Hillmomba, we have a problem.
Friday morning, I stepped into the shower to find myself in a tropical waterfall. And by tropical, I mean fed by fifty-degree underground springwater. I adjusted the control knob the best I could, striving for lukewarm.
Trying to change that water temperature was one mean feat. It has a little bit to do with Plumber H reversing the hot and cold pipes in half of the Mansion's faucets. There is no rhyme nor reason. Our bathroom sink is normal, but the shower is reversed. And it's got one big plastic fake-crystal knob with a red arrow pointing to HOT and a green arrow pointing to COLD. Except NOT. But I always forget if it's normal or reversed. You know, you adjust things out of habit after 14 years of living there, and when something goes awry, you don't remember which is wonky. And it's REALLY hard to figure it out when no matter which way you turn it, the water stays the same temperature. Cold.
Farmer H got up after my bone-chilling shower and determined that the breaker for the water heater had tripped. So he turned it back on. Because, you know, those things tend to fix themselves. Whatever made it trip was surely an anomaly. No need to investigate. We'll be in hot water for the rest of our live-long days. Except NOT.
Sunday morning, I had a normal shower. Farmer H did so as well. The #1 son could not even get hot water in his sink to brush his teeth or wash his face. I forget whether his sink is normal or wonky.
#1 texted Farmer H, who was on his way to the movies with The Pony. According to The Pony, that message was received. And Farmer H thinks the water heater has a bad element. So of course he rushed out and bought a new element and installed it so we could have normal hot water for the Monday morning showers. Except NOT. Farmer H let the goats out. Drove the Gator down to his cabin. Took the fake Gator for a spin. Roared across the front yard and up the road on our smallest, kid-sized, green 4-wheeler, emitting a cloud of gray exhaust. The water heater is on the other side of my office wall. No attempt to inspect it was made.
Farmer H is off on a business trip Tuesday morning through Thursday afternoon. A reckoning is in order.
Monday, April 30, 2012
Sunday, April 29, 2012
Culture Clash
Farmer H took The Pony to see The Three Stooges movie this morning. The Pony pronounced it hilarious. I'm sure Farmer H shares his sentiments. He used to be a big fan of the Ernest movies as well. Yet he tells me I have no sense of humor. And that SNL is entertainment for morons. Because, you know, The Three Stooges is highbrow art. And I'm astonished that Jim Varney had not been posthumously awarded the Nobel Prize in Slapstick.
While they were gone, I caught up on some domestic engineering. I am mystified by a pair of The Pony's socks. One black. One navy. The Pony swears that's how they were rolled up in his drawer. And that there is NOT another pair just like them. That it's the only pair of colored socks in his room. I would love to go prospecting in there and mine the identical pair out of a pile of floor ore, but time does not permit such luxuries. His comeuppance will have to wait.
I might as well give up and let them run around Hillmomba in goat-skin, Flintstone-like garb. I don't think either would bat an eye. The only thing that gets their attention is when they run out of forks. The #1 son, on the other hand, is quick to shout, "SOMEbody needs to do the laundry." Because he is nearly walking upright, so as to save his knuckles for intricate electronic skulduggery.
When I told him that Farmer H and The Pony were going to see The Three Stooges, #1 groaned. "That movie looks SO STUPID!"
He's a regular elitist.
While they were gone, I caught up on some domestic engineering. I am mystified by a pair of The Pony's socks. One black. One navy. The Pony swears that's how they were rolled up in his drawer. And that there is NOT another pair just like them. That it's the only pair of colored socks in his room. I would love to go prospecting in there and mine the identical pair out of a pile of floor ore, but time does not permit such luxuries. His comeuppance will have to wait.
I might as well give up and let them run around Hillmomba in goat-skin, Flintstone-like garb. I don't think either would bat an eye. The only thing that gets their attention is when they run out of forks. The #1 son, on the other hand, is quick to shout, "SOMEbody needs to do the laundry." Because he is nearly walking upright, so as to save his knuckles for intricate electronic skulduggery.
When I told him that Farmer H and The Pony were going to see The Three Stooges, #1 groaned. "That movie looks SO STUPID!"
He's a regular elitist.
Saturday, April 28, 2012
Like A Bucket Of Mop Water To A Toddler
It is with heavy heart that I report the demise of one of Hillmomba's baby chicks.
Thank the Gummi Mary, the Mansion hounds had nothing to do with it. Farmer H found it this afternoon when he returned home from work. It had fallen into the water pan and drowned. It was not one of the most recent batch of 12 chicks, but one of the hardier, older group of 4 chicklets. This one was a turken. One of the ugliest chickens ever to cheep cheep. Kind of like a scrawny buzzard baby. We have other turkens. This was a dark one. The first little white turken we've hatched is still kickin'.
Farmer H dumped all of his water pans, keeping only the original waterer thingy that you fill and turn upside down and water seeps out into a shallow ring at the bottom. An identical chick death occurred last fall. Farmer H was again the first one on the scene. He told The Pony that something must have eaten that chick, when in reality he fished it out of the water and tossed it on his cardboard fire. You'd think he would have learned his lesson then. But remember, we're talking about Farmer H.
I am relieved that The Pony was not the first responder. He is quite a little chicken lover.
Thank the Gummi Mary, the Mansion hounds had nothing to do with it. Farmer H found it this afternoon when he returned home from work. It had fallen into the water pan and drowned. It was not one of the most recent batch of 12 chicks, but one of the hardier, older group of 4 chicklets. This one was a turken. One of the ugliest chickens ever to cheep cheep. Kind of like a scrawny buzzard baby. We have other turkens. This was a dark one. The first little white turken we've hatched is still kickin'.
Farmer H dumped all of his water pans, keeping only the original waterer thingy that you fill and turn upside down and water seeps out into a shallow ring at the bottom. An identical chick death occurred last fall. Farmer H was again the first one on the scene. He told The Pony that something must have eaten that chick, when in reality he fished it out of the water and tossed it on his cardboard fire. You'd think he would have learned his lesson then. But remember, we're talking about Farmer H.
I am relieved that The Pony was not the first responder. He is quite a little chicken lover.
Friday, April 27, 2012
Between Love And Salivation Lies Obsession
The Pony was beside himself with anticipation today. We drove T-Hoe to a nearby town for some errands after school, and picked up a Papa John's pizza.
The Pony LOVES Papa John's. There used to be a franchise inside The Devil's Playground. We would place an order and pick it up after shopping. Or, if the #1 son was with us, I would call it in, and he and The Pony would sit and eat while I was sparring with The Devil's Handmaidens. Alas, Papa John forsook The Devil, and The Pony was left high and dry without his favorite pizza.
As I pulled into Papa's parking lot, The Pony sat at attention. No gaming. No reading. He was on alert. "Are you excited?"
"Yes! I can smell it now. I can't wait."
I handed him the money, and he trotted across the pavement. Rain began to fall just as he entered the store. He returned to T-Hoe at a full gallop. "That was bad timing."
"Oh, come on. It's not raining that hard. It's not like you're going to melt."
"I'M fine. But the PIZZA could have got wet!"
"Are you salivating?"
"Uh huh. It's SO good. It was all I could do to keep from staining my shirt as I ran out."
"You mean because you were gripping that pizza box so tight?"
"No. From the saliva. I was almost drooling, and I didn't want to get it on my new shirt."
The Pony really, really likes Papa John's pizza.
The Pony LOVES Papa John's. There used to be a franchise inside The Devil's Playground. We would place an order and pick it up after shopping. Or, if the #1 son was with us, I would call it in, and he and The Pony would sit and eat while I was sparring with The Devil's Handmaidens. Alas, Papa John forsook The Devil, and The Pony was left high and dry without his favorite pizza.
As I pulled into Papa's parking lot, The Pony sat at attention. No gaming. No reading. He was on alert. "Are you excited?"
"Yes! I can smell it now. I can't wait."
I handed him the money, and he trotted across the pavement. Rain began to fall just as he entered the store. He returned to T-Hoe at a full gallop. "That was bad timing."
"Oh, come on. It's not raining that hard. It's not like you're going to melt."
"I'M fine. But the PIZZA could have got wet!"
"Are you salivating?"
"Uh huh. It's SO good. It was all I could do to keep from staining my shirt as I ran out."
"You mean because you were gripping that pizza box so tight?"
"No. From the saliva. I was almost drooling, and I didn't want to get it on my new shirt."
The Pony really, really likes Papa John's pizza.
Thursday, April 26, 2012
A Bridge, By Any Other Name
My classes are in the midst of the great penny-holding paper-bridge competition.
Today we used an online tutorial to review stresses that can affect building materials. Then students drew numbers to be placed into groups. Each person received a single sheet of paper with which to construct a bridge capable of spanning an 8-inch gorge that is three inches deep. Groups had to choose their most effective paper penny-holder.
No additional materials are allowed. No tape, no glue, no paperclips, no staples, no chewing gum, no spit, no snot, no eye-boogies. Nada. Tomorrow, I will issue each group a fresh piece of paper to recreate a bridge for testing. You don't think I'd let them bring one in, do you? I'm not a world-class bridge inspector for nothing. In past years, I have discovered tape, extra paper, two pencils, and an entire wooden ruler inside pre-made bridges.
The paper bridge may take any form. Plank. Tube. Box. Pouch. Travois. Coffin. Canoe. Pieces may be cut off and used as underneath supports. Or rolled up and stuffed into a folded bridge deck. My super-secret design held the record of 247 pennies for three years. Then I was beaten by my own design. Today I only saw one student with a rudimentary replica of my chasm-spanner. I won't share it until the contest is over. Bonus points are at stake, people! I'm not revealing any clues.
Groups are allowed to choose names for their team. Because all results will be written on the board. To date, my most colorful name has been The Narcoleptic Otters. Today, several teams announced names early. We have the Penny Loafers. Pennysylvania. The first and last name of another faculty member. The Bridge. And The Vicious Hillbilly Moms.
I might need to rethink this naming business.
Today we used an online tutorial to review stresses that can affect building materials. Then students drew numbers to be placed into groups. Each person received a single sheet of paper with which to construct a bridge capable of spanning an 8-inch gorge that is three inches deep. Groups had to choose their most effective paper penny-holder.
No additional materials are allowed. No tape, no glue, no paperclips, no staples, no chewing gum, no spit, no snot, no eye-boogies. Nada. Tomorrow, I will issue each group a fresh piece of paper to recreate a bridge for testing. You don't think I'd let them bring one in, do you? I'm not a world-class bridge inspector for nothing. In past years, I have discovered tape, extra paper, two pencils, and an entire wooden ruler inside pre-made bridges.
The paper bridge may take any form. Plank. Tube. Box. Pouch. Travois. Coffin. Canoe. Pieces may be cut off and used as underneath supports. Or rolled up and stuffed into a folded bridge deck. My super-secret design held the record of 247 pennies for three years. Then I was beaten by my own design. Today I only saw one student with a rudimentary replica of my chasm-spanner. I won't share it until the contest is over. Bonus points are at stake, people! I'm not revealing any clues.
Groups are allowed to choose names for their team. Because all results will be written on the board. To date, my most colorful name has been The Narcoleptic Otters. Today, several teams announced names early. We have the Penny Loafers. Pennysylvania. The first and last name of another faculty member. The Bridge. And The Vicious Hillbilly Moms.
I might need to rethink this naming business.
Wednesday, April 25, 2012
Yukking 101
The best thing about my job is that even on the worst of days, I can find a laugh.
Today was not the worst of days. Even if you consider how I gave the state standardized test of 47 multiple choice questions, and two students were done in 23 minutes. And another one fell asleep at #32, and I had to wake him to continue.
My freshman were not testing. Their assignment was an opinion report. One child did not have a pencil. There was a lengthy story as to why not, but I was not paying close attention. I sent her two doors down to purchase a pencil, since my offer of a chewed-up loaner were declined. Not for the teeth marks, but because she needed a pencil ALL DAY, not just for Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's class. Off she went.
During her absence, another student asked me to spell Sasquatch. I had just finished a gold-medal-caliber performance of adult spelling when Pencil Procurer returned.
"She wasn't in her room, but she found one, and gave it to me."
"A SASQUATCH?" The Sasquatch-writer was flabbergasted. Because time doesn't stand still while one is out of the room, and kids are sometimes slow to switch gears.
"No. A pencil. Why would she give me a Sasquatch?"
At the beginning of a later class, I read a few choice selections from the morning reports.
"...and even though I know a monkey might get mad at the drop of a hat and bite your face off, I still want to get a newborn monkey baby for a pet. Hey! I figure it's better than a lion, or a tiger, or a bear--"
"OH MY!" Perfect. Every single student. In unison. No amount of rehearsal could even garner the same tight response.
Thank you. They'll be here four years.
Today was not the worst of days. Even if you consider how I gave the state standardized test of 47 multiple choice questions, and two students were done in 23 minutes. And another one fell asleep at #32, and I had to wake him to continue.
My freshman were not testing. Their assignment was an opinion report. One child did not have a pencil. There was a lengthy story as to why not, but I was not paying close attention. I sent her two doors down to purchase a pencil, since my offer of a chewed-up loaner were declined. Not for the teeth marks, but because she needed a pencil ALL DAY, not just for Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's class. Off she went.
During her absence, another student asked me to spell Sasquatch. I had just finished a gold-medal-caliber performance of adult spelling when Pencil Procurer returned.
"She wasn't in her room, but she found one, and gave it to me."
"A SASQUATCH?" The Sasquatch-writer was flabbergasted. Because time doesn't stand still while one is out of the room, and kids are sometimes slow to switch gears.
"No. A pencil. Why would she give me a Sasquatch?"
At the beginning of a later class, I read a few choice selections from the morning reports.
"...and even though I know a monkey might get mad at the drop of a hat and bite your face off, I still want to get a newborn monkey baby for a pet. Hey! I figure it's better than a lion, or a tiger, or a bear--"
"OH MY!" Perfect. Every single student. In unison. No amount of rehearsal could even garner the same tight response.
Thank you. They'll be here four years.
Tuesday, April 24, 2012
A Rainbow, By Any Other Mnemonic, Would Not Shine So Sweet
The Pony and I saw an amazing rainbow fragment on our way home from school today. As we passed the bowling alley, it appeared between a church and the prison, a wide ribbon of a rainbow, ending in the apparent location of the Mansion.
"Wow, look at that!"
"That's a good one. And it goes to our house! Maybe we'll find a pot of gold."
"Yeah. That's gonna happen."
"Well, we can hope."
"That's true. Roy G. Biv."
"Huh?"
"Don't you remember? Roy G. Biv. The rainbow."
"Oh, yeah. It has something to do with the colors."
"Uh huh. Don't you know them?"
"Hmm..."
"Red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, violet. The colors of the spectrum."
"Oh! I thought you said, 'BOY G. Biv.' That's why I couldn't get it."
It seems that ONE of us needs to work on diction.
"Wow, look at that!"
"That's a good one. And it goes to our house! Maybe we'll find a pot of gold."
"Yeah. That's gonna happen."
"Well, we can hope."
"That's true. Roy G. Biv."
"Huh?"
"Don't you remember? Roy G. Biv. The rainbow."
"Oh, yeah. It has something to do with the colors."
"Uh huh. Don't you know them?"
"Hmm..."
"Red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, violet. The colors of the spectrum."
"Oh! I thought you said, 'BOY G. Biv.' That's why I couldn't get it."
It seems that ONE of us needs to work on diction.
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