We got home late tonight because we attended the homecoming basketball game. There were not many people there for it to be homecoming.
Newmentia won both games, of course. Weren't you listening? It was homecoming! You always schedule your weakest opponent for homecoming. Which is why it's an insult when we go to an away game and find out it's their homecoming.
Friday, January 7, 2011
Thursday, January 6, 2011
The Doorifice Mocks Me
Today started with the great lockout of Mrs. Hillbilly Mom.
Upon arriving at Newmentia, I put my key into the lock of my classroom door, and discovered that it would turn neither clockwise nor counterclockwise. The key slid in completely, but refused to rotate. The key that I have used for the last ten years.
I did what any other idiot would have done, and pulled out the key and stared at it. Students strolled by, flaunting their unruliness, since everybody knows that students belong in the cafeteria or gym until first bell. Nobody dared question my breaking-and-entering technique.
When my visual assault on that key did not work, I focused my anger on the lock. I slid in the key, then shook it. Shook it like a beagle pup shakes a stuffed red devil that appears on the Mansion porch in the night. That lock still would not give it up.
Drastic measures were called for. So I left the key in the lock, and wrenched that door-handle lever up and down, scrinching and scrunching its innards like the joint mice behind my kneecaps every time I sit or stand. That was futile.
I rested for a minute. All that exertion made me feel like the little spoiled gal last night on MTV's I Used To Be Fat. The one who got the army veteran for a trainer, and cried every time he wanted her to take a step. Especially when he tied that tire-on-a-rope to her waist and told her to run up that little hill. But I digress...
I tromped down the hall to Mr. Principal's office, thankfully without a tire trailing behind me on a rope, because I had no tears left, what with shedding them in a fit of poor me while sitting in T-Hoe in the driveway this morning waiting for #1 to drag himself out of my daily nightmare and into the car. Mr. Principal said that sometimes the locks go crazy. After taking a couple of phone calls (because why would a teacher need to get into her room, anyway, before the tardy bell) he brought his marvelous master key and slid it right into my doorifice. He pushed that door handle smoothly south, like butter, and pulled open the door. VOILA! He couldn't have done it better in a cape and top hat. Then Mr. Principal said that my key would probably work now, after the application of his magic touch, and IT DID!
I hope that little repair lasts for the next ten year.
Upon arriving at Newmentia, I put my key into the lock of my classroom door, and discovered that it would turn neither clockwise nor counterclockwise. The key slid in completely, but refused to rotate. The key that I have used for the last ten years.
I did what any other idiot would have done, and pulled out the key and stared at it. Students strolled by, flaunting their unruliness, since everybody knows that students belong in the cafeteria or gym until first bell. Nobody dared question my breaking-and-entering technique.
When my visual assault on that key did not work, I focused my anger on the lock. I slid in the key, then shook it. Shook it like a beagle pup shakes a stuffed red devil that appears on the Mansion porch in the night. That lock still would not give it up.
Drastic measures were called for. So I left the key in the lock, and wrenched that door-handle lever up and down, scrinching and scrunching its innards like the joint mice behind my kneecaps every time I sit or stand. That was futile.
I rested for a minute. All that exertion made me feel like the little spoiled gal last night on MTV's I Used To Be Fat. The one who got the army veteran for a trainer, and cried every time he wanted her to take a step. Especially when he tied that tire-on-a-rope to her waist and told her to run up that little hill. But I digress...
I tromped down the hall to Mr. Principal's office, thankfully without a tire trailing behind me on a rope, because I had no tears left, what with shedding them in a fit of poor me while sitting in T-Hoe in the driveway this morning waiting for #1 to drag himself out of my daily nightmare and into the car. Mr. Principal said that sometimes the locks go crazy. After taking a couple of phone calls (because why would a teacher need to get into her room, anyway, before the tardy bell) he brought his marvelous master key and slid it right into my doorifice. He pushed that door handle smoothly south, like butter, and pulled open the door. VOILA! He couldn't have done it better in a cape and top hat. Then Mr. Principal said that my key would probably work now, after the application of his magic touch, and IT DID!
I hope that little repair lasts for the next ten year.
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
Seriously.
Nothing happened to boil my blood today. Ms Mabel popped her head in to inquire about my epidermal garage-nail crater. But she wouldn't look.
The copier was broken before my lunch shift. Have I mentioned that lunch starts at 10:53 a.m.? I'm not pointing fingers, but Arch Nemesis reported the malfunction. I'm not sure if copiers follow the rule of he who smelt it dealt it, aka first smeller's the feller. But it seems mighty suspicious that I saw her using it right before first bell, and it was broken by 2nd Hour.
With the TWO copiers in the teacher workroom being out of commission, I was left to glom onto the secretary's sacred copier in the Newmentia office. And wouldn't you know it, after 25 of a 75-page run, the darn thing jammed up. She fixed it for me, but it jammed twice more. I felt very ashamed. As well as miffed.
This is no way to run a business, people! Schools are places that kind of run on copies. You'd think we could have ONE working copier in our building. Wouldn't you?
I feel the temperature of my hemoglobin heating up.
The copier was broken before my lunch shift. Have I mentioned that lunch starts at 10:53 a.m.? I'm not pointing fingers, but Arch Nemesis reported the malfunction. I'm not sure if copiers follow the rule of he who smelt it dealt it, aka first smeller's the feller. But it seems mighty suspicious that I saw her using it right before first bell, and it was broken by 2nd Hour.
With the TWO copiers in the teacher workroom being out of commission, I was left to glom onto the secretary's sacred copier in the Newmentia office. And wouldn't you know it, after 25 of a 75-page run, the darn thing jammed up. She fixed it for me, but it jammed twice more. I felt very ashamed. As well as miffed.
This is no way to run a business, people! Schools are places that kind of run on copies. You'd think we could have ONE working copier in our building. Wouldn't you?
I feel the temperature of my hemoglobin heating up.
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
The Ebbing Of The Crimson Tide
Well, well. It's off to work again tomorrow, days culminating at 5:00 p.m. after the #1 son works on his school robot, and a smattering of Pony afterschool academia as his team gears up for competitions.
I'm tired already.
Let's get back to my mostest favoritest subject of all, that being ME! With no new bugs up my butt, due to limited interactions with the world over these Christmas holidays, I'll finish up my bloodletting tale.
When that garage-wall nail forced itself deep into the cushy flesh of Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's left forearm, and subsequently withdrew spongy matter in the shape of a small melon ball, the blood loss was not as copious as might be expected. Sure, there was leakage of HM's bubbling burgundy life fluid. But there was no fountain like that of Jed Clampett's bubbling crude. No gush and spray like that time a nurse stabbed a needle into Mrs. HM's arm vein in an attempt to gather evidence of gallbladder malfunction due to stones clogging the bile ducts. (And might I add that Jackson Pollock had nothing on Mrs. HM, her red-on-white splatter making a masterpiece of that nurse's shoes, slacks, and shirt.) No, this time the life fluid of one Mrs. Hillbilly Mom did not spurt out of her vein in a manner that won her many a Secretariat victory in competition with lesser bloodgivers on either side of her at previous Red Cross Blood Drives. Sorry. It is so unlike HM to brag.
The point being that either Mrs. HM's blood pressure meds are doing an admirable job of reining in the pulsating life force's force, or else Mrs. HM was dehydrated and in need of fluids such as a Sonic Diet Coke with Lime. Don't you go worrying about all that caffeine dehydrating HM even further. She adds ice over the course of the afternoon and evening, ice which melts into water, which defrays the diuretic cost of caffeine in her bloodstream.
Three band-aid and triple-antibiotic-ointment changes later, the flesh crater is still tender to the touch, but showing no signs of sepsis such as streaking red lines that might emanate from a fat red pinky finger. Mrs. HM pronounces herself on the mend, and promises to abstain from further bloodletting talk in the future.
Until tomorrow, at least, in case some incident would occur that causes her blood to boil.
I'm tired already.
Let's get back to my mostest favoritest subject of all, that being ME! With no new bugs up my butt, due to limited interactions with the world over these Christmas holidays, I'll finish up my bloodletting tale.
When that garage-wall nail forced itself deep into the cushy flesh of Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's left forearm, and subsequently withdrew spongy matter in the shape of a small melon ball, the blood loss was not as copious as might be expected. Sure, there was leakage of HM's bubbling burgundy life fluid. But there was no fountain like that of Jed Clampett's bubbling crude. No gush and spray like that time a nurse stabbed a needle into Mrs. HM's arm vein in an attempt to gather evidence of gallbladder malfunction due to stones clogging the bile ducts. (And might I add that Jackson Pollock had nothing on Mrs. HM, her red-on-white splatter making a masterpiece of that nurse's shoes, slacks, and shirt.) No, this time the life fluid of one Mrs. Hillbilly Mom did not spurt out of her vein in a manner that won her many a Secretariat victory in competition with lesser bloodgivers on either side of her at previous Red Cross Blood Drives. Sorry. It is so unlike HM to brag.
The point being that either Mrs. HM's blood pressure meds are doing an admirable job of reining in the pulsating life force's force, or else Mrs. HM was dehydrated and in need of fluids such as a Sonic Diet Coke with Lime. Don't you go worrying about all that caffeine dehydrating HM even further. She adds ice over the course of the afternoon and evening, ice which melts into water, which defrays the diuretic cost of caffeine in her bloodstream.
Three band-aid and triple-antibiotic-ointment changes later, the flesh crater is still tender to the touch, but showing no signs of sepsis such as streaking red lines that might emanate from a fat red pinky finger. Mrs. HM pronounces herself on the mend, and promises to abstain from further bloodletting talk in the future.
Until tomorrow, at least, in case some incident would occur that causes her blood to boil.
Monday, January 3, 2011
It's Official
It's official. On day three of the new year, I have managed to incur my first injury.
A personal note to my teaching buddy, Mabel: you may want to make sure you are sitting down, ready to put your head between your knees, with fresh smelling-salts at the ready. Some leakage of the red body fluid is involved.
Mabel is OK with extra fluids being added to the body, like with a shot or an IV. But not so much with regular body fluids being siphoned away by means fair or foul. At least it isn't her very own red body fluid escaping the confines of her very own skin.
The boys and I made a trip around the county today. The Pony and I got haircuts, we paid the Mansion payment and fed two savings accounts, picked up lunch, dropped off some items to my mom, and hoofed it back to Hillmomba.
The Pony was the first out of T-Hoe. He is the keymaster, and gets the door unlocked for us. Also a useful beast of burden, The Pony carries in one load of junk, and comes back to the garage for more. The #1 son usually requires prodding and poking to wake up and move his nap into the Mansion. I grabbed my purse and my soda, just the essentials, really, as #1 was rummaging around for assorted detritus that he had packed for the two-and-a-half-hour tour.
I suppose it goes without saying that Architect H modified our Mansion plans and flipped the angle of the garage, and custom-sized it. Which means that we have a garage that just barely accommodates T-Hoe, and either the Pacifica or the $1000 Caravan (upon which Short-Sighted H just mounted $282 worth of studded snow tires). Pardon me. There is just something inherently wrong with spending over 25% of your car's value on tires that will be used for three months of the year. It's not like we're living in Sarah Palin's Alaska.
Upon exiting T-Hoe, soda in hand, purse on my arm, I stepped back to have room to close the driver's door. Then I proceeded to walk between T-Hoe and the garage wall to get out the door to leading to the porch and Mansion. I turned my head to make sure that #1 was getting out of T-Hoe. And it happened.
I snagged my left forearm on a nail that jutted approximately two inches out of a 2 x 4 stud on the garage wall. It was one of 18 such nails protruding from the inner wall, nails which act as hanging racks for an assortment of fishing poles. I suppose I'm fortunate that my flesh did not catch a fish hook. Thank the Gummi Mary that we don't live in Sarah Palin's Alaska.
Upon hearing my scream of horror, #1 glanced and looked away. In fact, he ran away, in a walking manner, to the driveway to look at the Christmas decorations that he was supposed to dismantle. The Pony returned for his extra load, saw the blood bubbling from my arm, and gasped in sympathy. "I'll go get you a band-aid!" #1 shouted at him to help with the undecorating, but I excused Pony momentarily.
The wound is on the opposite arm from the scar I garnered by ripping my tender ten-year-old epidermis on a barbed-wire fence while trying to pet a stranger's pony off the bank of a creek in my childhood neighborhood. It is south of the fingertip where I plunged a razor blade 5 mm deep while trying to saw the foreleg off a plastic horse when I was eleven. Don't ask. It is further south of a scar at the base of my thumb left by a small paring knife after a cassette-tape-package-removal incident on the parking lot of Battlefield Mall during my college years, a wound which illustrated what my anatomy books had been showing me about how cartilage is smooth and white, while fat is yellow and lumpy. The new gouge is north of the scar formed from road rash after I totaled my Chevy Chevette after my first year of teaching, carelessly flopping my arm out the open window to scrape the blacktop of Missouri Highway 8 on the first of three rolls of that little tin car before it landed driver's door down in a ditch.
The gaping hole in my left forearm is the size of a nail head. The flesh is gouged out and hangs beside the bubbling cavity. My nerves have not been damaged, as I feel pain upon placing the injury under cool, running water. A dab of triple antibiotic ointment and a band-aid later, I no longer leave a trail that can be followed by one of those Twilight freaks.
I'm hoping my tetanus shot was in the last ten years. You know, the tetanus shot I had to leave school to get on a Monday morning after I was bitten by a chipmunk on a Sunday afternoon. I'm sure I told that story once upon a time between now and 2005 when I started my first blog. I'm thinking the chipmunk attack was in 2000 or 2001, because we had already moved our high school into Newmentia, but it was in the carefree days before 9/11, and it was during football season.
As long as I learn how to shoot a bear, I'm thinking that Sarah Palin's Alaska might be safer than Hillmomba.
A personal note to my teaching buddy, Mabel: you may want to make sure you are sitting down, ready to put your head between your knees, with fresh smelling-salts at the ready. Some leakage of the red body fluid is involved.
Mabel is OK with extra fluids being added to the body, like with a shot or an IV. But not so much with regular body fluids being siphoned away by means fair or foul. At least it isn't her very own red body fluid escaping the confines of her very own skin.
The boys and I made a trip around the county today. The Pony and I got haircuts, we paid the Mansion payment and fed two savings accounts, picked up lunch, dropped off some items to my mom, and hoofed it back to Hillmomba.
The Pony was the first out of T-Hoe. He is the keymaster, and gets the door unlocked for us. Also a useful beast of burden, The Pony carries in one load of junk, and comes back to the garage for more. The #1 son usually requires prodding and poking to wake up and move his nap into the Mansion. I grabbed my purse and my soda, just the essentials, really, as #1 was rummaging around for assorted detritus that he had packed for the two-and-a-half-hour tour.
I suppose it goes without saying that Architect H modified our Mansion plans and flipped the angle of the garage, and custom-sized it. Which means that we have a garage that just barely accommodates T-Hoe, and either the Pacifica or the $1000 Caravan (upon which Short-Sighted H just mounted $282 worth of studded snow tires). Pardon me. There is just something inherently wrong with spending over 25% of your car's value on tires that will be used for three months of the year. It's not like we're living in Sarah Palin's Alaska.
Upon exiting T-Hoe, soda in hand, purse on my arm, I stepped back to have room to close the driver's door. Then I proceeded to walk between T-Hoe and the garage wall to get out the door to leading to the porch and Mansion. I turned my head to make sure that #1 was getting out of T-Hoe. And it happened.
I snagged my left forearm on a nail that jutted approximately two inches out of a 2 x 4 stud on the garage wall. It was one of 18 such nails protruding from the inner wall, nails which act as hanging racks for an assortment of fishing poles. I suppose I'm fortunate that my flesh did not catch a fish hook. Thank the Gummi Mary that we don't live in Sarah Palin's Alaska.
Upon hearing my scream of horror, #1 glanced and looked away. In fact, he ran away, in a walking manner, to the driveway to look at the Christmas decorations that he was supposed to dismantle. The Pony returned for his extra load, saw the blood bubbling from my arm, and gasped in sympathy. "I'll go get you a band-aid!" #1 shouted at him to help with the undecorating, but I excused Pony momentarily.
The wound is on the opposite arm from the scar I garnered by ripping my tender ten-year-old epidermis on a barbed-wire fence while trying to pet a stranger's pony off the bank of a creek in my childhood neighborhood. It is south of the fingertip where I plunged a razor blade 5 mm deep while trying to saw the foreleg off a plastic horse when I was eleven. Don't ask. It is further south of a scar at the base of my thumb left by a small paring knife after a cassette-tape-package-removal incident on the parking lot of Battlefield Mall during my college years, a wound which illustrated what my anatomy books had been showing me about how cartilage is smooth and white, while fat is yellow and lumpy. The new gouge is north of the scar formed from road rash after I totaled my Chevy Chevette after my first year of teaching, carelessly flopping my arm out the open window to scrape the blacktop of Missouri Highway 8 on the first of three rolls of that little tin car before it landed driver's door down in a ditch.
The gaping hole in my left forearm is the size of a nail head. The flesh is gouged out and hangs beside the bubbling cavity. My nerves have not been damaged, as I feel pain upon placing the injury under cool, running water. A dab of triple antibiotic ointment and a band-aid later, I no longer leave a trail that can be followed by one of those Twilight freaks.
I'm hoping my tetanus shot was in the last ten years. You know, the tetanus shot I had to leave school to get on a Monday morning after I was bitten by a chipmunk on a Sunday afternoon. I'm sure I told that story once upon a time between now and 2005 when I started my first blog. I'm thinking the chipmunk attack was in 2000 or 2001, because we had already moved our high school into Newmentia, but it was in the carefree days before 9/11, and it was during football season.
As long as I learn how to shoot a bear, I'm thinking that Sarah Palin's Alaska might be safer than Hillmomba.
Sunday, January 2, 2011
Come Back
Is anybody else already missing the Discovery Health channel? Where are my Hoarders?
I am not down with Oprah 24/7.
I am not down with Oprah 24/7.
Saturday, January 1, 2011
New Skillz
The #1 son's newly-licensed driving skills were put to good use today. He brought me a Sonic Route 44 Diet Coke With Lime.
I DID have to ask for it, however.
I DID have to ask for it, however.
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