9/12/13-"One less butter."

Whoops, gotten a bit behind, haven't I?  Let's pretend I wrote this Thursday...

Today ("today") in choir, we discussed funding for our Disneyland trip.  R., our choir president, is planning various strategies, most prominently busking, as well as caroling when it gets closer to Christmas.  So stoked.

We changed standing order for our next performance.  Now I can actually hear my fellow altos.  Which is helpful.  As long as they don't miss the starting note too.  Then, it isn't helpful.  This might take work.

There's time still.

Five more rehearsals, counting two after school ones?

We've got this.

In Econ, well...I don't know.  We have a seating chart now.  We did a worksheet, part of which involved guns and butter.  I worked with L., who wondered what comprised a unit of butter.  A box?  One package? A gram?

Whatever the case, the trade-off for producing four more guns is "one less butter".  Yeah, I know it's 'fewer', but if no one's going to define "one unit of butter," then I'm not going to follow grammatical conventions when I write my answers.

L. found my statement of "one less butter" more amusing than I did, but I laughed anyway.  It must have seemed odd, the two of us cracking up in the back of the room whilst nearly everyone else was silent.

During lunch, I got out my ukelele and jammed with some friends (two fiddlers and a mandolinist) in the grass by the bike racks.  Didn't have time to eat my lunch, so I consumed a protein bar type thing during Spanish, whiles we watched excerpts from a telenovela about the Mexican struggle for independence (their independence day is coming up shortly).  We also danced the Mexican Hat Dance.

Come Anatomy, Mr. M. brought out a skeleton--a real one, which he thought probably belonged to a woman, who may have died before he was born, seeing as she had been at this school since when he himself was a student here.  A girl in the front row asked if we could name her Francine.  Mr. M. said that was fine.

Francine is missing some fingers.

Mr. M. led us through another worksheet, wherein we labeled the various bones.  Then he set us loose to learn how to identify each bone in isolation from the rest of the body.

There were various plastic replicas of human bones scattered about the classroom.  We were to be able to tell the name of each, and the side.  He may have mentioned the date of our test on this matter, but if he did, I did not catch it.  Also, if we asked him whether a certain bone is on the left side of the body, and it is, he would reply "correct," not "right."

"Shall we?" N. asked of me, standing up from his desk.

I followed him to one of the stations, where we found a radian (one of the bones in the forearm).  To determine on what side the radian belonged, we compared it to Francine's.

N. held it up to the skeleton's forearm.  "Right, right?...Correct...?"

"No, left.  That's your right, not Francine's."

"Oh! Right...left."

We replaced the radian next to one of the sinks.  I pointed out a note above the faucet.

"A pen went down this drain.  An expensive one."

N. snickered at the note, then peered down the grimy drain, then opened the cabinet below it to glance at the pipe.  "Well.  I'm not getting it."

We proceeded to the next station, where we found a collar bone.  Clavical. 

"This is a right one, correct?" he asked.

"Right.  Right is correct."

"All right."

"Right is correct.  Correct is right."

He put on a mock-scowl.  "Stoppit!"

The End

4 comments about this work Feed