My Best Ol' Ex-Teaching Buddy Mabel Was Right

Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is hot to trot! And not in a good way. In a bad way. Like a cat twitching its tail. Like a bull pawing the turf. Like a dog curling his lip to show his canines.

Since today was first Monday, we had a meeting of the faculty. Mrs. Hillbilly Mom has attended many such gatherings. Back in the day, Ms Mabel was sure to save a seat for Mrs. Hillbilly Mom. And for two of our other cronies as well. And if Ms Mabel could not be there on time, Mrs. Hillbilly Mom would save the seats. Or Sweet Alabama Beige. Not that it mattered, of course. Because we are teachers of habit. We always take the same seats, at the same tables, with the same circle of buddies.

Knowing that these meetings take a while to commence, Mrs. Hillbilly Mom usually drags along a stack of papers to work on while the stragglers trickle in and the bull is being shot amongst the early birds. Today, she was all caught up with her grading. She stood in the hall briefly for her duty that others are derelict in after the final bell. She went back to her corner control center to log off her laptop, lest the the tech crew walk. She grabbed some blank paper from her printer, her blue Pilot Precise V5 Rolling Ball pen, and her bifocals, and headed to the meetin'. With a stop by the faculty women's restroom, which was now free of the 20 other patrons who frequent that establishment every day every hour and after final bell. Mrs. Hillbilly Mom knew there was still plenty of time. In fact, Mrs. Not-A-Cook was seen going down the ramp as Mrs. HM ducked into the workroom to use the facilities.

Imagine Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's surprise when she entered the library to the tune of meetin'-speak. What voice through yonder bookshelf spoke? Mrs. HM walked past the speaker's table, took a right between two other tables due to the sprawl of the literary crowd, and found nowhere to rest her ample behind.

MRS. HILLBILLY MOM'S SEAT HAD ALREADY BEEN PICKED!!!

She grabbed a chair at the counter that holds the library computers, and commenced a-writin' the directives of the speaker. Facing the wall, of course, because that's the only way to write at that counter, with one's back to the rest of the room. Mrs. Hillbilly Mom was NOT a happy camper. The Goldilocks who occupied her rightful chair whispered, "Mrs. Hillbilly Mom? Do you want this chair?"

"No."

What's the point, really, of making a scene to retake one's seat? The damage was done. Can you believe that people cannot have the common courtesy to leave open the chair where Mrs. Hillbilly Mom has sat at every meeting every month since 2001 when we moved into Newmentia? Fourteen years down the drain! Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's corpse is not even cold yet. In fact, her corpse is not even dead yet! And still the scavengers creep.

It's not as if Goldilocks needed to sit there at a regular table to take notes on the new hoops we are required to jump through next year. Hoops we are required to bring to our special meetings next week. Hoops which Mrs. Hillbilly Mom has not decorated with tie-died scarves and turkey feathers and glitter, her having only heard of these new hoops at the February meeting on that first Monday, shoving the folder in her desk that evening, not having time to look at it on Tuesday, then leaving school at breakneck speed on Wednesday before 1st period was over, due to the death of her mother, and spending the time since then playing catch-up with the old hoops that she THOUGHT were the ones required before May, of which she has enough to fill four binders full.

Yeah. Mrs. HM does not have her fancy hoops in inspection order.

Nor does she have a seat at the table anymore.