Hurricane Isaac Reaches Hillmomba

Sweet Gummi Mary! It's raining cats and dogs out there!

The Pony and I were glad we carried umbrellas into school this morning. Actually, we carried them to keep the light sprinkles off our head. With a summer bereft of rain, you're never quite sure whether you might melt now when struck by precipitation.

As we readied my room to leave Newmentia, I made one last dash to the faculty women's restroom. Not to wash my hair or anything. To use it as intended. When I came back to the classroom, water gushed from the sky in sideways sheets bent on bending our umbrellas. My shirt was nearly whipped up over my head several times. Lucky for me, the wind pressed the umbrella sideways into my head and shoulder, shielding my muffin-top and other bits from prying eyes. Not that anybody was out there in the parking lot. It's the Friday of a three-day weekend, by cracky!

We headed two towns over to pay the Mansion payment. As that astronaut said during the fake moon landing, "What a ride, what a ride!" I took the back roads, so my slower speeds allowed me to actually see out the windshield. The tradeoff was the standing water on the side of the road that created many an upside-down waterfall while dragging T-Hoe off course. My main goal was not to be killed by a falling timber or power line.

I suppose you have surmised by my typing that we survived. But not without casualties to my lovely lady-mullet.

The weeds are already sprouting out of control. I imagine the creeks will overflow and restrict my mobility. But we have rain, doggone it! Even my poor bedraggled Juno seemed to have extra spring in her step when we got home. I'm still trying to figure out why she got off the porch to soak up water like a sponge.

She might be wondering the same thing about me.

Absenct Makes The Teacher's Heart Grow Harder

Teachers, did you ever notice how attendance drops on test days?

You can be cruising along at 100% attendance, wishing some students might stay home and leave you with fewer papers to grade every day. But no. There they are, all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, turning in that work like it's the last day of the quarter. Filling the cafeteria with shouts and laughter. Clogging the halls with their hustle and bustle.

Then you schedule a test. Give them a week's notice. Write the date on the board. Mention it every day. Explain the makeup of the test. The points possible. Discuss items they need to know. And they're all there. Raptly soaking up your tips.

Test day dawns, and the list of absentees strings into infinity. The bubonic plague has arrived. Tuberculosis. Scoliosis. Ringworm. Consumption. The dropsy. Many an out-of-town wedding must be attended. Family reunions. After-summer vacations. Orthodontists have been scheduled. Dance contests. Driver's tests. Baseball games. A surprising number of youth are scaling Everest.

Don't worry. They'll be back. Club Day always restores that 100% attendance rate.

Placing Blame 101: Wherein Mrs. Hillbilly Mom Makes A Fool Of Herself Once Again In The Eyes Of The Universe

Tuesday morning I arrived at school all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, having enjoyed a full six hours of sleep. I set about my business of logging in seventy-eleven times to access all of the top-secret files that we teachers must work with each day. Shortly before first bell, I noticed something on the floor by my spare rolly chair. The one just across my desk, by the back table.

It was a dead scorpion.

That's a slightly unusual sight in my room, though the building has had a sudden upsurge in them lately. So I wanted a picture to share. My phone was already turned off. I am a stickler for rules. I knew there was no time to power it up again and get that photo. I vowed that I would get one on my 2nd hour plan time. In the meantime, I had to keep kids away from that area. The purpose of their banishment was twofold. To keep them from trying to sit in the forbidden rolly chair and inadvertently destroying my photo op. And to keep them from screaming hysterically, "There's a scorpion! Do something!"

I was busy working 2nd hour. At the end, I got out my phone and turned it on. I snapped a pic. Or so I thought. My camera malfunctioned. No time for a reboot and pictures. I rebooted, then turned off the sound and stashed the phone in my top desk drawer just as the bell rang. I decided I could get that picture right before lunch.

My 3rd hour class kindly informed me, despite shushing from two or three individuals, that my assignment was missing sections two and four. That's because I was forsaken by Kyocera, who got all re-setty and stuff when I backed out of the printing commands to add stapling to his repertoire. I told them I would remedy the situation forthwith. There are only seven in that class. No bad blood amongst them. Carers and sharers one and all. They were already working with partners. So I dashed two doors down to the copy room, only to find that somebody had just remotely printed a set of fifty eighty-page handouts. Stapled. I hurried a few more doors to the office. Ran my fourteen copies. Scurried back. No harm, no foul. Those cherubs were working away.

When the bell rang to go to lunch, I grabbed my phone out of the drawer. Hurried to the back table and my dead scorpion. Ding-dang-dong it all! My scorpion had been disturbed. Wait until I get my larynx on those little devils! I bet they were snooping around back there by my control center, looking for answers. Probably getting ready to have races in my spare rolly chair, to boot. I oughta...But wait! Time was wasting. I needed that picture of the dead scorpion.

I practically stood on my head to get a decent shot. Then it dawned on me: I can move that scorpion out and take a picture more easily. Recreate the crime scene. I grabbed a scrap of paper from my desk. Leaned over. Scooted the scorpion...

AND IT STARTED TO WALK!

That blasted scorpion had been playing possum for three hours and fifteen minutes! It could have stung me on my bare sock foot as I aired out my tootsies on my plan period. Not four feet away, it had been. And people think the rain forest is deadly. Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's classroom is a close second.

I suppose I own a mental apology to my 3rd hour class.

Sometimes You Feel Like A Mouse...Sometimes You Don't

I think I have figured out why the cats are not killing mice in the garage. Technically, it's only one mouse. The one Farmer H saw the other night when he lingered in his car after getting home from work. I saw it myself yesterday. While the scrunch-eared gray calico was stuffing her gaping maw with Diamond dry cat food (yes, the brand that poisons your pets) out of an old black speckled roasting pan on the floor near the door. That mouse ran right down the wall, TOWARDS the cat! Cheeky little rodent, he is.

This afternoon, while waiting for the garage door to open, I said, "Hey! The cats are all out in the back yard." It was like a cat convention back there.

"They're always in the back yard," said The Pony. But they're not. I don't know when he has ever seen them there, except when I fling a bunch of leftovers off the back deck. They were sitting, several feet apart, like pieced on a yard-sized chess board.

I gave The Pony the door key. He gathered up his backpack and various electronic accoutrements, and headed for the kitchen door. That's our point of entry. Only the #1 son uses the front door. Or Farmer H, coming to and from his goat-and-chicken tending. As I climbed down from T-Hoe, I heard a shout. A chuckle. "Hey, Mom! Genius (the orange-striped cat, the best one, the smartest, the most loving) has a goldfish!"

Ahem. These are not just any goldfish. They are the giant ones that Farmer H has been cultivating in his fake fish pond for nigh on fourteen years. I rushed to get a look. And here is what I saw:

Uh huh. That's a fish behind the cat licking his paws. A fish with chunks eaten out of both sides. A pet who became a meal at the paws and jaws of another pet. Which is so very wrong. We try to discourage that kind of behavior here at the Mansion.

I'm sure that tomorrow, the three dogs will be wearing Essence of Dead Fish.

Sadly, No Vacancy

The Pony and I pulled T-Hoe up to the mailbox this afternoon. And saw a cat in the roadside weeds. A pretty little white cat with a saddle-like splotch of gray stripes on her back. I say "her," thought I did not get so up close and personal to ascertain her gender. But the way things go around here, she was most likely a female. She wound through The Pony's legs while he loaded up on mail. Followed him to the car door.

"I don't want to leave her. Look at her big eyes! She is SO thin..."

"We have five cats. If we could get rid of the three that don't like us, we could have this one. But I don't foresee that happening in the next five minutes. You can ask your dad. The worst he can do is say no. But remember that the cats we already have are not going to like her. The dogs won't, either. It might be safer for her here at the mailboxes."

"I know. But I hate to leave her here."

"In the morning, you can bring a cup of food and dump it out for her."

As far as I know, The Pony did not ask Farmer H to adopt another cat. I don't want to bring it up. It will make him sad. Especially after finding that the lone chick he and Farmer H tried to save last night had expired during the day. No matter how you try to protect a day-old chick from harm, it just can't survive without a mom, even in an elevated cage with food and water and straw. At least the proposed adoptive family did not peck it to death, as they attempted during their short introduction.

One person can't save the world. Or even every stray cat in the neighborhood.

Let's Put MIT On Hold For A Bit, Shall We?

It's no secret that the #1 son wants to attend MIT. That's the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, you know. For brainiacs. Quite an honor for those who gain acceptance. I have no doubt that #1 is smart enough. He just lacks common sense. Glosses over details. Pulls away from the station with a one-track mind.

Farmer H bought some Krispy Kreme donuts from a neighbor girl selling door-to-door for a school fundraiser. They were delivered yesterday, when the menfolk were at Saturday Bowling League. I set them on the cutting block. The donuts, silly, not the menfolk! They are much harder to lift. I despise a Krispy Kreme donut. They are too messy and squishy for me.

The Pony and Farmer H arrived home before #1. "Hey! I see we have some Krispy Kremes! Who are they for?" hollered The Pony. Well. He knows I hate them. He knows Farmer H is banned from sugar. But his question made me curious, as well.

"Ask your dad if he bought them for #1, or for both of you."

The Pony discovered that the Krispy Kremes were meant to be shared. He snagged one as a snack. The #1 son went to Grandma's house after bowling to glom onto her high-speed internet. He returned to the Mansion as I was getting supper ready. Not cooking, mind you. Making sandwiches. And warming them up in the oven.

"Hey! Krispy Kremes! Which side is mine? I'm going to guess the longest side. Wait a minute! That pig ate three! That's not fair! PONY! Why'd you eat three donuts already, and some out of my side?"

"I didn't. I only had one."

"Well if Dad didn't eat them, and Mom didn't eat them, where did they go?"

"I don't know. I only had one."

It was a crisis of global proportions. I'm shocked that the moon didn't fall out of orbit. I told #1 that maybe the box only came with ten in it. Because it was a fundraiser. Maybe the group was cutting corners to get more money for themselves.

"Oh, no. They come by the dozen. Look at this! I know he took three!"

I looked into the box as he opened the lid. Two rows of donuts. One shorter than the other. Six on one side. Five on the other. "WHAT are you whining about? There are eleven donuts there. Only one is missing."

"Uh uh. There's only nine."

"One, two, three, four, five, six. Seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven. Can you not even count to eleven? You can kiss those college dreams goodbye. I'm not wasting my money on a kid who can't even count a dozen donuts!"

"Huh. It LOOKED like there were only nine..."

This morning, The Pony declared that he thought there were actually FOURTEEN donuts in that box. Because you could see them lined up. But there were marks where donuts had been sitting in the box. Sigh. I guess he never heard of shiftage.

I guess community college is good enough for the both of them.

Something's Gotta Give

I don't know how people live these days. How they put food on the table. Clothe their children. Maintain a vehicle and pay for gas. Splurge a bit on simple pleasures like cigarettes and beer. What have they got to live for?

The Hillbilly family is very fortunate to to fall smack dab in the middle of lower middle class. We are not hurting. But neither are we rolling in dough, dripping with extravagant accoutrements, or socking away security for our golden years. It's a matter of one step forward and three steps back. I save each month, but something comes up to eat away at our nest egg. Like the air conditioner fiasco. Our guilty pleasures are 44 oz. Diet Cokes, gas money for the #1 son's used Ford Ranger, and goats and chickens for Farmer H to play with. But we're getting by.

The people we know are struggling. One couple withdrew their kids from the bowling league several years ago, to save twenty dollars a week. A teacher friend cleans houses after school. Her husband has a good, steady job. But he scraps with his son as time permits. Not scrap as in fight. Scrap as in round up junk and sell it to the scrap yard. Farmer H's buddy, his own wife a teacher, does dozer work on the side, and hauls loads of rock in his dump truck.

How did things come to this? Working people working extra to make ends meet. I can't imagine a young couple just starting out. You know they both can't work until their kids are in school. Because daycare would sap up all the second-job money. No wonder people are selling meth, robbing each other blind, and chucking the whole support myself thing in favor of zoning out on drugs.

The only business I can imagine thriving at the current time is Little Caesar's Pizza. Those five dollar pizzas will feed a family cheaper than groceries. And without running up the utility bill.

Thank the Gummi Mary, I set aside the bankroll for my handbasket factory when times were better.