Origin of a Specious Argument Testing my Certifiability

Three hours and forty-seven minutes later, I have an answer.

Not one to act impulsively, I didn't come to this decision over night. Originally, I wanted a teaching certificate. My original teaching license expired in the year 2000. However, I thought having a bachelor's degree in English, a master's in Special Education and an additional 33 hours of doctoral work might make it possible to get certified again at a later date.

I won't mention the state I live in, except to say it was until recently, the state of the unbearably naive. Presuming past credentials held any merit, and past experience counted for squat, I presented my materials and received notice, I'd be tested. A year and a half, four tests and 300 plus dollars later, I still require additional proof I'm not the human equivalent of a pet rock.

I called the state. The conversation when something like this:
"We can't certify you."
"I'm already certified in Texas in Special Education."
"Yes. And you did your student teaching in Special Education."
"So I'd have to do student teaching in English to be certified in English?"
"That's one way."
"But I have a degree, a double major in English literature and writing, so shouldn't my certification in teaching apply?"
"If you were certified in Texas in English." I hung up to call my home state.

I called back.
"Hello, it's me again. If I take the test in English in the Lone Star state, they'll certify me to teach English there."
"That might work but it would take longer. You'd have to be certified there before you could be certified here."
"So my options are take the English for Texas, wait for their certification which would then make me eligible for certification here, but my Special Education certification there doesn't make me eligible for the Special Education certification here because I haven't taken the test here?"

"Correct."
"But the website says there is state reciprocity for teaching licenses."
"There is...after you take the test."

I squelched the idea of asking the person, "Do you even want people to teach English anymore or is this some sort of put on?"

Going to the standard test website which could smell my money before I typed in the three initials of the site, I spent twenty minutes convincing it I was who I said I was, before it let me get to the final "Shut up and take my money" button. I pushed. The site told me, "I'm sorry, there seems to be some technical problem." I called and the woman told me to use a different browser and she'd walk me through it, but after the first two hours of hassle, my people skills having eroded to something below civil. I concluded the universe in all its wisdom didn't want me in the classroom. It wanted something different.

I vowed to become a one woman vigilante against bureaucracy, Yes. I'm going to turn to a life of crime. It's simpler. There's no paperwork. I don't mind late nights if I can sleep late and I won't have to deal with becoming certified if I'm certifiable, and thus was born a new rogue superhero; Cert Denied.

*Editor's note:  Signed up for the test...taking it in January.  

The Taste of Extinction

This past weekend, my middle son went to a party and received a goodie bag filled with one cent candies. He dumped them on the table at noon, as he himself has never been big on sweets. (Go figure). Giving a quick glance over the sugary pile, I lay odds on what would remain by the end of the day and was not disappointed. The milky ways, twix bars, tootsie rolls and familiar bubble gums were gobbled instantaneously by various siblings and I managed to score a caramel. The remaining rejects reminded me of Halloween bags on Election day. There are candies that have reached their Darwinian evolutionary end and should be allowed to die in peace or pieces as the case may be.

I speak of “Bit-O-Honey.”

I know there must be closet lovers of this unholy alliance between an eraser, chalk and a caramel without the imagination of artificial colors or flavors, but I’ve yet to meet one in real life. When I go to the vending machines, I never hear anyone saying, “Damn, they’re out of bit-o-honey!” I remember the unspoken rule of trick-o-treating; when the folks were down to chick-o-sticks and bits, it was time to go home and count the candy loot. Those sorts of odd confections ranked somewhere below the healthy home that passed out boxes of raisins and the DDS who gave free toothbrushes.

I pondered whether the company ought to consider creating an alternate market, like when you get dumped. Sending a tray of “Bitter Honeys” or "Bite Me Honey" to a girl might have some emotional cathartic value for the dumpee. I bet it would triple sales at least. Musing over the two abandoned sweets, I started to sweep them into the garbage can when I wondered, "Was I wrong?" "Why not try it?"

Had the endurance of this long maligned in my own mind sweet been somehow undeserved? I was an adult now. Ought I to give bit-o-honey its due, its chance to reveal its hidden complexities and value that heretofore my taste buds were too immature and too raptured by chocolate to appreciate? I stared at the two lonesome bit-o-honeys and summoned my oldest son. He and I would try these together and compare notes.

Unwrapping the pieces, we remarked on the not quite beige color and speculated on the origin date which was not known. This was problem number one with bit-o-honeys. There was the distinct possibility that only one batch had ever been made and like fruit cake, the unopened pieces had been traded from non eater to non eater for the past seven decades.

My son fearlessly popped it in his mouth. I watched. A minute passed. “It’s chewy.” He said. Spurred on by the fact he had not begun gagging, I too put the candy in my mouth. I waited for the taste. This is part of the bit-o-honey experience, the chewing without the reward. “It’s starting to have a taste.” My son said, still working his jaw. I have to grope the insides of my mouth for a faint hint of flavor.

I know it has a taste, and that my tongue has taste buds in abundance with the capacity to recognize sweet, salty, savory, bitter and whatever that umani is. I know that I am tasting something but the taste fades before I can ascertain its nature.

Now we could go out in the car and get more bit-o-honeys in an attempt to get a better fix on the experience, but I considered this blind date with a candy to be indicative of the entire relationship, bland with a faint after the fact essence that left my mouth bored and slightly annoyed. “This wasn’t chocolate.” And so, vindicated in my indifferent prejudice, I now turn to other snacks that deserve to be shown the door to extinction.

Let’s talk Fig Newtons.

P.S. Had set up a post on Filet-O-Fish but decided it was too cheap a shot and in less than stellar taste...like the sandwich.

Karaoke Caroling and the Socratic Method of Blog Writing

You know the old canard about law and sausage, well it’s nothing compared to creating these shorts.

First, one needs an artificial deadline.

Holy Cats! I promised to update the blog three times a week. I need something seasonal and I’m just tapped out. Quick kids, do something funny! The kids aren’t doing something funny. What do I do? I know, I’ll clean.

Yeah, cleaning the house for the holidays is hilarious. I can sound as amusing as 1.17 million other Erma Bombeck wannabes stuck in the harried housewife shtick with a blog.

Next, one needs to be really, really desperate such that all critical judgment is temporarily suspended.

Cleaning out the car I found enough rejected and forgotten misfit toys to take care of all the stocking stuffers! Hah! I even found candy and $3.28 in loose change. Maybe I could do a “T’was the Night before Christmas” bit…

T’was three days before Christmas when I cleaned out the car,
the children went scurrying but they couldn’t get far.
The happy meal toys were piled two stories high,
followed by eight gloves, a few socks and 1000 French fries.

"Stop." I said "Stop!"

“This just cannot be.”

I’m writing a blog and it’s bad poetry.

Multiple valiant efforts must fail.

I could do a Christmas song…yeah, about the candidates, “To the top of the polls, climb the Great DNC, and take all of Iowa, or not, said Hillary.”

Next.

Okay, how about Christopher Hitchens singing “I’m getting Nothing for Christmas!” with backup vocals by the Arch Bishop of Canterbury.

Not really the tone I’ve set for this place.

I know! I know! Al Gore singing!

“I’m dreaming of a White Christmas, just like the ones we’ll now never know…”

Again, this is a friendly blog and we want to keep people coming back, we need to hit the Republicans too.

“Grandpa got shot up by old Dick Cheney….walking on a hunt on private land….You can say We’re losing the 2nd amendment, but maybe now I think I’d understand…”

Nyet.

That reminds me! This one’s to Silver Bells…
“Vladimir….Vladimir….
Putin’s the man for Time magazine.
It’s like the USSR
And he’s the Czar
Except he’s the Prime Minister.”

Have you been sneaking bourbon balls?

Hang on…hang on…I’ll think of something. Here we go…”You know Dasher and Dancer and Prancer and Vixen…”

Where are you going with this?

Well, I have eight children so I thought I’d figure out which reindeer each one was…sort of a Christmas Rosharch test.

Do you feel inspired?

No. Not particularly.

Followed by a heavy dose of pity and prayer to skid by on.

Blog transmission suspended due to creative differences with brain, hope the writing synapses end their strike before Christmas.

Have a blessed Advent!

Merry Christmas!