As per usual, Mrs. HM left just enough time to get there, do her business, and walk back to her doorway to greet her students entering at first bell. No need to make that pilgrimage earlier and break up her solitude. No need to make it later and have her room unattended with students present. Proper timing is of the essences.
Mrs. Hillbilly Mom turned on the hot water faucet to wash her hands. Always hygienic is our HM. She soaped and rinsed. Was getting ready to snatch a paper towel from the dispenser. Teachers are allowed them, you know. Not so the students. They might jam them in the sink drains and cause a flood. So they only get blowers that sound like jet engines.
As Mrs. Hillbilly Mom peered into the mirror over the sink, she saw something amiss with her green plaid shirt. A spot. Was it a stain already, so early in the day? Preposterous! Just a tiny dark spot. A teardrop shape. Smaller than a pencil eraser. She leaned in. Looked closer. Looked down at her very own chest. What the—
It was a burr. The kind you pick up running through the countryside with your ears flapping. The kind carried on a dog’s fur. A dog such as Mrs. HM’s sweet, sweet Juno. A dog who greets her sweet, sweet Mrs. HM on the side porch by the garage before she drives off in T-Hoe every morning.
Mrs. HM reached down to remove the offending burr. It was stuck like Velcro to her shirt. Velcro was patterned after burrs, you know. That is, perhaps, ironic. After much scraping with her fingernails, Mrs. HM pried the burr loose. And left a wet spot right over her left boobicle. Right before she was due to walk down the hall and stand at her door and greet students.
Let the record show that Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is NOT lactating. And that her pupils knew better than to inquire.