A Highfalutin Low-Tech Solution

No matter what the little man on a ladder (no, that is not a euphemism for a body part) tells me, I know that Newmentia is slowly poisoning me.

He came in this afternoon, right while Mrs. Hillbilly Mom was getting down to brass tacks. Okay. Not actual brass tacks. She tries not to have them in her classroom, what with teenage fingers so itchy to acquire them and place them on Mrs. HM's chair. Not that they ever have. Mrs. HM is projecting, remembering her junior high school days when some ne'er-do-wells (but not little future Mrs. Hillbilly Mom) put tacks on the piano bench during 7th grade choir. Though she did laugh along with the rest of the class to see her teacher, wearing the dress she always wore (Jerry's girlfriend with the Superman dress had nothing on little future Mrs. HM's choir teacher with her red-and-blue polyester creation) traipsing around with shiny tacks winking from the backside of her wardrobe.

Yes, the little man with the big ladder (you know what they say about a little man with a big ladder--he's obviously compensating for something) strolled right in, climbed up, poked open the ceiling tile, and removed a red plastic bucket.

"Oh. It's not very full at all. But I could imagine it filling up and dumping on some kid's head."

Well. That seems to be a safety violation. How dare he place Mrs. HM's class (and her very self) in harm's way.

"I don't know what's blowing out of these vents. But every time the air kicks on, I have a sneezing fit, and my eyes start to water."

"Huh. I don't know what that could be."

He gave a look that said Mrs. Hillbilly Mom was completely crazy, that nothing in Newmentia could possibly contain allergens that would spray out into a classroom and cause such a reaction. Even if it happened every single time the air conditioning kicked on. And there had been a bucket in the ceiling catching drip water from a clogged drain for over a week.

He might as well have poured that bucket-water down Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's leg and told her he was peeing.

You Can Lead A Pony To The Armed Forces, But You Can’t Make Him Enlist

The Pony spent the day taking the ASVAB test. He was not looking forward to it.

“I think I’m going to take it easy on the ASVAB. I have this cold.”

“Don’t worry. Even when the recruiters start calling and trying to lure you into the military, you don’t have to say yes.”

“Yeah. But I just don’t feel good today.”

At lunch, I asked how it was going.

“Okay. It’s easy. I might have missed ONE.”

Let the record show that the test started at 8:30, I checked with The Pony at 11:50, and the test was to resume at 12:30.

I don’t think the afternoon was THAT easy for him. Not sure of his knowledge on electrical stuff. Better than mine, though.

Not that I’m planning to join the military either, of course.

I Probably Smell Like One, Too

This was one of those days that left me feeling like a dishrag wrung out and draped over the faucet.

A meeting was convened to detail our upcoming duties regarding curriculum and the ins and outs of this newfangled N E E, S L O, U O I stuff that must be input online.

Seriously? We need a record of pupil performance, so we have to take the paper document to the office, ask the office-minder how to use the big copier to scan the document, email to ourselves, open the email elsewhere, download that document, upload that document, and do it for all 30 or 40 or 80 pupils you are monitoring for the S L O s in your U O I. Oh, and remember that you can only upload 10 or less at a time. Uh huh. Whereas, we could simply take that stack of various-pupiled documents to the Kyocera, set them on the feeder, push the button, and have them ready to place in a manilla file folder. OR simply file the originals.

No use taking one step when 6 or 180 or 240 or 480 will do.

Oh, we will have time to work on this on Friday. After a guest speaker holds us captive for 3.5 hours, then we have lunch for 1.5 hours, then 2.0 hours to actually work on it. But WAIT A MINUTE...we will all meet in a central location and work on it by departments.

That always hastens things along. Right?

Teacher Tell Me 'Bout The Good Ol' Days

Seems like only 8 years ago Mrs. Hillbilly Mom was bemoaning the loss of the old red gradebook. Now the time has come to officially sound the death knell for the teachers' lounge.

Uh huh. I did it. I called it a teachers' LOUNGE! We are not allowed to use that nomenclature at Newmentia, you know. Just like we were not allowed to call ourselves the unemployment office when I worked for the Missouri Division of Employment Security. No, we must refer to that place as the teacher workroom. Let the record show that no lounging has taken place in that place since we moved into the building in 2000.

In fact, there was not much lounging going on anywhere much after 1989. That I know of. Sure, Mrs. Hillbilly Mom has a sketchy employment past. Going from the original Oldmentia to another school district, then to the unemployment office (for WORK, people, for WORK!), then back to Oldmentia.

The last lounging I remember was back in the day, when smoking was allowed in the teachers' lounge, and I probably picked up a festering case of future lung cancer by sitting in there during lunch. It was so bad that my best ol' ex-teaching buddy Mabel would open the door to that den of hypoactivity, take a huge sucking breath, hold it, run down the steps and over to the Coke machine, buy a soda for herself and her then FBF, and run out before succumbing to lack of oxygen. I'm surprised she didn't have to feel her way through the cloud of ash and smoke that rivaled the Mount St. Helens eruption.

No, these days there is no time for lounging. No permission for smoking. Complaining has to be done on one's lunch shift. That teacher workroom is only good for dalliances with the Kyoceras. It would not surprise me to see a tumbleweed roll out of there. In fact, I daresay students spend more time in that place (against the rules) than faculty.

The old red gradebook is dead, and the teachers' lounge is on its last varicose-veined legs.

Mrs. Hillbilly Mom Throws A Hissy Fit At The Semi-Weekly Meeting Of The Newmentia Lunch Time Think Tank

Okay. Maybe that title should be amended to Mrs. Hillbilly Mom Throws HER MOST RECENT Hissy Fit At The Semi-Weekly Meeting Of The Newmentia Lunch Time Think Tank. Or perhaps even shortened to "WTF?" Shouts Mrs. Hillbilly Mom.

Perhaps I've mentioned that each year, we staffers are expected to watch a series of videos on the recognition and handling of inappropriate behavior on the part of adults concerning children. Long ago, when the videos were still exactly the same as the ones we watch now, we were held captive after our free back-to-Newmentia catered breakfast, and forced encouraged to watch them together on the big screen pulled down over the inner trophy case full of band awards, the sports trophies getting top billing out front facing the entrance doors.

Now we must watch them on our own time. Our own time being at home, while sitting at a baseball game, while driving across a bare boring state like Kansas or Montana, or after school hours or during a couple of classroom work hours allotted prior to The First Day. We have until sometime in September to get them done. Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is of the opinion that one does these mandatory viewings as soon as notified, because then they are done, done, DONE!

Or not.

At the lunch table on the third day of my three-day week, Mr. Princ sat down with a printout. He does this on occasion, sharing scores or other recognitions with selected lunchmates. He showed it to Very Special, pointing out a line highlighted in pink. Then he shoved it over past Jewels until it was in front of Mrs. Hillbilly Mom, and pointed out another pink line, the second of only two on the whole printout.

Mrs. HM smiled and nodded. She was not wearing her glasses, so could not see what the hubbub was about. AND she could not hear what Mr. Princ said, because of the hubbub of a cafeteria full of freshmen, and the crunching of Jewels on a bowl of fish and cruciferous vegetables and bell peppers. "So I want it done." Said Mr. Princ.

WTF? Mrs. Hillbilly Mom was not being singled out for praise? Mrs. Hillbilly Mom was being publicly reprimanded for being remiss in her duties? No way!

"Wait a minute! What IS that?"

"The mandatory videos. You have not watched them."

"Yes I DID! Way before we had to! I did them all! All three!"

"Well, it shows here that you didn't. There's no record of it."

"Don't worry, Mrs. Hillbilly Mom. Go back into that site. You probably did it, but the website didn't record it. That's how mine was. I just had to click on one button." Good to see that Mrs. HM has one supporter amongst the Think Tank.

"There's no PROBABLY to it! I watched them! In fact, it was before our work days. I saw the email and followed the link. I was up here setting up my laptop and control center. The Pony was with me. He even said, 'Do I HAVE to hear this stuff?' Because I was trying out my projector to make sure it worked after I hooked things up. AND when I took one of the quizzes, The Pony glanced over at the screen and said, 'Really? That's not the best answer. I wasn't even listening and I know that.' So I changed it, and that's how I got 100 on that quiz. I got 100 on the other two quizzes, too! I WATCHED THOSE VIDEOS!"

"According to the official reporting site, you didn't. So go in and make sure it's done."

"I will. But I already spent two hours watching them. I don't know why it says I didn't. I have had it with this place. After this year, I AM NOT COMING BACK!" Let the record show that this line is my new favorite saying.


So...I looked back at my email list. And there was the one where I followed the link. And there was the one where I had to reset my password because I forgot it. So I know exactly what day I watched them. I signed in again. It showed ONE of the three was not complete, but that the deadline was approaching on the 25th. I clicked on it. AND got a screen that congratulated me on getting 100 on my quiz. I clicked at the bottom of that notice where the button said [Finish]. That took me right out, with the screen showing that I had no videos scheduled to watch.

I guess I need to check it again next week to make sure the sexual abuse video doesn't try to screw me again.

Setting Him Up For A Life Of Crime

There comes a time when a boy young 'un has to strike out on his own. To take over duties which were done for him during his tender years. Okay. So driving is currently not up for take-over, what with the lack of a license. But Mrs. Hillbilly Mom saw no reason why The Pony couldn't run into The Devil's Playground after school to pick up a couple of items.

After all, The Pony is the one who grabbed the cough medicine this morning to take to school for a noontime treatment. The cough medicine that had barely enough for one dose swirling around the bottom of the bottle, still encased in its box, the measuring cup thingy on top of the lid.

It's not like we hoard the good stuff. No prescription needed. Over-the-counter stuff made for kids. Yes. Even though The Pony has reached the ripe old age of 17, he takes that kid medicine. He can stomach the taste, and it eases his stuffiness or runniness without incapacitating him. He most often takes it at night, or when he's feeling particularly poorly in the first two days of a cold.

Let the record show that The Pony leaves his lunch bag in my room, and comes to pick it up and sometimes heat his food during his lunch shift. It's my plan time then, so we momentarily connect. I don't even see him in the hall the rest of the day.

"Pony. You brought an empty bottle of cough medicine this morning."

"What? Isn't there enough to take some?"

"It looks like there might be almost a dose. We're going to stop by The Devil's Playground on the way home. You can run in and get another bottle."

"I'm pretty sure we have one at home over the stove. By the dishwashing liquid."

"I don't know about that. This might be the last one. I'm not taking a chance on not having any tonight. You don't sound good."

"Okay. But I'm sure we have some."

By the time we hit The Devil's parking lot, I had added another item to the short list.

"Get a bag of that Tyson Honey Chicken while you're in there. I'll drop you off at the pharmacy end, and park down at the food end. Here's cash."

Let the record show that the #1 son loved to use the debit card. But The Pony likes things less complicated. I parked and waited. After 5 minutes, my phone rang.

"Mom? They don't have the honey chicken. I looked in the freezer case with the door across from the hot dog buns where it usually is, and in the middle freezers. It's not anywhere. Should I get a bag of chicken chunks?"

"Yeah. That's fine."

A few minutes later The Pony exited through The Devil's exit door (unlike 95% of his clientele) and squinted like a mole rousted from its burrow in the afternoon sun. He spotted T-Hoe and climbed in.

"They wouldn't let me buy the cough medicine. You have to be 18."

Poor little fella. Given such a daunting task, and thwarted by The Devil. I had no idea there was such a requirement. There are no signs. The stuff is on the shelves, not behind the counter. I suppose it's because of the penchant some ne'er-do-well teens have for slurping that stuff with soda as a mood-altering pharmaceutical. But that's for other places you hear about on TV. Not in Hillmomba.

Anyhoo...I drove back to the pharmacy end of The Playground. Teetered across the lot on sore knees that didn't get their ibuprofen last night and endured a standing 30-minute tribute this morning. I found the cough medicine right where The Pony described it. The same stuff he's taken since he was 4 or 5 years old. The box was kind of crinkled, but it was the only one on the shelf. The slot next to it was empty, and the other side was a different kind.

I paid relatively quickly after being next to next to next in line. Teetered back out across the parking lot like a prize sweet potato on toothpick legs.

"This was the last one. I guess they kept that other one you had at the register."

"Last one? There were five on the shelf when I got that one."

"Huh. I guess that's why they have an age limit. This stuff must be really good. It's flying off the shelf!"

Let the record show that we DID have an unopened boxed bottle of that cough medicine over the stove, behind the Dawn.

I feel kind of bad for subjecting The Pony to embarrassment, even though he said it didn't bother him.

Sweet Gummi Mary! Please Don't Let Mrs. Hillbilly Mom Be TP.

Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is putting forth a valiant effort not to be That Person.

Really. She is quite beside herself after four years of dealing with the issue personally, and 15 years of dealing with it professionally.

Newmentia has That Person. That Person who seems to think itself a professor prepping future Nobel Prize winners. That Person who makes coursework and tests so difficult that Al Einstein himself would find it difficult to succeed.

Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is constantly adjusting her evaluatory tools. Some pupils each year, each semester, each quarter...should be able to achieve an 'A'. If not, something is wrong with Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's methodology. Which is not to say everybody should get an 'A'. Or even that everybody should pass. But the top level of evaluation should be attainable.

Pupils from That Person's rolls have, over the years, voiced displeasure with procedures. Pupils who, when told to interpret a work, do so with specific references, and reasons for their perceptions, only to be told that this interpretation is incorrect. Phooey on the effort. There is only one way to look at the assigned piece.

Likewise, other pupils in other courses of That Person, who have a proven track record for the three previous years, allowing them to soar in the rarefied air above the merely superior crowd, have voiced concerns that some test items are too random, too obscure.

A recent evaluation left the majority of the class below the passing level. A rare occurrence for honors pupils. Some tears may or may not have been generated by one receiving a 'C'. Let the record show that when the impending valedictorian scores a "B-", with the impending salutatorian three raw score points higher, and the impending thirdplaceorian one raw score point above impending valedictorian...something seems to be awry. One may have had an off day, neglected to prepare adequately. But not all three. And certainly not the whole class. Those leopards do not change their spots.

If a National Merit Scholar Semifinalist cannot achieve an 'A' in a course of That Person, WHO can?

Apparently the hue and cry from the cellar is generating a second opportunity for all involved. For the first time in history.

Please don't let Mrs. Hillbilly Mom be That Person. The one who makes reaching the pinnacle impossible. Nor the one who opens her big fat mouth to complain on her way out the door.