A Report from Tallulah~

This is my second report on Day 2 of my captivity. You will note that one of the ugly animals from my Male Staff Member's former home has breached the security gate. He is even worse than I expected and dared to IGNORE me after glancing at my comely face and beautiful body.

This despicable creature actually JUMPED onto my throne and proceeded to chew on one of MY toys. The woman who wants to be a staff member, actually LAUGHED at this and I shall not forgive her.

Her resume will be placed in my litter box along with my latest aromatic deposit.

Tallulah

Tallulah: Report from Captivity

Notes from the Trenches: Report by Tallulah the Cat.

This is my second full day in this hellhole known as my Male Staff Member's former home. There are big ugly animals everywhere and they keep coming to my gate. Luckily, they are too stupid to climb over so I am safe from their slobbering, ugly, disgusting faces for now.

The woman, who needs to submit a resume in triplicate, keeps coming in the gated room to see me in an attempt to placate and curry favor. It is not working. The ugly animals follow her and she is too nice to them. Her position as a future staff member is very much in question.

I allow petting, but only because I need it at particular times and places.

Send tuna and be quick about it.

Tallulah

Couch Cushions

Today I got off on a cleaning tangent and went after the family room couch cushions. They are dirty and this has been bothering me. The main reason is that my daughter in law is moving in next weekend and I don’t want her to think I put up with dirty couch cushions on a regular basis. I would like her to think that dirty couch cushions are an anomaly in our house.

The dogs like to lick the couch. I am sure this is just a "dog thing," but no amount of harping, yelling, clapping, or "pssting" at them makes the licking stop. They just like to lick. After awhile, the couch cushions have little spots that are probably full of dried dog-spit residue. They also come in from outside and go straight to the couch. This is AFTER rolling in something smelly and dirty. Although they do lick their paws on occasion, it is rarely before jumping onto the couch after digging in the mud.

Cleaning these couch cushions are an effort in physical strength. It takes a lot to get the cushion covers off the bottom cushions so that they can be put in the washing machine. It also takes a lot of strength to put them back on – this is not an easy task.

The most annoying thing about this whole endeavor is that I cannot do the job well. The bottom cushions and the matching pillows have zippers for somewhat-easy removal. But the top cushions are affixed to the couches and big chair. You cannot remove them for proper cleaning.

This makes me wonder what in hell the couch designers were thinking. “Oh yes, let’s make this furniture family-friendly. Let’s put zippers on the cushions so that the covers may be easily removed for cleaning! We will use a microfiber that looks a lot like suede! This couch will look rich and inviting.!” I can almost hear hands clapping together in delight at the prospect.

“Well, uh… what about the top cushions?” asks the smart-aleck young design assistant. “You show these top cushions as being sewn into the back of the couch and chair – how will the owner remove THOSE for easy cleaning?”

The designer probably gave the youngster a withering look and said something about creative license and his or her complete misunderstanding of the whole design concept. "My furniture is ART," the designer undoubtedly cried out. "Don't bother me with insignifant little details!"

The smirky young assitant might have mentioned something about the magnetic attributes of dog hair and the oily residue of human heads that rest after a long and hard day of toil.

The designer then said something about “steam cleaning,” which is what one must do with all the fabric covering the furniture anyway. "So what difference will it make," was the final comment, said through a clenched jaw and a mouth full of pins.

We all know that steam cleaning and other methods of dirt and stain removal on furniture is half-assed at best. Where does all that crud GO once the hot water and cleaning fluid is shot straight into the attached cushions and furniture frame? It simply cannot come out with the poor amount of suction used by whatever piece of equipment is being employed. The dirty liquid and dirty stuff is THERE forever, under where you are sitting, festering and becoming more and more disgusting as time passes. You can vacuum and dab with a wet cloth until the cows come home, but you will never, EVER, get that part of the furniture as clean as the portions you can throw into the washing machine.

Despite the whole couch getting a good vacuuming on a somewhat-regular basis, there is always dirt and cherry pits and dog hair under the cushions. I often ponder how all that stuff gets there in the first place because I don't remember SEEING anybody actually put little rocks and tiny safety pins and coins under the couch cushions. And for what purpose, anyway?

There is little posterity for old couches. They get dumped somewhere or carted away by charities who take them places where they are bought by people who are probably not bothered by the lack of removable top couch cushions. Some people put their old couches on their lawns in an effort to return to white-trash roots. But the last time I tried this, the couch was gone the next day.

My next batch of family room furniture will have 100% removable outer wear. What is left should be able to withstand a good hosing-off. In fact, lawn furniture just may be the way to go.

Leo Drives~

I admire the way Leo drives. He has his eyes on the road and he isn't distracted by the radio or other vehicles. He just pays attention to what he is doing. I think that is commendable. There are so many drivers who could learn from Leo's fine example. He has excellent driving habits.

The best thing about Leo, as a driver, is the absence of a Bluetooth. Leo does not feel the need to be constantly connected to a cellular phone and the incessant demands of human conversation. He chooses not to look silly and ostentatious with an earpiece attached to his head, talking to himself while he drives. In fact, Leo doesn't talk at all while at the wheel.

Leo just......drives.

Clayton on Friday

Yesterday, I opened the classroom door and I saw Clayton across the lawn, standing by the outside cafeteria door. He was supposed to walk to the room, but for some reason he was just standing there. The custodian was telling him, not too kindly, to go to his classroom. Clayton was just standing there.

I propped open the door and looked over at him, then waved. He saw me, bolted across the lawn, and flew into my arms. (Then he asked if he could go play on the trikes.)

Right before we went home, Clayton looked up at me. I was certain he was going to ask about the trikes again. “Teacher,” he said.

“Yes, Clayton,” I responded.

“I love you teacher.”

“I love you too, Clayton. I am happy you are in my class,” I said, as I leaned down to hug him.

“Teacher?” asked Clayton when I stood up.

“Yes, Clayton,” I said, stepping over backpacks to reach the front of the rug area.

“Can I go home now?”

The Long Trike Trail Home

Clayton is truly one of the only students I’ve had that has a slack-jaw. I know this is unkind and that I will be dipping the soles of my feet in hell for this, but the boy is out to lunch and has room to rent upstairs. He processes only key words that mean something to him. These are his favorite:

1. Play
2. Recess
3. Eat
4. Cars
5. Tricycle
6. Home

I tell him where to go sit and his jaw drops. One minute later, as the kids are settled at their tables, he will at my side, demanding to know where to go. I resist temptation and repeat my instructions. He usually tells me that he doesn’t want to go there. I again resist temptation and lead him to where he needs to go. If he goes limp, I threaten the loss of the toy cars. He relents but makes it clear he is NOT happy about this.

He never remembers to hang up his backpack when he comes in. He just plops down and starts playing. If the cars are not out yet, he will wander the room looking for them because he can’t remember where they are stored. If I remind him to hang up his backpack and take care of business, he ignores me, snarls at me, or just says “NO.”

Tuesday, I introduced the trikes to the class and painstakingly went over rules and procedures. In doing this, I created a monster because now, no matter what, Clinton doesn’t wish to do anything that doesn’t pertain to the tricycles.

He began asking about them when he arrived this morning, during group time, during group time again, during rug time, and during story time. He spent all recess on the trikes and then demanded to be let out to play on them again when we came in. He asked about them during lunch and after lunch. During P.E., he refused to step away from the trikes and rode around the track again and again – until somebody else wanted a turn and he impatiently waited to ride again.

After P.E. he demanded that I let him go ride the trike because “I never let him ride the tricycle.”

When I said no, that we have other things to accomplish today, he demanded that I take him home RIGHT NOW. I said no, he would ride the bus home later. He said, “NO, drive me home RIGHT NOW.”

It’s been a long two weeks with Clayton. This is the boy who pushes his work towards me when we work at the tables and says that he “doesn’t want to” do what I am asking him to do. He ONLY wants to ride the trike. This is the boy who snarled at me all day Monday and when I said he was grumpy he snarled at me again that he IS NOT GRUMPY!

“Somebody needs to go to bed early tonight,” I said, feeling every inch of my years and carefully cultivated patience. “NO,” was the immediate response.

“Oh yes,” I said, “I will be calling your daddy when you leave today and I will tell him that Clayton needs to take a NAP!”

“NO!” he says in response. “No nap!”

So, his demand that I take him home “RIGHT NOW” really spoke to me.

Because I am evil and going to hell anyway, I told him that if he really wanted to go home “right now” he could ride the tricycle. He just stared at me. Then I pushed it even further and told him to stay on the sidewalk, be safe, and look both ways when he crosses the street.

Five minutes later I look up and he is standing near the back door with his backpack on, trying to reach the key to the tricycle shed.

I could almost feel the flames licking my feet.

Hey! A Rooster Shaw!

I have this little character in my class named Victoria. She thinks my name is “Hey!” although we are working on this. Victoria loves me dearly but listening to me is a different thing all together. Victoria would rather talk than listen. Victoria is up in everybody’s business. I need to appoint her Prime Minister or something.

I made the mistake of measuring her first on our class growth chart. Every morning, after she yells, "HEY!" at me, she demands that I "see how tall" she is. I keep telling her that her height has not changed since yesterday, but she only processes the part about "growth" and "blah blah blah blah."

She has been singing this little ditty for days now – to the point of distraction on my part. She sings, over and over again, “A rooster shaw, a rooster shaw, a rooster shaw shaw...” She does it during group time. She does it loudly in the bathroom. She sings it before recess. She sings it after recess. She is loud and proud in the cafeteria, “A rooster shaw, a rooster shaw, a rooster shaw shaw!”

I have been going nuts. I could not figure it out. She is an English language learner, so it is even more strange, since I can’t think of anything in Spanish that even closely resembles “a rooster shaw.” She even does this without an accent and during the most inopportune times. It is a brain worm, I thought, at its worst! All day long Victoria sings, “A rooster shaw, a rooster shaw, a rooster shaw shaw!” (And then she yells for me, “HEY!”)

So today, I put on a little movement song by Dr. Jean that gets the kids moving when they need to get the wiggles out. It is perfect for the end of the school day. The song is called “A Tooty Ta.”

We were all singing and swaying, “A tooty, ta, a tooty ta, a tooty ta ta….,” gyrating our hips and pointing our thumbs. And there is Victoria, singing at the top of her lungs, “A ROOSTER SHAW, A ROOSTER SHAW, A ROOSTER SHAW shaw!”

HEY! I am really dense. It takes SO LONG to get it sometimes.

The Missing Carrot

Today my kinders were sitting at the tables "following directions." They were to color each picture to match the color word that appears on the page. They are making a little book called, "Orange is a Carrot." We do this book one page at a time, with me carefully controlling the crayons.

The kids were supposed to be coloring the carrot orange. I did not give them access to any other colors because my experience has taught me that they don't CARE if the color matches the color word. Purple carrots are just fine in KinderWorld. Normally, I could care less - but THIS project requires adherence to the directions in order to achieve a product that practices emerging skills.

Isaias decides halfway through coloring the carrot that he needs to get up and go to the restroom. His book falls on the floor and when he picks it up, he places it back on the table upside down.

When he returns from the restroom, he opens his book from the back cover and smoothes it down. Then he sees the blank backside of the last page of the book. He begins hollering at me, "Teacher! Teacher! Teacher!"

"What is it, Isaias," I say with kindness and patience. "What is the matter?"

His eyes are wide as saucers as he looks down at his book and then up at me. "MY CARROT IS GONE!"

The Possibilities: What if People Cleaned Up After Themselves?

Today’s paper ran a story about a new park opening in downtown Los Angeles – the first open space made available to residents since the late 19th century. While the article was very upbeat about this, my first reaction had me wondering how long it would take before the park became dirty, vandalized, and dangerous. The local residents interviewed for the story seemed happy about the park and called it a refuge and a place to run and play.

But how long before the lavatory doors are ripped off their sparkling new hinges and sold for scrap or taken to the nearest recycling center and exchanged for cash? How long before broken sprinkler heads shoot water in every direction except the new grass that depends upon the irrigation to stay alive? How long before picnic tables and building surfaces are covered by gang graffiti and turf wars erupt over the coveted open space?

Call me a cynic but these were my thoughts as I read the article and shook my head reading the sound bites offered by the city’s politicians who stopped by to take credit for the 10.5 acre site. I had to ponder – who is going to take care of the litter? Who is going to weed the planters of soda cans and clean up after the numerous family picnics that will descend upon these grounds while the weather is still warm? Will those families take care of the city-provided restrooms and teach their children to do likewise? One look at any public restroom in any public place and the outlook is not good. It never ceases to amaze me how many women have difficulty getting dirty paper towels INTO the provided receptacle. And what is it about cleaning up after yourself when you use a toilet? Does anybody in their right mind honestly think somebody else wants to be confronted with your private mess? Or is the anonymity of the whole thing the perfect camouflage for our most basic instincts?

People are notoriously unwilling to clean up after themselves. A visit to any discount store will illustrate that reality. Clothing, shoes, and other store merchandise is often picked up, examined, and then discarded – on the floor, thrown across shelves, and under displays. At some point an apathetic clerk will come along to replace the jumbled items, but it is a Sisyphian task. These minimum wage earning individuals do nothing their entire shifts but clean up after people who are perfectly capable of cleaning up after themselves.

Carts are abandoned in parking lots because many people are too lazy to return them to the store. How long, really, does it take to bring a cart to the parking lot area designed for carts? Entire companies are in business to retrieve carts from people who think nothing of removing them from parking lots altogether.

And litter? It is ubiquitous. Any neighborhood walk will reveal trash that didn’t make it to the trash can or was hurled from a passing car. School grounds are full of trash that blows out of poorly-designed receptacles. Parks and other recreation areas are strewn with the remains of some family’s good time.

I often wonder at the loss of productivity we as a society experience because people are rarely taught to clean up after themselves. What if retail store clerks did not have to spend time picking up and replacing items tossed aside by lazy customers? Would it be possible for “customer service” to make a comeback? How about teaching school children to clean up playground litter – would a respect for the environment and the world around them be encouraged? How about just an old-fashioned sense of responsibility for the world around them?

With regularity, I have my students clean up common areas in the school. I am regarded as eccentric for doing this. Many teachers and most school children walk by the campus litter regularly. Bending over and picking it up is a possibility that rarely enters the repertoire of possible actions. It is amazing and it is sad. In Japan, school children actually clean up their own schools. In America, the classified workers unions and middle class parents would go ballistic at such a suggestion. But think of the possibilities: If school children cleaned up after themselves, classified employees charged with those thankless tasks would be free to work on other neglected areas of the school, things they cannot do because school children think nothing of creating messes and then skipping away from them.

What if park-goers actually cleaned up after picnics and parties and made sure their children put trash in the wastebaskets? Would a message be sent to criminals that this place is valued, cared for, and inappropriate for graffiti and other acts of vandalism? What kind of respect for humanity might be engendered in that instance?

I had a neighbor once who swept his sidewalk and driveway every weekend. He also scooped up all the debris that collected in the gutter in front of his house. I have to wonder – what if everybody did that? What if the city-financed street sweeper crew could actually work on other, more public areas and keep them pristine and attractive? Would people then be less likely to hurl beer cans out of their cars?

It is utopian, my view of a world populated by responsible people. The idea that people could actually clean up after themselves – such an idealistic concept.

I wish the people of downtown L.A. good luck with their park and an abundance of trash cans.

Hiding the Bones: Another Dog Tail

Today, I gave each dog a meaty bone.

Duke’s was heavier than he is but he solved the problem by dragging it to just the right spot and then putting his paw on it for stability while he went to work. He was busy for a long time and I am not sure where the remains are located. The chewing and gnawing and paw-steadying wore him out – he’s asleep on the chair.

Augie took his meaty bone under the table and made quick work of removing the meat and marrow. He’s outside on the patio “digesting.” He’s placed the bone on the grass, in the sun, for proper “drying.”

Seamus, however, is beside himself. After working on what was probably the biggest bone in the package, he took it upstairs. There was much thumping and bumping as he relocated the laundry basket, the trash can, my shoes, the sheets on the bed, and my pillows, in search of the “perfect” spot for hiding. Dog compels the brown dog to bury the bones and the questionable meaty parts he is saving for later. But what he lacks is the understanding that 2-story houses built on concrete foundations lack the necessary components for appropriate burying of bones.

Upstairs, laundry is dragged all over the room. My pillows are off the bed, the stack of books on the floor are now a pile, and several shoes are in the bathroom. Standing amid this disarray is Seamus, with the bone in his mouth, looking perplexed and agitated. Hanging off the bone is a rather brownish piece of meat that has to be harboring bacteria that is rapidly multiplying while the poor dog looks for adequate storage.

He eventually settled on my bed and began what sounded like an expedition to China. Then he plopped down on the bunched bedclothes and expelled a very angst-laden canine sigh.

Somewhere in between my blanket and top sheet is my dog’s prized possession. On top, is Seamus – sleeping a righteous sleep and dreaming big doggy dreams.

It’s time to change the bed anyway.

Hiding the Bones: A Dog Tail~

I have been giving the dogs real meaty bones lately. They seem to enjoy them but I am concerned about Seamus.

The brown dog spends an inordinate amount of time with his bones and then more time trying to figure out where to HIDE them.

I hear wild scratching at all times of the day and night - only to see my dog-with-little-brain trying to "unbury" a bone from the couch cushions, the throw pillows, a carpet runner, or from where he WEDGED it under the couch. (How he gets in under that far, I have no clue.)

This morning, after my bike ride, I jumped in the shower. When I emerged, I heard a ruckus in the closet. I see Seamus dragging the laundry basket around with his teeth - he has a hold of Dan's underwear and is trying to pull it through a slat in the laundry basket.

He is very intense about it. I tell him to leave Dad's tighty-wighties alone and push the basket back into place.

A minute later, same issue - the brown dog is trying to pull the drawers through the slat.

Now, Seamus follows the motto, "No brains, no headaches." But he usually leaves DH's underwear alone. So, I investigate and SURE ENOUGH... he has yesterday's meaty
bone wrapped up in Dad's "yesterday" underwear.

THIS explains the "clean" meaty bone in the dryer last Sunday.

Ball Changes

Today Doctor Dave's evil assistant called to invite me back in to the surgical center to replace my testicles. It seems the plastic things floating around inside do nothing for the aesthetics of these instruments of torture and Doctor Dave simply will NOT have me going around looking like that.

I dressed for the occasion, including underwear and a sports bra. Lacking a decent place to properly pin the balls to my clothing, I gave up and inserted one on each side of the bra - where the bra's "cups" would be if I had breasts. Since the balls are deflated due to this giant suction thing they are performing, the effect was a like oversized and inverted nipples.

For some reason, this made my appearance rather humerous. The office staff frantically grasped their collective sides and appeared to wet their collective thongs. The Evil Assistant then took a series of pictures reminiscent of the good Doctor's "before" and "after" shots that document his careful work.

She is of the opinion that Doctor Dave will either become very annoyed with her for using his camera on "breast work" he did not perform, or he will wet his drawers.

Since I get to see the good Doctor tomorrow for a tube change and a bandage-check, I think it would be decent of me to bring a gift. But I am at a loss: Tighty-wighties or Scooby Doo boxers?

Lightbulb Ideas~

My friend Kelley is very annoyed about having to use to new energy-efficient, enironmentally-safe, mercury-filled "last forever" lightbulbs. She feels that we, as consumers, are being forced to buy them and she will never do so. Since incandescent lightbulbs will be out of the stores within a few years, she and her sister plan to hoard the incandescent versions. They will stockpile them in garages, attics, cupboards, and unused nooks and crannies around the ol' homesteads.

Me? I am not in agreement. At all.

Personally, I prefer candlelight. I have hoarded candles since 1980 and dutifully recycle the wax to make new candles. My "candle recycling" enterprise is crude but efficient. I waste tons of natural gas heating up all the chips, chunks, and other waxy droppings. I do this on our stove! Then I pour the melted wax into various containers I have recycled over the years - soda cans, peanut butter jars, wine bottles, yogurt cups, and pickle jar lids. I buy wicking by the mile and store it in old wrapping paper tubes.

I am currently experimenting with outdoor lighting by pouring a bit of wax from each melting session into an old PVC pipe I found along the side of the road. Somebody actually threw it out! The form is perfect for creating what I hope to be a huge "torch" that will light part of my patio and enhance my garden daycore. I will "plant" these in my yard! Solar garden lights? HA! They will PALE in comparison to these babies. I just need to ensure that the plants in the vicinity are non-flammable.

We have had many close calls over the years with pesky little house fires, but worry not! I save all the charred materials and either continue to use them, recycle them into wall and yard art, or burn the remainders in my fireplace very winter. I repaint the damaged walls every spring - just like changing out the batteries in the smoke detectors - I repaint and caulk damaged surfaces! And those smoke detectors work, believe me. With a bit of engineering ingenuity, an engineer-pal of mine got our smoke detectors to play guitar riffs from "Smoke on the Water" and "Smoke Gets in Your Eyes." Now, annoying little fire mishaps are transformed into musical interludes!

Oh yes.. there have a few other 'unfortunate' incidents involving my long-haired cat. Suffice to say that he sleeps hangs out in the closet now and the latest skin graft is healing nicely.

Incandecent lightbulbs? PUHleeeeze. Y'all are so backwards it's laughable!

Advice from Jim, my favorite Outlaw~

Since Jim and Anita are Brandy's parents, I get to call them my "outlaws." I was pleased to get an eMail response from them today regarding my surgery and what Jim refers to as my "newly acquired hotness." He warns that I must use my powers for GOOD.

I chuckled when I read it. Then I laughed out loud. I would have gone into a full knee-slap, but my tender post-surgical areas disallow that. So, I carefully considered this new illusion of "hotness" and then replied accordingly:

Oh yes, dear Jim….. I am hot. And then I am cold. And then I am hot again. I drip sweat while shivering… this is because of “reduced body volume” and my newly hot body attempting to get used to it.

I have two hand-grenade things attached to tubes that that go into delicate body areas. They drain a lovely color of liquid constantly. I finally grew balls! I am wearing a strait-jacket thing that velcroes well to itself and to delicate lower body hair. It has sharp edges that are gouging my upper legs and hip areas. Since I have reduced sensation, I don’t notice these secondary injuries until they start bleeding or the irritation causes me to look. (That or Augie Doggie attempting to “clean” the wound.)

My back aches from taking over from my newly tightened torso muscles – which were in good shape to begin with but couldn’t be seen or heard. Now they are on a 15-day strike because their delicate sheaths have been stitched and yanked and heaved into a new location.

I have the stamina of an sloth, drink water constantly, pee hourly, and have to sleep with every pillow in the house. I am awake every 2 hours to pee or turn over so I don’t get bedsores. The only good night sleep I’ve had in 6 nights was on Tuesday – when I took an anti-anxiety pill and chased it with a pain pill. I slept for 12 solid hours. I did not get up to pee and I did not turn over. It took me 20 minutes to unwedge myself from my pillow cocoon. Then I had to hobble to the bathroom with a bladder worthy of a racehorse. Something tells me this little drug cocktail would have gotten me on television if my last name were "Hilton" or "Spears."

When I finally got to shower, after three long days, I couldn’t do it alone. Only a TRUE best friend would come and help with such a task. And I have one. The only downside is the fact that three of us know about this little arrangement, and one of them is my husband who was at work at the time. He said he wished he’d known – he’d have come home with his camera. (Yeah, to two middle aged women taking a shower… one of them wearing party beads and plastic testicles.)

I have to shower with the testicles slung through bright green Mardi Gras beads since those were all I had handy in the bathroom when I needed something to keep the 17 yards of aquarium tubing from sliding out of my body when the hand grenade portions hit the ground. Not that they could – they are sutured to a very delicate area in the body that is not reacting well to its unexpected shave and foreign objects of attachment. Re-read that part…SUTURED. I want you to picture 17 yards of aquarium tubing SUTURED to an area within centimeters of YOUR, uh…. “drains.”

Oh yes, dear OutLaw Jim.. I am HOT.

Kim

New Computer

The old computer has been on its last legs for a long time. It has been sluggish and unreliable the last few months and a game of Free Cell caused an automatic shutdown in the afternoons if the humidity was under 65%.

I tried to buy one from a local vendor but had no luck. The local vendors were either closed when I went looking or were staffed by fat foreign guys who tried to sell me what I didn't need while constantly flipping open their cell phones. This happened twice.

I went to the big box store and was amazed at the variety of computers. What amazed me more was the variety of teen-somethings with big-box name tags and absolutely nothing to do. When it dawned on me that customer service from these sloths was not forthcoming, I fled the store and came home to hide.

With credit card in hand, I went online to Dell and ordered this new machine. It is very nice. It lacks a media card reader, but I didn't know what a media card reader was when I was ordering, and when Dell "strongly recommended" one, I clicked on by. Now it seems I need one in order to use the memory stick for the camera. Go figure! Seems to me if something is "strongly recommended" as a component, then maybe Dell should just include it as part of the package.

The new machine arrived but I had no time to clean files off the old one, dismantle it, and then set up the new one. For two weeks the boxes sat in the living room, rather forlorn.

There were two graduations. There was a wedding. There was a quick trip up north. And then I had surgery.

No problem, I thought - I will set up the new computer a few days after surgery.

It took me hours BEFORE the surgery to clean out the files and copy them. It also took me hours AFTER surgery to unplug all the cords. I would travel to the computer, unplug a cord, and then go rest. Since the machine has many cords, you can imagine how many days this took.

Once the cords were unplugged and tied with little bread wires, they had to be moved into the livingroom next to the old keyboard - the only component I could move off the desk myself. Then I had to wait for the Y-chromosome people to find time and MOVE the computer carcasses off the computer desk and into the livingroom, next to the neatly wrapped cords.

And DUST? Can we just talk a minute about the dust? You can't set up a new machine in old dust. So - it took several trips to the hall closet to get the vacuum, remove the carpet attachments, roll the vacuum into the computer room, and then go rest. It took a few more trips to actually VACUUM.

Dustin came home at one point while I was vacuuming the middle portion of the computer desk. "You shouldn't be doing that," he said, leaning against the door frame.

"Yeah, I know. Feel free to jump right in," I replied, moving slowly around to face him. By the time I pivoted enough for a full-face conversation, he was gone. So I turned off the Dyson and went to rest.

The other Y-chromosome guy in this house said he would move anything I needed - just ask. When I asked, after resting, he said just a minute because the mother of all horse races that won't be repeated for another 30 years, is coming on. Then it was the U.S. Open. So I rested some more.

Then I decided to open the boxes. I got some nice scissors and settled down to the task from a seated position on the couch. It took me an hour to open them all. It took the Y-guy 30 seconds to pull out anything he didn't deem important and pile the unimportant stuff and the computer packing materials into one of the boxes. In the time it took him to move the new components to the nicely dusted computer desk, I was able to fish out the Owners' Manuals, the back-up CDs, the power cords, the Quicken software box, the Norton Anti-Virus package, the packing slip, and the computer mouse.

"Did you vacuum?" he asked, all indignant.

"What makes you think that?" I asked, gently easing myself up from the floor with about a thousand dollars worth of unimportant stuff.

"Okay, because I told you I would do that..." he says as he heads back to express his preference for Tiger Woods and horses with original names like "Brown Horse."

After proudly connecting the keyboard and the mouse to the appropriate places, I went to rest.

The next day, Ann came to the rescue. We set up the computer in a timely manner. This involved Ann vacuuming, Ann removing excess cords from computers long dead sent to electronic heaven, and Ann setting up and initializing the computer. I watched and she let me push a button. Then I rested. Ann installed the computer speakers and registered all the software.

Now I am going to go rest. It is strongly recommended.

Jordan's Bad Day~

There comes a time in each teacher's life for writing a letter home to parents. Today, I had to write a letter to Jordan's parents. Below is a copy.

Dear Jordan's Parents,

Jordan had a bad day today. I am writing because this was a really bad day. Normally, I would have sent Jordan to the office and the principal would have contacted you, but I have reached the point in the school year with Jordan that I need to try something different.

During Group Time we have 4-5 activities. Today, one of those choices was the completion of a May calendar. The children were asked to fill in the dates, which they could copy from our class calendar. They had to mark two upcoming events and then color the flowers if they wished. This is good numeral practice and good for vocabulary development. We also practice patterning because the students color the date boxes to match the pattern for the current month.

Jordan didn’t want to do it. He made this perfectly clear from the minute he ran from the bathroom and did a perfect slide into home base. He flipped around on the floor, did a headstand and a back flip. Had I been grading for P.E., I’d give those maneuvers an 8.1. Then played with his friends – who somehow managed to finish.

Jordan chose not to complete the work during recess or lunchtime. He managed to bang his head against the wall (check for bruises), roll on the floor, visit the restroom several times, fall of his chair, and sit in the recycling bin.

None of this helped him to finish the calendar.

He stabbed his shoes repeatedly with classroom pencils. Luckily for me, we have a pencil sharpener.

Jordan is fine example of stubbornness in action. Hopefully this will pay off in the future when he goes to college. In the meantime, please help him complete the calendar. I am enclosing the original work for you to admire.

Please sign the completed calendar and return it to me.

Thank you for your continued support. School is out in 11 days. I send my condolences.



Sincerely,

Jordan's Kindergarten Teacher

The Slow Fall~

During recess today, Andrew ran up to me, upset because Diego had pushed him down. Not only did Diego push him down, he added to the indignity of the whole thing by pushing him down OFF the swing.

Diego was on Andrew's heels, coming to defend himself, at all costs.

"Diego," I said, "Andrew tells me you pushed him down."

"Off the swing," added Andrew.

"NO," said Diego, shaking his head. "I didn't! I didn't!"

"He pushed me down off the swing. It hurt me," said Andrew, rubbing his rear end for added emphasis.

"No, no, no.........." argued Diego, "I didn't push him down! I didn't!"

"Yes. Yes. He pushed me down," said Andrew.

"No," said Diego. "I didn't. I didn't."

"Okay," I said, mustering up some patience. "Diego. Why did you push Andrew down?"

Diego is silent for a few seconds, considering whether to lawyer-up. Then he says quietly, "I didn't."

"Diego. If you didn't push Andrew down, how did he fall off the swing and land on the ground?"

Diego pauses to think. Then he says, "Verrrrry slowwwwly."

Bicycle Ruminations

Today, I bought a new bicycle. This was not an impulsive purchase - I have been thinking about bike riding for a long time.

Influencing my decision was my dear friend, Ann, who used to ride fanatically but now rides regularly. She has an almost vintage racing bicycle that has logged many miles. She is very attached to it and lifts her eyebrow at the mere mention by Jim, her bicycling spouse, that the trusty steed could use some updating.

The new bike is a Scott racing model. I like it for many reasons. It is lightweight, white like my favorite car color, and damn good-looking. There are other, technical reasons, but I am reluctant to go into them here. When I know what those technical reasons are, I will pontificate accordingly.

I took it out for a ride this afternoon and noticed a few things that I never really considered before. I will list them since I am a good list-maker:

1. Bicycle shorts are not merely an affectation used by cyclists to look professional. That extra padding around tender areas comes in handy after about 4 minutes.

2. Brakes need to be at the top of the handlebars, not in front of the bike. Aerodynamics, shmerodynamics - when I want to stop, I want to stop, not give my hand ligaments a good stretching.

3. Bike lanes shouldn't be politically correct after-thoughts. Bike lanes should be mandatory on all roads.

4. Bike lanes are for bikes. They are not right turn lanes for cars.

5. There is an abundance of crap all over the road. Isn't somebody in charge of clearing crap from the road? SHOULDN'T somebody be in charge of clearing crap from the road?

6. Speaking of crap, what is with all the broken glass? Do people just go outside and fling glass for the hell of it? I don't get it.

7. Road surfaces are not even-steven. They should be even-steven. In Spanish-speaking neighborhoods, they should be equal-pasqual. This is not a mountain bike.

8. Driveways are rarely flush with the street. Why IS that? It makes no sense. Aren't these things generally done with an eye on meeting up at some point?

9. Some cars are too quiet. They sneak up on you. Cars shouldn't be sneaky. It hurts the neck to look back on the left side.

10. Dogs are more interested in chasing a cyclist than a walker with 3 loud and energetic weinie dogs. Does that chihuahua down on Argyle Lane really think he can catch me?

11. Does the bicycle seat make my butt look fat?

Diego and the Duck Joke

There is a joke I like to tell my students towards the end of the school year. Kindergarten kids, for the most part, don't understand jokes unless they have something to do with "underwear" "the bathroom," or "naked."

If the kids can retell the joke, it is always a good laugh and I often hear from parents later that they "loved the duck joke."

Okay. So the joke goes like this:

Duck walks into a supermarket and looks around for the manager. When he finds the manager he waddles up and says, "Hey! You got any gwapes?"

The manager says, "No. I don't got any gwapes."

Next day, the duck walks into the supermarket and looks around for the manager. When he finds the manager, he waddles up and says, "Hey! You got any gwapes?"

The manager answers, "NO! I don't got any gwapes!"

Next day, duck walks into the supermarket and looks around for the manager. When he finds the manager, he waddles up to him and says, "HEY! You got any gwapes?"

The manager stops what he is doing and yells at the duck. "NO! I don't got any gwapes. You come in here tomorrow and ask me for gwapes, I'm gonna staple your feet to the floor!"

Next day, the duck walks into the supermarket. He looks around for the manager. When he finds the manager, he waddles up to him and says, "HEY! You got any staples?"

The manager says, "No. I don't got any staples."

Duck says, "Good! You got any gwapes?"

*****

Sometimes the kids get the joke and sometimes they don't. This is a "don't" year but that didn't prevent them from asking me to tell the joke again at lunch today.

Diego stops eating and excitedly tells the class that HE knows the joke and will tell it.

"Duck walks into the market. He says, 'hey, you got any grapes?'"

Then Diego stops. He is clearly thinking.

"What happened next, Diego?" I asked.

"Oh yeah!" he yells, getting up on his knees, arms waving wildly.

"Duck looks for the manager. He finds the manager."

"What did the manager say," I prompt.

Diego doesn't miss a beat.

"Manager says... GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE!"

Bad Words

Upon returning from the computer lab last Thursday, they just couldn't wait to descend upon me, one after the other, to share the news that "Alyssa said a bad word!" I half-ignored them in my attempts to hurry them along so they don't miss the bus. "A bad word? Really? Alyssa?" I say incredulously, when several more approach me to share the exciting news.

Alyssa vigorously shakes her head. "NO!" she says with vehemence. "I did not!"

"Yes she did!" shouts Raymond and Brandy gleefully. "In the computer lab!"

Alyssa keeps shaking her head and contorting her face in a wild attempt to stem the tide of eager tattling over her newly-discovered truck-driver mouth. Figuring that, since Alyssa was relatively new to our classroom, she didn't know about the "shut up" admonition, I did what all harried teachers do while trying to hurry an excited group of kindergarten children out a doorway that is suddenly much too small.

"What did she say," I asked Jessica, lowering my voice in case it was "stupid" or worse, like "idiot."

"She said F*#k!" reports Jessica dutifully. The kids unanimously agreed.

"I did not say f&^k!," yells Alyssa, folding her arms and sticking her head out and bobbing it in front of Jessica's face.

"You did! She did, teacher," says Brandy, eyes wide and flashing, "she said f^&k!"

"I did not! No, I didn't say f&^*!" Alyssa shouts, whirling around to face down each of her accusers.

Raymond approaches me seriously and tugs on my shirt. I lean down, while putting my hand out in a vague attempt to stop the yelling of "f%$k" each time Alyssa denies it. "Teacher. She did. She said "f&%k," intones Raymond. "I heard her."

"Me, too," says Tabatha, thrilled that it is somebody else getting in trouble over the uttering of bad words.

I send the other kids to the bus line and signal for Julie to take my kids with hers, holding on to Alyssa's backpack as she attempts to skitter away towards her dad, who is waiting outside. Where there is smoke, there is fire, and Alyssa senses it as I lean down and whisper into her face.

"Tell me the truth. What happened?" I ask in my best no-nonsense teacher voice. She caves and looks down. "Okay, I said it."

"Were you mad?" I ask.

"No," responds Alyssa, shrugging at me and smiling.

"Were you annoyed?" I ask.

"No," she replies, kicking at the cement with her shoe and watching her dad out of the corner of her eye. As he comes closer, she whispers, "I made a mistake. I was just talking to myself."

Still wanting a reason for such uncharacteristic behavior, I ask if she was wearing the headphones and didn't realize other people could hear her.

"No!" she laughs, finding that notion clearly ridiculous.

"Well then, WHY, for heaven's sake? That is an awful word and it doesn't sound right coming from your mouth," I say.

Alyssa nods solemnly. "Okay, teacher. I won't say it anymore."

"What's going on?" asks Dad.

"Alyssa said a bad word. But she won't be doing that anymore, will you, Alyssa?" I say, raising my eyebrows.

Dad looks surprised. "What?" he says, peering down at his daughter, folding his arms.

"I won't anymore," she promises, grabbing her dad's hand in an attempt to stop this conversation from going any further.

"What did she say?" asks Dad, falling into the same trap I did, but sensing that we aren't having a face-to-face over "stupid," "idiot," or "shut up."

"Um... it rhymes with truck," I say, "And she won't be doing it again."

"Oh," says Dad, putting his hand over his eyes. "I'm sorry. I let that one slip now and again."

"Yes well.....," I begin, but Alyssa is dragging at his hand, clearly embarrassed for both of them.

"He won't say it again," the child assures me, leading her mortified father down the sidewalk towards the parking lot, pausing only to turn around and yell back to me.

"If he does," Alyssa shouts, "I'll tell you, teacher!"