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Monday, September 11, 2006

Now With 65.4% More Cowbell

Asher is a 1st grader now and I cannot begin to tell you how much this disturbs me.

I can clearly remember when I was a 1st grader, and I suppose it really wasn't all that long ago. My 1st grade teacher's name was Mrs. Yee and she fed us cactus and made paper samurai hats for us. We flew kites and celebrated Chinese New Year with a paper dragon and suchlike.

I also remember her bringing us a casserole dish of her fried rice when my father died that year, but I didn't want to eat it because it had peas in it and peas just aren't right.

I still don't think peas are right.

What will my son remember about his 1st grade year?

His teacher seems pretty nondescript. She wears those sack dresses with the denim top part and the printed fabric skirts. I don't understand what it is with elementary school teachers and those dresses. Is there a law about that sort of thing that I am not aware of? Perhaps it is the long lost Eleventh Commandment: Thou Shalt Wear a Dress of Hideousness, As It Is Pleasing Unto the Eyes of the School Board. The School Board Shalt Not Abide By Any Manner of Flattering Apparel Upon Its Female Teachers.

I don't know, but I will bet you any money that she has holiday-themed sweatshirts (perhaps featuring puffy paint and glitter!) and plastic holiday-themed jewelry. I will know for sure when Halloween rolls around and she is wearing plastic pumpkin earrings. Then there will be the turkey sweatshirt for Thanksgiving and the ubiquitous Frosty the Snowman knitted abortion of a cardigan for Giftmas. Festive!

At any rate, I have a 1st grader. And my daughter will be in kindergarten next year. And I think they grow up too fast. So I am going to maybe put heavy books on their heads so they don't get any taller and therefore not any older. Because that makes sense. Right? Right. Whatever.

It's not my fault that I'm crazy. The wallpaper the last renter put up in my kitchen did it:

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Yes, those are apples.

But the crowing glory...

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I'm the cock of the walk, baby!

Those roosters march all the way around the border of the wall, there by the ceiling. An endless parade of cocks.

EB calls it the "Cock Kitchen" and says it isn't so terrible. I am now inclined to agree, since I have gotten over the initial shock and horror of it all. Now I think I will get a cow-shaped creamer pot and a Mammy cookiejar and an American Gothic print to put on the wall.


link | posted by Zombie at 4:30 PM |


Anonymous token commented at 3:30 PM~  

Man, I kinda want to send you any farm animal kitchen helper I can score at a yard sale.

What you need to do to keep your kids from getting any bigger:

1. Bind them up every night before they go to bed (think of chinese foot binding).

2. Put them to bed in Rubbermaid storage bins.

3. Be sure to "burp" the storage bins to keep the kiddies fresh.

Blogger Zombie commented at 5:49 PM~  

Yard sale barnyard items would r0x0rz!

If you can find a ceramic cow creamer thingie that moos when you pour, I would totally encase you in Lucite and prop you up against a wall somewhere, with a plaque that says, "Here is this cool person what brought Zombie a cow creamer thingie what moos."

On second thought, maybe that's not such a great deal after all.

But still.

Anonymous greeny commented at 9:28 PM~  

Nice cock.

Blogger Ford commented at 10:12 PM~  

I have a rooster cookie jar that crows when you flip back his pez-dispenser head for a cookie if you want it.

Yes, a cock cookie-jar.

I am a decorating GOD.

Blogger Zombie commented at 2:27 PM~  

ZOMG, Ford. That is way too awesome.

Anonymous The Creep commented at 6:07 PM~  

LoL. Rocking the cock you are!
Man wouldn't sunflowers have been easier to put up?
Not quiet as garish. Or how about just apples?
Matching would have been nice too.
But I guess the cocks match the neighbors chicken wire.
So it all works out.

Anonymous The Creep commented at 6:30 PM~  

Forgot to add that peas aren't right.
I got tricked by a pea pod the other day too in a salad.
It ambushed me under a piece of lettuce.
The sly little bastard!

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