I am disheartened to report that I am breastless tonight.
With it being Thursday, and Bowler H's night on the town, I headed to pick up my weekly fix as soon as we were released from parent conferences at 6:00. I drove like a maniac at 31 mph, ever watchful for those cross-country, music-jamming jackrabbits who would kink up my journey with a split skull or collapsed lung. I played a game of Giant SUV Mirror Chicken with a dude backing out of the limited parking area of my favorite fried-fowl haunt. I hustled into the establishment and was greeted with a most terrifying sight.
Three old ladies stood between me and my gas-station chicken.
I say old, by which I mean they were older than me. Ancient, actually. Like a blast from the past, with car-coats and hats with veil thingies and support hose and sensible purses. I knew they were old, because they were friendly. "Oh, are you here for chicken, too?" "It sooo good." Another one got in line behind me.
The counter girl was the one with all of her teeth. She was a bit surly. "Anybody waiting for chicken--it's going to be twenty minutes."
Well. Mrs. Hillbilly Mom can't be made to wait twenty minutes for her crispy feast. That was with no guarantee of obtaining her chosen breasts. What if all the other ladies were awaiting fresh breasts? That would set Mrs. HM back another twenty minutes. Which is entirely too long to stand around a gas station, a twelve-hour day of work and chicken-waiting.
What is with these chicken-geniuses? I am not a gas-station chicken-fryer. But in the split second that I was contemplating cooling my heels by the fountain soda dispenser, inhaling the greasy goodness that would not find its way to my gullet, a thought popped into my head. If I was a chicken-fryer, when would I expect my peak chicken-demand to fall? Hm...perhaps... oh...I don't know... maybe...between the freakin' hours of 4:00 and 7:00 p.m.
Do you think?
Thursday, March 31, 2011
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
Surviving Citizens Of Tomorrow
My patience is wearing thin with the citizens of tomorrow.
On my way home this afternoon, in my high-powered T-Hoe, driving on a new strip of lovely wide concrete outer road behind the high school of the district in which I live (NOT Newmentia), I nearly squished a teen.
This school has a cross-country team, which has traditionally been one of the top teams in the state. I'm not sure about recent years, because I don't follow that sport or that district. Because of past success, the school has no shortage of students who turn out for cross country. On our way through one of their feeder towns every day after school, we see the middle school kids out running past the library, past the remodeled elementary, past the firehouse, presumably to the park. They stick together, five or six boys and five or six girls. There are probably more, but some groups forge ahead.
Five miles further, I turned onto the new section of road. It's wide enough for four cars abreast, though it is marked as a regular two-lane road. Three high school girls ran toward me on the right side right-of-way. They were far enough on the shoulder that cars did not have to swerve away from them. They were running toward traffic, chatting.
A half mile later, I came upon two boys running single file. They were on the left side, running away from me, facing traffic on their side. They were running on the pavement. The road itself. There is no paved shoulder, just grass. A school bus was several car-lengths ahead of me, and had passed on into the roundabout. The lead runner suddenly darted across the center line and into my lane, still with his back to me, never once having turned to look. I know, because I had my eye on him the whole time. Kids are unpredictable in traffic, even high school kids.
I slammed on T-Hoe's anti-locks, and Running Buddy yelled at Doofus. Doofus did an about-face back over the center line. Even at the speed of 30 mph (that's a must, the coppers hide out on that section all the dang time), T-Hoe could not stop in time to avoid Doofus had he continued.
In my mirror, I saw Doofus and Running Buddy had reversed their direction, and were running back toward the school in my lane, still on the pavement. After my heart crawled out of my throat and back down behind my ribs, the reason for Doofus's doofusness began to seep into my returning consciousness.
Doofus was wearing a sock cap (or beanie, as the cool kids call it now) with earbud wires hanging down. Nothing like running on the roadway while unable to hear approaching traffic which you are too lazy to look for. He might as well swim the English Channel while wearing a straight-jacket. Run the Boston Marathon in leg irons. Read the expanded, uncut edition of The Stand in the Cathedral Room of Marvel Cave after hours.
Kids have got to learn that their gadgets are not appendages. There are right times and wrong times to use them. Sigh. It's so hard to get through to them, because they're always texting or thinking about texting or listening to music or playing Angry Birds.
Who will wipe our butts when we're in the nursing home?
On my way home this afternoon, in my high-powered T-Hoe, driving on a new strip of lovely wide concrete outer road behind the high school of the district in which I live (NOT Newmentia), I nearly squished a teen.
This school has a cross-country team, which has traditionally been one of the top teams in the state. I'm not sure about recent years, because I don't follow that sport or that district. Because of past success, the school has no shortage of students who turn out for cross country. On our way through one of their feeder towns every day after school, we see the middle school kids out running past the library, past the remodeled elementary, past the firehouse, presumably to the park. They stick together, five or six boys and five or six girls. There are probably more, but some groups forge ahead.
Five miles further, I turned onto the new section of road. It's wide enough for four cars abreast, though it is marked as a regular two-lane road. Three high school girls ran toward me on the right side right-of-way. They were far enough on the shoulder that cars did not have to swerve away from them. They were running toward traffic, chatting.
A half mile later, I came upon two boys running single file. They were on the left side, running away from me, facing traffic on their side. They were running on the pavement. The road itself. There is no paved shoulder, just grass. A school bus was several car-lengths ahead of me, and had passed on into the roundabout. The lead runner suddenly darted across the center line and into my lane, still with his back to me, never once having turned to look. I know, because I had my eye on him the whole time. Kids are unpredictable in traffic, even high school kids.
I slammed on T-Hoe's anti-locks, and Running Buddy yelled at Doofus. Doofus did an about-face back over the center line. Even at the speed of 30 mph (that's a must, the coppers hide out on that section all the dang time), T-Hoe could not stop in time to avoid Doofus had he continued.
In my mirror, I saw Doofus and Running Buddy had reversed their direction, and were running back toward the school in my lane, still on the pavement. After my heart crawled out of my throat and back down behind my ribs, the reason for Doofus's doofusness began to seep into my returning consciousness.
Doofus was wearing a sock cap (or beanie, as the cool kids call it now) with earbud wires hanging down. Nothing like running on the roadway while unable to hear approaching traffic which you are too lazy to look for. He might as well swim the English Channel while wearing a straight-jacket. Run the Boston Marathon in leg irons. Read the expanded, uncut edition of The Stand in the Cathedral Room of Marvel Cave after hours.
Kids have got to learn that their gadgets are not appendages. There are right times and wrong times to use them. Sigh. It's so hard to get through to them, because they're always texting or thinking about texting or listening to music or playing Angry Birds.
Who will wipe our butts when we're in the nursing home?
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
Burning The Ten O'Clock Oil
I am tired from my 12-hour day of regular teaching plus parent conferences, a bit queasy from greasy Chinese takeout recommended by a colleague, and not really of a mindset to be clever and charming.
As a public service announcement, I suggest that Sweet & Sour Pork is a dish best left unordered, as it will injure your eyes in looking for the pork. However, for lovers of greasy breading and sugary sauce, it can't be beat.
In the unicorn-and-rainbow department, the students have an early out on Thursday, while we have more conferences until 6:00, for which we earn A DAY OFF ON FRIDAY!!!
As a public service announcement, I suggest that Sweet & Sour Pork is a dish best left unordered, as it will injure your eyes in looking for the pork. However, for lovers of greasy breading and sugary sauce, it can't be beat.
In the unicorn-and-rainbow department, the students have an early out on Thursday, while we have more conferences until 6:00, for which we earn A DAY OFF ON FRIDAY!!!
Monday, March 28, 2011
Everybody Knows My Name
Lately, I have become a regular Norm in the Cheers of the school cafeteria.
A kid from one of my morning classes sits at a table near the hall, and when I walk in, fashionably late, after most of the students are seated with their trays, he hollers, "Mrs. Hillbilly Mom!" Now he's got three more boys at his table doing it.
I usually nod, or roll my eyes, or shout his name back at him. He thinks this is hilarious. I think I'm hilarious when I call him Jeremy Roloff in class. The kid is a dead ringer for the tall twin on Little People, Big World. He says the teachers at Basementia used to call him that, too.
Thank the Gummi Mary, I don't look like Norm. At least in my opinion. Gasp! What if I have body dysmorphic disorder, and have a skewed perception of my outward appearance? What if I really DO look like Norm?
If they start raising their milk cartons in a toast, I am going to eat lunch alone in my room.
A kid from one of my morning classes sits at a table near the hall, and when I walk in, fashionably late, after most of the students are seated with their trays, he hollers, "Mrs. Hillbilly Mom!" Now he's got three more boys at his table doing it.
I usually nod, or roll my eyes, or shout his name back at him. He thinks this is hilarious. I think I'm hilarious when I call him Jeremy Roloff in class. The kid is a dead ringer for the tall twin on Little People, Big World. He says the teachers at Basementia used to call him that, too.
Thank the Gummi Mary, I don't look like Norm. At least in my opinion. Gasp! What if I have body dysmorphic disorder, and have a skewed perception of my outward appearance? What if I really DO look like Norm?
If they start raising their milk cartons in a toast, I am going to eat lunch alone in my room.
Sunday, March 27, 2011
I'm Late, I'm Late, For My Reality Television Date
I'm in a bit of a hurry tonight, because I can't miss my reality TV. The Amazing Race is about to start, thanks to basketball making 60 Minutes late. After Amazing Race, I have a date with The Apprentice. Then I switch over to some real high-quality programming with Shameless. I'm a sucker for William H. Macy.
I can't let a little blogging get in the way of my television enjoyment, now can I? Plus there's that little matter of papers to grade from my absence while attending the Science Fair on Friday. The quarter ended Friday, you know.
The school year is chugging to a close.
I can't let a little blogging get in the way of my television enjoyment, now can I? Plus there's that little matter of papers to grade from my absence while attending the Science Fair on Friday. The quarter ended Friday, you know.
The school year is chugging to a close.
Saturday, March 26, 2011
Cleanliness Is Next To Impossible
I have a little bone to pick with Farmer H.
On Thursday evening, The Pony and I returned to the Mansion after running some after-school errands. I was a bit frazzled, having spent the immediate time after the final bell substitute-proofing my classroom, having a civil discourse with Arch Nemesis (who selflessly volunteered to make sure my science fair students made it on their bus the next morning, so I would not have to drive to Newmentia), then making a trip to the bank to deposit money for the #1 son (who had earned it stripping copper wire with Junker H) and cash in a cup of quarters ($34.00 worth, which I suspect he skimmed from me over the last two months), gassing up T-Hoe, picking up prescriptions (for which I am charged a different amount each month, requiring an inquisition, resulting in a forgotten ring-up that I had to backtrack to pay before their auditors found it and summoned me), and finally grabbing some gas station chicken for a comfort meal on Bowler H's night out.
I was not pleased with the sight that greeted me from the food-staging area of my speckled burgundy countertop. "Hello, Mrs. Hillbilly Mom. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Wet, Wadded-Up Paper Towel. I am just relaxing here on this lovely countertop, enjoying myself until the time my presence is requested in that yonder large blue wastebasket under the counter, in the nook occupied in more stately homes by the dishwasher. How is your day progressing, my fine madam?"
Not being of the ilk to proffer hospitality to uninvited guests, I immediately called for King H. "What's this on the counter?"
Several minutes of hem-hawing later, King H announced that he had used conjoined Bounty select-a-sizes to wash off the day's basket of fresh eggs. Let the full horror sink into your bones, down to the very marrow. Farmer H left a wet, chicken-poopy paper towel on the counter where I dice and slice, lop and chop, gut and cut our family foodstuffs.
Farmer H's defense was that he did not mean to leave it there, and that it was not dirty, because he used it to clean the eggs. He furthermore expounded that eggs do NOT come out of a chicken's butt, so I should clamp my trap about finding a poopy paper towel in the area where I set our food. In addition, he could not understand why I would think that a paper towel used to wipe poop off of eggs after the chickens have wallowed their butts on them and perhaps played a game of egg soccer on a manure field would be host to actual chicken poop, instead of just the clean water that he had run it under before wiping poop off the eggs with it.
Look for my upcoming cookbook: Salmonella Dishes from the Heartland.
On Thursday evening, The Pony and I returned to the Mansion after running some after-school errands. I was a bit frazzled, having spent the immediate time after the final bell substitute-proofing my classroom, having a civil discourse with Arch Nemesis (who selflessly volunteered to make sure my science fair students made it on their bus the next morning, so I would not have to drive to Newmentia), then making a trip to the bank to deposit money for the #1 son (who had earned it stripping copper wire with Junker H) and cash in a cup of quarters ($34.00 worth, which I suspect he skimmed from me over the last two months), gassing up T-Hoe, picking up prescriptions (for which I am charged a different amount each month, requiring an inquisition, resulting in a forgotten ring-up that I had to backtrack to pay before their auditors found it and summoned me), and finally grabbing some gas station chicken for a comfort meal on Bowler H's night out.
I was not pleased with the sight that greeted me from the food-staging area of my speckled burgundy countertop. "Hello, Mrs. Hillbilly Mom. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Wet, Wadded-Up Paper Towel. I am just relaxing here on this lovely countertop, enjoying myself until the time my presence is requested in that yonder large blue wastebasket under the counter, in the nook occupied in more stately homes by the dishwasher. How is your day progressing, my fine madam?"
Not being of the ilk to proffer hospitality to uninvited guests, I immediately called for King H. "What's this on the counter?"
Several minutes of hem-hawing later, King H announced that he had used conjoined Bounty select-a-sizes to wash off the day's basket of fresh eggs. Let the full horror sink into your bones, down to the very marrow. Farmer H left a wet, chicken-poopy paper towel on the counter where I dice and slice, lop and chop, gut and cut our family foodstuffs.
Farmer H's defense was that he did not mean to leave it there, and that it was not dirty, because he used it to clean the eggs. He furthermore expounded that eggs do NOT come out of a chicken's butt, so I should clamp my trap about finding a poopy paper towel in the area where I set our food. In addition, he could not understand why I would think that a paper towel used to wipe poop off of eggs after the chickens have wallowed their butts on them and perhaps played a game of egg soccer on a manure field would be host to actual chicken poop, instead of just the clean water that he had run it under before wiping poop off the eggs with it.
Look for my upcoming cookbook: Salmonella Dishes from the Heartland.
Friday, March 25, 2011
A Science Fair Conundrum
Today was the big science fair at the local junior college. I am pleased to report that three of my students' projects won 1st Place. That's pretty good, considering that we only took three projects. But wait a minute! Here's a conundrum for you. Not all of my students who took projects to the science fair won 1st Place. How can that be?
It's not like the three bicycles conundrum, wherein two fathers and two sons bought new bicycles, yet only three bicycles were bought. Think about it. That's long enough. Here's the solution: a man, his son, and his grandson walked into the shop, and each bought a bicycle. Two were fathers, two were sons. But only three bicycles were bought.
Let's think about my science fair entries. Three took projects. Three of our projects were awarded 1st Place. One of our projects at the science fair did not win 1st Place.
The solution: we had four projects originally. A student was sick and did not go. Her project was the only one listed in that category, and was automatically awarded 1st Place. You would think the judges might have at least thought to talk to the nonentity, and fill out a judging form on the project that was not there. But no.
Specifically, one of my freshmen students won 1st Place in the High School Behavioral Science category, with a project on short term vs. long term memory, about eyewitness reports two minutes after an incident, and twenty-four hours after the incident.
The #1 son, a sophomore, won the High School Product Testing category, with a project about the effectiveness of the Power Balance band. Let's just say you might as well buy a five-dollar knockoff, because out of twenty-five subjects, all walked a balance beam faster with the placebo rubber wrist bracelet than with the Power Balance band. No matter what order they were given the bracelets. To make it a blind test, the subject had to wear a coffee filter on his arm to block the sight of the bracelet. Each subject had a trial run with no bracelet, and five trials with each of the bracelets.
I am also pleased to announce that the #1 son won Best in Fair, High School Division. HooRah!
The Pony and his partner gave a valiant effort, but came up short in the Middle School Chemistry category, with their project on how liquid pH values affect the rusting of a nail. They were not too disappointed. Especially since there were thirty-eight entrants in that category. I pointed out to them that 90% of the entrants in their category did not win. There was nothing I would have had them do differently. They were simply beaten by better projects.
Maybe next year our band won't have their district music contest on the same day. And I will have a plethora of projects entered again.
It's not like the three bicycles conundrum, wherein two fathers and two sons bought new bicycles, yet only three bicycles were bought. Think about it. That's long enough. Here's the solution: a man, his son, and his grandson walked into the shop, and each bought a bicycle. Two were fathers, two were sons. But only three bicycles were bought.
Let's think about my science fair entries. Three took projects. Three of our projects were awarded 1st Place. One of our projects at the science fair did not win 1st Place.
The solution: we had four projects originally. A student was sick and did not go. Her project was the only one listed in that category, and was automatically awarded 1st Place. You would think the judges might have at least thought to talk to the nonentity, and fill out a judging form on the project that was not there. But no.
Specifically, one of my freshmen students won 1st Place in the High School Behavioral Science category, with a project on short term vs. long term memory, about eyewitness reports two minutes after an incident, and twenty-four hours after the incident.
The #1 son, a sophomore, won the High School Product Testing category, with a project about the effectiveness of the Power Balance band. Let's just say you might as well buy a five-dollar knockoff, because out of twenty-five subjects, all walked a balance beam faster with the placebo rubber wrist bracelet than with the Power Balance band. No matter what order they were given the bracelets. To make it a blind test, the subject had to wear a coffee filter on his arm to block the sight of the bracelet. Each subject had a trial run with no bracelet, and five trials with each of the bracelets.
I am also pleased to announce that the #1 son won Best in Fair, High School Division. HooRah!
The Pony and his partner gave a valiant effort, but came up short in the Middle School Chemistry category, with their project on how liquid pH values affect the rusting of a nail. They were not too disappointed. Especially since there were thirty-eight entrants in that category. I pointed out to them that 90% of the entrants in their category did not win. There was nothing I would have had them do differently. They were simply beaten by better projects.
Maybe next year our band won't have their district music contest on the same day. And I will have a plethora of projects entered again.
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