You know how dreams can be all kinds of weird, right? But sometimes, there's a nugget of truth in them...
Early this morning as I slumbered under the spray of Farmer H's breather mist, I had a dream about my sweet, sweet Juno. It was holiday time. Thanksgiving, I think. And the Hillbilly family had at their disposal a five-gallon white plastic drywall bucket that we carried from room to room of our festive Mansion. Oh, that bucket was not full of drywall. Neither was it empty. That bucket was full of
MASHED POTATOES!
Mashed potatoes, with tiny lumps to show that real potatoes were used. Smashed potatoes, if you will. With fresh ground pepper sprinkled liberally over the top. Yes, I was in charge of the mashed potato bucket. It never left my side. If folks wanted mashed potatoes, they dipped out a heapin' helpin' with their own spoon.
I sat back in Farmer H's blue La-Z-Boy, the mashed potato bucket near the footrest. That very special bucket held not only delicious mashed potatoes, but also
MY SWEET, SWEET JUNO!
That's right. In my dream world, black silky Juno sat right in the middle of a drywall bucket filled with mashed potatoes. I was so happy for her. She behaved like she had a royal pedigree. And if she got hungry, she could always take a couple of bites of mashed potatoes.
I did not even dream about what her snout must taste like stuffed with spuds.
Monday, October 14, 2013
Sunday, October 13, 2013
Rules Are Made To Be Followed
Hey! Remember when we were always next in line at The Devil's Playground? Well, we're not anymore.
I almost was. A lady had just disgorged her cart of an overflowing upside-down pyramid of goods. I was right behind her when I noticed that my personal minion, my little Pony, had gathered the bread, the PB&J combo jar, and the loaf of white bread for the #1 son to take back to College, but had neglected to fetch this week's sugar-free cookie collection for Farmer H. I had to pull out of line! And proceed halfway across the Playground using my cart as a walker in order to procure those cookies. It doesn't pay to leave off the one item requested by Farmer H.
When I returned, another bloated cart had taken my place. This pusher could not unload her trolley because the first gal was still jawing with the Devil's Handmaiden. I stepped out of line to seek a more HM-friendly aisle. No dice. The best I could do was next to next to next-in-line. So I wheeled back, with my ample tail unable to tuck between my legs.
The problem seem to lie with the Devil's Handmaiden's perception that some of the bazillion items just rung up were not foodstuffs. Apparently, the Hold-Up Gal wanted to pay with some kind of benefits. I was away for five minutes or so, and don't know the exact nature of the drama. I'm not the kind of gal to look in someone's cart to see what she's buying. Okay. I am. But that cart was way too full for a proper snoop. The manager was called, a receipt bandied about, and several forms of payment including card, long white paper thingies, and cash were exchanged. Hold-Up Gal's husband (I assume) stood behind her, jouncing a baby on his shoulder. He was not the least bit agitated. I think the baby must have inherited those genes. He was a mellow little thing. But here's the most astonishing part of the whole drama.
THE 20 ITEMS OR LESS HANDMAIDEN CALLED ME OVER TO HER LINE!
Yes! Booyah! I thanked her profusely for her kindness. And again when she was handing me the receipt. "You're welcome. If I hadn't, you'd still be standing there." Indeed. The line had not moved at all. The rule-following Devil's Handmaiden was trying to smooth things over with the excited Hold-Up Gal.
"Sorry for your inconvenience. Now you have enough left on there to go over to Subway for a sandwich."
Something tells me that was not quite the right thing to say.
I almost was. A lady had just disgorged her cart of an overflowing upside-down pyramid of goods. I was right behind her when I noticed that my personal minion, my little Pony, had gathered the bread, the PB&J combo jar, and the loaf of white bread for the #1 son to take back to College, but had neglected to fetch this week's sugar-free cookie collection for Farmer H. I had to pull out of line! And proceed halfway across the Playground using my cart as a walker in order to procure those cookies. It doesn't pay to leave off the one item requested by Farmer H.
When I returned, another bloated cart had taken my place. This pusher could not unload her trolley because the first gal was still jawing with the Devil's Handmaiden. I stepped out of line to seek a more HM-friendly aisle. No dice. The best I could do was next to next to next-in-line. So I wheeled back, with my ample tail unable to tuck between my legs.
The problem seem to lie with the Devil's Handmaiden's perception that some of the bazillion items just rung up were not foodstuffs. Apparently, the Hold-Up Gal wanted to pay with some kind of benefits. I was away for five minutes or so, and don't know the exact nature of the drama. I'm not the kind of gal to look in someone's cart to see what she's buying. Okay. I am. But that cart was way too full for a proper snoop. The manager was called, a receipt bandied about, and several forms of payment including card, long white paper thingies, and cash were exchanged. Hold-Up Gal's husband (I assume) stood behind her, jouncing a baby on his shoulder. He was not the least bit agitated. I think the baby must have inherited those genes. He was a mellow little thing. But here's the most astonishing part of the whole drama.
THE 20 ITEMS OR LESS HANDMAIDEN CALLED ME OVER TO HER LINE!
Yes! Booyah! I thanked her profusely for her kindness. And again when she was handing me the receipt. "You're welcome. If I hadn't, you'd still be standing there." Indeed. The line had not moved at all. The rule-following Devil's Handmaiden was trying to smooth things over with the excited Hold-Up Gal.
"Sorry for your inconvenience. Now you have enough left on there to go over to Subway for a sandwich."
Something tells me that was not quite the right thing to say.
Saturday, October 12, 2013
Keep Your Family Close, And Your Siblenemies Closer
The #1 son and his laundry are home for 24 hours. All he asks in return for spending approximately 2.25 hours conversing with his parental units are clean clothes, an order of jeans, and $55.06.
He couldn't wait to rip into his new DC Power Supply. What, you ask, is a DC Power Supply? If you're like me, you still won't know after I tell you. Dog flying a 747 here. The explanation was wasted on my technophobic brain. The best I figure, it's a metal box about the size of a shoebox, with pointy things on the end in white, yellow, and red. Like those things that I plug wires into on the back of my DVD player and VCR. I assume that DC means direct current. How you get power out of a box, I'm not sure. Don't you have to plug it in? And then what's the point, couldn't you just have plugged in whatever you want power for? Never give me a wire and ask for juice. Mayhem could ensue.
Here's a curious anomaly. #1 was asked to show The Pony how to play a movie using his DISH receiver/DVD/TV remotes in his room. And he fixed The Pony's mouse! Yeah. Some wires must have gotten crossed there. Don't look at me! I'm holding my hands in the air. I didn't touch nothin'!
It seems that The Pony's mouse quit working quite some time ago. Being The Pony, it never entered his mind to buy a new one. Even though money means nothing to him, and he has piles of it stashed in Farmer H's large metal safe-on-wheels that he got somewhere as a bargain. I suppose he simply believed that the mouse would regenerate. Would start working on its own again one day. I asked why he didn't just buy a new one, and he said, "I like that one." As if the mold was broken after its construction. #1 took it into the workshop, removed all the screws, cracked it open, and repositioned the red sensor light thingy on the bottom surface. VOILA! Mousy went a clickin'.
However, the most startling occurrence so far this visit was a curious statement tossed out of the workshop offhandedly by #1. I was talking to The Pony from my basement recliner, watching parts of the Cardinals' playoff game as permitted by the afternoon TV hog. "Do you know if you'll be playing any varsity?" As a sophomore, The Pony is the leader of his JV Academic Team. The varsity team has three seniors and two juniors, all respectable scholars in their own right. The Pony said he didn't know yet. Their first meet is not until December. From the workshop, taking a moment's pause from stroking his new DC Power Supply, I heard #1 state authoritatively:
"He should be starting varsity."
I suppose that is a ringing endorsement, coming from a siblenemy.
He couldn't wait to rip into his new DC Power Supply. What, you ask, is a DC Power Supply? If you're like me, you still won't know after I tell you. Dog flying a 747 here. The explanation was wasted on my technophobic brain. The best I figure, it's a metal box about the size of a shoebox, with pointy things on the end in white, yellow, and red. Like those things that I plug wires into on the back of my DVD player and VCR. I assume that DC means direct current. How you get power out of a box, I'm not sure. Don't you have to plug it in? And then what's the point, couldn't you just have plugged in whatever you want power for? Never give me a wire and ask for juice. Mayhem could ensue.
Here's a curious anomaly. #1 was asked to show The Pony how to play a movie using his DISH receiver/DVD/TV remotes in his room. And he fixed The Pony's mouse! Yeah. Some wires must have gotten crossed there. Don't look at me! I'm holding my hands in the air. I didn't touch nothin'!
It seems that The Pony's mouse quit working quite some time ago. Being The Pony, it never entered his mind to buy a new one. Even though money means nothing to him, and he has piles of it stashed in Farmer H's large metal safe-on-wheels that he got somewhere as a bargain. I suppose he simply believed that the mouse would regenerate. Would start working on its own again one day. I asked why he didn't just buy a new one, and he said, "I like that one." As if the mold was broken after its construction. #1 took it into the workshop, removed all the screws, cracked it open, and repositioned the red sensor light thingy on the bottom surface. VOILA! Mousy went a clickin'.
However, the most startling occurrence so far this visit was a curious statement tossed out of the workshop offhandedly by #1. I was talking to The Pony from my basement recliner, watching parts of the Cardinals' playoff game as permitted by the afternoon TV hog. "Do you know if you'll be playing any varsity?" As a sophomore, The Pony is the leader of his JV Academic Team. The varsity team has three seniors and two juniors, all respectable scholars in their own right. The Pony said he didn't know yet. Their first meet is not until December. From the workshop, taking a moment's pause from stroking his new DC Power Supply, I heard #1 state authoritatively:
"He should be starting varsity."
I suppose that is a ringing endorsement, coming from a siblenemy.
Friday, October 11, 2013
The Pony Is Over The Moon
Today was Practice ACT Day at Newmentia. Students who signed up to take the real ACT at the end of October were treated to a five-hour session of testing on a released version of the ACT. The Pony is took it, even though he's just a sophomore, because that's how we do things in Hillmomba. The #1 son took this same October test, and the preparatory practice test.
I'm not saying The Pony was nervous. But he is a creature of routine. He had to miss his first five classes, and report to a classroom where he is not a student, with all upperclassmen save one. It helps that he is on the academic team with some of the testees. Heh, heh. I said testees.
About ten minutes before test time, The Pony showed up at my room for his admit ticket and two #2 pencils. He was already packing a billfold with his Missouri Learner's Permit photo ID, and several dollars in case he needed lunch or soda money. He was a bit on edge, but not to the point of a headache or vomiting.
"Mr. Principal says he has ordered pizza for our lunch!" That alone was incentive enough for The Pony to take the practice ACT. Then his smile of excitement faded. "Or maybe he was just joking..."
"No. They always order lunch for...you." I stopped short of saying testees. The Pony doesn't cotton to such wordplay. Perhaps you remember how not-amused he was when I announced in the middle of Little Caesar's, "It's kind of hard to keep from dropping these pizzas and breadsticks while I'm standing here holding your balls." Meaning the superballs he won in that game while we were waiting, of course.
Off he went to seek his college-readiness score. While he did not mention it in so many words, I sensed that he was measuring himself with the yardstick of his brother's score at this age.
Just before 7th hour, a sweet lass who also took the practice ACT walked by my room. "I'm not going to tell you. I'll let The Pony do that himself. But I am really happy for him." She's no slouch herself, that Science Fair division winner who also won a special figurine that contained a piece of foil that went to the moon. So I was optimistic.
Then another student stepped over from the drinking fountain. An Academic Teamer. "Darn The Pony!"
"Don't tell me! I want to hear it from him!"
"Well, darn The Pony! He scored one point better than me. I actually got one more question right, but because of the composite score, The Pony beat me."
So I was even more optimistic.
Shortly after final bell, The Pony came bopping up the hall. "Do you know what I got? Guess. Guess my score. What do you think it was?" He was quite animated, my little Pony. He almost needed a lead rope and a few laps around the school to cool his heels.
"I don't know. Maybe...30 or 31?" A perfect score is 36. The national average is 20, and the Missouri average is 21.
"I got a 34! I aced the science. I did the worst on math, because I haven't had trigonometry yet. But I still got a 34!" Let the record show that The Pony's super-animation was quite probably partially the result of Mountain Dew consumption with his lunch pizza.
Yes. We're over the moon. Sure, it's just the practice test. But The Pony knows his capabilities. We texted the #1 son, recent MVP of the Solar Car Team at College. That's what I'm calling it. College. Like the sweatshirt John Belushi wore in Animal House. #1 replied that it was a good score. Higher than the practice ACT score he got his sophomore year.
In a phone call later, he commanded: "This beating me has to stop." He's coming home Saturday.
I warned The Pony to sleep with one eye open.
I'm not saying The Pony was nervous. But he is a creature of routine. He had to miss his first five classes, and report to a classroom where he is not a student, with all upperclassmen save one. It helps that he is on the academic team with some of the testees. Heh, heh. I said testees.
About ten minutes before test time, The Pony showed up at my room for his admit ticket and two #2 pencils. He was already packing a billfold with his Missouri Learner's Permit photo ID, and several dollars in case he needed lunch or soda money. He was a bit on edge, but not to the point of a headache or vomiting.
"Mr. Principal says he has ordered pizza for our lunch!" That alone was incentive enough for The Pony to take the practice ACT. Then his smile of excitement faded. "Or maybe he was just joking..."
"No. They always order lunch for...you." I stopped short of saying testees. The Pony doesn't cotton to such wordplay. Perhaps you remember how not-amused he was when I announced in the middle of Little Caesar's, "It's kind of hard to keep from dropping these pizzas and breadsticks while I'm standing here holding your balls." Meaning the superballs he won in that game while we were waiting, of course.
Off he went to seek his college-readiness score. While he did not mention it in so many words, I sensed that he was measuring himself with the yardstick of his brother's score at this age.
Just before 7th hour, a sweet lass who also took the practice ACT walked by my room. "I'm not going to tell you. I'll let The Pony do that himself. But I am really happy for him." She's no slouch herself, that Science Fair division winner who also won a special figurine that contained a piece of foil that went to the moon. So I was optimistic.
Then another student stepped over from the drinking fountain. An Academic Teamer. "Darn The Pony!"
"Don't tell me! I want to hear it from him!"
"Well, darn The Pony! He scored one point better than me. I actually got one more question right, but because of the composite score, The Pony beat me."
So I was even more optimistic.
Shortly after final bell, The Pony came bopping up the hall. "Do you know what I got? Guess. Guess my score. What do you think it was?" He was quite animated, my little Pony. He almost needed a lead rope and a few laps around the school to cool his heels.
"I don't know. Maybe...30 or 31?" A perfect score is 36. The national average is 20, and the Missouri average is 21.
"I got a 34! I aced the science. I did the worst on math, because I haven't had trigonometry yet. But I still got a 34!" Let the record show that The Pony's super-animation was quite probably partially the result of Mountain Dew consumption with his lunch pizza.
Yes. We're over the moon. Sure, it's just the practice test. But The Pony knows his capabilities. We texted the #1 son, recent MVP of the Solar Car Team at College. That's what I'm calling it. College. Like the sweatshirt John Belushi wore in Animal House. #1 replied that it was a good score. Higher than the practice ACT score he got his sophomore year.
In a phone call later, he commanded: "This beating me has to stop." He's coming home Saturday.
I warned The Pony to sleep with one eye open.
Thursday, October 10, 2013
The Clueless Four-Eyes Family Strikes Again
This morning we had fog rolling in across Hillmomba. Across the front acreage that we pretend is our yard. I could hardly see to the end of the driveway.
I backed T-Hoe out of the garage, heeded his beeper warning that I was too close to something, which was actually nothing, as that thing alerts me when I am about to back over the three-foot drop of the carport. I snapped on my seatbelt, extended my mirrors, guided T-Hoe's PRNDL to D, and headed up the driveway.
"Hey! What's that? That black thing under the cedar tree."
"I can't tell. Wait. Let me put my window down. Huh. A chicken?"
"It's rectangular. Not a chicken. Why would a chicken lay under the cedar tree?"
"What IS that?"
"I'm going to drive through the yard for a better look."
A view from 180 did nothing to solve the mystery. Living or non? Feathered, furry, or cardboard? I couldn't tell. Just then, the thing raised a head and looked right at me. What WAS that? I was about to yell, "It's a raccoon!" Something about the white fur around the eyes. How bold it was! Laying right there in our front yard, under that cedar tree where our dogs like to sleep...
"IT'S TANK!"
"Oh, yeah."
Tank the beagle glowered at us. He likes his sleep. He was curled up into himself, only the black saddle marking on his back showing. Until he raised his head to face us.
I'm hiding my Mystery, Inc. membership card. They'll have to pry it from my sweaty confused palms to take that thing away from me.
I backed T-Hoe out of the garage, heeded his beeper warning that I was too close to something, which was actually nothing, as that thing alerts me when I am about to back over the three-foot drop of the carport. I snapped on my seatbelt, extended my mirrors, guided T-Hoe's PRNDL to D, and headed up the driveway.
"Hey! What's that? That black thing under the cedar tree."
"I can't tell. Wait. Let me put my window down. Huh. A chicken?"
"It's rectangular. Not a chicken. Why would a chicken lay under the cedar tree?"
"What IS that?"
"I'm going to drive through the yard for a better look."
A view from 180 did nothing to solve the mystery. Living or non? Feathered, furry, or cardboard? I couldn't tell. Just then, the thing raised a head and looked right at me. What WAS that? I was about to yell, "It's a raccoon!" Something about the white fur around the eyes. How bold it was! Laying right there in our front yard, under that cedar tree where our dogs like to sleep...
"IT'S TANK!"
"Oh, yeah."
Tank the beagle glowered at us. He likes his sleep. He was curled up into himself, only the black saddle marking on his back showing. Until he raised his head to face us.
I'm hiding my Mystery, Inc. membership card. They'll have to pry it from my sweaty confused palms to take that thing away from me.
Wednesday, October 9, 2013
Hypothetically, Of Course
If one was to enter the field of teaching these days, one may not realize a special perk that is not advertised in university methods classes. One is privy to various gems of conversation snippets that flow like milk and honey over the educational landscape.
For instance, one might hear the following hypothetical exchange between two 17-year-old girls:
"Why would you need a candy bag?"
"Candy bag? What's that all about?"
"Well, I just wondered to myself, 'Why would she need a candy bag? Halloween is NEXT month.'"
"No it isn't. It's this month. And I wouldn't need a candy bag anyway. I'm too old to trick-or-treat."
"Then why did you say she's loaning you her candy bag?"
"I didn't. I said, 'She's loaning me her tanning bed.'"
"Oh! Now I get it."
Emily Litella is getting younger every day. Hypothetically.
For instance, one might hear the following hypothetical exchange between two 17-year-old girls:
"Why would you need a candy bag?"
"Candy bag? What's that all about?"
"Well, I just wondered to myself, 'Why would she need a candy bag? Halloween is NEXT month.'"
"No it isn't. It's this month. And I wouldn't need a candy bag anyway. I'm too old to trick-or-treat."
"Then why did you say she's loaning you her candy bag?"
"I didn't. I said, 'She's loaning me her tanning bed.'"
"Oh! Now I get it."
Emily Litella is getting younger every day. Hypothetically.
Tuesday, October 8, 2013
Shockingly Enough, Stamping My Foot Does Not Seem To Help
Farmer H took my little helper tonight. Purloined my basement
home companion. After an hour, I was ready to call and tell him enough is more
than enough. "That boy young 'un needs his down time, not time bonding with you while
holding the end of a 2x12 for sixty-five minutes." Of course I didn't call him, because to call from my dark basement lair, I would need to use the land line, which charges us long distance to call our own cell phone. What a crazy mixed-up world we weave when first we attempt to obtain the best deal on land, cell, and internet.
It was positively barbaric, I tell you! I had to carry my own bubba cup of ice cold well
water down the steps to my dark lair. Fetch my own knee ice from the mini
fridge. Thank the Gummi Mary, The Pony returned in fine fettle. It's a grand
surprise then one exits the NASCAR bathroom to find that The Great Toilet Paper
Fairy Kringle has left a gift outside the door.
Tomorrow we have an early out. I can hardly wait to find out what new programs I'm expected to learn and implement in two hours. I'm still reeling from the Monday faculty meeting where we learned of a new website to search for Common Core accoutrements. But like one wizened internet maven asked, "Doesn't that mean everyone can look there? Including the students? Because it's not password-protected. And I guarantee they'll find a way to get this information." Que sera sera. It's the end of public education as I know it. Oh, and we're getting access to a magical new site that rivals Study Island. With video! Of course, with only two computer labs, both occupied by regular classes, and two laptop carts with 20-minute log-in times, I'm not sure how all this cutting-education is going to be implemented.
But then, Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is a skeptical old curmudgeon.
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