I don't mean to brag. But I have been promoted from chief sandwich-maker to head cheese-cutter. It's true! There may be an upcoming headline in the Hillmomba Times.
There I sat, whiling away the hours in my dark basement lair, tap tap tapping at my keyboard, creating some soon-to-be-forgotten lore, when the opportunity presented itself. The #1 son charged in, inquiring as to whether the household larder harbored sliced cheddar. Well. If only he had asked me one hour earlier, before I took the last of it for my supper. But that's not how things work around the Mansion.
I knew the minute I grabbed those last slices, slapped them on some Townhouse crackers, and added a tasty dill pickle to my plate, that this slapdash feast would come back to bite me on my ample buttocks. Never mind that the #1 son had been fed. I had an inkling. A tiny psychic flash in the back of my mind. The thought that #1 would be raiding Frig later in the evening, seeking these very morsels of bovine by-product.
Oh, there was sharp cheddar aplenty. Still in block shape. A form inedible for a teenage boy. Never mind that one could devour a whole ham by holding the bone at each end and gnawing it like an ear of corn. A rectangle of cheese posed a conundrum. It was too big to put on a cracker. There were no sheets of plastic to peel away. Pounding it on the counter did nothing to improve its digestibility. What to do, what to do? Gasp! MOM! Mom in the basement, pounding out her funny. MY MOM CAN CUT THE CHEESE!
So he stormed my stronghold, not so strong, lacking a lock, lacking a door, Sweet Gummi Mary, lacking even a sheet hung over the threshhold! He flipped on the light. "Is there any cheese? I need some cheese! Where's that cheese I was eating yesterday?"
"Oh. The cheese. I had it for my supper."
"What? There's no cheese?"
"Well, there IS cheese, but it's an eight-ounce block on the second shelf."
"I want some cheese!"
"Can't you cut the cheese?"
"Not like that."
"You want ME to cut the cheese?"
"Yes!"
"Great. Go upstairs. Get the cheese. Get the cheese cutter. Haul it down here. And I'll cut the cheese for you, Your Royal Highness."
"Forget it."
He left. And reappeared three minutes later with a paper plate, block of cheese, and cheese cutter. I really did not think he'd do it. But he did.
So I cut the cheese. And told him to observe closely, so next time he could do it for himself. Of course he declared that he KNEW how to cut the cheese. He just wanted me to do it. And he kept shouting things like "Thinner!" And refused to notice how the whole process revolved around a symmetrical carving procedure. Half. Half again. Half of each piece. And so on. Until there were sixteen pieces. Or thirty-two.
Hillbilly Mom. The best cheese-cutter of any cheese-cutters who ever cut the cheese.
Tuesday, August 7, 2012
Monday, August 6, 2012
And It Begins
The boys and I made a sortie to Newmentia today to put my classroom ship-shape before I report next Monday. A successful mission, it was.
My room was not as disorderly as I had anticipated. Most things were near where they were supposed to be. In years past, I have drawn up a floor plan and taped it to the bare top of my desk. But since I never saw any evidence of such a diagram being given even a cursory glance, I stopped doing so. However, this year I found all of my district possessions within the confines of my classroom! No need to search door-to-door for my rolly chair. No need to track down errant desks. My electronics were hooked up to the tangled web from whence they came. And I had a new laptop. Which I don't really like, being a hater of change, and finding the screen much smaller and the keys not accustomed to my fingers. The only item missing in action was a cordless mouse. I think I'll be able to trap one before the first day.
I need to follow up on my postcard from the optometrist for my yearly check-up. And get a spare pare of glasses to leave at school. Squinting is not quite good enough with this new screen. Lucky for me, I have a wealth of sick days to be used for just such an appointment! I think there's a mammogram in my future as well. Not to mention a flu shot. I shan't be leaving any days on the table when May rolls around.
While I was preparing for the start of a new school year, it appears that children all over Hillmomba are also steeling themselves for the long haul. Practicing their freshness, as we old-timers say. I took the boys by McDonald's as payment for their help. Okay, the #1 son demanded some cash as well. But while they were inside ordering the food, a car pulled up beside me. A car not unlike my very own T-Hoe.
A blond tweenager hopped out, his hair in a buzz cut with the little front thingy spiked up like a cowlick. He leaned his face into my open window. Maybe he didn't actually break the plane, but he was close. In the manner of cool dudes everywhere, he nodded his head at me and said, " 'Sup?" In that drawn-out way kids have these days. I had a flashback to the time that frat boy pulled my crank at Harrah's. A touch of PTSD, perhaps.
Pardon me. But that is overly familiar. It would be different if we had a passing acquaintance. A family or student history. I did not know this kid. He looked pretty shiny clean, and decked out in flashier urban togs than what we see here in Hillmomba. How dare he presume to speak to me in such an insolent manner! I see kids every day pull this act of fancied coolness with the elderly, inciting their peers to snicker behind their hands. In years past, I might have sat there on my ample posterior, dumbfounded, silent as a church mouse, while fuming inside. But not now. Towanda! I've seen Fried Green Tomatoes! I am empowered! So I frowned upon his countenance, a virtual carbon copy of young Anthony Michael Hall in National Lampoon's Vacation. "I don't know. You're kind of weird." There. That young whippersnapper wasn't about to put one over on me. His identical sibling climbed out and looked at me. But kept his distance. And said nothing.
Do not taunt Mrs. Hillbilly Mom. No good will come of it.
My room was not as disorderly as I had anticipated. Most things were near where they were supposed to be. In years past, I have drawn up a floor plan and taped it to the bare top of my desk. But since I never saw any evidence of such a diagram being given even a cursory glance, I stopped doing so. However, this year I found all of my district possessions within the confines of my classroom! No need to search door-to-door for my rolly chair. No need to track down errant desks. My electronics were hooked up to the tangled web from whence they came. And I had a new laptop. Which I don't really like, being a hater of change, and finding the screen much smaller and the keys not accustomed to my fingers. The only item missing in action was a cordless mouse. I think I'll be able to trap one before the first day.
I need to follow up on my postcard from the optometrist for my yearly check-up. And get a spare pare of glasses to leave at school. Squinting is not quite good enough with this new screen. Lucky for me, I have a wealth of sick days to be used for just such an appointment! I think there's a mammogram in my future as well. Not to mention a flu shot. I shan't be leaving any days on the table when May rolls around.
While I was preparing for the start of a new school year, it appears that children all over Hillmomba are also steeling themselves for the long haul. Practicing their freshness, as we old-timers say. I took the boys by McDonald's as payment for their help. Okay, the #1 son demanded some cash as well. But while they were inside ordering the food, a car pulled up beside me. A car not unlike my very own T-Hoe.
A blond tweenager hopped out, his hair in a buzz cut with the little front thingy spiked up like a cowlick. He leaned his face into my open window. Maybe he didn't actually break the plane, but he was close. In the manner of cool dudes everywhere, he nodded his head at me and said, " 'Sup?" In that drawn-out way kids have these days. I had a flashback to the time that frat boy pulled my crank at Harrah's. A touch of PTSD, perhaps.
Pardon me. But that is overly familiar. It would be different if we had a passing acquaintance. A family or student history. I did not know this kid. He looked pretty shiny clean, and decked out in flashier urban togs than what we see here in Hillmomba. How dare he presume to speak to me in such an insolent manner! I see kids every day pull this act of fancied coolness with the elderly, inciting their peers to snicker behind their hands. In years past, I might have sat there on my ample posterior, dumbfounded, silent as a church mouse, while fuming inside. But not now. Towanda! I've seen Fried Green Tomatoes! I am empowered! So I frowned upon his countenance, a virtual carbon copy of young Anthony Michael Hall in National Lampoon's Vacation. "I don't know. You're kind of weird." There. That young whippersnapper wasn't about to put one over on me. His identical sibling climbed out and looked at me. But kept his distance. And said nothing.
Do not taunt Mrs. Hillbilly Mom. No good will come of it.
Sunday, August 5, 2012
How Yuck Is That Doggy In The Washtub?
Farmer H took the bull by the horns this afternoon. Or the beagle by the ears. He wrestled Tank into a tub in the back of the Gator, and bathed him within an inch of his fleas' lives. Tank was not real happy with the submersion. I think the ice-cold well water flowing from the hose might have had something to do with it. The Pony acted as bath assistant. Luckily, a beagle, though heavy, is not a large dog to control.
Juno was next. She's all wasp-waisted, leggy adolescent, about to turn a year old, with long feathery ebony fur, and an extra-long whip-like tail. The Pony lifted her, and pronounced her lighter than Tank. We were afraid she might be all skittish about her first bath, and a livewire to handle. But she took it well. Our little stray soaked up the two-on-one attention like a champ. The only complaint from her groomer was the constant flogging from her soaking tail. Upon completion, Juno's coal-black hair fell parted in the middle like a 1970 debutante.
Both curs threw themselves about in a post-bath orgy of shaking, rolling, scraping, and licking. I had feared they would head straight to the dust hole that the chickens use for dry-shampooing. But no. They slid along the bristly brown grass stems, writhing and wriggling in ecstasy.
Ann the black german shepherd did not receive a bath. Farmer H had neither the patience nor fortitude to attempt such a large-dog immersion. He says she will receive flea powder, but no bath.
Farmer H is a big ol' chicken.
Juno was next. She's all wasp-waisted, leggy adolescent, about to turn a year old, with long feathery ebony fur, and an extra-long whip-like tail. The Pony lifted her, and pronounced her lighter than Tank. We were afraid she might be all skittish about her first bath, and a livewire to handle. But she took it well. Our little stray soaked up the two-on-one attention like a champ. The only complaint from her groomer was the constant flogging from her soaking tail. Upon completion, Juno's coal-black hair fell parted in the middle like a 1970 debutante.
Both curs threw themselves about in a post-bath orgy of shaking, rolling, scraping, and licking. I had feared they would head straight to the dust hole that the chickens use for dry-shampooing. But no. They slid along the bristly brown grass stems, writhing and wriggling in ecstasy.
Ann the black german shepherd did not receive a bath. Farmer H had neither the patience nor fortitude to attempt such a large-dog immersion. He says she will receive flea powder, but no bath.
Farmer H is a big ol' chicken.
Saturday, August 4, 2012
Reality, The Best Medicine
I have wasted the entire day watching a Campus PD marathon. It's like COPS, but for college kids. Oh, how I love to watch these youngsters get their just desserts. See them learn what life is like in the real world, without their mommies and daddies shielding them from their own stupidity.
Like when a kid is about to get a citation for underage drinking, which carries a fine of $150, and some fool off camera screams at him not to sign the paperwork. "I'm pre-law! You can't be arrested if you don't sign!" So he wavers. Asks the officer to explain what happens if he doesn't sign. And is told that he will have to go to the police station, where he will be issued a new date to appear with the citation he will still receive. So he starts to sign it again. And the pre-law genius screams not to sign. So he asks for the explanation once more. I guess drunk minors are a bit lacking in the short-term memory department. The officer was more patient than I would have been. On the third refusal to sign, and request for an explanation, he handcuffed Count Drunkula Jr. and put him in the car for a trip downtown.
Or the girl who hosted a house party full of underage drinkers, then berated the cop when issued a peace disturbance citation (not her first). She declared that two streets over, people were robbing and raping and drugging. That the cop should spend his time chasing THEM instead of bothering her loud underage drinkers. The cop replied that he agreed with her. But he couldn't. Because he had to answer the complaint about her party. He had to break it up so the underage drinkers did not become victims of crime as they staggered home. The gal went on to say that the cop knew she and her people were better than the robbers, rapers, and druggers. A higher class. And they didn't bother anybody. So he should just go arrest those lower class people. Hee hee! And the cop said, wow, that was the most discriminatory thing he had ever heard. And the gal agreed! "I know! I am suffering from that discrimination all the time!"
And the sister whose house was hosting a loud party, who refused to come out and talk to the officer, told her brother to call Dad, and screamed that the cop could not touch her when he took her by the arm and steered her to the sidewalk. Brother wouldn't keep his trap shut, hollered that Dad was a federal agent, and kept creeping up to berate the cop, telling him that he was nothing, he was down low and Dad was up high, and he would be sorry. Of course he ended up in handcuffs for obstructing. And when Dad drove up, he did not even get out of the car, no doubt embarrassed by his mouthy offspring.
It is so refreshing to see them realize that the time for coddling has ended. That they can't get out of a jam by apologizing and promising never to do it again. That the rules are enforced. And consequences stick.
Like when a kid is about to get a citation for underage drinking, which carries a fine of $150, and some fool off camera screams at him not to sign the paperwork. "I'm pre-law! You can't be arrested if you don't sign!" So he wavers. Asks the officer to explain what happens if he doesn't sign. And is told that he will have to go to the police station, where he will be issued a new date to appear with the citation he will still receive. So he starts to sign it again. And the pre-law genius screams not to sign. So he asks for the explanation once more. I guess drunk minors are a bit lacking in the short-term memory department. The officer was more patient than I would have been. On the third refusal to sign, and request for an explanation, he handcuffed Count Drunkula Jr. and put him in the car for a trip downtown.
Or the girl who hosted a house party full of underage drinkers, then berated the cop when issued a peace disturbance citation (not her first). She declared that two streets over, people were robbing and raping and drugging. That the cop should spend his time chasing THEM instead of bothering her loud underage drinkers. The cop replied that he agreed with her. But he couldn't. Because he had to answer the complaint about her party. He had to break it up so the underage drinkers did not become victims of crime as they staggered home. The gal went on to say that the cop knew she and her people were better than the robbers, rapers, and druggers. A higher class. And they didn't bother anybody. So he should just go arrest those lower class people. Hee hee! And the cop said, wow, that was the most discriminatory thing he had ever heard. And the gal agreed! "I know! I am suffering from that discrimination all the time!"
And the sister whose house was hosting a loud party, who refused to come out and talk to the officer, told her brother to call Dad, and screamed that the cop could not touch her when he took her by the arm and steered her to the sidewalk. Brother wouldn't keep his trap shut, hollered that Dad was a federal agent, and kept creeping up to berate the cop, telling him that he was nothing, he was down low and Dad was up high, and he would be sorry. Of course he ended up in handcuffs for obstructing. And when Dad drove up, he did not even get out of the car, no doubt embarrassed by his mouthy offspring.
It is so refreshing to see them realize that the time for coddling has ended. That they can't get out of a jam by apologizing and promising never to do it again. That the rules are enforced. And consequences stick.
Friday, August 3, 2012
An Insider Speaks From The Soapbox
Here's a little insight into what it's like to be a teacher. Because, like Tom Petty, I'm an insider. I haven't been burned by the fire, but I've been scorched. Belittled by the media. Portrayed as an imbecile or monster. Those who can't do, teach. Tell me you haven't heard that one.
The worst part about being a teacher is that you are not a real person. Oh, you might think you're a real person. But you're not. You're a small-town celebrity. An idol to some. A money-grubbing freeloader to others. You'd better be careful sitting up there on that pedestal, swinging your clay feet over the side. It doesn't take much to bring you down. A gnat's fart could do it in a nanosecond.
No, our lives are not all summer vacation, laying on the couch eating bonbons and watching The View while raking in money for doing absolutely nothing. (In case you didn't know, we are paid by the year. That money is spread out over twelve months. So even after you leave a school, your checks keep coming, because that summer money is for work you have already done).
Some people perceive us as overpaid babysitters. We would be rich if we were babysitters. Multiply the going rate of babysitting/daycare services, times the number of hours and students we not only supervise, but also teach, and you come up with a pretty penny. Depending on the year, I have between 100 and 150 students every day. I teach six fifty-minute periods, and have one planning period. That's 300 minutes of student time. Or five hours. I'll give you my passing-period hall-supervising minutes for free, along with the lunch, before-school, and after-school duties. According to the Babysitting Rates Calculator, a babysitter, with my years of experience, in my town, should be paid $9.50 per hour for one child for 5 hours per week. So...1 hour a day, times 100 students, times $9.50 per hour...equals NINE HUNDRED FIFTY DOLLARS A DAY! Or $171,000 per year. That is over three times what I earn, with my many years of experience and a master's degree.
That's another secret. Teachers aren't in this profession to get rich. Shh...don't spread it around, but most of us really enjoy what we do. We're not all Jack Torrances in The Shining, or Matthew Broderick's character and his buddy in Election, or Mr. Dobbins. You remember Mr. Dobbins, don't you? Tom Sawyer's teacher, with the special book? No, most of us are rule-abiders and child-mentors. Genuinely caring for your children, though not in a creepy, inappropriate kind of way, relishing their successes as they progress through our district. Which is not to say we are not sometimes annoyed by their actions.
For our loyalty in the raising of your child, sometimes in spite of the village, we are held to a standard so high that Mother Teresa herself would appear a lowly guttersnipe in comparison. We are expected to live our lives without typos, smoking, drinking, dating, gambling, chewing tobacco, attending R-rated movies, arguing, nose-picking, farting, going to the bathroom, Facebooking, gossiping, texting, eating non-cafeteria food, or taking offense to insults and physical assaults. Oh, and we are also expected to know everything about every subject, because if we dare answer a question with, "I don't know, I'll have to look that up," we are met with the reply of, "Huh. You're supposed to be the teacher, aren't you?"
While few people hear about it, we put our own money into classroom consumables, give our lunch to a student without, bring in outgrown clothes for the sartorially challenged, pay club dues for members lacking funds, buy overpriced fundraising items just because a kid has the guts to ask, shell out prom ticket money as an anonymous donor, and remain ever-vigilant lest an intruder or inclement weather threaten our charges. We really don't begrudge living the best years of our lives bound by these trappings of our profession.
But it would be nice to get a little respect sometimes.
Yeah. Everybody hustle out there and grab a seat on this money-spewing party train. It only takes four years of college. Loans are available.
The worst part about being a teacher is that you are not a real person. Oh, you might think you're a real person. But you're not. You're a small-town celebrity. An idol to some. A money-grubbing freeloader to others. You'd better be careful sitting up there on that pedestal, swinging your clay feet over the side. It doesn't take much to bring you down. A gnat's fart could do it in a nanosecond.
No, our lives are not all summer vacation, laying on the couch eating bonbons and watching The View while raking in money for doing absolutely nothing. (In case you didn't know, we are paid by the year. That money is spread out over twelve months. So even after you leave a school, your checks keep coming, because that summer money is for work you have already done).
Some people perceive us as overpaid babysitters. We would be rich if we were babysitters. Multiply the going rate of babysitting/daycare services, times the number of hours and students we not only supervise, but also teach, and you come up with a pretty penny. Depending on the year, I have between 100 and 150 students every day. I teach six fifty-minute periods, and have one planning period. That's 300 minutes of student time. Or five hours. I'll give you my passing-period hall-supervising minutes for free, along with the lunch, before-school, and after-school duties. According to the Babysitting Rates Calculator, a babysitter, with my years of experience, in my town, should be paid $9.50 per hour for one child for 5 hours per week. So...1 hour a day, times 100 students, times $9.50 per hour...equals NINE HUNDRED FIFTY DOLLARS A DAY! Or $171,000 per year. That is over three times what I earn, with my many years of experience and a master's degree.
That's another secret. Teachers aren't in this profession to get rich. Shh...don't spread it around, but most of us really enjoy what we do. We're not all Jack Torrances in The Shining, or Matthew Broderick's character and his buddy in Election, or Mr. Dobbins. You remember Mr. Dobbins, don't you? Tom Sawyer's teacher, with the special book? No, most of us are rule-abiders and child-mentors. Genuinely caring for your children, though not in a creepy, inappropriate kind of way, relishing their successes as they progress through our district. Which is not to say we are not sometimes annoyed by their actions.
For our loyalty in the raising of your child, sometimes in spite of the village, we are held to a standard so high that Mother Teresa herself would appear a lowly guttersnipe in comparison. We are expected to live our lives without typos, smoking, drinking, dating, gambling, chewing tobacco, attending R-rated movies, arguing, nose-picking, farting, going to the bathroom, Facebooking, gossiping, texting, eating non-cafeteria food, or taking offense to insults and physical assaults. Oh, and we are also expected to know everything about every subject, because if we dare answer a question with, "I don't know, I'll have to look that up," we are met with the reply of, "Huh. You're supposed to be the teacher, aren't you?"
While few people hear about it, we put our own money into classroom consumables, give our lunch to a student without, bring in outgrown clothes for the sartorially challenged, pay club dues for members lacking funds, buy overpriced fundraising items just because a kid has the guts to ask, shell out prom ticket money as an anonymous donor, and remain ever-vigilant lest an intruder or inclement weather threaten our charges. We really don't begrudge living the best years of our lives bound by these trappings of our profession.
But it would be nice to get a little respect sometimes.
Yeah. Everybody hustle out there and grab a seat on this money-spewing party train. It only takes four years of college. Loans are available.
Thursday, August 2, 2012
I Am A WOMAN, Not An Animal!
I go to great lengths to assure that the gullets of my menfolk are not empty. Not shrinking in upon themselves, sticking together like the spit-coated insides of a deflated balloon. I feed them. Because without me, they are as helpless as newborn kittens, mewling pitifully for sustenance. Or screaming that SOMEBODY really needs to make some sandwiches.
This afternoon around 1:00, I thought I had filled the void of the #1 son with a footlong Subway chipotle chicken sandwich. But somehow, it wore off. I had not planned on cooking supper for him. Farmer H started his bowling league again tonight. So I was off the hook for that dinner. The Pony declared that his Subway mini cheese pizza filled him to the gills. He needed no more than a few chips and crackers. That he got for himself! But #1 acted like it was his 38th day of Survivor. The Australian Outback season. When all their rice washed away in a flash flood. And Elisabeth Hasselbeck almost faded away to about 70 pounds. I know #1. And he is no Elisabeth Hasselbeck.
He rooted through Frig. Screamed in seventeen-year-old angst, "Why is there no food in this house?" Dug through the freezer. And chose fish sticks. Which take thirty minutes of supervision. Keeping me from my comfortable basement lair.
"That will take thirty minutes!"
"No. Only twenty-six to twenty-eight."
"Is this foil left on the pan okay?"
"No! We are civilized people! Put on clean foil."
"You are using up natural resources. Every time you eat, the Earth weeps!"
"Look how thin that is. It's only foil."
"Aluminum that will never be replenished. Hand me the cooking spray so it won't stick, and we can use this new foil again."
"Can't you get it?"
"You're right by it!"
"OKAY!"
"You spray it."
"Meep, meep, meep."
"Stop mocking me! I'll give you something to meep about!" I may or may not have pinched him a few times on the arm or abdominals. Depending on what the police report says.
"Get back!" #1 pointed the generic Save A Lot cooking spray at me.
"Don't treat me like a roach! I'll gun my low-rider and give you a dirty look while you call the Orkin man."
"Hey! The phone. It's school. Hello? A recording about registration next week."
"I bet you can't wait to eat school lunches again."
"They're better than the lunches I get around here."
"Oh! That cut through me like a knife! There. You wanted ten. Those two stuck together count as two."
"NO!"
"Okay, I'll put this little stub on there as a bonus." While I was turned away, #1 grabbed the box and put the stub and twins back in, removing two identical fish sticks. "I was only trying to help you with your mental problem."
"There. Now they're all alike."
I let them cook (which, technically, is only warming them in the oven) for twelve minutes, then turned them over. One stuck. I blame the poor spray job. I called #1 when they were done. "There. Exactly twenty-eight minutes. I hope they're not burned."
"Hey! That one lost its coating. Maybe you should have taken them out after twenty-seven minutes. Cook me another one, haha!"
"That's not happening. And I'm going to use that crusty foil to cook tomorrow's lunch on."
The hand that cooks the fish sticks rules the world.
This afternoon around 1:00, I thought I had filled the void of the #1 son with a footlong Subway chipotle chicken sandwich. But somehow, it wore off. I had not planned on cooking supper for him. Farmer H started his bowling league again tonight. So I was off the hook for that dinner. The Pony declared that his Subway mini cheese pizza filled him to the gills. He needed no more than a few chips and crackers. That he got for himself! But #1 acted like it was his 38th day of Survivor. The Australian Outback season. When all their rice washed away in a flash flood. And Elisabeth Hasselbeck almost faded away to about 70 pounds. I know #1. And he is no Elisabeth Hasselbeck.
He rooted through Frig. Screamed in seventeen-year-old angst, "Why is there no food in this house?" Dug through the freezer. And chose fish sticks. Which take thirty minutes of supervision. Keeping me from my comfortable basement lair.
"That will take thirty minutes!"
"No. Only twenty-six to twenty-eight."
"Is this foil left on the pan okay?"
"No! We are civilized people! Put on clean foil."
"You are using up natural resources. Every time you eat, the Earth weeps!"
"Look how thin that is. It's only foil."
"Aluminum that will never be replenished. Hand me the cooking spray so it won't stick, and we can use this new foil again."
"Can't you get it?"
"You're right by it!"
"OKAY!"
"You spray it."
"Meep, meep, meep."
"Stop mocking me! I'll give you something to meep about!" I may or may not have pinched him a few times on the arm or abdominals. Depending on what the police report says.
"Get back!" #1 pointed the generic Save A Lot cooking spray at me.
"Don't treat me like a roach! I'll gun my low-rider and give you a dirty look while you call the Orkin man."
"Hey! The phone. It's school. Hello? A recording about registration next week."
"I bet you can't wait to eat school lunches again."
"They're better than the lunches I get around here."
"Oh! That cut through me like a knife! There. You wanted ten. Those two stuck together count as two."
"NO!"
"Okay, I'll put this little stub on there as a bonus." While I was turned away, #1 grabbed the box and put the stub and twins back in, removing two identical fish sticks. "I was only trying to help you with your mental problem."
"There. Now they're all alike."
I let them cook (which, technically, is only warming them in the oven) for twelve minutes, then turned them over. One stuck. I blame the poor spray job. I called #1 when they were done. "There. Exactly twenty-eight minutes. I hope they're not burned."
"Hey! That one lost its coating. Maybe you should have taken them out after twenty-seven minutes. Cook me another one, haha!"
"That's not happening. And I'm going to use that crusty foil to cook tomorrow's lunch on."
The hand that cooks the fish sticks rules the world.
Wednesday, August 1, 2012
It's A Heaty Heat
I don't mean to brag. But I am now the proud owner of two pounds of freon. It's true! Don't hate me because I'm cool as a cucumber. Hate me because I'm a braggart. Even though I don't mean to be.
Farmer H has connections, baby! The AC Dude showed up this morning at 9:35. When the dispatcher called at 9:15 to say he was on his way, I asked if he knew how to get here. The Mansion is a bit off the beaten path. About a mile and a tenth off. The dispatcher assured me that AC Dude knew the way. "He's been to 1313 Hillbilly Way a few times." Indeed. He has.
I was barely hanging on. Last night, with inside temps in the 82s, I had trouble sleeping. I'm delicate like that, you know. There might as well have been a pea under my 200 mattresses. Or a BB under my recliner, as things go in Hillmomba. I managed to eke out three hours of sleep, whether I needed it or not. Farmer H could have helped me catch more of those elusive ZZZZZs if he had only listened to reason. And by reason, we all know that I mean ME.
"After the outside temperature gets cooler than 82, let's turn on the exhaust fan," I suggested.
"We can't do that! It would pull the air out!"
"I know. And...?"
"That will pull the cool air out!"
"I don't think 82-degree air is cool. And I certainly won't mind losing it."
"But you would be pulling in hot air!"
"No...I said after the air becomes COOLER outside than inside."
"Oh. Yeah, that might work."
At 4:00 a.m., when I hauled myself upstairs into the blazing inferno, the temperature outside had fallen to 70. I informed Farmer H. He did not seem very excited. I told him I was opening some windows. Thinking he would hop out of bed and start up the exhaust fan. Au contraire. I sweltered in the heat of 10,000 terrariums. The ceiling fan did little to evaporate my flop sweat.
At 6:00, when he left for work, Farmer H fired up the exhaust fan. The temp cooled to 76, then started a slow rise. Thank the Gummi Mary, AC Dude arrived in time. Before I started to look like a Salvador Dali clock.
By 10:10, my new freon was pumping, and we were on the way back to the land of regulated household temperature.
Farmer H has connections, baby! The AC Dude showed up this morning at 9:35. When the dispatcher called at 9:15 to say he was on his way, I asked if he knew how to get here. The Mansion is a bit off the beaten path. About a mile and a tenth off. The dispatcher assured me that AC Dude knew the way. "He's been to 1313 Hillbilly Way a few times." Indeed. He has.
I was barely hanging on. Last night, with inside temps in the 82s, I had trouble sleeping. I'm delicate like that, you know. There might as well have been a pea under my 200 mattresses. Or a BB under my recliner, as things go in Hillmomba. I managed to eke out three hours of sleep, whether I needed it or not. Farmer H could have helped me catch more of those elusive ZZZZZs if he had only listened to reason. And by reason, we all know that I mean ME.
"After the outside temperature gets cooler than 82, let's turn on the exhaust fan," I suggested.
"We can't do that! It would pull the air out!"
"I know. And...?"
"That will pull the cool air out!"
"I don't think 82-degree air is cool. And I certainly won't mind losing it."
"But you would be pulling in hot air!"
"No...I said after the air becomes COOLER outside than inside."
"Oh. Yeah, that might work."
At 4:00 a.m., when I hauled myself upstairs into the blazing inferno, the temperature outside had fallen to 70. I informed Farmer H. He did not seem very excited. I told him I was opening some windows. Thinking he would hop out of bed and start up the exhaust fan. Au contraire. I sweltered in the heat of 10,000 terrariums. The ceiling fan did little to evaporate my flop sweat.
At 6:00, when he left for work, Farmer H fired up the exhaust fan. The temp cooled to 76, then started a slow rise. Thank the Gummi Mary, AC Dude arrived in time. Before I started to look like a Salvador Dali clock.
By 10:10, my new freon was pumping, and we were on the way back to the land of regulated household temperature.
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