Kids are OH SO INQUISITIVE.
And here are two vignettes to verify my view:
_________________________________
"Who smells like old man?"
"Probably Zeke."
"No. That would be Red Man."
(As in the brand of chewing tobacco, for you city folks).
"It's Old Spice."
"More like 'Too MUCH Spice!"
************************************************
"What'd you do to your arm?"
"I fell out of a tree playing dodgeball."
_________________________________
Sometimes, you just know it's better not to ask for details.
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
Monday, November 29, 2010
Careening Toward The Precipice Overlooking The Abyss Of Poor Taste
Who comes up with things like this?
If you think that's disturbing, I present for your consideration another item being sold alongside this teacher-axing tchotchke.
Is it just me? Because I find this very wrong. Were I to put the above jar of problem student ashes on my desk, and perchance be summoned to a private audience with the principal, I would not dream of pulling a George Costanza:
"Was that wrong? Should I have not done that? I tell you I gotta plead ignorance on this thing because if anyone had said anything to me at all when I first started here that that sort of thing was frowned upon..."
Nope. It's clearly wrong. Even wronger than having sex on the desk with the cleaning lady. No gray area here. No ambiguity. It is definitely poor taste to set out imaginary remains of former students whom you may or may not have had a hand in terminating. Even I, Mrs. Hillbilly Mom of the cold, cold heart, constantly complaining about the student conspiracy to drive her crazier, would not stoop to such a gag.
And to offer the little plaque about teachers making the world a better place, on the very same page as the faux cremains container, seems to insinuate that those students had it coming, and that the teacher is a hero, and the world is better off without those unruly rapscallions.
I am thoroughly offended. Fie on you, Tumbleweed Pottery. And fie on the horse you rode in on, as we teachers like to say when we are not busy bottling up the ashes of our problem students.
If you think that's disturbing, I present for your consideration another item being sold alongside this teacher-axing tchotchke.
Is it just me? Because I find this very wrong. Were I to put the above jar of problem student ashes on my desk, and perchance be summoned to a private audience with the principal, I would not dream of pulling a George Costanza:
"Was that wrong? Should I have not done that? I tell you I gotta plead ignorance on this thing because if anyone had said anything to me at all when I first started here that that sort of thing was frowned upon..."
Nope. It's clearly wrong. Even wronger than having sex on the desk with the cleaning lady. No gray area here. No ambiguity. It is definitely poor taste to set out imaginary remains of former students whom you may or may not have had a hand in terminating. Even I, Mrs. Hillbilly Mom of the cold, cold heart, constantly complaining about the student conspiracy to drive her crazier, would not stoop to such a gag.
And to offer the little plaque about teachers making the world a better place, on the very same page as the faux cremains container, seems to insinuate that those students had it coming, and that the teacher is a hero, and the world is better off without those unruly rapscallions.
I am thoroughly offended. Fie on you, Tumbleweed Pottery. And fie on the horse you rode in on, as we teachers like to say when we are not busy bottling up the ashes of our problem students.
Sunday, November 28, 2010
A Consultant Is Available
I am careening toward the precipice overlooking the abyss of badgirldom. I can't help myself. But I can try to make excuses and minimize the impending damage. I don't want to badmouth my own mama. But I can't stop the flow of information pouring out my fingertips.
I love my mother. Dearly. She has been the guiding force in my life, and to this day fills the gaps in my day-to-day existence like no other selfless being could begin to dream of filling. That said, let's get right to it.
What was she thinking? After church, when she returned the #1 son to the Mansion, she also returned six plastic containers. It's not like they were valuable containers, such as Tupperware, or even the Christmas-themed plastic tubs which are used to distribute the annual holiday Chex mix. Granted, I had told her that I would take the containers back. In their heyday, they held the precious Hot & Sour Soup to which I used to be addicted, before having my thyroid gouged out. I took a sabbatical from the H & S to avoid coughing, thus jarring loose whatever stitches or packing might have been deposited in the cavity at the base of my throat which used to house my gargantuan thyroid. That H & S soup is OH SO H! And then the season slid into full summer, when even Mrs. Hillbilly Mom does not crave steaming, esophagus-searing soup, and I have not yet gotten back into the swing of the delectable H & S.
The thing with these quart-sized plastic containers is that they have a soup-tight seal. Nothing leaks out of them. Nuclear waste could be transported coast to coast by rail in these transparent, stackable tubs. I have given my mom chili, vegetable soup, spaghetti, ham and beans, cabbage and sausage, and chicken and dumplings in this poor-man's Tupperware. Jeff Foxworthy would be proud. Nary a drip betwixt the Mansion and the end of her trip. The containers are utilitarian, and free! So my issue is not with her bringing them back. It's with her manner of transport.
Most people would take those six plastic quart containers, set one on the table, and stack the other five inside. The lids could loll separately in a recycled petroleum-based sack from The Devil's Playground, alongside the horizontal tower of containers. But that's not how my mom does it. Ever.
Mom put the lid on each container. She shoved all six lidded containers into one Devil's bag, willy-nilly, lids and bottoms akimbo. And because those containers are rambunctious ne'er-do-wells intent on escaping the minute her attention should wane, Mom tied the top of the bag shut with three knots. Just to be sure.
I had no idea that Mom was once a Boy Scout. That she had sailed the seas as a bosun's mate, harvested fish from the deep, climbed the North Face of Everest, and competed in the Calgary Stampede. Her knots know no rival. The only way to open a bag closed with a Mom's knot is to rip a hole in the side of the bag.
If she had driven off the low-water bridge on the way to the Mansion, that sack of soup containers could have supported Mom and #1 on a float down the creek without a paddle, into Big River, down the Mississippi, through the Gulf of Mexico, across the wide Atlantic, and perhaps around the world. Mom might sign on as a consultant with Mayflower, or North American Van Lines. Far be it from me to broach the subject of her container-sacking habits. I hope she has many more years to annoy me with her packing pecadilloes.
I love my mother. Immensely.
I love my mother. Dearly. She has been the guiding force in my life, and to this day fills the gaps in my day-to-day existence like no other selfless being could begin to dream of filling. That said, let's get right to it.
What was she thinking? After church, when she returned the #1 son to the Mansion, she also returned six plastic containers. It's not like they were valuable containers, such as Tupperware, or even the Christmas-themed plastic tubs which are used to distribute the annual holiday Chex mix. Granted, I had told her that I would take the containers back. In their heyday, they held the precious Hot & Sour Soup to which I used to be addicted, before having my thyroid gouged out. I took a sabbatical from the H & S to avoid coughing, thus jarring loose whatever stitches or packing might have been deposited in the cavity at the base of my throat which used to house my gargantuan thyroid. That H & S soup is OH SO H! And then the season slid into full summer, when even Mrs. Hillbilly Mom does not crave steaming, esophagus-searing soup, and I have not yet gotten back into the swing of the delectable H & S.
The thing with these quart-sized plastic containers is that they have a soup-tight seal. Nothing leaks out of them. Nuclear waste could be transported coast to coast by rail in these transparent, stackable tubs. I have given my mom chili, vegetable soup, spaghetti, ham and beans, cabbage and sausage, and chicken and dumplings in this poor-man's Tupperware. Jeff Foxworthy would be proud. Nary a drip betwixt the Mansion and the end of her trip. The containers are utilitarian, and free! So my issue is not with her bringing them back. It's with her manner of transport.
Most people would take those six plastic quart containers, set one on the table, and stack the other five inside. The lids could loll separately in a recycled petroleum-based sack from The Devil's Playground, alongside the horizontal tower of containers. But that's not how my mom does it. Ever.
Mom put the lid on each container. She shoved all six lidded containers into one Devil's bag, willy-nilly, lids and bottoms akimbo. And because those containers are rambunctious ne'er-do-wells intent on escaping the minute her attention should wane, Mom tied the top of the bag shut with three knots. Just to be sure.
I had no idea that Mom was once a Boy Scout. That she had sailed the seas as a bosun's mate, harvested fish from the deep, climbed the North Face of Everest, and competed in the Calgary Stampede. Her knots know no rival. The only way to open a bag closed with a Mom's knot is to rip a hole in the side of the bag.
If she had driven off the low-water bridge on the way to the Mansion, that sack of soup containers could have supported Mom and #1 on a float down the creek without a paddle, into Big River, down the Mississippi, through the Gulf of Mexico, across the wide Atlantic, and perhaps around the world. Mom might sign on as a consultant with Mayflower, or North American Van Lines. Far be it from me to broach the subject of her container-sacking habits. I hope she has many more years to annoy me with her packing pecadilloes.
I love my mother. Immensely.
Saturday, November 27, 2010
Seven From The Twenty-Fifth
I am exhausted. I've spent the entire day Christmas shopping. On line. It's more tiring than you might imagine. But considerably warmer than leaving the Mansion.
You have not been enlightened of the Hillbilly family Thanksgiving feast. I will synopsize it for you with some fun facts:
1. When Mrs. Hillbilly Mom asks you not to breathe on her with your wheezy, virus-riddled exhalations--she MEANS it!
2. An ex-mayor who thinks frozen pizza that expired in April, 2009, is still acceptable for consumption, is not one whom people would prefer to direct their municipality.
3. There is the edge, the precipice, and then the ABYSS of hoarding behavior. I think we can all agree that saving the cotton topping from pill bottles qualifies as the ABYSS.
4. In a rousing game of Scribblish, the person ahead of you has done you no favors when he writes the caption as: bread becomes toast without a plug-in, yeah!
5. Telling a youngster, "Give me some of those Pringles, Pedro" does not enamor the child of sharing his newfound bounty.
6. A 20-year-old should be able to partake, or not, of a regular Thanksgiving menu, but by no means should have chicken fries, macaroni noodles, and mac & cheese prepared separately by the hostess for her culinary pleasure.
7. Stuffing or dressing, no matter what you call it, should be sort of congealed, and not comprised of a pile of individual bread cubes that tumble about like repelling magnets.
I can hardly wait for Christmas.
You have not been enlightened of the Hillbilly family Thanksgiving feast. I will synopsize it for you with some fun facts:
1. When Mrs. Hillbilly Mom asks you not to breathe on her with your wheezy, virus-riddled exhalations--she MEANS it!
2. An ex-mayor who thinks frozen pizza that expired in April, 2009, is still acceptable for consumption, is not one whom people would prefer to direct their municipality.
3. There is the edge, the precipice, and then the ABYSS of hoarding behavior. I think we can all agree that saving the cotton topping from pill bottles qualifies as the ABYSS.
4. In a rousing game of Scribblish, the person ahead of you has done you no favors when he writes the caption as: bread becomes toast without a plug-in, yeah!
5. Telling a youngster, "Give me some of those Pringles, Pedro" does not enamor the child of sharing his newfound bounty.
6. A 20-year-old should be able to partake, or not, of a regular Thanksgiving menu, but by no means should have chicken fries, macaroni noodles, and mac & cheese prepared separately by the hostess for her culinary pleasure.
7. Stuffing or dressing, no matter what you call it, should be sort of congealed, and not comprised of a pile of individual bread cubes that tumble about like repelling magnets.
I can hardly wait for Christmas.
Friday, November 26, 2010
CSI: Special Chocolate Unit
Gas up the Mystery Machine. Hillbilly Mom has a curious incident that needs a-solving.
Around noon the boys and I piled into T-Hoe, and over the creek and through the woods, to grandmother's house we went. For some tasty leftovers. I had planned to stop by the pharmacy for a prescription that had not been ready Wednesday afternoon. I figured I could give it a couple more hours if I stopped on the way home. Which, in hindsight, turned out to be a good decision.
I stopped at Casey's General Store so the #1 son could buy a 2-liter bottle of soda for his poker game tonight. Not that we let him host such soirees. It is at his friend's house, and both parents will be home, so I figure it's safe enough for a gaggle of 15/16-year-old boys to play poker with chips only, no money exchanging hands. His grandma had given him a bottle of Diet Coke yesterday, but I can't visualize the boys hopping up and down clamoring for such an elixir. So I forked over some cash, parked in the no-parking zone next to the handicap spot, and waited. #1 was back in a jiffy, carrying TWO 2-liter bottles of Coke, and a chocolate-frosted cake donut in a bag. "I had to get two," he said. "It's a bargain, really, either one for $2.00 or two for $3.00. So I actually SAVED you money!" The donut? "I was hungry." You remember that we were going to grandma's for lunch, right? And she lives 1.5 miles from Casey's.
We found my sister and her husband the ex-mayor and their college daughter already at the trough. #1 waltzed in like an adolescent needing to be booted from Dancing With the Stars, and stowed one bottle of Coke in the fridge. Then the three of us careened around the kitchen like just-fired pinballs, filling our styrofoam trays. That's when the mystery began to unravel.
"What's that on your shirt?" My sister teaches kindergarten. No soiling escapes her eagle eye.
"I don't know. I didn't think I was going to see anyone, so I just left on my old shirt that I wear around the house. I thought it was clean."
"Well, you have chocolate on your back."
W. T. F. ????
I twisted and turned, but could not see anything. I took her word for it. The Ex-Mayor concurred. In fact, he wouldn't let it rest. "Now how could you get chocolate on your back?" I don't know. Let's form a committee and write a grant and study that topic, shall we? My mom hovered around, tsk-tsking, looking at my back out from under her glasses. #1 chimed in, "There's definitely chocolate on your back." Great Googly Moogly! Shouldn't someone have been watching TV or snoring on the couch?
"I'm certainly glad I didn't go in the pharmacy like this. Thanks, boys, for telling me I had a huge stain on my back." They looked at each other. The Pony said, "I don't think it was there before." #1 agreed. Or else they just never look at my back. My niece even pointed it out with a pointy finger. "It's right here." A place where I could not reach with my own appendages. Though I vaguely remember Farmer H laying his hand on me yesterday morning when I was deviling those eggs. Perhaps after I had seen him slurping at his finger after dipping it into the leftover sugar-free frosting in the Duncan Hines tub with the red lid. But the boys said it wasn't there before we left home today.
Then the mystery deepened. As #1 strode across the kitchen for more rolls, Niece hollered, "You have it all over you, too! On your butt!" Indeed, #1 had a swatch of chocolate on one jeaned butt cheek. When he turned around to see it, like a dog chasing his tail, I saw that it was also on the front of his jeans, under his left pocket. We blamed the demon donut. But couldn't explain how it got on my back. #1 is not given to fits of touchy-feely hugging of the maternal unit. Especially while riding shotgun and eating a donut.
And then we almost put in a call to CSI: Special Chocolate Unit. My mom lifted up her sweat-shirted arms, pirouetted near the oven, and declared, "I have chocolate all over me! Look! It's on both sleeves, and the front of my sweatshirt."
Well, call in the dogs, pee on the fire, and barricade yourselves against the roving chocolatier! Something ain't right in Hillmomba.
Around noon the boys and I piled into T-Hoe, and over the creek and through the woods, to grandmother's house we went. For some tasty leftovers. I had planned to stop by the pharmacy for a prescription that had not been ready Wednesday afternoon. I figured I could give it a couple more hours if I stopped on the way home. Which, in hindsight, turned out to be a good decision.
I stopped at Casey's General Store so the #1 son could buy a 2-liter bottle of soda for his poker game tonight. Not that we let him host such soirees. It is at his friend's house, and both parents will be home, so I figure it's safe enough for a gaggle of 15/16-year-old boys to play poker with chips only, no money exchanging hands. His grandma had given him a bottle of Diet Coke yesterday, but I can't visualize the boys hopping up and down clamoring for such an elixir. So I forked over some cash, parked in the no-parking zone next to the handicap spot, and waited. #1 was back in a jiffy, carrying TWO 2-liter bottles of Coke, and a chocolate-frosted cake donut in a bag. "I had to get two," he said. "It's a bargain, really, either one for $2.00 or two for $3.00. So I actually SAVED you money!" The donut? "I was hungry." You remember that we were going to grandma's for lunch, right? And she lives 1.5 miles from Casey's.
We found my sister and her husband the ex-mayor and their college daughter already at the trough. #1 waltzed in like an adolescent needing to be booted from Dancing With the Stars, and stowed one bottle of Coke in the fridge. Then the three of us careened around the kitchen like just-fired pinballs, filling our styrofoam trays. That's when the mystery began to unravel.
"What's that on your shirt?" My sister teaches kindergarten. No soiling escapes her eagle eye.
"I don't know. I didn't think I was going to see anyone, so I just left on my old shirt that I wear around the house. I thought it was clean."
"Well, you have chocolate on your back."
W. T. F. ????
I twisted and turned, but could not see anything. I took her word for it. The Ex-Mayor concurred. In fact, he wouldn't let it rest. "Now how could you get chocolate on your back?" I don't know. Let's form a committee and write a grant and study that topic, shall we? My mom hovered around, tsk-tsking, looking at my back out from under her glasses. #1 chimed in, "There's definitely chocolate on your back." Great Googly Moogly! Shouldn't someone have been watching TV or snoring on the couch?
"I'm certainly glad I didn't go in the pharmacy like this. Thanks, boys, for telling me I had a huge stain on my back." They looked at each other. The Pony said, "I don't think it was there before." #1 agreed. Or else they just never look at my back. My niece even pointed it out with a pointy finger. "It's right here." A place where I could not reach with my own appendages. Though I vaguely remember Farmer H laying his hand on me yesterday morning when I was deviling those eggs. Perhaps after I had seen him slurping at his finger after dipping it into the leftover sugar-free frosting in the Duncan Hines tub with the red lid. But the boys said it wasn't there before we left home today.
Then the mystery deepened. As #1 strode across the kitchen for more rolls, Niece hollered, "You have it all over you, too! On your butt!" Indeed, #1 had a swatch of chocolate on one jeaned butt cheek. When he turned around to see it, like a dog chasing his tail, I saw that it was also on the front of his jeans, under his left pocket. We blamed the demon donut. But couldn't explain how it got on my back. #1 is not given to fits of touchy-feely hugging of the maternal unit. Especially while riding shotgun and eating a donut.
And then we almost put in a call to CSI: Special Chocolate Unit. My mom lifted up her sweat-shirted arms, pirouetted near the oven, and declared, "I have chocolate all over me! Look! It's on both sleeves, and the front of my sweatshirt."
Well, call in the dogs, pee on the fire, and barricade yourselves against the roving chocolatier! Something ain't right in Hillmomba.
Thursday, November 25, 2010
Simile And The World Similes Like You
I was up bright and early this Thanksgiving morn, a Hillbilly with a mission. The mission being to whip up my traditional holiday deviled eggs, put the finishing touches on the oreo cake I baked last night, and haul them plus some veggies and dip and a sugar-free yellow cake with sugar-free chocolate icing to my mom's house for dinner. A dinner which was fantastic, by the way, but not all about me. So let's get to the ME stuff.
I have so much energy in the morning. While cracking and peeling those store-bought eggs (which is much easier than peeling eggs fresh out of Farmer H's chicken's butts), my mind was firing on all cylinders. And maybe a couple of backup emergency cylinders that kicked in just because. My mind was flitting from one scathingly brilliant idea to the next. I always get my most scathingly brilliant ideas in the morning, usually in the shower or on my way to Newmentia. I'm sure I will remember them later, but that rarely happens. They are gone like Jerry Seinfeld's bedside notes. Flaming globes of Sigmund, indeed! You don't think it has something to do with my Levothyroxine, do you? Is that stuff like legal speed, or what? Not that I've ever taken illegal speed. Anyway, if you think Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is speeding, take it up with her thyroid. Oh. That's right. You CAN'T! Because her thyroid was ripped from her throat May 25, and is probably just now reaching the mouth of the Mighty Mississippi, having floated on buoyant medical waste and backstroked its way to the Gulf of Mexico.
So where was I? Peeling eggs at my kitchen table, first knocking them on a paper plate, then rolling them about to separate that clingy membranous egg skin dealybobber. Not this morning, but sometimes, I am able to peel an entire egg in one continuous strip, like some folks do with an apple. But I will tell you right now that recoiling that egg shell into a hollow egg and passing it off on an unsuspecting victim is not nearly so rewarding as folding up that foil gum wrapper after chewing the gum, and offering it to your buddies.
After all eggs were peeled, they were then sliced in half to sort out the yolk for the devil part of the egg. The eggs who were not so pretty, not smooth and eggy, but pockmarked and unsightly like the gams of a coltish 13-year-old gal after her first foray into leg-shaving with her daddy's straightedge razor, were set aside to be used for sampling the devil. It took two tries this morning to reach the proper degree of devilness.
Once the eggs were done, their olive halves safely ensconced upon the fluffy yellow devil, I turned to the cake. The cake was in fine shape, no sunken center, no burnt edges, no thick side/thin side. Thanks, Betty Crocker. I cannot extend my thanks to Duncan Hines. I made a critical error in forgetting that Duncan is a lightweight, too thin to cover my cake. Fie on you, Duncan Hines. I should have remembered to get the BLUE lid frosting, by Pillsbury. Creamy Supreme, Classic White, to be specific. I can never remember. That Duncan Hines slid off my cake faster than a formal off a virgin on prom night. It took a concerted effort to get the whole cake iced and stashed in the 36-degree rear compartment of T-Hoe before my arch nemesis Gravity had his way with Duncan Hines.
By 10:00, it was all over but the crying and the clean-up. I stepped out onto the back porch to toss some eggshells and oreo crumbs overboard, because I can. In Hillmomba, the outdoors is just like one great big compost heap. The cats swarmed my ankles, so I sprinkled a few oreo crumbs for them on the porch rail. They're a tough crowd, those cats. The tan striped one with a pie-pan head took one sniff of those oreo crumbs and gave me the cold shoulder like Obama gave Hillary at the 2008 Presidential Debates.
But now it's almost 10:00 p.m., and I am winding down like a wind-up monkey with cymbals and disturbingly human feet. Good night to you!
I have so much energy in the morning. While cracking and peeling those store-bought eggs (which is much easier than peeling eggs fresh out of Farmer H's chicken's butts), my mind was firing on all cylinders. And maybe a couple of backup emergency cylinders that kicked in just because. My mind was flitting from one scathingly brilliant idea to the next. I always get my most scathingly brilliant ideas in the morning, usually in the shower or on my way to Newmentia. I'm sure I will remember them later, but that rarely happens. They are gone like Jerry Seinfeld's bedside notes. Flaming globes of Sigmund, indeed! You don't think it has something to do with my Levothyroxine, do you? Is that stuff like legal speed, or what? Not that I've ever taken illegal speed. Anyway, if you think Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is speeding, take it up with her thyroid. Oh. That's right. You CAN'T! Because her thyroid was ripped from her throat May 25, and is probably just now reaching the mouth of the Mighty Mississippi, having floated on buoyant medical waste and backstroked its way to the Gulf of Mexico.
So where was I? Peeling eggs at my kitchen table, first knocking them on a paper plate, then rolling them about to separate that clingy membranous egg skin dealybobber. Not this morning, but sometimes, I am able to peel an entire egg in one continuous strip, like some folks do with an apple. But I will tell you right now that recoiling that egg shell into a hollow egg and passing it off on an unsuspecting victim is not nearly so rewarding as folding up that foil gum wrapper after chewing the gum, and offering it to your buddies.
After all eggs were peeled, they were then sliced in half to sort out the yolk for the devil part of the egg. The eggs who were not so pretty, not smooth and eggy, but pockmarked and unsightly like the gams of a coltish 13-year-old gal after her first foray into leg-shaving with her daddy's straightedge razor, were set aside to be used for sampling the devil. It took two tries this morning to reach the proper degree of devilness.
Once the eggs were done, their olive halves safely ensconced upon the fluffy yellow devil, I turned to the cake. The cake was in fine shape, no sunken center, no burnt edges, no thick side/thin side. Thanks, Betty Crocker. I cannot extend my thanks to Duncan Hines. I made a critical error in forgetting that Duncan is a lightweight, too thin to cover my cake. Fie on you, Duncan Hines. I should have remembered to get the BLUE lid frosting, by Pillsbury. Creamy Supreme, Classic White, to be specific. I can never remember. That Duncan Hines slid off my cake faster than a formal off a virgin on prom night. It took a concerted effort to get the whole cake iced and stashed in the 36-degree rear compartment of T-Hoe before my arch nemesis Gravity had his way with Duncan Hines.
By 10:00, it was all over but the crying and the clean-up. I stepped out onto the back porch to toss some eggshells and oreo crumbs overboard, because I can. In Hillmomba, the outdoors is just like one great big compost heap. The cats swarmed my ankles, so I sprinkled a few oreo crumbs for them on the porch rail. They're a tough crowd, those cats. The tan striped one with a pie-pan head took one sniff of those oreo crumbs and gave me the cold shoulder like Obama gave Hillary at the 2008 Presidential Debates.
But now it's almost 10:00 p.m., and I am winding down like a wind-up monkey with cymbals and disturbingly human feet. Good night to you!
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
The Contest. No. Not That One.
We have a pool at Newmentia. Not a swimming pool! Laws, NO! M-O-O-N. That spells A swimming pool would mean that somebody in the How To Control Your Body Long Enough To Stay Alive department would have to actually teach a student something that could be measurably evaluated. As in, whether they could stay alive in a swimming pool.
No, I'm talking about a pool as a form of gambling, where people predict something and win monetary rewards. It's not so much gambling, though, as a free game of skill. The skill lies in choosing which day will be the first one that we miss school due to snow.
I have chosen January 11. No reason, except that it's one week after we return from Christmas break, and one month prior to my birthday. Thems as good a reasons as any, as Farmer H might say.
Others picked days in December (those cockeyed optimists), while some dragged it out to Martin Luther King Day. Which is not a very good choice, I might add, because we are usually scheduled to be out on that day, but end up going because of a previous snow day. Go figure!
I am eagerly awaiting the awarding of my grand prize: a free notepad from the Books Are Fun distributor. Yee haw! I'm a-gonna win me some writin' paper!
However, I will not be too disappointed if somebody else wins. For instance, somebody who chose a day earlier than mine. Because the real prize is the SNOW DAY!
No, I'm talking about a pool as a form of gambling, where people predict something and win monetary rewards. It's not so much gambling, though, as a free game of skill. The skill lies in choosing which day will be the first one that we miss school due to snow.
I have chosen January 11. No reason, except that it's one week after we return from Christmas break, and one month prior to my birthday. Thems as good a reasons as any, as Farmer H might say.
Others picked days in December (those cockeyed optimists), while some dragged it out to Martin Luther King Day. Which is not a very good choice, I might add, because we are usually scheduled to be out on that day, but end up going because of a previous snow day. Go figure!
I am eagerly awaiting the awarding of my grand prize: a free notepad from the Books Are Fun distributor. Yee haw! I'm a-gonna win me some writin' paper!
However, I will not be too disappointed if somebody else wins. For instance, somebody who chose a day earlier than mine. Because the real prize is the SNOW DAY!
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