Some days, I bemoan progress. Well, that's most days. But some days, I moan louder than others.
Can you even fathom how annoying it is to work in a hall of cameras? In a hall of mirrors, I would have to look at myself. But I'd get over the nausea pretty quickly. In a hall of cameras, other people have to look at me. I hear what you're shouting at your monitor: "Here, now, Mrs. Hillbilly Mom! Whatever made you think its all about YOU? Those cameras are there for safety. For surveillance. To make sure nobody carts off a truckload of that delicious cafeteria food, so delicious that you and your colleagues would sooner ingest five-week-old generic tortilla chips than pay for a tray lunch. Stop being such a self-centered dingleberry. Just because cameras are aimed at your every move does not mean that an actual person is watching you every minute of every day."
And to that, I say, "Mind your own beeswax, people, and let me rant about the current bee in my bonnet."
From the moment I pull T-Hoe onto the Newmentia parking lot, I am fettered. Not footloose. Not fancy free. Fettered. Constrained. I have to watch my Ps and Qs. Which stands for Pints and Quarts, for those of you who like to get your learn on while reading a blog post. Not that I partake of said Ps and Qs. Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is a teetotaller. Because alcohol (and firearms) (and tobacco) are prohibited on school property. And the cameras would totally catch such substance faux pas in a hot hillbilly minute.
My issue is of a more delicate nature. A peccadillo of sartorial proportions.
There is nowhere to pick the underwear out of your butt crack without being observed.
"But Mrs. Hillbilly Mom," you say. "Cameras are not permitted in the classroom. Surely, upon arrival, you could pick your linen behind closed door." Au contraire. I have road-facing windows. The buses drop off outside those windows. Visitors and parents park out front. No thank you. I do not wish to be the lead story on the evening news.
Nor do I wish to run to the faculty women's restroom every time I need to wrestle my undergarments back from my cheeky buttocks.
Commando is not an option.