Mrs. Hillbilly Mom has been unseated!
Yes. It happened again. There I was, with turkey sandwich and Lays potato chips and bottle of water in hand, happily trekking to the cafeteria, ready for a sumptuous repast and stimulating company. Hey. I can dream!
I rounded the corner by the twin giant gray industrial plastic trash cans, and saw that my seat was taken. TAKEN! Uh huh. Jewel was plopped smack dab in the middle of my chair, with an empty one where she usually sits, the former lunch seat of Tomato Squirter. I swear. Can she not make up her mind who she wants to anger each day? I've a good mind to whip up a little voodoo doll to teach her the error of her ways. Surely, after three quarters of managing to stay out of my lunch chair, she can make herself remember to avoid that ONE little section of the table until school is out. Uh huh. That's what makes me think she's doing it on purpose.
I turned on my heel and went back to my room to enjoy my meal with my favorite company: me, myself, and I. Oh, Jewel saw me see her. Yep. And she continued to sit smugly in my place. I was in no mood to take the next seat over. Remember what happened last time I did that? Sir Gab hydrated my inner elbow with his saliva. That's not happening again.
There is one week of my lunch duty remaining. After that, I don't know if I even want to go out there at lunch time. The rewards barely outweigh the aggravation.
Yesterday, even though I snagged my rightful rump-resting place, I was subjected to asparagus and salmon outgassing from Jewel's plate.
Next year, I have fourth hour plan period. That means I can choose which lunch shift to eat. I will only be pinned down to a specific shift for five weeks of duty.
Yes. I can dream.
Wednesday, April 9, 2014
Tuesday, April 8, 2014
Younger Than The Mountains, Growing Like A Weed
The Pony is a little hoarse. That's a punchline to a corny joke somewhere. But I am not joking. He has picked up a cough, and declares that he's just fine, but it's been going on since Sunday. I'll give him a week to ten days, then I'll take him to the vet doctor. Gotta keep him healthy. He's got some big days ahead of him.
Saturday is the ACT. That's in the morning. Then his Smartypants Team-mates will wait for him to finish, and depart for the District Academic Team Tournament. Tuesday The Pony goes to the College of #1 with the W.Y.S.E. team for a district competition. His coach told him he'd be eating lunch with his brother. Let's just say The Pony curbed his enthusiasm quite well.
The poor little fellow was certainly on his feed today. He tossed in an extra bag of Doritos for his lunch. After his academic practice, he was famished. He grabbed a handful of Starbursts from the snack file. He devoured two Grandma cookies in T-Hoe, then a baggie of Chex Mix that she brought US on Monday. While I was whipping up a supper of tortellini and salad and garlic toast, The Pony pranced around the kitchen while he was supposed to be helping. He was friskier than Juno hoping for a handful of cat kibble.
"Look, Pony. I'm making you the GOOD cheese. Sharp cheddar, fresh off the cheese grater. None of that bagged stuff tonight. Do you want tomatoes in your salad?"
"No. But since you would want me to eat my salad first, why don't I just eat it NOW, while you're cooking the pasta? Here's the dressing. Hand me the croutons." While accessorizing his salad, The Pony popped crumbled chunks of non-grated cheddar into his gaping maw. I swear I never even heard them hit the bottom of his bottomless gullet.
That salad was gone in two shakes of a lamb's tail. The Pony waited. He was like a hollow-legged millipede. Off he went with his heaping bowl of tortellini, and two of the four garlic toasts.
I think he might be entering a growth spurt.
Saturday is the ACT. That's in the morning. Then his Smartypants Team-mates will wait for him to finish, and depart for the District Academic Team Tournament. Tuesday The Pony goes to the College of #1 with the W.Y.S.E. team for a district competition. His coach told him he'd be eating lunch with his brother. Let's just say The Pony curbed his enthusiasm quite well.
The poor little fellow was certainly on his feed today. He tossed in an extra bag of Doritos for his lunch. After his academic practice, he was famished. He grabbed a handful of Starbursts from the snack file. He devoured two Grandma cookies in T-Hoe, then a baggie of Chex Mix that she brought US on Monday. While I was whipping up a supper of tortellini and salad and garlic toast, The Pony pranced around the kitchen while he was supposed to be helping. He was friskier than Juno hoping for a handful of cat kibble.
"Look, Pony. I'm making you the GOOD cheese. Sharp cheddar, fresh off the cheese grater. None of that bagged stuff tonight. Do you want tomatoes in your salad?"
"No. But since you would want me to eat my salad first, why don't I just eat it NOW, while you're cooking the pasta? Here's the dressing. Hand me the croutons." While accessorizing his salad, The Pony popped crumbled chunks of non-grated cheddar into his gaping maw. I swear I never even heard them hit the bottom of his bottomless gullet.
That salad was gone in two shakes of a lamb's tail. The Pony waited. He was like a hollow-legged millipede. Off he went with his heaping bowl of tortellini, and two of the four garlic toasts.
I think he might be entering a growth spurt.
Monday, April 7, 2014
I Demand A Silkwood Shower
The universe is not enough. You'd think the universe conspiring against Mrs. Hillbilly Mom all the live-long day in and day out would be sufficient karma for Even Steven. But no. Now the Newmentia ne'er-do-wells have to join forces with the cosmos to torment tired old HM and deny her the smallest pleasures of her workforce life. Pleasures like having her classroom furniture remain where she left it overnight. Pleasures like sitting down at the same place at the teacher lunch table where she has sat for the last five years. Pleasures like eating lunch in a relaxed manner while remaining dry and unmolested.
Today I slapped some home-brought mayo on my deli turkey on whole wheat English muffin, then grabbed a snack bag of Fritos and my water bottle, tore off a school issue paper towel from the huge white roll in my cabinet, and headed for the cafeteria. You'll never guess who was in my seat. Okay. You WILL guess. That's right. It was Jewel. She with no concept of personal space or staked territory. Had I been dead, my corpse would not yet have been cool. Sure, I was out Friday for the science fair. It's not like I took early retirement over the weekend.
Not only had Jewel consciously moved one seat to the right to steal MY seat, which is one seat over from the seat Jewel usually steals from Tomato-Squirter...but Jewel had deliberately left an empty seat, her USUAL stolen seat, between her and the seat Tomato-Squirter was in now. To me, that says that Jewel was in Tomato-Squirter's seat, then moved out of it into mine once Tomato-Squirter plunked down her soda cup and went in search of a tray. Well, of course this upset the apple cart of lunchtime interaction. I had to sit to Jewel's right, which put me in the empty seat usually left between me and Sir Gab.
Do you grasp the gravity of this situation, people? I WAS SANDWICHED BETWEEN JEWEL AND SIR GAB! On my left, Jewel gesticulated wildly, encroaching on my space, nearly whacking my turkey sandwich from my hand as she animatedly put her two cents worth into every conversation. On my right, Sir Gab chose this day to whisper conspiratorily about days gone by, past students, old incidents, like an bipolar low-talker in the manic phase. That meant I could not hear any other more interesting conversations, and had to nod my head like a back-windshield bobblehead on two miles of bad road, since he prefaced every sentence with, "Hillbilly Mom...you remember the time..."
As if that was not torture enough, the waterboarding began. Sir Gab leaned in close, and spoke emphatically for effect...AND SHOT A BLOB OF SPITTLE ONTO MY INNER ELBOW! Oh, the HORROR! Of course he pretended it never happened. I could feel that saliva start to evaporate. I could not lean away to my left without risking decapitation by the karate-chopping hands of Jewel. I gave one last nod, grabbed up my paper plate and other trash, and left that banquet from not-heaven.
Thank the Gummi Mary those women who wait until I head for the faculty women's restroom, and then dart in there like Wimbledon ball-girls on Red Bull, were not expecting me quite so early. Sometimes, in the course of the work day, it's necessary to take a sponge bath in the faculty restroom sink.
Today I slapped some home-brought mayo on my deli turkey on whole wheat English muffin, then grabbed a snack bag of Fritos and my water bottle, tore off a school issue paper towel from the huge white roll in my cabinet, and headed for the cafeteria. You'll never guess who was in my seat. Okay. You WILL guess. That's right. It was Jewel. She with no concept of personal space or staked territory. Had I been dead, my corpse would not yet have been cool. Sure, I was out Friday for the science fair. It's not like I took early retirement over the weekend.
Not only had Jewel consciously moved one seat to the right to steal MY seat, which is one seat over from the seat Jewel usually steals from Tomato-Squirter...but Jewel had deliberately left an empty seat, her USUAL stolen seat, between her and the seat Tomato-Squirter was in now. To me, that says that Jewel was in Tomato-Squirter's seat, then moved out of it into mine once Tomato-Squirter plunked down her soda cup and went in search of a tray. Well, of course this upset the apple cart of lunchtime interaction. I had to sit to Jewel's right, which put me in the empty seat usually left between me and Sir Gab.
Do you grasp the gravity of this situation, people? I WAS SANDWICHED BETWEEN JEWEL AND SIR GAB! On my left, Jewel gesticulated wildly, encroaching on my space, nearly whacking my turkey sandwich from my hand as she animatedly put her two cents worth into every conversation. On my right, Sir Gab chose this day to whisper conspiratorily about days gone by, past students, old incidents, like an bipolar low-talker in the manic phase. That meant I could not hear any other more interesting conversations, and had to nod my head like a back-windshield bobblehead on two miles of bad road, since he prefaced every sentence with, "Hillbilly Mom...you remember the time..."
As if that was not torture enough, the waterboarding began. Sir Gab leaned in close, and spoke emphatically for effect...AND SHOT A BLOB OF SPITTLE ONTO MY INNER ELBOW! Oh, the HORROR! Of course he pretended it never happened. I could feel that saliva start to evaporate. I could not lean away to my left without risking decapitation by the karate-chopping hands of Jewel. I gave one last nod, grabbed up my paper plate and other trash, and left that banquet from not-heaven.
Thank the Gummi Mary those women who wait until I head for the faculty women's restroom, and then dart in there like Wimbledon ball-girls on Red Bull, were not expecting me quite so early. Sometimes, in the course of the work day, it's necessary to take a sponge bath in the faculty restroom sink.
Sunday, April 6, 2014
Juno Haters Gonna Hate Juno
Farmer H abandoned his Gator this morning in favor of his lawnmower. He actually likes mowing the acreage. He did, however, have an agenda where my sweet, sweet Juno is concerned.
"Your dog's toys are all in the back of the Gator until I finish mowing. She had them scattered all over the front yard!"
"Well, she's a dog. Where else is she supposed to play with them? It's not like she has a toy box and picks them up every night before bedtime."
"I'm just telling you. Her toys are put away until I'm done."
"Fine. She'll just have to find herself another baby rabbit."
"Uh huh. A soft toy."
"Your old dog Grizzly ate rabbits, too."
"Yeah. I know."
"Juno cannot live on morning dog food, all-day eggs, afternoon cat kibble, and table scraps alone!"
"She chases the chickens when we're not looking."
"Grizzly chased the cats the minute we pulled out of the driveway. We caught him when we came back to get something."
"I know. But the cats clawed him so he didn't hurt them."
"Juno used to have scars on her face. I guess she learned her lesson. She doesn't hurt the chickens. Only grabs a tail feather. The guineas do that!"
"When that Alaskan dog was here yesterday, chasing the big red rooster, I was hoping she'd catch him so he could flog her real good. That'd break her of it if she gets loose again."
"Uh huh. And if we had a male dog again, maybe HE would keep other dogs from chasing our chickens."
We're working on Farmer H for a new pet. I hope he does not know the analogy of slowly heating a frog in a pot of water until it boils.
"Your dog's toys are all in the back of the Gator until I finish mowing. She had them scattered all over the front yard!"
"Well, she's a dog. Where else is she supposed to play with them? It's not like she has a toy box and picks them up every night before bedtime."
"I'm just telling you. Her toys are put away until I'm done."
"Fine. She'll just have to find herself another baby rabbit."
"Uh huh. A soft toy."
"Your old dog Grizzly ate rabbits, too."
"Yeah. I know."
"Juno cannot live on morning dog food, all-day eggs, afternoon cat kibble, and table scraps alone!"
"She chases the chickens when we're not looking."
"Grizzly chased the cats the minute we pulled out of the driveway. We caught him when we came back to get something."
"I know. But the cats clawed him so he didn't hurt them."
"Juno used to have scars on her face. I guess she learned her lesson. She doesn't hurt the chickens. Only grabs a tail feather. The guineas do that!"
"When that Alaskan dog was here yesterday, chasing the big red rooster, I was hoping she'd catch him so he could flog her real good. That'd break her of it if she gets loose again."
"Uh huh. And if we had a male dog again, maybe HE would keep other dogs from chasing our chickens."
We're working on Farmer H for a new pet. I hope he does not know the analogy of slowly heating a frog in a pot of water until it boils.
Saturday, April 5, 2014
New Dog In Town
The talk in the yard; it sounds so familiar
Great expectations, everybody's watching you
People you meet, they all seem to hate you
Even your old friends treat you like you're something new.
I looked up from bill-paying in Farmer H's La-Z-Boy this morning to see Farmer H driving his Gator through the front yard. Chasing a Malamute/Husky-looking dog. It was a slow-speed chase, kind of like a Humpty-Dumpty with a melon head being pursued down the sidewalk by an angry mob mounted on Rascals. The white-and-brown-furred canine disappeared past the driveway, and Farmer H turned and headed back for the BARn. I figured that Ol' Blue Eyes had high-tailed it under our neighbor's fence and was their problem now.
But no. About five minutes later, Ol' Blue Eyes was at it again, running across the front yard. CHASING CHICKENS! I did not see any feathers ripped out, but that flock got to hoppin' in a panic and ran into the woods. I launched myself out of Lazy and ripped open the front door. "GIT! GIT! BAD DOG! GIT ON HOME!" Because of course dogs understand exactly what I'm saying.
Ol' Blue Eyes had the audacity to ignore me! She walked across the yard where Ann and Juno like to sunbathe. She sniffed a pile of what might have been two-day-old rabbit fur. She looked at me insolently. AND STRETCHED OUT TO TAKE A PEE!
Clapping hands did not deter her from her mission. I suppose she grew tired of agitating me, because she headed up toward the road, and made a left at the sinkhole. I called Farmer H to tell him we had a chicken-chaser. Yes. He knew. He said she belonged to our down-the-hill neighbors, and they were trying to get her back. Hmpf. Not trying very hard. They have four-wheelers and a golf cart and a horse and a pony. Did they hop on and come get her? NO!
Farmer H said he had been aiding in the capture of Ol' Blue Eyes. Uh huh. Putting in as much effort as her people. When I went to town later, Ol' Blue Eyes was in their front yard, where they were peering under the hood of their son's truck. She was free as a bird. No leash, no rope, no chain, no collar.
I hope she has not developed a taste for feathers.
Great expectations, everybody's watching you
People you meet, they all seem to hate you
Even your old friends treat you like you're something new.
I looked up from bill-paying in Farmer H's La-Z-Boy this morning to see Farmer H driving his Gator through the front yard. Chasing a Malamute/Husky-looking dog. It was a slow-speed chase, kind of like a Humpty-Dumpty with a melon head being pursued down the sidewalk by an angry mob mounted on Rascals. The white-and-brown-furred canine disappeared past the driveway, and Farmer H turned and headed back for the BARn. I figured that Ol' Blue Eyes had high-tailed it under our neighbor's fence and was their problem now.
But no. About five minutes later, Ol' Blue Eyes was at it again, running across the front yard. CHASING CHICKENS! I did not see any feathers ripped out, but that flock got to hoppin' in a panic and ran into the woods. I launched myself out of Lazy and ripped open the front door. "GIT! GIT! BAD DOG! GIT ON HOME!" Because of course dogs understand exactly what I'm saying.
Ol' Blue Eyes had the audacity to ignore me! She walked across the yard where Ann and Juno like to sunbathe. She sniffed a pile of what might have been two-day-old rabbit fur. She looked at me insolently. AND STRETCHED OUT TO TAKE A PEE!
Clapping hands did not deter her from her mission. I suppose she grew tired of agitating me, because she headed up toward the road, and made a left at the sinkhole. I called Farmer H to tell him we had a chicken-chaser. Yes. He knew. He said she belonged to our down-the-hill neighbors, and they were trying to get her back. Hmpf. Not trying very hard. They have four-wheelers and a golf cart and a horse and a pony. Did they hop on and come get her? NO!
Farmer H said he had been aiding in the capture of Ol' Blue Eyes. Uh huh. Putting in as much effort as her people. When I went to town later, Ol' Blue Eyes was in their front yard, where they were peering under the hood of their son's truck. She was free as a bird. No leash, no rope, no chain, no collar.
I hope she has not developed a taste for feathers.
Friday, April 4, 2014
Nobody Knows The Damage I've Done, Nobody Knows His Horror
The Pony started the day in an especially festive mood. After all, he received a bit of good news in the mailbox Wednesday, he was missing a day of school to attend the annual science fair at the local junior college, and I was driving him through Hardee's for a sausage biscuit for breakfast. PLUS his grandma was bringing him pizza for lunch so he could avoid the line of the student center grill, AND she was picking him up after the fair to spend the night at her house.
As we headed up the driveway, T-Hoe's bucking steering wheel reopened a small cut in the bendy crack of the first joint of my right hand index finger. "Ow! Look, Pony. I cut my finger last night. I should have put a BandAid on it, but I'm not going back in now."
"What did you do to it?" Let the record show that on a normal day, The Pony would not even glance up at the cut, but would either grunt, or say, "Huh." Neither with any discernible emotion. But this morning he was all caring and sharing.
"Um. You really don't want to know."
"Yes I do. What happened?"
"Well, last night, as I was removing my...er...foundation garment...one of the hooks pulled loose, and the ends opened up like a staple, and the sharp points cut my finger."
In the rearview mirror, I could see The Pony forehead-palming.
"And it's in this crack where it bends every time, and it will gap open every time I wash my hands, and it's going to take forever to heal."
"I am scrubbing that from my brain right now. No good to bring it up again. I won't know what you're talking about."
At the fair, The Pony saw an older lady walking around on the main floor, a college faculty member with her gray hair pulled back in a neck-level ponytail. "Hey. That is probably what Mrs. Colleague is going to look like when she is old."
Of course I told Mrs. Colleague. She chuckled. "Except that I'm not a lesbian."
Right before the awards were handed out for The Pony's category, in which he won 1st place, I turned to him on my left, and nodded my head over to Mrs. Colleague on my right. "You know, I told Mrs. Colleague what you said about her looking like that gray-haired lady when she's old."
"What did she say?"
"You don't want to know."
As we headed up the driveway, T-Hoe's bucking steering wheel reopened a small cut in the bendy crack of the first joint of my right hand index finger. "Ow! Look, Pony. I cut my finger last night. I should have put a BandAid on it, but I'm not going back in now."
"What did you do to it?" Let the record show that on a normal day, The Pony would not even glance up at the cut, but would either grunt, or say, "Huh." Neither with any discernible emotion. But this morning he was all caring and sharing.
"Um. You really don't want to know."
"Yes I do. What happened?"
"Well, last night, as I was removing my...er...foundation garment...one of the hooks pulled loose, and the ends opened up like a staple, and the sharp points cut my finger."
In the rearview mirror, I could see The Pony forehead-palming.
"And it's in this crack where it bends every time, and it will gap open every time I wash my hands, and it's going to take forever to heal."
"I am scrubbing that from my brain right now. No good to bring it up again. I won't know what you're talking about."
At the fair, The Pony saw an older lady walking around on the main floor, a college faculty member with her gray hair pulled back in a neck-level ponytail. "Hey. That is probably what Mrs. Colleague is going to look like when she is old."
Of course I told Mrs. Colleague. She chuckled. "Except that I'm not a lesbian."
Right before the awards were handed out for The Pony's category, in which he won 1st place, I turned to him on my left, and nodded my head over to Mrs. Colleague on my right. "You know, I told Mrs. Colleague what you said about her looking like that gray-haired lady when she's old."
"What did she say?"
"You don't want to know."
Thursday, April 3, 2014
What's Up? Rabbit Butt.
Caution! Do not read if you're a PETA operative. Don't be
blastin' your Sarah McLachlan tear-jerker with your sad-eyed, one-legged, bald
canine looking over your shoulder. Bless your pea-pickin', caring and sharing
heart. I admire your selfless devotion to all critters great and small. But
this post is not for you. Do yourself a favor, and teach your pound pup to
shake hand. Look away.
The Pony ran down to my dark basement lair this evening
after supper. He'd been working on a part for his Science Fair project display
with his dad in the BARn. They cut a piece of plexiglass in a triangle form to
represent a prism. The Pony has arranged rays of colored paper to shoot out
from one side, while a plain white beam of paper light shines in the other
side.
"Guess what your monster Juno is doing right now!"
"Uh. I don't know...eating eggs?"
"No! She's eating the back end of a baby rabbit! Actually, she's not even eating it. She's tossing it in the air and chasing it and tossing it again. And it's still alive. At least if she would eat it, the end would be over mercifully soon."
"Huh. What is Ann doing?"
"She's chasing Juno around, hoping to get a bite, but Juno is fending her off."
"That's my girl!"
Sorry, politically-correctors. I am not going out in the yard to chase a border collie/lab through the mud and wrestle a limp rabbit baby from her mouth. No. Not happening. I don't like to hear or observe animal cruelty. I'm talking about animals' inhumanity to animal. But there will not always be somebody around to protect the tender baby rabbits while I'm away. I can't punish an animal for what an animal does naturally. Unless it's for growling at another animal in our pack, of course. That's different. Because I say so.
Anyway...Juno grew up running rabbits with Tank the beagle, our dear deceased hound who had registration papers and a trial champion mother. No, we didn't seek him out and pay a fortune for him. The Veteran, Farmer H's second son, gave him to our boys for Christmas one year because he wasn't home long enough to take care of him. So Juno cut her teeth on rabbits. They were a three-way tag team, Tank and Juno running the rabbit, and Ann waiting in the BARn field to join them when they flushed it from the brush. That's what animals do. In nature. And that's the reason rabbits breed like...well...like rabbits!
Juno must have a hollow leg. Legs. Her regular food, plus treats saved specifically for her from leftovers, handfuls of cat kibble, and eggs (ALLEGEDLY) are not enough. Now she wants rabbit butt.
I feel like an enabler.
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