The wages of thievery came due this morning.
The #1 son sprawled on the long couch, pretending to be uninterested in the wisdom spouted by Hillbilly Mom. He was only on the long couch because I claimed Farmer H's recliner right out from under his butt. Just because absence makes the heart grow fonder does not mean a reunion upsets the pecking order.
HM: "I'm off to The Devil's Playground for a few things. We're going to see The Hunger Games: Catching Fire tomorrow, so I'm getting the shopping out of the way today, while The Pony is bowling."
#1: "Yeah, yeah. Blah blah blah."
HM: "Do you need anything to take back? Pop Tarts?"
#1: "No. Those are on the cutting block. I've been saving them."
HM: "Are you sure?"
#1: "Yeah. Wait a minute! Did somebody eat them? PONY! Come up and see if I have enough Pop Tarts." This is a common tactic for #1. To lay on the couch, and call The Pony up from the basement to go in the kitchen and look for stuff. Or to go in #1's bedroom and bring his phone or laptop. For some reason, The Pony does it. Lately, The Pony has been feeling his oats.
THE PONY: "No. If I remember correctly, there are two packs of Red Velvet, and one pack of blueberry."
#1: "ONE PACK! Did you eat some?"
THE PONY: "Yes. You ate my Soft Batch cookies."
#1: "I'm going to need more blueberry Pop Tarts. Get the big box this time."
Heh heh. The look on #1's face was priceless. What he doesn't know it that while in town, I went in Save A Lot and bought The Pony some more Soft Batch packs. Which I put in the bottom of a bag, and whispered to The Pony to hide them when we unpacked the groceries.
It shouldn't have to be this way. But we have to level the feeding field.
Saturday, November 30, 2013
Friday, November 29, 2013
Revenge Is A Dish Best Served Cold Out Of A Paper Wrapper
Have I mentioned that the #1 son has been here all week?
How do you know when your college freshman is home? The special treats you bought for him still sit on the cutting block, and stockpiles of snacks requested by other inhabitants of your Mansion are sorely depleted.
The first day he was home, I caught him noshing on a Little Debbie Cosmic Brownie right after lunch. "Those are for The Pony. He eats one every morning."
#1: "Yeah, well. I wanted something sweet after lunch."
HM: "I'm making my grocery list. I guess I need to add brownies. Hey! Pony! Do we need brownies?"
The Pony: "I don't think so. There's almost a whole box."
HM: "Your brother just ate one."
The Pony: "I think we're okay."
#1: "Actually, this is the third one I've had since I got home."
HM: "What? You've eaten three of them in less than 24 hours? At this rate, we'll be out of them tomorrow."
The Pony: "Hey, Mom! I think we need to add brownies to the shopping list!"
Furthermore, the #1 son helped himself to a box of Sour Patch Kids off the coffee table in front of the big screen TV, thinking they were The Pony's, though in reality they were bought for #1 on his last home visit when he had guests. In addition, he snarfed up a Big Grab bag of Salt & Vinegar chips from the same general area that had laid unclaimed for about four weeks. I didn't have the heart to tell him they were not spoken for. But it was the last straw when, after midnight on Wednesday, he ripped open a pack of four Soft Batch chocolate chip cookies that definitely belonged to The Pony, our little steed having specifically carried them down for safekeeping from the marauder.
"Those belong to your brother. I bought them just for him."
"But I love them!"
"You never ask for them. I get them at the checkout at Save A Lot."
"Mmm..." #1 stuffed the last one in his mouth. "And you know what the best thing about them is?" He was a bit garbled due to the half-masticated baked good rolling around in his wide-open trap. "They taste even sweeter...because they are stolen!"
We are all fat and sassy tonight, because #1 has vacated the premises for some carousing. A couple of hours ago, The Pony appeared in the door of my office. I swear. Sometimes he's like Gary Oldman as Dracula, gliding up without a sound or discernible motion.
"Hey, Mom! Look what I've got for a snack!"
It was a blueberry Pop Tart. From the stash #1 has been hoarding to take back to college.
I tip my hat to the young Pony. He's a fast learner.
How do you know when your college freshman is home? The special treats you bought for him still sit on the cutting block, and stockpiles of snacks requested by other inhabitants of your Mansion are sorely depleted.
The first day he was home, I caught him noshing on a Little Debbie Cosmic Brownie right after lunch. "Those are for The Pony. He eats one every morning."
#1: "Yeah, well. I wanted something sweet after lunch."
HM: "I'm making my grocery list. I guess I need to add brownies. Hey! Pony! Do we need brownies?"
The Pony: "I don't think so. There's almost a whole box."
HM: "Your brother just ate one."
The Pony: "I think we're okay."
#1: "Actually, this is the third one I've had since I got home."
HM: "What? You've eaten three of them in less than 24 hours? At this rate, we'll be out of them tomorrow."
The Pony: "Hey, Mom! I think we need to add brownies to the shopping list!"
Furthermore, the #1 son helped himself to a box of Sour Patch Kids off the coffee table in front of the big screen TV, thinking they were The Pony's, though in reality they were bought for #1 on his last home visit when he had guests. In addition, he snarfed up a Big Grab bag of Salt & Vinegar chips from the same general area that had laid unclaimed for about four weeks. I didn't have the heart to tell him they were not spoken for. But it was the last straw when, after midnight on Wednesday, he ripped open a pack of four Soft Batch chocolate chip cookies that definitely belonged to The Pony, our little steed having specifically carried them down for safekeeping from the marauder.
"Those belong to your brother. I bought them just for him."
"But I love them!"
"You never ask for them. I get them at the checkout at Save A Lot."
"Mmm..." #1 stuffed the last one in his mouth. "And you know what the best thing about them is?" He was a bit garbled due to the half-masticated baked good rolling around in his wide-open trap. "They taste even sweeter...because they are stolen!"
We are all fat and sassy tonight, because #1 has vacated the premises for some carousing. A couple of hours ago, The Pony appeared in the door of my office. I swear. Sometimes he's like Gary Oldman as Dracula, gliding up without a sound or discernible motion.
"Hey, Mom! Look what I've got for a snack!"
It was a blueberry Pop Tart. From the stash #1 has been hoarding to take back to college.
I tip my hat to the young Pony. He's a fast learner.
Thursday, November 28, 2013
We Talk Without Speaking
Perhaps I mentioned that I have needed to rearrange my classroom furniture when I arrive at school in the morning. Not to be all artsy-fartsy or feng shui-ish. Just to survive. To put things back like I left them the previous afternoon. In working order. A place for everything, and everything in its place. Wednesday was Day 3 out of the last 4 that I had to re-do. It will probably come as no surprise to you to hear that Mrs. Hillbilly Mom was not a happy camper.
I repositioned my student rear-end receptacles so that we had clear ingress and egress on all four sides of the classroom. I mentally shook my fist and vowed that Cus would pay for this uncalled-for invasion of my territory. Seriously. Nobody wet-mops a room three days out of four. Nobody. My arrangement allows ample access for the short dust broom. I see this escalation in our battle of wills as a thumbing of Cus's nose to my sovereignty. A kingdom divided by an extra 12 inches cannot stand.
There I stood, minding my own business, scanning the halls for huggers and runners, at the start of the school day. My students entered. The hallway traffic ebbed. And I heard it. The click of a door handle. I saw the bar turn downward on the side door to the kitchen. And out stepped Cus! Cus does not work mornings! Cus comes in at 2:00. Or 1:30. Did you know that Cus is an overachiever? Anyhoo, there stood Cus, anachronistically.
It was like the calm before a gunfight on a dusty frontier town main street. Like a duel begun by an aspersion cast upon one's ladyfriend, escalated by a white-gloved slap across the kisser, ending in a staredown at 20 paces, just before the bang-bang. Like divorced parents eyeing each other across the gymnasium at an elementary school Christmas concert. Cus looked me in the eye. I looked Cus in the eye. Cus knew that I knew that Cus knew the desk-moving shot across the bow had been discovered. Cus dropped the gaze and went about the business of starting a job that should not have started until six hours later.
I went into my classroom as the bell rang. Did my teacherly duties. Watched the hall again 50 minutes later. Graded some homebound work on my plan time. Ran a week's worth of copies for two subjects. And shuddered as I heard the wheels of Cus's trash can coming down the hall. I sat very still, like a rabbit under a hedge as the hounds ran by. My automatically-shutting-off lights had turned themselves off. Maybe Cus wouldn't notice me in the dark room. Wait! That's not good! Cus might come in and rearrange. I waved my arms over my head wildly. Rolled three feet to the right. Waved like the signalmen flagging in a jet on an aircraft carrier. The lights popped on. The wheels went on past my rented piece of real estate.
When the bell rang to end my plan period, I went back to supervise the hall. Here came Cus. "Hey, Mrs. Hillbilly Mom...when is your planning period?" AHA! Cus wanted to clean my room early. Even though it had been cleaned last night, and only ONE class had been in there since then. Well. The joke was on Cus.
"Oh, I just had my planning period. Now I have classes every hour until we're dismissed." Heh, heh.
It was a bit distracting to look up several times the rest of the day, and see Cus's face in my door window. Too bad. No amount of yearning can make a class disappear from a classroom.
Score one for Mrs. Hillbilly Mom.
I repositioned my student rear-end receptacles so that we had clear ingress and egress on all four sides of the classroom. I mentally shook my fist and vowed that Cus would pay for this uncalled-for invasion of my territory. Seriously. Nobody wet-mops a room three days out of four. Nobody. My arrangement allows ample access for the short dust broom. I see this escalation in our battle of wills as a thumbing of Cus's nose to my sovereignty. A kingdom divided by an extra 12 inches cannot stand.
There I stood, minding my own business, scanning the halls for huggers and runners, at the start of the school day. My students entered. The hallway traffic ebbed. And I heard it. The click of a door handle. I saw the bar turn downward on the side door to the kitchen. And out stepped Cus! Cus does not work mornings! Cus comes in at 2:00. Or 1:30. Did you know that Cus is an overachiever? Anyhoo, there stood Cus, anachronistically.
It was like the calm before a gunfight on a dusty frontier town main street. Like a duel begun by an aspersion cast upon one's ladyfriend, escalated by a white-gloved slap across the kisser, ending in a staredown at 20 paces, just before the bang-bang. Like divorced parents eyeing each other across the gymnasium at an elementary school Christmas concert. Cus looked me in the eye. I looked Cus in the eye. Cus knew that I knew that Cus knew the desk-moving shot across the bow had been discovered. Cus dropped the gaze and went about the business of starting a job that should not have started until six hours later.
I went into my classroom as the bell rang. Did my teacherly duties. Watched the hall again 50 minutes later. Graded some homebound work on my plan time. Ran a week's worth of copies for two subjects. And shuddered as I heard the wheels of Cus's trash can coming down the hall. I sat very still, like a rabbit under a hedge as the hounds ran by. My automatically-shutting-off lights had turned themselves off. Maybe Cus wouldn't notice me in the dark room. Wait! That's not good! Cus might come in and rearrange. I waved my arms over my head wildly. Rolled three feet to the right. Waved like the signalmen flagging in a jet on an aircraft carrier. The lights popped on. The wheels went on past my rented piece of real estate.
When the bell rang to end my plan period, I went back to supervise the hall. Here came Cus. "Hey, Mrs. Hillbilly Mom...when is your planning period?" AHA! Cus wanted to clean my room early. Even though it had been cleaned last night, and only ONE class had been in there since then. Well. The joke was on Cus.
"Oh, I just had my planning period. Now I have classes every hour until we're dismissed." Heh, heh.
It was a bit distracting to look up several times the rest of the day, and see Cus's face in my door window. Too bad. No amount of yearning can make a class disappear from a classroom.
Score one for Mrs. Hillbilly Mom.
Wednesday, November 27, 2013
Do You Think I'm Kidding?
"I hate her stupid Germ-X!" proclaimed the cognitively dissonant girl as she slathered the stuff halfway up her forearms.
Of course I heard her from my hallway monitoring station at just outside my classroom door. "Oh! Don't you worry! I won't bother to spend my own personal money on any more of that stupid Germ-X for you students to use. In fact, now that I know how much you hate it, I will remove it from the classroom during your class period. You can sit and stew in your own microbes all hour. Far be it from me to expose you to a stupid substance that you hate."
"What? Are you serious? That sounds so...bad. Stew in our own microbes! I don't have anything against Germ-X. It's how it shoots out. YOU go get some. It hits you in your bellybutton."
"ME go get some? From the common bottle? I don't think so! I have my own bottle right back here by my desk. See? So what if it's almost empty? It's mine. All mine. I couldn't bear to throw it away."
"Hey! It's the day before Thanksgiving! We get out early. What are we doing in here today?"
"Oh, I don't know. Maybe you can just stew in your own microbes."
Of course I heard her from my hallway monitoring station at just outside my classroom door. "Oh! Don't you worry! I won't bother to spend my own personal money on any more of that stupid Germ-X for you students to use. In fact, now that I know how much you hate it, I will remove it from the classroom during your class period. You can sit and stew in your own microbes all hour. Far be it from me to expose you to a stupid substance that you hate."
"What? Are you serious? That sounds so...bad. Stew in our own microbes! I don't have anything against Germ-X. It's how it shoots out. YOU go get some. It hits you in your bellybutton."
"ME go get some? From the common bottle? I don't think so! I have my own bottle right back here by my desk. See? So what if it's almost empty? It's mine. All mine. I couldn't bear to throw it away."
"Hey! It's the day before Thanksgiving! We get out early. What are we doing in here today?"
"Oh, I don't know. Maybe you can just stew in your own microbes."
Tuesday, November 26, 2013
And Don't Even Think About Asking To Borrow A Handbasket
Neither a borrower nor a lender be. That is Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's personal motto. Well, that, and people piss me off. Perhaps because both end with prepositions. Of course, that borrower part is not really meant for myself. I sure don't want to get the reputation for being a lender. But if I need something, I can suspend my personal beliefs for one day, as long as I can find a willing lender.
Today a Smart Guy came into my classroom to ask if I had a car. This is a multi-level faux pas. First of all, nobody enters Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's classroom on a whim. She is that old recluse peeping out her curtains, shaking her fist at lawn shortcutters, murmuring to her 100 cats that the young whippersnappers of today are up to no good. Abandon most hope, ye who enter here. Especially if you are the last interruption of the day.
Secondly, do not play fast and loose with your questions. Be specific. Of course I have a car. What kind of legal adult does not have a car to traverse the highways and biways of Hillmomba in order to earn a living? If what you're looking to procure is a toy car, you need to ask if I have a toy car.
Thirdly, DO NOT ASK OBVIOUS QUESTIONS TO WHICH YOU ALREADY KNOW THE ANSWER. Since you used such cars on ramps in my class two years ago, in order to gather data and construct graphs, of course you know I have them. What are you, some kind of wise guy, trying to catch me in a fib?
Fourthly, don't juggle orange and yellow Nerf darts in your hands while inquiring. That makes it look like my little cars will be made to pay for my persnicketiness.
Fifthy, upon return, do not walk right past the cabinet from which you excavated my tiny car, across the entire classroom, to place the borrowed tiny car on Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's desk! Put it back in the recycled Hot & Sour Soup clear plastic container from whence it was extracted. Then nod a silent thank you, add a little salute, perhaps, and make your exit.
The youth of today are sorely in need of structure.
Today a Smart Guy came into my classroom to ask if I had a car. This is a multi-level faux pas. First of all, nobody enters Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's classroom on a whim. She is that old recluse peeping out her curtains, shaking her fist at lawn shortcutters, murmuring to her 100 cats that the young whippersnappers of today are up to no good. Abandon most hope, ye who enter here. Especially if you are the last interruption of the day.
Secondly, do not play fast and loose with your questions. Be specific. Of course I have a car. What kind of legal adult does not have a car to traverse the highways and biways of Hillmomba in order to earn a living? If what you're looking to procure is a toy car, you need to ask if I have a toy car.
Thirdly, DO NOT ASK OBVIOUS QUESTIONS TO WHICH YOU ALREADY KNOW THE ANSWER. Since you used such cars on ramps in my class two years ago, in order to gather data and construct graphs, of course you know I have them. What are you, some kind of wise guy, trying to catch me in a fib?
Fourthly, don't juggle orange and yellow Nerf darts in your hands while inquiring. That makes it look like my little cars will be made to pay for my persnicketiness.
Fifthy, upon return, do not walk right past the cabinet from which you excavated my tiny car, across the entire classroom, to place the borrowed tiny car on Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's desk! Put it back in the recycled Hot & Sour Soup clear plastic container from whence it was extracted. Then nod a silent thank you, add a little salute, perhaps, and make your exit.
The youth of today are sorely in need of structure.
Monday, November 25, 2013
Mrs. Hillbilly Mom Has A Limited Number Of Cheeks To Turn
Sweet Gummi Mary! I'm getting too old for this. I do NOT enjoy rearranging my classroom back to my seating chart configuration every morning as I arrive for work. This is Day Two of the subtle game of mouse and mouse that Cus and I engage in concerning who has dominion over my furniture.
Actually, I am not actively engaging. Yet. I simply respond. React. Set desks straight so I can flow seamlessly through the day, without having my back aisle progress impeded by backpacks, sprawling six-footers, and needy button-pushers.
Don't think I don't notice. Cus knows I notice. It's a passive-aggressive battle. I am the master of my domain. Not like that. My layout must serve my purposes. Not Cus's purposes. Now, if Cus asks for a larger gap in order to mop, I comply. I have the kids line up the desks and pick up the chairs. And I reposition them myself the next morning before school. What I'm talking about here is clandestine rearrangement. Like I won't know that the back row is displaced by 12 inches.
What's up with this? Taking the extra time to move mycheese desks, while not dusting my laptop screen or scooping out my desks? Not that I feel that is the job of Cus. I never expected any other custodians to dust for me, or clean out desks. I did that myself. Yet Cus has made a big show of scooping out those desks in my presence, with a special homemade tool. Along with the comment, "Wow! Your desks are really messy today." And seriously, it is not necessary, nor acceptable, for Cus to wipe out the insides of my mini fridge and microwave. Some things are personal.
If this battle continues, I must retaliate. It would be terrible if I borrowed a key to Cus's closet, and turned empty buckets upside down, switched the order of mops hanging on the wall, and rearranged the bottles of cleaner. Yes, it would be terrible. But fair.
Fair is fair.
Actually, I am not actively engaging. Yet. I simply respond. React. Set desks straight so I can flow seamlessly through the day, without having my back aisle progress impeded by backpacks, sprawling six-footers, and needy button-pushers.
Don't think I don't notice. Cus knows I notice. It's a passive-aggressive battle. I am the master of my domain. Not like that. My layout must serve my purposes. Not Cus's purposes. Now, if Cus asks for a larger gap in order to mop, I comply. I have the kids line up the desks and pick up the chairs. And I reposition them myself the next morning before school. What I'm talking about here is clandestine rearrangement. Like I won't know that the back row is displaced by 12 inches.
What's up with this? Taking the extra time to move my
If this battle continues, I must retaliate. It would be terrible if I borrowed a key to Cus's closet, and turned empty buckets upside down, switched the order of mops hanging on the wall, and rearranged the bottles of cleaner. Yes, it would be terrible. But fair.
Fair is fair.
Sunday, November 24, 2013
It's The End Of Holiday Work Life As We Know It, And I Feel Fine
Just in case my best old ex-teaching buddy Mabel hasn't heard...there will be no faculty turkey dinner this year. Sayonara, loaf of bread and bag of frozen corn in the freezer. You won't be missed.
Oh, we had more than that. There's a rich history to our little gathering. Only a chosen few are privy to the details. But I'll fill you in. You know how a pot luck goes in the workplace. There's that guy who always brings a loaf of bread from the day-old bread store, and spends the next three days asking, "How was the bread? Did you like the bread? I brought the bread." Sweet Gummi Mary! You'd think he planted the seed, harvested the field, thrashed the wheat, ground the flour, did whatever else you do to make dough, and baked that loaf, taking care to procure a machine to ensure identical slices of his magnanimous contribution. Because surely he must have done something to work up such a huge appetite for the broughten food of other bringers.
Then there's the gal who waltzes in at the last minute, tosses a bag of frozen corn into the home ec room freezer (yes, I said HOME EC, not family science...a five-year-old Duggar knows how to do this stuff, it's not brain surgery) and says, "Here's some corn if anybody wants to cook it when it's time for lunch." Which you can be sure the support staff/office jobbers don't want to do, what with it being a thorn in their side that they must come set the food out on the table and warm up the heatables before the first lunch shift arrives. Excuse us for having the audacity to spend that time in a classroom with 25 adolescents as our contract requires, rather than in here sticking a thumb in each casserole, licking our fingers after touching each dessert.
Don't forget the accusatory glances, and sometimes hot pink poster board signs, from later lunch shifts, claiming that the firsties ate every morsel, even the crumbs much too small for the other Who's mouses. Or the sweet-teethers who grab a slice of every dessert, even going so far as to hide portions before school the next day to make sure they get their fair half.
Yes, I am no fan of workplace pot lucks. The turkey-cooker was never properly thanked or reimbursed. Folks who devoted Sunday afternoon and evening to whipping up a delicious side dish were treated with less respect than Rodney Dangerfield. So stupid were they, when all they had to do was grab a tub of Presidential Potato Salad off the shelf of The Devil's Playground. Mabel, your green beans were fabulous. You buddy's creamed corn casserole...not so much.
Over the years, I contributed special treats. Like my famous deviled eggs that took a couple hours time from my valuable Sunday schedule. At least the Bread Man still talks about them every holiday. He truly appreciated my evil chicken fruit. Then there was my fabulous Oreo Cake, baked from a box with love, only to be declared storebought by the disgruntled coven of plate-setter-outers. Because obviously, Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is a dirty unkempt pigeon lady who roams Central Park, the winged vermin feeding off her hat, waiting for the Home Alone boy to give her half a necklace, and incapable of putting together a tasty, visually-appealing dessert. And, adding insult to emotional injury, was the shock of walking in on The Coven feeding on large slices of that "store bought" cake before school the next day, and dumping almost half in the trash when the bell rang.
Furthermore, the 18-minute lunch period is not conducive to proper digestion. Only 14 are left by the time one figures out whether the meal is being served in the teacher workroom, just past the bathrooms, next to the Kyocera, or in the HOME EC room, where students in the classroom side turn to watch, one begging every 30 seconds, "Hey, can I have some? That looks good. You have plenty. Just let us have a bite."
No. I won't miss that awkward feast. I miss Mabel more.
Oh, we had more than that. There's a rich history to our little gathering. Only a chosen few are privy to the details. But I'll fill you in. You know how a pot luck goes in the workplace. There's that guy who always brings a loaf of bread from the day-old bread store, and spends the next three days asking, "How was the bread? Did you like the bread? I brought the bread." Sweet Gummi Mary! You'd think he planted the seed, harvested the field, thrashed the wheat, ground the flour, did whatever else you do to make dough, and baked that loaf, taking care to procure a machine to ensure identical slices of his magnanimous contribution. Because surely he must have done something to work up such a huge appetite for the broughten food of other bringers.
Then there's the gal who waltzes in at the last minute, tosses a bag of frozen corn into the home ec room freezer (yes, I said HOME EC, not family science...a five-year-old Duggar knows how to do this stuff, it's not brain surgery) and says, "Here's some corn if anybody wants to cook it when it's time for lunch." Which you can be sure the support staff/office jobbers don't want to do, what with it being a thorn in their side that they must come set the food out on the table and warm up the heatables before the first lunch shift arrives. Excuse us for having the audacity to spend that time in a classroom with 25 adolescents as our contract requires, rather than in here sticking a thumb in each casserole, licking our fingers after touching each dessert.
Don't forget the accusatory glances, and sometimes hot pink poster board signs, from later lunch shifts, claiming that the firsties ate every morsel, even the crumbs much too small for the other Who's mouses. Or the sweet-teethers who grab a slice of every dessert, even going so far as to hide portions before school the next day to make sure they get their fair half.
Yes, I am no fan of workplace pot lucks. The turkey-cooker was never properly thanked or reimbursed. Folks who devoted Sunday afternoon and evening to whipping up a delicious side dish were treated with less respect than Rodney Dangerfield. So stupid were they, when all they had to do was grab a tub of Presidential Potato Salad off the shelf of The Devil's Playground. Mabel, your green beans were fabulous. You buddy's creamed corn casserole...not so much.
Over the years, I contributed special treats. Like my famous deviled eggs that took a couple hours time from my valuable Sunday schedule. At least the Bread Man still talks about them every holiday. He truly appreciated my evil chicken fruit. Then there was my fabulous Oreo Cake, baked from a box with love, only to be declared storebought by the disgruntled coven of plate-setter-outers. Because obviously, Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is a dirty unkempt pigeon lady who roams Central Park, the winged vermin feeding off her hat, waiting for the Home Alone boy to give her half a necklace, and incapable of putting together a tasty, visually-appealing dessert. And, adding insult to emotional injury, was the shock of walking in on The Coven feeding on large slices of that "store bought" cake before school the next day, and dumping almost half in the trash when the bell rang.
Furthermore, the 18-minute lunch period is not conducive to proper digestion. Only 14 are left by the time one figures out whether the meal is being served in the teacher workroom, just past the bathrooms, next to the Kyocera, or in the HOME EC room, where students in the classroom side turn to watch, one begging every 30 seconds, "Hey, can I have some? That looks good. You have plenty. Just let us have a bite."
No. I won't miss that awkward feast. I miss Mabel more.
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