....BUT IN THE CHILDREN WE HAVE RAISED TO THINK THAT THEY ARE STARS.
Indeed. Lets admit it. We deserve what we hath wrought. Do you doubt that an employee of Domino's pizza would ride the kitchen broom like a stick-horse in full view of the customers? If so, then you might be a sheltered septuagenarian. A throwback to another era. When dinosaurs walked the earth, perhaps. Dinosaurs who did not suffer broom-horse-riding pizza-makers gladly. I guarantee you that such behavior is the rule, not the exception. New hires, the sheltered youth who could not wait to get a job for spending money, talk about asking off for the weekend, after working only a four-hour shift that consists of training. Declare, after working one true shift, that they will not be cleaning the bathroom because that is a job for somebody else. Their manager, perhaps. Or their mother, who should be glad to come to work and help out. After all, she does it at home.
Yes, the I'm okay/you're okay, everyone's a winner, rainbow and unicorn world has dealt these kids five aces. They don't understand the rewards of a job well done. Because even a job mostly undone, and piss-poor done at that, has garnered them an 'A' or a trophy or a write-up in the newspaper their whole young lives. They do not understand intrinsic values. From the time they can walk, or even before, they are smothered with praise for the most mundane acts imaginable. "Hand me the Cheerio. THANK YOU! Give me a kiss. THANK YOU! Oh, you found a leaf under the tree? For me? THANK YOU! Don't pull the doggie's tail off. THANK YOU!"
Business really should be paying them just to call in and say they wish they could work, but they have already made plans for Friday and Saturday night, and Sunday is church that they are planning on getting up before 1:00 and attending, and, well, weeknights are school nights, and their inflated 'A' average might suffer if they work instead of text and peruse Facebook all night.
It's tough out there for a simp.
Thursday, January 31, 2013
Wednesday, January 30, 2013
Welcome To The Pizza California
Somebody is sucking all the joy out of Hillmomba faster than Casey at the bat in Mudville.
We have a new gourmet restaurant. Perhaps you've heard of it. Domino's. That's right. Imagine the good fortune of the folks who have grown fat and and sassy on the fare of Subway, gas station chicken, and Casey's pizza. They have a variety now. Two choices of pizza. Okay, four if you are a stickler, because our Subway has mini-pizzas, and the 44 oz. Diet Coke convenience store also sells carryout pizza.
I called one in on the way home from school. It was duty day, you know. Always a good occasion to celebrate the end of with some take-out bring-home food to avoid standing at the kitchen counter. We've never had an issue with Domino's before. Unlike Mr. Lunchtablemate, who bit down on a penny and couldn't wangle it into a lifetime of leisure, but rather ended up paying most of his own dental bills as well. He is not a pit bull owner. And he used a totally different Domino's. Anyhoo...our new Hillmomban Domino's has been open since December. You didn't think it was the Hillbilly family's first Domino's rodeo, did you?
The moment I called, I should have sensed there would be an issue. Okay. I DID. In fact, when The Pony clambered back into T-Hoe after paying for gas, I told him, "I'll be amazed if we actually get what we ordered." To start with, I was put on hold. That's fine. Other people need pizza too. But three minutes on hold is a bit excessive. Still, they didn't leave me hangin', those Dominolts.
"Do you still have the three-topping large for $7.99?"
"Yes."
"That's what I want."
"It's carry out."
"I know. Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday."
"Go ahead."
"I want half cheese...and half sausage, bacon, and Canadian bacon."
"You don't want cheese on the other half?"
"Um...I want it to be normal pizza with sausage, bacon, and Canadian bacon. The other half is just cheese with no other toppings."
"Oh! Sorry. My mistake. What kind of crust?"
"Hand tossed." There was silence. About a minute.
"Uh, let me just re-calculate that special. It will be $8.63. It will be ready in twenty minutes."
We stopped for a 44 oz. Diet Coke. With a lot of ice. Because it IS only Wednesday. Only two minutes remained on our ready clock when we pulled into the Domino's lot. I sent in my minion, The Pony. He held the door open to let an old lady out, then paid, then waited. And waited. After six minutes had passed, the counter girl came out and spoke to him. He bolted back to T-Hoe. "They messed up our order. Didn't leave it half cheese. So she says they'll make me a medium cheese pizza for free, but it will take six minutes." What was I to do? He had already paid. He won't eat meaty pizza. So we sat on the lot while tiny sleet pellets bounced off T-Hoe's muddy-kitty-footprinted hood. The old lady The Pony let out was sitting in her car. Waiting. People who went in after The Pony were milling around the store. Waiting.
"That place is a freakin' Hotel California. You can pay any time you like, but you can never leave."
"They are different people than we usually deal with. Only that little girl knows what she's doing. While I was in there, the two guys who usually wait on me came in from delivering."
"I know. I was sitting right here. Only that short guy looked familiar."
"Yeah. He's the one that was riding the broom like a horse the last time we were here."
Thankfully, there was no coinage baked into the crust of my pizza.
We have a new gourmet restaurant. Perhaps you've heard of it. Domino's. That's right. Imagine the good fortune of the folks who have grown fat and and sassy on the fare of Subway, gas station chicken, and Casey's pizza. They have a variety now. Two choices of pizza. Okay, four if you are a stickler, because our Subway has mini-pizzas, and the 44 oz. Diet Coke convenience store also sells carryout pizza.
I called one in on the way home from school. It was duty day, you know. Always a good occasion to celebrate the end of with some take-out bring-home food to avoid standing at the kitchen counter. We've never had an issue with Domino's before. Unlike Mr. Lunchtablemate, who bit down on a penny and couldn't wangle it into a lifetime of leisure, but rather ended up paying most of his own dental bills as well. He is not a pit bull owner. And he used a totally different Domino's. Anyhoo...our new Hillmomban Domino's has been open since December. You didn't think it was the Hillbilly family's first Domino's rodeo, did you?
The moment I called, I should have sensed there would be an issue. Okay. I DID. In fact, when The Pony clambered back into T-Hoe after paying for gas, I told him, "I'll be amazed if we actually get what we ordered." To start with, I was put on hold. That's fine. Other people need pizza too. But three minutes on hold is a bit excessive. Still, they didn't leave me hangin', those Dominolts.
"Do you still have the three-topping large for $7.99?"
"Yes."
"That's what I want."
"It's carry out."
"I know. Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday."
"Go ahead."
"I want half cheese...and half sausage, bacon, and Canadian bacon."
"You don't want cheese on the other half?"
"Um...I want it to be normal pizza with sausage, bacon, and Canadian bacon. The other half is just cheese with no other toppings."
"Oh! Sorry. My mistake. What kind of crust?"
"Hand tossed." There was silence. About a minute.
"Uh, let me just re-calculate that special. It will be $8.63. It will be ready in twenty minutes."
We stopped for a 44 oz. Diet Coke. With a lot of ice. Because it IS only Wednesday. Only two minutes remained on our ready clock when we pulled into the Domino's lot. I sent in my minion, The Pony. He held the door open to let an old lady out, then paid, then waited. And waited. After six minutes had passed, the counter girl came out and spoke to him. He bolted back to T-Hoe. "They messed up our order. Didn't leave it half cheese. So she says they'll make me a medium cheese pizza for free, but it will take six minutes." What was I to do? He had already paid. He won't eat meaty pizza. So we sat on the lot while tiny sleet pellets bounced off T-Hoe's muddy-kitty-footprinted hood. The old lady The Pony let out was sitting in her car. Waiting. People who went in after The Pony were milling around the store. Waiting.
"That place is a freakin' Hotel California. You can pay any time you like, but you can never leave."
"They are different people than we usually deal with. Only that little girl knows what she's doing. While I was in there, the two guys who usually wait on me came in from delivering."
"I know. I was sitting right here. Only that short guy looked familiar."
"Yeah. He's the one that was riding the broom like a horse the last time we were here."
Thankfully, there was no coinage baked into the crust of my pizza.
Tuesday, January 29, 2013
A Series Of Unbelievable Events
...continued from A Funny Thing Happened On The Way To The Telephone.
When we last convened around the campfire, listening to Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's tale of intrigue, and listening for that hook-armed escaped lunatic lurking just out of sight in the damp darkness along the treeline...Farmer H had just picked up the second call from a member of the weaker sex, whose name and accent suggested a tie to the land of vodka, nesting dolls, and cold tomato soup. The voice on the answering machine sounded very much like Sigourney Weaver in Heartbreakers, the scenes where she ate steak tartar with Gene Hackman in the glow of onion-shaped table lamps, smiled vacuously at the waiter who asked if she would like his big sausage on her plate, and haggled with housekeeper Nora Dunn just before setting her up to take the fall as a cigarette thief. Even though there is a dearth of good parts in Hollywood for women of age, I doubt that Sigourney has fallen on such hard times that she needs to pick up spare change on a Sunday morning by prank-calling Mrs. Hillbilly Mom. She comes from money, you know.
About three hours of taxing and feeding and 44-oz.-Diet-Coke-picking-up later, I sat down for a break of sipping and surfing. The internet, of course. I'm no beach bunny. I started with my laptop screen, to connect my internet. I swiped my finger across the mouse pad, expecting that greeny bamboo forest with my little black-and-yellow box for connection, AND GOT THE BLUE SCREEN OF DEATH!
I shouted for the #1 son. He's my emergency responder. The blue screen box was ticking like a time bomb. In X number of seconds, something was going to happen to my sweet Shiba. #1 said to let her go. That she'd fix herself. I was beside myself. Never once, during our four-year partnership, has Shiba let herself go like that. I have no idea how long she had been down. Shortly, Shiba was restored. She LOOKED normal. I waited a minute or so for good measure. Then I connected. Took a trial run on Shiba. All systems were go. I hailed The Pony to carry my precious elixir down the stairs. No need to take unnecessary chances.
My desktop, New Delly, was not like I left him the night before. I close out the windows, leaving only my documents open. Yet there they were, chugging along, my Zune, my blogs, and my Gmail. That so did not happen. Impossible. I closed those windows and went to open up new ones. My internet did not work. I did a restart. My internet did not work. I sounded the alarm. Emergency Responder #1 roared in, wailing like a siren. He elbowed me aside like Nick Burns, Your Company Computer Guy. Clicked and clacked upon my keyboard like a crazed court stenographer. "There." He was gone faster than a freshman from a classroom when the lunch bell rings.
My internet still did not connect. ER#1 fiddled with Shiba and New Delly once again. Said he did not know what was wrong. I called shenanigans. "Mom! What do you expect me to do, PERFORM A MIRACLE?" Such drama from the boy who would be a certified genius in computer systems and software.
"Oh. That's okay. No internet, no taxes, no FAFSA. I can't do anything without my internet."
I spied him back at the old Shiba drawing board. Ten minutes later, I had internet once more. Funny how he says there is no way that government spying and tampering could occur with my internet set-up. But I ask you...when was the last time, in the span of three hours, you went to a conspiracy website, received two calls from a foreign operative asking for a person you KNOW but have nothing in common with besides a geographic location, had your laptop give up the ghost, and developed a bug in your LAN that almost stumped a technology virtuoso?
I rest my case.
When we last convened around the campfire, listening to Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's tale of intrigue, and listening for that hook-armed escaped lunatic lurking just out of sight in the damp darkness along the treeline...Farmer H had just picked up the second call from a member of the weaker sex, whose name and accent suggested a tie to the land of vodka, nesting dolls, and cold tomato soup. The voice on the answering machine sounded very much like Sigourney Weaver in Heartbreakers, the scenes where she ate steak tartar with Gene Hackman in the glow of onion-shaped table lamps, smiled vacuously at the waiter who asked if she would like his big sausage on her plate, and haggled with housekeeper Nora Dunn just before setting her up to take the fall as a cigarette thief. Even though there is a dearth of good parts in Hollywood for women of age, I doubt that Sigourney has fallen on such hard times that she needs to pick up spare change on a Sunday morning by prank-calling Mrs. Hillbilly Mom. She comes from money, you know.
About three hours of taxing and feeding and 44-oz.-Diet-Coke-picking-up later, I sat down for a break of sipping and surfing. The internet, of course. I'm no beach bunny. I started with my laptop screen, to connect my internet. I swiped my finger across the mouse pad, expecting that greeny bamboo forest with my little black-and-yellow box for connection, AND GOT THE BLUE SCREEN OF DEATH!
I shouted for the #1 son. He's my emergency responder. The blue screen box was ticking like a time bomb. In X number of seconds, something was going to happen to my sweet Shiba. #1 said to let her go. That she'd fix herself. I was beside myself. Never once, during our four-year partnership, has Shiba let herself go like that. I have no idea how long she had been down. Shortly, Shiba was restored. She LOOKED normal. I waited a minute or so for good measure. Then I connected. Took a trial run on Shiba. All systems were go. I hailed The Pony to carry my precious elixir down the stairs. No need to take unnecessary chances.
My desktop, New Delly, was not like I left him the night before. I close out the windows, leaving only my documents open. Yet there they were, chugging along, my Zune, my blogs, and my Gmail. That so did not happen. Impossible. I closed those windows and went to open up new ones. My internet did not work. I did a restart. My internet did not work. I sounded the alarm. Emergency Responder #1 roared in, wailing like a siren. He elbowed me aside like Nick Burns, Your Company Computer Guy. Clicked and clacked upon my keyboard like a crazed court stenographer. "There." He was gone faster than a freshman from a classroom when the lunch bell rings.
My internet still did not connect. ER#1 fiddled with Shiba and New Delly once again. Said he did not know what was wrong. I called shenanigans. "Mom! What do you expect me to do, PERFORM A MIRACLE?" Such drama from the boy who would be a certified genius in computer systems and software.
"Oh. That's okay. No internet, no taxes, no FAFSA. I can't do anything without my internet."
I spied him back at the old Shiba drawing board. Ten minutes later, I had internet once more. Funny how he says there is no way that government spying and tampering could occur with my internet set-up. But I ask you...when was the last time, in the span of three hours, you went to a conspiracy website, received two calls from a foreign operative asking for a person you KNOW but have nothing in common with besides a geographic location, had your laptop give up the ghost, and developed a bug in your LAN that almost stumped a technology virtuoso?
I rest my case.
Monday, January 28, 2013
A Funny Thing Happened On The Way To The Telephone
My kids think they know everything. And my husband as well. But let me tell YOU something. They don't. Take the case of the unexplained phone call, for instance.
Sunday morning, between 8:00 and 9:00, I was sitting in front of my picture window, trying to see if there was any frozen precipitation on the ground. Oh, and I just happened to be sitting on the end of the coffee table, perusing a favorite website on my laptop, which is the linchpin of the whole internet capability operation at the Mansion. For me, that is. The boys use their smart phones. They think they are so smart. Their smartness manifests itself when they say things to me like, "Everything is NOT a conspiracy, you know!" Huh. That's what THEY think.
The phone rang. The house line. The Pony is our first line of defense. Why should we aging bill-payers get off our considerable duffs to run to the phone, or even farther, to the caller ID? Yeah. There's no logical reason. That's why we had kids. Well, actually it was to change the channel. The screening calls thing is just a happy accident.
The Pony was already ensconced on his couch in the basement. He trotted over to look at the phony under the plier-lamp. That's a whole other story that has already been told. He hollered upstairs, "It's some NATIONALITY-REDACTED woman!" He rattled off the number. Not an area code with which I was familiar.
"I'm not answering!" I could hear the answering machine pick up. I strolled at my leisure out of the living room, behind the couch, across to the master bedroom, around our unmade bed, to my side where the answering machine resides. That's because I don't have to host a breather on my nightstand. By that time, the N-R female was rattling off her mission, with a thick accent. To please tell someone to call her. I got there late, so I didn't know who she asked for. And I was not particularly interested in listening to it at that time. As I started back around the foot of the bed, the phone rang again. I heard The Pony call out that is was the same person. He is well-trained, my little personal secretary. Farmer H, though, is not.
I heard Farmer H gallumping toward the phone between the living room and kitchen. He snatched it up, breathless. "What? WHO? No. You have the wrong number." See? What was the use? I was not happy. You never know when somebody is just calling to see if you're home, so they can send fifty more calls your way, asking for donations to various causes, because technically, they do not comply with the DO NOT CALL list, being charities and all.
To be continued...
Sunday morning, between 8:00 and 9:00, I was sitting in front of my picture window, trying to see if there was any frozen precipitation on the ground. Oh, and I just happened to be sitting on the end of the coffee table, perusing a favorite website on my laptop, which is the linchpin of the whole internet capability operation at the Mansion. For me, that is. The boys use their smart phones. They think they are so smart. Their smartness manifests itself when they say things to me like, "Everything is NOT a conspiracy, you know!" Huh. That's what THEY think.
The phone rang. The house line. The Pony is our first line of defense. Why should we aging bill-payers get off our considerable duffs to run to the phone, or even farther, to the caller ID? Yeah. There's no logical reason. That's why we had kids. Well, actually it was to change the channel. The screening calls thing is just a happy accident.
The Pony was already ensconced on his couch in the basement. He trotted over to look at the phony under the plier-lamp. That's a whole other story that has already been told. He hollered upstairs, "It's some NATIONALITY-REDACTED woman!" He rattled off the number. Not an area code with which I was familiar.
"I'm not answering!" I could hear the answering machine pick up. I strolled at my leisure out of the living room, behind the couch, across to the master bedroom, around our unmade bed, to my side where the answering machine resides. That's because I don't have to host a breather on my nightstand. By that time, the N-R female was rattling off her mission, with a thick accent. To please tell someone to call her. I got there late, so I didn't know who she asked for. And I was not particularly interested in listening to it at that time. As I started back around the foot of the bed, the phone rang again. I heard The Pony call out that is was the same person. He is well-trained, my little personal secretary. Farmer H, though, is not.
I heard Farmer H gallumping toward the phone between the living room and kitchen. He snatched it up, breathless. "What? WHO? No. You have the wrong number." See? What was the use? I was not happy. You never know when somebody is just calling to see if you're home, so they can send fifty more calls your way, asking for donations to various causes, because technically, they do not comply with the DO NOT CALL list, being charities and all.
To be continued...
Sunday, January 27, 2013
So Unpredictable, The Weather
I put my sweet Pony in shorts today. He is always complaining about wearing pants. I thought the temps were going into the fifties after this morning's alleged freezing rain scenario. It's not like The Pony would take initiative and pick out his own clothes. If I don't grab a shirt and pants and lay them on the back of the couch, he will lay around in his pajamas all day. "Well, you never told me to get dressed." Sometimes he's too much like his father. Without the need to be told, "Breathe in. Breathe out."
As the faulty weather men would have it, we left home going on 1:00 with the temperature at 37 degrees. The Pony insisted he wasn't cold in his shorts and fur jeans. That's what he calls the hair on his legs. Unless he's calling it his fur napkin while wiping french fry grease in it. He did, however, turn on his seat heater.
I'm still waiting for the next big storm. I don't see one on the horizon. So I'm being forced to take matters into my own hands and schedule a personal day off work. I need to get my driver's license renewed, you see. It's been six years. I'm NOT going to take that silly test again. I know how to drive better than everyone on the roads today! That would be a waste of my time and state resources.
My personal day will be the week after next. With five days to spare before my license expires. I'm not taking any chances. What if a big snowstorm rolls in?
As the faulty weather men would have it, we left home going on 1:00 with the temperature at 37 degrees. The Pony insisted he wasn't cold in his shorts and fur jeans. That's what he calls the hair on his legs. Unless he's calling it his fur napkin while wiping french fry grease in it. He did, however, turn on his seat heater.
I'm still waiting for the next big storm. I don't see one on the horizon. So I'm being forced to take matters into my own hands and schedule a personal day off work. I need to get my driver's license renewed, you see. It's been six years. I'm NOT going to take that silly test again. I know how to drive better than everyone on the roads today! That would be a waste of my time and state resources.
My personal day will be the week after next. With five days to spare before my license expires. I'm not taking any chances. What if a big snowstorm rolls in?
Saturday, January 26, 2013
Special Bulletin Regarding Citizens Of Hillmomba
Notice To Citizens Of Hillmomba:
In light of recent events that have occurred in neighboring regions, The Emperor of Hillmomba hereby decrees that any citizen unlawfully entering the home of another is subject to the whim of the home-dweller. These consequences may run the gamut from...
* an invitation to high tea
* a hot towel for the face
* the offer of a warm bubblebath while prayers for your immortal soul are said by candlelight
* a stern talking-to
* a command to begone, with the added incentive of a TV remote control chucked at your noggin
* a sound thrashing
* a warning shot with the advice to depart forthwith
* death by stabbing with the knife you were wielding upon entry after kicking in the door
If you find some of these offers less than appealing, DON'T UNLAWFULLY ENTER THE HOME OF ANOTHER CITIZEN OF HILLMOMBA. Simple as that. No excuses. Unlawful home entry is like a box of chocolates. You never know what you're going to get. Due process is not necessarily an option.
Home-dwellers in Hillmomba will not be played for fools. They are not about to wake up dead because you had an unfortunate childhood. Life is all about choices, actions, and consequences. Some folks learn the hard way, and some folks never learn. Chances are that when you kick in the door and charge into the domicile with your knife at midnight, you are NOT planning to...
* ask to join in a game of Yahtzee
* inquire as to whether the occupant has any Grey Poupon
* recruit volunteers to help you find your lost kitten
* invite the residents to a block party
* see if a Seinfeld rerun is on one of the satellite channels
* offer a copy of The Watchtower for a small donation
* borrow a cup of sugar to bake a batch of Snickerdoodles
* deliver a balloon bouquet and an oversize check from Publisher's Clearing House
Citizens of Hillmomba, I call on you to mind your Ps and Qs. Neither a home-invader nor a cold corpse be. The days of I'm okay-you're okay, everyone's a winner, if it feels good do it, rights of the few outweigh the rights of the many are OVER. If you have a problem with substance abuse, anger issues, housing, heat, hunger, illness, depression, or even common orneriness, there is a program to help you somewhere, at no cost. Take advantage of it, and let the rest of our citizens live in peace.
In light of recent events that have occurred in neighboring regions, The Emperor of Hillmomba hereby decrees that any citizen unlawfully entering the home of another is subject to the whim of the home-dweller. These consequences may run the gamut from...
* an invitation to high tea
* a hot towel for the face
* the offer of a warm bubblebath while prayers for your immortal soul are said by candlelight
* a stern talking-to
* a command to begone, with the added incentive of a TV remote control chucked at your noggin
* a sound thrashing
* a warning shot with the advice to depart forthwith
* death by stabbing with the knife you were wielding upon entry after kicking in the door
If you find some of these offers less than appealing, DON'T UNLAWFULLY ENTER THE HOME OF ANOTHER CITIZEN OF HILLMOMBA. Simple as that. No excuses. Unlawful home entry is like a box of chocolates. You never know what you're going to get. Due process is not necessarily an option.
Home-dwellers in Hillmomba will not be played for fools. They are not about to wake up dead because you had an unfortunate childhood. Life is all about choices, actions, and consequences. Some folks learn the hard way, and some folks never learn. Chances are that when you kick in the door and charge into the domicile with your knife at midnight, you are NOT planning to...
* ask to join in a game of Yahtzee
* inquire as to whether the occupant has any Grey Poupon
* recruit volunteers to help you find your lost kitten
* invite the residents to a block party
* see if a Seinfeld rerun is on one of the satellite channels
* offer a copy of The Watchtower for a small donation
* borrow a cup of sugar to bake a batch of Snickerdoodles
* deliver a balloon bouquet and an oversize check from Publisher's Clearing House
Citizens of Hillmomba, I call on you to mind your Ps and Qs. Neither a home-invader nor a cold corpse be. The days of I'm okay-you're okay, everyone's a winner, if it feels good do it, rights of the few outweigh the rights of the many are OVER. If you have a problem with substance abuse, anger issues, housing, heat, hunger, illness, depression, or even common orneriness, there is a program to help you somewhere, at no cost. Take advantage of it, and let the rest of our citizens live in peace.
Friday, January 25, 2013
I'm Not So Sure About This
A couple of students were late to my class today. I did not officially mark them tardy. Their cronies said they were finishing up a test. That was plausible enough. They had been discussing this literature test the day before. They mean well. They give the impression of trying to study. But if my class is any indication of their habits, they do daily work just to get it done, while concentrating more on their social lives and reality shows on MTV.
The missing straggled in and went about the business of working on a study guide for my upcoming test. Well, they worked on it between comparing experiences on the literature test they just took. It seems that one poor fellow had answered a bunch of questions that baffled the others. Only to reveal that his answers were about a story that was not even on the test.
A bone of contention was The Raven. They were absolutely clueless on the question, "What did the bird in The Raven say? The first problem was that one of them did not realize the bird WAS the raven. I believe that's the one who answered, "I have no idea and I don't really care."
Another student thought it through. Came up with a logical answer. "The bird said, 'What?' "
But it was the last one who came so close, yet remained so far from the correct answer of, "Nevermore."
"The bird said, 'That is all.' "
I am really trying to be optimistic about my test on atoms, molecules, and ions.
The missing straggled in and went about the business of working on a study guide for my upcoming test. Well, they worked on it between comparing experiences on the literature test they just took. It seems that one poor fellow had answered a bunch of questions that baffled the others. Only to reveal that his answers were about a story that was not even on the test.
A bone of contention was The Raven. They were absolutely clueless on the question, "What did the bird in The Raven say? The first problem was that one of them did not realize the bird WAS the raven. I believe that's the one who answered, "I have no idea and I don't really care."
Another student thought it through. Came up with a logical answer. "The bird said, 'What?' "
But it was the last one who came so close, yet remained so far from the correct answer of, "Nevermore."
"The bird said, 'That is all.' "
I am really trying to be optimistic about my test on atoms, molecules, and ions.
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