You Say Oui, And I Say No No

This is NOT Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's classroom.

That goes without saying, you might think. You would think wrong. Just this morning, a student mistook my classroom for a sidewalk cafe.

I have not been promoting my den of learning with a campaign touting croissants, baguettes, cafe au lait, crepes, or eclairs. Nor have I installed pegs upon which one might hang a chapeau. A beret, perhaps. The desks have not been replaced with tables. No streaming sunlight. Frankenwindow still holds court near the pencil sharpener. People-watching is impossible with no boulevard to overlook. Unless, of course, you find it restful to observe adolescents in captivity. I, myself, do not.

Even though it lacks all of the accouterments of a French cafe, Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's classroom was STILL mistaken for such this morning. Why else would a young lady attempt to enter while carrying a 55-gallon barrel of Joe. I might be exaggerating just a smidge. She actually held it with one hand. But that foam cup was as tall as a 44 oz. Diet Coke. Of course I stopped her. Food and drink are not permitted in Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's classroom. It's right there in the rules. I dwell upon it throughout the year. The prohibition of such contraband is clearly mentioned in my First Day of School Speech. Others before her have had their ill-timed consumables confiscated.

"Stop. You're not going into my room with that."

"What?"

"You know the rules. No drinks allowed."

"SIGH!" (The air that gushed from her lungs could have replaced a wind farm in Nantucket Sound. No need to worry, Cape Codders. It doesn't kill birds, and it's relatively quiet.)

"I don't know why you're just standing there. The bell is going to ring."

"What do you want me to do with it?"

SWEET GUMMI MARY! PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE TELL ME SHE DIDN'T SET ME UP LIKE THAT!

"You can put it in the trash can in the cafeteria. Or you can put it in your locker. But it is NOT going into my classroom."

So Tall Cuppa Java did neither, and hoofed it next door where an enabler allowed her to stash it until the class period was over. Different strokes for different folks. It makes no nevermind to me where that giant carafe of coffee went until the bell. But I would never undermine my fellow faculty like that. Perhaps it was due to a cultural difference. The harborer DID come to apologize with a shrug, in a "What you gonna do?" manner. So I have no bones to pick there. And I know she is not operating her own French cafe. Because she simply detests the French.

Mrs. Hillbilly Mom. Not the cool teacher.