#GBE2: "High" School

You know there's trouble when a school has an open lunch policy, a park next door, and a school full of spoiled rich kids with enough money to buy whatever they want. That was my 1970s high school.

Although I never partook in the afternoon escapes of my high school, I have vivid memories of the aftermath. Each day after lunch, I'd sit in English class and stare at the boy across the room. His handsome face was marred by bloodshot eyes and a faraway expression. He never spoke nor seemed to be a part of the class. Did the teacher not notice his drugged out appearance or did she just not care? It was scary to think someone could be that high in a high school class. It was even scarier to think of a good looking kid being so screwed up.

I know this is a humor blog, and I'm sure there is plenty to make fun of when it comes to high kids. I've included funny pictures because it's better than crying, but it just isn't funny to have recently attended TWO funerals for young men who over dosed. 

I attended "high" school without even a buzz. I survived, as did my stoned classmates, without any red ribbon weeks or "Just Say No" assemblies, so why are today's kids dying? Are the drugs containing dangerous fillers that my classmates didn't encounter? Is it a social class thing? Maybe my classmates bought purer drugs with their abundance of money. 

I know today's schools have a lot more control on kids than my school did. No open lunch policies and no smoking lounge for kids nor teachers. Is that the problem? Has too much restriction caused a youth rebellion? I don't know the answer to this. 

I'd say it's all about good parenting, but the parents mourning their kids are top notch! Seriously. These are wonderful parents who were there for the kids throughout.

I know this is not the direction Beth expected when she wrote "High School," but in lieu of what's been going on in my community it's what on my mind.

I can certainly tell the kids to "Just Say No," but I already did that. They didn't listen. So what now?

#GBE2: My Krib

GBE2's weekly theme is home. Since I already wrote my "H" post, I decided to call my home, "My Crib" or err "Krib." Hey, it's a humor blog. I can spell it any way I want.

See the white square in the center? That's our sun room.

I live on a great street for blogging humor. In fact, it's gotten to the point that when the police get the call from our neighborhood, they roll their eyes.  Maybe it's from the time our neighbor called to report her stolen car. She drove it three doors down, visited with a friend, then walked home. Oops.

Or, do they roll their eyes from the time the speeding kids took out our brick mailbox with Grandma's Cadillac--nah--that became a dot on the bridge for a few weeks later a car went airborne into the house on the huge hill at the end of the cove. No joke. The car crashed through the window, the dining room, and stopped on the back wall of the kitchen, where two drugged out teens stepped out unscathed and said, "Whoa!" Ironically, there were no tire marks on the grass.

Now the neighborhood kids joke,
"Let's take mushrooms and drive through the E's house!"

Wordless Wednesday: Ginkgo

 

Those who actually need Ginkgo, 

can't remember to take it anyway.

Ear Infection

Can you hear me now?

I'm not sure what I did to deserve this. Maybe it has to do with me riding around with the top down on my convertible. A piece of debris must have flown inside the ear canal and voila. Or perhaps I got dirty water in my ear from swimming, except I haven't swum in months. Whatever I did, my left ear was infected big time and a sticky white substance that alien visitors would be most interested in dripped down the side of my neck. I was up all night with throbbing pain and couldn't hear a lick out of the left side. I probably couldn't hear a scratch, blink, or tail wag either. I mean, who listens to licks anyway?

Before the throbbing came itching and clogging. My doctor put me on a Z-pack; but it didn't work, so a needle hacked into a private part of my anatomy. My hip hurt almost as much as the ear. In fact, I was in so much pain that I went to the pharmacist in the medical building because I didn't think I could stand the wait of driving to Walgreens.

The pharmacist put the pack just out of my reach while typing in my information. He had the prescription, he had my address, he had the credit card, so why couldn't he let me have one little drop of relief? I asked him with a pleasant please, and he said, "No!"

After staring at the pack a little longer, I lost it. Tears of pain shout out of my eyes and I said something I regret. Mind you, people who have been up all night and in pain are about as much fun as a funeral. The nasty women behind the counter showed no sympathy. She and her bullies yelled at me and told me all about people in pain with broken arms and what not. Plus a lady threatened not to give me my meds at all. A little compassion to a hurting, cranky person could have worked miracles.

I finally ended up at the ENT just in time to prevent a trip to the emergency room. He dug crud out of my ear while I cut off circulation to a kindly nurse's fingers. I then received adult pain meds, antibiotic drops, and pills. $250 later, I was cured. I hope you never experience the pain of an ear infection . . . unless you're the pharmacist at St. Francis Hospital.

:o - Did I really write that?