Genius sent me a text this morning that he would be calling this evening to get information. Did you get that? Genius was seeking MY input on INFORMATION. Uh huh. I'm not as stupid as I used to be, it seems, when he lived under my roof.
The information needed concerned how to fill out a W-4 form. Genius has an RA position locked up for next year. Not that it pays in cash, just a pittance each semester, with the big payoff coming in room and board. Still, he needed a W-4 and proof that he can work in this country legally. He also has a summer job lined up in the city. This is where it gets dicier. He will be making $20/hour, 40 hours/week, for most of the summer. His total earnings will be just under the amount that requires filing a tax return. So...he wanted advice.
I do taxes for the Thevictorian family, but Hick is more knowledgeable on the W-4s. I always consult him when one rears its head. So I had Genius in my left ear on the house phone, and Hick in my right ear on my cell phone as he was driving home from work. Let's just say neither of those two can take a hint. Can conform to social cues. Like waiting until a person is done talking to put in their own two cents.
It started out all right. "Genius, I'm going to ask your dad. Just a minute." Then after Hick's input, "Okay. Let me tell him." That worked for about two sentences. Then I felt like Larry Kroger, Pinto to his Animal House buddies, upstairs with his supermarket girlfriend, an angel on one shoulder, a devil on the other, both talking to him at once. Only I was not getting information on how to take advantage of my passed-out date, and I did not have a handful of tissues that fell out of her foundation garment.
"I can't do this! You KNEW I was talking to him. You could hear me. Why did you start spouting off again? You always do that! Talk when the other person is talking! I'm done."
"Fine. I'll call him myself."
Yeah. That's what we needed. Hick the one-eyed, inattentive, master sweaver on a back country road dialing Genius with one hand. So that's how Genius got his information.
I can't believe he has not yet responded to my request for input on why I can't open docx files anymore. You'd think one hand would wash the other, now wouldn't you? But I scratched Genius's back, and he won't scratch mine.
Someone got a dirty hand out of this deal, and I think it's me.
Monday, April 14, 2014
Sunday, April 13, 2014
Hick is Under My Skin Like Termites in a Creek Log
Hick has been quite productive today. By his standards, anyway. He has managed to get under my skin TWICE! Okay, thrice if you count this morning when I blamed him for the fitted sheet pulling off my side of the bed because he wallows and spins and wraps up in it like a burrito every night, and he had the audacity to proclaim, "I ain't done nothin'! I'm just layin' here!" I find it hard to believe that a wanna-be magician wandered in overnight, stood at Hick's side of the bed, and yanked that fitted flannel sheet from under us like a fancy linen tablecloth from under the china and silver at a four-star restaurant.
Next cat out of the bag, I caught Hick dragging a trunk under the porch. Okay, that's not as sinister as it might sound. Technically, Hick's oldest son, a regular adult wearing overalls and starting to look like Hick, drove that big tree trunk across the front yard in his truck, and backed it up to the front porch, where he and Hick dragged it out and put it at the corner by the downspout, near my rose bush.
I questioned Hick as to the thought processes that went into putting an old rotting tree trunk up under a wooden wraparound porch on a cedar home. Hick seems to think that his very special tree trunk that he dragged from the creek is not full of termites that will delight in a smorgasbord that will keep their family fat and sassy for generations to come. "There's no termites in that tree trunk! I got it out of the creek! You could see them if there were termites in it." So sayeth the self-appointed termite inspector. I'm waiting for him to adorn his very special tree trunk with an eternal flame that licks just shy of contact with the bottom board of the porch.
Hick made a shocking discovery on the way to the creek to get his very special tree trunk. We have surprise chickens! Three newly-hatched chicks, which were not expected yet, even though Hick knows he has hens sitting, just not where, or for how long. He usually catches one sitting in the chicken house, and stuffs a couple of days worth of eggs up under her. From that point, it takes 21 days for the little peckers to bust out. Hick wants to put them up in a separate pen until they are a bit bigger, but he can't catch the momma.
Oh, and according to Hick, "YOUR DOG TRIED TO EAT MY CHICKS!" Yeah. Right. My sweet, sweet Juno trying to eat fluffy fresh baby chicks? I don't think so. Upon further interrogation, Hick reported that he caught Juno SNIFFING THE NEW CHICKS. "She had her nose right up against them!" Um. That's what dogs do. Sniff things. Other dogs' anuses. Men's crotches. Groceries set on the side porch to await carrying in by a 16-year-old. Just-hatched chicks. Dogs don't eat everything they sniff. Laws, no! M-O-O-N. That spells we'd be in a world of trouble if dogs ate everything they sniffed, because other dogs would have no anuses, and men would have no crotches, and people would starve to death.
I will not believe Juno was trying to eat baby chicks unless I discover her with tiny feathers clinging to her gums, and three chicks seem to be missing. TRYING to eat baby chicks? If she wanted to eat them, they would already be eaten. Hick is not so powerful that his gaze falling upon her in the act would stop my sweet, sweet Juno from chickicide.
I'm sure Juno will be Hick's best friend when he grills steaks later this evening. I hope the deck does not collapse under them due to weakening by termite jaws.
Next cat out of the bag, I caught Hick dragging a trunk under the porch. Okay, that's not as sinister as it might sound. Technically, Hick's oldest son, a regular adult wearing overalls and starting to look like Hick, drove that big tree trunk across the front yard in his truck, and backed it up to the front porch, where he and Hick dragged it out and put it at the corner by the downspout, near my rose bush.
I questioned Hick as to the thought processes that went into putting an old rotting tree trunk up under a wooden wraparound porch on a cedar home. Hick seems to think that his very special tree trunk that he dragged from the creek is not full of termites that will delight in a smorgasbord that will keep their family fat and sassy for generations to come. "There's no termites in that tree trunk! I got it out of the creek! You could see them if there were termites in it." So sayeth the self-appointed termite inspector. I'm waiting for him to adorn his very special tree trunk with an eternal flame that licks just shy of contact with the bottom board of the porch.
Hick made a shocking discovery on the way to the creek to get his very special tree trunk. We have surprise chickens! Three newly-hatched chicks, which were not expected yet, even though Hick knows he has hens sitting, just not where, or for how long. He usually catches one sitting in the chicken house, and stuffs a couple of days worth of eggs up under her. From that point, it takes 21 days for the little peckers to bust out. Hick wants to put them up in a separate pen until they are a bit bigger, but he can't catch the momma.
Oh, and according to Hick, "YOUR DOG TRIED TO EAT MY CHICKS!" Yeah. Right. My sweet, sweet Juno trying to eat fluffy fresh baby chicks? I don't think so. Upon further interrogation, Hick reported that he caught Juno SNIFFING THE NEW CHICKS. "She had her nose right up against them!" Um. That's what dogs do. Sniff things. Other dogs' anuses. Men's crotches. Groceries set on the side porch to await carrying in by a 16-year-old. Just-hatched chicks. Dogs don't eat everything they sniff. Laws, no! M-O-O-N. That spells we'd be in a world of trouble if dogs ate everything they sniffed, because other dogs would have no anuses, and men would have no crotches, and people would starve to death.
I will not believe Juno was trying to eat baby chicks unless I discover her with tiny feathers clinging to her gums, and three chicks seem to be missing. TRYING to eat baby chicks? If she wanted to eat them, they would already be eaten. Hick is not so powerful that his gaze falling upon her in the act would stop my sweet, sweet Juno from chickicide.
I'm sure Juno will be Hick's best friend when he grills steaks later this evening. I hope the deck does not collapse under them due to weakening by termite jaws.
Saturday, April 12, 2014
A Scratch-Off Tale From the Gas Station Chicken Store
Val has had many unique adventures here in Backroads. Many unique adventures involving fellow customers at establishments she frequents. Indeed. She has been caressed by a woman in Save A Lot. Had her buttocks molested by a geezer's arm in the dead-mouse-smelling post office. Was propositioned by a ZZ-Top-bearded, Daisy-Dukes-wearing man of questionable oral hygiene on the parking lot of Walmart. Had a roll of cash thrust at her by a friendly, generous, inattentive man while boxing her groceries at Save-A-Lot. Suffered verbal overfamiliarity from a dude who yelled, "That's ever man's dream!" when she asked for two breasts and two thighs at the gas station chicken store.
And it's the gas station chicken store that calls us back today. The scene of the latest indignity to befall our heroine, Val of Backroads.
Perhaps I've mentioned that I do not have a fondness for other people's children. Unless I am responsible for them in a supervisorly educational role, I have no interest in them. Seen and not heard. There's a reason for that idiom. It was not coined by idiots. I would like to coin my own idiom. "Children should be left outside in a well-ventilated car with proper adult supervision, and not brought into convenience stores." Not quite so catchy as "seen and not heard." But quite as serviceable.
I had stopped in for a 44 oz. Diet Coke and a scratch-off ticket. Yes, I DID win, as a matter of fact. Fifty dollars on a ten dollar ticket. But I didn't know that until later. Because, you see, I was fighting for my life against an eight-year-old girl in the gas station chicken store. Or at least for my hide.
A man was already at the Coke machine. He looked at it, and moved on down the counter towards the back cooler, to the coffee machine. Had he asked, I might have suggested something stiffer. But Val is not one to give unsolicited advice to strangers in convenience stores. That guy had three little girls with him. They all called him Daddy. Stair steps, they were. I'm guessing 8, 7, 6, though I am not well-versed in the sizes and cognitive skills of youngsters much under the age of 12.
The girlies swarmed around those three aisles like a working drug-sniffing canine, an ant checking out a dessert buffet, and a goldfish in a just-tapped aquarium. DaddyO seemed a bit frazzled. Eight suddenly appeared to my left, at the section where one orders gas station chicken, though the kitchen was closed, it being only 10:00 a.m. She eyed the plastic-lid-covered tray of donuts. "I never saw a donut for only eighty-nine cents, Daddy." He sighed and pressed the lid onto his coffee. "Well, then, you must not have been in many convenience stores." The other girlies swarmed him and grabbed his legs, asking for assorted treats. I moved on to the counter with my refill.
A new clerk was training. Her minder left her to go in the kitchen, perhaps to drop a batch of chicken. The characteristic aroma did not yet permeate the store. Trainee was slow. She had to look up the price of a refill. She had trouble tearing my scratcher ticket off the roll. DaddyO and his brood were behind me. And beside me. I daresay I'm lucky they were not up in my buttocks like that post office geezer's arm.
The minder came out to the other register. "Can I help you over here?" DaddyO stepped up. That, to his litter, was an invitation to belly up to the short counter. As if they, too, were paying customers. DaddyO had caved, and was buying them a bag of chips to share. "Five dollars for a bag of chips?" The minder was not helping the situation. I'm thinking his total was five dollars, not just the chips. But that is neither here nor there, because Eight was HERE. Right under my left armpit. Jostling me. Bumping me. Stabbing me with her youthful elbow that had not yet acquired a cushion of fat to soften the jab of skin-over-bone. I moved away. She followed, as though attached by a safety chain.
Twice more she jabbed me. Then she commenced to scratching her angular elbow. AND SCRAPED SEVERAL FINGERNAILS WORTH OF SKIN OFF MY PLUSH OLD-LADY ARM! I've endured less damaging swipes from my ungrateful garage-peeing cats.
There needs to be a law. Like...kids under 16 must be carried through stores by their parents. That would be much safer for victims like me. What if some mishap were to befall that child over the next 24-48 hours, and Val's skin cells were found under her fingernails? I could be framed for ne'er-do-well-ness!
Yeah. There oughta be a law.
And it's the gas station chicken store that calls us back today. The scene of the latest indignity to befall our heroine, Val of Backroads.
Perhaps I've mentioned that I do not have a fondness for other people's children. Unless I am responsible for them in a supervisorly educational role, I have no interest in them. Seen and not heard. There's a reason for that idiom. It was not coined by idiots. I would like to coin my own idiom. "Children should be left outside in a well-ventilated car with proper adult supervision, and not brought into convenience stores." Not quite so catchy as "seen and not heard." But quite as serviceable.
I had stopped in for a 44 oz. Diet Coke and a scratch-off ticket. Yes, I DID win, as a matter of fact. Fifty dollars on a ten dollar ticket. But I didn't know that until later. Because, you see, I was fighting for my life against an eight-year-old girl in the gas station chicken store. Or at least for my hide.
A man was already at the Coke machine. He looked at it, and moved on down the counter towards the back cooler, to the coffee machine. Had he asked, I might have suggested something stiffer. But Val is not one to give unsolicited advice to strangers in convenience stores. That guy had three little girls with him. They all called him Daddy. Stair steps, they were. I'm guessing 8, 7, 6, though I am not well-versed in the sizes and cognitive skills of youngsters much under the age of 12.
The girlies swarmed around those three aisles like a working drug-sniffing canine, an ant checking out a dessert buffet, and a goldfish in a just-tapped aquarium. DaddyO seemed a bit frazzled. Eight suddenly appeared to my left, at the section where one orders gas station chicken, though the kitchen was closed, it being only 10:00 a.m. She eyed the plastic-lid-covered tray of donuts. "I never saw a donut for only eighty-nine cents, Daddy." He sighed and pressed the lid onto his coffee. "Well, then, you must not have been in many convenience stores." The other girlies swarmed him and grabbed his legs, asking for assorted treats. I moved on to the counter with my refill.
A new clerk was training. Her minder left her to go in the kitchen, perhaps to drop a batch of chicken. The characteristic aroma did not yet permeate the store. Trainee was slow. She had to look up the price of a refill. She had trouble tearing my scratcher ticket off the roll. DaddyO and his brood were behind me. And beside me. I daresay I'm lucky they were not up in my buttocks like that post office geezer's arm.
The minder came out to the other register. "Can I help you over here?" DaddyO stepped up. That, to his litter, was an invitation to belly up to the short counter. As if they, too, were paying customers. DaddyO had caved, and was buying them a bag of chips to share. "Five dollars for a bag of chips?" The minder was not helping the situation. I'm thinking his total was five dollars, not just the chips. But that is neither here nor there, because Eight was HERE. Right under my left armpit. Jostling me. Bumping me. Stabbing me with her youthful elbow that had not yet acquired a cushion of fat to soften the jab of skin-over-bone. I moved away. She followed, as though attached by a safety chain.
Twice more she jabbed me. Then she commenced to scratching her angular elbow. AND SCRAPED SEVERAL FINGERNAILS WORTH OF SKIN OFF MY PLUSH OLD-LADY ARM! I've endured less damaging swipes from my ungrateful garage-peeing cats.
There needs to be a law. Like...kids under 16 must be carried through stores by their parents. That would be much safer for victims like me. What if some mishap were to befall that child over the next 24-48 hours, and Val's skin cells were found under her fingernails? I could be framed for ne'er-do-well-ness!
Yeah. There oughta be a law.
Friday, April 11, 2014
You're Not Getting Older, You're Getting Tireder
Val is tired tonight, my friends. Tired, like a marathon runner named Jean-Paul whose alarm was thwarted by a fuse blown by a hot tub.
Getting to school today was a bit like crossing the wide prairie with my lover Ike, two yoke of oxen, one spotted hog, a tall Shanghai rooster, and an old yeller dog. There was road resurfacing on two of the three ways I can get there. The third way is really not an option, miles out of my way, through territory of which I am unfamiliar. I guess I could do it if it meant losing my job. But it didn't, so I took the second of the two work zones. Val does not like disorder and change. It's draining.
Just walking from T-Hoe on the school parking lot into the building proper was a Herculean task. Halfway up the sidewalk, I wanted to lay down in the newly-sprouted blades of grass around the downspout. Who would know? Besides everybody watching me on the camera, and those faculty who pulled up after I sank into a Rip Van Winkle slumber. I was as drowsy as Dorothy in a field of poppies. It was as if Morpheus himself had hopped onto my back and wrapped his arms around me. Commercial Lunesta moths circled my head like stars around the noggin of a poorly-skilled cartoon boxer.
Now that I'm getting on in years, perhaps five hours of sleep per night is not quite enough.
Getting to school today was a bit like crossing the wide prairie with my lover Ike, two yoke of oxen, one spotted hog, a tall Shanghai rooster, and an old yeller dog. There was road resurfacing on two of the three ways I can get there. The third way is really not an option, miles out of my way, through territory of which I am unfamiliar. I guess I could do it if it meant losing my job. But it didn't, so I took the second of the two work zones. Val does not like disorder and change. It's draining.
Just walking from T-Hoe on the school parking lot into the building proper was a Herculean task. Halfway up the sidewalk, I wanted to lay down in the newly-sprouted blades of grass around the downspout. Who would know? Besides everybody watching me on the camera, and those faculty who pulled up after I sank into a Rip Van Winkle slumber. I was as drowsy as Dorothy in a field of poppies. It was as if Morpheus himself had hopped onto my back and wrapped his arms around me. Commercial Lunesta moths circled my head like stars around the noggin of a poorly-skilled cartoon boxer.
Now that I'm getting on in years, perhaps five hours of sleep per night is not quite enough.
Thursday, April 10, 2014
I Shall Be the Last Comedian Standing...Even if it Means I Have to Gillooly My Opponent
Sometimes, Hick thinks he's a real comedian.
I sent him a text this afternoon, about the time he leaves work for home. I was stuck at school waiting for The Pony's academic practice to end. Hick called me back. I figured he was driving, because that man is a texting fool. How he does it at all with those stubby fingers and thumbs is beyond me.
So I sent him that text, just to check on him. You never know when he might suddenly forget to breathe in and breathe out. Or forget the way home. He's for sure not asking directions, so I try to practice preventative Hick maintenance. Who's gonna pry the goat heads out of the fence if Hick forgets to perform his activities of daily life?
"Have you left yet?"
"Yes. I'm almost to Backroads. I'm going to get my shot."
"Oh. We haven't left yet. You might beat us home."
"Yeah. I might."
"Do you have school tomorrow?"
Hick giggled like a schoolgirl. "Noooo...Val. I don't have school tomorrow."
"I mean do you have WORK tomorrow! The Pony said you were taking off. And to me, school IS work."
"Yes, I'm taking the day off Friday so I won't have to work Saturday, because I want to go to The Pony's district academic meet."
Hmpf! Hick knew darn-tootin' what I meant! Of course he doesn't have school. If Hick had school, he would be in detention most of the time for his shenanigans. Like the time he set a fire in the wastebasket in the back of the vo-tech bus. "But Val...we didn't have any heat. We were cold. So we decided we'd make out OWN heat, by cracky! I got several days out of school for that one. We didn't have a phone, and my dad was blind, and my mom was in the hospital...so I just got up every morning and went and sat in the woods until time to go home. Good thing the cold snap was over!"
That's my Hick. The sooner he learns that this family can have only ONE comedian, that being me...the better off his life will be. In the meantime, he might want to pick up some knee pads at the auction.
I sent him a text this afternoon, about the time he leaves work for home. I was stuck at school waiting for The Pony's academic practice to end. Hick called me back. I figured he was driving, because that man is a texting fool. How he does it at all with those stubby fingers and thumbs is beyond me.
So I sent him that text, just to check on him. You never know when he might suddenly forget to breathe in and breathe out. Or forget the way home. He's for sure not asking directions, so I try to practice preventative Hick maintenance. Who's gonna pry the goat heads out of the fence if Hick forgets to perform his activities of daily life?
"Have you left yet?"
"Yes. I'm almost to Backroads. I'm going to get my shot."
"Oh. We haven't left yet. You might beat us home."
"Yeah. I might."
"Do you have school tomorrow?"
Hick giggled like a schoolgirl. "Noooo...Val. I don't have school tomorrow."
"I mean do you have WORK tomorrow! The Pony said you were taking off. And to me, school IS work."
"Yes, I'm taking the day off Friday so I won't have to work Saturday, because I want to go to The Pony's district academic meet."
Hmpf! Hick knew darn-tootin' what I meant! Of course he doesn't have school. If Hick had school, he would be in detention most of the time for his shenanigans. Like the time he set a fire in the wastebasket in the back of the vo-tech bus. "But Val...we didn't have any heat. We were cold. So we decided we'd make out OWN heat, by cracky! I got several days out of school for that one. We didn't have a phone, and my dad was blind, and my mom was in the hospital...so I just got up every morning and went and sat in the woods until time to go home. Good thing the cold snap was over!"
That's my Hick. The sooner he learns that this family can have only ONE comedian, that being me...the better off his life will be. In the meantime, he might want to pick up some knee pads at the auction.
Wednesday, April 9, 2014
I'll Take Geysers For 40, Mrs. Thevictorian.
I hosted a science knowledge tournament in my classroom yesterday. All textbook and no shenaniganning make for a very long school day. We use a science magazine periodically throughout the year. Think of your Weekly Reader, only all sciency, and for high school students. The kids like it because they learn many new things from current happenings in the world of science. I like it because it always has a balance of the different branches, and it relates stories to the major concepts we cover.
Normally, I challenge the class to beat my score in an online science Jeopardy-style game. I answer all questions without ever opening up the magazines. Then they get a chance. Occasionally, one class might eke out a victory. Not often, though, because Val is, after all, a professional. A jack-of-all-science-branches. (Shh...I can't use that kind of expression around the kids). There is no truth to the rumor that I am now pitting student against student because I can't take a trouncing. As if!!! I even scored a perfect 400 on this week's issue.
We played two preliminary rounds, and then a championship match and a consolation match. I have every student's name on a colored index card. I use them throughout the year to pick students to answer questions, to put them in groups for labs, and to choose partners for collaborative learning. For the teams, I discussed the rules while shuffling those cards over and over. Then I deal out four stacks, face down. Because I know how kids will react, I first preface each card-partnering session with: "Let's remember that we will not show excessive emotion. No euphoria. No despair. These are not your life partners for eternity. They are your 40-minute partners for this one day. Now here are your teams..."
Kids will try to infiltrate a team with their buddies. So I read off a whole team, and tell them where to sit. Then I watch them go to that spot. You can't let them mill or mingle. I name the teams, because I do not recall fondly that day when a team chose "The Narcoleptic Otters," and one sleepy aquatic weasel asked, "Do you know how to spell that?" as I wrote the name on the board. Puhlease! What valedictorian cannot spell otter?
"This team is the Doors. You will sit by the door. Next, we have the Pencil Sharpeners. You will sit by the Pencil Sharpener. No. You may NOT be the Windows. I can see right through your little plan. I choose the names here. Okay, back here in front of my desk, we have the Desks. Uh uh. You are NOT Bookcases. You are DESKS! Embrace your Deskness. And over there, in the last corner, are the Microwaves. You know, in front of the microwave. Has everybody got it?"
It took a few moments for the teams to decide on official spokesmen and a number between 1 and 60 to determine opponents and game order. The Pencil Sharpeners bluntly declared that they were not all that sharp, and they were a bit concerned about going up against their rivals, the Doors. "But Mrs. Thevictorian! How fair is that? The Doors are open to many new opportunities. And we are just dull." After being told not to knock the Doors, the Pencil Sharpeners settled down to grind out a victory.
The Desks went about their match in an upright, workmanlike manner, with their feet planted firmly on the ground. They knew their opponents, the Microwaves, were really cookin'. As luck would have it, the three top brains ended up on the same team. One of the questions was, "Which has the longest wavelenth: X-rays, ultraviolet radiation, or microwaves?" The Microwaves got it right. "We knew that answer, Mrs. Thevictorian! We knew that question would come up, and that we would get it right. Because WE are the Microwaves!"
FYI:
A limnologist does not study tree limbs. (inland waters)
The melting point is not the temperature at which a liquid becomes a gas. (boiling point)
Cerumin is not saliva. (earwax)
The preferred food of the black-footed ferret is not insects. (prairie dogs)
The first living thing to orbit Earth was not a chimp. (dog)
In the future, I may put a group right up front by the white board, and call them the Blank Slates. Think of the possibilities.
Normally, I challenge the class to beat my score in an online science Jeopardy-style game. I answer all questions without ever opening up the magazines. Then they get a chance. Occasionally, one class might eke out a victory. Not often, though, because Val is, after all, a professional. A jack-of-all-science-branches. (Shh...I can't use that kind of expression around the kids). There is no truth to the rumor that I am now pitting student against student because I can't take a trouncing. As if!!! I even scored a perfect 400 on this week's issue.
We played two preliminary rounds, and then a championship match and a consolation match. I have every student's name on a colored index card. I use them throughout the year to pick students to answer questions, to put them in groups for labs, and to choose partners for collaborative learning. For the teams, I discussed the rules while shuffling those cards over and over. Then I deal out four stacks, face down. Because I know how kids will react, I first preface each card-partnering session with: "Let's remember that we will not show excessive emotion. No euphoria. No despair. These are not your life partners for eternity. They are your 40-minute partners for this one day. Now here are your teams..."
Kids will try to infiltrate a team with their buddies. So I read off a whole team, and tell them where to sit. Then I watch them go to that spot. You can't let them mill or mingle. I name the teams, because I do not recall fondly that day when a team chose "The Narcoleptic Otters," and one sleepy aquatic weasel asked, "Do you know how to spell that?" as I wrote the name on the board. Puhlease! What valedictorian cannot spell otter?
"This team is the Doors. You will sit by the door. Next, we have the Pencil Sharpeners. You will sit by the Pencil Sharpener. No. You may NOT be the Windows. I can see right through your little plan. I choose the names here. Okay, back here in front of my desk, we have the Desks. Uh uh. You are NOT Bookcases. You are DESKS! Embrace your Deskness. And over there, in the last corner, are the Microwaves. You know, in front of the microwave. Has everybody got it?"
It took a few moments for the teams to decide on official spokesmen and a number between 1 and 60 to determine opponents and game order. The Pencil Sharpeners bluntly declared that they were not all that sharp, and they were a bit concerned about going up against their rivals, the Doors. "But Mrs. Thevictorian! How fair is that? The Doors are open to many new opportunities. And we are just dull." After being told not to knock the Doors, the Pencil Sharpeners settled down to grind out a victory.
The Desks went about their match in an upright, workmanlike manner, with their feet planted firmly on the ground. They knew their opponents, the Microwaves, were really cookin'. As luck would have it, the three top brains ended up on the same team. One of the questions was, "Which has the longest wavelenth: X-rays, ultraviolet radiation, or microwaves?" The Microwaves got it right. "We knew that answer, Mrs. Thevictorian! We knew that question would come up, and that we would get it right. Because WE are the Microwaves!"
FYI:
A limnologist does not study tree limbs. (inland waters)
The melting point is not the temperature at which a liquid becomes a gas. (boiling point)
Cerumin is not saliva. (earwax)
The preferred food of the black-footed ferret is not insects. (prairie dogs)
The first living thing to orbit Earth was not a chimp. (dog)
In the future, I may put a group right up front by the white board, and call them the Blank Slates. Think of the possibilities.
Tuesday, April 8, 2014
Now Appearing in "Front Window"
My mom is a regular Agent 99, a Natasha Fatale, an Emma Peele, a Secret Squirrel. Who knew she has been spying on the guy across the road? Not me. Not him. Until she let it slip the other day, when I asked if that guy ever got the fallen tree out of his driveway. This is the neighbor my mom said she would NOT take food to, even if he was blocked in by that fallen tree, because "He has a wife!" And therefore deserves to starve, or can use her as a Donner snack.
"So, did that man ever get the tree out of his driveway?"
"Not exactly. He's been working at it. I feel sorry for him."
"Not sorry enough to lend him your chainsaw."
"No. I don't even know if that chainsaw works. But he must not know anyone with a chainsaw, because he has been out there sawing at that big tree with just a hand saw. He's got most of it out of the way. He can drive off the edge of his driveway and go around the big trunk."
"You would have thought he'd call somebody by now and have it hauled away, or cut up."
"Well, you would think so. But he still goes out with the hand saw. I really don't think he can get the rest of it by himself. With a hand saw. It looks really hard to try and cut through that big part."
"I guess it will just have to rot."
"I can't believe what he's been doing with those smaller branches. I thought he would just toss them aside. But he takes them over to the Czech's side of the driveway, and tosses them onto his land! I'm surprised the Czech hasn't noticed. I don't think he'd like that very much. He takes care of his yard."
"This guy must be from the city, moving out here without a chainsaw. He probably thinks that the Czech's yard is just the woods. It is kind of overgrown from that driveway to his mowed yard."
"I think he left it that way so he wouldn't have to see the people on the other side. I don't like it that the man can sit on his porch and look over here at me. I don't like to work in the yard when he's out. And he's there three or four times a day."
"Well, he has brought your mail and checked on you during the snowstorms. He can't be all that bad."
"Maybe not. But he shouldn't be throwing his limbs in the Czech's yard."
My mom. If Hitchcock had met her first, he would have made a movie called "Front Window." Mom may not have a working chainsaw, but I think she has an axe to grind.
"So, did that man ever get the tree out of his driveway?"
"Not exactly. He's been working at it. I feel sorry for him."
"Not sorry enough to lend him your chainsaw."
"No. I don't even know if that chainsaw works. But he must not know anyone with a chainsaw, because he has been out there sawing at that big tree with just a hand saw. He's got most of it out of the way. He can drive off the edge of his driveway and go around the big trunk."
"You would have thought he'd call somebody by now and have it hauled away, or cut up."
"Well, you would think so. But he still goes out with the hand saw. I really don't think he can get the rest of it by himself. With a hand saw. It looks really hard to try and cut through that big part."
"I guess it will just have to rot."
"I can't believe what he's been doing with those smaller branches. I thought he would just toss them aside. But he takes them over to the Czech's side of the driveway, and tosses them onto his land! I'm surprised the Czech hasn't noticed. I don't think he'd like that very much. He takes care of his yard."
"This guy must be from the city, moving out here without a chainsaw. He probably thinks that the Czech's yard is just the woods. It is kind of overgrown from that driveway to his mowed yard."
"I think he left it that way so he wouldn't have to see the people on the other side. I don't like it that the man can sit on his porch and look over here at me. I don't like to work in the yard when he's out. And he's there three or four times a day."
"Well, he has brought your mail and checked on you during the snowstorms. He can't be all that bad."
"Maybe not. But he shouldn't be throwing his limbs in the Czech's yard."
My mom. If Hitchcock had met her first, he would have made a movie called "Front Window." Mom may not have a working chainsaw, but I think she has an axe to grind.
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