Things That Go Crash In The Night

The nocturnal shenanigans continue.

I fell asleep in the basement recliner last night at 9:30. Much to my chagrin, as I had just remembered that Sweet Genius was on, and tuned in to see desserts made with bubble gum, carrots, and a turtle as the inspiration. I only made it through that one dish. I awoke at 1:40 a.m. I gathered up the materials I had brought down to write out some bills. That would have to wait.

Upstairs, I plugged in my cell phone on the kitchen counter. I heard a crash. Like something substantial falling over. Like The Pony's insulated cup of ice falling on the basement tile. Or a small appliance falling on the #1 son's laptop. I searched the house. Nothing was out of place.

What's up with that?

Beware The Haboob

My classes learned a new word today, courtesy of Science World magazine. Did you know that haboob is Arabic for strong wind? It's true.

Yeah. They really liked that one. I gave them a little Jeopardy-type game to see what they knew before reading the magazine. About half of the classes guessed that the statement, "Haboob is an Arabic word for strong wind" was false. Like Science World would put in a fake word such as haboob. I'm so sure.

Mainly, they giggled. As did I, when I read the question out loud. It was on the big screen up front, too, for all to feast on with their eyes. One girl said, "Well, I'm not sure. I seem to have left my Arabic to English dictionary at home today." Good one.

We also read a good article about Tasmanian Devils and a contagious facial cancer that is killing them. So much so that they needed an intervention. A wildlife sanctuary/breeding program has been established on mainland Australia, called Devil Ark. A devil heaven, according to Science World. A person quoted in the article happened to attend the University of Tasmania. Which just struck me funny. Because of the Looney Tunes devil, Taz. And because one of my classes has been teasing me that I never actually graduated from college. That's because my college changed its name since then, and because I told them I don't know where my diploma is, and because I refuse to tell them my graduation year and/or provide them with my social security number, age, lock of hair, or a blood sample. These little whippersnappers are dead set on getting a quality education.

I am SO going to tell them tomorrow that I've been lying. That I graduated from the University of Tasmania.

You Can Lead A Fish To Water

What if...somebody happened to mention that his goldfish did a flip this morning in his bowl? The teacher should be duly impressed, right, and say, perhaps, "What a talented goldfish you have! Did you train him to do flips?" Or the teacher could say, "Funny, fish seem to flip over like that right before they die. How has your goldfish been feeling lately?" Not recommended. But realistic.

Because teachers have way too much idle time and nothing better to do on their 22 minute lunch period, even after heating up lunch and taking 5 minutes to use the restroom, we discussed the goldfish issue.

The student said the food ran out. So he was waiting until he got more food to feed the goldfish. Keepin' It Real asked if he could feed it something else. "Well, somebody said to feed it crackers. But I don't think that's good for the fish."

"Oh. But letting it starve is good for it? Seriously. That fish is dying. What worse could happen to it from eating crackers?"

The student agreed that it might not hurt to drop some cracker crumbs into the fishbowl. Back at the teacher lunch table, we took the bait and ran with it.

"Hope he doesn't feed it a goldfish cracker. That would be all kinds of wrong."

"You mean like cannibalism?"

"Yeah."

"We throw out leftover food to our chickens. But we won't give them chicken. On the other hand, I would give them Chicken-In-A-Biscuit crackers."

"How about some toast."

"Give a goldfish toast? Won't he choke? Won't it not be toast any more once it hits the water?"

"No. You toast the bread, then scrape off crumbs into the fishbowl."

"That's not enough to keep a bird alive."

"How about you just give it a big ol' fish sandwich. That should tide it over until you get some fish food."

"That's just wrong."

Thus I Sat Engaged In Guessing

Maybe I've mentioned that my planning period has been changed to 2nd hour this year. Which is pretty much the worst time ever for me. Some people like it, because they have a chance to prepare for the day. I, on the other hand, like to be caught up for the day. I want all of my papers graded, and the next day's materials laid out before I leave school. So 2nd hour doesn't do much for me. I can get some advance planning done, but the papers that pile up through the day, in need of a good gradin', have to wait until after school, or some spare minutes while my class works on an assignment.

Chief among my complaints of the 2nd hour plan time is the lack of a spare moment to attend to bodily functions. I can go before school. I can go at the end of my plan time. I can go at lunch. But then it's a four-hour wait until I can go again. Which is possible if I want to restrict liquids all through the day. And dehydrate myself.

Mondays are especially hazardous. I have duty. Before AND after school. This week, I headed in from afternoon duty and made a pit stop at the faculty women's restroom, housed inside the teacher workroom. I had barely sat down to do my business when suddenly there came a tapping. As of someone strongly rapping, rapping at the chamber door. Ah, distinctly I remember...

Oops! For a moment there, I was deep inside that Simpson's episode where Bart shows up at Homer's chamber door as a raven with a boy's head.

I heard voices, then silence. Upon vacating my throne, I stepped out to find Mabel, my teaching bud, awaiting entrance to the chamber. I asked who had been tap tap tapping. Twas the Master Schedule Maker, she sang. Like a canary. Not a raven.

Which was sweet, poetic justice. Because just this once, Master Schedule Maker had to hold it until an opportune time presented itself for the performance of bodily functions.

Please Release Me Let Me Go

You know how you get a song stuck in your head? And you can't get rid of it? But you don't know all the words, so you are stuck repeating the same phrase over and over?

Every rose has its thorn. Just like every night has its dawn. Just like every cowboy sings a sad, sad song. Every rose has its thorn.

Yeah. That's the latest one. I had to download it on Zune. Because the #1 son pays for free unlimited downloads. Go figure. But that has not helped me learn all the lyrics. And I'm still kind of upset with Bret Michaels for his Celebrity Apprentice performance.

Prior to that thorny issue, the song stuck in my head was one that The Pony and I heard on the Sirius XM 60s station on the way to school. We heard it at least twice a week, at the same time every morning. I don't know the name, but its a dude with an Irish accent.

You got your green alligators, your long-neck geese, your humpty-back camels and your chimpanzees...blah blah blah...you're never gonna see no unicorn.

But the cake-taker for earwigitis is Ms Tanya Tucker. For over a week, I woke up with her lyrics running through my brain.

There's a tree, out in the back yard...that never has been broken by the wind.

That's it. That's the extent of the lyrics. Every morning, I got up humming that part. Over and over. Until one morning, the song on the radio alarm was none other than: Strong Enough to Bend. By Ms Tanya Tucker.

It released me from my torment.

The Hills Are Alive...With The Sight Of Carnage

I came across a magnificent Turkey Vulture yesterday on my way to town. Or as we call them around here, a Turkey Buzzard. He was gigantic. I feared I might run over him. He was sitting on a freshly-squashed rabbit in the middle of the county road, ripping out chunks of flesh. The rabbit looked like it had been skinned. The fur was gone. A fresh spot of blood made a pool of dipping sauce.

Mr. Turkey Vulture turned to look at me in my approaching T-Hoe. He heaved himself heavily with an ungainly flap, flap, flapping of his enormous wings, and rose out of harm's way. He did the same on my way home twenty minutes later. I saw him perch in a dead tree in a cow field, about fifty feet off the road.

I did not get a picture, because I am not in the habit of fumbling for my smart-phone to make a dumb move and click pics while I'm piloting a large SUV on unmarked two-lane blacktop. But Google is my best bud, and on this website, I found this spittin' image of him:



















Mr. Turkey Vulture was bigger than Tank the Beagle. The size of a turkey, in fact. Go figure. So much wildlife. So little space on the road. Last week, The Pony and I saw a turkey run across our gravel road. And three raccoons scurry across the county road. The hills are alive.

The Sky Was Falling

I trust that this evening finds my vast readership alive and well, having dodged the bus-sized bullet of NASA's wayward weather satellite that came home to roost yesterday. Funny. They can put 12 men on the moon to go for a sunlight stroll, but they can't calculate the time and location of returning Earth-orbit kibbles and bits? Poppycock!

The #1 son wanted to go to a movie with his buddies last night. A 10:00 showing. I did not particularly want him out so late. I tried the old ...but a chunk of NASA's falling weather satellite might crush you argument. Let's just say it was less than effective. I allowed him to go, with the caveat that he had to keep one eye on the sky and be ready to employ defensive driving techniques.

My mom said she had been worrying about the sky falling, as well. "I was thinking, maybe I should sleep in the basement tonight." I assured her that if it was her time, and the Express Cross-Planet Satellite had her number, it wouldn't matter whether she slept in the basement or up on the roof. Which may not have been such comforting advice as I imagined.

Anyway, we're still here.