Pardon me. I'm still trying to gather my wits after the trauma of last night. No. I don't mean the tornado that rolled through Hillmomba in the wee hours of the morning. It left the Mansion unscathed. My psyche, though, has taken a direct hit.
Last night, I spent four hours at a (cue the STAB! STAB! STAB! Psycho music) middle school academic meet. It was horrific. It reminded me why I am not a philanthrope, encouraging the best from mankind, but am instead a misanthrope, an avoider of human society.
My mother and I arrived early to stake out a good spot. We settled in shortly before the arrival of the first opponent. We had passed a table of cookie platters and chips and punch, aka crack for the middle school set, ready in the hallway for the first half time. Three matches were scheduled. It would be a long evening for these bottomless little pits. Mom had brought her semi-famous Chex Mix for the coaches and reader and scorekeeper. She gave some to The Pony to bolster his strength for the marathon competition. He sat down with us to munch. I chatted with the coach, a former colleague when I worked the halls of Lower Basementia.
Then FO (first opponent) was upon us. They appeared like a swarm of locusts that had enjoyed an intravenous Mountain Dew drip on the lengthy bus ride. They poured into the small library like the Mighty Mississippi poured into Ste. Genevieve during the big flood of '92. Some sat. Some made a mad dash to the bookshelves and grabbed tomes willy-nilly, flinging caution to the Dewey Decimal System. Some went up to the scorer's table, sat behind it by the control center and questions, and began flipping numbers on the scoreboard. I had never seen such a presumptuous bunch of hooligans wear out their welcome at such a frantic pace. I nearly had palpitations. "Look at them! Look! I can't believe they're doing that! They have no concept of manners!"
Adults began to arrive. Farmer H called at and said he would be there as soon as possible. We had a table for four. The Pony was still munching in one seat. I put my glasses case and my phone in front of the chair right beside me, to save it for Farmer H. And not a moment too soon. A large woman stood just outside the library entrance, in the snack area. She did not come in, but looked piercingly in my direction every few minutes.
The Pony went to his starting position as head of his team. The first game began. The LW made a dash to Farmer H's seat to rival that of the neighbor in the Dunkin Donuts coffee commercial. She started to plop down. "Is this seat taken?"
"Yes. It's for my husband. I don't know when he'll be here. You can have it until then, but I'll need it back."
"Oh." She went back behind us, to the approximately twelve open seats that nobody was saving. Why she wanted Farmer H's, I'll never know.
The room began to fill up with parents and random adults. I felt like Elaine at the movies, but without the tasty Jujyfruits. "Saved. Saved! It's SAVED!" An old man approached. He politely inquired about The Pony's empty seat, which had nothing in front of it, The Pony himself being an ancient memory to that chair, having left it some 20 minutes earlier.
"Excuse me. Is anybody using this seat? I can tell that one is taken."
Bless his pea-pickin' old heart. He should write a primer for society. "No. You're welcome to it." He pulled it over to a nearby table. The next team swept in and all but barricaded the back of the room from the library proper. They were whisper-chatty, but at least left the books where they were shelved.
And then it was half-time. Which I, silly me, assumed was time for the participants to grab some sustenance from the laden table. But you know what happens when we assume. Those gosh-darn adults got up and loaded plates of cookies and chips and brought them in the library to eat. I was shocked. It was kid food! For the players. Not for some community buffet. How rude! My flabbergastedness knew no bounds. My mom's eyes were wide with disbelief. The impropriety! Like the Native American in the public service commercial for littering, I, too, wanted to cry a single Indian tear for the loss of decorum shown by the human race.
As if that disturbing display of gluttonic greed was not enough, in the middle of the next game, a rather rotund man, whom I suspect of emitting those nasty onion belches that wafted over my olfactory receptors, got up and filled another plate with Doritos. Nacho cheese. The sound was likely heard at the four corners of Hillmomba. It's a wonder the players could hear the reader.
There is no excuse for this behavior from adults. And I saw a new crop ready to take their place in a couple of decades.
Wednesday, February 29, 2012
Tuesday, February 28, 2012
Alas, Hillmomba
Hillmomba is rapidly approaching the status of a third-world nation.
On my weekly trip to The Devil's Playground, I searched high and low for Entenmann's donuts. Specifically, the chocolate iced devi'ls food donuts. Can you believe The Devil was out of devil's food donuts? This has happened the last two weeks in a row. The Pony and I are beside ourselves. We have taken to buying lesser Entenmann's. The plain/cinnamon/powdered triumvirate. But the shelves were also bereft of those. Not an Entenmann's to be found. Woe was we.
And to further reinforce my fear, Save A Lot was out of baby wipes. Seriously. There are babies going unwiped in Hillmomba. It's barbaric. I use those baby wipes to clean my white board. Now it's going to be a tie-died-looking board. I asked if they had more, but the lady said they only got one box on the truck, and the next truck won't come in until Thursday. Ain't that a bite in the butt?
Casey's is always out of breadstick dough. So The Pony cannot enjoy his cheesy breadsticks on Thursday night when we get the pizza deal.
The checkout shelves of The Devil are also bare of Grandma's chocolate chip cookies. Plenty of peanut butter ones, though. Which The Pony does not like.
And the grabber machine only had three items half-buried in the black gravel at the bottom of the case.
Something's gotta give. Before you know it, we'll be shopping at outdoor markets with flies crawling all over our unrefrigerated meats. We'll be rolling hoops along a dusty road with sticks as entertainment. Ketchup will be replaced by fish sauce fermented in clay pots buried on the beach. And MP3s will be replaced with bird-beak phonographs.
It's turning into a Flintstone world.
On my weekly trip to The Devil's Playground, I searched high and low for Entenmann's donuts. Specifically, the chocolate iced devi'ls food donuts. Can you believe The Devil was out of devil's food donuts? This has happened the last two weeks in a row. The Pony and I are beside ourselves. We have taken to buying lesser Entenmann's. The plain/cinnamon/powdered triumvirate. But the shelves were also bereft of those. Not an Entenmann's to be found. Woe was we.
And to further reinforce my fear, Save A Lot was out of baby wipes. Seriously. There are babies going unwiped in Hillmomba. It's barbaric. I use those baby wipes to clean my white board. Now it's going to be a tie-died-looking board. I asked if they had more, but the lady said they only got one box on the truck, and the next truck won't come in until Thursday. Ain't that a bite in the butt?
Casey's is always out of breadstick dough. So The Pony cannot enjoy his cheesy breadsticks on Thursday night when we get the pizza deal.
The checkout shelves of The Devil are also bare of Grandma's chocolate chip cookies. Plenty of peanut butter ones, though. Which The Pony does not like.
And the grabber machine only had three items half-buried in the black gravel at the bottom of the case.
Something's gotta give. Before you know it, we'll be shopping at outdoor markets with flies crawling all over our unrefrigerated meats. We'll be rolling hoops along a dusty road with sticks as entertainment. Ketchup will be replaced by fish sauce fermented in clay pots buried on the beach. And MP3s will be replaced with bird-beak phonographs.
It's turning into a Flintstone world.
Monday, February 27, 2012
I've Got To Catch My Breath
The Pony set a blistering pace last week, and he's off to the races again this week. Except last week was only four days. We had the District Spelling Bee, then an academic practice until 5:00 p.m., then a day of nothing, then a Math Team practice until 5:00 on Friday. Which The Pony politely declined to attend, in order to spend the night with his grandma.
This week, he had an academic meet with two schools this evening, home academic meets, each with two other schools, on Tuesday and Thursday, practice Wednesday until 5:00, and Math Team practice until 5:00 on Friday.
The good thing is...this is a sign the school year is proceeding full steam toward the end. Pretty soon we'll have freshman orientation, spring break, school carnival, awards banquets, spring concerts, graduation practice, baccalaureate, real graduation, and then summer.
When the livin' is easy.
This week, he had an academic meet with two schools this evening, home academic meets, each with two other schools, on Tuesday and Thursday, practice Wednesday until 5:00, and Math Team practice until 5:00 on Friday.
The good thing is...this is a sign the school year is proceeding full steam toward the end. Pretty soon we'll have freshman orientation, spring break, school carnival, awards banquets, spring concerts, graduation practice, baccalaureate, real graduation, and then summer.
When the livin' is easy.
Sunday, February 26, 2012
Some Curious Logic
I love my job. I really do. And I'm not ranting about it the past few days. I'm merely giving you a glimpse into my world. Sometimes it's surreal. Take, for instance, a couple of days last week.
At the beginning of the school year, I go over my classroom rules. It's a high-wire stand-up act. I grab their attention and run with it, giving them real-life, ridiculous examples of things that have actually happened in my classroom. As a justification for my rules. We all have a good time. And it sticks with most of them. Because throughout the year, I will overhear one telling another not to do something, because it's on The List.
One of these rules involves personal grooming. I feel it has no place in my classroom. Get yourself ready before you come to school. You don't need to be putting on your mascara, or deodorant, or perfume, or combing your hair, or plucking your eyebrows, or curling your eyelashes. And under no circumstances should you be applying lotion, or wiping your face with medicated acne pads, or clipping your fingernails, etc.
I looked up first hour to see a girl with her bag of make-up tricks spread out on her desk. Sure, she might have just set them out while looking for something at the bottom of her purse. But because ninth-graders will be ninth-graders, one of the boys sitting by her was grabbing at her stuff. Ahem. Her make-up stuff. What kind of a story do you think this is?
I reminded her of my rules. And asked her if I should be able to come into her house when she's getting ready, and stand between her and the mirror, and start teaching science. Again, no personal grooming on my time. She drew herself up, all haughty, like only a ninth-grade (and yes, an eighth-grade) girl can do, and said, "It's ONLY lip balm!"
Like a gave a fat rat's behind what it was, specifically, that she was applying. My point was that it had become a disruption, what with the boy grabbing at it, and me having to stop and comment on it, and then get the lesson back on track. But apparently, in her mind, the application of lip balm in the middle of science class was not considered personal grooming.
The other instance concerned a late paper. I give time in class to finish assignments. I do that so students can ask me questions. No excuses of, "I didn't do it because I didn't understand it." I've been at this more than a couple of years. I know how much time an assignment will take. Two students did not turn in the assignment that day. I put it in the gradebook as a zero, but I will accept it the next day if it is turned in before we go over the answers. Just in case someone legitimately works slower than others.
A boy brought his paper to me mid-way through the class period. He was lucky that we had not gone over the answers that day. I took his paper, but asked why he had not turned it in the day before as I expected. "I didn't get it done."
"Why not? Everybody except two people got it done."
"Well, I didn't get it done."
"Put it on my desk. I'm not sure you were working on it in the time I allowed."
"Don't go blamin' me."
"Who else should I blame? I'm not the one who kept you from finishing it."
Seriously. Who else is to blame here? I'm thinking of pointing the finger at all those folks who believe in the I'm OK/You're OK, Everybody Gets a Trophy world who have coddled these kids since the day they were born, making them think that they don't have to take responsibility for their own actions. It's always somebody else's fault when things don't go as planned.
Yeah. I love my job. But it's February. The Scholastic Doldrums.
At the beginning of the school year, I go over my classroom rules. It's a high-wire stand-up act. I grab their attention and run with it, giving them real-life, ridiculous examples of things that have actually happened in my classroom. As a justification for my rules. We all have a good time. And it sticks with most of them. Because throughout the year, I will overhear one telling another not to do something, because it's on The List.
One of these rules involves personal grooming. I feel it has no place in my classroom. Get yourself ready before you come to school. You don't need to be putting on your mascara, or deodorant, or perfume, or combing your hair, or plucking your eyebrows, or curling your eyelashes. And under no circumstances should you be applying lotion, or wiping your face with medicated acne pads, or clipping your fingernails, etc.
I looked up first hour to see a girl with her bag of make-up tricks spread out on her desk. Sure, she might have just set them out while looking for something at the bottom of her purse. But because ninth-graders will be ninth-graders, one of the boys sitting by her was grabbing at her stuff. Ahem. Her make-up stuff. What kind of a story do you think this is?
I reminded her of my rules. And asked her if I should be able to come into her house when she's getting ready, and stand between her and the mirror, and start teaching science. Again, no personal grooming on my time. She drew herself up, all haughty, like only a ninth-grade (and yes, an eighth-grade) girl can do, and said, "It's ONLY lip balm!"
Like a gave a fat rat's behind what it was, specifically, that she was applying. My point was that it had become a disruption, what with the boy grabbing at it, and me having to stop and comment on it, and then get the lesson back on track. But apparently, in her mind, the application of lip balm in the middle of science class was not considered personal grooming.
The other instance concerned a late paper. I give time in class to finish assignments. I do that so students can ask me questions. No excuses of, "I didn't do it because I didn't understand it." I've been at this more than a couple of years. I know how much time an assignment will take. Two students did not turn in the assignment that day. I put it in the gradebook as a zero, but I will accept it the next day if it is turned in before we go over the answers. Just in case someone legitimately works slower than others.
A boy brought his paper to me mid-way through the class period. He was lucky that we had not gone over the answers that day. I took his paper, but asked why he had not turned it in the day before as I expected. "I didn't get it done."
"Why not? Everybody except two people got it done."
"Well, I didn't get it done."
"Put it on my desk. I'm not sure you were working on it in the time I allowed."
"Don't go blamin' me."
"Who else should I blame? I'm not the one who kept you from finishing it."
Seriously. Who else is to blame here? I'm thinking of pointing the finger at all those folks who believe in the I'm OK/You're OK, Everybody Gets a Trophy world who have coddled these kids since the day they were born, making them think that they don't have to take responsibility for their own actions. It's always somebody else's fault when things don't go as planned.
Yeah. I love my job. But it's February. The Scholastic Doldrums.
Saturday, February 25, 2012
Dreamcrusher
Yes, it's the long-awaited release of Steven Keen's Dreamcrusher! The story of a raggedy band of teachers who tell children the truth, just to watch them cry.
Mr. Know-It-All informs them that Bear Grylls is a phony. He lays that pretty head of his on a pillow in a five-star hotel by night, and is helicoptered to the filming site by day, to act out staged survival skills. Bear Grylls, that is. Not Mr. Know-It-All. He lays his not-pretty head on his desk each night, because everybody knows he lives at school. Man vs. Wild indeed. More like Man-Purses, Mild.
Mrs. Hillbilly Mom inadvertently rubs salt in that wound when she discusses ice caves in glaciers, making a reference to Bear Grylls taking a shortcut through one, and lamenting that the creaking noises represented a dangerous situation, and he wished to get the heck out of Dodge. Or maybe he muttered, "Back to the lodge."
A student firmly plants her hands over her ears in a Hear No Evil gesture, and says, "Do you HAVE to go there? Because just yesterday, Mr. Know-It-All told us Man vs. Wild is fake! And he says WRESTLING is fake, too!
Mrs. Hillbilly Mom responds without thinking. "Oh, wrestling. I've always known that was fake. Even as a kid. But I still liked to watch it. Did you know the wrestlers tape pieces of razor blade to their fingers, and cut themselves across the forehead? It's real blood, but it's fake, see, because they do it to make themselves to look injured."
Feeling kind of bad after seeing the shock on the kids' faces, Mrs. Hillbilly Mom tries to make amends. "Don't tell me you don't know that pickles come from cucumbers, alright? Because one year, I told that to the class, and a girl refused to eat pickles ever again. She thought they grew in the garden."
Mrs. Hillbilly Mom has a flashback to the year she dissected chicken wings with her eighth grade class. The chicken wing is a classic example of the human bicep/forearm structure. You can stick a probe in there and pull on a ligament, and that chicken wing will flex for you. Somehow, the kids are not impressed. In fact, one of them is heard to retch and say, "I'll never eat chicken again!"
Dreamcrusher. Get your copy now, wherever parody books are sold.
*Disclaimer: Steven Keen may or may not be the pen name of anonymous blogger Hillbilly Mom.
Mr. Know-It-All informs them that Bear Grylls is a phony. He lays that pretty head of his on a pillow in a five-star hotel by night, and is helicoptered to the filming site by day, to act out staged survival skills. Bear Grylls, that is. Not Mr. Know-It-All. He lays his not-pretty head on his desk each night, because everybody knows he lives at school. Man vs. Wild indeed. More like Man-Purses, Mild.
Mrs. Hillbilly Mom inadvertently rubs salt in that wound when she discusses ice caves in glaciers, making a reference to Bear Grylls taking a shortcut through one, and lamenting that the creaking noises represented a dangerous situation, and he wished to get the heck out of Dodge. Or maybe he muttered, "Back to the lodge."
A student firmly plants her hands over her ears in a Hear No Evil gesture, and says, "Do you HAVE to go there? Because just yesterday, Mr. Know-It-All told us Man vs. Wild is fake! And he says WRESTLING is fake, too!
Mrs. Hillbilly Mom responds without thinking. "Oh, wrestling. I've always known that was fake. Even as a kid. But I still liked to watch it. Did you know the wrestlers tape pieces of razor blade to their fingers, and cut themselves across the forehead? It's real blood, but it's fake, see, because they do it to make themselves to look injured."
Feeling kind of bad after seeing the shock on the kids' faces, Mrs. Hillbilly Mom tries to make amends. "Don't tell me you don't know that pickles come from cucumbers, alright? Because one year, I told that to the class, and a girl refused to eat pickles ever again. She thought they grew in the garden."
Mrs. Hillbilly Mom has a flashback to the year she dissected chicken wings with her eighth grade class. The chicken wing is a classic example of the human bicep/forearm structure. You can stick a probe in there and pull on a ligament, and that chicken wing will flex for you. Somehow, the kids are not impressed. In fact, one of them is heard to retch and say, "I'll never eat chicken again!"
Dreamcrusher. Get your copy now, wherever parody books are sold.
*Disclaimer: Steven Keen may or may not be the pen name of anonymous blogger Hillbilly Mom.
Friday, February 24, 2012
The Pity Of Motherly Love
This morning, I arose at 4:50 and set about making The Pony's school lunch. Then I made myself a sandwich, because yesterday I ate the school lunch and seemed to have contracted a case of ptomaine poisoning by afternoon. Since the #1 son does not like school lunch on Fridays, I made him a sandwich.
Actually, I made him TWO sandwiches. Not counting the first one, because the white bread had just a single spot of mold on it. Which may have made #1 call me to see if it was still okay to eat, but I know better. So I used some wheat bread to make him a bologna sandwich. There were only two slices left, so I put them both on. Then I couldn't find the yellow mustard, so I squeezed on a few lines of spicy brown mustard. Fearing that he may not like that mustard, I made him an alternate sandwich. A Hawaiian bun with processed ham. You know, the stuff that's not really ham slices, but looks like a bunch of ham chunks pressed together and sliced very thin, with about a gallon of water added to hike up the price.
I was quite proud of my accomplishment. That lunch simply oozed motherly love. Before The Pony and I left, I told #1 that I made him a couple of sandwiches. I could tell by his grunt that he was pleased with my effort.
Around about 2nd hour, in comes #1 to ask for my signature and $8.00. He was carrying a sandwich. "Where did you get that?"
"Oh, this sandwich? My friend made it for me." (Hermione, of Halloween Harry Potter fame)
"Well, isn't that special? Which one are you having for lunch?"
"Probably hers. I told you I hate ham."
"Hers looks like ham."
"It's turkey."
"Try the bologna."
"I don't know. I might have both."
He stashed his newfound sandwich in the mini-fridge, on top of the two sandwiches I made for him. During 4th hour, he came in to get his lunch. I pointed out to my class that he was taking a sandwich somebody else gave him.
"Hey, Hermione made it for me."
"You don't know what she might have put in it. My sandwiches were made with a mother's love."
"Mother's love? Since when?"
"Since this morning, when I took the time to make you two sandwiches. It's motherly sandwich love."
"That's a good one. I'm eating Hermione's sandwich."
The class turned to see my reaction. "Somebody didn't raise that boy right."
"But Mrs. Hillbilly Mom...didn't YOU raise him?"
They're a little slow on the uptake sometimes. I've got to get my timing right before I take this show on the road.
Actually, I made him TWO sandwiches. Not counting the first one, because the white bread had just a single spot of mold on it. Which may have made #1 call me to see if it was still okay to eat, but I know better. So I used some wheat bread to make him a bologna sandwich. There were only two slices left, so I put them both on. Then I couldn't find the yellow mustard, so I squeezed on a few lines of spicy brown mustard. Fearing that he may not like that mustard, I made him an alternate sandwich. A Hawaiian bun with processed ham. You know, the stuff that's not really ham slices, but looks like a bunch of ham chunks pressed together and sliced very thin, with about a gallon of water added to hike up the price.
I was quite proud of my accomplishment. That lunch simply oozed motherly love. Before The Pony and I left, I told #1 that I made him a couple of sandwiches. I could tell by his grunt that he was pleased with my effort.
Around about 2nd hour, in comes #1 to ask for my signature and $8.00. He was carrying a sandwich. "Where did you get that?"
"Oh, this sandwich? My friend made it for me." (Hermione, of Halloween Harry Potter fame)
"Well, isn't that special? Which one are you having for lunch?"
"Probably hers. I told you I hate ham."
"Hers looks like ham."
"It's turkey."
"Try the bologna."
"I don't know. I might have both."
He stashed his newfound sandwich in the mini-fridge, on top of the two sandwiches I made for him. During 4th hour, he came in to get his lunch. I pointed out to my class that he was taking a sandwich somebody else gave him.
"Hey, Hermione made it for me."
"You don't know what she might have put in it. My sandwiches were made with a mother's love."
"Mother's love? Since when?"
"Since this morning, when I took the time to make you two sandwiches. It's motherly sandwich love."
"That's a good one. I'm eating Hermione's sandwich."
The class turned to see my reaction. "Somebody didn't raise that boy right."
"But Mrs. Hillbilly Mom...didn't YOU raise him?"
They're a little slow on the uptake sometimes. I've got to get my timing right before I take this show on the road.
Thursday, February 23, 2012
I'm Mad Enough To Yell, And I'm Not Going To Take It Anymore
I spent two hours last night, trying to log in and respond to comments. Thank the Gummi Mary I had the foresight to post ahead on two blogs and set them to publish. I do that on Survivor TV night. And when I'll be away, like tonight.
The Pony has to go to a BETA club coronation. He's not attending the dance, so we'll be home at a reasonable hour. But that shoots the whole evening. Because I have to stay after school until 6:00, and take him to Basementia for the coronation. That will put us home after 7:00 p.m.
I don't know if it's my internet connection, or stupid dumb ugly free Blogger trying to make me try Google Chrome. Funny how everything works fine for a while, then slows down so much that I long for my dial-up days.
Maybe it's the solar flares. Or BIG BROTHER monitoring my every keystroke. Whatever the case, I wasted a colossal amount of time. And I'm hoping this will save and pop up Thursday evening, just in case the same issue rears its stupid dumb ugly free head.
Technology is not my friend.
The Pony has to go to a BETA club coronation. He's not attending the dance, so we'll be home at a reasonable hour. But that shoots the whole evening. Because I have to stay after school until 6:00, and take him to Basementia for the coronation. That will put us home after 7:00 p.m.
I don't know if it's my internet connection, or stupid dumb ugly free Blogger trying to make me try Google Chrome. Funny how everything works fine for a while, then slows down so much that I long for my dial-up days.
Maybe it's the solar flares. Or BIG BROTHER monitoring my every keystroke. Whatever the case, I wasted a colossal amount of time. And I'm hoping this will save and pop up Thursday evening, just in case the same issue rears its stupid dumb ugly free head.
Technology is not my friend.
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