And now, for the final leg of our journey into the shallow south...
Preparing to leave the Queen of Diamonds, HH started a fight with #1 son to keep intact his record of making one of us cry at the beginning of every trip and on every holiday. I was in the bathroom at the time, cleaning off some diamond dirt and changing clothes before hitting the road. It had something to do with the command for #1 to load #2's diamond shoes in the LSUV. #1 asked why, since #2 was not doing anything other than laying on the bed watching TV. HH was astounded that someone should question his command, and set his jaw and said, "Because I said so." Which might have worked on a more timid child, but not on our #1, who was known to take off alone through the dark woods with a flashlight at 4 years old to look for his dad.
After much shouting and two of us crying and HH harping at me not to come to him when #1 murders somebody, we traced our tracks back the way we had come. To Little Rock, anyway. We were headed for the other side of Missouri, so our route changed. With a trusty 3-year-old road atlas, I fed HH directions at the major interchanges. HH was still not speaking to us. He had pulled over at a rest stop about 45 minutes after we left, but nobody needed it but him, and we did not want to make a sandwich for lunch as we had done for the whole trip. #1 asked for McDonalds. He got no response, other than the LSUV peeling out onto the highway again.
We drove and drove. Numerous McDonalds and one hour passed. By now, it was 1:00. #1 said, "Can we have some lunch? I am getting hungry." HH snapped, "Well, I'm taking you to McDonald's!" So #1 cried, "You've already passed 10 of them, so I didn't think you were going to stop." That was fuel on the fire. HH yanked the wheel at the next exit, and we found ourselves in...umm...how you say...not the nicest section of Little Rock. It reminded me of where HH used to work in St. Louis, near Tower Grove and Chouteau. HH and the boys went in, and I stayed in the LSUV. They were gone about 20 minutes. So I started thinking that HH would never stop again, and there were no more rest areas on the atlas. When the boys came out with their bags of food, I asked #1 which way to the bathroom. I might as well go before we hit the road again. He said, "Well, the bathroom is only for paying customers. They had to hit a button to buzz us in." That was all I needed to hear. I would just hold it until we got to Missouri.
We continued on through Little Rock, and came out of it on US 67. That went on and on and then stopped and zigged and zagged and took us on to another greeting area for Arkansas rest stop just before we hit Missouri. I did not go in there, though it looked a bit nicer than the other welcome/rest stop. I will say, Missouri did not have the band or balloons or cake with buttercream icing to welcome us home, either. In fact, we did not even have a 'Welcome to Missouri' sign. Though we did have a sign that said something about 'maintenance for the next XX miles...' which is generally a sign seen in Missouri. But then there were still a couple of Arkansasish road signs, so I don't know...maybe we are still waging a battle for the border.
Shortly before this point, I had asked HH if he was sure he'd taken the right turn. He snapped that he was perfectly capable of reading his own road signs, and that I was looking at the business route, and that he was just fine without my mouth telling him what to do, and he hadn't needed me telling him those routes all along. So I hmpfed and closed my eyes to leave the driving to him.
We had been seeing signs that said X miles to Fredericktown, which was still very far away, but I'd judged the time we would arrive home at about 6:30 p.m., which was good, because our animals would need their evening feeding. When I opened my eyes again, I saw a sign that said X miles to Sikeston. I said, "Oh. The Throwed Roll restaurant is in Sikeston. I've never been there. Maybe we can stop in there for supper." And HH snottily said, "I'd like to know how you're going to do that on the way, because Sikeston is way over by Cape." Well, Mr. Smarty-pants HH, the sign says we're heading that way. So I said back to him, "This road says we're headed there. Where are the signs saying how far it is to Fredericktown?" HH said, "I don't know. I haven't seen them for a long time. I guess that new stretch of 67 they put in goes through Sikeston." To which I replied, "Why would it do that? That's about 50-60 miles out of the way." HH sputtered that I didn't know what I was talking about. And then I saw it. The road sign said '60 E' instead of '67 N'. The man who was perfectly capable of reading his own road signs had taken a wrong turn while I was asleep, and had driven 35 miles out of his way without knowing it. I said, "Didn't you notice that the signs say 60 East instead of 67 North?" And HH replied, "No. I'm not paying attention to that."
EEEEEEEEEE! So now, we were too far that way to turn back, so we had to continue to Sikeston and come up Hwy 55, which could still get us home, but it's kind of like Diva going up to Lebanon, MO, to get to Branson. Good thing the Earth is round, or HH might have driven us right over the edge, what with not paying attention and all. The only good thing was that we did indeed stop for supper at Lambert's, the Throwed Roll Restaurant.
Here's a link. I suggest you take the tour. I had the fried chicken livers with no gravy, plus the green beans and mashed potatoes, and some black-eyed peas that a guy was carrying around in a bucket. Only the waitress brought me some in a bowl, because we didn't have room on our plates. HH had the giant chicken-fried steak, with green beans and something and fried okra. The kids ate off the kids' menu, #2 choosing the grilled cheese and fries, with #1 having chicken strips and fried apples. The food was excellent. But the best part was those throwed rolls that we had while waiting for our food. They were freakin' HUGE. The kids ate about 3 apiece, and I managed one-and-a-half. The kids used butter, but I used the honey bear that was sitting on the table. Oh, and there was a girl walking around with a bucket of sorghum, too, but I didn't want it, and HH said he had enough of that while growing up.
Our waitress was a sweet little black lady who gave just the right amount of service without intruding every 5 minutes. It was like, if you needed something, she was there, but otherwise we were left alone. And yes, she got a good tip, unlike that pitiot at the Dixie Stampede.
Sooo...we finally got home around 9:00 p.m. After our little detour. We had a 1-day buffer of nobody speaking to each other, and then we decided to use a free night at the casino. Which is tomorrow's story.
Sunday, June 10, 2007
Saturday, June 9, 2007
In A Crater Without A Paddle
We arrived in Murfreesboro between 2:00 and 3:00. After checking into the Queen of Diamonds Inn, we unloaded our stuff and took off for the Crater of Diamonds State Park. It was only 2 miles away. We mainly wanted to get a look at it to see if we were coming back to dig, and also to see the water park. A guy at the motel said he'd been out there, and the water park was packed. It was pretty crowded. HH decided to go back to the motel pool and swim for an hour, then come back for a mining expedition.
Before leaving, though, we toured the visitor's center to see examples of what rough diamonds look like. They had them in all colors and sizes, and even told about how much the different ones were worth. There was some kind of movie, but nobody was operating it, so we didn't bother. The boys made a fifty cent penny in one of those machine penny-squeezer thingies. #2 son bought a large chunk of amethyst for $5 in the gift shop. We saw that the price to enter the mine field would be $20 for the whole passel of us, and decided to go swimming and come back around 4:30. If we had waited until 6:00, the next day was free. But since we are made of money, and had already spent so much on other parts of this little vacation, we figured $20 was cheap enough to spend on two different days. Heh, heh. It was the tip we didn't leave the server at the Pitiot Stampede.
Back at the motel, HH took the boys swimming while I rested up. I was sick as a dog, remember. The heat sapped the strength right out of me. I drank some water and laid down to read for a while. When the boys came back, we made sure we had brought our screens and buckets and spades, donned our caps, and hit the road. We paid at the visitor's center, and got our arms stamped. That way, you can leave and enter again. I don't know if that stuff holds up in the water park, though. I think the water park is fairly cheap as water parks go. $3 or $6 or something. But the guy who stamped us said he put it up on our arms instead of our hands so we wouldn't wash it off while rinsing the screens full of dirt in the giant green dumpster-like-water-holding thingies. Those were my words, not his.
We headed down the concrete path to the pavillion area overlooking the water park, where you can attend some lectures about various rock subjects from the park rangers. They have the times posted. We didn't want no learnin', so we proceeded down the concrete ramp, because old folks like us don't like the stairs. On the ground level, HH rented a small-holed screen thingy, which we didn't have. Ours were custom-made by HH to sift for quartz and stuff in the creek. Then we gathered up our gear and headed to the mine. None of us whistled "Hi ho, hi ho, it's off to work we go...".
Here's the entrance.
Some of those trees are gone now, and the rows were plowed the other way, but that's basically what it looks like. A big ol' field of dirt. We didn't go too far in. On the right, we saw a hole somebody had started, so I sat down there with my feet in it and dug some of it, and some dirt from around the top of the rows. There were some tiny sparkles in it. I thought I might uncover some bigger sparkles. #2 roamed around to where there were signs declaring which big diamonds had been found there. HH and #1 son took off for the upper field, and washed and rinsed sceens of dirt in the dirty water dumpsters.
Wouldn't you know it...people came in and started digging right on top of me!!! I wondered if they were the mini golf people from Branson. A whole giant 35-acre field, and they had to stop right on top of me. I'm surprised I didn't have shoe marks on my forehead. I had been tossing big chunks of jasper over my shoulder. It's a wonder I didn't brain one of them with it. I guess I should have aimed better. It's not like we were waiting in a cram-packed line for the log flume at Silver Dollar City. It was evening. Not many people were digging. And they had to get right on top of me. People piss me off! Those folks needed a good spanking, and a lecture on personal space.
At the end of the day, we'd found a nice sliver of amethyst (#1 son), some quartz stained red on one end by iron ore, and a chunk of broken-off agate. We kept them for sentimental reasons, except for the amethyst, which was lost between the water trough and the rock-checker people. Too darn bad. It was pretty. He found it right on top of the ground, in a pile of stuff somebody had dumped out. We headed back to the Queen of Diamonds, with plans to try, try again the next day.
HH topped off the perfect day by clipping his toenails and leaving them on the nightstand. Uhhggg! I hate feet. We reminded him several times, until he finally threw them away. Good thing. #1 slept on that side of the bed. He's a bit restless. I looked up to see him diving under the bed like a snake eating its tail. Except that he doesn't have scales, and doesn't have a tail, though he does have a butt hole, which his brother announced to Grandma during our stay at her house during the wicked ice storm last November. Anyhoo...the next time I looked, the boy had his cheek lying on the nightstand right where those toenails had been. Yuuuucckkk!
The next morning, we put on our diggin' clothes again and headed to the mine bright and early. It's open 8:00 to 8:00. #2 and I went down on the back part, and HH got mad at both boys and stomped around not helping, and #1 and I rinsed a bunch of buckets of dirt. There was a girl there telling how she'd found a stone on the road at the campground. She showed some regular there at the water troughs, and he said it looked like a crystal to him, but he couldn't scratch it with his knife, so she ought to have it checked out by the rock-checkers. She said she would keep it anyway, because it was pretty. I didn't get a good look at it. I don't think it was that 2.9 carat yellow diamond found the day after we left, because she was about 16-17, not 13 like the girl who found that, but she DID have a younger sister with her. Anyhoo...we didn't find much more than some pretty quartz and jasper, so we called it a half-day and went to check out of the Inn.
And then commenced our trail-of-tears journey home, which you will hear about tomorrow.
See? I told you I could get a whole month's worth of blogging out of this vacation. You haven't even heard about the gambling trip yet (no, I'm not rich), or the Throwed Roll Restaurant, or the Rock Show back home.
Before leaving, though, we toured the visitor's center to see examples of what rough diamonds look like. They had them in all colors and sizes, and even told about how much the different ones were worth. There was some kind of movie, but nobody was operating it, so we didn't bother. The boys made a fifty cent penny in one of those machine penny-squeezer thingies. #2 son bought a large chunk of amethyst for $5 in the gift shop. We saw that the price to enter the mine field would be $20 for the whole passel of us, and decided to go swimming and come back around 4:30. If we had waited until 6:00, the next day was free. But since we are made of money, and had already spent so much on other parts of this little vacation, we figured $20 was cheap enough to spend on two different days. Heh, heh. It was the tip we didn't leave the server at the Pitiot Stampede.
Back at the motel, HH took the boys swimming while I rested up. I was sick as a dog, remember. The heat sapped the strength right out of me. I drank some water and laid down to read for a while. When the boys came back, we made sure we had brought our screens and buckets and spades, donned our caps, and hit the road. We paid at the visitor's center, and got our arms stamped. That way, you can leave and enter again. I don't know if that stuff holds up in the water park, though. I think the water park is fairly cheap as water parks go. $3 or $6 or something. But the guy who stamped us said he put it up on our arms instead of our hands so we wouldn't wash it off while rinsing the screens full of dirt in the giant green dumpster-like-water-holding thingies. Those were my words, not his.
We headed down the concrete path to the pavillion area overlooking the water park, where you can attend some lectures about various rock subjects from the park rangers. They have the times posted. We didn't want no learnin', so we proceeded down the concrete ramp, because old folks like us don't like the stairs. On the ground level, HH rented a small-holed screen thingy, which we didn't have. Ours were custom-made by HH to sift for quartz and stuff in the creek. Then we gathered up our gear and headed to the mine. None of us whistled "Hi ho, hi ho, it's off to work we go...".
Here's the entrance.
Some of those trees are gone now, and the rows were plowed the other way, but that's basically what it looks like. A big ol' field of dirt. We didn't go too far in. On the right, we saw a hole somebody had started, so I sat down there with my feet in it and dug some of it, and some dirt from around the top of the rows. There were some tiny sparkles in it. I thought I might uncover some bigger sparkles. #2 roamed around to where there were signs declaring which big diamonds had been found there. HH and #1 son took off for the upper field, and washed and rinsed sceens of dirt in the dirty water dumpsters.
Wouldn't you know it...people came in and started digging right on top of me!!! I wondered if they were the mini golf people from Branson. A whole giant 35-acre field, and they had to stop right on top of me. I'm surprised I didn't have shoe marks on my forehead. I had been tossing big chunks of jasper over my shoulder. It's a wonder I didn't brain one of them with it. I guess I should have aimed better. It's not like we were waiting in a cram-packed line for the log flume at Silver Dollar City. It was evening. Not many people were digging. And they had to get right on top of me. People piss me off! Those folks needed a good spanking, and a lecture on personal space.
At the end of the day, we'd found a nice sliver of amethyst (#1 son), some quartz stained red on one end by iron ore, and a chunk of broken-off agate. We kept them for sentimental reasons, except for the amethyst, which was lost between the water trough and the rock-checker people. Too darn bad. It was pretty. He found it right on top of the ground, in a pile of stuff somebody had dumped out. We headed back to the Queen of Diamonds, with plans to try, try again the next day.
HH topped off the perfect day by clipping his toenails and leaving them on the nightstand. Uhhggg! I hate feet. We reminded him several times, until he finally threw them away. Good thing. #1 slept on that side of the bed. He's a bit restless. I looked up to see him diving under the bed like a snake eating its tail. Except that he doesn't have scales, and doesn't have a tail, though he does have a butt hole, which his brother announced to Grandma during our stay at her house during the wicked ice storm last November. Anyhoo...the next time I looked, the boy had his cheek lying on the nightstand right where those toenails had been. Yuuuucckkk!
The next morning, we put on our diggin' clothes again and headed to the mine bright and early. It's open 8:00 to 8:00. #2 and I went down on the back part, and HH got mad at both boys and stomped around not helping, and #1 and I rinsed a bunch of buckets of dirt. There was a girl there telling how she'd found a stone on the road at the campground. She showed some regular there at the water troughs, and he said it looked like a crystal to him, but he couldn't scratch it with his knife, so she ought to have it checked out by the rock-checkers. She said she would keep it anyway, because it was pretty. I didn't get a good look at it. I don't think it was that 2.9 carat yellow diamond found the day after we left, because she was about 16-17, not 13 like the girl who found that, but she DID have a younger sister with her. Anyhoo...we didn't find much more than some pretty quartz and jasper, so we called it a half-day and went to check out of the Inn.
And then commenced our trail-of-tears journey home, which you will hear about tomorrow.
See? I told you I could get a whole month's worth of blogging out of this vacation. You haven't even heard about the gambling trip yet (no, I'm not rich), or the Throwed Roll Restaurant, or the Rock Show back home.
Friday, June 8, 2007
Flaming Dinosaurs On The Road Again
After the Dixie Stampede, we planned to play miniature golf at Pirate's Cove. It's our nature. We always play there. I was still sick as a dog, in case y'all have forgotten, and did not really want to play. But I did, because it was vacation, by cracky, and my boys expected it. A funny thing happened on the way to Pirate's Cove. HH was taking a short cut, and there appeared out of nowhere a brand new golf course: Dinosaur Canyon. Nothing screams Play here, play here, come and play overpriced miniature golf HERE more than pirates, unless it's T. Rex and a flame-shooting volcano. The boys were reeled in.
Perhaps I neglected to mention that I was sick. You know how I am, a regular shrinking violet who does not like to talk about herself. I had taken some sweet, sweet Histinex before going to the Dixie Stampede, because of the oppressive pain in my sinuses, and the sharp shooting pains in my back every time I coughed. Which was about every 10.4 seconds, a hacking, unproductive cough meant only to keep me awake all night and sink those around me into a state of misery. But that was at 3:30, and by 7:30 it was wearing off. Oh, and it was not the balmy 70 degrees that we left at home, but 85 degrees with 99 percent humidity. So even though we were strolling around the mini-golf course at a leisurely pace, I had broken out into a flop sweat that soaked my scraggly lady-mullet and dripped down the sides of my face like I was in the last stages of the bubonic plague or yellow fever, or whatever disease makes you break out into a flop sweat on your death bed.
We still had a good time, except for those usurpers playing behind us, trying to take over our hole before their time. They started when we were on the third hole, and must have been playing faster than the speed of light. HH had already complained that we were rushing, which I didn't think we were, what with those people catching up to us in no time. They had a grown teenage girl who kept creeping into our space. Like when we were still playing, waiting for the lagging HH to tee off, she was right up in front of him, like she was part of our party. Paula Deen in my front yard eating a lobster, was that chick annoying! She did that the entire game. Back off, gal! People piss me off. Apparently, she missed the memo.
Oh, and the best part was when we got up by the fake volcano...IT ERUPTED. By that I mean it shot a giant flaming flame of burning propane into the atmosphere. Oh, yeah. We could feel the heat. It vaporized the flop sweat. But don't you worry 'bout Mrs. Hillbilly Mom. She was born with plenty of flop sweat glands, and her patina of perspiration was restored instantly. After enduring the growling raptor at the last hole, the torture that the rest of the family refers to as mini golf was over. HH took me back to the room for some more sweet, sweet Histinex and air conditioning, and carted the boys off to ride bumper boats. Thank the Gummi Mary for small favors.
When the boys returned, they watched a little TV. HH again committed an embarrassing HH entertainment trivia faux pas when he looked at the screen and exclaimed: "That's Forrest Bueller's principal!" OK. To begin with, we all know that it's FERRIS Bueller. Don't we? Anybody? Somebody? Bueller? And we all know what Mr. Rooney, Ferris's principal, looked like. But this guy looked nothing like him. In fact, it was a totally different movie: Max Keeble's Big Move. It was Larry Miller, not sex-offender Jeffrey Jones. Anyhoo...you're welcome for the movie trivia lesson.
The next morning, we were off by 7:50 a.m. on the road to Arkansas. Which they really should mark better, because there was not a dotted line across the road like on the maps, or even a sign that said, "Welcome to Arkansas". One minute we were safely cruising down US 65 minding our own darn Missouri business, and the next minute we were accosted by a rest stop proclaiming to be the Arkansas visitor center. And let me tell you, perhaps they should take a few dollars from the education budget or something to pay a person to clean that restroom, because it was nasty. I thought only men crapped on the wall. Oh, the structure was fine. Tiled dividers all the way to the floor, so you couldn't spare a square if you wanted to, so all they would need would be a good hosing. But no. And there was no door on the front. And there was a man lurking around the entrance, allegedly trying to coral his twin 5-year-old daughters, methinks, but I don't want a man lurking around a non-existent door when I'm doing my business inside a crap-covered toilet stall. Sorry to you Arkansas dwellers. I hope this doesn't represent your entire state. It was just not the stellar welcome that I had anticipated. There was not even a junior high school band, or balloons, or cake with buttercream icing.
The one thing I noticed about Arkansas was that every single bridge had a sign that proclaimed "Bridge may ice in cold weather." Can y'all fill me in on why so much money is spent on these signs? Couldn't you, perhaps, start a public safety campain to inform the masses? Maybe post it in all state offices, and especially the license office, so that drivers will know those ol' bridges may ice in cold weather? Or make up a catchy little tune that the kids can sing in kindergarten, like the ABC song? Now I'm not trying to pick on poor ol' Arkansas. For several years, they were the only state behind Missouri in teacher salaries. I think they have surpassed us now. Sweet Gummi Mary on a paper plate! And I do admit that many Missouri bridges have their own catchy little sign to warn you: "Impassable in high water." But you might already know that, what with the water about halfway up the sign. But it's not on every bridge.
I don't have time to tell you about the entire diamond adventure tonight. But we did pass through Delight, Arkansas. Hometown of Glen Campbell. No wonder he left. That little town seemed stuck in the 1950s. Perhaps that is too flattering.
We stayed in Murfreesboro, which is a little one-horse town (if it gets a horse), with three motels. I did some research to make sure we stayed at the pick o' the litter: The Queen of Diamonds Inn. It had very nice rooms, bigger than most, and a nice decor. Plus they had an outdoor pool, and a continental breakfast of cereal and bagels and toast with all the fixin's. The boys were hoping for some donuts, but none were in sight.
Tomorrow we will go a-diamond minin'. Thanks to commenter Mike on the last post, who sent me this link: Girl turns up 2.9 carat diamond at park. Yep. It was the day after we left. Who knew we shoulda been walkin' those service roads?
Perhaps I neglected to mention that I was sick. You know how I am, a regular shrinking violet who does not like to talk about herself. I had taken some sweet, sweet Histinex before going to the Dixie Stampede, because of the oppressive pain in my sinuses, and the sharp shooting pains in my back every time I coughed. Which was about every 10.4 seconds, a hacking, unproductive cough meant only to keep me awake all night and sink those around me into a state of misery. But that was at 3:30, and by 7:30 it was wearing off. Oh, and it was not the balmy 70 degrees that we left at home, but 85 degrees with 99 percent humidity. So even though we were strolling around the mini-golf course at a leisurely pace, I had broken out into a flop sweat that soaked my scraggly lady-mullet and dripped down the sides of my face like I was in the last stages of the bubonic plague or yellow fever, or whatever disease makes you break out into a flop sweat on your death bed.
We still had a good time, except for those usurpers playing behind us, trying to take over our hole before their time. They started when we were on the third hole, and must have been playing faster than the speed of light. HH had already complained that we were rushing, which I didn't think we were, what with those people catching up to us in no time. They had a grown teenage girl who kept creeping into our space. Like when we were still playing, waiting for the lagging HH to tee off, she was right up in front of him, like she was part of our party. Paula Deen in my front yard eating a lobster, was that chick annoying! She did that the entire game. Back off, gal! People piss me off. Apparently, she missed the memo.
Oh, and the best part was when we got up by the fake volcano...IT ERUPTED. By that I mean it shot a giant flaming flame of burning propane into the atmosphere. Oh, yeah. We could feel the heat. It vaporized the flop sweat. But don't you worry 'bout Mrs. Hillbilly Mom. She was born with plenty of flop sweat glands, and her patina of perspiration was restored instantly. After enduring the growling raptor at the last hole, the torture that the rest of the family refers to as mini golf was over. HH took me back to the room for some more sweet, sweet Histinex and air conditioning, and carted the boys off to ride bumper boats. Thank the Gummi Mary for small favors.
When the boys returned, they watched a little TV. HH again committed an embarrassing HH entertainment trivia faux pas when he looked at the screen and exclaimed: "That's Forrest Bueller's principal!" OK. To begin with, we all know that it's FERRIS Bueller. Don't we? Anybody? Somebody? Bueller? And we all know what Mr. Rooney, Ferris's principal, looked like. But this guy looked nothing like him. In fact, it was a totally different movie: Max Keeble's Big Move. It was Larry Miller, not sex-offender Jeffrey Jones. Anyhoo...you're welcome for the movie trivia lesson.
The next morning, we were off by 7:50 a.m. on the road to Arkansas. Which they really should mark better, because there was not a dotted line across the road like on the maps, or even a sign that said, "Welcome to Arkansas". One minute we were safely cruising down US 65 minding our own darn Missouri business, and the next minute we were accosted by a rest stop proclaiming to be the Arkansas visitor center. And let me tell you, perhaps they should take a few dollars from the education budget or something to pay a person to clean that restroom, because it was nasty. I thought only men crapped on the wall. Oh, the structure was fine. Tiled dividers all the way to the floor, so you couldn't spare a square if you wanted to, so all they would need would be a good hosing. But no. And there was no door on the front. And there was a man lurking around the entrance, allegedly trying to coral his twin 5-year-old daughters, methinks, but I don't want a man lurking around a non-existent door when I'm doing my business inside a crap-covered toilet stall. Sorry to you Arkansas dwellers. I hope this doesn't represent your entire state. It was just not the stellar welcome that I had anticipated. There was not even a junior high school band, or balloons, or cake with buttercream icing.
The one thing I noticed about Arkansas was that every single bridge had a sign that proclaimed "Bridge may ice in cold weather." Can y'all fill me in on why so much money is spent on these signs? Couldn't you, perhaps, start a public safety campain to inform the masses? Maybe post it in all state offices, and especially the license office, so that drivers will know those ol' bridges may ice in cold weather? Or make up a catchy little tune that the kids can sing in kindergarten, like the ABC song? Now I'm not trying to pick on poor ol' Arkansas. For several years, they were the only state behind Missouri in teacher salaries. I think they have surpassed us now. Sweet Gummi Mary on a paper plate! And I do admit that many Missouri bridges have their own catchy little sign to warn you: "Impassable in high water." But you might already know that, what with the water about halfway up the sign. But it's not on every bridge.
I don't have time to tell you about the entire diamond adventure tonight. But we did pass through Delight, Arkansas. Hometown of Glen Campbell. No wonder he left. That little town seemed stuck in the 1950s. Perhaps that is too flattering.
We stayed in Murfreesboro, which is a little one-horse town (if it gets a horse), with three motels. I did some research to make sure we stayed at the pick o' the litter: The Queen of Diamonds Inn. It had very nice rooms, bigger than most, and a nice decor. Plus they had an outdoor pool, and a continental breakfast of cereal and bagels and toast with all the fixin's. The boys were hoping for some donuts, but none were in sight.
Tomorrow we will go a-diamond minin'. Thanks to commenter Mike on the last post, who sent me this link: Girl turns up 2.9 carat diamond at park. Yep. It was the day after we left. Who knew we shoulda been walkin' those service roads?
Thursday, June 7, 2007
Vacation: Pitiot Stampede
Our next stop was the Dixie Stampede. Which is owned by my idol, the esteemed Dolly Parton. Like she needs another source of income, what with her net worth of $300 million or so. Give or take a few million.
We have been there 3 or 4 times. The ticket prices are a bit steep, but it's dinner and a show, folks. We started out walking along the stable area, looking at horses' a$$es. #1 son even took a few pictures. I don't know where they are right now. HH went in to pick up the tickets, and said they were letting people in. The part of this I don't care for is that they make everybody get a picture taken. Then they try to sell it to you during dinner. We bought them one time, when the boys looked especially cute. One photo of this sort is plenty.
We rushed upstairs to stake out our seats for the pre-show. The trick is, you sit right by the entrance to the arena, and you can get ahead of the crowd to pick your seat. Heh, heh. Pick your seat. I kind of enjoy the crowd watching me pick my seat. Heh, heh. You can do the same thing downstairs, but I prefer the upper section. You can see the whole stage. A long time ago, the pre-show was The Electric Horseman. He was a singer who rode around that indoor itty-bitty stage on a horse with little white Christmas lights hanging all over him. DUH! What did you think The Electric Horseman would be?
This year, the pre-show was a juggling guy who did ping-pong balls and bowling pins and flaming torches and plates on sticks and balanced an 8-foot stepladder on his chin. You really had to be there. He was very entertaining. Of course we had the 'free drinks' that are included with the ticket, in the souvenir plastic mug. We have a whole set, but the design changed this year, so HH HAD to have them, and washed them out in the bathroom as we finished drinking them. If I could only get him to do that at home. The drinks were of course non-alcoholic, but sounded like you should sneak in your own little convenience store bottle of hooch to add to it. If I was a drinking woman, I sure would have done that. They had strawberry dacqueris and bloody marys and all kinds of grog-less grog. We went the strawberry route, but they were a bit tart this year. Oh, and to wash down the drinks, HH got us some popcorn, because the kids were STARVING, and it was $2.50 a box. Good thing we're made of money so we can afford those free drinks.
We were the first ones into the arena to pick our seats. Go figure! We would have been second, but HH elbowed his way ahead of a crippled-up-looking man on a Rascal, and the kids followed, so of course I had to do the same. And then the pissing-off commenced. We reached our section, B1. That meant the middle section, first row. The server told us, "B1. You sit here." And made us sit right there in the first section by the steps. To everyone else, he said, "You're somewhere in this section." And let them walk on down to the 50-yard-line area of the arena. We were somewhat in the corner of the oval arena. I blame HH for being such a sheep to sit right down. I suppose he was still heady with victory from vanquishing that Rascal guy. Anyhoo...we'd sat on the 50-yard-line last time we were there, so it was OK to sit towards the end. We were closer to the doors for escape from the traffic later on.
Then: the horror that was our server. I know it's early in the tourist season, and these kids have just gotten their training. But the girl in the row behind us rocked. Our guy was a bit of a PITIOT. That's right. In case you missed my coining of this word, that means a pitiful idiot. I don't mean to be unkind. But the service was far from exemplary. First buffalo out of the gate, he asked us what we wanted to drink. It's not hard. There are TWO choices: tea or Pepsi. I said Pepsi, as did #1 right beside me. The kid picked up the two pitchers, and poured me about 3 inches of tea. Then he said, "Oh. I forgot which was in which pitcher." He looked flustered. He picked up my glass. He looked like baby mole caught by my bloodthirsty cats. There were no spare glasses in the arena. I said, "That's OK. Just pour the Pepsi on top of it. It's no big deal." HH said, "Here. I want tea. Just switch glasses." So we did. Then Server Boy poured #1's Pepsi. Onto my napkins. There were soaked, and there was a little Pepsi lake on the table between us. Oh, well.
First course was the biscuit, which is a bit like a Red Lobster Cheddar Bay Biscuit, only not quite so flavorful. It's kind of like a cheesy Bisquick contraption. Of course, after the soda adventure, Server Boy started at the 50-yard-line end every time. I got the last biscuit on the tray, which was the runt. No big deal. I only ate half, and gave it to #2 son, who didn't like anything else.
Next came the creamy vegetable soup. I told #1 I was afraid the kid might spill it on me when he poured. The boy laughed. Little did we know...but I progress. He didn't spill it. There wasn't enough to spill. He poured it out of a pitcher like the soda. #1 got a heapin' helpin' o' soup. I got half a little bowl thingy. That was all that was left. That's OK. I was slurping mine long before #1. His was too hot, you see. There was so much of it that it took a long time to cool.
The little chickens came next. Or the Cornish hens, if you're high-fallutin'. HH calls them little chickens. Server Boy traipsed down the row, bestowing the fowl upon each and every plate. Until he got to #1 son. Oh. He ran out of little chickens. WTF? Did somebody get two? Don't you know how many people are in your section, Server Boy? How can you be two chickens short of a dinner show? So he said, "Oh. I'll be right back." When he returned with the chickens, they were lukewarm. They looked like they were the practice items from the kitchen. #1 said, "How come yours is all black around the feet?" Yeah. Mine was burnt. Which would have been fine if the skin was nice and crispy and black. But it was soggy. Soggy burnt little chicken skin. And the skin is the best part, you know. All greasy and crispy. But not mine.
Then came the potato wedge. Runt. After that, the pork loin. Last time, it was a good chunk of meat. This time, mine was paper thin. I could have read the fine print of an auto sales contract through it. #1's was fine. He even ate #2's for him. I poured out a packet of BBQ sauce to dip the loin and the soggy chicken in. Who would have thought that could pose a problem?
Server Boy tonged out the mini ears of corn-on-the-cob. Oh, mine was comparable to everyone else's. Except that SB set it down right in the middle of the BBQ sauce. "Sorry." I don't care much for BBQ sauce on my corn. Funny thing...this is the first time I tried it.
The apple turnover course passed without incident. Except I don't care much for turnovers, and gave mine to the human garbage disposal, #1 son.
Oh, and did I mention that on each table was a card that said, "Good service should be rewarded with a 20% tip." Umm...NO! Those tickets were $53 apiece for the adult tickets, of which we needed THREE this year, and $32.00 for the child ticket, what with the extortion money to get the front row. That is $191 for our family. 20% of that is AHEM $38.20. I THINK NOT!!! HH was going to give the kid 10 bucks, but I think he cut it back to 5. Don't get me wrong. We are not cheap in the tipping department when we get good service. I'm sorry the kid had to carry those huge trays of food and parcel them out. I know it is hard work. But he needs to practice or something. It wasn't just one little mistake. And anyway, the entertainment was part of that ticket, not just the dinner.
Which brings us to the entertainment. It was great. They're still ironing out a few bugs early in the season, methinks. The buffalo whisperer missed his arm-up with the rider picking him up. He slipped off the hind end of the horse, and had to run out of the arena instead of ride.
They had a new MC, a woman, who was excellent. There was a new act with a girl lowered from the ceiling on a cable. She was kind of twirled and spun by her beau on a horse, and rode around with him before being twirled back up into the ceiling. Except that something went horribly wrong in the send-off. It looked like she didn't tuck in her leg or arm or something. Instead of going into a tight spiral, she kind of stretched out and spun awkwardly. #1 said, "Did you see that, Mom? She whacked the side of the hole when she went up in the ceiling!" He was impressed.
The pig races and ostrich races and kids-chasing-chickens and comedian and girl-in-a-barrel and barrel-racing and dancing and singing and ring-stabbing and flag-grabbing and trick-rider and dove-realease and all other entertainment was excellent. I can't say the questionable meal service dampened my enjoyment one bit. But I had to complain. It's my nature, by cracky!
Tomorrow, you'll hear about mini-golf, the trip to Arkansas, and the Diamond Crater. I know you can't wait. Even though I reneged on the fondue.
We have been there 3 or 4 times. The ticket prices are a bit steep, but it's dinner and a show, folks. We started out walking along the stable area, looking at horses' a$$es. #1 son even took a few pictures. I don't know where they are right now. HH went in to pick up the tickets, and said they were letting people in. The part of this I don't care for is that they make everybody get a picture taken. Then they try to sell it to you during dinner. We bought them one time, when the boys looked especially cute. One photo of this sort is plenty.
We rushed upstairs to stake out our seats for the pre-show. The trick is, you sit right by the entrance to the arena, and you can get ahead of the crowd to pick your seat. Heh, heh. Pick your seat. I kind of enjoy the crowd watching me pick my seat. Heh, heh. You can do the same thing downstairs, but I prefer the upper section. You can see the whole stage. A long time ago, the pre-show was The Electric Horseman. He was a singer who rode around that indoor itty-bitty stage on a horse with little white Christmas lights hanging all over him. DUH! What did you think The Electric Horseman would be?
This year, the pre-show was a juggling guy who did ping-pong balls and bowling pins and flaming torches and plates on sticks and balanced an 8-foot stepladder on his chin. You really had to be there. He was very entertaining. Of course we had the 'free drinks' that are included with the ticket, in the souvenir plastic mug. We have a whole set, but the design changed this year, so HH HAD to have them, and washed them out in the bathroom as we finished drinking them. If I could only get him to do that at home. The drinks were of course non-alcoholic, but sounded like you should sneak in your own little convenience store bottle of hooch to add to it. If I was a drinking woman, I sure would have done that. They had strawberry dacqueris and bloody marys and all kinds of grog-less grog. We went the strawberry route, but they were a bit tart this year. Oh, and to wash down the drinks, HH got us some popcorn, because the kids were STARVING, and it was $2.50 a box. Good thing we're made of money so we can afford those free drinks.
We were the first ones into the arena to pick our seats. Go figure! We would have been second, but HH elbowed his way ahead of a crippled-up-looking man on a Rascal, and the kids followed, so of course I had to do the same. And then the pissing-off commenced. We reached our section, B1. That meant the middle section, first row. The server told us, "B1. You sit here." And made us sit right there in the first section by the steps. To everyone else, he said, "You're somewhere in this section." And let them walk on down to the 50-yard-line area of the arena. We were somewhat in the corner of the oval arena. I blame HH for being such a sheep to sit right down. I suppose he was still heady with victory from vanquishing that Rascal guy. Anyhoo...we'd sat on the 50-yard-line last time we were there, so it was OK to sit towards the end. We were closer to the doors for escape from the traffic later on.
Then: the horror that was our server. I know it's early in the tourist season, and these kids have just gotten their training. But the girl in the row behind us rocked. Our guy was a bit of a PITIOT. That's right. In case you missed my coining of this word, that means a pitiful idiot. I don't mean to be unkind. But the service was far from exemplary. First buffalo out of the gate, he asked us what we wanted to drink. It's not hard. There are TWO choices: tea or Pepsi. I said Pepsi, as did #1 right beside me. The kid picked up the two pitchers, and poured me about 3 inches of tea. Then he said, "Oh. I forgot which was in which pitcher." He looked flustered. He picked up my glass. He looked like baby mole caught by my bloodthirsty cats. There were no spare glasses in the arena. I said, "That's OK. Just pour the Pepsi on top of it. It's no big deal." HH said, "Here. I want tea. Just switch glasses." So we did. Then Server Boy poured #1's Pepsi. Onto my napkins. There were soaked, and there was a little Pepsi lake on the table between us. Oh, well.
First course was the biscuit, which is a bit like a Red Lobster Cheddar Bay Biscuit, only not quite so flavorful. It's kind of like a cheesy Bisquick contraption. Of course, after the soda adventure, Server Boy started at the 50-yard-line end every time. I got the last biscuit on the tray, which was the runt. No big deal. I only ate half, and gave it to #2 son, who didn't like anything else.
Next came the creamy vegetable soup. I told #1 I was afraid the kid might spill it on me when he poured. The boy laughed. Little did we know...but I progress. He didn't spill it. There wasn't enough to spill. He poured it out of a pitcher like the soda. #1 got a heapin' helpin' o' soup. I got half a little bowl thingy. That was all that was left. That's OK. I was slurping mine long before #1. His was too hot, you see. There was so much of it that it took a long time to cool.
The little chickens came next. Or the Cornish hens, if you're high-fallutin'. HH calls them little chickens. Server Boy traipsed down the row, bestowing the fowl upon each and every plate. Until he got to #1 son. Oh. He ran out of little chickens. WTF? Did somebody get two? Don't you know how many people are in your section, Server Boy? How can you be two chickens short of a dinner show? So he said, "Oh. I'll be right back." When he returned with the chickens, they were lukewarm. They looked like they were the practice items from the kitchen. #1 said, "How come yours is all black around the feet?" Yeah. Mine was burnt. Which would have been fine if the skin was nice and crispy and black. But it was soggy. Soggy burnt little chicken skin. And the skin is the best part, you know. All greasy and crispy. But not mine.
Then came the potato wedge. Runt. After that, the pork loin. Last time, it was a good chunk of meat. This time, mine was paper thin. I could have read the fine print of an auto sales contract through it. #1's was fine. He even ate #2's for him. I poured out a packet of BBQ sauce to dip the loin and the soggy chicken in. Who would have thought that could pose a problem?
Server Boy tonged out the mini ears of corn-on-the-cob. Oh, mine was comparable to everyone else's. Except that SB set it down right in the middle of the BBQ sauce. "Sorry." I don't care much for BBQ sauce on my corn. Funny thing...this is the first time I tried it.
The apple turnover course passed without incident. Except I don't care much for turnovers, and gave mine to the human garbage disposal, #1 son.
Oh, and did I mention that on each table was a card that said, "Good service should be rewarded with a 20% tip." Umm...NO! Those tickets were $53 apiece for the adult tickets, of which we needed THREE this year, and $32.00 for the child ticket, what with the extortion money to get the front row. That is $191 for our family. 20% of that is AHEM $38.20. I THINK NOT!!! HH was going to give the kid 10 bucks, but I think he cut it back to 5. Don't get me wrong. We are not cheap in the tipping department when we get good service. I'm sorry the kid had to carry those huge trays of food and parcel them out. I know it is hard work. But he needs to practice or something. It wasn't just one little mistake. And anyway, the entertainment was part of that ticket, not just the dinner.
Which brings us to the entertainment. It was great. They're still ironing out a few bugs early in the season, methinks. The buffalo whisperer missed his arm-up with the rider picking him up. He slipped off the hind end of the horse, and had to run out of the arena instead of ride.
They had a new MC, a woman, who was excellent. There was a new act with a girl lowered from the ceiling on a cable. She was kind of twirled and spun by her beau on a horse, and rode around with him before being twirled back up into the ceiling. Except that something went horribly wrong in the send-off. It looked like she didn't tuck in her leg or arm or something. Instead of going into a tight spiral, she kind of stretched out and spun awkwardly. #1 said, "Did you see that, Mom? She whacked the side of the hole when she went up in the ceiling!" He was impressed.
The pig races and ostrich races and kids-chasing-chickens and comedian and girl-in-a-barrel and barrel-racing and dancing and singing and ring-stabbing and flag-grabbing and trick-rider and dove-realease and all other entertainment was excellent. I can't say the questionable meal service dampened my enjoyment one bit. But I had to complain. It's my nature, by cracky!
Tomorrow, you'll hear about mini-golf, the trip to Arkansas, and the Diamond Crater. I know you can't wait. Even though I reneged on the fondue.
Wednesday, June 6, 2007
Vacation: Our Accommodations
When we arrived in Branson, we did not have a reservation. HH told me not to get a room at the Grand Country Inn, the place with the world's largest banjo. It used to be a fiddle, methinks, but I could just be senile. Can I get confirmation on this, Diva? Not on my senility, on the fiddle. HH said we wouldn't have time to do anything there, and that it was too far from the Dixie Stampede. HELLO! You can see the Dixie Stampede when you pull out onto the road from Grand Country Inn. We bullied HH into pulling in there, and he and #1 son went in to see if they had a room. They came out and said it was $99. I said that was fine, I figured as much. I have been saving each week since Christmas, you know. And that place has the indoor water park and outdoor pool and the restaurant and mini-golf right there. So we wouldn't spend 30 minutes idling the Large SUV while waiting in traffic to go somewhere else. Anyhoo, I told him to decide, and he said he wasn't paying that much, and took off. The kids commenced to wailing, HH commenced to whining (and swearing and yelling), and after a short excursion where he almost was in 3 wrecks on Hwy 76 Country Music Boulevard (which it pains me to report were NOT his fault), we went right back to get the room.
The room was in building 3, which is the farthest away from the office and water park. We have stayed in that building before. It was fine with me. It was on the ground floor, on a corner, and we only had to park about 10 feet away, so it was easy to carry in the stuff. On the other hand, it did not receive the internet connection, even though #1 said he got it around back on our way to the room. He called the front desk, and they said he would have to go to the something room to get it. He said he was on it while we waited in the LSUV at the check-in, so he thought we could get it from the waterpark area.
Which brings us to the next bit of drama. The Water Park. By the time we got everything situated in the room, it was going on 2:00. HH announced that he was going to drive to Old Branson and check out some Bass Pro thingy. He asked the boys if they wanted to go with him. DUH! Water Park! Water Park! Water Park! was all that was dancing in their little noggins. HH acted insulted. He said, "I told you we wouldn't have time to go to the water park. We won't have time when I get back from Old Branson." Tender-hearted #2 son looked like he was going to erupt in tears. #1 just set his jaw and buried his face in his Lappy. I called #2 over and whispered that I would take them to the water park for an hour while HH was gone. Then we would still have time to get ready to go to the Dixie Stampede at 4:00, when it opened. HH seemed kind of put out, but left to go to Old Branson anyway. The boys changed in about 23 seconds, and #1 called the office for a trolley to ride us over to the water park. He likes calling the front desk about things. And service departments. He's a good little arguer. Anyhoo...the clerk told him the trolley was on the way. The last time, we walked. It was not fun, because that was in late July, and the temperature on that blacktop was near 102 degrees. (The boys love a trolley ride. They even get on the one at my doctor's office parking lot. Yes, that's uncommon, except that my doctor rents space in the clinic that goes with the hospital, so the trolley is really for the hospital, methinks. But they always ride it, and I walk, and usually beat them to the front door.)
We went outside to wait for the trolley. About 3 minutes later, it arrived. The driver looked about 18, with a mohawk stiff with hair gel. He was a friendly sort, and entertained us for the ride to the water park. On the way in, I asked the boys if they wanted in the outdoor pool, the kiddie one with the big frog-mouth miniature slide thingy. #2 said yes, #1 said no, so we went inside. Oh, and I forgot to mention that he took Lappy in a backpack, so that I could blog while they rode the lazy river. Water park. Laptop. Perhaps not a match made by the Gummi Mary. But it didn't matter, because when he fired up Lappy, we didn't get the internet connection. Oh, well. We tried. The boys stayed together and didn't fight. Which was amazing in itself. They even came back to me with 15 minutes left, so I told them they could play some more. When we left, the outdoor poolio was roped off. I suppose somebody had a little accident. The yellow biohazard tape was up, as #1 said.
We went into the office to call for the trolley. HH called on the cell and asked where we were. We told him we were just leaving the water park, waiting for the trolley. He said, "Oh." When the trolley dropped us off, we saw him walking back. HH. He's such an amateur.
The only thing I didn't like about the room was that it was near some central supply area for the workers. There were always a couple coming or going when we went in or out. I am suspicious. I imagined a roving gang of rip-off artists who would radio each other concerning our whereabouts, so they could rifle through the room at their leisure. Just because. That's my nature. Ever since my apartment was robbed while I was at work the year I finished my Master's Degree and worked in the junk store, I have been suspicious of any loiterers. Because that's how they robbed me. It was a cul-de-sac type of arrangement, and a lookout stood at the corner of the only entrance and walkie-talkied the inside guy when he saw the occupant returning. That way, he had time to sneak out the back. Which is what they did. The guy took my VCR and my Alien tape that was in it. He exited out the sliding glass door, having pried his way in with a screwdriver. It wasn't exactly CSI. A Springfield city cop told me, after traipsing about the apartment and telling me I was lucky they didn't throw condiments from my refrigerator on the walls, or poop in my bed. "Sometimes they get cute like that," he said. "They must have been watching this place for a while. They've hit several apartments." Duh. Then catch them already.
Goodness. This vacation report is taking a very long time. I seem to be digressing. Maybe I can stretch this vacation into a month's worth of posts.
Tomorrow, we'll dish the dirt on the Dixie Stampede. Oh, Dolly. If you only knew how I suffered, you'd turn over in your grave. If you were dead, that is.
The room was in building 3, which is the farthest away from the office and water park. We have stayed in that building before. It was fine with me. It was on the ground floor, on a corner, and we only had to park about 10 feet away, so it was easy to carry in the stuff. On the other hand, it did not receive the internet connection, even though #1 said he got it around back on our way to the room. He called the front desk, and they said he would have to go to the something room to get it. He said he was on it while we waited in the LSUV at the check-in, so he thought we could get it from the waterpark area.
Which brings us to the next bit of drama. The Water Park. By the time we got everything situated in the room, it was going on 2:00. HH announced that he was going to drive to Old Branson and check out some Bass Pro thingy. He asked the boys if they wanted to go with him. DUH! Water Park! Water Park! Water Park! was all that was dancing in their little noggins. HH acted insulted. He said, "I told you we wouldn't have time to go to the water park. We won't have time when I get back from Old Branson." Tender-hearted #2 son looked like he was going to erupt in tears. #1 just set his jaw and buried his face in his Lappy. I called #2 over and whispered that I would take them to the water park for an hour while HH was gone. Then we would still have time to get ready to go to the Dixie Stampede at 4:00, when it opened. HH seemed kind of put out, but left to go to Old Branson anyway. The boys changed in about 23 seconds, and #1 called the office for a trolley to ride us over to the water park. He likes calling the front desk about things. And service departments. He's a good little arguer. Anyhoo...the clerk told him the trolley was on the way. The last time, we walked. It was not fun, because that was in late July, and the temperature on that blacktop was near 102 degrees. (The boys love a trolley ride. They even get on the one at my doctor's office parking lot. Yes, that's uncommon, except that my doctor rents space in the clinic that goes with the hospital, so the trolley is really for the hospital, methinks. But they always ride it, and I walk, and usually beat them to the front door.)
We went outside to wait for the trolley. About 3 minutes later, it arrived. The driver looked about 18, with a mohawk stiff with hair gel. He was a friendly sort, and entertained us for the ride to the water park. On the way in, I asked the boys if they wanted in the outdoor pool, the kiddie one with the big frog-mouth miniature slide thingy. #2 said yes, #1 said no, so we went inside. Oh, and I forgot to mention that he took Lappy in a backpack, so that I could blog while they rode the lazy river. Water park. Laptop. Perhaps not a match made by the Gummi Mary. But it didn't matter, because when he fired up Lappy, we didn't get the internet connection. Oh, well. We tried. The boys stayed together and didn't fight. Which was amazing in itself. They even came back to me with 15 minutes left, so I told them they could play some more. When we left, the outdoor poolio was roped off. I suppose somebody had a little accident. The yellow biohazard tape was up, as #1 said.
We went into the office to call for the trolley. HH called on the cell and asked where we were. We told him we were just leaving the water park, waiting for the trolley. He said, "Oh." When the trolley dropped us off, we saw him walking back. HH. He's such an amateur.
The only thing I didn't like about the room was that it was near some central supply area for the workers. There were always a couple coming or going when we went in or out. I am suspicious. I imagined a roving gang of rip-off artists who would radio each other concerning our whereabouts, so they could rifle through the room at their leisure. Just because. That's my nature. Ever since my apartment was robbed while I was at work the year I finished my Master's Degree and worked in the junk store, I have been suspicious of any loiterers. Because that's how they robbed me. It was a cul-de-sac type of arrangement, and a lookout stood at the corner of the only entrance and walkie-talkied the inside guy when he saw the occupant returning. That way, he had time to sneak out the back. Which is what they did. The guy took my VCR and my Alien tape that was in it. He exited out the sliding glass door, having pried his way in with a screwdriver. It wasn't exactly CSI. A Springfield city cop told me, after traipsing about the apartment and telling me I was lucky they didn't throw condiments from my refrigerator on the walls, or poop in my bed. "Sometimes they get cute like that," he said. "They must have been watching this place for a while. They've hit several apartments." Duh. Then catch them already.
Goodness. This vacation report is taking a very long time. I seem to be digressing. Maybe I can stretch this vacation into a month's worth of posts.
Tomorrow, we'll dish the dirt on the Dixie Stampede. Oh, Dolly. If you only knew how I suffered, you'd turn over in your grave. If you were dead, that is.
Tuesday, June 5, 2007
HM: Bigger, Longer, and Uncut
OK. I ripped off that title from South Park. I'm a cheater, you know. But I am about to share my vacation with you. YEAH! Take off your shoes, pull up a throw pillow, and I'll get out the fondue pot while HH warms up the slide projector. We'll have some coffee cake after the picture show. Promise!
Sadly, we do not have pictures. Our official trip photographer, aka #1 son, is of the slacker generation. He only took a few photos of horses at the Dixie Stampede. Maybe tomorrow I'll put out a couple of them. Maybe not. So you'll just have to imagine. Or if I feel especially energetic after watching Oprah today, I may steal a few internet pics to pass off as my own. I'm a cheater, you know.
I had planned a 3-day vacation extravaganza of posts, entitled Hillbilly Vacation: the Good, the Bad, and the Ugly. But I think maybe that title has been used somewhere. And I'm not a great big cheater, just a cheater. So instead of telling the good parts, and then complaining, and then discussing HH, I will lump all attributes of each venue into the story as we go along.
First of all, the trip started with HH having a screaming, swearing fit. We're used to it. Not that it's right. Except in HH's mind. He does this every vacation, and every holiday. Shame on him. Poor us. I don't remember what he was mad about. Something about me having a smart mouth, (who knew?) because I defended whichever boy he was screaming at. The good part is, after that little outburst in the garage and driveway, he didn't speak to us for 98 miles. WooHoo!
The drive to Branson passed fairly quickly this time. We all had books to read, or GameBoys to play, or Lappys to fiddle with. Except HH. He doesn't read, wouldn't know what to do with a Gameboy if it bit him in the butt, (except to scream "#%@^&% @#&*%@#ing GameBoy!"), and he can't even see his lap, so a Lappy would be out of the question. Which is probably a good thing, because after all, he WAS driving. We left at 7:45 a.m., and arrived around 1:30 p.m., after HH stopped at a roadside park to pee beside the car, and a McDonald's to pee in their toilet, and at a rest stop to pee and make a sandwich for lunch. And at another rest stop to pee. I'm opening an exhibit at the Mansion called "The World's Smallest Bladder".
Time for Oprah. I'll be back soon.
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AND...I'm back. I had to see Oprah because one of her guests was Cormac McCarthy, author of The Road, the last really good book I read. It was way back in April. Which tells you how much reading I was able to do this school year. I knew it was an Oprah pick, because DUH she had that circle thingy with her name on it printed into the cover. But guess what! This book also won some kind of prize. What was that little honor...I think it was...how you say...THE PULITZER PRIZE FOR FICTION 2007. Who knew? Not me. Not until I watched Oprah today. The Road. It's not for everybody. But I'm a sucker for those end-of-the-world books. Probably why The Stand is my favorite Stephen King book. I also liked Earth Abides, by George R. Stewart, and Lucifer's Hammer, by Larry Niven. Earth Abides was written in the 1940s, so is a bit dated. I read it eons ago, and it was dated even then. There's no accounting for some people's tastes, I suppose. Oh, and I heartily enjoyed the movies The Day After, and Testament, and Deep Impact as well.
Sooo...let's see...I was just building my bladder display and had only gotten to the driveway on the vacation report. Perhaps I don't really have the slide show and fondue ready for you. It's a bait-and-switch plot. Instead of vacation slides, all you're going to get is a rousing game of pinochle and some bridge mix. And if the world starts to end, we can jump down into my backyard bomb shelter and be snug as a bug in a rug.
I've lost interest in my vacation. Can you tell? Does it show? I'll continue with it tomorrow. I'll try to get my post out earlier, because tomorrow we are going to Harrah's for the night. I have two free nights, you know. And it's my birthday present and Mother's Day present rolled into one. I am such a thrifty gift-receiver, don't you think?
You can look forward to detailed accounts of The Grand Country Inn, Dixie Stampede, road to Arkansas, Queen of Diamonds Inn, Crater of Diamonds State Park, and Lambert's Throwed-Roll Restaurant. With a little inner-city Little Rock thrown in.
It will take several days to do these stories justice. Because as you know, Mrs. Hillbilly Mom never has a 'routine' anything.
Sadly, we do not have pictures. Our official trip photographer, aka #1 son, is of the slacker generation. He only took a few photos of horses at the Dixie Stampede. Maybe tomorrow I'll put out a couple of them. Maybe not. So you'll just have to imagine. Or if I feel especially energetic after watching Oprah today, I may steal a few internet pics to pass off as my own. I'm a cheater, you know.
I had planned a 3-day vacation extravaganza of posts, entitled Hillbilly Vacation: the Good, the Bad, and the Ugly. But I think maybe that title has been used somewhere. And I'm not a great big cheater, just a cheater. So instead of telling the good parts, and then complaining, and then discussing HH, I will lump all attributes of each venue into the story as we go along.
First of all, the trip started with HH having a screaming, swearing fit. We're used to it. Not that it's right. Except in HH's mind. He does this every vacation, and every holiday. Shame on him. Poor us. I don't remember what he was mad about. Something about me having a smart mouth, (who knew?) because I defended whichever boy he was screaming at. The good part is, after that little outburst in the garage and driveway, he didn't speak to us for 98 miles. WooHoo!
The drive to Branson passed fairly quickly this time. We all had books to read, or GameBoys to play, or Lappys to fiddle with. Except HH. He doesn't read, wouldn't know what to do with a Gameboy if it bit him in the butt, (except to scream "#%@^&% @#&*%@#ing GameBoy!"), and he can't even see his lap, so a Lappy would be out of the question. Which is probably a good thing, because after all, he WAS driving. We left at 7:45 a.m., and arrived around 1:30 p.m., after HH stopped at a roadside park to pee beside the car, and a McDonald's to pee in their toilet, and at a rest stop to pee and make a sandwich for lunch. And at another rest stop to pee. I'm opening an exhibit at the Mansion called "The World's Smallest Bladder".
Time for Oprah. I'll be back soon.
********************************************************
AND...I'm back. I had to see Oprah because one of her guests was Cormac McCarthy, author of The Road, the last really good book I read. It was way back in April. Which tells you how much reading I was able to do this school year. I knew it was an Oprah pick, because DUH she had that circle thingy with her name on it printed into the cover. But guess what! This book also won some kind of prize. What was that little honor...I think it was...how you say...THE PULITZER PRIZE FOR FICTION 2007. Who knew? Not me. Not until I watched Oprah today. The Road. It's not for everybody. But I'm a sucker for those end-of-the-world books. Probably why The Stand is my favorite Stephen King book. I also liked Earth Abides, by George R. Stewart, and Lucifer's Hammer, by Larry Niven. Earth Abides was written in the 1940s, so is a bit dated. I read it eons ago, and it was dated even then. There's no accounting for some people's tastes, I suppose. Oh, and I heartily enjoyed the movies The Day After, and Testament, and Deep Impact as well.
Sooo...let's see...I was just building my bladder display and had only gotten to the driveway on the vacation report. Perhaps I don't really have the slide show and fondue ready for you. It's a bait-and-switch plot. Instead of vacation slides, all you're going to get is a rousing game of pinochle and some bridge mix. And if the world starts to end, we can jump down into my backyard bomb shelter and be snug as a bug in a rug.
I've lost interest in my vacation. Can you tell? Does it show? I'll continue with it tomorrow. I'll try to get my post out earlier, because tomorrow we are going to Harrah's for the night. I have two free nights, you know. And it's my birthday present and Mother's Day present rolled into one. I am such a thrifty gift-receiver, don't you think?
You can look forward to detailed accounts of The Grand Country Inn, Dixie Stampede, road to Arkansas, Queen of Diamonds Inn, Crater of Diamonds State Park, and Lambert's Throwed-Roll Restaurant. With a little inner-city Little Rock thrown in.
It will take several days to do these stories justice. Because as you know, Mrs. Hillbilly Mom never has a 'routine' anything.
Friday, June 1, 2007
Gone Fishin'
Yep. Hillbilly Mom has gone fishin'...FOR DIAMONDS! So I will be off-line for a couple of days. Unless Lappy hooks me up.
I am even sicker than a sick dog today. I called the doctor for some sweet, sweet Histinex. We'll see if he comes through for me. I'll know when I go to the pharmacy around 3:00 to pick up some Lisinopril and Zyrtec. Yes, they pale in comparison to my sweet, sweet Histinex.
#1 son and I are playing bar trivia tonight. Well, we're not actually in the bar. That would be pointless, don't you think, for a 12-year-old and his mom who doesn't imbibe? We will be in the restaurant part, playing that little box thingy to answer questions on the TV. I don't really feel like it, but we have already committed. #2 is happy as a clam, because he gets to go to Grandma's house. HH thinks he is going to load the Large SUV for the trip tomorrow, but DUH, we will be driving it to the bar.
Most of our stuff is packed, except for the medicines, and toiletries, and extra pillows, and hats, and books, and entertainment devices. And directions. Hmm...maybe I should go finish packing. I did 4 loads of laundry already. Even though I'm on my deathbed. Even though HH likes to say, "You ain't the first woman to ever have a cold." Maybe not, but I put some boiled eggs in a salad a while ago that came from a carton stamped: sell by April 16. Do you think they were safe to eat? I told the kids to smell them. The kids who gave me this cold. They both said, "Smell like eggs." When I started eating the salad, it tasted a little off. I thought maybe it was because I have this cold, and some flavors kind of drop out, and others become prominent. Sweet Gummi Mary! Don't let me be like Homer Simpson with that big sandwich that he dug out of the garbage can. We'll know in a few hours, I suppose. So there, HH. Maybe I really WILL be sick as a dog. And so will you, because I left you a part of that salad in the fridge. Can eggs spoil a vacation?
Come to think of it, we haven't been back to Branson since HH ended up at the emergency room for 11 hours. I think that's how long. You know how time flies when you have to leave the motel at 2:00 a.m. with your 7-year-old and 10-year-old and drive through the dark in search of Skaggs Memorial Hospital. I bet Diva's made that trip, though. Perhaps with the Amazing Technicolor Childfoot. Ahh...good times.
Sooo...everybody should check in here every day of the weekend, because I just might be able to post something. I mean it. Those of you who only read me from work, drive to work and sneak in. Just in case. I'm sure they won't prosecute when you explain that you didn't want to miss one word of Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's wisdom in the event that she can glom onto some internet while she's on vacation.
Bon Voyage!
I am even sicker than a sick dog today. I called the doctor for some sweet, sweet Histinex. We'll see if he comes through for me. I'll know when I go to the pharmacy around 3:00 to pick up some Lisinopril and Zyrtec. Yes, they pale in comparison to my sweet, sweet Histinex.
#1 son and I are playing bar trivia tonight. Well, we're not actually in the bar. That would be pointless, don't you think, for a 12-year-old and his mom who doesn't imbibe? We will be in the restaurant part, playing that little box thingy to answer questions on the TV. I don't really feel like it, but we have already committed. #2 is happy as a clam, because he gets to go to Grandma's house. HH thinks he is going to load the Large SUV for the trip tomorrow, but DUH, we will be driving it to the bar.
Most of our stuff is packed, except for the medicines, and toiletries, and extra pillows, and hats, and books, and entertainment devices. And directions. Hmm...maybe I should go finish packing. I did 4 loads of laundry already. Even though I'm on my deathbed. Even though HH likes to say, "You ain't the first woman to ever have a cold." Maybe not, but I put some boiled eggs in a salad a while ago that came from a carton stamped: sell by April 16. Do you think they were safe to eat? I told the kids to smell them. The kids who gave me this cold. They both said, "Smell like eggs." When I started eating the salad, it tasted a little off. I thought maybe it was because I have this cold, and some flavors kind of drop out, and others become prominent. Sweet Gummi Mary! Don't let me be like Homer Simpson with that big sandwich that he dug out of the garbage can. We'll know in a few hours, I suppose. So there, HH. Maybe I really WILL be sick as a dog. And so will you, because I left you a part of that salad in the fridge. Can eggs spoil a vacation?
Come to think of it, we haven't been back to Branson since HH ended up at the emergency room for 11 hours. I think that's how long. You know how time flies when you have to leave the motel at 2:00 a.m. with your 7-year-old and 10-year-old and drive through the dark in search of Skaggs Memorial Hospital. I bet Diva's made that trip, though. Perhaps with the Amazing Technicolor Childfoot. Ahh...good times.
Sooo...everybody should check in here every day of the weekend, because I just might be able to post something. I mean it. Those of you who only read me from work, drive to work and sneak in. Just in case. I'm sure they won't prosecute when you explain that you didn't want to miss one word of Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's wisdom in the event that she can glom onto some internet while she's on vacation.
Bon Voyage!
Thursday, May 31, 2007
I Ain't A-Woofin'
Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is sick as a dog. Or not as healthy as a dog. Something doggish. My dogs seem to feel fine, what with laying about the porch, pouncing on refrigerator scraps, snuffling up the broken Easter eggs #2 son and I finally threw out today (dare to behold the horror that is Hillbilly Mom's refrigerator), and sniffing each other's a$$es. I, on the other hand, have no urge to sniff an a$$. I am listless. My head is pounding. Methinks it's a sinus problem. I was up from midnight to 4:20 a.m. trying not to drown in my own snot. I set up camp in the La-Z-Boy or Big-Fat-Man or Hugh-Mon-Gus recliner. It was OK, except for waking up every 45 minutes with a plugged blowhole.
The headache set in this morning around 5:30. It lingered. My eyes cried to stay closed. They were denied. I had to drive my #1 son to summer school. For one day only. So he could go to the park. More on that later. Let's get back to ME ME ME! After dropping off the lad, #2 son and I forged an expedition to The Devil's Playground. Where we chose our 1749th cart that wouldn't steer. Those things have serious alignment problems. You don't take your autos there for service, do you? The boy chose one of each kind of junk food to take as snacks on our upcoming trip to Arkansas. Because apparently, they don't sell food between here and there. I also got each boy a new pair of Wal-Mart fall-apart shoes, plenty of soda to assure a stop every 30 minutes, and some sandwich and breakfast stuff to stay out of the fast-food bandits for two meals a day.
Upon arriving home, the young 'un dashed downstairs to his computer, from where I faintly heard that 'severed head on a pike' crap again. I didn't care. I wanted my severed head on a pike. Maybe that pike would let some of the pain leak out. I clumb (HH's word) back in Big Blue, the recliner, for some relaxation. I used Little Bear as a pawn to block demon daylight from my aching orbs. I twisted and turned for about an hour, with no relief. Then #1 called me to ask if he could leave on his shoes to wade in the water because they had to 'safely float the baby across the river'. I said no. He countered with an offer to take off his socks and only wear the shoes. Again, I said no. He argued that I'd already bought him new shoes. I stood firm. Apparently, he did, too. I later learned that he only wore his SOCKS in the water. What a PITIOT! That boy takes after his father.
I had to go back to school to pick him up, and from there we proceeded to Great Clips for boys' haircuts, because I had a $5 coupon for May. This was the last day of May, you know. I remembered, because it's also my mom's birthday. Don't you worry about Hillbilly Mom's mom...she got a carrot cake and some jewelry and two cards and the promise of lunch out when we get back from vacation. Oh, and her cronies took her to breakfast this morning, too. I suppose you really rake it in for your 73rd birthday. It was a 45 minute wait on the cutting, so we went two doors down, past The Smoke Shop, to Little Caesar's for some nourishment. Except for me. Whew! Long time no talk about ME. I made #1 go in an pick me up some Hot & Sour soup on the way home. Last time I was sick, it cut the illness in half. We'll see. Long story not short enough, we got home after 5:00.
And now that the vat of soup has been slurped, I must report that my headache is not so severe. I might as well have been drinking battery acid, for all I could taste. But right now, the pain is less. #2 son and I are going to watch Pirate Master on CBS at 7:00. It's from the Survivor. There's nothing I like better than a cheesy reality show. And nothing #1 likes better than Pirates.
Hear that, Diva. PIRATES! Arrrrgh...
The headache set in this morning around 5:30. It lingered. My eyes cried to stay closed. They were denied. I had to drive my #1 son to summer school. For one day only. So he could go to the park. More on that later. Let's get back to ME ME ME! After dropping off the lad, #2 son and I forged an expedition to The Devil's Playground. Where we chose our 1749th cart that wouldn't steer. Those things have serious alignment problems. You don't take your autos there for service, do you? The boy chose one of each kind of junk food to take as snacks on our upcoming trip to Arkansas. Because apparently, they don't sell food between here and there. I also got each boy a new pair of Wal-Mart fall-apart shoes, plenty of soda to assure a stop every 30 minutes, and some sandwich and breakfast stuff to stay out of the fast-food bandits for two meals a day.
Upon arriving home, the young 'un dashed downstairs to his computer, from where I faintly heard that 'severed head on a pike' crap again. I didn't care. I wanted my severed head on a pike. Maybe that pike would let some of the pain leak out. I clumb (HH's word) back in Big Blue, the recliner, for some relaxation. I used Little Bear as a pawn to block demon daylight from my aching orbs. I twisted and turned for about an hour, with no relief. Then #1 called me to ask if he could leave on his shoes to wade in the water because they had to 'safely float the baby across the river'. I said no. He countered with an offer to take off his socks and only wear the shoes. Again, I said no. He argued that I'd already bought him new shoes. I stood firm. Apparently, he did, too. I later learned that he only wore his SOCKS in the water. What a PITIOT! That boy takes after his father.
I had to go back to school to pick him up, and from there we proceeded to Great Clips for boys' haircuts, because I had a $5 coupon for May. This was the last day of May, you know. I remembered, because it's also my mom's birthday. Don't you worry about Hillbilly Mom's mom...she got a carrot cake and some jewelry and two cards and the promise of lunch out when we get back from vacation. Oh, and her cronies took her to breakfast this morning, too. I suppose you really rake it in for your 73rd birthday. It was a 45 minute wait on the cutting, so we went two doors down, past The Smoke Shop, to Little Caesar's for some nourishment. Except for me. Whew! Long time no talk about ME. I made #1 go in an pick me up some Hot & Sour soup on the way home. Last time I was sick, it cut the illness in half. We'll see. Long story not short enough, we got home after 5:00.
And now that the vat of soup has been slurped, I must report that my headache is not so severe. I might as well have been drinking battery acid, for all I could taste. But right now, the pain is less. #2 son and I are going to watch Pirate Master on CBS at 7:00. It's from the Survivor. There's nothing I like better than a cheesy reality show. And nothing #1 likes better than Pirates.
Hear that, Diva. PIRATES! Arrrrgh...
Wednesday, May 30, 2007
England Salarva Trash Laser
Our vacation was in jeopardy for 24 hours. Seems that right after I made reservations yesterday, HH was called into the boss's office and told that he needed to be on a plane to England Sunday morning. Maybe that's just a euphemism for something else. Maybe he's fired. Maybe he's gonna be sleepin' with the fishes. Naww...there was some $100,000 machine he was supposed to look at and bid on. But this morning, he said he thinks he won't have to go. It's an online auction, anyway. Business, schmizness. I don't know how people operate those things.
I have a sore throat. Only one side of it. #1 son is the carrier. He complained about it over the weekend. Then #2 got it. I knew I shouldn't have finished off his sausage biscuit yesterday. I really knew when I bit into it and it was wet. Eewww! He tried to tell me it was soda. Maybe...if by 'soda', he means 'saliva'. Or 'salarva'.
The school called today. It wants its #1 son back. Really. Two of the summer school teachers called to ask him to come to school for the next two weeks. First thing I asked was: "How did you get my private number?" Just joking. They said they have ways of tracking me down. I told them he couldn't attend next week, because we're going on vacation. "And don't rob me, either, because I'm pretty sure you can find my address where you got that phone number!" They agreed not to rob me if #1 brings a sack lunch tomorrow and clean trash on Friday. See? That's why I haven't been letting him go. Those people are wacky. I think they are going to build some sculpture out of clean trash. But if it's clean, it's not trash. It's a collectible. Just ask HH.
Oh, you can't. HH is off to build my grandma's fence again. A jaunt which he did not inform me of. But it gave me a preposition to end my sentence with. HH says he told me last night. Duh! He was at Grandma's last night, and then down in the woods when he got back. I even called him this morning, and he didn't tell me. And neither did #1 son, who was supposed to help him both nights, but refused. Yet had the nerve to ask for a playmate to come up and play laser tag this afternoon. Nope. Isn't it enough that I gave birth to a built-in playmate for him nine years ago? And I didn't even have to go to Viet Nam to get one. How can it be more fun to laser-kill a kid who is not even related than it is to laser-kill your own brother? Anyway, the playmate is not even out of school yet. Heh, heh. Remember that next August, buddy, when you ask why we have to go back so soon.
**********************************************************
And YOU remember to go read the stories in this week's writing contest
at writeinthethickofit.blogspot.com. It is open until Saturday night at 10:00.
I have a sore throat. Only one side of it. #1 son is the carrier. He complained about it over the weekend. Then #2 got it. I knew I shouldn't have finished off his sausage biscuit yesterday. I really knew when I bit into it and it was wet. Eewww! He tried to tell me it was soda. Maybe...if by 'soda', he means 'saliva'. Or 'salarva'.
The school called today. It wants its #1 son back. Really. Two of the summer school teachers called to ask him to come to school for the next two weeks. First thing I asked was: "How did you get my private number?" Just joking. They said they have ways of tracking me down. I told them he couldn't attend next week, because we're going on vacation. "And don't rob me, either, because I'm pretty sure you can find my address where you got that phone number!" They agreed not to rob me if #1 brings a sack lunch tomorrow and clean trash on Friday. See? That's why I haven't been letting him go. Those people are wacky. I think they are going to build some sculpture out of clean trash. But if it's clean, it's not trash. It's a collectible. Just ask HH.
Oh, you can't. HH is off to build my grandma's fence again. A jaunt which he did not inform me of. But it gave me a preposition to end my sentence with. HH says he told me last night. Duh! He was at Grandma's last night, and then down in the woods when he got back. I even called him this morning, and he didn't tell me. And neither did #1 son, who was supposed to help him both nights, but refused. Yet had the nerve to ask for a playmate to come up and play laser tag this afternoon. Nope. Isn't it enough that I gave birth to a built-in playmate for him nine years ago? And I didn't even have to go to Viet Nam to get one. How can it be more fun to laser-kill a kid who is not even related than it is to laser-kill your own brother? Anyway, the playmate is not even out of school yet. Heh, heh. Remember that next August, buddy, when you ask why we have to go back so soon.
**********************************************************
And YOU remember to go read the stories in this week's writing contest
at writeinthethickofit.blogspot.com. It is open until Saturday night at 10:00.
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
A Pitiot is Born
First cat out of the bag this morning, I harvested a new crop of hangers. No, it's not one of HH's new schemes. The hangers were left in my classroom by Friday night's graduates. Good thing I still had some work to do on that special project. I would not like to come back in August and have to shout, "No wire hangers!" to my 1st hour class.
I need to stop using the term 'special project'. It reminds me of Steve Martin as Navin Johnson talking about his 'special purpose' in The Jerk.
Mabel made a guest appearance in my room this morning. Several. She's not getting guest star money. Oh, laws no! M-O-O-N. That spells no special guest star money for you, Mabel.
Did you know that it's 5 1/2 hours from Branson to the Crater of Diamonds State Park? HH says it is only 2 1/2 hours. Perhaps he means as the crow flies. I don't know where he gets his information. Which reminds me of a new word I made up today. 'Pitiot'. Has a ring to it, by cracky. It means 'a pitiful idiot'. Pitiot. Feel free to use it all you want. I don't get a royalty or anything. I'm booting it out into the public domain to fend for itself. Poor little pitiot.
I need to get crackin' and do some laundry so I can get packin' for our little vacation. No need to wait until the night before like some Divas do. We need some clothes and food and money and books and toys and pillows. That should do it. Oh, and some directions might be helpful. I just want to get it over with, so we can say we went on vacation. Because it's actually more work for me. The pitiots don't have to do anything but load the car and climb in. And say, "Didn't you bring..."
With the price of gas, I almost wish HH's Folly, the diesel Mercedes, had grown to fruition. When he bought his ugly little 1980 pale yellow Mercedes, HH thought it was a diesel. Perhaps that does not bode well for confidence in his car-repair skills. He had plans to run it on old french fry grease. Other guys at his work do that. I think they have a gang, and HH wants to be a cool kid. We could travel the back roads of Missouri and Arkansas, filling up at McDonalds and Chinese restaurants. That's what HH says they do at work. They have the Chinese restaurants save their cooking oil. He says.
HH is going to be late tonight, to go do some fence repair at my grandma's house. It's not that he's such a thoughtful grandson-in-law, but that he really wants the wood stove she has promised him to put in his miniMansion. HH's lateness doesn't really mean anything to us, except that the boys want to stir up the buttwater broth tonight, because they have noodles. Yeah. At The Devil's Playground, that's the first thing they grabbed. Pool noodles. Do you know how annoying it is to push a cart of pool noodles through The Devil's Playground? Take my word for it. You'd need the patience of the Gummi Mary not to mind.
Since the noodlers are growing restless, I'm going to watch the pot of buttwater soup.
Think it will boil?
******************************************************
Hey, the new stories are up at Diva's writing contest.
Go read and vote at writeinthethickofit.blogspot.com.
Do it now. Don't be a pitiot.
I need to stop using the term 'special project'. It reminds me of Steve Martin as Navin Johnson talking about his 'special purpose' in The Jerk.
Mabel made a guest appearance in my room this morning. Several. She's not getting guest star money. Oh, laws no! M-O-O-N. That spells no special guest star money for you, Mabel.
Did you know that it's 5 1/2 hours from Branson to the Crater of Diamonds State Park? HH says it is only 2 1/2 hours. Perhaps he means as the crow flies. I don't know where he gets his information. Which reminds me of a new word I made up today. 'Pitiot'. Has a ring to it, by cracky. It means 'a pitiful idiot'. Pitiot. Feel free to use it all you want. I don't get a royalty or anything. I'm booting it out into the public domain to fend for itself. Poor little pitiot.
I need to get crackin' and do some laundry so I can get packin' for our little vacation. No need to wait until the night before like some Divas do. We need some clothes and food and money and books and toys and pillows. That should do it. Oh, and some directions might be helpful. I just want to get it over with, so we can say we went on vacation. Because it's actually more work for me. The pitiots don't have to do anything but load the car and climb in. And say, "Didn't you bring..."
With the price of gas, I almost wish HH's Folly, the diesel Mercedes, had grown to fruition. When he bought his ugly little 1980 pale yellow Mercedes, HH thought it was a diesel. Perhaps that does not bode well for confidence in his car-repair skills. He had plans to run it on old french fry grease. Other guys at his work do that. I think they have a gang, and HH wants to be a cool kid. We could travel the back roads of Missouri and Arkansas, filling up at McDonalds and Chinese restaurants. That's what HH says they do at work. They have the Chinese restaurants save their cooking oil. He says.
HH is going to be late tonight, to go do some fence repair at my grandma's house. It's not that he's such a thoughtful grandson-in-law, but that he really wants the wood stove she has promised him to put in his miniMansion. HH's lateness doesn't really mean anything to us, except that the boys want to stir up the buttwater broth tonight, because they have noodles. Yeah. At The Devil's Playground, that's the first thing they grabbed. Pool noodles. Do you know how annoying it is to push a cart of pool noodles through The Devil's Playground? Take my word for it. You'd need the patience of the Gummi Mary not to mind.
Since the noodlers are growing restless, I'm going to watch the pot of buttwater soup.
Think it will boil?
******************************************************
Hey, the new stories are up at Diva's writing contest.
Go read and vote at writeinthethickofit.blogspot.com.
Do it now. Don't be a pitiot.
Monday, May 28, 2007
Holiday Edition Part 3
Is it just me, or has this been the freakin' longest holiday weekend, ever?
Holiday Edition Part 3
*I must stop staying up so late
*Is 2:00 a.m. considered late?
*Not to Stewed Hamm, methinks
*And I suppose it's not really late if you fall asleep at 11:00 and wake up at 2:00 and go to bed
*The buttwater soup is now a clear broth, no longer cream of buttwater soup
*Can I get a "H*ll, Yeah?"
*I found out that HH made #1 son put the long-haired cranky cat on a kickboard in the pool
*Don't try this at home
*She's still mad, and it happened yesterday
*While I was at graduation, HH made #2 son hold the bully male cat for tick removal
*Simba still has the bloodsucker
*#2 son has a Band-Aid
*HH is either very smart, or very stupid
*The boys and I vote the latter
*Tomorrow, we are going back to school
*I still have to work on that special project a bit
*The boys can't be left unattended
*The Mansion has no staff
*Except me
*Mabel will be at school for some reason tomorrow
*Perhaps I was daydreaming when she told me
*Last night I dreamed I was a Girl Next Door
*Visiting a Coyote Ugly bar
*So I danced
*And got in trouble for being too wild
*So I left without getting paid
*Perhaps I should watch higher-quality programming
*We leave for vacation on Saturday
*Don't plan to rob me
*My Hillbilly Mama is Mansionsitting
*Don't try to rob her, either
*She has neighbors
*I have a lot to get done before we leave
*But it won't cut into my computer time
*Because that's my nature
*But I might go 3 days without posting next weekend
*Which would be a first since I started this critter 3 years ago
*Unless Lappy hooks me up with some stolen wireless
*Perhaps from a Devil's Playground parking lot
*Because I don't expect fine hotels in Hillbillyland
*And vacation will take us even deeper into it
*Sweet Gummi Mary! Deliver me from duelin' banjos
*And help my youngest boy find some type of gem
*He's the dreamer. It's his vacation, really
*And go-karts for HH and #1
*I'm their social secretary
*But I get the Dixie Stampede
*More money in Dolly Parton's pocket
*Which must be pretty big, to hold $300 million
*Speaking of people who have too darn much money...
*Won't you be glad when I stop typing like Rosie O'Donnell's blog?
Holiday Edition Part 3
*I must stop staying up so late
*Is 2:00 a.m. considered late?
*Not to Stewed Hamm, methinks
*And I suppose it's not really late if you fall asleep at 11:00 and wake up at 2:00 and go to bed
*The buttwater soup is now a clear broth, no longer cream of buttwater soup
*Can I get a "H*ll, Yeah?"
*I found out that HH made #1 son put the long-haired cranky cat on a kickboard in the pool
*Don't try this at home
*She's still mad, and it happened yesterday
*While I was at graduation, HH made #2 son hold the bully male cat for tick removal
*Simba still has the bloodsucker
*#2 son has a Band-Aid
*HH is either very smart, or very stupid
*The boys and I vote the latter
*Tomorrow, we are going back to school
*I still have to work on that special project a bit
*The boys can't be left unattended
*The Mansion has no staff
*Except me
*Mabel will be at school for some reason tomorrow
*Perhaps I was daydreaming when she told me
*Last night I dreamed I was a Girl Next Door
*Visiting a Coyote Ugly bar
*So I danced
*And got in trouble for being too wild
*So I left without getting paid
*Perhaps I should watch higher-quality programming
*We leave for vacation on Saturday
*Don't plan to rob me
*My Hillbilly Mama is Mansionsitting
*Don't try to rob her, either
*She has neighbors
*I have a lot to get done before we leave
*But it won't cut into my computer time
*Because that's my nature
*But I might go 3 days without posting next weekend
*Which would be a first since I started this critter 3 years ago
*Unless Lappy hooks me up with some stolen wireless
*Perhaps from a Devil's Playground parking lot
*Because I don't expect fine hotels in Hillbillyland
*And vacation will take us even deeper into it
*Sweet Gummi Mary! Deliver me from duelin' banjos
*And help my youngest boy find some type of gem
*He's the dreamer. It's his vacation, really
*And go-karts for HH and #1
*I'm their social secretary
*But I get the Dixie Stampede
*More money in Dolly Parton's pocket
*Which must be pretty big, to hold $300 million
*Speaking of people who have too darn much money...
*Won't you be glad when I stop typing like Rosie O'Donnell's blog?
Sunday, May 27, 2007
Holiday Edition Part 2
Which looks suspiciously like the untitled Part 1...
*We are planning a cookout of 1/4 hot dogs tonight at the MiniMansion
*Yeah, we are health food nuts. Marshmallows for dessert
*The boys are big scaredy-cats
*Took table and roasting sticks down to MiniMansion
*Sticks started to vibrate when placed in MM
*Heard a scream
*Drove the Scout back to the house, and rain poured down
*Pulled in garage, and rain stopped
*Look for us on Weird Travels, methinks
*Have been planning Crater of Diamonds vacation
*With a stop in Branson for the Dixie Stampede
*I hate vacations
*But I am looking forward to this one
*Because we will get it over with early in the summer
*Then I will still get my casino trip owed to me from my birthday
*I'm glad I've been secretly saving since Christmas for vacation
*Time to dig up that sock full of money from the backyard
*Hope I don't strike copper
*HH has forgotten about his plan to strip-mine our land for copper
*The pool people gave him the idea, after testing a water sample
*HH is a bit excitable
*Yesterday I made some excellent potato salad
*Not that it has anything to do with exciting HH
*The dogs have been on a killing spree for 4 days
*Armadillo, squirrel, squirrel, baby mole, mouse
*Yes, they murder more than once a day
*I'm suspicious that some of the carnage may be attributed to the cats
*And the dogs bully them out of their prize when they are done toying with it
*Except the armadillo
*Which still lingers, with a mousepad-sized chunk of shell on the side porch
*Ahh...country livin' is the life for me
*And old TV shows with theme songs like that
*Time to gather the vittles for the cookout
*A hillbilly's work is never done
*It has nothing to do with those killings, the vittle-gathering
*Trust me
*We are planning a cookout of 1/4 hot dogs tonight at the MiniMansion
*Yeah, we are health food nuts. Marshmallows for dessert
*The boys are big scaredy-cats
*Took table and roasting sticks down to MiniMansion
*Sticks started to vibrate when placed in MM
*Heard a scream
*Drove the Scout back to the house, and rain poured down
*Pulled in garage, and rain stopped
*Look for us on Weird Travels, methinks
*Have been planning Crater of Diamonds vacation
*With a stop in Branson for the Dixie Stampede
*I hate vacations
*But I am looking forward to this one
*Because we will get it over with early in the summer
*Then I will still get my casino trip owed to me from my birthday
*I'm glad I've been secretly saving since Christmas for vacation
*Time to dig up that sock full of money from the backyard
*Hope I don't strike copper
*HH has forgotten about his plan to strip-mine our land for copper
*The pool people gave him the idea, after testing a water sample
*HH is a bit excitable
*Yesterday I made some excellent potato salad
*Not that it has anything to do with exciting HH
*The dogs have been on a killing spree for 4 days
*Armadillo, squirrel, squirrel, baby mole, mouse
*Yes, they murder more than once a day
*I'm suspicious that some of the carnage may be attributed to the cats
*And the dogs bully them out of their prize when they are done toying with it
*Except the armadillo
*Which still lingers, with a mousepad-sized chunk of shell on the side porch
*Ahh...country livin' is the life for me
*And old TV shows with theme songs like that
*Time to gather the vittles for the cookout
*A hillbilly's work is never done
*It has nothing to do with those killings, the vittle-gathering
*Trust me
Saturday, May 26, 2007
Holiday Weekend Edition
Ahh...yes...the Holiday Weekend Edition. Which looks surprisingly similar to the Hillbilly Mom Lite edition. Enjoy.
Holiday Weekend Edition: A Graduation Ceremony
*Arrived at 5:28 for the 7:00 graduation.
*People were already waiting.
*Mabel arrived soon after.
*Retrieved unironed (mine) and smoky (Mabel's & Ivory's) gowns from cabinet
*Lounged about in the teachers' workroom
*Mabel rifled through Ivory's mailbox for scissors to hack open candy
*Mabel drank a bottle of water she found near the mailboxes
*It was unopened. Mabel may be a thief, but she is a hygienic thief
*Moved to Goody's room to shoot the breeze with cronies
*Gowned up and traipsed out
*Saw Former Crony. Made a flexible lunch date to gossip
*Watched music/picture salute. Barely teared up. Not attached to this group
*Listened to a horrific singer. Could not carry a tune in a bucket
*Talked through ceremony. Softly
*One graduate high-fived the entire front row of school board members
*Marched out. Caught large wad of green Silly String with head
*Mr. S was the intended target. I walk with him every year
*Note to self: demand protection money from Mr. S next year
*Chucked gown in a box. Ran out to beat crowd
*Left a bunch of candy in the sleeve. So sue me
*Top administrator asked about email from #1 son
*Told him to delete. It went to everyone in his mailbox
*Drove home in the rain
*Saw 4 (FOUR) idiots walking in the middle of the road
*At 4 different locations
*What are they putting in the meth these days?
*On gravel road, saw many small frogs jumping to and fro
*Faintly heard "Hello, my honey...hello, my baby...hello, my ragtime doll"
*Nawww
*Watched the news with #1 son
*Children sent home from elementary school due to dead body found in cafeteria
*School locked kids in. With the body
*I kid you not
*Phoenix, Sierra Vista Elementary
*I have some handbaskets for sale
Holiday Weekend Edition: A Graduation Ceremony
*Arrived at 5:28 for the 7:00 graduation.
*People were already waiting.
*Mabel arrived soon after.
*Retrieved unironed (mine) and smoky (Mabel's & Ivory's) gowns from cabinet
*Lounged about in the teachers' workroom
*Mabel rifled through Ivory's mailbox for scissors to hack open candy
*Mabel drank a bottle of water she found near the mailboxes
*It was unopened. Mabel may be a thief, but she is a hygienic thief
*Moved to Goody's room to shoot the breeze with cronies
*Gowned up and traipsed out
*Saw Former Crony. Made a flexible lunch date to gossip
*Watched music/picture salute. Barely teared up. Not attached to this group
*Listened to a horrific singer. Could not carry a tune in a bucket
*Talked through ceremony. Softly
*One graduate high-fived the entire front row of school board members
*Marched out. Caught large wad of green Silly String with head
*Mr. S was the intended target. I walk with him every year
*Note to self: demand protection money from Mr. S next year
*Chucked gown in a box. Ran out to beat crowd
*Left a bunch of candy in the sleeve. So sue me
*Top administrator asked about email from #1 son
*Told him to delete. It went to everyone in his mailbox
*Drove home in the rain
*Saw 4 (FOUR) idiots walking in the middle of the road
*At 4 different locations
*What are they putting in the meth these days?
*On gravel road, saw many small frogs jumping to and fro
*Faintly heard "Hello, my honey...hello, my baby...hello, my ragtime doll"
*Nawww
*Watched the news with #1 son
*Children sent home from elementary school due to dead body found in cafeteria
*School locked kids in. With the body
*I kid you not
*Phoenix, Sierra Vista Elementary
*I have some handbaskets for sale
Friday, May 25, 2007
Hillbilly Mom Lite
Welcome...to this evening's edition of Hillbilly Mom Lite.
*Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is attending graduation festivities tonight.
*It is part of her contract, as in 'other duties as needed'.
*She must arrive at an ungodly hour, since parking spaces are at a premium.
*So there will be none of the ME-fest that usually comprises this blog.
*HM worked at school from 7:40 a.m. to 2:15 p.m.
*She did not throw the baby out with the trash.
*In fact, she did not even throw out the trash.
*But she saw a baby in the hall.
*The Hillbilly boys were fed a lunch of leftover breakfast McDonald's sausage biscuits.
*And a supper of Save-A-Lot corn dogs.
*Their arteries are hardening faster than concrete at 107 degrees in a sunny desert city.
*Mrs. HM finished the main part of her big project today.
*All it needs is fine tuning.
*She has 21 hours and 40 minutes in that project.
*Now she can take her time with the math part.
*Mabel and Mrs. HM have their own spy business.
*HM is going to sing like a canary when she sees Mabel tonight.
*The books on top of the sagging cabinet were moved next door to a storage room.
*They are stored under a table with a microfiche reader on it.
*Methinks they will not be noticed, as the microfiche is not in high demand.
*Go figure.
*Mrs. HM's top half of the brokeback doorstops was found in that storage room.
*He was unceremoniously scooped up and tossed in the closet.
*Somewhat fitting, don't you say?
*We should have started this spy business sooner.
*The double-secret program that the big project is written in kicked HM out.
*HM almost cried, since there were 6 hours of work in question.
*#1 geek said it was expected, to make sure she wasn't just soaking up bandwidth.
*After a restart, Mrs. HM was again able to access the info.
*Only 3 small items were lost.
*They were restored in short order, by cracky!
*Tonight Mrs. HM will leak a few tears during the music/picture salute to the seniors.
*She's funny like that.
*Graduation: the official demarcation of the school year and summer.
*Thank the Gummi Mary!
*Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is attending graduation festivities tonight.
*It is part of her contract, as in 'other duties as needed'.
*She must arrive at an ungodly hour, since parking spaces are at a premium.
*So there will be none of the ME-fest that usually comprises this blog.
*HM worked at school from 7:40 a.m. to 2:15 p.m.
*She did not throw the baby out with the trash.
*In fact, she did not even throw out the trash.
*But she saw a baby in the hall.
*The Hillbilly boys were fed a lunch of leftover breakfast McDonald's sausage biscuits.
*And a supper of Save-A-Lot corn dogs.
*Their arteries are hardening faster than concrete at 107 degrees in a sunny desert city.
*Mrs. HM finished the main part of her big project today.
*All it needs is fine tuning.
*She has 21 hours and 40 minutes in that project.
*Now she can take her time with the math part.
*Mabel and Mrs. HM have their own spy business.
*HM is going to sing like a canary when she sees Mabel tonight.
*The books on top of the sagging cabinet were moved next door to a storage room.
*They are stored under a table with a microfiche reader on it.
*Methinks they will not be noticed, as the microfiche is not in high demand.
*Go figure.
*Mrs. HM's top half of the brokeback doorstops was found in that storage room.
*He was unceremoniously scooped up and tossed in the closet.
*Somewhat fitting, don't you say?
*We should have started this spy business sooner.
*The double-secret program that the big project is written in kicked HM out.
*HM almost cried, since there were 6 hours of work in question.
*#1 geek said it was expected, to make sure she wasn't just soaking up bandwidth.
*After a restart, Mrs. HM was again able to access the info.
*Only 3 small items were lost.
*They were restored in short order, by cracky!
*Tonight Mrs. HM will leak a few tears during the music/picture salute to the seniors.
*She's funny like that.
*Graduation: the official demarcation of the school year and summer.
*Thank the Gummi Mary!
Thursday, May 24, 2007
I'm Not Outta Here!
The school year is over, you know. I've been telling you that all along. See? I was right.
Today I had a half-day of official work, but stayed until 3:15 to finish up some stuff. Stuff I didn't know I would be doing until Monday. Stuff that will take a minimum of 30 hours to do. I have about16 hours in it right now. So of course it's not finished. If I'd only known I was being added to this project before the next to next to last day of school, I could have worked on it on my plan time throughout the year.
My #1 son was a big help. Yesterday, just before we left, we stacked 99 books on top of my wooden cabinets. 99 textbooks on top of the cabinet, 99 books on the top...if one of those books should happen to fall...Mabel will sue me for massive head injuries and live in my Mansion. But the point I am trying to make in a roundabout way is that all that stacking was a waste of time and energy. This morning, when I opened my cabinet to clean it out and stow more stuff in it, I saw that the top board of the cabinet was sagging like a hammock. Tomorrow, I have to find a place for some of those books. The reason I put them up there, from where they magically appeared on my table and desks throughout the last several days of school, brought by little elves who prefer to carry heavy objects rather than sit in class, was because my old, old lunch buddy, even before Mr. K, told me, "You're not going to leave those books there, are you? The custodians will have to move them when they wax your floor." Sweet Gummi Mary! How dare I force the custodians to do their job! It's not that I'm trying to be mean. I even take the drawers out of my desk and stash them in the cabinets so they don't have to carry a heavy desk. I took out three big bags of trash to the giant overflowing dumpster this morning so they wouldn't have to. I give them a good reveiw when those evaluation thingies come out, even though my room doesn't get cleaned during deer season.
Anyhoo...I followed Goodie's advice, and stacked the books. She came in this morning, and said, "Wow, it looks different with those books stacked up there." Then I pointed to the swaybacked top of my cabinet. "Oooh," she said, "you'd better get those books off there. That's what happened to my cabinet shelves last summer." OK. Did I miss something? She told me to put my books up there, knowing that the wood could not hold them. Did she think I got the special kryptonite cabinets, or what? Sometimes she cracks me up.
I also sent my boy on a gift-giving mission to return books I've had for nigh on 6 years. Don't think I'm a scofflaw. I return library books on time (sorry about your John Grisham, Mabel. I still have him here at the Mansion). These were textbooks and core class stuff that I needed for my classes. Some teachers were glad to get them. Others, not so much. In fact, my son said one reacted with, "Oh, great," when he said he had put some books on the desk that his mom didn't need any more. He had a large, yellow metal cart. The kind you can haul a desk and a file cabinet and a TV on, and still have room for a compact car. It had metal wheels, too. He thought he was something with his little stacks of books and directions where to take them. Oh, and I also gave away a perfectly good VCR (with all its connecting cables, Mabel, and it wasn't to YOU, so there, for you little LOCKED UP episode with the rulers and scissors and glue). The VCR was my mom's old one, and I'd been saving it for my old buddy whose job I now have, but she never got a TV. And even an itty bitty child knows that a VCR is no good without a TV. Unless it's my #1 child, and he hooks it up to a computer monitor or something. I gave way 7 parts-of-speech posters. Laminated, by cracky! Too bad Meanie doesn't work in my building. She could have raked it in today.
And now I must go put in a few more hours of work on my 'project' before I go back to school tomorrow, on a non work day, and then take a little recess before returning tomorrow night for graduation.
The summer is almost over, you know.
Today I had a half-day of official work, but stayed until 3:15 to finish up some stuff. Stuff I didn't know I would be doing until Monday. Stuff that will take a minimum of 30 hours to do. I have about16 hours in it right now. So of course it's not finished. If I'd only known I was being added to this project before the next to next to last day of school, I could have worked on it on my plan time throughout the year.
My #1 son was a big help. Yesterday, just before we left, we stacked 99 books on top of my wooden cabinets. 99 textbooks on top of the cabinet, 99 books on the top...if one of those books should happen to fall...Mabel will sue me for massive head injuries and live in my Mansion. But the point I am trying to make in a roundabout way is that all that stacking was a waste of time and energy. This morning, when I opened my cabinet to clean it out and stow more stuff in it, I saw that the top board of the cabinet was sagging like a hammock. Tomorrow, I have to find a place for some of those books. The reason I put them up there, from where they magically appeared on my table and desks throughout the last several days of school, brought by little elves who prefer to carry heavy objects rather than sit in class, was because my old, old lunch buddy, even before Mr. K, told me, "You're not going to leave those books there, are you? The custodians will have to move them when they wax your floor." Sweet Gummi Mary! How dare I force the custodians to do their job! It's not that I'm trying to be mean. I even take the drawers out of my desk and stash them in the cabinets so they don't have to carry a heavy desk. I took out three big bags of trash to the giant overflowing dumpster this morning so they wouldn't have to. I give them a good reveiw when those evaluation thingies come out, even though my room doesn't get cleaned during deer season.
Anyhoo...I followed Goodie's advice, and stacked the books. She came in this morning, and said, "Wow, it looks different with those books stacked up there." Then I pointed to the swaybacked top of my cabinet. "Oooh," she said, "you'd better get those books off there. That's what happened to my cabinet shelves last summer." OK. Did I miss something? She told me to put my books up there, knowing that the wood could not hold them. Did she think I got the special kryptonite cabinets, or what? Sometimes she cracks me up.
I also sent my boy on a gift-giving mission to return books I've had for nigh on 6 years. Don't think I'm a scofflaw. I return library books on time (sorry about your John Grisham, Mabel. I still have him here at the Mansion). These were textbooks and core class stuff that I needed for my classes. Some teachers were glad to get them. Others, not so much. In fact, my son said one reacted with, "Oh, great," when he said he had put some books on the desk that his mom didn't need any more. He had a large, yellow metal cart. The kind you can haul a desk and a file cabinet and a TV on, and still have room for a compact car. It had metal wheels, too. He thought he was something with his little stacks of books and directions where to take them. Oh, and I also gave away a perfectly good VCR (with all its connecting cables, Mabel, and it wasn't to YOU, so there, for you little LOCKED UP episode with the rulers and scissors and glue). The VCR was my mom's old one, and I'd been saving it for my old buddy whose job I now have, but she never got a TV. And even an itty bitty child knows that a VCR is no good without a TV. Unless it's my #1 child, and he hooks it up to a computer monitor or something. I gave way 7 parts-of-speech posters. Laminated, by cracky! Too bad Meanie doesn't work in my building. She could have raked it in today.
And now I must go put in a few more hours of work on my 'project' before I go back to school tomorrow, on a non work day, and then take a little recess before returning tomorrow night for graduation.
The summer is almost over, you know.
Wednesday, May 23, 2007
Paula Deen in my front yard eating a lobster tail!
We'll get to that title a bit later. It sounds like a great new exclamation for a Hillbilly, doesn't it? Kind of like, "Well butter my butt and call me a biscuit!" Or it reminds you of 'Clue'. "Colonel Mustard in the parlor with a candlestick."
In other news, the guilting of Mabel has now ended. Mabel brought her graduation gown (and Ivory's gown, too) to my room this morning to hang in its rightful place: the cabinet de la Hillbilly Mom. I don't know if that's the right usage of 'de la', but I thought it sounded good. Funny thing...Mabel did that without having read the Mabel post yet. But listen to this! After reading it, Mabel showed up at the faculty meeting with an entire bag of candy for my sleeve. Sweet Gummi Mary! I don't know about that...I think it might make a giant bulge.
I spent the afternoon loading up the remnants from my Everything Must Go Grand Extravaganza at Lower Basementia. Then I had my #1 son stack about 300 books on top of my cabinets in my future only building. He kind of put them close to the edge. I hope Mabel doesn't open the door for her gown, and get cracked in the head. Oh, well. She could sleep for a while with tweeting birdies and stars circling her noggin. After all, she has a gown.
This was the last day for the kids. I treated my class to a movie with popcorn and soda. Hey! Some of them even said, "Thank you, Mrs. Hillbilly Mom." There was a bit of a problem with one class. I suppose that 12-pack of Mountain Holler made them feisty. I had to send for one to come back and pick up his popcorn crumbs from the chair and floor. Oh, and the next hour, we kept hearing an odd noise. I reached the root of the mystery when I opened the refrigerator to get out my lunch. The bottom of it was full of water. Seems somebody had turned the control to '1' instead of '5'. It could have been an honest mistake. Except for reminding me how old I am every day, and trying to nomad it about the room, they have never waged war with me all year. So I assume it was somebody taking out a soda, and his hand hit the controller. That's the way it spins.
And speaking of 'Look what the cat dragged in...', I have something to share with you. No, it's not a movie, popcorn, and soda. Don't get so excited. Technically, I suppose we were not really talking about what the cat dragged in. But this morning, after I backed out of the garage, and before I went up the driveway, I spied Ol' Chewy Ann, the Chewingest Dog, munching something out under the cedar tree. I did what any curious Hillbilly would do: I drove through the yard to get a better look. She was lying down, pulling something up off a curved, segmented-looking thingy. Ann looked just like Paula Deen eating a lobster tail. If Paula didn't dip the lobster in butter, and didn't use a fancy fork, but just leaned over and ripped out some lobster with her teeth, and if she didn't sit on a chair at a table, but instead lay on the ground in a little dust patch where she had worn away the grass by turning round and round to lie down there every day, and if she was a bit slimmer, and took on the shape of a black german shepherd/lab mix. Yeah. Just like Paula Deen eating a lobster tail.
Guess what! It wasn't a lobster tail! It was the shell of an armadillo! Who knew? Those critters are traipsing farther north every year, by cracky. OOOOOH! It must be global warming. The sky is falling, the sky is falling! Never let it be said that Mrs. Hillbilly Mom doesn't have an Emergency Broadcast System warning in place. Please get under your desks in an orderly fashion, and clasp your hands behind your neck.
I hear that pieces of the sky are quite heavy.
OK, I have to tell you that I know Mabel really meant for me to OPEN the package of candy before putting a few pieces in my sleeve. And it wasn't 300 books. It was 99. And the last time I checked, the sky wasn't falling. Rainbows hold up the sky, you know. Rainbows. Nature's trusses. Yes, I had to tell you that. Not only am I Even Steven, I am Honest Abe as well.
In other news, the guilting of Mabel has now ended. Mabel brought her graduation gown (and Ivory's gown, too) to my room this morning to hang in its rightful place: the cabinet de la Hillbilly Mom. I don't know if that's the right usage of 'de la', but I thought it sounded good. Funny thing...Mabel did that without having read the Mabel post yet. But listen to this! After reading it, Mabel showed up at the faculty meeting with an entire bag of candy for my sleeve. Sweet Gummi Mary! I don't know about that...I think it might make a giant bulge.
I spent the afternoon loading up the remnants from my Everything Must Go Grand Extravaganza at Lower Basementia. Then I had my #1 son stack about 300 books on top of my cabinets in my future only building. He kind of put them close to the edge. I hope Mabel doesn't open the door for her gown, and get cracked in the head. Oh, well. She could sleep for a while with tweeting birdies and stars circling her noggin. After all, she has a gown.
This was the last day for the kids. I treated my class to a movie with popcorn and soda. Hey! Some of them even said, "Thank you, Mrs. Hillbilly Mom." There was a bit of a problem with one class. I suppose that 12-pack of Mountain Holler made them feisty. I had to send for one to come back and pick up his popcorn crumbs from the chair and floor. Oh, and the next hour, we kept hearing an odd noise. I reached the root of the mystery when I opened the refrigerator to get out my lunch. The bottom of it was full of water. Seems somebody had turned the control to '1' instead of '5'. It could have been an honest mistake. Except for reminding me how old I am every day, and trying to nomad it about the room, they have never waged war with me all year. So I assume it was somebody taking out a soda, and his hand hit the controller. That's the way it spins.
And speaking of 'Look what the cat dragged in...', I have something to share with you. No, it's not a movie, popcorn, and soda. Don't get so excited. Technically, I suppose we were not really talking about what the cat dragged in. But this morning, after I backed out of the garage, and before I went up the driveway, I spied Ol' Chewy Ann, the Chewingest Dog, munching something out under the cedar tree. I did what any curious Hillbilly would do: I drove through the yard to get a better look. She was lying down, pulling something up off a curved, segmented-looking thingy. Ann looked just like Paula Deen eating a lobster tail. If Paula didn't dip the lobster in butter, and didn't use a fancy fork, but just leaned over and ripped out some lobster with her teeth, and if she didn't sit on a chair at a table, but instead lay on the ground in a little dust patch where she had worn away the grass by turning round and round to lie down there every day, and if she was a bit slimmer, and took on the shape of a black german shepherd/lab mix. Yeah. Just like Paula Deen eating a lobster tail.
Guess what! It wasn't a lobster tail! It was the shell of an armadillo! Who knew? Those critters are traipsing farther north every year, by cracky. OOOOOH! It must be global warming. The sky is falling, the sky is falling! Never let it be said that Mrs. Hillbilly Mom doesn't have an Emergency Broadcast System warning in place. Please get under your desks in an orderly fashion, and clasp your hands behind your neck.
I hear that pieces of the sky are quite heavy.
OK, I have to tell you that I know Mabel really meant for me to OPEN the package of candy before putting a few pieces in my sleeve. And it wasn't 300 books. It was 99. And the last time I checked, the sky wasn't falling. Rainbows hold up the sky, you know. Rainbows. Nature's trusses. Yes, I had to tell you that. Not only am I Even Steven, I am Honest Abe as well.
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
A Warning To Mabel
Old Mother Hubbard needs to go to the grocery store. Her dog will be getting no bone from my cupboard. By that, I mean the black metal cabinet at the back of my classroom in Lower Basementia. Mabel knows what I'm talkin' about. She bequeathed that cabinet to me back when the new school was built. She didn't wanna haul damaged goods into a brand spankin' new building. Actually, I think there was not enough room for Blackie. So rather than face jail time for abandonment, she gave Blackie to me. He can't hold his goods. He is insecure. You have to jiggle and hold him just right to shut him up. What I am trying to say is that he will not lock unless you fiddle about with him in just the right way.
Yep, Mabel gave me Blackie, back in the day when she had a multitude of Blackie's paler cousins ringing my room. They were tan. The fleshtone color of Band-Aids. OH SO MANY goodies were stored in them. You see, my old room, which I was booted from this year, used to be a storage room. I worked hard to clean it out. And then I was yanked from my happy home, banished to Lower Basementia. But getting back to those cabinets...Mabel would pop in every now and then, looting her own cabinets, while my students looked on in awe. Mabel even went so far as to tell me, "If you ever need any scissors or rulers or tape, it's all right here in this cabinet. LOCKED UP! Bwahaha!" That's the way I remember it, anyway.
Now Mabel has forsaken me again. She has broken the routine. Every year, we drag our graduation robes out of the cardboard boxes piled in the office, and hang them side-by-side in my wooden cabinet at the new building. This usually happens a week or two before graduation, and the robes have time to de-wrinkle. This year, nobody cracked open the boxes until yesterday. Graduation is Friday. Still, I hung mine in the cabinet, on a pink plastic hanger that Mabel had sent to my room for just that purpose. Mabel has a scam going, methinks. She ends up with an inordinate amount of plastic hangers. And I see the custodians providing her with black market pencils, too. Anyhoo...Mabel seemed a bit antsy, a bit beside herself, just not quite right this morning when we performed the unveiling of the robes. She did not put hers down. She draped it over her forearm like a waiter's towel. Then she broke the news, "I'm not hanging mine. I have to take it to MathCrony. I promised her." WHAT? Mabel is two-timing me with a new best friend!!! Who knew? Though I must say, the signs have been there for a couple of weeks now. Mabel doesn't drop in to chat. She sticks her head in my classroom door and tells me how busy she is. Unh huh. That's how it starts. She's too busy for me. I see. And now this.
I know all about MathCrony. In fact, she used to have the room right across the hall from me. We were buddies.We were hired the same year. We were like ebony and ivory. Except that we're both white, so I suppose we were Ivory & Ivory. But seriously, we were Math and Science. What could go together better than that? We broke up fights together. We attended IEP meetings together. We watched to make sure the students didn't take advantage of substitutes. But then I had to move to the junk room. I was forgotten. I was no longer a real teacher. Ivory moved on. And now Ivory is just MathCrony, Mabel's minion. I wish her no harm. (Which is disturbingly what a guy I used to carpool with would say before he threatened to kill the person he was dissing.)
Don't worry, MathCrony...the scissors are all LOCKED UP!
Why, why, WHY, Mabel? Just because my husband will not iron your gown for you, you go and abandon me? What about all the good times, Mabel? Sure, I am not quite so entertaining as MathCrony. I do not come to a faculty inservice with my flowered panties hanging out my pantsleg. But we have a history, Mabel. Who was there to comfort you when your TV-to-VCR cable disappeared? ME, Mabel. Not MathCrony. Who drove you 30 miles for a flu shot, Mabel? ME. Not MathCrony. Whose shoulder did you cry on when Mr. Girly Italian Shoes dared to walk on your stepping stones, Mabel? ME. Not MathCrony.
So I'm just sayin', Mabel, that if you don't offer me candy to put down in the sleeve of my robe during graduation ceremonies...IT'S OVER! I will kick the remaining brokeback doorstop to the curb, and use the giant wooden doorstop my little ol' Hillbilly mother swiped from the outer door. And perhaps I shall rekindle my Ivoriness with MathCrony.
Two can play at that game, you know!
Disclaimer:
I'm not really mad about it, Mabel. I'm just funnin' with ya.
I don't care who irons your gown.
You'll come back to me.
Because I make you look so good when you stand next to me.
Yep, Mabel gave me Blackie, back in the day when she had a multitude of Blackie's paler cousins ringing my room. They were tan. The fleshtone color of Band-Aids. OH SO MANY goodies were stored in them. You see, my old room, which I was booted from this year, used to be a storage room. I worked hard to clean it out. And then I was yanked from my happy home, banished to Lower Basementia. But getting back to those cabinets...Mabel would pop in every now and then, looting her own cabinets, while my students looked on in awe. Mabel even went so far as to tell me, "If you ever need any scissors or rulers or tape, it's all right here in this cabinet. LOCKED UP! Bwahaha!" That's the way I remember it, anyway.
Now Mabel has forsaken me again. She has broken the routine. Every year, we drag our graduation robes out of the cardboard boxes piled in the office, and hang them side-by-side in my wooden cabinet at the new building. This usually happens a week or two before graduation, and the robes have time to de-wrinkle. This year, nobody cracked open the boxes until yesterday. Graduation is Friday. Still, I hung mine in the cabinet, on a pink plastic hanger that Mabel had sent to my room for just that purpose. Mabel has a scam going, methinks. She ends up with an inordinate amount of plastic hangers. And I see the custodians providing her with black market pencils, too. Anyhoo...Mabel seemed a bit antsy, a bit beside herself, just not quite right this morning when we performed the unveiling of the robes. She did not put hers down. She draped it over her forearm like a waiter's towel. Then she broke the news, "I'm not hanging mine. I have to take it to MathCrony. I promised her." WHAT? Mabel is two-timing me with a new best friend!!! Who knew? Though I must say, the signs have been there for a couple of weeks now. Mabel doesn't drop in to chat. She sticks her head in my classroom door and tells me how busy she is. Unh huh. That's how it starts. She's too busy for me. I see. And now this.
I know all about MathCrony. In fact, she used to have the room right across the hall from me. We were buddies.We were hired the same year. We were like ebony and ivory. Except that we're both white, so I suppose we were Ivory & Ivory. But seriously, we were Math and Science. What could go together better than that? We broke up fights together. We attended IEP meetings together. We watched to make sure the students didn't take advantage of substitutes. But then I had to move to the junk room. I was forgotten. I was no longer a real teacher. Ivory moved on. And now Ivory is just MathCrony, Mabel's minion. I wish her no harm. (Which is disturbingly what a guy I used to carpool with would say before he threatened to kill the person he was dissing.)
Don't worry, MathCrony...the scissors are all LOCKED UP!
Why, why, WHY, Mabel? Just because my husband will not iron your gown for you, you go and abandon me? What about all the good times, Mabel? Sure, I am not quite so entertaining as MathCrony. I do not come to a faculty inservice with my flowered panties hanging out my pantsleg. But we have a history, Mabel. Who was there to comfort you when your TV-to-VCR cable disappeared? ME, Mabel. Not MathCrony. Who drove you 30 miles for a flu shot, Mabel? ME. Not MathCrony. Whose shoulder did you cry on when Mr. Girly Italian Shoes dared to walk on your stepping stones, Mabel? ME. Not MathCrony.
So I'm just sayin', Mabel, that if you don't offer me candy to put down in the sleeve of my robe during graduation ceremonies...IT'S OVER! I will kick the remaining brokeback doorstop to the curb, and use the giant wooden doorstop my little ol' Hillbilly mother swiped from the outer door. And perhaps I shall rekindle my Ivoriness with MathCrony.
Two can play at that game, you know!
Disclaimer:
I'm not really mad about it, Mabel. I'm just funnin' with ya.
I don't care who irons your gown.
You'll come back to me.
Because I make you look so good when you stand next to me.
Monday, May 21, 2007
Typer Goiter Faster
I spent the day in a business/computer lab, typing objectives and Grade Level Expectations into the curriculum. It was not as bad as it sounds. Once somebody showed up to log us on, and somebody else showed me how to get into the screens I needed, it went rather smoothly. That's not to say that I'm finished. I have about 1/2 done. Not bad, considering that I am dealing with information that was in different form when I taught it eight years ago, and do not currently know it like the back of my hand. I have a sneaking suspicion that I will have to do the same for my math class. Not that I will teach it any differently--I will just have to type in the info in this format. I still don't understand why the Basementia teachers have theirs already completed and my counterparts don't. Except for being time-intensive, it's not rocket science.
I had to leave an hour early for my doctor's appointment. I pushed the appointment back once already, due to a meeting, and I couldn't do it again. Oh, the bad luck...they already had a sub for me so I could type up the curriculum.
The doctor says I am as healthy as a horse. Not in so many words, because I imagine patients get quite testy when being compared to a horse. My goiter is under control. I dooooo loves to talk about my goiter. I regret to inform Mabel that my total cholesterol was 156, with the HDL being 52, and the LDL being 83. Shh...don't tell Mabel, but I eat a little sausage biscuit for breakfast every morning, don't eat oatmeal, cook my green beans with bacon, and umm...it's been quite a while since I exercised. Don't hate me because I'm choleresterolly correct, Mabel. We know you are quite well-preserved from your healthy regimen. Why, next to me, the students think you are but a mere fetus. Just the other day, they told you how much younger you look than I. And when you left, we discussed how I am so old, I have an autographed Bible.
Because I am Even Steven, there is happiness and anger to report concerning my little doctor's visit. Not that my doctor is little. He is somewhat rotund, and a former Army doctor. He pretty much calls a horse a horse. Except not in those words. Haven't you been paying attention? He said my lab results were excellent, and showed me the paperwork. On the bottom of the second page, someone had written "Not Fasting!" with an exclamation mark, just like that! How DARE they!!! I ate my little sausage biscuit and took my medicine at 4:50 a.m., and was completely done by 5:00 a.m. No particle of food or drop of liquid passed my lips from that time until the phlebotomist needled me at 4:00 p.m. If that's not fasting, I don't know what IS! When you have a lab in the morning at 8:00 a.m., the tell you, "Nothing to eat or drink after 10:00 p.m., except for a sip of water if you take medication." So that there, for you non-Mathies, is 10 hours of fasting. I went 11 hours, by cracky, and all I got was a snotty lie on my labwork. "How dare they!" the doctor chuckled, when I pointed it out to him. (He must be psychically in to with me). "It's nothing, your labs were great." I suppose I would have had an excuse if they were not in the normal range. In case you hadn't noticed, that was the ANGER part. The Happiness part is that the receptionist did not call me back to the window for my insurance info and co-pay. The insurance I understood--I was just there on Thursday. I went back after the appointment to give her the co-pay. She said, "I'm going to give this check back to you. Between your two insurances, that should be taken care of." Hmm...maybe that's why the doctor's office sent me that $60 check. Three $20 co-pays from last year. I ain't complainin'. About that.
They're probably making a killing off of me.
I'm their cash horse.
But not in so many words.
P.S. for Mabel (that means Personal Secret for Mabel). So y'all don't read it, OK?
Mabel: I know, it's just NUTS! Not nuts like in crazy nuts. NUTS! I eat cashews every night. I know that almonds are supposed to be more healthy, but this old nag's teeth ain't what they used to be...ain't what they used to be...many long years...ago.
I had to leave an hour early for my doctor's appointment. I pushed the appointment back once already, due to a meeting, and I couldn't do it again. Oh, the bad luck...they already had a sub for me so I could type up the curriculum.
The doctor says I am as healthy as a horse. Not in so many words, because I imagine patients get quite testy when being compared to a horse. My goiter is under control. I dooooo loves to talk about my goiter. I regret to inform Mabel that my total cholesterol was 156, with the HDL being 52, and the LDL being 83. Shh...don't tell Mabel, but I eat a little sausage biscuit for breakfast every morning, don't eat oatmeal, cook my green beans with bacon, and umm...it's been quite a while since I exercised. Don't hate me because I'm choleresterolly correct, Mabel. We know you are quite well-preserved from your healthy regimen. Why, next to me, the students think you are but a mere fetus. Just the other day, they told you how much younger you look than I. And when you left, we discussed how I am so old, I have an autographed Bible.
Because I am Even Steven, there is happiness and anger to report concerning my little doctor's visit. Not that my doctor is little. He is somewhat rotund, and a former Army doctor. He pretty much calls a horse a horse. Except not in those words. Haven't you been paying attention? He said my lab results were excellent, and showed me the paperwork. On the bottom of the second page, someone had written "Not Fasting!" with an exclamation mark, just like that! How DARE they!!! I ate my little sausage biscuit and took my medicine at 4:50 a.m., and was completely done by 5:00 a.m. No particle of food or drop of liquid passed my lips from that time until the phlebotomist needled me at 4:00 p.m. If that's not fasting, I don't know what IS! When you have a lab in the morning at 8:00 a.m., the tell you, "Nothing to eat or drink after 10:00 p.m., except for a sip of water if you take medication." So that there, for you non-Mathies, is 10 hours of fasting. I went 11 hours, by cracky, and all I got was a snotty lie on my labwork. "How dare they!" the doctor chuckled, when I pointed it out to him. (He must be psychically in to with me). "It's nothing, your labs were great." I suppose I would have had an excuse if they were not in the normal range. In case you hadn't noticed, that was the ANGER part. The Happiness part is that the receptionist did not call me back to the window for my insurance info and co-pay. The insurance I understood--I was just there on Thursday. I went back after the appointment to give her the co-pay. She said, "I'm going to give this check back to you. Between your two insurances, that should be taken care of." Hmm...maybe that's why the doctor's office sent me that $60 check. Three $20 co-pays from last year. I ain't complainin'. About that.
They're probably making a killing off of me.
I'm their cash horse.
But not in so many words.
P.S. for Mabel (that means Personal Secret for Mabel). So y'all don't read it, OK?
Mabel: I know, it's just NUTS! Not nuts like in crazy nuts. NUTS! I eat cashews every night. I know that almonds are supposed to be more healthy, but this old nag's teeth ain't what they used to be...ain't what they used to be...many long years...ago.
Sunday, May 20, 2007
I'm Movin' On Up
The school year is almost over, you know. Tomorrow I have a substitute, because apparently I am going to work on the science curriculum. They've been working on it all year, and I hear that the Basementia teachers are finished with their part. I will pitch in to do what I can, what with not having taught science for 8 years now, and having all those 3 grade levels of math GLEs and 2 grade levels of communication arts GLEs dancing in my head this year. I'm sure I can pull it together in this short amount of time, even though the others who teach it have had all year to work on it. D'ya think?
The last day for the kids is Wednesday. They have an early out. Teachers have to stay until the regular time, and go back on Thursday to check out. I have been preparing my tomb--er---room in Lower Basementia for the past week. I plan to be ready for Thursday, so that I don't even have to go down to my room. I shall have everything gone, and just turn in my keys and gradebook and parent contact log and copies of final exams and summer contact sheet and hoof it on out of there. I'm sure we will have graduation practice at the other building, which will take up some time. So I played the game everybody else does, and took care of all that stuff during the day. If you can't feel superior to 'em, join 'em. That's what I always say.
Yep. Mrs. Hillbilly Mom has been holding an 'Everything Must Go' sale. Not so much a sale as a grand giveaway of suicidal proportions. That's what I told a fellow Mathie, "I'd like you to have these books and this oscillating fan that works if you plug it in, even though the switch is broken, and still oscillates, you know, and have these posters while you're at it, since I won't be needing them any more, but don't worry about me, I'm not committing suicide or anything, I just don't have use for these things after Wednesday." I sent my language reproducibles to two different teachers, and gave about 12 games to another, and sent a framed picture of the flag, which every teacher has, to Upper Basementia, to a teacher I figured might want one at home, and I did SELL my mini-fridge to still a different teacher for $25, and I am buying back a TV/VCR combo and two rolly chairs and a computer, because, HEY, I bought them myself with money I earned through an ongoing fundraiser, and I figure I get first and only crack at them because I did all the work.
Then there's the trash. Which is mainly files that I won't be needing now that my program has kind of gone by the wayside. And while I was at it, I cleaned out the whole file cabinet, which I inherited 8 years ago. There was some funky stuff hiding in there. I found a gradebook program on floppy disks. Not so unusual, you might think...except that they were on the 5" floppies, for an Apple IIe computer. I trashed them. Think that's OK? You know how we don't want to throw away valuable school property.
I have some things to straighten out at my main and only building for next year, but that's not such a rush. I can always go up there for a day in the summer. I won't know what to do next year, with only ONE room to get ready, and only ONE faculty meeting to attend, and only ONE gradebook and ONE plan book and ONE faculty handbook and ONE set of discipline and attendance policies, and ONE administrator to answer to, and ONE building to collect donations from me. Gosh! It will be like a year of half-days. Or not.
This may take some getting used to.
The last day for the kids is Wednesday. They have an early out. Teachers have to stay until the regular time, and go back on Thursday to check out. I have been preparing my tomb--er---room in Lower Basementia for the past week. I plan to be ready for Thursday, so that I don't even have to go down to my room. I shall have everything gone, and just turn in my keys and gradebook and parent contact log and copies of final exams and summer contact sheet and hoof it on out of there. I'm sure we will have graduation practice at the other building, which will take up some time. So I played the game everybody else does, and took care of all that stuff during the day. If you can't feel superior to 'em, join 'em. That's what I always say.
Yep. Mrs. Hillbilly Mom has been holding an 'Everything Must Go' sale. Not so much a sale as a grand giveaway of suicidal proportions. That's what I told a fellow Mathie, "I'd like you to have these books and this oscillating fan that works if you plug it in, even though the switch is broken, and still oscillates, you know, and have these posters while you're at it, since I won't be needing them any more, but don't worry about me, I'm not committing suicide or anything, I just don't have use for these things after Wednesday." I sent my language reproducibles to two different teachers, and gave about 12 games to another, and sent a framed picture of the flag, which every teacher has, to Upper Basementia, to a teacher I figured might want one at home, and I did SELL my mini-fridge to still a different teacher for $25, and I am buying back a TV/VCR combo and two rolly chairs and a computer, because, HEY, I bought them myself with money I earned through an ongoing fundraiser, and I figure I get first and only crack at them because I did all the work.
Then there's the trash. Which is mainly files that I won't be needing now that my program has kind of gone by the wayside. And while I was at it, I cleaned out the whole file cabinet, which I inherited 8 years ago. There was some funky stuff hiding in there. I found a gradebook program on floppy disks. Not so unusual, you might think...except that they were on the 5" floppies, for an Apple IIe computer. I trashed them. Think that's OK? You know how we don't want to throw away valuable school property.
I have some things to straighten out at my main and only building for next year, but that's not such a rush. I can always go up there for a day in the summer. I won't know what to do next year, with only ONE room to get ready, and only ONE faculty meeting to attend, and only ONE gradebook and ONE plan book and ONE faculty handbook and ONE set of discipline and attendance policies, and ONE administrator to answer to, and ONE building to collect donations from me. Gosh! It will be like a year of half-days. Or not.
This may take some getting used to.
Saturday, May 19, 2007
HM's Supermarket News Flyer
Since nobody is reading on the weekends, I shall please myself tonight. Please. Not pleasure. What kind of a freak do you think I am? Good thing nobody is reading to answer that. I feel like a little dose of "Hillbilly Mom's Free Supermarket News Flyer." You can find it stacked on the counter at the front of the Save-A-Lot. It is canary yellow. Pick one up today. I glean all my information from my keyword searches.
HILLBILLY MOM'S FREE SUPERMARKET NEWS FLYER
HOW TO IRON NYLON
Put your nylon on the ironing board. Turn on the iron. When it is warmed up, place the iron on the nylon. As you can see and smell...nylon melts when you iron it. Good to know, huh?
BUILDING A BERM FOR DUMMIES
Get some dirt. Push it up in a pile, then flatten out the top. You have just built a berm. Don't worry if your berm doesn't look quite right. It's for dummies. They don't know a berm from a hole in the ground. In fact, you could just dig a hole in the ground, and say, "Hey! Dummies! Here's that berm you wanted. That'll be a hundred bucks. Cash." After the dummies pay you, you can walk off counting your money, mumbling, "Stupid dummies!" Because they won't know you are making fun of them. DUH! They are dummies. Kind of takes the fun out of it, though.
OPEN MOUTH INSERT FOOT BABY PICTURE
OK, this would be a really funny picture, but I advise you not to make it, because the Division of Family Services kind of frowns upon that kind of thing, quite frankly. You can make a baby open his mouth, but you can't make him insert his foot. And you most certainly can't insert YOUR foot, because that would just be twenty different kinds of wrong. A baby doesn't want your stinky foot in its mouth. And it wouldn't fit, anyway, not without stretching that baby's mouth, which I'm pretty sure is against the law in most states. And that whole bare baby on a bearskin rug photo shoot is probably out of the question, too.
I'VE GOT SOME CHANGE IN MY POCKET GOING JING
Man! That's nothing to brag about. Don't you feel cheated? Everybody else's change goes 'jing a ling a ling'. You got some defective pockets, or some defective change, buddy. I'd try to keep that quiet if I was you.
MABEL SITTING ON THE FRONT PORCH DRINKING CHERRY COKE LYRICS
Mabel sitting on the front porch drinking Cherry Coke, honey.
Mabel sitting on the front porch drinking Cherry Coke, ba-abe.
Mabel sitting on the front porch drinking Cherry Coke...
she'll get fat if she don't switch to Cherry DIET Coke.
Honey, ba-aby, mine.
And don't be callin' Mrs. Hillbilly Mom a plagiarist. That little ditty is in the public domain. Isn't it?
RAISING CANADIAN NIGHTCRAWLERS
Good evening, nightcrawlers. Nice and cool tonight, eh? Here's some garbage for you to munch on. You'll love them round bacon slices. I'll be back in aboot 10 hours to check on you. I'm going to watch the Leafs game. Bon appetit.
LYRICS SHE CURLED UP HER NOSE AS SHE WALKED BY MY CADILLAC
She curled up her nose as she walked by my Cadillac.
She knew the change in my pocket was defective and she laughed.
Mabel was drinkin' Cherry Coke on her front porch,
Canadian nightcrawlers were raised, and she was bored,
And she yelled, "Boy, I built a special berm for you!"
CHORUS
Genius? I ain't one,
But I ain't that dumb.
I'm wild, and I iron my nylon, too.
Some girls don't like boys like me...
Eh...but some girls do.
SAYING, DON'T THROW THE BABY OUT WITH THE TRASH
The origin of this saying is a bit murky, much like the bathwater after a hillbilly takes his yearly bath, whether he needs it or not. One thing is for certain: this idiom is not of hillbilly origin. A true hillbilly would never say something like, "Don't throw the baby out with the trash." Who ever heard of a hillbilly throwing out the trash? Now, he might have said something like, "Don't lose the baby in the trash," or "Don't throw the baby out, I was just about to insert my foot in his mouth and take a picture." Then he went went back to pickin' his banjo with that city fella who was going on a float trip.
De de dee dee dee dee dee dee dee...
***************************************************************
That's all for this edition. I think I hear a pig squealing...
HILLBILLY MOM'S FREE SUPERMARKET NEWS FLYER
HOW TO IRON NYLON
Put your nylon on the ironing board. Turn on the iron. When it is warmed up, place the iron on the nylon. As you can see and smell...nylon melts when you iron it. Good to know, huh?
BUILDING A BERM FOR DUMMIES
Get some dirt. Push it up in a pile, then flatten out the top. You have just built a berm. Don't worry if your berm doesn't look quite right. It's for dummies. They don't know a berm from a hole in the ground. In fact, you could just dig a hole in the ground, and say, "Hey! Dummies! Here's that berm you wanted. That'll be a hundred bucks. Cash." After the dummies pay you, you can walk off counting your money, mumbling, "Stupid dummies!" Because they won't know you are making fun of them. DUH! They are dummies. Kind of takes the fun out of it, though.
OPEN MOUTH INSERT FOOT BABY PICTURE
OK, this would be a really funny picture, but I advise you not to make it, because the Division of Family Services kind of frowns upon that kind of thing, quite frankly. You can make a baby open his mouth, but you can't make him insert his foot. And you most certainly can't insert YOUR foot, because that would just be twenty different kinds of wrong. A baby doesn't want your stinky foot in its mouth. And it wouldn't fit, anyway, not without stretching that baby's mouth, which I'm pretty sure is against the law in most states. And that whole bare baby on a bearskin rug photo shoot is probably out of the question, too.
I'VE GOT SOME CHANGE IN MY POCKET GOING JING
Man! That's nothing to brag about. Don't you feel cheated? Everybody else's change goes 'jing a ling a ling'. You got some defective pockets, or some defective change, buddy. I'd try to keep that quiet if I was you.
MABEL SITTING ON THE FRONT PORCH DRINKING CHERRY COKE LYRICS
Mabel sitting on the front porch drinking Cherry Coke, honey.
Mabel sitting on the front porch drinking Cherry Coke, ba-abe.
Mabel sitting on the front porch drinking Cherry Coke...
she'll get fat if she don't switch to Cherry DIET Coke.
Honey, ba-aby, mine.
And don't be callin' Mrs. Hillbilly Mom a plagiarist. That little ditty is in the public domain. Isn't it?
RAISING CANADIAN NIGHTCRAWLERS
Good evening, nightcrawlers. Nice and cool tonight, eh? Here's some garbage for you to munch on. You'll love them round bacon slices. I'll be back in aboot 10 hours to check on you. I'm going to watch the Leafs game. Bon appetit.
LYRICS SHE CURLED UP HER NOSE AS SHE WALKED BY MY CADILLAC
She curled up her nose as she walked by my Cadillac.
She knew the change in my pocket was defective and she laughed.
Mabel was drinkin' Cherry Coke on her front porch,
Canadian nightcrawlers were raised, and she was bored,
And she yelled, "Boy, I built a special berm for you!"
CHORUS
Genius? I ain't one,
But I ain't that dumb.
I'm wild, and I iron my nylon, too.
Some girls don't like boys like me...
Eh...but some girls do.
SAYING, DON'T THROW THE BABY OUT WITH THE TRASH
The origin of this saying is a bit murky, much like the bathwater after a hillbilly takes his yearly bath, whether he needs it or not. One thing is for certain: this idiom is not of hillbilly origin. A true hillbilly would never say something like, "Don't throw the baby out with the trash." Who ever heard of a hillbilly throwing out the trash? Now, he might have said something like, "Don't lose the baby in the trash," or "Don't throw the baby out, I was just about to insert my foot in his mouth and take a picture." Then he went went back to pickin' his banjo with that city fella who was going on a float trip.
De de dee dee dee dee dee dee dee...
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That's all for this edition. I think I hear a pig squealing...
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