Let's take an informal survey. Show of hands. Oh, come on! Nobody is going to judge you by the choice you vote for. We are trying to find out why people have hair on their head.
Raise your hand if you say: to hold in body heat and keep you warm. Okay, one...two...three...four...five...
Now, raise your had if you think: to warn you that you're in danger of hurting your head. One...one...one...
Yeah. The hair on your head keeps in the body heat. Look it up. Siri didn't know. Siri sent us on a wild goose chase instructing us in proper grooming techniques. Google provided several results. None to the liking of my brother-in-law the former mayor. He kept searching to verify his belief. Then he found one. He read how hair on human heads hold in body heat. Then he read that it protects from minor injuries like scratches (one of which he was sporting on his nonhirsute noggin). THEN he read how hair acts as an alarm system to alert humans that something is there about to bump or gouge their skull, so they will withdraw their head from that situation.
I CALL MOOPS!
Yeah. He was totally making it up. Pretending to read that third use of head-hair from his phone screen. Next to me, he is probably the biggest Seinfeld authority in the county. Kudos for the effort.
I like to think of him as Humpty Dumpty with a melon head.
Sunday, March 31, 2013
Saturday, March 30, 2013
Mrs. Hillbilly Mom Attacks The Victim, But Don't Worry. The Victim Will Never Notice.
I am concerned. Concerned about the story of the teacher who was poisoned by her students.
Oh, I am not concerned for myself. I am concerned about students having a teacher so much in denial as Ms. Poisonee. Mrs. Hillbilly Mom can take care of herself. She has extrasensory perception, eyes in the back of her head, and a suspicious nature. Plus, she is always one step ahead of her poisoners. Here's a novel idea: If you don't want your students to poison you, don't leave your tea where students have access to it. Uh huh. I expect my MENSA application will be arriving any day now.
Let's break it down bit by bit.
"What it was, was my stomach would bother me. I was running a low-grade temperature. I was just exhausted by the time I got home. And putting it all together, the Germ X I was using was 60% alcohol, which equates to 130 proof, and I don't drink that much," said Miller.
I'll buy the stomach thing. But I wouldn't think Germ X would cause a fever. Exhausted? What teacher isn't exhausted by the time she gets home? And that remark about the proof? Go back to the drawing board, Ms. Poisonee, the incompetent remedial math teacher. Because 60% alcohol is 120 proof. Not 130 proof. Furthermore, Ms. Poisonee declares, "I don't drink that much."
Really? REALLY? Does she mean that she drinks at work, but just not that much? Or that she drinks and has built up a tolerance, but not enough to remain unaffected by 130 proof alcohol? Does she not realize that unless she is drinking it straight, the proof is going to be watered down by her tea? Just how much Germ X were those kids putting in her drink, anyway? I would surely notice the quick depletion of my Germ X. Not to mention the alcoholy taste of my tea.
Miller says she was shocked when two girls in her class told on the two boys who were later charged in the case.
Shocked that the two girls told on the two boys? That's how it reads. I suppose she thought they had a code of conduct like prisoners, and wouldn't rat out a fellow pupil.
"I was shocked and I couldn't quite process it fast enough to realize what it meant, but I knew immediately that I needed to send it to an administrator," said Miller.
Send what? The information? The tea? The student? She couldn't process it fast enough because she was drunk on her rump.
Miller doesn't know the boys' intentions.
No. It is SO hard to determine the reason kids are putting Germ X in your tea.
"Its hard to get into an adolescent's mind. The class I teach was math review, and a lot of them aren't too keen on math and they don't really want to be there," she said.
Who would WANT to get into an adolescent's mind? Not Mrs. Hillbilly Mom, you can bet your bottom dollar on that! I'm not too keen on the driver's license picture that clerk at the DMV took of my beaming countenance. But I did not go back with my wheelbarrow full of documentation and put Germ X in her tea. How about you quit making excuses for the little poisoners? I kind of have a suspicion that they knew Germ X is not for drinking.
"I think we need to appreciate our teachers more, and to understand it is a very difficult job, and to help children understand that teachers are there to help them," Miller said.
Yes. Because children of thirteen don't understand that teachers are there to help them. They must be so very confused, thinking that teachers are there as wardens to prohibit them from roaming the streets, there to stuff their heads with information that they will NEVER use later in life, there to entertain them with magic tricks, there to rap the lesson to hold their undivided attention, there to act as older, grayer, more lethargic guinea pigs for experiments involving Germ X.
I swear. This lady is denser than a teacher I used to work with who could not figure out who was writing FU on the board behind her desk every day.
Oh, I am not concerned for myself. I am concerned about students having a teacher so much in denial as Ms. Poisonee. Mrs. Hillbilly Mom can take care of herself. She has extrasensory perception, eyes in the back of her head, and a suspicious nature. Plus, she is always one step ahead of her poisoners. Here's a novel idea: If you don't want your students to poison you, don't leave your tea where students have access to it. Uh huh. I expect my MENSA application will be arriving any day now.
Let's break it down bit by bit.
"What it was, was my stomach would bother me. I was running a low-grade temperature. I was just exhausted by the time I got home. And putting it all together, the Germ X I was using was 60% alcohol, which equates to 130 proof, and I don't drink that much," said Miller.
I'll buy the stomach thing. But I wouldn't think Germ X would cause a fever. Exhausted? What teacher isn't exhausted by the time she gets home? And that remark about the proof? Go back to the drawing board, Ms. Poisonee, the incompetent remedial math teacher. Because 60% alcohol is 120 proof. Not 130 proof. Furthermore, Ms. Poisonee declares, "I don't drink that much."
Really? REALLY? Does she mean that she drinks at work, but just not that much? Or that she drinks and has built up a tolerance, but not enough to remain unaffected by 130 proof alcohol? Does she not realize that unless she is drinking it straight, the proof is going to be watered down by her tea? Just how much Germ X were those kids putting in her drink, anyway? I would surely notice the quick depletion of my Germ X. Not to mention the alcoholy taste of my tea.
Miller says she was shocked when two girls in her class told on the two boys who were later charged in the case.
Shocked that the two girls told on the two boys? That's how it reads. I suppose she thought they had a code of conduct like prisoners, and wouldn't rat out a fellow pupil.
"I was shocked and I couldn't quite process it fast enough to realize what it meant, but I knew immediately that I needed to send it to an administrator," said Miller.
Send what? The information? The tea? The student? She couldn't process it fast enough because she was drunk on her rump.
Miller doesn't know the boys' intentions.
No. It is SO hard to determine the reason kids are putting Germ X in your tea.
"Its hard to get into an adolescent's mind. The class I teach was math review, and a lot of them aren't too keen on math and they don't really want to be there," she said.
Who would WANT to get into an adolescent's mind? Not Mrs. Hillbilly Mom, you can bet your bottom dollar on that! I'm not too keen on the driver's license picture that clerk at the DMV took of my beaming countenance. But I did not go back with my wheelbarrow full of documentation and put Germ X in her tea. How about you quit making excuses for the little poisoners? I kind of have a suspicion that they knew Germ X is not for drinking.
"I think we need to appreciate our teachers more, and to understand it is a very difficult job, and to help children understand that teachers are there to help them," Miller said.
Yes. Because children of thirteen don't understand that teachers are there to help them. They must be so very confused, thinking that teachers are there as wardens to prohibit them from roaming the streets, there to stuff their heads with information that they will NEVER use later in life, there to entertain them with magic tricks, there to rap the lesson to hold their undivided attention, there to act as older, grayer, more lethargic guinea pigs for experiments involving Germ X.
I swear. This lady is denser than a teacher I used to work with who could not figure out who was writing FU on the board behind her desk every day.
Friday, March 29, 2013
Make It Stop! I Beseech You, Make It Stop!
The HORROR!
Just last week, I had to sit through a twenty-minute discussion of solar panels, insulation, tax incentives, yearly electric bills, and heating systems during my lunch break. That's because my two lunch companions and I were too dull to come up with our own stimulating topic to tune those other
two out. Wednesday, the unthinkable happened.
The lunch discussion centered on mattresses. The instigator of the great debate was none other than the tablemate I had confided in concerning my desire to plunge two sharp Ticonderoga #2s into my eardrums over the go-green routine last week. Her betrayal was like a knife through my heart. Or like a broken mattress spring through my rib cage. WHYYYYYY?
It was a regular Bubba Gump Mattress Company brainstorming session at the teacher table. We had memory foam, foam topper, cooling coils, Sealy Posturepedic, Sleep Number, extra firm, soft, Simmons Beautyrest, Tempur-Pedic, no sore back in the morning, four free pillows, water pillows, AAGGHHHHH! I could hardly stand it. I turned to the topic-introducer and hissed, "Remember when I told you last week that I wanted to jam finely-sharpened pencils into my ears? I'm feeling that way right now!"
She merely shrugged and said, "I'm sorry."
If there's one image I don't want in my noggin, it's that of my various and assorted colleagues flopping about on mattresses.
Just last week, I had to sit through a twenty-minute discussion of solar panels, insulation, tax incentives, yearly electric bills, and heating systems during my lunch break. That's because my two lunch companions and I were too dull to come up with our own stimulating topic to tune those other
two out. Wednesday, the unthinkable happened.
The lunch discussion centered on mattresses. The instigator of the great debate was none other than the tablemate I had confided in concerning my desire to plunge two sharp Ticonderoga #2s into my eardrums over the go-green routine last week. Her betrayal was like a knife through my heart. Or like a broken mattress spring through my rib cage. WHYYYYYY?
It was a regular Bubba Gump Mattress Company brainstorming session at the teacher table. We had memory foam, foam topper, cooling coils, Sealy Posturepedic, Sleep Number, extra firm, soft, Simmons Beautyrest, Tempur-Pedic, no sore back in the morning, four free pillows, water pillows, AAGGHHHHH! I could hardly stand it. I turned to the topic-introducer and hissed, "Remember when I told you last week that I wanted to jam finely-sharpened pencils into my ears? I'm feeling that way right now!"
She merely shrugged and said, "I'm sorry."
If there's one image I don't want in my noggin, it's that of my various and assorted colleagues flopping about on mattresses.
Thursday, March 28, 2013
They Welcome Me With Open Mouths
Put on your sciency chapeaus. We will be delving into the realm of genetics humor today. Wait! Come back! It's fascinating. I swear.
Not everybody can enter the classroom and be greeted with a request such as this: "Will you buy a washer and dryer for your room?"
"Oh, I don't know. Let me think on that for a minute. Let's see. Um. The answer would be NO!"
"Well, you really should. Because I am tired of my sweatshirt getting my drool all over the sleeve every day. I need to wash it."
"I have never in my life seen so many people so proud to announce the fact that, 'I don't want to be educated.' Seriously."
"Oh, Mrs. Hillbilly Mom! I don't really sleep every day. I just nod off towards the end."
Uh huh. Welcome to the world of upperclassmen. Not that they're unpleasant. This is the best group I've had in...let me see...EVER. But their fascination for science is not the same as mine. Just yesterday we were reading about Mendel and his pea plants. Well, the textbook DVD was reading about it while the book pages were projected onto the screen up front. But is seems that some people were not soaking it up like the dry sponges I imagined them to be. Perhaps they were sodden with saliva.
The book included a picture of Mendel. It was posed. He had a stern look, though not quite a frown on his bespectacled face. I'm not sure how photography worked in the mid-1800s. Perhaps he had to hold still for a while before the picture was ready. Anyhow, my students are a visual bunch. They focused on the photo rather than the text about how Mendel came to study his tall/short, round/wrinkled, yellow/green pea plants.
"Gosh. He could have fixed himself up. Nobody would want to date him like that."
"Um. Gregor Mendel was a monk. He lived in a monastery with other monks. So I don't think his top priority was attracting dates."
"Wow, Mrs. Hillbilly Mom! You know so much!"
That information was in the caption under the picture.
Not everybody can enter the classroom and be greeted with a request such as this: "Will you buy a washer and dryer for your room?"
"Oh, I don't know. Let me think on that for a minute. Let's see. Um. The answer would be NO!"
"Well, you really should. Because I am tired of my sweatshirt getting my drool all over the sleeve every day. I need to wash it."
"I have never in my life seen so many people so proud to announce the fact that, 'I don't want to be educated.' Seriously."
"Oh, Mrs. Hillbilly Mom! I don't really sleep every day. I just nod off towards the end."
Uh huh. Welcome to the world of upperclassmen. Not that they're unpleasant. This is the best group I've had in...let me see...EVER. But their fascination for science is not the same as mine. Just yesterday we were reading about Mendel and his pea plants. Well, the textbook DVD was reading about it while the book pages were projected onto the screen up front. But is seems that some people were not soaking it up like the dry sponges I imagined them to be. Perhaps they were sodden with saliva.
The book included a picture of Mendel. It was posed. He had a stern look, though not quite a frown on his bespectacled face. I'm not sure how photography worked in the mid-1800s. Perhaps he had to hold still for a while before the picture was ready. Anyhow, my students are a visual bunch. They focused on the photo rather than the text about how Mendel came to study his tall/short, round/wrinkled, yellow/green pea plants.
"Gosh. He could have fixed himself up. Nobody would want to date him like that."
"Um. Gregor Mendel was a monk. He lived in a monastery with other monks. So I don't think his top priority was attracting dates."
"Wow, Mrs. Hillbilly Mom! You know so much!"
That information was in the caption under the picture.
Wednesday, March 27, 2013
The Conspirators Conspire Anew
Sometime between 3:30 or 4:00 when I leave my classroom, and 7:30 the next morning when I arrive, freaky-deaky events occur.
My spare rolly chair, the one with the back that won't hold its position if you push down on it, moves from the area adjacent to the front edge of my desk to the opposite end of the table against the wall. AND the back is jammed down to the seat every morning. There is no logical explanation. The floor of my room does not slant downhill away from my desk. That chair has no arms with which to push or pull itself along the table, nor does it have legs with which to walk. Nope. Just a stalk with a starfishy shape at the bottom to attach its wheels. If I didn't know better, I would assume that somebody was sitting on that chair, and wheeling it to a place for better cell phone reception.
Then this morning, a new tactic to drive me crazy was in evidence. TWO TOILET PAPER END ROLLS SAT ON THE DESK AGAINST THE WALL WHERE I DISPENSE AND COLLECT PAPERS! What's up with that? They were not nice fluffy toilet paper ends like you might have at home, with ten or fifteen squares left to spare. They were commercial end rolls. Tiny cardboard tubes the size and shape to protect a fine cigar, with see-through, gossamer-thin lengths of toilet paper with no perforations wrapped tightly around the tube. It was almost solid. Good luck finding the end of the roll, and more good luck trying to peel it away from the tube, and Sweet Gummi Mary help you if you need it in a hurry to staunch leakage at either end.
WHY would these two end rolls appear on my staging desk? Within two feet of that space, I have a tall box of Kleenex. The real brand-name tissue. I don't need a couple of end rolls from the crapper. They did not look like they would make good salt and pepper shakers. I'm not sure if this was a cry for help due to somebody's life going down the tubes, or a sweet proud gift left for me like a cat might leave an unwanted liver.
I really need to get one of those game cameras to set up when I leave. They're motion-sensitive, you know.
My spare rolly chair, the one with the back that won't hold its position if you push down on it, moves from the area adjacent to the front edge of my desk to the opposite end of the table against the wall. AND the back is jammed down to the seat every morning. There is no logical explanation. The floor of my room does not slant downhill away from my desk. That chair has no arms with which to push or pull itself along the table, nor does it have legs with which to walk. Nope. Just a stalk with a starfishy shape at the bottom to attach its wheels. If I didn't know better, I would assume that somebody was sitting on that chair, and wheeling it to a place for better cell phone reception.
Then this morning, a new tactic to drive me crazy was in evidence. TWO TOILET PAPER END ROLLS SAT ON THE DESK AGAINST THE WALL WHERE I DISPENSE AND COLLECT PAPERS! What's up with that? They were not nice fluffy toilet paper ends like you might have at home, with ten or fifteen squares left to spare. They were commercial end rolls. Tiny cardboard tubes the size and shape to protect a fine cigar, with see-through, gossamer-thin lengths of toilet paper with no perforations wrapped tightly around the tube. It was almost solid. Good luck finding the end of the roll, and more good luck trying to peel it away from the tube, and Sweet Gummi Mary help you if you need it in a hurry to staunch leakage at either end.
WHY would these two end rolls appear on my staging desk? Within two feet of that space, I have a tall box of Kleenex. The real brand-name tissue. I don't need a couple of end rolls from the crapper. They did not look like they would make good salt and pepper shakers. I'm not sure if this was a cry for help due to somebody's life going down the tubes, or a sweet proud gift left for me like a cat might leave an unwanted liver.
I really need to get one of those game cameras to set up when I leave. They're motion-sensitive, you know.
Tuesday, March 26, 2013
Teaching May Be Hazardous To Your Health
I'm lucky to be here.
This afternoon a child in my after-lunch class took it upon herself to violate one of Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's rules, the one that decrees no student shall slather herself with lotion in the confines of the classroom on Mrs. HM's time.
The miasma of fragrance was nearly overpowering. My eyes watered. My sinuses drained. Fluid gushed down the back of my throat, jostling my uvula like a boxer at a speed bag. I hacked. I sputtered. I blew my nose. I cleared my throat. I retched like an a great-great-grandpa harrumphing up a lung. If I was a maple tree, a winter's worth of syrup could have been salvaged from my excretions.
The culprit remains at large. My suspect list is down to seven. That's because the same aroma has been known to waft about in the class before lunch. And the prime suspect has lunch at the same table as the red-handed violator. It would only stand to reason, don't you think, that birds of a feather would moisturize together? What are the odds that two completely unacquainted lasses from two completely different lunch tables would use the same lotion?
Don't think for an instant that Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is oblivious to what goes on in her domain. It's just that this teaching behavior kind of gets in the way of patrolling the area for edible contraband, cell phones, bullies, sleepers, litterers, other-homework-doers, desk-drawers, shirkers, the pencil-less, book-less, shoeless, too-much-skinners, and inappropriate advertisers. I knew. I smelled. I finished the lesson while drowning in my own secretions. But by then, the illicit act was fini. Short of traversing the room and sniffing each one, I was not going to get a confession, nor a ratting. Tomorrow I will remain ever-vigilant. The perpetrator must be brought to justice.
I might need to requisition a hazmat suit.
This afternoon a child in my after-lunch class took it upon herself to violate one of Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's rules, the one that decrees no student shall slather herself with lotion in the confines of the classroom on Mrs. HM's time.
The miasma of fragrance was nearly overpowering. My eyes watered. My sinuses drained. Fluid gushed down the back of my throat, jostling my uvula like a boxer at a speed bag. I hacked. I sputtered. I blew my nose. I cleared my throat. I retched like an a great-great-grandpa harrumphing up a lung. If I was a maple tree, a winter's worth of syrup could have been salvaged from my excretions.
The culprit remains at large. My suspect list is down to seven. That's because the same aroma has been known to waft about in the class before lunch. And the prime suspect has lunch at the same table as the red-handed violator. It would only stand to reason, don't you think, that birds of a feather would moisturize together? What are the odds that two completely unacquainted lasses from two completely different lunch tables would use the same lotion?
Don't think for an instant that Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is oblivious to what goes on in her domain. It's just that this teaching behavior kind of gets in the way of patrolling the area for edible contraband, cell phones, bullies, sleepers, litterers, other-homework-doers, desk-drawers, shirkers, the pencil-less, book-less, shoeless, too-much-skinners, and inappropriate advertisers. I knew. I smelled. I finished the lesson while drowning in my own secretions. But by then, the illicit act was fini. Short of traversing the room and sniffing each one, I was not going to get a confession, nor a ratting. Tomorrow I will remain ever-vigilant. The perpetrator must be brought to justice.
I might need to requisition a hazmat suit.
Monday, March 25, 2013
It Was Almost Like The Old Days
Wonders never cease! The best snow day is a surprise snow day. Okay, that's not really true. The best snow day is ANY snow day.
I had kind of given up hope last night. All of our snow had melted out of the yard. This morning it had also melted off the back porch rail. The brick sidewalk showed only a grid of snow in the cracks. I checked my phone at 5:00 a.m.. No text. No missed call. I made The Pony's lunch and hopped in the shower. More like dragged my reluctant legs into the shower. Kept one ear on the house phone. No call.
After the shower, dressing for work, and waking Farmer H, I again checked my cell phone. No missed message. I sat down at my living room laptop to peruse the news of the night. Turned on Channel 2 as usual to hear headlines and the weather. The school closings were flashing two at a time on the bottom of the screen. I took a glance, because maybe there was slim hope if a neighboring district had called in. They were already past the saints. That's what takes so long when you're waiting for your low-alphabet school to come up. All the saints. And there was a school from our conference! I went back to my laptop screen. Then glanced at the TV again. IT WAS OUR DISTRICT! CLOSED!
Of course that set me to checking the TV news website. Then our school website. The house phone rang with the automated call that school was cancelled. About three minutes later, the cell phone rang once and went to voice mail. Some branches of that phone tree are SO impatient. Or simply don't want to talk to me in person. Next thing you know, I had a text that school was out.
The cart was put before many horses today. But it was still the best cart ever.
I had kind of given up hope last night. All of our snow had melted out of the yard. This morning it had also melted off the back porch rail. The brick sidewalk showed only a grid of snow in the cracks. I checked my phone at 5:00 a.m.. No text. No missed call. I made The Pony's lunch and hopped in the shower. More like dragged my reluctant legs into the shower. Kept one ear on the house phone. No call.
After the shower, dressing for work, and waking Farmer H, I again checked my cell phone. No missed message. I sat down at my living room laptop to peruse the news of the night. Turned on Channel 2 as usual to hear headlines and the weather. The school closings were flashing two at a time on the bottom of the screen. I took a glance, because maybe there was slim hope if a neighboring district had called in. They were already past the saints. That's what takes so long when you're waiting for your low-alphabet school to come up. All the saints. And there was a school from our conference! I went back to my laptop screen. Then glanced at the TV again. IT WAS OUR DISTRICT! CLOSED!
Of course that set me to checking the TV news website. Then our school website. The house phone rang with the automated call that school was cancelled. About three minutes later, the cell phone rang once and went to voice mail. Some branches of that phone tree are SO impatient. Or simply don't want to talk to me in person. Next thing you know, I had a text that school was out.
The cart was put before many horses today. But it was still the best cart ever.
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