I've had my fill of gaping maws today.
Two girls brought their science project to class, in order to use their cohorts as experimental subjects. The task involved sampling chocolate chip cookies made the normal way, with sugar, and another batch made with Splenda. I must say, both were quite tasty. My compliments were extended to the chefs. Their fare was much better than the hardtack crackers masquerading as Snickerdoodles last week. However, the subjects turned into bottomless pits, clamoring for more, more, more cookies, as if they were entitled. Faced with a virtual mob bearing virtual torches, the girls acquiesced. You'd think these kids never eat. But their lunch debts tell a different story.
Both the #1 son and The Pony were off to a district Math Contest today, necessitating $12 apiece for food. Not that it costs that much. They just pretend it does. The Pony had a 6-inch Subway sandwich, and THREE chocolate chip cookies. He returned $4 and change. I have yet to see a refund from #1. You'd think I never feed them at home. Why can't they just go to school and eat science projects all day? (Horn-tooting interlude: #1 won the 10th grade division, and The Pony took second in 7th grade.)
I went to run 25 one-sided copies before lunch, and was faced with a starving copy machine. I semi-filled his gaping maw with a mere 500 sheets. I'm sulking. Friday, I fed him 1000 sheets. Twice. My mama did not raise me to be Robert Irvine, serving up Dinner: Impossible to a gluttonous Kyocera.
The cafeteria proffered a new entree, which surprisingly enough was not made of chicken. Mark the calendar. I observed the ratio of regular sub sandwiches to meatball sandwiches. It appeared to be 15:1. There seems to be a student/cook trust issue. Of the kids who partook of the saucy balls, most part-took them right back to the tray window. I don't think one meatball sandwich was consumed in its entirety. Something is rotten in Newmentia when kids eat a sandwich with a plastic fork. Who do they think they are, Mr. Pitt eating a Snickers bar?
After such a relaxing day at school, I sat down to watch Pretty Little Liars, and was confronted with the gaping maw of a giant clown head. I'm not sure what festival those Liars were attending, but it's the stuff nightmares are made of. No lie.
Monday, March 14, 2011
Sunday, March 13, 2011
The Great Sardine Conspiracy
What is going on with sardines? Can I not pop open a can of little fish in mustard sauce anymore, without being faced with fish?
I know that sardines are not a popular treat for many of my midwestern cohorts. In fact, I am usually greeted with a chorus of UGHs when I mention my salty scaled friends. Hoity Toity H, for instance, wrinkles his nose in disgust, and tells the tale of Jim, his former workmate, who ate them for lunch every day with a pack of crackers. "All afternoon, I could smell them on his breath. It almost made me sick to my stomach." Which makes me wonder why HTH was close enough to Jim to smell his breath all afternoon. It's not like they were digging a tunnel under Stalag 17. Or manning a space shuttle mission. Or rehearsing for Dancing with the Stars. Or performing endoscopies on each other's upper digestive tract. They repaired broken sawblade-manufacturing machines in a factory. Perhaps Jim was a close-talker.
Unlike Jim, I prefer a nice plain bagel, or perhaps a honey-wheat Hawaiian roll with my sardines. Just to sop up the mustardy goodness. Not for me those tomato sauce sardines. That's just crazy. Who wants red sauce on their fish? Unless it's cocktail sauce on shrimp. Now that's perfectly understandable.
My issue with the current crop of sardines has been ongoing for the past couple of years. It all started when I peeled back the lid and saw...fish. I was expecting four svelte little minnow bodies, tails attached at times, spooning in a mustard bath. But what I found was two husky torsos, two inches wide, hefty specimens of my formerly delicate fingerlings. I call shenanigans!
Where are my sweet, petite sardines? Do the trawlers have to use nets with bigger holes in order to save some obscure species of sea-kitten? Is PETA behind this conspiracy? Is Andrew Zimmern on the loose in the North Atlantic? If I wanted to eat fish, I'd eat fish. Not sardines. The unfortunate transformation of my healthy repast of calcium and Omega 3 fatty acids has given me pause. While I used to enjoy an occasional crunch as I bit through the tiny bones of my unwitting grub, I do not relish chomping on the unwieldy T. rex-sized vertebrae of the new sardines.
Maybe it's the brand. I've always landed my delicious nondangerous catch at Save A Lot. Could they have switched suppliers? Would I have better luck at The Devil's Playground? The Devil might have the cans with the little key to roll back the top. That takes me back to my childhood sardine-slurping days.
I'll have to investigate further. Perhaps an expose' is in order.
I know that sardines are not a popular treat for many of my midwestern cohorts. In fact, I am usually greeted with a chorus of UGHs when I mention my salty scaled friends. Hoity Toity H, for instance, wrinkles his nose in disgust, and tells the tale of Jim, his former workmate, who ate them for lunch every day with a pack of crackers. "All afternoon, I could smell them on his breath. It almost made me sick to my stomach." Which makes me wonder why HTH was close enough to Jim to smell his breath all afternoon. It's not like they were digging a tunnel under Stalag 17. Or manning a space shuttle mission. Or rehearsing for Dancing with the Stars. Or performing endoscopies on each other's upper digestive tract. They repaired broken sawblade-manufacturing machines in a factory. Perhaps Jim was a close-talker.
Unlike Jim, I prefer a nice plain bagel, or perhaps a honey-wheat Hawaiian roll with my sardines. Just to sop up the mustardy goodness. Not for me those tomato sauce sardines. That's just crazy. Who wants red sauce on their fish? Unless it's cocktail sauce on shrimp. Now that's perfectly understandable.
My issue with the current crop of sardines has been ongoing for the past couple of years. It all started when I peeled back the lid and saw...fish. I was expecting four svelte little minnow bodies, tails attached at times, spooning in a mustard bath. But what I found was two husky torsos, two inches wide, hefty specimens of my formerly delicate fingerlings. I call shenanigans!
Where are my sweet, petite sardines? Do the trawlers have to use nets with bigger holes in order to save some obscure species of sea-kitten? Is PETA behind this conspiracy? Is Andrew Zimmern on the loose in the North Atlantic? If I wanted to eat fish, I'd eat fish. Not sardines. The unfortunate transformation of my healthy repast of calcium and Omega 3 fatty acids has given me pause. While I used to enjoy an occasional crunch as I bit through the tiny bones of my unwitting grub, I do not relish chomping on the unwieldy T. rex-sized vertebrae of the new sardines.
Maybe it's the brand. I've always landed my delicious nondangerous catch at Save A Lot. Could they have switched suppliers? Would I have better luck at The Devil's Playground? The Devil might have the cans with the little key to roll back the top. That takes me back to my childhood sardine-slurping days.
I'll have to investigate further. Perhaps an expose' is in order.
Saturday, March 12, 2011
What's The Buzz?
Time to toot the old horn (but not a vuvuzela, thank the Gummi Mary) over my spawn's accomplishments.
The #1 son returned from his district W.Y.S.E. competition yesterday afternoon, clinking with medals. He won 1st place in both English and Math. He and four other members of his team are off to the state finals on April 12. Newmentia only competes with juniors and seniors on their W.Y.S.E. team. However, because one member was out of town for a crucial competition, #1, a lowly sophomore, was chosen to replace her. Nobody's complaining.
I told #1 that Coattail Rider H would probably want to put a story in his company newsletter about his accomplishments. What's a company newsletter for, if not to brag about family achievements? Nobody wants to read about 157 days without an accident. #1 agreed that Coattail Rider H would be ecstatic. After all, he's the one who bragged at the family reunion that his boy had an IQ of almost 100. Sigh. Like thinking of Vern digging under the porch for his forgotten jar of pennies in Stand By Me...you don't know whether to laugh or cry. #1 said, "I wouldn't be surprised of Dad wants to take my medals to work so everybody can feel them."
The Pony spent today at the conference Academic Team Tournament. Eleven teams, one winner. Which was not Basementia. However, they took 2nd place, only losing to the 1st place team by three points. Not too shabby, as Basementia entered the tournament with a record of 8-2, seeded third.
As for Charlie Brown H...a trip to the optometrist this week for new glasses, which he hasn't had since 2005, gave him a glimpse into my world. The household money-manager world. A pair of regular glasses, and a pair of prescription safety glasses set him back $600. Living In The Past H was shocked that such a price was after insurance.
Because we are the Even Steven family, a check arrived in the mail yesterday. At first I thought it was junk mail, because I didn't recognize the return address. Just to be on the safe side, I opened it. I always open Head In The Sand H's mail. He lets it pile up, then surreptitiously shoves it into my pile of bills so I open it. Imagine my surprise to find a check for the sale of very old stock in Jack Of All Trades H's very old workplace to the tune of $504.68.
I told Money Grows On Trees H that it would almost pay for his glasses. He was having none of that, having been eagerly awaiting this check so he could buy a bed. An iron-frame bed that he built a very special room onto his creekside MiniMansion to accommodate. He was afraid that he had thrown away his check last week without opening it.
This afternoon, Happy As A Clam H set out to buy his bed. And found out that it was sold yesterday. But don't you worry about H. He knows if he loses one iron-frame bed, another one will turn up. Steven will provide for him.
The #1 son returned from his district W.Y.S.E. competition yesterday afternoon, clinking with medals. He won 1st place in both English and Math. He and four other members of his team are off to the state finals on April 12. Newmentia only competes with juniors and seniors on their W.Y.S.E. team. However, because one member was out of town for a crucial competition, #1, a lowly sophomore, was chosen to replace her. Nobody's complaining.
I told #1 that Coattail Rider H would probably want to put a story in his company newsletter about his accomplishments. What's a company newsletter for, if not to brag about family achievements? Nobody wants to read about 157 days without an accident. #1 agreed that Coattail Rider H would be ecstatic. After all, he's the one who bragged at the family reunion that his boy had an IQ of almost 100. Sigh. Like thinking of Vern digging under the porch for his forgotten jar of pennies in Stand By Me...you don't know whether to laugh or cry. #1 said, "I wouldn't be surprised of Dad wants to take my medals to work so everybody can feel them."
The Pony spent today at the conference Academic Team Tournament. Eleven teams, one winner. Which was not Basementia. However, they took 2nd place, only losing to the 1st place team by three points. Not too shabby, as Basementia entered the tournament with a record of 8-2, seeded third.
As for Charlie Brown H...a trip to the optometrist this week for new glasses, which he hasn't had since 2005, gave him a glimpse into my world. The household money-manager world. A pair of regular glasses, and a pair of prescription safety glasses set him back $600. Living In The Past H was shocked that such a price was after insurance.
Because we are the Even Steven family, a check arrived in the mail yesterday. At first I thought it was junk mail, because I didn't recognize the return address. Just to be on the safe side, I opened it. I always open Head In The Sand H's mail. He lets it pile up, then surreptitiously shoves it into my pile of bills so I open it. Imagine my surprise to find a check for the sale of very old stock in Jack Of All Trades H's very old workplace to the tune of $504.68.
I told Money Grows On Trees H that it would almost pay for his glasses. He was having none of that, having been eagerly awaiting this check so he could buy a bed. An iron-frame bed that he built a very special room onto his creekside MiniMansion to accommodate. He was afraid that he had thrown away his check last week without opening it.
This afternoon, Happy As A Clam H set out to buy his bed. And found out that it was sold yesterday. But don't you worry about H. He knows if he loses one iron-frame bed, another one will turn up. Steven will provide for him.
Friday, March 11, 2011
Hands On The Ground
"There's a hand on the floor."
Okay. Perhaps my students aren't always sitting in their chairs, feet flat on the floor, hands folded on spotless, shiny desks, waiting to greet me with, "Hello, Mrs. Hillbilly Mom." I am not Miss Landers. No student of mine will invite me over for dinner, and grab my bare elbow with two fingers to escort me to the patio where his dad, Ward, is grilling burgers.
But neither are my students rowdy, East End toughs who taunt me into boxing them until I knock the stuffing out of one, so at the end of the year a girl named Lulu sings, "To Mrs. Hillbilly Mom, with Love." My classroom is no Blackboard Jungle. If I must leave the room for a couple of minutes, I do not return to a Lord of the Flies society.
Normally, I run a tight ship, but more cruise-like than Navy-like (though I could SO take over their old slogan of, "It's not just a job, it's an adventure.") Consequently, it was a bit disconcerting to hear, "There's a hand on the floor." Made me look. Had somebody been dismembered while I was distracted by a kid asking me to feel his butt?
It was a paper hand, cut out for somebody's science project display board. The blue hand rested under a desk, until the girl nearest it picked it up and chucked it at a boy. Ain't that the way of the world? Girls picking up hands, and chucking them at boys willy-nilly, just to get attention? I quickly put an end to the handsiness.
We then got down to the business of eating Play-Doh cookies. That's what they tasted like, anyway. And smelled like. I don't know what the ingredients were, but I'm hoping to find out next week during project presentations. Even the 'good' cookies were not very good. They looked like crackers.
We really could have used them yesterday, with the homemade over-roasted peanut butter.
Okay. Perhaps my students aren't always sitting in their chairs, feet flat on the floor, hands folded on spotless, shiny desks, waiting to greet me with, "Hello, Mrs. Hillbilly Mom." I am not Miss Landers. No student of mine will invite me over for dinner, and grab my bare elbow with two fingers to escort me to the patio where his dad, Ward, is grilling burgers.
But neither are my students rowdy, East End toughs who taunt me into boxing them until I knock the stuffing out of one, so at the end of the year a girl named Lulu sings, "To Mrs. Hillbilly Mom, with Love." My classroom is no Blackboard Jungle. If I must leave the room for a couple of minutes, I do not return to a Lord of the Flies society.
Normally, I run a tight ship, but more cruise-like than Navy-like (though I could SO take over their old slogan of, "It's not just a job, it's an adventure.") Consequently, it was a bit disconcerting to hear, "There's a hand on the floor." Made me look. Had somebody been dismembered while I was distracted by a kid asking me to feel his butt?
It was a paper hand, cut out for somebody's science project display board. The blue hand rested under a desk, until the girl nearest it picked it up and chucked it at a boy. Ain't that the way of the world? Girls picking up hands, and chucking them at boys willy-nilly, just to get attention? I quickly put an end to the handsiness.
We then got down to the business of eating Play-Doh cookies. That's what they tasted like, anyway. And smelled like. I don't know what the ingredients were, but I'm hoping to find out next week during project presentations. Even the 'good' cookies were not very good. They looked like crackers.
We really could have used them yesterday, with the homemade over-roasted peanut butter.
Thursday, March 10, 2011
Karma Bites The Hand
Karma lived up to her reputation in Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's classroom today.
During clean-up after working on science project display boards, a mischievous lass lobbed a small paperwad at an unsuspecting lad. His back was to her, and the errant lightweight missile landed on the chair, right behind his butt.
I saw the entire event unfold, because Lassie looked right at me before the launch. Sweet Gummi Mary! She might as well march through my teaching space with 76 trombones leading the big parade, and 110 cornets close at hand. Nothing says, "I'm about to break the rules." like staring at your jailer just before you remove the file from your birthday cake and begin to saw at the bars.
I told Lassie to throw away the paper. "I can't pick it up. Look at where it is!" I suggested she tell him to hand it to her. Which she did. But Laddie has a sadistic streak, and raised up, then plopped his bottom down on that paperwad and wiggled around. With that out of his system, he set the crumpled scrap on a desk for Lassie to retrieve.
"Eewww! I can't touch it now."
"Yes, you can. I'm not picking it up. You threw it. He's fully clothed, you know."
Lassie grabbed the offending object by the corner. She dropped it in the wastebasket. And proceeded to squirt enough GermX on her hands to sterilize the entire M*A*S*H operating room team.
Even Frank Burns.
During clean-up after working on science project display boards, a mischievous lass lobbed a small paperwad at an unsuspecting lad. His back was to her, and the errant lightweight missile landed on the chair, right behind his butt.
I saw the entire event unfold, because Lassie looked right at me before the launch. Sweet Gummi Mary! She might as well march through my teaching space with 76 trombones leading the big parade, and 110 cornets close at hand. Nothing says, "I'm about to break the rules." like staring at your jailer just before you remove the file from your birthday cake and begin to saw at the bars.
I told Lassie to throw away the paper. "I can't pick it up. Look at where it is!" I suggested she tell him to hand it to her. Which she did. But Laddie has a sadistic streak, and raised up, then plopped his bottom down on that paperwad and wiggled around. With that out of his system, he set the crumpled scrap on a desk for Lassie to retrieve.
"Eewww! I can't touch it now."
"Yes, you can. I'm not picking it up. You threw it. He's fully clothed, you know."
Lassie grabbed the offending object by the corner. She dropped it in the wastebasket. And proceeded to squirt enough GermX on her hands to sterilize the entire M*A*S*H operating room team.
Even Frank Burns.
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
Infant Female Lexicon
I need to rant about a personal pet peeve today. The subject irks me. The very idea of it makes me want to heave. If you are of a different opinion, get your own blog and refute me, by cracky! And now, for the unveiling of the peeve...
grown-a$$ people who refer to other grown-a$$ people with the diminutive "Baby Girl."
I can't stand that. It churns my stomach. There's something pervy about it that rankles my sensibilities.
Mrs. Hillbilly Mom decrees that in the land of Hillmomba, no person shall be referred to as "Baby Girl" unless that person is...how you say...um...I don't know...perhaps...A FEMALE PERSON UNDER THE AGE OF FOUR!
Because it's just creepy to call a girlfriend or wife "Baby Girl." Disconcerting. Disturbing. A baby girl is a baby girl. Not a sex partner. Not a wife. Don't make me mentally label you a pedophile for labeling your significant other "Baby Girl."
If you google "Baby Girl," pictures of babies come up. Not pictures of 39-year-old barmaids with tramp stamps, tongue barbells, and toe rings.
You wouldn't call a boy "Baby Girl." Because he's not a girl! So don't call a girl over four years old "Baby Girl." Because she's not a baby! See? It's relatively simple to understand.
Mrs. Hillbilly Mom. Shoring up the pillars of society one column at a time.
grown-a$$ people who refer to other grown-a$$ people with the diminutive "Baby Girl."
I can't stand that. It churns my stomach. There's something pervy about it that rankles my sensibilities.
Mrs. Hillbilly Mom decrees that in the land of Hillmomba, no person shall be referred to as "Baby Girl" unless that person is...how you say...um...I don't know...perhaps...A FEMALE PERSON UNDER THE AGE OF FOUR!
Because it's just creepy to call a girlfriend or wife "Baby Girl." Disconcerting. Disturbing. A baby girl is a baby girl. Not a sex partner. Not a wife. Don't make me mentally label you a pedophile for labeling your significant other "Baby Girl."
If you google "Baby Girl," pictures of babies come up. Not pictures of 39-year-old barmaids with tramp stamps, tongue barbells, and toe rings.
You wouldn't call a boy "Baby Girl." Because he's not a girl! So don't call a girl over four years old "Baby Girl." Because she's not a baby! See? It's relatively simple to understand.
Mrs. Hillbilly Mom. Shoring up the pillars of society one column at a time.
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
In Case Of Emergency, Here's Your Sign
Today, Arch Nemesis brought me some new emergency signs for my classroom wall. Tornado, fire, earthquake...all bases covered. As a joke one year, after a week of drills, the principal announced that we would be having a hurricane drill that afternoon. Only a couple of kids caught on. The rest were apparently in the category who told me that Canada is a state, and that Alaska is an island off the coast of southern California.
I tossed the six-page laminated signage onto my sound mixer/DVD/VCR stack, where the most urgent To-Do items go. We're having a guest from a nearby school tour Newmentia on Thursday, and everything needs to be ship-shape.
Since I had to use my plan time for running test copies and perusing new textbooks, I did not get the emergency signs taped to the wall. After school, I was busy setting out materials for tomorrow, and returning three chronometers (that's stopwatches to you lay people) to the classroom of Arch Nemesis. Because I was such a busy little beaver, Even Steven smiled upon me.
NewTeachOnTheHall casually mentioned in passing by my room that we were NOT supposed to hang the new emergency alerts, but were to await v 2.0. Seems the head cheeses did not wish to have six laminated signs per classroom proclaiming proper procedure for a torndado alert, or instructions to exit to the teachers parkin lot area in case of fire.
The brewing controversy is whether fault lies with Arch Nemesis or the student helper. I will have to blame the student, because if there's one thing I can say about Arch, it's that she's literate. And clean.
My laminated signs are not going to waste. They are the perfect instruments to flap and make the confounded lights come back on when my motion sensor leaves me in the dark every 15 minutes at my desk after school. No circus contorting or signal flag practice for me anymore, by cracky!
I tossed the six-page laminated signage onto my sound mixer/DVD/VCR stack, where the most urgent To-Do items go. We're having a guest from a nearby school tour Newmentia on Thursday, and everything needs to be ship-shape.
Since I had to use my plan time for running test copies and perusing new textbooks, I did not get the emergency signs taped to the wall. After school, I was busy setting out materials for tomorrow, and returning three chronometers (that's stopwatches to you lay people) to the classroom of Arch Nemesis. Because I was such a busy little beaver, Even Steven smiled upon me.
NewTeachOnTheHall casually mentioned in passing by my room that we were NOT supposed to hang the new emergency alerts, but were to await v 2.0. Seems the head cheeses did not wish to have six laminated signs per classroom proclaiming proper procedure for a torndado alert, or instructions to exit to the teachers parkin lot area in case of fire.
The brewing controversy is whether fault lies with Arch Nemesis or the student helper. I will have to blame the student, because if there's one thing I can say about Arch, it's that she's literate. And clean.
My laminated signs are not going to waste. They are the perfect instruments to flap and make the confounded lights come back on when my motion sensor leaves me in the dark every 15 minutes at my desk after school. No circus contorting or signal flag practice for me anymore, by cracky!
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