Last day of kindergarten...

..and thank God for that!

Last week, OctoBoy was supposed to write up a small paragraph (with parental help) about his favorite kindergarten memory and draw a picture to go with it. "Be creative! The more original, the better!" was what Mrs. Chip told them,  That was the sum total of the directions on the assignment sheet.

As he is a fan of explosions, dinosaurs and mortal peril, OctoBoy constructed an action-laden and elaborate tale of a pterodactyl carrying off a school bus loaded with is classmates and teacher, with the latter being rescued by OctoBoy and his gang of four friends. (They have several clubs they've created over the year -- the SuperHero Club is the latest in a string of Spy Guys, Escape Plan, Girl Hater and Peanut Butter clubs.)

The drawing was top-notch, as well; an action shot of the pterodactyl flying off with the bus clutched in its claws while the five boys blasted it with surface-to-air missiles.

He was excited to take it in, and he was very proud of his work. I was, too -- it was the most enthusiasm I'd seen for a writing assignment all year.

He came home and silently handed me the draft, which had a big red "NO" scrawled across it. The accompanying note informed me that this was not a creative writing assignment, and that OctoBoy was to confine himself to reality. The assignment would have to be re-done using one of the memories she helpfully listed: holiday parties, Catholic schools week, the zoo field trip or her in-class birthday party(!).

Needless to say, the second draft was much less enthusiastically approached. We wrote two sentences about the zoo, and he drew a tiger. (Though it was NOT munching on Mrs. Chips' skull, as I would have had it.) THIS draft was acceptable for the end-of-year scrapbook. In looking it over, all 25 kids had boring, lifeless memories that matched each other. Not a single spark of fun or creativity among them.

The note Mrs. Chips sent home and the original draft came in with me this morning when I went to meet with Sister Linebacker for the last time over Mrs. Chips' nonsense. I expressed my concerns calmly and (surprisingly) without raising my voice or using profanity: kindergarten is no place to be quashing the enthusiasm and creativity of children, and perhaps Mrs. Chips would be happier teaching a higher grade -- or not teaching at all. Certainly, after a year of complaining and bullyragging OctoBoy, she is not welcome to speak to him again. I reminded Sister of how many meetings over her conduct we've had, how many notes I['ve sent in, and how many times I've felt the need to call Mrs. Chips's issues to her attention.

Sister agreed; Mrs. Chips has already resigned her position due to "incompatibility issues." Apparently, I am not the only parent who's been in over the course of the year. A WIN for OctoBoy!!

By the way: Sister loved the pterodactyl tale and the picture. she made a copy for her office wall, and I got to keep the original in my Box of Kid Things I'll Save Forever.

One convenient package (so to speak)!

Let's face it: people either have their hands on ther phones or in inappropriate places, all day long. Why not combine the world's two favorite things to fondle?



Besides, if you have an iPhone (like JayG and Dino), you probably need to show the world that you have Serious Balls.

Phone balls!

A chunk of the proceeds go to help fund testicular cancer research! You're balls-out in public, for a good cause!

This discovery certainly makes my Christmas and Hannukah shopping so much easier...

Removing hair from overly sensitive areas.

God bless the forward-thinking entrepreneurs who will show up in a van, fabulously equipped with restraining devices and specialized equipment, and shave your kitty right in your own driveway.**

Get your mind out of the gutter, perverts. It's a mobile pet groomer.

Bitezilla is a long-haired black cat, and thus, suffers from heat exhaustion in the summers. For the last week, it's been humid and in the nineties. Poor little bastard has been panting; his normally pink nose has been brick red, and he's been an even more miserable bastard than usual. I'd shave him myself, but the sight of blood -- particularly my own -- makes me nauseous. Bitey is a great deal like a four-footed Cuisinart when he gets cranked up, and I'm happy to pay professionals to risk life and limb. 

I called and made an appointment, and the gentleman showed up this afternoon at the appointed time. I scooped up His Vileness from his napping position and delivered him into the hands of Torquemada -- or so you would have thought, from the howls of indignation. Thirty minutes later, he was delivered back with a lion cut, and all sorts of tail-lashingly pissed off. I paid the groomer and then as an afterthought, threw him a tenner as a tip. He beat a hasty retreat.

Back skin all a'twitch, Bitezilla haughtily removed to the living room, where the Wee Ginger Beastie was napping under cubboo. He assumed his customary position next to her, glaring at me through slitted green eyes.  She, of course, was quite shocked when she woke up to see Bitey -- who had been fully furred and sleeping next to her when she went to sleep  -- in such a state.  "That kitty's nekkid as nekkid can be! Him's all jiggly now!"

It's quite true. All that fur hides a multitude of bulbous fleshy bulges and saggy pouches. If he's not swanning about like a tarty little minx, his skin puddles in a most unflattering way.

He suffered through her petting him all over his jowly belly, and then disappeared upstairs to plot his revenge. I'm girding my ankles with Kevlar tonight.

**Calling your husband at work and matter-of-factly announcing that you're having your p*ssy shaved right then and there will result in hilarity. Trust me on this.

Mazel tov!

Helen Thomas, veteran reporter and full-time partisan harridan, is retiring from Hearst Publications --  effective immediately.

I guess the Jews won't need to get their papers in order to "get the hell out of Palestine and go back to Germany and Poland," after all.

Her retirement comes after she issues a a non-apology apology on her own website and after her agents dropped her like a hot matzoh.

Even the White House Correspondent's Association -- that bog of FAIL and eternal stench -- disavowed her comments. (Warning: clicking on that link may cause projectile vomiting.)

See ya' Helen. Hope that doorknob doesn't catch your ass on the way out.

"Character-building exercises."

So, I taught my summer session Saturday section (oooh, alliteration!) this morning, and came home to find  my husband driving my children like slaves. There were sticks to be gathered from the yard, preparatory to mowing. There were gutters to be swamped, There were weeds to be pulled in flower beds and from between slate patio chunks. All the various detritus had to be trucked over to the compost heap. Laundry had to be hung out and taken in and folded. The patio tables and chairs needed to be washed down.

I enthusiastically joined in,  of course (both in the chores and the slave-driving.)

After three hours of this, OctoBoy was heard to exclaim that his "character pocket was full, and if he didn't get a rest, it was going to 'splode!"

The result is a yard that looks pretty darn good tonight. The table was re-assembled. The Weber was fired up and Bubba burgers soon followed, along wirth lots  and lots of sangria.

Life is good tonight!

Bleg

Bob S. and his wife could use some support.

Could y'all have a word with whatever Deity you hold to?

In to the breach!

Summer I started yesterday. All I can say is, "Oy vey."

Summer classes are perceived as being a wee bit easier. However, you're working on a compressed (seven-week) schedule, and the traditional amount of material still has to be covered. It can make for a hellacious schedule.

Add in a handful of students who have issues ranging from childcare -- "I don't have a sitter -- can I bring my three-year-old?" -- to "I planned three vacations and will miss four out of our seven classes; I can pass, right?" and I clearly need to lay in more headache powders.

Also, looking out over a sea of vacant faces, I have two students who, I am fairly certain, are either drinking during class, or arrived drunk.

Fuck.