The Help Is Not Just A Movie In Theaters

Farmer H was a handy little kitchen helper last night. And you know what that means. He made sure I'll never ask him to help again.

Actually, I did not ask him to help this time. I was planning to do it myself. The boys wanted Chef Boyardee deep dish pizza. It makes a really fluffy crust in a 9x13 glass pan. That's about all there is to a Chef Boyardee pizza. A lot of fluffy crust. Sauce from a can. And a packet of dried cheese sprinkled on top. My boys eat it up. It's a favorite for them, though not for me, what with the dough rising and the cleanup. Anyhoo...Farmer H and I had pork steaks with Shake N Bake, and some sliced auction tomatoes.

Later in the evening, when I remembered that the Chef had most likely cooled down by now, I had The Pony call upstairs to ask. Farmer H replied that he was getting ready to put it away. He does that sometimes, when I set out the proper leftover containage. This time, I was planning to put the Chef in foil. That way it is easy to reheat the next day. You have to leave a little tent on top so the sauce doesn't stick. Because then all you have left is a square of fluffy crust. Which isn't even proper to call imitation pizza. Since Farmer H offered, I allowed him to wrap the leftovers. I'm a regular Tom Sawyer when it comes to allowing folks to do chores when they beg me.

I was also planning to rinse the dishes to set beside the sink, because I might have mentioned a time or two that the Mansion is the only house in North America without a dishwasher. This morning, I discovered that Farmer H had outdone himself. Really.

The pizza that the boys planned on having for lunch was wrapped in foil. Wrapped like bricks of heroin trying to outsmart a border canine. Wrapped like stacks of money to be hidden in a toilet tank. Wrapped like a murder weapon in a Partners in Crime Women's Mystery Writers manuscript. The Vacuum Sealer itself could not have provided a more hermetic environment for the Chef. On the bright side, the boys love some warm fluffy crust fresh from the oven, with just a hint of sauce.

The #1 son alerted me to Famer H's other kitchen faux pas. He had taken it upon himself to rinse my pork steak plate. Rinsing to Farmer H means blasting an item with cold water from the sink sprayer. It doesn't remove any greasy residue, but distributes particulate matter all over the kitchen.

"EEWW! What's wrong with the sink? What's in here? It's DISgusting!"

I went to look. Crumbs from the Shake N Bake coating had glued themselves to the sides of my almond sink like spitballs on a classroom wall after an elderly substitute's supervision. Like Farmer H was trying to make a stucco sink happen. Ahem. Gretchen Wieners called, and she wants her "fetch" back.

For my next holiday gift, rather than a $3 pink change purse and a box of SnoCaps, I would like Farmer H to give me a little homemade card with a note that says, "Good for one night of not-helping clean up the kitchen."

A dozen would be really nice.

This Is Why We Can't Have Safe Things

It's been three weeks since our county road became a major detour. After a week, the highway department put up a pretty yellow marker on the main low-water bridge to show how high that water gets during flash flooding. They also put white flappy reflective markers along the sides of the bridge.

I'd like to think that they were just getting around to doing that for all rural low-water bridges, but something tells me they don't give a hoot about us regulars, and figured the detourers might be too stupid to drive over a one-lane low-water bridge without incident. I wish that had not been proven.

After the second week, someone ripped out the white flappy reflective markers. I suspect the fishermen who show up with families to dip a line into the foot-deep water without benefit of fishing licenses all around. Seriously. Couldn't you imagine much better places to fish if you were doing so legally? Other suspects include the scofflaw ne'er-do-wells who must find mischief for their idle hands. Like the ones who took the yellow metal water marker and peeled down both sides like a banana. Oh, and there are the speed demons who insist on rushing down onto the bridge while it is occupied by another car. That tends to knock out some white flappy reflective markers. But I don't recommend getting your tires that close to the edge.

The county has replaced the white flappy reflector markers twice, and had bolted the two sides of the yellow metal water marker together at the top and both sides. As of today, the white flappy reflector markers are totally gone, and the top of the yellow metal water marker has been bent down. In case you're wondering...water does indeed go above the five-foot mark during flooding.

People. Some of them just can't be helped. I'm hoping there is no major rainfall before this detour-making project is finished.

I have a feeling we're going to see some cars floating down a flooded creek.

I Wonder If He Takes His Shirt Off In The Bathroom

The #1 son is an opportunist. Especially where food is concerned. If it's not something he asked for, it's the most delectable goody that one can imagine. He must have it for himself. He may obtain it by wheedling, by shaming, by flat-out begging, or by clandestine means.

One day last week, The Pony asked for a Dairy Queen chicken basket. I know. Everybody goes to Dairy Queen for chicken, right? But being The Pony, his noggin is somewhat bigger than his muzzle. He thought he wanted it, but when it came time to strap on the ol' feedbag, he couldn't finish. The Pony is not one to founder himself on Dairy Queen chicken. He had a chicken tender and several fries left. I put it in Frig, still in its little Dairy Queen cardboard basket.

The #1 son must have been off his feed. Or else it was the day he was gone until the wee hours. Oh, wait! That has been almost every night this summer. So perhaps he did not see this tasty treat flaunting itself right on the front of the top shelf. Funny how he admitted to making a turkey sandwich with most-likely-expired Pepper Jack with no date at 10:30, but completely missed this fried tidbit.

The next morning, or as normal people call it, NOON, #1 was readying himself for a dash out the door on one of his many adventures. "I'm probably going to get lunch somewhere, but would you make me something now?"

"No."

"But I haven't had anything to eat!"

"Then get up at a normal time, and make it yourself. You'll be out on your own in a week. Might as well get used to it."

"But this could be your last chance to make your oldest son some breakfast!"

"Or not. Hey! Here's a chicken tender and some fries."

"Where? I want that!" He grabbed it out of my hand.

"Aren't you going to warm it in the microwave?"

"No. I'm in a hurry." He grabbed the chicken tender like it was an actual leg with a bone inside. He stuffed some cold fries in his mouth and dumped the basket in the trash. On his way around the kitchen counter to the door, he stopped. Came back. Leaned over into the wastebasket, grabbed a handful of fries, and stuffed them in his mouth.

"THE ECLAIR! You're George Costanza!"

"We don't need to speak of this ever again."

Heh, heh. That's what HE thinks.

A Plague Of Preservatives Is In Order

You know how some people are always obsessed with what other people are eating? Surely you know that of which I type. Especially if you ever have lunch with workplace companions. One person always takes it upon herself (because men are too busy telling their glory days stories for the fifty-eleventh time) to point out the amount of calories/percent of fat/grams of carbohydrates/number of artificial flavorings/sodium content in other people's food.

Perhaps I've mentioned such a person at my workplace. This person is not there every day. She's more of a filler-inner. An artificial ingredient at our lunch table. And she has the nerve to stare at and comment on my food. Yes. It's always MY food. Maybe because I don't face the wrath of the servers by going through the line after the last student, and instead bring sustenance from home. Come on. How many foods could Mrs. Hillbilly Mom possibly bring that would be unrecognizable to one so practiced in plate scrutiny? Must she always ask, "What is THAT?"

Is it really so hard to discern a cut-up shook&baked pork steak? Lemon pepper chicken? A barbecued bratwurst? Leftover Hunan chicken with rice? A cheese sandwich? Seriously. It was like I had sliced Jimmy Hoffa and cushioned him between two slices of Nutty Oat, ridding the world of his remains one bite at a time. It was enough to make me shove my Glad disposable container that I washed out every night into her face and say, "Here! You can quit eating your birdseed granola and have something with flavor!" In my mind, of course. What I really did was glower at her, answer direct questions tersely with monosyllables and no adjectives, and turn away to talk animatedly with my worst full-time enemy. I know what she was doing. Pointing out that I should be eating organically-grown and home-processed tofu burgers on stone-ground flaxseed loaf from my very own fire oven.

The Pony and I stepped into a local sandwich shop today when I finished my Save A Lot shopping. I was just ordering when a voice with no body attached hailed me mid-topping. "How are YOU? Have you been enjoying your summer?" Hidden behind The lagging Pony was Mrs. Inquisitor. How dare she! No only did she interrupt my topping train of thought, but she violated the first rule of Teacher Club: Don't talk about summer at the end of summer.

Sweet Gummi Mary! Paula Deen in my front yard eating a lobster tail! (I have not dropped out buttery friend from my lineup). How did Mrs. Inquisitor manage to track me down in my own Hillmomban habitat and intrude upon my final week of freedom and fast food? I tried to listen to her order, but those darn sandwich-makers and cashier kept interrogating me. All I heard was her son's sandwich.

Mrs. Inquisitor probably ordered six inches of lettuce.

Not Quite Capture The Flag

We have a new game in Hillmomba. It is called, "Stalking the Mailman." That is not some crazy euphemism for inappropriate shenanigans. Though the mailman probably wishes it was.

Here's how it works. Around time for the mail to be put into our row of boxes on the blacktop county road, the #1 son drives down to park by the creek and wait. He might as well be a private investigator. A big-game hunter. A lone waiter for Godot. This week alone, he has spent three days and five hours sitting in a truck down by the creek. Just one step above living in a van down by the river.

Since our post offices restructured, packages are sent out on the route, no matter whether they will fit in the box, or whether a package quite possibly contains a crated elephant. The rural carrier hauls it around, then puts the orange postcard in the box and returns the item to the main hub post office. It used to be that you could pick up such a package at your own post office after 3:00 the same day. Now, you can't get it until the NEXT day. Unless you rush to the main hub around 5:00, right before closing, and beg for it.

The #1 son has places to go and people to see. So he sits. When the carrier pulls up and starts filling the boxes, #1 runs over to inquire about his package. It's not random. He tracks it online. When it says, "Out for delivery," he knows to stalk the postman. Therein lies the problem.

Usually, our mail arrives between 11:00 and noon. However, I caught the postman leaving it at 10:00 one day. So #1 sets up surveillance at 10:00. Twice this week, the postman did not arrive until nearly noon. On Saturdays, he comes sooner. Except today. I was supposed to take a shift, but Farmer H called me stupid and rescinded the orders given by #1 at 11:30 last night. Then he went off to wait for it himself. Just to curry favor with his BFF #1, I'm sure.

Anyhoo, #1 reported that the first day, the postman was quite rude to him. Hmm...he was really nice to me that one day I sidled up to his door and asked if, perhaps, he had a package for #1 Hillbilly. The problem with #1 is that he doesn't believe the internet is wrong. So when told that he did not have a package, he probably showed slight displeasure. I advised him to explain that he didn't mean to be a bother, but that he was going off to college, and wanted to make sure he had all of his stuff packed in time.

"Stalking the Mailman" has grown more difficult with the usage of our county road as a major detour. One can't stand beside the mailman's Jeep Cherokee waiting for the package, but must instead go around to the woods side in a pile of riprap put there after the last flood washed out part of the road. Such a stance looks a bit sinister, especially to a federal employee trapped inside a car.

Alas, poor #1's days of playing "Stalking the Mailman" will soon be over. I weep for him.

The Last Good Friday

Or as I call it, The Gloom and Doom Post.

Today was the last good Friday. The final Friday before the whole rat race starts up again. Next Friday I have to worry about the #1 son leaving for college on Saturday. To start fretting about returning to work on Monday. Yes. I've marked my calendar: August 9-Worry About #1, Fret About School. It's good to have a plan.

All next week I will be last-minute stressing. Making sure The Pony has school supplies and clothing. Making sure he's shod. That he hasn't lost his trombone over the summer. We'll have to run by Newmentia to pick up his schedule and locker assignment. I will face the horror of my classroom after the summer staff have had their way with it. The Pony will put things back where they go. I'll hunt down my school laptop and try to get all my wiring re-situated. That is when I'll miss #1 most. Not really. That will be late at night when I notice that he's gone. But getting me up and running technologically has been his job since he was a kindergartener. The Pony's tech skills pale in comparison. I will be a commoner, putting my name on the queue for district tech support.

Yes, next week will be the time to steel myself for the upcoming onslaught of Common Core. Doesn't sound like a teacher eager to hit the newly-waxed tile running, does it? I am not good with change. I have been through so many incarnations in my 25 years that I am jaded. Common Core will one day go the way of the Instructional Management System, The BEST Test, MAP, the open-ended End Of Course, and all the cutting-edge methods and assessments that came before them. And for what?

Seems like us old dogs at least had teachers with time to teach us the basics. Give us a good foundation for our future. Without worrying about our Stanford-Binet scores affecting their jobs. Even had time to teach interesting things, too. Yes, this old dog weeps for the past. Next week.

On opening day, I will be elbowing my way to the front with the other eager beavers, chowing down on that free breakfast, sopping up confidentiality presentations like a hearty biscuit, chomping at the bit to find out what new computer programs are to be mastered in three days, and clearing out my file cabinet to start anew like a beginning teacher.

Let it never be said that Mrs. Hillbilly Mom cannot pull herself up by her own bootstraps and ignite the spark of curiosity in her students. She is a team player to the end.

Which is three short years away.

My Own Personal Landslide

Back to school. Not the Rodney Dangerfield movie where he runs a chain of Tall and Fat stores, and donates money so he can attend college along with his son the diver, and knocks out walls in the dorm to make himself a suite with a hot tub and other good stuff. No. We're talking about the #1 son making preparations to head off to college next weekend. Let's hope it's not a case of seven years down the drain. And that he knows fat, drunk, and stupid is no way to go through life.

He has been amassing a stockpile of supplies. A box of bedding. Underbed storage containers. Theme books. Folders. Pilot pens. A bulletin board and push pins. A kickin' backpack. New shoes. Two plates, two bowls, two cups. So little to fortify him against the big world.

#1 has always enjoyed back-to-school time. He is a major fan of school supplies. It's like nerd Christmas. When he was in kindergarten, he declared that he wanted to work at Office Max. That was the year his teacher asked what he wanted Santa to bring him, and he said, "A fax machine."

That's my boy. I'm really going to miss him.