The following are some conversation starters that I picked up from a friend recently. We've found that they lead to delicious conversation and lots of laughs. Some folks in Jamaica thought us a bit peculiar when we started a group dinner in this fashion, but I'm certain that they would now admit that our chat offered a great deal of flavor. I will share what I think are the correct answers after you've had a chance to ponder them a bit.
1. If you found yourself in a situation in which you had to dispose of a body, what is your plan?
2. If you could only eat one type of meat (chicken, pork, beef, fish) for the rest of your life, which would you choose and why?
3. If someone broke into your home and you did not have a gun, what would be your method of defense?
4. If you found yourself to be homeless, where would you go at night and how would you survive?
Choose your favorites and tell me the goods! I like to hear the new ideas. Off you go!
Sunday, July 31, 2005
Saturday, July 30, 2005
Splat! a story.
Yesterday, I told you I was procrastinating working on my staff development presentation in favor of the more fun planning. I wrote a story to do as a write aloud for the kids when we start learning the writing process in a few weeks. Sadly, it is a true story with minimal embellishment. I will accept all suggestions at the end.
"I'm going to Dana's!" I called to my mom through the front door, closing it behind me. I carefully stepped down the two steps onto our front sidewalk. On rollerskates, this was no easy task, but I was quite the rollerskating expert by this time. I was going into 5th grade and I had been rollerskating for years.
I pushed off from my driveway and rolled toward my friend Dana's house, not a care in the world. Right foot, left foot, right foot, left foot. Step on a crack, break your mama's back, I thought and I challenged myself on the sidewalk squares. My friend Dana lived right around the corner and we spent most of our days skating and hanging out around her house.
Glancing around the neighborhood, I was surprised not to see the usual huddle of 7th grade boys that always hung out in one of the driveways on the way to Dana's house. They were the neighborhood bullies, everyone knew to steer clear of them. Spending their days shooting things with BB guns and terrorizing small children did not earn them a lot of buddies. I was relieved by their absence today.
Right foot, left foot, right foot, left foot...I felt the wind blowing through my hair. I loved the sensation of rollerskating. I expertly stepped over a stick on the sidewalk and swerved around a crack rising above a willful tree root. I smiled, proud to be such a practiced and confident skater. I looked ahead of me to bask in the breeze when I was snapped from my reverie by a roundish white object soaring through the air in my direction. More specifically, the direction of my face.
"Aughhhhhh!" I screeched as I felt the solid object strike me in the face. Instinctively, I put my hands out in front of me; I was completely blinded by yellow...goo? What was this? Slime? I rolled to a stop to investigate. Had I hit a bird? I hadn't seen a bird. Surely I wasn't going that fast. Tentatively patting at my face, I felt shards mixed in with the cold slimy substance. I heard peals of laughter behind me as it all came together in my mind. The humiliation washed over me like a wave.
The 7th grade bullies had egged me. Whoever heard of egging a person? How cruel can you be? I felt angry tears rise into my eyes as I swiped the egg from my glasses, trying to see ahead of me. I refused to let them see how furious I was. Turning around, I carefully headed back to my house, yolk streaming from my bangs that I had so carefully sculpted and sprayed into shape that morning, egg white stringing from my glasses to my cheeks, blood running down my face from what was certainly a cut from the eggshell, and tears of embarrassment and pain mixing with it all to form quite the messy concoction on my face by the time I got home.
My mom angrily cleaned me up, patched my wound, and told my dad. After taking a look at his bedraggled, bespectacled, and yolky daughter, he went to inform the Bully's parents of their son's criminal activities. Much to my satisfaction, the Bully had to come apologize to me later, a moment I gloated through.
After that day, I found a new route to Dana's house and kept my eye on the windows, instead of the sidewalk. I began traveling by bicycle more frequently figuring it's a more difficult target. Lots of people have battle wounds from accidents or sports injuries. Me? I have an eyebrow scar from an attack of a raw egg.
Now, if we were my students, we would add the line right here, "And then I woke up. It was all a dream! The End." as fourth graders are prone to do. I don't love my ending. This is the part when you are to do a writing conference with me, remembering that this is for a 4th grade audience. In a writing conference, you state what you like and make suggestions for improvement for the final copy. Go!
"I'm going to Dana's!" I called to my mom through the front door, closing it behind me. I carefully stepped down the two steps onto our front sidewalk. On rollerskates, this was no easy task, but I was quite the rollerskating expert by this time. I was going into 5th grade and I had been rollerskating for years.
I pushed off from my driveway and rolled toward my friend Dana's house, not a care in the world. Right foot, left foot, right foot, left foot. Step on a crack, break your mama's back, I thought and I challenged myself on the sidewalk squares. My friend Dana lived right around the corner and we spent most of our days skating and hanging out around her house.
Glancing around the neighborhood, I was surprised not to see the usual huddle of 7th grade boys that always hung out in one of the driveways on the way to Dana's house. They were the neighborhood bullies, everyone knew to steer clear of them. Spending their days shooting things with BB guns and terrorizing small children did not earn them a lot of buddies. I was relieved by their absence today.
Right foot, left foot, right foot, left foot...I felt the wind blowing through my hair. I loved the sensation of rollerskating. I expertly stepped over a stick on the sidewalk and swerved around a crack rising above a willful tree root. I smiled, proud to be such a practiced and confident skater. I looked ahead of me to bask in the breeze when I was snapped from my reverie by a roundish white object soaring through the air in my direction. More specifically, the direction of my face.
"Aughhhhhh!" I screeched as I felt the solid object strike me in the face. Instinctively, I put my hands out in front of me; I was completely blinded by yellow...goo? What was this? Slime? I rolled to a stop to investigate. Had I hit a bird? I hadn't seen a bird. Surely I wasn't going that fast. Tentatively patting at my face, I felt shards mixed in with the cold slimy substance. I heard peals of laughter behind me as it all came together in my mind. The humiliation washed over me like a wave.
The 7th grade bullies had egged me. Whoever heard of egging a person? How cruel can you be? I felt angry tears rise into my eyes as I swiped the egg from my glasses, trying to see ahead of me. I refused to let them see how furious I was. Turning around, I carefully headed back to my house, yolk streaming from my bangs that I had so carefully sculpted and sprayed into shape that morning, egg white stringing from my glasses to my cheeks, blood running down my face from what was certainly a cut from the eggshell, and tears of embarrassment and pain mixing with it all to form quite the messy concoction on my face by the time I got home.
My mom angrily cleaned me up, patched my wound, and told my dad. After taking a look at his bedraggled, bespectacled, and yolky daughter, he went to inform the Bully's parents of their son's criminal activities. Much to my satisfaction, the Bully had to come apologize to me later, a moment I gloated through.
After that day, I found a new route to Dana's house and kept my eye on the windows, instead of the sidewalk. I began traveling by bicycle more frequently figuring it's a more difficult target. Lots of people have battle wounds from accidents or sports injuries. Me? I have an eyebrow scar from an attack of a raw egg.
Now, if we were my students, we would add the line right here, "And then I woke up. It was all a dream! The End." as fourth graders are prone to do. I don't love my ending. This is the part when you are to do a writing conference with me, remembering that this is for a 4th grade audience. In a writing conference, you state what you like and make suggestions for improvement for the final copy. Go!
Friday, July 29, 2005
Guide the Pig
I'm actually doing a little pre-planning for the school year, being that I am such an organized, go getter little whippersnapper.
(pause)
Okay, I'm doing all the fun stuff so I can procrastinate planning for the professional development presentation gig my colleague and I have been told we have to teach in a couple weeks. It's about Writer's Workshop and Literature Circles, both of which I love dearly. Here's the conundrum: I don't want to sound as though the way we do it is the only way to do it and that we're putting other people's practices down. I'm trying to finagle a way to present it that leads to a discussion of how we can come together school-wide on practices used.
So, all you smart people out there? What's the best way to do this and be interesting enough that people won't be cutting and pasting and labeling name tags while I'm talking? It's a real thinker, I tell you.
We've all been to countless horrible staff developments. So components do the good ones include? For me, it's time for me to talk and something practical and useful to take back to my classroom. (Not a screen by screen copy of a power point.)
Help me!!
Now I'm going to return to the fun stuff. I'm writing a story that I want to write aloud for the kids when we start Writer's Workshop. I'll post it tomorrow for proper critique a la Writer's Workshop.
(pause)
Okay, I'm doing all the fun stuff so I can procrastinate planning for the professional development presentation gig my colleague and I have been told we have to teach in a couple weeks. It's about Writer's Workshop and Literature Circles, both of which I love dearly. Here's the conundrum: I don't want to sound as though the way we do it is the only way to do it and that we're putting other people's practices down. I'm trying to finagle a way to present it that leads to a discussion of how we can come together school-wide on practices used.
So, all you smart people out there? What's the best way to do this and be interesting enough that people won't be cutting and pasting and labeling name tags while I'm talking? It's a real thinker, I tell you.
We've all been to countless horrible staff developments. So components do the good ones include? For me, it's time for me to talk and something practical and useful to take back to my classroom. (Not a screen by screen copy of a power point.)
Help me!!
Now I'm going to return to the fun stuff. I'm writing a story that I want to write aloud for the kids when we start Writer's Workshop. I'll post it tomorrow for proper critique a la Writer's Workshop.
Thursday, July 28, 2005
Angsty.
Ever have those days when you're surrounded by angst? None of it's really my angst, it's just some angst that's near me. I've tried not to get any on me, since I'm in a darn decent mood today, but I'm starting to feel like I should give into peer pressure and join the crowd. Therefore, to be in the spirit of things, I'm going to write about the saddest thing I can think of:
1. Getting out of bed whenever I darn well please. I generally wake up at approximately the same reasonable hour each morning, but it's just the joy that comes with knowing I can lay there as long as I want to. If I want to hear the Hollywood Top Five report on my morning talk show, I can lie there and revel in the celebrity gossip as long as I choose to.
2. Eating real food and using my kitchen. I've had two months without frozen dinners, Lean Pockets, or crackers for breakfast. I can cook when I want, graze all day long, and be healthy. I've had time to cook fun new things and eat them at my leisure. And take longer than 30 minutes.
3. Peeing. It has been such a gift to be able to drink all the water I want and to pee freely. Each time I pee, I relish the few moments of urination liberation and try to restore stability to my bladder. Sometimes I even sit there and read Cosmopolitan just because I can.
4. Being a Lady of Leisure. There is something delightfully fabulous about calling up my other teacher friends and meeting up for a lunch or a drink in the middle of the workday. There is something mysterious and enchanting about stretching out on my raft-o-lounger in a sparkling blue pool while everyone else is at work. My golden tan is highly coveted among my summer-challenged peers.
5. Running errands when no one is in the stores. This is the gift of summer that keeps on giving the whole summer long. I am unspeakably grateful for the rockin' good customer service I receive everywhere I go. Their boredom is my reward. I will miss Dale, Shandra, and Kristy for the next 10 months.
6. Liking children from afar. I've never said I don't like children. I just don't think I could eat a whole one. I love to love them from a distance for a couple of months. It makes them intriguing again when I see them in August. I forget all of their peculiarities and their annoying nuances are somehow funny and endearing again.
7. Having a Super!Clean house. Just won't happen during the school year. I lose the energy to maintain it (unless company is coming, in which case I Flight of the Bumblebee clean) and I lose the ability to notice it. Right now there are some dirt remnants, courtesy Gus, on the kitchen floor. I will be sweeping upon completion of this post.
8. Not having a schedule. For an anal-retentive person like myself, it is the most therapeutic experience to just wing it every day. Wake up....check some email....breakfast?....Regis and Kelly....shower?....Days of Our Lives....how about lunch?....phone....plans? Deep breaths. Cleansing leisure.
9. Doing just "the fun stuff" in my classroom. Just the organizing and the decorating and the planning of the fun stuff. I can't describle to you how wonderful my classroom is right now. And those kids are going to come in and squirrel it all up. Quote of the summer from my teammate: "Teaching would be awesome if we could get rid of the kids."
Those are the things I will miss most about summer. In just ten short days I return to the indignity of staff development, the travesty of alarm clocks, and the enslavement to someone else's agenda. I will resume my role as public servant extraordinaire, it is my wish to serve the needs of every overprotective parent, unmotivated child, and misguided administrator.
Ohhhhh...the angst. Now I'm right down there with everyone. All angsty and gloom-ridden. Aren't you glad you came by to read me today?
Summer Ends in Just Ten Days
by SingingPig
That statement alone makes my stomach hurt. It gives me Sunday Night Homework Fever like nothing I can describe. It brings about the tight stressball in my chest that squeezes like a vice. Tears come to my eyes as I mourn all the things that I am going to miss about the joy that is summer vacation for teachers.
1. Getting out of bed whenever I darn well please. I generally wake up at approximately the same reasonable hour each morning, but it's just the joy that comes with knowing I can lay there as long as I want to. If I want to hear the Hollywood Top Five report on my morning talk show, I can lie there and revel in the celebrity gossip as long as I choose to.
2. Eating real food and using my kitchen. I've had two months without frozen dinners, Lean Pockets, or crackers for breakfast. I can cook when I want, graze all day long, and be healthy. I've had time to cook fun new things and eat them at my leisure. And take longer than 30 minutes.
3. Peeing. It has been such a gift to be able to drink all the water I want and to pee freely. Each time I pee, I relish the few moments of urination liberation and try to restore stability to my bladder. Sometimes I even sit there and read Cosmopolitan just because I can.
4. Being a Lady of Leisure. There is something delightfully fabulous about calling up my other teacher friends and meeting up for a lunch or a drink in the middle of the workday. There is something mysterious and enchanting about stretching out on my raft-o-lounger in a sparkling blue pool while everyone else is at work. My golden tan is highly coveted among my summer-challenged peers.
5. Running errands when no one is in the stores. This is the gift of summer that keeps on giving the whole summer long. I am unspeakably grateful for the rockin' good customer service I receive everywhere I go. Their boredom is my reward. I will miss Dale, Shandra, and Kristy for the next 10 months.
6. Liking children from afar. I've never said I don't like children. I just don't think I could eat a whole one. I love to love them from a distance for a couple of months. It makes them intriguing again when I see them in August. I forget all of their peculiarities and their annoying nuances are somehow funny and endearing again.
7. Having a Super!Clean house. Just won't happen during the school year. I lose the energy to maintain it (unless company is coming, in which case I Flight of the Bumblebee clean) and I lose the ability to notice it. Right now there are some dirt remnants, courtesy Gus, on the kitchen floor. I will be sweeping upon completion of this post.
8. Not having a schedule. For an anal-retentive person like myself, it is the most therapeutic experience to just wing it every day. Wake up....check some email....breakfast?....Regis and Kelly....shower?....Days of Our Lives....how about lunch?....phone....plans? Deep breaths. Cleansing leisure.
9. Doing just "the fun stuff" in my classroom. Just the organizing and the decorating and the planning of the fun stuff. I can't describle to you how wonderful my classroom is right now. And those kids are going to come in and squirrel it all up. Quote of the summer from my teammate: "Teaching would be awesome if we could get rid of the kids."
Those are the things I will miss most about summer. In just ten short days I return to the indignity of staff development, the travesty of alarm clocks, and the enslavement to someone else's agenda. I will resume my role as public servant extraordinaire, it is my wish to serve the needs of every overprotective parent, unmotivated child, and misguided administrator.
Ohhhhh...the angst. Now I'm right down there with everyone. All angsty and gloom-ridden. Aren't you glad you came by to read me today?
Wednesday, July 27, 2005
Peppy vs. Cheap
I am generally a relatively friendly person. Some people have accused me of talking to strangers a bit too enthusiastically, but I'm only being nice. I hate feeling snubbed or left out, so I try to prevent other people from feeling that way. That's all. Bygones.
There is an exception to my zealous politeness. That exception takes place when my hyper-conversational side becomes threatened by my cheapskate side. I pride myself on being exceptionally frugal. (Cheap has a negative connotation and it implies that I buy things of cheap quality, which I do not. At least not often.) I consider shopping for bargains to be a contact sport and the person who saves the most money the ultimate champion. Coupons are a challenge and prices in restaurants are negotiable. I'm about to come out of my skin because I've earned $175.66 since July 10 on eBay. (Who knew I had such wealth stashed away in my closets?) Back to my point...my exception.
The exception happens when some teenage kid with a clipboard rings my doorbell in the middle of the day. I used to answer the door when that happened. I used to be polite and smile and sometimes even buy a magazine subscription. That was before the Incident. The Incident that hurt my wallet. This is probably not going to seem like a big deal to you, but it tears at the heart strings of any true tightwad. Here's how it went:
I answered the door and a 20-22ish guy made terrific eye contact and told me how he was in a program for reformed street kids [criminals? rapists? he's at my door, i don't know!] to help them learn basic communication skills such as eye contact and working with the general public, would I be willing to help him out? The more magazines he sold, the more points he got and then he got to go to Cancun. Wait. What? How did we get from reforming street kids to sending them to Cancun on my dollar? I was lost.
I perused his (overpriced, non-discounted) list of magazines and selected one that I subscribed to anyway just to be nice and get him off my porch. That's when he added on a THIRTEEN DOLLAR PROCESSING FEE. And that's when SingingPig stopped opening the door for anyone with a clipboard. I now walk up to the door, look through the glass, see a clipboard, turn around, and walk away. I leave Gus to bark him off, a duty in which he takes great pride. Today, especially, since he had just had a bath, much to his chagrin, and was filled with angsty hot barky breath which he unloaded on Suspicious Teenager on Porch.
I know that's terribly rude, but I refuse to get into that pickle again! You just can't say no at that point. Well, you can, but then that clashes with my be-nice-to-strangers personality and I become all conflicted. And if it's one thing the SingingPig doesn't like to be, it's conflicted.
There is an exception to my zealous politeness. That exception takes place when my hyper-conversational side becomes threatened by my cheapskate side. I pride myself on being exceptionally frugal. (Cheap has a negative connotation and it implies that I buy things of cheap quality, which I do not. At least not often.) I consider shopping for bargains to be a contact sport and the person who saves the most money the ultimate champion. Coupons are a challenge and prices in restaurants are negotiable. I'm about to come out of my skin because I've earned $175.66 since July 10 on eBay. (Who knew I had such wealth stashed away in my closets?) Back to my point...my exception.
The exception happens when some teenage kid with a clipboard rings my doorbell in the middle of the day. I used to answer the door when that happened. I used to be polite and smile and sometimes even buy a magazine subscription. That was before the Incident. The Incident that hurt my wallet. This is probably not going to seem like a big deal to you, but it tears at the heart strings of any true tightwad. Here's how it went:
I answered the door and a 20-22ish guy made terrific eye contact and told me how he was in a program for reformed street kids [criminals? rapists? he's at my door, i don't know!] to help them learn basic communication skills such as eye contact and working with the general public, would I be willing to help him out? The more magazines he sold, the more points he got and then he got to go to Cancun. Wait. What? How did we get from reforming street kids to sending them to Cancun on my dollar? I was lost.
I perused his (overpriced, non-discounted) list of magazines and selected one that I subscribed to anyway just to be nice and get him off my porch. That's when he added on a THIRTEEN DOLLAR PROCESSING FEE. And that's when SingingPig stopped opening the door for anyone with a clipboard. I now walk up to the door, look through the glass, see a clipboard, turn around, and walk away. I leave Gus to bark him off, a duty in which he takes great pride. Today, especially, since he had just had a bath, much to his chagrin, and was filled with angsty hot barky breath which he unloaded on Suspicious Teenager on Porch.
I know that's terribly rude, but I refuse to get into that pickle again! You just can't say no at that point. Well, you can, but then that clashes with my be-nice-to-strangers personality and I become all conflicted. And if it's one thing the SingingPig doesn't like to be, it's conflicted.
Tuesday, July 26, 2005
No sweat.
A school story for your summer reading pleasure...
A couple years ago I had a student whom we will call Pete. My colleagues and I nickname any and all kids that require daily discussion in their presence and this one we called The BFP. Instead of telling you what that stands for, I'm going to tell you that BFP was about 4'10, and weighed in at approximately 150 pounds. I believe rotund is the word I'm looking for. Being that we're in Texas, Land of Obesity, we also had a BFT and a BFJ that year.
Back to The BFP. The BFP had an extraordinarily serious demeanor. He was blunt, and preferred just the facts, ma'am. His interests included a healthy vocabulary and a good Twinkie. He was an 80 year old man packaged in an oversized 4th grade package that usually had some lunch around the perimeter of his mouth. The BFP had a voice that relayed the sheer effort of speaking with frequent breathy pauses and a whiny wheeze inflection at the end of each sentence. Which is how he began a conversation one fine Monday morning.
BFP: Mrs? Ohm...I just wanted you to know...that I can't participate in PE today. Or recess. [adjusted uncomfortably somewhere in his backyard]
Me: I'm sorry, why not Pete?
BFP: Well...[massive breath to demonstrate effort] See, the cheeks of my buttocks....they have been rubbing together...and it's caused a lot of chaffing. [direct stare, no expression]
Me: [dying inside. absolutely dying. am going to explode from unreleased laughter] Well, I'm real sorry to hear that, Pete.
BFP: Yeah...well....I put some powder back there, but it's not helping. [more direct eye contact, no blinking]
Me: [slow deep breaths, controlling hysterics. place look of intense concern on face.]
BFP: [spread-legged stance] My mom says...the heat makes it worse. And sweat. So...
Me: Well, Pete, I think you should definitely take it easy today. We don't want any sweating then. Don't you worry about it. No sweat. [eeek! bad pun? will he get it? will he? wait for it...]
BFP: [labored sigh] Okay...It kinda hurts when I walk...I hope it doesn't blister this time.
Pete waddled away, swinging his legs in wide arcs to each side with each step. His excuse note was gripped tightly in his hand as he made his way to my teammate's classroom where he then shared the story again.
You gotta feel for 'ol Pete, but should this really be a problem at age ten? Should it really? Pete was a good kid. He certainly made my Monday that day. It's a darned good thing that Texas took the right to give kids candy out of elementary schools. That will definitely fix Pete's problem.
A couple years ago I had a student whom we will call Pete. My colleagues and I nickname any and all kids that require daily discussion in their presence and this one we called The BFP. Instead of telling you what that stands for, I'm going to tell you that BFP was about 4'10, and weighed in at approximately 150 pounds. I believe rotund is the word I'm looking for. Being that we're in Texas, Land of Obesity, we also had a BFT and a BFJ that year.
Back to The BFP. The BFP had an extraordinarily serious demeanor. He was blunt, and preferred just the facts, ma'am. His interests included a healthy vocabulary and a good Twinkie. He was an 80 year old man packaged in an oversized 4th grade package that usually had some lunch around the perimeter of his mouth. The BFP had a voice that relayed the sheer effort of speaking with frequent breathy pauses and a whiny wheeze inflection at the end of each sentence. Which is how he began a conversation one fine Monday morning.
BFP: Mrs? Ohm...I just wanted you to know...that I can't participate in PE today. Or recess. [adjusted uncomfortably somewhere in his backyard]
Me: I'm sorry, why not Pete?
BFP: Well...[massive breath to demonstrate effort] See, the cheeks of my buttocks....they have been rubbing together...and it's caused a lot of chaffing. [direct stare, no expression]
Me: [dying inside. absolutely dying. am going to explode from unreleased laughter] Well, I'm real sorry to hear that, Pete.
BFP: Yeah...well....I put some powder back there, but it's not helping. [more direct eye contact, no blinking]
Me: [slow deep breaths, controlling hysterics. place look of intense concern on face.]
BFP: [spread-legged stance] My mom says...the heat makes it worse. And sweat. So...
Me: Well, Pete, I think you should definitely take it easy today. We don't want any sweating then. Don't you worry about it. No sweat. [eeek! bad pun? will he get it? will he? wait for it...]
BFP: [labored sigh] Okay...It kinda hurts when I walk...I hope it doesn't blister this time.
Pete waddled away, swinging his legs in wide arcs to each side with each step. His excuse note was gripped tightly in his hand as he made his way to my teammate's classroom where he then shared the story again.
You gotta feel for 'ol Pete, but should this really be a problem at age ten? Should it really? Pete was a good kid. He certainly made my Monday that day. It's a darned good thing that Texas took the right to give kids candy out of elementary schools. That will definitely fix Pete's problem.
Monday, July 25, 2005
Dearest Vacuum Cleaner,
It is your job to vacuum the floors. I only ask you to do this every week or two. The rest of the time you get to rest comfortably in the office closet. Because your working conditions are so favorable, I would appreciate less attitude when I do ask you to do a little work.
First, the odor you emit when I run you is completely unacceptable. Vacuuming while inhaling the stench of smelly feet does not make the chore any more tolerable. You have never been stored near feet or shoes, so there is no reason for you to smell that way. Your hygiene is questionable, at best.
Second, I could do with a little less attitude from you. While I am vacuuming, there is no need to squeal at such a high-pitched tone that even Gus runs under the bed. I should not have to wear headphones while vacuuming just to avoid a migraine. Which brings us to another point. If you did not make such racket, I would have never gotten out the headphones, which means I wouldn't have been rocking out to Prince's 1999 when the mail lady rang the doorbell with a package. I saw her laughing when I noticed her mid-twirl of the vacuum cord/microphone. I suspect she heard me singing through the door. Again, unacceptable.
Finally, it would be greatly appreciated if you did not retract the extend-o-hose back into yourself whenever I try to do a good job of sucking up bugs and leaves from the carpet. I know that I usually just bend over and throw the trash in front of you to suck up, but today I was trying to be thorough. When you retracted the hose and I had to yank on it and I bashed my head into the wall, I did not find that particularly amusing. Nor was it funny when the hose flew out of my hand and began thrashing about in the air. You're lucky that the dining room curtains were so firmly affixed to their rod and were able to sustain such treatment.
If you didn't want to vacuum, you shouldn't have become a vacuum cleaner. If you don't watch your step, you're going to find yourself on the curb with the rest of my white trash collection of bulk garbage. Yep, you'll be right there next to the big blue mattress leaning on my mailbox. What do you think about them apples?
Regards,
SingingPig
First, the odor you emit when I run you is completely unacceptable. Vacuuming while inhaling the stench of smelly feet does not make the chore any more tolerable. You have never been stored near feet or shoes, so there is no reason for you to smell that way. Your hygiene is questionable, at best.
Second, I could do with a little less attitude from you. While I am vacuuming, there is no need to squeal at such a high-pitched tone that even Gus runs under the bed. I should not have to wear headphones while vacuuming just to avoid a migraine. Which brings us to another point. If you did not make such racket, I would have never gotten out the headphones, which means I wouldn't have been rocking out to Prince's 1999 when the mail lady rang the doorbell with a package. I saw her laughing when I noticed her mid-twirl of the vacuum cord/microphone. I suspect she heard me singing through the door. Again, unacceptable.
Finally, it would be greatly appreciated if you did not retract the extend-o-hose back into yourself whenever I try to do a good job of sucking up bugs and leaves from the carpet. I know that I usually just bend over and throw the trash in front of you to suck up, but today I was trying to be thorough. When you retracted the hose and I had to yank on it and I bashed my head into the wall, I did not find that particularly amusing. Nor was it funny when the hose flew out of my hand and began thrashing about in the air. You're lucky that the dining room curtains were so firmly affixed to their rod and were able to sustain such treatment.
If you didn't want to vacuum, you shouldn't have become a vacuum cleaner. If you don't watch your step, you're going to find yourself on the curb with the rest of my white trash collection of bulk garbage. Yep, you'll be right there next to the big blue mattress leaning on my mailbox. What do you think about them apples?
Regards,
SingingPig
Sunday, July 24, 2005
Yeah, But You Know What's Worse?
Do you know That Guy? The Eeyore of everybody's social circle? For every single story told and anecdote shared, That Guy always has the one up. The "You know what's worse than that?" or the "Yeah, but listen to this" or the dreaded "It could be worse." After "It could be worse" someone is forced to sigh and say, "How?" This inevitably leads to some long drawn out depressing tale of woe that is generally uninteresting and rarely on the topic at hand.
This One Up conversational technique is okay once in a while, but when applied after every single person speaks, people just stop speaking. Then you are subjected to long-winded stories about the bane of property taxes in Sweden or the painstaking nature of the detail work associated with the hand-painting of miniatures. Miniature what? No one knows because no one dares ask, lest we have to hear the story.
So here's the latest one:
There were several teachers present and we were all having a grand 'ol conversation about how none of us had actually intended to become teachers. Our mothers/aunts/grandmothers had all been teachers and we had planned to do something different. Decent conversation, right? That's when That Guy jumps into the conversation.
"Yeah, but you know what's worse?" [Wah wahhhhhhhhh....cue Debbie Downer music]
Everybody sighs audibly and looks over at That Guy. That Guy, by the way, who is the only guy in a roomful of girls. All the other guys are outside being manly around the meat in the smoker and drinking beer. We steal glances at each other, wondering who's going to ask him what's worse. I give in.
"What's worse?"
"I always said my whole life that I was never going to write the software for cellular phone billing." [dramatic glance around room]
Yeah, because that's exactly the same thing as what we were talking about, buddy. That is called talking to hear your head rattle. Loving the sound of your own voice. Tooting your own horn. And getting the rest of us way off topic.
Does anyone else know That Guy?
This One Up conversational technique is okay once in a while, but when applied after every single person speaks, people just stop speaking. Then you are subjected to long-winded stories about the bane of property taxes in Sweden or the painstaking nature of the detail work associated with the hand-painting of miniatures. Miniature what? No one knows because no one dares ask, lest we have to hear the story.
So here's the latest one:
There were several teachers present and we were all having a grand 'ol conversation about how none of us had actually intended to become teachers. Our mothers/aunts/grandmothers had all been teachers and we had planned to do something different. Decent conversation, right? That's when That Guy jumps into the conversation.
"Yeah, but you know what's worse?" [Wah wahhhhhhhhh....cue Debbie Downer music]
Everybody sighs audibly and looks over at That Guy. That Guy, by the way, who is the only guy in a roomful of girls. All the other guys are outside being manly around the meat in the smoker and drinking beer. We steal glances at each other, wondering who's going to ask him what's worse. I give in.
"What's worse?"
"I always said my whole life that I was never going to write the software for cellular phone billing." [dramatic glance around room]
Yeah, because that's exactly the same thing as what we were talking about, buddy. That is called talking to hear your head rattle. Loving the sound of your own voice. Tooting your own horn. And getting the rest of us way off topic.
Does anyone else know That Guy?
Thursday, July 21, 2005
You come here often?
Top 5 Ways People Google Searched For My Blog Recently:
1. Death By Coconut (18)
2. My beagle is vomiting and refuses to eat. (4)
3. Asparagus gifts (2)
4. Why do I get so much phlegm? (1)
5. I don't always keep my cool like The Fonz, but my love for my kids has given me plenty of 'Happy Days'. (1)
Well, whatever brings in the readers, I suppose. I know where the first one comes from, I can make some pretty good guesses about the second, but whoever can tell me which posts 3-5 came from wins the prize!
I heart BlogPatrol.
1. Death By Coconut (18)
2. My beagle is vomiting and refuses to eat. (4)
3. Asparagus gifts (2)
4. Why do I get so much phlegm? (1)
5. I don't always keep my cool like The Fonz, but my love for my kids has given me plenty of 'Happy Days'. (1)
Well, whatever brings in the readers, I suppose. I know where the first one comes from, I can make some pretty good guesses about the second, but whoever can tell me which posts 3-5 came from wins the prize!
I heart BlogPatrol.
Wednesday, July 20, 2005
Legpits and General Awkwardness
Stayed up until 1am reading Harry Potter. (Am still 200 pages from end, so there is to be no discussion of anything Potter related until I am finished. Perhaps tomorrow.) Slept peacefully until about 8:30am. This is approximately the time at which Gus realizes that it's a whole new day.
Gus: [wriggles out from under covers, shakes off, begins nosing my chin enthusiastically]
Me: [fake sleep]
Gus: ARRRRRRRRRRR-ew! [loud breathy yawn in my face]
Me: [open one eye] What? [stare at dog]
Gus: [wag, wag, wag, wag, wag, dog smile, pant happily]
Every morning is like the start of a vacation for Gus. It's as though he forgets all of the things that he did yesterday and the world is fresh and new. The backyard is unexplored and unsecured terrain. The neighbors are new, threatening strangers. The toy he left on the floor yesterday is fresh fun.
Me: Gus, go back to sleep. 15 more minutes... (I can't believe I reason with a dog)
Gus: [begins leaping about on the bed] translation: Come on! Come on! It's a whole new day! Let's go!
Me: [fake sleep]
Gus: [leaps off bed, begins scratching on door] Ahrooo! [yelps]
Me: [sit straight up in bed at sound of yelp] Gus!
Gus has managed to entangle himself in the bra that was hanging on the doorknob to dry. His armpit (legpit?) is ensnared by bra strap and his paw remains a few inches off the floor as he struggles and wrestles to set himself free. I am about to lose a good bra. Sigh. I get up, untangle the dog and let him out to explore grounds unknown.
That's when the phone rings. Here's the dilemma there. I haven't spoken to anyone yet this morning, aside from Gus, and I know my voice has that whole just woke up sound to it. I look at the caller ID and it's my principal. Sigh again.
"Hello? Hello?" I practice croaked to test out the sound before I answered. I grabbed the phone.
Me: Hello?
Principal: Hi there! Did I wake you up?
Me: Oh no! No...been up for hours. [push glasses up on nose, straighten pajamas]
Why do we do this? Why is it so bad to have been asleep? Is it embarrassment? I will argue to the death with a caller that I was not asleep. Today, I chose to feign allergies.
Me: Allergies, you know. [cough, cough for effect]
Principal: Are you sure I didn't wake you up?
Me: Nooooooooooo...nonono. I always sound like this....when I have, um...allergies.
Awkward, awkward, awkward. Why must I be such a goober? WHY? And, again, who cares that I was asleep? Well, mostly asleep. Maybe I should've just said, "Actually, I'm awake. Just trying to get my bra off of my dog." 'Cause that's not awkward at all.
So, I finished that conversation (my voice becoming miraculously stronger each minute, I kept throwing in some fake out coughs to keep up the charade). I headed for my computer to check the 'ol email/eBay situation on deck. That's when I found my email faux pas of the week.
I am somewhat notorious for email blunders. The sad thing is that it's the same mistake every time and you'd think I would learn. I actually have gotten much, much better at work since my most recent debacle in which I propositioned my principal for a lunch date.
[Principal emailed my teammate a workshop opportunity that was on a school day. My friend forwarded it to me with a message that said, "Want to go?" I opened the attachment, read it eagerly, hit reply and typed, "YAHOO! Wanna go out to lunch???" Of course, you know what happened next...the message I replied to was the attachment and so my email went to my principal who politely replied that she hadn't planned on attending the workshop with us, but was glad of my enthusiasm.]
So back to today's little indescretion. The other day, my mom sent me some pictures the baby of one of my childhood friends. The pictures were in an attachment. Fabulous. I clicked, I looked, I oohed and ahhed and I replied. So of course by now you know I'm replying to the father of this baby, though I thought I was replying to my mom. There is a big difference between what you will casually type to your mother and what you would type to a friend you grew up next door to, but haven't seen in twenty years. Not realizing the difference, I blithely typed, "Looks like her dad. Is she cross-eyed?"
The baby looked cross-eyed in the pictures! But that's not something you send to the dad! NONONONONO! Retract! Withdraw! Back up the boat! Oh, the humiliation. I didn't realize my error until I found the email from the dad in my inbox this morning that just said, "Who are you?" Thank goodness for married names, he didn't know who I was. But then the next email from him was an automated message that he was recalling the previous email. He had to have figured it out. Oh, dear.
*head hung in shame*
Gus: [wriggles out from under covers, shakes off, begins nosing my chin enthusiastically]
Me: [fake sleep]
Gus: ARRRRRRRRRRR-ew! [loud breathy yawn in my face]
Me: [open one eye] What? [stare at dog]
Gus: [wag, wag, wag, wag, wag, dog smile, pant happily]
Every morning is like the start of a vacation for Gus. It's as though he forgets all of the things that he did yesterday and the world is fresh and new. The backyard is unexplored and unsecured terrain. The neighbors are new, threatening strangers. The toy he left on the floor yesterday is fresh fun.
Me: Gus, go back to sleep. 15 more minutes... (I can't believe I reason with a dog)
Gus: [begins leaping about on the bed] translation: Come on! Come on! It's a whole new day! Let's go!
Me: [fake sleep]
Gus: [leaps off bed, begins scratching on door] Ahrooo! [yelps]
Me: [sit straight up in bed at sound of yelp] Gus!
Gus has managed to entangle himself in the bra that was hanging on the doorknob to dry. His armpit (legpit?) is ensnared by bra strap and his paw remains a few inches off the floor as he struggles and wrestles to set himself free. I am about to lose a good bra. Sigh. I get up, untangle the dog and let him out to explore grounds unknown.
That's when the phone rings. Here's the dilemma there. I haven't spoken to anyone yet this morning, aside from Gus, and I know my voice has that whole just woke up sound to it. I look at the caller ID and it's my principal. Sigh again.
"Hello? Hello?" I practice croaked to test out the sound before I answered. I grabbed the phone.
Me: Hello?
Principal: Hi there! Did I wake you up?
Me: Oh no! No...been up for hours. [push glasses up on nose, straighten pajamas]
Why do we do this? Why is it so bad to have been asleep? Is it embarrassment? I will argue to the death with a caller that I was not asleep. Today, I chose to feign allergies.
Me: Allergies, you know. [cough, cough for effect]
Principal: Are you sure I didn't wake you up?
Me: Nooooooooooo...nonono. I always sound like this....when I have, um...allergies.
Awkward, awkward, awkward. Why must I be such a goober? WHY? And, again, who cares that I was asleep? Well, mostly asleep. Maybe I should've just said, "Actually, I'm awake. Just trying to get my bra off of my dog." 'Cause that's not awkward at all.
So, I finished that conversation (my voice becoming miraculously stronger each minute, I kept throwing in some fake out coughs to keep up the charade). I headed for my computer to check the 'ol email/eBay situation on deck. That's when I found my email faux pas of the week.
I am somewhat notorious for email blunders. The sad thing is that it's the same mistake every time and you'd think I would learn. I actually have gotten much, much better at work since my most recent debacle in which I propositioned my principal for a lunch date.
[Principal emailed my teammate a workshop opportunity that was on a school day. My friend forwarded it to me with a message that said, "Want to go?" I opened the attachment, read it eagerly, hit reply and typed, "YAHOO! Wanna go out to lunch???" Of course, you know what happened next...the message I replied to was the attachment and so my email went to my principal who politely replied that she hadn't planned on attending the workshop with us, but was glad of my enthusiasm.]
So back to today's little indescretion. The other day, my mom sent me some pictures the baby of one of my childhood friends. The pictures were in an attachment. Fabulous. I clicked, I looked, I oohed and ahhed and I replied. So of course by now you know I'm replying to the father of this baby, though I thought I was replying to my mom. There is a big difference between what you will casually type to your mother and what you would type to a friend you grew up next door to, but haven't seen in twenty years. Not realizing the difference, I blithely typed, "Looks like her dad. Is she cross-eyed?"
The baby looked cross-eyed in the pictures! But that's not something you send to the dad! NONONONONO! Retract! Withdraw! Back up the boat! Oh, the humiliation. I didn't realize my error until I found the email from the dad in my inbox this morning that just said, "Who are you?" Thank goodness for married names, he didn't know who I was. But then the next email from him was an automated message that he was recalling the previous email. He had to have figured it out. Oh, dear.
*head hung in shame*
Monday, July 18, 2005
You'd Think Today Was a Tuesday.
Howdy kiddos. I'm here to report on another day. Unfortunately, today was a teacher inservice day. I spent the day learning the ins and out of Asperger's Syndrome. This workshop was much better than my usual How To Teach Writing Seminar, which I've been to at least 43 times. Asperger's and autism are both fascinating to me. I've taught kids with both, but they are all so different! It was fun to learn some new techniques for how to use their obsessive interests as a tool to help them correct some social issues. Good stuff! Anyway.
The bad part was that I took a wrong turn on the way there (par for the course going anywhere with me, even if I've been there before), was slightly late (5 minutes), and had to sit in the front. How, may I ask you, am I supposed to get any work done sitting up there under the speaker's nose? I spent all day practicing my "Yesssss....I hear what you're saying" thoughtful nod. I alternated it with the pen pressed to lips/brow furrowed "Hmmmmm....you've really got me thinking now" expression. Between my bursts of acting I would jot down my planning-for-next-year thoughts in a clandestine-I'm-taking-feverish-notes manner. It was all very tricky and stressful. I also had to sit across from, instead of next to, my teammate. This really throws a wrench into the note passing. All in all it was a total bust.
Then I came home to a jury duty summons. This would not be such a big hairy deal if it wasn't the third time I had been summoned in the 3 years that I have lived here! I am only 29 years old and I have been called to jury duty 5 times in all. My mom, on the other hand, has only been called once. Random selection, my foot. You don't have to serve if you've served within the last three years, which I obviously have. So why do they send you a notice? In this day and age is it really so difficult for a computer to filter out the names of people who have already served? It doesn't seem like rocket science! Imagine the amount of postage that is being wasted. That's my tax dollars at work. Grumble, grumble, grumble.
Oh, and the results of yesterday's quiz were quite good. You are very good students who have been paying careful attention. The choices for how to handle a no name paper situation were:
a) Add handwriting analyst to my job description.
b) Hang the no name papers on the board for kids to claim them.
c) Throw the papers into the garbage can.
d) Call the 4 kids up to my desk and let them find their paper for me.
The correct answer was indeed A. In addition to the title of teacher, I am also a therapist, nurse, diagnostician, janitor, secretary, organizational leader, news correspondent, actress, coach, and handwriting analyst.
Answer choice B would at the very least earn me 4 parent phone calls and an email from the principal regarding the 4 phone calls she just had to deal with. She would like to know why I am breaking code 467b26r of the policy for student feel goodness and self-esteem.
Answer choice C would earn me 4 parent conferences, 2 phone calls from lawyers, and a face to face with my principal. I would then have to call ATPE and invoke my legal representation. This would all have to be taken care of off contract time and would really cut into my tennis league.
Answer choice D would just be poor judgment. Can you even begin to imagine what would happen if I singled out 4 kids and had them (hushed whisper) walk back to my desk? [gasp!] They would most certainly die of utter humiliation and shame. Clearly the wrong choice.
So there we are. I am actually quite skilled at identifying handwriting. It's a little respected art form. I should teach an inservice on it. I wouldn't make anyone sit in the front row. Humph.
The bad part was that I took a wrong turn on the way there (par for the course going anywhere with me, even if I've been there before), was slightly late (5 minutes), and had to sit in the front. How, may I ask you, am I supposed to get any work done sitting up there under the speaker's nose? I spent all day practicing my "Yesssss....I hear what you're saying" thoughtful nod. I alternated it with the pen pressed to lips/brow furrowed "Hmmmmm....you've really got me thinking now" expression. Between my bursts of acting I would jot down my planning-for-next-year thoughts in a clandestine-I'm-taking-feverish-notes manner. It was all very tricky and stressful. I also had to sit across from, instead of next to, my teammate. This really throws a wrench into the note passing. All in all it was a total bust.
Then I came home to a jury duty summons. This would not be such a big hairy deal if it wasn't the third time I had been summoned in the 3 years that I have lived here! I am only 29 years old and I have been called to jury duty 5 times in all. My mom, on the other hand, has only been called once. Random selection, my foot. You don't have to serve if you've served within the last three years, which I obviously have. So why do they send you a notice? In this day and age is it really so difficult for a computer to filter out the names of people who have already served? It doesn't seem like rocket science! Imagine the amount of postage that is being wasted. That's my tax dollars at work. Grumble, grumble, grumble.
Oh, and the results of yesterday's quiz were quite good. You are very good students who have been paying careful attention. The choices for how to handle a no name paper situation were:
a) Add handwriting analyst to my job description.
b) Hang the no name papers on the board for kids to claim them.
c) Throw the papers into the garbage can.
d) Call the 4 kids up to my desk and let them find their paper for me.
The correct answer was indeed A. In addition to the title of teacher, I am also a therapist, nurse, diagnostician, janitor, secretary, organizational leader, news correspondent, actress, coach, and handwriting analyst.
Answer choice B would at the very least earn me 4 parent phone calls and an email from the principal regarding the 4 phone calls she just had to deal with. She would like to know why I am breaking code 467b26r of the policy for student feel goodness and self-esteem.
Answer choice C would earn me 4 parent conferences, 2 phone calls from lawyers, and a face to face with my principal. I would then have to call ATPE and invoke my legal representation. This would all have to be taken care of off contract time and would really cut into my tennis league.
Answer choice D would just be poor judgment. Can you even begin to imagine what would happen if I singled out 4 kids and had them (hushed whisper) walk back to my desk? [gasp!] They would most certainly die of utter humiliation and shame. Clearly the wrong choice.
So there we are. I am actually quite skilled at identifying handwriting. It's a little respected art form. I should teach an inservice on it. I wouldn't make anyone sit in the front row. Humph.
Sunday, July 17, 2005
But It's Not My Fault!
Reading TravelerTrish's comment on my post about the swimming pool set my mind to thinking. (No easy task in the summer, mind you.) Parents have got a real problem with discipline and I think it's about to be the downfall of our society. Seriously! I'm not being dramatic here.
In seven years in the classroom, there shouldn't be a dramatic swing like the one I've seen. It's not like I've been teaching all that long, but it gets consistently and noticeably worse every year. I'm not quite sure how to organize this, but the bottom line here is that there have got to be consequences and structure in a child's life. Your home is a microcosm of society for your children. If a child intentionally hits their sibling, there should be a consequence. Just like when that same child is 18 and they get into a fight in public, they could very well be arrested.
Now, I'm not saying beat the kid. I'm saying get 'em where it hurts. And make it age appropriate and creative.
I was overall a pretty good kid, but the Singing Pig was no stranger to the spanking. (Usually because of my smart mouth, which as you can see eventually found an appropriate outlet. Thanks, mom and dad.) Oh, I've had the Dangling By the Elbow Swinging in a Circle Spanking, the On the Thigh Backseat of the Car Spanking, and the Over the Knee Dad's Serious This Time Spanking. Did I deserve it? I'm sure. Am I emotionally scarred or suing my parents? Um, no.
But here's the trick. You have to be crafty with spankings because they just aren't appropriate forever or all the time. When I was in middle school, I probably would have preferred a spanking to the Picking Up Rocks in the Yard public shame punishment or the dreaded Removal of Phone Privileges torture or in high school, the Grounded on the Weekends horror. So creativity and knowing your child is key.
Also, I think common sense. For instance, you don't spank or punish for everything under the sun. I see those parents too, but usually it's only in front of me, the teacher, so that I witness them punishing their children. As though I'm the judge. When you punish for absolutely everything, the punishment loses its value as a punishment. There should be levels of punishment. There is no need to spank all the time for everything. And with some kids, there's probably no need to spank at all. Mind games are important too.
Mind games could be handy in public. For example, my husband's parents had one rule and one rule only when in public: Don't Embarrass Me. If Mike broke that rule, then he wasn't instantly punished, no no....he received the delayed punishment. You know the one - one evil raised eyebrow or a very firm elbow grip? All the communication is in the eyes. There's no need to spank or yell in public. That just brings the parents down to the kids' level. I cannot stand to see parents in the grocery store aisle screaming at and swatting their children who are running around like devils. When they reach that point, it's really too late for the parents. That's when they call up one of these ludicrous Nanny 911 reality TV shows. You want to see the kind of parents I deal with at school? Watch that show. I'm just glad they're being exposed to the public. [Sidenote - the fact that that show even exists makes the point of this post for me.]
So let's bring this around to school and how it affect me, the teacher. Kids come to school having never been properly trained or punished. Somehow they've made it to fourth grade acting this way. (or they have to be re-trained after a 2 month summer vacation and too much time with their parents) These are the kids in class that call out the "funny" comments and expect to be told how cute they are. These are the kids that remove things from their neighbor's desk and then deny that they had anything to do with it, despite the fact that you, the teacher, watched them. These are the kids who don't turn in any work, claiming that you, the teacher, didn't give it to them or that their mom/maid/babysitter threw it away. These are those kids. We'll call them Bratty Brittany and Peter the Punk. And here's the problem:
When I was little (back in my day! we had to walk up hill both ways to school in the snow!), I was deathly afraid of my teacher. Well, not really of my teacher, but of what could happen to me if I was "bad." Most kids my age knew that if you got in trouble at school, you were going to be in a lot worse trouble at home. And I didn't go to school at a school with paddles. It was just good 'ol respect. My teacher had an apple tree on the bulletin board. The apple had our names on them and the good apples stayed up on the tree. One day, my apple fell off the tree and I was a bad apple. I was CRUSHED. Do you know what I had done? I hadn't written my name on my paper. My second grade teacher made me dig through the trashcan where she had wadded up and thrown away all the no name papers. I was crying so hard that the tears blurred my eyes and I couldn't read the names, so the task was even more difficult and I knew she was watching me. I was one miserable bad apple. You know what my mom said? "I bet you don't forget to do that anymore!" And I didn't. Now let's fast-forward to 2005.
Pop Quiz: I'm grading papers. There are 4 papers without names in my stack. There are 22 children in my class. I have written down 18 scores.
Here are my choices:
a) Add handwriting analyst to my job description.
b) Hang the no name papers on the board for kids to claim them.
c) Throw the papers into the garbage can.
d) Call the 4 kids up to my desk and let them find their paper for me.
What would you do? Reason through your choices carefully because this is a test to see if you could keep your job in a yuppie school district. Answers and conclusion will be delivered when a proper number of decisions have been cast. I know you're waiting on the edge of your seat. I feel the excitement.
In seven years in the classroom, there shouldn't be a dramatic swing like the one I've seen. It's not like I've been teaching all that long, but it gets consistently and noticeably worse every year. I'm not quite sure how to organize this, but the bottom line here is that there have got to be consequences and structure in a child's life. Your home is a microcosm of society for your children. If a child intentionally hits their sibling, there should be a consequence. Just like when that same child is 18 and they get into a fight in public, they could very well be arrested.
Now, I'm not saying beat the kid. I'm saying get 'em where it hurts. And make it age appropriate and creative.
I was overall a pretty good kid, but the Singing Pig was no stranger to the spanking. (Usually because of my smart mouth, which as you can see eventually found an appropriate outlet. Thanks, mom and dad.) Oh, I've had the Dangling By the Elbow Swinging in a Circle Spanking, the On the Thigh Backseat of the Car Spanking, and the Over the Knee Dad's Serious This Time Spanking. Did I deserve it? I'm sure. Am I emotionally scarred or suing my parents? Um, no.
But here's the trick. You have to be crafty with spankings because they just aren't appropriate forever or all the time. When I was in middle school, I probably would have preferred a spanking to the Picking Up Rocks in the Yard public shame punishment or the dreaded Removal of Phone Privileges torture or in high school, the Grounded on the Weekends horror. So creativity and knowing your child is key.
Also, I think common sense. For instance, you don't spank or punish for everything under the sun. I see those parents too, but usually it's only in front of me, the teacher, so that I witness them punishing their children. As though I'm the judge. When you punish for absolutely everything, the punishment loses its value as a punishment. There should be levels of punishment. There is no need to spank all the time for everything. And with some kids, there's probably no need to spank at all. Mind games are important too.
Mind games could be handy in public. For example, my husband's parents had one rule and one rule only when in public: Don't Embarrass Me. If Mike broke that rule, then he wasn't instantly punished, no no....he received the delayed punishment. You know the one - one evil raised eyebrow or a very firm elbow grip? All the communication is in the eyes. There's no need to spank or yell in public. That just brings the parents down to the kids' level. I cannot stand to see parents in the grocery store aisle screaming at and swatting their children who are running around like devils. When they reach that point, it's really too late for the parents. That's when they call up one of these ludicrous Nanny 911 reality TV shows. You want to see the kind of parents I deal with at school? Watch that show. I'm just glad they're being exposed to the public. [Sidenote - the fact that that show even exists makes the point of this post for me.]
So let's bring this around to school and how it affect me, the teacher. Kids come to school having never been properly trained or punished. Somehow they've made it to fourth grade acting this way. (or they have to be re-trained after a 2 month summer vacation and too much time with their parents) These are the kids in class that call out the "funny" comments and expect to be told how cute they are. These are the kids that remove things from their neighbor's desk and then deny that they had anything to do with it, despite the fact that you, the teacher, watched them. These are the kids who don't turn in any work, claiming that you, the teacher, didn't give it to them or that their mom/maid/babysitter threw it away. These are those kids. We'll call them Bratty Brittany and Peter the Punk. And here's the problem:
When I was little (back in my day! we had to walk up hill both ways to school in the snow!), I was deathly afraid of my teacher. Well, not really of my teacher, but of what could happen to me if I was "bad." Most kids my age knew that if you got in trouble at school, you were going to be in a lot worse trouble at home. And I didn't go to school at a school with paddles. It was just good 'ol respect. My teacher had an apple tree on the bulletin board. The apple had our names on them and the good apples stayed up on the tree. One day, my apple fell off the tree and I was a bad apple. I was CRUSHED. Do you know what I had done? I hadn't written my name on my paper. My second grade teacher made me dig through the trashcan where she had wadded up and thrown away all the no name papers. I was crying so hard that the tears blurred my eyes and I couldn't read the names, so the task was even more difficult and I knew she was watching me. I was one miserable bad apple. You know what my mom said? "I bet you don't forget to do that anymore!" And I didn't. Now let's fast-forward to 2005.
Pop Quiz: I'm grading papers. There are 4 papers without names in my stack. There are 22 children in my class. I have written down 18 scores.
Here are my choices:
a) Add handwriting analyst to my job description.
b) Hang the no name papers on the board for kids to claim them.
c) Throw the papers into the garbage can.
d) Call the 4 kids up to my desk and let them find their paper for me.
What would you do? Reason through your choices carefully because this is a test to see if you could keep your job in a yuppie school district. Answers and conclusion will be delivered when a proper number of decisions have been cast. I know you're waiting on the edge of your seat. I feel the excitement.
Saturday, July 16, 2005
Friday, July 15, 2005
You see, a virus is what we doctors call "very, very small". So small, it could not possibly have made off with the whole leg.
Tomorrow's the Harry Potter book....nyah, nyah, nyah, nyah, nyah! I am very excited for the next Harry Potter to come out. I have 11 books awaiting my read on the nightstand and that one pesky gifted students book I'm supposed to read before summer's over, but gosh darn it! I'm reading Harry Potter first! So there. If anyone needs me tomorrow, I'll be lounging with my book. Until it's finished. Woo!
What else? Today was pretty uneventful. The highlights were watching two crazy people reading off ISBN numbers into a headset at a local library book sale, repeating a Sonic order all the way through 4 times for the poor new confused employee, chasing my friend's 5 pound chihuahua down the street 3 blocks and it prissed along down the sidewalk trying to escape me, and watching a newborn make faces while she pooped. Good times. Oh, and I had some satisfying eBay sales today. Woo again!
That's all I got. Low news day.
What else? Today was pretty uneventful. The highlights were watching two crazy people reading off ISBN numbers into a headset at a local library book sale, repeating a Sonic order all the way through 4 times for the poor new confused employee, chasing my friend's 5 pound chihuahua down the street 3 blocks and it prissed along down the sidewalk trying to escape me, and watching a newborn make faces while she pooped. Good times. Oh, and I had some satisfying eBay sales today. Woo again!
That's all I got. Low news day.
Thursday, July 14, 2005
But Daddy says I'm the best at it
An example of what I consider to be bad parenting:
At pool today. Floating leisurely on raft. Friend and self moved all the way to the corner so not to hog play area of massive, huge pool. Child cannonballs into pool approximately one eighth of an inch away from my raft. I understand that I am in a pool and wet is to be expected. I chuckle understandingly at the mom, who is sitting on the side of the pool watching her little genius. I wring out my hat, wipe the water from my glasses and turn to talk to my friend again.
SPLASH! Rafts tilts. Terrorchild all but landed in my lap. I nearly sustained serious injury, but managed to maintain balance on raft and bikini top. Blew water out of nose, cleared throat, adjusted and prepared to continue conversation with friend.
"Sweetie....tell the lady you're sorry," SuperMom crooned.
"What for?!" insolent twerp demanded.
"You got her all wet," singsonged Captain Obvious.
"I don't have to." The vixen left the area. The mom shrugged a "What can you do with them?" shrug and smiled a "What a character" smile.
I stared back, full teacher eyebrow on and ready to go. What should I have done? Can you believe these people?
4 weeks and 4 days until the kids start school. I can hardly wait.
At pool today. Floating leisurely on raft. Friend and self moved all the way to the corner so not to hog play area of massive, huge pool. Child cannonballs into pool approximately one eighth of an inch away from my raft. I understand that I am in a pool and wet is to be expected. I chuckle understandingly at the mom, who is sitting on the side of the pool watching her little genius. I wring out my hat, wipe the water from my glasses and turn to talk to my friend again.
SPLASH! Rafts tilts. Terrorchild all but landed in my lap. I nearly sustained serious injury, but managed to maintain balance on raft and bikini top. Blew water out of nose, cleared throat, adjusted and prepared to continue conversation with friend.
"Sweetie....tell the lady you're sorry," SuperMom crooned.
"What for?!" insolent twerp demanded.
"You got her all wet," singsonged Captain Obvious.
"I don't have to." The vixen left the area. The mom shrugged a "What can you do with them?" shrug and smiled a "What a character" smile.
I stared back, full teacher eyebrow on and ready to go. What should I have done? Can you believe these people?
4 weeks and 4 days until the kids start school. I can hardly wait.
Wednesday, July 13, 2005
Waiter, there is too much pepper on my paprikash.
Can you believe I learned how to do this all by myself? I feel like an absolute genius, though I realize it's really not that hard. I want to plug Cut Copy Paste Unblogged, where I read all the lessons and tried to figure this all out. Cool website that's dumbed down for people like me who don't even know what html is. I know it's not fancyschmancy, but I sure think it's pretty! Go me!
Happy Birthday, Mom!
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Today's my mom's birthday. She's 57 and quite a fox. In honor of her birthday, I thought I'd make a list of things I learned about her.
1. She's in better shape than I am. She goes to the gym almost daily and somewhat addictively. She's buff.
2. If gossip was a high school sport, she would have lettered in it. She taught me everything I know.
3. She refuses to wear capris. I've tried and tried to no avail.
4. She also refuses to read - or watch - Harry Potter. Blasphemy.
5. She has the cleanest house of anyone I know. She can clean the whole thing in an hour and a half.
6. You shouldn't make her mad when she's holding a hairbrush. On the same note, when she starts counting, never let her get up to 3. Just do it.
7. She doesn't say bad words, and you shouldn't either. She might make you pick up rocks out of the yard for a week every day after school.
8. It turns out she was lying when she said that a boy would never go on a date with me if I kept eating spaghetti like that.
9. She's got a wicked backspin in ping pong that sneaks up on you.
10. She's very good at raising smart, beautiful, talented daughters if I do say so myself. Ahem....
Happy Birthday, Mom!
Tuesday, July 12, 2005
Mawwaige....is what bwings us togevah today!
Husband: Baby! Oh my gosh!
Me: [frantic, panicked] What? What's wrong?
Husband: You have got to smell my pit.
Me: Are you insane?
Husband: [arm extended above head] Every now and then....I catch it just right.
Me: [horror]
Husband: It's that pungent, acrid....umh!
Me: You're sick.
Husband: [grins proudly and points at armpit] I made that!
Umhmmm....just a little piece of the magic.
Me: [frantic, panicked] What? What's wrong?
Husband: You have got to smell my pit.
Me: Are you insane?
Husband: [arm extended above head] Every now and then....I catch it just right.
Me: [horror]
Husband: It's that pungent, acrid....umh!
Me: You're sick.
Husband: [grins proudly and points at armpit] I made that!
Umhmmm....just a little piece of the magic.
F is For Foul
Gus is a pretty nasty, gnarly dog. The other night when he woke us up oh, say, 7 times during the night projectile vomiting large spherical seeds onto the floor, we began to categorize his nastiness. It slowly evolved into this, the top ten nasty habits of Augustus Mortimer.
10. Feverishly licks armpits, feet, socks, underwear, etc. Derives great joy from activity.
9. Chases own legpit in circles while growling viciously.
8. Eats any potent item from trash, street, laundry, toilet. Chews with zeal and gusto. Seems to smile while gnashing teeth.
7. Hacks loogeys loudly with gutteral glee. Swallows final product after sounding like might choke self in process.
6. Breaks wind whenever reaches up to higher level with front paws. Growls at offensive noise behind self.
5. When plagued with pesky eye boogers, simply wipes face on mom's arm, feigning cutecuddliness. Is neither cute, nor cuddly after issue.
4. Drags anus across carpeting while holding rear legs in front of self.
3. Kills mice and baby rabbits with reckless abandon and murderous fury. Wags tail with pride.
2. Cleans ear at great depth with rear toenails, then licks off the goodness after careful and close examination.
1. Eats own vomit with great enthusiasm. Seems to enjoy it more the second time.
10. Feverishly licks armpits, feet, socks, underwear, etc. Derives great joy from activity.
9. Chases own legpit in circles while growling viciously.
8. Eats any potent item from trash, street, laundry, toilet. Chews with zeal and gusto. Seems to smile while gnashing teeth.
7. Hacks loogeys loudly with gutteral glee. Swallows final product after sounding like might choke self in process.
6. Breaks wind whenever reaches up to higher level with front paws. Growls at offensive noise behind self.
5. When plagued with pesky eye boogers, simply wipes face on mom's arm, feigning cutecuddliness. Is neither cute, nor cuddly after issue.
4. Drags anus across carpeting while holding rear legs in front of self.
3. Kills mice and baby rabbits with reckless abandon and murderous fury. Wags tail with pride.
2. Cleans ear at great depth with rear toenails, then licks off the goodness after careful and close examination.
1. Eats own vomit with great enthusiasm. Seems to enjoy it more the second time.
Homework Update Because You Care
Read Chapter 1 and answered a question. Read part of chapter 2, then got bored and watched Hilary Duff movie. Lost 6-10 braincells, then forgot what chapter two was about. Good progress, no?
Monday, July 11, 2005
Reading Progress and Obituaries
Progress: Well, none really, but I did find a really good article which was about the same topic as the book I'm supposed to read. So, technically, I was gathering background research to better establish my pre-existing knowledge, or schema, so that I will be better able to receive the new information. Okay, I just wasted another minute coming up with that excuse.
Say, while we're on the subject of interesting things from newspapers, I thought I'd share this obituary. It's absolutely hands down the funniest obituary I've ever read. Not like that's really hard or anything, since I'm not prone to obit giggles, but you have to read this just for kicks. Some teasers from the obituary (And this is real! It was in the Raleigh News and Observer!)
Say, while we're on the subject of interesting things from newspapers, I thought I'd share this obituary. It's absolutely hands down the funniest obituary I've ever read. Not like that's really hard or anything, since I'm not prone to obit giggles, but you have to read this just for kicks. Some teasers from the obituary (And this is real! It was in the Raleigh News and Observer!)
- "All of her breath leaked out."
- "[her father] ultimately stuck his head in a heated gas oven with a golden delicious apple propped in his mouth"
- "[her] other children...happily picked up the considerable slack of the absent former heiress"
- "...all while raising four children, two of whom are fairly normal."
Seriously, you gotta go look. Umkay. Off to start that pesky reading now. OR! Go to the grocery store...
The Gift That Keeps On Giving
I've sure done a lousy job of posting lately, haven't I? All this being out of town, having company stuff has really thrown me off of them whole writing habit. CousinEddie came to stay with me this past week, so we have been plagued by incessant shopping and indulgent eating for many days now. The time has come to whip my life back into shape. I've got a house to clean! Laundry to do! Plants to water! And, sadly, lots and lots of school work to do. Blasphemy.
I have to read a 425 page book called Why Bright Kids Get Poor Grades to renew my GT certificate for school. Then I have to answer about a bajillion questions about it. Essay ones. I think I might just answer them all in one response. See, I don't think the concept is really rocket science. Here's how it all plays out:
Why do bright kids get poor grades?
a) Because they are bored. They already know this stuff.
b) Because they are lazy. They've never had to work hard because it has always come to them naturally.
c) Because they are smarter than the system. They know their grades in 4th grade are not going to prevent them from getting into college.
d) All of the above.
Then I will circle the answer choice for D and turn in my paper, thereby giving them an example of a gifted student getting poor grades. Do you think they'd like my humor? I kind of doubt it, but it's a pleasureable thought to help me procrastinate actually reading the book and doing the assignment.
So....this post is already a bit rambly and disjointed, so I'll leap to another topic: Marlboro. Once upon a time, Mike and I went to a bar. This was about 6 or 7 years ago. There was a Marlboro promotion going on at the bar and if you played all these games, you got a free fleece vest, which was all the rage in bar fashion at that time. So we played, got our vests, and went on our merry way. Somehow, I got placed on their High Roller fan club list or something because it was shortly thereafter that Marlboro started plying me with gifts. The gifts arrive at my parents' house about every other month or so and mom opens them and lets me know if they're worthy of keeping.
Six years later, they are still coming. For my birthday this spring, I received a two piece pewter ashtray...it was pretty high cotton. It just sold on EBay for the cutthroat price of $1.49 plus shipping. I also received my own gen-yew-wine set of Marlboro Poker Cards. Over the years, I've gotten such goodies as a Zippo-esque lighter, a chili spoon, a portable pocket ashtray, and a pocket knife. I also get several magazines and promotional contest entries. Have no idea how I wound up on this list. I don't smoke, but I keep the products. My favorite is the portable ashtray. It holds up to 5 butts.
I have to read a 425 page book called Why Bright Kids Get Poor Grades to renew my GT certificate for school. Then I have to answer about a bajillion questions about it. Essay ones. I think I might just answer them all in one response. See, I don't think the concept is really rocket science. Here's how it all plays out:
Why do bright kids get poor grades?
a) Because they are bored. They already know this stuff.
b) Because they are lazy. They've never had to work hard because it has always come to them naturally.
c) Because they are smarter than the system. They know their grades in 4th grade are not going to prevent them from getting into college.
d) All of the above.
Then I will circle the answer choice for D and turn in my paper, thereby giving them an example of a gifted student getting poor grades. Do you think they'd like my humor? I kind of doubt it, but it's a pleasureable thought to help me procrastinate actually reading the book and doing the assignment.
So....this post is already a bit rambly and disjointed, so I'll leap to another topic: Marlboro. Once upon a time, Mike and I went to a bar. This was about 6 or 7 years ago. There was a Marlboro promotion going on at the bar and if you played all these games, you got a free fleece vest, which was all the rage in bar fashion at that time. So we played, got our vests, and went on our merry way. Somehow, I got placed on their High Roller fan club list or something because it was shortly thereafter that Marlboro started plying me with gifts. The gifts arrive at my parents' house about every other month or so and mom opens them and lets me know if they're worthy of keeping.
Six years later, they are still coming. For my birthday this spring, I received a two piece pewter ashtray...it was pretty high cotton. It just sold on EBay for the cutthroat price of $1.49 plus shipping. I also received my own gen-yew-wine set of Marlboro Poker Cards. Over the years, I've gotten such goodies as a Zippo-esque lighter, a chili spoon, a portable pocket ashtray, and a pocket knife. I also get several magazines and promotional contest entries. Have no idea how I wound up on this list. I don't smoke, but I keep the products. My favorite is the portable ashtray. It holds up to 5 butts.
Now, that's handy. It's the gift that keeps on giving. I'm especially appreciative they they reminded me to extinguish the cigarette first. It's good to know that Marlboro has my safety in mind. Good people, Marlboro.
I'm not quite sure how I got from watering my plants to this. This blog is a huge diversionary tactic from all the things I'm supposed to be doing. I need to jump into my assignment feet first! After I finish my laundry. And go to the grocery store. And do about 100 things that I'd rather be doing than starting that book. I need to give myself a study schedule or I'm going to run out of summer. I officially commit to reporting my progress on that book on this blog. I need some accountability and I'll feel guilty if I have nothing to report. So that's it. No more posting until I have some progress to report.
-Author leaves abruptly to go procrastinate-
Thursday, July 07, 2005
Pictures! Got yer pictures!
Okay, I am finally posting the pictures per your requests last week. I wasn't able to get all of them, but I did the very, very best I could. B+ work, I think. Here we go.
Cousineddie started us off with the dirtiest square foot inside my house. After much thought, I moved the refrigerator to see what was under it. Just after the pictures was taken, Gus snarfed up all of the puppy kibbles that had rolled under there. Yummmm....stale under-the-fridge goodness.
Cori requested to see my favorite knick knack or piece of art. After much deliberation, I picked my cross wall. I think it's pretty. And then I hemmed and hawed some more and picked my angel. So here's both.
Cousineddie started us off with the dirtiest square foot inside my house. After much thought, I moved the refrigerator to see what was under it. Just after the pictures was taken, Gus snarfed up all of the puppy kibbles that had rolled under there. Yummmm....stale under-the-fridge goodness.
Had to go to the freezer for the edible item of food I would most hate to eat. They've been in there for over a year and I even tore the Box Tops label off of the box so my school would get the 10 cents. Yep.
Mike went on a search for his pleatiest pair of pants and came up with these. This is a long running joke between Mike and Cousineddie over the contents of his wardrobe. You will be pleased to know that after this picture, he donated the pair to Goodwill.
Finally, she wanted to see my ugliest pair of shoes. Oh, my.
My favorite spot in my classroom is the bookcase/reading area. Normally there's a rug there and some cushy stuff to lay on, but it's summer, so that's all I got. This is also where we sit to do read aloud everyday. I like the tidiness and anal-retentive organization of it all.
Dex wanted to see the tackiest thing on my street which wasn't really a hard one to do, since we've been sneering at these horrific lions every day since they were so ornately installed. They are quite lovely. I can't believe that the psycho homeowner's association allows it.
Upon driving to the mall today, Cousineddie and I also found this:
Out of KatieBug's requests, I was able to get the contrast of our tans at the beach (she's the freckly diva):
The "whirlpool tub" in our beachhouse, which we found out didn't work anyway:
And, of course, some beautiful bean footage:
MommyProf wanted to see the inside and outside of my refrigerator:
Mommy Prof also wanted to see the kids' favorite spot in my classroom:
Shea wanted to see my veggie garden. It's a little overgrown and dried up after being left to bake for two weeks, but what can I do?
Megan and Janet wanted to see the trunk of my car and the floor of my closet. Neither are very exciting, I'm afraid.
Janet also mentioned my music collection, but it's so spread out all over the house and the car and I've lost most of the CD covers that I didn't have anything to show. Sorry!
Lucy and Erin wanted to see Gus' favorite sleeping spot and his food bowls.
Erin was also curious about my favorite thing about my home. It's actually not the home itself, it's the grove of trees in the backyard. Texas does not feature a lot of trees, so they are a major treat out here. This should also cover Dex's request for the state of the backyard.
Carrie's requests were harder and actually required some thought. She started with my favorite spot to relax and I was torn between my couch and the bathtub, so had to go with bathtub, since that's where I go to do serious relaxation:
Then she wanted to see something in my surrounding that brings me great joy. That one wasn't too hard, although he also brings me great angst:
Finally, Carrie made me sit and think for a while because she wanted to see an inanimate object that captures who I am. Oh, my!! That was like homework. I came up with a model of Bodie Island Lighthouse because I'm from NC, love the beach, and used to teach NC history.
KauaiMark requested the backseat of the car I drive to work in. Sorry, I'm a bit of a neatfreak and a lot of a geek, so it's not messy or anything.
Leesepea wanted to see my favorite pair of shoes and a pedicure. I do my own pedicures, which is why it is messy. I can't stand for anyone to touch my feet! Cousineddie wanted a picture of my toe freckle, which doesn't really show up. And I don't really have a pair of favorite shoes, but these go with a lot of stuff, so I wear them a lot.
Then Leesepea suggested the contents of my purse, which was a good one. That's probably my slob area. Hee!
And my medicine cabinet. Also not very exciting. Sorry!
Cori requested to see my favorite knick knack or piece of art. After much deliberation, I picked my cross wall. I think it's pretty. And then I hemmed and hawed some more and picked my angel. So here's both.
And in contrast to that, Cori wanted to see the bottom of my trashcan, minus the bag. Here you go, Cori!
Katie wanted to see me in capris with socks and sandals, but alas, I'm not gonna do that. My fashion sense prevents me from doing this. She also wanted to see my sunburn, but I didn't get one. :o)
Whew! That took forever! I now have to go take a break. I expect copious comments after all that work.
Tuesday, July 05, 2005
Backwoods Emergency Room
Went to the beach for a week, had a lovely time as always...at least I did. Poor Mike became afflicted with hives of unknown origin. Could be the fish, could be the mildew, could be who knows what. The most significant part of this story is that he woke me up at 6am Thursday morning demanding that I take him to a doctor. On my vacation.
Now, you need to be aware that we were in the Middle. Of. Nowhere. While beautiful and relaxing, coastal Carolina is not known for its medical facilites or its ease of transit. Fortunately, I had noticed a roadside medic the night before on our way home. So off we went, Mike scratching and itching the whole way. We arrived just as the doors were opening, their first patients of the day. Thank goodness we were, because what I saw that morning, I don't think I could've stayed there much longer.
They took Mike back when we got there and I was left in the waiting room to peruse the magazines. Except I didn't have to. I didn't have to even look at the literature because what came through that door was better than any circus event I've ever witnessed.
First came Goiter Neck. Goiter Neck had a golf ball sized lump sticking out the side of her neck. She was apparently troubled by this and held in the entire time she was in the office. She would stare at me as though trying to figure out what I was in for while she fondled her goiter. It was repulsive. Fortunately for me, more entertainment was about to walk through the door.
Apparently it was neck ailment day there in the backwoods emergency room because in walked - well, walked is a strong word, this woman shuffled in sideways to get through the door - a woman who had "taken her a spill yesterday and done sat in the urgent care for five hours and didn't get seen on account of her medicaid referral." She held her head at an almost 90 degree angle to her body and bugged her eyes out at whomever would listen to her when she made a particularly significant point. She took up two chairs and seemed to take a fancy to me. I was about knee deep in a conversation with 'ol Crook Neck when Oxygen Tank walked in. Even Goiter Neck stopped her rubbing when Oxygen Tank walked in. He came with his own hand-held noisy equipment.
We all stared with great interest as he extinguished his cigarette, panted to the receptionist and explain in his post-tracheotomy Darth Vader wheeze that he was having trouble breathing. His machine puffed air in and out of his nostrils through a tube and made clicking noises like it was about to shut off at any moment. That was when I went to the car to get my notebook. There was no need to waste great material like these people.
Upon re-entering the office, it took me a few moments to catch up on the conversation I had missed. Crook Neck and Oxygen Tank were in a heated debate about who should pay for their medical care. It was difficult to take either side, as neither had a particularly convincing argument. I fail to see why I should have to pay more taxes to support Oxygen Tank's nicotine fallout or Crook Neck's lack of employment due to "a hairnet issue." I decided to lean back and take notes instead.
I watched with mild interest as a particularly fetching woman wearing a beach coverup sarong and 6-8 of her own real teeth explained to the receptionist is a rather raspy stage whisper that she needed to talk with someone about some woman's troubles. I carefully squeezed myself into the farthest corner chair and tried to make myself invisible. Lucky for me I had the protection of Oxygen Tank and his trusty equipment. And that's when my personal favorite patient entered.
The patient who made Neck Goiter let go, Crook Neck straighten up, Oxygen Tank breathe deeply, and Gyno Sarong at last cross her legs. That patient walked through the door with a fishhook in his face. IN HIS FACE. His companion explained quite unnecesarily that they had been fishing and when he went to cast his line, that hook just got caught up in his friend's face and they didn't want to pull it back out on account of the barbs designed to hold it tight to the fish. They thought that might tear his face up.
Because having a fish hook actually in your face won't cause any major problems. It was like a bad car accident I couldn't turn away from. I'm not sure if he could tell that I was staring, since his left eye was squinched up due to the fish hook connecting his eyebrow and cheekbone, but I really didn't care. If I'd had my camera, I promise you I would've taken a picture. Because I had my blog on my mind from the moment I walked in that office.
Turns out they sent Fish Hook on to the emergency room, but it gave the rest of the colorful bunch a little something special to take home with them that day. I don't know what happened to any of those folks, but Mike got fixed up with a good dose of drugs and we were on our merry way. Quickly.
If anyone finds themselves in the Coastal Carolina region in need of a good doctor or some free entertainment, give me a ring.
Now, you need to be aware that we were in the Middle. Of. Nowhere. While beautiful and relaxing, coastal Carolina is not known for its medical facilites or its ease of transit. Fortunately, I had noticed a roadside medic the night before on our way home. So off we went, Mike scratching and itching the whole way. We arrived just as the doors were opening, their first patients of the day. Thank goodness we were, because what I saw that morning, I don't think I could've stayed there much longer.
They took Mike back when we got there and I was left in the waiting room to peruse the magazines. Except I didn't have to. I didn't have to even look at the literature because what came through that door was better than any circus event I've ever witnessed.
First came Goiter Neck. Goiter Neck had a golf ball sized lump sticking out the side of her neck. She was apparently troubled by this and held in the entire time she was in the office. She would stare at me as though trying to figure out what I was in for while she fondled her goiter. It was repulsive. Fortunately for me, more entertainment was about to walk through the door.
Apparently it was neck ailment day there in the backwoods emergency room because in walked - well, walked is a strong word, this woman shuffled in sideways to get through the door - a woman who had "taken her a spill yesterday and done sat in the urgent care for five hours and didn't get seen on account of her medicaid referral." She held her head at an almost 90 degree angle to her body and bugged her eyes out at whomever would listen to her when she made a particularly significant point. She took up two chairs and seemed to take a fancy to me. I was about knee deep in a conversation with 'ol Crook Neck when Oxygen Tank walked in. Even Goiter Neck stopped her rubbing when Oxygen Tank walked in. He came with his own hand-held noisy equipment.
We all stared with great interest as he extinguished his cigarette, panted to the receptionist and explain in his post-tracheotomy Darth Vader wheeze that he was having trouble breathing. His machine puffed air in and out of his nostrils through a tube and made clicking noises like it was about to shut off at any moment. That was when I went to the car to get my notebook. There was no need to waste great material like these people.
Upon re-entering the office, it took me a few moments to catch up on the conversation I had missed. Crook Neck and Oxygen Tank were in a heated debate about who should pay for their medical care. It was difficult to take either side, as neither had a particularly convincing argument. I fail to see why I should have to pay more taxes to support Oxygen Tank's nicotine fallout or Crook Neck's lack of employment due to "a hairnet issue." I decided to lean back and take notes instead.
I watched with mild interest as a particularly fetching woman wearing a beach coverup sarong and 6-8 of her own real teeth explained to the receptionist is a rather raspy stage whisper that she needed to talk with someone about some woman's troubles. I carefully squeezed myself into the farthest corner chair and tried to make myself invisible. Lucky for me I had the protection of Oxygen Tank and his trusty equipment. And that's when my personal favorite patient entered.
The patient who made Neck Goiter let go, Crook Neck straighten up, Oxygen Tank breathe deeply, and Gyno Sarong at last cross her legs. That patient walked through the door with a fishhook in his face. IN HIS FACE. His companion explained quite unnecesarily that they had been fishing and when he went to cast his line, that hook just got caught up in his friend's face and they didn't want to pull it back out on account of the barbs designed to hold it tight to the fish. They thought that might tear his face up.
Because having a fish hook actually in your face won't cause any major problems. It was like a bad car accident I couldn't turn away from. I'm not sure if he could tell that I was staring, since his left eye was squinched up due to the fish hook connecting his eyebrow and cheekbone, but I really didn't care. If I'd had my camera, I promise you I would've taken a picture. Because I had my blog on my mind from the moment I walked in that office.
Turns out they sent Fish Hook on to the emergency room, but it gave the rest of the colorful bunch a little something special to take home with them that day. I don't know what happened to any of those folks, but Mike got fixed up with a good dose of drugs and we were on our merry way. Quickly.
If anyone finds themselves in the Coastal Carolina region in need of a good doctor or some free entertainment, give me a ring.
Monday, July 04, 2005
Name That Beagle!
Wowza...that's a lot of picture requests! How about if I pick my favorites? I'll do my best on them, I promise! I have been stressing over the dirtiest square foot of my house for about a week now because that one was left before I went on vacation into the land of no internet access. I'm afraid that this little picture essay is going to reveal me to be some kind of neat freak, but alas. I asked for it.
So, I'm back! I'm contentedly typing away on this early 4th of July summer morn. My beagle is frolicking in the backyard, scaring away all of the bold creatures who dared to invade his land while we were away. I'm washing my 4th load of clothes and sipping some leftover Jamaican coffee. Not too shabby, eh?
I had a really nice vacation. I feel like I've been gone forever, but it was only two weeks. This is going to be a fairly boring post because our vacation was so calm and tame that for once nothing weird or bizarre happened to me! Well, one thing, but I have to save that one for tomorrow. We basically spent a week on the beach lounging in the sun, eating peanuts, and drinking beer. Your classic high-stress vacation. We played a little bocce ball, a lot of ping pong, and some beach paddle ball, had one day of rain, and ate a ton of food. Good times!
I have one big piece of news, though. While at the beach, I got a little character in my head and started to write a book. For real this time too. I really like her, the character. It's definitely a kids' chapter book, though. I've wrestled with the adult book idea for a few years now and just can't narrow it down to something manageable. The best I've come up with is a collection of short stories, many of which you've read on here, and I just don't like to read collections of short stories, so I don't know why someone else would.
I bought a 10 cent Wal-Mart spiral notebook and went to town this week. It's been a long time since I've written for real. Like with a pen. It's hard! Now I have to type it all in so I can do it right. We'll see how it goes...I hope the inspiration isn't going to dry up now that I'm home. I've got all of my characters figured out and I'm weaving it all together right now. I have definitely decided that the character has to have a beagle. I've got to have some use for all of the stories that Gus gives me.
Here is your job: name that beagle! It's going to be a mischievous boy beagle, like one little darling that I know. That's all I know about him so far, but the little guy needs a name. And you know what? If I ever get rich and famous and get my book published, you will get an acknowledgment in the front for naming that dog. What more could you want in life?
So name away! I'm waiting with bated (baited? did you know they're both right? i'm confused) breath.
So, I'm back! I'm contentedly typing away on this early 4th of July summer morn. My beagle is frolicking in the backyard, scaring away all of the bold creatures who dared to invade his land while we were away. I'm washing my 4th load of clothes and sipping some leftover Jamaican coffee. Not too shabby, eh?
I had a really nice vacation. I feel like I've been gone forever, but it was only two weeks. This is going to be a fairly boring post because our vacation was so calm and tame that for once nothing weird or bizarre happened to me! Well, one thing, but I have to save that one for tomorrow. We basically spent a week on the beach lounging in the sun, eating peanuts, and drinking beer. Your classic high-stress vacation. We played a little bocce ball, a lot of ping pong, and some beach paddle ball, had one day of rain, and ate a ton of food. Good times!
I have one big piece of news, though. While at the beach, I got a little character in my head and started to write a book. For real this time too. I really like her, the character. It's definitely a kids' chapter book, though. I've wrestled with the adult book idea for a few years now and just can't narrow it down to something manageable. The best I've come up with is a collection of short stories, many of which you've read on here, and I just don't like to read collections of short stories, so I don't know why someone else would.
I bought a 10 cent Wal-Mart spiral notebook and went to town this week. It's been a long time since I've written for real. Like with a pen. It's hard! Now I have to type it all in so I can do it right. We'll see how it goes...I hope the inspiration isn't going to dry up now that I'm home. I've got all of my characters figured out and I'm weaving it all together right now. I have definitely decided that the character has to have a beagle. I've got to have some use for all of the stories that Gus gives me.
Here is your job: name that beagle! It's going to be a mischievous boy beagle, like one little darling that I know. That's all I know about him so far, but the little guy needs a name. And you know what? If I ever get rich and famous and get my book published, you will get an acknowledgment in the front for naming that dog. What more could you want in life?
So name away! I'm waiting with bated (baited? did you know they're both right? i'm confused) breath.
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