Riddle Me This #1

Speaking of Gotye (It was in yesterday’s blog. Try to keep up. We’ll wait. Okay, ready now?), it occurred to me, last night at 3:15, that in that really goofy Chumbawumba song from 1996 about falling down drunk… the “Pissing the night away” person sounds like the “You didn’t have to cut me out” person. But this was at 3:15am, so now my theory doesn’t seem to hold much water. Much like myself at 3:15.

Is the Chumbwumba lady really the Gotye man 16 years later? Think about it.


What Happened in My Brain Between 2:20 and 4:45 This Morning

Adele. Rumor has it. Bomp Bomp. Rumor has it. Bomp Bomp. Rumor has it. Must find Mello Yello’s cell phone. Is it in the car? Her backpack? Under her bed? Find out who has the tablecloths for the Faculty Appreciation Luncheon and get them back tomorrow. Must have for Wednesday. Where are my kitchen gloves? In the kitchen I suppose. What is with the flock of excessively loud birds outside my window? Is there a Hitchcock thing going on here? I need a haircut. So do the kids, Mello Yello (a little messy), Sprite (bangs or no bangs?) and Red Bull (like, right now or I think he might be mistaken for a yeti and get picked up by an animal control officer). Do they still have animal control officers? Do we pay taxes for that? Do they ride in small paddy wagons with cages in the back like on The Little Rascals when Petey the dog got taken to “the Pound”? That was a sad one.

A little nap… Rumor has it. Bomp Bomp. Rumor has it. Bomp Bomp. Rumor has it.  Awake again. Should I go do a Jillian Michaels exercise dvd and make good use of this time? Nah. Quiet now. What happened to all those birds? I have to pee. Too tired. It can wait. Okay, it can’t wait. Back again. Here comes Gotye. You didn’t have to cut me off…. I don’t know the rest. How can I not know the rest? It’s on the radio every 9 minutes. My memory is getting so… what was I saying? Did we have any leftover steak from dinner? Grocery shopping. Must go grocery shopping. Don’t forget the juice boxes again. Do not buy more Oreos. It never ends well. Rumor has it. Bomp Bomp. Rumor has it. Bomp Bomp. Did Jessica Simpson have her baby yet? She’s not so big. I could have taken her in a sumo match when I was 9 months. I think I have a hairball. Can’t. Stop. Coughing. Mr. Snark, your snorfling snores are so soothing beside me. You’re sleeping so soundly. I hate you. For that reason only. Otherwise you’re all right.

Adele. Let’s make a deal. You sleep at your place tomorrow and I’ll sleep at mine. Bomp Bomp.

A.Y.M.N.K.B.S. (Acronyms You Might Not Know But Should)

I am a food girl. I like it. So sue me. Sometimes (daily) I have issues with portion control and I overindulge a little. As a result, I have achieved a sort of Botticelli-esque roundness that would have made me quite the iconic beauty had I lived in the fifteenth century. But I don’t.

So God has intervened. Lately, when it is clearly time for me to put down my fork and take a load off, I have started to enjoy the symptoms of GERD. That’s GastroEsophogeal Reflux Disease or Gaseous Entrails Reversing Direction, I’m not sure which. GERD is also certainly the best example of onomatopoeia that I’ve ever heard. This is completely a self-diagnosed condition, if you’re reading, Mom. Do not go on WebMD and do not call asking about my cholesterol. It’s fine.

My GERD symptoms are likely imagined, and are certainly not troublesome if you don’t count the occasional vurp (figure it out) that may follow a big meal or the too-fast scarfing of a nice pesto with too much garlic in it. The vurp, which you might recognize as GERD-WAFC (GERD-With Accompanying Flavorful Chunks) is in the official list of Diagnostic Codes, under disgusting functions and symptoms that are your own damn fault.

Of greater concern is a psych-related acronym that has recently manifested in my health portfolio. I’m talking about the chronically uncalled for and inconvenient FWAP (Frustrated Woman About to Pop) which tends to occur every three and a half weeks or so, often accompanied by a severe case of ISYSES (I Suck, You Suck, Everything Sucks).  As a public service announcement, I would like to make it known that if you encounter a person stricken by  FWAP or ISYSES, you should know that the best treatment is TSAR-SYN (Turn Slowly And Retreat-Save Yourself Now). If you do not heed this sage advice, you may become a victim of YOHYTB (You Only Have Yourself To Blame).

And there’s NICDAT (Nothing I Can Do About That).

Things That Do Not Belong in My Washer or Dryer

Dear Kids,

I have found some of your personal belongings in the washer and dryer. I did not make this up. You can never ever have them back and I refuse to replace them. They are categorized by genre for your convenience:

A watch. Earrings. Rope bracelets.

Temporary tattoos.

Hair clips, ponytail holders, headbands and a comb.

Belts. Several. In many colors. For any occasion.

A cell phone.

Your bus pass for camp. Your library card.

A diaper! That must have been my fault when I was very, very sleep deprived and mistook the laundry basket for a diaper genie.

A Magic Treehouse Book.

Lip balm. Tissues. Tissues. Tissues. (Sadly, these items made it all the way to the dryer.)

Emery Board.  Nail clippers.

$14.81 in spare change.

Gum. Starbursts. Tic Tacs. Wadded foil chocolate kiss wrappers with little white Hershey tails.

A pencil, eraser, and plastic sharpener full of shavings. All nice and tidy in the side pocket of your cargo pants.

And while we’re on the subject, two pockets full of rocks in your purple coat that was washed, put into storage, and then came back out with the rock collection intact.

Legos. A dreidl. Chess pieces. Dice. Happy Meal Toys.

The Pokemon cards you absolutely HAD TO HAVE.

Stickers. Crayons. Notepads. Paper clips. Rubber bands. A tape measure.

Flip flops. Goggles. Sunscreen. Seashells. Not all on the same day. Really.

Leaves. Grass. Sticks.

A Soccer Medal.

Mini Golf score card (with mini pencil).

The shirts you dribbled olive oil/Gatorade/butter/popsicle juice/chocolate milk all over without bothering to ask for stain remover.

But never once have I found, in the washer or dryer, the socks you take off in the kitchen every day to leave behind as your personal calling card. Hi mom. I’m home.

Would somebody please come downstairs and pick the sunflower seed husks out of the dryer lint screen? Thanks.

Love, Mom

Come and See the Baby Parrot

Teaching is an act of perpetual motion. You must constantly decide what to say, how to react, which direction to pursue, which direction to abandon before all hope is lost, and how to control your impulses, lest you blurt out something like, “you already told me that ten times, what do you want me to do about it?” to a defenseless youngster. But that never happened to me personally. Ahem.

Sometimes I am at a loss, sometimes shockingly intuitive, sometimes ridiculously oblivious, and sometimes I surprise myself with a burst of well-meaning, though generally ill-advised, inspiration.

Yesterday morning, one of my less inspired lessons: Three students met with me at the reading table in the hall outside our classroom to enjoy the titillating best seller, The Baby Animals.  “Come and see the baby puppy. Come and see the baby chick…” You get where this is going. Controlled vocabulary, repetitive verse and cute pictures = successful early readers. Yada, yada, yada. So we read the compelling story and wrote our own little version on the whiteboard tabletop easel. “Come and see the baby parrot!” Yay! Reading time is done.

Later that afternoon Ms. Promise, the real teacher, and I discussed how to get this whole class of boundary-challenging (UNDERSTATEMENT) kindergartners to cooperatively participate in a measurement activity. As outlined in the Teacher’s manual, the children were supposed to use connecting cubes to build measuring sticks to measure the length of various body parts, limited (IN THEORY) to heads, arms, legs, feet and hands. Hmmm. Risky, to say the least. We puzzled over how to set up parameters that would limit unapproved physical contact (TOUCHING NO-TOUCH ZONES, POKING, SQUISHING, SHOVING, GNAWING, SNEAK ATTACK WWF PILEDRIVERS… need I go on?).

How about we have a pair of kids do a body tracing of third student, a la CSI, on a giant piece of paper and then all three can measure any and all extremities of the paper homicide victim? That way, there would be a lot less risk of unwanted body contact and no one student would be required to stand still (IMPOSSIBLE DREAM) for an extended period while being poked with poorly constructed connecting-cube-measuring-sticks by his peers.

Let’s give it the old college try shall we? The lesson was in full swing, with seven life-sized colorful paper victims strewn about the room, getting their eyes, hair, clothing, tattoos and piercings colored in with some degree of realism by small gangs of courtroom sketch artists. But wait. Ding, ding. I’m off the clock. I leave well before dismissal each day to pick up my own kids at school three towns over. Sweet deal, right? See you Ms. Promise. Good night and good luck.

This morning I tentatively greeted Ms. Promise and asked, “Were you cursing me after school yesterday for leaving halfway through the body tracing extravaganza?”

“No. The tracing was fine. I was cursing you because I had no idea what anyone was talking about when 20 different people came in here after school looking for the baby parrot.”