Prefers Her Fantasy Life

Keeping Happy Holidays in Christmas

noreply@blogger.com (Meg) — Tue, 13 Dec 2011 13:36:00 +0000

I don't get this War on Christmas. Seems like Christ was taken out of Christmas when reindeers began to fly and Pooh got stuck in a giant blowup snowglobe. For me, as with many others, Christmas is a cutural holiday.

There's the tree--which tests my OCD as I rearrange the bulbs every time I walk by; there's the mall--which tests my claustrophobia and makes me wish I had a cattle prod; and there's the cards--which test my procrastination-al leanings. The latter has consistently been a FAIL for me. My cards never get out on time.

Hence, the real beauty of Happy Holidays is the cards can arrive before New Years and I'm still good. The S in holidays saves me every year.

I am Harriet Nelson--Almost

noreply@blogger.com (Meg) — Wed, 30 Nov 2011 16:57:00 +0000

Thanksgiving was weird.

I spent the day with my soon-to-be-ex, our kids, and my mom. My soon-to-be-ex's girlfriend had dinner with her soon-to-be-ex, their kids and his mom. My brother did nothing, depressed that his girlfriend spent the holiday with her soon-to-be-ex and their kids.

As a dysfunctional family, we win the prize for being the most functional.

Like Mother Like Meg?

noreply@blogger.com (Meg) — Sun, 06 Nov 2011 17:22:00 +0000

Mom was up to it again.

“Dear Sir” was written on the top of page in the lost art of cursive. I didn’t have to ask. It was probably to a bank threatening to withdraw her money if they continued to address correspondences to her as Ms. (to address me as Ms. is to say I’m nothing).

Or maybe to a local charity who sent a thank you to her son for the donation when in fact it was she who signed the check (why do they assume the man sent it just because I share an account with him).

I knew better than to point out the possible contradiction of her feminism.

Recently, she wrote to the local food bank and stated that if that they wanted any more money from her, they were to address their requests to Margaret instead of Peggy.

What? Margaret? I asked.

Yes, that’s my name.

But you’ve been called Peggy for 80 years.

I never liked the name Peggy. I prefer to be called Margaret now. If people want money from me, they will address me as Margaret.

Stubborn German, my dad called her.

Turns out her latest letter was to the National Park Service. In appreciation for her donation they sent her a calendar.

That’s kind of nice, I remarked.

It's made in China.

Mum was the word.

I already knew that was a no-no. Even though she had enough nic nacs made in China to fill her own General Dollar, you do not ask my mom for money to support an American cause and then repay her with some thing un-American.

We had been through this when she cut the tag off a baseball cap and sent it back to the Olympic Committee requesting to be removed from their list.

Now with the calendar from the National Parks, her Dear Sir letter included a question. “Since you have a fondness for the Chinese, can I use Chinese money when I pay the entrance fee to Yellowstone?”

Yes, my mom can be illogical and even down-right crazy. But she does believe in exercising her First Amendment rights.

And she's been doing for a long time now.

When I was 16, I skipped school and my mom drove me the 60 miles to Detroit to get tickets for Paul McCartney and Wings. This was pre-Ticket Master days and one had to wait in line outside in the snow for 6 hours or more. A neighbor, who apparently was not interested in the Today Show like our other neighbors, saw us driving away and reported it to the school.

In my defense, my mother wrote a letter to the principal:

“If boys can take time off school on the first day of hunting season to kill poor baby deer, then my daughter can surely miss school to get tickets to see one of the greatest musicians of our time.”

Did I say I love this woman?

Teen's First Mammary

noreply@blogger.com (Meg) — Fri, 28 Oct 2011 15:40:00 +0000

In almost 200 posts, I have only reposted once before. But in honor of Breast Awareness Month, I am once again sharing my son's first mammaries--outside my own, that is. He was 6 and excited about his first homework assignment in Kindergarten.
Spouse was sitting at the dining room table helping him. He was to cut out six pictures of things that begin with the letter "M" and glue them on a piece of paper.

"Let your child find the pictures himself," the instructions read. "Your role is to guide him."

Spouse had a pile of Newsweeks on the table.

"Here's an M-picture," he said excitedly. "M-M-Marilyn Monroe."

"Great, Dad, I'll cut it out."

"Ahem," I said from the kitchen where I was doing the dishes. "What is Marilyn wearing?"

"Something M-M-Marvelous," said Spouse.

"Nix that one," I said. "Remember these are kindergartners, after all."

"Mom! What's wrong with Marilyn?"

"Yeah, Mom," said Spouse. "What's wrong with Marilyn?"

"I don't think 'Mistress' is on the kindergarten vocabulary list yet, guys."

They turned the page. "Here's a man," Spouse pointed.

"All right, Dad!"

"Ahem. Kindergartner’s supposed to find the pictures," I reminded them.

"OK," said Spouse. "He can find the next one."

"Hey, here's a map," Spouse shouted.

"Ahem. Let Kindergartner find the M pictures."

"OK. OK. Next time."

"Look, here's another map," Spouse whispered.

"You can't have two maps. Try to find some other picture," I called from the doorway.

"Micromanager. That starts with M," he called back.

I vowed to keep my M shut. Men and women have different approaches to things. That's supposed to be good, right? And then I heard:

"Hey, look at these pictures. They're famous. See that man? That's President Kennedy. And he was riding in that limo with the top down and some guy shot him. And see, this is his wife. She's reaching for a chunk of his head."

“Spouse!" My vow went down the drain.

"Well, Murder starts with M," he declared.

And so does Mistake. “Nix it," I ordered. They turned the page.

"Hey, Kid, look, here's a machine gun."

"Spouse!"

"Mom!"

"Micromanager!"

I was out-voted. Thankfully, Kindergartner’s motor skills were uneven. He cut the gun in half and they decided to nix it.

"Here's a monkey," Spouse announced.

"Great, Dad. Thanks for finding it. I like doing homework with you."

I should have been minding my Ms & Qs, but I snuck a peek.

It was a monkey, all right. And a bald man next to him. Charles Darwin. "I hope the kindergarten teacher, Mrs. O'Reily, Mrs. O'Reily from St John's parish, you know, the former nun, doesn't think this is some sort of hidden message," I said.

M's the word.

By then, they have a man, two maps, and Darwin and his ape. And it only took 45 minutes.

But next: "Where have all the Ms gone, Dad?” Kindergartner asked.

"Oh, here's one, honey. Mammary gland."

It took me a minute to process this. Then I rushed into the dining room and saw my son had just cut out an illustrated picture of a breast.

"You can't use that." I ripped it out of his hand.

"I can, too."

"He can, too."

"He can not."

"Mom," my son began to cry. “That's my M, that's my M."

"This M is rated X," I said. "Sorry."

"But Mom..."

I decided it was time for the big M herself to take over the project. Spouse was just as happy. Now he could find his own Ms on the nightly news--murder, mayhem, and mammary glands.

I flipped through some pages determined to find some benign Ms. But the M-hunt was harder that I thought.

We found another man, another map, another machine gun, and more mammaries —this time belonging to the mistress M-M-M-onica.

Where were all those people with the milk mustaches when you needed them?
Kindergartner was quickly losing interest. Finally we hit a gold mine. "Look! Here's a monster, and a moon, and wow, Mickey Mouse."

"Hey, I thought I was supposed to find..."

"Just cut," I said, handing him the scissors.

Five minutes later, we were finished. I sent Kindergartner to bed and continued the M-Hunt myself. The M&M Hunt, that is.

I thought I deserved a reward for making it through Kindergartner’s first homework assignment!

Am I an Unfit Mom?

noreply@blogger.com (Meg) — Wed, 19 Oct 2011 16:56:00 +0000

In my last post, the most recent in almost two years, I felt the need to disclose that I was having a bad year. I don't mean to continue with that kind of downer theme, but yesterday I was told that I'm unfit.

Me, Meg? It was all I could do not to yell at the 26 year-old trainer who consumes 4000-8000 calories a day 'cause his job is to work out all the time and make the rest of us look bad, "Unfit? I can substitue teach 2nd graders with a hangover like no one else in Northwest Ohio."

I said nothing. Because he was cute.

My daughter had the brilliant idea for us to join a gym and get a personal trainer. After a consultation in which we were below average in squats and lunges and above average in the mass body fat index (a number I cannot disclose because there are some things not meant to be floating around the internet), it was confirmed that I was out of shape--or at least a desirable shape.

I began to think that just maybe this hottie could help this mom be un-unfit. Until he came back with the numbers.

Even after cutting the price in half, even after consulting his manager for a better promotion, even after throwing in nutrition counseling and stowe and go seating, I realized having a personal traniner takes personal finances. And I'm super unfit in that area.

I purchased the standard model for now--until I become an un-substitue teacher. Would that be a superior teacher?

Anyway, because my last post dealt with the double-edged sword of writing and my need to be honest, I must confess: I've never subbed 2nd graders with a hangover. I've only subbed high school students. In truth, I'm afraid of the little ones.

So if you have any tips on fitness or classroom management, I'm in need.

A Most Peculiar Thing

noreply@blogger.com (Meg) — Sat, 15 Oct 2011 12:59:00 +0000

Blogging is a peculiar thing.

We all write for an audience, yet some of us, ME, are fearful that friends, relatives, our own teens in that audience will feel exposed from the postings. And worse, that I'll feel exposed. Truthfully, it's easier for me to expose myself in ways which usually involve a few Loose Cannon craft beers and an attempt to break up a political arguement than to be honest in my writing.

Once upon a time I thought a humor blog would solve that.

Yet the truth creeped out in sacrastic, cynical icing that wasn't appealing to those close to me.

And really...with a humor blog, you're always trying to go for the funny. Do you know how exhausting that is? And then there's the level of writing. You reread your draft and think, PECULIAR? Isn't there a stronger adjective I can use? CYNICAL ICING? There's got to be a better metaphor than that.

And the trap of trying to get people to follow your blog and comment. To comment, yes: WILL EXPOSE CLEVEAGE FOR COMMENTS!

It's a lot to go through when all you really want to say is:

I'm unemployed and living with my soon-to-be-ex and resentful that he sleeps in our queen bed while I sleep on a mattress stolen from my son's bunk bed.

I feel abandoned by friends since my separation.

The daughter of the man I've been seeing for two years hates me. When she's not flight attending, she lives with him and I'm not allowed in his place.

My own daughter has been hospitalized for anxiety and depression and as recent as yesterday, asked to go back.

Today, my daughter isn't up yet.

No New Years Cheer, I Fear

noreply@blogger.com (Meg) — Mon, 04 Jan 2010 13:22:00 +0000

I know we're supposed to feel all positive about the new year. But 2010? I remember when 1984 seemed like the future.

The fact is: I'm old.

My own kids don't know about phone booths, the Walkman, or Bing Crosby. Thank Hollywood they keep remaking Dr. Seuss, or even he would obsolete.

Meg The Atheist Takes Pause This Season

noreply@blogger.com (Meg) — Fri, 25 Dec 2009 15:23:00 +0000

As you may know I'm not the most religious person on the block. But every once in a while I hear something that makes me take pause.

My Irish stepdancing teacher, John, told me this after he returned from the "All Ireland/World Championships" in Dublin. Due to an unfortunate circumstance after a celebratory party, he found himself on the side of the road hitchhiking on a very dark night and in the midst of a big storm.

The night was rolling on and no car went by. The storm was so strong he could hardly see a few feet ahead of him.

Suddenly, he saw a car slowly coming towards him and stop.

John, desperate for shelter and without thinking about it, got into the car and closed the door... only to realize there was nobody behind the wheel and the engine wasn't on.

And no, he wasn't drunk. My teacher stopped drinking three years ago due to health reasons.

Anyway, the car started moving slowly. John looked at the road ahead and saw a curve approaching. Scared, he started to pray.

Then, just before the car hit the curve, a hand appeared out of nowhere through the window, and turned the wheel. John, paralyzed with terror, watched as the hand came through the window, but it never touched or
harmed him.

Shortly thereafter, John saw the lights of a pub appear down the road, so, gathering strength, he jumped out of the car and ran to it.

Wet and out of breath, he rushed inside and started telling everybody about the amazing experience he had just had.

A silence enveloped the pub when everybody realized he was crying, and that he wasn't drunk.

Suddenly, the door opened, and two other people walked in from the stormy night. They, like John, were also soaked and out of breath.

Looking around, and seeing John sobbing at the bar, one said to the other.....

'Look Paddy.....there's that fooking idiot that got in the car while we was pushing it !!!!'

Happy Holidays Everyone.

Why You Shouldn't Choose The Topic of Marriage For a Free-Write

noreply@blogger.com (Meg) — Wed, 16 Dec 2009 23:15:00 +0000

Because during the debate, Girl Student in the front row will get into a fight with her Baby Daddy in the second row. With attitude, she'll keep repeating, "How you look. How you look."

In defense, he'll maintain his mantra, "Can I speak, now?"

Supporting her position of marriage, she'll pull out the "'Cause it say so in the Bible" card.

He'll retort, "Times is changed. You need to be able to take care of yourself."

She'll come back, "It's a union. About sharing."

He'll confess "I'm down with sharing, but I like to gamble. And my money is my money."

The rest of the class will try to simmer the tempers to no avail and you will wish to hell someone else would raise their hand and tell the class they have cancer.

Why You Shouldn't Allow a Student to Suggest "Cancer" For the Free-Write

noreply@blogger.com (Meg) — Fri, 11 Dec 2009 01:55:00 +0000

Because obviously she has a story to tell. And that story will make her cry when she's reading it out loud. And it will make the other students cry.

And the teacher.

Yes, the BABYDADDY of my student has cancer. He's 27 years old and it's terminal.

Listening to her read the story out loud makes it extremely hard to move on to parts of speech or sentence fragments.

What's a community college teacher to do?

Silence bombards the room.

Finally, a student in the front raises her hand and volunteers to read her free-write. She has cancer, too. But she's a survivor. It's a happy story, and we all applaud.

Never in my life have I been so relieved to know that someone else has cancer...I mean, has survived cancer. Now I can move on to sentence fragments and forget--for the moment--that our lives, how little we know and share with one another--are fragmented.

Why I Prefer My Fantasy Life #78

noreply@blogger.com (Meg) — Tue, 10 Nov 2009 03:16:00 +0000

In my fantasy life my sons wouldn't argue with one another.

And in my fantasy life, if they did, they'd adopt my brilliant methods of persuasion.

Younger Brother: Mom, Older Brother just told me there were 7 spider legs in each taco from Taco Bell.

Me: (giving Older Brother the Sustained Evil Eye)

Older Brother: Well, I had to think of a comeback. We were fighting over which was better Taco Bell or McDonald's, and Younger Brother said the chicken at Mickey D's was made from the gross parts of the bird and held together by edible meat glue.

Me: (wishing my kids ate health food like they do in my fantasy life and heading to the fridge for a beer)

posted at Humor-Blogs

Transvestites, Transgenders and Transitive Verbs

noreply@blogger.com (Meg) — Wed, 04 Nov 2009 00:51:00 +0000

As I mentioned I'm teaching at a two-year college that offers an associates degree in Medical Administrative Assistance. We have a strict dress code where students are required to wear scrubs and white sports shoes. Their hair must be a "natural" color--no bright reds or blues--and they must cover all facial piercings and tattoos.

Our security guard gets a bit overzealous in issuing dress code violations to the students.

Funny thing is, he's a "by-the-books" security guard by day. But by night, he's a flaming red-haired cross dresser. Yes, he...ur...she's brought me my coffee at Big Boy on more than one occasion.

Not that there's anything wrong with that.

I've got nothing against our transvestite security guard

Or any of the six trans-genders we have at our small college.

The only issue we have with them is which restroom they should use.

Hey, it makes my job of teaching the parts of speech a wee bit more interesting.

posted at Humor-Blogs

An Open Letter To My One Finger-Typing Student

noreply@blogger.com (Meg) — Tue, 27 Oct 2009 23:42:00 +0000

I am so sorry I leaned over you and began typing words to your email sign-up questions.

I felt it my obligation to get the class over with by Thanksgiving.

I also apologize for grabbing the mouse from you. I assumed everyone knew that you had to position it on a field and click in order for it to work.

And when you couldn't create your email address because of the common name "Floyd Jones," I thought you knew I was kidding when I told you to try "Pink Floyd Jones."

In spite of our getting off on the wrong appendage, I greatly admire you. You have 8 kids and two day jobs, and you're spending your nights back in school to better your life.

You're doing great.

And with a bit of Xanax, I will be too.

posted at Humor-Blogs

Nothing Comes Between Me and My Jeff Tweedy

noreply@blogger.com (Meg) — Tue, 20 Oct 2009 02:10:00 +0000

Not even the fact that soon-to-be-ex took his girlfriend to the concert,

or that my date, 6 foot and gorgeous, was my 14-year old daughter.

Not the fact we had to sequester ourselves from our mutual friends at dinner so no one felt awkward. And if I sound bitter here, that's because I am, you mutual friends.

Or the Noodles and Company restaurant which Daughter picked out of all the great places to eat in Ann Arbor.

Or the fact that Noodles and Company doesn't sell alcohol.

Or that Hill Auditorium in The Peoples' Republic of Ann Arbor, home of the Hash Bash, does not sell alcohol.

Nor the fact that even though I ordered tickets the day they went on sale, we were seated in the nose-bleed section.

Yes, the nose-bleed section where people were constantly getting up from their seats and disrupting my view. Yes, those people must have had alcohol which needed removal from their systems.

Damn them.

Nor the fact that I've been separated one year now from soon-to-be-ex and though it was my decision, it's still hard to see "our" favorite band separately. Plus, he got the microbrews. And the girlfriend. And the friends.

Damn you.

But....when My Jeff Tweedy strums on his acoustic and sings, "I Am Trying To Break Your Heart," life has meaning.

Nothing or no one comes close.

Well, I guess those guys that Daughter and I visited after the show aren't too bad. That Ben & Jerry. They're okay.

posted at Humor-Blogs

Why I Prefer My Fantasy Life #119

noreply@blogger.com (Meg) — Wed, 14 Oct 2009 01:19:00 +0000

Did I mention I hate English teachers?

Did I mention I am an English teacher?

Last week I was hired as a full-time instructor at a small two-year college. I don't mind the teaching so much. But in my fantasy life I'd have students that didn't come late, leave early, and talk on their cell phones the short amount of time they were in class.

In my fantasy life, most of my students would have a high school diploma. And know how to write a simple sentence. And use a computer. And not have kids. Or criminal records.

In my fantasy life, I'd be on a campus where they didn't have two security guards, one roaming the hallways and one stationed in the women's restroom so it won't be trashed.

Because it has been trashed.

Often.

But really, I admire and am humbled by the fact that most of my students are ready for a new start in life, eager to give it their all.

I only wish that their hopeful faces weren't covered with the school- required bandages to hide their piercings. 'Cause if this guy comes in adhering to the bandage dress code, I think I'd be really spooked.

posted at Humor-Blogs

Thinking Outside The Six Pack

noreply@blogger.com (Meg) — Tue, 06 Oct 2009 21:59:00 +0000

My previous post included my persuasive arguments for Teen Son on driving and drinking. Seems now I need to talk to Teen Daughter.

I had a few drinks at a party the other night and asked a friend to take me home. Daughter wanted to know why I didn't drive myself home.

"Because I don't drink and drive," I told her.

"Mom," she said, put off. "You don't have to do that. You just put down the drink and then keep both hands on the steering wheel."

Why didn't I think of that?

posted at Humor-Blogs

English Teachers Are Evil

noreply@blogger.com (Meg) — Fri, 02 Oct 2009 16:20:00 +0000

Have I mentioned those English teachers are trying to kill me?

Wasn't it bad enough that Teen had to write a 1500 word essay on why the song "Blowin' In The Wind" relates to his world view when he doesn't even have a world view? Now Teen has to write an essay on how a speaker he knows uses Logos, Ethos and Pathos in their persuasive arguments. And that speaker would be me.

Seems I'm well-known in our household for my persuasive skills. According to English Teacher when I say, "Someone should feed the dog or else she'll slowly die," I'm using a tactic called guilt. As for the Logos, Ethos and Pathos, I'm still trying to figure them out.

As I understand it, Logos is a logical appeal using facts and figures to support the argument. I think I'm using it when I say something like this:

There's a reason drinking beer is illegal for 17-year olds. Your brains are still developing. And when you combine those developing brains that have a tendency to speed and tailgate and think they're invincible with alcohol, death happens. In fact, each year over 5,000 teens ages 16 to 20 die and 40,000 teens are injured due to car accidents. And of the male drivers between 15 and 20 years old who were killed, 24% of them had been drinking and driving.

Pathos seems to be an appeal to the listener's ethical judgement and is most effective when the speaker connects with an underlying value of the listener. I think I'm using Pathos when I say:

I know it's tempting to drink beer. But the fact is, it's illegal at your age. If you're driving and drinking, one of your girlfriends could get hurt and even worse, you could lose your license. And just think, if you lost your license, you'd have to walk the three blocks to school and dude, how embarrassing that would be?

Ethos I believe is an appeal to the authority of the speaker. In other words, the speaker convinces the listener that she is qualified to speak on the topic. I guess I'm using Ethos when I say the following:

I'm your mom. I know all about being a teenager. I know all about drinking beer. All I have to say is, wait until you're old enough to hire your own lawyer. And if you do drink beer, drink the good stuff for Chrissakes.

How'd I do?

posted at Humor-Blogs

Should Your Kid Be Reading These Books?

noreply@blogger.com (Meg) — Wed, 30 Sep 2009 15:58:00 +0000

I watched this video of the puppets throwing out all the bad books and I have to say I disagree that most of them, including The Joy of Cooking, should be banned.

However, I have to admit there is one book I believe is completely inappropriate for kids and I'm working to get it removed from our school's 11th grade English curriculum. Yesterday, my son brought home this book:

Come on, people. Is a book that gives pointers on how to improve one's arguing skills what a TEENAGER should be reading?

I think not.

Thanks to A Free Man for reminding me this is Banned Books Week. I mean, if they can take away our books, they can take away our blogs.

posted at Humor-Blogs

Meg's Second Bar Fight

noreply@blogger.com (Meg) — Mon, 28 Sep 2009 11:00:00 +0000

My brother is getting a divorce.

Without saying too much it involves stolen prescription drugs, a private investigator, threats from a married man, and a lawsuit over two horses that were paid for but never acquired (my sister-in-law bought them for a get-rich-quick scheme and my brother, having no place to board them, told the seller to keep the money and the horses).

Anyway, it all kind of takes the heat off me and my divorce.

Still, my Buddhist-leaning beliefs realize that everyone is in pain. Which is the reason I approached my sister-in-law's nephew in the bar. "What's between them is between them," I said. "We shouldn't let it affect our ability to say hey to each other."

Well, apparently not everyone buys into my Buddhist-leaning beliefs. Especially if they've been at the bar longer than I have, because he turned to me and said, "He's not even your brother."

Not even my brother?

This was the last thing I expected to hear. In fact, never once in my 39 years did I ever hear or even think that my brother wasn't my brother. Technically he's my half-brother. But my dad adopted him before I was born and we were raised together. Which makes him my brother.

I was so baffled with this guy's retort that my Buddhist-leaning beliefs flew out the bodhi tree, and I put my face in his and well...the rest is not very pretty so let's just say we needed to be separated.

Did I mention that the guy has been to my home at Christmas and played guitar with my son and drank my expensive micro-brews?

Which is the reason I found myself standing outside of the bar, crying on the street. If my good intentions can't be received by someone who's consumed mirco-brews in my home at Christmas, what hope is there for the Israelis and the Palestinians?

In the midst of my tears, a young woman with the tattoo, "If you can walk you can dance. If you can talk you can sing" walked by.

She gave me a hug.

posted at Humor-Blogs

Transformation? Sign Me Up!!!

noreply@blogger.com (Meg) — Thu, 24 Sep 2009 13:46:00 +0000

Dear Challenge Day Organizers,

Your upcoming workshop for Freshman sounds great. What could be better than promoting healthy peer relations? And your trust-building activities that give students a unique opportunity to see themselves and the people around them through a new set of eyes, WOW! Of special interest to me is your vision that every child lives in a world where they feel safe, loved and celebrated.

And I love the fact that you provide them with tools and alternatives for the healthy self expression while also being challenged to let go of self limiting thoughts, beliefs, and/or emotions.

To think that your expensive award-winning program has helped to transforms the lives of hundreds of thousands of teenagers...I just have one question for you. Why don't you offer this to the people who really need it?

Married Couples?

posted at Humor-Blogs

If Only Church Were This Much Fun

noreply@blogger.com (Meg) — Mon, 21 Sep 2009 11:43:00 +0000

As you know I rarely post videos on this blog unless they have to do with songs for parents who like to do drugs.

But this one is good:

posted at Humor-Blogs

What's Wrong With This Picture?

noreply@blogger.com (Meg) — Mon, 14 Sep 2009 12:40:00 +0000

There's a new site called People of Walmart that publishes amusing photos of actual shoppers.

But I'm not laughing.

No, I don't mind folks making fun of the cripples and derelicts of our great country. God knows with the agenda of our new Socialist president we all need a laugh. But this photo has gone too far:

Do you see it?

It's so obvious.

And so wrong.

Those colors.

Scarlet and gray. Those are the colors of the Ohio State University Buckeyes, meaning the creators of this site are obviously Michigan fans, meaning I won't be visiting their site nor promoting it on my blog. No way.

Some people just take things too damn far.

posted at Humor-Blogs

He's Too Sexy, Ur...Socialist For Our Schools

noreply@blogger.com (Meg) — Thu, 10 Sep 2009 20:07:00 +0000

To the local educators who didn’t allow students to view President Obama’s speech out of fear of political indoctrination or that it didn’t meet the academic content standards:

I share your concerns.

What is this country coming to when a US president urges students to set goals and work hard in school? And he uses taxpayer dollars, to boot.

Yet despite the possibilities of what the speech may have contained, I wonder if a learning experience could have been tied to it. To you social studies teachers, what a great opportunity to discuss the nature of indoctrination with your classes. And you language arts instructors, why not use the speech to meet the content standards that say students should be exposed to a variety of texts that encourage “deep thinking?”

Yes, I do understand the concerns of parents and the angst of students. But I urge you educators to allow your classes to explore controversial messages and also to review the meaning of democracy and freedom of speech.

Furthermore, I believe there is a place for teaching students respect for the President of the United States. I understand that Obama isn't the usual ex-con-rapper-type that school districts often hire as motivational speakers, but he is our president. Socialist or not, he deserves our respect.

In the future, I hope you will think and act outside of the box.

posted at Humor-Blogs

That Other English Teacher Is Trying To Kill Me, Too

noreply@blogger.com (Meg) — Thu, 03 Sep 2009 20:15:00 +0000

You know how some bloggers exaggerate the truth for purposes of humor?

Well, I water it down as to not appear as crazy as I really am.

Although I think it's the people around me who are the crazy ones.

I wrote a post the other day about helping Teen Son write a 1500 word essay on "Blowin' In The Wind."

I told you that Monday morning he was pounding the mouse madly on the desk, shouting, What else can I write? I need 1200 more words! What should I say?

I told you I was spitting out ideas left and right, pacing like a krazed Kramer. What I didn't tell you was that Teen Daughter was in the family room writing a five paragraph essay on how to succeed in school. So the pacing back and forth was from essay to essay.

What does cannon balls fly mean? Teen Son barks.

I think it has to do with war, I tell him.

I need three more sentences in the expectations paragraph, Teen Daughter shrieks. I have to have a total of five.

Have you used the buzzed words: engagement, meaningful learning, deep thinking? I say.

How do spell Zimmerman?

Wait, no first, I need two more sentences in the learning environment paragraph. Just two more.

No, you've got to help me, I only have 626 words.

What do I say in the conclusion?

Who's Pete Seeger? Hurry, I'm going to be late for school.

Daughter finished first, snapped her notebook shut and demanded her brother drive her (the 3 blocks) to school.

Only brother needed 412 more words.

So Daughter proceeded to...how can I put this gently...have a full-fledged meltdown in the family room. The Other Parental Unit stepped in and drove her (the 3 blocks) to school, in one of the (5) cars in our driveway.

Teen made it to 1480 words, rushed out of the house and wildly began backing up his car on the grass around car #4--the 1975 Cadillac.

I bolted out in my pjs and bare feet, dodged the piles of dog doo doo in the yard--we've got a lot of poop going on in our lives right now--to guide him. When he backed into the fence I screamed like a Miley Cyrus fan. When he pulled forward and then backed into the Cadillac, I screamed like a Miley Cyrus fan on crack.

Later that day, just when I thought my nervous system had recovered, Gradeschooler comes home and tells me he has to write for 15 minutes.

He sits down and diligently begins.

After 88 seconds he says, Has it been 15 minutes yet?

Two minutes later he says, Has it been 15 minutes yet?

Three minutes later he says, Is my time up yet?

A minute a half later he says, Why are you drinking that beer so early?

If English teachers are going to send work home with a prescribed number of words, sentences and minutes, they should send home some Xanax as well, don't you think?

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posted at Humor-Blogs

That English Teacher Is Trying To Kill Me

noreply@blogger.com (Meg) — Mon, 31 Aug 2009 14:11:00 +0000

I'm all for Teen learning to write--but a 1500-word essay on how a song of Teen's choice relates to Teen's world view...

The Song of Choice: Blowin' in The Wind

The World View: under-developed

The Word Count So Far: 327

Teen types frantically on the computer in the living room pleading, Mom, Mom what else can I write? What can I say? What does white dove sail mean to you? Help! This is due.

Welcome to Monday Morning.

Even though the assignment was started Sunday evening, it takes Writer/Teacher Mom to give him the expert last minute advice: just BS your way through it.

But how?

Did you include the lyrics?

No.

Wouldn't that give you 300 extra words?

Good idea. He copies and pastes the song. OK. Now I need 900 more.

Did you talk about Dylan's background? I mean, adding the name Robert Zimmerman a lone gives you 2 more words, doesn't it?

Great. OK. What else? What else? What else? he bangs the mouse on the desk.

Did you google the background of the song, I say pacing the room like Kramer. Did you write what Dylan said the first time he performed the song: this ain't no protest song?

Ain't...no...protest...song. That's 4 more words. I'm at 725.

Did you mention Pete Seeger?

Pete...Seeger. That's 727.

No, I mean that Pete Seeger identified the tune as a Negro spiritual.

Negro....spiritual... That's 803 words.

How about Peter, Paul and Mary? That's at least three more words, I add.

Actually that's four. He attacks the keyboard.

Did you mention Vietnam? Or Greenwich Village?

Did you mention Enabler? The Other Parental Unit calls from the kitchen?

Ignore that man behind the refrigerator, I command. Did you write about having seen Dylan in concert?

Great...that should give me another 34 words....

How about....

Well, I bet you can imagine the rest.

Or can you?

If you imagined that Teen came up 20 words short of the 1500 and being late for school, raced out of the house, madly backed up his car on the grass around the car parked behind it, and hit on first try, the fence and on second try, his dad's 1975 Cadillac...

then you've imagined correctly.

But hey. Teen's world view included world peace, anti-discrimination and gay rights.

And he did choose a Dylan song.

So This Enabler must have done something right.

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posted at Humor-Blogs