The Hillbilly Family Is Geographically Challenged

Okay. Perhaps Mrs. Hillbilly Mom didn't learn until late in life that England is an island. I KNOW! Can you believe it? (The island part. Not Mrs. HM's delayed knowledge.) But at least she can pick up context clues.

So...last night, on our way to a school award extravaganza, through a severe thunderstorm, being pummeled by hail the size of persimmons...I turned to Farmer H and told him the Newmentia softball team was playing in the state sectionals today against Play-Toe.

"Oh. Texas?"

"Um. No. That would be PLANO."

"Oh yeah. Plano, Texas. Not Play-Toe."

"I'm surprised you didn't just say, "Oh. Colorful modeling clay that's non-toxic?"

Seriously. That would have made just as much sense. Because as far as I know, the state softball tournament generally involves teams that play within one's own state, and are generally held within one's own state.

Let the record show that Newmentia took 2nd Place in the Missouri State Tournament last year, and just this evening defeated Play-Toe to advance to the Final Four next Friday.

I hope somebody breaks it to them gently that they will not be playing in Texas.

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Please excuse Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's creative spelling. Google is her enemy.

I Guess I Showed Her She Was Sleepin' In The Bed She Made For Her(self)

For those of you who won't get that song reference in the title (I'm looking at YOU, Madam!), there's an oldie by Highway 101 called The Bed You Made For Me. It has a lyric that goes, "Did you tell her she was sleeping / In the bed you made for me?

In this case today, sleepin' means eatin', and bed means faculty lunch table.

Ah...revenge, so sweet. Whether premeditated or a happy accident. Here's how it all went down.

Tuesday, I was catching up some last-minute record-keeping before I warmed my lunch. The Pony trotted in to pick up his next-to-last EVER school broughten lunch. I chatted with him for a moment. Then proceeded to nuke my leftover BBQ chicken breast from Sunday. Of course the lunch tardy bell rang. I grabbed a bottle of water and some paper towels (Mrs. HM is both hydrated AND tidy at the lunch table) and headed out to see the day's topic of discussion at the Semi Weekly Meeting of the Newmentia Lunch Time Think Tank.

Well. Apparently, the meeting had been tabled, and Mrs. HM was not informed! There were not enough Think Tankers present to constitute a quorum. In fact, there were not enough Think Tankers there to initiate a tete a tete. Precisely, there were NO Think Tankers there. Nobody at all, in fact. That table was barer than Old Mother Hubbard's cupboard. What a fine kettle of fish THAT was, on the sixth-to-last school lunch period EVER for Mrs. Hillbilly Mom! Whoops! That's not a good term to use, lest the Yes-A-Cooks overhear and put a kettle of fish on the menu. Oh, well. We're having leftovers from here on out, and next year's fish won't affect Mrs. HM at all.

No way was I going to sit down at that empty table by myself. Uh uh. No sirree, Bob! That means that if a fight breaks out, I'm the sole breaker-upper. And let me tell you, as a breaker-upper from way back...one is not enough! Besides, it wasn't MY week to have duty. So I figured I would let those chips fall where they may. A short-timer such as myself does not tempt fate, does not stick her neck out when the end is in sight. Just like any teacher who wins the PowerBall needs to call in sick the rest of the year, because somebody out there is going to see dollar signs and plan a lawsuit.

I did not even enter the cafeteria proper. The first giant trash bin by the tray return window was as far as I got. I turned on my heel and beat feet to the teacher workroom. Perhaps my cronies were hiding out in there. Nope. Still, I could take a potty break and check my mailbox and then look back at the table to see if anyone had arrived. But then, right on my heels as I was setting down my chicken sandwich on the copy table, a PUPIL entered the teacher workroom. Oh, NOT-HEAVEN no! Enough of this nonsense! No way am I peeing with a pupil there outside the door.

I snatched up my chicken sandwich and stepped back into the hall to head for my room. And WAY down at the other end, I saw LIPPY LIBBY walking in my direction, carrying a lunch bag! Oh, sweet justice! I continued to my door, looking neither left nor right. No greeting even forming in my brain. I went in, let the door close behind me, didn't flip on my light that I had turned off on the way up the hall, and sat at my desk with my internet news for company.

So, Libby...
I imagine you most likely tucked yourself in once again, in that bed you made for you.

Just Another Fringe Benefit

You know what Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is really going to miss when she doesn't drive to Newmentia every morning next school year? THIS!

THE GIANT WORMS! Free for the taking!

There was a bit of rain Monday morning. It had stopped over the Newmentia parking lot when we arrived around 7:30. But rain at Newmentia means the annelids come out to play. Well, not so much to play, as to survive rather than drown in their burrows.


So there was this big fellow, so big that I saw him right away, from 4 parking spaces over, and from the driver's seat of T-Hoe.

"Look at that worm, Pony! It's HUGE! Here! Get a picture. Because when I back up to park, I'm going to squish him."

"Awww..."

"Well. Do you want to get out and pick him up?"

"Nope." Long sigh.

"Here. I'll stop so you can open your door and take the picture. Throw down that quarter that's been laying beside your seat for a month. To show his size."

Of course The Pony's quarter-pitching skills are nil. And the quarter rolled over into the next space. He hopped down and picked it up. Tossed it again. Almost slicing that worm in half. His picture actually underestimates the size of that worm. Look. It's moving. This is the recoil stage. Mr. Worm added about another two quarter diameters as he stretched to pull himself along.

Let the record show that Mrs. HM did NOT squish him backing up. And that The Pony said, "I think you're in for a surprise when you go to step out of the car." Uh huh. I had to wait for that thing to mosey on over before I could step down.

Let the record further show that Mrs. HM wonders if it would be frowned upon if, during her retirement years, she drove over to Newmentia in the mornings, and picked up some of these footlongs to feed the sunfish. Served up on the pointy barb of a hook, of course.

You don't know what you've got 'til it's gone. I left paradise at the old parking lot.

Mrs. Hillbilly Mom Is Not One To Forgive And Forget

A funny thing happens when you near retirement. The pupils get younger and younger, and you find yourself teaching kids of the kids you once had. Which is not a problem. It actually provides a lot of insight into the temperament of the pupil. A funnier thing is that you find yourself sitting at the lunch table with former kids who are now adults, substituting in your building.

Which is occasionally not that funny.

Twice this year, the Semi Weekly Meeting of the Newmentia Lunch Time Think Tank has been graced with the presence of a former classmate of the #1 son. Let's call her Lippy Libby.

During both lunches with Libby, Mrs. Hillbilly Mom spoke not a word. Uttered not a syllable. Ate her chicken sandwich in silence. Would have preferred to get up and leave the table, and eat in her room. But no. Nobody is going to run Mrs. HM out of her rightful seat at the teacher table. She has worked long and hard to mark her territory. But neither is she going to give anybody a chance to misconstrue her words.

Which Libby did during her sojourn under Mrs. HM's tutelage. Stuck her nose right into an issue that did not concern her. Twisted Mrs. HM words during a rejoinder with another pupil, who did not take exception whatsoever to the conversation, and had even initiated it.

Imagine Mrs. HM's surprise when summoned to the office. Mrs. HM! Who in her entire career can count the number of times she's been summoned on less than one hand. Mrs. HM said her piece. Libby referred to her as a liar. The man in charge cautioned Libby that she'd had problems with her nose and mouth before, concerning other members of Newmentia's faculty. But still. Mrs. HM does not take kindly to words put into her mouth.

Seven years ago, it was. But Mrs. Hillbilly Mom does not forget. Nor does she forgive. Lie in the bed you've made, Libby.

Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is not going to tuck you in.

Mrs. Hillbilly Mom Considers These Benefits Transferable

Hey! Did any of you know that last week was Teacher Appreciation Week?

It was. Take my word for it. Mrs. Hillbilly Mom raked in the swag.

On Monday, we got cake. A whole sheet cake, half vanilla, half chocolate, with BUTTERCREAM FROSTING, Mabel! Not that poor excuse for frosting, that healthy whipped stuff that barely covers the cake and doesn't leave a film in your mouth. Mrs. HM has been cutting back. So as tempting as that cake was, she admired it from afar. And from nearer, reading the message that it was a token of appreciation from a local church. What a nice gesture! They do it every year.

Because a cake is a terrible thing to waist waste, I grabbed a plate after the adjournment of The Semi Weekly Meeting of the Newmentia Lunch Time Think Tank, and followed Very Special and The Woodsman through the cake line, watching as they butchered the first pieces. The insurance rep was sitting there taking up room, and it was only the two of us left as I struggled to get a large purple rose piece out of that cake box with a clear plastic knife.

"I'm really making a mess here. I'm taking this for my son. He LOVES buttercream icing."

"Here. You can fold the box down if you open up the corner."

"No. That's okay. I just want to get it and get down the hall before the bell rings and that class next to me goes to lunch. It's like a clown car letting out passengers. There must be 40 kids in there."

I'm sure that insurance rep thought, "Sure, that heifer is getting it for her son. She looks like she already ate a whole cake today." Or not. She was pleasant enough, but during our conference didn't seem to know what to do about changing my plan for retirement, and put in a call to our consortium coordinator (the one who takes 3.5 hour lunches so all you ever get is voice mail) to leave a message about what to do. That rep sure knew her way around a sheet cake, though. Anyhoo...I took that plate of a little cake and a lot of icing down to my mini-fridge, where The Pony was quite happy to unload it to T-Hoe after school.

On Tuesday, we got candy. Baggies of assorted hard candy, with Dum Dums and Jolly Ranchers and Tootsie Pops and I don't know what else, because I grabbed it out of my mailbox and rushed to my room and stuck it on top of my purse for The Pony so that I was not tempted to nosh on it.

On Wednesday, we got an assembly. Okay. It wasn't truly in honor of us, but the Future Cooks and Cleaning Ladies of America DID have a table set up in the gym for the teachers to grab some lemonade and snacks. It's the thought that counts. I did not go over there, because lemonade gives me heartburn, and I couldn't see walking a saved treat back to my room for The Pony.

On Thursday, the cupboard was bare, but about half the student body was gone on club trips. A reward all its own.

On Friday, we had a catered lunch provided by our building leader. He told us about it on Tuesday, so anticipation ran high. I even told The Pony. "I wonder what it will be? Maybe Pasta House! We've had it before. I love the pasta. I really shouldn't have it. I could just take a tiny bit of each. I could get a roll for you. No. I shouldn't have it. I'll regret it. But I can get some for YOU! What kind of pasta do you like? Oh, the red kind? Okay. I'll get a plate, then take it to my room. I'll bring a container to put it in. And a couple of rolls, you say?"

"Um. Remember? At conference night? I want as many rolls as you can get me!"

"Oh, yeah. Well. I think three would be pushing it. But I'll try. I don't really want them to know I'm getting it for you. But I don't see why I shouldn't have a share, even if I don't want to eat it."

"Uh huh. Get me as many rolls as you can."

"Wait! What if we DON'T get Pasta House? What if we get that BBQ place we had for Top Ten night? What do you want from there?"

"I don't want anything from there. I don't like it that much. They don't even have rolls."

"Okay. Who knows. He might just get us a subway sandwich. Do you want some of that?"

"No. Only if it's Pasta House."

So...Friday morning I packed my regular chicken breast sandwich, and a container and some baggies to hold rolls. With people in and out all week, those trips, and make-up testing for the ACT and EOC, I did not have time to inquire about the source of our free lunch.

Imagine my disappointment when I walked into the teacher workroom and saw a spread that did not register. What in tarnation WAS that? A buffet of sorts, two big foil pans, a myriad of round cardboard containers at the end...Was it Chinese? A Chinese buffet?

NOPE!

It was Qdoba.

I don't have anything against Mexican food. Do I not make myself Super Nachos several times a week? But this did not look in the least bit appealing. There was a stack of two sizes of tortillas. A foil pan of black beans. A foil pan of diced chicken. A foil pan of diced beef. Lettuce. Cheese. Onions. A selection of salsas. Several guacamole tubs. No. I just wasn't feeling it. Not that I planned to have it anyway. I was holding my just-heated chicken sandwich plate in my hand.

"Huh. That does not look appealing." I knew The Pony would want nothing to do with it.

"You may not. But I LOVE IT!" Said Pinky. Now one of the first lunch crew who should make sure to leave enough for other lunch shifts, who want to eat, too.

"More for you, then! Wait. I think I'll take some of that chicken. I can put it on my super nachos tonight."

"There you go! That works, too."

So I went through the line and put a pile of diced chicken on my plate, right next to my sandwich. I got a couple of looks at the lunch table, because I ate the sandwich and didn't touch the chicken. But I hot-footed it back to my room later, and put that chicken in the container. Then I sent a text to prepare The Pony.

"So sorry. The teacher meal was Qdoba. Mexican. I snagged some chicken for my nachos tonight. Nothing else looked appealing, even to me. It was a nice gesture, though."

After school, The Pony relayed his disappointment. "I took my lunch down to Mrs. Poor's room, and she was sitting at her desk eating a salad. I got all excited. I thought it was the Pasta House salad. Then I found out it was from Qdoba. She just filled her bowl with the beans and meat and stuff, and put lettuce on the top instead of making tacos. I was SO disappointed."

Let the record show that the diced chicken was acceptable on my super nachos, even if it did taste like the frozen Tyson Fajita Chicken soaked in taco sauce.

Injury Makes The Heart Grow Fonder

The Pony has been kicking up his heels and acting a bit mulish lately.

As you may or may NOT know (if you've been living under a rock like those non-GEICO-insurance folks...Mrs. Hillbilly Mom will be retiring this year, having a scant seven-and-a-half school days left, plus one work day. Uh huh. A whole lotta work will be done by our Mrs. Mom on that day, for sure.

Mrs. HM has set a pace for cleanout of her classroom. Every day, she has a batch of materials to be transported to the Mansion, and another set to be disposed of. Before the Newmentia dumpster overflows, you see. Because Newmentia's disposal bin is half the size it used to be, what with a new company having been contracted this year after the old company took its dumpster and went home.

It is amazing how much a teacher can accumulate over a career. Sure, some of it will stay. Can't go throwing away textbooks or TEs. Those are Teacher Editions. It says TE on the spine. So, too, the various workbooks for prepping for state tests. I daresay one whole cabinet will be filled with nondisposables. To complicate matters, my room is being taken over by one of the Newmentia Lunch Time Think Tankers, with Mrs. HM's replacement being installed in Mrs. Not-A-Cook's room, she leaving for greener pastures at the boys' ranch. That makes Mrs. HM no nevermind. She will pack up her troubles in her old kit bag classroom accouterments in the two cabinets, and let the powers that be sort them out. Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is neither a janitor nor a moving man.

Anyhoo...there was the matter of approximately 117 science project boards stacked upon the top of the cabinets. I asked The Pony to cart them to the dumpster after school. He said, "I'm sure you could get some students to do that for you. They would be glad to get out of your class." Huh. My staunchest supporter. Let the record show that the clientele who would volunteer selflessly to do that job for Mrs. HM is the same clientele who might never return from the parking lot area after dumping. The ones who would return would not like to sully their hands with soon-to-be trash, nor leave the comfort of the classroom. Such a Catch-22.

The Pony has helped me on many an occasion, without complaint, without demanding pay. So I did not force the issue. Instead, I asked my class of three pupils if they would be interested in helping me. Let the record show that I have MORE than three pupils, but it's near school's end, and the field trips fly fast and furious. This trio was more than accommodating. They unstacked and stacked and picked up and tramped out the door, across the hall, down the parking lot, and dumped. Cheerfully, even! So I felt a reward was in order.

It just so happened that one of the three lassies incurred a paper cut during the transport of the projects.

"Oh. I have a paper cut."

"Let me see!"

"Wow! That's the BIGGEST paper cut I have ever seen!"

"Do you need a band-aid?"

"No. It will be okay. I just need to get a tissue to soak up some of the blood."

"Here. Really. I'll give you a band-aid."

"That's okay. I'm fine."

"They're cartoon characters..."

"OH! Let me see!"

"I have all these band-aids left. I doubt that many kids are going to be hurt by a week from next Wednesday. Would you guys like to split them?"

"YEAH!"

They counted them out. SpongeBob and Patrick. Assorted superheroes.

"Hey, you guys! Does somebody want to trade me? I have three alike."

"No. All mine are different."

"I'll trade you. What you got?"

I'm going to miss some of them. They're really good kids. And work for cheap.

Mrs. Hillbilly Mom Is Not A Merry Maid

Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is thinking about changing her name. She might just as well call herself Mrs. Not-A-Janitor. Her Newmentia neighbor two doors down, Mrs. Not-A-Cook, would surely approve.

Mrs. Not-A-Cook got her name when she was sitting in the cafeteria one year enjoying lunch with an early incarnation of The Semi Weekly Meeting of the Newmentia Lunch Time Think Tank. Just so happens that it was the Christmas season, and the kids from Elementia were bused over to practice their performance for the concert that night. Their teacher walked through the cafeteria, and stopped to ask Mrs. Not-A-Cook, whose name at that time was Mrs. Whipley, some trivia about the kitchen. Mrs. Then-Whipley said, “I don’t know.” And the music teacher said, “What do you mean you don’t know? You’re a cook, aren’t you?”

Let the record show that Mrs. Then-Whipley had been teaching here, in this same district, with that same music teacher, for about 10 years. As if a cook would actually be sitting at a lunch table chatting with the teachers during lunch time!

So…on Wednesday this week, when Newmentia was holding an assembly sponsored by a certain club which some ne’er-do-wells used to refer to as Future Cooks and Cleaning Ladies of America…a pupil rushed into Mrs. Hillbilly Mom’s room.

“Do you have…um…something…like a big roll of paper towels? We were carrying a big pitcher of lemonade into the gym, and spilled puddles of it all down the hall.”

Let the record show that the Newmentia pupil restrooms do not have paper towels. They have blowers that sound like jet engines, and make me wonder if those hygienic pupils should be issued ear plugs lest OSHA come down hard on Newmentia if they find out.

“No. I only have what I need.” I gestured toward the file cabinet, where a formerly big roll of paper towels sat, now of a circumference smaller than a rolling pen. “You might try the janitor’s closet. Next door down. They usually have it propped open. They probably have paper towels. Or a mop.” Serves them right, always blocking the hall with that giant door, exposing the innards of their closet, with all the tempting cleaning chemicals, to the inquisitive eyes of adolescents.

Seriously. Why would a pupil come ask ME for paper towels to clean up a mess? When the janitor’s closet is right next door, open and inviting. Yes. I think I need to change my name.

I wonder if Newmentia will spring for a name tag at this late date.