Mrs. Hillbilly Mom was questioning her own personal hygiene this morning. And after stepping out of the shower, too. Sure, by morning we're talking about 11:45 a.m. But that's still morning, technically.
Time flies when you're not at work. And at 11:45 on a regular day, Mrs. Hillbilly Mom would have already eaten lunch, and would be well on her way to frittering away the second half of her plan period. That hour is useless anyway, what with it falling over the lunch shifts, with nobody available for consultation, and Mrs. HM being persona non grata if she tries to run copies during that time, with her rumpus to the table of eaters in the teacher workroom. Even more so if a Kyocera jams, and she has to bend over.
Anyhoo...there she was, in her own master bathroom (because she's a MASTER teacher, heh, heh), having toweled off, combed out her coiffure, applied antiperspirant (never let 'em smell you sweat), dressed in her comfortable clothes, and in the midst of wiping the tile floor with her damp towel before tossing in a load of laundry...when she caught a whiff.
"Whoo! Something stinks. Is that ME? Do I stink? I just had a shower! How could I smell bad already? I scrubbed. With soap! What in the--"
And then she saw it. Over her left shoulder. The pile of tighty whities Farmer H collects in a Jenga-like tower rising from the white plastic lid of a clothes hamper. The business end of which was sitting in the bedroom full of the clean clothes from the LAST time Farmer H decided to do his laundry. Laundry he does because he refused to put his dirties in a clothes hamper all those many years ago when he and Mrs. HM were still in the honeymoon phase. An era in which she put her foot down and said, "If you want your clothes washed, you will put them in the hamper in the bathroom, and not leave them on the floor of the bedroom for me to pick up." Guess Farmer H showed HER, huh? Now in his 26th year of self-launder.
So good to know that Mrs. Hillbilly Mom herself was not less than fresh.