His Timing Is Bad, Couldn't Get Badder, If You Can't Hear Me Now, I'll Yell A Little Madder!

Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is hot to trot! In her best ol' ex-teaching buddy Mabel's way. Which is not a good thing.

I pulled into the garage yesterday, all the way at 5:15. That's LATE. Even for Mrs. Hillbilly Mom. The Pony and I sometimes make it home by 4:00, and usually by 4:30. But yesterday, I had to stay after school to work on what the card-carrying members of The Semi-Weekly Meeting of the Newmentia Lunch Time Think Tank call THIS NEW CRAP THAT'S DUE BY THE END OF NEXT WEEK. I didn't make much headway, even though I did a lot of it in May. You know how The Man is always out to get you, changing horses in the middle of the stream. So a lot of that work was in vain, for free, hours of my life I will never regain. So...I had to bring work HOME!!! That is unheard of. Mrs. HM has not done that in many a year. She has efficiently streamlined her procedures (as opposed to inefficiently streamlining them) so that she has her time to herself once she leaves the building.

Once we left the building towing that homework, we had to stop by the post office. Not the dead-mouse-smelling one. It closes early. This was the main hub. Where those tortoises run relays in and out of our varicose-veined legs, laughing like hyenas at their audience, trapped like insects in amber.

On we rushed, to the Mansion, where I was whipping up some fish and a baked potato for The Pony, and vegetables with fake Velveeta for the grown-ups. Of course there was slaw in Frig II, but I'm sure Farmer H did not partake, since I didn't set it out. Wait a minute. I'm getting ahead of myself.

I pulled into the garage. All the way at 5:15. Supper to cook, dishes to wash, homework to do. Oh, and did you know I've been sick as a dog for two weeks? And that I have jury duty Thursday and Friday?  Do you know what I saw in the garage? Farmer H, taking apart my grandma's kitchen table that he parked in the garage...oh...let's see...counting fingers...counting toes...counting on Sweet Gummi Mary to prevent me from committing Farmercide...on around...no...let's be exact...AUGUST 17th! The night before school started, when Farmer H insisted on driving to town and loading up stuff from my mom's house.

FIVE WEEKS! Five weeks that furniture has been in the garage, with him saying every Saturday that he was moving the table into the kitchen! And...Farmer H chooses the worst possible day to deal with the switch-over. WHO moves a table from the garage to the house on a Tuesday night? WHO? And who gets his wife riled up the night before school starts, when she has worked all week PLUS stayed late for open house?

Did I mention I've been sick? And that I had to cook? And wash dishes? And do homework? AND get plans ready to leave tomorrow at Newmentia by the end of the day, because I have jury duty Thursday and Friday?

There was my current kitchen furniture sitting on the back deck. While inside my kitchen was...um...nothing but the fixtures. And a half-empty bottle of Sprite, and a half-empty bottle of Coke, lined up along the wall under the windows. We don't drink soda out of two-liter bottles. Farmer H does not drink sugar soda at all. This had to be left from festivities at my mom's house last year. Christmas. WHY WOULD ANYONE SAVE THAT? Where had it been?

Hot to trot, people. Hot to trot.

You Know What They Say...Soft Head, Cold, Cold Heart

Jury duty again looms on the horizon. Only two days away, and no cancellation in sight.

Let me confess something that might betray Mrs. Hillbilly Mom’s cold, cold heart. I don’t actually want to miss work.

That’s right! You heard me. I enjoy my job. Not all the hoop-jumping. That’s hard on this old dog’s skeletal structure. But the daily part, the routine, working with the pupils…I have grown fond of it over the years. This is a great year to go out with a bang, without whimpering. At this time, I don’t have any hard-core rabble-rousers. Some annoying mosquitoes, perhaps, who have their moments. But nobody beyond repair.

The year is young, my blogfriends. It is but a pup, frolicking and gamboling and endearing itself to Mrs. Hillbilly Mom. It has not yet taken a crap on her quilt, chewed the unused (except by Farmer H) heel straps off her Crocs, or dragged its butt across the pristine white carpet of her career-end.

This time of year is the best. The salad days. The BIG salad days. When everything is humming along, falling into place, like sands through the hourglass, these are the BIG salad days of Mrs. Hillbilly Mom’s professional life. Already seven days (eight boxes) past the spiral holding The Ol’ Red Gradebook together.

I hope jury duty gets cancelled this week.

"Dealing With Fluids Sure Can Be Draining," Said Mrs. Hillbilly Mom

Do you know what I'm going to do when I retire in only 8 short months? No. That's not it. I'll get right to it. I don't think you'll be able to guess.

I am going to stand outside my own bathroom door and wait for 3 minutes, then rush in and go as fast as I can. For old times' sake, you know.

Sweet Gummi Mary! Even AFTER school, after my duty, after I put my grades in the computer, after I put back up the tornado drill instruction poster that jumped off the wall right before I left, even after writing tomorrow's assignments on the white board...when I went to the faculty women's restroom, it was occupied! At 3:45 in the afternoon!

Okay, so the minute I walked into the teacher workroom to drop off my assignments for pupils other-schoolly assigned in two days, the FWRR was not occupied. Not unless somebody was sittin' in the dark gettin' ready for mischief, because I could see that the light was not showing under the door. I walked on past to the far reaches of that desolate landscape to put the work in the allotted slot.

Two denizens were standing about limply, like so many Salvador Dali clocks, their energy drained, not conversing, not greeting, not goodbyeing. Standing. Like an Elaine Benes mannequin. One was hiding by the fridge, reading a stapled paper. The other, Mrs. Not-A-Cook, stood dazed in front of the mailboxes, a printout in her hand. I trudged across the vast expanse of clutter, not wanting to disturb their reverie.

THE VERY MINUTE I PASSED BY HER, MRS. NOT-A-COOK SPRINTED TO THE FWRR!

In one smooth motion, she dumped her mail, keys, and metal water cup on the paper table, and darted inside, clicking the door lock.

That is low, my friends. She's never even there at that time, preferring to run out the door at 3:10 or perhaps a shaved moment before. I was so discouraged that I left without going. That'll teach her! Of course, by the time I walked all the way to the end of the building, where I park T-Hoe, Mrs. Not-A-Cook had backed out her car and was squealing past me before I opened T-Hoe's door.

I hate it when that happens.

Oh, and on the way home, when we stopped for gas, I let The Pony use my gas change to get some donuts and a soda.

"Wait just a minute, Mom. Don't pull out yet. I have a bottle to throw away."

THE PONY THREW AWAY SIX BOTTLES!

"Are you hoarding them? Why do we have so many bottles half full?"

"I keep forgetting to throw them away. Besides, one of them was a water bottle. It was YOURS!"

Spare me such reasoning.

Dealing with fluids sure can be draining.

A Mysterious Symptom...Or IS It?

I think I have discovered a new affliction.

As you may recall, Mrs. Hillbilly Mom was sick as a dog yesterday, and weak as a kitten. She hauled her dragging butt to Urgent Care, and received a Z-pack for a sinus infection. After the first double-dose of that Z-pack, her nose was not exactly looking up. First a lot of yellow snot blew out and hacked up. Then the blowing and hacking continued, with less and less yellow tint. The amount of coughing slowed by about 15%, not great, but better than the old rate.

I could still not sleep. Instead of about 2 hours at a time, I was only able to lay and cough and sometimes slumber for an hour. Then up to the bathroom. To sit for 10 minutes and let the snot recollect itself wherever gravity wanted it to go. Back to bed in another position. Up to reconfigure mucus. At most, I might have gotten four hours of sleep.

That darned Robitussin did nothing but make my throat and ears hurt. I would rename it Thanksfornothin'.

This morning, I still had a case of the coughs, but the nose issues had decreased by half. Here's something I want to know, from all the worldly non-prescription-cough-medicine imbibers who have been denied the real thing:

Is projectile peeing a symptom of coughing up a sinus infection?

Because let me tell you, at the risk of divulging too much information...as I sat on the toilet letting the snot in my head realign itself, I think I experienced several bouts of projectile peeing during assorted fits of coughing. I am shocked that my ribs did not open up like an umbrella, my head did not explode, and my eyes did not bug out like one of those squeezy rubber dolls.

Let the record show that Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's internal water pressure during a coughing fit would be rivaled by a top-of-the-line pressure washer.

Imagine The Possible Carnage If I'd Asked For An Actual Meal!

Still hanging on here in Hillmomba. Mrs. Hillbilly Mom felt like she was on her deathrecliner this morning, after 11 days of only 3-4 hours of sleep per night, and the return (with vengeance) of her symptoms within hours of feeling almost normal Thursday morning.

Off to Urgent Care for a diagnosis of sinus infection, and a prescription for a Z-pack. The yellow snot is not going to triumph over Mrs. Hillbilly Mom. But for now, it is winning the battle. Still miserable, with throat pain and ear pain and a headache above her eyes...Mrs. HM popped her Zs and slunk down to her dark basement lair this afternoon. Her eyes tear at the drop of a trucker's cap, and her ears alternately ache when she swallows.

The poor Pony was on his own for supper. I brought him a DQ chicken basket for lunch, but he had to warm his leftover Chinese from Thursday for supper. Farmer H offered to pick up something for us in town while on a trip to buy chicken feed. But it was too late for The Pony, and I has no taste. So I declined. Farmer H took off for town anyway. Leaving The Pony, two hours later, to run up and grab some sustenance for me.

What could The Pony make? It was obvious that he could not whip up some tuna salad that I was craving. Or chicken salad. "But Mrs. Hillbilly Mom," you say. "The Pony is 17 years old. If not now, when?" I don't care when he makes it for himself, but I am persnickety. He would have to rinse that stuff many a time after opening the can. And he hates the smell of tuna. And he was not going to chop up a pickle and an onion. So...I asked for a can of potted meat from the small pantry, because I think it has not yet expired. And three slices of that little French bread we bought last Sunday at The Devil's Playground. As tasteless meals go, it was delicious. Then I took some Robitussin, which was actually just Tussin, the Hillbillys not being a name-brand family. I tell you what...I thought I had no taste until I got a half-dose of that Tussin in me. Ptooey! Mamas, don't let your babies grow up to drink Tussin.

I will survive. But The Pony has injured himself in his helping. He slammed his elbow into the stair post, and has a cut on his arm. A CUT! I feel guilty for not hoofing up the stairs myself to get my own tasteless supper. My eyes weep for him.

No wonder he shies away from helping people.

Guest Presenters Are D*cks

Yeah. Guest presenters are d*cks. And not the kind that quack.

"There's no need for introductions, GP, we know who you are. You're the guy who's always wherever teachers gather, but would rather work in their rooms. You want to speak to us when we're dining on donuts and bagels. You want to know if the curriculum we're teaching is any good, or if you can keep us busy for your contracted time. I want to thank you, GP, on behalf of all the teachers in the world, for your unfailing attention to allotted break time, and your concern that we are lollygagging rather than peeing. But read my lips and remember, as hard as it is to believe, sometimes we like just having the opportunity to urinate, and sometimes we like just being left alone to do it without rushing."

Oops! Mrs. Hillbilly Mom took on a Julia Sugarbaker attitude there for a minute.

Mrs. HM woke up sick as a dog this morning, but couldn't use one of her bloated 98 sick days because it was a PD day. That's right. A PD day. Without the pupils. A time for learnin' for the learners. Might as well have no sick days left and take a docking, rather than try to convince the higher-ups that Mrs. HM fell sick on the Friday of a PD day. Though by 3:00, Mrs. Hillbilly Mom wished she would have tried to pull such a stunt, rather than go all weekend without an opportunity to see a doctor about the yellow-green stuff emanating from her upper orifices.

So...I hacked and hawked and stopped short of spitting all through that presentation. GP exhibited his d*ckiness by announcing that he would end before the scheduled time, and that he would give us two breaks, and then proceeded to allot us four (FOUR!) minutes for the first break. Sweet Gummi Mary! That's how much time we get between classes. And STILL the six of us on my hall cannot get in and out of the bathroom that fast. Switch that up to a crowd of Elementia, Basementia, and Newmentia all fighting for the five stalls (and you KNOW how teaching is top-heavy with womenfolk) and imagine our consternation. Then GP proceeded to count down from 10 seconds for when break was over. What was he gonna do, call the breaktime police?

Let the record show that Mrs. Hillbilly Mom needed her fluids. Not IV fluids. Not yet. But she needed three bottles of water for that three-hour meeting. And still she coughed. As you might surmise, Mrs. HM's bladder was having none of that 4-minute-every-50-minutes break business. She needed to go when she needed to go. That's why she sat on the perimeter of the proceedings as well. So as not to interrupt, or call attention to herself. She had just told her tablemates, "As soon as we start this next activity, I'm going to the bathroom."

GP dragged it a bit longer. Told us we were getting a breaks right after the activity. But a bladder wants what a bladder wants. Pee-ers gonna pee. When GP said, "Ready...set...GO!" Mrs. HM jumped up to make her potty run. She wasn't gone long. Perhaps two minutes. It's not far. But when she returned, GP was standing at the corner of kitchen and trash can. Right by the faculty women's restroom. Looking at his watch.

OOH! I'm scared! What are you gonna do, GP? Get me fired?

Seriously. At least three other people around me had got-up-and-went during GP's presentation. One even stopped by my table and chatted about how many years she had left. GP didn't make a big show of stalking THEM! I only got up during the activity. The second one.

Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is mad as not-heaven, and she's not going to take it anymore!

I only gave him "agree" on all his evaluation points. Not a single "strongly agree" from this ol' gal. Guess I showed HIM!

Mrs. Hillbilly Mom, Weirdo Magnet Extraordinaire

Let the record show that ever since I saw The Pony with his cell phone in his mouth last week…The Pony has suffered from a virus that stuffs up his head and sores his throat and clots his lungs with cough material.

Let the record further show that Newmentia is without a custodian for the evening shift. Personnel has been shuffled to fill in. Mrs. Hillbilly Mom’s regular custodian has been temporarily replaced by an irregular, due to medical reasons in the ranks.

Yesterday after school, after his Scholar Bowl practice, The Pony came back to my room to gather my stuff for carrying out to T-Hoe. He’s a good Pony. Plus he needs a ride home.

“You should take some cough medicine. You are all clogged up.”

“I don’t really want to. Mrs. E said I sounded a lot better today.”

“She doesn’t know what she’s talking about! You sound like CRAP!”

Just then a little old man with white hair appeared behind Pony, in the doorway. That dude needed a box of TicTacs like the Sidler. Neither one of us heard him come up. He simply materialized. He was shorter than The Pony. He looked in, then turned an left.

“Who was that man?”

“I don’t know. You’re the one who works here, not me.”

“Great. Just when I said CRAP, he showed up. I’ll get called into the office tomorrow. I might be on the news. Even though I was only telling my own personal son that he sounded like crap.”

Today, right after the Semi-Weekly Meeting of the Newmentia Lunch Time Think Tank dismissed, I saw my regular cleaner-upper. “Hey, who is cleaning my room these days?”

“Sissy Sissenstein.”

“Who? I mean that little old white-haired man who came to my room around 4:15. The one who's cleaning it.”

“What man? There’s no man cleaning your room. It’s Sissy Sissenstein. I come by and help her get caught up. There’s no man.”

“Well, there was yesterday. Standing right in my doorway.”

“I don’t know who that is. I’ve never seen a little old white-haired man in Newmentia.”

“Great. This morning, I walked in and saw the bag of trash tied up and sitting on top of today’s assignments laid out on the desk up by the pencil sharpener. I thought, ‘Oh. Maybe that little old white-haired man is getting senile and forgot my trash.’ Now you tell me that he doesn’t even work here. WHO WAS THAT MAN?”

“I don’t know. Sounds like you had a visitor.”

Indeed. If I had known the situation then, I would have yelled a lot more than ‘CRAP!’