Only in Fayville 2014

Only in Fayville Take 2014.

Second day of school somewhere between rules and procedures and me needing a stretcher.

I had just picked the new Fayville kids up from the gymnasium and we settled into our seats to create some classroom rules for our new school year. 

Go figure the rule we discussed today was "How to Be Safe." An oldie, a goodie, and one we may need to visit a hundred times over. Especially with eleven eight year old boys in the coop.

Once we shared our ideas about hand washing, picking up litter, keeping aisles clear, keeping hands, feet and all bodily parts to our own selves even if he took your cheez-it from your desk, and cleaning up our community, we were ready to review this morning's activity titled "Get to Know Your Teacher."

We had just reached question #10 when I allowed some time to see if they needed to know any other pertinent information about me in which they tend to ask me "when is snack?" "how much homework do you give out?" and "do we have any field trips?"

I allowed one question, being that it was actually ABOUT me, and wouldn't you know it, three of the little rascals wanted to know how old I was. I advised them to try the math. Not because I'm a gifted teacher but because we were three hours into our seven ring circus and I just wanted to give them something to leave me alone for a few minutes already.

It was about the moment I announced 1972 when the principal walked by. She was greeting all the classrooms and tending to principalness when RALPH showed up.

There he was, about four ounces of fluff with his long ass tail trailing behind as he made a dash for the other side of the room.

RIGHT UNDER THE LAST ROW OF DESKS between the feet of all the new Fayville rascals! He darted in and out and in between all their new sneakers and glitzy flip flops but he safely made it across. IN ONE PIECE.

When I use the terms ONE PIECE I am not referring to Ralph S. Mouse. I had a principal at the door and twenty little wide-eyed pupils desperately scratching at the math between 1972 and 2014.

Which would be exactly 27 years by the way.

I mean ONE PIECE as in Mrs. Fay kept her cool and collected in check and carried on.

But the principal could not. From the doorway I heard one GASP! followed by a two hand raise to the face. There she was in her second day apparel, her school in TIP TOP shape and she was in complete distress.

I responded with "Oh, are you surprised I'm that OLD?"

With both hands still firmly cupping her mouth and nose, her eyes as big as half dollars, she nodded.

Luckily, the Fayville kids were still scratching away and Ralph had found himself a pile of goldfish somewhere beneath the boys' coat rack which is exactly the place to be if you are a rodent. It is a crumb buffet back there.

I didn't miss a beat though because I've been a resident of Fayville for several years now. I simply walked over to my administrator and asked if she would like me to walk those boys and girls, excluding Ralph, of course, down the hall and on some whim of an adventure so that she can call upon our pest control. That being the custodians obviously.

"Alright, nice job boys and girls! Mrs. Fay IS, in fact, twenty-seven but we don't have time to discuss it. Let's line up and come follow me for a surprise."

When you're a third grade teacher all you have to do is spit out is "Let's line up for a SURPR- - -" and they are there in three point two seconds. If you say "let's line up for an assembly," that takes about two and half hours.

So off we went down the hall, leaving Ms. Principal at the Fayville door, to our next adventure, which I had NO IDEA would be.

I proceeded down the hallway in search of a last minute filler. Something that would keep their attention. Maybe a magical place. Maybe a place second best to the playground. A really kid haven. It would HAVE TO BE THE NURSE'S OFFICE.

Why not? We had just discussed how to be safe and all, which coincidentally, was the perfect entrance for Ralph to show up. It was like he was a prop or something.

"Mrs. Nurse," I ask, "we have sort of an emergency of the rodent kind in our classroom. Any chance you can come on out here and introduce yourself to the new Fayville kids and tell them how we use your office?"

This nurse is no amateur. She's known me for a decade by now. Mrs. Fayville herself. Between the Pam Cooking Spray assault in the staff parking lot, the red-marker-on-white-pants incident, and all my emergency runs through her maxi pad stash, it was no surprise that if there were to be a MOUSE on the premises, it would only happen in Fayville.

For nearly fifteen minutes, the nurse spoke of vomit, bloody noses, diarrhea, eye pokes, bloody scabs and tick bites. My students were ENTHRALLED. They anticipated that third grade would be their best school year ever!

Right between boogers and body odor, the custodians happened to pass by. With a portable vacuum complete with a ten foot suction tube attached to his right shoulder resembling more of a Ghostbuster than a janitor. He brought along another custodian for backup. Unfortunately, my old Fayville alumnus, a summer custodian, Zachary, had already left for college. It's too bad, too. He would have known EXACTLY what to do with Chuck E. Cheese. He spent 180 days in Fayville after all.

My rodent-buster team spent nearly a half hour looking for Ralph with no success. I assume he was in my junior mint drawer and I panicked about what I might snack on during math class later today.

Then I turned the Fayville kids back down the hall toward Room 268 who-do-we-appreciate, expecting nothing less than a few dozen mouse traps all about.

And there they were, one in every corner, under my desk, and a few in the boys' rack amongst all the new shiny chairs, new lunchboxes, and backpacks. I was certain if they were to call an indoor recess they would become some sort of lego fortress or Barbie bunkbed.

I continued my plans for the rest of the day with one eye open for Ralph. He never made an appearance again. I'm sure he is making a nice little nest somewhere and becoming acclimated to his new home. Unless HE is a SHE. Then SHE is probably constructing some sort of mouse apartment building for her new mouse clan.

So there you have it. The SECOND day of school in Fayville. At least my principals have forgotten about evaluating me. All they want to know is if I've seen Ralph anymore.

I can basically teach whatever I want now. Oddly enough, I am supposed to review the How to Be Safe rule tomorrow and begin a science unit on animal habitats.

I figure I may have to change my choice in novels though. I had planned on "Because of Winn Dixie" and incidentally, there IS a chapter when puppy dog Winn-Dixie DOES catch a mouse in a church and delivers it to the pastor. But I am NOOOOO priest. And they have a NO DOG rule due to allergies at school.

Would have been a great asset to Reader's Theater though.

I think instead I will begin with a novel by the legendary Beverly Cleary. I suppose all I have to do is get Ralph a motorcycle. 

Game of Thrones

When you need a new toilet, call on Papa. After all, he's the one with the pickup truck and he sure does know his way around toilets.

So this week we finally invested in a plumber. It's been at least a year without upstairs plumbing and it's no fun sharing a shower with your live in father-in-law. Especially when you forget a towel.

Papa decides to meet you at Home Depot. He's going to let ...you pick his brain, use his 10% Veteran's discount, and the said pickup truck.

2pm you're in the toilet aisle with a Papa and a Panda in tote looking at "thrones."

There's something I need to address here. When you live on a budget, you're not EXACTLY browsing the selection. You're pretty much in the clearance section with a few things in check: your budget and your color choice.

You see, you moved into a house with its original fixtures. From like 1967.

That upstairs bathroom with no plumbing is not white. All fixtures are of the SANDSTONE or BONE or of the BISCUIT hue. Problem is, as you browse both the QUALITY items section and the I-GOT-EXACTLY-TWO-BUCKS-IN-MY-WALLET-TIL-SCHOOL STARTS section, all you see is a SEA of WHITE. 

 

If you were to buy a QUALITY item, you can expect this toilet lasting at least a decade. These toilets flush themselves. They come in every color, some have timers, they have special lids that don't slam down, one even had a nightlight on it, and I believe two were self-cleaning with an automatic candy dispenser. In my special section, you got a bowl that flushes and another bowl that flushes.

Papa doesn't have the same priorities. First thing he asks the Home Depot guy, "any brands you recommend?"

That immediately sent me into PANIC MODE. And had me envious of anyone that has cash and can just buy any old toilet at any old price and massages your ass.

See Papa doesn't understand. When you're a teacher and it's August, you're soup kitchen. You pretty much have a roof over your head but your fridge hosts a lone jar of pickles and three dozen eggs.

Home Depot Guy smiles. CHA-CHING! He's dancing up and down the aisle showing off all his best models and his expertise on shitters, Papa close behind, amazed at all the new gadgets, and there I am calculating how I will stretch my $130 budget to 198 bucks. THEIR CHEAPEST ONE THERE. Unless I wanted the toilet with the cracked seat four inches from the floor.

"Hey Sherry, you should see these! They're really nice and they are elongated!"

I nod my head thinking about what the upstairs bathroom would look like with a Korean toilet. All I'd have to do is remove the broken toilet and dig a hole there. I could even stick a nightlight there if I want to and a kitchen timer. Everything would just go right down the hole and I would never need to wear those neon yellow elbow gloves anymore.

So next thing you know, we're in a heavy debate. The topic? ELONGATED vs. ROUND. In the Sherry section, they are all round. There's no option. But in the "ANY BRAND YOU RECOMMEND?" section, they have all shapes and sizes - even trapezoid if you have a saggy ass.

This is where it gets a bit sticky. See, I'm a female. So is my Panda. Somehow these men were going to convince me to go ELONGATED without exploiting the birds the bees to a middle schooler.

I reply, "I don't care and I don't think my husband would care. Round is fine."

"Sherry, Rob is a big guy. He needs some room. That's what I would get," Papa says.

Sure. If you want to spent $248 and not feed your kids til September 10th.

Home Depot Guy, on his sale-of-the-month, says, "yeah, he'll want all the room he can get. What shape is your toilet anyhow?"

I don't know. Who the hell knows? It's toilet-shaped. It has a round bowl and I clean that flipping thing every week. But I still don't know.

Then I'm thinking, ROOM? He needs room? Don't we all just have a little hole and exactly how much room does a man need? Are you afraid he might miss? Will it be oval-shaped poop? Should we just go with the Korean toilet?

For the next few minutes you're all debating the ELONGATED vs. ROUND topic and men needing more room until they insist I call the husband and ask him. As if the little wifey can't take care of deciding on what geometric shape she wants to pee in.

I even bet those two men, even my own father, that my husband will not CARE the least bit what shape the toilet seat is as long as it's under 150 bucks. I even told them as a last resort, "look, I have lived with this man for 17 years of marriage. I have never seen him actually sit on the upstairs toilet. He does all his business on the first level." There are more magazines down there.

Panda was just about the shade of a tomato plant. I reassure her that Mommy needs to save a little money and she should know that Daddy only pees upstairs. She left for Korea by the time Daddy answered the phone.

I'm there on the phone, reassuring my husband that he doesn't need that much room (and it would save us 100 bucks) and he agrees. Meanwhile, Papa and his new BFF are shaking their heads in disbelief. Little did I know that this suggestion was not because of needing room for your waste. The "room" they were referring to was room for all their parts to fit.

Are you serious, MEN? Have you not seen my bicycle? I can't get off of that thing without a near colonoscopy. Appliances certainly aren't made to fit our womanly body parts.

The phone call resulted in the husband sending us a picture of our toilet bowl via TEXT. This was not my finest moment. Sitting there, in the Home Depot aisle, customers all about, men with their oval parts, my dad with his "any brands you recommend?" attitude, the Home Depot Guy with the gleam in his eye, and my empty wallet all looking at our toilet bowl on my Iphone.

 AMEN! That toilet was as round as a basketball! So long 248 bucks! Hello Economy Toilet for 198 and tonight we're eating spaghetti with actual ground beef!

For the next half hour a whole new debate goes on. Do we go white or do we go BISCUIT? Do I want my toilet to match the vanity, the tub, the wall tiles, the floor tiles and the window OR do I want that sparkly white toilet that is WAY more pressure to clean and I will wait 20,000 years to replace that vanity, that tub, those tiles, and the window to match that gleaming white?

DONE. We go with the ECONOMY toilet for 198 bucks in BISCUIT with a ROUND toilet seat. It doesn't come with a playlist or a remote control flusher, but it'll do. And it will. Especially when I have to pee at 2 in the morning.

We finally get up to the cashier and Papa's got his discount card out and the Home Depot lady convinces him to sign up for a Home Depot card and save 50 bucks on the order. Papa approves and I'm just about to cry. I was expecting a NINETEEN dollar and ninety-eight sense discount and here he is getting me a toilet for $148! Right in our budget range!

And just think! Tomorrow the plumber will arrive and I'll be able to brush my teeth under REAL running water and forget my towel whenever I want to. I think Panda even applauded. But she was already on the plane heading east.

But wait. Wait for it...

When we reach Papa's truck, I ask him for the receipt. He used his debit card so we could get his discount and I was prepared to pay him today. I'd need to zip to the drive-thru ATM and pay up. Next thing I know, Papa, who has poured his heart, time, and sweat into fixing our home and saved us from every emergency, says,

"No, this one's on me. I don't want your money," he said. And then in his Cliffy tone, that I'M-YOUR-FATHER-AND-YOU'LL-DO-AS-I-SAY tone says, "and don't you go getting me any or I'll be upset." No hug. No kiss. Just that stern look that makes you get in that car and do as he says.

We rode him in separate cars and helped one another carry our new Fayville throne inside. I did my best to compose myself. I fought every tear and just felt nothing but gratitude and how lucky I am to have all the blessings in my life. Especially my new toilet seat. No matter what shape it is.

And Papa DID get his kiss.

LUCKY?

For the hundredth time this year, I had to hear it. 

"You are SOOOO lucky. You don't know how lucky you are that your girls get good grades." 

I've learned to bite my tongue but I won't hold my fingers from the keypad tonight.

Luck? Are you saying their grades are LUCK? 

Luck like a lottery ticket? A lucky penny? Like finding a twenty dollar bill on the curb?

It's not luck. It's hard work. The hardest there is.

It's the kind of work that we've been working at since birth.

Reading BOOKS instead of CAPTIONS. Painting ABCs instead of DVDs. Playing BOARD games instead of VIDEO.

It's not luck.

We counted steps each time we climbed. We'd count them backward on the way down.

We sang rhymes and made them up. M-I-R-A-N-D-A That spells Panda's name. A-V-E-R-Y That spells Avery's name.

We'd count how high til the blocks collapsed, named every critter and creature on every walk, and hunted for ABCs on every ride.

It was not luck.

The homework papers, the study guides, the handmade projects; those were just the warmup to our nights. Once the papers were done and the glue had dried, they'd fight over which books to read and which side of my lap to sit on til we agreed on all of them and Mommy made room for two.

Schoolwork before sports and homework before fun.

Books before a movie and stories before snacks.

This had nothing to do with luck.

"You are SO lucky that you GOT smart girls." I was told.

God didn't GIVE us smart girls. He gave us the parts to make them. That's all.

It's not luck that your child takes her times about things. The teacher tells you "she never finishes in the time I give her." That's only because you told her good things take time.

It's not luck that her teachers tell us "she is conscientious, goes above and beyond, participates in class and gives her best effort." We told her you have to work for what you want. Don't sit the bench. Get out there and swing.

It's not luck when your little girl has set up a blanket on a sofa and has wrapped herself in a good book pleading with you to come sit with her and "read it with me, Mommy" like it was the air she breathed.

Good grades have nothing to do with luck.

And neither does God.

It took him seven days to create his masterpiece.

It'll take us a lifetime to create ours.

And we don't need luck if we have anything to do with it. Luck doesn't grow on green clovers in this house. And it doesn't come from a scratch ticket or a rabbit's tail or a coin we find on a curb.

The only thing that makes us lucky is that we were given this chance at all. And we are putting all our "money" down on the "table" for this one. (:

EVERY WHICH WAY BUT LOSING OUR MINDS.

Robert and I have met our threshold this week. Him working two jobs, me juggling the circus act, neither of us getting any good sleep.
Last week we get a notice. Our THIRD grader's spring concert. Can't miss this event. To us, it's a cute little collection of nursery rhyme and blues, but to her, it might as well be SMALLTOWN IDOL.

But there's those fumes. They're running low.
You give your school a week notice. That ought to be enough time to find a substitute. And by golly, they find one. She will surely retire after this half day with the 3RD grade rascals. Some stupid bunny loaded them up on jellybeans and miniature chocolate eggs and I think they are all possessed by an evil entity at this point or at least kuckoo for Cocoa Puffs.
I will note here that when a teacher requires a day off, it's done all online. By this idiot named Aesop. I swear he's the same Aesop that had that had a flipping tortoise beat a rabbit in a race. Aesop is now reincarnated in the form of an online sort of "signup genius" for the elementary teacher. You simply type in your date, the reason, and hit save. The system does the rest of the work for her. But remember here, this elementary teacher, the one that requested the day off, is pretty much off her rocker at this point.

Day before the concert you arrive at school. The hurricane that you are. The same old bun in your hair, wrinkled shirt that you hide with a glamorous scarf, and nikes. The nikes because you have pretty much surrendered to being the least bit stylish.
You walk over to your desk. You notice an unusual object sitting there. The object is faintly recognizable, in fact you used to use one prior to birthing children. Now you prefer any old plastic bag.
Next to the purse: your attendance folder, and someone's lunch. You walk out to the hall asking whose it might be. There's your team leader. She says, "Oh, Sherry, you're HERE." From her room, exits a substitute teacher. The very one the mighty Aesop assigned you. "Do you have your sub plans? I can't find them," she asks. I assure her that I am very much HERE and will stay HERE the entire live long day. Unless they call an indoor recess. Then I will locate the nearest escape hatch. "You must have the wrong day," I reply. "I'm out TOMORROW." Poor thing had gone senial. You help her collect her belongings and console her on the way back down to the office. You even suggest she has time to clean out her pocketbook or play Yahtzee before 'The View.'
She feels really bad for mixing things up. I mean, it's hard as you age, you forget things, you get confused. I had her feeling good by the time we reached the office. About aging. And about taking the blame for the wrong day and all.
Once we explain to the school receptionist what had happened, she looks for the original signup. Obviously she doesn't realize that Aesop is an idiot, so I wait. As long as it took that damn tortoise.
"Sherry, it says here, April 23rd. That's today. YOU typed that." I had typed in the WRONG DATE.
I had three options right about now.
1. I could leave and enjoy a morning at home.
2. I could stick around and watch my rascals give this poor soul the ride of her life or
3. I could check myself into the nearest facility for the mentally insane.

Fortunately, FIFTEEN teachers had also called in sick and they needed subs. Only difference is these other teachers were legitimately sick. I had faked sick but I faked it on the wrong day.
They ended up sending my substitute to the fifth grade. I proceeded to my classroom to prepare the day. I had exactly 17.5 seconds.In that mad dash to my room, I text Robert. His tank is empty, too and he has no chance to refill because he's at the high school working with students on a video presentation.
I tell him he won't believe what I did. I explain it in fifteen words or less, put my phone aside, and begin my teaching day. Now Robert is receiving the text by now. He's HALF reading though. He's two steps to comatose himself and he is working. All HE sees is "Avery's school concert" and "I mixed up the days" and "there's a substitute here."
Wait for it. Wait for it...
Immediately, he panics. He's got to keep his Father of the Year status. His Hollywood starlet is on stage! "I got to go!" he announces. "My daughter's concert is today! We mixed up the days!"
Fifteen minutes later, Robert arrives at Avery's elementary school. Sits in a folding chair amongst 100 other fathers and mothers and listens to a few nursery rhymes. He's looking for me. He even texts me, "where are you?" and "did you save me a seat" but by now I'm deep in my seventy-third lesson of verbs and not seeing any of his message. He even looks up at stage and says to himself, "these kids are really little." He's not seeing Avery, he can't find me, and he doesn't know WHO THE HELL all these parents are in that gym.
Suddenly, he looks down at the concert brochure. It reads "SECOND GRADE CONCERT."
With whatever brain cells he can conjure up, he realizes he is, in fact at the wrong concert. His daughter is a THIRD GRADER, her concert is TOMORROW and NOT today and his wife is a BLAZING MORON. (: