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.

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.

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."

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.

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 my cheese 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.

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.

May The Odds Be Ever In His Stable

The Pony had his first academic meet of the season today. Rather, the varsity team participated in a tournament. The Pony was chosen to accompany them, and play in two quarters per game. To say he was excited would be an understatement. This is one of the few things that get The Pony rarin' to go.

The Pony is an odd duck. He prefers solitude to companionship. Tranquility to hubbub. A behind-the-scenes role to the spotlight. The annual team breakfast at McDonald's, on the way to the tournament, was not The Pony's cup of tea. He detests tea. Thank the Gummi Mary! You don't want to see The Pony on caffeine. His team was traveling by coach's car to the tournament, which happens to be located midway between the Mansion and Newmentia. The Pony was allowed to meet the team at the tournament site at 8:15 a.m. Being a recluse, he only had the phone number of one teammate, the one who recently got a new phone. Though the coach had told me they would meet him at the gym doors, The Pony was a bundle of nerves. He wanted to get there 15 minutes early. Just in case.

We arrived and speed-bumped through the parking lot. On my final turn, I said, "Hey! Isn't that your coach's car over there, just pulling in?" I shoved T-Hoe's PRNDL into P, and squinted. "I think that's them getting out. I see your school colors."

"Is it? It's THEM! I guess I'll see you later." The Pony hopped out and galloped across the lot to the circle drive at the academic entrance. He pranced in place as his teammates made their clown-car exit. Some opened up the hatchback, and handed The Pony a large suitcase, suitable for a ventriloquist dummy, or an academic team buzzer system. My little beast of burden brought up the rear, lugging his designated luggage.

What were the odds of that? The Pony arriving the exact moment as his team, who entered by a different door, dispersing within 60 seconds of arrival? I guess that makes The Pony a lucky odd duck. He would have been a wild-eyed nag shying away from the starting gate had we missed them. Taking the initiative to enter unfamiliar areas and ask someone for assistance is not The Pony's forte.

The #1 son is home for the week, and went to attend the tournament. After sleeping in past the first match, of course. He kept me updated on the proceedings. The Pony's team won their first two matches, then lost the third by ten points. Which is one question, if I remember correctly. They headed off to Subway for lunch, where The Pony had, as is his style, not a sandwich, but a mini cheese pizza. #1 transported our little steed to and from lunch, and hauled him home after a trouncing in the fourth match.

I believe our little Pony would say that he had a good day.