Discussion at the Semi-Weekly Meeting of the Newmentia Lunch Time Think Tank grew a bit heated today. And by heated, I mean that Mrs. Hillbilly Mom had to roll her eyes and raise her left eyebrow and look askance at her left-hand lunch mate, the esteemed Tomato-Squirter.
"Get your grades up-to-date! They're due, you know. Due after school. Before tomorrow! So I hope you all have your grades up-to-date!"
Let the minutes of the record of this Semi-Weekly Meeting of the Newmentia Lunch Time Think Tank show that three other lunch mates besides Mrs. Hillbilly Mom looked at Tomato-Squirter with dead eyes, like front-row first-hour juniors focusing on a tri-color diagram of the phospholipid bilayer.
"What do you mean, grades are due?"
"There are eight days of school left. Surely you don't mean to say that we are done. What are we supposed to do for eight days?"
"My test scores aren't back yet. We just took them last week. It will take another week before they're in. I have to count that as 20% of the 4th quarter grade!"
"You were at the meeting last week. He said that we had to give awards for every class. How will your awards be accurate if you don't have your final grades?"
"Ha! I always have to have my awards before final grades. I average first semester and semester right now. That's the cut-off. It's the same for everybody. Just a different point in time to determine awards. Everybody had the same chance."
"Well, it won't be fair if your grades aren't done."
"Oh, let me tell you, my grades are current right up through today. My grades are current every day, because I make sure they're in before I go out the door. So why don't YOU tell US all about keeping grades current!" Because, you see, she is one of the three people who traditionally have not kept their grades current, sometimes as much as five weeks passing without an update, necessitating a butt-chewing of the entire Newmentia faculty at a special meeting, when three people could have been called on the carpet on their own time, not the folks playing by the rules.
"I just don't see how your awards will be accurate."
"There's no way I can wait to give awards after those test scores come in. Besides, I'm giving my regular 4th quarter benchmark test tomorrow! I can't help it we're having the awards assembly a week early this year."
The glazed-eye crowd braved up.
"Wait. We're giving awards? I'm going to give an award to the kid I like best in each class."
"Ha! I sure couldn't do that! Because, you see, I'd have to actually like a kid in each class."
"Oh, they never get to me anyway. We'll run out of time."
"Yeah. We're always last. That one year, the bell rang and kids were going out the door as I handed mine out."
"All I'm saying is, we were supposed to have our grades in and our awards ready."
"Only if you want them printed. That's the deadline. If you want to print them yourself, you can wait until Friday, right before the assembly."
"I'm just trying to tell all of you, your grades are supposed to be current."
Sweet Gummi Mary! I think someone is missing the point. I don't recall any directive about current grades, only that each class needed an award, and to be printed, they needed the list by the end of today.
But then...I've only been teaching 27 years. Why take MY word for it?
Tuesday, May 12, 2015
Monday, May 11, 2015
Break The Mo-old
Let's hope the mold is broken.
Shattered to miniscule fragments, like a piece of Waterford crystal (illegally) flung off the top of the Empire State Building. Melted to oblivion, like Lieutenant Ellen Ripley after her swan dive into a fiery vat of molten lead in Alien 3. Blown to smithereens, like that bridge on the River Kwai. Ripped into a million little pieces, like James Frey's credibility.
Yes. We do not want the mold to survive. The mold that made the collective batch of pupils who arrived to walk the hallowed halls of Newmentia this year. Such a unique group. Unschooled in the ways of...well...school. Having no concept of what the educational setting entails. Like gamboling puppies turned loose at a white-tablecloth black-tie dinner. Gnawing on the shoestrings of the guest of honor. Total strangers to proper decorum.
This morning I had to leave my post door-side, and trek a few tens of feet to the faculty women's restroom, where you're always next to next to next to next to next in line. I did not expect problems. The Germ-X was safely stowed away. Two of the top instigators were on the absentee report. The very first pupils had just begun to enter. How was Mrs. Hillbilly Mom to know that those tiny-bladder gals amongst her colleagues could hold so much? When nature and the pharmacy call, Mrs. HM knows to listen. Besides, it was an easy day of project-finishing, final review, and video. Nothing to rile the clientele.
Imagine Mrs. HM's surprise when she rounded the corner of her door a mere 10 seconds after the bell, and discovered every pupil sitting in his assigned area. Though not necessarily in his own desk.
Let the record show that this project requires the removal of one student desk from the seating chart. Not the chair. Only the desk. It is pulled to the side, placed next to the desk where assignments are turned in at the corner by the pencil sharpener, and used for the testing of the project, to see which group earns the most bonus points. It's not rocket science. It's building bridges out of paper. Which we did on Friday as well, and only needed to finish up today. So this was not some foreign concept that had not been observed on the very last day the pupils were in Mrs. HM's classroom.
"Wait a minute! Why are you sitting at a desk? There was no desk there when you came in."
"I didn't know what you'd want me to do."
"Sit on your chair. Exactly like you did on Friday."
"I didn't know if you'd want me without a desk. So I took one."
"From WHERE?"
"He took MY desk! So I took that one next to me, on the other side."
"And that was MY desk. So I pulled over the one nobody sits in."
"No. Just no. Put them back where they go."
"But then I don't have a desk."
"Your desk is right THERE! The one we're testing with. All you have to do is sit on your chair and watch. You have the best seat in the house. It's what you did on Friday. Just sit there on the chair in your regular place."
"Oh. Okay."
Mrs. Hillbilly Mom went about her business, handing out handouts to study as a review for the test on Wednesday. Taking attendance. Reading announcements. Readying the project testers.
"Wait a minute! Where did THIS chair come from? A chair does not belong here!"
"Oh. It's from over here."
Let the record show that the student chair right in front of Mrs. HM's desk was two rows back, and four desks over from where it belonged.
How do they DO that?
Break the mold! (Break break break, duh duh duh duh duh duh, break break break, duh duh duh duh duh duh...break the mo-old).
Don't even think about shakin' your booty.
Shattered to miniscule fragments, like a piece of Waterford crystal (illegally) flung off the top of the Empire State Building. Melted to oblivion, like Lieutenant Ellen Ripley after her swan dive into a fiery vat of molten lead in Alien 3. Blown to smithereens, like that bridge on the River Kwai. Ripped into a million little pieces, like James Frey's credibility.
Yes. We do not want the mold to survive. The mold that made the collective batch of pupils who arrived to walk the hallowed halls of Newmentia this year. Such a unique group. Unschooled in the ways of...well...school. Having no concept of what the educational setting entails. Like gamboling puppies turned loose at a white-tablecloth black-tie dinner. Gnawing on the shoestrings of the guest of honor. Total strangers to proper decorum.
This morning I had to leave my post door-side, and trek a few tens of feet to the faculty women's restroom, where you're always next to next to next to next to next in line. I did not expect problems. The Germ-X was safely stowed away. Two of the top instigators were on the absentee report. The very first pupils had just begun to enter. How was Mrs. Hillbilly Mom to know that those tiny-bladder gals amongst her colleagues could hold so much? When nature and the pharmacy call, Mrs. HM knows to listen. Besides, it was an easy day of project-finishing, final review, and video. Nothing to rile the clientele.
Imagine Mrs. HM's surprise when she rounded the corner of her door a mere 10 seconds after the bell, and discovered every pupil sitting in his assigned area. Though not necessarily in his own desk.
Let the record show that this project requires the removal of one student desk from the seating chart. Not the chair. Only the desk. It is pulled to the side, placed next to the desk where assignments are turned in at the corner by the pencil sharpener, and used for the testing of the project, to see which group earns the most bonus points. It's not rocket science. It's building bridges out of paper. Which we did on Friday as well, and only needed to finish up today. So this was not some foreign concept that had not been observed on the very last day the pupils were in Mrs. HM's classroom.
"Wait a minute! Why are you sitting at a desk? There was no desk there when you came in."
"I didn't know what you'd want me to do."
"Sit on your chair. Exactly like you did on Friday."
"I didn't know if you'd want me without a desk. So I took one."
"From WHERE?"
"He took MY desk! So I took that one next to me, on the other side."
"And that was MY desk. So I pulled over the one nobody sits in."
"No. Just no. Put them back where they go."
"But then I don't have a desk."
"Your desk is right THERE! The one we're testing with. All you have to do is sit on your chair and watch. You have the best seat in the house. It's what you did on Friday. Just sit there on the chair in your regular place."
"Oh. Okay."
Mrs. Hillbilly Mom went about her business, handing out handouts to study as a review for the test on Wednesday. Taking attendance. Reading announcements. Readying the project testers.
"Wait a minute! Where did THIS chair come from? A chair does not belong here!"
"Oh. It's from over here."
Let the record show that the student chair right in front of Mrs. HM's desk was two rows back, and four desks over from where it belonged.
How do they DO that?
Break the mold! (Break break break, duh duh duh duh duh duh, break break break, duh duh duh duh duh duh...break the mo-old).
Don't even think about shakin' your booty.
Sunday, May 10, 2015
Once Upon An Afternoon Feary
Perhaps I did not mention the noises I heard in my dark basement lair this weekend. Perhaps I DID mention that Farmer H and The Pony were gone Thursday evening, and Friday night, Saturday, and Sunday.
Of course I told you about the Fridgeezoo gadget in the mini fridge, who talked to me every time I opened the door. That doesn't count. Nor the sound of walking in the #1 son's room, because that is a known anomaly. Nor the sound of a soda can pop top, which is also a known anomaly, seeming to come from my office if one is sitting in the blue basement recliner, or from the area of the #1 son's photo printer if one is sitting in my office.
This was a new sound. Like a wail. "Waaaaaa!" Like a banshee, maybe. I heard it just after entering my dark basement lair around 3:15 on Saturday afternoon.
What in the world? What IS that? That's kind of creepy. It's coming from out there in the main part of the basement! Right? It's not in here. It kind of sounds like that Fridgeezoo gadget. But the mini fridge door is closed! It doesn't talk unless the door opens. That can't be it, wailing through the closed fridge door! What IS that? There it goes again! EEEEE! That's creepy!
I sat down at my New Delly, and heard it again. Oh. Never mind.
It was the attempted crow of a chicken on the other side of the concrete wall of my office, where the chickens gather under the porch when it's raining.
Only that, and nothing more.
Of course I told you about the Fridgeezoo gadget in the mini fridge, who talked to me every time I opened the door. That doesn't count. Nor the sound of walking in the #1 son's room, because that is a known anomaly. Nor the sound of a soda can pop top, which is also a known anomaly, seeming to come from my office if one is sitting in the blue basement recliner, or from the area of the #1 son's photo printer if one is sitting in my office.
This was a new sound. Like a wail. "Waaaaaa!" Like a banshee, maybe. I heard it just after entering my dark basement lair around 3:15 on Saturday afternoon.
What in the world? What IS that? That's kind of creepy. It's coming from out there in the main part of the basement! Right? It's not in here. It kind of sounds like that Fridgeezoo gadget. But the mini fridge door is closed! It doesn't talk unless the door opens. That can't be it, wailing through the closed fridge door! What IS that? There it goes again! EEEEE! That's creepy!
I sat down at my New Delly, and heard it again. Oh. Never mind.
It was the attempted crow of a chicken on the other side of the concrete wall of my office, where the chickens gather under the porch when it's raining.
Only that, and nothing more.
Saturday, May 9, 2015
THIS Is Why We Can't Have Our Sweet Delicious Cheesecake And Eat It Too
Thursday, the faculty of Newmentia celebrated Teacher Appreciation Week with a brought-in meal from Pasta House. It was delicious, considering the alternative was a cafeteria tray, or four-day-old Chinese, or stinky fish. We had a flat noodle with broccoli and chicken in it, and a shell noodle with red sauce and maybe some cheese in it, and a tube noodle with white sauce and maybe mushrooms in it. As you can see, Mrs. Hillbilly Mom does not know her pasta. We also had salad, rolls, and cheesecake.
Friday, there were some leftovers, but who wants to spend over half the lunch 20 minutes digging out cold pasta and waiting in line to heat it in the microwave? Not Mrs. HM, that's who. Only one of us ventured in to partake of the noodle. However...after lunch was over, when Mrs. HM had plan time and multiple copy jobs to procrastinate, she joined two others at the trough for leftover cheesecake. Let the record show that we were out of plates, but a perfectly good small Styrofoam bowl would suffice. The lack of forkage was problematic.
"Hey, where did you get that fork?" Mrs. HM asked her cousin Tomato-Squirter.
"Oh, there are forks in the cabinet." Let the record show that for an English teacher, T-S does not use many adverbs, nor adjectives.
"Which one?" asked the forkless Mrs. HM, opening her third door of the 20 or more upper cabinets that lined two walls of the teacher workroom, not yet having started on the same amount of lower cabinets. "Oh. This must be it."
There was a Styrofoam cup in that upper cabinet, just the regular small coffee size, with about five clear plastic handles poking out the top. Maybe forks. Maybe spoons. Or in a cruel twist from Even Steven, maybe knives. Mrs. HM was hampered momentarily by Sweet Alabama Beige, who was under her left armpit, scooping out more of the leftover flat noodle, which she had not had time to feast upon at lunch. Sweet Alabama Beige withdrew, and Mrs. HM closed her thumb and forefinger around the base of that cup to bring it down and check on the plasticware.
"EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!"
The load in that cup shifted, and plastic forks rained down upon the populace. Which at that moment consisted of Mrs. HM, Sweet Alabama Beige having just made an opportune exit, and Tomato-Squirter to Mrs. HM's right, jamming that clear plastic lid back down over the black plastic plate of assorted cheesecake slices. Seriously. She knew Mrs. HM was going to snag one of those. Did she think cheesecake would go bad in the sixty seconds it would take to get a fork?
"What's going on in here? I heard a scream!" It was our trusty support staff from the other side of the wall, the one who controls the heat in the teacher workroom from the thermostat in her office. Let the record show that she is a coldblooded creature who might be found laying upon the blacktop road, warming herself, during a spate of 100-degree days.
"Oh, that was just Mrs. Hillbilly Mom. She's busy dumping out all the extra forks, mainly onto her own head."
"Wait a minute! I was not the one who screamed! Let out an 'oops' maybe. But not a scream. That was you! I don't know what you were so excited about. Nothing hit you. Sweet Alabama Beige was the lucky one. Because she was standing right here only seconds before the pointy-utensil downpour."
"I did not scream! It was you!"
"No. It was YOU."
"Well, I heard it on the other side of the wall. So I came to see if everyone was okay."
"That proves it right there. If it sounded like ME, nobody would ever have come to check. That's a fact, Jack. Nobody ever comes to check on me. So it MUST have been you."
Let the record show that either of them put up an argument.
Friday, there were some leftovers, but who wants to spend over half the lunch 20 minutes digging out cold pasta and waiting in line to heat it in the microwave? Not Mrs. HM, that's who. Only one of us ventured in to partake of the noodle. However...after lunch was over, when Mrs. HM had plan time and multiple copy jobs to procrastinate, she joined two others at the trough for leftover cheesecake. Let the record show that we were out of plates, but a perfectly good small Styrofoam bowl would suffice. The lack of forkage was problematic.
"Hey, where did you get that fork?" Mrs. HM asked her cousin Tomato-Squirter.
"Oh, there are forks in the cabinet." Let the record show that for an English teacher, T-S does not use many adverbs, nor adjectives.
"Which one?" asked the forkless Mrs. HM, opening her third door of the 20 or more upper cabinets that lined two walls of the teacher workroom, not yet having started on the same amount of lower cabinets. "Oh. This must be it."
There was a Styrofoam cup in that upper cabinet, just the regular small coffee size, with about five clear plastic handles poking out the top. Maybe forks. Maybe spoons. Or in a cruel twist from Even Steven, maybe knives. Mrs. HM was hampered momentarily by Sweet Alabama Beige, who was under her left armpit, scooping out more of the leftover flat noodle, which she had not had time to feast upon at lunch. Sweet Alabama Beige withdrew, and Mrs. HM closed her thumb and forefinger around the base of that cup to bring it down and check on the plasticware.
"EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!"
The load in that cup shifted, and plastic forks rained down upon the populace. Which at that moment consisted of Mrs. HM, Sweet Alabama Beige having just made an opportune exit, and Tomato-Squirter to Mrs. HM's right, jamming that clear plastic lid back down over the black plastic plate of assorted cheesecake slices. Seriously. She knew Mrs. HM was going to snag one of those. Did she think cheesecake would go bad in the sixty seconds it would take to get a fork?
"What's going on in here? I heard a scream!" It was our trusty support staff from the other side of the wall, the one who controls the heat in the teacher workroom from the thermostat in her office. Let the record show that she is a coldblooded creature who might be found laying upon the blacktop road, warming herself, during a spate of 100-degree days.
"Oh, that was just Mrs. Hillbilly Mom. She's busy dumping out all the extra forks, mainly onto her own head."
"Wait a minute! I was not the one who screamed! Let out an 'oops' maybe. But not a scream. That was you! I don't know what you were so excited about. Nothing hit you. Sweet Alabama Beige was the lucky one. Because she was standing right here only seconds before the pointy-utensil downpour."
"I did not scream! It was you!"
"No. It was YOU."
"Well, I heard it on the other side of the wall. So I came to see if everyone was okay."
"That proves it right there. If it sounded like ME, nobody would ever have come to check. That's a fact, Jack. Nobody ever comes to check on me. So it MUST have been you."
Let the record show that either of them put up an argument.
Friday, May 8, 2015
The Voice Is Coming From The Fridge!
Last night, Farmer H and The Pony went to visit the #1 son at college. Not so much visit, as load up stuff he needs to bring home from his dorm room.
While they were gone, I was all alone here at the Mansion. I made sure The Pony had stocked the mini fridge, so I would not be cold-Coke-less in his absence. Imagine my surprise when I opened the basement mini fridge and heard:
"Good to see you!"
WTF? It was quite startling. And the voice seemed to emanate from within the fridge itself. That's because it WAS coming from within the fridge itself.
A few Christmases ago, I did my boy shopping online at ThinkGeek. There was a little item called a Fridgeezoo Boy. There was also an item called a Fridgeezoo Girl. But seriously. How could I pick a Boy for one son, and a Girl for another. As if they're not already headed for years of therapy after being exposed to Farmer H and me. There were other version on other shopping sites called Fridgeezoo Fridge Pets, but they only spoke Japanese. Which, as far as I knew, my boys did not.
They loved their new Boys. One was put in the upstairs Frig, which I am sure belonged to #1, because he takes everything good before The Pony has a chance. It was quite a novelty for about two days. Then #1 said, "I'm getting sick of this thing. It very shuts up. It keeps talking as long as the door is open." Which was, I think, the purpose, it being a reminder not to leave the refrigerator door open.
I don't know what The Pony did with his Boy over the past several years, but now it had appeared in the door of Mini Fridge under the basement stairs. I went back to put away my knee ice, and heard a cheerful, "HOWDY!" And when it took a minute to get that baggie of water to lay right in the mini freezer, I heard, "What are you looking for?"
Today I asked The Pony if he just put that chilly critter in the mini fridge. "Uh huh. Don't you get tired of it talking to you?"
So it looks like I was set up. I'd better look around for a hidden camera. I don't want to be on America's Funniest Home Videos.
While they were gone, I was all alone here at the Mansion. I made sure The Pony had stocked the mini fridge, so I would not be cold-Coke-less in his absence. Imagine my surprise when I opened the basement mini fridge and heard:
"Good to see you!"
WTF? It was quite startling. And the voice seemed to emanate from within the fridge itself. That's because it WAS coming from within the fridge itself.
A few Christmases ago, I did my boy shopping online at ThinkGeek. There was a little item called a Fridgeezoo Boy. There was also an item called a Fridgeezoo Girl. But seriously. How could I pick a Boy for one son, and a Girl for another. As if they're not already headed for years of therapy after being exposed to Farmer H and me. There were other version on other shopping sites called Fridgeezoo Fridge Pets, but they only spoke Japanese. Which, as far as I knew, my boys did not.
They loved their new Boys. One was put in the upstairs Frig, which I am sure belonged to #1, because he takes everything good before The Pony has a chance. It was quite a novelty for about two days. Then #1 said, "I'm getting sick of this thing. It very shuts up. It keeps talking as long as the door is open." Which was, I think, the purpose, it being a reminder not to leave the refrigerator door open.
I don't know what The Pony did with his Boy over the past several years, but now it had appeared in the door of Mini Fridge under the basement stairs. I went back to put away my knee ice, and heard a cheerful, "HOWDY!" And when it took a minute to get that baggie of water to lay right in the mini freezer, I heard, "What are you looking for?"
Today I asked The Pony if he just put that chilly critter in the mini fridge. "Uh huh. Don't you get tired of it talking to you?"
So it looks like I was set up. I'd better look around for a hidden camera. I don't want to be on America's Funniest Home Videos.
Thursday, May 7, 2015
Boulevard Of Broken Knees
I walk a lonely hall
So disenchanted that I want to bawl
Kids sure have the gall
I set up the test and I walk alone
I walk for all to see
Down this Boulevard of Broken Knees
Where the testees sleep
And I'm accountable and I walk alone
I walk alone
I walk alone
I walk alone
I walk a...
Actually, I don't walk alone. I walk up and down the halls, and get up and down out of my chair 56 times, in the sturdy sensible shoes of many a present-day schoolmarm. Those who are required each year to give a 35-question test online to measure knowledge content of their pupils in their subject area. Yes, 35 questions, in a given time period, on a given day, to ascertain what each pupil has learned over the course of the school year.
Let the record show that for only the second year in history, one of Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's pupils has set a-sail to the Land of Nod during this crucial testing window. Uh huh. When Mrs. HM noticed the issue, in no small part due to the motions of Sleepy's fellow testees, she investigated further.
Unlike the very first wink-catcher, this one did not lay his arm at length on the computer shelf, and lay his head upon his shoulder-arm area to use it as an impromptu pillow. No, this one used the two-fist column upon which to rest his chin. With his back to the room, because, after all, this is a computer lab, where the pupils face the wall, and the instructor sees their backs, with nary a way to ogle the eyeballs unless she ratchets out her neck, and reaches her head around like dragon into his face...the snooze went unnoticed.
Tap-tap-tap went Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's pointy pointer-finger upon Sleepy's shoulder. She sensed barely perceptible movement. "It seems that your attention has been on page 22 for quite some time. Is there a problem?"
"No. No problem."
By the time Mrs. HM had walked back to her Observation Throne in the middle of the room, Sleepy raised his hand. He had miraculously finished questions 23-47 in approximately 45 seconds. Uh huh. And 35 of those questions were going to determine the teacher-worthiness of Mrs. Hillbilly Mom. Nobody knows WHICH 35, because the rest are filler, there as possible future test questions, to be determined by the easiness or hardness demonstrated by the answers of the guinea pigs taking that test.
Yep. "We must tie future teacher evaluations to these test results!" clamor the legislators.
Indeed.
My knees are achin'. My spirit breakin'. It's all over but the cryin'.
So disenchanted that I want to bawl
Kids sure have the gall
I set up the test and I walk alone
I walk for all to see
Down this Boulevard of Broken Knees
Where the testees sleep
And I'm accountable and I walk alone
I walk alone
I walk alone
I walk alone
I walk a...
Actually, I don't walk alone. I walk up and down the halls, and get up and down out of my chair 56 times, in the sturdy sensible shoes of many a present-day schoolmarm. Those who are required each year to give a 35-question test online to measure knowledge content of their pupils in their subject area. Yes, 35 questions, in a given time period, on a given day, to ascertain what each pupil has learned over the course of the school year.
Let the record show that for only the second year in history, one of Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's pupils has set a-sail to the Land of Nod during this crucial testing window. Uh huh. When Mrs. HM noticed the issue, in no small part due to the motions of Sleepy's fellow testees, she investigated further.
Unlike the very first wink-catcher, this one did not lay his arm at length on the computer shelf, and lay his head upon his shoulder-arm area to use it as an impromptu pillow. No, this one used the two-fist column upon which to rest his chin. With his back to the room, because, after all, this is a computer lab, where the pupils face the wall, and the instructor sees their backs, with nary a way to ogle the eyeballs unless she ratchets out her neck, and reaches her head around like dragon into his face...the snooze went unnoticed.
Tap-tap-tap went Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's pointy pointer-finger upon Sleepy's shoulder. She sensed barely perceptible movement. "It seems that your attention has been on page 22 for quite some time. Is there a problem?"
"No. No problem."
By the time Mrs. HM had walked back to her Observation Throne in the middle of the room, Sleepy raised his hand. He had miraculously finished questions 23-47 in approximately 45 seconds. Uh huh. And 35 of those questions were going to determine the teacher-worthiness of Mrs. Hillbilly Mom. Nobody knows WHICH 35, because the rest are filler, there as possible future test questions, to be determined by the easiness or hardness demonstrated by the answers of the guinea pigs taking that test.
Yep. "We must tie future teacher evaluations to these test results!" clamor the legislators.
Indeed.
My knees are achin'. My spirit breakin'. It's all over but the cryin'.
Wednesday, May 6, 2015
A Day Hot Enough To Make The Devil Sigh
I become a little more like my mother every day. Don't get me wrong. I don't mind people parking in my driveway, and I don't go out in public and announce to people that I have a hole in my pants. But I do find myself picking up items from the pantry that are expired, and saving plastic forks from Captain D's. And now there's this new behavior that manifested itself Monday.
My mom doted on her grandchildren. They could do no wrong. They were tiny bundles of royalty to be humored and spoiled and catered to. So when she told me a story many years ago about shopping in The Devil's Playground with my niece, who was then around 3-4 years old, I found it hard to believe.
"I put Niecey in the top of the cart, in that little seat. I only had a few things to pick up, but I like to let the kids get something while we're shopping. She told me she wanted Lip Smackers. I didn't know if her mom would want her to have it, but I told her we would look for it. Niecey wanted Dr. Pepper Lip Smackers. I figured she had seen her mom using makeup, and wanted to be like her. The minute we got in the door, Niecey started saying, 'Grandma, can we get my Lip Smackers?' She was leaning out of the cart reaching, and turning as we went by departments. I found the stuff I needed, but I could not find those Lip Smackers. I went from one end of the store to the other. And Niecey kept saying, 'Grandma! There!' I told her, 'Niecey, Lip Smackers will not be over there! Let's keep looking.' I tried the makeup section, and the pharmacy, and even back in the little girls' toys. No Lip Smackers. I was ready to leave, but I promised Niecey her Lip Smackers. Finally I gave in. 'All right! We'll look there!' And there were the Lip Smackers, right by the jewelry department, where Niecey had been reaching for them all along."
I tell you that story not because I promise my students Lip Smackers, and push them through The Devil's Playground as an exercise in futility. But because I, too, dismissed the proclamations of a youngster.
On Monday, our last day to review for the big state test looming on the horizon, I was eager to get class started. I had diagrams of DNA color-coded and labeled on the white board. Punnett squares festooned the section near the pencil sharpener. I was sure my pupils had garnered twelve hours of sleep, visions of codons dancing in their heads, and were chomping at the bit for our final information dump. So when Biff announced that it was too hot in my room, I was not having it.
"We need to get started. The test is tomorrow! No time now to sidetrack me about the temperature."
"I hope it's cooler than this in the computer lab for the test! I can't work when it's hot. And right now I'm hot."
"The thermostat is set the same way it is every day. On 72. That's as cool as they let me go. Except in the winter, you know, when we can't go over 70. But it's set on 72 now. So let's get started with our review."
The review went well. Nobody wilted or went crazy from the heat. It's a small class, without a lot of hot air that I get in the afternoon. I gave nary a thought to the temperature until the bell rang. The kids filed out, and I went toward the door. "Huh. it does seem a bit warm. I guess I'm just wound up over the testing." I walked by the thermostat and gave it a glance.
WAIT A MINUTE!
The thermostat was set on HEAT. The temperature was 74. How could that be? When the custodian rushed me out on Friday afternoon, it was working like normal. Who had reset my thermostat? Was there an event in the building over the weekend? I put it back on COOL. Egads! The setting was on 88! I bumped that gadget back down to 72. The air kicked on.
That morning before testing, I informed Biff that he had been correct. My room was too hot Monday, which I found out as soon as he left. He took it well. "I knew it didn't feel right." All he wanted was validation. And the cool breeze from the air conditioner. Which we had in abundance for the test.
Like sands through the hourglass, like fresh Lip Smackers on a cool whoosh of air, these are the days of Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's life.
My mom doted on her grandchildren. They could do no wrong. They were tiny bundles of royalty to be humored and spoiled and catered to. So when she told me a story many years ago about shopping in The Devil's Playground with my niece, who was then around 3-4 years old, I found it hard to believe.
"I put Niecey in the top of the cart, in that little seat. I only had a few things to pick up, but I like to let the kids get something while we're shopping. She told me she wanted Lip Smackers. I didn't know if her mom would want her to have it, but I told her we would look for it. Niecey wanted Dr. Pepper Lip Smackers. I figured she had seen her mom using makeup, and wanted to be like her. The minute we got in the door, Niecey started saying, 'Grandma, can we get my Lip Smackers?' She was leaning out of the cart reaching, and turning as we went by departments. I found the stuff I needed, but I could not find those Lip Smackers. I went from one end of the store to the other. And Niecey kept saying, 'Grandma! There!' I told her, 'Niecey, Lip Smackers will not be over there! Let's keep looking.' I tried the makeup section, and the pharmacy, and even back in the little girls' toys. No Lip Smackers. I was ready to leave, but I promised Niecey her Lip Smackers. Finally I gave in. 'All right! We'll look there!' And there were the Lip Smackers, right by the jewelry department, where Niecey had been reaching for them all along."
I tell you that story not because I promise my students Lip Smackers, and push them through The Devil's Playground as an exercise in futility. But because I, too, dismissed the proclamations of a youngster.
On Monday, our last day to review for the big state test looming on the horizon, I was eager to get class started. I had diagrams of DNA color-coded and labeled on the white board. Punnett squares festooned the section near the pencil sharpener. I was sure my pupils had garnered twelve hours of sleep, visions of codons dancing in their heads, and were chomping at the bit for our final information dump. So when Biff announced that it was too hot in my room, I was not having it.
"We need to get started. The test is tomorrow! No time now to sidetrack me about the temperature."
"I hope it's cooler than this in the computer lab for the test! I can't work when it's hot. And right now I'm hot."
"The thermostat is set the same way it is every day. On 72. That's as cool as they let me go. Except in the winter, you know, when we can't go over 70. But it's set on 72 now. So let's get started with our review."
The review went well. Nobody wilted or went crazy from the heat. It's a small class, without a lot of hot air that I get in the afternoon. I gave nary a thought to the temperature until the bell rang. The kids filed out, and I went toward the door. "Huh. it does seem a bit warm. I guess I'm just wound up over the testing." I walked by the thermostat and gave it a glance.
WAIT A MINUTE!
The thermostat was set on HEAT. The temperature was 74. How could that be? When the custodian rushed me out on Friday afternoon, it was working like normal. Who had reset my thermostat? Was there an event in the building over the weekend? I put it back on COOL. Egads! The setting was on 88! I bumped that gadget back down to 72. The air kicked on.
That morning before testing, I informed Biff that he had been correct. My room was too hot Monday, which I found out as soon as he left. He took it well. "I knew it didn't feel right." All he wanted was validation. And the cool breeze from the air conditioner. Which we had in abundance for the test.
Like sands through the hourglass, like fresh Lip Smackers on a cool whoosh of air, these are the days of Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's life.
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