It's Not My Strength, It's The Humidity

"Foggy, rainy, and high humidity is no way to end the month, October."

Okay, that doesn't have quite the ring to it as Dean Wormer's advice to Flounder: "Fat, drunk, and stupid is no way to go through life, son." But it will have to do. I'm not trying to mold Animal Housies into productive citizens.

Wednesday morning, I went to push in some chairs the students left gaping as they shot out of my classroom faster than the cartoon Tasmanian Devil. I swear. If I told them to leave the chairs gaping, they would jam them in tighter than king-size, 61-pound-gaining, disability-seeking Homer Simpson stuck in a water slide. It's a kid thing.

I almost threw out my back. Thank the Gummi Mary, Mrs. Hillbilly Mom has an industrial-strength backbone. Those chairs were harder to move than a 10-ton Acme anvil plopped onto a landscape of flypaper, narrowly missing the Roadrunner. BeepBeep!

This was so different from the day before, when those chairs slid easier than an anorexic wearing bowling shoes across a polished marble floor coated with Crisco.

Remember, my 31 desks and 32 chairs have 252 chair-shoes among them. You can't tell me that every one of those shoes stepped in gum overnight. No sirree, Bob! And short of gravity multiplying exponentially overnight, or Mrs. HM losing 99% of her muscle mass from too many recliner naps...there must be another explanation.

I think it's the humidity. Those felt-bottomed chair shoes soaked up their weight in water vapor, and were too bloated to move two inches. Even when strongly encouraged by man-handling. Not that Mrs. Hillbilly Mom has man hands. She doesn't even like lobster.

Mrs. Hillbillly Mom Is Not Exactly A Fine Wine

I think I'm feeling my age. Which you will never know, you nosy nosy Nancies. (Not to be confused with loyal reader knancy.) I will never reveal the length of my teeth. You'll have to cut me open to count the rings, by cracky! Warning: Do Not Cut Open Mrs. Hillbilly Mom.

Monday night, I settled in to watch the Cardinals play in the World Series. Since I keep the Mansion chilled to 69 degrees in order to preserve my decaying flesh save money on our all-electric-Mansion bill, I yearned for my ultrasoft fleece green blanket with yellow and white circles that I won at my sister-the-ex-mayor's-wife's Christmas party two years ago. There is was. Easily within reach, on the arm of the couch where The Pony curves his spine playing computer games in front of the big-screen TV. Why was I denying myself this toasty pleasure? Sometimes, you just gotta say, "What the cluck?" I grabbed it. Ahh. It's not like I have a shawl to keep me warm, you know.

The problem with my ultrasoft green fleece blanket is that it is SO good at what it does, I relax too much after swaddling myself in this silky cocoon. There I was, in the bottom of the first inning, looking for that Red Sox pitcher to dip the ball into green goop in his glove...when I startled awake to discover it was now that top of the fifth! And instead of the Cards behind 1 to 0, they were now tied 1 to 1. So in theory, all I missed was one pitch, the home run hit by Matt Holliday. I should have just slept through the rest of that game.

I'm lucky I haven't nodded off on the drive home from school. We get up and leave in the pitch dark of Daylight Savings Time night at 6:40 a.m. It makes for a long day. Why, just Monday I was blinking to stay awake when I spied this sign at the local Hillmomba church: Jesse James. Of course I said to myself, "What the cluck? Why is that church honoring Jesse James? Did he attend church there? Nah. It's too new. Did he provide fodder for a sermon? Yeah. That's more likely. Who doesn't want to sit on a pew and hear about Jesse James? Well...me, for one, but I bet the regular congregation would eat that up." Then I turned the corner and saw that the sign actually said, "Jesus Saves." Never mind.

Tuesday night I was so tired I didn't really want to take time to heat something in the microwave or warm it up in the oven. So I took Sunday's left-over vegetable beef soup and plopped that cold tower into a saucepan to simmer while I washed up a few dishes down by the creek since I don't have a dishwasher in the sink where Farmer H tosses his poopy eggs and says there's nothing unhygienic about it since he rinses the sink when he's done. I turned to stir that soup, after flinging the suds off my hands, having used lots of extra suds to counteract the thought of the befouling chicken poop, so I could dash in a bit of steak sauce, Heinz 57, and hickory BBQ sauce to moisten that meaty potato-y pile that Farmer H loves so much. Just a little taste. THAT STUFF WAS ICE COLD! But my shirt wasn't, hanging over the front burner that was making it give off that smell that happens right before a flammable bursts into flames. Yep. I had turned on the front burner and set the soup on the back.

Next thing you know, I'll be wearing gray sweat pants out in public, telling anybody who will listen about the hole in the knee.

Supermarket Bleep!

No word yet on ParkingTicketGate. But the #1 son has now been introduced to reality.

"Are those eggs I brought back still good?"

"Where have you been keeping them?"

"The refrigerator."

"They'll keep a couple of months."

"Well it's only been a couple of weeks. I'm going to fry some here in a little bit. I am tired of checking out a beat-up skillet and spatula. So I went and bought my own. I hate shopping at The Devil's Playground. Everything cost SO MUCH. Now I know how expensive it is to live. I would have loved to have some bacon with my eggs. But no way am I paying SEVEN DOLLARS for a pound of bacon. It wasn't too bad when four of us went in on it. But this is ridiculous."

"I saw some at Save A Lot for under five dollars. Don't they have a Save A Lot or an Aldi's down there?"

"No. But they have a Kroger! We went there to get stuff for the solar car."

"Wait. You feed the solar car?"

"No. Snacks for people working on it."

"Kroger is more expensive than The Devil!"

"Uh uh. In fact, I'm going to get a Kroger card, and start doing my shopping there."

"One of those keyring cards? I used to have one when we had a Kroger. But you have to watch out what you buy. It's expensive."

"They have orange sticker stuff that's CHEAP! They had boxes of a dozen deli cookies that were $3.50, but you could get two for four dollars with a Kroger card!"

"Okay. If that's where you want to shop, get a card."

"I will! The Devil is ridiculous."

Ah. My little boy is growing up. I'd love to see him pushing a grocery cart. Maybe I'll send him some coupons.

Not-Heaven Hath No Fury Like A Boy Who Paid His Own Parking Ticket

If you feel the ground shake, hear the windows rattle, see the fine china stacked in your cabinet start to sway...don't worry. It's not the overdue New Madrid Fault paying a visit. It's merely a minor explosion at the School of Mines. That's the old name for the college the #1 son is attending. He's feeling a bit ballistic right now.

Shame on me for getting him all fired up. He called seeking my credit information, having determined that his wardrobe of shorts and two pairs of jeans will not get him through the midwest winter. Upon describing the state of Hillmomban finances, a discrepancy was noted by the steel-trap, penny-pinching mind of #1.

"I paid your student account. Silly me. I was under the assumption YOU were paying for your parking violation. Not me. When you told me back in September, 'I went and paid my parking violation,' I had no idea you had it put on your student account."

"Wait a minute. I DID pay for my ticket. Out of my bank account. I used my debit card. What do you mean they're billing you for it?"

"All I know is, there was the $15 charge from the student health center for your flu shot, and a $10 charge for a parking violation. Did you get another ticket?"

"No! And I shouldn't have gotten that one. All because I was backed into the space. I was in the lines. That shouldn't even be a ticket."

"Well, you can look it up. But I'm sure that's what the $10 charge was for."

"When was that? Around Labor Day? I've got it right here on my bank statement. And on my student account summary. PAID! I'm going to let them know about this! No way are they going to charge me for that again. I don't have their receipt. It was a tiny scrap of paper that came from a dot matrix printer. And their card-scanner was just a little swipe thing. I can't believe the way they do things around here! I'm going in there Monday to tell them what I think."

It's true that technology is not my friend. But even I find it appalling that an institution known for turning out engineers is still using a dot matrix printer. Sweet Gummi Mary! Not even the public schools use them anymore!

Where, Oh Where, Has Sweet Baby Ruth Gone?

Here in Hillmomba, we are still dealing with the untimely disappearance of Baby Ruth.

Were I a betting woman, I would put my money on those shenaniganning young whippersnappers who invade the sacred faculty inner sanctum every weekday beginning at 3:00. I have warned people for years that no good can come of that. And now look what's happened.

However...if Baby Ruth had been spirited away by the SYW, her lair would be bare. Yes, if she was eaten alive by a faction of the SYW, along with the other 7 of her octuplet sisters who lined up behind her like those precious ducks waddling to the fountain of the Peabody Hotel in downtown Memphis, there would be an open space in her glass-fronted apartment building. But that was not so.

How does a contingent of Zeros appear where once lived Baby Ruth? The SYW would not be bothered to replace their kidnap victim with decoys. A more sophisticated mind was obviously at work here. I can rule out the man who repopulate's Baby Ruth's world. He had no motive. All of her neighbors were still in residence, with multiple family members having their backs.

The best scenario I can fathom is that Baby Ruth's sisters left home one by one. Since they are identical, I must not have noticed the mass exodus of Baby Ruths off to seek their fortune. Perhaps the Zeros crept in on little nougat feet, unnoticed by Baby Ruth, to stand in line behind her, invisible due to her greater bulk.

I hunger for her return.

A Case Of Access Being Denied

Baby Ruth is missing!

I saw her only yesterday, and now she is gone. Gone! In the place she last resided is nothing. Nothing! Zilch. Nada. Zero. Zero! Literally, a big zero. Actually, it's a little Zero. Candy bar. The white fudgy coating wrapped around caramel, peanut, and almond nougat. In the silver and blue wrapper. Not my companion of choice, but she'll do.

While Baby Ruth is tall and nutty, rough around the edges, always on the verge of falling apart...Zero is petite, smooth, and evenly composed. It's just as well. A little Zero goes a long way.

But where is Baby Ruth? I stop by to see her several times a week, but only invite her back to my room a couple of times a year. No need for us to have a 9:30 rendezvous when I will be called to lunch at 10:53.

I'll admit that I did not check on Baby Ruth this morning. I simply assumed she was there. I had other business, like dropping The Pony off at Newmentia to take his ACT, then traveling all across Hillmomba for the weekly groceries. I thought Baby Ruth was safe. Because when I returned, the door was locked. Locked!

The main door to the Newmentia facility was locked up tighter than the cabinet where my best ol' ex-teaching buddy Mabel stored her rulers and glue sticks. I felt betrayed. I saw the ACT facilitator unlock one door. Followed her in, even. I simply assumed the door was unlocked. Did not a chain of testees (heh, heh, I said testees) roll in right behind me?

Yet when I returned from my shopping trip, all doors were locked. I tried every one across the front face of Newmentia. You can review the surveillance video. But don't read my lips. Thank the Gummi Mary, I know my entry code now for the keypad. Yep. I learned it two weeks ago when I and some fellow dummkopfs asked to be told it again at the faculty meeting. It's really not all that hard to remember. It's...GOTCHA! You didn't think Mrs. Hillbilly Mom was going to reveal classified information, did you? That's not her style.

Anyway, all signs point to Baby Ruth's abduction and subsequent replacement as being an inside job.

And now, Zero and I have some business to attend to.

Some People Are Entirely Too Sensitive

Perhaps I've mentioned that I pass my tabloids on to my mom when I'm done reading them. She, in turn, gives them to her neighbor across the road, who hands them off to a chain of old ladies until they end up at the thrift store. The less fortunate have "Enquiring" minds too, you know.

Mom said that yesterday she walked down to the neighbor's mailbox and put in the third-hand tabloids. Not afraid of federal prosecution for mail tampering is she. "Oh, and I had just a little bit of Chex Mix left. So I put it in a snack-size baggie and put that in, too. It was only about half full. Last night, Mr. Neighbor called me. 'I'm sorry to bother you during the World Series. I know how you like to watch baseball. But I just wanted to thank you for the mix. It was SO good. I love that stuff.'"

Any other person would have tossed out those remaining crumbs. Not my thrifty mother. If somebody left a half-full snack-size baggie of Chex Mix in MY mailbox, you can bet I would be callin' and askin' if it was full when she left it. I can't seem to trust my mailman, you know.

Mom has another batch of Chex Mix in her future. "I'm making it for the church bazaar. I was going to give them a donation, but they asked specifically for my Chex Mix." Let the record show that Mom always calls it 'Check Mix.'

Her neighbor, who came here from Czechoslovakia many years ago, is not the least offended by her giving him Czech Mix.