Every year the big hu-bub is to make New Year's Resolutions. I like the rest of the free world fall into the trap and make grand resolutions that I have no intention of keeping. Oh sure, I try, but I usually fail. So, this year I decided to resolute (is that a word?) to not make resolutions. Here's a list of my non-resolutions:
1. I resolve to not lose weight and wear a size 10 by summer. Now don't get me wrong, I'll still try to force myself to drink swill (I mean Diet Coke and Diet Pepsi) and not have peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, I just won't get too wild when I do.
2. I resolve to not decide one night at 2:00 am when I can't sleep, to change the decor of my entire house. I must accept that I am a packrat from a family of packrats and there is sill a chance I will be able to fit into the cute skirt and blouse I wore one time back in 1986. I love that outfit and refuse to throw it away. I could give it to charity, but I don't want some stranger wearing my $150.00 skirt and $80.00 silk blouse (I made more money back then. I wasn't teaching public school.)
3. I resolve to find a "friend" with a good job and no crazy ex's. I say "friend", because the term "boy-friend" at my age takes on a twisted, semi-illegal context. Also, "sex buddy" seems too crass. I guess this means I need to stop going to the prison looking for men. It is the perfect place to make new "friends." Think about it, single men as far as the eye can see and they will never cheat on you with another woman.
4. I resolve to not make any more New Year's Resolutions except for the following:
- Thank God daily for the friends, family, and life I have.
- Remember that the world does not revolve around me and my petty problems.
- Take comfort in the fact that although my parents are gone, I was one lucky girl to have them.
- Keep plugging along, doing my best at my job and in my life, because I know God has a better plan than I can even imagine.
Happy New Year!!!!
Saturday, December 31, 2005
Monday, December 05, 2005
I Need Lightbulbs
It's 4:30 am on a Monday morning and I can't sleep. In fact, I haven't closed my eyes all night. Wait a minute, I take that back - I did close my eyes, but I couldn't sleep. I've watched movies on TNN and AMC and still no sleep. I'm glad I was awake at 1:00 am because I happened to be clicking the TV channels and came across my favorite Christmas movie, "Holiday Inn" with Bing Crosby and Fred Astaire. I just love that movie. My daddy and I would watch it every Christmas and if we were lucky, it would come on three different channels at three different times and we would hit the mother-load of holiday fun.
I love to hear Bing sing and watch Fred dance, but I digress. Back to the lightbulbs, I have a chandelier in the dining room that needs five bulbs, I have one burning bulb. The light on the ceiling fan in the den is burned out, as is at least one bulb in each of the four bedrooms. I swear the bulbs I've been buying are defective. Maybe it's because I buy light bulbs at the dollar store. Why pay the "high" prices of the "fancy" Wal-Mart store when you can buy more lightbulbs than you can carry home in a sack for $1.00 at the dollar store? My love affair with the dollar store may be the source of my lightbulb dilema.
My baby-sister-cousin, Jen has trouble with lightbulbs also. She told me that each day for the past week the lightbulbs in different rooms burned out. Her nine year old daughter became concerned and asked if Jen had paid the light bill. She wanted to know if the light company was cutting their electricity off one room at a time. I think that is hilarious. I guess if you're a few days late on your bill, the light company just dims the bulbs.
Well, I guess I should go back to bed and try to take a little nap before it's time to get up and go to school. Trying to middle-school children on two hours of sleep is going to be tough. If I'm lucky, they've all had trouble sleeping and will take naps at their desks. Who am I kidding, you can't pay middle-school kids to sleep in class. They're too busy talking and running around the classroom to sleep. Night Night!
I love to hear Bing sing and watch Fred dance, but I digress. Back to the lightbulbs, I have a chandelier in the dining room that needs five bulbs, I have one burning bulb. The light on the ceiling fan in the den is burned out, as is at least one bulb in each of the four bedrooms. I swear the bulbs I've been buying are defective. Maybe it's because I buy light bulbs at the dollar store. Why pay the "high" prices of the "fancy" Wal-Mart store when you can buy more lightbulbs than you can carry home in a sack for $1.00 at the dollar store? My love affair with the dollar store may be the source of my lightbulb dilema.
My baby-sister-cousin, Jen has trouble with lightbulbs also. She told me that each day for the past week the lightbulbs in different rooms burned out. Her nine year old daughter became concerned and asked if Jen had paid the light bill. She wanted to know if the light company was cutting their electricity off one room at a time. I think that is hilarious. I guess if you're a few days late on your bill, the light company just dims the bulbs.
Well, I guess I should go back to bed and try to take a little nap before it's time to get up and go to school. Trying to middle-school children on two hours of sleep is going to be tough. If I'm lucky, they've all had trouble sleeping and will take naps at their desks. Who am I kidding, you can't pay middle-school kids to sleep in class. They're too busy talking and running around the classroom to sleep. Night Night!
Thursday, November 24, 2005
White Trash Thanksgiving
Do you ever wonder what white trash is thankful for? I didn't for a long time and then I saw the television show "My Name is Earl" and now I am getting in touch with my white trash roots. Everyone has white trash in their family. If they don't, it's because they themselves are the white trash. I have white trash cousins. In fact, some of my cousins are so trashy that proper white trash looks down on them. These are somethings I think white trash give thanks for:
Flip Flops with bows, flowers, and sequins: These fancy shoes can be worn to a bar on Saturday night with cut-off jeans and a leather halter top, and then to church on Sunday with that beautiful blue dress with the appliqued "yeller" roses. Also, black flip flops with silver or gold sequins can be worn to the funeral home when viewing a dearly departed family member.
Key chains and wallets that can be hooked to a belt: There's nothing that says white trash quicker than a shiny chrome key chain with a stretchy cord that hooks to a leather belt with the name burned in the back. If the belt was made by someone's brother, cousin, uncle, boyfriend, husband, or father during leather craft time at the state prison, it is not only a fashion statement , but a gift to be proud of. Wallets on a chain worn by men who don't ride motorcycles, but own 53 Harley Davidson t-shirts are in a fashion class all by themselves.
Lawn Ornaments: If you're driving down the road and see a yard full of plastic flowers , wishing wells, large plastic deer, brightly colored spinning whirly-gigs, and plywood cut-outs of a fat woman's ass bending over, there's a very good chance that white trash lives in that house. If it's a nice brick house with butterflys and birds nailed to the trim, that's a case of what happens "when white trash gets a dollar." My mother would point these things out as we were driving to the country to see "her" relatives. Of course, most of her family had at least one yard ornament to brag about.
Cars & Trucks with the owners name in the back "winder": I love to go to a red-neck white trash bars and see pickup trucks with elegant script written names on the back glass. The names are usually those of the driver and his beloved. I wonder if that's the white trash equivalent to a wedding ring.
Beer Can Christmas Trees: Craft-minded white trash make the "cutest" Christmas trees out of Bud and Bud Light beer cans. Starting with six cans on the bottom and reducing the number by one for each row going up, the need for a real Christmas tree is eliminated. Just spray paint the welded cans bright green and run a string a lights through the cans and people will be amazed at the beauty of this crafty idea.
It's fun to have white trash in your family. I always know that when I go out with my white trash relatives I'm going to have big fun. That is, until they all ball up in a fight at the bar and I have to go bail them out of jail. So, I guess this Thanksgiving I'm thankful that my mother and father weren't the trashy ones in the family.
Happy Thanksgiving!
Flip Flops with bows, flowers, and sequins: These fancy shoes can be worn to a bar on Saturday night with cut-off jeans and a leather halter top, and then to church on Sunday with that beautiful blue dress with the appliqued "yeller" roses. Also, black flip flops with silver or gold sequins can be worn to the funeral home when viewing a dearly departed family member.
Key chains and wallets that can be hooked to a belt: There's nothing that says white trash quicker than a shiny chrome key chain with a stretchy cord that hooks to a leather belt with the name burned in the back. If the belt was made by someone's brother, cousin, uncle, boyfriend, husband, or father during leather craft time at the state prison, it is not only a fashion statement , but a gift to be proud of. Wallets on a chain worn by men who don't ride motorcycles, but own 53 Harley Davidson t-shirts are in a fashion class all by themselves.
Lawn Ornaments: If you're driving down the road and see a yard full of plastic flowers , wishing wells, large plastic deer, brightly colored spinning whirly-gigs, and plywood cut-outs of a fat woman's ass bending over, there's a very good chance that white trash lives in that house. If it's a nice brick house with butterflys and birds nailed to the trim, that's a case of what happens "when white trash gets a dollar." My mother would point these things out as we were driving to the country to see "her" relatives. Of course, most of her family had at least one yard ornament to brag about.
Cars & Trucks with the owners name in the back "winder": I love to go to a red-neck white trash bars and see pickup trucks with elegant script written names on the back glass. The names are usually those of the driver and his beloved. I wonder if that's the white trash equivalent to a wedding ring.
Beer Can Christmas Trees: Craft-minded white trash make the "cutest" Christmas trees out of Bud and Bud Light beer cans. Starting with six cans on the bottom and reducing the number by one for each row going up, the need for a real Christmas tree is eliminated. Just spray paint the welded cans bright green and run a string a lights through the cans and people will be amazed at the beauty of this crafty idea.
It's fun to have white trash in your family. I always know that when I go out with my white trash relatives I'm going to have big fun. That is, until they all ball up in a fight at the bar and I have to go bail them out of jail. So, I guess this Thanksgiving I'm thankful that my mother and father weren't the trashy ones in the family.
Happy Thanksgiving!
Sundays With The Happy Goodmans
When I was a child, my favorite day of the week was Sunday. I loved Sunday mornings. To me and my oldest brother, Sunday mornings meant wrestling, country music, and The Happy Goodman Family. To us, this was the perfect combination for a fun-filled morning. We would get up early and plant ourselves in front of the television.
Our first show was a local country music show from the "big" town of Jonesville, Louisiana. Don Wiley and his Catahoula Boys were a local band that had somehow managed to get their own television show. I don't think Mr. Wiley ever made it to the big times of Nashville or Hollywood, but to me and Jr. he was as good or better than Hank Williams. We loved his music. We would dance around the living room and twist up and down the hall.
After 30 minutes of "catahoula country music" the television would begin to blare with shouts and screams of wrestling fans. Mid-South Wrestling was something to behold. Today's wrestling matches have nothing on the old Mid-South circuit. Jr. and I would practice our wrestling holds and throw each other around the living room while legends of wrestling such as Dusty Rhodes, Johnny Eagle, and an unknown blonde wrestler by the name of Rick Flair would put on a show to please every wrestling fan in the south . Mother would watch us from her place on the couch and laugh at us as we talked Daddy into being the referee. Both she and Daddy loved wrestling and they passed that love down to us.
As much as we loved wrestling and country music, our greatest Sunday morning love was "The Gospel Music Jubilee with The Happy Goodman Family. We absolutely loved this show. Whenever the music would begin and we heard the first strains of "Jubilee, Jubilee, Are you ready for the gospel Jubilee" we would both begin to dance. The Happy Goodmans sounded like angels and we could not be still. As we would start twisting, Mother would come off the couch and chase us around the living room with a switch. As she stripped our legs, she would tell us that we weren't supposed to dance to church music. We couldn't understand why dancing to church music was bad. The music was so happy and peppy, it just begged us to jump around and dance. If we weren't supposed to dance to it, why was it so festive? After she finished our spankings, we would get dressed and go to church. We rode to the baptist church with the neighbors and everyone in church said we were the best behaved children they had ever seen. We didn't talk in church, we didn't squirm, and we didn't do anything that would get back to mother. I wonder what the nice church ladies would have said if they knew that Clytie's heathern children had been jitterbugging to church music just 30 minutes ago.
The older I get the more I cherish my childhood memories. I find comfort in simple things such as remembering Sunday mornings and The Happy Goodmans. I've discovered that sometimes simple things are the best. In fact, I'm listening to The Happy Goodmans on MusicMatch Jukebox Radio and I know Mother is listening to them also. Maybe I should stop dancing to "The Eastern Gate", but I'm not. Tonight I'm not a 45 year old teacher, I'm a 7 year old girl trying to get away with dancing to church music.
Our first show was a local country music show from the "big" town of Jonesville, Louisiana. Don Wiley and his Catahoula Boys were a local band that had somehow managed to get their own television show. I don't think Mr. Wiley ever made it to the big times of Nashville or Hollywood, but to me and Jr. he was as good or better than Hank Williams. We loved his music. We would dance around the living room and twist up and down the hall.
After 30 minutes of "catahoula country music" the television would begin to blare with shouts and screams of wrestling fans. Mid-South Wrestling was something to behold. Today's wrestling matches have nothing on the old Mid-South circuit. Jr. and I would practice our wrestling holds and throw each other around the living room while legends of wrestling such as Dusty Rhodes, Johnny Eagle, and an unknown blonde wrestler by the name of Rick Flair would put on a show to please every wrestling fan in the south . Mother would watch us from her place on the couch and laugh at us as we talked Daddy into being the referee. Both she and Daddy loved wrestling and they passed that love down to us.
As much as we loved wrestling and country music, our greatest Sunday morning love was "The Gospel Music Jubilee with The Happy Goodman Family. We absolutely loved this show. Whenever the music would begin and we heard the first strains of "Jubilee, Jubilee, Are you ready for the gospel Jubilee" we would both begin to dance. The Happy Goodmans sounded like angels and we could not be still. As we would start twisting, Mother would come off the couch and chase us around the living room with a switch. As she stripped our legs, she would tell us that we weren't supposed to dance to church music. We couldn't understand why dancing to church music was bad. The music was so happy and peppy, it just begged us to jump around and dance. If we weren't supposed to dance to it, why was it so festive? After she finished our spankings, we would get dressed and go to church. We rode to the baptist church with the neighbors and everyone in church said we were the best behaved children they had ever seen. We didn't talk in church, we didn't squirm, and we didn't do anything that would get back to mother. I wonder what the nice church ladies would have said if they knew that Clytie's heathern children had been jitterbugging to church music just 30 minutes ago.
The older I get the more I cherish my childhood memories. I find comfort in simple things such as remembering Sunday mornings and The Happy Goodmans. I've discovered that sometimes simple things are the best. In fact, I'm listening to The Happy Goodmans on MusicMatch Jukebox Radio and I know Mother is listening to them also. Maybe I should stop dancing to "The Eastern Gate", but I'm not. Tonight I'm not a 45 year old teacher, I'm a 7 year old girl trying to get away with dancing to church music.
Monday, November 14, 2005
New & Improved Weird Stuff In My Head
I tried to publish a post the other day titled "Weird Stuff In My Head" and somehow managed to lose it. Don't ask me how I did that, but I did. I'm wondering if my odd ramblings are floating through outer space looking for a home. Maybe someone turned on their computer and there was my post. It's a scary thought for who ever might accidentaly find it and not have an explanation to go with it. Trust me, sometimes I have some weird stuff stuck in my head!
Tonight's weird stuff episode involves odd sayings. Most of these sayings are ones I've heard all my life and I'm pretty sure members of my family invented them.
1. Whenever I would do something to ruin a plan my father had, he would say "That put the quietus on that." Quietus is pronounced: Qui E Tus I'm not real sure what a quietus is, but I know "acting a fool" or "showing your ass" will put the quietus on any fun situation pretty quickly.
2. My youngest brother (actually he's my cousin, but my mother raised him and we're real close) often complains with "severe skull cramps." I'm guessing his headaches are more painful than regular headaches and they cause his skull to cramp. Seems pretty severe to me.
3. Some of my favorite sayings have to do with being intoxicated. My family did not get drunk, they got: Tight; Stupid; Lit; Tore Up; Ignorant; Cut (doesn't necessesarily involve a fight); Looped; Flung; Slung; and my all time favorite - Out Of Your Box.
4. When I was younger and prone to spankings, my mother would tell us to act right or she would "tune our asses up." We never sang during a whipping, unless you could call the screaming and crying music and that was one song I never wanted to dance to.
5. As my father got older, his sayings became more colorful and closely related to health problems. At the age of 80, he found that his stomach was prone to act up. Several times I have come home from school and asked Daddy how his day was. Often times he would reply "It was a bad day. I couldn't leave the house because my ass was shooting water." I'm sure you can figure out his ailment.
6. My mother was in a great deal of pain during her last months of life. One time the home health care aid asked her how she felt. My mother looked up at her and in her most proper Southern voice said "I hurt so bad I could shit a squealing worm." I, myself, never want to hurt that bad. Passing the worm alone is enough to scare you to death.
7. My favorite aunt has the best saying I have ever heard. Whenever Aunt Muriel gets mad she says "That just makes my ass want to suck a lemon." How perfect is that? Sometimes, that describes your level of anger to a tea.
I'm sure there are more sayings and other weird stuff in my head, put right now I'm at a loss. I'm having severe skull cramps, my ass is trying to shoot water, and my dog is making me look for lemons. I need a nap.
Tonight's weird stuff episode involves odd sayings. Most of these sayings are ones I've heard all my life and I'm pretty sure members of my family invented them.
1. Whenever I would do something to ruin a plan my father had, he would say "That put the quietus on that." Quietus is pronounced: Qui E Tus I'm not real sure what a quietus is, but I know "acting a fool" or "showing your ass" will put the quietus on any fun situation pretty quickly.
2. My youngest brother (actually he's my cousin, but my mother raised him and we're real close) often complains with "severe skull cramps." I'm guessing his headaches are more painful than regular headaches and they cause his skull to cramp. Seems pretty severe to me.
3. Some of my favorite sayings have to do with being intoxicated. My family did not get drunk, they got: Tight; Stupid; Lit; Tore Up; Ignorant; Cut (doesn't necessesarily involve a fight); Looped; Flung; Slung; and my all time favorite - Out Of Your Box.
4. When I was younger and prone to spankings, my mother would tell us to act right or she would "tune our asses up." We never sang during a whipping, unless you could call the screaming and crying music and that was one song I never wanted to dance to.
5. As my father got older, his sayings became more colorful and closely related to health problems. At the age of 80, he found that his stomach was prone to act up. Several times I have come home from school and asked Daddy how his day was. Often times he would reply "It was a bad day. I couldn't leave the house because my ass was shooting water." I'm sure you can figure out his ailment.
6. My mother was in a great deal of pain during her last months of life. One time the home health care aid asked her how she felt. My mother looked up at her and in her most proper Southern voice said "I hurt so bad I could shit a squealing worm." I, myself, never want to hurt that bad. Passing the worm alone is enough to scare you to death.
7. My favorite aunt has the best saying I have ever heard. Whenever Aunt Muriel gets mad she says "That just makes my ass want to suck a lemon." How perfect is that? Sometimes, that describes your level of anger to a tea.
I'm sure there are more sayings and other weird stuff in my head, put right now I'm at a loss. I'm having severe skull cramps, my ass is trying to shoot water, and my dog is making me look for lemons. I need a nap.
Friday, October 28, 2005
Tricker Treat
I'm sitting here tonight feeling a little bit depressed. I miss my mother and father every day, but tonight, the "missing mommy" gene is on high alert. It may have something to do with it being the weekend before Halloween and I have a table full of tricker treat candy waiting to be put in individual spook- sized bags. I know the correct term for the annual parade of begging is "trick or treat", but my mom was southern and it always sounded like she was saying tricker treat. So, if it was good enough for her, it works for me.
My mother loved Halloween and so did my father. I know for a fact that they would borrow small children to dress up and take trick-a-treating long before I came along. I have pictures of Mother and my cousin Jr going out into the dark scarry night a good two years before I was born. There was no telling how much money Mommy spent on Halloween candy. She would start buying the candy when the first nip of cool air would hit. Of course, we would always eat the first couple of batches long before the end of October was approaching. When it got time to buy "serious" candy, Mother had it honed to a fine art form. Mother would take the bags of candy out of grocery bags and arrange them around her in a circle. She would sit in the circle like a Queen among her subjects. There was an art to filling the treat bags. Each bag had to have a choclate bar, two pieces of gums, a sucker, three peppermints, an Attkinson's peanut butter log, and a bag of Whoppers. Sometimes, the bags would contain more, but never less. As Mother would fill the treat bags, she would eat chocolate, chew gum, smoke cigerettes, and drink an ice-cold coca cola. She was in Heaven! Chocolate, Nicotine, & Caffine - It didn't get much better than that!
Children through out our neighborhood and surrounding ones knew to always go to the big house on the corner with the hurricane fence and the ugly dog. The lady at that house gave out the very best treats and it was worth braving whatever you had to do to get to that door. If it meant you had to talk to the crazy man at the gate (Daddy) for 15 minutes, that's the price you paid to get one of the treat bags that the nice lady handed out.
While my mother loved halloween and enjoyed making up treat bags and giving the candy away, my daddy lived for the night also. He on the other hand was more into the taking end of the holliday. After we had gone to every house in our neighborhood, Daddy would load us into the back of the truck and off we would go to the big rich neighborhood down the highway. Of course, we stopped up and down Tioga Road, dodged cars, dogs, and eggs as we ran through people's yard screaming "Trick or Treat, Smell My Feet - Give Me Something Good To Eat." Daddy would stop the truck in the middle of the road and dare anyone to hit him. His theory was that the truck was acting as a slow down measure for the other drivers on the road. If they had to stop to go around him, we had a better chance of not getting run down in the middle of night dressed up as pumpkins. It made perfect sense to us. Daddy would have been willing to drive us all over hell's half acre to gather candy, but Mother always gave him a curfew. When it got close to curfew time, we would start back home. Sometimes, we would take our masks off and have another go at the neighbors who might not recognize us. If they did recognize us, we would tell them we were gathering candy for Daddy. They would look at him and he would wave and smile. It worked every time.
I'm wondering if Halloween is celebrated in Heaven. I know the gory part of it is probably overlooked, but I hope Mother's getting the chance to make treat bags and there's a truck-load of kids waiting for Daddy to drive them to the rich people's houses.
My mother loved Halloween and so did my father. I know for a fact that they would borrow small children to dress up and take trick-a-treating long before I came along. I have pictures of Mother and my cousin Jr going out into the dark scarry night a good two years before I was born. There was no telling how much money Mommy spent on Halloween candy. She would start buying the candy when the first nip of cool air would hit. Of course, we would always eat the first couple of batches long before the end of October was approaching. When it got time to buy "serious" candy, Mother had it honed to a fine art form. Mother would take the bags of candy out of grocery bags and arrange them around her in a circle. She would sit in the circle like a Queen among her subjects. There was an art to filling the treat bags. Each bag had to have a choclate bar, two pieces of gums, a sucker, three peppermints, an Attkinson's peanut butter log, and a bag of Whoppers. Sometimes, the bags would contain more, but never less. As Mother would fill the treat bags, she would eat chocolate, chew gum, smoke cigerettes, and drink an ice-cold coca cola. She was in Heaven! Chocolate, Nicotine, & Caffine - It didn't get much better than that!
Children through out our neighborhood and surrounding ones knew to always go to the big house on the corner with the hurricane fence and the ugly dog. The lady at that house gave out the very best treats and it was worth braving whatever you had to do to get to that door. If it meant you had to talk to the crazy man at the gate (Daddy) for 15 minutes, that's the price you paid to get one of the treat bags that the nice lady handed out.
While my mother loved halloween and enjoyed making up treat bags and giving the candy away, my daddy lived for the night also. He on the other hand was more into the taking end of the holliday. After we had gone to every house in our neighborhood, Daddy would load us into the back of the truck and off we would go to the big rich neighborhood down the highway. Of course, we stopped up and down Tioga Road, dodged cars, dogs, and eggs as we ran through people's yard screaming "Trick or Treat, Smell My Feet - Give Me Something Good To Eat." Daddy would stop the truck in the middle of the road and dare anyone to hit him. His theory was that the truck was acting as a slow down measure for the other drivers on the road. If they had to stop to go around him, we had a better chance of not getting run down in the middle of night dressed up as pumpkins. It made perfect sense to us. Daddy would have been willing to drive us all over hell's half acre to gather candy, but Mother always gave him a curfew. When it got close to curfew time, we would start back home. Sometimes, we would take our masks off and have another go at the neighbors who might not recognize us. If they did recognize us, we would tell them we were gathering candy for Daddy. They would look at him and he would wave and smile. It worked every time.
I'm wondering if Halloween is celebrated in Heaven. I know the gory part of it is probably overlooked, but I hope Mother's getting the chance to make treat bags and there's a truck-load of kids waiting for Daddy to drive them to the rich people's houses.
Monday, October 10, 2005
Crack For Breakfast
Today has been a very interesting day for me. My kids at school apparently have been eating crack for breakfast. Try to picture fourteen special ed 7th graders on crack. They wouldn't be able to sit still; they wouldn't be able to be quiet; they wouldn't be able to write a legible sentence; and they would invariable drive their teacher crazy. That was the scene in my first block class this morning. The morning started off calmly, but it wasn't long before all hell broke loose and the crack kicked in. I found myself saying things like "No, don't put your pencil in the electric socket; No, you can't go to the bathroom, office, gym, next door, lunch room, nurse's office, guidance counselor, etc; Yes, you know how to write a sentence; Put your shoes back on; Don't touch your neighbors; and Yes, you are getting a grade for the assignment" all to one student in the span of 15 minutes. I kid you not, "crack for breakfast." I'm not going to lie to you, all middle school students can have their off days, but for the entire class to hink up at the same time leads me to believe someone's uncle is a crack dealer and is missing part of his stash. I'm seriously thinking of making a suggestion to my principal that would make days like today go by a lot smoother. I'm thinking that every teacher's lounge should have a valium or xanex lick next to the copy machine. It could be like the salt lick that cows and deer love so much. Whenever a teacher is having a bad day, he or she could just go by the block and take a lick or two. It would sure make teaching a more enjoyable experience. Of course I can't really suggest this, seeing as how I'm pretty sure I couldn't make it in the pen, but I can dream.
Monday, September 26, 2005
It's Hot and There's No TV!
I always thought I was the type of person who could "roll with the punches" as they say (ever wonder who "they" is?), but Hurricane Rita has proven me a liar. Although I'm not living on the Gulf Coast of Texas or Louisiana, Rita decided to pay me and my little neighborhood a visit.
I woke up Friday night from a very vivid dream of someone stabbing me in the leg. As I pulled myself awake I felt my leg and found that it was wet. I thought "This can't be good." Either I have pissed myself through the thigh or someone had indeed stabbed me. I soon found that neither of the two was true, although I would have much rather had them happen. As the case may be, it was raining in my bedroom directly over my bed. We all know that is not a good thing. Rain belongs on the outside, not the inside. Coupled with the damage of indoor rain, the pain in my leg was terrible. I'm sure this was the ancient Chinese water torture I've heard about. No wonder it worked. I was ready to tell every secret I knew and even make some up if it would make my leg quit hurting. I counted myself lucky even if it was raining inside my house. I had electricity and I could always sleep on the floor in front of the air conditioner. Guess God heard me, because within an hour I was out of electricity. Let me tell you, it is hotter than six kinds of hell in Central Louisiana during a hurricane, and not in a good way.
My friend Davi (the refugee) and I learned that even the best of friends can grow to hate each other in 12 hours of stiffling heat, no tv or computer or music, no cold food, and in our case - no liquor or drugs. She wanted to drink and God help me, I wanted to dope. (Davi wants me to explain dope. For those of you who don't know what dope is, it is wonderful if taken in the right circumstances. Sometimes the only thing that will get you through a rough time is a handful of prescription drugs.) After about 10 hours of looking at each other, there was no tv to look at and listening to her breathe (that can be annoying) I was ready to jump on her. I could tell that the thought of knocking me in the back of the fucking head had crossed her mind a couple of times also. The only one who wasn't complaining was Amanda. Amanda is my very ugly dog. Everyone tells me she's not ugly, but I have eyes - I know she is. She is a rottweiler/schnauzer mix with a crooked foot and wirey hair that grows in circles on her back.
After thrashing around on my mattress that I had taken off the bed in the leaking room and put in the living room floor like white trash, Davi and I became kinda goofy. Well, I was goofy and she was humoring me. I was really missing my favorite cousin,Larry. Larry is a McGyver making fool. He can make a cell phone and air conditioner with a paper clip, a set of jumper cables, and a roll of duct tape. If he had been at the house, instead of in the "big house", I know he was have hooked up an extension cord to my truck battery and made electricity. If the world enters an appocolypse and modern civilization ends, I'm going with Larry. We both swore that as soon as we could we were buying generators, battery operated tv's, battery operated fans, battery operated refrigerators, and batteries.
I'm one of the lucky few in my neighborhood. My electricity came on last night (Sunday) around 11:30 pm. We had gone to my cousin's house to sleep in the air when I got the idea to call my house and see if the lights were on. When I did, the answer machine picked up. I hollered for Davi to pack her shit and let's git. As we approached my house I noticed everything was dark and either there were a lot of people mowing grass in the middle of the night or they were still running generators. If you have electricity, you don't need generators. When I turned on to my street, Davi muttered "I hope all your neighbors are either asleep or dead." "If they're asleep that explains the darkness and if they're dead they won't hear me cuss you." It was neither. As it turns out, only five houses in my neighborhood have power and I'm one of the lucky few. It goes without saying that I'm one of the most popular and hated people on my street. Popular because I can offer cool air and cold drinks to all who want them and hated because I have lights and they don't.
Oh, after thought - no school for two more days! That's a good thing.
I woke up Friday night from a very vivid dream of someone stabbing me in the leg. As I pulled myself awake I felt my leg and found that it was wet. I thought "This can't be good." Either I have pissed myself through the thigh or someone had indeed stabbed me. I soon found that neither of the two was true, although I would have much rather had them happen. As the case may be, it was raining in my bedroom directly over my bed. We all know that is not a good thing. Rain belongs on the outside, not the inside. Coupled with the damage of indoor rain, the pain in my leg was terrible. I'm sure this was the ancient Chinese water torture I've heard about. No wonder it worked. I was ready to tell every secret I knew and even make some up if it would make my leg quit hurting. I counted myself lucky even if it was raining inside my house. I had electricity and I could always sleep on the floor in front of the air conditioner. Guess God heard me, because within an hour I was out of electricity. Let me tell you, it is hotter than six kinds of hell in Central Louisiana during a hurricane, and not in a good way.
My friend Davi (the refugee) and I learned that even the best of friends can grow to hate each other in 12 hours of stiffling heat, no tv or computer or music, no cold food, and in our case - no liquor or drugs. She wanted to drink and God help me, I wanted to dope. (Davi wants me to explain dope. For those of you who don't know what dope is, it is wonderful if taken in the right circumstances. Sometimes the only thing that will get you through a rough time is a handful of prescription drugs.) After about 10 hours of looking at each other, there was no tv to look at and listening to her breathe (that can be annoying) I was ready to jump on her. I could tell that the thought of knocking me in the back of the fucking head had crossed her mind a couple of times also. The only one who wasn't complaining was Amanda. Amanda is my very ugly dog. Everyone tells me she's not ugly, but I have eyes - I know she is. She is a rottweiler/schnauzer mix with a crooked foot and wirey hair that grows in circles on her back.
After thrashing around on my mattress that I had taken off the bed in the leaking room and put in the living room floor like white trash, Davi and I became kinda goofy. Well, I was goofy and she was humoring me. I was really missing my favorite cousin,Larry. Larry is a McGyver making fool. He can make a cell phone and air conditioner with a paper clip, a set of jumper cables, and a roll of duct tape. If he had been at the house, instead of in the "big house", I know he was have hooked up an extension cord to my truck battery and made electricity. If the world enters an appocolypse and modern civilization ends, I'm going with Larry. We both swore that as soon as we could we were buying generators, battery operated tv's, battery operated fans, battery operated refrigerators, and batteries.
I'm one of the lucky few in my neighborhood. My electricity came on last night (Sunday) around 11:30 pm. We had gone to my cousin's house to sleep in the air when I got the idea to call my house and see if the lights were on. When I did, the answer machine picked up. I hollered for Davi to pack her shit and let's git. As we approached my house I noticed everything was dark and either there were a lot of people mowing grass in the middle of the night or they were still running generators. If you have electricity, you don't need generators. When I turned on to my street, Davi muttered "I hope all your neighbors are either asleep or dead." "If they're asleep that explains the darkness and if they're dead they won't hear me cuss you." It was neither. As it turns out, only five houses in my neighborhood have power and I'm one of the lucky few. It goes without saying that I'm one of the most popular and hated people on my street. Popular because I can offer cool air and cold drinks to all who want them and hated because I have lights and they don't.
Oh, after thought - no school for two more days! That's a good thing.
Friday, September 16, 2005
I Must Be Stupid!
Have you ever had a moment in time when it seems that for all your intelligence, you may in fact be the stupidest person God ever created? I'm a resonably intelligent person. In fact I'm of above average intelligence. I did okay on the ACT test; graduated high school in three and a half years (and didn't have the greatest attendance record); graduated college on the Dean's List; aced the Praxis Exam for teachers; and even hold a job and manage to feed and clothe myself without too many fashion faux paus. But, today I'm seriously wondering about my intelligence level. I find that the older I get, the more of those moments I seem to have.
In fact, I just had one of these moments. I was on the phone with one of my oldest friends (old in the sense that we have been best buddies since the 7th grade & that was way back in 1973) and I couldn't for the life of me figure out how to set up a buddy notification system on my computer. I've noticed that whenever I'm on-line, everyone and their brother knows exactly when I signed on. I asked Debby (that's my bestest bud) how they know I'm on-line. She laughed and told me it was "magic." At first I laughed and said "yea, sure," but after our one-sided conversation maybe she was telling the truth and it is in deed magic. As she proceded to try and walk me through the process of setting up a buddy list and notification system, my mind went blank. I couldn't even understand the directions to get more help. As I stared at the screen like a dog watching a floating bone, I could hear Debby in the background laughing at me. She was telling me she couldn't help me if I didn't tell her what I was seeing on the screen. She kept saying she didn't have viewer phone and I would have to explain what was on the screen. I just stared at the screen like an idiot. Finally, she gave one final laugh and hung up the phone.
After trying to figure out this impossible task on my own, I finally gave up and decided maybe I didn't really need to know when my friends were on the computer. Maybe it's true that ignorance is bliss. If I don't know they're on-line, I don't have to defend my stupidity. I can only hope that I will not be called on to perform some exotic computer trick to save my life, because if that happens - I'm in some serious trouble.
In fact, I just had one of these moments. I was on the phone with one of my oldest friends (old in the sense that we have been best buddies since the 7th grade & that was way back in 1973) and I couldn't for the life of me figure out how to set up a buddy notification system on my computer. I've noticed that whenever I'm on-line, everyone and their brother knows exactly when I signed on. I asked Debby (that's my bestest bud) how they know I'm on-line. She laughed and told me it was "magic." At first I laughed and said "yea, sure," but after our one-sided conversation maybe she was telling the truth and it is in deed magic. As she proceded to try and walk me through the process of setting up a buddy list and notification system, my mind went blank. I couldn't even understand the directions to get more help. As I stared at the screen like a dog watching a floating bone, I could hear Debby in the background laughing at me. She was telling me she couldn't help me if I didn't tell her what I was seeing on the screen. She kept saying she didn't have viewer phone and I would have to explain what was on the screen. I just stared at the screen like an idiot. Finally, she gave one final laugh and hung up the phone.
After trying to figure out this impossible task on my own, I finally gave up and decided maybe I didn't really need to know when my friends were on the computer. Maybe it's true that ignorance is bliss. If I don't know they're on-line, I don't have to defend my stupidity. I can only hope that I will not be called on to perform some exotic computer trick to save my life, because if that happens - I'm in some serious trouble.
Friday, September 09, 2005
Nursing Home
A poem for my father. I love and miss you Nick.
"Nursing Home"
My father is getting older
He was 78 years on his last birthday.
I find myself growing bolder
In what I do and what I say.
During the winder when outside it's cold,
He decides to work,
Forgetting he's old,
With no coat, in only a shirt.
We laugh and tell jokes,
Our relationship is good,
Over coffee and cokes,
Things are understood.
That it's off to Camelia Garden
When his arteries harden.
July 1998
"Nursing Home"
My father is getting older
He was 78 years on his last birthday.
I find myself growing bolder
In what I do and what I say.
During the winder when outside it's cold,
He decides to work,
Forgetting he's old,
With no coat, in only a shirt.
We laugh and tell jokes,
Our relationship is good,
Over coffee and cokes,
Things are understood.
That it's off to Camelia Garden
When his arteries harden.
July 1998
Crazy Magnets
My father once made the comment that he was a crazy magnet. He always said if there were any crazy people with 20 miles of him, they would walk, run, crawl, or swim to get close to him. He was the type of man who loved to talk to any and every body he met. It goes without saying that if you talk to complete strangers, some of them are bound to be crazy. He should have known this because my Uncle Richard would talk to strangers at the Wal-Mart and he was crazy himself. I know my uncle was crazy because when I was old enough to drive, I would take him to the local mental health hospital each month to get his "crazy" shot. I didn't know it at the time, but he was on some heavy duty meds. Lithium & Thorazine were like Tylenol and Advil to him.
I would always laugh at Daddy when he talked about being a crazy magnet until the day I finally realized I was a crazy magnet also. Not only am I a crazy magnet, I'm a bum magnet. I figured this out when I noticed that my best friend was as crazy as the day is long and the love of my life was a no-working, ex-con, drug addict. Man oh man, do I know how to pick them or what. Don't get me wrong, there's nothing wrong with crazy people or bums. I wouldn't trade my best friend for all the money in the world, well, maybe for "all" of it, but I would still call her on the sly and take her on fun vacations. As far as bums, I have no complaints about him either. There's just something about a tattooed, shaved head, ex-con that makes my heart go pitter patter.
I'm sure a lot of people who read this will think I'm probably as crazy as the people I attract. Well, that just goes without saying. Crazy knows crazy! Besides, crazy people have their purposes, how else would "normal" people know they were normal if it wasn't for all the crazies walking around on the street?
I would always laugh at Daddy when he talked about being a crazy magnet until the day I finally realized I was a crazy magnet also. Not only am I a crazy magnet, I'm a bum magnet. I figured this out when I noticed that my best friend was as crazy as the day is long and the love of my life was a no-working, ex-con, drug addict. Man oh man, do I know how to pick them or what. Don't get me wrong, there's nothing wrong with crazy people or bums. I wouldn't trade my best friend for all the money in the world, well, maybe for "all" of it, but I would still call her on the sly and take her on fun vacations. As far as bums, I have no complaints about him either. There's just something about a tattooed, shaved head, ex-con that makes my heart go pitter patter.
I'm sure a lot of people who read this will think I'm probably as crazy as the people I attract. Well, that just goes without saying. Crazy knows crazy! Besides, crazy people have their purposes, how else would "normal" people know they were normal if it wasn't for all the crazies walking around on the street?
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