housekeeping

Homework

/ skidaz / Leave a comment

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On Wednesday, the 2017-2018, school year commences in our district.  For the next 9.5 months, I’ll receive phone calls and emails from parents and students who complain about homework.

“My kid has to do 25 math problems every night.  Don’t you understand he plays club soccer?”

“Why do I have to conjugate every Spanish verb and use it in a sentence?  I already know how to do it.”

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“Really?  You expect my child to read to me every night and require me to initial it happened?  I work full-time and have other responsibilities when I get home.  Ludicrous!”

“Why do we have homework anyway?  It’s such a waste of my free time.  Let’s just stop this silliness.  After all, I’m gifted; I get the message the first time.  I’m not in need of mindless repetition.”

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Since I’ve served as a school board member for 17 years, I’ve heard every argument against homework imaginable.  Even in some of my professional journals, I’ve read about the adverse effects of homework.  However, today, it became inimitably clear why school has homework.  Lord, it was a revelation!  Preparation for life.

Yesterday, I had the opportunity to go to a casino for dinner and gambling.  True, I do enjoy wagering occasionally.  Yet, I declined.  I had to do homework.  The kitchen floor desperately needed mopped after the monsoon.  My yard’s grass, thanks to the monsoon, would be a foot tall, if I didn’t mow. The swimming pool needed cleaned and nuked with chemicals because of the monsoon.  I had to do homework.

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In fact, this past week I’ve been consumed with homework. The condensation drain on an air conditioner clogged and sent water over my floor.  The patio door handle jammed and had to be replaced.  One of my dogs had poopy butt and had to be bathed.  Washing and ironing needed my attention.

And today is Sunday–a day of rest.  The Sunday crossword awaits my participation. But first, I must pay the electric and the water bills, clean out the refrigerator, dump the trash in the garbage cans for early Monday pick-up, and…ad infinitum.

Based on my epiphany about homework, the next complaint which comes across my radar screen will be answered:  Suck it up, dude.  Welcome to life.

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Popcorn Addict

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Like most folk, I have food addictions.  Fortunately, I’m not addicted to donuts, cake, nor pie.  Now, broccoli, zucchini, Italian food, rare steak, and baked potatoes awash in sour cream are high on my list, but popcorn is my compelling drug of choice.

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My affair with popcorn began at an early age.  My father and grandfather grew the best popcorn at the family farm.  After the first-killing frost, we’d hand-harvest it, dry for a month, and then shuck the small white kernels.  Every Friday and Saturday nights we’d have popcorn, and we children were each permitted one, 8-ounce bottle of Squirt.  Popcorn also was the snack of choice at Saturday matinee movies.

Then, the theater lobbies were something to behold and the concession area was a work of art.  While I preferred the homegrown corn to the large, yellow popcorn of the movie house, theater offerings had mounds of butter.  (The only downside was flossing the huge hulls from between my teeth.)

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Recently, I discovered Orville Redenbacher sells “tender baby white,” and it’s almost as good as homegrown.  However, though convenient, microwave popcorn just isn’t as good as what I used to pop on the stove.  Probably because it’s not drizzled and tossed with freshly, melted butter.  So I decided to fine-tune Orville’s creation.  This delectable is popcorn soup!  Microwaved popcorn, melted real butter, tossed, and eaten with a soup spoon.  Viola!  No more greasy fingers, nor dropping errant kernels on the sofa or floor.

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Try it.  You’re welcome.

 

 

I Am A Slave

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Though never held in chains and leg irons, I was a slave.  Isn’t every woman with a husband and young children?  My orders were cook, clean, wash, iron, drive to this class, root on the sidelines, coach softball, host a party, yada, yada, yada. Eventually, my kids grew up, and my husband chose the proverbial other side of the septic tank.

Granted, I was alone.  But I no longer had shackles; I was free!  I could do as I pleased, on my terms, when I wanted to do whatever.  Certainly, I still had responsibilities to all of my dogs, my house work, the pool, the garden,  etc., but it was now solely up to me.  No orders. No timeline.

Then, this free woman did an incredibly stupid thing.  I asked for a Fit Bit for Christmas, and my adorable daughters delivered.  At first, I found it amusing.  I easily viewed emails and incoming phone calls while searching for my cell phone in the depths of my purse.  However, Fanny Fit Bit soon became annoying.

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“Sue, I’m here solely to get you up and moving.  You haven’t reached your step goal today.  Your pulse is “X,” your fat burn is “X,” your stair climb is “X.”

“Frankly, Fanny, I don’t care.”

With that Fanny morphed into the witch monitor from hell.  She wakes me at dawn:  “Give me 250 steps.”

“I haven’t had a cup of coffee yet.  Leave me alone.”  I close my eyes; my wrist vibrates.

“Time to get up and get moving.”

Damn.  She’s right; I do need to go to bathroom again–probably, for the sixth time since I initially went to bed hours ago.  One of the perils of aging.  Hopefully, I have another few years before I clip coupons for Depends!

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In the meantime, when Fanny demands, “Fifty pushups now,” she will find herself at the deep end of my swimming pool. RIP.  (Unfortunately, shortly after I wrote the last sentence, my cell phone landed in the deep end.  Karma?)

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Absurdities: Mental Test and Open Shelving

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What a week it’s been!  As some of you know, I managed to survive a graceless fall which resulted in forehead cuts, a protruding bump, and two, black eyes.  (You really didn’t expect me to show my face, but this picture depicts my current status.)  I mopped up the blood, bandaged the wounds, and went to bed with a raging headache.  Then it occurred to me,  “Sue, are you mentally with it?”  I asked my dogs aloud:

“What is your name?  Sue Skidmore.”

“Where were you born?  Youngstown, Ohio.”

“What year is it?  2017”

Well, this nonsense went on for a few more self-asked questions.  Suddenly, it occurred to me if I suffered a head injury, how would I know?  I could have said my name was Mary Jane Brown, born in Ames, Iowa, and the year was 1943.  My dogs wouldn’t have objected.  And if I was crazy, how would I know?

Given my astounding revelation, I practically fell off the bed with laughter.  Absurd lunacy!

Then to add proverbial insult to my injuries, the next morning a guy came by to give an estimate on redoing my kitchen cabinets.  Since the cabinets would have cost a fortune to replace, I hoped Andres would offer a less expensive alternative.  He did.  In my naïveté, I expected: “I’ll be back in three to six weeks to start this project.”

No.  He retrieved from his truck his fancy battery-operated screwdriver and swiftly removed all the cabinet doors.  I was busy dumping stuff from the drawers–stuff from several junk drawers I hadn’t seen in two decades!  Damn, I’ve acquired a lot of scotch tape and too many bottles of the same spice.

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“Sue, it will take a couple of weeks for me to get this done.”  Off he went with doors and drawers.  Maybe I did have a head injury, for I spent half the day trying to close non-existant drawers and doors.  A visual nightmare through half-swollen-shut eyes.  Visual proof of my ineptness as a housekeeper.

Ok.  I can survive this chaos.  Until…I read this article today.

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I don’t give a rat’s hind end about that trend at my age.  Doors are made to keep out Phoenix dust and to make my kitchen look presentable at a party.  Absurd lunacy!

BTW, I think my real name is Hucklebarrie Finn.  I think I’ve floated down the mighty Mississippi in Hannibal on a number of occasions.  I own 12 pair of scissors and 9 tins of cinnamon.  I have over 20 coffee mugs, 15 random plates, three old skillets, and five aprons.  (Aprons? I prefer a clothes change.)  Message me if you’re in need of any of the above.  Downsizing….