A Competitive Eater, A Juggler, And A Pick-Up Artist Walk Into A Mansion...

Sweet Gummi Mary! Has Mrs. Hillbilly Mom bitten off more than she can chew? It is highly conceivable that she has bitten off more than Takeru Kobayashi can chew.

So much for this being a leisurely week without work, waiting for Christmas to roll around on Friday. Mrs. Hillbilly Mom has more balls in the air right now than The Pony's balls that she held in her hand in Little Caesar's.

So many balls, in fact, that Mrs. HM had to type out an itinerary for the rest of the week, lest she drop a ball and ruin somebody's Christmas. It's even more hectic than the year Farmer H decided to have his titanium plate screwed into his neck vertebrae two days before Christmas, leaving Santa HM to do all the heavy lifting. And everything else. Because the Hillbilly young 'uns would not have understand if Santa was delayed by a few weeks.

The #1 son is home from college. He made it clear that he did not have any reason that he HAD to come home. He was only doing it for the Hillbilly family. So they could bask in the 2000-watt glow of his naturally sunny nature. Mrs. HM herself was almost blinded by his light, trying to stir her world-famous Chex Mix at the same cutting block where #1 had pulled up a stool and was feeding directly from a take-out hot & sour soup container filled with Mansion Chex Mix. That's the leavings from the bottom of the pans, after the good stuff is socked away for more worthy recipients.

#1 DID bring us a loaf of pumpkin bread that he made from his very own backyard pumpkin. It was quite tasty, the morsel I indulged in around 11:00. Had I only known the way the day was about to turn, I would have snatched that loaf away from #1 and gnawed it until only a heel was left. Let the record show that Mrs. HM did not get her lunch today until...well...until 6:30 p.m. Which is hardly worth eating by that time, having already bypassed the supper hour, and making the thought of "lupper" ludicrous.

Sure, I had a raggedy slice of DiGiorno that had been INTENDED for my lupper, which I popped in the oven at 3:11, planning on a leisurely repast after a hard day of Chex Mix making, present wrapping, Farmer H-communicating, grocery shopping, and 44 oz Diet Coke gathering. Plus picking up items belonging to #1 from every open surface that had just been cleared. However, that slice was not grabbed until 4:10, as I was on the way out the door to be driven by #1 to--

That's a secret. To be revealed on my not-quite-as-supersecret blog.

A competitive eater, a juggler, and a pick-up artist walk into a Mansion...and Mrs. Hillbilly Mom walks out the back door munching on a cold slice of DiGiorno.

Mrs. Hillbilly Mom Drives A Hard Bargain And A 2008 T-Hoe

What do you get a Hillbilly Mom who has everything?

A new car, of course!

We have been in the market for a replacement for T-Hoe since summer. That's because Farmer H won't get off his duff and get T-Hoe fixed. Always a reason why he can't. Like the ENTIRE summer, when I did not need a car, and he could have taken T-Hoe to work and had him serviced nearby. But no. He waited until I went back to school, then played that ol' "You won't drive anything else, so I can't take T-Hoe to get fixed" card. Pshaw! Farmer H is no card player. I can see through his bluffing. Besides, I could certainly drive my mom's Trailblazer that we bought half of from my sister the ex-mayor's wife.

Anyhoo...that plan fell through one Saturday when Farmer H had an arm-flinging pity party and stalked out because I wanted to wait 30 minutes past his planned departure time for car-shopping. After I'd done all that work looking up possible vehicles. At the time, we were in the market for a used auto, and planning to keep T-Hoe. Because Farmer H wants him.

We are still planning to keep T-Hoe. But after considering the cost of used vehicles, what with their significant mileage, and the difference in paying a bit more for a new one...we've decided on new. I spent many a workplace hour scanning the innernets during the last, disrupted, week of classes before Christmas break. And I came up with four Tahoes that were suitable.

So...Friday night, Farmer H's birthday, we went out to eat, and to drive by one car dealer and scope out my find. Of course Farmer H got out and joined in a conversation with a salesman. WHILE THE PONY AND I WERE WAITING TO EAT! To get to the restaurant before the Friday night crowd. He actually wanted to go back after eating, what with that dealer staying open until 8:00. But The Pony and I said no.

Saturday morning, off we went. To look at this baby:

It's a 2015 model, but new. So really, you're getting a new car at a cheaper price. We drove onto the lot and parked in front of it and got out to look. While the salesman was fetching the night-before salesman, who'd given Farmer H his card...I got to looking at a couple of other nearby vehicles. Because I really don't like the new body style of Tahoes, which started in 2015. That's why I had been fine with finding a used one before. These are just too boxy in the back.

Anyhoo...the salesman came out and offered to get the key so we could take this Tahoe for a drive. But Farmer H also asked him to get the key to a smaller car that I had taken a shine to. I did not enjoy my Tahoe ride. The console was almost up to my armpit, and shelfed straight to the radio area with nary a dip down to cupholders. like my trusty T-Hoe. I felt crammed in. Like an astronaut in my space suit, awaiting blast-off.

We climbed out and perused the smaller car. It was cuter from the outside. Still had all leather interior. I sat in the passenger seat. Delightful. More leg room than the Tahoe. Then Farmer H asked the crucial question. Was it 4WD? Um. NO. It didn't come in 4WD. However...they had ONE on the lost with AWD. The salesman went for the key. I did not want to drive it. But Farmer H insisted. So I took a low-speed tour of the parking lot.

I LOVED THAT LITTLE CAR!

That's when Farmer H started talking about buying it. We had plans to visit two dealerships for sure. For the Tahoes. I told Farmer H that I had no idea what these smaller cars cost, and how much I was willing to pay. We made it clear that we were still going to visit another dealer, then went inside to talk to the salesman. Of course he asked what he could do to make us buy today. I told him my bottom line. Or top line. He countered with a price $900.20 over. Which would have been fine. But of course his boss wouldn't accept it. The closest he could get was $4000 over my bottom line. Nope. Not paying a Tahoe price for a car not even 4WD.

So we walked. Drove to our next dealership. Where they had the Tahoe I had looked up but no longer liked. And none of my precious little car because they are a Chevy/Cadillac dealer, and didn't carry any new GMC models. However...they could do a dealer trade and bring one in from Pennsylvania with only 5.000 miles on it. For $1000 over my bottom line. Nope. We went back to the first dealer to give one more chance at my precious.

They came down by splitting the difference with Farmer H's new bottom line, $2000 over mine, which I told Farmer H they would do before we even got out of the T-Hoe. Nope. So long, farewell, auf wiedersehen, goodbye. There was money still on the table, and it was THEIR table.

Back home, I looked up my new precious. A GMC Acadia. A dealer 30 minutes to the north of Hillmomba has nine of them! Two being crimson red, making them even more precious than my previous frost white precious. AND both of them with a list price $2000 under the bottom line of our unyielding dealer.

Farmer H is going by to talk turkey on THIS little beauty Monday evening:

He says it can be my Christmas present. Which is kind of a Farmer H way of getting out of choosing a real gift. But I'll take it.

An Operative In Our Midst

Sometimes I wonder what will become of The Pony. Such a steel-trap mind. Quite suited for government work. So literal. So detail-oriented. So sneaky. Yet so transparent.

Perhaps you recall the Newmentia Christmas door decorating contest I wrote of yesterday. Perhaps. Unless you are Farmer H, and can't remember things from one day to the next. The judging, as you but not Farmer H will recall, was to be Wednesday, after 5th Hour. Decorating could happen any time between Monday morning and then, the only stipulations being that participation was limited to the pupils enrolled in the 5th Hour class, and that the doors were not to be hung before Wednesday 5th Hour.

Monday afternoon, four hours after throwing down the gauntlet for the Newmentia Lunch Time Think Tank, I locked up my door and headed down the hall. The Pony pranced a few steps ahead. Even loaded down with my education accouterments, he can still out-stroll Mrs. Hillbilly Mom.

"Oops! I'm taking a picture of this." The Pony camera-ed up his cell phone, and snapped a photo of EbonyLocks's door. "That's a violation. I'm sending it to Ms. Pauper. They need to be disqualified."

Which I suppose they were. Because the rest of the two days, the paper-wrapped door bore no further filigree. Only the words "Merry Christmas" written in marker near the top. Such a shame, a lackluster entry such as that from the most creative class amongst us.

Cheaters gonna cheat. Tattlers gonna tattle. Pony's gonna Pone.

Mrs. Hillbilly Mom Gives Notice To The Newmentia Lunch Time Think Tank

On Tuesday, at approximately 11:09, Mrs. Hillbilly Mom gave notice to the Newmentia Lunch Time Think Tank.

"I don't mean to discourage all of you, but you might as well give up on winning the holiday door contest. Because I'm pretty sure my class is going to take it. I have the Voc/Ed kids, you know. Who are all about winning a school contest where the prize is nothing. And as you know, since we can work on it any hour of the day, from Monday morning until Wednesday 5th hour, as long as it is only our 5th hour pupils doing the work...I think you should know that I have ONE kid who has volunteered to maybe come in another hour and get it ready. Out of my four pupils who are not gone the first four periods to Voc/Ed. Oh, and we had a test on Monday, so we got in about 15 minutes of planning at the end of 5th hour. This morning nobody showed up to work. But I'm confident that today 5th hour, we'll get that baby going. Even though the girl who came up with the idea and drew the picture is out sick today. So...you may as well hang it up. Your hope, that is, of winning. Not your actual door decoration. Because I'm pretty sure my class will take the grand prize."

Would you believe that they did not seem intimidated?

Let the record show that Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's class did NOT win the door decorating contest. I can feel your shock emanating through my monitor. Arch Nemesis won, Sweet Alabama Beige was second, and Mrs. Not-A-Cook was third.

But that's not the story! The story is about how selfless and thoughtful my voc/ed kids are! Who knew? Seems like only yesterday (well, technically it WAS yesterday) that my pupils who decorated the door did not clean up their mess left from Wednesday when we rushed to an assembly right after hanging the door by the deadline of 5th hour dismissal bell.

I had The Pony put away the tubs of scissors and markers and glue that they left on my back desks instead of stowing them back in the cabinet. I left the sections of yellow and blue and black and white butcher paper crumpled under the TV, on the bottom shelf of the cart. I was sure they would clean up the mess Thursday. But no. No mention of it.

Today, we only had a half-class 5th hour, due to our early out. The minute those kids came in, I reminded them that the door needed to be undecorated, and the mess thrown away. They set to taking down the door. One of them wanted her main design, so another rolled it up for her. There was a roll of usable black paper that I told them to put back in the supply room. Meaning ONE of them. Yet THREE went to return it, and took their own sweet time coming back, with an alibi that Mrs. Tomato Squirter had been talking to them, and gave them each a candy cane. Uh huh. Rewarding herd mentality, giving away three canes when one should have sufficed, since it does not take THREE upperclassmen to carry one slim roll of paper back to the supply room.

But here's the kicker. That leftover crumpled paper?

"Mrs. Hillbilly Mom, this will not fit in your wastebasket."

"Then take it out to the big wastebasket in the cafeteria."

"BUT THEY ALREADY DUMPED THE TRASH!"

Uh huh. How thoughtful my pupils were of the workers who dumped the trash. Who dump the cafeteria trash each day after third lunch shift. Who are students in Voc/Ed with them. Getting out of a regular class to get credit for cleaning the cafeteria.

"Well, that's too bad. But I have news for you. That trash can in the cafeteria is not going to stay empty for the two weeks over Christmas vacation. It will have more trash in it by the time we leave in ten minutes. But if you're that concerned about them, maybe you should have thrown away your trash YESTERDAY! And then it would have been taken out and dumped TODAY! Right after lunch!"

Yes. Upperclassmen gonna upperclass. Gonna try to get the upper hand. Let the record show that the carefully-rolled-up and taped main door design was left laying on my back table. To greet us in two weeks when we return.

A Cane-Wreath Ain't Safe In A Classroom Of Frosh

One more half-day of school until Christmas break!

Okay. The Truth in Blogging Law requires me to inform you that our last day of attendance is actually a four-and-a-half/sevenths day. We are not released until the middle of 5th hour. But still, we think we're gettin' a deal.

This being the last week, I have been the recipient of two Christmas cards, a gift bag (filled with a mug, a bag of Gummi Bears, two blue candy canes, plus a plastic ornament filled with assorted chocolate candies), and four short Tootsie Roll logs, a cherry Tootsie Pop, and a mini box of Dots. Scoff if you will, but we teachers of big kids rarely get any swag such as this.

Oh, and this morning, I found THIS on my desk:

That peppermint wreath was from NHS. Now I know why The Pony had to bring in two boxes of candy canes, which could only be classic, not Starburst or Jolly Rancher flavors and colors. Is it ironic that this is exactly how many candy canes The Pony brought?

So...there I was, still admiring my peppermint wreath, having laid it on the back table considering it takes up considerable room, which was not available in my private cabinet where random pupils are wont to forage through to check out textbooks while Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is away at jury duty...when the abomination occurred.

Yes. I had all of my pre-first-bell minutes, plus one class period to soak in the raw beauty of my wreath. Then the bell rang. My first hour pupils exited, and my second hour pupils entered. Simultaneously. They can't get enough of Mrs. Hillbilly Mom. By the time three had come inside, one was already manhandling my magnificent peppermint wreath!

There he stood, a hulking figure with a baby face, one finger inserted into a peppermint hook, SPINNING MY WREATH LIKE IT WAS A WHIRLING DERVISH! Which made quite a racket on the rough-surfaced plastic table.

"IS THAT YOURS?" Sometimes, Mrs. Hillbilly Mom simply has to shout. And it has nothing to do with being heard.

"No."

"THEN GET YOUR HANDS OFF IT! Since when do I let you touch my stuff. Get away. That is just rude."

"Oh. Okay then."

Freshmen. THIS is why we can't have nice things.

Mr. G. Carlin Would Have More Than Seven On His List These Days

Let the record show that the exact phrase is not used in this post, so as not to draw curiosity seekers. But you can get the gist of it, and consult my former BFF Google if you dare.

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The Semi Weekly Meeting of the Newmentia Lunch Time Think Tank was abuzz yesterday with talk of a near-scandal. All because of our holiday door decorating contest. Well. That, and the pupils’ penchant for turning perfectly innocent words into naughty ideas.

Jewels set it off. “I went by The Devil’s Playground this morning to pick up something to wear. I didn’t get an ugly holiday sweater, but I got a Christmas sweatshirt. Then I looked down while I was in line to check out, and saw that it was Rudolph holding two beer mugs! I thought it was just a reindeer! Can you imagine how THAT would have gone over? I have to watch my kids so that they don’t put something inappropriate on our door. Like Net Flicks and Cool. Apparently, that's bad.”

Tomato-Squirter warned us all. “Do you guys know what means?”

“Well, I’d say it means to kick back and watch some movies at home and cool out.” The Woodsman had it covered.

“NO!”

“It doesn’t?”

“NO! I can’t tell you what it means!” Tomato-Squirter, holding out on us.

The Man in Charge got out his phone and looked up urban slang. “Whoa! I can’t tell you, either.” He passed the phone around the table.

Mrs. Hillbilly Mom did not have her glasses. “You guys. I can’t read this. Can one of you read it out loud to me?”

“NOOOO!”

“We’ll hold it way over here where you can focus.” Very Special is always willing to go the extra yard.

“Oh. Wait. I think I can make it out. Wow.”

“I wonder if my sons know about this. I’m sure they do. But I’m not going to ask.” Very Special, wondering how she was going to ask.

“Well, they ARE boys.”

“I’m sure my Pony knows. Not that he’d ever tell me. But he spends three hours down in the computer room where he has to sit under the table so the kids leave him alone, so I’m sure he knows.”

Face palm from The Woodsman. “Why do they always have to take perfectly normal words and ruin them?”

“Because that’s what they do. That one kid yesterday had a T-shirt that said, ‘I love my wiener.’ Sure, it had a picture of a dachshund on it. I looked at him, and he said, ‘I have another shirt in my locker.’ He KNEW!”

“Like that kid several years ago with the Santa T-shirt that said, ‘I have a big package for you.’”

Tomate-Squirter revealed her near-miss. Or near-scandal. “Okay, so my class was getting their door decorations ready, and we had a big penguin, and I said, ‘Wouldn’t it be cute it we put, Just Coolin’ on there?’ And they all yelled, ‘NO! You CAN’T do that! Don’t you know what it means?’ So I told them, 'No, and I’m not sure I WANT to know. Is it BAD?’ And they assured me that it was. Very bad. And it looks like they were right.”

“I had no idea." The Woodsman's ears were red. And most of his face. "I could see myself texting my wife: ‘Hey, tonight, you wanna watch Net Flicks and cool?’ And she would agree, and say that would be fun, and pop up a bunch of popcorn and stuff.”

“Just don’t text the basketball coach by mistake, like that one time about the snow day that wasn’t our school.”

“That would be bad. IF he knew what it meant.”

"I went home and asked my daughter about it. She said, 'MOM! Everybody knows that.' So then I asked her, 'So when you tell me you're just watching movies...does that mean...' And she said, "Ugh! NO! It just means we're watching movies.' So I was relieved. But you never know."Tomato-Squirter. Ever vigilant. Forgetting the time she referred to her movies from home as "adult" movies, when all she meant was that they were not her kids' movies.

Let the record show that later, on the way home, I asked The Pony about this phrase.

“Um. Yes. How do YOU know? Don’t ever say that again.”

“Why didn’t you tell me what it meant?”

“I didn’t think you’d ever say it.”

“YOU better never say it.”

“I don’t. I don’t believe in Net Flicks and coolin’ because coolin’ leads to children.”

I'm Pretty Sure It's Against The Law To Slice Him Open, Though

Did you ever read Illusions, by Richard Bach? If so, you might remember a quote: “You are never given a dream without also being given the power to make it true. You may have to work for it, however.”

Allow me to paraphrase Bach. “Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is never given a problem without Even Steven providing a solution. She may not like it, though.”

The Pony has been practicing his driving in T-Hoe. He is a ball of nerves, sitting with his chin over the steering wheel, shoulders tense, his hands with a grip like an eagle’s talons on a fat groundhog. He commented after his second day of chauffeuring me home from Newmentia that there seemed to be something wrong with the steering wheel. There was a rough crumbly substance on it, he said.

The next morning, I, too, noticed a dark powder on the wheel. And on the armrest amongst the myriad of window, mirror, and door lock controls. Huh. Maybe something blew into the air ducts. But more than likely, The Pony had ground down the leather like a 12-year-old nag had ground down his horse teeth. He HAD mentioned that there was a rough spot on the left side, at about the 10 o’clock position.

“I know. It’s been there for years. Like a scratch. With three cat claws. I think your dad did it with his wedding ring. Or he just picked at it. Like he used to do with the edge of the table next to the La-Z-Boy.”

Let the record show that the rough spot has been on T-Hoe’s steering wheel for at least five years. It’s annoying. Unpleasant for Mrs. Hillbilly Mom’s soft-as-a-baby’s-butt hands.

Flash forward to Sunday, when Mrs. HM got into T-Hoe for a trip to town to gather a 44 oz Diet Coke, and supplies for Chex makin’ from Save A Lot.

THE ROUGH SPOT WAS GONE!

Short of a miraculous healing of long-dead leather, Mrs. HM could only come up with one solution. The dietary habits of Farmer H.

We made a stop on the way to visit the #1 son in College Town on Saturday. At that stop, in order to use the facilities, Mrs. HM bought some lottery tickets and water, and Farmer H bought a Diet Mountain Dew and a Slim Jim. Let the record show that Mrs. HM paid for it all. And that it was a double Slim Jim, and Farmer H shared it. Which meant he unwrapped his own portion, and peeled back the plastic.

Farmer H inadvertently repared the previous damage he had inflicted on T-Hoe by slathering the steering wheel with Slim Jim grease.

I’m sure there’s a Common Fixes for Everyday Problems book somewhere inside Farmer H. And he doesn’t even know it’s trying to get out.