Sweet Gummi Mary! Can the world stop conspiring against Mrs. Hillbilly Mom for 3.9 seconds?
First cat out of the bag this morning, I had to move 25 desks and 25 chairs. Okay, technically, it was 25 desks and 25 chairs minus 7 desks and 7 chairs, because my first row was lined up properly. Our dear Cus decided, I suppose, that my furniture would better suit Cus's purposes in an alternate seating chart. I've a good mind to beg a key to the custodial closet, and rearrange the supplies in Cus's custody. How'd ya like THEM apples, Cus? Turn about is fair play. What's good for the goose is good for the gander. Payback is a witch.
After moving furniture for free, without even a tossed bottle of grape juice for my trouble, I sped into the teacher workroom to make a few copies of my very special secret alternate test. That's because a few of my charges have earned it, two versions of an examination not being enough to discourage roving eyeballs. What to my beady eyes should appear but my lunch colleague at the better Kyocera. I waited. Nobody is EVER there at 7:25 a.m. In fact, I've had to turn on the copiers any other time I'm the early bird. Of course Kyocera was out of staples. So I had to connect my pages the old-fashioned way, with my own personal maroon Swingline, which has been choking lately, what with the new box of staples I procured, printed with the same staple code as the old box, but obviously of a different quality.
Lucky for me, a student in a later class rushed through her assignment, and asked if she could help me grade papers. Ahem. That is out-of-bounds. Off limits. Verboten. Mrs. Hillbilly Mom has never in her life allowed one student to grade another's paper. Not even in the "everybody switch papers" manner. Grading is for the teacher. Not apprentices who have no stake in the outcome, unless it is a secret vendetta. So I pushed the lesser babka, paper-stapling. Problem solved.
Lunch led to a rousing brimstone-spitting condemnation of a recent news item, just proving my suspicion that sheeple are an actual species. I remained mum, so as not to show what some might term stupidity. Or to give them a trumped-up reason to ship me off to the old conspiracy theorists home.
Just before lunch, I had time to check my school email, and saw that I had a vital piece of electronic equipment awaiting installation. Yes. By all means. Come do it now, never mind the room full of kids taking a test. Oh, and to the substitute lesson-disturber manning the office phones, I must say, you are quite sly in letting my phone ring and ring whilst I do my between-classes duty in the hallway. In fact, you could have seen me standing there, the reason for not answering, had you only turned your head 90 degrees to see me on the surveillance camera.
My new electronics were hooked up. At the price of my laptop display being altered from full screen to a square box. Yeah. Like I know how to get it back. I even asked the kids. That's who you call for electronics problems, you know. I started out with, "Who knows a lot about computers?" Modestly, they ducked their heads. So I tried again. "Okay. Who knows more about computers than Mrs. Hillbilly Mom? Don't everybody raise their hands at once!" Three stalwart techies approached my desk. Oh, they had various solutions. None of which worked. So I had to call the book lady. She fixed me right up. But now I have to switch the resolution every time I want to use my electronic device, or all on-screen people have wide fat faces.
Mrs. Hillbilly Mom. The equivalent of Charlie Brown swallowed by Al Bundy swallowed by Rodney Dangerfield. A human turducken.
Friday, November 22, 2013
Thursday, November 21, 2013
Mrs. Hillbilly Mom Has A He In Her Bonnet
Please, please, please! For the love of Sweet Gummi Mary, MAKE IT STOP!
One would prefer, when one comes home from a hard day at work, and warms up some supper in the oven while heating a bag of vegetables in the microwave, that one could enjoy some quality computer time in one's dark basement lair as a reward for contributing to society in an acceptable manner.
When one instead is treated to unsettling sound of a significant other stomping willy-nilly o'er the Mansion on legs that seeming have no feet, one grows petulant. When that significant other brings the hubbub downstairs THREE separate times, and indulges in some ritual on the other side of the wall shared by the lair and the basement workshop that sounds as if the Property Brothers are remodeling the Biltmore Estate, one contemplates one's future.
When Farmer H and I both retire in 2.5 years...somebody's gonna need a restraining order.
One would prefer, when one comes home from a hard day at work, and warms up some supper in the oven while heating a bag of vegetables in the microwave, that one could enjoy some quality computer time in one's dark basement lair as a reward for contributing to society in an acceptable manner.
When one instead is treated to unsettling sound of a significant other stomping willy-nilly o'er the Mansion on legs that seeming have no feet, one grows petulant. When that significant other brings the hubbub downstairs THREE separate times, and indulges in some ritual on the other side of the wall shared by the lair and the basement workshop that sounds as if the Property Brothers are remodeling the Biltmore Estate, one contemplates one's future.
When Farmer H and I both retire in 2.5 years...somebody's gonna need a restraining order.
Wednesday, November 20, 2013
Some Calls It A Stinker
Whew! It's been one of those days. I feel like Wile E. Coyote after firing off a truckload of ACME products at the Roadrunner.
This day has been a literal pain in the neck. Right side. Posterior. Okay, so I had the neck pain before the day actually got underway. I simply forgot. Because the ActiveOn I slathered on it before leaving home did a good job of keeping that neck pain at bay. Until 10:30. Then that bundle of muscles was stretched tighter than a novice picker's banjo strings. Tighter than Scrooge McDuck's purse strings. Tighter than a youngster's first-loose-tooth's doorknob-attached string. I tried to turn my head 90 degrees, and that ol' neck sinew twanged. I popped an acetaminophen at lunch, which helped for a couple of hours, but now the ache is back.
It must have something to do with my work day. Which was actually work today. I must multi-task every day, but this one was extraordinarily chock full of distractions. Late papers from the less-than-motivated, absentee makeup work, homebound work turned in for half the quarter, traveling office worker assignment sheets for today's absentees' work, future work for kids out the rest of the week for club activities, the creepy leaf-blower dude outside my window again, who gets right up there behind my desk to the extent that the kids turn and watch, like a staredown, until I spin around, with my sore neck, mind you, and he suddenly changes his path and acts like he was just routinely passing by.
Yeah. I'm glad this one is over. On the Even Steven side, two new ne'er-do-wells joined the ranks of the on-the-roster-but-never-seen club this week. One lasted all of two hours at the club, and was summarily dismissed.
Newmentia. Always striving for excellence.
This day has been a literal pain in the neck. Right side. Posterior. Okay, so I had the neck pain before the day actually got underway. I simply forgot. Because the ActiveOn I slathered on it before leaving home did a good job of keeping that neck pain at bay. Until 10:30. Then that bundle of muscles was stretched tighter than a novice picker's banjo strings. Tighter than Scrooge McDuck's purse strings. Tighter than a youngster's first-loose-tooth's doorknob-attached string. I tried to turn my head 90 degrees, and that ol' neck sinew twanged. I popped an acetaminophen at lunch, which helped for a couple of hours, but now the ache is back.
It must have something to do with my work day. Which was actually work today. I must multi-task every day, but this one was extraordinarily chock full of distractions. Late papers from the less-than-motivated, absentee makeup work, homebound work turned in for half the quarter, traveling office worker assignment sheets for today's absentees' work, future work for kids out the rest of the week for club activities, the creepy leaf-blower dude outside my window again, who gets right up there behind my desk to the extent that the kids turn and watch, like a staredown, until I spin around, with my sore neck, mind you, and he suddenly changes his path and acts like he was just routinely passing by.
Yeah. I'm glad this one is over. On the Even Steven side, two new ne'er-do-wells joined the ranks of the on-the-roster-but-never-seen club this week. One lasted all of two hours at the club, and was summarily dismissed.
Newmentia. Always striving for excellence.
Tuesday, November 19, 2013
When I Think Back On All The Stuff I've Seen In Mom's Kitchen...It's A Wonder I Can Sleep At All
There are some things one doesn't want to see in a person's kitchen. Here are a few examples:
A used Band Aid next to the cutting board.
A cat walking across the counter, just above its litter box.
Andrew McCarthy flicking his cigarette ash into your wok as he stirs dinner.
A golf ball landing in a vat of soup.
Poppie patting out dough for a pizza.
George Costanza eating pudding skin singles.
You may think those are some of the worst things one could see. But you'd be wrong. Last Friday I stopped in to visit my mom on the way to the eye doctor. More accurately, I stopped in to use her bathroom after dropping The Pony off at school. I sat down at the kitchen table to chat for a few minutes.
I'm no stranger to my mother's kitchen. Did I not grow up there, from the tender age of 13 until I left for college across the state? I know that she has a penchant for saving garbage scraps in a 44 ounce styrofoam cup on the kitchen counter. Just until it's full, of course, at which time she takes it out to dump beside the creek and marvel that stray animals come to her porch. I know that she uses a plastic bag from The Devil's Playground, hanging on a drawer handle, as her wastebasket. I know that at certain times of the year, vicious black ants invade through the window behind the table, and meet their demise on a sticky puddle of Terro Ant Killer. I know that every now and then, a mouse gets in, and Mom uses the kind of cardboard catcher that doesn't kill the rodents. The kind you have to pick up, hearing that critter's scritching and scratching claws in a last-ditch panic to excape, and carry it outside. And that Mom usually waits until Farmer H or the #1 son comes out to empty it. There are few surprises in my mother's kitchen. Until last Friday.
As I sat chatting, my eye fell on a bag leaning against the chair next to me at the table. I don't know how I could have missed it. It was as big as a bag of dog food. Maybe that's why my subconscious let it slide. When the conversation lagged, as I started to take my leave, I noticed what was written on that bag.
GRUB EX
Yeah. It was a horrific discovery. Not only was there a dog food sized bag of GrubEx next to my mom's kitchen table...IT HAD A PICTURE ON THE BAG! To leave no doubt what that product was for. Like this:
Oh, yes. The fabric which weaves a very special nightmare. Apparently, Mom has a grub problem. I'm hoping that it's outside, not in the kitchen. I've never seen grub one in her yard.
What she really needs is MoleEx.
A used Band Aid next to the cutting board.
A cat walking across the counter, just above its litter box.
Andrew McCarthy flicking his cigarette ash into your wok as he stirs dinner.
A golf ball landing in a vat of soup.
Poppie patting out dough for a pizza.
George Costanza eating pudding skin singles.
You may think those are some of the worst things one could see. But you'd be wrong. Last Friday I stopped in to visit my mom on the way to the eye doctor. More accurately, I stopped in to use her bathroom after dropping The Pony off at school. I sat down at the kitchen table to chat for a few minutes.
I'm no stranger to my mother's kitchen. Did I not grow up there, from the tender age of 13 until I left for college across the state? I know that she has a penchant for saving garbage scraps in a 44 ounce styrofoam cup on the kitchen counter. Just until it's full, of course, at which time she takes it out to dump beside the creek and marvel that stray animals come to her porch. I know that she uses a plastic bag from The Devil's Playground, hanging on a drawer handle, as her wastebasket. I know that at certain times of the year, vicious black ants invade through the window behind the table, and meet their demise on a sticky puddle of Terro Ant Killer. I know that every now and then, a mouse gets in, and Mom uses the kind of cardboard catcher that doesn't kill the rodents. The kind you have to pick up, hearing that critter's scritching and scratching claws in a last-ditch panic to excape, and carry it outside. And that Mom usually waits until Farmer H or the #1 son comes out to empty it. There are few surprises in my mother's kitchen. Until last Friday.
As I sat chatting, my eye fell on a bag leaning against the chair next to me at the table. I don't know how I could have missed it. It was as big as a bag of dog food. Maybe that's why my subconscious let it slide. When the conversation lagged, as I started to take my leave, I noticed what was written on that bag.
GRUB EX
Yeah. It was a horrific discovery. Not only was there a dog food sized bag of GrubEx next to my mom's kitchen table...IT HAD A PICTURE ON THE BAG! To leave no doubt what that product was for. Like this:
What she really needs is MoleEx.
Monday, November 18, 2013
I Fear The Two Of Them Cannot Be Left Alone
I was distracted today, coming up the driveway after school. I had to count downed trees (3), scan for missing chickens (0), make sure Ann the black shepherd was not the missing canine advertised on a homemade Found: Black Dog sign taped to the mailboxes (she wasn't), fold in T-Hoe's side mirrors (done), and pilot that LSUV through the garage door opened by The Pony with the remote on the passenger side sun visor.
I said pilot that LSUV through the garage door opened by The Pony.
That's when saw it. The ugly reared head of bullying.
My sweet, sweet Juno had galloped from the porch, around the side of the garage, and straight to the brown metal garage door. She occasionally runs in, you know, to sample a bite of Meow Mix from the giant roaster pan filled for the cats. She's just testing it, I'm sure. In case it might be bad for those feline fleabags. Juno is selfless like that.
So there she was, my spirited lithe silky black feathery-furred doggie, nosing under the door as it rose...AND THEN IT CAME CLANKING DOWN! Nearly severed the rubbery proboscis from her soft, soft muzzle. Juno scooted back, a hurt look on her nearly-human face. If I was a pet psychic, I would swear Juno was saying, in one soulful gaze, "Mommy why Juno no snack Mommy mad at Juno Juno love Mommy sorry Juno go to porch." Yeah. Juno speaks to me somewhat like a recent arrivee at Ellis Island in the early 1900s. That's why I'm not a pet psychic.
The Pony laughed. Maniacally, some might say.
"What are you doing? You nearly cut her nose off! That's cruel! It's okay, Junie, my little Sasquatch. The Pony is just messin' with you. He didn't mean it. Mommy didn't do that."
"I really didn't mean to. I didn't think it was opening, so I hit it again. And it came down. I can't help it her nose was under there."
"Exactly! Her NOSE was under there! What am I supposed to chew on if you sever her nose?"
"Her tail."
"Huh? No way! I can't believe you did that!"
"Look. She's fine."
Nobody knows what nightmares will invade Juno's sweet cedar sleep tonight. Nobody.
I said pilot that LSUV through the garage door opened by The Pony.
That's when saw it. The ugly reared head of bullying.
My sweet, sweet Juno had galloped from the porch, around the side of the garage, and straight to the brown metal garage door. She occasionally runs in, you know, to sample a bite of Meow Mix from the giant roaster pan filled for the cats. She's just testing it, I'm sure. In case it might be bad for those feline fleabags. Juno is selfless like that.
So there she was, my spirited lithe silky black feathery-furred doggie, nosing under the door as it rose...AND THEN IT CAME CLANKING DOWN! Nearly severed the rubbery proboscis from her soft, soft muzzle. Juno scooted back, a hurt look on her nearly-human face. If I was a pet psychic, I would swear Juno was saying, in one soulful gaze, "Mommy why Juno no snack Mommy mad at Juno Juno love Mommy sorry Juno go to porch." Yeah. Juno speaks to me somewhat like a recent arrivee at Ellis Island in the early 1900s. That's why I'm not a pet psychic.
The Pony laughed. Maniacally, some might say.
"What are you doing? You nearly cut her nose off! That's cruel! It's okay, Junie, my little Sasquatch. The Pony is just messin' with you. He didn't mean it. Mommy didn't do that."
"I really didn't mean to. I didn't think it was opening, so I hit it again. And it came down. I can't help it her nose was under there."
"Exactly! Her NOSE was under there! What am I supposed to chew on if you sever her nose?"
"Her tail."
"Huh? No way! I can't believe you did that!"
"Look. She's fine."
Nobody knows what nightmares will invade Juno's sweet cedar sleep tonight. Nobody.
Sunday, November 17, 2013
The Etiology Of A Spat
Do you ever talk to yourself? Yeah. Me too. That's because I have a rapt audience. Sometimes, I also have an uninvited audience. A eavesdropper. Or so it seems.
This morning, I wanted to get a jump on the Devil's Playground excursion. Last I heard, a storm was due to arrive around 9:00 a.m. I figured The Pony and I could leave an bit earlier, and be home by then. Of course the best laid plans of Hillbilly Mom always go awry. I did not get up until 8:00. I hollered to The Pony that I was making a list, no time to check it twice for naughtiness or nicety, and that we would be leaving at 8:45.
Farmer H chose that time to arise and muddle around underfoot. Any other day of no work, he would lay abed until 9:30 or 10:00. Unless, of course, I wanted to sleep in, in which case he would be up clanking his belt and bobbing his butt on the bed like a trampoliner getting ready to send me into the stratosphere while tieing his shoes. Farmer H acted like he was doing me a big favor, traipsing through the living room in his saggy tighty-whities on the way to take a shower in the boys' bathroom. I finished up loading the washer with The Pony's shirts, and went to the La-Z-Boy to make my shopping list. I could hear the water running in the boys' bathroom.
I knew that water had been running for 15 minutes by the time I was ready to step into the shower. Forgive me for talking to myself. I wanted to let myself know that the hot water would probably be all used up before I was through, so I should skip the hairwashing part of my toilette at this juncture. No big deal. It wasn't as if I would be having high tea with the Queen this afternoon. When I exited the shower, while I was running around putting on socks and grabbing my list, Farmer H stated from the short couch: "I heard you say I was using all the hot water."
"I was talking to myself." I continued in my rush to depart from the Mansion and forge toward The Devil's Playground.
"I did not use all the hot water. You're always badmouthing me."
"I was talking to myself."
"I heard you through the door."
"You know we always run out of hot water. You'd been in there 15 minutes by the time I got in. I didn't want to finish with cold water."
"I was NOT taking a shower for 15 minutes! I was on the toilet."
"I was not even talking to you. I was talking to myself. If I wanted to talk to you, I would have yanked that door open and yelled at you on the toilet that you were using all the hot water."
"I don't know why you're always fighting."
"You are the one who is fighting. I just came out to put on my socks and leave. You started in about the hot water. Not me. I didn't say anything to you. I was talking to myself. How was I to know that the minute I closed my bathroom door, you would jump off the toilet and run across the house to listen to my private conversation with myself? And still...you seem to have completed your shower."
"I'm sick of this. All you ever do is accuse me of not doing what you want."
"You're the one talking and complaining. I'm ready to leave." I went to the laundry room to hang The Pony's shirts. Unfortunately, I forgot to apply the ActiveOn to my sore neck. I stood on the other side of the kitchen counter, by the door, waiting for Farmer H to get his sausage biscuit out of the microwave. I keep my ActiveOn right there by the stove, where I charge my phone. It doesn't behoove one to gallivant through The Devil's Playground with a sore neck.
"What are you doing now?"
"I'm going to put on my ActiveOn before I leave."
"HERE! I can't do anything! THERE! All you had to do was say something!"
"I was only waiting until you were through. I didn't want to say anything. Then you would have flipped out. Like you are now."
Farmer H threw up his hands like an 8th grade drama queen. He always escalates the most innocent situations into a scene worthy of a Razzies award.
I have no idea what goes on in that man's head. But I do know this: I have a blog. And he doesn't.
This morning, I wanted to get a jump on the Devil's Playground excursion. Last I heard, a storm was due to arrive around 9:00 a.m. I figured The Pony and I could leave an bit earlier, and be home by then. Of course the best laid plans of Hillbilly Mom always go awry. I did not get up until 8:00. I hollered to The Pony that I was making a list, no time to check it twice for naughtiness or nicety, and that we would be leaving at 8:45.
Farmer H chose that time to arise and muddle around underfoot. Any other day of no work, he would lay abed until 9:30 or 10:00. Unless, of course, I wanted to sleep in, in which case he would be up clanking his belt and bobbing his butt on the bed like a trampoliner getting ready to send me into the stratosphere while tieing his shoes. Farmer H acted like he was doing me a big favor, traipsing through the living room in his saggy tighty-whities on the way to take a shower in the boys' bathroom. I finished up loading the washer with The Pony's shirts, and went to the La-Z-Boy to make my shopping list. I could hear the water running in the boys' bathroom.
I knew that water had been running for 15 minutes by the time I was ready to step into the shower. Forgive me for talking to myself. I wanted to let myself know that the hot water would probably be all used up before I was through, so I should skip the hairwashing part of my toilette at this juncture. No big deal. It wasn't as if I would be having high tea with the Queen this afternoon. When I exited the shower, while I was running around putting on socks and grabbing my list, Farmer H stated from the short couch: "I heard you say I was using all the hot water."
"I was talking to myself." I continued in my rush to depart from the Mansion and forge toward The Devil's Playground.
"I did not use all the hot water. You're always badmouthing me."
"I was talking to myself."
"I heard you through the door."
"You know we always run out of hot water. You'd been in there 15 minutes by the time I got in. I didn't want to finish with cold water."
"I was NOT taking a shower for 15 minutes! I was on the toilet."
"I was not even talking to you. I was talking to myself. If I wanted to talk to you, I would have yanked that door open and yelled at you on the toilet that you were using all the hot water."
"I don't know why you're always fighting."
"You are the one who is fighting. I just came out to put on my socks and leave. You started in about the hot water. Not me. I didn't say anything to you. I was talking to myself. How was I to know that the minute I closed my bathroom door, you would jump off the toilet and run across the house to listen to my private conversation with myself? And still...you seem to have completed your shower."
"I'm sick of this. All you ever do is accuse me of not doing what you want."
"You're the one talking and complaining. I'm ready to leave." I went to the laundry room to hang The Pony's shirts. Unfortunately, I forgot to apply the ActiveOn to my sore neck. I stood on the other side of the kitchen counter, by the door, waiting for Farmer H to get his sausage biscuit out of the microwave. I keep my ActiveOn right there by the stove, where I charge my phone. It doesn't behoove one to gallivant through The Devil's Playground with a sore neck.
"What are you doing now?"
"I'm going to put on my ActiveOn before I leave."
"HERE! I can't do anything! THERE! All you had to do was say something!"
"I was only waiting until you were through. I didn't want to say anything. Then you would have flipped out. Like you are now."
Farmer H threw up his hands like an 8th grade drama queen. He always escalates the most innocent situations into a scene worthy of a Razzies award.
I have no idea what goes on in that man's head. But I do know this: I have a blog. And he doesn't.
Saturday, November 16, 2013
The Music, Man!
We've got trouble, my friends. Trouble, right here in Hillmomba. Let me tell you what I mean. We've got one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight songs at a concert. With a capital 'C', and it rhymes with 'G', and that stands for geezer. All night long our Newmentia youth be fritterin'. Fritterin' away their suppertime, homework time, bedtime, too. On a Thursday night, and that's trouble!
Okay. Maybe I got a little carried away with The Music Man. I think you'll see why.
The Pony had his first band concert of the year. It's part of a celebration for veterans. I knew there would be a dinner, then a performance by our band and choir, and a canned-music slide show tribute to local veterans. The dinner always starts at 5:00, and the concert at 7:00. We're out of there before 8:00, everybody thankful and teary-eyed and patriotic. Until this year. Far be it from Mrs. Hillbilly Mom to wag her sharp tongue over such an uplifting event. However...
The Pony was required to arrive at 6:30. We provided a ten-minute cushion, just in case the best-laid plans of Pony and parents went awry. Imagine our surprise when we pulled onto the upper parking lot and found it as jam-packed as graduation night. The Pony pranced in ahead of us. Farmer H and I could hardly breach the cafeteria front, as a plethora of veterans and spouses clogged the venue. Normally, they have fed and fled, leaving the cafeteria nearly empty except for stragglers or vets with a really good appetite. And...these captive ex-servicepeople were playing bingo. I saw right away that Farmer H and I would not be able to grab a purple plastic chair to put behind the bleacher rail. I figured we would wait until the feeding/bingo frenzy was done, and then snag two seats still warm from the freedom-fighters' well-fed butts.
Imagine my surprise when we walked into the gym and saw ten or fifteen purple plastic chairs already set up behind the bleacher rail. The man in charge greeted me, and offered a cerulean blue program, which I had already liberated from a black music stand by the door. "Did somebody bring in these chairs? Are they saved?" He replied that they were for the veterans. Judging from the turnout, I'd say they were just about 145 chairs short.
I complained to Farmer H that I did not want to descend the shaky bleacher stairs, with only the wobbly hollow metal pop-in handrails with four-foot gaps between them. However, the lower rows of bleachers on the gym floor, that could be reached by the concrete stairs, were marked off with taped paper signs for the band. Oh, the insanity! I spied an empty short bleacher, four rows down from the top, on the opposite corner from where the band was set up. An opal miner in the Great Rift Valley of Ethiopia, rappelling to his cliff-face mine with a frayed rope, where one person per week is killed toppling off the four-inch path, was safer than Mrs. Hillbilly Mom braving the unstable pull-out-bleacher stairs.
Really.
So we sat down, on a row in front of my old English teacher, and proceeded to become boxed in over the next 40 minutes. Was it not bad enough that Mrs. HM was surrounded by coughers, sharp knees, loud-talkers, and straight-backed knee-room inhibitors? No. There were also folks leaning directly over her from the rail by the cafeteria entrance to the gym. Leaners who breathed their virusy breath to settle down upon Mrs. HM's head like a fine mist in a boreal forest. AND, she had to share her program with Old English and Farmer H, for programs had they none.
And then the direness of my situation was compounded. Right there on the program was a list of four songs by our choir, four songs by our band, and FOUR SONGS FROM A COMMUNITY BAND! No. That has never happened before. It couldn't be. Why would a third act be added to the program? I call shenanigans. Well, I tried to call shenanigans. But Old English told me, "Oh, it'll be over in no time." She would not have lasted 10 minutes as an employee of Dionne Warwick's Psychic Friends Network.
The Newmentia choir went first, for 15 minutes. They were excellent, as always. The Newmentia band was second. Again, a right proper 15-minute performance, not to be sneezed at. Then came the cavalcade of veterans, a 20-minute slideshow. And it began. The community band took 10 minutes to weed out and add in chairs to their liking. We sat. They played 5 minutes of warm-up scales in an artsy-fartsy fashion. And slammed into their first selection, which lasted 8 minutes. Their director stepped forward to tell of a vaction he had taken to Gettysburg with his son. How they had walked the fields. Kind of a little history lesson that was totally lost on this history simpleton. The veterans, none of whom were at Gettysburg, began to shift in their seats. "Every time I sit on these bleachers, they get harder," said one of the three in front of me. Another yawned. The community band launched into their next number, a 10-minute snoozer that supposedly sounded like the beginning/middle/end of the Battle of Gettysburg.
Let the record show that our crowd was quite polite. No cell phones went off. No babies cried. No kids talked. The choir sat on their reserved purple plastic chairs, faced the community band, and feigned interest. Though they did shift numerous times in their purple plastic chairs. It was as if we had abandoned all hope, we who entered there.
I felt somewhat comatose. Like that kid in Ferris Bueller who fell asleep on his desk, with a puddle of drool on his desktop. The audience around me eagerly watched the progress of a toddler who was carried out to the bathroom, and then returned. I was trapped like a rat in a maze, without even the hope of hidden cheese. How I longed to escape, like that choir girl had done right after their performance, slipping off her heeled black shoes, hiking up her robe tails, and barefooting it up the far concrete steps under cover of the acoustic shell. I felt sorry for the veterans, who had been lured in with the promise of dinner, and were then forced to sit two hours for bingo, herded into the gym to fight for festival seating, left on the hard, hard bleachers after being stuffed with bacon and onions, and tricked into waiting past their honoring to hear a community band.
The best part of my evening occurred just then. We heard a clicking sound. Up behind us. On the mezzanine where the purple plastic chairs had been set to receive veterans. We craned our necks, but saw nothing. The clicking stopped. A flash of motion up to the right caught my attention. CUS WAS WHEELING A STACK OF PURPLE PLASTIC CHAIRS TOWARD THE CAFETERIA ON HER DOLLY! Dear Sweet Gummi Mary! Time to go! Cus was ready to clean up. Darn the community band and full speed ahead! The clicking started again. Cus was stacking more purple plastic chairs. Until the Supreme Commander of Hillmomba Schools climbed those wobbly steps to tell her to cease and desist with doing her job while we were all trapped like cheeseless rats.
Then it started. When the little conductor stepped out for another speech, this one about his merry band of oldsters and youngsters who tooted the light fantastic, folks leaned forward. They were not demonstrating attentiveness. Once the LC turned back to jab his baton at his community band, they shot up the steps like Olympic sprinters out of the blocks. Like rats off a sinking ship. Like thieves carrying soda out of a convenience store. A good third of the audience made a getaway. We envied them their spryness.
After two more songs, for a total of 40 minutes for their performance, the community band retired to rest on their laurels. I turned to call Old English a liar.
Here's the deal. It seemed like the community band came to show up our very own students. Of course they had a big sound. They had a wider variety of instruments. And people who had been playing for 50 years, not three. And they took up way more time than our kids were allotted. That is akin to a person leaving longwinded self-serving comments on other people's blogs. Oops! I do that. Never mind. This was not at all like that.
The point is that people came to hear their kids perform, and honor the veterans. Not listen to a community band. Even Old English agreed.
Okay. Maybe I got a little carried away with The Music Man. I think you'll see why.
The Pony had his first band concert of the year. It's part of a celebration for veterans. I knew there would be a dinner, then a performance by our band and choir, and a canned-music slide show tribute to local veterans. The dinner always starts at 5:00, and the concert at 7:00. We're out of there before 8:00, everybody thankful and teary-eyed and patriotic. Until this year. Far be it from Mrs. Hillbilly Mom to wag her sharp tongue over such an uplifting event. However...
The Pony was required to arrive at 6:30. We provided a ten-minute cushion, just in case the best-laid plans of Pony and parents went awry. Imagine our surprise when we pulled onto the upper parking lot and found it as jam-packed as graduation night. The Pony pranced in ahead of us. Farmer H and I could hardly breach the cafeteria front, as a plethora of veterans and spouses clogged the venue. Normally, they have fed and fled, leaving the cafeteria nearly empty except for stragglers or vets with a really good appetite. And...these captive ex-servicepeople were playing bingo. I saw right away that Farmer H and I would not be able to grab a purple plastic chair to put behind the bleacher rail. I figured we would wait until the feeding/bingo frenzy was done, and then snag two seats still warm from the freedom-fighters' well-fed butts.
Imagine my surprise when we walked into the gym and saw ten or fifteen purple plastic chairs already set up behind the bleacher rail. The man in charge greeted me, and offered a cerulean blue program, which I had already liberated from a black music stand by the door. "Did somebody bring in these chairs? Are they saved?" He replied that they were for the veterans. Judging from the turnout, I'd say they were just about 145 chairs short.
I complained to Farmer H that I did not want to descend the shaky bleacher stairs, with only the wobbly hollow metal pop-in handrails with four-foot gaps between them. However, the lower rows of bleachers on the gym floor, that could be reached by the concrete stairs, were marked off with taped paper signs for the band. Oh, the insanity! I spied an empty short bleacher, four rows down from the top, on the opposite corner from where the band was set up. An opal miner in the Great Rift Valley of Ethiopia, rappelling to his cliff-face mine with a frayed rope, where one person per week is killed toppling off the four-inch path, was safer than Mrs. Hillbilly Mom braving the unstable pull-out-bleacher stairs.
Really.
So we sat down, on a row in front of my old English teacher, and proceeded to become boxed in over the next 40 minutes. Was it not bad enough that Mrs. HM was surrounded by coughers, sharp knees, loud-talkers, and straight-backed knee-room inhibitors? No. There were also folks leaning directly over her from the rail by the cafeteria entrance to the gym. Leaners who breathed their virusy breath to settle down upon Mrs. HM's head like a fine mist in a boreal forest. AND, she had to share her program with Old English and Farmer H, for programs had they none.
And then the direness of my situation was compounded. Right there on the program was a list of four songs by our choir, four songs by our band, and FOUR SONGS FROM A COMMUNITY BAND! No. That has never happened before. It couldn't be. Why would a third act be added to the program? I call shenanigans. Well, I tried to call shenanigans. But Old English told me, "Oh, it'll be over in no time." She would not have lasted 10 minutes as an employee of Dionne Warwick's Psychic Friends Network.
The Newmentia choir went first, for 15 minutes. They were excellent, as always. The Newmentia band was second. Again, a right proper 15-minute performance, not to be sneezed at. Then came the cavalcade of veterans, a 20-minute slideshow. And it began. The community band took 10 minutes to weed out and add in chairs to their liking. We sat. They played 5 minutes of warm-up scales in an artsy-fartsy fashion. And slammed into their first selection, which lasted 8 minutes. Their director stepped forward to tell of a vaction he had taken to Gettysburg with his son. How they had walked the fields. Kind of a little history lesson that was totally lost on this history simpleton. The veterans, none of whom were at Gettysburg, began to shift in their seats. "Every time I sit on these bleachers, they get harder," said one of the three in front of me. Another yawned. The community band launched into their next number, a 10-minute snoozer that supposedly sounded like the beginning/middle/end of the Battle of Gettysburg.
Let the record show that our crowd was quite polite. No cell phones went off. No babies cried. No kids talked. The choir sat on their reserved purple plastic chairs, faced the community band, and feigned interest. Though they did shift numerous times in their purple plastic chairs. It was as if we had abandoned all hope, we who entered there.
I felt somewhat comatose. Like that kid in Ferris Bueller who fell asleep on his desk, with a puddle of drool on his desktop. The audience around me eagerly watched the progress of a toddler who was carried out to the bathroom, and then returned. I was trapped like a rat in a maze, without even the hope of hidden cheese. How I longed to escape, like that choir girl had done right after their performance, slipping off her heeled black shoes, hiking up her robe tails, and barefooting it up the far concrete steps under cover of the acoustic shell. I felt sorry for the veterans, who had been lured in with the promise of dinner, and were then forced to sit two hours for bingo, herded into the gym to fight for festival seating, left on the hard, hard bleachers after being stuffed with bacon and onions, and tricked into waiting past their honoring to hear a community band.
The best part of my evening occurred just then. We heard a clicking sound. Up behind us. On the mezzanine where the purple plastic chairs had been set to receive veterans. We craned our necks, but saw nothing. The clicking stopped. A flash of motion up to the right caught my attention. CUS WAS WHEELING A STACK OF PURPLE PLASTIC CHAIRS TOWARD THE CAFETERIA ON HER DOLLY! Dear Sweet Gummi Mary! Time to go! Cus was ready to clean up. Darn the community band and full speed ahead! The clicking started again. Cus was stacking more purple plastic chairs. Until the Supreme Commander of Hillmomba Schools climbed those wobbly steps to tell her to cease and desist with doing her job while we were all trapped like cheeseless rats.
Then it started. When the little conductor stepped out for another speech, this one about his merry band of oldsters and youngsters who tooted the light fantastic, folks leaned forward. They were not demonstrating attentiveness. Once the LC turned back to jab his baton at his community band, they shot up the steps like Olympic sprinters out of the blocks. Like rats off a sinking ship. Like thieves carrying soda out of a convenience store. A good third of the audience made a getaway. We envied them their spryness.
After two more songs, for a total of 40 minutes for their performance, the community band retired to rest on their laurels. I turned to call Old English a liar.
Here's the deal. It seemed like the community band came to show up our very own students. Of course they had a big sound. They had a wider variety of instruments. And people who had been playing for 50 years, not three. And they took up way more time than our kids were allotted. That is akin to a person leaving longwinded self-serving comments on other people's blogs. Oops! I do that. Never mind. This was not at all like that.
The point is that people came to hear their kids perform, and honor the veterans. Not listen to a community band. Even Old English agreed.
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