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The Chick Survival Guide

I hate horror movies. I see absolutely no reason why someone would pay good money in order to be scared out of their minds. However, since I have four brothers and a brother-in-law who have absolutely no concern for my tender nerves, I've seen my fair share of scary movies.
I am always amazed by the stupidity of chicks on these movies. (Cue an ultra-feminist girl-power rant here.) So, lest you find yourself in the midst of a horror movie unprepared, I've compiled this handy little guide for you:

1.) Don't be married/related/friends with any celebrities/politicians/scientists.
      This seems like a no-brainer. We all know being connected to important people is hazardous to your health. If your relative is a celebrity, you'll be kidnapped for a vast ransom. A politician? Kidnapped for political leverage. If you're related to a scientist, your imminent danger is directly proportional to the importance of their work. He's studying the mating calls of endangered loons? You're probably safe. But if he's just discovered a new biological weapon, you're toast.
(Fair warning: If any of you people become famous, I'm cutting my connection to you.)

2.) Quit the cheer squad.
     Let's face it. Unless you're living in a Heroes-type universe where the future of the entire world depends on your survival, being a cheerleader seriously jeopardizes your life-expectancy.

3.) Stay in the car.
      Do you know why they never make movies about chicks who stay in the car when their fella goes after the bad guy? Because those girls don't get killed/captured/tortured/used-as-leverage-against-said-fella. And in all honesty, that would make for a crappy movie.

4.) Don't babysit at remote locations.
      We all know I don't like to babysit. But on the rare occasions that I do lower my standards, I always babysit at my house. (I have legos, babydolls, 36 hours worth of Pixar movies, and I make a mean PBJ. Bonus: I don't have to do my makeup.) You want me to watch your kids out at your extremely large and extremely abandoned lake house with no cell phone service? I don't think so.

5.) Don't enter the alley.
      I actually read this in a book once, but I was so impressed by the logic that I've added to it my own personal repertoire of advice. If someone points a gun at you and tells you to enter an alley, abandoned building, or other secluded spot...say no. I'm serious. Say: "Look, I know you think you're smart and powerful, and all, but I am not about to make this easy on you. If you're going to shoot me, then you're going to have to do it in front of all these witnesses. If you're not going to shoot me, then you can just wander on your little way, no hard feelings. But no way am I going to enter that alley."

6.) Always carry.
     I'm all for Second Amendment rights, but this point has a more practical application. A masked villain is likely going to think twice about trussing you up when you pull an Uzi out of your back pocket. (Confession: I have no idea what an Uzi really is.)

7.) Don't investigate strange noises.
      Again, a no-brainer. If you hear a strange noise in the basement, on no account should you investigate. You should especially not investigate said noise armed only with a flashlight. (Remember that Uzi?) If you hear a strange noise, grab your cell phone - which has full service because you are not babysitting at a remote lake house - and barricade yourself in your bedroom until daylight.

...If I've missed any, feel free to add them in the comments.

Of Coffee and Choir Risers

I sat in the pew during the testimony time of our Wednesday night service. Discouragement and discontent pooled at my feet. One by one, members of my church family gave testimonies of healing and victory. It had apparently been an amazing week of God's working. But each new revelation of God's power, instead of encouraging me, sent me farther and farther into my puddle of pity.
I grumbled in my soul. Why isn't God meeting MY need?! Are my needs not important, too? And it's not just for me. It's for my students. It's for my ministry! Shouldn't that get some sort of priority??
(I need choir risers. The cheapest I've seen them is $1500. Since I can't just snap my fingers and make them appear, I've been trying to raise the funds, but every thing I try seems to be "cut off at the pass." It's rather frustrating, and more than a little discouraging. Ergo...the grumbling.)
I would love to be able to report that I immediately repented of my sin of discontent and doubt, but that didn't happen at all. I wasted the rest of the service pouting and whining to God about my problem.
Finally, I offered Him an ultimatum (because that always works out so well): OK, God. I know you are capable of providing this - all in your own good time. But I'm really, really discouraged right now. Couldn't you just do something to help out my faith? It could be something little. ...anything at all??
Apparently, God didn't feel like answering.

Two days later, I was sitting in the drive-thru at my favorite/local Starbucks - pretty much my home away from home.  It seemed to be taking an inordinate amount of time. Finally, it was my turn to approach the window, and the sweet little barista handed me my order with a smile, an apology for the wait, and a voucher for a free coffee...which struck me as ironic and rather humorous since the coffee I had been waiting for was already free. I reflected on the fact that I had been getting a lot of free coffees lately...and then God hit me in the face with a ton of spiritual bricks...

---
I love Starbucks. I love my Starbucks. My students know this, and invariably I receive quite a large number of Starbucks gift cards for Christmas. Last Christmas was a record year. My kids gave me so many Starbucks cards that I figured I would be caffeinated for months. However, we were having a troubled year. There were miffed attitudes and hurt feelings and misunderstandings that were beginning to build a wall between students. I was praying for wisdom and direction.
Take your students to Starbucks.
   What?!
Spend time with them. Outside of school. Let them know you care about them.
   But. That costs money. You know I'm poor.
Use your gift cards.
   But those are mine. 
What's more important? Free coffee? or reaching your students?
I don't mean to say that God and I had that exact conversation, but it was something along those lines, and the moral of the story is that I ended up taking my students to Starbucks and spending my gift cards on them instead of on myself. (It worked, by the way. Walls came down. Relationships were repaired. Obstacles were overcome. ...but that's another story.) I knew I was doing the right thing, but I pouted about losing my free coffee - apparently, I need to work on that "cheerful giving" thing...
---

As I left the drive-thru and pulled out onto the main road, I began to think back. How many vouchers and free and complimentary coffees had I gotten in the past few months? Too many to remember. A dozen at least, and here was one more. I felt about as tall as a squashed gnat as the answer was gently whispered in my heart:
Oh ye of little faith...I've been paying you back for that coffee, and you didn't even notice. Don't you think I've got a handle on your other needs too? Why, oh why, do you doubt?

So...I guess I'll get those choir risers after all...

My Pennies on Politics

The old adage must be true - you should never discuss religion or politics - because I haven't seen this much division among friends since Scarlett and Rhett danced at the Twelve Oaks Barbecue. The name-calling and mud-slinging has been endless. Opposing sides have accused each other of everything from near-sighted apathy to single-handedly ushering in the apocalypse. Lines have been drawn. Stands have been stood. Gauntlets have been thrown. Ridicule has been flung. ...and that's just the voters.

I have heretofore kept my distance from the arena. Not that I don't have an opinion - I always have an opinion - but...well...I guess I really just didn't want to get spit on.  And, in all honesty, even though I had pretty much decided how I was going to vote, for a long time I wasn't at peace with my decision. I didn't feel ready to go to battle on a position whose particulars I hadn't entirely worked out in my own head. ...that, and spit...I really hate spit.

So I kept my mouth shut, and my thoughts to myself. I watched the incessant baiting and badgering on Facebook - often amused, sometimes annoyed, and occasionally affronted by the vitriol that was freely doled out on all sides.

I am amused by the assumption that so many seem to hold that if one posts what one believes loud enough, long enough, and in ALL CAPS often enough, then everyone who holds an opposing belief will be so astonished and impressed by the poster's ability to use caps lock that they will instantly capitulate.

I am annoyed by the apparent inability of Americans to check their facts. A simple web search will inform you that, no, you could not purchase gas for ninety-seven cents a gallon when Bush was in office. Also, it is impossible for anyone (yes, even Obama!), to turn off the internet.

I am occasionally affronted by the downright hostile attacks that are directed at those who hold my position in the upcoming election. Just because I don't vote the same way you do on November 6th does not mean that I am single-handedly destroying our country. I don't hold that much power. If I did, I certainly wouldn't exercise it in the destruction of America.

I said before that I haven't always been sure of how I was going to vote. I've settled that decision through much prayer and research. If you want to know how I am going to vote, feel free to ask me. In person. I will tell you...and if you're nice about it, I'll probably tell you why. I am not afraid of my position, and I am not afraid to defend my position. I am, however, fully aware of the folly of public debate. Attacking people doesn't solve problems; it creates them.

So, in closing, I support your right to vote for the candidate of your choice. And I assert my right to vote for the candidate of my choice. And lest you call me a coward for refusing to fight it out: "Sometimes, the greatest courage is shown, not when you fight, but when you walk away."

Ode to an Idiot

Tomorrow is October. That means speeches. And stress. And sleeplessness.
October is when I begin preparations for Fine Arts Competition in March. ...I say "begin" as if I'm actually starting. As if I actually stopped preparing after last year. I didn't. I prepare all year. But October is when I "officially" begin working on speeches. October is when I put the list on the board and bully and beg and cajole students into signing up.
October is also when I pull out my handbook from last year's Nationals and go through my notes and ideas.
You see, every April, we go to National Fine Arts Competition. I spend hours watching students and schools from all over the States perform. I write down what they do, how they performed, and what my opinions are. Every afternoon, while my students are sleeping or shopping or just goofing off, I look over my notes and contemplate the next year's competition. I reflect on what I've seen and brainstorm new angles and new ideas. The majority of what we will perform the following year is decided then. ...and I write it all in the Nationals handbook.
A few weeks ago, I was cleaning out my office. Every now and then, I get the urge to purge, and I go through the massive piles of paper that I manage to accumulate. (I swear, those papers are getting together and making paper babies. There is just no other way I have all that stuff.) I found the purse that I carried at Nationals and was clearing out the papers. (It's one of those big, roomy deals that I can stuff everything in.) I came across the handbook from that week and thought, "Oh, I don't need this," and I threw it away.
...I'm going to repeat that because I don't think you caught it. I threw it away.
All of my notes. All of my ideas. All of my strategies. All of those authors from all of those speeches.
I. Threw. It. Away.
Gone.
Forever.
And the worst part is that I saw it in the trash can every day for about a week and a half and it never once hit me that I needed that. Not once did I have that small niggling something in the back of my brain that usually alerts me when I'm about to do something stupid. Nada. Nothing. My brain betrayed me. It let me casually destroy all my hard work.
I feel as if someone has died.
I feel as if I'm the one that killed him.
I really think I could cry.

Cleaning Out the Filter

Many, many times I think of witty and/or cutting things I would like to post on Facebook. However, there's a filter in my head that often stops me. (Oddly enough, that filter seems to have my mother's voice...) It saddens me to realize that my sharply or succinctly worded zingers will never be appreciated by the world at large...or...you know...my 53 Facebook friends...
But nothing is stopping you from using them... I make you free of them... Borrow to your heart's content...

Pancakes...EXPOSED!!

I...am a conspiracy theorist. There. I've admitted it. I am not ashamed.
However, I do not believe in such mundane ordinary conspiracy theories as, "The CIA was behind the attack on the Twin Towers" or, "American Bankers started World War II" or even, "Jefferson Davis sold the Confederacy to aliens from Mars and fathered little alien babies...and that's why we lost the War." Nothing so boring will do for me.
I am a believer in The Great Pancake Conspiracy.
Yep. Pancakes. It's a trap.
It goes something like this:
Little Miss Perfect over at the "How to Make Picture Perfect Meals and Pictures of How I Made Them Picture Perfect" blog will post about this totally awesome, mouth-watering (I mean, seriously drool-inducing) pancake recipe. And she'll post pictures. And they'll be perfect. Beautiful honey-gold disks swimming in warm butter (because these pancakes are sooo good, they don't even need syrup).
...and I fall for it...every time.
I'll be convinced that this time - this one time - the recipe will work. My pancakes will be as perfect as the picture. I'll just know that when I have flipped that perfectly flippable flap-jack, angels will sing. I expect gorgeous pillowy pancake goodness.
But what I invariably end up with is a messy, smoke-filled kitchen and a plateful of charred gooey glumps. (You read that right...charred and gooey. I am so talented, I can burn raw pancakes.)
And then the realization hits me. Of course. It's the conspiracy. Why didn't I see it before?
In red-faced shame (that has nothing to do with slaving over a hot griddle trying desperately to turn a quickly hardening disk of destruction that won't even get on the spatula, much less flip over!) I'll realize what must have happened behind the scenes...

A Rant...but a short one...

I'm a Fundamental, Independent Baptist...and I'm single. In our circles, that's akin to having leprosy. A woman, at my age, and still single...well! Let's just say...there must be a reason. The idea that single is bad and married (to anyone) is infinitely preferable is a philosophy that has inundated the very fiber of Baptist culture. [Just to clarify...I'm not IFB. That really isn't a thing, you know. And no one had ever heard that term until Dateline made up a story about it...just FYI.] But back to the topic at hand...
Saying, "I'm single" is sorta like saying, "I have cancer." People look at you with pity. They pray for you, try to encourage you, and tell you stories of their second cousin Betty who was single until she was 43, then God miraculously "blessed her with a man." They hope you won't die from it, but they are resigned to the fact that if you're too far gone, there really is no hope.
Being single - a single woman - in a Baptist church is an enigma. No one knows where you fit. You didn't follow the plan. You broke the pattern.
Well, let me help you. "The truth will set you free," and I'm about to lay a few truths on ya...

Fiery Darts and the Shield of Faith

Last Thursday, I spoke to our Ladies' Group at church. It was a nerve-wracking experience. ...Not because I'm afraid of public speaking - on the contrary - I revel in it. (I don't know if it's because my life is fueled by high-strung stress, or if it's because I just truly enjoy being the center of attention, imparting my well-researched, methodically organized, logically outlined and alliterated knowledge to the world.) But this...speaking before a group of ladies...occupying a lectern that so many Godly women - far more worthy than I - had occupied...sharing a burden, a calling, that God had so deeply impressed on my heart...this was terrifying.
I had prepared the lesson that I felt was what God would have me give - or at least I tried to. I had never written a more difficult devotion, or had more problems preparing a presentation. I researched and studied and prayed for months. My head and my heart were so full, but I couldn't seem to gather my thoughts and organize them into coherent form. I finally locked myself in my classroom Thursday after school and determined that, no matter what, I was going to speak that evening on what God had given me, and I was going to prepare as well as I could. I claimed Proverbs 16:3, "Commit thy works unto the Lord, and thy thoughts shall be established." I studied and prayed and wrote and organized, not pleased with the outcome, but desperately depending on God to work.
At our meeting that evening, the fellowship flowed around me. I smiled and chatted and enjoyed the food, all the while thinking, "What on earth am I thinking?! I don't need to give this devotion! I should change my topic!!" I reached in the recesses of my mind and began to dust off one of my many "prepared sermonettes," trying to calm my nervous heart. But I knew that was a futile and faithless effort.
When it finally came my turn, I blundered and blubbered through the entire thing - shaking because I was nervous, and crying (at times) when I was deeply touched. (I was highly embarrassed by that...I hate crying in public...my face gets all red and splotchy, and my nose gets all goopy and gross...it is not adorable in the least...) But I managed to survive. ...and I think...perhaps...I managed to impart just a little bit of the truth that God has been teaching me. A truth that, I hope, I will be able to share with you in a (somewhat) timely manner...

Murphy's Laws of Hosiery

If they're expensive, you'll get a run.
If they're your last pair, you'll get a run.
If they're that weird taupe pair that you have no idea how you acquired, and never go with anything, and are only worn in emergencies, you'll never get a run. That pair will last forever, and you will never be justified in throwing it away.
If you're in a hurry, they won't be clean.
If you're running late to church, and have just put lotion on your legs, you will struggle with putting them on, and will tear a HUGE hole in them with your thumbnail. You'll be wearing a short skirt, and the hole will be noticeable. You'll look for another pair, and realize that's your only one (except that weird taupe pair). You'll contemplate going without them, but you'll take one look at your translucent white legs with maps of spider veins and determine you're not that brave. You'll grab your fluorescent orange flip-flops and decide to stop at the drugstore on the way to church. When you reach the drugstore, you won't be able to find the hosiery section. The only employee you'll see will be an acne-encumbered 15 year old boy who will stare at your fluorescent flip-flops and call you ma'am. You'll ask if they carry nylons and he'll look at you as if you're speaking ancient Greek. "Hose," you'll say. He'll turn red. "Not your girlfriend, sweetheart, pantyhose." (It won't be your finest moment.) He'll stare at your glowing white legs and stammer that he doesn't think they have those, but he can check with the manager. You'll say no thanks and storm out of the store. You'll check two other stores before you finally find a pair that is twice what you'd normally pay for nylons. You'll buy them anyway. When you get to church, you'll scramble into the ladies' restroom trying to hide your legs. You'll open the box only to find that the pair you bought is defective and can't be worn...but it's ok because you forgot your heels, and the only shoes you have are your orange flip-flops...

Thanks, Dave!

I'm doing Dave Ramsey's Financial Peace University with my Economics class this quarter. (Because, seriously, who really cares about supply and demand curves, anyway??) It has actually been a very interesting quarter so far. The kids have really enjoyed it, and they are just drinking in the information. ...and it's very, very practical. I am all about practical. (I'm also all about applicable. If I can't apply it, I don't get it. Trigonometry - tried it for three lessons and figured out pretty quick that it wasn't for me. Calculus?...ha ha...ha ha.)
The lessons have been convicting as well. I've decided it's high time I get serious about my financial future. Don't get me wrong - I'm not laboring through life chained to a mountain of debt. I'm actually pretty much debt free. A lot of the things Dave Ramsey says don't really apply to me, necessarily: I'm not married; I don't have a mortgage; I have no credit card bills; I'm not paying off a student loan; and I have no children for whose college education I should be saving.
...But I also have no retirement fund. It's not that I plan to never retire, I just never worried about it before. I always figured that by the time I was 25, I would have met Prince Charming - who, of course, would come fully accessorized with a house, a credit score, and a down payment on a mini-van - and then we could worry about the future. (I'm also of the opinion that little Charming and Charmingette should pay their own way through school...but that's just me...)
However, 25 has come and gone and never sends me post cards. Since I'm not getting any younger (or less single), I guess I better start preparing for the future. I want to retire wealthy. Really wealthy. Scandalously wealthy. I know what I have to do. I have a plan and I'm ready to implement it.
Publishers Clearing House.
Yep. That's right. A million a year for life. That should set me up nicely.
You can enter online every day, right? Dave Ramsey says if you do something every day for thirty days, it becomes a habit. Well, that's a habit I can handle. One day down, twenty-nine to go. I think I can do this... I'm feeling better about the future already...

The rumors of my death have been greatly exaggerated...

I started a blog post about a week ago. It's not yet finished. Every time I sit down to finish it, a major crisis explodes over my head. So, I've given up ...at least until next week. I can't have any more crises this week - my schedule is already full.
Fine Arts Competition is tomorrow. Stressed is such an inadequate word.
But I have a strategy for combating stress.
I make lists.
I make lots of lists.
The first item on my list is always "make a list." It's genius. Now, when I get to the end of the list, I can already mark off an item. Gives me such a sense of accomplishment.
You should try it. Seriously.
And now I can mark "update blog" off my list. This day is getting better already.

You're a sweet little man...until you take my parking space!

Sometimes I just want to look at the world and say, "Really?!"
"Honey, did you really think those pants were a good idea??"
"Black tights under white shorts?? Really?!"
"I have two items. You have a full buggy. You're cutting in line?? Really?!"
"You saw me walking up to your checkout counter - you made eye contact!! - and you're putting up the 'Lane Closed' sign?? Really?!"
But the clincher today was the little man who stole my parking space...three times!!
I was trying to make a last-minute, two-minute mad dash to the Dollar Store to get something I needed to decorate for the Valentines Banquet at church tomorrow. (The Dollar Store is actually one of my favorite places to get stuff like that. I walk through Michaels to get ideas, then go to the Dollar Store to see if I can make my idea cheaper.) I figured I would be able to avoid the V-Day craziness there, since surely no one would be doing their sweetheart shopping for a dollar. Boy, was I wrong! (And let me take this moment to say - on behalf of all women everywhere - if you are getting your Honey Bunches a Valentines Gift from the Dollar Store, you are "El, Mr. Cheapo"!!!! ...probably soon to be "El, Mr. Single-o," too...)

Winning!

The school year is quickly entering its "busy" phase - don't get me wrong - it's always busy...but this time of year seems to be "hold-on-to-your-dentures-or-they'll-fly-off-your-gums" busy. We just attended a major competition event. Homecoming is this Friday. We're gearing up for another competition. I'm judging at yet another competition before that one. Report cards will be here before you know it. Then, it's the Senior Trip to DC. SAT's are the week we return. National Competition is the week after that. I'm preparing to speak at our Ladies' Group the following week. Take a Breath. Field Trips and Finals. Report Cards, again. Meeting with Parents. Graduation. Get your Permanent Records done by Friday. Now it's Summer....did we really just finish another year?!

Just a Note...

Once upon a time (because that's how all good stories start), I read an etiquette article about Thank You notes. The author was waxing eloquent about proper wording and correct timing, but she made one comment at the very end that has stuck with me - even though I've forgotten the rest of the article. I seem to recall that she was answering readers questions or something, and someone had asked, "What act or gift rates a Thank You note, and for which acts or gifts can you get by with just sending an email or saying 'Thanks' in person?" (No, of course that wasn't the exact wording, but I figured saying, "the question was something about, you know, thank you notes, and gifts, and you know, when you should send one or not, and you know, stuff like that"....would probably sound rather....you know....stupid.) I have always remembered her response: "If you think that maybe you should send a Thank You note... you should." Although, I don't always listen to my inner Emily Post, I have tried to follow that advice ever since. If someone does something for me that touches me to the point that I contemplate undertaking the arduous task of sending them a handwritten note of thanks, then that person certainly deserves my effort.

Help us, Harry Potter...are you REALLY our only hope??!!

Note: This has been the week the earth stood still. Partly because I didn't get my nap on Sunday, which always messes up my entire week (hey, it's called the Day of Rest for a reason), and partly because I was up till midnight on Monday watching the Tide roll into its 14th National Championship (21 to Zereaux, Roll Tide). Since Bama Football is usually on Saturdays, my body thought it should be the weekend...all week long. Ergo: Longest. Week. Ever. 
I had a blog post that's been rolling around my brain for the last couple of weeks, but I didn't have the energy this week to put pen to paper (or...cursor to screen). I still don't have the energy. But, since I'm starting to feel a little frantic about neglecting my New Year's Resolution, (and because I kinda like having an outlet for my brilliancy), I thought I would share the email that started it all... This was the first tiny little seed that began to germinate the idea that maybe, just maybe, I should, you know, maybe write a blog...or something...

The first Harry Potter book became popular when I was in college, but between working 40 hours a week and taking 20 hours of classes, I really didn't have time to pay attention to anything in the outside world. I do remember, however, reading an article about J K Rowling at the time. She was pictured reading Harry Potter to a group of eagerly listening 2nd graders. The article basically proclaimed her as the "Hero of Reading Teachers Everywhere" ...stating that her Harry Potter books had done what no other book in the history of education had been able to do: get children interested in reading. [Personal Rant: I am all for reading. And I pretty much will stoop to anything to get a child to read, and LOVE reading - especially boys. I have an entire shelf of "My Life As.." and other fascinatingly gross adventure books, that I used when I was teaching 5th Grade, to get my boys to read. There are plenty of books out there to get kids to read. One book (or series of books) isn't magical. The magic comes when a teacher can look at the child who has never finished a book report in five years, and can find that one book that is perfect for him and say, "If you read this, I promise you'll love it." An author isn't magical. A teacher who pours her soul into her students and inspires them to desire greatness, to reach for it, to search for it - that's magical. ...ok, I'm done with my personal rant now.]
Anyway, for some reason, Harry Potter has been all over Facebook this week. I don't know why. But it's made me think of this email I sent to my brother this past summer. I had just finished reading the first book in the HP series, and this was my gut reaction:

Oh There You Are!

I love stumbling across something that I had forgotten about...rediscovering a hidden jewel that I had tucked away.
I used to enjoy reading all the posts on The Pioneer Woman, but in the jumble of my life I seem to have misplaced her...just found her again today. Ree Drummond. Hilarious. Wish I had half her funny.
...I also wish I had her cookbook. (So, you know...Christmas is coming...eventually...)
Just in case you wish to peruse the site yourself (and in case you don't know how to use Google...), here's the link:
http://thepioneerwoman.com/blog/2011/12/my-new-cookbook/
...oh look! That's the link to the new cookbook! How did that get there?!

Airborne, Take Me Away!

I am a germaphobe. (Did you know that's not really a word? The correct term is mysophobia - a pathological fear of contamination and germs. ...apparently, I'm also a word nerd...) But I hate germs. I always wash my hands, and I often use hand sanitizer. I never hold on to handrails, and I always use my own pen. You remember that show Monk? Yeah. That kid had nothing on me. Diamonds may be every other girl's best friend, but my best friend is Clorox Wipes. Disinfectants are kinda my thing.
One time, I had a student who needed an idea for a science fair project. I told her it would be awesome if she tested all of the brand label disinfectants to see which was most effective. (We had had a nasty bout of sickness that was making its rounds of the school.) Her conclusion - Clorox Anywhere Hard Surface Cleaner. I bought ten bottles. I DARED the flu bug to show its face in MY classroom!!

Bros Before Hoagies

Note: If you haven't read the previous post "Slap Yo' Mamma," you're going to be confused... you've been warned...
 
So my brothers were in town this weekend. We spent quite the quality family time together. Translation: epic Words With Friends tournament/battleground (...103 points for "farouche" ...oh yeah.) There's nothing like sitting around the living room with your family with everyone glued to his or her iPad, laptop, smartphone, or what have you, yelling out such encouraging remarks as, "Two letters gets you 45 points??!! You stink!!" or, "How is THAT a word!!" or better yet, "You can't ask MOM! That's cheating!" ...good times, good times.
In betwixt the wild sesquipedalian antics, I showed my brother my blog. I pulled it up on his iPad and twiddled my thumbs nervously while he read it. I looked over his shoulder as he perused the first two posts.