Just putting it here so I don't lose the instructions (again).
Basically with a 1000 watt Microwave, kick it down to 70% power. 1 1/2 cups water, 2 1/2 cups rice for 13 to 15 minutes.
Sunday, January 30, 2011
Saturday, December 25, 2010
FNF: Christmas Memories
This year I have been a little down in the dumps about Christmas. However, in the past there have been some funny moments from Christmas. I decided to write them down. So here we go…
A Wal-Mart Christmas Carol
Twas a couple days before Christmas many years ago. My friend Johnna owned a small salon in Mishawaka Indiana. Her Christmas party that she held at the shop was one of the best I ever attended. On the face it wasn’t extravagant, some holiday decorations, and food brought in. But we played board games and cards and laughed all night, and enjoyed ourselves immensely.
I came up with a collection of “Salon Carols” that I wish I saved the lyrics for. Basically I took classic Christmas songs and changed the lyrics around in my typical creative style. We sang them, horribly off key.
Johnna had a last minute gift she needed to get at Wal-Mart, so off to the store we went. We were all in a little bit of a playful mood, and oddly stone cold sober. Johnna enters the store and decides she wants a career as a greeter there, so she tells the crowd “Welcome to Wal-Mart, the carts are in the back!”.
The Christmas gift Johnna needs to buy is a Dremel brand Rotary Tool. She finds exactly what she needs and we all head to the counter so she can make her purchase.
We get to the counter, and the clerk tries to scan the tool. After several passes, she realizes that it won’t go through. She punches in the UPC, but apparently the register asks her for the name as well. It isn’t a standard keyboard on the register, and she doesn’t apparently type letter characters often. So She takes a moment to enter it…. D…. R…..E….M….E…… The cashier couldn’t find the last letter for Dremel. To which she responds. “There is No ‘L’”
Being in our giddy mood, I lead our little group in a stirring musical rendition of “No ‘L’, No ‘L’, No ‘L’, No ‘L’…”. We got some stares from shoppers that night, and sadly no tips or even any Wassail.
Male Chauvinist Child
OK, I admit it, I grew up in an old fashioned “traditional” family environment. Dad worked at Republic Steel Mill, Mom stayed home and took care of the house and cooked the food. As an impressionable youth, I had some very clear views on the roles of women and men. Since, of course, I have come to respect that the roles can be different, even entirely reversed. OK, disclaimers made.
One Christmas as a child, my Mother took me to a Christmas party of some kind. It was huge with a lot of kids in attendance. At the party they had both Santa and Mrs. Claus, and kids were lining up to visit one or the other. The line to see Santa as humongous, while the line to talk to Mrs. Claus was notably smaller.
So Mom encourages me to talk to Mrs. Claus, because the line is shorter. “You know Keith, she’ll tell Santa everything you tell her”, my Mom explains to me. It made sense to me because Mom tells Dad everything I do, especially when I do something bad.
We get in the short line and wait patiently to see Mrs. Claus. When it is my turn I get up and ask her “Hey, what are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be at home cooking and cleaning for Santa and the Elves?” My Mom shook her head in disbelief. To this day she still likes telling this tale of her chauvinistic son.
Great Grandma Newcomb
No collection of Christmas memories would be complete for me without a mention of my Great Grandmother Martha Newcomb. She was a little, frail, bookish retired schoolteacher. In fact, I think she was one of the very first schoolteachers in her small town in Indiana.
Every year, she would come to Chicago to the home of my Grandma Gergel to visit with the family. All my cousins were there, and we would eat Grandma’s excellent turkey dinner, open gifts, and play cards. (I am starting to notice a pattern of good Christmases and card playing).
Every year, Great Grandma Newcomb would give the kids shirts with our names on it. I would get a shirt with the name “KEITH” blazoned across it, as my brother got one with “MARK” on it.
Being a kid back then, I never understood what the shirts were about, or even questioned them. My brother, cousins, and I would all wear ours and think nothing of it.
See, Great Grandma was famous for what the family called “Grandma Newcomb-itus” where she couldn’t keep people’s names straight. Especially all the kids. So the names on the shirts were a clever ruse by her to get around it. We would sit next to her, she would read the shirt, and then she would ask us by name how school was going, etc.
It’s a shame that I didn’t figure it out sooner. Would have loved to switch shirts with my cousins and had her think that my name is “DANNY” or even funnier yet “JENNY”.
Great Grandma Newcomb also had a tradition. Every Christmas she would save the ribbons off all of the presents. She would collect them all in a paper bag and take them home with her.
For years we wondered what she did with them, because from what we saw she never used one of the old ribbons in a following Christmas. I don’t think anyone even ever asked her either.
My Great Grandma Newcomb made to live to see her upper upper 90s. We were all rooting for her to hit the big 100, but that didn’t happen sadly. My Dad told me that after she passed, they opened one of the closets in her home and out fell thousands upon thousands of Christmas ribbons.
Great Grandma Newcomb used to always cook a Wick’s Sugar Cream Pie when we visited her in Indiana. Every once in awhile I get one of those pies at the store, and think of her, and the Christmas ribbons.
A Very Merry Christmas to everyone, and even those who do not celebrate the holiday (like myself this year): Being the end of the year it is only proper to reflect on the past and the good times shared with family and friends. For January brings a new year, full of promise and hope. I wish everyone luck, health, and prosperity in the coming year.
Thanks for reading.
A Wal-Mart Christmas Carol
Twas a couple days before Christmas many years ago. My friend Johnna owned a small salon in Mishawaka Indiana. Her Christmas party that she held at the shop was one of the best I ever attended. On the face it wasn’t extravagant, some holiday decorations, and food brought in. But we played board games and cards and laughed all night, and enjoyed ourselves immensely.
I came up with a collection of “Salon Carols” that I wish I saved the lyrics for. Basically I took classic Christmas songs and changed the lyrics around in my typical creative style. We sang them, horribly off key.
Johnna had a last minute gift she needed to get at Wal-Mart, so off to the store we went. We were all in a little bit of a playful mood, and oddly stone cold sober. Johnna enters the store and decides she wants a career as a greeter there, so she tells the crowd “Welcome to Wal-Mart, the carts are in the back!”.
The Christmas gift Johnna needs to buy is a Dremel brand Rotary Tool. She finds exactly what she needs and we all head to the counter so she can make her purchase.
We get to the counter, and the clerk tries to scan the tool. After several passes, she realizes that it won’t go through. She punches in the UPC, but apparently the register asks her for the name as well. It isn’t a standard keyboard on the register, and she doesn’t apparently type letter characters often. So She takes a moment to enter it…. D…. R…..E….M….E…… The cashier couldn’t find the last letter for Dremel. To which she responds. “There is No ‘L’”
Being in our giddy mood, I lead our little group in a stirring musical rendition of “No ‘L’, No ‘L’, No ‘L’, No ‘L’…”. We got some stares from shoppers that night, and sadly no tips or even any Wassail.
Male Chauvinist Child
OK, I admit it, I grew up in an old fashioned “traditional” family environment. Dad worked at Republic Steel Mill, Mom stayed home and took care of the house and cooked the food. As an impressionable youth, I had some very clear views on the roles of women and men. Since, of course, I have come to respect that the roles can be different, even entirely reversed. OK, disclaimers made.
One Christmas as a child, my Mother took me to a Christmas party of some kind. It was huge with a lot of kids in attendance. At the party they had both Santa and Mrs. Claus, and kids were lining up to visit one or the other. The line to see Santa as humongous, while the line to talk to Mrs. Claus was notably smaller.
So Mom encourages me to talk to Mrs. Claus, because the line is shorter. “You know Keith, she’ll tell Santa everything you tell her”, my Mom explains to me. It made sense to me because Mom tells Dad everything I do, especially when I do something bad.
We get in the short line and wait patiently to see Mrs. Claus. When it is my turn I get up and ask her “Hey, what are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be at home cooking and cleaning for Santa and the Elves?” My Mom shook her head in disbelief. To this day she still likes telling this tale of her chauvinistic son.
Great Grandma Newcomb
No collection of Christmas memories would be complete for me without a mention of my Great Grandmother Martha Newcomb. She was a little, frail, bookish retired schoolteacher. In fact, I think she was one of the very first schoolteachers in her small town in Indiana.
Every year, she would come to Chicago to the home of my Grandma Gergel to visit with the family. All my cousins were there, and we would eat Grandma’s excellent turkey dinner, open gifts, and play cards. (I am starting to notice a pattern of good Christmases and card playing).
Every year, Great Grandma Newcomb would give the kids shirts with our names on it. I would get a shirt with the name “KEITH” blazoned across it, as my brother got one with “MARK” on it.
Being a kid back then, I never understood what the shirts were about, or even questioned them. My brother, cousins, and I would all wear ours and think nothing of it.
See, Great Grandma was famous for what the family called “Grandma Newcomb-itus” where she couldn’t keep people’s names straight. Especially all the kids. So the names on the shirts were a clever ruse by her to get around it. We would sit next to her, she would read the shirt, and then she would ask us by name how school was going, etc.
It’s a shame that I didn’t figure it out sooner. Would have loved to switch shirts with my cousins and had her think that my name is “DANNY” or even funnier yet “JENNY”.
Great Grandma Newcomb also had a tradition. Every Christmas she would save the ribbons off all of the presents. She would collect them all in a paper bag and take them home with her.
For years we wondered what she did with them, because from what we saw she never used one of the old ribbons in a following Christmas. I don’t think anyone even ever asked her either.
My Great Grandma Newcomb made to live to see her upper upper 90s. We were all rooting for her to hit the big 100, but that didn’t happen sadly. My Dad told me that after she passed, they opened one of the closets in her home and out fell thousands upon thousands of Christmas ribbons.
Great Grandma Newcomb used to always cook a Wick’s Sugar Cream Pie when we visited her in Indiana. Every once in awhile I get one of those pies at the store, and think of her, and the Christmas ribbons.
A Very Merry Christmas to everyone, and even those who do not celebrate the holiday (like myself this year): Being the end of the year it is only proper to reflect on the past and the good times shared with family and friends. For January brings a new year, full of promise and hope. I wish everyone luck, health, and prosperity in the coming year.
Thanks for reading.
Thursday, October 7, 2010
Tonk
A Fun Card Game
One Poker Deck of 52 cards, not using Jokers
Three tokens for each player (these can be nickels, quarters, or just poker chips)
History
When I was a kid my Great Grandmother Martha Newcomb brought to us a card game. The adults and kids alike loved to play it. Typically we would play for nickels. Every Christmas and Thanksgiving we would bring nickels to play Tonk.
I am not sure about where the game actually came from. I have heard variations called “Knock Poker”. Researching various books on card games revealed that the actual card game of Tonk is completely different. Presented are the rules as we played and enjoyed them.
The Game
The game starts with all players sitting at a table with three tokens in front of each player. The first dealer is decided or randomly determined. The dealer shuffles and deals three cards face down to each player, puts the remaining cards in the center of the table, and overturns the top card which becomes the discard pile.
The player to the dealer’s right is the player that gets to go first. The player looks at his three cards. The score of the player’s hand is determined by the highest number of one suit. For example, having 5♥, K♣, and 2♣ represents a score of 12, with the king counting as 10. The five of hearts is not part of the score since combination of the other two cards is higher. The score must all be in the same suit. The face cards (king, queen, and jack) all have a value of 10. The Ace has a value of 11. The number cards from 2 through 10 are scored based on that number.
The player has the following choices:
1.) The player can draw the top upward facing card from the discard pile, usually to complement his/her hand and increase his/her score. However since it is face up for all to see, doing so reveals what suit you are saving to other players, and you might not get lucky in getting another good discard on future turns. The player then discards one card face up to the discard pile.
2.) The player can draw the top downward facing card off of the deck. This will allow the player to keep what is received a secret. The player then discards one card face up to the discard pile.
3.) You can “knock”. When you knock, you physically knock on the table. Deciding to knock is important. What you are doing is telling the other players that you believe that your hand is the highest, or at the very least your hand is not the lowest. When you knock, you do not get a turn, instead your opponents get one extra round to improve their hand. When the turn returns to you, everyone reveals their cards. The player with the lowest score puts one of their tokens in the center. If two or more players have the same lowest score, all of them put a token in the center.
The highest score possible is 31, which includes an Ace and two cards with a value of 10. Again, they must all be in the same suit. When it is your turn, and you have acquired this score of 31, or if you have been dealt the score and it is your turn, you put down your cards and announce “Tonk!”. All of the player's opponents who got Tonked put one of their tokens into the center of the pot. The player who got the Tonk does not lose a token.
The player to the dealer’s right that is still in the game shuffles and deals three cards to each player, and play continues.
As I stated previously, all the players start with three tokens. These represent three strikes. However in the course of play, players will lose these tokens. When a player has lost all three of his/her tokens to the pot, he/she is allowed to play “on their honor”. This is like an invisible fourth token. It is completely possible for a player to win the game on their honor. If the player loses on their honor, he/she leaves the table and is out of the game.
Play continues until one player is left at the table. At that point, the one remaining player takes the pot and wins the game.
One Poker Deck of 52 cards, not using Jokers
Three tokens for each player (these can be nickels, quarters, or just poker chips)
History
When I was a kid my Great Grandmother Martha Newcomb brought to us a card game. The adults and kids alike loved to play it. Typically we would play for nickels. Every Christmas and Thanksgiving we would bring nickels to play Tonk.
I am not sure about where the game actually came from. I have heard variations called “Knock Poker”. Researching various books on card games revealed that the actual card game of Tonk is completely different. Presented are the rules as we played and enjoyed them.
The Game
The game starts with all players sitting at a table with three tokens in front of each player. The first dealer is decided or randomly determined. The dealer shuffles and deals three cards face down to each player, puts the remaining cards in the center of the table, and overturns the top card which becomes the discard pile.
The player to the dealer’s right is the player that gets to go first. The player looks at his three cards. The score of the player’s hand is determined by the highest number of one suit. For example, having 5♥, K♣, and 2♣ represents a score of 12, with the king counting as 10. The five of hearts is not part of the score since combination of the other two cards is higher. The score must all be in the same suit. The face cards (king, queen, and jack) all have a value of 10. The Ace has a value of 11. The number cards from 2 through 10 are scored based on that number.
The player has the following choices:
1.) The player can draw the top upward facing card from the discard pile, usually to complement his/her hand and increase his/her score. However since it is face up for all to see, doing so reveals what suit you are saving to other players, and you might not get lucky in getting another good discard on future turns. The player then discards one card face up to the discard pile.
2.) The player can draw the top downward facing card off of the deck. This will allow the player to keep what is received a secret. The player then discards one card face up to the discard pile.
3.) You can “knock”. When you knock, you physically knock on the table. Deciding to knock is important. What you are doing is telling the other players that you believe that your hand is the highest, or at the very least your hand is not the lowest. When you knock, you do not get a turn, instead your opponents get one extra round to improve their hand. When the turn returns to you, everyone reveals their cards. The player with the lowest score puts one of their tokens in the center. If two or more players have the same lowest score, all of them put a token in the center.
The highest score possible is 31, which includes an Ace and two cards with a value of 10. Again, they must all be in the same suit. When it is your turn, and you have acquired this score of 31, or if you have been dealt the score and it is your turn, you put down your cards and announce “Tonk!”. All of the player's opponents who got Tonked put one of their tokens into the center of the pot. The player who got the Tonk does not lose a token.
The player to the dealer’s right that is still in the game shuffles and deals three cards to each player, and play continues.
As I stated previously, all the players start with three tokens. These represent three strikes. However in the course of play, players will lose these tokens. When a player has lost all three of his/her tokens to the pot, he/she is allowed to play “on their honor”. This is like an invisible fourth token. It is completely possible for a player to win the game on their honor. If the player loses on their honor, he/she leaves the table and is out of the game.
Play continues until one player is left at the table. At that point, the one remaining player takes the pot and wins the game.
Friday, September 24, 2010
FNF: Open Mouth Insert Foot
This week’s FNF is rather short, but they do take longer to set up than facebook would allow me to post there. So here we go…
I am sure everyone had those moments where you said something that maybe you shouldn’t have, catching yourself later. These are two such circumstances.
The first one happened very recently, last weekend in fact. I finally decided on getting another gaming system. I am totally against Microsoft after purchasing my Zune only to have it totally die on me. Also, I have heard and seen the “red rings of death” on the Xbox. So I believe that Microsoft can’t make decent hardware and won’t buy an Xbox, even though the games look very attractive.
I decided on a Nintendo Wii. I have to admit that I like the way you wave the wand around and it way it reacts. Even a simple game of bowling is made fun with it. Plus Netflix works on the Wii, so that is a plus there as well.
So I walk into Wal-Mart last weekend to look at a Nintendo Wii game system. I go to the glass counter, and I see they have two. However, something is different, these are black. Before I decided on purchasing one, I wanted to make sure that it was as good (if not better) than the traditional white one I have seen before.
The case is locked, so I need to find someone to help me. I go to the electronics counter and wait for an available salesperson. A dark skinned African-American sales associate was at the counter. Without thinking I blurt out… “Hello, I would like to see your BLACK Wii (wee) please.” … I then stumbled, because although the gentleman was attractive I was not hitting on him… and then quickly recovered “the Nintendo Wii in the case, I would like to take a look”. I don’t think he caught it, or didn’t call attention to my remark. He got another associate with keys to show me to the case, and I bought one.
The next stumble happened some time ago. For all the restaurant chains in Columbus, there aren’t a lot of Long John Silver seafood restaurants. I have to travel a bit to get to the one closest to where I live.
At the time, they were having a special called the “Boatload of Seafood” which included basically everything from fish, shrimp, clams, etc etc. It looked good.
So I get up to the counter, look the cashier right in the eyes and place my order for a “BUTTLOAD of Seafood”. Apparently my filthy mind decided to take over. I was embarrassed, but the cashier admitted it was a more common mistake than I thought and we had a bit of a laugh about it.
Words are fun, and even when we stumble on them, they can be more fun.
The trick is having the ability to laugh at yourself about it later.
I am sure everyone had those moments where you said something that maybe you shouldn’t have, catching yourself later. These are two such circumstances.
The first one happened very recently, last weekend in fact. I finally decided on getting another gaming system. I am totally against Microsoft after purchasing my Zune only to have it totally die on me. Also, I have heard and seen the “red rings of death” on the Xbox. So I believe that Microsoft can’t make decent hardware and won’t buy an Xbox, even though the games look very attractive.
I decided on a Nintendo Wii. I have to admit that I like the way you wave the wand around and it way it reacts. Even a simple game of bowling is made fun with it. Plus Netflix works on the Wii, so that is a plus there as well.
So I walk into Wal-Mart last weekend to look at a Nintendo Wii game system. I go to the glass counter, and I see they have two. However, something is different, these are black. Before I decided on purchasing one, I wanted to make sure that it was as good (if not better) than the traditional white one I have seen before.
The case is locked, so I need to find someone to help me. I go to the electronics counter and wait for an available salesperson. A dark skinned African-American sales associate was at the counter. Without thinking I blurt out… “Hello, I would like to see your BLACK Wii (wee) please.” … I then stumbled, because although the gentleman was attractive I was not hitting on him… and then quickly recovered “the Nintendo Wii in the case, I would like to take a look”. I don’t think he caught it, or didn’t call attention to my remark. He got another associate with keys to show me to the case, and I bought one.
The next stumble happened some time ago. For all the restaurant chains in Columbus, there aren’t a lot of Long John Silver seafood restaurants. I have to travel a bit to get to the one closest to where I live.
At the time, they were having a special called the “Boatload of Seafood” which included basically everything from fish, shrimp, clams, etc etc. It looked good.
So I get up to the counter, look the cashier right in the eyes and place my order for a “BUTTLOAD of Seafood”. Apparently my filthy mind decided to take over. I was embarrassed, but the cashier admitted it was a more common mistake than I thought and we had a bit of a laugh about it.
Words are fun, and even when we stumble on them, they can be more fun.
The trick is having the ability to laugh at yourself about it later.
Friday, August 20, 2010
FNF: No Substitute for Class
After I graduated college, the job market was bad. Very similar to how bad the job market is now. At the time, I was able to find a part time job working at Liberty Mutual Insurance Company.
The job basically became a dead end, with no hopes of going to full time or movement anywhere in the company. So I needed to leave and find something else. But what?
Then I thought of going to become a substitute teacher. Nice flexible hours, easy to cancel if I had an interview. A prime job for someone to look for a prime job. My Mom had substituted before with great success, so it was time for me to give it a try.
My first assignment was for Physical Education. A bit of a disappointment since PE was never my kind of class. In point of fact it was the class I hated the most. Still, I took the assignment thinking that the kids would be doing most of the actual exercise, and most of the coaches I had growing up that taught PE were chubbier and more out of shape than I.
The challenge though is this PE class was at a place called the Family Children’s Center (FCC) in Mishawaka Indiana. It was a facility for troubled youth, with serious behavioral problems. Again, not really daunted by that either.
So I get there to teach PE, and was told where the gym and the coach’s office was. Walked into the office and found the notes the coach left. You’ll never guess what sport they were doing: DODGE BALL.
OK, let’s take some behaviorally challenged junior high age students. We are dealing with severe emotional problems as well as hormones causing their system to go completely bonkers. Now we are going to give them inflatable balls and actually telling them to smack each other with them.
Plus lets give this to the new substitute whose first day of teaching. Ain’t gonna happen!
So I talk to the other coach as well as the teaching assistants telling them no dodge ball. One suggests they use the weight room. First, I had no training in what to do with weights myself and felt uncomfortable. Second, the prospect of these emotionally challenged kids having access to large metal objects didn’t seem like a good idea either. If you can imagine how I felt about one of them throwing a rubber ball, I am sure you understand my fear of them throwing a five-pound weight. Again, ain’t gonna happen!
They wound up doing basic calisthenics and running around the gym. Safety first!
Later I had a discussion with the teacher, and he was apologetic. Apparently there was a regular TA (teaching assistant) that actually ran the class in his absence. That TA was out that day too. While they did do dodge ball apparently it was only with three balls, and it was a set of oversized ones that couldn’t really be tossed with much velocity. Apparently these larger balls were locked up too so I could have only gotten the smaller ones, most of them under inflated and could reach almost terminal velocity.
I would wind up teaching Junior High, and Special Education classes a lot, and had a lot of assignments at the FCC. Though that was the last attempt I made at PE at the FCC.
Later on, there would be another assignment at the FCC. Special Education from the substitute teacher’s perspective is extremely boring. A lot of the time the students are just doing deskwork and no real class to teach. Once in awhile the occasional question. I found myself doing a lot of reading.
The Special Ed classes would always have TAs to help with the discipline issues, of which there were many. Sometimes children would need to be physically restrained because they were in danger of hurting themselves and others.
OK, so I am in a class and the students are doing their deskwork. A student asked me for a pencil because he had some math to do. I didn’t think anything of it at the time. I mean if someone asks you for a pencil, don’t you give them a pencil?
I go to the teacher’s desk and find a pencil. I then start making my way to the kid’s desk and start to hand him the pencil. Out of nowhere I hear a shout of “NO!” and one of the teaching assistants jumps up and grabs the pencil out of my hand.
Later on, I heard from the TA that the student once took a pencil and jammed it into a substitute’s arm for no apparent reason. What is this? Hannibal Lecter Jr. High?
After that my fears on the PE class seemed entirely justified. If a pencil is a weapon then so are metal weights and rubber balls.
After I got accustomed more to the setting and the rules, my days teaching at the FCC were very enjoyable and rewarding. While the kids had some serious emotional control issues, they were interested in learning, and there were some brilliant young minds there.
But the hilarious story was not at the FCC, but at a regular Junior High School…
See once they find out you are willing to substitute teach Jr. High and Special Ed, you become a very busy person. Not a lot of substitutes want to take those assignments.
As luck would have it a teacher was out for a whole week and I got the assignment for that whole week. Money is good, and after my experience at the FCC I was ready for anything.
I forget his name, but we will call him Jacob. Jacob was a bit of a problem that week. He had this thing about spit balls. He loved to hit the other students with them. Of course I tried telling him to stop, caught him several times, even sent him to the Principal’s Office. The other students were relieved because they were tired of it.
So it’s my last day at this assignment, and other than Jacob it has been a model class with no problems. And the last day there are a series of tests. I warn all the students that there will be no talking or interruptions of any kind during the tests. If there is, I told them I would confiscate the paper and they would have to talk to their regular teacher about a retake of the test.
Jacob actually was doing his test work… when suddenly THWACK!
A spitball hits Jacob. He starts to turn around in his desk to see who it was. To which I tell him “keep your eye on your own paper”.
Again he goes back to work… and then suddenly another THWACK!
Right in the back of the neck! Again he turns around, and this time complains that someone is hitting him with spitballs.
I respond, “I will keep my eye on you and if I see anyone shooting spitballs at you, they will go to the Principals office”.
Again, back to his work…. and another THWACK!
He jumps up and asks me if I saw anything. He then accuses two other students that were behind him of spitballs. I didn’t see anything and told him that I think he wass imagining things to cause a disruption, and if that is his game he can go to the Principal’s office.
The next three times… THWACK! THWACK! THWACK! He just sat there and took the spitballs.
At that point, I gently put the hollowed out pen I hid in my right hand back into the teacher’s desk. And discarded the remaining spitballs I had made.
Apparently no one ever suspects it was the substitute teacher that would do such a thing.
Revenge was mine and justice was served.
I would find out later from Jacob’s regular teacher that Jacob had stopped with the spitballs. So apparently it taught him a little about how it felt to be on the other end.
The job basically became a dead end, with no hopes of going to full time or movement anywhere in the company. So I needed to leave and find something else. But what?
Then I thought of going to become a substitute teacher. Nice flexible hours, easy to cancel if I had an interview. A prime job for someone to look for a prime job. My Mom had substituted before with great success, so it was time for me to give it a try.
My first assignment was for Physical Education. A bit of a disappointment since PE was never my kind of class. In point of fact it was the class I hated the most. Still, I took the assignment thinking that the kids would be doing most of the actual exercise, and most of the coaches I had growing up that taught PE were chubbier and more out of shape than I.
The challenge though is this PE class was at a place called the Family Children’s Center (FCC) in Mishawaka Indiana. It was a facility for troubled youth, with serious behavioral problems. Again, not really daunted by that either.
So I get there to teach PE, and was told where the gym and the coach’s office was. Walked into the office and found the notes the coach left. You’ll never guess what sport they were doing: DODGE BALL.
OK, let’s take some behaviorally challenged junior high age students. We are dealing with severe emotional problems as well as hormones causing their system to go completely bonkers. Now we are going to give them inflatable balls and actually telling them to smack each other with them.
Plus lets give this to the new substitute whose first day of teaching. Ain’t gonna happen!
So I talk to the other coach as well as the teaching assistants telling them no dodge ball. One suggests they use the weight room. First, I had no training in what to do with weights myself and felt uncomfortable. Second, the prospect of these emotionally challenged kids having access to large metal objects didn’t seem like a good idea either. If you can imagine how I felt about one of them throwing a rubber ball, I am sure you understand my fear of them throwing a five-pound weight. Again, ain’t gonna happen!
They wound up doing basic calisthenics and running around the gym. Safety first!
Later I had a discussion with the teacher, and he was apologetic. Apparently there was a regular TA (teaching assistant) that actually ran the class in his absence. That TA was out that day too. While they did do dodge ball apparently it was only with three balls, and it was a set of oversized ones that couldn’t really be tossed with much velocity. Apparently these larger balls were locked up too so I could have only gotten the smaller ones, most of them under inflated and could reach almost terminal velocity.
I would wind up teaching Junior High, and Special Education classes a lot, and had a lot of assignments at the FCC. Though that was the last attempt I made at PE at the FCC.
Later on, there would be another assignment at the FCC. Special Education from the substitute teacher’s perspective is extremely boring. A lot of the time the students are just doing deskwork and no real class to teach. Once in awhile the occasional question. I found myself doing a lot of reading.
The Special Ed classes would always have TAs to help with the discipline issues, of which there were many. Sometimes children would need to be physically restrained because they were in danger of hurting themselves and others.
OK, so I am in a class and the students are doing their deskwork. A student asked me for a pencil because he had some math to do. I didn’t think anything of it at the time. I mean if someone asks you for a pencil, don’t you give them a pencil?
I go to the teacher’s desk and find a pencil. I then start making my way to the kid’s desk and start to hand him the pencil. Out of nowhere I hear a shout of “NO!” and one of the teaching assistants jumps up and grabs the pencil out of my hand.
Later on, I heard from the TA that the student once took a pencil and jammed it into a substitute’s arm for no apparent reason. What is this? Hannibal Lecter Jr. High?
After that my fears on the PE class seemed entirely justified. If a pencil is a weapon then so are metal weights and rubber balls.
After I got accustomed more to the setting and the rules, my days teaching at the FCC were very enjoyable and rewarding. While the kids had some serious emotional control issues, they were interested in learning, and there were some brilliant young minds there.
But the hilarious story was not at the FCC, but at a regular Junior High School…
See once they find out you are willing to substitute teach Jr. High and Special Ed, you become a very busy person. Not a lot of substitutes want to take those assignments.
As luck would have it a teacher was out for a whole week and I got the assignment for that whole week. Money is good, and after my experience at the FCC I was ready for anything.
I forget his name, but we will call him Jacob. Jacob was a bit of a problem that week. He had this thing about spit balls. He loved to hit the other students with them. Of course I tried telling him to stop, caught him several times, even sent him to the Principal’s Office. The other students were relieved because they were tired of it.
So it’s my last day at this assignment, and other than Jacob it has been a model class with no problems. And the last day there are a series of tests. I warn all the students that there will be no talking or interruptions of any kind during the tests. If there is, I told them I would confiscate the paper and they would have to talk to their regular teacher about a retake of the test.
Jacob actually was doing his test work… when suddenly THWACK!
A spitball hits Jacob. He starts to turn around in his desk to see who it was. To which I tell him “keep your eye on your own paper”.
Again he goes back to work… and then suddenly another THWACK!
Right in the back of the neck! Again he turns around, and this time complains that someone is hitting him with spitballs.
I respond, “I will keep my eye on you and if I see anyone shooting spitballs at you, they will go to the Principals office”.
Again, back to his work…. and another THWACK!
He jumps up and asks me if I saw anything. He then accuses two other students that were behind him of spitballs. I didn’t see anything and told him that I think he wass imagining things to cause a disruption, and if that is his game he can go to the Principal’s office.
The next three times… THWACK! THWACK! THWACK! He just sat there and took the spitballs.
At that point, I gently put the hollowed out pen I hid in my right hand back into the teacher’s desk. And discarded the remaining spitballs I had made.
Apparently no one ever suspects it was the substitute teacher that would do such a thing.
Revenge was mine and justice was served.
I would find out later from Jacob’s regular teacher that Jacob had stopped with the spitballs. So apparently it taught him a little about how it felt to be on the other end.
Friday, June 4, 2010
FNF: I am Not French, but I Kiss That Way
Sorry to go so long without a FNF (Friday Night Funny) Story. Not that I have run out of stories to tell, not by a long shot. Basically it came down to other things taking precedence. So today I am giving you an extra big (Super Size) FNF.
Today it is all about French.
Let me start before High School, when I was a pre-teen. My parents and I loved to travel via camper and see most of the United States. One of our destinations was Quebec Canada. Quebec is a fascinating province because it is still deeply rooted in preserving the French language and its own culture.
When we visited Quebec we had the opportunity to visit a restaurant. At the time, no one understood a word of French and the language was a complete mystery to us. The waitress apparently spoke only French. She noticed that we were English speakers and did nothing to help us breach the language barrier.
My Dad basically gave up, and immediately put on his American Legion jacket with its large flags of the United States of America. The waitress notices the jacket and then remarks in perfect English, “Oh you’re from the United States.” To which we reply in the affirmative.
She then explained to us that apparently there are sharp disagreements between the French speaking Canadians and the English speaking ones. The French speaking Canadians basically demand that all Canadians know French. Apparently my Dad’s jacket identified that we were from the USA and that we weren’t natives but tourists. Apparently the demands don’t include citizens of the USA.
So my advice to every citizen of the USA traveling in French speaking Canada is wear a shirt, jacket, pin, etc that identifies you as being from the United States. Your travel will go a lot smoother when you are easily identified as a tourist and not a native.
OK, fast-forward a bit to High School. I originally wanted to take Latin, but as luck would have it, it was cut the year I entered. Apparently the dead language was apparently officially dead then. So my choices were Spanish, French, or German.
Wasn’t too keen on German because I felt my chances of ever being exposed to the language were slim at best. So it was between Spanish and French. It came down to me thinking of the Canadian episode I just mentioned. I also started to think if there ever was a war would it be better to run South to Mexico where Spanish would be beneficial, or North to Canada where French might help. After all the joke was ROTC means “Run Out To Canada”. So French was the choice.
My teacher was a Haitian gentleman with great command of languages, but with a very distinct accent. His teaching style wasn’t the best, relying mostly on listening to records over and over again, and various true and false quizzes. So I don’t think I really learned a lot in the two years I had. The only thing I can say that I truly learned was foreign languages was not a gift to me, and I should avoid any college degree that requires a foreign language.
When I was a Senior in High School, I got the opportunity to travel to Paris and London with my Granny and my Mom. OK, two years of High School French and entering the City of Lights, I am sure you are seeing where this story is going.
Paris was a fantastic city. The streets were amazing, the buildings, the Eiffel Tower, street cafes, art, culture, wine, and Champagne.
The people of Paris though were rather unforgiving to tourists who struggled with their language. I tried my best with what I learned in High School. However, all I usually got were stares. They were all wondering why this white kid from Chicago was talking French with a Haitian accent.
French cuisine is undoubtedly one of the world’s finest. But the problem for an American traveling in Paris is the food selection. We are definitely accustomed in this country to having a great selection of food. For example, I just had Chinese food for lunch and last night I had Italian. So many cultures that we can choose food from. Paris was very uni-cultural, and while the food was excellent it got old quickly to our American tastes.
So I went out to seek out some American foods. There was a Pizza Hut in Paris at the time, but a plain pepperoni pizza was not on the menu. The flavor was definitely French with bleu cheese and even snails on pizza. So no luck there.
Then I sought a cheeseburger, a core of American cuisine. I even found a fast food place that actually served cheeseburgers. However, I walk in and the first thing that hits me is that we never went over the word for cheeseburger in class. What to do?
Crazed with hunger and wanting a cheeseburger, I walk into the place and approach the counter. I basically explain to the cashier that I am American. Having no idea what the words were to describe what I wanted, I proceeded to act it out in front of the counter.
I put my hands to each side of my head to mimic bull’s horns and make a MOO sound like a cow. I then make motions with slapping my hands together like I was making a patty, and then said the French word for cheese and bread.
The guy behind the counter is cracking up. I bet this was the first time a person placed his order via performance art. I was too hungry to be embarrassed, and the end result was I got my cheeseburger. It wasn’t a good cheeseburger by any stretch of the imagination, but it was close enough.
After spending almost a week in Paris, our next stop was London England. Guess where our first trip was: McDonald’s. I get up to the counter, relieved that I can finally speak English to a cashier and she would understand me.
I then proceed to give my order to the cashier of McDonalds in London. “I would like two AMERICAN Big Macs, a large order of AMERICAN fries, and an large AMERICAN Coca Cola with ice please.”
The cashier chuckles a bit, and says I take it your American. To which I respond, “Yes from Chicago Illinois USA, and I just got back Paris and I need an American food transfusion STAT!”
She laughs and says, “Welcome to London! Enjoy your AMERICAN food!”
Today it is all about French.
Let me start before High School, when I was a pre-teen. My parents and I loved to travel via camper and see most of the United States. One of our destinations was Quebec Canada. Quebec is a fascinating province because it is still deeply rooted in preserving the French language and its own culture.
When we visited Quebec we had the opportunity to visit a restaurant. At the time, no one understood a word of French and the language was a complete mystery to us. The waitress apparently spoke only French. She noticed that we were English speakers and did nothing to help us breach the language barrier.
My Dad basically gave up, and immediately put on his American Legion jacket with its large flags of the United States of America. The waitress notices the jacket and then remarks in perfect English, “Oh you’re from the United States.” To which we reply in the affirmative.
She then explained to us that apparently there are sharp disagreements between the French speaking Canadians and the English speaking ones. The French speaking Canadians basically demand that all Canadians know French. Apparently my Dad’s jacket identified that we were from the USA and that we weren’t natives but tourists. Apparently the demands don’t include citizens of the USA.
So my advice to every citizen of the USA traveling in French speaking Canada is wear a shirt, jacket, pin, etc that identifies you as being from the United States. Your travel will go a lot smoother when you are easily identified as a tourist and not a native.
OK, fast-forward a bit to High School. I originally wanted to take Latin, but as luck would have it, it was cut the year I entered. Apparently the dead language was apparently officially dead then. So my choices were Spanish, French, or German.
Wasn’t too keen on German because I felt my chances of ever being exposed to the language were slim at best. So it was between Spanish and French. It came down to me thinking of the Canadian episode I just mentioned. I also started to think if there ever was a war would it be better to run South to Mexico where Spanish would be beneficial, or North to Canada where French might help. After all the joke was ROTC means “Run Out To Canada”. So French was the choice.
My teacher was a Haitian gentleman with great command of languages, but with a very distinct accent. His teaching style wasn’t the best, relying mostly on listening to records over and over again, and various true and false quizzes. So I don’t think I really learned a lot in the two years I had. The only thing I can say that I truly learned was foreign languages was not a gift to me, and I should avoid any college degree that requires a foreign language.
When I was a Senior in High School, I got the opportunity to travel to Paris and London with my Granny and my Mom. OK, two years of High School French and entering the City of Lights, I am sure you are seeing where this story is going.
Paris was a fantastic city. The streets were amazing, the buildings, the Eiffel Tower, street cafes, art, culture, wine, and Champagne.
The people of Paris though were rather unforgiving to tourists who struggled with their language. I tried my best with what I learned in High School. However, all I usually got were stares. They were all wondering why this white kid from Chicago was talking French with a Haitian accent.
French cuisine is undoubtedly one of the world’s finest. But the problem for an American traveling in Paris is the food selection. We are definitely accustomed in this country to having a great selection of food. For example, I just had Chinese food for lunch and last night I had Italian. So many cultures that we can choose food from. Paris was very uni-cultural, and while the food was excellent it got old quickly to our American tastes.
So I went out to seek out some American foods. There was a Pizza Hut in Paris at the time, but a plain pepperoni pizza was not on the menu. The flavor was definitely French with bleu cheese and even snails on pizza. So no luck there.
Then I sought a cheeseburger, a core of American cuisine. I even found a fast food place that actually served cheeseburgers. However, I walk in and the first thing that hits me is that we never went over the word for cheeseburger in class. What to do?
Crazed with hunger and wanting a cheeseburger, I walk into the place and approach the counter. I basically explain to the cashier that I am American. Having no idea what the words were to describe what I wanted, I proceeded to act it out in front of the counter.
I put my hands to each side of my head to mimic bull’s horns and make a MOO sound like a cow. I then make motions with slapping my hands together like I was making a patty, and then said the French word for cheese and bread.
The guy behind the counter is cracking up. I bet this was the first time a person placed his order via performance art. I was too hungry to be embarrassed, and the end result was I got my cheeseburger. It wasn’t a good cheeseburger by any stretch of the imagination, but it was close enough.
After spending almost a week in Paris, our next stop was London England. Guess where our first trip was: McDonald’s. I get up to the counter, relieved that I can finally speak English to a cashier and she would understand me.
I then proceed to give my order to the cashier of McDonalds in London. “I would like two AMERICAN Big Macs, a large order of AMERICAN fries, and an large AMERICAN Coca Cola with ice please.”
The cashier chuckles a bit, and says I take it your American. To which I respond, “Yes from Chicago Illinois USA, and I just got back Paris and I need an American food transfusion STAT!”
She laughs and says, “Welcome to London! Enjoy your AMERICAN food!”
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
Rant: Bob Evans’ Memphis Spice-Rubbed Chicken is Fried
From bobevans.com:
“New Bob-B-Q Memphis Spice-Rubbed Chicken.
Two bone-in chicken breasts are spice-rubbed Memphis style, then oven roasted to seal in the flavor.”
So on today, Wednesday, June 2, 2010 shortly after 11:30am I go to a Bob Evans close to where I work in Dublin, Ohio #129. I order the dish described above, along with some loaded French fries, a salad, and an iced tea. I had ordered the dish before and was pleased.
However, today, what I was served were two dried out chicken breasts. No moisture on the outside, and very little on the inside. This was not the dish as I remembered it. So I complained to the waitress.
At first I was concerned about being served old food. See, they don’t start serving this dish until after 11 am. Which means, at the most I should have gotten oven fresh pieces of chicken less than an hour old. As dry as these pieces were, I thought I was getting yesterday’s chicken warmed up.
She explains to me that they deep-fry the chicken, and the initial batch spent too long in the fryer. I was surprised and asked the manager, and sure enough it spends approximately 30 seconds in a bath of oil before it is served on the plate.
Take another look at the description above. Does it mention anything about being fried? I looked up “Memphis style” and it is “a dry coated BBQ with a rub and cooked in a smoker”. The description also hints at being barbecue, which is grilled over coals or gas. Oven roasting is specified in the description. No mention about being deep-fried at all.
Bob Evans deliberately misleads customers into thinking this is a slow-cooked oven product. It has no breading or batter. It is almost hinted at being healthy.
This is not a grilled Burger King hamburger, which it puts in a microwave. Bathing the chicken in hot oil turns it into “Fried Chicken”. It should be stated very clearly that this product is fried it its name and description.
What else does Bob Evans deep-fry without advising the customer? Ribs? Grilled Chicken? If they don’t tell us in one instance, how can we trust them in others?
Don’t get me wrong; I am not opposed to fat and calories. I am not on a diet (yet), and I don’t have any reactions to any food. I am however opposed to being misled, if not lied to by the people supplying my food. That’s my issue!
I called Bob Evans’ corporate office and complained. The lady who answered the phone looked on her menu and didn’t see the word fried mentioned either. They took my information, and said it would be reviewed. I have a feeling in a couple of weeks I’ll get a gift card with a generic form letter that doesn’t address the issue.
“New Bob-B-Q Memphis Spice-Rubbed Chicken.
Two bone-in chicken breasts are spice-rubbed Memphis style, then oven roasted to seal in the flavor.”
So on today, Wednesday, June 2, 2010 shortly after 11:30am I go to a Bob Evans close to where I work in Dublin, Ohio #129. I order the dish described above, along with some loaded French fries, a salad, and an iced tea. I had ordered the dish before and was pleased.
However, today, what I was served were two dried out chicken breasts. No moisture on the outside, and very little on the inside. This was not the dish as I remembered it. So I complained to the waitress.
At first I was concerned about being served old food. See, they don’t start serving this dish until after 11 am. Which means, at the most I should have gotten oven fresh pieces of chicken less than an hour old. As dry as these pieces were, I thought I was getting yesterday’s chicken warmed up.
She explains to me that they deep-fry the chicken, and the initial batch spent too long in the fryer. I was surprised and asked the manager, and sure enough it spends approximately 30 seconds in a bath of oil before it is served on the plate.
Take another look at the description above. Does it mention anything about being fried? I looked up “Memphis style” and it is “a dry coated BBQ with a rub and cooked in a smoker”. The description also hints at being barbecue, which is grilled over coals or gas. Oven roasting is specified in the description. No mention about being deep-fried at all.
Bob Evans deliberately misleads customers into thinking this is a slow-cooked oven product. It has no breading or batter. It is almost hinted at being healthy.
This is not a grilled Burger King hamburger, which it puts in a microwave. Bathing the chicken in hot oil turns it into “Fried Chicken”. It should be stated very clearly that this product is fried it its name and description.
What else does Bob Evans deep-fry without advising the customer? Ribs? Grilled Chicken? If they don’t tell us in one instance, how can we trust them in others?
Don’t get me wrong; I am not opposed to fat and calories. I am not on a diet (yet), and I don’t have any reactions to any food. I am however opposed to being misled, if not lied to by the people supplying my food. That’s my issue!
I called Bob Evans’ corporate office and complained. The lady who answered the phone looked on her menu and didn’t see the word fried mentioned either. They took my information, and said it would be reviewed. I have a feeling in a couple of weeks I’ll get a gift card with a generic form letter that doesn’t address the issue.
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