Home Schooling

Not since the invention of Pine-Sol which my mother bought by the gallons and subjected us kids to on a regular morning basis, has such an idea not only been accepted by polite society, but embraced. At least with Pine-Sol, the effects of your brain slowly shrinking due to lemony fumes and the gradual rupture of your nasal membranes could never be on par with a full day of your own children at home with workbooks and any sort of organized teaching arrangement. Of course, it has been done by noble, fearless parents and only by following the National Homeschoolers Guide to Getting Ready: 1.obtain a clean clutter free work space for optimal studying In our case, we'd have to move to the washer/dryer in the garage or Dick & Eileen's house next door. They have the same decor since 1972 and refuse to put anything but faded deer coasters atop their Montgomery wards coffee table. 2. Purchase sturdy and colorful supplies and pencils Unless someone has gone miniature golfing recently, you'd be lucky to find a stub of a pencil anywhere in the general living area of the house. Of course, the attic and crawlspace have ample areas to search for once sharpened pencils and such. You just have to put on pair of blue coveralls and risk getting bit by a brown Recluse Spider while on your search. 3. Remove all distractions A humming refrigerator in our house is a distraction. Forget about the phone ringing, no one under 20 knows what a landline is anyways; but place the kids within eye site of the kitchen, and they'll need trips to get an apple, water or just to slam the vegetable crisper for amusement. We'd have to sit out on the grass with a camel-pack water bag strapped to their backs to keep them remotely undistracted. 4. Encourage any progress your children make though small by rewarding with field trips to the library, zoo and Juvenal hall. Don't waste money of pricey reward stickers most party stores sell at a premium, rather make your own from banana stickers and just explain to your children that Chiquita means excellent in spanish. This would be a good lead-into a foreign language. Yes, there are many great reasons to home school your own children, saving gas, commute frustrations, clothing battles and the endless lunch packing; but the best incentive has to be the lack of restrictions on what you can use for art supplies; the evenings uncooked macaroni, old wastebands on dad's old underware and small pellet cat or dog food perfect for little fingers to create a memorable collage.

Medical Malaise

Unless you have a medical story to tell with vivid details, you might as well hide behind a curtain at your next social gathering. No one wants to talk to a medically boring person with no eventful tales of blood poisoning, near misses, close encounters with a crazed billy goat, or at least injury to a major artery. If you think your experience of going through labor and delivery is going to earn you accolades , forget it; it doesn't matter if your were in labor 12 hours and your baby had the head and shoulders the size of a Buick, and you did it w/o any pain meds, forget it sister. Unless you developed toxemia or had a on-call delivery doctor that resembled Ernest Borgenine, and spoke to you only in Cantonese, your story's' about as interesting as German shoe styles. The only medical excitement that I can even mention let alone hold an audience captive, is my regular fainting bouts anytime I'm on vacation in a foreign country. Most of the time its unexplainable except for low blood pressure, food poisoning or elevation change. While my family poses for tourist pictures, I'm spending time filling out forms in the local ER or clinic trying to communicate to the staff that I want my pants back. Yes, people want to hear how you removed a splinter the size of your femur from your palm while working on restoring the neighborhood church's pews. Go ahead, tell them how you nearly lost an eye from a flying sandbelt, and you'll have an audience pour their drinks on their shoes. Tell them how your Habitat for Humanity construction job nearly caused you to electrocute yourself while installing vanity bulbs into the Boys & Girls Club locker room; you'll get a phone call from the mayor with that story. You can try to mention how you were bit by an unknown insect and your throat swelled up the size of a toad while driving an 18 wheeler full of dairy cows; but unless you were aiding Homeland Security on your CB radio at the same time while following a suspicious car full of over dressed church goers in Utah, you might as well tell them you inhaled Press-On Nails adhesive, they'd laugh so hard.

A Book, for my Face

I believe I held the world record for shortest amount of time with a Facebook account. My last attempt to have an active account lasted 14 minutes. That was in 2006. Because i wanted a place to tell people about the similarities of my 10 year old haircut to Clarisse in Silence of the Lambs, pictures included, I re-opened my Facebook account. Its been about 3 weeks which for me, is a record though several times during the day, I am urged to quit, log off, delete and deactivate my account. If I knew how to do the following right now, I'd not have these urges; but here are a few things I want to learn how to change or do in order to remain an active FB person. 1. How can I remain friends with someone but not see their idiotic posts that are usually accompanied by several pictures with the captions written in another language? 2. How can I tell someone that the picture they posted of themselves isn't Vogue Cover caliber though they might be in a wind-blown nature scene while looking reflective and timid while gazing down at their knees? 3. How can I find a picture on the internet, say, of Clarisse in Silence of the Lambs, or Chris Farley singing Eres Tu, and attach it to a new Post? There are very simple things I'd like to achieve on FB and none of them involve pictures of me; ha, I'll spare you. 1. I'd like to having the song "The Inquisition" play, every time someone visits my FB 2. I'd like to have the word "shawerma" played outloud in Arabic whenever someone clicks on a button near my name. 3. I'd like more buttons of some sort, to play quotes from my favorite movies: "That's okay, I make you lamb", "Button, button, whose got the button", "Cosmo, I just want you to know, that no matter what you do, you're going to die, just like the rest of us", "Get your hands off me you filthy ape", "Miss Eliza Bennet, let me persuade you to follow my example and take a turn about the room. It's so refreshing. - Will you not join us, Mr Darcy? Sure I'd also like to change the picture in the background but last time I tried somehow the picture of the alarm on my phone appeared? Tech-related tasks have always befuddled me and I know someday I'll actually call the Pentagon hotline by accident and/or open Spam from the nice man from Ethiopia asking for $6000 so he can catch a flight home to Bermuda. In the meantime, I'm going to go take several pictures of life around me with my smartphone because those are the only pictures I know how to transfer to FB without error messages and/or warning triangles appearing on my screen. Watch for an upcoming, inspirational photo of me buying parsley at the local farmers market...and I'll see if I can look reflective while placing my head on a pile of tangerines for artistic affect.

It's a Stretch

After holding the title of Ugliest legs on the Western Hemisphere since 1993; I decided to have vein stripping procedure done on both my legs by a nice doctor who I choose after discovering her name is longer than mine. this is no small deal, if you're Armenian or Greek, you'll inherit a last name longer than your femur, unless you're of wizard of oz "lollip kid" stature, so it's kind of a big deal and what better way to honor this exuberant event than to allow her to give me a pair of plastic glasses and wield a laser at those pesky veins which just dont' want to allow blood to flow but instead collect at my ankles like cheap navy socks. I'm too young for gnarled ankles with enough veins to map out a trip to the Mojave and back; I'm too young for compression socks and wearing pants in the summer. I've tried tanning cremes which promise me a golden sun goddess glow; I ended up looking like I stood too long in a rusting auto parts pool. Copper - baby poop yellow is the range of sun-kissed color I achieved. The procedure itself wasn't painful, I was given a cup of drugs the size of bolts and issued a paper gown that tore before I was led drowsily to the procedure room; I was asked if i wanted to watch the movie or just the screen saver. Since the movie involved a chimpanzee working towards an MBA, I passed and mostly slept instead though the dr. and assistant kept trying to talk to me and ask me questions which I cna't recall now. I'm convinced they were trying to get me to solve for X midway through the procedure, or maybe the drugs were just wearing off. So now that the procedure is over; I'm to wear thing-high compression stockings which is equivalent to wearing a chastity belt and a bear trap at the same time. Sure it would have been wise to have it done in winter when the socks would have felt cozy on a cold day; but no, I choose mid August because I like forging skirts and capris for pants around the clock though its 90 degrees out. And did I mention the bruising is also decreasing; rather than I look like a stomping victim from a dysfunctional farming community; but with several tubes of Arnica, I should have my regular golden hue back just in time for holiday tights.

Lawn Clippings

It's hard to keep secrets, especially domestic ones such as hiding purchases from your spouse, and covering up the fact that it was you that threw out your son's first- edition Ninja turtle shell-costume.
But I was tired of our yard looking like an abandoned missile site and the next door neighbors' teen inquiry if he could park his for sale, 1974 Chevy Tahoe with mudwheels on our lawn patch. He thought the visible dirt areas would convey his vehicle a sense of off-road adventure. I suggested he get his GED as soon as possible and leave the state.

I hired the gardener I knew my neighbors used, but being on a budget, I signed up for bi-monthly service. All we needed was some edging done, weeds pulled and trees trimmed. Any leftover money that didn't go towards two college tuitions I didn't want to blow on lawn service. No, we used our leftover cash for eating out, preferably a restaurant without a mascot.

Unfortunately, the gardener I chose, arrives when no one is ever home so I have to express my wishes to him via hastily written notes on an envelope placed on a lawn chair held down with a bike pedal
"Cut the citrus trees", I explained one day; only to come home and find a new cat door cut into our garage. Had i known he had carpentry talents, I'd have asked for a tree swing.
After months of finding our yard waste can filled, my husband wised-up and inquired how this was happening. Three answers came to mind as to how to satisfy him: Appear incredulous and suggest it was the work of compassionate teens needing community service hours? Magic elves? or, fess up and let him know I hired the neighborhood gardener (what was his name, from the bible....Isaiah?) and look how nice everything looked? I went with option three but changed the details a bit; I made it sound like the gardener made an appearance once a month, rather than two, that I paid him a mere $35 a month, ha, try $70, and finally, that, he hasn't ruined anything such as sprinkler heads, garden decor. Nor has he stripped our bbq for copper parts.
The unplanned cat door however will be another thing I'll have to explain as some moths down the road, he'll notice; it could be months, it could be tomorrow. I plan on blaming the kids or some high wind that knocked over the basketball hoop , creating the jagged slash on the garage door that the cat refuses to climb through.

Pants Mission

I have no pants. When I do wear what I feel is in style and very far from anything resembling mom jeans and/or toddler Healthtex cords; my teen daughter will make a comment similar to accusing someone of being unpatriotic; and I'll end up returning them. I do have two pairs that I wear repeatedly to work and the only reason no one has commented on it is probably because I pair it with a loud outlandish top such as a green military jacket with a nametag on it that reads "Conrad". I'll buy 4 random tops every 3 months at the local thrift store, and wear them with my two pairs of pants, but not at the same time. This makes people afraid to ask about the pants because well, the tops are so off putting. Top #2 is in the category of gangsta' wear and resembles the early costumes employees at Winchell's donuts wore in 1978, you know, brown, with random stripes, usually in yellow.
The 3rd top I reserve for middle of the week during staff meetings; it consists of a large white collar with such pointed ends it could take an eye out. I call this my Mrs. Brady shirt.
Top #4 is a polyester blend with a pattern of orange circles surrounded by green slashes; anyone with convulsion tendencies should avoid looking directly into this shirt.
I'd like to buy pants that don't' require a pelvis the size of a Popsicle stick, nor a style that exposes my backside when I make any movements from the waist. I want my pants to have two pockets in the back and not sag on my flat behind as if I'm wearing a heavy diaper. Am I asking too much? Do I need to shop at carnival supply sites? What does it take? Sewing my own clothes is out of the question; I'll wear my pants dragging the floor four inches before I even consider hemming.

At Least I'm Consistent

Any primate looking at my blog will all but notice the last entry was January 2011; now here we are at the end of the year; it's not that I haven't written words other than a grocery list in a years' time; but most of the year was spent writing cover letters and resume updates, and honestly, getting over the fact that I no longer was working as a school librarian. But thankfully I'm employed; and I begin the end of the year by registering for the first time ever, for the upcoming Erma Bombeck Conference in April 2012. There was a reason I began reading her books at age 9; and it wasn't just because I was surrounded by an uninspiring, agricultural town. What a conversation starter this will be, I'm going to a writers conference; now I just need to remember to say Ohio, not Idaho. Right?