Thursday, April 28, 2005
Fatty's Got an Issue:
But You Don't Seem to Re-uh-lize...
My Life is Good, You Old Bag!
At any rate, it's pretty clear to me that MY BOY GOT SKILLS! So when the first grade teacher sent home the application for second grade "gifted and talented," I thought I'd give it a shot.
Have you ever filled out a form braggin' about how brilliant your own offspring is?
But he didn't make it. I was a little hurt, but Bumpus had an outright cow. After all, any child that can name 132 different pokey-men (they are CARTOON BEASTS and NO RELATION to Michael Jackson, thank Ba'hai) and all their battling statistics and can tell you all about photo-sin-thesis (which is not a bible scripture about taking nasty pictures, by the way) should at least get a ribbon or something!
So while my boy isn't on the road to becoming a doctor of physics who lives with his parents and writes computer games for the Japanese, Bumpus convinced me to call the woman in charge of this "gifted and talented" program to ask a few questions.
Her strategery was to take the first part of the conversation to go over every qualification for the program and tell me, one by one for all nine parts, that my child FAILED and DID NOT MEET STANDARDS and WAS NOT QUALIFIED to participate in their program. I tried to ask what, in a small school district, a 6 year-old "high achiever" (her words) who never studies anything and is currently reading chapter books and has started learning his times tables out of his own curiosity could do when he is otherwise a COMPLETE FAILURE at her tests. I also asked her what percentage of students are gifted enough to be at the party: 1-2%. That is 1-2 students PER GRADE. What the hell kind of party is that anyways?
The bottom line is that now I've had my first run-in with the public schools here in small town America, where we are and forever will be "outsiders" because we moved here 10 years ago and because we didn't marry our own cousins and because we don't keep an icebox on the front porch. And now I have officially been awarded the title of "trouble makin' anal retentive Mother."
Why do the schools always say "Hey! We want you to be INVOLVED in your child's education! Good parents are INVOLVED!" but then when you try to ask a question they give this attitude of "STAY OUT OF MY BUSINESS YOU PSYCHOTIC IDIOT WHO DOESN'T UNDERSTAND THE DELICATE PROCESS OF EDGE-Y-KATIN' YER CHILRUN!"
But I got to get these kids into college so they can buy my dentures and fix my cable TV!
Monday, April 18, 2005
East Texas Paul Revere
Sunday morning, I felt like I had been hit by a truck, so when Rufus came bouncing into my room declaring his intent to invite the neighbor kids into our yard to play (in true 24-hour bug fashion, he was completely recovered and refreshed from his Hollywood-style digestive roto-rootering), I croaked at him from under the pillows, "Mommy was sick all night last night, just like you were before. Go play outside and let me sleep." Thankfully he agreed and ran out the door.
As I was blissfully slipping back into post-traumatic oblivion, I heard this small child through the open window. He had run out to the end of the driveway and was screaming in his best you-could-hear-me-over-an-erupting-volcano voice: "YOU CAN'T COME OVER! MY MOM WAS THROWING UP ALL NIGHT AND SHE POOPED ALL OVER THE PLACE!"
And thus, the small town grapevine was informed.
Friday, April 15, 2005
Wednesday, April 13, 2005
Chapter 4:
And the Devil Dog Descended Upon Us
Chapter 3: Junk Yard Pot Roast
No one in the Happy House of Fatty and Bumpus gets called by his/her/its proper name unless the hand of God's wrath is about to land a print on the smooth peachy hills of Bootyville. Remember that as you wonder how many children (2), dogs (1), cats (2) and husbands (1) I have.
Now, on to our story:
Since our cute little 6 pound puppy now weighs over 27 pounds and since he is still less than half way grown and since his body is one large muscle mass, he shall now and forever be knighted as Nelson the Pot Roast. Sometimes he is just "Fat Burger," depending on the mood around here. My boys, sometimes known as Huck and Tom (keep reading) and sometimes known as Boudreaux and Rufus (when I can spell good), inquired as to what purpose Ham Chunk's nipples may serve. I explained that they were just for decoration, that otherwise his chest would look too plain, so that God put ‘em on there sort of like the rivets on the naw-guh-hide couch we inherited from Aunt Linda, God rest her soul…but that no matter what good decorations they are, no piercings are allowed until you are paying your own rent. Ain't that right, Mama?
Chapter 3 brings us to the third stop on our "East Texas Witness Protection Tour." This picture is what you get when you mix one state park, one spring day, one clear running stream with only a few amoebas doing their best dis-en-terry disco, one Huckleberry, one Tom "Well Duh!" Sawyer, and one dog who thinks that if he's quick enough he can actually eat the bubbling rapids. They were, however, far tastier--both for he who licks and for he who is licked by the licker--than the grease trap he went rootin' in earlier.
Chapter 2: Hey You Rug Rats! Whar's My Dinner?
Bumpus spent all his time stringing big fat nightcrawlers onto the hooks. Mama and her parole officer even came over to visit!
Chapter 1, Part 3:
What Happens in Gruene Should Stay in Gruene
Chapter 1, Part 2:
Robert Earl Keen, Jr. at Gruene Hall
Adventure ReportsChapter 1:
Did I Do Anything to Tarnish My Family's Name?
Wait. Don't Answer That.
Did I Do Anything to Tarnish My Family's Name?
Needless to say, I, Fatty B Small, enjoyed myself mightly on this trip, especially the part where I got into the Robert Earl Keen Jr. concert--which, by the way, had been sold out for weeks--because I had been partaking of various beverages throughout the day and so I had plenty of nerve to go up to his tour bus and beg. Loudly.
The road goes on forever.