The #1 son informed me this afternoon that he won the VFW Voice of America Audio Essay Contest for Newmentia. While I would like to think that his excitement was the result of reaping a reward for a job well done...I'm more inclined to suspect that the prize money of $100 had more to do with his elation.
KUDOS, #1, on your succinct, heartfelt speech on "Is There Pride in Serving in Our Military?"
That boy can turn a phrase, and project it with conviction. He has placed in this contest the past two years, but this is his first win.
In the equal time department, The Pony received straight 'A's on his report cart. Not 'A-'s, mind you. Straight 'A's. Unfortunately, the Absentminded Professor forgot his gym clothes this morning. Adolescence is a harsh, brain-addling taskmistress some days.
Monday, October 31, 2011
Sunday, October 30, 2011
The Pony's Logic
I might have mentioned a time or two that The Pony has his own manner of doing things. Or called him an odd duck. Same difference.
Today I laid out his clothes for our trip to The Devil's Playground. I know he's getting a bit old for me to lay out his clothes. But you haven't seen the garb he adorns himself with if he is the one to choose. When time is of the essence, I play the Mr. French to his Uncle Bill. Every weekend, I lay out his camouflage shorts. He used to wear them to school, but he has other shorts that fit better. I think they look too tight. Every weekend, I ask, "Are those shorts getting too tight?" And The Pony assures me that they are not.
We went down the steps to the garage, taunting the puppy with a pat and a tousle. The Pony looked like he could hardly bend his legs. "Are those shorts too tight?"
"Kinda."
"Why didn't you say so? I ask you every week."
"I already had them on, and I didn't want to change."
When we were halfway through The Devil, I noticed that The Pony had worn his white Adidas slides with the navy blue stripes. The perfect complement to camouflage shorts and an olive green shirt. "Don't make me tell you again. Don't wear those shoes anymore. It's going to be November in two days." I meant for him not to wear them to town. I don't mind for things at home like feeding the puppy or gathering eggs.
At home, The Pony helped me carry in groceries and put them away. I told him to put on another pair of shorts so he could breathe. Then he set about his chore of gathering boxes for burning. That's how we do it here in Hillmomba. No need to clog up the landfill. Mother Nature cleanses herself. The Earth has not been asphyxiated due to lightning burning millions of acres of timber over the history of the world. Normally, he puts smaller boxes into larger boxes. But there's been a shortage of big boxes, so Farmer H tells him to put the boxes in a big black trash bag. Of course Farmer H burns it bag and all, whereas I want to do my part for the environment and bring that bag back to use for trash. Tomato, tomahto, what you gonna do?
I saw the big dogs way out by the road, jumping and biting and generally acting the canine fool. I sent The Pony to see what was up. I thought they might have stolen the puppy's new rubber chicken squeaky toy, or were perhaps in the process of killing a baby mole. The Pony set out to investigate.
With the bag stuffed full of boxes on his back.
I know ponies might be beasts of burden. But not my Pony. He's generally pretty flimsy. A normal child would have set the bag of boxes down on the porch before galloping off an eighth of a mile to check on dog shenanigans. Not The Pony. I also noted that he had ditched the slides and was now sporting shoes AND socks. Poor Pony. He would hobble through life unshod if it were socially acceptable. He came trotting back, black bag jouncing on his spine. "They were just playing. Not killing anything. I'm taking these boxes over to the barn now."
The Pony saw nothing odd about carrying that bag of boxes like Santa at a pickpocket convention. I suppose he thought I or the puppy might come out on the porch and take the fruits of his labor.
Today I laid out his clothes for our trip to The Devil's Playground. I know he's getting a bit old for me to lay out his clothes. But you haven't seen the garb he adorns himself with if he is the one to choose. When time is of the essence, I play the Mr. French to his Uncle Bill. Every weekend, I lay out his camouflage shorts. He used to wear them to school, but he has other shorts that fit better. I think they look too tight. Every weekend, I ask, "Are those shorts getting too tight?" And The Pony assures me that they are not.
We went down the steps to the garage, taunting the puppy with a pat and a tousle. The Pony looked like he could hardly bend his legs. "Are those shorts too tight?"
"Kinda."
"Why didn't you say so? I ask you every week."
"I already had them on, and I didn't want to change."
When we were halfway through The Devil, I noticed that The Pony had worn his white Adidas slides with the navy blue stripes. The perfect complement to camouflage shorts and an olive green shirt. "Don't make me tell you again. Don't wear those shoes anymore. It's going to be November in two days." I meant for him not to wear them to town. I don't mind for things at home like feeding the puppy or gathering eggs.
At home, The Pony helped me carry in groceries and put them away. I told him to put on another pair of shorts so he could breathe. Then he set about his chore of gathering boxes for burning. That's how we do it here in Hillmomba. No need to clog up the landfill. Mother Nature cleanses herself. The Earth has not been asphyxiated due to lightning burning millions of acres of timber over the history of the world. Normally, he puts smaller boxes into larger boxes. But there's been a shortage of big boxes, so Farmer H tells him to put the boxes in a big black trash bag. Of course Farmer H burns it bag and all, whereas I want to do my part for the environment and bring that bag back to use for trash. Tomato, tomahto, what you gonna do?
I saw the big dogs way out by the road, jumping and biting and generally acting the canine fool. I sent The Pony to see what was up. I thought they might have stolen the puppy's new rubber chicken squeaky toy, or were perhaps in the process of killing a baby mole. The Pony set out to investigate.
With the bag stuffed full of boxes on his back.
I know ponies might be beasts of burden. But not my Pony. He's generally pretty flimsy. A normal child would have set the bag of boxes down on the porch before galloping off an eighth of a mile to check on dog shenanigans. Not The Pony. I also noted that he had ditched the slides and was now sporting shoes AND socks. Poor Pony. He would hobble through life unshod if it were socially acceptable. He came trotting back, black bag jouncing on his spine. "They were just playing. Not killing anything. I'm taking these boxes over to the barn now."
The Pony saw nothing odd about carrying that bag of boxes like Santa at a pickpocket convention. I suppose he thought I or the puppy might come out on the porch and take the fruits of his labor.
Saturday, October 29, 2011
A Heinous Act Of Questionable Authenticity
I am feuding with a fall fly. How he gained egress to the Mansion is merely a theory, but I'm betting on The Pony's habit of leaving the kitchen door open when he sets out a plate of food for the puppy. When I chastise him, he comes inside and watches through the slots in the mini-blind built into the door window.
A fall fly is a lumbering, slow-witted pest that evades reasonable attempts to end his life. He does this with luck, not smarts. He waits until I nod off in the recliner to crawl upon my face. When I startle awake, he begins a lazy reconnaissance mission of ever-smaller concentric circles. Then he lands on an arm, or a stack of magazines that lean precariously toward the lamp with a loose bulb. He drifts heavily away when I reach for the murder weapon. And it's there, by cracky! A blue plastic flyswatter with a white wire handle rests upon the lamp table. At the ready.
Tonight, Mr. Fly has invaded my dark basement lair. It's my own fault, really. I turned on the light. Mr. Fly saw that as an invitation. He has swooped my head, landed numerous times on the monitor of New Delly, and danced like double-left-footed team mascot away from the danger that is a rolled-up Woman Within catalog.
Do I go to Mr. Fly's place of business and recreation, and interfere with his livelihood? Do I? Have you seen me gliding in and prancing about a steaming cow patty? I think not.
Okay. The charade is over. The Truth in Blogging Law requires me to inform you that Mr. Fly met his demise shortly after I typed the non-immortal words: "I am feuding with a fall fly. How he gained egress..." at the beginning of this post. But I couldn't stop then. I had the whole concept thought up in my head. To not write it would be a waste of a good five minutes.
Here's how it went down. I was merrily typing away when Mr. Fly appeared on the New Delly landing strip again. I grabbed my Woman Within. He sailed away. Mr. Fly returned to sit upon my keyboard. Ha! I'm not that dumb, to whack my own keyboard. He crawled around. And set out down the wire that leads to the tower.
THWACK!!!
I scooped up the remains in a Puffs with Aloe. A clean one, even. I squeezed it to make sure Mr. Fly had expired. Then I deposited him in a wastebasket lined with a Devil's bag. So simple.
A fall fly is a lumbering, slow-witted pest that evades reasonable attempts to end his life. He does this with luck, not smarts. He waits until I nod off in the recliner to crawl upon my face. When I startle awake, he begins a lazy reconnaissance mission of ever-smaller concentric circles. Then he lands on an arm, or a stack of magazines that lean precariously toward the lamp with a loose bulb. He drifts heavily away when I reach for the murder weapon. And it's there, by cracky! A blue plastic flyswatter with a white wire handle rests upon the lamp table. At the ready.
Tonight, Mr. Fly has invaded my dark basement lair. It's my own fault, really. I turned on the light. Mr. Fly saw that as an invitation. He has swooped my head, landed numerous times on the monitor of New Delly, and danced like double-left-footed team mascot away from the danger that is a rolled-up Woman Within catalog.
Do I go to Mr. Fly's place of business and recreation, and interfere with his livelihood? Do I? Have you seen me gliding in and prancing about a steaming cow patty? I think not.
Okay. The charade is over. The Truth in Blogging Law requires me to inform you that Mr. Fly met his demise shortly after I typed the non-immortal words: "I am feuding with a fall fly. How he gained egress..." at the beginning of this post. But I couldn't stop then. I had the whole concept thought up in my head. To not write it would be a waste of a good five minutes.
Here's how it went down. I was merrily typing away when Mr. Fly appeared on the New Delly landing strip again. I grabbed my Woman Within. He sailed away. Mr. Fly returned to sit upon my keyboard. Ha! I'm not that dumb, to whack my own keyboard. He crawled around. And set out down the wire that leads to the tower.
THWACK!!!
I scooped up the remains in a Puffs with Aloe. A clean one, even. I squeezed it to make sure Mr. Fly had expired. Then I deposited him in a wastebasket lined with a Devil's bag. So simple.
Friday, October 28, 2011
Connie Appleseed
School was out today, because of parent conferences earlier in the week. I started the day with a visit to a convenient care clinic to rid myself of a cold/sinus sickness that has plagued me for almost two weeks. From there, The Pony and I visited the pharmacy, the bank, the savings & loan, Captain D's, the pharmacy again, the gas station chicken place for a soda at half the price of Sonic, the Save A Lot, and back home. Tired yet?
As I was leaving the drive-thru lane after making the Mansion payment, the teller pointed to a wicker basket on her glassed-in counter. "Apple?" I did not hear her at first, and said something clever like WHAT? Then she asked again, "Would you like an apple?" No. I consulted The Pony. Nor did he.
As we pulled away from the window, I caught The Pony's eye in the mirror. "Do I look like the kind of person who would like an apple?"
"No. Not really."
"I didn't think so. Anyway, it's not like it's going to keep the doctor away, heh heh."
"Well. You should have come here first."
That Pony. He's a quick one. But what's with tellers offering apples at the drive-thru? Did my flawless beauty set her off? Am I Mrs. Hillbilly Snow Mom White? Was she trying to poison me so she could be the fairest one of Hillmomba?
Maybe it had something to do with Halloween. Maybe she saw The Pony in the back seat. But she didn't ask if my little Pony wanted an apple. She asked ME.
At least she didn't offer me a dog biscuit.
As I was leaving the drive-thru lane after making the Mansion payment, the teller pointed to a wicker basket on her glassed-in counter. "Apple?" I did not hear her at first, and said something clever like WHAT? Then she asked again, "Would you like an apple?" No. I consulted The Pony. Nor did he.
As we pulled away from the window, I caught The Pony's eye in the mirror. "Do I look like the kind of person who would like an apple?"
"No. Not really."
"I didn't think so. Anyway, it's not like it's going to keep the doctor away, heh heh."
"Well. You should have come here first."
That Pony. He's a quick one. But what's with tellers offering apples at the drive-thru? Did my flawless beauty set her off? Am I Mrs. Hillbilly Snow Mom White? Was she trying to poison me so she could be the fairest one of Hillmomba?
Maybe it had something to do with Halloween. Maybe she saw The Pony in the back seat. But she didn't ask if my little Pony wanted an apple. She asked ME.
At least she didn't offer me a dog biscuit.
Thursday, October 27, 2011
Arachnicide: Life On The Hall
I confess. I committed arachnicide on Tuesday.
I couldn't help it, really. With a scant three minutes left of my plan period, I encountered a spider skittering across the floor by my cabinets. I was on my way to run a last-minute copy. No time to grab a piece of paper and scoop up Spidey and slide him out the window. I don't think I would have tried that with this one, anyway. He was as big as an Eisenhower dollar. Not a Susan B. Anthony dollar. Bigger.
See what I mean? Spidey was all hairy and black. He looked like a hopper. I tried to put the kibosh on his shenanigans with my shoe. That little booger was durable. It took me a good four stomps to get him. It didn't help matters that he made a beeline for my cabinet. If there's one thing I don't want in my cabinet, it's a hairy black hopping spider the size of an Eisenhower dollar. No thank you.
I had to root Spidey out from the cabinet base with the toe of my shoe. That kind of made a crunching sound, and caused Spidey to curl up like a stainless steel colander. I was not inclined to hike across the room for a tissue, and then make the return trip to the wastebasket. So I did what any teacher at the end of her plan period, with parent conferences bringing traffic to her room later in the day would do, and kicked Spidey three short feet out into the hall. But that left Spidey right in front of the door to Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's classroom. So he got the boot for three more feet. Which somehow caused one of his legs to fall off. Not so durable in death, now, are you, Mr. Spidey?
I knew he would get swept up before conferences. We're very careful about things like that. So far, there are no witnesses. My doorway is in a camera dead zone.
Good to know.
I couldn't help it, really. With a scant three minutes left of my plan period, I encountered a spider skittering across the floor by my cabinets. I was on my way to run a last-minute copy. No time to grab a piece of paper and scoop up Spidey and slide him out the window. I don't think I would have tried that with this one, anyway. He was as big as an Eisenhower dollar. Not a Susan B. Anthony dollar. Bigger.
See what I mean? Spidey was all hairy and black. He looked like a hopper. I tried to put the kibosh on his shenanigans with my shoe. That little booger was durable. It took me a good four stomps to get him. It didn't help matters that he made a beeline for my cabinet. If there's one thing I don't want in my cabinet, it's a hairy black hopping spider the size of an Eisenhower dollar. No thank you.I had to root Spidey out from the cabinet base with the toe of my shoe. That kind of made a crunching sound, and caused Spidey to curl up like a stainless steel colander. I was not inclined to hike across the room for a tissue, and then make the return trip to the wastebasket. So I did what any teacher at the end of her plan period, with parent conferences bringing traffic to her room later in the day would do, and kicked Spidey three short feet out into the hall. But that left Spidey right in front of the door to Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's classroom. So he got the boot for three more feet. Which somehow caused one of his legs to fall off. Not so durable in death, now, are you, Mr. Spidey?
I knew he would get swept up before conferences. We're very careful about things like that. So far, there are no witnesses. My doorway is in a camera dead zone.
Good to know.
Wednesday, October 26, 2011
How In Tarnation...
You're not gonna believe this. If I hadn't seen it with my own eyes, I would not have believed it myself.
PILLY IS BACK!
I know. How did he DO that? Pilly is a regular David Copperfield! Except that instead of making the Statue of Liberty disappear, Pilly made himself disappear. And reappear!
This afternoon, The Pony and I left school at 3:45. No need to hang around late today, with five hours of parent conferences slated for Thursday. I can catch up on my work between parents. We hopped into T-Hoe lickety-split, because rain was pelting down hard enough to leave an embarrassing puddle of mud on the parking lot pavement, just under the end of T-Hoe's running board.
I put my school keys in the glasses-holder slot. I put my school bag on the passenger seat. The Pony set my purse from the back floor to the passenger seat. I put the keys in the ignition, reached down for my seatbelt buckle, and saw Pilly laying smack dab in the middle of the top tissue resting in front of the cup holders. The top tissue on the stack of about five tissues that I carefully searched on Monday. And again on Monday afternoon. And a third time on Tuesday morning after I got to school.
I mean SEARCHED. I took that whole stack, laid them on the console, and while holding each one separately over the open slot of the console, hung them vertically by my thumb and forefinger, and shook them one by one! ON THREE SEPARATE DAYS!
How can a pill reappear like that? Something is spooky in T-Hoe.
PILLY IS BACK!
I know. How did he DO that? Pilly is a regular David Copperfield! Except that instead of making the Statue of Liberty disappear, Pilly made himself disappear. And reappear!
This afternoon, The Pony and I left school at 3:45. No need to hang around late today, with five hours of parent conferences slated for Thursday. I can catch up on my work between parents. We hopped into T-Hoe lickety-split, because rain was pelting down hard enough to leave an embarrassing puddle of mud on the parking lot pavement, just under the end of T-Hoe's running board.
I put my school keys in the glasses-holder slot. I put my school bag on the passenger seat. The Pony set my purse from the back floor to the passenger seat. I put the keys in the ignition, reached down for my seatbelt buckle, and saw Pilly laying smack dab in the middle of the top tissue resting in front of the cup holders. The top tissue on the stack of about five tissues that I carefully searched on Monday. And again on Monday afternoon. And a third time on Tuesday morning after I got to school.
I mean SEARCHED. I took that whole stack, laid them on the console, and while holding each one separately over the open slot of the console, hung them vertically by my thumb and forefinger, and shook them one by one! ON THREE SEPARATE DAYS!
How can a pill reappear like that? Something is spooky in T-Hoe.
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
Where's Encyclopedia Brown When You Need Him?
Kids amaze me.
I covered the front window in my classroom with black paper yesterday morning. That's because I'm treating my freshmen to a 2011 Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's Classroom Premiere of Dante's Peak. They just finished a chapter on volcanoes, so we are not stressing during this parent conference week, but instead are wallowing in the fruits of our labors and applying our new-found knowledge to real-life incidents. Or at least fictional real-life incidents.
The Truth in Blogging Law requires that I clarify: I, myself, did not cover the window. It was the work of two students. I think one was pulling my leg. Figuratively, of course. We can't have students pulling teacher's legs willy-nilly here in the land of Missouri public school education. Remember, we're the teachers not trustworthy enough to text kids for educational purposes? Anyhoo...dude kept applying the masking tape to the black paper and black window frame in a wasteful manner. Instead of longways, Dude applied the tape across. So the border, instead of being streamlined stripes, turned out to look like a bunch of stitches. I said their window treatment made it look like Frankenstein's Window. The window-treaters proclaimed that theirs would set a new trend. Yeah. Right.
The next class was fine. Because they never notice anything. It is quite probable that I could walk in from the hall with my hair on fire, and someone would ask, "What time to we get out of here?"
The class after that must understand that short of giving everybody polarized sunglasses, a blacked-out window is the next best way to combat scattered light that makes your projector image wash out. I fielded nary a question.
Oh, but the one after that was all abuzz. "What happened to your window?" At least seven different students asked me that. They were just begging for a Mrs. Hillbilly Mom lecture.
"I don't know what all the fuss is about. You act as if my window has totally disintegrated/fallen out/been stolen/been broken out with marbles fired from a tiny slingshot crossbow. AND THEN covered with black paper. Because black paper will stand in for tempered glass just fine. I'm a regular pioneer, making windows out of greased paper. Not really. I'm being facetious. I'm not old enough to remember paper windows. Let's move on to our movie now."
Could they not calculate:
MOVIE + SUNLIGHT = PALE IMAGE
And then formulate:
BLACK PAPER + WINDOW = NO SUNLIGHT DIMMING THE MOVIE
Today's youth need cheats for surviving in the real world.
I covered the front window in my classroom with black paper yesterday morning. That's because I'm treating my freshmen to a 2011 Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's Classroom Premiere of Dante's Peak. They just finished a chapter on volcanoes, so we are not stressing during this parent conference week, but instead are wallowing in the fruits of our labors and applying our new-found knowledge to real-life incidents. Or at least fictional real-life incidents.
The Truth in Blogging Law requires that I clarify: I, myself, did not cover the window. It was the work of two students. I think one was pulling my leg. Figuratively, of course. We can't have students pulling teacher's legs willy-nilly here in the land of Missouri public school education. Remember, we're the teachers not trustworthy enough to text kids for educational purposes? Anyhoo...dude kept applying the masking tape to the black paper and black window frame in a wasteful manner. Instead of longways, Dude applied the tape across. So the border, instead of being streamlined stripes, turned out to look like a bunch of stitches. I said their window treatment made it look like Frankenstein's Window. The window-treaters proclaimed that theirs would set a new trend. Yeah. Right.
The next class was fine. Because they never notice anything. It is quite probable that I could walk in from the hall with my hair on fire, and someone would ask, "What time to we get out of here?"
The class after that must understand that short of giving everybody polarized sunglasses, a blacked-out window is the next best way to combat scattered light that makes your projector image wash out. I fielded nary a question.
Oh, but the one after that was all abuzz. "What happened to your window?" At least seven different students asked me that. They were just begging for a Mrs. Hillbilly Mom lecture.
"I don't know what all the fuss is about. You act as if my window has totally disintegrated/fallen out/been stolen/been broken out with marbles fired from a tiny slingshot crossbow. AND THEN covered with black paper. Because black paper will stand in for tempered glass just fine. I'm a regular pioneer, making windows out of greased paper. Not really. I'm being facetious. I'm not old enough to remember paper windows. Let's move on to our movie now."
Could they not calculate:
MOVIE + SUNLIGHT = PALE IMAGE
And then formulate:
BLACK PAPER + WINDOW = NO SUNLIGHT DIMMING THE MOVIE
Today's youth need cheats for surviving in the real world.
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