Anybody out there still watch Survivor?
I admit that I am hooked. The only season I couldn't stomach was the one with Fireman Tom as the winner, Survivor Palau. That season was like watching paint dry. Or golf on TV. Sucky team Ulong lost every immunity challenge, until that unlikeable Stephenie was the only member who remained to "merge" with Koror. And was summarily voted out at the next Tribal Council. I couldn't stand any of those people. Not even Ian the dolphin trainer. I checked out portions haphazardly. I think I only watched the first two episodes in their entirety. Survivor Amazon was also a stinker, with that stupid Missouri teacher gal dropping her undies while standing on a platform in the river for some Oreos and peanut butter. Way to go, Heidi. Besmirch the reputation of both Missourians AND teachers.
This year I have issues with the travesty that Survivor has become. Remember way back to Survivor Borneo, the original season, won by crook Richard Hatch, who formed an unlikely alliance with old man Rudy, the ex-SEAL? And Rudy proclaimed, "I love this guy. But not in a homosexual way." And what about Susan Hawk and her "snakes and rats" speech for Richard and Kelley Wigglesworth? The "...if you were dying of thirst in the desert, I wouldn't give you a drop to drink" speech. Or Team Pagong, who ate a rat. Or Survivor Australia, after the flash flood, when Elisabeth Hasselbeck looked like she was starving to death before our very eyes.
Oh, how the standards of "surviving" have dropped. This year, every contestant HAS A FREAKIN' DESIGNER BAG that they carry to challenges. That's what it looks like, anyway. It probably contains water and several individually wrapped gourmet snacks in the event they become a mite peckish while away from camp. And camp! I've never seen so many bananas and coconuts. They're always chowing down. They're probably gaining weight this year. Little Brandon-Russell doesn't look like he's lost an ounce. And Coach's ponytail is as glossy as ever. They have won taro, flint, blankets, pillows, a hammock, a mat, cookies, chocolate, coffee, powdered milk, tea, sugar, three chickens, vegetables, spices, bread, meat they bit and spit out in a challenge, a picnic lunch at a waterfall slide, and a screening of Jack and Jill with unlimited movie snacks. I'm surprised they're not living in a prefabricated mansion purchased at Lowes. Or the sponsor of their choosing.
I want to toss in the towel. But there are too many contestants to hate on right now.
Friday, November 4, 2011
Thursday, November 3, 2011
It's All About The Credentials
Some days, blog posts are handed to me, already written, proofread, wrapped up with ribbon and topped with a beautiful bow. Today was one of those days.
Once there was an elderly lady who bred wiener-dogs as a hobby. Of course we all know they are properly called Dachshunds, but in Arkansas, they're wiener-dogs, even to an elderly AKC breeder.
The old gal was downright proud of her pups. She loved to take visitors to the kennels and pick up various bloodlines to show off. Cradling a pup in her arms, she would roll him over, stretch out his hind legs, and boast, "Look at those credentials!" It wasn't his legs she was referring to.
The person relating this tale embellished that Old Gal had been married three times. I could not hold back.
"I guess she kept trying for better credentials."
Once there was an elderly lady who bred wiener-dogs as a hobby. Of course we all know they are properly called Dachshunds, but in Arkansas, they're wiener-dogs, even to an elderly AKC breeder.
The old gal was downright proud of her pups. She loved to take visitors to the kennels and pick up various bloodlines to show off. Cradling a pup in her arms, she would roll him over, stretch out his hind legs, and boast, "Look at those credentials!" It wasn't his legs she was referring to.
The person relating this tale embellished that Old Gal had been married three times. I could not hold back.
"I guess she kept trying for better credentials."
Wednesday, November 2, 2011
All Work Makes Mrs. HM A Happy Camper
After an abbreviated school day, we had two hours of TIME TO WORK IN OUR ROOMS!
Imagine that. A teacher workday where teachers actually got to WORK! We all did the Snoopy dance with glee. All of us at Newmentia, of course. For the other poor downtrodden faculty in Basementia and Newmentia had organized, compartmentalized instruction in various and sundry educational necessities.
We're simply folk, really. It takes so very little to make us happy.
In this case, it took nothing at all.
Imagine that. A teacher workday where teachers actually got to WORK! We all did the Snoopy dance with glee. All of us at Newmentia, of course. For the other poor downtrodden faculty in Basementia and Newmentia had organized, compartmentalized instruction in various and sundry educational necessities.
We're simply folk, really. It takes so very little to make us happy.
In this case, it took nothing at all.
Tuesday, November 1, 2011
It's Deja Vu All Over Again In Hillmomba
Seems like only yesterday that we had a short break from the students. Oh, that's right, it was two days ago, when we had an early out on Thursday, Friday off, and a glorious weekend.
Tomorrow we have another early out. Yep. And Friday we're having a choir assembly. Don't think Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is complaining. M O O N. That spells, "Mrs. Hillbilly Mom ain't complaining."
But perhaps next year, the calendar committee can at least give us a full week between outings. You know. So we can appreciate it more. Savor the time away from students. The work away from work. Because it IS a teacher in-service day.
I do not yet know what service we will be performing. I'll keep you updated. In about 24 hours.
Tomorrow we have another early out. Yep. And Friday we're having a choir assembly. Don't think Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is complaining. M O O N. That spells, "Mrs. Hillbilly Mom ain't complaining."
But perhaps next year, the calendar committee can at least give us a full week between outings. You know. So we can appreciate it more. Savor the time away from students. The work away from work. Because it IS a teacher in-service day.
I do not yet know what service we will be performing. I'll keep you updated. In about 24 hours.
Monday, October 31, 2011
The Latest Bragging Rights
The #1 son informed me this afternoon that he won the VFW Voice of America Audio Essay Contest for Newmentia. While I would like to think that his excitement was the result of reaping a reward for a job well done...I'm more inclined to suspect that the prize money of $100 had more to do with his elation.
KUDOS, #1, on your succinct, heartfelt speech on "Is There Pride in Serving in Our Military?"
That boy can turn a phrase, and project it with conviction. He has placed in this contest the past two years, but this is his first win.
In the equal time department, The Pony received straight 'A's on his report cart. Not 'A-'s, mind you. Straight 'A's. Unfortunately, the Absentminded Professor forgot his gym clothes this morning. Adolescence is a harsh, brain-addling taskmistress some days.
KUDOS, #1, on your succinct, heartfelt speech on "Is There Pride in Serving in Our Military?"
That boy can turn a phrase, and project it with conviction. He has placed in this contest the past two years, but this is his first win.
In the equal time department, The Pony received straight 'A's on his report cart. Not 'A-'s, mind you. Straight 'A's. Unfortunately, the Absentminded Professor forgot his gym clothes this morning. Adolescence is a harsh, brain-addling taskmistress some days.
Sunday, October 30, 2011
The Pony's Logic
I might have mentioned a time or two that The Pony has his own manner of doing things. Or called him an odd duck. Same difference.
Today I laid out his clothes for our trip to The Devil's Playground. I know he's getting a bit old for me to lay out his clothes. But you haven't seen the garb he adorns himself with if he is the one to choose. When time is of the essence, I play the Mr. French to his Uncle Bill. Every weekend, I lay out his camouflage shorts. He used to wear them to school, but he has other shorts that fit better. I think they look too tight. Every weekend, I ask, "Are those shorts getting too tight?" And The Pony assures me that they are not.
We went down the steps to the garage, taunting the puppy with a pat and a tousle. The Pony looked like he could hardly bend his legs. "Are those shorts too tight?"
"Kinda."
"Why didn't you say so? I ask you every week."
"I already had them on, and I didn't want to change."
When we were halfway through The Devil, I noticed that The Pony had worn his white Adidas slides with the navy blue stripes. The perfect complement to camouflage shorts and an olive green shirt. "Don't make me tell you again. Don't wear those shoes anymore. It's going to be November in two days." I meant for him not to wear them to town. I don't mind for things at home like feeding the puppy or gathering eggs.
At home, The Pony helped me carry in groceries and put them away. I told him to put on another pair of shorts so he could breathe. Then he set about his chore of gathering boxes for burning. That's how we do it here in Hillmomba. No need to clog up the landfill. Mother Nature cleanses herself. The Earth has not been asphyxiated due to lightning burning millions of acres of timber over the history of the world. Normally, he puts smaller boxes into larger boxes. But there's been a shortage of big boxes, so Farmer H tells him to put the boxes in a big black trash bag. Of course Farmer H burns it bag and all, whereas I want to do my part for the environment and bring that bag back to use for trash. Tomato, tomahto, what you gonna do?
I saw the big dogs way out by the road, jumping and biting and generally acting the canine fool. I sent The Pony to see what was up. I thought they might have stolen the puppy's new rubber chicken squeaky toy, or were perhaps in the process of killing a baby mole. The Pony set out to investigate.
With the bag stuffed full of boxes on his back.
I know ponies might be beasts of burden. But not my Pony. He's generally pretty flimsy. A normal child would have set the bag of boxes down on the porch before galloping off an eighth of a mile to check on dog shenanigans. Not The Pony. I also noted that he had ditched the slides and was now sporting shoes AND socks. Poor Pony. He would hobble through life unshod if it were socially acceptable. He came trotting back, black bag jouncing on his spine. "They were just playing. Not killing anything. I'm taking these boxes over to the barn now."
The Pony saw nothing odd about carrying that bag of boxes like Santa at a pickpocket convention. I suppose he thought I or the puppy might come out on the porch and take the fruits of his labor.
Today I laid out his clothes for our trip to The Devil's Playground. I know he's getting a bit old for me to lay out his clothes. But you haven't seen the garb he adorns himself with if he is the one to choose. When time is of the essence, I play the Mr. French to his Uncle Bill. Every weekend, I lay out his camouflage shorts. He used to wear them to school, but he has other shorts that fit better. I think they look too tight. Every weekend, I ask, "Are those shorts getting too tight?" And The Pony assures me that they are not.
We went down the steps to the garage, taunting the puppy with a pat and a tousle. The Pony looked like he could hardly bend his legs. "Are those shorts too tight?"
"Kinda."
"Why didn't you say so? I ask you every week."
"I already had them on, and I didn't want to change."
When we were halfway through The Devil, I noticed that The Pony had worn his white Adidas slides with the navy blue stripes. The perfect complement to camouflage shorts and an olive green shirt. "Don't make me tell you again. Don't wear those shoes anymore. It's going to be November in two days." I meant for him not to wear them to town. I don't mind for things at home like feeding the puppy or gathering eggs.
At home, The Pony helped me carry in groceries and put them away. I told him to put on another pair of shorts so he could breathe. Then he set about his chore of gathering boxes for burning. That's how we do it here in Hillmomba. No need to clog up the landfill. Mother Nature cleanses herself. The Earth has not been asphyxiated due to lightning burning millions of acres of timber over the history of the world. Normally, he puts smaller boxes into larger boxes. But there's been a shortage of big boxes, so Farmer H tells him to put the boxes in a big black trash bag. Of course Farmer H burns it bag and all, whereas I want to do my part for the environment and bring that bag back to use for trash. Tomato, tomahto, what you gonna do?
I saw the big dogs way out by the road, jumping and biting and generally acting the canine fool. I sent The Pony to see what was up. I thought they might have stolen the puppy's new rubber chicken squeaky toy, or were perhaps in the process of killing a baby mole. The Pony set out to investigate.
With the bag stuffed full of boxes on his back.
I know ponies might be beasts of burden. But not my Pony. He's generally pretty flimsy. A normal child would have set the bag of boxes down on the porch before galloping off an eighth of a mile to check on dog shenanigans. Not The Pony. I also noted that he had ditched the slides and was now sporting shoes AND socks. Poor Pony. He would hobble through life unshod if it were socially acceptable. He came trotting back, black bag jouncing on his spine. "They were just playing. Not killing anything. I'm taking these boxes over to the barn now."
The Pony saw nothing odd about carrying that bag of boxes like Santa at a pickpocket convention. I suppose he thought I or the puppy might come out on the porch and take the fruits of his labor.
Saturday, October 29, 2011
A Heinous Act Of Questionable Authenticity
I am feuding with a fall fly. How he gained egress to the Mansion is merely a theory, but I'm betting on The Pony's habit of leaving the kitchen door open when he sets out a plate of food for the puppy. When I chastise him, he comes inside and watches through the slots in the mini-blind built into the door window.
A fall fly is a lumbering, slow-witted pest that evades reasonable attempts to end his life. He does this with luck, not smarts. He waits until I nod off in the recliner to crawl upon my face. When I startle awake, he begins a lazy reconnaissance mission of ever-smaller concentric circles. Then he lands on an arm, or a stack of magazines that lean precariously toward the lamp with a loose bulb. He drifts heavily away when I reach for the murder weapon. And it's there, by cracky! A blue plastic flyswatter with a white wire handle rests upon the lamp table. At the ready.
Tonight, Mr. Fly has invaded my dark basement lair. It's my own fault, really. I turned on the light. Mr. Fly saw that as an invitation. He has swooped my head, landed numerous times on the monitor of New Delly, and danced like double-left-footed team mascot away from the danger that is a rolled-up Woman Within catalog.
Do I go to Mr. Fly's place of business and recreation, and interfere with his livelihood? Do I? Have you seen me gliding in and prancing about a steaming cow patty? I think not.
Okay. The charade is over. The Truth in Blogging Law requires me to inform you that Mr. Fly met his demise shortly after I typed the non-immortal words: "I am feuding with a fall fly. How he gained egress..." at the beginning of this post. But I couldn't stop then. I had the whole concept thought up in my head. To not write it would be a waste of a good five minutes.
Here's how it went down. I was merrily typing away when Mr. Fly appeared on the New Delly landing strip again. I grabbed my Woman Within. He sailed away. Mr. Fly returned to sit upon my keyboard. Ha! I'm not that dumb, to whack my own keyboard. He crawled around. And set out down the wire that leads to the tower.
THWACK!!!
I scooped up the remains in a Puffs with Aloe. A clean one, even. I squeezed it to make sure Mr. Fly had expired. Then I deposited him in a wastebasket lined with a Devil's bag. So simple.
A fall fly is a lumbering, slow-witted pest that evades reasonable attempts to end his life. He does this with luck, not smarts. He waits until I nod off in the recliner to crawl upon my face. When I startle awake, he begins a lazy reconnaissance mission of ever-smaller concentric circles. Then he lands on an arm, or a stack of magazines that lean precariously toward the lamp with a loose bulb. He drifts heavily away when I reach for the murder weapon. And it's there, by cracky! A blue plastic flyswatter with a white wire handle rests upon the lamp table. At the ready.
Tonight, Mr. Fly has invaded my dark basement lair. It's my own fault, really. I turned on the light. Mr. Fly saw that as an invitation. He has swooped my head, landed numerous times on the monitor of New Delly, and danced like double-left-footed team mascot away from the danger that is a rolled-up Woman Within catalog.
Do I go to Mr. Fly's place of business and recreation, and interfere with his livelihood? Do I? Have you seen me gliding in and prancing about a steaming cow patty? I think not.
Okay. The charade is over. The Truth in Blogging Law requires me to inform you that Mr. Fly met his demise shortly after I typed the non-immortal words: "I am feuding with a fall fly. How he gained egress..." at the beginning of this post. But I couldn't stop then. I had the whole concept thought up in my head. To not write it would be a waste of a good five minutes.
Here's how it went down. I was merrily typing away when Mr. Fly appeared on the New Delly landing strip again. I grabbed my Woman Within. He sailed away. Mr. Fly returned to sit upon my keyboard. Ha! I'm not that dumb, to whack my own keyboard. He crawled around. And set out down the wire that leads to the tower.
THWACK!!!
I scooped up the remains in a Puffs with Aloe. A clean one, even. I squeezed it to make sure Mr. Fly had expired. Then I deposited him in a wastebasket lined with a Devil's bag. So simple.
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