Bedtime Story

I certainly seem to be setting the world on fire with my magnificent
posts lately. That's OK. I know someone is reading. My little stat-
counter told me. Go ahead...don't comment. I know you're out
there. And since nobody has an opinion, I am going to do as I
darn well please! So la dee dah! I'm dipping into the keyword
well again to write you a little bedtime story. Sweet dreams.

**************************************************

Once upon a time there was an old lady who lived in a Mansion.
For confidentiality purposes, we shall call her Hillbilly Mom.
One day, Hillbilly Mom went to the cupboard to get her poor
dog some ice poopies. She had to hurry, because she was
expecting guests to show up any minute, wanting to real live see
hannah montanas boobs. HM was planning to throw in a lesson
in sentence structure for them for free. She was hoping none of
the guests were planning to poop out organs while at the Mansion.
She viewed that as a bit abnormal, if not downright painful, right
on par with crying out diamonds. Besides, she already had a piano
at her mom's house, and had no use for an organ.

The guests arrived in their egyptian spaceships, shouting for a
dominos pizza crew training book 1 edition 2 answer sheet. One
of the cheating pizza cookers looked at the other and asked,
what makes old people smell old? HM morphed into a hoppin
mad hillbilly when another one looked at her and said, p.u. you
stink, what does p.u. you stink mean? Talk soon turned to
glade plug-in and allergies, and g strings for 16 year olds.
HM tried to distract them with some recreational histinex use
and it burned my nose gin, but a sissified guy in panties called
her mom yellow panties and asked her to pose for an ugly
hillbilly photo.

Sensing that this was not working, and in a hurry to get back to
laying around the shanty, HM told her guests a few inbreeding
stories, fed them some expired ranch dressing, gave them each
an achy breaky heart poster with a thank you letter for chaperoning
a dance, and made some hillbilly funny faces.

The sissified guy in panties was heard to exclaim, i'm afraid of the flu
shot! And the hillbilly mom! I don't wanna be the meat in a hillbilly
sandwich! He goaded his peers into singing the words to the song
every party has a pooper. He realized the meaning to the bad
translation: visitor uninvited worn out their welcome. As they climbed
into a hillbilly jeep for a ride to populars restaurant hendersonville
north caro, they heard Hillbilly Mom goiter retching on the porch of
the Mansion. Snapping a quick photo which he would later entitle
picture of an old hillbilly lady singing, the sissified guy coughed up
hard, and shouted, "We really didn't mean to put sand in your craw.
Let me tell you the one eye middle of forehead hillbilly joke."

Hillbilly Mom loaded up her coon guns and assault rifles sk47 and
blew them to smithereens.

The moral of this story is: don't mess with hillbillies.

**************************************************

Nighty night. Don't let the bedbugs bite. Or the scalp bubble bug
untold stories er thingies.

Fresh Butt Roasting On An Open Fire

Since yesterday's post with my keywords was such a rousing
success...I'm going to do another. Not today, though. I'm composing
a little song for a comrade. No, it's not Mabel, but she'll know what
I mean. It's for a buddy who declared yesterday that she would
rather roast her own a$ than do some such thing that had been
suggested. Oh, she didn't say she'd refuse to do it. She would do
it if so instructed. But she'd rather roast her own a$$. Which was
an expression I'd never heard before. I was mystified, since she
is every bit as hillbilly as I am. Now I must use that saying twenty
times a day. I like it. It's imagery is spellbinding.

Would you use a spit and turn your a$$ over an open flame? That
might be kind of hard to turn yourself, what with being up on that
spit, without any leverage to turn the crank.

Would you use a dark blue with white spots metal roasting pan?
I don't know about y'all, but my a$$ would not quite fit in one of
those roasters.

Would you use a stick over some hot coals, like when roasting
marshmallows? Methinks a roasted a$$, by any other name,
would not taste as sweet as a nice crusty black marshmallow.

Would you crouch on all fours, with foil booties on your ankles,
basting yourself with your own juices for 4 hours at 350? Perhaps
some of us would experience claustrophobia. But we would know
if the oven light stays on when the door is closed.

Anyhoo...I am immersed in the butt-roasting lore this evening, and
must share with you a song I have composed for my pal. OK, I
didn't actually compose it. I can't even play my guitar, even with
a brand new g-string, and in spite of my dream that Dolly Parton
worked part time in a hospital as an RN with me and Abby from
ER and taught us how to play guitar on our breaks. I really only
changed some of the words, but my buddy will know what I'm
talking about.


Fresh Butt Roasting On An Open Fire

Fresh butt roasting on an open fire
But not everybody knows
The expertise level of the teacher you hire--
Not as important as free throws.

Everybody knows a turkey and some mistletoe
Served together won't taste right.
Roasted butt tastes a little like crow...
Wake up, smell coffee, take a bite.

We know we must do things our way.
We did it without calculators in our day.
We worked with decimals, and even pi...
Memorized times tables--we didn't die!

So, I'm offering this simple task:
Kids, add one to ninety-two.
Although it's been said many times, do not ask...
No calculators for you.

So, I'm offering this simple task:
Kids, take one from ninety-two.
"What if I don't have enough fingers?" you ask.
Great Googley Moogley! Boo hoo!


Thank you, thank you. I will be performing in my car on the way
to work each morning. Tickets are available from all law enforcement
officers I will pass on the way.

HM Dishes It Up

I'm trying something new tonight. I won't have a theme or story to
tell you about. I am going to dip into my overflowing, steaming vat
of fresh keyword searches and ladel up a few at random. I will make
up a story from them. Enjoy...

Here's a fine how-do-you-do for y'all: after so many years wore
down floor, put new a one in and scuffed it up. Yep, that's just like
us hillbillies. It's why we can't have nice things.

Now we will commence with the evil hillbilly sayings. He wore a
bowel hat and carried a cane in his bag. Yeah, that's pretty dad-gum
vicious as evil hillbilly sayings go. Because can you imagine how a
bowel hat must smell, what with all the stuff that goes through a
bowel, and to think he wore a hat made of that gunk, right on his
head, which is fairly close to the nose, methinks, though I am not
a physician nor do I play one on TV, although I certainly like that
Luka Kovac on ER, even though a couple weeks ago he threatened
to kill Forest Whitaker if he didn't allegedly quit stalking Abby and
little Joe, and a few seasons ago he threatened to kill Abby's wife-
beating neighbor who wasn't very good at the wife-beating business
and beat Abby instead, which was only to prove to her that no
good could come of her drinking and opening the door to a wife-
beating neighbor who she thought was the food-delivery man
because HELLO she had been drinking, and oh, I am almost
forgetting that one Luka Kovac actually did kill a man by slamming
his head repeatedly into the pavement on his very first date with
Abby, who later turned out to be not that pretty and not that
special, to quote a pissed-off Luka just before his fling with the
kleptomaniacal French waitress. Gosh. You people who don't
watch ER just don't know what you're missing. Mabel. Anyhoo,
getting back to the evil hillbilly saying, the bowel hat guy must be
quite a magician if he can carry a cane in his bag, unless it is one
of those collapsible canes, like the collapsible drinking cup that
my mom used to carry in her purse because apparently my sister
and I had holes in our chins and could not drink properly from
a water fountain, which I blame on her boy-toes, and my laughing
so hard at them that I couldn't hold my water.

I am now pondering the sudden disappearance of my food benefits
on ebt card. I don't even recall having an EBT card. Perhaps this
is a flashback to my life of poverty. That was a cool game, even if
I was wrenched away from my true family, and my buddy Mabel
then turned to a life of crime selling pocket candy as drugs. I hope
the person searching for this does not really hope to find an answer
here. I am not affiliated with the EBT agency, and I am not a member
in good standing with Mystery, Inc.

I am also sorry that I can not help those looking for dining out turkey
dinner missouri. I heard that there are turkey farms in southwestern
Missouri, and that the birds are so dumb they will look up at the rain
and drown. Perhaps that's just an old wive's tale.

emergency procedures on papermate liquid paper are not found here.
Great Googley Moogley, people! Call 911 or the local ER! Why are
you searching the internet for emergency procedures? If I was turning
blue and grabbing my throat and gesturing wildly, would you log on,
check your email, and google 'Heimlich Maneuver'?

uses for pringles cans? Yeah, I get that a lot, to borrow a line from
Sigourney Weaver as Ellen Ripley in Alien 4: Resurrection, when
told "I thought you were dead." I blame my teaching buddy, Mabel.
Not for Ripley being told she was dead, but for the Pringles questions,
because Mabel can't get enough empty Pringles cans. She's insatiable.

Here's one I need help with: hillbilly sayings hog knows about sunday.
What does a hog know about Sunday? Is there a conspiracy? Does
the hog know about the soundstage where the moon landing was
filmed? Did that happen on a Sunday? Is this really a hillbilly saying?
I feel like I've been left out of the loop, like everyone will be wearing
jeans tomorrow, but nobody told me.

kids hillbilly beards sale. Yep, we have 'em here at the Mansion.
There's still time to get one before Christmas. Don't let your kid be
the only one without a beard under the tree on Christmas morning.
Order now, and we'll throw in a free meth using chicken scratch.
I know it's too good to believe. We'll ship that meth-using chicken
right along with the beard. Your kiddie will unwrap it, get scratched,
and you can send the chicken right back to us in its postage-paid
cardboard coop. Meerrrrrryyy Christmas!

Have you had enough, or are you thirsty for more? We'll see if I
have any ideas tomorrow night. In the meantime, I'll leave you
humming those good googley moogley that thing is juicy lyrics.

Y'all come back now, y'hear?

Kidnapper Booking

I took a class to the book fair today, and told the librarian to hold
three books for me. I don't mean hold three books, like a feat of
strength, though I'm sure she could have done it, and would most
certainly have excelled at it if I offered her monetary compensation.
No, I asked her to put them under the counter so I could come
back after school with money and make them mine, all mine.

Of course my children were with me after school, so they had to
pick out some books. That's OK. Grandma doesn't know what
to get them this year. I told them they could each have ONE book
for now, and anything else would have to be Christmas presents.
Hey! Stop shouting "SCROOGE!" I'm doing the same with mine.
At least I will have gifts that I want. Unlike the year of the Red
Devil Mini-Vac.

There was a crime committed in Lower Basementia yesterday.
It was a kidnapping. I must fill you in on the background details.
4th hour, I could not find my hall pass. Oh, it's not a good hall
pass by any stretch of the imagination. My good hall pass was
a little plastic Hamburglar. And the one before him was a plastic
eagle that could balance on your pencil point and spin. No, they
are long gone. After two years of faithful service, they were
unceremoniously left in the girls' bathroom (Hamby) and who
knows where Eegy ended up.

The hall pass I have been using is crappy by all accounts. It is
a small, squarish cardboard box with a roll of donut-shaped
notebookpaperhole reinforcers in it. I have written my name
on the box. I don't have a stylish "Hall Bass" wooden fish like
my fellow Basementia denizen. I don't have a Mabel cow like
my buddy (duh!) Mabel. I cringe every time I fork over that
hall pass. AND NOW IT IS MISSING!

I thought the problem was solved. I asked a student 4th hour
what he did with it. He had taken it to the library, and then
came back to ask if he could go to his locker, as the librarian
of Basementia would not check him out a book to not read
until he returned the one in his locker that he had not read.
I'm not making fun of him. This kid says he hasn't read a whole
book since 3rd grade. Anyhoo...he swore he put it on a math
book on my desk. "Aha!" I gloated. "That math book was
covered with papers yesterday. You could not have know
what was under them. You did not put it on the math book!"
Oh, but he was sure. He said it must have fallen into the
wastebasket beside my desk, and been thrown away. "But
how could it get from over here, the alleged math book position,
to over here, where the wastebasket is?" Without missing a beat,
he replied, "The same way my math book slammed to the floor
the first day of class." Ooohh! He's goood! I give him a point
for originality. Of course the voice of reason, a girl in the class,
said, "How about I go see if it's in the library?" Yes, Sherlock.
Please do. The library is just across the hall from my Basementia
room. She came back waving it around. "Mmm hmmm. Found
on a shelf in Non Fiction."

Just when I thought I had been reunited with Passie, the wayward
cardboard hall pass...She turned up missing again TODAY! I
thought back to who had enjoyed the pleasure of her company.
It was a student in the very next class I had after breathing a sigh
of relief at her return. A student who had given me a school picture
several months ago.

I made a WANTED poster, putting the student's picture at the
top with masking tape.

WANTED
For The Disappearance Of
Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's
Hall Pass
$0.00 reward for information leading to the safe return of Passie

We'll see what develops.

Just Because

No time tonight to post some original poetry or essays from my
authentic writing venture with my students. We went to Ci Ci's Pizza
for #1 son's actual birthday. He did not get the begged-for Razr.
His behavior has been less than exemplary these past few months.
Perhaps if it improves, Santa will instruct his elves to make a last-
minute gift. He also thinks he's getting a Wii. Silly boy. Why would
I get him a Wii to tell his little brother, "I have a Wii...AND YOU
DON'T!" ? He can not see the forest for the trees, that boy.

In lieu of the half-promised student creations, I shall substitute my
spur-of-the-moment composition used as an example of a "Just
because..." poem. Please bear in mind I whipped this out on the
white board in orange dry-erase marker while my students heckled
me with ideas. I sacrifice my dignity each day to whip the class into
a frenzy of participation. Here it is, in all its gory glory:

**************************************************

Just because I'm old...
Don't think I drive slowly
Don't think I invented the wheel
Don't think I use a Wal*Mart cart as a walker

Just because I'm old...
Doesn't mean I don't know what you're up to
Doesn't mean I'm old enough to know better
Doesn't mean I can't have fun

Just because I'm old...
Don't think I don't watch MTV
Don't think I won't get your jokes
Don't think I knit shawls

Just because I'm old, respect my authority.

**************************************************

Haha! That was for my 3rd Hour class, the language class. I hope
you didn't expect too much. I'm not an actual English teacher. My
background is in science. I have to rush out of this class for Lower
Basementia, so I left it on the board. I got tied up with a low-toner
copier this morning (not literally, because they kind of frown on that
type of thing what with a little window in the door of the teacher
workroom so that students can peep in) and had to rush around
to get my stuff ready. My little poem was still on the board when
1st Hour came in. I could hear them whispering while I stood sentry
in the hall. Each time I glanced around the corner, one of them had
a hand poised over my markers. I keep them on my desk because
that discourages students from writing thingies on the board without
permission. Most of them respect the desk territory. I shouted into
the room, "WHAT?" The McDonald's worker said, "Umm...we
were going to add to your poem." Then they blurted out their ideas.
"Just because I'm old doesn't mean my social security number is 1."
"Just because I'm old doesn't mean I died when you said act my age."
"Just because I'm old doesn't mean I'm boring."

Everybody has to get into the act.

HM Spouts Her Philosophy

Today was the first day of the rest of my week. It's the last full week
before Christmas vacation. I still have three finals to make up for the
building that is not Basementia. Meh. Since I found out my kids are
only getting a general elective credit instead of a core credit for my
math and language classes, I am not sweating it. Oh, I give them an
assignment every day in their subject area. I teach them what they
are supposed to learn according to the Grade Level Expectations.
But I'm not breaking my back to make a comprehensive, all-inclusive
depth-of-knowledge-questions test. I figure a performance event
is final enough. The kids with no Fs, less than 3 days absent, and
no discipline referrals don't have to take the finals. I don't see why
the struggling kids should risk making their grades even lower. It is
up to each teacher to decide if the final exam grade can hurt or only
help the student. I just have a problem with 'finals' not being for
everybody. Perhaps there could be some other form of incentive
for the absences and discipline, like Busywork Day, or Big Test Day,
or Bored To Tears Average Day, or I Wish I Got To Play Sports
And Eat Snacks And Listen To Music And Watch Movies All Day
Instead Of Going To Class Day.

I don't think it is right to give FINALS that do not apply to everyone.
They ain't gettin' out of finals in college for showing up and doing
what's expected all semester. That's just my thinking. I don't dare
voice such an opinion to the students OR the other teachers. I don't
pretend to give a final and show movies on final day. I just give a
MAP-style question that takes about 30 minutes to answer.
So sue me. Not really. Our society is already too litigious.

Wake up! I'm done spouting off about my educational beliefs. Now
we shall talk about the students. One of them had the nerve to ask me
today, "Why is my grade only 82%? I only missed 2 out of 11! In the
other math class, I usually get a 90% if I miss two!" This is sad. It is
MATH, for the love of Gummi Mary! I said, "Are you saying that I
don't know how to calculate a percent...ON A CALCULATOR?
Should I tell Mrs. Other Math Teacher what you said?" And the
student said, "Oh, you talk about us behind our backs?" Hahahaha!
"No. I am telling you that I am going to discuss it with her. Obviously,
we need to put more time into this concept of 'percent', which is
calculated as the top number of the fraction divided by the bottom
number of the fraction, multiplied by 100. Like 9/11 is 9 divided
by 11, times 100, which gives you a percent of 82. Your score."
I didn't even try to slip the words 'numerator' and 'denominator'
in there. Or say you could just move the decimal two places to the
right. I don't know what the deal is. He used to be the star of my
class, but for the past two weeks, a girl has been getting more right
than him. Oh, I don't tell them. They all yell their scores out loud.
So much for confidentiality.

I had some good writing assignments this morning out of my older
students. Maybe I'll show some tomorrow. Maybe not. All three
classes did a different type of authentic writing. One class did a
review, another did a personal essay, and another did a 'just
because...' poem.

I'm on the downhill slope to the end of the semester, people.
The school year is almost over, you know!

Rumble At The Devil's Playground

Nothing exciting to report today. HH is gone to his boss's house
for the annual Christmas party. I used to go, but he lets me off the
hook now. I even went with a 6-day-old baby in tow. That was
a bit of an uncomfortable 90-minute drive there and then another
90 minutes back home.

HH survived the sleepover party. #2 son and I enjoyed Grandma's
hospitality for another night. This morning I did the daily Wal*Mart
shopping. I got into an argument with an elderly shelf-stocker. I had
parked my cart near the center Christmas tree display table because
the aisles were crowded. In the top section of my cart, I had two
Coca Cola bear ornaments that I'd spent 10 minutes picking out
for HH. I also had 5 tins soon to contain Chex Mix. I had been
careful in their selection also, as Goldilocks told me the lids could
not be too tight or too loose. They had to be just right. So I parked
my cart and went to pick out some wrapping paper.

When I returned to my cart about 5 minutes later, my cart was gone!
I looked all around the place where I left it. Funny thing...last night I
dreamed that my large SUV was missing from the parking lot when
I returned from the welfare office. I don't know why I was at the
welfare office, other than to get mad at line-jumpers and declare
that I was NOT waiting any longer, and make a grand exit. Anyhoo...
I spotted my items. Also in the bottom of the cart were about 30
rolls of wrapping paper. A couple walked past the elderly shelf-
stocker who had been singing along with the piped Christmas tunes.
They must have know him. They said, "What have you done now?"
I joined in. "I don't mean to be rude, but I was wondering the same
thing. What have you done now? My cart was parked right over
there, and now it is gone. There are my things in that cart with the
wrapping paper. Did you take my cart?" He became surly.

"That is not your cart."
"Well, that's my stuff in the top. I just picked it out."
"That's not your stuff. I've been using this cart for about an hour."
"Why is my stuff in the top? And my cart is gone?"
"That's not your stuff."
"I can tell you what's there. Two Coca Cola ornaments, and 5 tins."
"Well...I saw some woman messing around there."
"Why would she take my stuff and put it in your cart?"
"I don't know. Here. Take this cart."

There was an empty cart behind his. I gathered up my stuff and
put it in. I'm sure he took my stuff. Why else would there be an
empty cart right by his? Good thing we didn't have to rumble.

I think I could take him.

Butt Booger Shock Propaganda

My #2 son has been entertaining us lately. Only he doesn't
know why we find him funny. During the time we stayed at
his grandma's house during the power outage, the boy
announced: "My brother has a butt hole!" Umm...yeah.
And sometimes, you brother IS a butth*le. But we don't
necessarily want to discuss it. What he meant to tell us
was the #1 son had a hole in the seat of his pajama pants.
A butt hole.

While lying on the fold-out couch, gazing lovingly at his
grandma's face, he declared: "Grandma, you need to pick
your nose." Yes, this is from the same boy who grumped
at the age of four: "Mom cut my fingernails--and now I
can't dig out the boogers!"

**************************************************

DeadpanAnn noticed a strange expression on a little girl's
face during the Kookaburra's Christmas Down Under
performance. To me, it looked like the girl had just been
hot-wired to 50,000 volts. OK, maybe not, because
methinks that would probably turn her into a crispy
critter. But I had a shocking experience myself that night.

I'd left my cell phone in the large SUV while killing time at
my Hillbilly Mama's house before the program. The temp
was around 15 degrees. Upon taking the phone out at the
Christmas Program, I heard it chirp, and saw that it had
zero charge left. While sitting on the first row of bleachers,
awaiting the curtain for the performance, I held it up to
show #1 son in the row behind me. "I've never let it get
this low. Does this mean I don't even have one call left?"
The boy slid down the bleacher for a closer look. He
reached out his hand to turn the phone to see the display.

Snap! Crackle! Pop!

A surge of electricity shot through the tip of my finger, down
the bone, into my arm. People 10 feet away heard the POP
of static electricity. IT HURT! I hurled the phone onto the
hardwood gym floor. Not on purpose--it was a reflex. The
poor two-year-old phone slammed onto the unforgiving
maple surface and exploded into three pieces. Don't get all
excited. We drop this phone at least twice a month with the
same result on blacktop parking lots and concrete garage
floors and tile retail floors. It was kind of funny. I knew
'Phony' was not hurt. The gasps from the crowd only fed
my ego. It IS all about me!

We didn't need all the king's horses or all the king's men
to put poor Phony back together again. The #1 son did it,
as usual. And do you know what? Let me answer for you,
since I was there. Phony had a two-bar charge on him!
It lasted through the night and the next day.

#1 son says that he 'charged' my phone with a build-up
of static electricity from his butt sliding on the bleacher.
Who knew? I could have rented him out during the power
outage.

***************************************************

Here's some more info about Thursday night's Christmas
Program. On the back of the program the teacher handed
out, the following Australian facts were listed. Are they
for real? Mish? Lantern? Cazzie? Is it propaganda, or the
real deal?



The area of Australia is almost 3 million square miles.

Australia is slightly smaller than the U.S.

There are about 18 million people living in Australia.

There are over 300,000 people living in Canberra,
the capital.

There are over 3 million people living in Sydney.

Most Australians speak English.

The Australian dollar is written as $A=100 cents.

The wages in Australia are among the highest in the world.

People who are 18 or older are required to vote.

The crime rate in Australia is very low.

The Great Barrier Reef off the northeast coast is the
biggest coral reef in the world. It stretches for about
1,250 miles.

The mainland has over 16,000 of coastline.

There is also a very big island off of Australia known as
Tasmania. This is where the Tasmanian Devil comes from.

The 7-pointed star on the Australian flag represents the
country's states and territories. The other stars represent
the Southern Cross constellation.

In some parts of Australia, it's too far for children to go to
school. They learn at home and talk to teachers over a
two-way radio.

The Aborigines are the people who already lived in Australia
when Europeans first arrived in the late 1700s.

***************************************************

That's all I have for tonight. We are at my Hillbilly Mama's
house again. #1 is having his sleepover birthday party.
HH gets this duty every year. He's good at it. That and
cleaning up vomit. Last year he got to do both, because one
of the guests vomited in the night. I don't know what this
year will bring.

I'm not losing any sleep over it.

Sonny Went A-Singin'...Uh-huh.

EDITED
No, you're not crazy. There are no pictures to go with these
comments. I removed them after I thought all the regular readers
had a chance to see them. You snooze, you lose, here at the
Mansion. If I had taken the pictures, I would have zoomed in
on my boy. HH took them. I figure I shouldn't be posting pics
of other people's kids who appear incidentally next to my kid.

Here are some pictures from
last night's premiere of
Kookaburra's Christmas Down
Under. Perhaps the backdrop
was not so flashy as some plays
have.





The performers eagerly
entered, stage left. That's my
boy in the white shirt and vest.







Gotta clear those sinuses
before the songs begin.








My blood ran cold when I
spied this expression. I feared
a repeat of the Kindergarten
Christmas Program Faux Pas.
Make that Faux Pases, if that's
the correct plural form.



Thank the Gummi Mary, his
battery ran down, just like my
cell phone, which had been left
in the OH SO COLD large SUV
for an hour.





Wait a minute! What's the
director doing? She seems to
be passing out whackers to the
performers! Good boy. You're
merely an arsonist, not a stab-
happy thug.




That's it. It's a microphone.
Belt it out, young 'un. The
energy level of the group
seems to have dropped.

Bravo!
Let's do it again next year!



I won't leave the photos here long. I don't want to have
other people's kids posted when they had no choice in
the matter.

Generating Some Christmas Cheer

Tonight is the #2 son's Christmas Program at school. We
found out last night. It was rescheduled from one of the snow
days. He also had his Reading Club after school today. So
we've been kind of busy. We picked up some medicine after
school, then headed to my Hillbilly Mama's house for an hour
and a half. She's a good way station in the journey of our lives.

HH has cooked up a new plan for emergencies. Perhaps I told
you about this yesterday. I really can't remember. He was
planning to get a giant generator to run the whole house. I
was not so thrilled. The kind he wants costs $5000. We are
not Wal*Mart, or a hospital, or NORAD. We don't need any
generator that big. They only run on propane or natural gas,
anyway. I don't go for that.

Last night HH bought two electric fireplace thingies at Lowes.
He SAID they were on clearance, and he saved a couple hundred
dollars. That HH. He has a nose for 'bargains'. He also has a nose
for money. I had no sooner put my Christmas bonus in the bank
than he went and spent a couple hundred over it. And HH didn't
even know I got a Christmas bonus. We don't get them every
year. This has been a recent development over the last few years.
I swear, it was like HH was psychic. Money in...money out. Now
he's planning on getting a smaller generator that he saw on sale
somewhere else. He figures we can heat the house with the
generator and electric fireplaces. We have one in our basement
already, and it looks nice. I'm not sure I want one upstairs, but
it looks like I don't have much choice.

While I'm on the subject of HH...did you know that he left the
heater running in the Free Hairwad Hot Tub last night? This
from the man who used to put the water heater on a timer last
summer to conserve energy. Pity the poor fool who slept in and
wanted a shower, or to wash dishes after 6:00 a.m. That's the
time HH leaves for work. Obviously nobody has a life during the
time he's at work. I put a stop to that pretty quick, right after
my first cold shower. But we can run a heater on a free hot tub
all night when the temperature is 12 degrees. Go figure!
We wouldn't want the hairwad to catch a chill.

Time is running short. I must prepare the boy for his Christmas
Program. He has a little dress shirt and tie, with a vest. He dug
out his churchy shoes, as he calls them. Too bad he'll have to
wear blue socks with black pants. HH took the clothes out to
the large SUV last night so we wouldn't forget them. Oh, he was
not being all touchy-feely sweet to do that. I had asked him to.
But he never does anything after ONE telling-to. I searched the
Mansion high and low for 30 minutes last night for those clothes.
At 11:30, I gave up and woke HH to ask him. Whew! I thought
they were gone for good.

Now we're off to see Kookaburra's Christmas Down Under.

Today Should Be A Do-Over

I hate it when kids say that. Do-Over. Back in the day when I taught
P.E., I especially hated it. There we'd be, right in the middle of a
spirited game of volleyball, or badminton, or hop-soc, and some
urchin would holler out: "DO-OVER!" No. No no no no no! There
is no do-over. Just because you are so uncoordinated as to hit the
ball into the very high ceiling tiles or hanging lights of the gym, do
not think the world owes you a second chance! I, on the other hand,
DO deserve another chance at today. Hey! It's the first day of the
rest of my life, people!

This has not been a good day. It began with a call to my Hillbilly
Mama to tell her that I did not need a wake-up call at 6:00 a.m.
It's a little routine we have. I have only needed to be woken up
one time, but just in case, I have her call me. We have done this
for several years. Hey, she gets up that early anyway.

So as I was talking to her, getting lunches ready, she said how she
woke up this morning and really missed having me and my brats
at her house. That made me teary-eyed, because I don't like to
think of her being sad to start the day. As soon as I hung up the
phone, I spilled a new box of Honey Nut Cheerios all over the
kitchen counter. I gathered them up into a large plastic cup such
as the kind you can get at a fraternity house to drink green beer
pumped from a keg at a St. Patrick's day party. The reason for
that was that my lazy layabout son will not take out the trash when
I tell him. So we play the balancing game until something ooky
falls out and he has to pick it up.

Forty minutes later, with only ten minutes left before our departure,
the boy decided to pour himself a bowl of cereal for breakfast.
I suppose the thought didn't occur to him during the thirty minutes
he laid sideways in the recliner grouching at his brother. He picked
up a bag of Save-A-Lot fake Cap'n Crunch with Crunchberries
cereal (hey, only the adults get the name brand around here) and
tore off the top. Then he stood it on end on the cutting block. Silly
boy. Bags do not stand up. They lean over and pour their fake
crunchberries onto the kitchen floor. I must have been pitiful, what
with my tears just dried from my sad lonely mama conversation,
because my sweet #2 son rushed in to help pick up the errant
berries.

I dropped the boys off at school, and began to clean up the aftermath
of the ice storm in my classroom. The posters had jumped off the wall
again, so I snatched them bald of all their masking tape and stacked
them unceremoniously on the bad-kid desk at the back of the room.
Then I hiked to the teacher workroom for some coarse paper toweling
that is most definitely not the quicker-picker-upper. It was white! Not
the regular brown! But it was still coarse and non-absorbant. The only
difference was that with my long swatch of it, I looked like Santa with
his checking-it-twice list.

The morning classes were uneventful. At Basementia, I reached into
my upper left drawer, the one that squeals like Ned Beatty in Deliverance,
but without the purty mouth, to get my 3-hole punch. Oh, I got it all right.
But the bottom came off of it, and I left a pile of holes in the bottom of
the drawer. You wouldn't think holes could leave such a mess, but they
did. Nobody volunteered to clean up that mess for me, so I had to do
it myself.

After school we went to order #1 son's birthday cake for Saturday, even
though his actual birthday is Tuesday. He was crankier than a teacher
with a migraine on a full-moon Friday picture day. He finally picked out
a design and begged for donuts. Of course I gave in, because it's just
easier that way. The poor pitiful bakery worker who boxed up the donuts
must have had a hole in her head like her merchandise. She could not
understand that I wanted the white icing with sprinkles and the chocolate
icing with sprinkles right beside it. She put in a plain white icing and the
chocolate with sprinkles. #2 son said, "Hey! You put in wrong one! I
want the one with sprinkles!" So she added that to the box. I had to
tell her twice that we didn't want the plain white icing donut. I don't
know what was so hard to understand. It's not like I was speaking
pig latin or anything.

After checkout, we played $1.75 on the quarter-pushing machine
until we ran out of quarters. Then we went to buy a PoweBall ticket,
but some guy was cashing his check, so instead we bought two scratch-
off tickets out of the lottery vending machine. While we were doing that,
three quarters fell out of the quarter-pushing machine, so of course we
had to play again. This time we quit with $4.75. In the car, #2 son
scratched a $10 winner for the $12 we spent on tickets. Which, if
you're math-inclined and have been following along, means we came
out with $14.75 after investing $13.75 on our gambling addiction.
WooHoo! We're Even Steven with a $1 Christmas bonus!

That was the high point of the day.

Caught In The Act

"Helloooo, Food-Givers. What are YOU doing here?"

Do you know what the cats do when you leave your Mansion for
five days? No, it's not a riddle. I'm really asking. Let me answer
for you: They play ice hockey. In formal wear. On the swimming pool.














Who knew? The ritual seems to be to walk all around the humpy
thingy in the middle that floats and holds up the pool cover. Some
water melts around that ring, and the cats think something is moving
under there. They are fascinated. They bat at it with their gloved
hands, and then lick their toes when they get wet. Next thing you
know, a piece of ice breaks off. It is great fun to swat at the ice
puck, then chase it across the pool to swat it again.

Here's something else you may not know. Computers, video games,
cable TV, books, board games, brother-fighting, marshmallow-
roasting, lying under the fold-out couch, and balloon volleyball
are not enough to keep two boys occupied at Grandma's house
for 5 days. Again, who knew?

There was a dramatic aviation accident yesterday.
















Lucky for us, it was captured by a roving photographer. Rumor
has it that the photographer was also the pilot. I will vouch for the
authenticity of the photo. No deafening screams of joy such as I
heard could have been manufactured to fake such a crash. Both
photographer/pilot and his air traffic controller did the happy dance.
"Quick! Bring me my camera before it falls!" Remember what it
was like to be a kid? Me neither.

Here's a couple of stories I forgot to tell you, what with my mind
addled from being out of the Mansion and force-fed snacks 24/7.

My sister, the Mayor's wife, went to her school to catch up on a
little work on Saturday morning. Funny thing, every teacher in her
district has a key to the building. I don't know why our teachers
can't have them. Apparently there has been a previous incident
of teachers getting into the building and working willy-nilly, making
copies for their classrooms, planning lessons, entering grades, and
whatnot.

Anyhoo...as she entered the building, she saw a mess of spiderwebs
hanging from the ceiling just inside the main door. She pushed them
aside, thinking "We have only been out of school two days. How can
we have so many spiderwebs?" She looked up, and saw that part of
a ceiling tile was gone. It was melted ceiling-tile stuff, not spiderwebs,
hanging down. Up in the black hole, she saw some glowing embers.
When she opened the door to her classroom, it was full of smoke.
She tried to call an administrator, but the number was unlisted. Hmm...
I didn't know they could do that. Ours is listed. But then again, we
don't have keys, so there is not a multitude of patrons calling to report
teachers running willy-nilly about the school.

She finally got ahold of a board member's wife, who relayed the info
to the board member, who contacted the administrator, who called
some custodians. They came into her classroom, what with it being
the nearest one they had access to, and opened up the windows for
ventilation. She was none too happy about that, as it was around 20
degrees, and the wind whistling through the windows and out the door
made it hard to get much work done. She left the custodians working
willy-nilly, having done her part by saving the school.

Another thing I forgot to report concerns my doctor's visit. After poking
and thumping and quizzing me, he asked out of the blue, "How old are
you?" I answered truthfully, because hey, he's my doctor, and he might
just cut me open to count the rings. Upon hearing the grand total, did
my kindly physician tell me that my social security number was "1", or
that if he told me to act my age, I would drop dead? No. He said, "Oh,
you don't look it!" WooHoo! I'm a medical miracle! Ain't it grand,
Mabel? Cause you don't look your age either, whatever it may be.
We must be drinking from the Fountain of Youth. Or else we're pickled
and well-preserved.

In case you couldn't tell, with my return to creative posts: our electricity
is back! It happened around 9:00 this morning. I think 110 hours without
light and heat and water and TV and computer was long enough.
But who's counting?

Genius-Slapping Morons

That's the name of my Scrabble team: Genius-Slapping
Morons. HH and I were forced to play the boys and their
grandma. They chose the names. Well, they chose their
name of "Geniuses" and declared HH and I were the
"Morons". So we were forced to amend it a bit. Then the
#2 son declared we were the "Dum Dum Genius-Slapping
Morons". Whatever. We spanked them. Not literally. We
didn't find it that appalling that we were given such a name.
Though I'm not above spanking my kids as the need arises.
No, what I mean is that we beat them. Not literally. I think
there's a law against child-beating, though not child-spanking.
What I'm trying to say is that the final score was 316 to 142.
Our last play of 42 points, with the word "wove" in the lower
left corner of the board, on the "triple word score" discouraged
the competition. They forfeited with about 12 letters left in the
game. Hehe! I beat an 8-year-old, an 11-year-old, and a little
old lady. Oh. I had a partner. But it was HH. I think it was a
fair handicap. HH was the letter-drawer. He done good. He
got all the high-point letters. We had the J, Z, Q trifecta.

In other news, we had a moment of hope when the power came
on at the Mansion around 5:15. It was short-lived, however,
when it went off again after about 2 minutes. I guess that means
another day without power. And another day without school.
Mabel heard it from the horse's mouth that we will definitely
be going back to school on Wednesday. I will prepare myself.

Since my doctor's appointment Friday was canceled, I called
this morning at 9:00 to report that I could make it any time
if they had a cancellation. WooHoo! They had one at 10:15,
so off I went. Hey! There was only a 15-minute wait today,
compared to the usual 2 hours. This no-power thingy must
agree with me. Blood pressure: 110/72. Which is good for me.

The high point of the day was driving through the automatic
car wash. Later this evening, I will be checking eBay in a quest
to get a life.

More Of The Same

72 hours and counting on the power outage. We are still
freeloading at my Hillbilly Mama's house. I have been trying
to find out if we have school tomorrow. I am not at my home
number, so the emergency phone tree will break its branch
at my number. The news station that they report it to is
not dependable right now, due to football. Their website
is a new-looking thingy, and does not have the 'school closings'
listing like they used to. I am forcing the boys to take baths
and go to bed at a reasonable hour anyway. They are not
happy freeloaders.

I am also trying to find my estimated repair time at the
AmerenUE website, but you need the information off your
bill for that. Duh. I don't carry my electric bill account
number with me. I don't think HH could find it with a map
of directions and a promise that it was taped to a pot of gold.

HH has thrown out most of the refrigerator contents. What
was left in the freezer is still in question. He put it into the
newly-emptied deep freeze and wheeled it out onto the back
porch. I'm sure it froze solid last night and will stay so through
tonight. I'm not sure about yesterday when the temp soared
to 38 degrees. I will probably end up throwing it out. The boys
and I have been eating what we brought out here from the
deep freeze.

HH is spending tonight at the Mansion again with his faithful
kerosene heater. I was there today, and the temp was about
50 degrees. I think he will survive if he doesn't breathe too
much CO. That's carbon monoxide to all of you who are not
ex-science teachers.

I really hate being out of my routine. I would hate it more if
I had to stay in the Frozen Mansion. My poor Hillbilly Mama
will need a long time to recover from our visit. The boys are
loving it.

WooHoo! Our superintendent was just on the radio. No school
tomorrow. We will try for Tuesday. I don't know why I'm so
happy. I will probably still be spending tomorrow night here.
Another WooHoo! HH found the electrical information. I am
off to their website to see what I can find.

Mabel just called. Poor Mabel. She spent two nights in a cold
dark house. She should have called me sooner. She is now at
a secret location with power and running water. I will catch
up with her Tuesday, I suppose.

Hmm...the AmerenUE site says that our outage started at
3:43 a.m. Friday, which is a big fat lie. It started at 6:45
Thursday evening. I think I would know. I missed all my
shows on my best TV night. Anyhoo...the site also says
85 homes are affected on our line, the reason is unknown,
and there is no estimated repair time. That means they have
not even been out to look at the lines, because everybody
can see the one house with a line down in the cow pasture.
According to HH, who does know about electricity, because
that is a part of his job, Ameren could cut off that one house,
reset a breaker, and the rest of us would have power. I have
a feeling they are not going to ask for his opinion.

Good luck to Colleen, who is also out of the juice, and anyone
else who's in the same boat with us.

Giving The Generator, The Finger

Yesterday I promised you two stories. Hillbilly Mom never
forgets a promise. Even though she is displaced from her
lovely Mansion in the capital of Hillmomba, she keeps on
bringing the whining. She is committed. She should be
committed, according to some.

The first story concerns our generator. The generator which
would have come in handy for our 49-hours-and-counting
power outage. Oh, we used to have a generator...until HH
TRADED IT to the LandStealer for some work on his barn
lean-to last summer. It does not seem like such a good deal
NOW, does it, HH? But you are the one sleeping in the cold
basement of the Mansion, inhaling kerosene heater fumes.

The second story was about our trip to the ER yesterday.
It is kind of a roundabout story, as is the trademark of
most Hillbilly Mom stories. Try to follow along, will you?

When we left off, the HM entourage was finally sheltered
at my Hillbilly Mama's house. HH dumped us, took off in
my large SUV, and said he was going to get the Veteran to
help him trim some trees that were blocking the roads in
our neighborhood. We soaked up some heat, watched some
TV, and decided to have the Hillbilly Mama drive us out to
the Mansion to pick up the large SUV. HH could make do
with his 4WD truck.

This was a 10-12 mile drive, but it took 40 minutes this
time, since the trees were out of the roads, but everybody
and their grandpa-dad were out trying to buy generators
and kerosene and propane and food. When we arrived, HH
was nowhere to be found, and my large SUV was gone!
Which kind of sucked, because that is why we made the
trip. Deciding to make lemonade of this big sour lemon, I
loaded up the contents of the deep freeze and packed some
clothes. HH called while we were there. He was at work
30 miles away with my large SUV. Thanks, HH, for not
answering all my calls, and for not telling us you were
going to work instead of trimming fallen trees.

Upon arriving back at Chez My Mama, the #1 son was
heard to say, "Grandma, I don't like it when you're like
this. You look depressed." Upon further investigation, it
was discovered that Grandma had a large red throbbing
pinky-finger. It seems she had a hangnail that went bad,
and now had a raging infection. She asked, "What should
I do with this, put some antibiotic ointment on it?" Duh!
Within 10 minutes I was loading her into her own small
SUV, which of course I made her drive, because DUH, it
was her car, and that's the way we do things in these here
parts.

We drove right back halfway to the Mansion, to the ER.
After 90 minutes, she was declared to have paronychia,
which I'm sure there are very colorful pictures of if you
will only google it. She has declined having her pinky-finger
photographed for blog purposes. She had to soak it in some
solution for about 20 minutes, then got a gauze bandage, a
pencillin pill, and a prescription for the next day when the
pharmacy opened. She declared that she felt better already.
While the boys drove me crazy in the waiting room, nurses
kept popping out asking, "Are you with someone?" No. We
only came in here to use it as a warming center during the
never-ending power outage. What I really said was, "We're
with the finger." They knew exactly what I meant.

I am hoping she is on the mend. We really need to be waited
on hand and pinky-finger and foot. That's the kind of free-
loaders we are.

Bah! Humbug!

This is my mood today. We are still without power. I am
guest blogging courtesy of my Hillbilly Mama's computer.
Thank the Gummi Mary she has power. And an internet
connection. And a fireplace.

AmerenUE reports that it may be 4 or 5 days or more
until all power is restored. I am not a happy camper.
I am a displaced camper. HH is staying at the Mansion
tonight. I think he will freeze to death, but what can you
do? He will not listen to the voice of reason...which is MOI.
HH has fired up the kerosene heater that he hauled over
from the barn. He is planning to sleep with it in the Mansion
basement, rotating from couch to recliner. If the cold doesn't
kill him, I'm sure carbon monoxide poisoning will. Just call
me Mary Poppins. I'm an eternal optimist.

Here is what I heard last night as I was sitting in the living
room, NOT watching ER.
















It WAS a tree in the front yard, right beside the 5th-wheel
camper that has been parked there for the last 8 years.
















It fell right beside the pole that runs the electric to our
house. We had quite an adventure this morning, trying
to get to town. Let's just say it took 4 routes and two
hours for a 20-minute trip. Because A LOT of other trees
played this snapping and crashing game across the roads.
Oh, and if that wasn't enough, two of the four low-water
bridges were flooded, too.

















Here is #1 son's $200 car. Yes, it has a tree across the
back end. Right behind it is the Dean Truck, but you
can't see it because it is entirely under a tree. It is the
truck my step-grandpa left to HH, which HH has planned
to fix up to enter in car shows...for the past 8 years. The
boy says that there is not much weight from the trees on
the vehicles. We don't want to mess with them while there
are still plenty of icy limbs that could crash down.

















Here is the sight that greeted us this morning as we tried
to make it to town, to the sanctuary of my Hillbilly Mama's
house. Only the road was more frozen, and it was darker
at 6:00 a.m. This was taken around 2:30 p.m., after she
brought me back to get my large SUV...which wasn't even
home because HH had taken it to work. More on that later.
This is our neighbor's barn. A steep, curvy hill lies behind it.

















On the way out of our property was this winter wonderland.
It kind of gives me hope that tomorrow will be a brighter day.

Tomorrow I can tell you about today's trip to the ER. And
about the generator that we used to have.

Power Out

Our power has been out for the last hour. I don't have much hope of getting it back for the next several days. My #1 son was kind enough to loan me his laptop for this post. It will be the last one until we get power again. Just my luck, we get out of school, and I have no power.

Oh, and in case I haven't mentioned it...our Mansion is all-electric. Right now, my Hillbilly Mama has power. She also has a fireplace. We might try to 'visit' her tomorrow.

Enough for now. Buh bye.

Bloody Weathermen

I'm a bit late getting this out tonight. Mabel will be harping at me for
it tomorrow. Because it looks like we will be having school. I can
not trust the weathermen. They promise and promise, but don't deliver.
And I go crawling right back to them, time after time, getting my hopes
dashed again.

I had a really bad kind of day at school, what with every piece of
technology I touched going on the fritz. I had nothing to do with it.
I fed them paper, I pushed their buttons, I pounded one like Fonzie
used to hit the jukebox at Al's. Or Arnold's...depending on which
season you were watching. Here's a little secret. That must have
been special effects...because IT DOESN'T WORK in real life.

After school, we headed to the doctor so I could have some blood
sucked out of my arm. It took 30 minutes, because somebody marked
my name off the sign-in list, even though I hadn't be paperworkized.
Then the bloodsucker didn't press on my gaping veinous puncture
(look away, Mabel) and I got a huge soaking gauze pad on my inner
elbow area for my troubles. That's gonna leave a mark. It was already
bruising. I think she went all the way through the vein or something.
It didn't hurt much, but the blood flowed out more slowly than usual.
Yes, Mabel. I watch. And I don't even feel faint.

Once the boys rode the old-man-volunteer-trolley-golf-cart-thingy
back to the car, we went to Sonic for supper. They chose. I didn't
much care, since I had gone without food or drink since 4:00 a.m.
for that fasting blood test thingy. Then it was off to the movies to
see Santa Claus 3: The Escape Clause. It was pretty good. I like
those movies. It was a bit disconcerting to see a dead ringer for
one of my students as the elf, Curtis. Same voice, same mannerisms.
I can't wait to tell him. I won't have to wait long, since it looks like
we will be having school tomorrow!

I really must go now. Since Mr. B retired, I am afraid no one is
devoted to doing the snow dance. I shall have to do it myself.

HM Burns The Midnight Oil

I had hoped to bring you a witty slice of my keyword-search stockpile
tonight, but that is not to be. I have HOMEWORK! Try as I might to
get caught up...it ain't happenin' during the school day. Or even staying
after school for an hour. I must burn the midnight oil here at home.

It does not help that I have the basketball game ticket duty on Thursday,
and #2 son's Christmas Program. It does not help that now we have to
code our lesson plans in Basementia, and have them turned in by 8:00
Monday mornings. I am not complaining about turning in the lesson
plans, but that there is that deadline. I am not in Basementia by 8:00.
That means my deadline is Friday by 4:00. Which kind of sucks to be
Hillbilly Mom, because others may procrastinate until Sunday night to
get theirs ready, or come up with some really innovative ideas over
the weekend. But I have to rush during the week to get them done and
turned in. Don't go telling me to plan them a week ahead. What kind of
people are you? Sometimes it doesn't even pay to plan a whole week
at once, because we never stay on schedule. Things come up, too many
are absent, the class doesn't catch on to something, etc. Then I am
moving things into next week that I thought I would be done with.

Oh, and have I mentioned that we have to turn in our Semester Final
Examinations? I'm sure I have. They are due on Monday. That would
be a chore anyway, what with getting them ready now by Wednesday
night, so I can turn them in on Thursday afternoon, what with the
festivities in store for me on Thursday. But now we have that pesky
winter weather headed our way, and who knows what Thursday will
bring, so I must make up three of them tonight. Good luck to me! I
need two Maths and a Language. Excuse me. Communication Arts.
Oh, and I need to make sure I hit all four Depths of Knowledge Levels
with each one of those. So don't be thinkin' I can whip up a little True-
False thingy in five minutes.

Then there's the matter of coding those lesson plans...There is no
specific order concerning what to code them to. I am using my Grade
Level Expectations, since that is all that keeps me sane in knowing
what I have to teach in my 6 different classes this year. Some have
been coding to the Missouri Frameworks. That is more general, but
it doesn't tell me squat when I look at what I still have left to cover
before the MAP-Testing window. I suppose I could be like a certain
person who shall not be named, and just write things like: I 2a, 5, 7b
at random on each lesson. I don't think the lesson plan police would
catch on to me.

Anyhoo...I'm off to do the right thing. I am a professional, you know.
And not a Professional Smart-A$$, like HH says.

HM Has Essues

OK, I thought that title was funny, but you have to know how to
say it. I'm not suing anybody. I mean like in ISSUES, but with an
'E'. Get it? Because it's about Email, silly.

I have Essues today, Essues with Email. It is becoming ridiculous. Oh,
I don't mean my personal email. The account that is not Gmail, with
its precious spam filter. The account that someone has been selling
the h*ll out of since I did my online Christmas shopping last week.
Even it has become overwhelming, now that I think about it..

Here's a little secret. Shh...I am not OH SO POPULAR! I know it's
hard to believe. Normally, I only get 10-12 emails a day. The kind
telling me that my p*nis is too small, or trying to sell me narcotics
from Canada, or telling me my loan has been approved, or just
dropping in to say 'Hi'. Yes, unless my Hillbilly Mama has forwarded
me something that has freaked her out, or Mabel is filling me in on
some scoop, or Bean is updating me on her life every 6 months no
matter if anything noteworthy has happened or not, or I've ordered
something that has just shipped...I don't get much email. And that's
the way I like it. Uh huh.

Let's get back to the Beanie Baby. Bean is one of my oldest friends.
That's not to say that Bean is old, like "Your Social Security number
is 1", or "I told you to act your age...and you died" old. I mean
that I have known The Bean for a very long time. And we can resume
our communication after years and years of my disappearance into
the Blogger Protection Program as if a day never passed. But lately,
I have not heard from The Beaner. I have tried not to Bean-stalk.
I have waited patiently. Then today, in the midst of 76 emails, what
should appear but a cryptic Beanmail. We'll see what develops from
this little sprout.

Anyhoo...back to the emails. Now I am getting about 75 per day.
They are so considerate, these unwanted new friends of mine. They
even send their emails alphabetically. They must know I'm a teacher,
huh? Amber says, then Audrey says, then Bambi says, etc. And
when they get tired of talking, they write. Also alphabetically. Cindy
wrote, and David wrote, and Donald wrote, and Edward wrote,
etc. Can't these spammers be more original? At least the old "Hey,
oven mitt" and "Hey, pond scum" kind of messages gave me a laugh.
Now they are all generic. Just like the youth of today. No imagination.

But what I was really complaining about were my work emails. Sure,
every now and then someone will send out 40 questions, or a Sexpert
Quiz, or some such thingy. That's not every day. In Basementia, we
are expected to check the email for breaking news every hour, if not
more often. Today there were 17 emails. 17 ! Only one was specifically
to me, a reply concerning a duty I volunteered for. The rest were just
too much. They took up more than one page! Usually, 4 or 5 a day
will do it. They came from various people, too. I don't know what
they're putting in the water over there. I never get even one email
from the other building. Not even a reply.

I'm hoping this is not a trend. Perhaps it's a returning-from-a-long-
holiday-weekend-and-must-update-what's-happening thing. I can't
keep checking through that many emails. Just my luck, if I don't check,
I will miss something vitally important that must be done immediately.
Like lock all the doors and windows, or some kid needs to go to the
nurse NOW, or turn in those lesson plans that were due this morning
(heh, heh, that one went out today, but mine were IN already). I have
to use my time to teach, and to stand in the hall between classes. I
can't be refreshing my screen all day long.

It's hard to teach me new tricks.