Here's how to answer personal questions asked by students while you're walking across the front of the room passing out papers. "NONE OF YOUR DADGUM BUSINESS!"
Oh. Wait. You can't do that. It might hurt somebody's tender self esteem. So when, with a smirk that smacks of another desk-dweller feeding lines to a patsy, a student raises a hand to be called upon, and inquires, "Did you color your hair?" while looking around for approval from other inquiring minds, the proper answer is:
"Why would you ask something personal like that? And why would I answer something personal like that? What if I asked, 'Didn't anyone ever teach you manners at home?'"
Then the class will hang their heads in discomfort, except for one lad who tries to restore good will by answering that rhetorical question with: "I'd have to say no. Nobody ever taught me ANY manners at home. And it shows."
It's not that I mind answering such a question. I've had classes where we discussed the merits of various hair color brands and shades. That's because students were discussing it with each other, and asked my opinion. "Did YOU ever color your hair, Mrs. Hillbilly Mom?" Well, all the time. It's no secret. I don't bury the L'Oreal box under my coat when pushing my cart through The Devil's Playground. It is, however, rude to ask such a question with an ulterior motive, such as disrupting class because a boy behind you thought it would be funny. So any mouthpiece so swayed by peer pressure should be prepared to take the heat.
Obviously, these kids need a good dose of A League of Their Own, so they will understand that a lady reveals nothing. Had I answered this faux inquiry, I would have set myself up for future time-wasting inquisitions concerning tobacco/alcohol/drug use, age, romantic dalliances, prison terms, and poaching.
It's all in the intent.
Tuesday, April 30, 2013
Monday, April 29, 2013
Hillmomba Was Well-Represented
We spent Saturday and Sunday in Columbia, watching the #1 son receive his special award. No, it was NOT a leg lamp in a crate marked FRA-JEEEE-LAY. Actually, we spent Saturday and Sunday DRIVING to and from Columbia. Mizzou. Not the South American country. That would be Colombia. And don't mention a necktie if you go there. Don't even Google that. My brother-in-law the ex-mayor filled me in on that one. Not that he's ever been to Colombia, or given such a necktie.
So, we went to see #1 named one of the top one hundred high school students in the state of Missouri. The program was classy, even though the dinner was nothing to write home about, and the speechifying guys were enablers of big game hunters trying to catch the elusive ZZZZZZs.
Our table, already marked with place cards bearing our names, was three steps from the podium. That meant that Mrs. Hillbilly Mom, who likes to be at the back of every venue, was on display like a prize pig at the state fair. Everybody bored with the speechifying guys needed only to avert their gaze one degree to the right to observe Mrs. HM goonin' right back at them. Goonin'. That's what kids in Hillmomba used to call "staring" at somebody. Goonin'.
There was no way I was turning my head ninety degrees to watch an old man talk. Not with the vast array of diverse recipients to peruse. Yes. Kids look like their parents. I had no trouble discerning the parental units from the high school principals with each honoree.
The tables were set when we arrived. A plate of salad, desserts all around, water, and iced tea. Here's the catch. An old guy talked. Then another old guy talked. I noticed a couple of folks eating their salad. Then the old guy talking at the time said, "And in a few minutes we'll let you get to your lunch." It was not dinner and a show. It was some show. Dinner. Then more show. We were supposed to be sitting there like big patient dogs, holding biscuits on our cold wet dog noses, waiting until the signal to begin eating. Most of us earned an "Atta boy!"
Still, the event was well-organized and stately. Kids were dressed in suits, not saggy pants or flip-flops, and I only saw one kid with a cell phone during the speeches. The see-through trophy-award thingy was cool. The #1 son was reunited with some Missouri Boys State alumni, and a competitor from a neighboring district. Our principal said #1 is only the third recipient from Newmentia in his twenty-nine years of principaling.
I am very proud of my upper-echelon egghead.
So, we went to see #1 named one of the top one hundred high school students in the state of Missouri. The program was classy, even though the dinner was nothing to write home about, and the speechifying guys were enablers of big game hunters trying to catch the elusive ZZZZZZs.
Our table, already marked with place cards bearing our names, was three steps from the podium. That meant that Mrs. Hillbilly Mom, who likes to be at the back of every venue, was on display like a prize pig at the state fair. Everybody bored with the speechifying guys needed only to avert their gaze one degree to the right to observe Mrs. HM goonin' right back at them. Goonin'. That's what kids in Hillmomba used to call "staring" at somebody. Goonin'.
There was no way I was turning my head ninety degrees to watch an old man talk. Not with the vast array of diverse recipients to peruse. Yes. Kids look like their parents. I had no trouble discerning the parental units from the high school principals with each honoree.
The tables were set when we arrived. A plate of salad, desserts all around, water, and iced tea. Here's the catch. An old guy talked. Then another old guy talked. I noticed a couple of folks eating their salad. Then the old guy talking at the time said, "And in a few minutes we'll let you get to your lunch." It was not dinner and a show. It was some show. Dinner. Then more show. We were supposed to be sitting there like big patient dogs, holding biscuits on our cold wet dog noses, waiting until the signal to begin eating. Most of us earned an "Atta boy!"
Still, the event was well-organized and stately. Kids were dressed in suits, not saggy pants or flip-flops, and I only saw one kid with a cell phone during the speeches. The see-through trophy-award thingy was cool. The #1 son was reunited with some Missouri Boys State alumni, and a competitor from a neighboring district. Our principal said #1 is only the third recipient from Newmentia in his twenty-nine years of principaling.
I am very proud of my upper-echelon egghead.
Sunday, April 28, 2013
Sometimes, The Genius Is Outsmarted
The residents of the Hillbilly Mansion do not live in a democracy. There is a certain pecking order from which orders are issued, and The Pony is at the bottom, making the best of the dregs of personal freedom allotted to him.
The #1 son fancies himself the oligarch of the familial society. At times, he can get away with it. Friday, for instance, when he commanded The Pony to make him a piece of toast. It makes no difference whether The Pony is standing within a fetlock's distance from the bread and toaster, or if #1 is right beside them and The Pony is down in the basement happily typing away on his laptop. When #1 summons, The Pony appears like a cartoon character leaving a swirl of motion lines in his wake, without the drumbeat of flailing feet trying to get traction.
Of course, The Pony's efforts are never quite good enough. "Hey! You put the bread in the wrong side of the toaster!"
"What do you mean? I put it in the toaster."
"The side with the arrows is for one slice. Get in here! Look at it, so you'll know next time."
"Oh. I didn't know that's what it meant."
"Hey! You gave me the heel!"
"No I didn't. It was the piece NEXT to the heel."
"That's a crappy piece. I can't believe you gave me that. It's just like the heel."
"It's bread..."
"Can't you ever do anything right?"
"I guess not." The Pony gave me an evil grin. He knows exactly what he's doing.
The #1 son fancies himself the oligarch of the familial society. At times, he can get away with it. Friday, for instance, when he commanded The Pony to make him a piece of toast. It makes no difference whether The Pony is standing within a fetlock's distance from the bread and toaster, or if #1 is right beside them and The Pony is down in the basement happily typing away on his laptop. When #1 summons, The Pony appears like a cartoon character leaving a swirl of motion lines in his wake, without the drumbeat of flailing feet trying to get traction.
Of course, The Pony's efforts are never quite good enough. "Hey! You put the bread in the wrong side of the toaster!"
"What do you mean? I put it in the toaster."
"The side with the arrows is for one slice. Get in here! Look at it, so you'll know next time."
"Oh. I didn't know that's what it meant."
"Hey! You gave me the heel!"
"No I didn't. It was the piece NEXT to the heel."
"That's a crappy piece. I can't believe you gave me that. It's just like the heel."
"It's bread..."
"Can't you ever do anything right?"
"I guess not." The Pony gave me an evil grin. He knows exactly what he's doing.
Saturday, April 27, 2013
He's Technically Proficient, Despite Certain Quality Control Issues
The Pony is my partner-in-whine every week at The Devil's Playground. We both hate the process of procuring the week's staples.
I bribe The Pony with two dollars for the game room. Shh...he thinks I am giving him two dollars because I love him and wish for him to enjoy our outings and hope he can score some grabber-machine jewelry for my mom's birthday. The Pony is happiest when he has a mission to complete. It makes the time pass faster. I send him to the far reaches of The Devil's Playground to save myself some steps. On Friday, he hustled over to the pharmacy for toothpaste and antiperspirant, back to office supplies for two-sided tape for the #1 son's photo projects, across to the paper plates, down the chip aisle for his bag-lunch Cheetos, and then up front to the bread and produce to meet me. From there, I provided him with a new task, to retrieve a can of white meat chicken, and a can of albacore tuna in water.
One thing I might not have mentioned about The Pony...he is accurate, but lacks attention to detail. That's to say, he always returns with the correct brands and sizes. But he misses certain quality clues. He might grab the loaf of bread with a deep crevasse down the top, rendering 25% less usable surface. I had to teach him to gently turn the can of Pringles upside down to listen for the shards of breakage. Giant packages of toilet paper rolls should not have the wrapper sliced open from accidental or intentional box-cutting incidents.
Back home, putting away the provisions, I discovered a Ponyism. The can of white meat chicken was severely dented on the back bottom side. The Pony said, "Huh. It's the right kind, isn't it? You told me that when I brought it to the cart. YOU said it was okay."
I'm learning to wear my quality control hat. The one The Pony picked out for me, with the unraveled stitching and the off-center logo.
I bribe The Pony with two dollars for the game room. Shh...he thinks I am giving him two dollars because I love him and wish for him to enjoy our outings and hope he can score some grabber-machine jewelry for my mom's birthday. The Pony is happiest when he has a mission to complete. It makes the time pass faster. I send him to the far reaches of The Devil's Playground to save myself some steps. On Friday, he hustled over to the pharmacy for toothpaste and antiperspirant, back to office supplies for two-sided tape for the #1 son's photo projects, across to the paper plates, down the chip aisle for his bag-lunch Cheetos, and then up front to the bread and produce to meet me. From there, I provided him with a new task, to retrieve a can of white meat chicken, and a can of albacore tuna in water.
One thing I might not have mentioned about The Pony...he is accurate, but lacks attention to detail. That's to say, he always returns with the correct brands and sizes. But he misses certain quality clues. He might grab the loaf of bread with a deep crevasse down the top, rendering 25% less usable surface. I had to teach him to gently turn the can of Pringles upside down to listen for the shards of breakage. Giant packages of toilet paper rolls should not have the wrapper sliced open from accidental or intentional box-cutting incidents.
Back home, putting away the provisions, I discovered a Ponyism. The can of white meat chicken was severely dented on the back bottom side. The Pony said, "Huh. It's the right kind, isn't it? You told me that when I brought it to the cart. YOU said it was okay."
I'm learning to wear my quality control hat. The one The Pony picked out for me, with the unraveled stitching and the off-center logo.
Friday, April 26, 2013
Are You Ready to GRUMBLE?
1000 bulls charging through 1000 china shops for 1000 years could not wreak more havoc than a certain group of students entrusted to Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's care at the end of the day. They are not bad kids. They are good kids, actually. But they make that Mayhem insurance guy look like Mary Poppins. They are like sharp-elbowed, big-headed, Wizard of Oz scarecrows stumbling and bumbling down the Yellow Brick Road. A walk across the front of the classroom is dangerous to themselves and others. There are fourteen desk legs to trip them, a white board marker tray to bruise a hip, that projector screen to wrap them up like a burrito, the pencil sharpener handle that could put an eye out, and Germ-X that could spray into their mouths and poison them.
I find it necessary to batten down my classroom hatches when I foresee their arrival on the horizon. Storm shutters go up. Exposed glass is taped with Xs. Plywood is nailed over the door. Fasten your seatbelt, it's going to be a bumpy class period. Yes. All unnecessary items should be stowed in the overhead compartments. The projector screen should be coiled safely above the fray. Books removed from the dilapidated wooden bookcase and stored in the cabinet. The case of bottled water put out of sight. A box of file folders on top of the mini-fridge filed away.
Still, they manage to destroy items in their path like a plague of locusts. Like Sherman marching through Georgia. Like a football team of teenage boys at a CiCi's Pizza buffet.
HOWEVER...Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's wrecking crew is not the focus today. We're here to discuss the ultimate Stevening of Cus. Yes, Even Steven intervened last week in a smackdown of epic proportions. Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is still feasting on her dish of cold revenge, laughing her last laugh, maniacally. Don't get me wrong. Cus does a fantastic job. It's not Cus. It's me. I don't like my stuff touched. And Cus is paid for touching. So you could see how we might disagree on the placement and replacement of classroom furniture. I think I should be the one to determine the Feng Shui, and Cus sees a need to tweak my layout.
Each day at the end of class, I direct my students to align their shoeless desk feet with designated tile seams, and to push in their chairs. They are supposed to stand at their desks until the dismissal bell. To them, the "stand" command is heard as: mill around like the sum total population of Mumbai trying to make individual cross-town appointments within the next five minutes.
I'm sure that you, in the same manner as Mrs. Hillbilly Mom, would be shocked to discover a mystery substance puddled on the floor just before final bell. It seems the students were also taken aback at this lapse in fluid etiquette.
"Mrs. HM! Mrs. HM! There's something on the floor!"
"What IS that?"
"Get out of my way! I don't want to step in it!"
"Oh oh! Somebody had a beverage!"
"Somebody spilled water!"
"It might be something else! Let me out of here!"
"What if it's drool from Rip van Winkle over there?"
"You really need to clean that up, Mrs. Hillbilly Mom."
"It might be pee!"
I had a suspect. One who scoffs my law on a regular basis. He denied knowledge. But as he passed through the portal and out of the destruction zone, I noticed a huge wet spot on the side of his backpack. Then I smelled it. The overpowering stench of high school boy cologne. The perpetrator or a cohort must have inadvertently knocked the backpack off the desk, pulverizing the fragile container of Smelly Good. My eyes watered. My throat sputtered. I sent The Pony to inform Cus. So Cus would know to put the proper disinfectant on the toolbelt before coming in to clean my room.
The next morning, the tainted atmosphere was nearly back to normal. By lunchtime, which is not noon, but 10:53 a.m., the ambiance had returned. Fried smoky fart with a bouquet of reptile house. That lasted until the pillaging hordes returned. The Perp was wearing his backpack. One cannot simply direct a student to leave an unattended backpack in the hall these days. The classroom was again infused with the overpowering fragrance. That we all did not succumb to the fumes speaks highly of the resilience of backwoods Hillmomba stock.
I meant to get a message to Cus. Really. I did. To say that the smell was not something that could be scrubbed. Cus was nowhere to be found. Quite uncharacteristic of Cus at the end of the day. Perhaps an emergency bus driver substitution had been announced, and Cus was out of the building. I went about my after-school business, locked up the room, and left. The next morning, there was a note on my desk.
Mrs. Hillbilly Mom,
My GOD your room stunk like aftershave! I mopped it yesterday and thought it was good. Apparently not! Took the floorscrubber to it today, hope it's better!
Cus
When Cus came in that afternoon, I explained that the deja vu air quality was not anything that could be scrubbed. Cus asked why I hadn't told The Perp to wash his backpack. For the same reason I do not tell the personally hygienically challenged to wash their pits. Some lines should not be crossed. Meanwhile, an uneasy truce is in effect.
Cleanliness is next to Cusliness.
I find it necessary to batten down my classroom hatches when I foresee their arrival on the horizon. Storm shutters go up. Exposed glass is taped with Xs. Plywood is nailed over the door. Fasten your seatbelt, it's going to be a bumpy class period. Yes. All unnecessary items should be stowed in the overhead compartments. The projector screen should be coiled safely above the fray. Books removed from the dilapidated wooden bookcase and stored in the cabinet. The case of bottled water put out of sight. A box of file folders on top of the mini-fridge filed away.
Still, they manage to destroy items in their path like a plague of locusts. Like Sherman marching through Georgia. Like a football team of teenage boys at a CiCi's Pizza buffet.
HOWEVER...Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's wrecking crew is not the focus today. We're here to discuss the ultimate Stevening of Cus. Yes, Even Steven intervened last week in a smackdown of epic proportions. Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is still feasting on her dish of cold revenge, laughing her last laugh, maniacally. Don't get me wrong. Cus does a fantastic job. It's not Cus. It's me. I don't like my stuff touched. And Cus is paid for touching. So you could see how we might disagree on the placement and replacement of classroom furniture. I think I should be the one to determine the Feng Shui, and Cus sees a need to tweak my layout.
Each day at the end of class, I direct my students to align their shoeless desk feet with designated tile seams, and to push in their chairs. They are supposed to stand at their desks until the dismissal bell. To them, the "stand" command is heard as: mill around like the sum total population of Mumbai trying to make individual cross-town appointments within the next five minutes.
I'm sure that you, in the same manner as Mrs. Hillbilly Mom, would be shocked to discover a mystery substance puddled on the floor just before final bell. It seems the students were also taken aback at this lapse in fluid etiquette.
"Mrs. HM! Mrs. HM! There's something on the floor!"
"What IS that?"
"Get out of my way! I don't want to step in it!"
"Oh oh! Somebody had a beverage!"
"Somebody spilled water!"
"It might be something else! Let me out of here!"
"What if it's drool from Rip van Winkle over there?"
"You really need to clean that up, Mrs. Hillbilly Mom."
"It might be pee!"
I had a suspect. One who scoffs my law on a regular basis. He denied knowledge. But as he passed through the portal and out of the destruction zone, I noticed a huge wet spot on the side of his backpack. Then I smelled it. The overpowering stench of high school boy cologne. The perpetrator or a cohort must have inadvertently knocked the backpack off the desk, pulverizing the fragile container of Smelly Good. My eyes watered. My throat sputtered. I sent The Pony to inform Cus. So Cus would know to put the proper disinfectant on the toolbelt before coming in to clean my room.
The next morning, the tainted atmosphere was nearly back to normal. By lunchtime, which is not noon, but 10:53 a.m., the ambiance had returned. Fried smoky fart with a bouquet of reptile house. That lasted until the pillaging hordes returned. The Perp was wearing his backpack. One cannot simply direct a student to leave an unattended backpack in the hall these days. The classroom was again infused with the overpowering fragrance. That we all did not succumb to the fumes speaks highly of the resilience of backwoods Hillmomba stock.
I meant to get a message to Cus. Really. I did. To say that the smell was not something that could be scrubbed. Cus was nowhere to be found. Quite uncharacteristic of Cus at the end of the day. Perhaps an emergency bus driver substitution had been announced, and Cus was out of the building. I went about my after-school business, locked up the room, and left. The next morning, there was a note on my desk.
Mrs. Hillbilly Mom,
My GOD your room stunk like aftershave! I mopped it yesterday and thought it was good. Apparently not! Took the floorscrubber to it today, hope it's better!
Cus
When Cus came in that afternoon, I explained that the deja vu air quality was not anything that could be scrubbed. Cus asked why I hadn't told The Perp to wash his backpack. For the same reason I do not tell the personally hygienically challenged to wash their pits. Some lines should not be crossed. Meanwhile, an uneasy truce is in effect.
Cleanliness is next to Cusliness.
Thursday, April 25, 2013
How Ya Gonna Keep 'Em Down In Hillmomba After They've Seen A Recruiting Letter?
Bet you thought this tale was about the #1 son, didn't you? Our graduating senior, chomping at the bit to pick up stakes and hightail it to the university. But no. It's The Pony chomping at the bit.
In today's mail, The Pony received a letter from Missouri Academy-Northwest. It's a program in Maryville for high school juniors and seniors. They reside on campus and take dual enrollment classes in math and science. They receive both a high school diploma and an Associate of Science Degree upon completion. Two years of college while finishing high school. Classes are taught by college instructors.
The Pony has been reeled in hook, line, and sinker. He's all gung ho to go. But he's not old enough until next year. I checked the official website, and it looks legit. HOWEVER...I'm not ready to relinquish my Pony just yet. It was bad enough when #1 decided he must go off to a four-year college his freshman year, when we have a perfectly good junior college just down the road. The Pony is too young. He doesn't even want to get his driver's license. I can't imagine sending him off to fend for himself. He doesn't eat adult food yet.
Then there's the cost. As much as college. When he could finish high school at Newmentia for...let's see...the total sum of...NOTHING! And the social aspect looms as well. My Pony is no social butterfly. He's still in the larval stage. He can't jump to adulthood without metamorphosizing into a pupa first.
Help! What's a Hillbilly Mom to do? Besides screen the mail from now until he graduates?
In today's mail, The Pony received a letter from Missouri Academy-Northwest. It's a program in Maryville for high school juniors and seniors. They reside on campus and take dual enrollment classes in math and science. They receive both a high school diploma and an Associate of Science Degree upon completion. Two years of college while finishing high school. Classes are taught by college instructors.
The Pony has been reeled in hook, line, and sinker. He's all gung ho to go. But he's not old enough until next year. I checked the official website, and it looks legit. HOWEVER...I'm not ready to relinquish my Pony just yet. It was bad enough when #1 decided he must go off to a four-year college his freshman year, when we have a perfectly good junior college just down the road. The Pony is too young. He doesn't even want to get his driver's license. I can't imagine sending him off to fend for himself. He doesn't eat adult food yet.
Then there's the cost. As much as college. When he could finish high school at Newmentia for...let's see...the total sum of...NOTHING! And the social aspect looms as well. My Pony is no social butterfly. He's still in the larval stage. He can't jump to adulthood without metamorphosizing into a pupa first.
Help! What's a Hillbilly Mom to do? Besides screen the mail from now until he graduates?
Wednesday, April 24, 2013
She's Innocent, I Tell You!
Just when you think it's economically feasible to build an egg shack restaurant on the side of your proposed handbasket factory, what with the plethora of eggs you collect each evening on the upswing from one per day to ten...reality slimes the hand that gathers the raw material.
The Pony came back to the Mansion after collecting eggs in his red and green Easter basket. "Do you know why one of the eggs is wet?"
Thinking this was possibly a riddle, I replied, "No. Why IS one of the eggs wet?"
"I was gathering them and turned to pick one up. When I reached back to get the one I already saw, Juno was licking it and pushing it around on the grass. I grabbed it before she could pick it up in her mouth. It has her saliva on it."
Shh...Farmer H does not need to know. Ann is the dog that eats the eggs. The dog that carried one around in her mouth for two days. Not my sweet Juno. She simply has naturally silky fur.
She didn't know what she was doing.
The Pony came back to the Mansion after collecting eggs in his red and green Easter basket. "Do you know why one of the eggs is wet?"
Thinking this was possibly a riddle, I replied, "No. Why IS one of the eggs wet?"
"I was gathering them and turned to pick one up. When I reached back to get the one I already saw, Juno was licking it and pushing it around on the grass. I grabbed it before she could pick it up in her mouth. It has her saliva on it."
Shh...Farmer H does not need to know. Ann is the dog that eats the eggs. The dog that carried one around in her mouth for two days. Not my sweet Juno. She simply has naturally silky fur.
She didn't know what she was doing.
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