There's a picture on the wall of the teacher workroom. A photo. Two. Kind of like a "Wanted" poster. What's wanted is a new home for a little doggie. I would love to have this new pet, what with the passing of our baying beagle Tank (BY NATURAL MEANS, PEOPLE!) last weekend.
I know I shouldn't inquire about this little beauty, even though the phone number is right there on the wanted poster. It's too soon. I can't scoop up a replacement pet on the rebound. That's not fair to the new pet. Or the old. Besides, I don't think Hick would okay it at this time. Maybe during the summer, we can keep an eye out for the local pound puppies advertised in the Backroads Hometown Gazette. We've been a three-dog family for many years now. But this is not the time.
Smiling at the camera in that wanted poster is a 5-month-old Australian Shepherd/Border Collie mix. Uh huh. Kind of a high-energy companion. We have the room for her to run, but we also have chickens that we would like to keep alive. I fear that this doggie would be unsupervised all day, and have a heyday with our fowl. It was hard enough to keep my sweet, sweet Juno from chasing chickens she was raised with from when she was a tiny pup. She still grabs them by the tail feathers when she is feeling especially frisky, and forgets we have a picture window overlooking the front yard. Only last fall we found that pile of turkey feathers and feared the worst.
Doggie on the wall has her shots. I'm not sure, but I think she's had her special operation. She has a mostly black body, with that white stripe down her nose common to those two breeds. And she looks perky! Yep! Who woulda thunk a pup of that mix would be perky? The description goes on to say that she knows some commands, and IS HOUSEBROKEN! Who would keep a dog like that in the house? Not a china shop owner who stores inventory at home, I'm sure! I could imagine her as a playmate for my sweet, sweet Juno, but the timing is not right.
As if seeing this beauty on the wall yesterday was not enough...this morning before school a colleague at the Kyocera saw her, too. "What a cute little dog! But I couldn't keep it. I don't have the room. As it is now, we're trying to find a home for our beagle. We let her out to run, but she needs a big open space to run rabbits. She's had her operation. She's getting up there in years. Someone dumped her at our house. She's very loving. The problem is, she can climb the chain-link fence. Oh, she always comes back. But she's taught our other mutt to do it, too. And he comes back, but he brings things! Yesterday he had one of those solar powered driveway lights that stick in the ground. I'm afraid someone is going to complain."
No. I can't have a beagle, either. It's too soon. I'm sure there will be plenty of puppies needing homes over the summer.
Tuesday, March 11, 2014
Monday, March 10, 2014
Brain Food
The Pony participated in a Mathlete competition today at the local junior college. Our high school sent six competitors at each grade level. The showing was impressive. Freshman placed 1st and 2nd, Sophomores (The Pony's category) swept 1st, 2nd, and 3rd. Juniors raked in 1st and 3rd. And the Seniors hauled in a 3rd. Needless to say, but I'll say it anyway, our little school won the small schools division handily. Awards are only given for 1st/2nd/3rd each grade level. So we garnered 8 of the 12 awards. Yay, us! The Pony himself earned a red-ribboned medal for 2nd place.
I figured my best old ex-teaching buddy Mabel might be interested to hear that. Some of the winners are her proteges. That information is simply too lengthy for me to text her. Ex-job well done, Mabel.
The rest of you might see it as too much bragging on my little den of learning, but by cracky, we're good enough, we're smart enough, and doggone it, people need to stop belittling us as Backroads hicks. Our school has a history of being the little uncool loser enclave, way back to the days when I was valedictorian at a bigger, cooler, winner school. We are a school of distinction, by cracky! And I'll say by cracky whenever I feel like it. We are Backroads. We are proud.
The team left this morning and stopped for breakfast on the way. The Pony said he had a sausage biscuit, which for him is a substantial meal. Good thing. The team went to KFC for lunch. The chicken buffet. I might have mentioned that you could count the foods The Pony eats on one hand, if it had six fingers. He's not adventurous in the sustenance department.
"What did you have at KFC?" Let the record show that Thevictorians never go there.
"All I had was some biscuits and mashed potatoes."
"That's it? That's all you ate from the buffet? Biscuits with butter, and mashed potatoes with gravy?"
"No. Just biscuits. And mashed potatoes. I HATE chicken!" Said the boy who eats chicken nuggets, planks, strips, tenders, tenderloins, lemon-pepper breasts, Shake 'n' Bake breasts, Sweet & Sour, patties, chunks, and sandwiches. Seriously. Chicken is one of his six food groups. What he meant, I think, was that he does not eat REAL chicken with a bone in it. Maybe he's lazy, like his brother before him, who once brandished a leg and demanded, "WHO PUT THE BONE IN MY CHICKEN?"
Maybe The Pony didn't want to put himself in the midst of a feeding frenzy. I can only imagine 24 high school students at a fried chicken buffet. The image that comes to mind is the scene in Gremlins where Billy looks at the unplugged clock, thinks it's safe to feed his hungry new Gizmo offspring, and hands them a plate of leftover fried chicken from the fridge. You've seen it, right? How the bones fly through the air, strings of saliva fling willy-nilly, and at the end there's a big BURP. I suppose The Pony is lucky to escape with all his limbs intact.
Forget carb-loading for marathons. Forget fish as brain food. Let your future Mathlete eat his fill of biscuits, mashed potatoes, and fried chicken. He might just let you know if you got the correct change.
I figured my best old ex-teaching buddy Mabel might be interested to hear that. Some of the winners are her proteges. That information is simply too lengthy for me to text her. Ex-job well done, Mabel.
The rest of you might see it as too much bragging on my little den of learning, but by cracky, we're good enough, we're smart enough, and doggone it, people need to stop belittling us as Backroads hicks. Our school has a history of being the little uncool loser enclave, way back to the days when I was valedictorian at a bigger, cooler, winner school. We are a school of distinction, by cracky! And I'll say by cracky whenever I feel like it. We are Backroads. We are proud.
The team left this morning and stopped for breakfast on the way. The Pony said he had a sausage biscuit, which for him is a substantial meal. Good thing. The team went to KFC for lunch. The chicken buffet. I might have mentioned that you could count the foods The Pony eats on one hand, if it had six fingers. He's not adventurous in the sustenance department.
"What did you have at KFC?" Let the record show that Thevictorians never go there.
"All I had was some biscuits and mashed potatoes."
"That's it? That's all you ate from the buffet? Biscuits with butter, and mashed potatoes with gravy?"
"No. Just biscuits. And mashed potatoes. I HATE chicken!" Said the boy who eats chicken nuggets, planks, strips, tenders, tenderloins, lemon-pepper breasts, Shake 'n' Bake breasts, Sweet & Sour, patties, chunks, and sandwiches. Seriously. Chicken is one of his six food groups. What he meant, I think, was that he does not eat REAL chicken with a bone in it. Maybe he's lazy, like his brother before him, who once brandished a leg and demanded, "WHO PUT THE BONE IN MY CHICKEN?"
Maybe The Pony didn't want to put himself in the midst of a feeding frenzy. I can only imagine 24 high school students at a fried chicken buffet. The image that comes to mind is the scene in Gremlins where Billy looks at the unplugged clock, thinks it's safe to feed his hungry new Gizmo offspring, and hands them a plate of leftover fried chicken from the fridge. You've seen it, right? How the bones fly through the air, strings of saliva fling willy-nilly, and at the end there's a big BURP. I suppose The Pony is lucky to escape with all his limbs intact.
Forget carb-loading for marathons. Forget fish as brain food. Let your future Mathlete eat his fill of biscuits, mashed potatoes, and fried chicken. He might just let you know if you got the correct change.
Sunday, March 9, 2014
Every Pony Needs a Salt Lick
Saturday is bowling league day for The Pony. He's been a kegler since he was a little guy. It's part of our routine. The Pony has to be at the bowling alley at noon. That's when the doors are unlocked. His actual league doesn't start until 12:30, but he orders lunch and gets in a few practice rolls.
I thought there would be time to do the weekly shopping yesterday and still have The Pony ready for bowling league on time. We made a stop at Save A Lot, and headed on to Walmart. We made good progress, The Pony fetching outlying items while I combed the main food section. The Pony grabbed my tabloids as I chose a check-out, then left to spend his two-dollar bribe on one of the racing games. It was only 10:30 when we came out and loaded the back of T-Hoe with our provisions. A cold rain had begun to fall, and the temperature had dropped from 41 to 36. As I started to record my purchase on my checkbook register, The Pony, my back-up eyes, said, "I think this car is waiting for our parking spot."
It was a good one, too, the first parking spot after the three handicapped ones on our aisle. I dumped my receipt and debit card into the slight indentation on top of the console, and turned the ignition to back out. "I can see the car now. Let me know if any people get in the way. By the time I hear T-Hoe's warning sounds, they'll be flattened." The Pony assured me that my reverse path was clear of pedestrians. I hoped he was actually turned around looking, unlike that time he let me slow-speed collide with the front bumper of that agitated meth-beard dude at the bank drive-thru.
As we left the chaos of Walmart's parking lot, The Pony said that he would rather pick up some fast food than eat at the bowling alley. I took him through Burger King for a chicken sandwich combo. We were pulling into the gas-station chicken store to pick up my 44 oz. Diet Coke before the knowledge of my epic fail in shopping-day protocol hit me: I HAD FORGOTTEN OUR GERM-X CLEANSE.
"PONY! We forgot the Germ-X! Here! Give me your hand!" I flipped the top of my mini green-apple-scented squeeze bottle. "Here!"
"Ugh! I'm EATING now!"
"But you need Germ-X! What if you lick your fingers?"
"Umm...it's too late. I've already licked them so many times that Germ-X now won't matter."
"No! Do you know how many people have touched that steering wheel on you driving game? Who knows what kind of bacteria was on there? What if somebody drove it from a culture that wipes their butt with their bare hand? And you licked you fingers!"
"I'm safe. They use their LEFT hand."
"But they use both hands on the steering wheel, just like you."
"Well, since I only licked my RIGHT hand, it's okay."
The Pony can be downright stubborn sometimes. I think he gets it from his dad.
I thought there would be time to do the weekly shopping yesterday and still have The Pony ready for bowling league on time. We made a stop at Save A Lot, and headed on to Walmart. We made good progress, The Pony fetching outlying items while I combed the main food section. The Pony grabbed my tabloids as I chose a check-out, then left to spend his two-dollar bribe on one of the racing games. It was only 10:30 when we came out and loaded the back of T-Hoe with our provisions. A cold rain had begun to fall, and the temperature had dropped from 41 to 36. As I started to record my purchase on my checkbook register, The Pony, my back-up eyes, said, "I think this car is waiting for our parking spot."
It was a good one, too, the first parking spot after the three handicapped ones on our aisle. I dumped my receipt and debit card into the slight indentation on top of the console, and turned the ignition to back out. "I can see the car now. Let me know if any people get in the way. By the time I hear T-Hoe's warning sounds, they'll be flattened." The Pony assured me that my reverse path was clear of pedestrians. I hoped he was actually turned around looking, unlike that time he let me slow-speed collide with the front bumper of that agitated meth-beard dude at the bank drive-thru.
As we left the chaos of Walmart's parking lot, The Pony said that he would rather pick up some fast food than eat at the bowling alley. I took him through Burger King for a chicken sandwich combo. We were pulling into the gas-station chicken store to pick up my 44 oz. Diet Coke before the knowledge of my epic fail in shopping-day protocol hit me: I HAD FORGOTTEN OUR GERM-X CLEANSE.
"PONY! We forgot the Germ-X! Here! Give me your hand!" I flipped the top of my mini green-apple-scented squeeze bottle. "Here!"
"Ugh! I'm EATING now!"
"But you need Germ-X! What if you lick your fingers?"
"Umm...it's too late. I've already licked them so many times that Germ-X now won't matter."
"No! Do you know how many people have touched that steering wheel on you driving game? Who knows what kind of bacteria was on there? What if somebody drove it from a culture that wipes their butt with their bare hand? And you licked you fingers!"
"I'm safe. They use their LEFT hand."
"But they use both hands on the steering wheel, just like you."
"Well, since I only licked my RIGHT hand, it's okay."
The Pony can be downright stubborn sometimes. I think he gets it from his dad.
Saturday, March 8, 2014
Please Refrain From Using Val as a Sitting Duck
This morning I fired up my picture-window laptop and connected my molasses-slow internet before I headed off to do the weekly shopping. Hick was lounging about in his La-Z-Boy, and The Pony sat on the long couch ready to assist me in gathering our provisions.
I always check for any overnight comments to publish, and then catch up on breaking internet news. "Oh," I asked Hick, "did you read about those teachers who called the prosecuting attorney because they didn't want to be shot with pellet guns?" Hick is always up on the latest local news. I think he gets bored searching for beer company memorabilia on eBay all day. I had forgotten that Hick was off work Friday. So of course he hadn't received his dose of current happenings.
VAL: "There was an inservice drill, like we had last semester, about active shooter training. Except nobody shot at us with pellet guns. Our trainer asked for a volunteer to be a shooter, and gave him a fake gun, and he gave us clown noses to throw at him. Not real clown noses. Little soft red balls that looked like clown noses. The point was that anything thrown at you when you enter a room will take you by surprise and disrupt your aim, and give several people a chance to whack you with chairs and staplers and spray wasp killer in your face and jam pencils in your eyes and ears while everyone else runs out of the room. A few may die, but it buys time for everyone else. Yeah. It was so uplifting. So anyway, at this other school, they were shooting at teachers with pellet guns to make them terrified so they would move faster. They said it would be more realistic, but there were no students there to save that day."
HICK: "A pellet gun? They don't hurt. Genius has one downstairs. Pony! Go get that pellet gun and we'll shoot Mom."
The Pony rolled his eyes. Then he pursed his muzzle and looked at the ceiling. "Hmm. Nah."
VAL: "I'd like to thank you, Pony, for taking time to mull over that scenario before deciding not to shoot me. That just warms my heart. You really DO love me."
PONY: "Actually, I was rolling my eyes because I can't believe Dad said we were going to shoot you."
HICK: "We'll shoot you, too, Pony. It's not that bad."
VAL: "Then why did they have to put on protective goggles?"
HICK: "Well, you don't want to get hit in the eye. That might hurt you."
VAL: "So you're telling me that you could get away with that at work? You're on the safety committee. You go to those SHARP meetings. You think you could have a safety drill and shoot at your employees with pellet guns?"
HICK: "No! They'd have a fit and sue us. In fact, OSHA wouldn't allow us to do something like that."
PONY: "Yeah. That would not be good. Shooting pellets in a building with machines all over the place."
VAL: "THAT'S WHAT I'M TALKING ABOUT! It can't be done with factory employees, even though there are more workplace shootings than school shootings. It isn't good for machines, but it's good for TEACHERS? Everything if fine to do to teachers. Anything goes. The comments on that article are all saying that teachers should be shot at with pellet guns, or they won't try to save kids in a real emergency. That they should be fired if they don't want to be shot at with pellet guns. They're missing the point that you can have training without shooting teachers with pellet guns."
Maybe I should look into a career as a machine operator. Or a machine.
I always check for any overnight comments to publish, and then catch up on breaking internet news. "Oh," I asked Hick, "did you read about those teachers who called the prosecuting attorney because they didn't want to be shot with pellet guns?" Hick is always up on the latest local news. I think he gets bored searching for beer company memorabilia on eBay all day. I had forgotten that Hick was off work Friday. So of course he hadn't received his dose of current happenings.
VAL: "There was an inservice drill, like we had last semester, about active shooter training. Except nobody shot at us with pellet guns. Our trainer asked for a volunteer to be a shooter, and gave him a fake gun, and he gave us clown noses to throw at him. Not real clown noses. Little soft red balls that looked like clown noses. The point was that anything thrown at you when you enter a room will take you by surprise and disrupt your aim, and give several people a chance to whack you with chairs and staplers and spray wasp killer in your face and jam pencils in your eyes and ears while everyone else runs out of the room. A few may die, but it buys time for everyone else. Yeah. It was so uplifting. So anyway, at this other school, they were shooting at teachers with pellet guns to make them terrified so they would move faster. They said it would be more realistic, but there were no students there to save that day."
HICK: "A pellet gun? They don't hurt. Genius has one downstairs. Pony! Go get that pellet gun and we'll shoot Mom."
The Pony rolled his eyes. Then he pursed his muzzle and looked at the ceiling. "Hmm. Nah."
VAL: "I'd like to thank you, Pony, for taking time to mull over that scenario before deciding not to shoot me. That just warms my heart. You really DO love me."
PONY: "Actually, I was rolling my eyes because I can't believe Dad said we were going to shoot you."
HICK: "We'll shoot you, too, Pony. It's not that bad."
VAL: "Then why did they have to put on protective goggles?"
HICK: "Well, you don't want to get hit in the eye. That might hurt you."
VAL: "So you're telling me that you could get away with that at work? You're on the safety committee. You go to those SHARP meetings. You think you could have a safety drill and shoot at your employees with pellet guns?"
HICK: "No! They'd have a fit and sue us. In fact, OSHA wouldn't allow us to do something like that."
PONY: "Yeah. That would not be good. Shooting pellets in a building with machines all over the place."
VAL: "THAT'S WHAT I'M TALKING ABOUT! It can't be done with factory employees, even though there are more workplace shootings than school shootings. It isn't good for machines, but it's good for TEACHERS? Everything if fine to do to teachers. Anything goes. The comments on that article are all saying that teachers should be shot at with pellet guns, or they won't try to save kids in a real emergency. That they should be fired if they don't want to be shot at with pellet guns. They're missing the point that you can have training without shooting teachers with pellet guns."
Maybe I should look into a career as a machine operator. Or a machine.
Friday, March 7, 2014
The Fine Line On This Slippery Slope Has Been Crossed
Val strives to stay off the soapbox. To leave her political hat hanging on the heavy wooden coat rack just inside the door of her mother's brick split-level abode. Why take a stand when sitting on the sidelines is so much more comfortable? But today, Val must say this about that.
I found out at the faculty lunch table that my colleagues see nothing wrong with being shot at work! Really. We were discussing news of recent days, and the subject of a local school district's inservice program came up. Four teachers called the courthouse to complain that they did not want to be hit with plastic projectiles from an air-powered firearm. That they were calling the prosecuting attorney to find out their rights. The school canceled the drill when officials learned of the complaint. A spokesman for the district stated that teachers had several chances to opt out of the training.
Here's my issue. We had an inservice presentation on such a scenario. Nobody shot us with plastic pellets. I think we still got the message. Do we bring in those swamp boats with giant fans to blow fake wind down the hall during our tornado drills? No. But we understand the urgency, and know where to go. Do we set off smoke canisters and crank the thermostat and flash strobe lights like crackling flames during our fire drills? No. But we understand the urgency, and know where to go. Do we blast cracking-crumbling noises and rattle windows and doors and knock ceiling tiles loose and tip over bookcases during our earthquake drills? No. But we understand the urgency, and know where to go.
I think that district crossed the line. If their faculty was given opportunities to opt out, why didn't they opt out? Why did they find it necessary to seek guidance for possibly filing a complaint? What's the point of scheduling this simulation if all members are not expected to participate? I smell something fishy.
The articles says this training was in response to recent legislation:
According to the Missouri Revised Statutes Section 170.315, which established the Active Shooter and Intruder Response Training for Schools Program (ASIRT), "each school district and charter school may, by July 1, 2014, include in its teacher and school employee training a component on how to properly respond to students who provide them with information about a threatening situation and how to address situations in which there is a potentially dangerous or armed intruder in the school. Training may also include information and techniques on how to address situations where an active shooter is present in the school or on school property."
Notice that it says MAY include. Not MUST include. Nowhere does it mention that teachers must be given eye protection and shot with an Airsoft gun's plastic pellets. Yes, by all means, run drills every year with the students and teachers, just like the tornado, fire, earthquake, and intruder drills. Even call it by its name, Active Shooter Drill. Actually shooting the teachers seems to be taking it a bit far. For those who cry that this is to make the situation realistic...let's remember that the students are not there on inservice day. So how realistic could it be? Who are the teachers trying to protect?
At our lunch table, my colleagues did not feel this was inappropriate. They were of the belief that those pellets wouldn't hurt much. No harm done. It was just a drill.
I'm sorry. I refuse to be the frog simmering in the pot while the water boils, not noticing my slow demise. I choose to be the frog dropped into that boiling pot, and jumping out immediately because I know something is wrong.
Something is wrong when drills are held using teachers as targets for real projectiles. Wake up! Let's get hoppin'. Next they'll be making us shoot back.
We are teachers, not targets. Teachers, not hired guns.
Here's something scary. Let's drive all the students down to the police station, and make the law enforcement officials teach them!
I found out at the faculty lunch table that my colleagues see nothing wrong with being shot at work! Really. We were discussing news of recent days, and the subject of a local school district's inservice program came up. Four teachers called the courthouse to complain that they did not want to be hit with plastic projectiles from an air-powered firearm. That they were calling the prosecuting attorney to find out their rights. The school canceled the drill when officials learned of the complaint. A spokesman for the district stated that teachers had several chances to opt out of the training.
Here's my issue. We had an inservice presentation on such a scenario. Nobody shot us with plastic pellets. I think we still got the message. Do we bring in those swamp boats with giant fans to blow fake wind down the hall during our tornado drills? No. But we understand the urgency, and know where to go. Do we set off smoke canisters and crank the thermostat and flash strobe lights like crackling flames during our fire drills? No. But we understand the urgency, and know where to go. Do we blast cracking-crumbling noises and rattle windows and doors and knock ceiling tiles loose and tip over bookcases during our earthquake drills? No. But we understand the urgency, and know where to go.
I think that district crossed the line. If their faculty was given opportunities to opt out, why didn't they opt out? Why did they find it necessary to seek guidance for possibly filing a complaint? What's the point of scheduling this simulation if all members are not expected to participate? I smell something fishy.
The articles says this training was in response to recent legislation:
According to the Missouri Revised Statutes Section 170.315, which established the Active Shooter and Intruder Response Training for Schools Program (ASIRT), "each school district and charter school may, by July 1, 2014, include in its teacher and school employee training a component on how to properly respond to students who provide them with information about a threatening situation and how to address situations in which there is a potentially dangerous or armed intruder in the school. Training may also include information and techniques on how to address situations where an active shooter is present in the school or on school property."
Notice that it says MAY include. Not MUST include. Nowhere does it mention that teachers must be given eye protection and shot with an Airsoft gun's plastic pellets. Yes, by all means, run drills every year with the students and teachers, just like the tornado, fire, earthquake, and intruder drills. Even call it by its name, Active Shooter Drill. Actually shooting the teachers seems to be taking it a bit far. For those who cry that this is to make the situation realistic...let's remember that the students are not there on inservice day. So how realistic could it be? Who are the teachers trying to protect?
At our lunch table, my colleagues did not feel this was inappropriate. They were of the belief that those pellets wouldn't hurt much. No harm done. It was just a drill.
I'm sorry. I refuse to be the frog simmering in the pot while the water boils, not noticing my slow demise. I choose to be the frog dropped into that boiling pot, and jumping out immediately because I know something is wrong.
Something is wrong when drills are held using teachers as targets for real projectiles. Wake up! Let's get hoppin'. Next they'll be making us shoot back.
We are teachers, not targets. Teachers, not hired guns.
Here's something scary. Let's drive all the students down to the police station, and make the law enforcement officials teach them!
Thursday, March 6, 2014
Impending Signs
I sense the signs of the apocalypse. Or, as Hick calls it, the apopadopalyspe.
A gambler is suing a casino because he got drunk and lost $500,000. Really, now. I'll bet he wasn't contemplating a lawsuit when he was slugging back free drinks. And, correct me if I'm wrong, which Val hardly ever is, or admits to, anyway...but the last time I checked, a casino was a place people went to gamble. If nobody ever loses money, I don't think that can technically be called gambling. And I seriously doubt that the dude would be suing the casino if he got drunk and won $500,000.
Then there's the 18-year-old little gal who left home in a disagreement over rules, and now has taken her parents to court asking for $645 a week in support, plus her private school tuition, and a college fund. Oh, the lawsuit is costing $12,000, and she's also asking for court costs. Right now she is living with a friend's parents, and they are paying her lawyer. Among the atrocities to which she was subjected (says she) was the unnatural behavior of her father, who was always putting his arm around her shoulders in public, and who kissed her on the cheek.
HANDBASKETS! Lolly, lolly, lolly, get your handbaskets here!
I must renew efforts to break ground on my proposed handbasket factory. Forthwith.
A gambler is suing a casino because he got drunk and lost $500,000. Really, now. I'll bet he wasn't contemplating a lawsuit when he was slugging back free drinks. And, correct me if I'm wrong, which Val hardly ever is, or admits to, anyway...but the last time I checked, a casino was a place people went to gamble. If nobody ever loses money, I don't think that can technically be called gambling. And I seriously doubt that the dude would be suing the casino if he got drunk and won $500,000.
Then there's the 18-year-old little gal who left home in a disagreement over rules, and now has taken her parents to court asking for $645 a week in support, plus her private school tuition, and a college fund. Oh, the lawsuit is costing $12,000, and she's also asking for court costs. Right now she is living with a friend's parents, and they are paying her lawyer. Among the atrocities to which she was subjected (says she) was the unnatural behavior of her father, who was always putting his arm around her shoulders in public, and who kissed her on the cheek.
HANDBASKETS! Lolly, lolly, lolly, get your handbaskets here!
I must renew efforts to break ground on my proposed handbasket factory. Forthwith.
Wednesday, March 5, 2014
There is Always More to Learn
Do you know the worst thing about having to go to work on a SNOW DAY, when all the kids get to stay home? That's a rhetorical question. There's not a simple answer. There's a plethora of answers. Here are a few.
There's a surprise meeting of which you were never officially informed.
The meeting is for EVERYONE in the building, meaning that the territorial seating arrangement has been usurped by festival seating.
If you are lucky enough to get your regular seat at the back corner of the room, a new guy working with an old guy sits directly behind you, almost in your hip pocket, on a chair he has pulled from another table, and COUGHS throughout the meeting, coughs so that you can feel his fetid explosive exhalations on your back like a nuclear wind after an atom bomb test.
The first speaker chooses to put his photo display on an easel and stand directly in front of a window so that the snow in the parking lot behind him burns out the retina of any conscientious employee who shows him respect by trying to find his head in that glare and make eye contact.
The person who ends up at your table, sitting directly across from you, is one you are not especially fond of sitting next to at your cafeteria lunch table every day, and sits with legs crossed on a cushy rolly chair, jammed up against the table, shaking a foot, so that any time you try to write, your script looks like the work of a palsied nonagenarian.
After the first meeting, there's a ten-minute break before a second meeting, and then people such as Val who give the important tests in core subjects must stay for yet a THIRD meeting.
I know it's March. But my attitude is still in February. Give me a few weeks, and I'll be loving my job again. But maybe not the meeting part.
There's a surprise meeting of which you were never officially informed.
The meeting is for EVERYONE in the building, meaning that the territorial seating arrangement has been usurped by festival seating.
If you are lucky enough to get your regular seat at the back corner of the room, a new guy working with an old guy sits directly behind you, almost in your hip pocket, on a chair he has pulled from another table, and COUGHS throughout the meeting, coughs so that you can feel his fetid explosive exhalations on your back like a nuclear wind after an atom bomb test.
The first speaker chooses to put his photo display on an easel and stand directly in front of a window so that the snow in the parking lot behind him burns out the retina of any conscientious employee who shows him respect by trying to find his head in that glare and make eye contact.
The person who ends up at your table, sitting directly across from you, is one you are not especially fond of sitting next to at your cafeteria lunch table every day, and sits with legs crossed on a cushy rolly chair, jammed up against the table, shaking a foot, so that any time you try to write, your script looks like the work of a palsied nonagenarian.
After the first meeting, there's a ten-minute break before a second meeting, and then people such as Val who give the important tests in core subjects must stay for yet a THIRD meeting.
I know it's March. But my attitude is still in February. Give me a few weeks, and I'll be loving my job again. But maybe not the meeting part.
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