He Was Feeling A Little Bit Under The Table

Some people are their own worst enemy. Unless you consider The Pony, who doesn't really care about helping people, or what people think of him, so in effect, has no enemies.

Last Friday was the day for senior drape pictures. The senior pictures in a tux. Or what passes for a tux. The picture people bring that stuff along. The boys needed nothing. Just their regular school clothes. I told The Pony, "I don't know how they do this. You might have to put on a shirt that they give you. Are you okay with that?" I guess I pictured it as some kine of tuxedo t-shirt.


"Yeah. I guess. I don't know how they do it."

So off he went, was called out of class in the first group, it being divided alphabetically. He reported at lunch time that everything was fine. "All they did was make us drape this thing around us over our clothes. Duh. Senior DRAPES. You had me wondering what was going to happen."

Okay. So Mrs. Hillbilly Mom may not know about senior drapes meaning that the clothing is actually draped around you...and she may not have known until recently that England is an island (I still have trouble wrapping my head around that)...but she DOES know when someone goes out of someone's way to be strange. That's one psychic skill The Pony does not possess.

After school, The Pony was straightening up my classroom desks for me. He put away my colored pencils. He's a good egg like that. As I walked by, I saw a giant dust bunny on the back of his head.

"Wait! What's that on your head?"

"I don't know. There's something on my head?"

"Yes! And I don't want to touch it! Get me a paper towel out of the cabinet. The OTHER cabinet. I can't believe you! You just moved that roll of paper towels to put away the colored pencils. You should know where they were! This has only been my classroom for 15 years."

"I forgot. Here. What's on my head?"

"A giant dust bunny. Look at that! Was that on your drapes? Have you walked around all day with that on your head?"

"I don't know. It might be from when I was under the table in my college TV class."

"What? You were under the table? What's going on?"

"I get under there if I don't want people to bother me."

"Wait! Are people bothering you? That room needs to be supervised. It's like The Hunger Games! Are there kids in there that aren't even in the class?"

"Yesss. Sometimes. They come in to use the computers. Or sit around. At least I don't sit ON the tables!"

"Who's in there?"

"You don't need to know that."

"I need to know why you feel it necessary to crawl under a table."

"I don't crawl under a table. I SIT under a table. So people don't bother me when I have work to do. Otherewise, they are always asking me how to do something. And I don't have time if I have work to get done."

"Wouldn't it be easier to just stick a little sign on the side of your computer? That says, 'I'm busy now, can't help.'"

"Not really. I would have to make the sign."

"So it's easier to sit under a table?"

"It's not hurting anything."

I'm not sure that boy is ready to go off to college.

The Grinch Chef

Remember The Pony? The little fella who doesn't really care about people? He's baking a cake. For people.

The Pony spent his weekend baking. He was preparing for a how-to speech in one of his classes. Of course he decided to make an Oreo cake. Which may be his way of telling me that I don't make it for him often enough. Sweet Gummi Mary! You'd think Thanksgiving, Christmas, his birthday, and Easter would be enough cake for one Pony. I don't like it. Farmer H can't eat it. Only one or two relatives scam a piece, probably because The Pony stands guard over it.

We had to buy three sets of ingredients. One for practice. One to make the cake that he's taking to serve the class while he does his speech. One to mix together during the speech. That's a lot of ingredients.

The teacher says that students can use the FACS room to cook their creations after the speech. I think The Pony is just about caked out. He will have to abbreviate some steps to bring his speech in under the 7-minute limit. And I don't imagine him wanting to run up and down the hall checking on his third cake in three days.

The cake he made on Sunday for distribution to the class looked great! I have rarely seen The Pony prouder of an accomplishment. The only fly in the ointment was that he cut himself while opening the tub of frosting (so he may need ointment). Don't ask me how. Only The Pony could manage that. I told him to put a Band-Aid on his finger. Or cut the side off a ziplock bag and put that corner over his finger. Not sure of his tactic. I stayed out of the kitchen to allow him his autonomy and accurate practice  conditions for his speech.

By the time you read this it will all be done but the dish-washin'. I am sure The Pony accomplished his mission.

Telegraph, Telephone, Tell A Favorite Gambling Aunt

We had to do the Devil's Playground supply run on Saturday this week. That's because The Pony needed ingredients for his how-to speech. Which means he had to practice it on Saturday and Sunday. More on that at a later date.

I had no sooner piloted T-Hoe down the gravel road past the rockers' field before my cell phone rang. "You get it, Pony. I'm looking out for the rockers. You never know when they're working on a Saturday. They still have their equipment and a pickup truck in that field."

So my personal back-seat secretary took my call. "This IS The Pony. Mom's driving. She can't get the phone yet. I don't know. I haven't heard anything about that. Just a minute. We're at the mailboxes. We might lose you. When we get out on the road, she can talk. Here. It's your favorite gambling aunt."

That was odd. She doesn't call often. "Hello? I don't know! I haven't heard anything. I'll have The Pony send her a text. I'll call you back when I know something. Pony. Send Aunt Sis a text that says, 'Is everything okay?' That's all. If it is, she'll text back. If not, she'll call me when she can talk.

That's the thing about country folk. Always all up in each other's business. One can't make a move without another trumpeting it to the rest. I used to go round with my mom and my sister the ex-mayor's wife like that. "Have you seen Mom? She doesn't answer. Did she tell you where she was going? When did you last talk to her?" We always found her. It takes an extended family to raise all the extensions.

So...Saturday morning, my favorite gambling aunt had seen on Facebook that Sis's son was having surgery at 6:30 Friday night. And this was Saturday morning at 10:30. So I was worried. She even checked to make sure it wasn't an old message on Facebook. Nope. The night before. I started to worry. What if he was in a wreck on his way home from work? That could lead to surgery at that time. He works for the electric company. What if he got electrocuted? You wouldn't think that would lead to surgery.

Sis sent a text. She was camping down south. Apparently she and her whole family were there. The phone reception is terrible. She used to let me know that she would be gone, and she would have Mom pick up her mail. I guess these days she has her neighbor deal with her stuff. So...she said they rushed Neph back up here to the local hospital Friday night, and he had emergency surgery to remove his appendix. The surgery went well. She thought he might be able to go home Saturday afternoon. They were waiting to hear. They had not gotten done with the hospital visit/surgery until after 10:00 Friday night.

You'd think if the ex-mayor could answer on Facebook, he could shoot me a text. That's on him. Sis is easily upset. Mom was like that, too. So maybe she couldn't deal with it until everything was okay, and then she thought it was too late, and Saturday morning she thought it was too early. I'll give her the benefit of the doubt on this one.

Still. I would have let her know if it was one of my boys.

The Question Poised On Everybody's Fingertips

So, Mrs. Hillbilly Mom...what has Farmer H been up to lately?

Uh huh. I know that's what you're all dying to find out. He hasn't tried to kill me recently, by giving me a pointy-ended cane wrapped with electrician's tape to walk on a ceramic tile floor, or advising me to take ALL SIX pills of a Z-Pack at one time. But he's been scheming.

Farmer H sold his Pacifica to his oldest son for a cash sum and $1000 worth of work. I don't know how much work got done, but the cash was paid, and the son was here for many hours over many different weekends. So I suppose that's one in the good column for Farmer H's schemes.

Today I found out that Farmer H is selling the $1000 Caravan to a guy at work for $600. Can you believe it? Now that guy's wife can write a blog about their $600 Caravan! I made sure Farmer H told the purchaser that it does not have a speedometer (well, it does, but it lays flat at the bottom of that round thing where the speedometer is supposed to move around a dial as speed increases or decreases, having come loose from the center thingy and fallen off) and that the front passenger window is held up with a border of silver duct tape on all four sides. Farmer H said he told the guy, "It's a six hundred dollar car. It may run 50 miles, or it may run 50,000 miles. I don't know and you don't know. There are no guarantees." I wonder if Farmer H is leaving those studded snow tires on it. That's the only set we have for this vehicle, methinks.

Now the Hillbilly family is down to only six vehicles. I hope we can survive. I hope our insurance agent can survive.

It Takes A Think Tank To Raise An Adult Child

On Thursday, we had to convene an emergency session of the Semi Weekly Meeting of the Newmentia Lunch Time Think Tank. Yes. That’s TWO meetings within the week. But we are not about to change our organization to the Bi-Weekly Meeting of the Newmentia Lunch Time Think Tank. That would be too taxing on the members, and take attention away from correcting the table manners of the entire freshman lunch shift.

Let the record show that the Think Tank has a member who is always lording it over on informing the rest of us how young he is, and how his parents are younger than us. Sometimes I just want to put him in a high chair and slap a bib around his neck. As with any toddler, his food choices are limited. Chicken nuggets, hot dogs, pizza, and sometimes a sandwich brought from home. Those are his staples.

On the table Thursday was a large foil pan of apple crisp, and a carton of vanilla ice cream, supplied by Jewels. Toddly had brought no lunch. The menu offered chicken vegetable soup and carrot sticks. Long gone are the days we had those delicious crusty hard-as-a-rock grilled cheese sandwiches and our vegetable beef soup. Toddly sat without a plate or tray, surveying that apple crisp. And vanilla ice cream.

“Y’all know I never ate an apple. Well. Once I took a bite out of one. And at Dixie Stampede, they had some folded dough thing—“

“Yes. An apple fritter.”

“And it was okay…”

“Yeah, they’re really good at the Dixie Stampede.”

“You know my wife is going to kill y’all. I’ve never tried it all these years, and now you’re making me eat it.”

Like we were holding him down. Personally, I think we should hold him down each day and hold his nose until he swallows a new food. Kind of like we're testing him for allergies. I'd had enough of this hemming and hawing.

"I THINK YOU SHOULD GROW UP AND START EATING ADULT FOOD! Sorry. I don't mean to be rude, but I've held it in all these years."

The table was guffawing, even Toddly. "Why didn't you say that before? THEY did!" He gestured to the other Think Tankers.

"I was just trying to be polite. But since I'm leaving at the end of the year, I see no reason to hold things in."

Let the record show that Toddly ate every crumb of the apple crumble, and every drip of the ice cream, and pronounced it "Okay."

Monday, we might try strained peas.

Mrs. HM Is Really NOT A Hater, Even Though She Plays One On The Innernets

Every now and then, Mrs. Hillbilly Mom grows tired of the status quo. It is as if 10,000 bees buzzed into her bonnet, and she can’t proceed without letting them out. Even if she sets loose only a few at a time, the stinging lessens.

Did you know that sometimes, teachers stay after school to work? I know it’s a hard concept to grasp, those worthless babysitters actually working even one second past the 7 hours and 15 minutes for which they’re contracted. But it’s true. In Mrs. Hillbilly Mom’s case, it’s true every day of the week, by at least an hour a day. Not that she’s bucking for a promotion, or setting up a GoFundMe account for compensation.

During that hour a day, Mrs. HM expects to grade papers, run copies, plan lessons, plot test scores on the board, fill out checklists put in her mailbox, assign delinquent work, or dabble in her S L O with her U O I. You would think her very own classroom, and the teacher WORKroom with its two Kyoceras, would be prime real estate for Mrs. HM to carry out such duties. But you would think wrong.

Newmentia, the building which was once a bastion of learning, serving the two Hillbilly boys well with their education that garnered them special recognitions in academia, and scholarship opportunities worth a buttload of money…has become, after school hours, a BLOOMIN' PINT-SIZED-TERRORISTS' PLAYGROUND!

Nobody is safe. They run up and down the hallowed halls, screeching and huffing and shouting, "All clear! All clear!" They wander in the door and stare with their big ol' Keane-painting eyes, mute, making one uncomfortable. They hide in the teacher workroom, around the corner, by the fridge, behind the giant trash can, giggling, waiting to jump out and yell, "BOO!" Yet when a certain man in charge yelled, "BOO!" back, the manly little PST started to bawl. And keened his teary Keane eyes all down the hall, like he was not a causation of his own fate.

I'm not a kid-hater. Okay. I don't let that flag fly in public. But it is not my job to mind somebody else's kids. And when somebody else's kids get in the way of me doing my work, it's a bee in my bonnet.

Yes, I brought my own kids to my building after school was out. But guess what? I kept them in my room. So the only person they bothered was me. They had snacks. They had computer games. They had books to read. They had homework to do. No, they were not perfect. But I was the only one to hear their whining. And I most certainly did not allow them to free-range across the teacher workroom.

It's my last year, by cracky! And Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is not going to make nice and befriend these little PSTs. They need to start learnin' now that they are not that special. Nobody in the real world is going to make over them if they don't have to get along with their parents.

Life is a harsh taskmistress. You're never too young to start learning lessons.

The Pony Says The Darndest Things

The citizens of Hillmomba know me as that crazy lady who drives around talking to herself. Any time they see me drive by, with my jaws jabbering, they assume I am conversing with me, myself, and I. But that’s not true. Behind T-Hoe’s tinted windows, and behind my driver’s seat sits The Pony.

I am used to this arrangement. More room on the shotgun seat for my purse. I am accustomed to talking to The Pony with one eye on the rearview mirror. At times, when the road is clear, I reach my hand back and pat The Pony’s leg. His wiry-hair-covered leg. Yesterday, I reached back with a bit of melancholy.

“What am I going to do when you’re off to college, and not here for me to pat your leg?”

Without missing a beat, The Pony said, “I could put in a prosthesis.”

Yeah. He’s quite literal, that Pony.