'Tis Friday, y'all! First Friday of the month. That means all the folks who didn't jump the gun and scurry to do their shopping last week, on the hopes that their first-of-the-month monies were already in the bank, will be rushing to The Devil's Playground to purchase mass quantities today. Right? So it would stand to reason that The Devil would have a full complement of Handmaidens in place to process the influx. Right? Because at The Devil's Playground, you're always next in line? Right? Anybody remember that slogan? Am I making it up? Because I seem to remember that was a promise of the old Devil's Playground, back when old man Devil himself ran it, and not his adult children from the bowels of the state directly below us.
Not that Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is obsessive-compulsive about her wait time. Who's counting, right? Pick up a tabloid and while away the minutes. All 17 of them. Don't mentally slap with a wet noodle the dyed-black-haired lady in the oversize movie star sunglasses, writing a check, explaining about having a different first name than what's printed there, chatting, chatting, sensing the mob behind her grabbing BIC lighters from the last-minute-purchase shelves, readying their torches, then strolling away to her premiere. Yeah. Don't sigh hard enough to knock over Grammy and Grampy Methuselah as they set their produce bag of four plums and 138 other items on the conveyor with their liver-spotted, palsied hands. Don't panic when The Pony finishes driving three dollars' worth of race car games before you even get your first five items rung up, and comes to tell you he's going out to T-Hoe, and quite possibly sees his Valentine and birthday cards you were trying to keep hidden.
Yes, The Devil decreed that only ONE full-service register be open on this Friday morning between the times of 10:25 and 10:42. Oh, and before and after those times as well, but that does not concern me. It might have concerned the TWO twenty-items-or less checkers destined to take the overflow, or the five people in line behind her, but not Mrs. Hillbilly Mom.
So sue me for responding to the stock Handmaiden question of, "Did you find everything okay?" Because I did not. Apparently The Devil is bootlegging Garlic Bologna. There was none to be found on the shelves. Oh, The Devil had twelve stacks of Thick Cut Bologna. And six stacks of Beef Bologna. But nary a Garlic Bologna. I suppose The Devil is now in cahoots with Count Dracula, and does not want to sell items that some might consider offensive.
Farmer H will not be pleased. He will have to continue sneaking sandwiches from the month-old Garlic Bologna that he opened when we still had a perfectly good open bologna. It's not like I'm going to go out of my way to warm anything in the oven or heat it in the microwave for him outside of regular meal times.
The Devil needs to find work for some idle Handmaiden hands.
Friday, February 7, 2014
Thursday, February 6, 2014
The Armchair Geographer
Guess who's out of school again on Friday! Yes. It's ME! Day 18.
Sweet Gummi Mary! It will be time to go back to school before we even get out! What about summer school? Can we count one day for all three? Let's choose August 5 as an example. Is that even a weekday? I'm too lazy to call up my BFF Google. We'll pretend it is. So we may not be out of regular school yet, and we need to squeeze in summer school, but the regular school year starts earlier and earlier each year. So can we count that day as a triple-dip, and earn funding for this year, summer school, and next year? Probably not.
I'm going to see if I can get T-Hoe out of the garage tomorrow. You know. If my clamped garage-door spring holds up. The snow is nothing to T-Hoe. He can get me to The Devil's Playground toot-sweet. That's an expression taught to me by my best old ex teaching buddy Mabel. She called me today. We had a spirited conversation that ended just in time for Jeopardy. It might as well have lasted longer, because Mrs. Hillbilly Mom was a blithering idiot today in those categories. Oh, and the Final Jeopardy category was: Countries of the World. YEAH! You just knew Mrs. Hillbilly Mom would be all over that question like Juno on a free-range chicken's egg. I said to The Pony, "Ha! How do you think I'll do? Wouldn't it be funny if the question was, 'This island country is separated from Europe by a channel of water that can be traversed by a tunnel train or boat, though some have attempted to swim it.'"
Here was the actual question: Once a poor British protectorate, in 2012, this peninsular country ranked as the world’s richest per capita.
Heh, heh. Ain't that a bite in the butt? Of course HM had an answer. It's no fun playing Jeopardy from your basement blue recliner if you don't try to answer. My answer was, "IBIZA! That's a peninsula, right? Ibiza! I don't know how I know, but that just popped into my head."
The Pony rolled his eyes. He would not even comment on the peninsula part. So I quickly switched my answer. "Saudi Arabia! That's it! I know it's a peninsula! Haven't you heard of the Arabian Peninsula?" Still, an eye roll from The Pony. Which kind of made me think I was not correct. Go figure! One so well-versed in geography such as myself.
Apparently, the contestants on hoity-toity 1980s-champion Jeopardy all had football coaches for their geography teachers, too. One said Bahrain. One said Singapore, scratched it out, and tried to write United Arab Emirates. One said Singapore. Uh huh. Since when did Singapore become a peninsula? Huh? Even Mrs. Hillbilly Mom knows Singapore is an island chain. Right? Right? And not all that rich.
Uh huh. I could be on Jeopardy if I wanted to.
Oh. The correct answer was Qatar. Who ever heard of THAT?
Sweet Gummi Mary! It will be time to go back to school before we even get out! What about summer school? Can we count one day for all three? Let's choose August 5 as an example. Is that even a weekday? I'm too lazy to call up my BFF Google. We'll pretend it is. So we may not be out of regular school yet, and we need to squeeze in summer school, but the regular school year starts earlier and earlier each year. So can we count that day as a triple-dip, and earn funding for this year, summer school, and next year? Probably not.
I'm going to see if I can get T-Hoe out of the garage tomorrow. You know. If my clamped garage-door spring holds up. The snow is nothing to T-Hoe. He can get me to The Devil's Playground toot-sweet. That's an expression taught to me by my best old ex teaching buddy Mabel. She called me today. We had a spirited conversation that ended just in time for Jeopardy. It might as well have lasted longer, because Mrs. Hillbilly Mom was a blithering idiot today in those categories. Oh, and the Final Jeopardy category was: Countries of the World. YEAH! You just knew Mrs. Hillbilly Mom would be all over that question like Juno on a free-range chicken's egg. I said to The Pony, "Ha! How do you think I'll do? Wouldn't it be funny if the question was, 'This island country is separated from Europe by a channel of water that can be traversed by a tunnel train or boat, though some have attempted to swim it.'"
Here was the actual question: Once a poor British protectorate, in 2012, this peninsular country ranked as the world’s richest per capita.
Heh, heh. Ain't that a bite in the butt? Of course HM had an answer. It's no fun playing Jeopardy from your basement blue recliner if you don't try to answer. My answer was, "IBIZA! That's a peninsula, right? Ibiza! I don't know how I know, but that just popped into my head."
The Pony rolled his eyes. He would not even comment on the peninsula part. So I quickly switched my answer. "Saudi Arabia! That's it! I know it's a peninsula! Haven't you heard of the Arabian Peninsula?" Still, an eye roll from The Pony. Which kind of made me think I was not correct. Go figure! One so well-versed in geography such as myself.
Apparently, the contestants on hoity-toity 1980s-champion Jeopardy all had football coaches for their geography teachers, too. One said Bahrain. One said Singapore, scratched it out, and tried to write United Arab Emirates. One said Singapore. Uh huh. Since when did Singapore become a peninsula? Huh? Even Mrs. Hillbilly Mom knows Singapore is an island chain. Right? Right? And not all that rich.
Uh huh. I could be on Jeopardy if I wanted to.
Oh. The correct answer was Qatar. Who ever heard of THAT?
Wednesday, February 5, 2014
Hillbilly Mom Is Still A Little Off
Ol' Man Winter is kicking our butt. Newmentia's butt, anyway. Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's butt is fat and sassy, plopped in the La-Z-Boy, in the her dark basement lair chair, or in her blue basement recliner. No skin off HM's nose if she has to stay home from work.
The only hardship is the thwarting of the quest for the 44 oz. Diet Coke. I did not venture out today. The Pony went out to feed and water the chickens and the stupid goats. Stupid. You'd think those old goats would stand together in their very first wooden shed, the one they crammed 11 of themselves in at night to sleep back in the day, stepping on an hours-old kid, which thankfully proved hardy enough to survive. Or maybe they'd want to stand in the lean-to devoted to them over at the BARn, the lean-to with a roof over their heads, hay to stand and lay in, bales of which form a wall to block out wind on the only exposed side. But no. The goats chose to stand in the middle of the pen, not under trees, not shielded by the feed trough or the Gator shed. Goats. The roaches of Hillmomba.
Oh, yes. The missing 44 oz. Diet Coke. Let the record show that Mrs. HM is getting by on a mere 24 oz. today. On home-made Diet Coke, in a 44 oz. cup, half full of crushed ice from Frig, half full of two cans of store-boughten Diet Coke, along with a sprinkling of Great Value Sugar Free Cherry Limeade Powder. It was actually quite tasty, though only half as filling.
Newmentia. So close but yet so far. I wonder if I could pitch a reality show called 17 Days and Counting.
The only hardship is the thwarting of the quest for the 44 oz. Diet Coke. I did not venture out today. The Pony went out to feed and water the chickens and the stupid goats. Stupid. You'd think those old goats would stand together in their very first wooden shed, the one they crammed 11 of themselves in at night to sleep back in the day, stepping on an hours-old kid, which thankfully proved hardy enough to survive. Or maybe they'd want to stand in the lean-to devoted to them over at the BARn, the lean-to with a roof over their heads, hay to stand and lay in, bales of which form a wall to block out wind on the only exposed side. But no. The goats chose to stand in the middle of the pen, not under trees, not shielded by the feed trough or the Gator shed. Goats. The roaches of Hillmomba.
Oh, yes. The missing 44 oz. Diet Coke. Let the record show that Mrs. HM is getting by on a mere 24 oz. today. On home-made Diet Coke, in a 44 oz. cup, half full of crushed ice from Frig, half full of two cans of store-boughten Diet Coke, along with a sprinkling of Great Value Sugar Free Cherry Limeade Powder. It was actually quite tasty, though only half as filling.
Newmentia. So close but yet so far. I wonder if I could pitch a reality show called 17 Days and Counting.
Tuesday, February 4, 2014
We've Been Trying To Get This Done Since November
Day 15 dawned dark and snowless this morning. The forecast kept us home. That, and the advice from MODoT to stay the Not-Heaven off the roads so they could keep them cleared. Newmentia had ten snow days built into the calendar. That's usually way more than necessary, and we get to count back from the last day. Not so this year.
Because we were off, and didn't have to go to school, Mrs. Hillbilly Mom did what any overbearing stage mother would do, and packed up The Pony and headed off to school. The deadline is fast approaching for the postmark of that application The Pony needs mailed for a chance to be selected for the Missouri Scholars Academy. Sure, he has 330 out of 843 odds. That's the latest numerical info I could find. That puts him at a 39% chance. But if his paperwork is not postmarked by February 14th, he has a 0% chance.
Friday he turned in his two personal essays that were required. The school still needs to write up several statements about his qualifications, and document his test scores and GPA. He was supposed to have a sit-down with the boss on Monday to make sure things were in order. But we had no school Monday. And no school today. And most likely no school tomorrow. So this whole snowball is gaining speed downhill like my old teaching friend Karen careening down Art Hill and ending up in the lake while wearing her down jacket, making one of the firefighters who rescued her exclaim, "Oh, FUDGE!" Except firefighters don't say fudge.
This morning I looked over the copies of the application forms, and saw a signature page for parent and pony. Well, if that wasn't a fine how-do-you-do! I called Newmentia, found out the boss was working away on this day off, and made arrangements to haul The Pony over there for their little tete-a-tete. Time well spent. We were just leaving the gas station chicken store when the first flakes started to fall.
The universe conspires.
Because we were off, and didn't have to go to school, Mrs. Hillbilly Mom did what any overbearing stage mother would do, and packed up The Pony and headed off to school. The deadline is fast approaching for the postmark of that application The Pony needs mailed for a chance to be selected for the Missouri Scholars Academy. Sure, he has 330 out of 843 odds. That's the latest numerical info I could find. That puts him at a 39% chance. But if his paperwork is not postmarked by February 14th, he has a 0% chance.
Friday he turned in his two personal essays that were required. The school still needs to write up several statements about his qualifications, and document his test scores and GPA. He was supposed to have a sit-down with the boss on Monday to make sure things were in order. But we had no school Monday. And no school today. And most likely no school tomorrow. So this whole snowball is gaining speed downhill like my old teaching friend Karen careening down Art Hill and ending up in the lake while wearing her down jacket, making one of the firefighters who rescued her exclaim, "Oh, FUDGE!" Except firefighters don't say fudge.
This morning I looked over the copies of the application forms, and saw a signature page for parent and pony. Well, if that wasn't a fine how-do-you-do! I called Newmentia, found out the boss was working away on this day off, and made arrangements to haul The Pony over there for their little tete-a-tete. Time well spent. We were just leaving the gas station chicken store when the first flakes started to fall.
The universe conspires.
Monday, February 3, 2014
Fourteen, But Who's Counting?
Oh, lest I forget...Newmentia was off school today. That makes Day 14, putting us out the Thursday after Memorial Day, I believe. We'll see what develops tomorrow.
The roads must have indeed been icy. The Pony and I went to town around noon, and the trees still had a shiny clear coating of ice on their branches. We had ice along the sides of our county road. Once we entered civilization, thoroughfares were clear. We stopped by a grocery store for some cherry peppers, an item not stocked any more by The Devil's Playground. The Pony grabbed Famous Amos off a top shelf. Then we played the quarter-pushing game, winning $1.75 for our $2.00. Clearly, we are gambling addicts, because we put it all back in, only to win fifty cents, then nothing. Thank the Gummi Mary, I went on to my gas station chicken store and cashed in $15.00 of scratch-off tickets, which won me $40.00. The better to buy more tickets with at several later dates.
On to my mom's house, where we scofflawlessly pulled into her driveway. The ice there had melted, so no harm, no tongue-lashing. We gave Mom two gently-used tabloids and three polish sausages and eight buns. She gave us two regular baggies and two snack baggies of Chex Mix. No cash exchanged hands.
The rest of the day was uneventful, if you don't count the worker at Subway's with short-term memory loss. THREE TIMES she rang up a personal cheese pizza and a personal bacon and beef pizza. NO! One pizza, cheese. One sweet onion chicken teriyaki on wheat. Seriously. WHO orders bacon and beef on pizza? Oh, and then another one had the nerve to ask if I wanted the sweet onion sauce on the sweet onion chicken teriyaki sandwich. Um...yes. That's actually the name of the sandwich. I swear. The help is not what it used to be in that place. I've half a mind to let the owner know. We're like|that. He's a former student and now a Newmentia bigwig. I used to know most of the workers there, but now they're different. Maybe the good ones went to his other store.
That's about it. My sweet, sweet Juno gamboled around the porch all morning, then spent the afternoon hours sleeping in the sun of the front yard and the back porch. She must be filling up on eggs again, since we haven't found any, and her coat is magnificent. Not that she would steal eggs, of course. I'm sure they are the damaged ones that the hens push out of the nest, encouraging her to clean up the mess.
The hour grows late. It's looking like we're going to attempt a day of attendance tomorrow, with the possibility of early dismissal.
The roads must have indeed been icy. The Pony and I went to town around noon, and the trees still had a shiny clear coating of ice on their branches. We had ice along the sides of our county road. Once we entered civilization, thoroughfares were clear. We stopped by a grocery store for some cherry peppers, an item not stocked any more by The Devil's Playground. The Pony grabbed Famous Amos off a top shelf. Then we played the quarter-pushing game, winning $1.75 for our $2.00. Clearly, we are gambling addicts, because we put it all back in, only to win fifty cents, then nothing. Thank the Gummi Mary, I went on to my gas station chicken store and cashed in $15.00 of scratch-off tickets, which won me $40.00. The better to buy more tickets with at several later dates.
On to my mom's house, where we scofflawlessly pulled into her driveway. The ice there had melted, so no harm, no tongue-lashing. We gave Mom two gently-used tabloids and three polish sausages and eight buns. She gave us two regular baggies and two snack baggies of Chex Mix. No cash exchanged hands.
The rest of the day was uneventful, if you don't count the worker at Subway's with short-term memory loss. THREE TIMES she rang up a personal cheese pizza and a personal bacon and beef pizza. NO! One pizza, cheese. One sweet onion chicken teriyaki on wheat. Seriously. WHO orders bacon and beef on pizza? Oh, and then another one had the nerve to ask if I wanted the sweet onion sauce on the sweet onion chicken teriyaki sandwich. Um...yes. That's actually the name of the sandwich. I swear. The help is not what it used to be in that place. I've half a mind to let the owner know. We're like|that. He's a former student and now a Newmentia bigwig. I used to know most of the workers there, but now they're different. Maybe the good ones went to his other store.
That's about it. My sweet, sweet Juno gamboled around the porch all morning, then spent the afternoon hours sleeping in the sun of the front yard and the back porch. She must be filling up on eggs again, since we haven't found any, and her coat is magnificent. Not that she would steal eggs, of course. I'm sure they are the damaged ones that the hens push out of the nest, encouraging her to clean up the mess.
The hour grows late. It's looking like we're going to attempt a day of attendance tomorrow, with the possibility of early dismissal.
Sunday, February 2, 2014
The Gift That Keeps On Being Ungiven
Break out the confetti, prepare to toot those rolled-up paper horn-tooters, helium up some balloons, and everybody hide. Mrs. Hillbilly Mom has a birthday coming up sometime this month. I shan't tell you the exact day. That would be a glaring invitation for some ne'er-do-well to steal Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's anonymous identity and besmirch her virgin credit rating.
Farmer H started quizzing me about what I want for my birthday this morning as he sat on the couch in an old orange T-shirt and pair of gray basketball shorts. I didn't even know he HAD a pair of gray basketball shorts. His normal attire is wide-man jeans with suspenders, overalls worn correctly or backwards (having been pulled on over his tiny feet already encased in work boots), or a pair of tighty-whities.
"What do you want for your birthday? I'll be gone that day, so I want to get something ahead of time. I'm tired of you saying I never give you anything. I like anything you give me. I'm easy to shop for. But you're not."
"First of all, what are you doing in shorts? It's twenty degrees. There's a layer of ice on everything. You look ridiculous. And you like anything I give you because I'm a fantastic gift-giver."
"I'm going to take down the Christmas tree. That's why I put on shorts."
"Oh, of course. How silly of me. Everybody puts on shorts to take down the Christmas tree."
"Then The Pony and I are going to town to get your presents. I'll put on pants for that."
"I don't know of anything I want. Save the money. I told you I like little notebooks, but you didn't get me any for Christmas. So I'm telling you now, so you won't get me any for my birthday."
"You don't want jewelry, you don't want clothes. You're hard to buy for."
"Little notebooks and lottery tickets. That's all I need. And when you start home from town, bring me a 44 oz. Diet Coke today."
"I don't know what tickets you like."
"Here. I'll show you on my laptop."
"Pony! Come look at these lottery tickets so we can buy the right ones."
"I can't buy lottery tickets! I'm not old enough!"
"I KNOW that. But you can remember what kind. You can go in with me and tell me. Can I put them on the debit card?"
"Uh...I guess they'll take a debit card for lottery. I've never seen anybody use one for that. But I guess it's money as good as any other."
"I'll just get cash back at The Devil's Playground. Is that okay?"
"Yes. Just tell me how much you put on the debit. So I don't have to call the automated system and find out you've used the card and not told me. Like always."
Farmer H dressed himself, and he and The Pony took off for town after two false starts. I suggested he take The Pony's truck, or at least his $1000 Caravan, because of the ice. His Pacifica gets about as good traction as Bambi on a frozen lake. They came back in twice. Farmer H wanted The Pony to crawl through the back hatch of the Caravan to start it up and let the ice coating melt off so they could get the doors open. They couldn't open the hatch. Then they tried The Pony's truck. Same thing. That led to a pitcher of hot water being poured on the doors. But only when they returned from town. Farmer H gave up and took the Pacifica to town. I would have lent him my T-Hoe, but if he wrecks that, I'm homebound. I detest driving other members of our fleet. I suggested that he take his Ford F-250, the one that just had $900 worth of work, and now sits like a sentry in the BARn field, never being driven. Farmer H was kind enough to remind me that the same ice problem affecting Pony Truck and Caravan would also hinder his entry into F-250. Oh.
So...a couple hours later, the hunter-gifters returned. With my 44 oz. Diet Coke. I asked The Pony what he wanted me to make for lunch. "Oh, we had Burger King on the way home."
"WHAT? Did you bring me something?"
"No. We didn't know you wanted anything."
I turned to Farmer H. "So you didn't think to bring me anything?"
"I brought your soda."
"I called you to ask if you wanted Rally's last time we went. I always bring you something!"
"Oh. I guess I could have called. Besides, I don't even like Burger King. I had a fish sandwich. It wasn't very good."
"I'll bet you'd say it was better than something you had to find in Frig and heat for yourself in the one-element oven, or warm in the microwave."
"Yeah. I probably would. I just didn't think of it."
Anybody want to lay odds on whether I'll be getting my little notebooks for my birthday?
Farmer H started quizzing me about what I want for my birthday this morning as he sat on the couch in an old orange T-shirt and pair of gray basketball shorts. I didn't even know he HAD a pair of gray basketball shorts. His normal attire is wide-man jeans with suspenders, overalls worn correctly or backwards (having been pulled on over his tiny feet already encased in work boots), or a pair of tighty-whities.
"What do you want for your birthday? I'll be gone that day, so I want to get something ahead of time. I'm tired of you saying I never give you anything. I like anything you give me. I'm easy to shop for. But you're not."
"First of all, what are you doing in shorts? It's twenty degrees. There's a layer of ice on everything. You look ridiculous. And you like anything I give you because I'm a fantastic gift-giver."
"I'm going to take down the Christmas tree. That's why I put on shorts."
"Oh, of course. How silly of me. Everybody puts on shorts to take down the Christmas tree."
"Then The Pony and I are going to town to get your presents. I'll put on pants for that."
"I don't know of anything I want. Save the money. I told you I like little notebooks, but you didn't get me any for Christmas. So I'm telling you now, so you won't get me any for my birthday."
"You don't want jewelry, you don't want clothes. You're hard to buy for."
"Little notebooks and lottery tickets. That's all I need. And when you start home from town, bring me a 44 oz. Diet Coke today."
"I don't know what tickets you like."
"Here. I'll show you on my laptop."
"Pony! Come look at these lottery tickets so we can buy the right ones."
"I can't buy lottery tickets! I'm not old enough!"
"I KNOW that. But you can remember what kind. You can go in with me and tell me. Can I put them on the debit card?"
"Uh...I guess they'll take a debit card for lottery. I've never seen anybody use one for that. But I guess it's money as good as any other."
"I'll just get cash back at The Devil's Playground. Is that okay?"
"Yes. Just tell me how much you put on the debit. So I don't have to call the automated system and find out you've used the card and not told me. Like always."
Farmer H dressed himself, and he and The Pony took off for town after two false starts. I suggested he take The Pony's truck, or at least his $1000 Caravan, because of the ice. His Pacifica gets about as good traction as Bambi on a frozen lake. They came back in twice. Farmer H wanted The Pony to crawl through the back hatch of the Caravan to start it up and let the ice coating melt off so they could get the doors open. They couldn't open the hatch. Then they tried The Pony's truck. Same thing. That led to a pitcher of hot water being poured on the doors. But only when they returned from town. Farmer H gave up and took the Pacifica to town. I would have lent him my T-Hoe, but if he wrecks that, I'm homebound. I detest driving other members of our fleet. I suggested that he take his Ford F-250, the one that just had $900 worth of work, and now sits like a sentry in the BARn field, never being driven. Farmer H was kind enough to remind me that the same ice problem affecting Pony Truck and Caravan would also hinder his entry into F-250. Oh.
So...a couple hours later, the hunter-gifters returned. With my 44 oz. Diet Coke. I asked The Pony what he wanted me to make for lunch. "Oh, we had Burger King on the way home."
"WHAT? Did you bring me something?"
"No. We didn't know you wanted anything."
I turned to Farmer H. "So you didn't think to bring me anything?"
"I brought your soda."
"I called you to ask if you wanted Rally's last time we went. I always bring you something!"
"Oh. I guess I could have called. Besides, I don't even like Burger King. I had a fish sandwich. It wasn't very good."
"I'll bet you'd say it was better than something you had to find in Frig and heat for yourself in the one-element oven, or warm in the microwave."
"Yeah. I probably would. I just didn't think of it."
Anybody want to lay odds on whether I'll be getting my little notebooks for my birthday?
Saturday, February 1, 2014
I Can Teach Anything To You, But I Can't Teach That
My name is Mrs. Hillbilly Mom, and I have a dirty little secret.
I know this will come as quite a shock to all of my bloggy admirers, but Mrs. Hillbilly Mom has a weakness. An Achilles heel. A glass jaw. A trick knee. A Waterloo. That last one might be the most definitive example of my problem. What, I ask you, was Napoleon doing in Iowa?
My name is Mrs. Hillbilly Mom, and I am a geography nincompoop. I am unworldly. About the only locations of which I am knowledgeable are the seven continents, and the fifty U.S. states. Oh, sure. I know Mexico is our neighbor to the south, and Canada is our best friend to the north. Right, Canada? We're still good, right?
I refuse to take the blame for my own ignorance. My formative years were spent in junior high and high school history and geography classes with coaches. Football coaches. Basketball coaches. Coaches not overly invested in seeing that the pubescent future Mrs. Hillbilly Mom received adequate training in the partitioning of the landmasses of the earth. I can sketch and explain the particles of an atom, I can diagram a buttload of sentences with one hand tied behind my back, I can solve an equation for x in terms of y, I can bring home the bacon and fry it up in the pan. I am reasonably competent in who, what, when, and why. It's the where that stumps me. Woe is the trivia team who must rely on Mrs. Hillbilly Mom in the category of geography. She is more likely to answer a sports question right. And that is saying something.
The topic of my imbecile-iness came to a head on Friday. I got into a discussion with The Pony on the way to my mom's house. "Since when did England become an island? I saw it on the news, about a deserted Russian cruise ship full of cannibal rats that was going to hit England." Okay. So I really read about it on the UK Daily Mail. Same thing.
"What? You didn't know England is an island? And you call yourself a TEACHER?"
"I don't teach about England. I teach science."
"How can you not know that!"
"Well...I had coaches for geography teachers. We didn't even have books! All we did was talk about football games. Not us girls. But the teacher and the guys."
"You're an adult. I can't believe you don't know that. Haven't you ever heard of the British Isles?"
"Yes. But I didn't think England was an ISLAND! I thought it was just other parts. Like Scotland and Ireland, that were the islands."
"Are you serious? Scotland is part of England!"
"But Ireland is an island?"
"Yeeesss."
"Then what about those bombings with Northern Ireland fighting England?"
"They weren't fighting England! They are part of England!"
"WHAT? Then why were they fighting? You mean the Queen is in charge of Northern Ireland, too?"
"Yeeesss. Northern Ireland was fighting Ireland."
"So Northern Ireland is protestant and Ireland is Catholic?"
"Yeeesss."
"That's news to me. I thought Ireland and England were right next to each other, like with a border to cross."
"I can't talk to you anymore!" The Pony stuck out his arm, palm facing me, in dismissal.
It only got worse after I dropped him at Mom's house, and took her for a ride. "Did you know that The Pony made fun of me because I didn't know England was an island? One little thing I don't know, and he acts like I'm stupid or something."
"You didn't know England was an island! Haven't you ever heard of the British Isles?"
"Of course I've heard of the British Isles. I thought England was attached to Europe, and you could take the train to other countries, and spend your Euros wherever you wanted."
"Haven't you heard of the English Channel?"
"Yes. And I know there's a train that goes under there, and that people swim across it. But I thought it went off the west coast of England, which is attached to Europe."
"No! The English Channel is between England and France."
"What? Why wasn't I told that? I thought England and France were side by side. On Europe. And even though I know people swim across it, and that it's not possible, I always pictured the English Channel as being between the west coast of England, and the east coast of North America. Wait! Don't! I KNOW people can't swim across the North Atlantic, and that you can't take a train under it either. That's just how I pictured it. Stop!"
Mom was laughing as hard as when she saw my new driver's license photo for the first time. Sweet Gummi Mary! You'd think people could be more considerate of the feelings of those of us who are geographically challenged.
I know this will come as quite a shock to all of my bloggy admirers, but Mrs. Hillbilly Mom has a weakness. An Achilles heel. A glass jaw. A trick knee. A Waterloo. That last one might be the most definitive example of my problem. What, I ask you, was Napoleon doing in Iowa?
My name is Mrs. Hillbilly Mom, and I am a geography nincompoop. I am unworldly. About the only locations of which I am knowledgeable are the seven continents, and the fifty U.S. states. Oh, sure. I know Mexico is our neighbor to the south, and Canada is our best friend to the north. Right, Canada? We're still good, right?
I refuse to take the blame for my own ignorance. My formative years were spent in junior high and high school history and geography classes with coaches. Football coaches. Basketball coaches. Coaches not overly invested in seeing that the pubescent future Mrs. Hillbilly Mom received adequate training in the partitioning of the landmasses of the earth. I can sketch and explain the particles of an atom, I can diagram a buttload of sentences with one hand tied behind my back, I can solve an equation for x in terms of y, I can bring home the bacon and fry it up in the pan. I am reasonably competent in who, what, when, and why. It's the where that stumps me. Woe is the trivia team who must rely on Mrs. Hillbilly Mom in the category of geography. She is more likely to answer a sports question right. And that is saying something.
The topic of my imbecile-iness came to a head on Friday. I got into a discussion with The Pony on the way to my mom's house. "Since when did England become an island? I saw it on the news, about a deserted Russian cruise ship full of cannibal rats that was going to hit England." Okay. So I really read about it on the UK Daily Mail. Same thing.
"What? You didn't know England is an island? And you call yourself a TEACHER?"
"I don't teach about England. I teach science."
"How can you not know that!"
"Well...I had coaches for geography teachers. We didn't even have books! All we did was talk about football games. Not us girls. But the teacher and the guys."
"You're an adult. I can't believe you don't know that. Haven't you ever heard of the British Isles?"
"Yes. But I didn't think England was an ISLAND! I thought it was just other parts. Like Scotland and Ireland, that were the islands."
"Are you serious? Scotland is part of England!"
"But Ireland is an island?"
"Yeeesss."
"Then what about those bombings with Northern Ireland fighting England?"
"They weren't fighting England! They are part of England!"
"WHAT? Then why were they fighting? You mean the Queen is in charge of Northern Ireland, too?"
"Yeeesss. Northern Ireland was fighting Ireland."
"So Northern Ireland is protestant and Ireland is Catholic?"
"Yeeesss."
"That's news to me. I thought Ireland and England were right next to each other, like with a border to cross."
"I can't talk to you anymore!" The Pony stuck out his arm, palm facing me, in dismissal.
It only got worse after I dropped him at Mom's house, and took her for a ride. "Did you know that The Pony made fun of me because I didn't know England was an island? One little thing I don't know, and he acts like I'm stupid or something."
"You didn't know England was an island! Haven't you ever heard of the British Isles?"
"Of course I've heard of the British Isles. I thought England was attached to Europe, and you could take the train to other countries, and spend your Euros wherever you wanted."
"Haven't you heard of the English Channel?"
"Yes. And I know there's a train that goes under there, and that people swim across it. But I thought it went off the west coast of England, which is attached to Europe."
"No! The English Channel is between England and France."
"What? Why wasn't I told that? I thought England and France were side by side. On Europe. And even though I know people swim across it, and that it's not possible, I always pictured the English Channel as being between the west coast of England, and the east coast of North America. Wait! Don't! I KNOW people can't swim across the North Atlantic, and that you can't take a train under it either. That's just how I pictured it. Stop!"
Mom was laughing as hard as when she saw my new driver's license photo for the first time. Sweet Gummi Mary! You'd think people could be more considerate of the feelings of those of us who are geographically challenged.
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