I am not an A-list blogger/social network updater.

I’ve always been more than just a little bit quirky and nerdy, and I still am. I don’t care. I’ve never been cool. Not then, not now. I don’t care. (much)

In my Reader/friend list/etc. are people whose writing I read regularly. Are they A-listers? I don’t know. I don’t care, either. They are people I like, and even love, with blogs/updates/etc. I find interesting.

Would I delete any of them, and replace them with A-list people, so there would be nothing but the cool kids in my Reader/Facebook/Twitter/etc.? No. Why would I do that? I don’t blog to be cool. (good thing, huh.) I blog because “it’s” in me and “it” wants to get out. My blog is like a friend. It’s THERE for me. And since I went all WordPress, it really IS always there for me. I also blog for businesses.  I go all watchdog on their comments, too, but I only delete the spams, robots, and obvious sales pitches.

The people in my Reader are friends.  They listen. I listen. They help. I help. We laugh and we cry and we are THERE for each other.   I include all my business blogs in the same Reader – you might be surprised at the connections to be made that way.

What, she mixes business and pleasure?  She does indeed.  Much of the time, too.

She considers her clients to be a kind of friend?  She does that, too.

The Blogosphere is full of friends, seen and unseen, business and pleasure.  Both kinds are real. I consider them all to be real life friends.

Sometimes we pick our friends and sometimes they pick us. (insert crack about picking nose here) This holds true wherever we go. The internet is a place to go. There are lovely people there. There are also some awful people here.  You know, just like in real life.  That’s because the Blogosphere IS real life.

Delete an active blog from my Reader?  Delete someone who comments sincerely?  Delete a real person, someone who isn’t a robot, and who updates/comments in real time?  Why would I do that?  Why would I pare down a list for my personal convenience at the expense of possibly hurting someone’s feelings?

Nobody can ever have too many friends. And I’m still discovering treasures out there. Why would I stop mining for gold just because I found some already? In fact, if anyone is reading this and you know I don’t know you yet, tell me. I’m happy to meet you, and of COURSE you can sit with us.

Sometimes I read about a blogger going through his/her Reader/Twitter/Facebook/etc. and weeding out anyone who isn’t considered ‘popular’ by other bloggers, or who isn’t, apparently, useful enough. Some bloggers only want to hang out with the A-group. I can only assume they were like that in high school, too, and haven’t grown out of it yet, still, in real life. And I find this attitude sad, and even. . . . sick.  Okay, the word I’m actually thinking of is “pompous.”

I am not an A-list blogger. I’m often one of the first to be cut. That’s fine. Populate your feeds with well-known A-table people and see how many comments you get – that aren’t strictly business – from them. See how much advice and support you get. See how they will get to know you personally, and want to hang out with you. And when you comment on some of those A-list blogs. . . . oh, but wait a minute. Some of those blogs don’t ALLOW comments.

Don’t you get it? REAL bloggers welcome comments, and not just from people they know. Not from spammers or morons, but from real people who take notice and care. Many of those A-list blogs aren’t even real blogs any more; they’re just webpages with articles and self-promotion and speaking engagements.

Preaching to the choir is fine if you really don’t want to learn anything new from someone who isn’t already IN the choir.

But that’s okay. You’ve a right to please yourself; we all do. So delete everybody who isn’t ‘somebody.’ And yes, I know, that would be me. Go ahead.

That’s not how I do this, but we are all different. Sometimes, discovering just HOW different, in certain ways, is more than just a little bit disillusioning.

Sometimes it’s a LOT of disillusioning.

Do we EVER get to leave high school, I mean completely? Why is this nonsense still going on, and why is it still bothering me?

But it is. And it does. I wish I could say it didn’t, but it does. It even, kinda, you know, hurts.

But that’s okay. I understand. I’ll just take my plate lunch and go sit at another table.

You sit there and wait for the cheerleaders and the jocks and the student council president and the homecoming queen and people who can do something for you, and while you’re waiting for them, the rest of us will be sitting over HERE. And we will be having way more fun than you.

What do I know. I’m not cool.

But I know what the “social” in “social media” means.  And it doesn’t mean excluding people.  Well, unless they’re proven sociopaths, axe murderers, compulsive liars, dirty rotten scoundrels (although some of those guys are kinda fun), simpering morons, people who get in the “20 items or fewer” with a mounded cartful, or sissy sparkly vampires.  (brooding vampires welcome.)

Move over, B-table friends.  It’s my deal.  Double-bid, no-trump, high-low euchre, coming right up.  Pass the SweeTarts.  And yes, we’re all really listening.

Mamacita says: It makes me sad that so many parents are not allowing their children to dwell in the world of innocent fantasy.  These parents feel that to allow it is equivalent to lying to their children about what is real and what isn’t.

Don’t they understand that to a child, both worlds are real?  I’ll go one further: to all people of any age who retain their believing hearts, and who use their brains as God (and biology) intended, both worlds are real, too.

My daughter was seven when she asked the question I’d been dreading for seven years: “Mommy, is there really a Santa Claus?”

However, thanks to Caroline Quiner Ingalls, I knew exactly how to answer her. And, this answer fully satisfied my little child, and me.

Laura and Mary’s Ma knew how to explain to her children about Santa Claus without destroying their faith in miracles and magic:

. . . then Laura had a chance to speak without interrupting. She said “There isn’t any fireplace.”

“Whatever are you talking about?” Ma asked her.

“Santa Claus,” Laura answered.

“Eat your supper, Laura, and let’s not cross bridges till we come to them,” said Ma.

Laura and Mary knew that Santa Claus could not come down a chimney when there was no chimney. One day Mary asked Ma how Santa Claus could come. Ma did not answer. Instead, she asked, “What do you girls want for Christmas?”

. . . “Ma!” (Laura) cried. “there IS a Santa Claus, isn’t there?”

“Of course there’s a Santa Claus, said Ma. She set the iron on the stove to heat again.

“The older you are, the more you know about Santa Claus,” she said. “You are so big now, you know he can’t be just one man, don’t you? You know he is everywhere on Christmas Eve. He is in the Big Woods, and in Indian Territory, and far away in York State, and here. He comes down all the chimneys at the same time. You know that, don’t you?”

“Yes, Ma,” said Mary and Laura.

“Well,” said Ma. “then you see – “

“I guess he is like angels,” Mary said, slowly. And Laura could see that, just as well as Mary could.

Then Ma told them something else about Santa Claus. He was everywhere, and besides that, he was all the time.

Whenever anyone was unselfish, that was Santa Claus.

Christmas Eve was the time when everybody was unselfish. On that one night, Santa Claus was everywhere, because everybody, all together, stopped being selfish and wanted other people to be happy. And in the morning you saw what that had done.

“If everybody wanted everybody else to be happy, all the time, then would it be Christmas all the time?” Laura asked, and Ma said, “Yes, Laura.”

–from On the Banks of Plum Creek, by Laura Ingalls Wilder

You’re welcome.

I’m not talking about people who start World Wars or draw blood. I’m talking about people who get in the 20 items line with a mounded cartful. I’m talking about people who cut the line or save places for people thus enabling them to cut the line. I’m talking about people who park in the handicapped spot without a plate or hangar. I’m talking about people who let their kids open packages and play with toys that aren’t theirs and then leave them at the checkout.  I’m talking about people who send their kids to the toy department to sit on the floor, open things, and play, while Mommy shops.  I’m talking about people who eat and drink in a store, or, worse, let their kids eat and drink in a store, leaving a sticky, crumbly trail that would have led Hansel and Gretel right straight back home.  I’m talking about people who bring dinner in crackly bags to the theater, and hold conversations through the movie.  I’m talking about people who talk loudly on cell phones in public places.  I’m talking about litterbugs, and tailgaters, and adults who have temper tantrums pretty much anywhere.  I’m talking about people who scream at the little teenage checkout girl because she can’t take their expired coupons, or really for any reason.  (Do they really  believe it’s her problem, or is she just handy and an easy target?)

(I saw that last one just yesterday.  A lady woman melted down at the cash register because the cashier couldn’t take ALL of her coupons for one purchase.  She totally showed the entire store what kind of person she was, screaming “It’s not fair!  It’s not fair!  and banging the counter with her fist. On the bright side, the manager opened up another register since that one was, um, busy trying to handle the tantrum-throwing adult woman who, since she was a proven idiot, I don’t mind saying that she was also immensely obese, ugly, and her mother had dressed her funny.)  (I do not think such thoughts about nice people.)

I am all for cutting small children slack, but adults?  When it comes to public behavior?  No.  I tend to be meaner than a shithouse snake when it comes to passing judgment on adults who behave like a Willy Wonka golden ticket winner in public places.

Am I unreasonable?  I don’t think so.  Public places merit cooperation among those who choose to go there, and that means using our public manners, which should be extremely good, even extraordinary, manners.  I have VERY little tolerance for adults who make the choice to misbehave in public.  And by “very little” what I really mean is “none.”  I despise adults who don’t act politely in public.

You know. . . . jerks.  Bad people.  Idiots.  Morons.  Nasty people who ruin experiences for nice people.  Entitled people who feel they’re somehow above the rules.  Adults who believe they’re exceptions, and should be able to do whatever they want.  Grown men and women who demand more than their fair share of, well, anything.

Am I perhaps a little bit TOO mean towards such people?

No, actually, I don’t think I’m mean enough.

And if you want to argue with me about this issue, I might as well add this:  I would totally shop exclusively at any store that had the guts and gumption to approach these people and require them to do “it” right, whichever “it” the stupid person was violating, and escort them out if they refuse.  And I would really, REALLY enjoy it if the store called the police and pressed charges against these people when they refused to behave.

P.S.  I hope they start with the people who feel their business is so important that they’ve got the right to go through the 20 items line with that mounded cartful.  I really, really despise those people.  I’d hate to have their nerve in a tooth.

P.P.S.  I’m not really a mean person.  I’m just sick and tired of society putting up with mean, selfish, childish adults in public.  The more we put up with them, the meaner and more entitled they’ll get.

I maintain that nice people should trump mean people.  Everywhere.  In everything.

Bring it on.  Tell us why you’re the exception.

“Charity” doesn’t mean “giving to the poor and needy;” it means LOVE, and love covers all bases. Using a belief system to rationalize your own personal whatevers is a cop-out, plain and simple. There are people out there who need you, and to walk on by because they said or did something that “offended” you is . . . okay, I’ll say it: it’s evil. Selfish and evil.

What do we live for, if it is not to make life less difficult for each other? — George Eliot

The three stages of man:

1. He believes in Santa Claus

2. He doesn’t believe in Santa Claus

3. He IS Santa Claus.

That struck me as being funny, and true. And also, even, a little bit sad, and I’m not sure why. Poignancy is always a combination of emotions, and knowing something wonderful is temporary makes us sad, even while we revel in it.

I am Santa Claus. And I do NOT want to ever let the people I love down, at Christmas or any other time. But I also realize that the people we love most have the most potential for hurting. And for being hurt. Any people who are emotionally involved have tremendous power over each other. I hope we all try to use that power only for good.

You know, like Superman. Superman used his powers for good. Unless he was under the influence of kryptonite, in which case he became a flying armageddon.  I’ve met many human kryptonite chunks, working tirelessly to promote only their own beliefs and working just as tirelessly to tear down everybody else’s.  They work so hard at destroying that they’ve no time left for building up.

Let us never allow the influence of ‘something else’ to turn us into anything other than good.

“Something else” being possibly another person, or just, something else. “Under the influence” is “under the influence,” whatever outside ‘something else’ is influencing us.

You are Santa Claus for someone. Do not let them down.  The people you know, the people you love, the people you know AND love, and people you don’t even know, need you to be Santa Claus.  Nameless, faceless children need you.  They need you badly.  If you’ve got a biscuit, please give someone half.

No belief system in the universe is a reason NOT to be Santa for someone.

And if you are a person who does not believe in this mysterious spirit of generosity we call Santa Claus, then, um, uh, hmmm. . . . . okay, I’ll say it. You are stupid. Grow up and become Santa Claus. Somewhere out there is a child who desperately needs your powers. It might be your own child, or it might be a stranger’s. What difference does it make what child it is? Get out there and make someone happy. Or, at least, happier. Make a difference. Ho ho ho.

I’ll go even farther: If you are the kind of person who gets all huffy and offended and indignant because someone dared to wish you well in a language not suited to your personal belief system, shame on you. You’re angry because someone DARED wish you well? How dare YOU!!!!! How dare you throw someone’s sincere good wishes back into his/her face!!!!!

Now, get out there and make someone happy. If you have no children, go borrow some.

Life is so fleeting; why waste any of it in offended huffiness? We should all be trying our best to add to life, not suck the wonder out of it.

Oh, and fair warning: if you don’t like the tone of this post, suck it up. It’s the first of many, this season, because easily offended people are one of my favorite targets.

They’re the whiny kid on the playground who is good for a show every time he/she doesn’t get his/her own way.

Is that you? I hope not. Such reactions are ugly in a child, but even uglier in an adult. But if it is, I’ll say it again: shame on you.

Santa is a symbol, a representation of a person who lives to help others. He’s a role model for us all.

Bring it on.

You know.  Those people, places, events, and stories that EVERYBODY knows?

Or, rather, these days, knew. . . .

The universe is incomprehensible only to those who don’t have any imagination, and imagination is available only to those with the ability to make connections.

I’ll go a step further, so get your dukes ready to put up.

After a certain age, the ability to make connections is dependent on one’s personal choices.

Small children are prisoners in their homes, and must rely on their parents, or other adults, for their surroundings and what they’re exposed to.  Good parents, of course, make sure their children are surrounded by fairy tales, nursery rhymes, stories of all kinds, poetry, plays, lively discussion that requires knowledge and invites participation, encouragement, sharing, generosity, etc.  Poor parents set their kids in front of the TV and go about their business.

It is only by exposure to the universe that we can hope to make sense of it, and discover that sense is the least of it.

The more we know, the more we CAN know.  This requires vocabulary.

The more words we know, the more connections we can make.  The more connections we can make, the more we can understand.  The more we can understand, the more we know.  The more we know, the more we want to know.  It’s a cycle, a not-vicious circle of wonder and wit and whimsy and understanding and the wanting to understand more and more and more.

Sadly, all some people want to know is when Jerry Springer is on tonight, what’s for dinner, and who won the game.  Their children’s questions are answered with variations of “How would I know?” and “Don’t bother me; I’m exhausted.” and “Ain’t that what you go to school for?”  And worse.

We are facing a planet run by people who know nothing that isn’t literal.  They are very good (or not) at bubbling in answers, making their mark heavy and dark, but who have no idea where the planets got their names, or why William Tell shot an apple off his son’s head, or what the words “homogenized” and “pasteurized” mean on the milk carton.  Heck, tons of “educated” people couldn’t even pronounce “homogenized” or “pasteurized.”  Or read them.  Or know that the words on the outsides of our food cartons, bottles, etc, indicate what’s inside.

Or that Humpty Dumpty was far more than an egg.  Or even that he was an egg at all.

Our nursing homes (well, not mine!) will be chosen by people who speak only one language (you know, the proper one. . . .), can’t read music, don’t know the point of origin of anything, give up at once if something is difficult, don’t have anything whatsoever memorized (except the TV Guide listings), will tip the coat-check girl more than they’re willing to pay the babysitter, and think Jeopardy is boring.  The fate of the planet will soon be in the hands of people who will have to Google every simple thing because they don’t have the skills or schema to hold anything much in their heads.  They know what kind of bedroom furniture Brittney or Angelina or Lindsay have, but they couldn’t name a single living scientist.  Music consists of four chords and a lot of near-rhymes.   They know jokes about Helen Keller but they don’t know who she really was.  Or even THAT she really was.  They can’t write cursive, or read it.  And they’ve got thumbs like Popeye’s from texting 24/7 instead of paying attention to the world.  Many of them wouldn’t know who Popeye is.  Or that those big constantly tapping thumbs are “opposable.”  Or what that even means.  Of the world of inferentials, they know nothing.

This current trend of schools not requiring memorization, homework, or the actual earning of merits has got to end.  There are already far too many stupid people in the world; we don’t need any with a diploma in their hands.  A person who doesn’t earn it doesn’t deserve it.

A diploma is only for students who have proven knowledge.  A diploma is not for showing up, self-esteem, or keeping friends together.  An employer has the right to assume that a diploma represents actual earned merit, and that every holder of a diploma is literate enough to not only survive in this world but also to help others survive.  I have no problem whatsoever with holding students in a particular level until they themselves, with no outside help, prove “master enough” to earn the right to move up a notch.  Promotion is not a right; it’s the consequence for earned proof of literacy.

By not requiring that our students earn as much knowledge as possible, and by not requiring that students prove it, we are ensuring that our planet will be flushing itself down the toilet of repeated history, misunderstandings and lack of understanding, and the extolling of ignorance as the norm, instead of the shameful and easily remedied thing that it actually is.

Bring it on, youngsters.  If you have the schema to do it.

P.S.  I am not afraid of the word “stupid.”  It is NOT the same thing as “ignorant.”  We are all ignorant in many areas, but we are only stupid if we refuse to try when we have the chance.  And yes, there are an awful lot of stupid people out there.

P.P.S.  If you are not a careful reader and try to accuse me of being insensitive to special needs students, please see the above paragraph.

What’s a Hoosier Thanksgiving feast without persimmon pudding?  A travesty, that’s what!  Whoever heard of such a thing?  Ridiculous.

Persimmons don’t grow in too many places, so chances are good that most of you have never heard of them. However, southern Indiana is a persimmon tree’s favorite home, and the trees grow healthy and prolific here. My fantastic and generous Cousin C gives me persimmon pulp, fresh from her parents’ back yard.  In fact, she brought some over just today!

That means, of course, that tonight’s the night. *

Hint: Don’t EVER taste a green persimmon, unless you like the sensation a blast of raw alum gives to your lips and tongue. Persimmons must be ripe before they can be used. VERY ripe. Asking someone you’re mad at to just “touch your tongue to this green persimmon for a second” is a fun, albeit cruel (depending on the age of the taster) trick to play on someone. Raw alum on the tongue. Yum. It’s a sensation vaguely akin to being turned inside out by the tongue.

On second thought, everybody should try that at least once.  How else can you appreciate the fun of doing it to someone else?

By request (ask, and ye shall receive) here is my very own tried-and-true persimmon pudding recipe again.  I’ve tweaked it over the years until it was perfection in a pan.

Hoosiers can be very protective and possessive of their persimmon pudding recipes, but I’m not. People have been asking me for it, so here it is:

Jane’s Persimmon Pudding

First of all, preheat your oven to 325 degrees. NO HOTTER.

Get out a very large bowl.

Put the following ingredients in it:

2 C. persimmon pulp (Use fresh or frozen; the canned stuff is terrible.)

1/2 tsp. baking soda

1 1/2 C sugar (I use Splenda)

1 C brown sugar (don’t use fake)

1 1/2 tsp cinnamon

1/2 tsp salt (don’t leave it out!!!!) (don’t use fake salt, either.)

2 tsp baking powder

1 tsp vanilla

2 eggs

2 C flour

2 1/2 C evaporated milk (not sweetened milk)

1/4 stick butter (not merely oil) (margarine works, but butter is better)

Put everything in that large bowl and mix thoroughly. Use an electric mixer if you don’t think you can get it blended by hand. Get the lumps out.

Pour mixture into a large buttered baking pan.

Put the pan in the oven. Set your timer for 60 minutes.

After the timer goes off, stick a toothpick in the center of the pudding. Clean? It’s done.

Let it cool just enough to slice. Most people like to top it with whipped cream. Non-Hoosiers often sprinkle nuts on it.

You can also add coconut or pecans or cocoa to the mixture, but then it’s not Hoosier Persimmon Pudding. Your call.

*. . . for making persimmon pudding. Why, what were YOU thinking?

In my classes, I jump on almost any excuse to highlight a particular word and force my students to take it back to its point of origin. I’ve done this for a zillion years, and I’m still doing this.

It is , of course, the high point of their day something they’re used to now, and have even come to expect. Well, today it might have been a high point.

Today, we were discussing grammar via a selection in the text that highlighted legal precedures. The words ‘testimony,’ ‘testify,’ and ‘testimonial’ kept coming up.

Coming up. Mwahahahahahaha. . . . .

Although there are some who do not agree, many scholars, theologians, and historians DO agree that the word in all its aspects hearkens back to. . . . testicles.

Some of the ancients swore in court by holding on to their testicles. In the Old Testament, Abraham’s servant swore an oath by placing his hand “under the thigh” of his master. (This is a euphemism for ‘penis.’ The ancients seldom used the word itself because it was considered sacred.) (See laughter above.)

Jacob tricked his brother out of his inheritance, but he didn’t get blessed until after he wrestled with the angel -  when an oath was made for a blessing – by putting his hands on the angel’s testicles. And many scholars believe that the “sinew that shrank” was actually. . . .well, you know. And we are advised not to eat it.

Hey, no problem here.

Well, actually, there is a problem here. The problem is that now I have this stupid Twisted Christmas song running through my head:

Grahbe Yahbalz like Michael Jackson,
Fa la la la la, la la la la. . . .

Well, you get the picture. Now try to remove the picture. Not so easy, is it.

I am really not a crude person, at least not most of the time. I am really a gentle person. But life can be so darn funny, it would be inconsiderate not to laugh.

P.S. Do not confuse ‘testicles’ with any of his brothers, such as Pericles, Sophocles, or Heracles.

P.P.S. Yes, I said Heracles. Hercules is just. . . . wrong. I’d blame Disney, because even though I love Disney I like to blame Disney for plotlines gone perverted, but people were saying and spelling it wrong long before Disney stepped in. The word is “Heracles.” Not “Hercules.” He was named for Hera. Heracles.   Hera hated him, as she hated all her husband’s children by other women, but he was her namesake, nevertheless.

This is how I lecture.  Come on over.

You may now go back to your usual programming.

I worry about the future for different reasons than most people’s reasons.  I worry about the future because present generations aren’t learning about the past.

Seriously.  Our students don’t seem to have anything to make connections to, these days.  They believe ridiculous things on Facebook updates.  They don’t associate Lincoln with the Civil War.  They think the Disney versions of fairy tales are the original versions.  They don’t know that the Little Mermaid died.  They don’t know any nursery rhymes.  They can’t finish a line of poetry.  They don’t know why Paul Revere rode through the streets.  They don’t understand the difference between a comparison and a contrast.  They are uncertain about antonyms and synonyms.  Most of them have never used a thesaurus.  Some of them have never heard of a thesaurus, and when they hear the word, they think it’s a dinosaur.  Most students think a dictionary is good only for a definition, and if they don’t know how to spell a word, they can’t find it.

I worry about a future wherein the so-called “educated” population has nothing filed away in their heads, but rely on Google to find out the simplest things.  I worry about a future that has me picturing, in my head, surgeons googling the whereabouts of the spleen with the patient on the table.  Already, we have a population that doesn’t know how to do math without a calculator.

TV shows make stupid people seem like the norm, and ignorance seem like the ideal.  Our schools are emphasizing conformity and punishing creativity.  Physical ability is trophied even while much of the population’s physical ability is atrophied.  Academic success is pretty much ignored lest some kid’s self-esteem suffer because he/she can’t do “it” as well.

Excellent work that, a generation ago, would have been put up on the wall so all could see and benefit and honor it, is now hastily shunted away because not everybody can do that well.  Kids who can’t do that well now no longer have examples of what things could be like if they worked harder, etc.  Bright, fast kids are advised to slow down, and ignorant teachers “reward” them by giving them more of the same or, even worse, relegating them to the hallway where they spend the day tutoring slow kids.

I worry about the future because people know nothing about the past these days.  I worry about the future because people are spending the present letting other people think for them.

What kind of future is in store for our children if they are not taught about the past, and encouraged to do things more than one way, and encouraged to apply and connect this with that, and that with the other?

Education is about connections.  If our students have nothing in their heads, lives, or experiences, what sense can they make about anything?  How can things be relevant if there is no relativity?

I’ve had students who couldn’t follow the directions on a box of brownie mix.  Oh, they could read the directions, but they weren’t sure about teaspoons, tablespoons, and measuring cups.  Imagine.

Speaking of “imagine,”  I’ve had students who had a hard time imagining anything because imagination requires connections, too.  Image-ing is possible only with prior knowledge – schema.  How can we create the “magic” part of “i-mage-ing” unless we know as much as possible about as many things as possible?

The more schema we can bring to the table, the more connections we’re able to make.  The more connections we make, the more we can understand.  The more we understand, the more we learn.  The more we learn, the more we know.  The more we know, the better able we are to cope and improve the universe.  Not to even mention those  sofa Jeopardy wins.

As for those teachers who advocate “no memorizing, no studying, no homework, no proving knowledge or mastery, and almost total dependence on electronics,” I have only this to say.

Bullshit.  You’re all full of bullshit.

And this from Mamacita, who advocates tech so thoroughly and enthusiastically that my students who don’t use the social networking that they were told to use are left out of the announcement loop altogether.

P.S.  Dear Students:  Midterms are this week.  If you skived off class and didn’t check Twitter, Facebook, Google +, or email, you’ve got a big surprise coming.

And if you aren’t able to make connections, it won’t do you much good to show up, anyway.

I’m tired of my ankles turning because of the nuts. I’m tired of mowing over the nuts and flinging them towards someone else’s yard.

Everywhere I turn, it’s nuts, nuts, nuts.

I can’t even walk without stepping on nuts and tripping.

I’m reminded of a fall drive we once took, when the kids were small. We drove past a farm, and as usual slowed down so the kids could see the animals. In this case, pigs. Huge pigs. Huge male pigs. Huge male pigs who could hardly walk. And why, you might ask, couldn’t the huge male pigs walk around in their pen?

Same reason nobody can walk around in this yard. They kept stepping on their darn nuts.

The kids still talk about that trip. Well, not the TRIP, per se, but the sights. That one, in particular.  In fact, the kids still quote me.  I guess it IS pretty funny, what I said, but the truth was, I was flabbergasted by the sight of those huge nuts being stepped on by those huge sharp hoofs.  I’d tell you what I said, but I’m afraid you might not respect me any more if you knew.  Besides, one of my kids will probably tell you all in the comments anyway.

We used to have the same problem with balls, but that, like this, was purely seasonal.

Bring it on, Google.

Most of the time, THOSE parents never darkened the door of the school for any reason. Occasionally, one of them would actually show up for a conference, and I would sit there on the other side of the table gritting my teeth and gripping a pencil so tight that sometimes it broke, because nine times out of ten, the parent of my raggedy little starveling was dressed pretty darn well, and it was rare that he/she didn’t reek of cigarette smoke. In other words, money WAS being spent, but not on the child.

Cigarettes in the purse, no socks on the child. Beer in the refrigerator, no decent shoes for the child. Nice clothes on the adult, rags on the child.  Warm winter coat on the adult, a t-shirt on the child.

I can feel my blood pressure rising as I remember it.

Why, why, WHY, when these poor kids are constantly removed from these ‘homes,’ are they just as constantly put right back in to be mistreated just like before? Sometimes, in fact most times, ‘keeping the family together’ is NOT important. Sometimes, splitting a family apart is the best thing that could ever happen to it. When parents do not behave like adults, they have no business inflicting it on innocent children. Get the kids out of that house, and put them where they’ll be fed and clothed and loved. Any adult who would buy cigarettes when his/her child has no socks, is a monster, not fit to raise a child. Addictions? Cry me a river. The needs of children always come before any needs of an adult. And especially before an adult’s hobby, toy, or habit.  In fact, the needs of children come before ANYTHING remotely to do with an adult.

“Wahwahwah, don’t I deserve to have a life?”  Actually, no, you don’t.  Not until you have made sure your children’s needs have been taken care of, and, sadly enough for you, sometimes the bars have closed by the time you can go.  Of course, there’s always the 24-hour WalMart – you can throw a t-shirt on over your thong and your spike heels and get your cigarettes there.  Hey, you might even show up later on People of Walmart!  8-year-old Susie can watch the younger kids till you get home.  Wake her up and put her to work; she’s used to it.

Look around. Every person has a story to tell. Sometimes you can tell by their outsides, and sometimes you can’t.

Most of the time, that story has something to do with their home, and who was there, and who WASN’T there.

Some people are parents via biology or adoption, and others are parents via fate. There is no guarantee which kind will be the best kind.

I would bet money, though, if I had any money, that an adult who would put his/her own selfish wants and addictions over and above the needs of a little child, is not even going to be in the running. Shame on them. Shame, and more shame.

I do not understand many things in this world, and one of them is this: when “everybody” knows a home is not a fit place for a child, why does “everybody” talk about that fact, yet allow the child to remain in the home?

“What a shame, those poor kids, alcohol, drugs, prostitution, gambling, live-in lovers, possible molestation. . . . .” and then we watch them get on the bus, knowing they’re going “home” to hell house.

I know that mistakes are made all the time, in removing children from so-called ‘homes,’ but I think even more mistakes are made all the time in NOT removing children. Why should their worthless parents have all the rights, and the children have none?

I am so down tonight. I wish I could gather up all these kids and wash them, and feed them, and put clean socks on their feet, and intact shoes, and pretty clothes. I wish I could fill Christmas stockings and Easter baskets for them, and hug them, and give each one a doll or toy of some kind that would be their very own and nobody else’s. And if their worthless deadbeat parent tried to take it and sell it for drugs or booze, I hope a sensor in it would explode and wipe that bum off the face of the earth. Peace on earth, yes.

Read it right: “Peace on earth to men of good will.”

The other kind can bite me.