Smell My Feet

Ah, Halloween. (Pigs wistfully contemplates the holiday for a moment. Images of Wee Pig dressed as a present, Wee Pig dressed as a Darryl from Larry, Darryl and Darryl, and Wee Pig dressed as a witch for many, many years in a row flash through her mind. She remembers trick or treating with CousinEddie and wiping out flat on her face in someone's front yard, candy strewn all about the lawn...Smack! Pigs is slapped back to reality by beagle wails.)

AROOOOOOOOOO! Since the in-laws have departed, their room is now empty. After purging the trash can of all of its worldly possessions, Gus has just discovered Gunther on the front porch. He's been there since the first week of October, but no one ever said that Gus was the brightest bulb in the pack. Halloween plagues Gus to begin with, but the presence of a man-like being on the front porch is about to tear him up.

Halloween is generally not one of the best days in a fourth grade classroom, but today? Today the weather gods smiled upon me. It rained and poured and thundered and lightninged all day long. It was beautiful! Each time the thunder would crack, twenty panic-stricken faces would gasp up at me. Can "They" cancel Halloween? they would ask. I would smile mournfully and shrug. That's when I talked to them about karma. I told them that perhaps in order to balance out the possibility of Halloween getting canceled maybe they should be very very quiet (we're hunting wabbits!) and do their very best work and maybe....maybe! they could turn the course of fate. Clearly the little pumpkins didn't see the weather forecast to know that the rain was going to stop by five, but that all played to my advantage. Snicker.

Other than that, today was completely uneventful. Unless you count the highlights - student gifting. Student gifting is perhaps the most amusing part of the job. Kids come in all excited about the present they are about to bestow upon you. You must summon from deep within you the enthusiasm and genuine glee to emote in return. You might remember my story about receiving stolen goods when I taught in the ghetto, but it's these little numbers that really make you want to go into teaching:

I will call her Bella. I mean, how can you say no to that? It's clearly an item for the mantel. I will leave you with my final gift. While this one may appear trashy, remember that one man's trash is another man's treasure. Also remember that some of us have tacky pen collections that love to grow. I give you my newest addition:

Perhaps at a future date, I'll share with you the rest of my vast and varied collection. TTFN!

-Pigs

Everything But the Bathroom Sink....a reader request post

Despite my husband racing for the camera upon my cry of, "I found a piece of sink!" he did not actually make it in time to capture the surgical event before I was hopping about the house like a pirate with fresh booty. I had been waiting for that little piece of porcelain to emerge for 30 calendar days. Well, really only about 18 calendar days. Since I found out per my x-ray that the little bugger was actually in there: (click for more conclusive evidence)

The surgery was a simple process. I take great satisfaction in most anything that I can do with a needle, a pair of tweezers, and some fingernail clippers. You'd be amazed by all that you can truly take care of yourself at home, but I digress. After encountering a suspect bit of Clinger Hangy Skin [technical surgical term, I'll try to keep it in layman's terms for the rest of the post], I reached for my handy home surgery kit and began plundering about eagerly. After just moments, I spotted a gleam of white and with great dexterity and surgical ease unearthed a fine sliver of porcelain.

"Land ho!" I shouted, triumphantly waving my find in the air betwixt my tweezers. I paused, unsure what to do next. Then, "Do you think I can wear a shoe now?" Tweezers and foreign body from foot still in hand, I gingerly tested out a pair of sneakers. YOW! Nope, not quite yet. On to the documentation process. I give to you (and my future lawyer, courtroom, and jury)

Exhibit A: The Specimen

And Exhibit B: The Specimen with Scale

Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I rest my case. Also, before the requests start pouring in, Cousineddie claimed the specimen long ago. As soon as we found out the goods were in there, she laid her claim to the souvenir in the case that the sliver 'o sink worked its way out. It will be delivered to her for Christmas, framed and preserved for all time.

My thoughts for today

1. Men should never - EVER - wear jean shorts. I cannot think of any circumstance in which this would be okay.

2. People ought not sing along with the piped in music as they walk around a store. Especially not when they are with me.

3. Some days Texas freaks me out. Especially those days when my in-laws make me walk around a western wear store. On purpose and with serious intentions.

4. One's best friend ought not call one when while inebriated past one's bedtime to inquire about ethical personal matters of the heart. One might think it's the alarm going off instead of the phone and spill one's water all over the nightstand. One also might have a racing heart from the brief moment in which one thought that the phone was the fire alarm was going off. Those palpatations might prevent one from falling back to sleep despite the fact that one's spouse and one's beagle are snoring heavily.

5. I saved the best for last. GUESS WHAT? A piece of porcelain came out of my toe today! Oh yeah, baby - home surgery rocks!

Pause.

In-laws in town. Humble apologies for lack of posting.

Kinderdoo

Just finished 23 bagillion parent conferences. They've really all gone very well this year. My partner claims that I talk too much and don't stay on schedule, but aside from that...all quite positive. Except for I had an unusual incident which really threw my Dynamic Conferencing Style off a bit.
Our 4th parent of the day entered our smallish conference room and brought with her a stinky-doo-doo aroma. My nose immediately curled and I struggled not to gag as I summoned kind words to say about her child. We amiably covered academics, social behavior, and attitude while I counted down the fifteen minutes until I could breathe with my mouth closed again. What was up with this woman? What kind of socially functioning adult walks around like this? I tried to avoid laughing because of the sudden intake of air that it cast upon my already affronted, very sensitive nose. It was during one of these moments of avoidance that I looked down.
Looked down and saw the brown streaky doodoo smears all over the floor under my chair. All over my shoe. I gasped. It was me!
"I'm so sorry, but there's dog doo all over my shoe!" I interrupted in a panic as I rushed about trying to wipe up the mess with Kleenex. I gagged and sputtered as my partner tried to maintain the dignity of our parent-teacher conference with me flailing about wiping up doo off the floor and my shoe. Hurlp! I gulped and tried to keep lunch down. It was one of the most foul smells I had encountered in a while.
I left the room to deposit my sullied rag into a trash can. "I got doo on my shoe!" I hissed to our librarian, quickly explaining our predicament as I rushed back to the conference. The smell greeted me as I returned. This was fabulous - now the other 19 parents were going to think we were sitting in there having a flatulence fest. Excellent.
The conference finally ended and we bid farewell to the parent. We did some brief exploratory research between conferences to investigate how exactly this dog poo came to be on my shoe. I hadn't actually left the building in hours. And that's when we came to a conclusion. It turns out that I had left a trail. A dookie trail through the library and all the way down the hall to just about where the kindergarten hall began. The reality set in. I had not stepped in dog doo. I had stepped in kinderdoo. I had kinderdoo on my shoe. My thoughts raced. Retchvomitnastysick! My expression immediately turned to putrid. I looked up to see my partner giggling like a ten year old. He lost no time in explaining to the next couple of parents exactly what that aroma was in our conference room. Sigh.
I think I'm going to change my blog's name to "What Are the Odds? Tales of the Pig"

Pishposh.

Forgot to mention that the foot doc put me on some anti-inflammatory meds to calm my toe down some. I obediently took the samples without reading the enclosed information. [I have some mild paranoia which causes me to believe that I suffer from any and all side effects listed on the Patient Care Pamphlet.] [Say, did I ever mention that I abhor the word "pamphlet"? Particularly when people pronounce it without the "h". Digressing again...] Long story short, one of the side effects is drowsiness. Guess who spent today in a stupor?

It was actually kind of interesting. The kids are just as irritating in a stupor, but it bothers me a lot less. I would catch myself gazing at them blankly for a few seconds before waving them away with a loopy grin. Ironically, the day I come to school drugged out of my mind was the first day of Red Ribbon Week, a national drug-free promotion involving, as far as I can tell, the signing of pledges and the wearing of ridiculous hats. I'm not certain that the kids are connecting the "Put a Cap on Drugs" campaign in which they get to wear idiotic and distracting hats to school to the actual message that they shouldn't do drugs. Eh? Bygones.

In a move possibly related to my stupor, I managed to spill coffee on my shirt and chili on my pants before 1:00. Nothing says class like a teacher in need of a bib. Two different teachers told me that they can't get my class to be quiet when they are trying to teach them. (No kidding, really?) I gave my class my very best stab at a Come To Jesus meeting while I was under the influence of my meds. I thought it was pretty guilt-invoking and meaningful until a student said, "Hey! What happened to your foot?!" I just closed my eyes and shook my head. How freakin' out of it are you to miss a week of your teacher on crutches and two weeks in a walking shoe. HOW? This moment epitomizes my general frustration level with my class.

Fortunately, my day ends with giggles. When my class was returned from PE, one of my students rushed up to me, panic written all over her face. She spoke urgently with her teeth gritted together, "MRS! I went to schmile at the mushic teacher and shomething popped in my jaw! It hursch!" I stifled a laugh and sent her off to the nurse clutching her face in horror. I'll have to keep an eye on her, my accident-prone nature may be contagious.

Then! A parent from last year swung by to tell me how much she missed the challenge that I provided her child last year! Did you hear that? She. Misses. It. Oh, I wish I could bottle that up and give it to my current set of parents. Same thing every year...they complain while they have the Pig and miss her when she's gone. Pbbbbbbbt! I say. Pishposh.

Needless to say, I left on a high note. A couple of my students were walking to the parking lot with their parents the same time I was. I waved and started my car, the door still open. You can imagine my surprise and alarm when Eminem's Without Me starting blaring from my car. I must've been rocking out to something else this morning when I turned off the car, but I doubt my students expected to hear:

Well if you want Shady, this is what I'll give ya
A little bit of weed mixed with some hard liquor
Some vodka that'll jump start my heart quicker...

I can just hear the comments at home now: "Mrs. was kind of stoned today! She spilled all over herself and listened to Eminem!" Excellent.

Footloose

I've gotten a lot of email lately asking for a foot update. We are actually in a holding pattern on the 'ol foot these days. After the discovery that there were foreign bodies in my toe, I was rushed to a podiatrist. The podiatrist (after snickering politely at my cryptic explanation of injury on my medical form: "Sink shattered on foot.") became alarmed when she realized I had been given no antibiotics at the hospital. Apparently, having a germ-infested bathroom fixture shatter on your big toe presents quite the infection prospect. Who knew?

I was promptly rushed upstairs to have blood drawn, quartered, and tested to be sure that I hadn't acquired gangrene or some other violent infection. My next set of instructions were to a) not to fret about infection, and b) to stop walking on my foot. Neither of these options were really very practical at this juncture. I begged and pleaded not to have to spend the next few weeks with my unwieldy crutches. I cited general lack of coordination, propensity for unusual accidents, and high volume of rapidly moving youth in my life. I was quickly able to achieve compromise: one Really Foxy Walking Shoe. Complete with velcro strappage. I have come to love him and named him Jimmy.



Jimmy may not be much of a looker, but boy can I move in that thing! I can adjust the straps so that it doesn't hurt my boo boo and the shoe keeps me from bending my toe! It's fab. Really, really fab. It's also quite the fashion statement. Guess how many kids have noticed my shoe in 4 days? Six. Six kids out of forty have taken notice. So clearly, it must blend right in. That or kids just don't look down.

So there I am! There was too much swelling and risk of infection for the removal of the porcelain shards at the time, so I go back in a month. I am to be quiet and heal and not play tennis during that time. I really can't wait to have this OVER! I can't stand not exercising. My pants are all tight. If I'm a good girl and I wear my Jimmy, then I might get to have this Procedure over my Thanksgiving Break. Woo!

I give to you, the morbidly curious, a montage of my healing process:





Oh, and the legal-schmegal stuff? I still haven't heard boo from Bad Guy's insurance company despite my copious and friendly calls to them. My bills are over $1000 so far. I have a call in to a lawyer who was recommended to me by a friend. I'll let you know what happens there. (Dum, dum, DUM!) Mwah-ah-ah!

Pimp My Child

Am getting old.

Didn't really know this until I spent all day yesterday at Six Flags. I love, love, loved going on the rollercoasters and all that stuff, but I have decided for future reference that I am far too cheap and old to spend too much time there.

Let's start with the cheap part. With an internet discount, you can get into the place for their Fright Fest for $29.99 a person. After you are inside the park, you find out that this does not include admission to the haunted houses, but you can pay by the house OR purchase a pass that allows entrance to all of them for a mere $15 per person. Let's pretend we are a family of four. With discounts, we have just paid $90 to get into the park and $60 to get into the haunted houses. The kids will probably want to ride some rides, right? Well, we waited in line for the Batman rollercoaster for TWO HOURS. It seems that in order to actually get to ride more than 4 rollercoasters during your day at Six Flags, you must purchase the Q-Bot Fast Pass, a little gizmo which holds your place in line and beeps you when it's your turn. This can be yours for only $11 per person. Add $44 to that family's total. Don't forget about food! The wee ones will have to eat at least 4 times. You can buy a medium sized Coke for only $3.73 or you can purchase the plastic souvenir mega-mug for $7.99 and get $1 refills all day! Let's just say that with kids you could definitely spend well over $200 in a day at Six Flags. I would like to state for the record that my kids are going to be the only kids in school who have never been to Six Flags and who aren't allowed to play video games. Bygones.

Now, about the old part. That place is entirely too loud. In an apparent effort to make up for my legal blindness, my body compensates with unbelievably fabulous hearing. Everything hurts my ears. Also, while I enjoy the rides tremendously, the two hour wait? No longer worth it to me. But the worst thing there, I have to say, is the kids.

When I go to a public place like Six Flags, it helps me to understand why my students are the way they are. I see child after child getting whatever they ask for. I see children talking to their parents like they are dogs. I see completely out of control children putting people in danger and behaving in a manner that would have prompted my parents to slap me back to last Tuesday. These kids parents just watch on idly, sometimes not even looking. Are they embarrassed? Oblivious? The cause for the downfall of our society? I'd like to think so.

Which brings me to my next point: Children's clothing. When did children become advertising bill boards of all that is obscene and provocative? Personally, I think it began with the "Make 7....Up Yours" t-shirts a few years ago. I think all of the graphic t-shirts are a lot of fun myself. However. I don't think that children below the age of 13 should be wearing shirt that say things like:

I like to be very hands on.

Porn Star

Yes, they're real.

Good Rear

Weapons of Mass Seduction

That's just a little sampling of some shirts that I gawked at openly yesterday. GAWKED. We're talking young little girls here. Though the boys weren't much better. I'll leave you with the one that shocked me the most. A little boy (seven or eight years old) was walking in front of us with his dad and brother wearing a shirt which read If you can read this then the Hooters girl fell off.

Am getting very, very old.

#473

Umphh.....[Pigs lifts self off of keyboard]. We went on a field trip today. I'm so tired that I can't feel my face.

Why are field trips like that? I don't understand - aside from riding on a school bus and keeping track of 40 of your dearest friends for 6 hours in public and walking all over creation and not eating very much and managing 5-10 adults who are supposed to managing your students, but aren't....it's not that much different from an ordinary day!

Let's focus on the adults. Now, I once had a dad on a field trip to the coast of NC who placed a silk black out mask over his eyes and ear plugs in his ears for the entire 4 hour bus ride to the beach. Upon arrival to the Wright Brothers Memorial, he then took his group to the top of the hill and ran them in circles away from the bus as we tried to get them back on to leave for the next stop. I've seen bad parents on field trips. Never quite so rude or insane as one I met today, but bad nonetheless.

It was reported to me that there was some upheaval among some parents in one class who were upset that their lunchtime hadn't yet arrived on our schedule. Their kids were hungry. I calmly and politely walked over to a woman who has sent me accusatory and berating emails all year because her child talks incessantly [my fault] and gets no work done [also my fault] Though she has no problem with insulting a teacher via email, she had never actually met me in person. I politely and kindly told her that I had no problem if she wanted to go ahead and take her group to lunch at her leisure, that it wouldn't affect the schedule at all. As I did this, 3 or 4 kids from the class began to shroud me in hugs and greetings as though they hadn't seen me in days and days. I casually returned the hugs as I spoke kindly to her. It was then that I became surprised.

"Who ARE you?! Are you even a TEACHER?" she practically spat into my face, glaring at me as though I were dog poop on her shoe.

I froze in disbelief. Was she serious? Why so hateful? She didn't even know who I was! I carefully cleared my throat and smiled. Finally, my moment.

"I'm Mrs. I'm your child's language arts teacher." Big smile.

Oh, if I could freeze one moment in time, that moment might be it! The moment when the Mean, Freaky, Insane Parent got hers. Mwah-ah-ah! Ah, the satisfaction.

She mumbled something about not having ever met me in person and slunk away with her group, presumably to eat lunch. What a freak show. And why would you ever speak to someone like that? It blows my mind. I'll add it as #473 on my list of Things Not To Do When I Am a Parent:

473.) Don't insult or offend the person who spends 3-6 hours a day with your offspring.

Like buttah!

Whew! Good to be back to my regular life! There have been some very exciting events going on in my house. Firstly, we've been wanting hardwood floors for a while now and finally decided to bite the bullet and just go for it. The new floors look really great, but my favorite aspect of the entire event was how comical it was to have all the furniture in the kitchen:

It's really impressive to me just how dusty the top of the china hutch is. I haven't actually laid eyes on the top of that bad boy in three and a half years, so just imagine what it might look like next time I see it! Did I dust it? No. I'm allowing it to grow freely as a project. It's not like anyone has to look at it.

[Pigs' mom is clutching her heart as she reads this, a dustrag clenched tightly in her fist. I'm certain she would like for you to know that I was taught better than this.]

I spent about an hour on Friday laying on the couch in the kitchen just to see what that was like. Turns out? Kinda strange! I could lean one way and reach the fridge and lean the other way and let Gus in and out. Speaking of the hound, Gus spent the two days of construction looking tragically confused as his world was literally taken out from under him:

I'm fairly certain I know what his thoughts were: But....where will I pee if I can't wait? But...how are my claws supposed to maintain their freakishly strong grip as I cut corners when I have contraband in my mouth? But....what about when I have a bath and I'm wet...what in the world am I supposed to waller on? Hey! What about my anal glands? Huh? Where am I supposed to drag?

As you can imagine, our house is now a more sanitary place for all. Gus is still not convinced of the glory that is the new floor, but I think it's darn pretty:

If you'd like to see more, simply Clicker my Flickr. That sounds obscene. I digress. Now if I can just figure out how to put a video on my blog, I have some priceless footage of Gus trying to run on it. I'll never need to go out for entertainment again!

Two Thoughts, Make that Three

1. Who decided that baseball is more important than the OC? If I don't get an OC fix soon, I'm going to enter serious withdrawal. How on earth is it possible that more people would watch eighteen million hours of boring baseball that never ends instead of one titillating hour of the OC? I just don't understand. Laguna Beach is tiding me over, but it's just not the same genre.

2. What the heck is up with these long strings of impossible to read letters that you have to decode and type in like some kind of torturous typing quiz just to leave a comment on Blogger?

Me: I loved this post! Thanks for the laugh!
Blogger: Type this: eicmpeitnaqvcopxkmyvykwm [swirly funktified green letters]
Me: e....um....ic...mpe.....ina, no wait....in - where was I?
Blogger: Error! Please type the letters below!
Me: Ah, forget it. They know their post was good. Click.

Make that three things.

3. In what realm is this appropriate during my Teacher of the Year worthy writing lesson about adding emotions into your stories?

"Embarrassed! Confused! Flabbergasted!" yells the class enthusiastically, waving their arms in the air.

"Good, good!" I encouraged, writing feverishly. "Keep going!"

"Anxious! Scared! Downtrodden!" they exclaimed. (Okay, I made that last one up.)

"Great job! I need one more...." I cajoled, looking into the room. My Future Columbine Organizer raised his hand, leering at me, daring me to call on him. Pigs never backs down from FCO, I'm scared to allow him that control.

He paused for dramatic purposes. "Constipation." He stares me down.

The room got quiet. 42 eyes looked at me to gauge my reaction. I have yet to yell or even speak firmly to this kid and it's really getting under his skin. He's dying for a reaction from me.

"Well, I can see why you might be uncomfortable, but that sounds like a physical problem, not an emotion," I smiled cheerily and added the word "obstinate" to the bottom of my list with a flourish.

The students began to giggle, avoiding eye contact with FCO, as he maintains a certain level of scariness, even in the 4th grade. Afterall, who wants to be friends with the kid who shapes his fingers into a gun and fires at the teacher all day?

That's when I got 21 simultaneous questions:

Twenty people said, "What's obstinate mean?" and one person said, "Well, actually....I believe that constipation could cause some level of mental anxiety. Wouldn't that actually be an emotion?" Ah, Mr. Owens. If it wasn't for him, I don't know what I'd do.

I Didn't Mean To. By Gus.

Dear Mom and Dad,

I didn't mean to do it, I swear. I don't know what came over me. It's just all this new stuff in the house is kinda freakin' me out. For two days, you had strange men in the house. I watched 'em real close like and they were up to no good. I don't know if you noticed, but those men took all the carpet out of the living room and dining room! Just picked it up and walked out with it! Do you have any idea how much time I invested in marking those carpets with my special scent? Do you?!
Then, then! That awful machine! I don't know whose big idea it was to grind up the concrete, but shutting me up in my room was not going to make my ears hurt any less. That machine could've killed us all! It was critical that I alert the masses with my helpful bays. At least the neighbors were warned.
Don't get me started on the floors. What on earth were you thinking putting in slippery, shiny, wood floors when that carpet was perfectly nice? I had just worked it up to the perfect level of "loved." I had left my scent, dragged my itchy end, and wallered myself all over that carpet after a bath. What are you trying to do to me?
After a brief encounter with these new death trap floors, I can promise you that they are not safe. Mom, you know how accident prone you are! How is this possibly a good idea? My legs scribble scrabble everywhere like I'm on skates. And let me tell you....wallering or dragging? No longer an option. You'll find me over on your special rug, you will.
That being said, I still shouldn't have acted out the way I did. I know! But with the full moon and the whole floor shenanigan, the devil just got into me. Dad's work bag was just sitting there and that gum was a-callin'. I carried it to my special rug and went to town. Cardboard, foil, plastic, then finally! Those tasty little nuggets of chew. Um! Those are good. Gave me quite the jaw workout, those 12 pieces of gum. The foil got in my teeth a bit, but I washed it all down with half the cardboard package. All was good until my stomach started to hurt. That's when you got home.
I know I looked all washed up and pathetic - I had the wicked bellyache! But there was no need to pull out that putrid brown bottle of 'roxide. Whenever you take me to the bathtub I know it's bad news bears for 'ol Gus.
I really wanted to hate you when my stomach started lurching, but getting that wad of gum up really cleared up the digestive track, I tell you. I didn't mean to make dad gag like that, it was just gum mixed with puppy chow and stomach acid. Kinda jiggly it was. But again, I am real, real sorry. I don't know what came over me and I'll try extra hard to be a good boy until the next full moon. Promise. For real. No gum.

Love and puppy kisses,
Gus

Howdy!

I'd like to introduce everyone to Gunther. Gunther is my seasonal sentry who adorns my front porch during October. He's a pretty laid back, happy-go-lucky fella. Since our move to Texas we've had to western him up a bit. The other decor in this neighborhood are kind of a rough crowd and ain't nobody gonna pick on my Gunther, so now he fits right in with the other guards. We try to keep a close eye on him. Some nights he must really tie one on because we'll come home and his head will be laying on the ground beside him. I don't understand it; I used a whole lot of duct tape, you'd think he could keep his head about him.

A Coupla Things...

I go to the foot doctor tomorrow. I don't know if it's for a consultation or if they're going to actually go after the sink remnants in my toe at the appointment. I'm completely skeeved out by even the thought of someone going near my toe. I still hardly touch it myself! So that's that.

Also tomorrow, we have a professional development day. There is apparently no such thing as a teacher workday in this district. I swear, I really believe that the jokers up in Central Office must sit around and plot ways to prevent teachers from having an ounce of paid time to get any work done. In the morning, I will be attending a four hour seminar on inquistive thinking in science. It's taught by someone who is very very gifted in science and will do an outstanding job. Only problem? I don't teach science. Haven't taught science in about four years. So how does this benefit me? Answer: it doesn't, but I am being effectively controlled for half of my day. We have been specifically instructed not to be "caught" grading papers or working on report cards. Sigh. I will say this, though. My principal is letting us have the afternoon for team planning at least. All of the other schools in the district have another session in the afternoon. Gah!

One last off-topic question before I go. My husband really, really enjoys taking the can of wasp spray outside, blasting a nest with it, then racing back to the house screaming like a girl. Once inside, he marvels at how many wasps come out and high fives himself. Is this normal behavior? Just curious.

On that note, one last, last comment: I hate saying words like wasps or crisps. It makes everyone say that ridiculous "sspss" noise at the end of the word, plus the word takes too long to get out if you're talking fast. That's all I have to say about that.

A Housewarming!

Welcome! I cannot describe how relieved I feel to be at a new address, all safe and sound. Thanks so much to EdWonk for helping me with the transition and to Ev for helping me understand all of the url-speak that sounds like Greek to me.

I sent most of you an explanation of what happened, so I won't go into it here. Email me if you want the abbreviated version. We will not be airing dirty laundry! Let's celebrate instead!

Things to celebrate:

-I have a safe new blog home.
-My toe has healed beautifully and I can even walk without looking like a duck.
-It's a lovely 85 degrees and sunny out; such a nice break from summer!
-It's the weekend and I got to sleep in!
-I have many, many people who I had no idea even read my blog send me email requests for the new address.

I'm going to revel in happiness while you smother me in kind, housewarming comments. Go! Now smother!

-CleansedPig

For your entertainment during the hiatus...

Apparently the saga of my toe has inspired creativity in many...perhaps there is more to come! From the beginning, Freddie became suspicious of a conspiracy theory underfoot and did some investigative research to uncover what he believes to be the real story behind the sink shattering on my toe. View here for a laugh: Sink Theory

Then recently, my friend Jeff apparently had a sleepless night and wrote what he believes to be the other side of the story:

I thought that it might be funny to speculate what the owner of said foot demolishing establishment might say if he were called to the witness stand. So I sketched it out:

(You have to understand the impact that this would have in Spanish)

Mr. Sanchez tells his story

"Go ahead, Mr. Sanchez, please tell the court your story in your own words."

"Ever since I was a little boy, I dreamed of coming to America. I dreamed of opening a restaurant where I could make food from the recipes of my grandmother. I could send money back to my family, and maybe someday they could come to be with me in America. That was my dream. And now I am ruined. My dreams, they are now replaced with a brooding sadness. And it all happened so quickly. None could have seen that when they entered my establishment, that suffering followed them like a dutiful dog. The woman, the ringleader, the plaintiff, she there, how she was laughing when she came in! She laughed loudly! Boisterously! No doubt at some base jest. She being so engorged with wine and strong drink, was I surprised that she needed to urinate?”

“What happened then, Mr. Sanchez?”

“I nervously watched her as she weaved through my establishment to the restroom. Then there was the crash. She hollered in a beastly way. We ran to see what had become of her. We look in to find that the drunkard had broken my basin! And she was bleeding all over my clean floor! Ay yi yi! I cannot get the image from my mind!”



“For many years I have run this establishment. I run a clean and safe establishment. And within minutes of her walking in... poof! Then I find out that she has had many such things happen to her; that disaster follows close upon her wherever she goes! How can I not think that she has aroused the ire of the gods? Verily, they are chucking cocoanuts at her head! How can I not think that her cursed existence rivals only that of the chupacabra in bringing misfortune to the innocent? And how can I compete against that? How can I protect my business, my family? Does Nationwide or The Hartford cover the Apocalypse?”

“I am a simple man. I run a restaurant that serves burritos. I do not understand the ways of the gods. But I cannot help but feel that I am an unlucky wretch, your honor, an innocent bystander, collateral damage in the path of a justly deserved smiting!"



"Powerful words, Mr. Sanchez. The defense rests, your honor."

Personally, I feel that Jeff needs his own blog. What do you think? :o)

Should It Bother Me....

...that the check I wrote to the Red Cross on September 1st hasn't been cashed yet?

...that some parents think that Flaming Hot Cheetos are an appropriate snack?

...that a podiatrist might not be a real doctor?

...that not one, but two children asked me during their end of quarter exam today if they had to do numbers 27 and 28?

...that despite having his anal glands squeezed just two weeks ago, Gus continues to drag his anus around on my carpet?

...that I have a set of twins who earned a 100% on their exam? Did I mention that it was together? 46% + 54% = 100%.

...that my dinner consisted of oyster stew and waffles?

Thoughts to ponder.

"Your loss. It's a smell I've never encountered before."

Toe is still holding. I am still only able to wear a flip flop, so I'm hoping our beautiful 80 degree fall weather that we just got on Thursday will last for some time. Meredith just mentioned snow in her post, which is completely alarming to me. As usual, I digress.
I wanted to stray from the topic of my foot and bring back a bit of good 'ol Mr. Owens today. We had a teacher conference today, Mr. Owens and I, which is always quite the experience. He is laden with voice and enthusiasm in his writing, though not a lot of focus or direction. Today's story was about vampire bats and how one wrapped itself in Band-Aids to change into a mummy. Of course! Why didn't I think of that when it's so clear there in front of me?
Did I mention that Mr. Owens broke his arm? Well, he did. No need to go into detail there because the exciting part is that he got a cast last week. He and his cast sat down to teacher conference with me today.

Me: Hi Mr. Owens! Ready to read your story to me?
Mr. Owens: Yup. But I have to explain some of the background to you. My father is a disaster-prone maniac.
Me: I see where that might make a good story! Let's hear it!
Mr. Owens: Want to smell my cast? [proffers cast just under my nose]
Me: [gagging] You know? I'll pass this time? How about that story?
Mr. Owens: [shrugs] Your loss. It's a smell I've never encountered before.

So what'd you do at your job today?

Souvenirs of the Sink

My sincere apologies for the lack of posting this week. I can sense that you've just been teetering on the edge of your seat to learn the outcome of my depressed toe. It's been an incredibly busy week, so while I build the suspense about 'ol BT (BigToe), I will detail my string of valid excuses in hopes of gaining your forgiveness.
Firstly, MomPig and DadPig are visiting SingingPig this weekend, so there was much house cleaning and general turmoil every night after school as we prepared for their once-yearly gracing of our home. It's much like when the Queen is coming, except there is more purchasing of BudLight. Intense, scrupulous preparation, I tell you. Also, it is October. Some of you innocent Earthlings [i.e. - Folks With Regular Jobs] might think of October as the Launch of Autumn or the peak of football season or the precursor to Halloween, which all sound lovely and enticing. In reality, for teachers it's the Month of Hassle, Anxiety, Worry and Critique [MoHAWC]. It's the month when your collegues see what you're really made of. The month when you understand and remember why they give you those two months off. Those two months are to prepare you psychologically for MoHAWC. The end of the first quarter, the first report card, 40+ parent conferences, no days off until Thanksgiving, and in my case: The Detested Field Trip. That will be a post in itself.
That should bring you properly up to date on my week, so at this time we will turn the spotlight back on BT. As you know, I was supposed to get my stitches out on Monday, but the laceration remained too gaping. Instead, I returned to the doctor yesterday where I received good news and bad news. Of course you want the good first: I got my stitches out! Wooooo! It was a tremendous relief to have those gnarly little spidery black threads off of my toe. I give you the

Before:



And the After:



The stitches were about 50% of the Ick Factor of this injury. Then the bad news.
I was discussing with my doctor how, despite the healing of my wound, I was still having a lot of pain walking and I was living in fear of anyone - dog, doctor, or student - coming within 5 feet of my foot for fear of pain. I walk around my classroom with my arms extended saying, "Whoa! Foot! Back off! Hey!" to anyone who dares to approach me. Gus has received more than the recommended amount of All Purpose Spankings and walks around with a perpetually confused look on his face. He genuinely believes that it is his duty as Dog to lick and cleanse Mommy's Toe Wound. Afterall, it's what he does when he gets a boo boo.

I digress again. Back to my bad news. Long story short (too late), I got me some more xrays because I was skeptical of the five (5) that I received at the ER in Virginia with no results or explanation for why they continued to xray. Soon after arriving home from the doctor yesterday, I received a phone call.

Me: Hello?
Nurse: I was calling to give you the results of your xray.
Me: Super fabulous! Please continue!
Nurse: It seems there is a foreign body in your toe that is causing your pain.
Me: [silence. mouth hanging open]
Nurse: We are going to have to refer you to a podiatrist to remove it.
Me: What?! Are you serious?
Nurse: Here's their number. Have a great day!

Bahr?! Just when I was wondering why my toe still hurts like dookie after almost two weeks. It's all clear to me now! There' s a stinkin' piece of Old Dirty Mexican Restaurant Sink in my toe!

If you look closely, just above BigToe, there is a small fragment floating about. LuckyPig, I have to have my poor, battered toe poked and cut and prodded again!

Now, you tell me, oh faithful reader: What's a Pig to do? CousinEddie is raring for me to sue. Sue who? I'm not sure. Another little detail you might be interested in is that the owner of said Mexican Restaurant has not returned any of my emails. I want my out of pocket, non-insurance related expenses paid for. Specifically, bandages, crutches, drug store supplies, and my ruined, prized Kenneth Cole sandals. I don't really believe in frivolous lawsuits, which is why I only wanted the insurance companies to handle it, but now I have dual neglect:
1. Sink plunges off wall onto foot in restaurant.
2. Hospital leaves piece of dirty sink in foot and sews it up.

This is becoming quite the nuisance. You ponder that one. I'd really like to know what you think. I must get back to my hostess duties; it's time for breakfast.

-SingingPig+SinkBit

Big Toe vs. The Sink & Co.

I am a woman of few talents. It has come to my attention that my latest injury may limit me in one of my better known and oft-used talents. There are many things in life at which I am inept: walking without running into things, doing cartwheels, being quiet for any length of time. There are few things in life at which I am, er...ept? Able. Proficient. Competent. One of them being my gorilla-like ability to grasp anything with my toes.
It seems that The Incident With the Sink may have somehow restricted my aptitude for toe fingering. My whole life I have been able to grab anything with my feet: quarters, trash on the floor, pencils, the remote...you name it! My toes can pinch someone's arm and twist the skin into a nasty Indian burn or they can grab the dog's tail and hold him in place. My toes are my second set of fingers. I could probably climb a tree like a monkey, but I've never tried due to my high propensity for calamities.
Now? Now? Nothing. My right big toe still works just fine, but no matter how hard I concentrate, cajole, and convince, my left big toe simply will not budge. It just lays there, stitched and forlorn, motionless. It wants to move, I can feel it; it's just not able. I suspect my toe was very disappointed today to learn from the doctor that it must remain stitched until Friday. It seems that the cut is still "too gaping" to remove the sutures just yet; that it might "open back up." My left big toe may be suffering from some form of depression. I'm trying to cheer it up by letting it breathe fresh air around the house. If only I could allow it a shoe, I'm sure all would be better.
If my big toe was a lawsuit, how much pain and suffering do you think it would deserve? Think of its full and active lifestyle before The Sink...and think of it now. It's a changed toe. A toe with nothing to live for. A toe that needs your help. Think about it.

Mr. Owens, Revisited

Overheard in a student book club the other day...

I've taught my students to distinguish between a "fat" question, which requires thougt and effort to answer, and a skinny question, for which the answer could come straight from the book or might only be one word. The kids were debating whether or not another student's question was fat and trying not to hurt her feelings. (It was insanely skinny)

Mr. Owens, the master of sensitivity, listened to the other children hemming and hawing around telling her it was a terrible question. Finally, he threw up his hands and said, "Look, Tricia. Your question is obviously quite lean. I'd say it's a husky lean question, but it's definitely lean. Write down skinny and let's move on." A hush fell over the others and he leaned back obliviously and crossed his hands behind his head as he rocked back in his chair.

I bit my tongue and scurried to the other side of the room, lest Tricia, the writer of all questions lean, hear me laugh at her expense. I heart Mr. Owens.