I’m a “hot Southern mess” dressed in a blanket and as long as it’s not wet I’m going to put it on the bed and frickin’ make it. Even if I’m the one who unknowingly skips page one, I leave the wrong button undone, and I find far too much fun in a pun. See, sometimes you have to either laugh or cry just to get by which is why I prefer to cover my bases and laugh until the mascara is running down my faces!

Lil Jon’s “Get Low” remix (teacher style):

ABC
123
Won’t you teach me teach me and I ain’t talkin’ ‘bout the Dougie
Let’s learn
let’s learn, let’s learn, let’s learn
Let’s learn
From the windoooooooooow to the HALL!
We’ll display data on our walls
All childrens enthralled
awwhhhh teach teach teach teach teach teach
awwhhhh teach teach teach teach…
THIRD, THIRD…THIRD GRADE!

The internet has become the modern monster under the bed, filled with widespread scandal and temptations that so many simply cannot handle. It’s a catalyst to distress; it’s the cancerous cyst at the center of human relationships. Continuous phone alerts, overly overt flirts, pumulous perverts…and it only gets worse. Destruction definitely feels like a prime function of this world wide webbed junction.

Unless eyebrows are involved.

See, I sometimes call myself “Frugal Franny.” I save every penny for only what is necessary. That means when my eyebrows grow extra hairy, I bust out my own wax, count to three, rip off the brow debris, and we’re all happy.

But tonight was less than satisfactory and more than a fright; it was a self professed hot frickin’ mess. All across my entire right eyebrow. Like Rihanna says, time for a round of applause…take a bow.

And I nearly did, frowning at the thought of walking around with one eyebrow on and one eyebrow…not. Just like the purple people eater, if only I had a horn. As that strip was about to get torn I remembered that there was more to the internet than scorn. I asked Jeeves, Joes, Yahoo’s, and Yahoes about my dilemma located inches above my nose. And wouldn’t you know it, a solution arose!


So now the internet gets my utmost respect.



Oh, and FYI: Olive oil.

Hi.

I've been spending a lot of time facebooking, but I'll return to LJ at some point or another.

In the meantime, go here:

http://therealljidol.livejournal.com/480443.html

and vote for JoeyMichaels.

Thanks=)

Starting in third grade students learn that in order to be considered successful, they must pass a completely non-stressful three day long test at the end each year. This test that I speak of can best be compared to a top secret document that even Wiki Leaks cannot air.

See the rules are quite strict in what they depict. No one can preview “The Test” in advance. No one can be left alone with “The Test” in their hands. And before “The Test” ever exists in your presence you must sign your life away in waivers and consents.

Above all else you must remember that common sense in this instance is now past tense. A “Regulator” (dressed in black) ensures that all test demands are met, walkie-talkie-ing potential security threats.

“Test Day” procedures are endless and address things ranging from bathroom breaks to sneezes (you are encouraged to refrain from eithers). Really and truly, the list goes on but I must not detail any more to the public for fear of a breach in ridiculocity.

Three days of number two penciling and bubbbbling with demands that left everyone wondering…how? My school had no choice but to decide that in order to comply with No Child Left Behind, students in grades k-2 must do like ET and get the hell home. After all, those students can be left behind for just a few days as the rest of the school bubbles and prays. Because at the end of the day learning to add, subtract, read, and write isn’t as important as winning the testing fight.

I recently had a visitor from the eliminator alligator.  It didn't hurt this time as bad as I suspected.  I guess because I already took a sedative. 

Anyway, time to reveal the real, the fantasy, and everything in between:

( Read more... )

This entry has no (real) rhyme because the contents have no reason…

Several years ago I chose to throw away a heart that was given to me (in “holy” matrimony) because I had already started to give my own heart to another. It was brutal, tragic, and mostly inexcusable. And when I say I live without regret, this particular incident is excluded.

I might have been stupid and foolish, but I did what I did and I tried to move on from it…and on to the other. I decided I’d learn from my mistakes and never repeat them. I’d give my new “him” 100 percent, even when he didn’t. And surely I wouldn’t walk away so easily.

Of course, right around this time my new relationship felt perfect.

Until it didn’t.

Things slowly started to fall off course and it only grew worse and worse. He stopped touching me. He stopped calling me so much. He started calling upon others. And I started obsessive and stalkerish behaviors.

Now don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t bad all the time. The ups were still ups but the downs sure fell down. Sometimes as low as Hell itself, but without the hand basket to break the fall.
Despite all this we continued to make it. Because I would not make the same mistake twice. I was in it to win it…or something like it.

Yesterday it all came to a head and we nearly declared the relationship dead. Crying, croaking, and commotioning fell upon me and filled the gaps between the words that he said. And this time my little heart was the one being thrown away in broken bits, in disarray.

But I expected it. All. This drama, I chalk it up to karma.

And that may be the real reason I stay and allow him to throw little pieces of me away.

My name’s not Alice. I’m not blonde or naïve but I truly believe I just lost my balance and heaved, hoved, and roved my way down a rabbit hole. E. Moly.

And it’s only Tuesday.

I must have swallowed that mushroom upon entering my classroom where the first thing that loomed was an insurmountable boom (boom, pow) as my candy tub plowed to the ground. That was when my students found it best to surround the sugar infested mound and let chaos resound.

And resound it did.

Johnny Bo’Bonny slid on the floor while Betty Jo’Jetty called Sally a whore.

“Oh no she didn’t,” but “she sho’ did” started the slew of words that were said. Then the head weaved while more words were conceived that could hardly be perceived and I sure was peeved. And perplexed.

What happened next was truly beyond measure as two of my kids sang a full two measures of Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.

I think I’ve gone mad, loony. You see my students are more than a tad kooky, they’re loopy. Afraid to behave, it’s a game of charades and I’m not entirely sure how any of us will make it past the second grade.

When my house caught on fire, I got out.  I didn’t raise doubt about the degree of monstrosity or whether or not I could manage the hot.  I didn’t hide under the bed and stay and pray to be left undead. 

No, I saved those madman’s actions for my man instead.

I ignored the alarms that roared as his smoke blew up toward my ass.  I let him act as though I were second class.  In all reality, I should have gone postal and declared myself a priority.

See, he didn’t completely seem into me.  He told a good story and was nearly a guarantee until year three.  That’s when I saw all the women he would call.  And when I called him on it, he’d squeak and squall about his disgust for my mistrust.

And that’s not all.  His lust lacked luster.  It became a real bummer.  I spent a whole summer purchasing lingerie each day and still couldn’t even get a lay.  Unless you’re talking about Fritos and Cheetohs.  Yeah, I was busy munching on those while he conversed and perversed with online hos.

On top of all that schlogg, he didn’t even like my dog.

Despite the blaze, I stayed.  And when my heart burned to the ground, it was too late for first aid.  And the flame wasn’t even the source of blame.