I have a problem. Okay, I have many problems. But those are none of your concern. Stop messing in my business, you Nosy Nancies. If it is not too much to ask, will you all just back the freak off, as movie drunk Sandra Bullock, wired on caffeine, shouted to her therapy group at the rehab center, early on in her sentence of 28 Days, before she hooked up with Viggo Mortensen the sex addict.
My current problem involves The Devil's Playground. How The Devil can have less variety, and smaller packages at the same old prices, yet take up more aisle space with bedraggled displays is beyooooond me. You'd think there would be more wide-open aisles, less junk crammed into the finite square-footage.
It's like one of those M.C. Escher freaky staircases. A conundrum. An enigma. I cannot find brands I once bought there. Some have been replaced by The Devil's own Great Value brand. Others are simply gone, missing from the shelves where their competitors still reside. And there are pallets of merchandise blocking the main aisles. Not new merchandise. Old standby merchandise. Is The Devil double-stocking? Are the same items on shelves as usual, and also lined up down the aisles?
That's the only plausible answer. Before long, The Devil is going to have to redesign the carts, replace them with tiny Dollar Store carts in order to get down the aisles. That means the beeping fat-rider carts will need to be streamlined. And the broad-beamed beeper-riders will wonder what's up. Just last week, my butt fit in the seat of this annoying conveyance, and now I can't get to the back of the Playground for my sugar-free 35 calorie Jello chocolate pudding.
The Devil conspires against his captive customers.
Saturday, May 7, 2011
Friday, May 6, 2011
The Penny Master
I was sorely disappointed today, as I am every year at this time, to discover that fifteen-year-olds cannot count to fifty.
Every year, hope springs eternal. Surely this will be the year that I can give a cup of fifty pennies to a group of ninth-graders, and they will return that same cup full of fifty pennies at the end of the class period. Au contraire. This is not the year.
Today marked the Fourth Annual Mrs. Hillbilly Mom Paper/Penny Bridge Contest. Students were placed in groups of three, randomly, by the drawing of index cards with their names on them. Each student built a paper bridge able to span an eight-inch gap and hold as many pennies as possible. No tape or paperclips allowed. Each group then tested their three bridges to determine which one to enter in the finals, to be held on Monday. At stake are ten bonus points for each class period winner, with five bonus points for second, and three for third.
Each year, at the conclusion of the contest, Mrs. Hillbilly Mom sits alone after school and counts out fifty pennies at a time. She does this by placing pennies in stacks of ten, then putting five stacks in a penny roll. Kind of a fool-proof method. Mrs. Hillbilly Mom has a master's degree. Which may or may not be in penny-rolling. Each May, she removes the baggie full of rolled pennies from her classroom cabinet, confident that each roll still contains fifty pennies. She opens the end of the roll, and pours the pennies into a bright green Solo cup. Though more pennies remain in rolls, available for the finale on Monday, Mrs. Hillbilly Mom has a strict rule about only practicing with six cups of fifty pennies each. Because she knows there will be issues.
First hour, upon taking their cup of pennies to their work area, a group called out, "We only have 49 pennies!" Funny how a penny can evaporate right out of a paper tube and Ziploc bag in the course of twelve months. This declaration emboldened a second group. "Yeah! We only have 49 pennies, too!" A third group, well into the testing process, having borrowed other cups of pennies, announced, "These two cups had 47 and 48 pennies! And we need more to put on our bridge."
I handed them a fresh cup, one that had not been used due to the small class size. Nobody had touched it since I poured the 50 pennies in. The testing group used that whole cup. And announced, "We're going to win! Our bridge is holding 153 pennies right now!" Because, you see, in Hillmomba, 47 + 48 + 50 = 153. I told them they were full of baloney. Either they couldn't count to fifty the first time, or they couldn't count to fifty three times.
By fifth hour, when I saw the ringleader in the lower hallway, he declared that his bridge had held 157 pennies.
Here's how the kids count pennies: they hold a fistful, and plink them out with their thumb while counting out loud. Not so accurate, compared to stacks of ten.
After second hour, I had to count those six cups of pennies again. Wouldn't you know it? I came up with 300 pennies.
That's because I have a master's degree.
Every year, hope springs eternal. Surely this will be the year that I can give a cup of fifty pennies to a group of ninth-graders, and they will return that same cup full of fifty pennies at the end of the class period. Au contraire. This is not the year.
Today marked the Fourth Annual Mrs. Hillbilly Mom Paper/Penny Bridge Contest. Students were placed in groups of three, randomly, by the drawing of index cards with their names on them. Each student built a paper bridge able to span an eight-inch gap and hold as many pennies as possible. No tape or paperclips allowed. Each group then tested their three bridges to determine which one to enter in the finals, to be held on Monday. At stake are ten bonus points for each class period winner, with five bonus points for second, and three for third.
Each year, at the conclusion of the contest, Mrs. Hillbilly Mom sits alone after school and counts out fifty pennies at a time. She does this by placing pennies in stacks of ten, then putting five stacks in a penny roll. Kind of a fool-proof method. Mrs. Hillbilly Mom has a master's degree. Which may or may not be in penny-rolling. Each May, she removes the baggie full of rolled pennies from her classroom cabinet, confident that each roll still contains fifty pennies. She opens the end of the roll, and pours the pennies into a bright green Solo cup. Though more pennies remain in rolls, available for the finale on Monday, Mrs. Hillbilly Mom has a strict rule about only practicing with six cups of fifty pennies each. Because she knows there will be issues.
First hour, upon taking their cup of pennies to their work area, a group called out, "We only have 49 pennies!" Funny how a penny can evaporate right out of a paper tube and Ziploc bag in the course of twelve months. This declaration emboldened a second group. "Yeah! We only have 49 pennies, too!" A third group, well into the testing process, having borrowed other cups of pennies, announced, "These two cups had 47 and 48 pennies! And we need more to put on our bridge."
I handed them a fresh cup, one that had not been used due to the small class size. Nobody had touched it since I poured the 50 pennies in. The testing group used that whole cup. And announced, "We're going to win! Our bridge is holding 153 pennies right now!" Because, you see, in Hillmomba, 47 + 48 + 50 = 153. I told them they were full of baloney. Either they couldn't count to fifty the first time, or they couldn't count to fifty three times.
By fifth hour, when I saw the ringleader in the lower hallway, he declared that his bridge had held 157 pennies.
Here's how the kids count pennies: they hold a fistful, and plink them out with their thumb while counting out loud. Not so accurate, compared to stacks of ten.
After second hour, I had to count those six cups of pennies again. Wouldn't you know it? I came up with 300 pennies.
That's because I have a master's degree.
Thursday, May 5, 2011
A Refresher Course Is In Order
New CPR guidelines say that chest compressions without mouth-to-mouth resuscitation is even more effective than the two together.
That is really good news if you are a male in Hillmomba prone to heart-stopping episodes. That's because all of your male teenage future resuscitators find it absolutely repulsive to even think about giving another male mouth-to-mouth. I know this, because many of them chose that topic to write about in an assignment about what was learned from a recent issue of Science World magazine.
Who knew that dudes would wait for somebody to call 9-1-1 rather than get down to huffing lifesaving exhalations into another dude's mouth? Somewhere, somehow, Hillmomban officials have missed the boat. The boat loaded with pamphlets explaining the difference between mouth-to-mouth resuscitation and FRENCH KISSING! The boat with a video illustrating the difference between CPR and SOFT-CORE, SAME-SEX PR0N! Seriously.
These young lads are not as attractive and in-demand to the dying as they imagine themselves to be.
That is really good news if you are a male in Hillmomba prone to heart-stopping episodes. That's because all of your male teenage future resuscitators find it absolutely repulsive to even think about giving another male mouth-to-mouth. I know this, because many of them chose that topic to write about in an assignment about what was learned from a recent issue of Science World magazine.
Who knew that dudes would wait for somebody to call 9-1-1 rather than get down to huffing lifesaving exhalations into another dude's mouth? Somewhere, somehow, Hillmomban officials have missed the boat. The boat loaded with pamphlets explaining the difference between mouth-to-mouth resuscitation and FRENCH KISSING! The boat with a video illustrating the difference between CPR and SOFT-CORE, SAME-SEX PR0N! Seriously.
These young lads are not as attractive and in-demand to the dying as they imagine themselves to be.
Wednesday, May 4, 2011
The Emperor Of Cornville
Is there really any nutritional value in corn?
That is not a rhetorical question. It is a pet peeve of Mrs. Hillbilly Mom. A major pet peeve, outgrowing its pants, getting too big for its britches, too old to go trick-or-treating, too big for a kid's meal, now paying full price at the cinema, able to enter R-rated movies, and eager to buy lottery tickets and cigarettes.
You would think that such a massive issue would be confronted. Dealt with. Resolved. But that's not how we do things in Hillmomba. This overgrown problem pet peeve would be swept under the rug if only we could find a loom large enough to supply such a carpet. It is the elephant in the room. The eggshells upon which we walk as we search for a suitable dune in which to bury our noggins.
For 12 of the last 13 years, I have lunched with a certain member of the faculty. We joined the Newmentia crew the same year. We teach the same students. He is like the lunch table paterfamilias. I bear him no ill will. But I am approaching my breaking point.
Every time I sit down to lunch, on a day in which the top chefs of the cafeteria serve corn (at least three times per week), Colonel Corn leans into my personal space, the 1/8 of a round table that I have commandeered for me, my paper plate, and I. He whispers conspiratorially, "Is there really any nutritional value in corn?" Every time the cafeteria serves corn. For 12 of the last 13 years.
I think I have shown remarkable restraint. I chuckle. I shake my head. My eyes don't roll. I don't suggest that Colonel Corn place a foot-garment in his oral cavity. I am not sure of my brushstrokes in the big picture. Is the Colonel inquiring rhetorically? Is he expecting an answer concocted from my vast stores of scientific data? Is he trying out his stand-up act on me?
Last week, I mentioned it to LunchBuddy, who sits to my left. How Colonel Corn can't seem to stop asking me the same question. After 12 of the last 13 years. She thought it amusing. I think her exact words were, "CACKLE, CACKLE, CACKLE--HEE HAW!" But not in so many words.
Today, we had Max Snax Tacos with a side of corn. I steeled myself for the inquisition. In fact, I waited the entire twenty-three-minute lunch period (from 10:53 until 11: 16) for the shoe to drop. LunchBuddy distracted me by revealing that she had an important question to ask me, but that she could not do so until lunch was over.
At the bell, she leaned over and whispered in my ear, "Is there really any nutritional value in corn?"
That is not a rhetorical question. It is a pet peeve of Mrs. Hillbilly Mom. A major pet peeve, outgrowing its pants, getting too big for its britches, too old to go trick-or-treating, too big for a kid's meal, now paying full price at the cinema, able to enter R-rated movies, and eager to buy lottery tickets and cigarettes.
You would think that such a massive issue would be confronted. Dealt with. Resolved. But that's not how we do things in Hillmomba. This overgrown problem pet peeve would be swept under the rug if only we could find a loom large enough to supply such a carpet. It is the elephant in the room. The eggshells upon which we walk as we search for a suitable dune in which to bury our noggins.
For 12 of the last 13 years, I have lunched with a certain member of the faculty. We joined the Newmentia crew the same year. We teach the same students. He is like the lunch table paterfamilias. I bear him no ill will. But I am approaching my breaking point.
Every time I sit down to lunch, on a day in which the top chefs of the cafeteria serve corn (at least three times per week), Colonel Corn leans into my personal space, the 1/8 of a round table that I have commandeered for me, my paper plate, and I. He whispers conspiratorially, "Is there really any nutritional value in corn?" Every time the cafeteria serves corn. For 12 of the last 13 years.
I think I have shown remarkable restraint. I chuckle. I shake my head. My eyes don't roll. I don't suggest that Colonel Corn place a foot-garment in his oral cavity. I am not sure of my brushstrokes in the big picture. Is the Colonel inquiring rhetorically? Is he expecting an answer concocted from my vast stores of scientific data? Is he trying out his stand-up act on me?
Last week, I mentioned it to LunchBuddy, who sits to my left. How Colonel Corn can't seem to stop asking me the same question. After 12 of the last 13 years. She thought it amusing. I think her exact words were, "CACKLE, CACKLE, CACKLE--HEE HAW!" But not in so many words.
Today, we had Max Snax Tacos with a side of corn. I steeled myself for the inquisition. In fact, I waited the entire twenty-three-minute lunch period (from 10:53 until 11: 16) for the shoe to drop. LunchBuddy distracted me by revealing that she had an important question to ask me, but that she could not do so until lunch was over.
At the bell, she leaned over and whispered in my ear, "Is there really any nutritional value in corn?"
Tuesday, May 3, 2011
Yes And No
Things that go together:
ebony and ivory
hot dog and bun
love and marriage
horse and carriage
cheese and crackers
peanut butter and jelly
shoes and socks
dinner and a show
salt and pepper
moth and flame
snips and snails and puppy dog tails
Things that don't go together:
long-tailed cats and rocking chairs
a fish and a bicycle
apples and oranges
oil and water
students and the teacher lunch table
goats and prized lilac bushes
Hillbilly Mom and tailgaters
thunderstorms and DISH Network
uprooted trees and low water bridges
hacky sack and a school hallway
my Christmas tree and the month of May
ebony and ivory
hot dog and bun
love and marriage
horse and carriage
cheese and crackers
peanut butter and jelly
shoes and socks
dinner and a show
salt and pepper
moth and flame
snips and snails and puppy dog tails
Things that don't go together:
long-tailed cats and rocking chairs
a fish and a bicycle
apples and oranges
oil and water
students and the teacher lunch table
goats and prized lilac bushes
Hillbilly Mom and tailgaters
thunderstorms and DISH Network
uprooted trees and low water bridges
hacky sack and a school hallway
my Christmas tree and the month of May
Monday, May 2, 2011
That's Not A Good Defense
Chalk up another one for Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's Never Ever List.
Right after lunch, within five minutes of starting class, I smelled an odor. My students have been warned about smelling up my classroom. I stopped what I was doing.
"Why do I smell an odor?"
"What kind of odor?"
"It wasn't here a minute ago. It's like nail polish. Something strong."
"We don't smell anything."
"It's Buffy."
"Yeah. It's me."
Buffy had moved away, and just returned a couple of weeks ago. She was sitting all alone in a row by the wall, her cohorts being in turn absent and in In-School Suspension. Buffy agreeably took the rap. She was right under my nose. She and I both knew it was not her.
"I've told you people not to smell up my room. Now I'm stuck with it. I'm going to start coughing. I just got over being sick, you know. I hope you're happy. Now I'm going to have to open a window. And since I'm right in front of it, I'll get a chill. Way to go, you guys."
"I got sprayed with something earlier."
"It's not you. You would have stunk up the room from the beginning. This just started."
"We don't smell it."
"I'll figure it out."
At the end of class, we had a few minutes left. Miss Tardy said, "Would this be a good time to finish my nails?" She set out three bottles of nail polish on her desk. "I have Cherry Red, Pronto Purple, and Blue Streak."
"I KNEW somebody had nail polish. NO! Now would NOT be a good time to FINISH your nails! Why would anybody think that was permissible? I TOLD you all at the beginning of the year not to get out anything that smells, or put on make-up during my class."
"Oh. I wasn't listening to you."
"You are not doing yourself any favors here."
Right after lunch, within five minutes of starting class, I smelled an odor. My students have been warned about smelling up my classroom. I stopped what I was doing.
"Why do I smell an odor?"
"What kind of odor?"
"It wasn't here a minute ago. It's like nail polish. Something strong."
"We don't smell anything."
"It's Buffy."
"Yeah. It's me."
Buffy had moved away, and just returned a couple of weeks ago. She was sitting all alone in a row by the wall, her cohorts being in turn absent and in In-School Suspension. Buffy agreeably took the rap. She was right under my nose. She and I both knew it was not her.
"I've told you people not to smell up my room. Now I'm stuck with it. I'm going to start coughing. I just got over being sick, you know. I hope you're happy. Now I'm going to have to open a window. And since I'm right in front of it, I'll get a chill. Way to go, you guys."
"I got sprayed with something earlier."
"It's not you. You would have stunk up the room from the beginning. This just started."
"We don't smell it."
"I'll figure it out."
At the end of class, we had a few minutes left. Miss Tardy said, "Would this be a good time to finish my nails?" She set out three bottles of nail polish on her desk. "I have Cherry Red, Pronto Purple, and Blue Streak."
"I KNEW somebody had nail polish. NO! Now would NOT be a good time to FINISH your nails! Why would anybody think that was permissible? I TOLD you all at the beginning of the year not to get out anything that smells, or put on make-up during my class."
"Oh. I wasn't listening to you."
"You are not doing yourself any favors here."
Sunday, May 1, 2011
Another Sign Of The Apocalypse
What's the world coming to?
That's a rhetorical question. I'm not waiting for you to answer. I'm used to that. In my classroom, you'd think all my questions are rhetorical. For my older kids, anyway. The freshmen are pretty good at having one or two designated question-answerers per class. I don't know if this is a conscious plan, to take heat off the ones who don't want to be called on, or if the attention-seekers are well-spread-out this year.
The reason I rhetorically asked what the world is coming to is because of what happened when I drove through Sonic today, after doing battle in The Devil's Playground. I had one of those receipts for a free Route 44 drink. The receipt where you call in and rate the Sonic, and they give you a code number. My mom does the calling for me. She volunteered. That's how she rolls. She's really on the stick, that ol' gal. Unlike someone else we might mention, who has taken four months to use that receipt. Seriously. It was dated December 31. I don't think it matters to Sonic. I used one Friday with the same date.
Here's the deal: I mentioned right up front that I had a receipt for a free Route 44. Told the voice the minute I drove up to the speaker.
"What can I get for you today?"
"I have a receipt for a free Route 44."
"What kind would you like?"
"A Diet Coke with lime."
See? No mystery there. I ordered the same way on Friday. That's where the similarity ends. On Friday, the dude said, "That will be $2.08. I'm sorry. That will be FREE!" I drove around, sixth in line, and a girl brought it out to me.
Today, I ordered the same way. And the dude said, "That will be eleven cents." WTF? Now free sodas cost eleven cents? I drove to the window, where he repeated, "Eleven cents." I forked it over, along with my receipt. The receipt which did not say you are entitled to a Route 44 for eleven cents if you call in and rate your service.
I've got to get construction started on my handbasket factory.
That's a rhetorical question. I'm not waiting for you to answer. I'm used to that. In my classroom, you'd think all my questions are rhetorical. For my older kids, anyway. The freshmen are pretty good at having one or two designated question-answerers per class. I don't know if this is a conscious plan, to take heat off the ones who don't want to be called on, or if the attention-seekers are well-spread-out this year.
The reason I rhetorically asked what the world is coming to is because of what happened when I drove through Sonic today, after doing battle in The Devil's Playground. I had one of those receipts for a free Route 44 drink. The receipt where you call in and rate the Sonic, and they give you a code number. My mom does the calling for me. She volunteered. That's how she rolls. She's really on the stick, that ol' gal. Unlike someone else we might mention, who has taken four months to use that receipt. Seriously. It was dated December 31. I don't think it matters to Sonic. I used one Friday with the same date.
Here's the deal: I mentioned right up front that I had a receipt for a free Route 44. Told the voice the minute I drove up to the speaker.
"What can I get for you today?"
"I have a receipt for a free Route 44."
"What kind would you like?"
"A Diet Coke with lime."
See? No mystery there. I ordered the same way on Friday. That's where the similarity ends. On Friday, the dude said, "That will be $2.08. I'm sorry. That will be FREE!" I drove around, sixth in line, and a girl brought it out to me.
Today, I ordered the same way. And the dude said, "That will be eleven cents." WTF? Now free sodas cost eleven cents? I drove to the window, where he repeated, "Eleven cents." I forked it over, along with my receipt. The receipt which did not say you are entitled to a Route 44 for eleven cents if you call in and rate your service.
I've got to get construction started on my handbasket factory.
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