A couple of days a week, kids walk into my class and declare, "It smells like fruit in here." Which is not nearly as disturbing as some of the things they could say it smells like. Such as a monkey house where the primates smoke cigarettes and fart at will. But that's in the afternoon. The fruit-smellers appear just after my plan time. I generally roll my eyes in an exaggerated manner (not exactly a stretch), and say, "I don't know what you're talking about. I don't smell anything."
What I don't tell them is that Mrs. Hillbilly Mom enjoys, on a regular basis, a few Starbursts, the mid-morning snack of champions. You know. Starburst fruit chews. What they don't know won't hurt them. I'm careful to bury my wrappers deep in my personal deskside wastebasket. Sweet Gummi Mary! It's not like I'm Cameron Diaz in Bad Teacher, sneaking swigs of airline-bottle vodka from my bottom desk drawer.
Even crueler on the long list of Mrs. HM's transgressions against her charges was the great cracker crumb caper. It was many years ago. I imagine the statute of limitations has expired, so it's safe to discuss here in the blogosphere.
Perhaps some of you are old enough to remember the days when students did not hang around after school. There were no remedial programs, no open libraries, no killing time sitting in the cafeteria for two hours before athletic practice. There was a place for every student, and every student was in his place. Which was home. Or running sprints in the gym.
My teaching buddy, Mabel, and I enjoyed this quiet time in our brand-spankin'-new high school building, Newmentia. We used the empty halls for our exercise regime. It was ideal. Cool in Indian Summer, warm in winter, flat, dry, no wind, well-lighted. Mabel had figured out the mileage (a math teacher was she), and we walked two miles every day after school.
Mabel's plan time was 7th hour, so she was always ready ahead of me. I had to tie up loose ends after my last class, and was often still changing my socks and shoes when Mabel came to my end of the hall to collect me. I kept my walking gear in my cabinet, so I pulled out a chair next to it and changed my footwear right there. A couple of quick yanks on the shoestrings, and I was ready to join Mabel.
The chairs were dark blue hard plastic. My legs were white and scaly, due in part to lack of lotion, with the added bonus of a failing thyroid. When I removed my socks, a fine shower of skin particles fell onto the chair. If Mabel had not yet arrived, I dusted off the chair when I was done. If Mabel appeared abruptly, I forgot.
This was back in the days when I taught only the at-risk classes. I never had more than ten students in one section. Most often, nobody sat by the cabinet. They preferred the back of the room, or the area near the windows. But one girl made it a habit to sit in that very seat I used for changing socks and shoes. She was wound up one day about another issue, and threw her books down on her desk as she entered. "And if that's not bad enough, I have to come in here and sit where somebody keeps leaving their cracker crumbs!"
The answer to your question? Of course not.
Thursday, February 2, 2012
Wednesday, February 1, 2012
A Proper Explanation
Perhaps you didn't miss me last night. I'm a phantom like that. I wasn't here, then I was, at an untimely hour for Mrs Hillbilly Mom. This ol' blog could just run itself if I banked up enough future posts. But my comments were left hanging. That's because I was physically at the emergency room with my mom, who was having nosebleed issues. It was her second trip to the ER that day. The first one being around 9:00 a.m., when she didn't want to bother anybody, so she drove herself. I know. That's totally unacceptable. So I told her if it happened again, she was to call me, no matter what time it was.
I had no sooner arrived home than the phone rang. Mom was spouting hemoglobin again like a city fireplug spouting water in the midst of a ring of children during a heat wave. So I took off to get her. Latter-decade septuagenarians on blood-thinners should not dilly-dally around with leakage of their life-force. That's what the ER people said, anyway. Twice.
Mom is fine for now. Both times, it stopped after about an hour. But she called me at school again this morning to report a new flow. I told her to sit quietly and see what developed, since she reported that it was not so severe as yesterday's bloodwaters. She got it stopped, and I called her every hour. The ER folks didn't really do anything for her. But told her to come back if it got any worse. I'm taking her with me tomorrow on my sick day when I go to the hospital for lab tests. Her doctor is off, but somebody needs to get to the bottom of the bottomless pool of blood. If this keeps up, they're going to have to cauterize something up in her nose deeper than her elbow, or change her blood-thinner.
********************************************
My apologies to labbie for not posting her question-and-answer dealy-bobber. I had every intention. But you know what they say: Life is what happens when you're planning blog posts. I had half of them written down on paper, from stolen moments at work when I could squeeze in one or two, and now I can't find the paper. I'm just not up to 33 questions and tidbits of hidden info about myself. Though that would be my favorite subject, of course.I Shall Return
Dear Readers,
Please excuse Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's absence from posting. She spent part of Tuesday night at the ER with her mother. Mom is fine now. Mrs. HM will get back to her regular daily posts and catch up on her comments as soon as possible, probably Wednesday evening. She will be mildly chastised for not having a post scheduled ahead of time like she did on her fancy schmancy other blog.
The Management
Please excuse Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's absence from posting. She spent part of Tuesday night at the ER with her mother. Mom is fine now. Mrs. HM will get back to her regular daily posts and catch up on her comments as soon as possible, probably Wednesday evening. She will be mildly chastised for not having a post scheduled ahead of time like she did on her fancy schmancy other blog.
The Management
Monday, January 30, 2012
Final Destination Takes A Holiday In Hillmomba
A near-tragedy was narrowly averted last night in the Mansion kitchen. There I was, frying up some hamburgers for my men, when I made a crucial mistake.
But let's drag out the action a bit, shall we. Let me just toss in a mini-commercial for Save A Lot ground beef. It's delicious. It's delectable. It falls just short of de-lovely. It puts The Devil's meat to shame. So flavorful. My mom raves about my chili, and my spaghetti sauce. And the secret is in the ground beef. Not as big a secret as the BBQ in Fried Green Tomatoes. That would put me in a cross-bars Hilton at the corner of Murderer's Row and Cannibal Circle. But enough of my there but for the taste of Save A Lot beef go I possible murder conviction and incarceration.
I patted out the burgers and cooked up two for the boys forthwith. I put the burgers for Farmer H and me into the hot pan. A nice sear sealed in the juices, making a crispy thin crust on one side. I applied some black pepper, and flipped the burgers. At that point, I dashed into the laundry room to hang twenty shirts. I know. You'd think those kids of mine were runway models, not plain Hillmomba schoolboys. How that many shirts piled up with my weekly 8-10 loads of laundry is a mystery to me. And it was only the dark shirts. The pile of lights will have to wait until mid-week. It's not like my down-low Barbizon clients are going to run out of dark shirts.
Upon return to the stove, I saw that the burgers were poofy in the middle. They needed a good pressing with the flipper. So I did just that. Well, jump down, turn around, pick a bale of cotton! As that spoiled Winona Ryder said to Whoopi Goldberg in Girl, Interrupted. When I squeezed the burger to the pan, a stream of hot grease squirted out the side, jumped up over the edge of the pan, and seared my ample belly through my short-sleeved, button-down, purple-pin-striped oxford shirt. YOWSA! That was a tad painful. I turned to the sink and dabbed cold water and liquid hand soap on it. The shirt, not the belly. Skin will heal, but a grease stain is forever.
That grease shot out the side of that burger like a solar flare bent on setting a record. Like the mashed potatoes in John Belushi's Animal House mouth, right after he said, "See if you can guess. What I am. Now." And punched both cheeks with his fists. I don't mean to ruin the movie for you if you haven't seen it, but the answer is, "A zit."
Such a cheeky attempt by a hamburger to maim Mrs. Hillbilly Mom has never before occurred in the annals of Hillmomban culinary history. Something is afoot. I need to examine my Even Steven ledger, lest karma be feelin' b*tchy.
But let's drag out the action a bit, shall we. Let me just toss in a mini-commercial for Save A Lot ground beef. It's delicious. It's delectable. It falls just short of de-lovely. It puts The Devil's meat to shame. So flavorful. My mom raves about my chili, and my spaghetti sauce. And the secret is in the ground beef. Not as big a secret as the BBQ in Fried Green Tomatoes. That would put me in a cross-bars Hilton at the corner of Murderer's Row and Cannibal Circle. But enough of my there but for the taste of Save A Lot beef go I possible murder conviction and incarceration.
I patted out the burgers and cooked up two for the boys forthwith. I put the burgers for Farmer H and me into the hot pan. A nice sear sealed in the juices, making a crispy thin crust on one side. I applied some black pepper, and flipped the burgers. At that point, I dashed into the laundry room to hang twenty shirts. I know. You'd think those kids of mine were runway models, not plain Hillmomba schoolboys. How that many shirts piled up with my weekly 8-10 loads of laundry is a mystery to me. And it was only the dark shirts. The pile of lights will have to wait until mid-week. It's not like my down-low Barbizon clients are going to run out of dark shirts.
Upon return to the stove, I saw that the burgers were poofy in the middle. They needed a good pressing with the flipper. So I did just that. Well, jump down, turn around, pick a bale of cotton! As that spoiled Winona Ryder said to Whoopi Goldberg in Girl, Interrupted. When I squeezed the burger to the pan, a stream of hot grease squirted out the side, jumped up over the edge of the pan, and seared my ample belly through my short-sleeved, button-down, purple-pin-striped oxford shirt. YOWSA! That was a tad painful. I turned to the sink and dabbed cold water and liquid hand soap on it. The shirt, not the belly. Skin will heal, but a grease stain is forever.
That grease shot out the side of that burger like a solar flare bent on setting a record. Like the mashed potatoes in John Belushi's Animal House mouth, right after he said, "See if you can guess. What I am. Now." And punched both cheeks with his fists. I don't mean to ruin the movie for you if you haven't seen it, but the answer is, "A zit."
Such a cheeky attempt by a hamburger to maim Mrs. Hillbilly Mom has never before occurred in the annals of Hillmomban culinary history. Something is afoot. I need to examine my Even Steven ledger, lest karma be feelin' b*tchy.
Sunday, January 29, 2012
The Former Perfect Attendant
Sometimes, when nature gives you lemons, you have to make snow days out of them.
Thanks, winter, for all you do. NOT! With nary a below-freezing southern storm in sight, I have been forced to resort to a Hillbilly-Mom-made snow day of sorts. Perhaps I've mentioned my stash of 94 sick days. The limit is 100. So when my ten for next school year kick in, I'm facing a loss of four days. Days for which I have been contracted and allotted as a part of my benefits package. It just doesn't pay to be altruistic and drag yourself to work every single day of the year whether you feel like it or not, I suppose.
Normally, I schedule appointments after school hours. In a pinch, I can wangle permission to leave at 2:00 if a willing colleague will step in for me last hour. I am blessed to have such an individual who volunteers to aid and abet my sick-day-saving strategy. But now, I am asking myself, "Why bother?" I have the days stockpiled. The modest monetary incentive for not missing a day all year is considerably less than the money a substitute would receive if I used my ten days each year. About 20% of that amount, to be specific. But money is not the object of my obsession. I simply hate to be away from my classroom.
I had scheduled a doctor's appointment over the Christmas break. It's just a routine six-month appointment. But twice, the doctor's office has sent me a letter rescheduling. Now it is set for February. Week after next. At 9:30 a.m. I could have tried to get it later in the afternoon. All that means is that I might have a two-hour wait once I arrive. But I always take a book, so that's no big deal. Then I got to thinking, "Why should I rearrange my appointment, and find somebody to pick up The Pony after school, and get home around 7:00 p.m. when I can just keep the morning appointment?"
The week before that appointment, I have to go to the lab for a blood draw. With our insurance, it can't be the doctor's lab, it must be the hospital lab. It's open 24 hours a day, you know. But why should I go all day at work without eating and drinking for my fasting lab, when I can simply sleep through the fast and pop in there during morning hours? It's not feasible to do that when I have The Pony in tow, and when I need to make sure I'm at work on time. Hospital labs do not run on a schedule. If something goes down, those phlebotomists run out the door with their box full of blood-suckers and come back when they're not needed elsewhere.
Don't even dwell on the possibility of a half-day of absence. I used to offer that option for consideration, and was told that it is much easier to schedule a substitute for a full day that a half day. Go figure! Apparently, subs want to be able to actually earn some money and not just break even if they're going to get dressed and drive to school and learn the lay of the land and deal with teenagers. So some will decline a half day while awaiting a full day offer from another district. Especially days that are scheduled well in advance, and not on the morning of.
So...Mrs. Hillbilly Mom will be having a four-day week of work this upcoming week, and a four-day week of work the following week, then she will put in an honest five, and partake of another four-day work-week thanks to President's Day.
Not a bad gig if you can get it.
Thanks, winter, for all you do. NOT! With nary a below-freezing southern storm in sight, I have been forced to resort to a Hillbilly-Mom-made snow day of sorts. Perhaps I've mentioned my stash of 94 sick days. The limit is 100. So when my ten for next school year kick in, I'm facing a loss of four days. Days for which I have been contracted and allotted as a part of my benefits package. It just doesn't pay to be altruistic and drag yourself to work every single day of the year whether you feel like it or not, I suppose.
Normally, I schedule appointments after school hours. In a pinch, I can wangle permission to leave at 2:00 if a willing colleague will step in for me last hour. I am blessed to have such an individual who volunteers to aid and abet my sick-day-saving strategy. But now, I am asking myself, "Why bother?" I have the days stockpiled. The modest monetary incentive for not missing a day all year is considerably less than the money a substitute would receive if I used my ten days each year. About 20% of that amount, to be specific. But money is not the object of my obsession. I simply hate to be away from my classroom.
I had scheduled a doctor's appointment over the Christmas break. It's just a routine six-month appointment. But twice, the doctor's office has sent me a letter rescheduling. Now it is set for February. Week after next. At 9:30 a.m. I could have tried to get it later in the afternoon. All that means is that I might have a two-hour wait once I arrive. But I always take a book, so that's no big deal. Then I got to thinking, "Why should I rearrange my appointment, and find somebody to pick up The Pony after school, and get home around 7:00 p.m. when I can just keep the morning appointment?"
The week before that appointment, I have to go to the lab for a blood draw. With our insurance, it can't be the doctor's lab, it must be the hospital lab. It's open 24 hours a day, you know. But why should I go all day at work without eating and drinking for my fasting lab, when I can simply sleep through the fast and pop in there during morning hours? It's not feasible to do that when I have The Pony in tow, and when I need to make sure I'm at work on time. Hospital labs do not run on a schedule. If something goes down, those phlebotomists run out the door with their box full of blood-suckers and come back when they're not needed elsewhere.
Don't even dwell on the possibility of a half-day of absence. I used to offer that option for consideration, and was told that it is much easier to schedule a substitute for a full day that a half day. Go figure! Apparently, subs want to be able to actually earn some money and not just break even if they're going to get dressed and drive to school and learn the lay of the land and deal with teenagers. So some will decline a half day while awaiting a full day offer from another district. Especially days that are scheduled well in advance, and not on the morning of.
So...Mrs. Hillbilly Mom will be having a four-day week of work this upcoming week, and a four-day week of work the following week, then she will put in an honest five, and partake of another four-day work-week thanks to President's Day.
Not a bad gig if you can get it.
Saturday, January 28, 2012
Ah...The French And Their Odd Customs
Ahem. I have a somewhat embarrassing tale to relate. Embarrassing for me, anyway.
Perhaps you remember my stories of Juno, our live-wire rescue pup. And how I stand beside the porch and hug her every evening. How she can barely contain her excitement, except for the ability to stand stock still while I hug her for about thirty seconds.
Last week, I was in mid-hug, letting Juno bury her face in the inside of my jacket while she trembled with love during our daily reunion. Then it happened. I couldn't process it until it was over. Shows you what can happen in an instant.
I had a DOG NOSE IN MY MOUTH!
A wet, Juno dog nose. She lovingly raised her head to sniff closer to my face, and I was in mid-sentence, telling her what a good puppy she was, talking about her starving puppy days. I think my scream startled her just a bit. She backed off, front legs low, ready to pounce on any opportune object. And I was saved by The Pony. Juno wheeled around and dug her toenails into the cedar porch and shot toward him like a black furry rocket.
I know how Lucy Van Pelt felt in A Charlie Brown Christmas. "I've been kissed by a dog!" Indeed. But I don't think Lucy got a french kiss from Snoopy.
Perhaps you remember my stories of Juno, our live-wire rescue pup. And how I stand beside the porch and hug her every evening. How she can barely contain her excitement, except for the ability to stand stock still while I hug her for about thirty seconds.
Last week, I was in mid-hug, letting Juno bury her face in the inside of my jacket while she trembled with love during our daily reunion. Then it happened. I couldn't process it until it was over. Shows you what can happen in an instant.
I had a DOG NOSE IN MY MOUTH!
A wet, Juno dog nose. She lovingly raised her head to sniff closer to my face, and I was in mid-sentence, telling her what a good puppy she was, talking about her starving puppy days. I think my scream startled her just a bit. She backed off, front legs low, ready to pounce on any opportune object. And I was saved by The Pony. Juno wheeled around and dug her toenails into the cedar porch and shot toward him like a black furry rocket.
I know how Lucy Van Pelt felt in A Charlie Brown Christmas. "I've been kissed by a dog!" Indeed. But I don't think Lucy got a french kiss from Snoopy.
Friday, January 27, 2012
A Slippery Slope
Well, ding dang dong it! All this complaining about having no snow, and now there is some forecast for overnight. ON A FRIDAY NIGHT! That's no good. How's that gonna get Mrs. Hillbilly Mom out of a day of school?
To add insult to injury, the #1 son has to leave home at 5:00 a.m. to go to a robot competition on Saturday. That boy doesn't need to be driving during inclement weather. He's got a bit of his father in him. The gas gas gas brake brake brake part.
This morning, I noticed the county road was icy as soon as I pulled out from our gravel road. The Pony, my traveling secretary, tried to call and warn #1. Alas, no phone call comes between #1 and his morning regimen. So I instructed The Pony to send him a text. That works. He thinks it might be a friend, I suppose, until it's too late and he's read it inadvertently.
This afternoon, I found out that after The Pony and I passed by the closest prison to the Mansion, a wreck occurred. We had nothing to do with it. I swear. I only found out because I was haranguing #1 about screening out my calls.
"You really need to answer my calls in the morning. It might be something important."
"I can't hear it when I'm in the bathroom getting ready. Did you see the people jumping up and down in the road by the prison?"
"No. Did someone escape?"
"No. It was on that little hill just past the prison, right before your turn-off. Every time a car got close, they jumped and waved their arms. When I got over the hill, I saw a car off in the ditch."
"Well, I guess it's a good thing I let you know the roads were slick."
"I would have figured it out."
That's what I'm afraid of.
To add insult to injury, the #1 son has to leave home at 5:00 a.m. to go to a robot competition on Saturday. That boy doesn't need to be driving during inclement weather. He's got a bit of his father in him. The gas gas gas brake brake brake part.
This morning, I noticed the county road was icy as soon as I pulled out from our gravel road. The Pony, my traveling secretary, tried to call and warn #1. Alas, no phone call comes between #1 and his morning regimen. So I instructed The Pony to send him a text. That works. He thinks it might be a friend, I suppose, until it's too late and he's read it inadvertently.
This afternoon, I found out that after The Pony and I passed by the closest prison to the Mansion, a wreck occurred. We had nothing to do with it. I swear. I only found out because I was haranguing #1 about screening out my calls.
"You really need to answer my calls in the morning. It might be something important."
"I can't hear it when I'm in the bathroom getting ready. Did you see the people jumping up and down in the road by the prison?"
"No. Did someone escape?"
"No. It was on that little hill just past the prison, right before your turn-off. Every time a car got close, they jumped and waved their arms. When I got over the hill, I saw a car off in the ditch."
"Well, I guess it's a good thing I let you know the roads were slick."
"I would have figured it out."
That's what I'm afraid of.
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