If you are going to comment that I should have spelled b-o-l-o-g-n-a, don't bother. I remember that little boy singing the Oscar Mayer song, too. But around these parts, nobody says bologna. That would make me a laughingstock. It would be like telling somebody that I laid ON the floor to watch TV. In my neck of the woods, we lay IN the floor.
But getting back to my baloney...I have been taking it in my lunch this week. Yes, it's a bit unhealthy. But have you ever eaten a school lunch for 180 contracted school days? Didn't think so. I normally take frozen chicken tenders from Aldi's. They are handy to microwave. A side of Sun Chips completes my two-course meal with a minimum of fuss. With lunch coming at 10:53 a.m. four days a week, and at 10:38 on Fridays, I need something that doesn't settle in my belly like a stone.
Because you can't have a proper baloney sandwich without mustard, and because mustard makes my Wonder Whole Grain Wheat bread soggy, I use two pieces of baloney, with mustard in between. Today, I made myself such a baloney sandwich for my Saturday lunch. Hick and The Pony were out terrorizing the chickens and goats with some project, and Genius was in town mowing yards for cash. I took my one-handed meal to my computer. Sometimes, I enjoy my lonely repast in front of the television. Baloney did not seem appropriate for The Joy Luck Club.
My computer, New Delly, as Genius and I named her, is in my basement office. My dark lair. I set down my delicious baloney sandwich and commenced to catching up on blog reading. Every now and then, I picked it up and took a bite. One such bite, over half-way through the sandwich, drew my attention away from New Delly's cheery screen. I felt something plop onto my shirt. Knowing that I had not included pickles nor onions nor any other such fixin's, I looked down. And saw a blob of mustard bigger than a Dwight D. Eisenhower dollar.
I don't use so much mustard for school. Not because I don't want it dropping on my shirt. That thought never occurred to me. But because I don't want it squeezing out on the corner of my mouth. I'm not so sure anybody at the lunch table would tell me. And wiping your mouth with a paper towel does not always remove the yellowy goodness of mustard.
I went immediately to the NASCAR bathroom adjacent to my office. I call it that, because Hick designed it with a black-and-white checkered tile floor, a custom-made countertop with airbrushed stock cars, and eleventy-thousand little hooks on the walls, each hung with a Hot Wheels NASCAR collector car. Several clock and book-cover likenesses of Dale Earnhart watch you do your business. Yes. We are the epitome of sophistication.
Some purple liquid soap rubbed into the yellow offending spot removed the stain straightaway. I returned for round two of Val versus lunch. Not to be outsmarted again, I took a tissue and wrapped it under my baloney sandwich's bottom.
Fool me twice? I don't think so.
Unbagging the Cats 1
Saturday, April 30, 2011
Friday, April 29, 2011
My Thoughfulness Knows No Bounds
Sometimes, I am just too nice. Stop snickering. It's totally true.
Every day, at the end of 5th hour, I straighten my desks. Not in an obsessive-compulsive way. But because I'm too nice. My plan time is 6th hour. That is when the custodian cleans my room. My classroom is at its worst at that time. It's been twenty-four hours since the last cleaning. Bits of paper appear on the floor, and shoe mud, and pencil shavings around the sharpener. The desks and chairs are askew. So I straighten them.
My students 5th hour are too cool for school. They are not the type to straighten up before they leave. I call it even if they take all of their possessions with them and the furniture remains upright. They are not like my sweet freshmen 7th hour, who dutifully align their chairs two minutes before the bell each day. Align them with the legs on specific tile cracks, and push in the chairs, exactly as I have requested. No, that's not happening 5th hour. So instead of a room ready for cleaning after the final bell, I have a room in disarray with two class periods remaining.
At times I feel pressured to complete this task before The Broomsman enters. I try to stand in the hall to supervise huggers and runners and hacky-sackers, but he sweeps by and commences the cleaning without me. So I rush in and begin. Put the desks in straight rows with adequate spacing, push in the chairs, pick up any full-sized papers that might have dropped. I feel like an assistant of sorts. I have danced this ballet for years.
Today was reading day, as is every Friday, which means that we are on a shortened hourly schedule to steal thirty minutes of reading time from the day. This schedule discombobulates The Broomsman. It throws him off by fifteen minutes. I spend Fridays 5th hour in the computer lab, on Study Island, preparing for the End Of Course testing that is imminent. So it's a long walk up the hall to get back to my classroom. And sometimes nature calls, which necessitates a stop at the faculty women's restroom on the trek.
The Broomsman was busily brooming when I arrived. "I put some of your chairs in rows for you," he said as I walked in.
Which kind of seems like the natural order of things to me.
Every day, at the end of 5th hour, I straighten my desks. Not in an obsessive-compulsive way. But because I'm too nice. My plan time is 6th hour. That is when the custodian cleans my room. My classroom is at its worst at that time. It's been twenty-four hours since the last cleaning. Bits of paper appear on the floor, and shoe mud, and pencil shavings around the sharpener. The desks and chairs are askew. So I straighten them.
My students 5th hour are too cool for school. They are not the type to straighten up before they leave. I call it even if they take all of their possessions with them and the furniture remains upright. They are not like my sweet freshmen 7th hour, who dutifully align their chairs two minutes before the bell each day. Align them with the legs on specific tile cracks, and push in the chairs, exactly as I have requested. No, that's not happening 5th hour. So instead of a room ready for cleaning after the final bell, I have a room in disarray with two class periods remaining.
At times I feel pressured to complete this task before The Broomsman enters. I try to stand in the hall to supervise huggers and runners and hacky-sackers, but he sweeps by and commences the cleaning without me. So I rush in and begin. Put the desks in straight rows with adequate spacing, push in the chairs, pick up any full-sized papers that might have dropped. I feel like an assistant of sorts. I have danced this ballet for years.
Today was reading day, as is every Friday, which means that we are on a shortened hourly schedule to steal thirty minutes of reading time from the day. This schedule discombobulates The Broomsman. It throws him off by fifteen minutes. I spend Fridays 5th hour in the computer lab, on Study Island, preparing for the End Of Course testing that is imminent. So it's a long walk up the hall to get back to my classroom. And sometimes nature calls, which necessitates a stop at the faculty women's restroom on the trek.
The Broomsman was busily brooming when I arrived. "I put some of your chairs in rows for you," he said as I walked in.
Which kind of seems like the natural order of things to me.
Thursday, April 28, 2011
My Transformation
Today I am one of the popular people. You know, the people who are the hottest thing going. On the tip of everybody's tongue. The IN CROWD. The hep cats. The bee's knees. That's me. Today.
By popular people, of course I mean Zombies. My transformation began at 12:30 a.m., when I woke up in my basement recliner with a pounding headache across the front of my forehead. I went upstairs to bed, where the headache worsened. After tossing for two hours, and then tossing my stomach contents, I sat awake in the living room recliner until time to arise for work at 5:00. It's amazing what four hours of sleep can do for a person.
My skin is pale gray. I mumble incoherently while trying to communicate. I shuffle along in a shambling walk. I am starving for brains.
Yep. I'm a zombie, all right.
By popular people, of course I mean Zombies. My transformation began at 12:30 a.m., when I woke up in my basement recliner with a pounding headache across the front of my forehead. I went upstairs to bed, where the headache worsened. After tossing for two hours, and then tossing my stomach contents, I sat awake in the living room recliner until time to arise for work at 5:00. It's amazing what four hours of sleep can do for a person.
My skin is pale gray. I mumble incoherently while trying to communicate. I shuffle along in a shambling walk. I am starving for brains.
Yep. I'm a zombie, all right.
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
Dear Crabby, 4-26-11
Well, the weekend slipped by, and Dear Crabby was not in the house. But she's here now, ready and positively eager to take your questions. No inquiry is too small or too large. Dear Crabby is willing to devote her meager spare time to helping those with burning issues. Give her something to type about. Or gripe about.
Here's one to kick things off:
Dear Crabby,
Is it true that you can't go home again?
Signed, Homebody
Dear Homebody,
Of course you can go home again. But please note that when you do, you will be suckered into a game of CatchPhrase with your sister, who will take her twenty-one-year-old daughter who owns the game as her partner, along with your sixteen-year-old son, leaving you with a seventy-seven-year-old woman and a thirteen-year-old boy, neither of whom are familiar with the Beatles hit "Hey, Jude," or the fact that "tassels" grow on the tops of ears of corn, or that Dolly Parton's first song was about her corncob doll, Little Tiny Tasseltop, and the only thing that will allow you to score ONE point all afternoon is that the thirteen-year-old knows that strippers wear tassels.
Dear Crabby awaits your questions.
Here's one to kick things off:
Dear Crabby,
Is it true that you can't go home again?
Signed, Homebody
Dear Homebody,
Of course you can go home again. But please note that when you do, you will be suckered into a game of CatchPhrase with your sister, who will take her twenty-one-year-old daughter who owns the game as her partner, along with your sixteen-year-old son, leaving you with a seventy-seven-year-old woman and a thirteen-year-old boy, neither of whom are familiar with the Beatles hit "Hey, Jude," or the fact that "tassels" grow on the tops of ears of corn, or that Dolly Parton's first song was about her corncob doll, Little Tiny Tasseltop, and the only thing that will allow you to score ONE point all afternoon is that the thirteen-year-old knows that strippers wear tassels.
Dear Crabby awaits your questions.
Monday, April 25, 2011
I've Been Cheated
When we last visited stylin' governor Val, the tough taskmaster, she was not grinning, and was absorbed in her steamy fling with Vicks. To update the situation: Vicks is OH SO SEVEN days ago. He has been replaced by a new liquid love, who hooked up with Val through an introduction by her doctor. More on him in the future.
The business at hand tonight is my smell. More specifically, the lack thereof. For ten days, I have been forsaken by my olfactory senses. I could have taken a blindfolded chomp out of a big red onion and called it an apple. I could have embarked on a leisurely stroll through a hog farm on a humid July evening and deeply inhaled the night air. I could have worked double shifts in a combination horseradish/Limburger cheese factory for minimum wage and not thought to complain.
My sniffer has been on the fritz.
The timing of this tragic event is quite inopportune. Every year, I look forward to the blooming of my lilac bush. I used to have three wonderful lilac bushes at my $17,000 house in town. A dark purple one, and two light purple ones. They were laden with blooms. They sagged under the weight. They had more shoots than you could count. I loved my lilacs. When we moved out of town, to the countrier part of the country, I told Hick that I wanted lilacs. Hick dug up part of my grandma's lilac bush. He planted two of them in our front yard. The third year, frost killed the smaller one. Never mind that I told Hick to protect it from the hard freeze. Hick knows best. Hick knows what is best for himself, in not going out in the cold to wrap a sheet around a lilac bush.
The remaining lilac bush hung on. But didn't bloom. My grandma had told me it would take seven years for it to bloom. I thought that was preposterous. Just an old grandma's tale. How could nurseries survive selling lilacs that took seven years to bloom? But I didn't get mine from a nursery. I got it from Grandma's yard, courtesy of Hick. And wouldn't you know it, the eighth year, that lilac bush bloomed.
Flash to this year, when Hick let his herd of goats loose to mow the front yard. Goats really like lilacs. And roses. Or the bare branches. They ate as high as they could. I had just a few buds remaining. I saw them bloom. But they had no smell detectable by my malfunctioning nostrils.
Today, my smell returned. I stepped out on the porch, where goatherder Hick was sitting, surveying his goat kingdom. He normally rides his four-wheeler around with them, but it was raining tonight. Just like it has rained for the past five nights. And days. I asked Hick if my lilac buds were going to bloom. I had seen them last week, but tonight there were only buds. Or so I thought. Hick informed me: "Oh, they bloomed. But now the rain has beat the petals off of them."
I try to be optimistic, though it is contrary to my nature. What's another year? It's not like I missed the 100-year blooming of the corpse flower.
The business at hand tonight is my smell. More specifically, the lack thereof. For ten days, I have been forsaken by my olfactory senses. I could have taken a blindfolded chomp out of a big red onion and called it an apple. I could have embarked on a leisurely stroll through a hog farm on a humid July evening and deeply inhaled the night air. I could have worked double shifts in a combination horseradish/Limburger cheese factory for minimum wage and not thought to complain.
My sniffer has been on the fritz.
The timing of this tragic event is quite inopportune. Every year, I look forward to the blooming of my lilac bush. I used to have three wonderful lilac bushes at my $17,000 house in town. A dark purple one, and two light purple ones. They were laden with blooms. They sagged under the weight. They had more shoots than you could count. I loved my lilacs. When we moved out of town, to the countrier part of the country, I told Hick that I wanted lilacs. Hick dug up part of my grandma's lilac bush. He planted two of them in our front yard. The third year, frost killed the smaller one. Never mind that I told Hick to protect it from the hard freeze. Hick knows best. Hick knows what is best for himself, in not going out in the cold to wrap a sheet around a lilac bush.
The remaining lilac bush hung on. But didn't bloom. My grandma had told me it would take seven years for it to bloom. I thought that was preposterous. Just an old grandma's tale. How could nurseries survive selling lilacs that took seven years to bloom? But I didn't get mine from a nursery. I got it from Grandma's yard, courtesy of Hick. And wouldn't you know it, the eighth year, that lilac bush bloomed.
Flash to this year, when Hick let his herd of goats loose to mow the front yard. Goats really like lilacs. And roses. Or the bare branches. They ate as high as they could. I had just a few buds remaining. I saw them bloom. But they had no smell detectable by my malfunctioning nostrils.
Today, my smell returned. I stepped out on the porch, where goatherder Hick was sitting, surveying his goat kingdom. He normally rides his four-wheeler around with them, but it was raining tonight. Just like it has rained for the past five nights. And days. I asked Hick if my lilac buds were going to bloom. I had seen them last week, but tonight there were only buds. Or so I thought. Hick informed me: "Oh, they bloomed. But now the rain has beat the petals off of them."
I try to be optimistic, though it is contrary to my nature. What's another year? It's not like I missed the 100-year blooming of the corpse flower.
Sunday, April 24, 2011
Val is The Governor
I am giving myself a new nickname. The Governor. Not an executive who exercises authority over a group governor. An instrument that maintains a steady speed governor. I believe I've mentioned that drivers tailgate the living daylights out of me. Even when I'm going over the speed limit. In a non-lawbreaking kind of way.
I'm versatile. Like that dude, Mayhem, in the Allstate Insurance commercials, I'm a chameleon. I can be your pace car at the Indy 500. Walk your thoroughbreds to the post to the tune of My Old Kentucky Home. Drip glucose and meds into your vein through your hospital IV. Act as metronome for a pianist performing at Carnegie Hall. Set the pace for Adam Richman vs the food of the week.
Val has many hidden talents. Right now, they are duking it out under a bushel.
I'm versatile. Like that dude, Mayhem, in the Allstate Insurance commercials, I'm a chameleon. I can be your pace car at the Indy 500. Walk your thoroughbreds to the post to the tune of My Old Kentucky Home. Drip glucose and meds into your vein through your hospital IV. Act as metronome for a pianist performing at Carnegie Hall. Set the pace for Adam Richman vs the food of the week.
Val has many hidden talents. Right now, they are duking it out under a bushel.
Saturday, April 23, 2011
Val is Stylin'
Josh Hoyt, at The Blog That Helps You Diagnose Your Characters, has presented me with an award. I was kind of hoping for a Major Award, like the leg lamp in A Christmas Story, but that would have been a bit inappropriate. Josh's wife and my husband might not appreciate such a risque, fish-netted, electrified gam passing between Josh and me.
I'm not quite sure what to make of this Stylish Blogger Award. Oh, I definitely have a style all my own. But I am concerned that somewhere in the blogosphere, two people are typing whispers about me. Kind of like Lily Tomlin told Dolly Parton about Jane Fonda in Nine to Five: "We're gonna need a special locker for the hat."
Here are the rules of the Stylish Blogger Award:
To accept the award, you have to do the following
1. Thank and link back to the person who gave you the award.
2. Share 7 things about yourself.
3. Award 10-15 blogs who you think deserve this award.
4. Contact these bloggers and let them know about the award.
I would like to share 7 things about Val's style.
1- My hair is all my own, and I keep it cut in an unstylish lady-mullet so as not to distract my students with my great beauty. I do not use hairspray, due to a childhood Aqua Net incident. My coiffure holds its shape in compliance with the laws of science, using good ol' static electricity. On my best days, I might be accidentally mistaken for Bob, of Big Boy fame.
2- One of my most stunning childhood ensembles was the combo of sky-blue stretch pants with foot strap thingamajigs paired with a rose-colored polyester dress with black rickrack hand-stitched by my grandma festooning the sleeves and neckline. Only a future valedictorian could rock that look.
3- My most memorable school picture is from fourth grade, featuring a smile in which I pulled my teeth over my lips like a toothless grandmother yearning for Heidi to bring her some soft white rolls. For the record: I really like soft white rolls.
4- As a miler on the high school track team, I possessed a kickin' pair of shoes with long metal spikes for running on cinder tracks. It is not such a good idea to use your teammate's head as a drum on which to practice your spiked-shoe drumstick cadences between races, as some people have really fragile scalp skin, and are not up-to-date on their tetanus shots.
5- To ward off the midwestern winter chill, the well-dressed high school gal, Val, rotated her stable of wraps, consisting of a dark brown maxi coat, a flannel CPO jacket, and a white, fur-lined Southwestern Bell Telephone windbreaker with two stylish blue and gold stripes down the left side.
6- My high school band uniform required black shoes. Not one to go with the basic flow, Val obtained a pair of funky platform saddle shoes in black and gray. They were more of a fashion statement than they were a viable option for marching up the field at home football games, or down Blue Goose Hill during the homecoming parade.
7- A promotional poster of a Coors Light beer label can be made into a fetching Halloween costume when wrapped around your torso, held up with black suspenders, and teamed with a gray sweatshirt, gray sweatpants, silver Nikes with a red swoosh, and an inverted visor wrapped in foil for the pop top.
I would like to share my special Stylish Blogger Award with two most deserving folks who have followed flaky Val here from her supersecret long-time blog abode:
Mommy Needs a Xanax, a middle-school teacher now deep undercover as a Mississippi mom,
and
Kathy, the Krafty Kampground Kaperer. who can make a silk purse out of a sow's ear and sew it back on the sow so that all the other sows turn green with envy.
Should you ladies decide to accept, I look forward to finding out 7 things I don't already know about you!
Thank you, Josh, for bestowing this honor upon me. I shall cherish it and set it on the mantle next to the coconut-shell monkey that my son bought me at a flea market, to be dusted twice a year, whether it needs it or not.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)