I'm Kinda Getting The Hang Of This IRONY Business!

The Pony and I had an important errand to do after school today, which involved a trip to bill-paying town. After I was finished, a mere 7 minutes before the facility closed, The Pony requested a take-out supper from Captain D's. We hardly ever get over there any more. Who am I to deny The Pony his fish and fries?

While waiting in line, I noticed a wasp buzzing around a wall decoration. It was a large yellow plastic square hanging on the blue siding of the building. Next to it was a bright blue plastic square.

"Look. A wasp. It's on the yellow square, but not on the blue one. Did you know some species prefer certain colors? A kid tested that theory with a science project. It was in our science magazine several years ago. In the very special science fair issue. I can't remember if it was bees or hummingbirds or butterflies he tested. He had four colors of fake flowers, and he counted the number of times they landed on each one."

"Huh. Of course wasps prefer yellow. That's why they wear yellow jackets!"

"Ha. Good one."

We finally got our order and drove home. As I pulled into the garage, I saw a wasp flitting around the side of T-Hoe. It's a common occurrence. We've seen them there at school, too, when we start up T-Hoe to head home.

"If that wasp we saw at Captain D's really came out of T-Hoe's mirror, would that be ironic?"

"Most definitely! Even more so if we had criticized Captain D's for not spraying their wasp problem."

Yeah. It's quite possible that we are carrying our own pests around to annoy us.

Not-Heaven Hath No Fury Like A Teacher Swarmed

Today during second lunch (and by that I mean the second shift of three, not an extra meal for teachers because they burn up too many calories jumping through hoops), Mrs. Hillbilly Mom bellied up to the Kyoceras with Mrs. Not-A-Cook. As Even Steven would have it, Mrs. HM was there first, because she actually eats first lunch shift, then transitions into plan time. She had just put a single-sided 75 job on the main Kyocera.

Mrs. Not-A-Cook only needed a few odds and ends. Let the record show that Mrs. HM would have let her line-jump had she not already pushed the button. She and Mrs. NAC go way back. However, between the two of them, stopping that one job to start another is not in the best interests of their supply needs, the faculty educational materials requirements for the rest of the year, or the Kyocera.

“Oh. This one is just out of paper. I can do that. I thought it was jammed.” No sooner had Mrs. NAC spoken those words than Mrs. HM’s Kyocera also ran dry.

“Make sure to put the paper in right! You see that note that’s been there for years? About putting the paper in the way it’s found in the ream? That does NOT mean the way it lays when you have flipped over the pack and ripped open the seam. Nope! It means the top is the top that you read on the package. Without the seam. I KNOW! Every one of us in here to see the unjamming last week found out we’d been doing it wrong!”

Both of us filled our drawer at the same time. I looked to make sure my Kyocera resumed the job. It did. As my papers once again shot out the nether region of the main Kyocera, Mrs. NAC put her page on the suck-through section. (Sorry. Technology and its nomenclature is not my friend.) Before she had even pushed the button, papers began spewing from her Kyocera’s nethers. WITH STAPLES! Stapled handouts swarming from the lesser Kyocera at Mrs. NAC like so many hornets swarming at Farmer H every time he runs the lawnmower over their nest!

“What in the world…? I’m not stapling? Oh. Great.” Mrs. NAC threw up her hands in disgust. “I’ll go make mine in the office.” Let the record show that using the office machine is frowned upon. Kind of like having sex on your desk with the cleaning woman. Mrs. NAC was ready to risk the wrath. Copiers gonna copy.

Revengers gonna revenge. Somehow. Let the record show that we know who was printing a job from the comfort and efficiency of her classroom while Mrs. NAC broke her back filling the Kyocera that would not have done the work for free without the milking cow there.

Rest assured. Grudgers gonna grudge.

Even Steven will have to sanction the remote copier. Because Mrs. NAC and Mrs. HM do not have the skill set to stop a job in progress to teach the remoter a lesson.

At Least A Humpty Dumpty With A Melon Head Did Not Plow Into Me At The Plate

Whew! Mrs. Hillbilly Mom needs a day of working in a coal mine, toiling on the chain gang, toting barges and lifting bales so she can relax from her everyday rat race.

She had plans Friday to take a day off work for The Pony's appointment that has been scheduled since June. Even called a couple weeks ago to verify, because Farmer H argued over the date. Wrote down the date given by the office staff. And yesterday, she arrived home at 4:35 to find a message reminding The Pony of his appointment "tomorrow."

That's right. The replacement was already contracted for Friday, yet Mrs. Hillbilly Mom needed him THE NEXT MORNING! She called her immediate superior at the stroke of 5:00 p.m. to report the new need, and was told it would be taken care of. Kind of like arranging for an annoying dog to stop barking. It will be done. The details are not necessary.

Of course no plans were in place. It's the freakin' third day of school. Who has plans ready? Our folders were not due until Friday. So, since she had to drop off The Pony for half the school day anyway, Mrs. HM stopped by her room to whip up some learnin' in absentia for her charges. She printed up-to-date (remember, it's now the fourth day) course rolls and sitting configurations. She left a list of work to be done. She ran copies. She stopped by the office to make sure her replacement was coming.

Let the record show that Mrs. Hillbilly Mom entered the building at 7:20. She hoped to be on her way back home by 7:45 to get some other stuff done. Mrs. Hillbilly Mom might as well hope in one hand and...um...feel a bit indisposed in the other, and see which one fills up first. She was assured that her replacement was indeed coming. Whether it had been done the previous evening, or whether the Jill of All Duties had to fetch him that very morning, remains to be discovered.

At 8:10, Mrs. HM was still waiting. She wanted to explain a couple of items. But the longer she waited, the more she wanted to make sure SOMEBODY showed up to take her place. After all, she was there already. No need for pupils to be unattended. The clock ticked ever forward.

First bell rang!

Mrs. HM went to stand at her own doorway as usual. No replacement in sight. A good two of the four minutes went by. Her whole class was inside the room. They thought she was there for them. Nobody wants the understudy, you know. Everybody wants the star of the show.

With one minute left before the tardy tone, in walked Replacement through the back door, carrying his lunch in a Devil's Playground bag twisted shut at the top. He walked on past to report to the command center. Just before the tone, he arrived at Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's door. A quick warning of impending disasters, and Mrs. HM was off. Replacement walked on stage cold.

The show must go on, you know.

Who Knows? A Mother Knows.

This afternoon I gave The Pony a chore to complete in my classroom. Don't think The Pony was working for free. He got a delicious frozen custard concrete out of it. I know, because he gave me the last half. Anyhoo...we're getting ahead of ourselves.

I had duty for the first time this year. Can't beat Monday for duties! So many holidays! I headed outside to observe the demolition derby parking lot as kids tentatively inched their way along the properly-marked directional aisles with exemplary restraint roared out of there like so many NASCAR-driving cats with their tails set ablaze.

When I returned, I saw that The Pony had not set out my textbooks in numerical order as instructed. In fact, I saw that The Pony was nowhere to be seen. He appeared shortly, stating that he had been making use of the facilities next door. And I don't mean the storeroom or the Spanish classroom. He puttered around at his laptop. Checked his phone ensconced on the window sill for prime reception.

"Pony. I thought you were going to get my books ready." I have been explaining this since last week. Genius used to do it for me, but that and other errands such as copying several days of worksheets garnered him $20. At his request. There is no love lost between The Pony and the Kyoceras. He would be the first to tell you that he is not a copier. Nor a moneygrubber. But still, he had agreed to help, as he has done for the past two years.

"All right." He was dragging, my little beast of burden. Not bright-eyed. Not bushy-tailed. He seemed sad.

"Is something wrong?"

"No. Nothing's wrong."

"I know it is. I can tell. Did somebody say something to you? Did something happen?"

"No. It's nothing. I don't know why you say that."

"I can tell. You're not your normal self."

"Nothing is wrong."

"You'd tell me, wouldn't you?"

"Yes. I don't want to be doing this. I'm hot. I'm tired."

Still, he continued working. He WAS up late last night watching a movie until 10:00, then he had to shower, then get up at 5:30. Not as much sleep as a teenager likes. We (and by that I mean HE) finished the books. We left for home.

On the way, I looked in the mirror and saw great sadness cross The Pony's face. He declared that it was because the air conditioning was blowing right on his eyelids. Perhaps. I reached back (he rides behind me, you know) and grabbed a hunk of hairy leg.

"Come on. What's wrong?"

"I don't want to go to this Boys State dinner tonight. And I really don't want to give a 5-minute speech."

AHA! The Pony is not one for public speaking. Even though he's taking the class this semester.

"Do you have your speech ready?"

"No. I know what I want to say. It's in my head."

I'm sure he'll be fine. Farmer H is there with him. I mean, really. Farmer H will open his mouth and take the heat off The Pony. For sure. I pointed that out to the balky Pony.

"I know. I just hope he doesn't say TOO much."

Ahh...the weight of the world weighs so heavily on the young. They don't know how good they have it.

Stuff You Never Thought You'd Hear Yourself Saying To Your Kids

Every now and then, something slips from between Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's lips that should have been held back. Did your mom ever turn her fingers by her lips and say, "Tick a lock" when she pretended to keep a secret? Mine did. Apparently, my lips have been picked. Nothing is secure. Like that time in Little Caesars, when I told The Pony, "Do you know how hard it is to balance this pizza while I'm standing here holding your balls?" From the game machine that dispensed Super Balls as prizes, of course.

Well, thank the Gummi Mary, at least this time it happened in the privacy of our own basement. I was starting upstairs to warm up some supper in the oven or heat it in the microwave, and I off-handedly mentioned to The Pony, who was laying on the cheap couch with his laptop... 

"Oh. I haven't sent you that pr0n link yet." I started up the steps.

"Heh, heh. That's something you should never say."

"What?"

"Um. You're sending me a link for pr0n."

"You know what I mean! That article I read yesterday."

"I know. But that's not how it sounds."

"We shall never speak of this again. Unless I'm questioning you about pr0n. After I put it on my blog, of course. Remember that quote. I might forget the wording."

Yes. I sent my boy a pr0n link. Let the record show that it was an article about how pr0n is addictive, and the brain of the pr0n fiend shrinks in certain sections. Not that The Pony is a pr0n fiend. But he IS a 17-year-old boy. I was only doing a public service announcement in the privacy of my own home.

Because, you know...'baters gonna 'bate.

What I Learned At Open House, By Mrs. Hillbilly Mom

Live and learn, people. Live and learn at the achy knee of Mrs. Hillbilly Mom.

I learn something every day. I learned three things Tuesday night at open house. As you might imagine, this was quite a feat for one who has been a captive performer at 27 open houses before that one.

The First Thing I Learned is That Some Kids Are Cared About More Than Others

A family brought in their youngster to meet me and pick up information about my expectations. That’s nothing new. Whole families come all the time. Some with wailing infants on shoulders, some with grandparents on squeaky walkers. This particular family had a toddler. Not uncommon. Except this one ran 180 degrees around the room, to the opposite corner from where I was holding court by the door, and rushed my control center, shoving my rolly chair out of the way, and began pounding on my tax-payer-provided school-issue laptop. Which is five years old! Older than the toddler!

What did the family do? All four others of them? “Oh, don’t do that Bubby. Come back here.” While they chatted with me. ME! Who was trying not to turn and bellow, in a police-sounding voice, like that in Risky Business, before Tom Cruise calls Jackie, who is not exactly what every boy off the lake wants, the fantasized voice that says, “Joel, step away from the babysitter.” Only my police voice would have said, “Babysitter, step towards Bubby, AND GET HIM THE NOT-HEAVEN AWAY FROM MY LAPTOP!”

Thank the Gummi Mary, I had logged off, and the future enterpriser did not crack my password in his flailed attempt. Eventually the family grew weary of speaking with me, and sent the prospective pupil to fetch Bubby by throwing him over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

The Second Thing I Learned is That Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is Educational Enemy #1

An older lass entered, who was in my class two years ago, and has another course with me now. Never any problems between us. Normal interactions. Grade very good. No reason to anticipate otherwise at this juncture.

O’Lass walked across the front of the room to collect her material. Several groups of younger pupils were co-mingling in the general area while I greeted parents/guardians. O’Lass was towing boyfriend and mom. She picked up her paperwork, crossed back toward the door, made eye contact with Mrs. Hillbilly Mom, who was in the midst of conversation with other pupils’ parents, and shot her the stinkeye. “And NO. PEANUT. BUTTER!”

Let the record show that not once in her life has Mrs. Hillbilly Mom ever brought peanut butter to school. She does not eat it for lunch, she does not eat it for breakfast, she does not use it in experiments, she does not stock it for little birdies to eat off pine cones. Never has there been peanut butter in Mrs. Hillbilly Mom’s classroom. And furthermore, Mrs. Hillbilly Mom was never notified of, and never read in O’Lass’s profile, that she had any issue with peanut butter or peanuts. WTNH? (What The Not-Heaven?)

O’Lass acted as if Mrs. Hillbilly Mom had trussed her up and rubbed her down with Jiffy! Or shoved it down her throat and packed it in her facial orifices! That did not happen. Even in the somewhat disturbing dreams of Mrs. HM. Looks like free Reeses will not be passed out at Halloween.

The Third Thing I Learned is Mrs. Hillbilly Mom’s Hand is Not Safe in an Open House Full of Boys.

Some of last year’s pupils stopped in to say hello during a lull. We were pleasantly shooting the bull while they busted on a kid who always says I don’t like him. This was the second time the leader of their pack returned that night. He bragged that he had brought me the old group, rather than the freshmen he brought before. I held up my right hand. You know how you do. Like, “Whoa there!” I told him, “The deal is off. Now I am NOT going to miss you this year!” I had my left hand sticking out, gesturing to the self-professed-not-liked kid who was standing the closest to where I was sitting.

AND HE SLAPPED MY HAND (ACTUALLY MORE LIKE BUMPED MY HAND) AND TOOK OFF OUT THE DOOR!

Let the record show that kids always want to high-five me in the hall, and I won’t do it. It has become a challenge for them to try and trick me into it. So far, I have prevailed.

I turned to the other four boys and said, “I can’t believe he did that!”

They agreed. Shocked. “Now you REALLY don’t like him!” “He should know better than that! We are going to have a talk with him!” “What is the world coming to, Mrs. Hillbilly Mom?” “He knows he’s guilty. Did you see him run?”

“You guys know, right, that there is one student who was just here ten minutes ago, who has tried to get me to high-five him for THREE YEARS! Unsuccessfully. And now THIS incident. Which was NOT a high-five, I’ll have you know, because my hand was way down at waist level, and he only touched the side of my hand, not all five fingers. I can’t believe the audacity of that guy, thinking that just because my hand was out gesturing at him, it was there for the fiving!”

“We know! We’ll get right on that. He’ll NEVER be able to show his face in here again!” And off they went.

These, my readers, are the moments I will miss when I retire AT THE END OF THIS SCHOOL YEAR.

Two Exercisers Diverged On A Road. I Split The Difference And Traveled By, And That Has Made Me All Incensed.

Oh, dear…oh, dear...OH DEAR!

Society is waiting impatiently in line for an express elevator to not-heaven!

This morning on the way to work, morning, you know, when the sun has just risen, shooting its deadly rays all willy-nilly into the eyes of motorists trying to rein in too gosh-darn much horsepower…Mrs. Hillbilly Mom encountered more road people.

ROAD PEOPLE!

Notice anything wrong with that phrase? Road. People! Roads are for cars, not for people. We need to get a cute public service cartoon spokesman, like the Trix Are For Kids rabbit. Have you seen him lately? I hope nobody ran over him on the way to work!

There I was, in a 30 mph zone, tooling along a two-lane residential roadway, nearing the junction with civilization where I fill T-Hoe with Casey’s gas. I had the visor down, my sunglasses on, going the speed limit to the letter, because I had a tailgater I was trying to piss off am a law-obeying citizen.

I rounded a little curve by the turn-off that takes you to The Devil’s Playground, and there they were! A woman on the right road edge, jogging at me aggressively, her two feet a good three feet from the shoulder. AND on the left road edge, taking the same amount of footage out of the opposite side of the thoroughfare, rode a man on a bicycle. I think he was…now get this…it has to be a very special form of irony…along to ensure the jogger’s safety!

So there they were. Taking up six feet of road space. They’re lucky that behavior didn’t put them six feet under! Do I go to the park and drive all up in their precious jogging path? NO! I most certainly do not. Because jogging paths are for joggers. Like roads are for CARS!

Sweet Gummi Mary on a handcart eating a partially-hydrogenated-cottonseed-oil cracker! Don’t these very special snowflakes realize that their bones are no match for sticks and stones, much less two-ton metal 30 mph battering rams which may or may not have had the last set of brakes installed by Farmer H? Is it really worth dying to show people how very healthy you are? I have had it with these hipsters with no hips who think the county is someplace that cares about their 2% body fat and their fitness level that will allow them to live to the ripe old age of 150. Hey! No-Hipsters! You might not even reach the age of Preference by L’Oreal if you don’t get out of the road!

Dang! Climbing on and off that soap box really got my heart to pounding!