My heart is breaking a little bit right now. Because no matter what I do for Farmer H and the #1 son, it is not good enough.
I wake up #1 three times before I leave for work. And he yells at me that he's awake.
I put a load of jeans in the washer at 2:00 a.m., and switch them to the dryer at 5:00. But that's just my job.
I rearrange my schedule to pick up Farmer H at the car dealership in the opposite direction of my way home to the Mansion, all because #1 can't do it after robot practice. But I never do anything for anybody else.
I wash the entire contents of the silverware tray every night, because somehow folks around this Mansion find enough food to dirty twelve twelve big forks, twelve little forks, twelve serving spoons, and twelve little spoons between the hours of 5:00-11:00 p.m.
I am the aphid of the sixteen-year-old ant boy. He drops into my classroom to feed on whatever he can find in my mini-fridge or The Pony's snack drawer. He grabs bottles of water like they are free. Yet refuses to carry in replacement cases of water.
I stand at the stove warming supper for 45 minutes, yet Farmer H runs off to town rather than eat while it is hot.
I walk back to the bread cabinet to hand #1 a roll for a turkey sandwich, turkey which I have warmed separately from supper, because he is sitting closer to the roll than I, but asks me to get it for him.
I spend $360 to put brakes on #1's truck, and he asks me to buy him a $30 Nerf gun. Of course, it's a bargain, because it usually costs $60.
I go to the kitchen for some leftover pumpkin pie, and find that not only have Farmer H and #1 eaten an entire cherry pie, but also the two pieces of pumpkin.
I spend days looking for gifts for my family. But I never include Farmer H., world-renowned for his love of and skill in shopping.
If I complain, I am attacked in stereo. And I've learned to never, ever answer the question, "What's wrong?"
The Pony thanks me for anything and everything I do for him.
He's what keeps me going.
Wednesday, November 30, 2011
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
The Thanks I Get
I left a page blank in a worksheet so my students would have room to draw a graph directly across from the data table. Said one, "What'd you do, forget how to staple? This has a blank page."
My mom cooked up a batch of Rice Krispie Treats with enough peanut butter to supply the Reese's company until the end of time. Genius had asked for them specifically to share at his lunch table. Mom made a special trip to leave them in my room this morning, so Genius could pick them up on his way to lunch. He left them. Making me watch the"no peanut student" like a hawk seventh hour, lest a life-threatening health crisis occur.
I allowed my class to stand up and straighten their desks before the final bell. And caught one gallivanting about the room while his chair was in the aisle between rows.
A nose-blower complained upon using the last Puffs with Aloe, and being told to open the new box resting under the now-empty box, that my tissue stocking situation left a bit to be desired. I told him that in the future, I would be glad to save my precious disposable income, and supply the classroom with a roll of school-issue toilet paper.
My mom cooked up a batch of Rice Krispie Treats with enough peanut butter to supply the Reese's company until the end of time. Genius had asked for them specifically to share at his lunch table. Mom made a special trip to leave them in my room this morning, so Genius could pick them up on his way to lunch. He left them. Making me watch the"no peanut student" like a hawk seventh hour, lest a life-threatening health crisis occur.
I allowed my class to stand up and straighten their desks before the final bell. And caught one gallivanting about the room while his chair was in the aisle between rows.
A nose-blower complained upon using the last Puffs with Aloe, and being told to open the new box resting under the now-empty box, that my tissue stocking situation left a bit to be desired. I told him that in the future, I would be glad to save my precious disposable income, and supply the classroom with a roll of school-issue toilet paper.
Monday, November 28, 2011
Don We Now
I was toasty warm on duty in the parking lot this morning. No, there has not been a return of 70-degree temperatures. In fact, it was 33 degrees with the wind chill at 23.
My secret? Double coating. Not like pork cutlets dipped in buttermilk, then flour, then buttermilk, then flour. No. I'm talking about two coats. A blue plaid quilted-lining flannel shirt jacket, and a dark green Berber coat.
Don't go assuming that I merely wore one coat on top of the other. How mundane! You must like air-popped popcorn, tofu, and vanilla ice milk I have a more refined palate myself. So I donned my gay apparel in a more fashion-statementy manner.
Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's frigid parking lot style? A front coat and a back coat. That's a fact, Jack. I wore the quilted flannel jacket as normal. It was already warm, because I wore it in from T-Hoe. Little quilted pockets of my body heat warmed me like a loyal pet's love. Then I pulled the Berber coat that had been hanging in my school cabinet over my arms. I was impervious to the wind. No nooks or crannies were exposed to fill with cold air, because there were no chinks in my Berber-flannel armor.
A kid walked by and asked if I was cold. Nope. But I did tell him that I was considering a Forever Lazy.
My secret? Double coating. Not like pork cutlets dipped in buttermilk, then flour, then buttermilk, then flour. No. I'm talking about two coats. A blue plaid quilted-lining flannel shirt jacket, and a dark green Berber coat.
Don't go assuming that I merely wore one coat on top of the other. How mundane! You must like air-popped popcorn, tofu, and vanilla ice milk I have a more refined palate myself. So I donned my gay apparel in a more fashion-statementy manner.
Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's frigid parking lot style? A front coat and a back coat. That's a fact, Jack. I wore the quilted flannel jacket as normal. It was already warm, because I wore it in from T-Hoe. Little quilted pockets of my body heat warmed me like a loyal pet's love. Then I pulled the Berber coat that had been hanging in my school cabinet over my arms. I was impervious to the wind. No nooks or crannies were exposed to fill with cold air, because there were no chinks in my Berber-flannel armor.
A kid walked by and asked if I was cold. Nope. But I did tell him that I was considering a Forever Lazy.
Sunday, November 27, 2011
My Little Piggy
Every Sunday, on our weekly trip to frolic in The Devil's Playground, I reward The Pony for his help with two dollars for the game room. He usually plays some shooting game that takes a long time. Or the amount of time that I wait in line for one of the Devil's Handmaidens to check me out. One week, he had put his second dollar into that machine, and I had to stand idle while he finished his game. That's not happenin'. A fact of which The Pony is aware.
Lately, he's been using that second dollar on a game called Road Trip. The dollar gets him three spins on a big Wheel-of-Fortune-like spinner with various mileage marked off in different colors. To spin, he pushes a dealybobber like what you see in a cartoon as a plunger for a TNT box. If The Pony can score 250 miles or higher in his three spins, he wins a small prize in a plastic bubble, like you get out of a seventy-five-cent gum-machine-like dispenser. OR, he can lose that total and get three more spins. He always takes the spins. He's going for a ten-dollar Devil's gift card, or a computer game that beckons him through the glass.
Today, The Pony decided to take his small prize. That's because I normally berate him for losing my dollar and having nothing to show for it. He pushed the button and his prize fell out. He looked through the plastic. "It's a pig! A little plastic pig. You can have it."
I was fine with that. I don't have a little plastic pig. I told The Pony, "It can be My Little Piggy."
"Just don't break it," he cautioned. "Like you did My Little Pony from McDonalds."
"For your information, #1 and I did not 'break' your little pony. We wore it out. It was SO much fun--a little carousel. Pink! We took turns spinning it until we wore it out."
"But still. You broke it."
"Did you want to play with it?"
"NO!"
"Then lay off about My Little Piggy. Here. Lay him in the seat of the cart. I'll get him outside."
In stowing the groceries away in T-Hoe's rear end, I had to shuffle the bags. Some bread loaves were put on top of My Little Piggy. We had to separate The Pony's school snacks to leave in the car, and put the cold items under my coat, and the heavy things where lighter things could stack on top. We had the second-best parking spot ever, the second space in the row directly in front of the doors. A little blue mini car was holding up traffic waiting for us to vacate our prime storefront property. I sent The Pony to take the cart back, and hopped into T-Hoe's cockpit.
You know where this is headed, right?
We left the lot, cruised past the packed McDonald's and money-stealing Sonic, coasted over the rickety bridge, climbed past the cemetery where my dad is buried, sped by the greasy bar and grill that serves the BEST burgers and fried mushrooms, and IT HIT ME.
"MY LITTLE PIGGY! I left him in the cart! Didn't you see him when you put it in the rack?"
"Noooo. I was hurrying so we could leave."
"Well, I'm not turning around. I'm not spending three dollars of gas and twenty minutes of my time to look for a one-dollar pig."
"That's okay. I didn't want it anyway. You're the one who wanted it."
Just like My Little Pony.
Lately, he's been using that second dollar on a game called Road Trip. The dollar gets him three spins on a big Wheel-of-Fortune-like spinner with various mileage marked off in different colors. To spin, he pushes a dealybobber like what you see in a cartoon as a plunger for a TNT box. If The Pony can score 250 miles or higher in his three spins, he wins a small prize in a plastic bubble, like you get out of a seventy-five-cent gum-machine-like dispenser. OR, he can lose that total and get three more spins. He always takes the spins. He's going for a ten-dollar Devil's gift card, or a computer game that beckons him through the glass.
Today, The Pony decided to take his small prize. That's because I normally berate him for losing my dollar and having nothing to show for it. He pushed the button and his prize fell out. He looked through the plastic. "It's a pig! A little plastic pig. You can have it."
I was fine with that. I don't have a little plastic pig. I told The Pony, "It can be My Little Piggy."
"Just don't break it," he cautioned. "Like you did My Little Pony from McDonalds."
"For your information, #1 and I did not 'break' your little pony. We wore it out. It was SO much fun--a little carousel. Pink! We took turns spinning it until we wore it out."
"But still. You broke it."
"Did you want to play with it?"
"NO!"
"Then lay off about My Little Piggy. Here. Lay him in the seat of the cart. I'll get him outside."
In stowing the groceries away in T-Hoe's rear end, I had to shuffle the bags. Some bread loaves were put on top of My Little Piggy. We had to separate The Pony's school snacks to leave in the car, and put the cold items under my coat, and the heavy things where lighter things could stack on top. We had the second-best parking spot ever, the second space in the row directly in front of the doors. A little blue mini car was holding up traffic waiting for us to vacate our prime storefront property. I sent The Pony to take the cart back, and hopped into T-Hoe's cockpit.
You know where this is headed, right?
We left the lot, cruised past the packed McDonald's and money-stealing Sonic, coasted over the rickety bridge, climbed past the cemetery where my dad is buried, sped by the greasy bar and grill that serves the BEST burgers and fried mushrooms, and IT HIT ME.
"MY LITTLE PIGGY! I left him in the cart! Didn't you see him when you put it in the rack?"
"Noooo. I was hurrying so we could leave."
"Well, I'm not turning around. I'm not spending three dollars of gas and twenty minutes of my time to look for a one-dollar pig."
"That's okay. I didn't want it anyway. You're the one who wanted it."
Just like My Little Pony.
Saturday, November 26, 2011
The Issue Is The Tissue
I've got a bee in my bonnet tonight, by cracky. It's been there for a few months now, buzzing quietly, waiting to sting. Every now and then, it gets me. I freak out a bit, vow to shoo that annoying irritant out of my bonnetted head. Then something distracts me and I forget about my bonnet-bee until it stings me again.
The bee in my bonnet is actually a Puffs With Aloe. "How can that be?" you may ask, trying to sound all witty by saying "be" when asking about a bee. Try to keep up, why don't you! I'm not talking about an actual bee. I would have gone into anaphylactic shock by now from all that venom. I'm talking about a figurative bee. Criminy! You probably think I physically wear a bonnet as well.
Who is in charge of folding the Puffs With Aloes? I want names, baby! There's a slacker in the factory. I've been getting Puffs that are not folded properly. Any connoisseur of Puffs understands that the tissue has the main body, and an equally-folded flap on each side. It's not a Kleenex, folded in near-half. Puffs have symmetry. Or they are supposed to have symmetry. Such symmetry is sorely lacking lately.
I sense a nostril drip is imminent, I reach into the U-shaped opening of my Puffs With Aloe box to snag a Puff by the folded flap, and nothing! There is no flap to grab! Nose flowing like a faucet in a middle-school-boys' bathroom sink, I have to turn and look for the handle on my tissue. Sometimes it is a tiny flap, like the tiny arms on Kristen Wiig when she plays that weird Lawrence Welk-ish show singer. Sometimes the flap is large, like the head of that banjo-playin' kid in Deliverance.
Small or large, the inconsistencies of the flap fail to stop my nasal flow until it is too late. I need a bucket strapped to my face like a sap-collector on a mighty maple. Somebody in that Puffs With Aloe factory is asleep at the switch.
Who's their quality control officer, Helen Keller?
The bee in my bonnet is actually a Puffs With Aloe. "How can that be?" you may ask, trying to sound all witty by saying "be" when asking about a bee. Try to keep up, why don't you! I'm not talking about an actual bee. I would have gone into anaphylactic shock by now from all that venom. I'm talking about a figurative bee. Criminy! You probably think I physically wear a bonnet as well.
Who is in charge of folding the Puffs With Aloes? I want names, baby! There's a slacker in the factory. I've been getting Puffs that are not folded properly. Any connoisseur of Puffs understands that the tissue has the main body, and an equally-folded flap on each side. It's not a Kleenex, folded in near-half. Puffs have symmetry. Or they are supposed to have symmetry. Such symmetry is sorely lacking lately.
I sense a nostril drip is imminent, I reach into the U-shaped opening of my Puffs With Aloe box to snag a Puff by the folded flap, and nothing! There is no flap to grab! Nose flowing like a faucet in a middle-school-boys' bathroom sink, I have to turn and look for the handle on my tissue. Sometimes it is a tiny flap, like the tiny arms on Kristen Wiig when she plays that weird Lawrence Welk-ish show singer. Sometimes the flap is large, like the head of that banjo-playin' kid in Deliverance.
Small or large, the inconsistencies of the flap fail to stop my nasal flow until it is too late. I need a bucket strapped to my face like a sap-collector on a mighty maple. Somebody in that Puffs With Aloe factory is asleep at the switch.
Who's their quality control officer, Helen Keller?
Friday, November 25, 2011
Out Of The Closet And Into My Ire
My mother cleaned out her closet this week. Not a regular closet, but the one just inside the front door, past the curio cabinet and large vase that sometimes holds an umbrella. I'm not sure why the closet suddenly needed cleaning. Or what other treasures she might have unearthed. But I can tell you about the two items that she offered me before throwing them away.
The first was a program from my college graduation. Perhaps it's a collector's item now that my college has changed its name. I tell my students that was necessary because Mrs. Hillbilly Mom was so smart. Much like the mold is broken once something unique is created, my institution of higher learning saw fit to rename itself once I graduated. They're not buying it. In fact, some still question whether I even attended college. That's their problem. I and several thousand other people know that I skipped across John Q. Hammons Center to grasp my diploma and enter a life of bestowing knowledge upon those thirsting, yearning citizens of tomorrow.
The second item proffered to me was a framed mirror. Mom said, "I thought maybe you could hang this inside your cabinet at work." This is not a good omen. I see only two reasons for offering a person a mirror.
Am I so vain that I must constantly admire myself? It would be like having an instant framed picture of me every time I open that cabinet. Am I Mona Lisa? Dorian Gray? Should I whip open that cabinet on nights that Farmer H shows up to watch a basketball game with me? Then we could be American Gothic. Without the pitchfork, of course. I'm pretty sure that would be considered a weapon by school standards.
Or was she hinting that my personal appearance leaves a bit to be desired? That I need to check out my countenance each morning before allowing people into my classroom, or venturing out of it. Has she been talking to those kids who asked me if I cut my own hair, and if so, did I turn on the lights, and bother to look in a mirror?
Mom assured me that her intentions were entirely honorable. She just thought of me. Not of my sister, mind you. But me. Perhaps that's because my sister is retiring from her kindergarten-teaching position at the end of the year, and won't need a school mirror. And after all, it was MY college graduation program.
But think about it. Were those two items really taking up so much space in that foyer closet?
The first was a program from my college graduation. Perhaps it's a collector's item now that my college has changed its name. I tell my students that was necessary because Mrs. Hillbilly Mom was so smart. Much like the mold is broken once something unique is created, my institution of higher learning saw fit to rename itself once I graduated. They're not buying it. In fact, some still question whether I even attended college. That's their problem. I and several thousand other people know that I skipped across John Q. Hammons Center to grasp my diploma and enter a life of bestowing knowledge upon those thirsting, yearning citizens of tomorrow.
The second item proffered to me was a framed mirror. Mom said, "I thought maybe you could hang this inside your cabinet at work." This is not a good omen. I see only two reasons for offering a person a mirror.
Am I so vain that I must constantly admire myself? It would be like having an instant framed picture of me every time I open that cabinet. Am I Mona Lisa? Dorian Gray? Should I whip open that cabinet on nights that Farmer H shows up to watch a basketball game with me? Then we could be American Gothic. Without the pitchfork, of course. I'm pretty sure that would be considered a weapon by school standards.
Or was she hinting that my personal appearance leaves a bit to be desired? That I need to check out my countenance each morning before allowing people into my classroom, or venturing out of it. Has she been talking to those kids who asked me if I cut my own hair, and if so, did I turn on the lights, and bother to look in a mirror?
Mom assured me that her intentions were entirely honorable. She just thought of me. Not of my sister, mind you. But me. Perhaps that's because my sister is retiring from her kindergarten-teaching position at the end of the year, and won't need a school mirror. And after all, it was MY college graduation program.
But think about it. Were those two items really taking up so much space in that foyer closet?
Thursday, November 24, 2011
For My Next Selection...
Happy Thanksgiving to you,
Happy Thanksgiving to you,
Happy Thanksgiving to yoooouuuuu,
Happy Thanksgiving to you!
Happy Thanksgiving to you,
Happy Thanksgiving to yoooouuuuu,
Happy Thanksgiving to you!
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