This Is Not Why People Choose My Profession

Not a good day for Mrs. Hillbilly Mom.

First cat out of the bag, Newmentia did NOT have a snow day, despite three inches built up everywhere but the street. Scholarly neighbors on two sides of Newmentia did the right thing, and took their 22nd snow day of the school year. But not Newmentia.

The arrival held no joy. Desks, desks, everywhere, but not a one in the position I left it on Friday afternoon. Third time is NOT a charm. I've a good mind to readjust those desks several inches CLOSER to each other, since a certain someone who shall remain named Cus seems to think moving them several inches farther away from each other is indiscernable. Again, I moved 25 desks and 25 chairs back to where they belonged for optimal classroom navigation.

Just before jumping up to run to the faculty women's restroom two minutes before first bell, Mrs. Hillbilly Mom reached for her glasses, perhaps you are familiar with them, they of the seventy-'leven trips to The House of Charlatans Optical Delusions Emporium and Professional Prevaricators Shoppe, and was dismayed to hear her left lens drop to the cold tile floor. Compressing her eager bladder to bend down and rescue the lens, Mrs. HM used her free hand to open the flat desk drawer and grab the eyeglasses kit in a tube that she put there after her last screw faux pas when her protection was in T-Hoe. The only problem was trying to see that infinitesimal hardware without her glasses, because she was working on her glasses.

The rest of the morning did not flow as planned. Two study aids needed updating in preparation for Tuesday and Wednesday's benchmark tests. Tests which needed copying. Then the Kyocera refused to staple. Thank the Gummi Mary, the 10:53 lunchtime respite arrived. Except that it didn't. Finishing up a couple of loose ends led to Mrs. Hillbilly Mom getting her chicken patty in the microwave late, and the lunch tardy bell ringing before she made it to her table. On her way up the hall, Mrs. HM spied the Tomato Squirter, and facetiously inquired, "Is it fish day?" Only to be informed that no, it was some kind of garlicky noodle day, garlicky noodles being eaten right in the very chair that Mrs. Hillbilly Mom fancies as her own personal school property, having put in enough years to choke a horse, and reveling in this small pleasure each 10:53-time, as others defer to her great age and foul temper.

"I'm not even dealing with that today. I'll eat in my room." Thus Mrs. Hillbilly Mom put her foot down and turned on her heel, never having seen such rudeness as emanates from a certain corner of the octagonal lunch table this year. And made up her mind that she may not even eat there the rest of the week.

After lunch a funny boy (in his own mind) destroyed the green acrylic measuring stick Mrs. Hillbilly Mom had supplied to her classes year after year for measuring domino rows before toppling. Destroyed it by chasing another youngster away from his group and threatening him by slamming that innocent measuring stick down on one of the ever-migrating desks, thus snapping it in three-quarters and one quarter, refusing to meet Mrs. HM's glare, answering "Nothing" when asked what was going on, then five minutes later coming to Mrs. HM's control center asking for tape.

"Why do you need tape?"

"To tape your ruler."

"What happened to my ruler?"

"It broke."

"How's that?"

"It got hit on the desk."

Indeed. Things pretty much went downhill from there. We're in the February doldrums in March. Keep the horses away from Mrs. Hillbilly Mom. We don't want to discuss the namesake for the Horse Latitudes.