Tomorrow I will rise at 5:00 a.m. and begin my honest day's work. It will involve eating a catered breakfast buffet, sitting for three hours to listen, going to lunch for one hour, sitting for two more hours to listen, then working in my room for thirty minutes.
I am almost to the point of taking a sack lunch, rather than driving to civilization to buy lunch that must be eaten in the same amount of time as a school lunch. I prefer a more leisurely meal. Watching the clock stresses me. I would be not a good lunch companion. I have no summer vacation tales to tell. And I'm not particularly interested in hearing anyone else's.
Let's get this school year on the road. It's always better about two weeks in.
Farmer H will be having a medical procedure tomorrow at 9:00 which requires anesthesia. He is not exactly a scheduling wizard. I told him I can not miss the first day. The #1 son will be driving him and bringing him home. I am hoping that all goes well, and that they do not resort to hand-to-hand combat before leaving the Mansion.
The Pony gets the best end of the deal, what with spending the day with his grandma. He is the only one looking forward to tomorrow.
Sunday, August 14, 2011
Saturday, August 13, 2011
All Good Things Must End
This is the official last night of my summer vacation. Tomorrow is Sunday night, the night before my return to work.
As usual, I wish I had accomplished more during my time off. The time off itself was most relaxing. No worry of going under the knife like my throat-cutting last May 25. No week in Missi-freakin-sippi, hotter than the burning pits of not-Heaven, for basketball camp. No stressful family vacation, since I sent the family and had my own staycation. I put work out of my mind, relaxed myself into a stupor, and thoroughly enjoyed my break.
After I get through Monday, I will be on the long, downhill slide towards next summer.
As usual, I wish I had accomplished more during my time off. The time off itself was most relaxing. No worry of going under the knife like my throat-cutting last May 25. No week in Missi-freakin-sippi, hotter than the burning pits of not-Heaven, for basketball camp. No stressful family vacation, since I sent the family and had my own staycation. I put work out of my mind, relaxed myself into a stupor, and thoroughly enjoyed my break.
After I get through Monday, I will be on the long, downhill slide towards next summer.
Friday, August 12, 2011
The Good News, Bad News Editiion
Let's switch things up. Because I'm a rebel that way. This is going to be the Bad News, Good News edition.
Bad News-the power went off at the Mansion this afternoon during a thunderstorm.
Good News-it came right back on.
Bad News-my mini flashlight was not where I left it.
Good News-I found it a few feet away on the #1 son's computer desk.
Bad News-my New Delly shut down lickety-split.
Good News-last night, I saved the 10 files I've been leaving open.
Bad News-The Pony and I went to Great Clips for haircuts after lunch.
Good News-I had two coupons for $3.00 off. And we were not scalped.
Bad News-my haircuttress called a little girl back, put her in the chair, combed through her hair, called a colleague...and sent the little girl out the door.
Good News-she had already cut my hair, and I was waiting for The Pony.
Bad News-my Pizza Hut plastic cup had a chip in the rim.
Good News-I did not slice my lip on it, so I did not have to devote many Hillbilly Mom-hours to suing the entire franchise for pain, suffering, and disfigurement.
Bad News-the power went off at the Mansion this afternoon during a thunderstorm.
Good News-it came right back on.
Bad News-my mini flashlight was not where I left it.
Good News-I found it a few feet away on the #1 son's computer desk.
Bad News-my New Delly shut down lickety-split.
Good News-last night, I saved the 10 files I've been leaving open.
Bad News-The Pony and I went to Great Clips for haircuts after lunch.
Good News-I had two coupons for $3.00 off. And we were not scalped.
Bad News-my haircuttress called a little girl back, put her in the chair, combed through her hair, called a colleague...and sent the little girl out the door.
Good News-she had already cut my hair, and I was waiting for The Pony.
Bad News-my Pizza Hut plastic cup had a chip in the rim.
Good News-I did not slice my lip on it, so I did not have to devote many Hillbilly Mom-hours to suing the entire franchise for pain, suffering, and disfigurement.
Thursday, August 11, 2011
I Am Not A Travel Lodge
I rue the day that cell phones were invented. It's bad enough that I have to battle them every hour of every day in my classroom. Bad enough that I'm not allowed to have my cell phone out unless I am hermetically sealed in a studentless closet. Bad enough that my cell phone won't even work at school if I hang my head out the window, necessitating a walk to the parking lot before school, at lunch, or on plan time to try and contact medical providers, while hoping that students are not observing me out of the classroom windows.
But the very worst part of the creation of the cell phone is the confounded apps available. I am never safe from the dastardly genius that is the #1 son. Today, while wrapped in T-Hoe's comfortable leather seats, waiting for the movie theater to open, he stuck that evil EVO 3D in my face and snapped a photo. Flattering, I was sure, being taken by surprise like that.
He announced, "Here's your new contact picture when you call me." I looked at the screen he stuck in my face. I shoved his wrist back, because I did not have my bifocals. And I saw "my" photo. It was the new Hampton Inn behind the movie theater.
I know I am not svelte. But by no stretch of the imagination am I the size of a two-tiered motel. The boy said he had the wrong photo up. Mine was next. He showed me my likeness, all black with neon outlines around my glasses and lips. Some new photo app. Like the blacklight of yesteryear.
That's his story and he's stickin' to it.
But the very worst part of the creation of the cell phone is the confounded apps available. I am never safe from the dastardly genius that is the #1 son. Today, while wrapped in T-Hoe's comfortable leather seats, waiting for the movie theater to open, he stuck that evil EVO 3D in my face and snapped a photo. Flattering, I was sure, being taken by surprise like that.
He announced, "Here's your new contact picture when you call me." I looked at the screen he stuck in my face. I shoved his wrist back, because I did not have my bifocals. And I saw "my" photo. It was the new Hampton Inn behind the movie theater.
I know I am not svelte. But by no stretch of the imagination am I the size of a two-tiered motel. The boy said he had the wrong photo up. Mine was next. He showed me my likeness, all black with neon outlines around my glasses and lips. Some new photo app. Like the blacklight of yesteryear.
That's his story and he's stickin' to it.
Wednesday, August 10, 2011
Tinkling Down Memory Lane
D'Hummi stopped humming along at 3:00, and cried to be changed. I removed his bucket and tossed the contents out the basement door. Upon replacement of his fluid-catcher, D'Hummi remained deadly silent. He would not respond to my attempts at resuscitation. It was like he had gone into a coma. His red light remained on. I couldn't turn him off, or adjust his fan speed or humidity level.
I called upstairs to the #1 son. Not an expert in D'Hummies, but in electronic gewgaws. His suggestion was to unplug D'Hummi. Easy for him to say, as he laid his slumbering noggin back on the couch. The electrical outlet is behind the piano. Not that it mattered to that strapping sixteen-year-old that his out-of-shape old-lady mom would have to heave a heavy piano away from the wall to accomplish that task. (SPOILER ALERT: D'Hummi was revived by this minor operation.)
Now don't go thinking we're some hoity toity Hillbillies with a Liberace grand piano in our basement next to the pool table. It's an upright piano. Kind of beat-up. It used to belong to my grandma, who gave it to us before she passed away last fall. Don't you worry none about Grandma. She had another piano, as well as an organ. She wanted us to have this one because #1 plays the piano. I can tinkle out a melody (maybe you shouldn't try to picture that) and a few chords, but #1 is a regular two-handed, music-readin', ivory-tickler. This piano used to belong to my elementary school. Grandma was on the school board, and bought the piano when it was replaced.
When he was four years old, my mom paid for #1 to start piano lessons. He had remarked that he would like to learn how to play. He was four. I did not pay it much mind. #1 enjoyed going to the piano lady's home for 30 minutes each week. He didn't have a piano to practice on, so we bought him a little keyboard. When he visited my mom, he used her piano. Oh, don't think she knows how to play. She just always wanted a piano.
The first recital was held at my mom's Methodist church. The piano lady was a member of the congregation, and played the Methodist organ. So she had a built-in venue for her recitals. Being the youngest student, #1 went first. I had given him a child's music portfolio thingy to carry his sheet music. It came with a little stuffed bear.
When his name was announced, #1 stepped up to the elevated piano. That boy has always had the look of a politician. He wore a vest and tie, which he would also request to wear in his school pictures. #1 set his music portfolio on the piano bench. He removed his music and put it on the piano. The piano lady slid onto the bench to turn pages for him. As #1 set his portfolio down beside the piano, he removed that stuffed bear. He placed it on the piano ledge right above the keys, and turned to smile at the audience. A squeaky-clean, short-haircutted, blue-eyed, 100-watt smile. They oohed and ahhed. I must admit that #1 was just too precious for words at that moment. Then he sat down to play.
And he was good. Not Liberace good, like the next kid, who was a couple years older, with a true flair for piano playing. But good. Technically proficient. He hit all the right notes in all the right rhythm. And when he was done, he packed up his little bear and beamed from ear to ear.
Where does the time go?
I called upstairs to the #1 son. Not an expert in D'Hummies, but in electronic gewgaws. His suggestion was to unplug D'Hummi. Easy for him to say, as he laid his slumbering noggin back on the couch. The electrical outlet is behind the piano. Not that it mattered to that strapping sixteen-year-old that his out-of-shape old-lady mom would have to heave a heavy piano away from the wall to accomplish that task. (SPOILER ALERT: D'Hummi was revived by this minor operation.)
Now don't go thinking we're some hoity toity Hillbillies with a Liberace grand piano in our basement next to the pool table. It's an upright piano. Kind of beat-up. It used to belong to my grandma, who gave it to us before she passed away last fall. Don't you worry none about Grandma. She had another piano, as well as an organ. She wanted us to have this one because #1 plays the piano. I can tinkle out a melody (maybe you shouldn't try to picture that) and a few chords, but #1 is a regular two-handed, music-readin', ivory-tickler. This piano used to belong to my elementary school. Grandma was on the school board, and bought the piano when it was replaced.
When he was four years old, my mom paid for #1 to start piano lessons. He had remarked that he would like to learn how to play. He was four. I did not pay it much mind. #1 enjoyed going to the piano lady's home for 30 minutes each week. He didn't have a piano to practice on, so we bought him a little keyboard. When he visited my mom, he used her piano. Oh, don't think she knows how to play. She just always wanted a piano.
The first recital was held at my mom's Methodist church. The piano lady was a member of the congregation, and played the Methodist organ. So she had a built-in venue for her recitals. Being the youngest student, #1 went first. I had given him a child's music portfolio thingy to carry his sheet music. It came with a little stuffed bear.
When his name was announced, #1 stepped up to the elevated piano. That boy has always had the look of a politician. He wore a vest and tie, which he would also request to wear in his school pictures. #1 set his music portfolio on the piano bench. He removed his music and put it on the piano. The piano lady slid onto the bench to turn pages for him. As #1 set his portfolio down beside the piano, he removed that stuffed bear. He placed it on the piano ledge right above the keys, and turned to smile at the audience. A squeaky-clean, short-haircutted, blue-eyed, 100-watt smile. They oohed and ahhed. I must admit that #1 was just too precious for words at that moment. Then he sat down to play.
And he was good. Not Liberace good, like the next kid, who was a couple years older, with a true flair for piano playing. But good. Technically proficient. He hit all the right notes in all the right rhythm. And when he was done, he packed up his little bear and beamed from ear to ear.
Where does the time go?
Tuesday, August 9, 2011
Clean Is In They Eye Of The Paper Towel Holder
Here's my latest issue with Farmer H. I might as well give myself a little less typing and just start calling these things "H-ssues".
Yesterday, I tried to wipe some soap off the bottle of soap. Funny how soap can be dirty and need to be washed off sometimes. Not funny how I turned to grab a paper towel off the upright spinny rack thingy on my cutting block, and all I found was the cardboard tube with the final piece glued to it. I suppose Farmer H thought since he didn't take the last one, he didn't have to replace the roll.
Finding no drying action in that quilted cardboard tube, I made a beeline for the pantry. Where I had to open the door with my wet hands, entice the double-roll new pack of paper towels off the top shelf with my wet hands, rip open the plastic wrapper with wet hands, unscrew the heavy metal apple on the rack with wet hands, remove the quilted cardboard tube with wet hands, drop the new roll on the metal rod with wet hands, screw the metal apple back on with wet hands, and pry loose the first paper towel so I could dry my...now dry hands.
This afternoon, after washing a sink full of dishes by hand, I turned to grab a paper towel. On top of that brand new roll was the black imprint of two dirty fingers. I swear, they were so dark I could almost have found fingerprints there to convict the culprit.
What kind of person washes his hands so poorly that he leaves dirty fingerprints on the paper town roll as he is trying to tear one off to dry his just-washed hands?
I think we know his name.
Yesterday, I tried to wipe some soap off the bottle of soap. Funny how soap can be dirty and need to be washed off sometimes. Not funny how I turned to grab a paper towel off the upright spinny rack thingy on my cutting block, and all I found was the cardboard tube with the final piece glued to it. I suppose Farmer H thought since he didn't take the last one, he didn't have to replace the roll.
Finding no drying action in that quilted cardboard tube, I made a beeline for the pantry. Where I had to open the door with my wet hands, entice the double-roll new pack of paper towels off the top shelf with my wet hands, rip open the plastic wrapper with wet hands, unscrew the heavy metal apple on the rack with wet hands, remove the quilted cardboard tube with wet hands, drop the new roll on the metal rod with wet hands, screw the metal apple back on with wet hands, and pry loose the first paper towel so I could dry my...now dry hands.
This afternoon, after washing a sink full of dishes by hand, I turned to grab a paper towel. On top of that brand new roll was the black imprint of two dirty fingers. I swear, they were so dark I could almost have found fingerprints there to convict the culprit.
What kind of person washes his hands so poorly that he leaves dirty fingerprints on the paper town roll as he is trying to tear one off to dry his just-washed hands?
I think we know his name.
Monday, August 8, 2011
The Price Of New Shoes. A Metaphor. And A Simile.
It looks like I will be going to school every day this week.
The Pony and I moved 31 desks and chairs to their proper positions, plus a wooden teacher's desk. Oh, my achin' back. The #1 son arrived to assist with the six-foot table, the four-foot table holding the mini-fridge and microwave, and the file cabinet. But before he could do that, he had to move seventeen boxes of books, the majority of which weighed fifty-six pounds apiece, according to the labels. Plus a few that were heavier. But before he could do that, he had to take the chair off the top of each desk so he had somewhere to put the boxes. Then he had to open them, so he and The Pony could carry the books to the newly-moved table so I could brand them with the school name/address, and write numbers on them. Tomorrow, he will have to put the marked books on the bookshelf and get rid of all the boxes. I don't know how teachers without children to boss around can get things done.
There was a snafu with one set of texts, that being the resource materials were not for the same edition as the student texts. I'll be gosh-darned it I'm going to start out my year by inventing all my own worksheets and tests, plus look up every answer to the section review questions. Sweet Gummi Mary! It's like we're back in the dark ages. Next thing you know, I'll be running masters on a mimeograph machine and deeply inhaling the sweet smell of purple type on the fresh copies. Arch Nemesis is on the case, and has a call in to the publisher. She's definitely a take-charge kind of gal. We're holding off on marking those texts until we find out if the materials are available. If not, we want a refund and downgrade to the older edition that goes with our resource materials. At least I only have one class in that subject.
This week, I will be writing out my lesson plans and getting copies ready. That would be a breeze if I was still using my old textbooks. Those materials are as comfortable as a worn-out shoe. Alas. The price of progress. I must reinvent the wheel.
The Pony and I moved 31 desks and chairs to their proper positions, plus a wooden teacher's desk. Oh, my achin' back. The #1 son arrived to assist with the six-foot table, the four-foot table holding the mini-fridge and microwave, and the file cabinet. But before he could do that, he had to move seventeen boxes of books, the majority of which weighed fifty-six pounds apiece, according to the labels. Plus a few that were heavier. But before he could do that, he had to take the chair off the top of each desk so he had somewhere to put the boxes. Then he had to open them, so he and The Pony could carry the books to the newly-moved table so I could brand them with the school name/address, and write numbers on them. Tomorrow, he will have to put the marked books on the bookshelf and get rid of all the boxes. I don't know how teachers without children to boss around can get things done.
There was a snafu with one set of texts, that being the resource materials were not for the same edition as the student texts. I'll be gosh-darned it I'm going to start out my year by inventing all my own worksheets and tests, plus look up every answer to the section review questions. Sweet Gummi Mary! It's like we're back in the dark ages. Next thing you know, I'll be running masters on a mimeograph machine and deeply inhaling the sweet smell of purple type on the fresh copies. Arch Nemesis is on the case, and has a call in to the publisher. She's definitely a take-charge kind of gal. We're holding off on marking those texts until we find out if the materials are available. If not, we want a refund and downgrade to the older edition that goes with our resource materials. At least I only have one class in that subject.
This week, I will be writing out my lesson plans and getting copies ready. That would be a breeze if I was still using my old textbooks. Those materials are as comfortable as a worn-out shoe. Alas. The price of progress. I must reinvent the wheel.
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