Here I am, with my best Debbie Downer voice, heavy sigh, and eyeroll.
"Well, it's official. I have no taste."
I won't exactly say that taste is the first to go when one has a head cold. There's equilibrium. A good night's sleep. And catching a breath without sounding like Darth Vader. But taste is right up there with stuff you don't want to lose.
Today, for instance, a local church sent over a cake for Teacher Appreciation Day. I spied it during my plan time second hour. You have to be pretty jaded and blind and self-absorbed to miss a beauty of a whole sheet cake, shimmering white, with purple lettering on top. I kept my mitts off of it. Mrs. Hillbilly Mom ain't gonna be the first to despoil a tasty community treat.
As the bell rang at 10:53 to signal first lunch shift, an announcement came out of the ceiling informing the faculty that this cake was for them. When I stopped by the faculty women's restroom at 11:15, to take care of business, not wash my hair in the sink, I saw the sad remains of our baked-goods bonanza. It looked like those Capitol One pillagers had hacked off chunks with a double-sided Viking axe. Or their bare hands. That pitiful cake was missing over half its chocolate body, and most of its fine suit of vanilla frosting had been stripped from its back.
Not that I wanted any, mind you. I have no taste. A piece of chocolate cake with vanilla buttercream icing would taste the same as a foam rubber pillow coated with Vicks VapoRub. I didn't see the point.
Tomorrow we're having mostaccioli and fettuccine alfredo. It will be like rubber bands in glue for me.
Tuesday, May 7, 2013
Monday, May 6, 2013
This Is Why We Can't Hear Nice Things
Dear me. Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is slipping. I had more to say about that baby in my ear at the concert yesterday. What are the odds, I ask you. No need to get to cipherin'. It's rhetorical question. What are the odds that the one crying baby in the entire gym took up residence a mere six inches from my noggin?
Not only did Babe wait until the precise moment that The Pony's band was walking into the chair maze to commence screeching, Babe refused to be pacified. Not with a real pacifier, of course. That would be logical. No. I'm talking about pacifying in the manner the mom soothed her bundle of joy. "Be quiet! Stop kicking your legs!" Because if there's one thing a crying baby understands, it's "Stop kicking your legs!"
I don't blame the infant. The infant was pretty much following infant protocol. I blame the adult. The adult that brought a tiny baby to a two-hour band concert. Seriously? Did she think that Babe would garner enjoyment from the thumping of bass drums and the caterwauling of clarinets? Even if Babe was there to make an appearance for an older sibling, Babe had no idea where she was. Babe might just as well have been 20,000 leagues under the sea in a chambered nautilus. Or crossing a wide prairie with Ike from Pike, two yoke of cattle, an old spotted hog, a tall Shanghai rooster, and an old yeller dog. Or hurtling through space, the final frontier, at 31,000 miles per hour to colonize Mars.
Take the baby out! That's the common-sense thing to do. When the baby starts to cry, walk out to the cafeteria, pace the floor, show Babe the shiny trophies in the case, check the diaper, sing a lullaby, teach the tiny tot how amortization works. Anything. But remove Babe from the stress of the concert. And the back-head region of Mrs. Hillbilly Mom.
This has been a public service announcement to the citizens of Hillmomba.
Not only did Babe wait until the precise moment that The Pony's band was walking into the chair maze to commence screeching, Babe refused to be pacified. Not with a real pacifier, of course. That would be logical. No. I'm talking about pacifying in the manner the mom soothed her bundle of joy. "Be quiet! Stop kicking your legs!" Because if there's one thing a crying baby understands, it's "Stop kicking your legs!"
I don't blame the infant. The infant was pretty much following infant protocol. I blame the adult. The adult that brought a tiny baby to a two-hour band concert. Seriously? Did she think that Babe would garner enjoyment from the thumping of bass drums and the caterwauling of clarinets? Even if Babe was there to make an appearance for an older sibling, Babe had no idea where she was. Babe might just as well have been 20,000 leagues under the sea in a chambered nautilus. Or crossing a wide prairie with Ike from Pike, two yoke of cattle, an old spotted hog, a tall Shanghai rooster, and an old yeller dog. Or hurtling through space, the final frontier, at 31,000 miles per hour to colonize Mars.
Take the baby out! That's the common-sense thing to do. When the baby starts to cry, walk out to the cafeteria, pace the floor, show Babe the shiny trophies in the case, check the diaper, sing a lullaby, teach the tiny tot how amortization works. Anything. But remove Babe from the stress of the concert. And the back-head region of Mrs. Hillbilly Mom.
This has been a public service announcement to the citizens of Hillmomba.
Sunday, May 5, 2013
Time Doesn't Pay
We attended The Pony's band concert this afternoon, and guess what? Mrs. Hillbilly Mom has a bee in her bonnet. That's right. I know it comes as quite a surprise. And speaking of what should NOT be a surprise: the disappearance of bees. They're not disappearing. They're right here in Hillmomba, in Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's bonnet.
You know how you go places early to get a good seat, get things all scoped out, settle in...and folks show up five minutes after the starting time, asking you to shuffle over so they can sit on the aisle? Yeah. That didn't happen to the Hillbilly family. Only to the people in front of us, in the bleachers. We, you see, carry chairs from the cafeteria and set them up on the mezzanine, that slick concrete slab area on the other side of the bleacher railings. They're good seats, really. As long as you don't mind watching the festivities from behind brown metal rods somewhat like prison bars.
There's a trick to it. You have to get just close enough so that other usurpers don't walk between you and the railing, and stand there like so many vultures perched and waiting for somebody to close his eyes. I always carry my chair in first, and pick the prime spot, to the left of the stair walkway. I don't have to peer through prison bars. I do, however, get blocked by various and assorted wide butts as they go down the stairs to ask people to shove over so they can sit on the aisle.
Today there was a full house. That meant that a lady who thought she was very special plopped herself right down smack dab on the top step. And sat there. Filming with her cell phone. If Mr. Principal had been there, he would have put a stop to that fire hazard forthwith.
Next to me, on my right, was a woman with two daughters who stood RIGHT NEXT TO ME. In my personal space. I would have been hard-pressed to fit a piece of onionskin paper between us. I don't fault the kids. They don't know any better. That woman should have made them move away from the stair opening and my breathing air.
Then there were the folks behind me who were having a family reunion. I think they were the Louds. And the kids running back and forth like the area was a playground without supervision. And that bawling baby right behind my ear.
Getting there early just doesn't pay the way it used to.
You know how you go places early to get a good seat, get things all scoped out, settle in...and folks show up five minutes after the starting time, asking you to shuffle over so they can sit on the aisle? Yeah. That didn't happen to the Hillbilly family. Only to the people in front of us, in the bleachers. We, you see, carry chairs from the cafeteria and set them up on the mezzanine, that slick concrete slab area on the other side of the bleacher railings. They're good seats, really. As long as you don't mind watching the festivities from behind brown metal rods somewhat like prison bars.
There's a trick to it. You have to get just close enough so that other usurpers don't walk between you and the railing, and stand there like so many vultures perched and waiting for somebody to close his eyes. I always carry my chair in first, and pick the prime spot, to the left of the stair walkway. I don't have to peer through prison bars. I do, however, get blocked by various and assorted wide butts as they go down the stairs to ask people to shove over so they can sit on the aisle.
Today there was a full house. That meant that a lady who thought she was very special plopped herself right down smack dab on the top step. And sat there. Filming with her cell phone. If Mr. Principal had been there, he would have put a stop to that fire hazard forthwith.
Next to me, on my right, was a woman with two daughters who stood RIGHT NEXT TO ME. In my personal space. I would have been hard-pressed to fit a piece of onionskin paper between us. I don't fault the kids. They don't know any better. That woman should have made them move away from the stair opening and my breathing air.
Then there were the folks behind me who were having a family reunion. I think they were the Louds. And the kids running back and forth like the area was a playground without supervision. And that bawling baby right behind my ear.
Getting there early just doesn't pay the way it used to.
Saturday, May 4, 2013
Not Fit For Mom Nor Pony
The Pony marched in the Newmentia carnival parade this afternoon. Instead of the regular band uniforms, the band always dresses in khaki shorts and white shirts for this event. The temperature was 37 degrees when we left. It hovered in the low forties during marching time. The Pony refused to wear a sweatshirt.
Some years, we sit along that parade route hotter than a pepper sprout. This year, we stayed in T-Hoe with the windows up, draped with jackets on backwards. Folks ignored the students trying to earn money selling sodas, and walked down the street to the little store to buy large coffees. There was also room left to sit along the sidewalk beside the church at the town square, a rarity. And hardly any little kids let go of balloons and cried as they drifted into the wild blue yonder. The band was supposed to wear sunglasses. I only saw two marchers sporting them. It was, after all, overcast.
When The Pony returned from his mile-long forced march, he turned on his seat heater and sat on his hands. He announced that his legs did not get cold, but that his hands almost fused to his trombone.
Sunday is the spring concert. At least the gym will be heated, if only to 68 degrees. The Pony says he is supposed to bring extra clothes. Not for warmth. To cover himself after he turns in his band uniform.
Two more weeks, and his freshman year is history.
Some years, we sit along that parade route hotter than a pepper sprout. This year, we stayed in T-Hoe with the windows up, draped with jackets on backwards. Folks ignored the students trying to earn money selling sodas, and walked down the street to the little store to buy large coffees. There was also room left to sit along the sidewalk beside the church at the town square, a rarity. And hardly any little kids let go of balloons and cried as they drifted into the wild blue yonder. The band was supposed to wear sunglasses. I only saw two marchers sporting them. It was, after all, overcast.
When The Pony returned from his mile-long forced march, he turned on his seat heater and sat on his hands. He announced that his legs did not get cold, but that his hands almost fused to his trombone.
Sunday is the spring concert. At least the gym will be heated, if only to 68 degrees. The Pony says he is supposed to bring extra clothes. Not for warmth. To cover himself after he turns in his band uniform.
Two more weeks, and his freshman year is history.
Friday, May 3, 2013
Sharing Without Caring
Farmer H is the gift that keeps on giving. He has been complaining all week about a cough. Yesterday I had a pounding headache, last night I coughed up phlegm by the bucketload, and this morning I had wheezing and ear pain.
Funny how it's the ear that faces the ceiling while the other is safely ensconced in my bed pillow. The ceiling ear is at the mercy of Farmer H's breather. I know it was spewing in my direction, because when I went to bed, I laid down on a living arm. Quite uncomfortable for Mrs. Hillbilly Mom. And apparently for the arm, because Farmer H commenced to snarling, and jerked it back out of the trap of my two pillows that had so recently held it captive. Seriously. Stay off my side of the bed, and out of my pillows if you value your arm health.
I could picture those tendrils of breather breath, coiling together into one snaky plume, doing a little cobra dance before walking like an Egyptian through the dark bedroom air and threading itself into my ear canal.
Farmer H declares that I must be crazy. HE is not Typhoid Mary. Even though the sickness has been circulating at his place of employment. I probably caught this bug at school. Because, you know, students breathe virusy breaths into my ear all the live-long day, sharing BFF secrets, I and my 100 confidantes.
My throat is now lit up like a west-coast wildfire.
Funny how it's the ear that faces the ceiling while the other is safely ensconced in my bed pillow. The ceiling ear is at the mercy of Farmer H's breather. I know it was spewing in my direction, because when I went to bed, I laid down on a living arm. Quite uncomfortable for Mrs. Hillbilly Mom. And apparently for the arm, because Farmer H commenced to snarling, and jerked it back out of the trap of my two pillows that had so recently held it captive. Seriously. Stay off my side of the bed, and out of my pillows if you value your arm health.
I could picture those tendrils of breather breath, coiling together into one snaky plume, doing a little cobra dance before walking like an Egyptian through the dark bedroom air and threading itself into my ear canal.
Farmer H declares that I must be crazy. HE is not Typhoid Mary. Even though the sickness has been circulating at his place of employment. I probably caught this bug at school. Because, you know, students breathe virusy breaths into my ear all the live-long day, sharing BFF secrets, I and my 100 confidantes.
My throat is now lit up like a west-coast wildfire.
Thursday, May 2, 2013
I Hope It At Least Had A Pedicure
It's virtually the end of the school year, you know. So it behooves one to refrain from eating the cafeteria offerings. Cook's choice, they're called, these end-of-days meals.
I had the system beat today, what with leftovers from last night's academic banquet being proffered to the faculty like a carrot on a stick dangled in front of a balky mule. Rumor had it that the remains were being warmed by the assistant of officed personnel. I say rumor, even though a fellow faculty told me from the horse's mouth that the fare would be heated. After all, we can't leave our students. We are doing more than sitting behind a desk waiting for someone to walk in or ring us on the phone. It was a nice gesture from folks eating the remains of our $10 a plate meal for free.
When 10:53 rolled around, we found the food lined up on the counter of the teacher workroom. Ice cold. Have you ever seen nine teachers trying to warm nine plates in the microwave and eat within a twenty-three-minute interval? Me neither. I loaded a plate and headed for the cafeteria. It was catered BBQ. I eat cold BBQ at home. So I figured that as long as I only took chicken, pulled pork, and cherry pie, my meal would be palatable. It was good last night. I assumed it would be good this afternoon. I mean mid-morning.
As with so many things we assume, my bargain feast made a mockery of my prediction. The taste was palatable. I even added sauce from the squirt bottles left behind by the man in the T-shirt with cut-out sleeves and large tattoos. The fact that he looked more like an '80s hair-band roadie retrieving the sterno cans last night than restaurant catering staff did nothing to deter my taste buds.
Texture was the issue. I swear I ate a piece of pig hoof. The piece of cartilaginous material that I withdrew from my mouth in full view of a cafeteria full of students certainly looked like hoof. So the piece that passed over my lips and past my gums without so much as a "Look out, tummy, here it comes," was most likely the same thing.
I tossed the pie. The crust was charred, and the cherries tasted like all the sugar had been removed for my own good, and grapefruit juice injected for its fat-burning properties.
The cafeteria meal was BBQ chicken. Shredded. On a bun. Warm.
Who's foolin' who?
I had the system beat today, what with leftovers from last night's academic banquet being proffered to the faculty like a carrot on a stick dangled in front of a balky mule. Rumor had it that the remains were being warmed by the assistant of officed personnel. I say rumor, even though a fellow faculty told me from the horse's mouth that the fare would be heated. After all, we can't leave our students. We are doing more than sitting behind a desk waiting for someone to walk in or ring us on the phone. It was a nice gesture from folks eating the remains of our $10 a plate meal for free.
When 10:53 rolled around, we found the food lined up on the counter of the teacher workroom. Ice cold. Have you ever seen nine teachers trying to warm nine plates in the microwave and eat within a twenty-three-minute interval? Me neither. I loaded a plate and headed for the cafeteria. It was catered BBQ. I eat cold BBQ at home. So I figured that as long as I only took chicken, pulled pork, and cherry pie, my meal would be palatable. It was good last night. I assumed it would be good this afternoon. I mean mid-morning.
As with so many things we assume, my bargain feast made a mockery of my prediction. The taste was palatable. I even added sauce from the squirt bottles left behind by the man in the T-shirt with cut-out sleeves and large tattoos. The fact that he looked more like an '80s hair-band roadie retrieving the sterno cans last night than restaurant catering staff did nothing to deter my taste buds.
Texture was the issue. I swear I ate a piece of pig hoof. The piece of cartilaginous material that I withdrew from my mouth in full view of a cafeteria full of students certainly looked like hoof. So the piece that passed over my lips and past my gums without so much as a "Look out, tummy, here it comes," was most likely the same thing.
I tossed the pie. The crust was charred, and the cherries tasted like all the sugar had been removed for my own good, and grapefruit juice injected for its fat-burning properties.
The cafeteria meal was BBQ chicken. Shredded. On a bun. Warm.
Who's foolin' who?
Wednesday, May 1, 2013
This Is What Teachers Look Forward To
I'm down to a dozen days of school remaining. Not a freaky baker's dozen, from a dough-kneader who can't count on his fingers and big toes. A regular dozen. One-twelfth of a gross.
Two days of duty remain. And a rush of testing, book-collecting, paper penny bridges, straw towers, egg-drop contests, inventory, room-cleaning, the stowing of valuables, awards assemblies, incentive days, honors banquets, cooks' choice lunch menus, graduation ceremonies, and any other duties as needed that may not be enumerated in my contract.
It's the best time of the school year!
Two days of duty remain. And a rush of testing, book-collecting, paper penny bridges, straw towers, egg-drop contests, inventory, room-cleaning, the stowing of valuables, awards assemblies, incentive days, honors banquets, cooks' choice lunch menus, graduation ceremonies, and any other duties as needed that may not be enumerated in my contract.
It's the best time of the school year!
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