Word Nerd Alert on Howard Street

Today I was driving in town with LMC. She was hinting heavily that she wanted to go into town and look at some shops.
I said, “We’re going down Howard Street.”
Bemused, she asked, “Howard Street?”
And I said, “Yes, Howard Street…” and as we crested the hill and she realised it continued into the main street of town, I said, “Howard you like to go down the street?”

She rolled her eyes, and then she said, “Actually that was pretty good. Did you make that up yourself?”
“I did.”
“When?”
“Just then.”
She smiled, thought for a moment, and said, “How odd.”

I smiled too, because that is possibly the word-nerdiest thing she’s ever said.

The perils of report writing.

After being a teacher for twenty-six-and-a-half years, I’m surprised that it has only just occurred to me that the effect of report writing on the body is much like pregnancy cravings.

I’m working away, absorbed in the delicate task of crafting a finely constructed, highly expressive report of the achievements and needs of each student when all of a sudden, my body speaks to me.
“Sugar. I need sugar.”
I think of ice cream, then of oreos. Ice cream with oreos. Awesome.

I’m about to get out of my chair and go foraging, but then I remember that I have an enormous amount of work to do and I don’t want to get too distracted. Instead, I look for sweets in the drawers beside my chair. An almost-empty packet yields two licorice allsorts which are consumed in quick succession, shortly after which I decide that this may not have been a good idea, even if the choice of licorice did seem healthier than the unholy amount of chocolate consumed while writing Year 10 English until 1.45 am. Feeling a little queasy, I continue working.

“Mmmm. Pickles. I’d love a pickle.”
Subsequent investigation in the kitchen leads to the conclusion that there are no pickles in the house and then to the discovery that a couple of large slices of tinned beetroot makes a fabulous substitute. Who knew?

Feeling surprisingly sated, I return to my work and let my creative juices flow.
The industry with which the words flow from my mind to my fingertips and onto the screen is impressive. This lasts for at least fifteen minutes, until the dilemma of how to write about young Miss Elsie Whosiewhich’s failure to submit any work at all for the entire semester leaves one wondering if there are any cheese and onion flavoured potato chips in the house.
These thoughts are set aside with determination to at least finish writing half of the Year 10 history reports before I take another break, but before long the jar of coffee on the counter is calling out to me and I’m powerless to resist. Caffeine will keep me alert and help me concentrate, right?

I walk into the kitchen to make coffee but get distracted by thoughts of a peanut butter sandwich. Suddenly it’s all too much work, so I pour another glass of Coke Zero and head back to my study. It occurs to me just how freaking awesome cold coke tastes and feels. Delicious, ice-cold bubbly goodness delivering caffeine to my brain with every sip. Then I realise that I am a bit hungry and I should have grabbed that peanut butter sandwich while I was up. Dammit. I hunt for one of my Reese’s cups that I’ve hoarded in case of an emergency, and almost cry with happiness when I find it. Oh, that delicious peanut-buttery goodness…

Oh, wait. The caffeine was supposed to help me concentrate, wasn’t it?
Right. Back to it then.

Crazy theory… or is it?

Tonight as I was driving home from work, Raf Epstein on ABC 774 was asking the audience what “crazy theories” they’d fallen for or actually believed.

Callers confessed to believing in ghosts and poltergeists and premonitions.

One female caller suggested that Mick Malthouse was a Collingwood plant at the Carlton Football Club, because it was the only way to make sense of the poor job he’s doing as coach.

“IKNOWRIGHT!” I said excitedly to nobody in particular. “That’s exactly what I’ve been saying for months!”

In fact, when Collingwood clobbered Carlton on Friday night, in Malthouse’s record-breaking 715th game as coach, my uncharacteristically few tweets were thus:
ScreenHunter_74 May. 05 20.43

ScreenHunter_75 May. 05 20.46

ScreenHunter_73 May. 05 20.41

Personally, I’m not convinced that it’s such a crazy theory.
Besides, for a die-hard Carlton tragic, it beats believing that my team is so bad that they don’t need anyone to conspire against them in order to lose every week.

Nerd.

This conversation demonstrates just one of the many reasons why my buddy Sean and I are friends:
Sean: Back to the Future was timeless.   Bwahahaha!
Me: Ohhh yes!
Me:  I actually have it marked in my calendar when Marty returns in October this year.
Sean: Jenn and I recently saw Michael J Fox on TV.   Too bad about him really.
Me:  I feel sorry for him, as I do with anyone with that horrible disease and a number of others.
Sean: Lol.  The date they travelled to just passed.
Me:  I’m pretty sure it’s October 2015.
Me:  21st, I think.
Sean: There were many.  October is one.  April was another I think.
Me:   

 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5mEBlPfBbpI

   a clip from the movie – yes, I had it bookmarked LOL
Sean: Oh, you mean the this year one.   Right you are.
Me:  Yes, this year.
Sean: Lol
Sean: Nerd.
Me: Why, thank you! 

My kingdom for a pencil!

My drama class was rehearsing a play which includes excerpts from a number of Shakespeare’s plays. 

While creating a donkey mask, the actor who briefly plays Richard III said, “A pencil! A pencil! My kingdom for a pencil!”

Not missing a beat, another student replied, “2B or not 2B? That is the question!”

I am so very, very proud. 

Lesson from ‘Othello’: How not to be a husband. 

My students have obviously learned something from studying Shakespeare’s ‘Othello’. 

A student wrote the following assessments in this week’s essay: 

“Desdemona is Othello’s wife; the least he could do is talk to her, but apparently that’s too much to ask of our protagonist.”

“Othello is a dirtbag husband that took advantage of Desdemona’s love for him.”

Spot on, I say. 

French word play in English class. 

Student: May I go to the toilet? 

Me: Ouis!

Student: I don’t speak French.

Me: Nor do I. 

Student returns: I just got that joke on my way back to class.

Me: *internal facepalm* 

Articulate.

To play the board game called Articulate, a player must give clues for something specific without naming it or using particular words. 

AD: Clue 1: It got bombed.  Clue 2: It’s in Australia. 3. They made a movie of it. 

Everyone is clueless.

AD: Pearl Harbour! Duh!

Me: Pearl Harbour isn’t in Australia, honey. 

Awkward. 

Creepy.

LMC: Hey, do you want to see something creepy? 

Me: Creepier than you??

LMC: Oh, it IS me, though! 

Fickle love.

LMC: I love Bruno Mars.
Me: Are you going to marry him? *chuckle at old joke*
LMC: I’d do anything…
Me: Would you take a grenade for him?
LMC: *looks disappointed* …no.