Snow Day 11 of The Late-Winter of Mrs. Hillbilly Mom.
Much like The Summer of George, expectations have greatly exceeded the reality. Not much has been accomplished.
Let's see. Monday was Snow Day 9. Tuesday was a full day (!) of work, with The Pony's scholar bowl meet after school. Then Wednesday was 10 and today is 11. Yeah. I can barely keep track. I've been to work one day since Friday, February 27th. One day in six. It's good work if you can get it.
Fortunately, the Mansion is well-stocked with supplies. On that Friday, I picked up four boxes of Girl Scout Cookies from a student. No, Mrs. Hillbilly Mom does not teach young Girl Scouts. My purchase was made from, and the cookies delivered by...a 17-year-old Eagle Scout. Yeah. That's a dude. Makes me no nevermind. I forked over the dough and took possession of the cookies. Somebody in class questioned the transaction.
"Hey. What's HE doing selling Girl Scout cookies?"
"Uh. He's an EAGLE SCOUT! I'm pretty sure they're allowed to sell Girl Scout cookies."
"I don't think so. He's not even a Girl Scout."
"Yeah, but an Eagle Scout is way higher than a Girl Scout. So they can do it."
I don't quite get than line of reasoning, but mine is not to reason why, mine is but to salivate and buy. Mine is but to pay the guy. Mine is but to listen and sigh.
With all this time on my hands, those cookies have been calling. Faintly at first. Then bellowing, like Frank Costanza spurned from Del Boca Vista: "You want a piece of me?"
Savannah ain't smilin' now. I tried these delectable morsels for the first time this year. I was hoping they were kind of like the powdered-sugar-coated lemony treats my grandma used to make at Christmas time. Indeed, they were. But in a less-delicious kind of non-grandma way. Those Girl Scouts will need to step it up by the time they reach 60 years of age. Still, those cookies were a reasonable facsimile. I daresay I consumed half the box at one sitting. Oh, they're all gone now. You'll have to get your own. I'll send an Eagle Scout your way. And just between you and me, those Samoas are now on the endangered list. I think I heard the Thin Mints and Tag-a-longs heading for the hills.
So here I sit, crumbs at the corners of my mouth, obsessively clicking on the school closings tab, even though I know I'll get a call from the top branch of the phone tree, a call from the automated school announcements on my cell phone, a call from the automated school announcements on my house phone, and a text from the automated school announcements on my cell phone.
I'm not taking any chances on missing that SNOW DAY notification. And I'm going to be extra cautious going down the stairs to my dark basement lair. I'm also not taking any chances on slipping on, or accidentally licking, a dropped envelope.