Random Thought Thursday 5-22-08

Is it Thursday again already? How time flies when the school year is almost over!

Now that I've started, I can't remember any of the most scathingly brilliant ideas I had to write about. But at least I can still end sentences with prepositions without even thinking it over.

Today was awards day. I only gave three. I teach three subjects, you know. So I figured that was enough. The highest percent all year, that was my criteria. I'm not one of those lily-livered touchy-feely namby-pamby I'm OK-you're OK nurturers who try to make an award for everybody. That's not how I roll.

Yesterday, I came down with a touch of road rage. I have to make a right turn from a service road across a divided highway every day on my way home. There's a traffic light. I wait my turn, because there is a sign that says "No Right Turn On Red." There's another sign that says "Left Turn Yield On Green." That one is on the opposing traffic side as well. I know, because I travel that service road in both directions throughout my fun-filled week. At least once a week, some yahoo will try to beat me when the light turns green. That means the yahoo across from me darts across in front and up onto the highway, while I am in the middle of my lawful right turn on green. Even if I've been sitting there with my right-turn signal on since before the yahoo drove up across from me. Do they not understand what 'yield' means? It is a pain to slam on my squealing LSUV brakes on that inclined approach to cross the highway, just to avoid killing a fool in a little tin cannish sports car. Those little sports cars ain't all they're cracked up to be, if they can't beat my LSUV off the mark. I'm mad as heck and I ain't gonna take it any more. I blast my loud LSUV horn to show my displeasure. I mean...to warn them that I might not be able to stop. They make my blood boil.

Is it unprofessional to hope that a lot of kids stay home tomorrow? Because we're not doing anything. Really. The kids have an early dismissal. And we have to have grades in the system by noon. But then we have to stay from 1:00 to 3:00 to put in our work day time. Am I the only one who sees something not quite right about this? We can't work on grades. We have to traipse about the long, long building gathering initials so we can check out. It's kind of like a professional scavenger hunt. Turn in core competencies and get initials. Turn in IEPs and get a different one. Profession Development? That's somebody else. Pay your debts? Someone entirely different. Oh, and the principal wants your keys and your gradebook. WAIT A MINUTE! We don't have gradebooks anymore. That could throw the monkey wrench in the ointment for some people. Thank the Gummi Mary, I have taken tender loving care of My Old Red Gradebook all year. She ain't what she used to be...but she exists. I'm thinking it's an old checkout form we're using. I might need to print an extra set of grade reports. The counselor took mine before she would initial for me early. I thought the ones in the computer were hers, but she took my hard copy.

I have counted beans over the last few days. Technically, that's texts, chairs, desks, computers, bookshelves, file cabinets, printers, dvd players, VCRs, tables, rolling carts, clocks, dictionaries, resource books, and anything personal you want to toss in, like mini-fridge and microwave, just in case, you know, there's a disaster and all is lost and if you survive, you want to be reimbursed.

Mr. H told me that his 'little duty' in the event of a disaster is Public Relations. I laughed in his face. "When the reporter sticks a microphone in your face and asks you to assess the situation, I can see you flapping your arms wildly and screaming, 'We're all going to DIE!' " He agreed. He said that I should be in charge of Public Relations, because I was so cool when I handed out my three awards. I snorted. "I can't be Public Relations. My 'little duty' is to make sure everybody is out of the building. I have to do a room by room search on my end of the hall. And believe you me, every time we have a drill, I go over those rooms with a fine-toothed comb. Because you know how tricky the drill-holders can be. They HIDE kids under desks and in cabinets so when you leave them in there, they can say, 'YOU KILLED THEM! YOU DID NOT DO A THOROUGH SEARCH. They are just kids, and they depend on YOU for their SAFETY!' Hmpff! All you have to do is stand there in the midst of desolation and look pretty." Mr. H responded by demanding, "Smell my hand." There's more to that story. Maybe I'll tell you tomorrow. Maybe not.

There ends the slide show of snapshots of Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's life.