Mama never said there'll be days like this. "There'll be days like this," Mama never said.
I was working past 3:00 today
Everything was going fine
Went to make my copies before I left
And then I almost lost my mind
Mama never said there'll be days like this
"There'll be days like this," Mama never said
(never said, never said)
Mama never said there'll be days like this
"There'll be days like this," Mama never said
My eyes were wide open
But all that I could see was
The copier locked up in the teacher workroom
That made my blood boil 'cause
Mama never said there'll be days like this
"There'll be days like this," Mama never said
(never said, never said)
Mama never said there'll be days like this
"There'll be days like this," Mama never said
This stuff happens when Cus is left alone
With no boss to keep Cus in check
Schools should be for teachers
To do their daily work
Not a gallery to hang...the Rembrandt of a custodian's work
ohhh
Mama never said there'll be days like this
"There'll be days like this," Mama never said
(never said, never said)
Mama never said there'll be days like this
"There'll be days like this," Mama never said
Ser-i-ous-ly. What hath the Hillmomba school board wrought? There is cleanliness, and then there is obsession. I can't wait to call my mom tonight and fill her in on the latest atrocities foisted upon me by Cus. This is not normal. Mom will be flabbergasted and discombobulated. Such shenaniganning never occurred back in her day. Mom was a teacher, you know. For 25 years, more or less. A master of fourth grade knowledge. And never once, I'm sure, was she ever locked out of her very own teacher workroom (no doubt called the lounge back in her day) and kept from completing her work after school.
I should have seen the writing on the wall (note to self: get someone to write on the wall to keep Cus busy until I've made my copies for the next day) when I came in from my duty this afternoon. It doesn't take all that long. High school kids are quick to exit the parking lot. I walked back in and saw that the big brown four double doors were closed, blocking off Mabel's old end of the building. Heh, heh. I said, "Mabel's old end!" This was a curious situation, since only one teacher had left for the day, the rest of us remaining captive until the official staff dismissal time.
I made my way to the teacher workroom to visit the little teacher's room. By the time I came out, the double doors down at my end were closed. A young 'un belonging to a teacher down there could not get back to her mom. "Help me! Can somebody help me get through?" Mrs. Not-A-Cook backtracked to assist, but just then a student burst through from the push-bar side and let the little gal pass.
The Pony was waiting for me with the bill of highway robbery for his class ring. I sat down to finish my work for the day. I needed to type up a page of study material for my kids to review for their final next Tuesday. Many want to have it over the weekend. Okay. Maybe not MANY, but the ones who started crying during their EOC test for another subject sure want it. I finished typing, drew on the pH scale by hand, and told The Pony, "I'll be right back. I'm going to make my copies so they're ready to hand out first hour. Then we'll go."
The hall was eerie, all locked up with me in the middle. I pranced the lighthearted gait of a teacher after school down the mid-hall to the teacher workroom. Uh oh. The door was closed. That doesn't happen very often. I tried it. Locked up tighter than Mabel's metal cabinet full of rulers, scissors, and giant glue sticks that she told me would be there if I ever needed them. It was scarcely an hour after final bell. What if I had needed to wash my hair in the sink of the women's faculty bathroom? What if I was feeling a bit...indisposed? Was I supposed to go in the student restroom? The one with no door except a concrete block maze? Sure, there are stalls inside. But there are also students. I prefer the twain never to meet.
Now I have to make my copies before school tomorrow. When procrastinators are lined up at the Kyoceras while lazier procrastinators are shooting commands to print from their computers. That's not the way it's supposed to be.
Something needs to be done. I'm going to ask for an intervention. There need to be limits on the cleanliness of Newmentia. I'm so riled up that I could just poop.
And drop it on the floor of the hall after 2:00 p.m.
Thursday, May 8, 2014
Wednesday, May 7, 2014
All In The Line Of Duty
Sometimes a wall of irony slaps you in the face. I think. A wall of something. I'm still not clear on that irony thing.
A student came to the desk of Mrs. Hillbilly Mom this week, seeking medical advice. Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is not a doctor. Nor does she play one on TV. But she has years and years of ER viewing experience under her many-notched belt.
"Mrs. Hillbilly Mom, don't take this wrong...but can you tell me what this might be?" She exposed her inner thigh area, where a slightly-raised, slightly-pink welt was evident.
"Well, I don't know. Could it be poison ivy? Poison oak? Does it itch?"
"It itches. But I'm not allowed to go outside because I'm allergic. So it can't be poison ivy."
"Do you have a dog? A pet? Does it go outside? Maybe it rubbed against poison ivy, and you petted it, and got the oil on your hand, and then touched your leg."
"No. I don't think so."
"Is it a bite? Did something bite you? See that little speck there that's redder? Maybe that's a bite, and your skin is reacting. The histamines go to the bite to fight the toxin, and that causes swelling and itching. That's what ANTIhistamines are for. To stop that reaction."
"I see that little speck. But I don't remember anything biting me."
"Well...maybe you should check with the nurse when she gets here."
"Okay. I just thought you might know."
As she walked away, I swatted at a gnat that had suddenly appeared on my desk. It jumped. So unlike a gnat. But so like a flea. I trapped it with a Post-It note. It had a hard shell. Like a flea. It took a lot of force to smash that thing.
I am itching right now.
A student came to the desk of Mrs. Hillbilly Mom this week, seeking medical advice. Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is not a doctor. Nor does she play one on TV. But she has years and years of ER viewing experience under her many-notched belt.
"Mrs. Hillbilly Mom, don't take this wrong...but can you tell me what this might be?" She exposed her inner thigh area, where a slightly-raised, slightly-pink welt was evident.
"Well, I don't know. Could it be poison ivy? Poison oak? Does it itch?"
"It itches. But I'm not allowed to go outside because I'm allergic. So it can't be poison ivy."
"Do you have a dog? A pet? Does it go outside? Maybe it rubbed against poison ivy, and you petted it, and got the oil on your hand, and then touched your leg."
"No. I don't think so."
"Is it a bite? Did something bite you? See that little speck there that's redder? Maybe that's a bite, and your skin is reacting. The histamines go to the bite to fight the toxin, and that causes swelling and itching. That's what ANTIhistamines are for. To stop that reaction."
"I see that little speck. But I don't remember anything biting me."
"Well...maybe you should check with the nurse when she gets here."
"Okay. I just thought you might know."
As she walked away, I swatted at a gnat that had suddenly appeared on my desk. It jumped. So unlike a gnat. But so like a flea. I trapped it with a Post-It note. It had a hard shell. Like a flea. It took a lot of force to smash that thing.
I am itching right now.
Tuesday, May 6, 2014
A Dastardly Deed Soils The Hallowed Halls Of Hillmomba
Mrs. Hillbilly Mom has always championed the Hillmomba School District. From Elementia to Basementia to the hallowed halls of Newmentia, she has sung the praises they so richly deserve. Have they not made geniuses of Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's spawn? Even though the Hillbilly family resides and pays taxes in a larger school district, Mrs. Hillbilly Mom has faithfully lugged her young 'uns to be schooled in the Hillmomba district, where she is employed. She believes in their mission. In their quest. In the methods they utilize to achieve their goals. They are a school of distinction, you know.
These days you can't turn on the news, peruse the internet, or pick up a paper without hearing about problems facing the schools of today. Shootings, stabbings, poisonings, assaults, bullying, stealing, cheating, back-talking, biting Pop Tarts into the shape of a gun...educational institutions are rife with shocking incidents of rule-breakage. The Hillmomba district, specifically Newmentia, has been spared the problems of today's teenage society. Newmentia kids follow rules. Treat their fellow students with respect. Turn in homework. Defer to teachers. Absorb information (though sometimes reluctantly) that will enable them to graduate. To make their way in the world.
Cue that skipped needle on a vinyl LP on a retro record-player.
Newmentia houses a ne'er-do-well. There. I said it. The sky has clouded over so that the rainbows are invisible, and the unicorns are heading for the hills.
The incident is virtually indescribable. But I shall try.
Last week, a most hideous occurrence rocked Newmentia to its very core. Students are still talking about it. The subject matter is not for the weak of heart, nor the queasy of stomach. Read ahead at your own risk. Don't go suing me for causing you suffering, or I'll give you something to suffer about.
My plan time is 2nd hour. I work in my room. I make my rounds to the copier and mailbox and faculty women's restroom. Sometimes I pop into the office for verification of instructions, or counselor's office with a hope of gaining better student understanding, or preventing problems before they occur. To get to these places, I must walk past a storage room, the boys' bathroom, the drinking fountain, the janitors' closet, the girls' bathroom, the teacher workroom, the athletic director's office, the nurse's office, and a giant trophy case. I must walk by them in reverse order on my way back.
On Friday, I returned to my room around 9:30 a.m. I graded some makeup work. Got my lesson ready for the next class period. Chewed some sugar-free gum. Checked my cell phone for texts from my best old ex-teaching buddy Mabel. Then time was up. The bell rang, and I stepped out into the hall to monitor traffic. As I glanced to the right, I saw a wad of something on the hallway floor in front of the drinking fountain. Huh. Kids can be such animals. It looked like a wad of spent chew. Shame. The morning custodian had just been there, cleaning our end, her closet door propped open for easy access to her supplies. She was not going to be happy about this.
Little did I know...she was REALLY, REALLY not going to be happy about this.
Kids were coming down the hall toward me. I spied an older ginger fellow, on the Smartypants team with The Pony. "Hey, Ginger, what's that on the floor?" I did not have my glasses on. I could not quite be sure. It looked like chew to me, which meant I was not going to scoop it up like it was a paperwad and dispose of it. Mrs. Hillbilly Mom does not do spit.
Ginger glanced at it as he went by. "It's a turd." He turned to look again. "Yep. It's definitely a turd. That's a turd." The mob kept moving. A girl on Ginger's right. protected from the offending object like a lady on the inner side away from the street during a Middle Ages jaunt, rolled her eyes and said, "Oh, no. Not again."
WHAT? What was THAT supposed to mean? NOT AGAIN?
I was flabberghasted. A staffer came walking toward me from the other direction. "Did you see the custodian? One of you go tell her we need a clean up." She stopped at my door. "This is not the first time. We have had this problem already down at the other hall. We can't catch them."
"What do you mean, you can't catch them? There are cameras all over this building! It happened between 9:30 and 10:00! Go review the tapes! At least you can see what direction they came from. And their feet. You can ask teachers who was out of class during 2nd hour. It shouldn't be hard to catch the depositor."
At this writing, The Defecator remains at large.
These days you can't turn on the news, peruse the internet, or pick up a paper without hearing about problems facing the schools of today. Shootings, stabbings, poisonings, assaults, bullying, stealing, cheating, back-talking, biting Pop Tarts into the shape of a gun...educational institutions are rife with shocking incidents of rule-breakage. The Hillmomba district, specifically Newmentia, has been spared the problems of today's teenage society. Newmentia kids follow rules. Treat their fellow students with respect. Turn in homework. Defer to teachers. Absorb information (though sometimes reluctantly) that will enable them to graduate. To make their way in the world.
Cue that skipped needle on a vinyl LP on a retro record-player.
Newmentia houses a ne'er-do-well. There. I said it. The sky has clouded over so that the rainbows are invisible, and the unicorns are heading for the hills.
The incident is virtually indescribable. But I shall try.
Last week, a most hideous occurrence rocked Newmentia to its very core. Students are still talking about it. The subject matter is not for the weak of heart, nor the queasy of stomach. Read ahead at your own risk. Don't go suing me for causing you suffering, or I'll give you something to suffer about.
My plan time is 2nd hour. I work in my room. I make my rounds to the copier and mailbox and faculty women's restroom. Sometimes I pop into the office for verification of instructions, or counselor's office with a hope of gaining better student understanding, or preventing problems before they occur. To get to these places, I must walk past a storage room, the boys' bathroom, the drinking fountain, the janitors' closet, the girls' bathroom, the teacher workroom, the athletic director's office, the nurse's office, and a giant trophy case. I must walk by them in reverse order on my way back.
On Friday, I returned to my room around 9:30 a.m. I graded some makeup work. Got my lesson ready for the next class period. Chewed some sugar-free gum. Checked my cell phone for texts from my best old ex-teaching buddy Mabel. Then time was up. The bell rang, and I stepped out into the hall to monitor traffic. As I glanced to the right, I saw a wad of something on the hallway floor in front of the drinking fountain. Huh. Kids can be such animals. It looked like a wad of spent chew. Shame. The morning custodian had just been there, cleaning our end, her closet door propped open for easy access to her supplies. She was not going to be happy about this.
Little did I know...she was REALLY, REALLY not going to be happy about this.
Kids were coming down the hall toward me. I spied an older ginger fellow, on the Smartypants team with The Pony. "Hey, Ginger, what's that on the floor?" I did not have my glasses on. I could not quite be sure. It looked like chew to me, which meant I was not going to scoop it up like it was a paperwad and dispose of it. Mrs. Hillbilly Mom does not do spit.
Ginger glanced at it as he went by. "It's a turd." He turned to look again. "Yep. It's definitely a turd. That's a turd." The mob kept moving. A girl on Ginger's right. protected from the offending object like a lady on the inner side away from the street during a Middle Ages jaunt, rolled her eyes and said, "Oh, no. Not again."
WHAT? What was THAT supposed to mean? NOT AGAIN?
I was flabberghasted. A staffer came walking toward me from the other direction. "Did you see the custodian? One of you go tell her we need a clean up." She stopped at my door. "This is not the first time. We have had this problem already down at the other hall. We can't catch them."
"What do you mean, you can't catch them? There are cameras all over this building! It happened between 9:30 and 10:00! Go review the tapes! At least you can see what direction they came from. And their feet. You can ask teachers who was out of class during 2nd hour. It shouldn't be hard to catch the depositor."
At this writing, The Defecator remains at large.
Monday, May 5, 2014
Coincidence, Schmoincidence! This Was Premeditated!
A most curious thing has happened today. I am not quite sure how to go about the telling of this story. It defies all logic in Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's world. For those who would roll their eyes at my "unreasonable" state of pique, such as a certain The Pony Hillbilly, I must thumb my nose. Shout, "I told you so!" Inquire, "Who's crazy now?" I feel like that old hypochondriac who had the following message engraved on his tombstone: "I TOLD you I was sick!"
Yes. Mrs. Hillbilly Mom has been vindicated. Not that it brings her any joy, of course.
Perhaps I have mentioned that my unofficial non-reserved longtime-understood seat at the teacher lunch table has come up TAKEN recently. More that once. More than twice. And that it has only happened since we returned to Newmentia after that glorious spate of 21 snow days. In fact, it happened pretty much during the month of April. Lately, the usurper has taken to stealing other lunch table seats from other lunch table eaters. I thought, perhaps, someone had mentioned that I did not cotton to the theft of my seat.
At the beginning of the year, I had scoffed at one luncher's theory that THE ENTITY (yes, we're not even justifying that revolving butt with a fake name today) was stealing chairs out of spite. On purpose. To push buttons. Today, I declare that luncher to be a criminal profiler worthy of a promotion.
This being First Monday, the Newmentia staff convened in the library after school for our last regularly-scheduled faculty meeting of the year. I grabbed two pieces of printer paper, a blue Pilot Precise V5 Roller Ball Pen, and headed down the hall to be enlightened. As I entered her sanctuary, the book-keeper asked me to save her a seat. My best old ex-teaching buddy Mabel used to make sure we all had seats at our little table. Even if she could not be there, she designated a saver. So we had our table of four, and an occasional guest. With Mabel out of the picture, we are a table of three, plus the book-keeper. She's fine, as long as she doesn't bring that keg-sized bubba cup to obscure our view.
So it was with a feeling of belonging, a sense of community, that I rounded the check-out counter and headed for my table. I knew that most likely, Sweet Alabama Beige (she who has feral cats and serves them ice water all summer) would have my chair waiting. And then I got a full view of my table, and panicked.
THE ENTITY WAS IN MY SEAT!
"Are you kidding me?" I asked my discombobulated brain and galloping heart. THE ENTITY has never once sat at our table. THE ENTITY sits at a table 90 degrees or at one 180 degrees from our table. Yes. I sit with the Mathies. I am an honorary Mathie. The book-keeper is not, but says (on the down-low) that she has security clearance with a government agency. So she must be pretty smart. Or a really, really good liar. THE ENTITY, however, is not a Mathie, and as not such, must glom onto an elective table. We have our pecking order, you know.
Can you believe it? THE ENTITY chose MY seat out of the 40 chairs in that room. Even though Sweet Alabama Beige had saved it with a broken mechanical pencil she found on the floor. THE ENTITY has a lot of gumption. I hate gumption.
I am almost afraid to go to work tomorrow, lest I find THE ENTITY sitting behind my desk.
Yes. Mrs. Hillbilly Mom has been vindicated. Not that it brings her any joy, of course.
Perhaps I have mentioned that my unofficial non-reserved longtime-understood seat at the teacher lunch table has come up TAKEN recently. More that once. More than twice. And that it has only happened since we returned to Newmentia after that glorious spate of 21 snow days. In fact, it happened pretty much during the month of April. Lately, the usurper has taken to stealing other lunch table seats from other lunch table eaters. I thought, perhaps, someone had mentioned that I did not cotton to the theft of my seat.
At the beginning of the year, I had scoffed at one luncher's theory that THE ENTITY (yes, we're not even justifying that revolving butt with a fake name today) was stealing chairs out of spite. On purpose. To push buttons. Today, I declare that luncher to be a criminal profiler worthy of a promotion.
This being First Monday, the Newmentia staff convened in the library after school for our last regularly-scheduled faculty meeting of the year. I grabbed two pieces of printer paper, a blue Pilot Precise V5 Roller Ball Pen, and headed down the hall to be enlightened. As I entered her sanctuary, the book-keeper asked me to save her a seat. My best old ex-teaching buddy Mabel used to make sure we all had seats at our little table. Even if she could not be there, she designated a saver. So we had our table of four, and an occasional guest. With Mabel out of the picture, we are a table of three, plus the book-keeper. She's fine, as long as she doesn't bring that keg-sized bubba cup to obscure our view.
So it was with a feeling of belonging, a sense of community, that I rounded the check-out counter and headed for my table. I knew that most likely, Sweet Alabama Beige (she who has feral cats and serves them ice water all summer) would have my chair waiting. And then I got a full view of my table, and panicked.
THE ENTITY WAS IN MY SEAT!
"Are you kidding me?" I asked my discombobulated brain and galloping heart. THE ENTITY has never once sat at our table. THE ENTITY sits at a table 90 degrees or at one 180 degrees from our table. Yes. I sit with the Mathies. I am an honorary Mathie. The book-keeper is not, but says (on the down-low) that she has security clearance with a government agency. So she must be pretty smart. Or a really, really good liar. THE ENTITY, however, is not a Mathie, and as not such, must glom onto an elective table. We have our pecking order, you know.
Can you believe it? THE ENTITY chose MY seat out of the 40 chairs in that room. Even though Sweet Alabama Beige had saved it with a broken mechanical pencil she found on the floor. THE ENTITY has a lot of gumption. I hate gumption.
I am almost afraid to go to work tomorrow, lest I find THE ENTITY sitting behind my desk.
Sunday, May 4, 2014
That's A Lot Of Trouble For A Sandwich
Handbaskets! Get your handbaskets here! Handbaskets! Handbaskets!
I rushed right home from town this noon, to set the wheels in motion for a renewed effort to get my proposed handbasket factory up and running. The end is surely near. Computers have taken over Hillmomba!
The Pony and I stopped by Subway to pick up some lunch. We were between waves of the after-church crowd. Only two people were ahead of us, a matronly woman and an old man in overalls who talked to the counter girls like he hadn't spoken to anybody for a month. They were polite and patient with him. Food construction went on without a glitch.
I noticed the Matron step off to the side. The register lady told her, "It may take a few minutes. I'll have to work on it." I thought nothing of it. Maybe she had a special order. We watched The Pony's mini cheese pizza get baked. Farmer H's cold-cut trio was slapped together. My tuna salad was dipped and plopped. The old overall man winked at the girls and thanked them, then tromped past us in his brogans, swinging his sandwich in the plastic bag. We moved along the counter for veggie-adding. The Pony asked for two cookies. And then all not-heaven broke loose.
Our food sat on the counter in front of us, by the register, marinating in a plastic bag. The pizza was getting cold, the sandwiches were getting hot, and the cookies were looking over their shoulder in fear of that just-right freak, Goldilocks. Register Lady kept poking the machine. She asked for a password. She asked what Matron had ordered. I was next in line. Ready to pay. My wad of bills already in hand. Behind me, customers were piling up like the marching band in the alley during the homecoming parade in Animal House.
"I hate computers. It's not working. What should I do? I DID try to reboot. Ma'am, it's still working on it." She looked at me. "If this comes up, I'll have to do hers first." I backed up. Made The Pony step away from the counter. Matron stood her ground over by the windows. A line of bagged food stretched out behind ours. The second wave of church-goers flooded in. There must have been six customers behind us. That's a lot for the Hillmomba Subway.
A calculator sat beside the register. I wanted SO badly to say, "Just give me that calculator and tell me the prices. I'll add it up and figure the tax." But I did not. Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is all about proper decorum when out in public. I made do with a heavy sigh. I turned to The Pony. "I hope you enjoy cold pizza." By this time, we had been at an impasse for ten minutes.
The Register Lady kept poking the computer. She turned to the two sandwich-makers. "What should I do?" Thank goodness, a recent Newmentia graduate was in charge.
"Ma'am? You can just take yours. It's okay." Matron stepped up for her food and her credit/debit/plastic card.
"Are you paying cash?" Register Lady was ready to get this show on the road. If I was a thinking woman, or, perhaps, a cheat, I would have lied that I only had plastic. Free food, you know. But I was honest. I flipped my wad as proof. Register Lady panicked. "But how do I get the drawer open for change?"
"You push the button to open the drawer." Thank the Gummi Mary our Newmentia grad had it covered. The computer had nothing to do with the register itself, only with the card-verification.
Twenty-year-old Newmentia grads rule Hillmomba.
I rushed right home from town this noon, to set the wheels in motion for a renewed effort to get my proposed handbasket factory up and running. The end is surely near. Computers have taken over Hillmomba!
The Pony and I stopped by Subway to pick up some lunch. We were between waves of the after-church crowd. Only two people were ahead of us, a matronly woman and an old man in overalls who talked to the counter girls like he hadn't spoken to anybody for a month. They were polite and patient with him. Food construction went on without a glitch.
I noticed the Matron step off to the side. The register lady told her, "It may take a few minutes. I'll have to work on it." I thought nothing of it. Maybe she had a special order. We watched The Pony's mini cheese pizza get baked. Farmer H's cold-cut trio was slapped together. My tuna salad was dipped and plopped. The old overall man winked at the girls and thanked them, then tromped past us in his brogans, swinging his sandwich in the plastic bag. We moved along the counter for veggie-adding. The Pony asked for two cookies. And then all not-heaven broke loose.
Our food sat on the counter in front of us, by the register, marinating in a plastic bag. The pizza was getting cold, the sandwiches were getting hot, and the cookies were looking over their shoulder in fear of that just-right freak, Goldilocks. Register Lady kept poking the machine. She asked for a password. She asked what Matron had ordered. I was next in line. Ready to pay. My wad of bills already in hand. Behind me, customers were piling up like the marching band in the alley during the homecoming parade in Animal House.
"I hate computers. It's not working. What should I do? I DID try to reboot. Ma'am, it's still working on it." She looked at me. "If this comes up, I'll have to do hers first." I backed up. Made The Pony step away from the counter. Matron stood her ground over by the windows. A line of bagged food stretched out behind ours. The second wave of church-goers flooded in. There must have been six customers behind us. That's a lot for the Hillmomba Subway.
A calculator sat beside the register. I wanted SO badly to say, "Just give me that calculator and tell me the prices. I'll add it up and figure the tax." But I did not. Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is all about proper decorum when out in public. I made do with a heavy sigh. I turned to The Pony. "I hope you enjoy cold pizza." By this time, we had been at an impasse for ten minutes.
The Register Lady kept poking the computer. She turned to the two sandwich-makers. "What should I do?" Thank goodness, a recent Newmentia graduate was in charge.
"Ma'am? You can just take yours. It's okay." Matron stepped up for her food and her credit/debit/plastic card.
"Are you paying cash?" Register Lady was ready to get this show on the road. If I was a thinking woman, or, perhaps, a cheat, I would have lied that I only had plastic. Free food, you know. But I was honest. I flipped my wad as proof. Register Lady panicked. "But how do I get the drawer open for change?"
"You push the button to open the drawer." Thank the Gummi Mary our Newmentia grad had it covered. The computer had nothing to do with the register itself, only with the card-verification.
Twenty-year-old Newmentia grads rule Hillmomba.
Saturday, May 3, 2014
I've Been Through The Yard Beside A Pony With No Name
On the first part of the journey
I was looking at a lack of life
There were no plants or birds, just rocks and things
Female goats living like kings
The first thing I met was a goat with curved horns
And her pupils were square
My mini pony stared accusingly
Because his pen was bare.
I've been through the yard beside a pony with no name
He felt good to be out of the pen
In Hillmomba, you can't remember your name
'Cause there ain't no one who cares to give you no name.
Laa. Laa. La, la, la, laaa...
I made the mistake of asking Farmer H what we're going to name the new minipony. You'll never guess what he said! Or maybe you will, having read enough about Farmer H to float a battleship.
"He has a name."
"WHAT? He HAS a name? You didn't tell me he has a name! What is it?"
"I forget."
"How can you do that?"
"Well, the guy told me his name, but I don't remember it. As we were walking him across the yard to the pen, he told me his name. I just call him Red."
Seriously. You trade two goats for a splendid little minipony, and you can't even remember his name? I don't think Farmer H knows which side his bread is buttered on.
I was looking at a lack of life
There were no plants or birds, just rocks and things
Female goats living like kings
The first thing I met was a goat with curved horns
And her pupils were square
My mini pony stared accusingly
Because his pen was bare.
I've been through the yard beside a pony with no name
He felt good to be out of the pen
In Hillmomba, you can't remember your name
'Cause there ain't no one who cares to give you no name.
Laa. Laa. La, la, la, laaa...
I made the mistake of asking Farmer H what we're going to name the new minipony. You'll never guess what he said! Or maybe you will, having read enough about Farmer H to float a battleship.
"He has a name."
"WHAT? He HAS a name? You didn't tell me he has a name! What is it?"
"I forget."
"How can you do that?"
"Well, the guy told me his name, but I don't remember it. As we were walking him across the yard to the pen, he told me his name. I just call him Red."
Seriously. You trade two goats for a splendid little minipony, and you can't even remember his name? I don't think Farmer H knows which side his bread is buttered on.
Friday, May 2, 2014
Crisis Smudgily Averted
All was not well in the dark basement lair this evening. Mrs. Hillbilly Mom, in her constant struggle to see the writing of y'all on her ill-placed monitor, overbalanced herself.
I can't move the monitor up to my nose, because the keyboard is in the way. I can't move the monitor back towards the corner of my built-in countertop desk, because my arms aren't long enough to wipe away smudges left by the death throes of an occasional gnat, attracted to the light like a moth to a flame. So I vacillate in the wearing of my old bifocals. I know trifocals are in order. But I already throw my neck out adjusting the elevation of my eyeballs between bifocal and distance lens.
So there I was, having a moment of clarity, pushed back from the keyboard a bit, glasses on top of my head. When words became blurry, I tilted my head back a bit. Have you ever tried that? Without your glasses, you can sometimes see clearer from an angle. Gravity is not my friend. Nor is it on good terms with my head-perched old bifocals. I felt the calamity evolving before the clank, tinkle, skitter.
"PONY! I've broken my glasses! Come turn on the light."
"I think you've done this before. And they don't break. The lens pops out. Aha! Um." He laid the frames on my countertop. "I think maybe this time you've lost BOTH lenses!" He poked his fingers through both wire holes to make a point.
"Great. Watch where you step. They're somewhere right behind me. I heard them bounce. I made sure not to roll my chair back."
"Well, here's ONE." He set it down on a paper towel folded on the counter.
"Thanks for picking the absolute greasiest surface available to lay that lens on."
"Heh, heh. You have to push them in anyway. Then you can clean them."
"Yes. But these tissues have lotion in them."
"Here. Here's a napkin in this pile of stuff."
"Thanks." I tried to put the left lens back in. "It's not going. The right one always pops right back."
"Here. I found the left one. Want me to try?"
"I've got it." The rigth one popped in like a charm. The left...not so much. "Go ahead. But don't break the frame!"
"Hm. This one doesn't want to go. I can get this side, but not the nose part."
"Here. I'll hold them against my heater. Then the frames will expand a little. GREAT! Could you possibly have smudged this lens any MORE?"
"I don't think so. Use the napkin." Off he went, leaving me with an opaque left lens. I finally got it to hold, though it's sure to pop out on the next floor collision. The napkin polished it a bit. It's going to take some grime-cutter to get the grease off, because The Pony came a-runnin' after eating sweet-and-sour chicken by dipping the batter-fried nuggets into the sauce.
I need an old-lady chain on these spectacles. I will wear it in FRONT of my neck while I perch the glasses on my head. No more reconstructive surgery for my specs.
I can't move the monitor up to my nose, because the keyboard is in the way. I can't move the monitor back towards the corner of my built-in countertop desk, because my arms aren't long enough to wipe away smudges left by the death throes of an occasional gnat, attracted to the light like a moth to a flame. So I vacillate in the wearing of my old bifocals. I know trifocals are in order. But I already throw my neck out adjusting the elevation of my eyeballs between bifocal and distance lens.
So there I was, having a moment of clarity, pushed back from the keyboard a bit, glasses on top of my head. When words became blurry, I tilted my head back a bit. Have you ever tried that? Without your glasses, you can sometimes see clearer from an angle. Gravity is not my friend. Nor is it on good terms with my head-perched old bifocals. I felt the calamity evolving before the clank, tinkle, skitter.
"PONY! I've broken my glasses! Come turn on the light."
"I think you've done this before. And they don't break. The lens pops out. Aha! Um." He laid the frames on my countertop. "I think maybe this time you've lost BOTH lenses!" He poked his fingers through both wire holes to make a point.
"Great. Watch where you step. They're somewhere right behind me. I heard them bounce. I made sure not to roll my chair back."
"Well, here's ONE." He set it down on a paper towel folded on the counter.
"Thanks for picking the absolute greasiest surface available to lay that lens on."
"Heh, heh. You have to push them in anyway. Then you can clean them."
"Yes. But these tissues have lotion in them."
"Here. Here's a napkin in this pile of stuff."
"Thanks." I tried to put the left lens back in. "It's not going. The right one always pops right back."
"Here. I found the left one. Want me to try?"
"I've got it." The rigth one popped in like a charm. The left...not so much. "Go ahead. But don't break the frame!"
"Hm. This one doesn't want to go. I can get this side, but not the nose part."
"Here. I'll hold them against my heater. Then the frames will expand a little. GREAT! Could you possibly have smudged this lens any MORE?"
"I don't think so. Use the napkin." Off he went, leaving me with an opaque left lens. I finally got it to hold, though it's sure to pop out on the next floor collision. The napkin polished it a bit. It's going to take some grime-cutter to get the grease off, because The Pony came a-runnin' after eating sweet-and-sour chicken by dipping the batter-fried nuggets into the sauce.
I need an old-lady chain on these spectacles. I will wear it in FRONT of my neck while I perch the glasses on my head. No more reconstructive surgery for my specs.
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