From the Benadryl Files

Deadpanann, yo' mama was good for two posts for me this week.
That's mighty neighborly of her. I hope your broken finger enjoyed
the Benadryl more than I did.

It all started with a trip to the dentist for the pulling of the wisdom
teeth. I lived in Sheldon, Missouri, and my dentist was in Cabool.
Why? I had worked near Cabool the previous year, and had quite
a bit of dental work done there. I liked the dentist. He gave me
headphones to listen to The Best of Alabama while he gouged
around in my mouth. He also gave me nitrous.

I got a Friday appointment when I had a day off from work. I stayed
with my friend Cheri, who lived near Cabool. The tooth extraction
wasn't too bad. I'm sure I had some type of painkiller, since I don't
remember being in pain. On Sunday morning, I had a rash. Cheri
thought it was measles. Yeah, that's a disease people actually had
before all this newfangled vaccine business. I told her I'd already
had the measles, in 9th grade. Uh huh...I was a late bloomer. I
remembered that I had them, because the secretary and nurse looked
me over in the office, and then sent me home. My friends had a good
laugh at my expense, because I had measles.

Cheri didn't believe me. She called my Hillbilly Mama, who confirmed
that I had indeed had the measles. By that time my rash had started
to itch. And spread. It was on my palms and also the inside of my
mouth. HM told Cheri that if it kept spreading, I probably should go
to the doctor. Yeah. On Sunday. By afternoon we decided to go
to the emergency room in Mansfield. That's the best I remember...
it was some town on Hwy 60 on the way to Springfield.

I felt kind of dumb, going to the emergency room for a rash. But the
itching was driving me crazy. I waited in the exam room for a while,
then a nurse came in and asked me the problem. Like she couldn't
see that I had red spots all over me. She turned my arms over, looked
at both sides, and then said, "Drop your pants." I didn't want to,
because I was really really cold. I told her I had spots on my legs too,
but when the pants came off, we saw that the spots had all run together
My thighs were puffy red blobs. That nursed talked a little faster
then, and called in a doctor. They decided that I was in the midst
of an allergic reaction to the ampicillin the dentist had given me after
pulling my wisdom teeth. They gave me a shot of Benadryl, and the
nurse said it was a good thing I came in, because the swelling would
have gotten worse as I kept taking the ampicillin, and my throat
could have swelled shut. Good to know.

They observed me for a little while, wrote out a couple of
prescriptions, and then told me I could go home. The nurse said,
"I hope you didn't drive yourself here." I thought, "It's a little late to
tell me that now. What if I had?" Because I was in no shape to drive.
I climbed into Cheri's little red Ford Escort and felt like I had no
bones in my body. At least I wasn't cold anymore. Cheri talked,
but all I heard was her droning. I couldn't make out the words.

My head felt like a balloon, but without the helium. It didn't want
to float. It wanted to roll down my right shoulder, pause for dramatic
effect at my elbow hanging out the car window, shout "Look at ME
everybody," then do a swan dive (well, as good a swan dive a balloon
head with no arms or legs could do), and skim like a skipping stone
along the weedy Hwy 60 right-of-way that the MoDOT crews had
neglected. Benadryl was not my friend.

I missed three days of work, then Cheri missed work to drive me
back to Sheldon. I went back to work teaching PE to elementary
children. The woman principal came to my building to check on
me, probably to ascertain whether I had just really wanted a long
weekend. I held out my arms and told her proudly, "See? My spots
are almost all gone now." She asked if I had someone staying with
me, and I said, "Yes." Then she told me I should go home and get
better, and not to worry about work. Right in the middle of 1st hour!
Apparently, Atarax was not my friend, either.

#3 What Would Rednecks Do?

And now, for something completely different. It is time for this
week's Redneck reality question.

What if...you were minding your own business in your recliner,
watching a marathon of MTV's Real World, and your son ran
into the house hollerin' "Mom! The cat is stalking something!"?
Upon further investigation, you discovered the cat was shopping
for chipmunk for supper, in full view of your young children

What would a Mama Redneck do?

The official answer will be posted on Sunday, July 31. There may
be more than one correct answer, however.

Hillbilly Mama, Medicine Woman

I was reading Deadpanann's tale of her "breakdown" the other day,
and she gave me the most scathingly brilliant idea. Oh, wait...that
was Hayley Mills in The Trouble With Angels. Anyway, Deadpanann
mentioned that her mother once gave her Benadryl for a broken
finger. That got me thinking about my Hillbilly Mama, and how she
thought she knew doctorin' better than my doctor.

During my third year of college, I had knee surgery to remove a
torn cartilage. The lateral meniscus of my left knee, to be specific.
This was so long ago that I didn't just have the three-band-aid
arthroscopic drive-thru snip-job, but a major surgery which resulted
in five days in the hospital. I have an attractive little five-inch scar
as a memento. The thing is, they cut through my muscle and nerves
to take out that jaggedy ol' troublemaking cartilage, and then had
to give me therapy on leg-lifting and crutch-walking to sponge up
all the available insurance money they could.

Three years later, I had arthroscopic surgery on the same knee
for the same thing. Yeah, apparently the cartilage can regenerate
part of the rim, and tear again. At least that's what they told me.
My book-learnin' taught me that cartilage doesn't grow back, but
who was I to argue with an orthopedic surgeon? So the point I'm
making here is that I've had both types of surgery, and the second
one was nothing. I was up and around in no time with it.

Now to the HM part of the story. That first surgery was in my
college town just before Christmas break. My parents came out
for the operation, and took me home after I was released. It was
a 4-hour drive back to Hooterville. My doctor gave me a
prescription for a painkiller, because let me tell you, this ordeal
was mighty painful.

I sat sideways in the back seat of the family sedan, with my leg
propped out straight. My HM went to fill the prescription at the
hospital pharmacy. She came back and handed me a bottle of
Tylenol #4 With Codeine. It did not look like there were many
pills in the bottle. She saw me holding it up and peering through
the plastic. "Oh, I just had him fill half the prescription. I don't
want you to get hooked on them."

WHAAAAT? I'd just had nerve-slashing, bone-scraping surgery,
had a four-hour ride ahead of me, and she was worried that I might
get "hooked" on painkillers? Yo! Mama! Had you been watching
too much Mod Squad and Baretta? Had I ever given you one minute
of trouble in adolescence? I didn't drink, I didn't smoke, I didn't
hang out at the Head Shop on Main Street. Whatever gave you
the idea that I didn't need something to deaden that throbbing
toothache in my knee? I swallowed one for the road, and promptly
fell asleep for the duration of the trip. That is what Tylenol #4 With
Codeine does for me. WooHoo! Gotta call my drug pusher, HM,
because there's nothing I like better than a high old time of nodding
off to sleep for 4 hours within 5 minutes of ingesting my downers.

My HM does not remember the events happening this way. It is
not something I can forget.

I Can Read the Writing on the Wall

Well, since you've all been good, I will tell you that story about "the
writing on the wall" that I promised a couple of days ago.

At one of my schools long ago, we had an LD teacher who was a
little different. LD stands for learning disability. These kids have
been tested and found to have a measurable problem in some area.
It might be reading, it might be math, it might be both. The point I
am making is that this is just a normal cross-section of kids who
have a learning problems. They are not troublemakers. They
exhibit the same kinds of behaviors you would get from other
middle school kids who are not in that class.

Let's rename this teacher "Donna." She didn't quite fit in with the rest
of us, but we didn't really know why. She tried to make conversation
with us at lunch, and in the teachers' lounge, but we didn't know how
to respond to some of her comments. We did try to be nice.

One day Donna said, "I just don't know what to do. Every day after
the kids leave, I see that somebody has written "F*** me" on the
blackboard right behind my desk. I erase it, but the next day after
they leave, I see that it is there again."

Now how do you respond to something like this? We don't exactly
need to call in the CIA. You are an adult. These kids are 11-14
years old. How can they outsmart you every day for two weeks?
How can you not notice who goes behind you while you are sitting
at your desk? If you are out in the room helping another student,
how can you not know who is up and roaming around? Why do
students think they have the right to write on the board? Do they
do it because they think it's a joke, or because they hate your guts?

We all gave Donna our advice:

Don't leave the chalk on the chalk tray. Keep it in your desk.
Don't let anyone walk behind your desk.
Don't let anyone out of his seat without permission.
When you are in the hall between classes, make sure they all sit
down when they enter the room.

She must have solved the problem, because we quit hearing about
it. But then my two good friends and I would slap a hand to our
forehead when we did something really dumb, and exclaim,
"F*** me!" Donna didn't know. We weren't really making fun of
her. She just gave us a good saying to use.

So here's the point I'm trying to make: There comes a time when
you have to be able to read the writing on the wall. If you want
to be a middle school teacher, you have to be on your toes. You
have to want to join that circus. You must be willing to be the
clown and the lion tamer, to walk that high wire between "buddy"
and "prison guard." And if you slip, you must be willing to bounce
back up and learn from that mistake, and make adjustments. Not
all people are cut out for this job. If you can not control your little
corner of the Big Top, you can not contribute to the maximum
development of each little performer in the circus that is your
school. Kids this age are fighting for independence. It is a normal
phase of development that allows them to break away from
adult influence in order to become mature adults. They must be
guided in the right direction--not forced. If you can't develop a
comfortable, yet respectful, learning environment for them, you
should try a high school position, or maybe another line of work.

Donna should have read the writing on the wall.

When I Think Back on All the Crap I Learned in High School...

Let's continue with yesterday's post of my public education, by way
of Mr. Paul Simon's "Kodachrome."

Here are a few things I learned in high school:

A chili bean can shoot out of your nose if you laugh hard enough
during lunch time.

A gerbil will not stay in the teacher's top desk drawer until you are
ready to surprise her, but will wander freely from drawer to drawer.

If you take Advanced Chemistry by way of independent study, you
can complete all 30 modules in the first 6 weeks, and have the rest
of the year to goof off while unsupervised.

The wooden chairs in studyhall are the best for popping your spine.

If the whole class says they forgot to read the assigned chapter in
the mythology book, the teacher will say, "Well, do it next time"
and turn on I Love Lucy reruns.

If you set a pencil on the edge of your desk and give it a good
karate chop, it will stick in the ceiling.

A superball will bounce from wall-to-wall about 40-eleven times
if you fling it just right.

Pay attention when somebody flings the superball.

Shorthand is kind of like a secret code.

Don't sit in the back row unless you want to be a volunteer to
work problems on the board in trigonometry.

Open lunch hour allows students to return to 5th hour classes
with a good buzz on.

When the coolest girl in school gets green hair from swimmng
in a chlorinated pool, nobody teases her.

A Japanese exchange student does not know that you should
put the shower curtain inside the tub.

OF means to multiply!!! As in, "20 percent of 500 is ______."

I before E except after C, or when sounded as A, like in
neighbor and weigh.

A squared plus B squared equals C squared.

If you use your track shoes to play drums on a teammate's
skull, that teammate will have to get a tetanus shot.

Pith balls are scientific paraphernalia, and not meant to be a
source of humor for 9th graders.

If you drop a chunk of potassium into water, it will explode.
<>

I don't know if this is what I was supposed to learn, but it was
good enough to make me valedictorian.

POOOOL-EEEEZE!!!

We returned home from a trip to see Charlie and the
Chocolate Factory to find our pool had some serious
drainage issues. Not a good thing when it's 98 degrees
and two kids are counting on their nightly swim. We
grabbed the hose to try and fill the void. As of now, it
has been filling for 4 hours, and is only about 6 inches
deeper. Oh, don't worry about the kids--they got in and
"swam" anyway. That water is going to be really cold
tomorrow.

My Life of Education Hasn't Hurt Me None

Remember that Paul Simon classic, Kodachrome? Probably not,
you young whippersnappers. It goes like this: "When I think back
on all the crap I learned in high school...it's a wonder I can think
at all. And though my life of education hasn't hurt me none...I can
read the writing on the wall." Don't I sing right purty? I don't know
why I was thinking about that song, except it was a summer song
from back in the day.

Then I was reading Redneck Diva's tale of baking a turkey when
there was a peak alert, which means that you are supposed to
conserve energy and not do things like bake during peak hours
of electrical usage. And thanks, Diva, because I had no hot water
and took a COLD shower Sunday because for some reason the
breaker tripped for our water heater. I think you used just a little
too much electricity before it had a chance to come this way, and
in my mind now turkey = cold shower.

All this got me to thinking that I don't cook too much that doesn't
come out of a box or a can. I hope they teach the kids that stuff
these days, though I did hear one of my students ask another, "If
I bring a can of corn to the old people's dinner, will you cook it
for me?" As far as I know, the kids only spend about 2 weeks
of their Family and Consumer Science (FACS) class on cooking.

Way back when I had it, it was called Home Economics. They
didn't teach us much useful stuff, either. I learned how to make
a cheese souffle. Yeah. That's one of our staples here in Missouri.
Cheese souffle. I don't remember how to make it, mainly because
it tasted like puffy burned cheese. I also learned how to make an
apron, and how to sew a dress from a McCalls' pattern. Both
are skills which I do not need. First of all, even when I cook, I
don't wear an apron. What does that mean--that you're a slob
and know ahead of time that you're going to spill stuff? And I
don't sew myself dresses, because I don't wear dresses, and if
the urge ever strikes me, I'll go to Wal-mart and fork over $19.96
for one already made instead of buying the pattern and material
and thread.

Tomorrow I will elaborate on some other crap I learned in high
school. And if everybody is really good, sometime I will tell you
a story about writing on the wall.

Where Has Summer Gone?

You know summer is almost over when your kid complains that you
woke him up from a good dream--about his teacher. No, it's not
like that. This is the 7-year-old. His first grade teacher is moving up
to teach second grade, and he is in her class again. That's a good
thing. He really bonded with her.

This is the kid who doesn't like school. The one who was sent to
the principal's office in Kindergarten. The only reason he tolerates
school is that he loves his teacher. "I love Miss ***** and you the
same, Mom. But I can only hug her if I am not supposed to be
doing my work."

He hugs other teachers too. I guess that is how he gets away with
stuff and doesn't get in serious trouble. First grade was better than
Kindergarten. He did lose his scissor privileges for cutting his own
hair. At least he didn't scalp someone else. And he had to stand in
the corner during art class because he threw a pencil. "Well," he
said, "I wouldn't have had to stand in the corner except that everyone
told on me." He almost had to go to the office for not apologizing.
He must have learned his lesson in Kindergarten, because when the
art teacher said, "Are you ready to apologize, or do we need to go
down to the office?" he replied, "I think I'm ready to apologize now."
When I told him it was good that he worked it out, he said, "Well,
I used to love Mr. ****** (art teacher), but now I only like him."

We'll see what second grade brings. In about 3 weeks.

#2 Official Answer What Would Rednecks Do?

Only two people were brave enough to answer this week's question.
Both answers are acceptable Redneck behavior.

The Question: What do you do if your girlfriend doesn't like your
pickup truck?

Rebecca, always the recycler, says to remove parts of the girlfriend's
car to cover the objectionable truck, sell the car for money, and
store the rest in the barn, since you never know when you might need
spare parts. She gets extra Redneck points for "storing in the barn just
in case" and for mentioning duct tape.

Deadpanann says to dump the girlfriend, since she will leave him but
the truck won't, and she is only after an SUV. She gets extra points
for mentioning "the girlfriend and her kids" and SUV.

So I will call this week a tie. These gals know their Rednecks.

Official Answer: Paint the truck. But not all of it, because we're
talking about Rednecks here, folks.

Truck Painting, Redneck Style

When Hillbilly Husband was Future Hillbilly Husband, he had a
1965 Chevy pickup truck that was a mess of colors, though mostly
rust and primer. We lived in the same apartment complex, and when
he pulled into the parking lot after picking up his boys for the
weekend, the residents lounging around the pool would say "Here
comes Sanford and Sons." It was like on Cheers, how they would
all yell, "Norm" when George Wendt entered the bar. In case you
are too young (ahem) to remember, Sanford and Son was a sitcom
about a junk man, starring Redd Foxx.

I did not like this truck, because it looked like it should be parked
in a field behind a barn. People stared when we took it anywhere.
I did not want to be seen in it by people I worked with, or my
students and their parents. I preferred that we take my car, but I
didn't want anyone else to drive it. It was MY car. FHH went along
with this at first, but he had a funny look. I asked him what the
problem was, and he said, "I never had a woman that wouldn't let
me drive." Huh! Like a man's place is behind the wheel, because
the inferior woman should let the expert drive.

FHH said he would paint his truck for me. He decided on blue, with
a white top. He chose blue and white because he had a couple cans
of leftover spray paint. He started with my door--the passenger door.
He painted it blue, and the part around the door window white. And
that is all he painted, because he ran out of paint. So now we drove
around like I was royalty behind a blue-and-white freshly-painted
door, and the rest of the truck was still crappy.

Then one of his friends who was living at home with his mom after a
divorce offered him $150 for it, and he sold it. FHH bought a $600
brown Ford, and we lived happily ever after. And now I have an SUV.