Earlier today The Dave was commenting on toilet paper advertising. He was noting that "absorbency" is NOT something he's overly concerned about in a toilet paper. "It's not like most people have leaky diarrhea on a regular basis," was his position.
"When's the last time you bought toilet paper?"
"No, it's not that, it's...that's not the most important thing..."
"When's the last time you BOUGHT toilet paper? I mean, picked it off the shelf and plopped down your money and got a reciept?"
"You're intentionally misunderstanding what I'm saying."
"No, I absolutely understand that men don't consider absorbency the most important feature when selecting toilet paper--that would be cleaning power or something."
"I usually want to know how well it will protect my hand."
"I know. However, it's an advertisement. They're selling something. They're selling it to someone who is going to actually buy it, which is me. And I really DO want absorbent toilet paper. Probably about 80% of toilet paper is sold to women. And for the other 20%, well, they can sell you the "strong" stuff."
The Dave looked at me with the expression I've heard described as the Cat Butt Face. We dropped the topic.
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Monday, March 16, 2009
Welcome to Spring Break!
This week is my children's spring break. Growing up, children did NOT get spring break; that only happened to college students on movies we weren't old enough to watch but did, anyway. Because if we had spring break, then we'd have a whole week of school to make up!
I really had teachers who believed that--that taking days off meant working twice as hard to "make up" the work. They didn't obviously didn't understand the words "schedule," "lesson plan," and "curriculum." I'm fairly sure that these were the same teachers who thought you had to go to church every week because God was taking attendance. God has a little chart where he tallies up the good things you've done, and then if you come out ahead of others who have been granted salvation--like murderers and such who only get salvation a week before they died so they've never actually done anything "good" or "right"--he gives you a nicer place in Heaven which has, I dunno, maybe more square footage of marble and gold floors in your apartment, or better food, or something?
You know what? My parents really believe that tally thing. They somehow tie it in with the parable of the Prodigal Son. You've heard it: two sons, and the father splits the estate. Then one son goes off and parties down in another country and squanders stuff, ends up working with pigs whom are fed better than him, and comes crawling back to his father. The father throws a party. The other son whines to the dad, I kissed your butt all along an you never threw a party for me! Wahhhh! To which the dad says, you've been with me all along but your brother was dead and now he's alive and that's why we celebrate.
The way I've always heard it told (in my super-strict, more Catholic than the Catholics Lutheran Church), there's a few more verses (from further on in the book of Matthew) where the loyal son is told he will get additional gifts for his loyalty, in Heaven.
BUT! I just read the parable in Matthew, and I can't find those follow-up verses. It's not like they're part of the same story. It's like--well, the creative editing you see on the news today.
Ya see, my parents always made us do things and told us we were getting brownie points in Heaven for it. Things like going along when they went to visit our great-aunts, where there were no toys, nothing to do, and a bunch of stuff that couldn't be touched. So they put us in a situation we resented, and put the aunts through additional stress (children in their home and no way to entertain them), and said it was GOOD? That God Would Want It That Way?
Um. No. Just no.
Which is why I try very hard to NOT bring my children to, nor put them in situations where they will be bored and resentful--not just at the time, but looking back from age 41 like I am--and say, "Why the FUCK did Mom make me do that and tell me it was somehow virtuous?"
Don't get me wrong--I'll still bring my kids to see their great aunts--not this week but some time in the future. I won't tell the kids it's because it will get them double-glazing in heaven, and I will let them bring their own toys to entertain themselves, just in case they need additional activities while we're there, and afterwards, we'll probably go to a hotel where there's a swimming pool, and we'll eat McDonald's and ice cream and candy.
Because there really was a reason that one son went prodigal in the first place.
He was on Spring Break.
I really had teachers who believed that--that taking days off meant working twice as hard to "make up" the work. They didn't obviously didn't understand the words "schedule," "lesson plan," and "curriculum." I'm fairly sure that these were the same teachers who thought you had to go to church every week because God was taking attendance. God has a little chart where he tallies up the good things you've done, and then if you come out ahead of others who have been granted salvation--like murderers and such who only get salvation a week before they died so they've never actually done anything "good" or "right"--he gives you a nicer place in Heaven which has, I dunno, maybe more square footage of marble and gold floors in your apartment, or better food, or something?
You know what? My parents really believe that tally thing. They somehow tie it in with the parable of the Prodigal Son. You've heard it: two sons, and the father splits the estate. Then one son goes off and parties down in another country and squanders stuff, ends up working with pigs whom are fed better than him, and comes crawling back to his father. The father throws a party. The other son whines to the dad, I kissed your butt all along an you never threw a party for me! Wahhhh! To which the dad says, you've been with me all along but your brother was dead and now he's alive and that's why we celebrate.
The way I've always heard it told (in my super-strict, more Catholic than the Catholics Lutheran Church), there's a few more verses (from further on in the book of Matthew) where the loyal son is told he will get additional gifts for his loyalty, in Heaven.
BUT! I just read the parable in Matthew, and I can't find those follow-up verses. It's not like they're part of the same story. It's like--well, the creative editing you see on the news today.
Ya see, my parents always made us do things and told us we were getting brownie points in Heaven for it. Things like going along when they went to visit our great-aunts, where there were no toys, nothing to do, and a bunch of stuff that couldn't be touched. So they put us in a situation we resented, and put the aunts through additional stress (children in their home and no way to entertain them), and said it was GOOD? That God Would Want It That Way?
Um. No. Just no.
Which is why I try very hard to NOT bring my children to, nor put them in situations where they will be bored and resentful--not just at the time, but looking back from age 41 like I am--and say, "Why the FUCK did Mom make me do that and tell me it was somehow virtuous?"
Don't get me wrong--I'll still bring my kids to see their great aunts--not this week but some time in the future. I won't tell the kids it's because it will get them double-glazing in heaven, and I will let them bring their own toys to entertain themselves, just in case they need additional activities while we're there, and afterwards, we'll probably go to a hotel where there's a swimming pool, and we'll eat McDonald's and ice cream and candy.
Because there really was a reason that one son went prodigal in the first place.
He was on Spring Break.
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Carpool
The post I am about to write is different in tone but not intent than it would have been had I written it 45 minutes ago.
Mostly because I was really hungry 45 minutes ago.
This has been a long time coming: a new carpool rant!
Every morning I try to walk out the door with the kids at 7:37 AM. Years of experience has taught me that much time deviation either way, and I'm asking for trouble. If we're late, the usual snafu is that I nearly get into an accident with my neighbor Ricky. He's usually backing out of his garage as I'm returning home, and then we try and out-polite each other for a few seconds, then we laugh and wave. We haven't yet actually had a collision but we've come close.
I should have known better than to be late on a rainy day, even though we only left 4 minutes later than usual. Every spring on the first rainy day, the carpool line is hell. Mostly it's because the school patrol doesn't show up on rainy days. I'm not sure why that is, but I don't blame them. I sure wouldn't want to do their job on a rainy day.
But today that wasn't the problem. The problem was ASSHATS TURNING LEFT WHEN THEY SHOULDN'T. Let me try and describe how this works. Cars are supposed to approach from the West and turn left into the carpool drop-off area, which is sorta half-circular, cars moving counter-clockwise, with entrance and exit on the same street. Once we drop off, we are to exit to the right. We have been ordered by the school NOT to approach from the East (it's considered cutting the line, well, because it is) and NOT to turn left out of the carpool area because if you have the right mental picture of what I just described, if you turn left you're attempting to re-join the line of cars waiting to drop off their kids.
This morning there was a ridiculous number of people breaking both rules. I can handle the line-cutters, but the left turners? Should die soon. I can only hope. They sit there and block 8 or 10 cars behind them (who could easily turn right and get out of the way) while waiting for someone to let them turn left. Except the people on the street can't let them in, because no cars in the carpool drive are moving because some asshole IS TRYING TO TURN LEFT WHEN THEY SHOULDN'T. Kind of like a kid holding up a game of musical chairs because they were "out," but they're still waiting for someone to let them into a chair.
The really stupid part is that if someone intends to turn left out of the carpool line, if they pull all the way to the left side of the exit there's plenty of room for the cars behind to pass by on the right. The powers that be even removed part of a curb so that this would be possible. And yet, and yet--people are asshats. They just are.
Stick Girl and Simian Boy were worried about being tardy. Simian Boy has never been tardy, ever, and Stick Girl was tardy once, and that was The Dave's fault (having to do with his genetic "clock reading combined with estimating the duration of a task" disorder.) Plus, that was during Zoe's first year and we were all pretty clueless back then.
I assured the kids that a) getting a tardy isn't the end of the world, b) by the looks of things, everyone in school was going to be tardy, and c) the schools clocks are slow by 4 minutes, 35 seconds so they'd probably be fine.
They gladly hopped out of the car as early as they could in the carpool line because they could move a lot faster than the line of cars. Amazing what fear of punishment will do for a kid's attitude.
As I drove home, the carpool line was still backed up three blocks.
You can bet that there will be a "On rainy days please plan ahead we had way too many tardies please review the carpool line guidelines" note coming home on Thursday (all notes come home on Thursday). Problem is, the asshats who were turning left? Never read the notes OR the carpool guidelines and if they did, they would think it didn't apply to them.
BECAUSE THEY'RE ASSHATS.
Mostly because I was really hungry 45 minutes ago.
This has been a long time coming: a new carpool rant!
Every morning I try to walk out the door with the kids at 7:37 AM. Years of experience has taught me that much time deviation either way, and I'm asking for trouble. If we're late, the usual snafu is that I nearly get into an accident with my neighbor Ricky. He's usually backing out of his garage as I'm returning home, and then we try and out-polite each other for a few seconds, then we laugh and wave. We haven't yet actually had a collision but we've come close.
I should have known better than to be late on a rainy day, even though we only left 4 minutes later than usual. Every spring on the first rainy day, the carpool line is hell. Mostly it's because the school patrol doesn't show up on rainy days. I'm not sure why that is, but I don't blame them. I sure wouldn't want to do their job on a rainy day.
But today that wasn't the problem. The problem was ASSHATS TURNING LEFT WHEN THEY SHOULDN'T. Let me try and describe how this works. Cars are supposed to approach from the West and turn left into the carpool drop-off area, which is sorta half-circular, cars moving counter-clockwise, with entrance and exit on the same street. Once we drop off, we are to exit to the right. We have been ordered by the school NOT to approach from the East (it's considered cutting the line, well, because it is) and NOT to turn left out of the carpool area because if you have the right mental picture of what I just described, if you turn left you're attempting to re-join the line of cars waiting to drop off their kids.
This morning there was a ridiculous number of people breaking both rules. I can handle the line-cutters, but the left turners? Should die soon. I can only hope. They sit there and block 8 or 10 cars behind them (who could easily turn right and get out of the way) while waiting for someone to let them turn left. Except the people on the street can't let them in, because no cars in the carpool drive are moving because some asshole IS TRYING TO TURN LEFT WHEN THEY SHOULDN'T. Kind of like a kid holding up a game of musical chairs because they were "out," but they're still waiting for someone to let them into a chair.
The really stupid part is that if someone intends to turn left out of the carpool line, if they pull all the way to the left side of the exit there's plenty of room for the cars behind to pass by on the right. The powers that be even removed part of a curb so that this would be possible. And yet, and yet--people are asshats. They just are.
Stick Girl and Simian Boy were worried about being tardy. Simian Boy has never been tardy, ever, and Stick Girl was tardy once, and that was The Dave's fault (having to do with his genetic "clock reading combined with estimating the duration of a task" disorder.) Plus, that was during Zoe's first year and we were all pretty clueless back then.
I assured the kids that a) getting a tardy isn't the end of the world, b) by the looks of things, everyone in school was going to be tardy, and c) the schools clocks are slow by 4 minutes, 35 seconds so they'd probably be fine.
They gladly hopped out of the car as early as they could in the carpool line because they could move a lot faster than the line of cars. Amazing what fear of punishment will do for a kid's attitude.
As I drove home, the carpool line was still backed up three blocks.
You can bet that there will be a "On rainy days please plan ahead we had way too many tardies please review the carpool line guidelines" note coming home on Thursday (all notes come home on Thursday). Problem is, the asshats who were turning left? Never read the notes OR the carpool guidelines and if they did, they would think it didn't apply to them.
BECAUSE THEY'RE ASSHATS.
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
Alberta Clipper
So. Big storm in the Northland today. They even have The Weather Channel guys in Duluth. The first report I saw them do, they were standing in front of their hotel--not that you could tell from the shot. I'll be watching them as the day goes on, just for entertainment value.
Where I grew up on the other side of the state from Duluth, the storm has already hit. My old school had announced cancellation before the 10 o'clock news. That's not how it used to be.
The old administrator used to be rather hesitant to call off school. In fact, I don't think he ever called off school until he tried to get there himself. If he couldn't, then he'd call off school. It was as if the man didn't watch, or didn't believe the weather reports. It was also as if he thought the storms were a conspiracy of the students, done so they wouldn't have to go to school that day. Lazy kids, conjuring up blizzards like that.
Even when the weather was bad enough to not send out the busses, he would only delay school--first by one hour, then two, while the rest of the kids in the county had gotten to sleep in. In as remote a region as I'm from, some kids had to get up as early as two hours before school to get ready and then ride the bus. They'd be sitting there in their school clothes, bags ready, breakfast long eaten and Captain Kangaroo on television, with one ear to the radio just waiting to for the announcer to get back around to our school.
I'm pretty sure it never occurred to the administrator that he was putting the town through hell by delaying his decision. The guy wasn't big on observing anything but his own profound thoughts.
Oh, and the announcements themselves! We usually listened to them on the radio, because on the radio they would read the whole list start to finish, and then start over again. On local television, they would run the cancellations as a scroll across the bottom of the screen, but only during programming. They'd stop during commercials; I don't think they had the technical ability to keep it running all the time. However, when they'd come back from commercial break, they'd start the list from the beginning. So while Alvarado and Argyle and even sometimes Oslo and Stephen were told over and over again that they had been cancelled, we would sometimes have to wait an hour, just to find out we were still only delayed.
My town started with a W. We had one consolation in regard to that, though--at least we knew the kids in Warroad were going through the same hell as us.
Misery loves company, after all.
So, my dear residents of Warren: I hope you got lots of rest last night. You deserve it.
Where I grew up on the other side of the state from Duluth, the storm has already hit. My old school had announced cancellation before the 10 o'clock news. That's not how it used to be.
The old administrator used to be rather hesitant to call off school. In fact, I don't think he ever called off school until he tried to get there himself. If he couldn't, then he'd call off school. It was as if the man didn't watch, or didn't believe the weather reports. It was also as if he thought the storms were a conspiracy of the students, done so they wouldn't have to go to school that day. Lazy kids, conjuring up blizzards like that.
Even when the weather was bad enough to not send out the busses, he would only delay school--first by one hour, then two, while the rest of the kids in the county had gotten to sleep in. In as remote a region as I'm from, some kids had to get up as early as two hours before school to get ready and then ride the bus. They'd be sitting there in their school clothes, bags ready, breakfast long eaten and Captain Kangaroo on television, with one ear to the radio just waiting to for the announcer to get back around to our school.
I'm pretty sure it never occurred to the administrator that he was putting the town through hell by delaying his decision. The guy wasn't big on observing anything but his own profound thoughts.
Oh, and the announcements themselves! We usually listened to them on the radio, because on the radio they would read the whole list start to finish, and then start over again. On local television, they would run the cancellations as a scroll across the bottom of the screen, but only during programming. They'd stop during commercials; I don't think they had the technical ability to keep it running all the time. However, when they'd come back from commercial break, they'd start the list from the beginning. So while Alvarado and Argyle and even sometimes Oslo and Stephen were told over and over again that they had been cancelled, we would sometimes have to wait an hour, just to find out we were still only delayed.
My town started with a W. We had one consolation in regard to that, though--at least we knew the kids in Warroad were going through the same hell as us.
Misery loves company, after all.
So, my dear residents of Warren: I hope you got lots of rest last night. You deserve it.
Monday, March 9, 2009
Friday, March 6, 2009
Vacuum
Some time today, I get to clean my vacuum.
It's one of those Dyson rollerball things. And YES, they are really good vacuums. The only drawback they have, is if the "belt" breaks, you can't just replace it; you've got to buy it a whole new transmission. The cost I was last quoted on that was $75, about 4 years ago.
Why do I have to clean it? And by clean, I mean wash every interior surface I possibly can. Well, you see, there was this incident with my daughter, our new puppy, and a bowl of Kraft© Macaroni and Cheese.
I'll just let you imagine what happened. The result was pretty standard: daughter crying with mac-n-cheese in her hair and oddly, a bruise appearing on her forehead, dog trying to eat all the mac-n-cheese off the floor, husband yelling and trying to figure out what happened (fuel to the fire...*sigh*), me holding the dog back.
I handed my dog restraint task over to my husband, and asked my son to start picking up the noodles so I could attend to my hysterical, bruised, and gooey daughter. Son started to cry, saying he didn't want to do his task alone. I assured him I would come back and help as I was following Daughter into the bathroom.
Daughter climbed into the shower still crying, but crying in the shower usually isn't a bad thing. I promised to come back and check on her.
I came back to the dining room to find the dog barking from the other bathroom; she must have been too excited to eat the toilet paper. My son was just standing there, not picking up the mac-n-cheese, because my husband was vacuuming it up with my Dyson. My NEARLY NEW $400 VACUUM.
Now, you guys are probably thinking, "What? He saw a problem, and he solved it. Why are you women never happy?"
But all you women are thinking, we are "never" happy because you men continually fail to realize that lack of forethought in solving one problem, often creates many more. Like in this case, the problems created were:
1) Gooey vacuum, which was used to do a job it was never meant to do; that being: vacuuming a moist food product.
2) Vacuum was expensive.
3) Son witnessed the vacuum misuse and now thinks it's okay to vacuum up food. This will take years to unlearn.
4) Husband has no intention of cleaning the vacuum himself; it never occurred to him he would have to do so.
5) New puppy wants to chew up the gooey, but expensive, vacuum.
6) I'm mad because I have to clean it, and husband will get mad because I'm mad, because after all, HE SOLVED THE PROBLEM.
7) None if this is even really relevant because now my daughter has a big bruise on her forehead that she's embarrassed about.
I'll point out that it was only one cereal bowl's worth of mac-n-cheese. It would have taken less than two minutes on one's knees, picking it up by hand, to clean up.
But I will get over it. I could point out to Husband that he once again made a mess he has no intention of cleaning up, and ask him to please clean it since he made the mess; at which time he will be mad at me for telling him to do a chore because it will cut into his weekend nap time. Even if he agrees to do it, he won't. He simply won't. If he was going to, he would have done it right away. Him being this way is hard-wired into his system, and I have to keep reminding myself of that.
I won't even ask him to clean it. Because, you know what? I'm a control freak. Any cleaning job on my vacuum, done by anyone but me or other select individuals (who are not currently available) wouldn't be good enough. This control freakishness is my problem.
Time to go clean a vacuum. But before I do, let me just say: This is a prime example of the happy marriage tactic known as "Pick your battles." Because compared to all the electronic junk my husband has temporarily stored in my closet, blocking access to 90% of my clothes, the vacuum thing is NOTHING.
It's one of those Dyson rollerball things. And YES, they are really good vacuums. The only drawback they have, is if the "belt" breaks, you can't just replace it; you've got to buy it a whole new transmission. The cost I was last quoted on that was $75, about 4 years ago.
Why do I have to clean it? And by clean, I mean wash every interior surface I possibly can. Well, you see, there was this incident with my daughter, our new puppy, and a bowl of Kraft© Macaroni and Cheese.
I'll just let you imagine what happened. The result was pretty standard: daughter crying with mac-n-cheese in her hair and oddly, a bruise appearing on her forehead, dog trying to eat all the mac-n-cheese off the floor, husband yelling and trying to figure out what happened (fuel to the fire...*sigh*), me holding the dog back.
I handed my dog restraint task over to my husband, and asked my son to start picking up the noodles so I could attend to my hysterical, bruised, and gooey daughter. Son started to cry, saying he didn't want to do his task alone. I assured him I would come back and help as I was following Daughter into the bathroom.
Daughter climbed into the shower still crying, but crying in the shower usually isn't a bad thing. I promised to come back and check on her.
I came back to the dining room to find the dog barking from the other bathroom; she must have been too excited to eat the toilet paper. My son was just standing there, not picking up the mac-n-cheese, because my husband was vacuuming it up with my Dyson. My NEARLY NEW $400 VACUUM.
Now, you guys are probably thinking, "What? He saw a problem, and he solved it. Why are you women never happy?"
But all you women are thinking, we are "never" happy because you men continually fail to realize that lack of forethought in solving one problem, often creates many more. Like in this case, the problems created were:
1) Gooey vacuum, which was used to do a job it was never meant to do; that being: vacuuming a moist food product.
2) Vacuum was expensive.
3) Son witnessed the vacuum misuse and now thinks it's okay to vacuum up food. This will take years to unlearn.
4) Husband has no intention of cleaning the vacuum himself; it never occurred to him he would have to do so.
5) New puppy wants to chew up the gooey, but expensive, vacuum.
6) I'm mad because I have to clean it, and husband will get mad because I'm mad, because after all, HE SOLVED THE PROBLEM.
7) None if this is even really relevant because now my daughter has a big bruise on her forehead that she's embarrassed about.
I'll point out that it was only one cereal bowl's worth of mac-n-cheese. It would have taken less than two minutes on one's knees, picking it up by hand, to clean up.
But I will get over it. I could point out to Husband that he once again made a mess he has no intention of cleaning up, and ask him to please clean it since he made the mess; at which time he will be mad at me for telling him to do a chore because it will cut into his weekend nap time. Even if he agrees to do it, he won't. He simply won't. If he was going to, he would have done it right away. Him being this way is hard-wired into his system, and I have to keep reminding myself of that.
I won't even ask him to clean it. Because, you know what? I'm a control freak. Any cleaning job on my vacuum, done by anyone but me or other select individuals (who are not currently available) wouldn't be good enough. This control freakishness is my problem.
Time to go clean a vacuum. But before I do, let me just say: This is a prime example of the happy marriage tactic known as "Pick your battles." Because compared to all the electronic junk my husband has temporarily stored in my closet, blocking access to 90% of my clothes, the vacuum thing is NOTHING.
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
A thank you, and a reminder
This is a letter I wrote that I don't dare send. I wrote it to all the 3rd grade teachers at my kids' school. My daughter is in 3rd grade and I know all the other teachers because I'm their copy mom.
This week was TAKS testing (look it up; I'm to lazy to link for you right now) and this is about that. And stuff. I don't dare send it because it's a little--wordy.
So instead of sending it, I'll just post it here:
--
The reminder is: Tomorrow's Thursday! Get your copies ready!
And since I am genetically unable to be brief, here's a story.
Tuesday night I was at the grocery store--it was an emergency run for Wednesday's snacks--and as I was returning my cart to the cart return, there was a woman in front of me, doing the same. She struggled a little bit, then stopped, looked at her feet, and I swear she fell asleep standing there. Then she saw me and apologized and said, "Such a day. I can't get my feet to move any more," even as she was walking to her car which was right next to mine.
"What school do you teach at?" I asked. It shouldn't be that on a random day in March I can guess someone's profession, but knowing what I know, it was kind of obvious.
We talked for about two minutes. She works at Christie Elementary. I said my kids were at Curtsinger, and she said her kids had gone there, too, so we lived in the same neighborhood.
"I'll follow you home, then!" I said. She must have been really tired because she thought that was really funny.
Meeting that teacher reminded me to say, "Thank YOU!" to all of you ladies.
You worked hard doing all that extra tutoring the last couple of weeks, probably spent your own money on supplies, gave up family and personal time, AND you made it a lot of fun for the kids.
You're amazing. You are all great teachers, and you make a great team.
I could never do your job. Inside of a week, I would be using off-color language in front of the students and letting them have doughnuts and Coke every day for snack. It wouldn't be pretty.
Y'all kick bootie. Next time you doubt yourself, or someone else doubts you and it's got you down, please remember that Zoe's Mom thinks you're great.
This week was TAKS testing (look it up; I'm to lazy to link for you right now) and this is about that. And stuff. I don't dare send it because it's a little--wordy.
So instead of sending it, I'll just post it here:
--
The reminder is: Tomorrow's Thursday! Get your copies ready!
And since I am genetically unable to be brief, here's a story.
Tuesday night I was at the grocery store--it was an emergency run for Wednesday's snacks--and as I was returning my cart to the cart return, there was a woman in front of me, doing the same. She struggled a little bit, then stopped, looked at her feet, and I swear she fell asleep standing there. Then she saw me and apologized and said, "Such a day. I can't get my feet to move any more," even as she was walking to her car which was right next to mine.
"What school do you teach at?" I asked. It shouldn't be that on a random day in March I can guess someone's profession, but knowing what I know, it was kind of obvious.
We talked for about two minutes. She works at Christie Elementary. I said my kids were at Curtsinger, and she said her kids had gone there, too, so we lived in the same neighborhood.
"I'll follow you home, then!" I said. She must have been really tired because she thought that was really funny.
Meeting that teacher reminded me to say, "Thank YOU!" to all of you ladies.
You worked hard doing all that extra tutoring the last couple of weeks, probably spent your own money on supplies, gave up family and personal time, AND you made it a lot of fun for the kids.
You're amazing. You are all great teachers, and you make a great team.
I could never do your job. Inside of a week, I would be using off-color language in front of the students and letting them have doughnuts and Coke every day for snack. It wouldn't be pretty.
Y'all kick bootie. Next time you doubt yourself, or someone else doubts you and it's got you down, please remember that Zoe's Mom thinks you're great.
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