Today my students were complaining about how useless they find school. I said, "Oh, c'mon! This is SCHOOL! You're going to have to accept that fact, and start making an effort to learn something. I swear...you seem to think this is one big party."
"Oh, believe me, Mrs. Hillbilly Mom...if I thought this was a party, I would hunt down the people who threw it and make sure they never throw another one. This party sucks!"
"Why do we even have school, anyway? I don't want to learn anything. I don't learn anything. It's a waste of time."
"You know why we have free public education in the United States, don't you?" Mrs. Hillbilly Mom always does her best to educate her students, even though they may not want to learn, and the educatin' may not be in the subject Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is paid to spout in the hopes some knowledge will be absorbed.
"Of course I know why we have free public education! To keep kids from working in factories. Mr. Links taught us that."
"Um. I'm not sure Mr. Links taught you THAT. We have free public education because our founding fathers wanted an educated electorate. They wanted the citizens to know what the issues were. To understand why they should vote one way or another."
"No. It was because kids were working in the factories, and it wasn't good for kids to be used like that."
"You're talking about the Industrial Revolution. That was in the 1800s. We had free public education way before that. Sure, there were laws passed about child labor. But it wasn't the reason or the beginning of free public education. Perhaps you've heard of George Washington? His face is on the dollar bill."
"Of course we know who George Washington is. I have dollars."
"Well, he came way before kids working in factories. And it was back in his time that the free public education came about."
"There's just no arguing with you!"
Then why do they even try?
**************************************************************
Disclaimer: I may not have my facts exactly right...but I'm a durn sight closer to right than this select group on this specific day!
Wednesday, April 2, 2014
Tuesday, April 1, 2014
A Warning Shot Has Been Fired Across The Sow
Sweet Gummi Mary! The Battle For Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's Furniture has escalated!
I knew it would be a problem, what with me declining the invitation to rearrange my classroom to suit the wishes of Cus. Is it my fault I have used the same configuration for at least four years, without previous complaint? I think not. It's not a fault, but a conscious decision to make optimum use of space while still providing two paths of ingress and egress each class period. For fast escapes during fires and tornadoes and earthquakes. For stealthy forays by Mrs. HM herself to use her bloodhound nose and rabbit ears to sniff out cell phones during class time.
When Cus tracked me down to inquire about the answer to the note left on my desk overnight, no doubt on paper withdrawn from my in-house First Bank of Cut-Rate Copier, written upon withan astronaut pen wangled from a crusty septuagenarian at Del Boca Vista a personal writing implement from my desktop, I had the audacity to reply that a new configuration would not work for me. But that if it was that vital to the ten minutes spent sweeping my room each day, I would teach the students a new way to line them up for the next 43 days, and spend ten minutes of my arrival time each morning setting back 25 desks and 25 chairs to the positions that work for me. I am, after all, a TEACHER. So I'm sure I could instruct 20 freshmen in a new floor chart. Though Sweet Gummi Mary knows, it has been a Herculean task over the past 131 days to get them to this point.
With a flap of arms to rival Farmer H's histrionics, and a turn on the heel, Cus exited the teacher workroom muttering, "I knew you'd hate me for asking." Well. That's not exactly the reason. Oh. Wait. I don't hate Cus. I just don't see the need for Cus to get all up in my furniture business. And in my personal microwave. I'm actually almost fond of Cus. Gifted Cus with my World Famous Chex mix at Christmas. Gave a sizable donation to the Cus fund over the holidays when Cus was laid up for a bit. I don't begrudge Cus easier working conditions. I simply feel that my designs for my classroom take precedence over Cus's. I'm an old dog. That's how it has been all the other 25 years of my teaching experience in various districts. I was allowed to arrange my furniture as I saw fit.
So...I was out for a doctor's appointment Monday. I came back to pick up The Pony, and sat down to grade the assignments and enter them into the system. No use having a day off if you're coming back to twice the work. Let the record show that I gave assignments that were easy to grade. Still, with six classes, 100 students...that's at least a 100-minute task.
What d'ya know? Cus showed up. Because even though I've asked many a time, upon leaving an hour and a half after school, if Cus would like me to just leave the door open for cleaning, Cus has said, on those occasions, "No. Go ahead and lock it. I don't know when I'll be able to get to it." Cus has until 10:00, you see. That's p.m. So there's still at least five hours left to get to it.
Not Monday. In came Cus. A greeting was tossed out. And one returned. I had no time for small talk. I had 100 papers to grade. Cus dumped the trash. Sprayed the whiteboard in the middle, the place I never write, because the projector screen covers it during the day. I tend to leave writing on both sides, and just erase and add anew each morning. Perhaps to needle Cus. Perhaps not.
THEN Cus got the short mop. For sweeping in between the rows. My rows are not forward and back. They're side to side. Seven desks per row for the first two, then six, then five. That's how we get a ring around the perimeter for walking. So Cus starts up the row with the short broom. The one my old custodian buddy had no problem steering down a straight line, where chair feet are lined up on tile corners with military precision.
Cus swept past two desks and RAMMED A CHAIR LEG! Realigned the dust mop, made it past three more, and RAMMED A CHAIR LEG. The mop made little metallic rattly noises of protest. Same thing happened in the next row. It was quite distracting to one absorbed in grading 100 papers in 100 minutes. I have a feeling this performance was for my benefit. To elicit understanding of how hard it is to sweep my rows unless they are spread four more inches apart. I admit, some feeling was elicited.
I felt like shouting, "Sweet Gummi Mary! Poor old aged arthritic PastCus could make it up and down those rows without breaking stride, while sometimes swooping that sweeper in under a chair for an errant scrap. You must not be very good at this job if, after almost two years of sweeping with that very mop, you ram into the legs like that!"
But I didn't say a word. And when Cus came back a half hour later to ask when I would be leaving, I was so discombobulated by the question that I stammered, "Um...fifteen...fifteen minutes?" Rather than, on hindsight, responding, "Around 9:55."
Forget saber-rattling. I think that mop-ramming performance was a sign. This means war.
I knew it would be a problem, what with me declining the invitation to rearrange my classroom to suit the wishes of Cus. Is it my fault I have used the same configuration for at least four years, without previous complaint? I think not. It's not a fault, but a conscious decision to make optimum use of space while still providing two paths of ingress and egress each class period. For fast escapes during fires and tornadoes and earthquakes. For stealthy forays by Mrs. HM herself to use her bloodhound nose and rabbit ears to sniff out cell phones during class time.
When Cus tracked me down to inquire about the answer to the note left on my desk overnight, no doubt on paper withdrawn from my in-house First Bank of Cut-Rate Copier, written upon with
With a flap of arms to rival Farmer H's histrionics, and a turn on the heel, Cus exited the teacher workroom muttering, "I knew you'd hate me for asking." Well. That's not exactly the reason. Oh. Wait. I don't hate Cus. I just don't see the need for Cus to get all up in my furniture business. And in my personal microwave. I'm actually almost fond of Cus. Gifted Cus with my World Famous Chex mix at Christmas. Gave a sizable donation to the Cus fund over the holidays when Cus was laid up for a bit. I don't begrudge Cus easier working conditions. I simply feel that my designs for my classroom take precedence over Cus's. I'm an old dog. That's how it has been all the other 25 years of my teaching experience in various districts. I was allowed to arrange my furniture as I saw fit.
So...I was out for a doctor's appointment Monday. I came back to pick up The Pony, and sat down to grade the assignments and enter them into the system. No use having a day off if you're coming back to twice the work. Let the record show that I gave assignments that were easy to grade. Still, with six classes, 100 students...that's at least a 100-minute task.
What d'ya know? Cus showed up. Because even though I've asked many a time, upon leaving an hour and a half after school, if Cus would like me to just leave the door open for cleaning, Cus has said, on those occasions, "No. Go ahead and lock it. I don't know when I'll be able to get to it." Cus has until 10:00, you see. That's p.m. So there's still at least five hours left to get to it.
Not Monday. In came Cus. A greeting was tossed out. And one returned. I had no time for small talk. I had 100 papers to grade. Cus dumped the trash. Sprayed the whiteboard in the middle, the place I never write, because the projector screen covers it during the day. I tend to leave writing on both sides, and just erase and add anew each morning. Perhaps to needle Cus. Perhaps not.
THEN Cus got the short mop. For sweeping in between the rows. My rows are not forward and back. They're side to side. Seven desks per row for the first two, then six, then five. That's how we get a ring around the perimeter for walking. So Cus starts up the row with the short broom. The one my old custodian buddy had no problem steering down a straight line, where chair feet are lined up on tile corners with military precision.
Cus swept past two desks and RAMMED A CHAIR LEG! Realigned the dust mop, made it past three more, and RAMMED A CHAIR LEG. The mop made little metallic rattly noises of protest. Same thing happened in the next row. It was quite distracting to one absorbed in grading 100 papers in 100 minutes. I have a feeling this performance was for my benefit. To elicit understanding of how hard it is to sweep my rows unless they are spread four more inches apart. I admit, some feeling was elicited.
I felt like shouting, "Sweet Gummi Mary! Poor old aged arthritic PastCus could make it up and down those rows without breaking stride, while sometimes swooping that sweeper in under a chair for an errant scrap. You must not be very good at this job if, after almost two years of sweeping with that very mop, you ram into the legs like that!"
But I didn't say a word. And when Cus came back a half hour later to ask when I would be leaving, I was so discombobulated by the question that I stammered, "Um...fifteen...fifteen minutes?" Rather than, on hindsight, responding, "Around 9:55."
Forget saber-rattling. I think that mop-ramming performance was a sign. This means war.
Monday, March 31, 2014
Methinks Thou Dost Ketchup Too Much
The Pony loves ketchup. Some might say he's addicted to it. He will drench any foodstuff with ketchup before even trying it au naturale. I toyed with the idea of getting him a ketchup T-shirt a couple of Christmases ago. It was bright red, emblazoned with the proclamation: "I put ketchup on my ketchup." So appropriate, yet so unlike The Pony to wear his condiment preferences between his sleeves.
I did, however, get him the ketchup game. I can't find it now, but it was a little cardboard card game that came in a box that looked like a bottle of ketchup. The Pony has never played it. If it was the real thing, he would be all over it, chugging it, slurping it, downing shots of it from a ramekin, slathering it on his skin for absorption. If it was socially acceptable, The Pony would drape himself in ketchup.
I enjoy a little ketchup myself every now and then. I've been known to bite the end off a foil packet, and suck out squirts to accompany Sonic tater tots. They're so messy in the car.
My long-ago friend Kelsie, from my pre-Nementia teaching days, even took a giant bag of powdered reddish dust given to her by me through Farmer H, and faithfully mixed it with water every night to use in place of ketchup. She said her husband the engineering student liked it just as well. And it was FREE. Let the record show that Farmer H did not simply bag dust out of his factory. It was an actual product associated with his company, whose bread and butter was making saw blades for butcher shops.
At school, there's a giant can of ketchup, with a pump spout that the "cooks" pop on top. Woe is the student who bellies up to the condiment cart and finds that the ketchup can only emits a phhttt phhttt and spray of watery red droplets onto the tray. They are provided tiny fluted paper cups for ketchup-holding, but few used them. Are you kidding? When they can fill a whole section of that plastic tray with ketchup? Oh. Sorry. I was thinking about what I would do.
Comedian Kathleen Madigan says John Kerry could handily win an election by simply saying: “Hi, I'm John Kerry and I'm running for president. If you don't vote for me, I am going to take away all of the ketchup."
Ketchup. It really cuts the mustard.
I did, however, get him the ketchup game. I can't find it now, but it was a little cardboard card game that came in a box that looked like a bottle of ketchup. The Pony has never played it. If it was the real thing, he would be all over it, chugging it, slurping it, downing shots of it from a ramekin, slathering it on his skin for absorption. If it was socially acceptable, The Pony would drape himself in ketchup.
I enjoy a little ketchup myself every now and then. I've been known to bite the end off a foil packet, and suck out squirts to accompany Sonic tater tots. They're so messy in the car.
My long-ago friend Kelsie, from my pre-Nementia teaching days, even took a giant bag of powdered reddish dust given to her by me through Farmer H, and faithfully mixed it with water every night to use in place of ketchup. She said her husband the engineering student liked it just as well. And it was FREE. Let the record show that Farmer H did not simply bag dust out of his factory. It was an actual product associated with his company, whose bread and butter was making saw blades for butcher shops.
At school, there's a giant can of ketchup, with a pump spout that the "cooks" pop on top. Woe is the student who bellies up to the condiment cart and finds that the ketchup can only emits a phhttt phhttt and spray of watery red droplets onto the tray. They are provided tiny fluted paper cups for ketchup-holding, but few used them. Are you kidding? When they can fill a whole section of that plastic tray with ketchup? Oh. Sorry. I was thinking about what I would do.
Comedian Kathleen Madigan says John Kerry could handily win an election by simply saying: “Hi, I'm John Kerry and I'm running for president. If you don't vote for me, I am going to take away all of the ketchup."
Ketchup. It really cuts the mustard.
Sunday, March 30, 2014
Nobody Ever Pays Mrs. Hillbilly Mom In Gum
Okay. I don't really want to be paid in gum. I used to have such empathy for those commercial people, lamenting (not so much in words, but by their hangdog expressions) that they were so put-upon, being paid by conventional methods, never in gum.
What I really meant to say was...Nobody ever pays tribute to Mrs. Hillbilly Mom with a tattoo.
Roundaboutly, on our trip Friday from the bill-paying town to my mom's house, stuffed to the gills with Rally's tasty fries, The Pony revealed a revelation that stabbed me in the back like a knife through the heart, cutting me to the quick.
I say roundaboutly for a reason. We were literally in the middle of a roundabout at the time. Okay. Not quite literally, because nobody should be in the MIDDLE of a roundabout, especially a T-Hoe being steered by Mrs. Hillbilly Mom. That's for those big semi trucks, the scofflaws, who mark up the two bricked roundabouts in our neck of Hillmomba. Apparently, the big semi trucks in my mom's neighborhood stay on the road path proper. Or else they don't go there, because she's not on a hub between a quarry and a highway.
So we had just passed a tattoo shop, lest you go thinking that Mom lives in some genteel neighborhood where folks obey traffic laws and get gussied up in church finery to have their chauffeurs cart them to gourmet food shops for some Grey Poupon, and don't have their flesh flayed by inky needles all willy-nilly.
"Hey! Pony! You can go there for your first tattoo!"
"Um. I will NEVER get a tattoo."
"You sound so sure."
"I DON'T want a tattoo."
"Let's pretend. If you got one, what would it be?"
"I can tell you one thing. It would NOT be a heart with the word 'MOM' in it!"
"Ohh...that hurts. You could have been a bit more diplomatic about it. Like just leaving it at 'I don't know, because I will never get a tattoo.' How about that? Did you really have to single out your loving mother as untattooworthy? Seriously. The questions was, 'What kind of tattoo would you get?' Not, 'What kind of tattoo would you NEVER get?' See there?"
"Um...I just wanted you to know."
I guess he didn't want to give me false hope.
What I really meant to say was...Nobody ever pays tribute to Mrs. Hillbilly Mom with a tattoo.
Roundaboutly, on our trip Friday from the bill-paying town to my mom's house, stuffed to the gills with Rally's tasty fries, The Pony revealed a revelation that stabbed me in the back like a knife through the heart, cutting me to the quick.
I say roundaboutly for a reason. We were literally in the middle of a roundabout at the time. Okay. Not quite literally, because nobody should be in the MIDDLE of a roundabout, especially a T-Hoe being steered by Mrs. Hillbilly Mom. That's for those big semi trucks, the scofflaws, who mark up the two bricked roundabouts in our neck of Hillmomba. Apparently, the big semi trucks in my mom's neighborhood stay on the road path proper. Or else they don't go there, because she's not on a hub between a quarry and a highway.
So we had just passed a tattoo shop, lest you go thinking that Mom lives in some genteel neighborhood where folks obey traffic laws and get gussied up in church finery to have their chauffeurs cart them to gourmet food shops for some Grey Poupon, and don't have their flesh flayed by inky needles all willy-nilly.
"Hey! Pony! You can go there for your first tattoo!"
"Um. I will NEVER get a tattoo."
"You sound so sure."
"I DON'T want a tattoo."
"Let's pretend. If you got one, what would it be?"
"I can tell you one thing. It would NOT be a heart with the word 'MOM' in it!"
"Ohh...that hurts. You could have been a bit more diplomatic about it. Like just leaving it at 'I don't know, because I will never get a tattoo.' How about that? Did you really have to single out your loving mother as untattooworthy? Seriously. The questions was, 'What kind of tattoo would you get?' Not, 'What kind of tattoo would you NEVER get?' See there?"
"Um...I just wanted you to know."
I guess he didn't want to give me false hope.
Saturday, March 29, 2014
Insult + Insult Is Added To Financial Injury
Even Steven is not a scofflaw. He obeys Murphy's Law to a "T".
I have put off filing the Hillbilly tax return because I was more comfortable with my head in the sand. Every year, I calculate our taxes. Sure, I allow my BFF TurboTax to look over my shoulder. For the past couple of years, I've filed online. I don't like it. But that's getting to be the only option.
How I rue the loss of those special days in January when one could open up their mailbox, EmBee, and find a thick booklet of Federal 1040 instructions and forms. And just a few days later, EmBee would disgorge the more svelte, pretty green and white Missouri 1040 instruction booklet. Which was kind of like one of those weird math puzzles where you add and subtract and divide and multiply and add and subtract...and end up with the number you started with.
Then the government took me away from all that. "File online! It's simple! It's free!" When they really meant you had no choice, and that it was only free for SOME people, but not the Hillbilly family, because they make too much money and pay their own way, and so they should rightly pay for the privilege of filing online in order to pay the government more taxes.
At first, you could pick up forms at the Post Office, and continue to file by mail. Then you had to get your hands on a computer, printer, and internet, and download your forms to file by mail. Then you were practically an outcast, an archaic curmudgeon, an anachronism if you filed by mail. So Mrs. Hillbilly Mom took the bait, bit the bullet, forked out cash for TurboTax, filed online, and mailed in her check to Missouri and sometimes the Feds.
But the #1 son took me away from all that. He had the audacity to go off to college and get his identity stolen. Allegedly. According to the IRS, who is withholding his refund, from the tax return that he never filed, because he has never held a paying job. Oh, and because he is the dependent of Farmer H and Mrs. Hillbilly Mom, we cannot file online anymore. So sayeth the IRS worker I contacted about #1's official letter. "When did YOU file? You haven't? GOOD! Make sure you don't file electronically! Your return will be kicked out, and won't be processed until that identity theft is resolved. File a police report. Download form blankety-blank and send to the address on it. Send a copy with your paper return."
Yeah. Only the blankety-blank form had not the proper address for sending info refuting the claim that a return had been filed by the authentic SS# holder. Only an address for sending info that the authentic SS# holder was deceased during the tax year. Good thing Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is a sleuthy, card-carrying member of Mystery, Inc. That form was shipped off weeks ago, after a detour to college for #1's sigature. So today I dipped my tootsies in the water of my paper return. It has been done for weeks, but waiting for an interval before sending. Aging like a fine wine. Or stinky cheese.
I hollered for Farmer H's signature. Batched it all up. Wrote my amount due check. Slapped those puppies in two manilla envelopes, because documentation is a fat b*tch, and licked the flap and bent the prongs of the first.
And saw that I had sealed my check in the Federal envelope instead of the Missouri envelope.
Back down to my dark basement lair for another manilla. I barely made it to the dead-mouse-smelling Post Office on time. And, I might add, it was smelling especially potent today.
We'll see how long it takes this drama to play out. I don't foresee the fat lady singing for quite some time. I fear she may go through a bout of laryngitis, a fainting spell, a period of inactivity when her understudy takes over due to a home-plate collision with a Humpty Dumpty with a melon head during a softball game in the Broadway Show League, and a brief hospitalization for exhaustion.
Not counting those unhatched chickens just yet.
I have put off filing the Hillbilly tax return because I was more comfortable with my head in the sand. Every year, I calculate our taxes. Sure, I allow my BFF TurboTax to look over my shoulder. For the past couple of years, I've filed online. I don't like it. But that's getting to be the only option.
How I rue the loss of those special days in January when one could open up their mailbox, EmBee, and find a thick booklet of Federal 1040 instructions and forms. And just a few days later, EmBee would disgorge the more svelte, pretty green and white Missouri 1040 instruction booklet. Which was kind of like one of those weird math puzzles where you add and subtract and divide and multiply and add and subtract...and end up with the number you started with.
Then the government took me away from all that. "File online! It's simple! It's free!" When they really meant you had no choice, and that it was only free for SOME people, but not the Hillbilly family, because they make too much money and pay their own way, and so they should rightly pay for the privilege of filing online in order to pay the government more taxes.
At first, you could pick up forms at the Post Office, and continue to file by mail. Then you had to get your hands on a computer, printer, and internet, and download your forms to file by mail. Then you were practically an outcast, an archaic curmudgeon, an anachronism if you filed by mail. So Mrs. Hillbilly Mom took the bait, bit the bullet, forked out cash for TurboTax, filed online, and mailed in her check to Missouri and sometimes the Feds.
But the #1 son took me away from all that. He had the audacity to go off to college and get his identity stolen. Allegedly. According to the IRS, who is withholding his refund, from the tax return that he never filed, because he has never held a paying job. Oh, and because he is the dependent of Farmer H and Mrs. Hillbilly Mom, we cannot file online anymore. So sayeth the IRS worker I contacted about #1's official letter. "When did YOU file? You haven't? GOOD! Make sure you don't file electronically! Your return will be kicked out, and won't be processed until that identity theft is resolved. File a police report. Download form blankety-blank and send to the address on it. Send a copy with your paper return."
Yeah. Only the blankety-blank form had not the proper address for sending info refuting the claim that a return had been filed by the authentic SS# holder. Only an address for sending info that the authentic SS# holder was deceased during the tax year. Good thing Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is a sleuthy, card-carrying member of Mystery, Inc. That form was shipped off weeks ago, after a detour to college for #1's sigature. So today I dipped my tootsies in the water of my paper return. It has been done for weeks, but waiting for an interval before sending. Aging like a fine wine. Or stinky cheese.
I hollered for Farmer H's signature. Batched it all up. Wrote my amount due check. Slapped those puppies in two manilla envelopes, because documentation is a fat b*tch, and licked the flap and bent the prongs of the first.
And saw that I had sealed my check in the Federal envelope instead of the Missouri envelope.
Back down to my dark basement lair for another manilla. I barely made it to the dead-mouse-smelling Post Office on time. And, I might add, it was smelling especially potent today.
We'll see how long it takes this drama to play out. I don't foresee the fat lady singing for quite some time. I fear she may go through a bout of laryngitis, a fainting spell, a period of inactivity when her understudy takes over due to a home-plate collision with a Humpty Dumpty with a melon head during a softball game in the Broadway Show League, and a brief hospitalization for exhaustion.
Not counting those unhatched chickens just yet.
Friday, March 28, 2014
Of Locusts And Shady Salesmen
Sweet Gummi Mary! It's bill-paying Friday already!
Of course my mom has this day penciled into her busy social calendar. She has been looking forward to some Rally's. And visiting with me, of course. The Pony decided to ride along with us, because he craves some Rally's fries. He's spending the rest of the afternoon, and tonight, with his grandma. We had today off from school because the selfless faculty of Newmentia served four hours of parent conference time Tuesday night, and five hours of conference time Thursday night. In Newmentia math, that nine hours of conference time is equal to a seven-hour school day.
The Pony and I stopped by the credit union first, to deposit a hefty chunk of hard-earned cash towards his college fund. Heh, heh. I first typed "fun" instead of "fund." Ain't THAT the truth! Then we gathered up Grandma and a bottle of water and about 10 sandwich bags because we're out. Oh, and in return, we gave her a dozen eggs and a half-full small container of sweet & sour sauce. Of course you want to hear the rest of the story.
Farmer H said he wanted me to take Mom some eggs. Now that he's been finding four a day, he's an egg baron again. He says Juno is off her feed. I say poor departed Tank the coop sleeper is the missing integer in this equation. We agree to disagree. So there he is, Farmer H, standing at the kitchen counter this morning swapping out eggs from the 18 carton into a 12 carton. "I'm giving your mom the little eggs. Because I know she's a little eater." You might remember how Farmer H was always giving my mom the little banty eggs last year, because, he said, "Your mom LOVES those little eggs!"
And you also might remember how Mom told me, "I don't really know what to do with those little eggs. I'm not sure how they fit in recipes."
So, after a three or four minute pause, Farmer H reiterated, "Yeah. I'm giving her those little eggs because she's a little eater. And because my customers won't buy the little eggs. They want the BIG eggs." He's all heart, that one.
The sweet & sour sauce was supposed to be a condiment for half a container of white rice, half a container of fried rice, one whole crab rangoon, and the crispy corners of my partially-consumed crab rangoons. Except that the #1 son returned from a supper meeting with an old girlfriend who just happened to be in town this week for spring break, and was leaving within three hours. Around 8:30, #1 strolled into my dark basement lair, saw those crunchy corners on a plate at my left elbow, snatched a handful and stuffed them in his mouth, and said, "I see there's sweet & sour sauce in the fridge. Is there any chicken?"
"No. You said you were having supper out. The Pony is at band contest. Your dad and I had Chinese. There's no chicken. I had some white rice left, and he had some fried rice left."
"Oh. Okay."
Later, he confessed to eating both rices, and the lone crab rangoon, as well as taking the rest of my crispies. "I threw that sauce away. There was very little left."
When I went to bed around 2:30 a.m., I saw that sweet & sour sauce in the trash. Closed up in its container. Sitting on top of the two styrofoam dinner containers. Yep. I pulled a Costanza. "That's still good. It's in the container with the lid on. It's not touching any trash. It will be fine." I put it in Frig until we were ready to leave this morning. I did confess to Mom where it came from. She was not at all shocked, nor averse to eating it. It's not like it was an eclair on a doily.
I was afraid that my five-dollar-daughtership would suffer, what with telling her there was no rice or rangoon. Silly me. Today I was the eleven-dollar daughter at Rally's.
And she even tossed in a $1.99 coupon.
Of course my mom has this day penciled into her busy social calendar. She has been looking forward to some Rally's. And visiting with me, of course. The Pony decided to ride along with us, because he craves some Rally's fries. He's spending the rest of the afternoon, and tonight, with his grandma. We had today off from school because the selfless faculty of Newmentia served four hours of parent conference time Tuesday night, and five hours of conference time Thursday night. In Newmentia math, that nine hours of conference time is equal to a seven-hour school day.
The Pony and I stopped by the credit union first, to deposit a hefty chunk of hard-earned cash towards his college fund. Heh, heh. I first typed "fun" instead of "fund." Ain't THAT the truth! Then we gathered up Grandma and a bottle of water and about 10 sandwich bags because we're out. Oh, and in return, we gave her a dozen eggs and a half-full small container of sweet & sour sauce. Of course you want to hear the rest of the story.
Farmer H said he wanted me to take Mom some eggs. Now that he's been finding four a day, he's an egg baron again. He says Juno is off her feed. I say poor departed Tank the coop sleeper is the missing integer in this equation. We agree to disagree. So there he is, Farmer H, standing at the kitchen counter this morning swapping out eggs from the 18 carton into a 12 carton. "I'm giving your mom the little eggs. Because I know she's a little eater." You might remember how Farmer H was always giving my mom the little banty eggs last year, because, he said, "Your mom LOVES those little eggs!"
And you also might remember how Mom told me, "I don't really know what to do with those little eggs. I'm not sure how they fit in recipes."
So, after a three or four minute pause, Farmer H reiterated, "Yeah. I'm giving her those little eggs because she's a little eater. And because my customers won't buy the little eggs. They want the BIG eggs." He's all heart, that one.
The sweet & sour sauce was supposed to be a condiment for half a container of white rice, half a container of fried rice, one whole crab rangoon, and the crispy corners of my partially-consumed crab rangoons. Except that the #1 son returned from a supper meeting with an old girlfriend who just happened to be in town this week for spring break, and was leaving within three hours. Around 8:30, #1 strolled into my dark basement lair, saw those crunchy corners on a plate at my left elbow, snatched a handful and stuffed them in his mouth, and said, "I see there's sweet & sour sauce in the fridge. Is there any chicken?"
"No. You said you were having supper out. The Pony is at band contest. Your dad and I had Chinese. There's no chicken. I had some white rice left, and he had some fried rice left."
"Oh. Okay."
Later, he confessed to eating both rices, and the lone crab rangoon, as well as taking the rest of my crispies. "I threw that sauce away. There was very little left."
When I went to bed around 2:30 a.m., I saw that sweet & sour sauce in the trash. Closed up in its container. Sitting on top of the two styrofoam dinner containers. Yep. I pulled a Costanza. "That's still good. It's in the container with the lid on. It's not touching any trash. It will be fine." I put it in Frig until we were ready to leave this morning. I did confess to Mom where it came from. She was not at all shocked, nor averse to eating it. It's not like it was an eclair on a doily.
I was afraid that my five-dollar-daughtership would suffer, what with telling her there was no rice or rangoon. Silly me. Today I was the eleven-dollar daughter at Rally's.
And she even tossed in a $1.99 coupon.
Thursday, March 27, 2014
I Feel The Wind Blow Outside My Door
Hey! March! Yeah, I'm talkin' to YOU!
Whatever happened to that "goes out like a LAMB" business? This wind is out of control. It was DRESS UP day today for anyone who wore dress. Because once they stepped outside, that thing was flapping around their earlobes.
I had duty in the parking lot, but like a pampered pooch who would rather constipate himself than step into the snowy cold, I refused to leave the building this morning. By afternoon, I felt obligated to actually appear on the parking lot for parking lot duty. That wind swirled around me like I was the center of a dust devil. I had to hold my shirt down, because none of the recent crop of kids have thought to steal the lead weights out of the bottom hem of the stage curtain and throw them at each other, and I was lacking in materials.
Thank the Gummi Mary all this nonsense will stop next Tuesday. Because March will be gone. Let's hope March does not take Tuesday with it.
You know that Lynyrd Skynyrd song, I'm sure...
Whatever happened to that "goes out like a LAMB" business? This wind is out of control. It was DRESS UP day today for anyone who wore dress. Because once they stepped outside, that thing was flapping around their earlobes.
I had duty in the parking lot, but like a pampered pooch who would rather constipate himself than step into the snowy cold, I refused to leave the building this morning. By afternoon, I felt obligated to actually appear on the parking lot for parking lot duty. That wind swirled around me like I was the center of a dust devil. I had to hold my shirt down, because none of the recent crop of kids have thought to steal the lead weights out of the bottom hem of the stage curtain and throw them at each other, and I was lacking in materials.
Thank the Gummi Mary all this nonsense will stop next Tuesday. Because March will be gone. Let's hope March does not take Tuesday with it.
You know that Lynyrd Skynyrd song, I'm sure...
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