I Was Lucky To Get Out Of There With Two Breasts!

Woe is Mrs. Hillbilly Mom. It's getting harder and harder to find good gas station chicken in Hillmomba.

A couple weeks ago I stopped by to pick up an eight-piece box and a small mashed potato with gravy. For Farmer H, the potatoes. Mrs. HM does not like gravy on her spuds. The owner was there. Not the guy owner. His wife. She's not-heaven on wheels! The guy is as nice as the day is long. A daylight-savings-time day! He shuffles around, pouring buckets of ice in the 44 oz Diet Coke dispensing machine. Unpacking fifths of alcohol. Ringing up customers when the shop is busy. Always a kind word. He knows the regulars. Remembers their families and vocations. Her? Not so much.

Every time the wife owner is there, the staff are walking on eggshells. They almost forget how to walk, she flusters them so much. She's snippy. Condescending. She makes ME nervous. Wifezilla got all over the new chicken cooker/dispenser. Because she overfilled my mashed potatoes and gravy. Grabbed that little Styrofoam container, sneered at it, dropped it in the trash, and told Newbie to make me another one. I felt SO bad for her. The next attempt had a tiny spot of gravy on the outside. About the size of a sweat bee. Newbie said she was sorry, she would wipe it off, the gravy was on her gloves. Wifezilla barked at her to "GET ANOTHER ONE UNTIL YOU GET IT RIGHT! AND TAKE OFF THOSE GLOVES AND PUT ON NEW ONES!"

Wifezilla busied herself turning around the paper sacks, which had been stacked with the opening out instead of the creased bottom. I caught Newbie's eye and told her it was okay. I didn't mind a spot of gravy. Oops! Wifezilla almost caught me fraternizing.

So...Sunday afternoon I went in for my only 44 oz Diet Coke of the week, what with that trip to visit the #1 son at college on Saturday. I wanted some chicken as well, and two corn dogs for The Pony. He and Farmer H had done the Devil's Playground shopping for me while I stayed home to make a batch of Chex Mix.

I know it was off-peak hours for chicken. The day got away from me. I had to fill T-Hoe's tank with gas from my regular GAS gas station, because Farmer H parked it in the garage after our college outing without informing me that we had less than a quarter tank remaining. Not good for a trip to town, a trip to school on duty day, and a trip to The Pony's appointment in bill-paying town after.

Yes, I knew it was not a good chicken time. But I was shocked to find not only NO corn dogs, but only two breasts, three legs, and four wings in the entire chicken display. You can't even build a proper chicken out of those parts. So I said to the regular jolly chicken cooker/dispenser, "Looks like I'm having two breasts."

She explained that the owner has told them to cut back on how much they make. And that they can't make corn dogs after 4:00 unless the customer asks for them in the store. And that the lunch crowd cleans out the chicken case, and workers are not supposed to make more until 2:30, and it takes a while to fry.

I didn't bother to ask which owner that order came from.

I was thankful to be holding my two breasts in my hands as I went out the door.

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More housekeeping. Gotta keep this place looking spiffy.
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Farmer H's Folly

You might remember several months ago when Farmer H decided to reap the benefits of our long-standing, overpaying relationship with our homeowner's insurance company. Farmer H declared that we have paid a small fortune over the years for security in the event of a major catastrophe, and doggone it, we're good customers, we're smart customers, and we are not going to live with hail-damaged vehicles!

That little plan paid off. An insurance adjuster came out, Farmer H got a day off from work, and several substantial checks were issued in the names of Ma and Pa Kettle HM and Farmer H. Which were promptly put in the bank for future expenditures, and we're living with hail-damaged vehicles.

Last week, when Farmer H was doing who knows what, tooling around the grounds on his Gator, having finished his last themed shed for his shantytown, and in the middle of getting a foundation of sorts for his freight-container garage after reaping the benefits of the rock money...he noticed that we had a couple of shingles loose on the roof. He sent his Number One Son up there, who is indentured for an indeterminate amount of time due his deep discount on buying Farmer H's Pacifica. NOS said it looked like we might need a patch, because simply nailing those shingles back down didn't look like it would work.

So Farmer H called a roofer. He probably had that number in his head. He knows all manner of handy folks, proficient in all manner of building trades. The roofer guy told Farmer H that we had considerable hail damage on our roof. He gave an estimate for patching it, and said he could give an estimate for a whole roof if Farmer H wanted to submit it to his insurance company.

Here's the problem. The same insurance adjuster who paid generously on the auto hail damage also inspected the roof that same day.

"Yeah. But she didn't go up ON the roof."

"Yes she did, HM. She got a ladder and climbed up there and said there was no hail damage. I thought that was kind of odd. So much damage on the cars, but not on the roof. I'm going to call our agent and raise not-heaven about it. Then I'll give them the estimate on a whole new roof. The worst they can do is say no. And I'll tell them they need to send out another adjuster to look at it. My roofer says he will meet them and show them exactly where the damage is."

So...Farmer H got to talking. The insurance agent, a football hero I went to high school with, was represented by his office manager, a gal I played high school volleyball with. Farmer H pointed out that the car which received a hail damage check was parked three feet from the garage, and it was unlikely the garage, which is connected to the house, did not get hailed on as well. Office Manager said to get an estimate and bring it in, and they'll see what they can do. After all, we've been buttering their bread all these years, on time (for the most part, except when the mailman lost our bill).

Farmer H also discovered that a neighbor up the road, on the way to the house where the headless body was found in the septic tank, just had his roof replaced, due to hail damage from that same storm.

The roofer is going to drop off the estimate for the roof replacement. Farmer H has instructed him to bring along samples of the new metal roof colors. He does not want to worry about shingles for the rest of his life. And a cedar house looks good with a metal roof. Agrees the whole family. Minus the hoity-toity college boy.

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Pardon me. I've got a bit of housekeeping to do.
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Mrs. HM, The Bobbled Head

Pardon Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's brevity this evening. She may or may not be suffering from a severe case of whiplash. Oh, she's suffering for sure. But the whiplash has not been diagnosed by a medical professional. The etiology of such injury will be understood by regular readers.

Farmer H spent four hours SWEAVING down hilly, curvy, two-lane blacktop with Mrs. HM riding shotgun.

The trip was Farmer H's doing. He decreed that we would be visiting the #1 son at college today, and taking him out to lunch. It IS his birthday. The big one. And because of that, and because Mrs. HM went to college, she figured our presence today would be about as welcome as a help-needing person on The Pony's doorstep.

"I don't really think he will want to spend the day with us."

"I already told him we're coming. As soon as I get off work and get home at noon."

"There goes his morning drinking."

"He'll have plenty of time. He said he has plans that night. We'll be gone after lunch."

So it came to pass that Farmer H got off work early, and we left at 11:00. #1 had already called to see if a friend could come along for lunch. Sure. The more buffers between Farmer H and him the better. Then he wanted to know our ETA. Because his doorbell didn't work. Uh huh. A genius like him can't get a doorbell to work? That's a travesty! What are his father and I the many scholarship committees wasting that tuition money on? Farmer H himself, after 17 years of a broken doorbell at the Mansion, just last month bought one at Lowe's, screwed it into the front wall beside the door (much like that red milk crate for UPS) and hooked the dinger to the hall wall wire that had been sticking out for 17 years. Ever since the old doorbell broke. Or maybe he didn't even need the wire. But it works, by cracky! We now have a doorbell. Even though UPS knows not to try it.

Anyhoo...when we arrived at the house of #1, located on a cul-de-sac, Farmer H pulled T-Hoe into the short driveway. Leaving me a step down from T-Hoe's running board of approximately 36 inches, what with the front tires in the steep driveway, the back tires on the road, and a newly-installed curb running under my door.

"Oh. Do you want me to park on the street?"

"Yes. It's a cul-de-sac! Nobody is driving by. There's a whole circle of room."

So Farmer H promptly backed T-Hoe out of the driveway, and kept backing him to the side of the cul-de-sac. Which also had a new curb. Which stopped T-Hoe's right rear tire quite suddenly. Slamming Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's head back without warning. I daresay it would have shot through the glass of T-Hoe's back hatch had not the headrest stopped it. Suddenly.

I am thinking about a new item to offer on the counter of my proposed handbasket factory. Not quite sure how it will work, but I'm calling it The Hillbilly Head Sling.

Who Knew They Were So Organized?

There is a conspiracy afoot to drive Mrs. Hillbilly Mom crazy!

There must be. There is no other explanation for why my nearly-tolerable group of upperclassmen have gone off the deep end this week.

First, that dude checked out a book to a new pupil who was only on my roster for a couple of hours. Checked out a book! While I was away at jury duty. As if he was the one in charge, even rummaging through my cabinet designated for personal items and teacherly paraphernalia.

Today, a pupil came to my desk holding the assignment given out a scant 10 minutes prior, an assignment about inheritance of traits, which required thinking, and plotting alleles on Punnett squares. "Would you look this over?"

"You mean ALL of it? Both sides? Wouldn't that be like grading it? Only you want me to tell you what's wrong, so you can correct it, and then give it back to me to grade all over again?" Because, you see, Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is there to help. To explain. To reiterate concepts. One, perhaps two questions at time. Not grade all 45 items and give each pupil a re-do. But that's what soft-headed-hearted Mrs. HM did. Pointed out three or four errors, and what went wrong, and how to correct them.

"You are really annoying me right now."

"As you are me. I did exactly what you asked, and now you're complaining."

Sweet Gummi Mary! Today's youth is never pleased. The problem with upperclassmen is that they know it all. No matter how sweet they were a couple years prior, when we were simpatico.

By that time, there was a line backed up to the pencil sharpener. Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is only one person, you know. Sometimes a couple would crowd around, and two birds could be killed with one stone. Figuratively, of course.

About that time, Mrs. HM noticed that her mechanical pencil was lost. She had been using it just a moment before. She tore that desktop apart looking for it. "Just a minute. I need to find my pencil. I think much better with my pencil in my hand. Has anybody seen my mechanical pencil? It was right here." Let the record show that nobody had seen Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's pencil. It was to the point that Mrs. HM began to cast out her eyes around the room to see if anybody coincidentally had the exact same style and color of mechanical pencil as she. A model not manufactured for many years, but taken from a stash in Mrs. HM's bottom drawer as needed. Let the record further show that Mrs. HM has been known to use the same mechanical pencil for an entire school year. She rarely erases.

AHA! "Excuse me, Flippantly. Would that be my pencil that is in your hand?"

"Yes it would be."

"I would like to have that back. Now."

Because, you see, Flippantly continued writing with it! Mrs. HM's pencil! Which she had cold-heartedly picked up off Mrs. HM's gradebook as she turned in some makeup work from absences. After pupils have been instructed not to touch things on Mrs. HM's desk. Just took it! In cold blood. Thing is, Flippantly has borrowed from Mrs. HM before. Asking like a civilized human being, and always being given one from the "found" stash on the front of the desk. But NEVER a personal writing implement from Mrs. HM's work area.

"Here." And Flippantly put back the mechanical pencil on top of the gradebook, and went back and sat down (in a seat not assigned, where she had been working with the purloined pencil near the pencil sharpener, but Mrs. HM had let that transgression go, choosing her battles wisely) and looked at her paper for which she had no writing implement.

"Would you like to borrow a pencil? The right way? Because I have an old yellow wooden one here."

"Sure." And Flippantly came back and got a pencil and went back to work. Though she moved to ANOTHER seat, not assigned, but also on the periphery of the room, only this time at the back, by the turned-in papers rack.

It's a conspiracy. It has to be.

I Guess He Found A Sundial At The Auction

Perhaps Mrs. Hillbilly Mom has mentioned before that she arises at the not-heavenish hour of 4:50 a.m. That’s the routine. Medicine, pack lunches, shower, chair nap, wake The Pony, other medicine with breakfast, get dressed, drive to school for 40 minutes.

Let the record show that the clocks around the Mansion are a mess. Not just the fancy Farmer H cuckoo and collectible clocks. Each one shows a different time. Thing is, one gets used to each clock’s idiosyncrasies. The one on my nightstand, for instance, is a radio alarm clock, most likely from the ‘80s. Every time the power goes off, or even flickers, this clock takes its own sweet time getting started again. I’m sure there are battery backups in it. With batteries most likely from the ‘80s. I’m afraid to open it. But I know what time I go to bed, and I look at this clock, and I know when its digits will show me my get-up time. We never set the alarm on my clock. Never.

The alarm is set on Farmer H’s clock, on his nightstand, which is also a radio alarm clock, most likely from the ‘80s. He whacks me lovingly across the torso with his ham-arm when his alarm starts playing a country song at 4:50, when my clock shows 9:46, and says, “You up?” Then he goes back to sleep until I get out of the shower and wake him.

This morning, I turned over and looked at my clock. Sometimes I wake up and have ten minutes left to sleep. Sometimes an hour! But his morning, I looked at the clock. Squinted.

IT SAID 10:58!!!

Of course I figured the power must have flickered in the night. That couldn’t be right. The alarm hadn’t gone off. I went into the bathroom to investigate. The ticking wall clock showed 6:02! I was an hour and 12 minutes late! Farmer H leaves the house for work at 6:00! I hollered at him.

“The alarm didn’t go off! It’s after 6:00! I’ve got to get in the shower! Get what you need out of the bathroom!”

Farmer H had not much of a response, besides stating that he could do without a shower. He takes one morning and night. Good thing he’s management, and doesn’t punch a time clock. Let’s just consider this credit for all those times he has been called out of bed at 3:00 a.m. for an alarm at the plant. Which is 30 minutes away.

I rushed to the kitchen and downed my first pill. The one for my missing thyroid, which decrees that I do not eat anything for an hour after taking it. Which meant no breakfast today, since I had to be on the road in 20 minutes, what with a parking lot issue at Newmentia and slots at a premium for two days. I threw The Pony’s lunch in his bag, made some ice water in his metal bottle. Grabbed some leftover pizza and wrapped it in a piece of foil that was laying on the cutting block. Put that in my bag.

Huh. Best laid plans. The Pony and I had already prepared ourselves to leave 15 minutes early this morning. And by prepared, had planned in our heads to get dressed earlier and make time to get the trash dumpster up the driveway and get to school while parking was still available.

I hollered several times to get The Pony moving. Farmer H came out of the bathroom. I dashed in. The Pony was ready when I came out. He had the trash bagged. I wrapped my other medicine in a Puffs With Lotion and stuffed it in my pocket. I grabbed a slice of leftover Thanksgiving ham and dropped it in a baggie for my breakfast. We were out the door 25 minutes after I got up. Not too shabby for a routine that usually takes an hour and forty minutes. My hair dried quite nicely in the 32-degree air and gushing vents of T-Hoe. We snared a parking spot on the end, way down past my best ol’ ex teaching buddy Mabel’s former classroom.

Mrs. Hillbilly Mom has not been having much luck with her routine. Her old back-up plan was her mom, who called her every morning at 6:00 if Mrs. HM did not call her first.

It’s times like these that I really miss Mom.

Because Nothing Is Ever Routine For Mrs. Hillbilly Mom

Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is a big believer in routines. None of this loosey-goosey, fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants, variety-is-the-spice-of-life, free-range work days for her. No sirree, Bob! There's a pupil in every seat, and a seat for every pupil. Walk through her portal, and sit on it. Only arise to leave, ask for help, turn in a paper, or blow your nose. All other out-of-seatness is superfluous. In fact, rows are arranged to discourage wandering. Let the record show that a pupil once remarked that she felt like a sardine. "Mission accomplished!" screamed Mrs. Hillbilly Mom, silently, in her head.

Because Mrs. HM is so fond of routine, she was especially disappointed to return from a day of jury duty to find that a new pupil had been added to her class while she was away. Along with a note from the substitute on top of the stack of papers to grade, proclaiming that New Pupil's book number was 13.

SWEET GUMMI MARY! That meant somebody had been rifling through Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's STUFF. The stuff in the cabinet nearest the door. The off-limits cabinet. The one where Mrs. HM keeps her purse, and various and sundry T-shirts for clubs that The Pony purchases and then forgets to mention until he needs the money right then to take possession of it. Yes. That cabinet houses non-pupil items. Textbooks. Teacher editions. Workbooks with answers in the back. Files of previous classes' test scores. Extra shoes. Dry erase markers. Videos that coordinate with lessons. BEFOULED! All befouled by foreign hands!

So it came to pass that New Pupil Hour rolled around, and New Pupil did not arrive.

"Where is New Pupil? Am I missing New Pupil? Has anybody seen New Pupil?" (Thank the Gummi Mary, the new pupil's name was not Mike Hunt.)

"New Pupil was here this morning, Mrs. Hillbilly Mom. And at lunch. I don't know where New Pupil is now."

"Who gave New Pupil a book? Did the sub give New Pupil a book? Because those are all put away. I don't expect a sub to assign textbooks. That's something I usually do myself, you know."

"I gave New Pupil a book."

"Are YOU in charge of this class now? Did you assign New Pupil a seat as well?"

"No. I was just trying to help out. So New Pupil could do her work. She sat over there. On her own."

"I would not have expected her to do work until the first day I was here to check out a textbook for her. Where did you get the book?"

"Out of that cabinet."

"Is that the cabinet that I let pupils look through?"

"No."

"Next time, you should leave book-checking-out to me. Now...do all of you think your class got a good report from the sub?"

"Um..."

"We weren't THAT bad."

"I tried to tell them to be quiet, Mrs. Hillbilly Mom. I think it was the loudest when SOMEBODY (accompanied by a steely glare) was looking for a book for New Pupil."

"I would love to spend more time on this inquisition, but FIRST I have to find out where New Pupil is right now." I called the office. "Should I count New Pupil absent?"

"No. New Pupil is still here somewhere. Let me check on it and I'll call you back."

I busied myself writing New Pupil's name in my Old Red Gradebook. The better to keep a record of the assignment turned in by New Pupil, 5/6 done, which I had graded yesterday after picking up The Pony, and had put a note on that said, 'You can finish this and I will give you credit, or I will take this score,' and put in New Pupil's transfer grade for my course that had been stuffed in my mailbox in the teacher workroom.

RING! "Mrs. Hillbilly Mom? New Pupil changed her schedule this morning. So she won't be in your class. Her name should drop off your list by tomorrow."

"But she has one of my books! Number 13!"

"I will call her current teacher and tell her to bring it back."

New Pupil came in after school. While I was grading papers. As per my regular routine. Which does not include moving a college-weight book around on my desk as I redistribute graded and yet-to-be-graded papers until I have time to walk that hefty tome across the classroom to my private cabinet.

Which is not a part of my regular routine.

Sometimes Mrs. Hillbilly Mom Is Overly Suspicious

I caught The Pony leaving the Mansion this morning with a large ACT Practice Manual.

Yeah. It's not like he was sneaking out a sweatshirt emblazoned with a monster exhibiting many loose eyeballs so he could hide it in the bushes by the garage and put it on later and wear it to school. Still. He seemed secretive about it.

"What are you doing with that practice book? I thought you were done taking the ACT."

"I am."

"So what are you doing with the book?"

"Taking it to school."

"Why?"

"I told somebody I would loan it."

"Who? Why are you being so secretive?"

"This girl. She's the girlfriend of that one guy. On Scholar Bowl team."

"Did she ask to use it?"

"I heard that she was not happy with her score on the practice test they took at school last week. So I said I'd bring my practice book."

"Okay. But I want it back. It's just a loan. I'm not giving it away. I did that with your brother's physics book, and now I've had to buy a whole new one for you. I'd rather see that somebody gets it who can't afford it. She can."

"I don't know why you don't trust me."

"You just act so sketchy about things. I can't explain it. But if you said you'd loan it, fine. Get it back after she takes the test."

We got to school and The Pony hoofed it in ahead of me as usual. I happened to walk through the doors as he was going down the hall to his locker, carrying the practice book. That kid from Scholar Bowl overtook him on the way to the lockers.

"Oh. Hey. Here's this book. Give it to your lady."

"Oh, yeah. She was hoping you'd bring it."

"I forgot yesterday. But here it is."

The contraband changed hands. I guess he's on the up-and-up. Seriously. Who says, "Give this to your lady?" The Pony. That's who.