetator pick up my magenta rubber ruler off my desk, and twist it seven ways to Sunday. Then he carelessly tossed the crippled mess back onto my desk, where the kid who thinks no one should talk unless he has invited them into his conversation picked it up and did the same thing. I gave them my opinion of their actions. Tomorrow, I think I will walk over to The Vegetator's desk, pick up that book he carries around and tells people it's a hundred years old, crack back the spine until it is wide open, bend it a couple times, and toss it back on his desk. Then I will say, "How do YOU like it?" Well, that's what I do in my teacher-gets-even daydreams, anyway.
I cooked the #1 son some hot wings last night. I gave him a paper towel. He told me, "I really don't need that, you know. I just wipe it on my fur pants." That's what I call his hairy legs. Fur pants.
My son wants me to order him a book that I suppose is written for young adults, what with it being in the Newmentia library, and the kids there reading it. It concerns a society where the kids can be 'unwound' if the parents don't want them. That means they are taken by the government, and body parts are hacked off of them to use for transplants. One kid is a 'troublemaker', one is being unwound to save money for the orphanage where she lives, and the other has some sort of religion where it has been planned that he will be unwound. If they can live until 18, they are safe from unwinding. Yeah. Kids these days. Oh, and if it sounds interesting to you, the name of it is: Unwind, by Neal Shusterman.
Is anybody else ready for a snow day?
HH is getting some chickens on Saturday. I don't know what he's thinking. The dogs will eat them within an hour. He plans to put the chickens in the dog pen for the first week. Duh. Those dogs will go crazy trying to tunnel in and eat the chickens. I know they are not going to last. I don't want to be the one the kids tell about a pile of bloody feathers. This is about the dumbest idea HH has had since he wanted to put the cedar-shavings dog pillow on our bed.
School fundraisers have got to stop. It's not even clubs. Club fundraisers, I could understand. I don't go for this school-wide fundraiser crap. Newmentia is the only building that doesn't force the kids to sell expensive crappy crap in the hopes of getting a prize that costs $2.00 and is probably made in China, and thus more likely than not to kill them slowly with various toxins. The Pony came home with a booklet selling wreaths, and they were all $50. Yeah, right. He couldn't even tell me what they were selling them for. One year, there was the Home Interior candle fundraiser, and when you read the papers closely, the school was only getting half of the profit. Some lady who does Home Interiors was getting the other half. That's a sweet deal if you can get it. An entire elementary school full of kids to go sell your product. I boycotted that one.
Gas was down to $2.49 this afternoon.
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3 comments:
I vote for a rain day. Gas was $2.28 today. You know, the day after I filled up my tank.
You should get pregnant. I've had a fabulous week off, and have at least a week to go before they slice me open like a pig and pull out something that screams and poops. It's a big price to pay for a vacation, but still probably easier than saving up the days, especially if you take "mental health days."
Fund raiser have to go. All they ever sell at our school are t-shirts. T-shirts for every freakin' occasion, and they all look the same. Yellow with purple lettering, and sometimes a gayish tiger is worked into the mix.
HM, you must somehow save the baby chickens.
TriMarsha,
Wow! Gas is $2.39 around here. And I thought THAT was good.
Miss Ann,
I've done my time with the pregnancy sentence. No thank you.
I can guarantee the pooping, but you may not get a screamer. My Little Pony was the sweetest baby in the world. He hardly ever cried or needed anything. He got on a routine for feeding and pooping, and slept through the night way sooner that the Child From H*LL, aka the #1 son.
I don't know how I can save the baby chickens. Maybe I could suggest putting them in our bed, like the cedar-shavings dog pillow incident. But I have a feeling they aren't going to be BABIES. And I think we need to feed the dogs a big meal before they get here.
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