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My humorous thoughts about life.
"My Humorous and Helpful Thoughts About Teaching / Educational Resources for Your
Classroom / Music and Random Fun"
Corinne Rodrigues from the Writer's post is sponsoring this week's topic of "Little Things That Make Me Smile." Perhaps when you see girl scouts outside the grocery store, you'll remember this post and pass a smile forward.
Memories From The Cookie Sales
Many years ago while helping my daughters sell Girl Scout cookies
outside the Kroger store, a slender, well dressed man approached us
with a task. He paid for six boxes of cookies but only took three. Bending down so that he was eye to eye with the girls, he said, "I'm leaving three boxes of cookies, and I have something I want you to do." He asked the kids to find three people who looked like they were having a
bad day, give them a box, and tell them, “Someone wants you to have these cookies.”
The scouts spent the next several hours observing every Kroger shopper to decide who needed a pick-me-up and then reveling in the joy of giving away cookies.
Thirty minutes after presenting a free box to one woman, she returned with tears in her eyes and money
to pay for someone else’s cookies. She told the story of how her car had broken down and she was having an awful day until the troop lifted her spirits with a simple gift.
This pattern of buying and giving continued throughout the
weekend and had become a practice of the troop each year. Now that these girls
are grown-ups, they still remember the man in the suit and continue to
perform random acts of kindness when possible. I dare you to buy an extra box of cookies for a stranger who needs a little thing to make a smile.
A farmer graduates from Texas A&M and starts his own chicken farm. He buys three chickens, plants them in the ground feet first and then waters and fertilizes them. Much to his dismay, the chickens die. So, he buys three more chickens and plants them in the ground head first. After water and fertilization, these chickens die even faster. After that, the confused farmer writes his school and tells what happened.
When young, if it wasn't rock 'n roll, it wasn't worth listening to. Although I still prefer rock, especially classic rock, I've found a few gems in other areas.
Take rap. I hate it. Rap is not music but rather some hoods yelling into a mike. Then again, I love this little jewel called, "Rapper's Delight" by Sugar Hill Gang. The full song plays fifteen minutes; however, I've included the condensed version. After six minutes of listening to this catchy beat that is ranked #248 on Rolling Stones Magazine's 500 Greatest Songs of All Timelist, I dare you not to at least chair dance.
I said a hip hop the hippie the hippie
to the hip hip hop, a you don't stop the rock it to the bang bang boogie say up jumped the boogie to the rhythm of the boogie, the beat.
I don't have a clue what the dude means, but it's fun to listen to. Is one supposed to bounce on a hip? Not recommended for seniors. The rapper mentions hippies but weren't they more into peace, love people now, and come together? Either way, I'll jump up and boogie. Although the above part makes no sense, other verses are crystal clear.
Have you ever went over a friends house to eat and the food just aint no good? I mean the macaroni's soggy the peas are mushed and the chicken tastes like wood; so you try to play it off like you think you can by sayin' that you're full, and then your friend says, "Momma, he's just being polite he ain't finished uh uh that's bull."
So your heart starts pumpin' and you think of a lie and you say that you already ate, and your friend says man there's plenty of food so you pile some more on your plate.
Here's some "music" that's got plenty of "rhythm." Take a listen and if you're old like me, it will bring back memories.
If not, maybe you'll enjoy something new.
Come join Music Monday and share your songs with us. Rules are simple. Leave ONLY the ACTUAL LINK POST here and grab the code below and place it at your blog entry. You can grab this code at LadyJava's Lounge Please note these links are STRICTLY for Music Monday participants only. All others will be deleted without prejudice.
PS: Because of spamming purposes, the linky will be closed on Thursday of each week at midnight, Malaysian Time. Thank you!
Honey Bear is worn out from two runs today, but the collar looks great!
I struck gold when asked to sample and review the Toughhound personalized collar that is available for purchase at the Dog Bark Collar store. This sturdy collar came compete with a personally engraved tag that looks like the engraving is here to stay, unlike some of those cheap, flimsy tags that fade with age. The blue polycoated nylon webbing band also has a strong feel to it that should survive the gnawing attacks from our grand dog Ruby. She totally destroyed Honey Bear's last collar. Come at it, Girlie! She won't be able to chew through this one.
We've also had to listen to jingly dog chains falling from other collars. This collar's name plate isn't going anywhere the dog doesn't go. Plus, it's quiet. Now, if we could get the dog to be silent too. That's another division of http://www.dogbarkcollar.com/.
Another thing I like about this collar is that I had a lot of choices when ordering it. Such as thirteen different fonts and seven different colors. I had a tough time choosing the color. I originally went with the pretty lime but decided the blue would go better with Honey Bear's fur. However, the Rockwell font was an easy choice for me.
Finally, the measurements are true to size, making this collar a perfect fit. Yay! I'm glad I got to review the Toughhound personalized collar. This one is a definite keeper.
After raising three kids, we experienced many years of school projects. The dogs and I are grateful to be past those days, since the poor pooches often became the victims subjects of study and I struggled to help kids pull these together. Once, Daniel shaved his hair and the dog's to see whose mane would grow back the quickest?
Answer: The dog's, of course; however, fourteen years later, the kid has plenty of hair.
Then there's the time I found a patch of fur missing from the golden retriever's tail.
"What happened to the dog's tail?" I asked.
"I needed fur for the fox on my poster, so I cut it."
Poor silly looking animal! Good thing Erica didn't need something that doesn't grow back.
RIP - You were a perfect subject!
Through the dog's participation, sometimes with free treats, we became better educated. We now know not to buy bottled water for our dogs. We get their water from the good old faucet, even though that's not the favored drink. Serving muddy rain water is the best way to please your pup.
We also learned not to stare at wild horses. You may think you know when someone is looking at you, but you don't. For a third grade science fair project, Judy stared at people for a set amount of time and recorded how many individuals realized she was looking at them. Most humans did not notice; however, animals always knew they were being watched intensely. For a good time, stare at zoo creatures, especially the big baboon. HA!
Judy - Grade 3
Disclaimer: Staring at animals
should be done at your own risk. I am not legally liable for broken
glass on cages, refunding admission prices once you get kicked out of
places, or removing tusks from your backsides as you run from irate
zoo animals.
I'm participating in a blog hop hosted byJenn Duffy Pearson, of the blog wine n chat. The topic and prompt for the hop is masterpiece.
As a child I loved to color, even if I'd never been one to stay in the lines. I'd squeeze the wax between a tiny fist, scribble until tired, and then switch the crayon to the other hand.
"Your child may not enter kindergarten early because she has not established a hand preference," the experts told my parents. As a result, the adults encouraged me to choose the right hand. I chose left. It would have been fun to be ambidextrous like President James Garfield. He'd show off his classical education by writing in Greek and Latin at the same time. Hmm. Maybe I could have drawn pictures of Fruit Loops with my left and noses with my right, since I didn't have a classical education.
The Clown in The Attic
Creating art with only my left hand did not hamper my abilities to produce masterpieces. In first grade, my clown picture was chosen, from the entire school district, to be framed and hung in the Bracken Building.
The next year, I drew another picture I liked and asked my art teacher where it was. When she said, "On my desk," I thought nothing of getting it and taking it home. Little did I know, the teacher frantically accused the older kids in the school of taking my picture as she searched everywhere for it. I thought it was okay to take it home, why not? Unfortunately, I ripped it while struggling to put on my coat. Maybe another masterpiece would have ended up in the Bracken Building.
Today, I doodle trees while on the phone. That's about it. My early art talent never took off. As a teen, I took an art class for "fun." Apparently, I had too much fun and my art teacher was not happy. Thus, ended my art career. Shucks!
An eighth grader was asked to take a practice probe to help him prepare for achievement tests. After he logged into the program, he raised his hand and said in a condescending voice, "Ah, my test is in
Spanish, and I don't speak Spanish."
Please notice question number one on
his test...
Caffe latte,
cappuccino, and café au lait are all words or phrases from other countries that
mean drinks made with ________________.
The ants go marching one by one,the little one stops to suck his thumb.
Ants don't have thumbs.
The ants go marching two by two,the little one stops to tie his shoe.
Nor wear shoes.
The ants go marching three by three,the little one stops to climb a tree.
To avoid being stepped on?
The ants go marching four by four,The little one stops to shut the door.
Never seen an ant do this.
The ants go marching five by five,The little one stops to take a dive.
Are they marching on water?
The ants go marching six by six,The little one stops to pick up sticks.
Why?
The ants go marching seven by seven,the little one stops to pray to heaven.
Dear Lord, Please make me 50 times stronger than a man of my weight. Oh wait, you already did. So please grant me the intelligence of one woman.
Amen
The ants go marching eight by eight,The little one stops to shut the gate.
That I'd like to see.
The ants go marching nine by nine,The little one stops to check the time.
Sundial?
The ants go marching ten by ten,the little one stops to say "THE END,"and they all go marching down, to the ground, to get out of the rain, BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!
Finally! Yes, ants get out of the rain because they can drown. Usually they take refuse in my mailbox. Unfortunately, the last line didn't redeem the song, so let's listen to something better.
When I was a little tyke, my "big bother" dubbed me Miss Breaker. After that, I was blamed for everything that broke, whether I'd done it or not. For example, take the large cushy chair in the family room. After many years of use, the back sagged and little 60 pound me was blamed. Okay, I admit I used to climb over the back and somersault into the cushion, but did I really break it? Adult people plopped into that chair all the time. Certainly that wore the back out more than a tiny, innocent child.
I was also blamed for the broken bushes in front of the house. The bushes? Really? Those huge leafy things were twice my size. How could little me have broken them? Okay, I admit my ball landed in the bushes a few times, and I fought branches to get it back, but did I really break them? The wind blew a lot, and we even had an earthquake one day. Certainly the weather wore out the bushes more than a tiny, innocent child.
Of course, I was not the only one blamed for weather. When a rumbling sounded through our home, my dad hollered up the stairs, "Florence! Stop jumping around up there."
To which my mom said, "It's not me! It's an earthquake."
See, those frequent St. Louis earthquakes do a lot of damage to chairs, bushes, and marriages. So, should one blame a tiny, innocent child . . . again?
My GBE2 blogging group asked us to post on the topic of "Wish," so here goes.
I want to publish a novel. Not self published or blog published, but set to print by an editor or a respected house. Caroline Kooney's first eight books were never published; plus, the average writer takes ten years to make their dreams come true . . . or nightmares begin. I'm not sure how many years I've been writing, but I guarantee it's under ten, and I'm only working on my sixth manuscript. Here's what I've written in order of completion.
I made a Lulu cover.
1. The Friendship Puzzle (MG) - An experiment in novel writing that's missing a plot. Who needs a plot when I've got the gorgeous John Katou and the bubble headed tween who loves him? Okay, this one will never be published, and I dare confess that I did clog a few slush piles with this piece of trash. Sorry if it ever landed across your desk.
2. Don't Eat Chipmunks (MG+) - A promising camp story about a boy lost in the Rockies with his two worst enemies and an injured counselor. The boys must learn to work together or die as my novel did when the Sydney Taylor people were offended by my portrayal of Jewish camp. Sorry guys, but the "Anaf Boys Choir" really did sneak out at night in their underwear to sing Silent Night and the memory was too good not to write about.
3. Being Bompsy Carleffa (YA) - This masterpiece about Ben, a kidnapped mob teen thrust back into his previous world, is filled with roller coaster suspense, action, and clever characters. However, it's also been rejected more than any novel I've written. One agent reported that my main character was "too funny for the trouble he was in." I can't help it! Every time I write, funny pops out. There's got to be a market for it somewhere. It works for Gordon Korman.
The Godfather
4. The Killer Who Loves Me (YA) - This is the sequel to my unpublished Bompsy where Ben finds himself conflicted by the thought that he may actually "like" his criminal father. At least this one does not have multiple rejections. Furthermore, I started the third book in the series but stopped midstream when I read about not writing sequels to books that aren't published. I guess Ben can rest assured that he won't be shot at or beaten until someone picks up Being Bompsy Carleffa.
5. Mrs. Zimmerman's Donuts (MG) - Coddled loser meets Mohawk boy who teaches him to be cool. I wrote this one with the guidance of two published authors telling me what works and what doesn't. I even cracked myself up by getting a kid's head caught in a hand dryer and shooting his spittle across bathroom tiles. There's got to be a market for a kid dealing with a helicopter mom because I've met so many of these overprotected babies.
6. Work in Progress (YA) - I named it Finding Miss Forester only to learn about a movie with a similar title. Dang! I'd never heard of the movie, but I guess my title must change. This is the story of a rambunctious seventh grade boy who spies his first-year teacher crying after another one of his many stunts pulled on her. Overwhelmed with guilt, he decides to behave, but instead, he has a rotten sub to deal with. Did he make Miss Forester quit? No. She's in deep doo doo after whistle blowing on a former boss, and Caleb will get sucked into her problems once I get my act together.
There you go bloggy friends––my wish waiting to be granted. And to think, you knew me when.
If karma is real, I must have done something dreadful in my past life. Perhaps all of us teachers burned multiple villages and our students were the victims of that wrath. They take pleasure in helping us atone for those heinous crimes. Why else would we step into a classroom?
That might have been my first incarnation, but it wasn't my most recent one. To quote Steve Martin, "I was born a poor black child." Seriously, I looked something like Aunt Jemima as I watched the white folks dance with a fiddle around a campfire. I longed to join the fun but looking at my fat, black thighs, I knew no slave could dance with whites.
I saw this image under hypnosis at a college event at the AEPi house. The fraternity hired a hypnotist for an evening's entertainment. As we sat in a circle, we closed our eyes, traveled back to a previous life, and voila––the slave watching the party.
Each fraternity brother and little sister told a unique tale of guarding castle walls or enjoying picnics with a family. My friend frantically recalled a room filled with people screaming as fog entered vents. The hypnotist immediately snapped him out of his trance.
One may argue that a brief vision of myself as a slave does not mean I was one; however, this image makes a lot of sense. Every t-shirt I own has a stretched out neckline from my compulsion to loosen anything tight around my neck. I've never been able to wear turtlenecks and seeing choker necklaces makes me ill to the point that I once got dizzy from looking at one. I always wear my long sleeves rolled because I despise anything tight around my wrists, too. Even my watch dangles loosely from my arm. Did I once endure tight ropes around my wrists while being led to my hanging?
I also find a natural chemistry between African Americans and myself. No doubt about it, I was a slave.
Before I suffered in the fields under the lash, a family friend, who has been helpful to us over the years, claims to have been Queen Isabella of Spain after a visit with a hypnotist. She has since apologized for her cruel actions toward Jews. I guess karma strikes again.
Furthermore, when my daughter was two, she told me she missed her other mother. I said, "I'm the only mother you've ever had." She insisted she remembered another mother with yellow hair who wore a doctor's outfit. Who knows? Maybe Erica really did remember another mother.
I've found a few interesting reads on the topic of reincarnation. Dr. Brian Weiss was skeptical until he met a patient recalling her past life traumas. He went on to write multiple books on the subject, which I absorbed like a sponge. A few years back, I read a fascinating work of fiction by Ann Brashares called My Name is Memory about a man who remembered all of his past lives and worked through multiple lifetimes trying to make the same woman fall in love with him. This book kept me up all night but after three years, I've yet to see the second book of the trilogy.
Now it's your turn. Since I'm the host of this post, link up after midnight. What do you think about past lives?
The scouts spent the next several hours observing every Kroger shopper to decide who needed a pick-me-up and then reveling in the joy of giving away cookies.
Thirty minutes after presenting a free box to one woman, she returned with tears in her eyes and money
to pay for someone else’s cookies. She told the story of how her car had broken down and she was having an awful day until the troop lifted her spirits with a simple gift.
