The Man Who Typed Wolf

Farmer H nearly scared me out of my skin this afternoon. That man needs to think before he texts.

There I was, sitting at my New Delly in my dark basement lair, when my cell phone buzzed. That means a text. So I turn it on, and see "Dad" because the #1 son set up my phone, and of course not my husband's name comes up for his number, but only "Dad." And there on the main screen, at the bottom, right below "Dad" was the tail-end of the text. So all I could read was

BRAIN DEAD I GUESS

Oh, dear. That set my heart to thumping. NO! What had happened? Was it one of Farmer H's workmates? Somebody from our enclave? A relative on Farmer H's side of the family? What terrible fate could have befallen them? The cold? Did somebody get locked out in this single-digit weather? Has somebody been ill? What could have happened? It had to be someone connected to Farmer H, or I would have been notified as well.

With shaking hands, I opened up the message:

"I need u to teach me how to convert a decimal to a fraction tonight I have no idea brain dead I guess"

Well. Thank the Gummi Mary! It was only Farmer H who was brain dead.

Not that I could tell a difference.

Never A Plan With That One

You know how you look forward to Fridays? And especially to Friday nights, when you have the whole weekend ahead of you, and in this most recent case, a THREE-DAY (!) weekend ahead of you, not a care in the world. A Friday night to let your hair down, relax, slip into your comfortable sweatpants with the hole at the hip, and your red Crocs, and your pinstriped oxford shirt with several stains upon the front. Perhaps order in some Chinese picked up by Farmer H. Ah, yes. Friday night! Could there be anything better to look forward to?

Why yes there could! A short visit from the #1 son on Saturday morning, to provide The Pony with his new hand-me-down phone, thus restoring The Pony's internet capabilities. So Mrs. Hillbilly Mom and The Pony were both stoked for the start of the long weekend. We were delayed a bit at Newmentia, because Mrs. HM had put in the wrong assignment title in preparation for Tuesday's work. But after that, we were making an early getaway, and stopping by Save A Lot briefly to pick up some hamburger. Save A Lot has their own butcher, and their hamburger is the best around! Forget that watery tasteless Devil's Playground hamburger. Save A Lot's hamburger is just right. Moist and tasty, drawing rave reviews in chili, soup, meatloaf, and grilled burgers. My mom used to quiz me on how I provided her with such tasty leftovers. It's all in the hamburger. And now I was picking up some hamburger to brew up a pot of chili on Saturday morning, to give #1 a couple of soup containers full of chili to take back with him. He loves my chili.

Yes, we had been workin' for the weekend. But now I was about to go off the deep end.

As I sat at my desk deleting and adding assignment titles in the gradebook program, my cell phone rang. I knew it had to be Farmer H or the #1 son, because they both call at absolutely the most inconvenient moments. That, and they're the only two people who ever call me.

"Mom? I'm in The Previous Population Center of the United States, on the way home. I'm switching out the phones today."

"WHAT? We did not expect you until tomorrow morning! We haven't even left school yet! And I was going by the store. I was planning to make you some chili! The house is a mess."

"I'll only be there about 10 minutes. I need to be back in College Town by six." Let the record show that College Town is 1:45 away on a good day. And it was already 3:20, with #1 an hour still from the Mansion.

"The phone is in a pile of stuff on the kitchen counter. I guess you can find it. Do you think you can get everything done in 10 minutes?" Let the record show that #1 had mistakenly had his NEW phone FedExed to the Manion, and had called the evening it arrived blaming ME because he didn't think to change the shipping address when he used my credit card to order HIMSELF a NEW phone so The Pony could get his hand-me-down. "Like I said, we really weren't expecting you. So don't think the house is going to be picked up. It's the end of the week, and I've been working."

"I'll find it. I'll probably be gone by the time you get home."

"I'm just saying...we were not expecting you. So the house won't be up to your standards."

"Then you're really not going to be happy to hear that Bud is with me."

"NOOOOOOOOO!!!"

#1 either lost service, or he hung up on me, because there was no further response.

I am sorry, Bud, that you were probably listening to my end of the conversation on #1's fancy phone-plays-out-the-car-radio system. I bear you no ill will, Bud. In fact, I find myself liking you better than #1, because you are polite, witty, and seem to share my sense of sensibility. Sure, you are probably just Eddie-Haskelling me...but you're a smooth operator, Bud. However...Mrs. HM does not like visitors in her house, especially when she has nobody willing to help, and no time to straighten up the Mansion. It's not you. It's her.

"Pony. You know how you just sent Dad that text on my phone to pick up Chinese? Do you think we ought to text him back so he can get something for #1 and Bud? He's on his way there right now. He says he's only staying 10 minutes."

"Nah. They'll be gone before Dad gets home with the food."

"Yeah. It's always at least 5:30 or 5:45 when Dad picks up Chinese. And #1 said last time that the Chinese he gets in College Town every week with the $6 that Grandma wanted him sent is SO MUCH BETTER than ours."

I decided to go straight home. No need to get the hamburger yet, because no time for the chili. It doesn't take long...but it takes more than 10 minutes.

Of course you know what happened. #1 had trouble getting The Pony's new old phone to utilize the unlimited internet on our plan. He fired up my Shiba in the front window and announced he would be using up 10% of MY internet remaining until the end of the month. Then Farmer H came up the driveway at 4:45 bearing Chinese. Which The Pony promptly ran to the kitchen to dish up while I was sitting in the La-Z-Boy entertaining Bud.

"Oh. Since you had only planned on being here for 10 minutes, we did not order you the Chinese we had planned on for supper."

"WHAT? I LOVE that Chinese!"

"Well...you can have what I ordered, but I don't think you like Hunan pork."

"Pony! Can I have some of your sweet & sour chicken?"

"Sure."

"Bud! Come on, let's get some chicken." And sauce. And then the pint of fried rice. Traipsing through the messy kitchen.

"I had planned to make you some chili to take back with you."

"Then get in the kitchen, woman, and get to making chili!"

"Um. I did not go by the store, because you were only going to be here 10 minutes. Now you've been here an hour and 15 minutes. I could have made chili. But you're supposed to be back in College Town in a half hour."

"Oh, I don't HAVE to be back. I had just planned on being back."

"Here. Here's some gas money for coming home to make sure The Pony had his internet."

"Good. Because I need it. Whoa! Forty? I thought it was only twenty!"

"Then give one back."

"No. That's okay. Hey, Bud. Here's a fortune cookie. Ooh! Listen to mine: 'You will come into some money.' Says the forty dollars in my pocket!"

"There's a container of Chex Mix left in that box on the kitchen table. You can take that back with you."

"No. You should have offered it before I was full of sweet and sour chicken. Anyway, I think we're done now."

"Well...maybe BUD would like to take it." Let the record show that Bud is an RA, trapped in the dorm, and that such sadness passed across Bud's face when #1 refused the Chex Mix that I HAD to offer it to him.

"Thank you! Yes, I'll take it." Said Bud appreciatively, as he traipsed back through the messy kitchen and popped the top and started munching.

#1 loaded up his laptop, grabbed his new phone, and hit the road. A whirlwind visit that only delayed Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's comfortable clothes and Chinese supper by an hour and 30 minutes. And used up 20% of her remaining internet for the month.

What's A Worried Hillbilly Mom To Do?

I am worried about my sweet, sweet Juno since the sudden disappearance of her four-legged frenemy, poor dumb Ann.

Sure, my sweet, sweet Juno was crotchety with Ann when they both crowded around the side porch for pats and cat kibble. That was just her stomach talkin'. From her meager beginnings as a dumped puppy that my mom starved for two days hoping she would go away. Even as a tiny scrap of caninity, my sweet, sweet Juno growled and showed her teeth when scarfing down her half a can of puppy chicken from the paper plate set on the back porch by the kitchen door. Ann and our other dogs Grizzly and Tank the beagle crowded around, eager to lick what was left. Which was NOTHING.

Now my sweet, sweet Juno is timid. Sure, she still yaps and frolics when Farmer H starts up the Gator. But she has no one to shoulder out of the way to run closest to the green machine. She does not bark her fool head off every morning. I fear that the neighbor's demon poodle may have his way with her. I imagine that Juno runs into her house and growls when dogs enter the yard now.

Just this afternoon, when I tossed some leftover Stovetop stuffing and corn muffins to the yard chickens, Juno stayed on the porch at my heels. She did not jump off and try to eat those snacks before the chickens. I took her around to her food pan on the back porch and poured out the remains of the beans and ham. She was excited at first, as I scraped all the meaty goodness off the sides. Until the cat came to her pan.

That tan-striped cat is a demon, I swear. I have never liked him much. Now that he has the fighting eye injury, he looks like a 1950s New York tough with a chip on his shoulder. He got up under my feet before I was even done scraping, lapping at those beans, dangerously close to a large hunk of ham and sinew that had fallen off the bone I gave Juno earlier in the week. Juno took a step toward the pan, a low growl rumbling from her chest area. That darn cat HISSED at her! At Juno's own food pan! I wanted to thump him on the head with the scraping spoon, but I didn't know what disease I might pick up from his gouged eye. Which is open now, by the way. But the fur is gone all around it. Instead, I said, sternly, in teacher mode, "Here now! None of that!" And my sweet, sweet Juno turned tail and ran! She thought I was scolding HER.

It took a lot of coaxing to draw her back. She lowered herself onto her stretched-out front legs, in a submissive pose, and crept forward a tiny bit, whining anxiously. I had to scoop that cat away with my foot. He jumped up on the porch rail with his crony, the female gray calico with a crumpled ear. They are a band of toughs, I tell you, those mailbox cats. So...after much making-over, my sweet, sweet Juno came to lick at the beans that had spilled on the porch boards. I kept pointing to the lump of ham in the pan. I'll be ding dang donged if those cats were going to get the meat!

While I was standing guard over my sweet, sweet Juno, that darn tan cat leaned off the rail, reaching for me with his right paw, claws extended! I know what he was up to. In years past, I used to walk around and around the Mansion porch for exercise. I would reach out and pet the cats sitting in various locations along the rail. Our best cat, Genius, now deceased of old age, was the best. He would arch his back and walk under my hand. So as I passed, I could smooth him from head to the tip of his yellow-striped tail. But this one would reach out, grab my hand, and try to BITE me! I do not think it was a love bite. Judging from the look in his eye. So now, I leaned over as far away as I could get, hoping he would fall off the rail onto the porch and scamper away in embarrassment. But no. He almost overbalanced, and drew back. Those two watched Juno eating at her own pan. Then she grabbed the hunk of ham and took off for her house.

I am worried about my sweet, sweet Juno. Spring needs to spring, so we can commence with the puppy-gettin'.

But Mrs. Hillbilly Mom STILL Got Two Christmas Cards And One Gift!

One of the signs of the impending end of civilization manifested yesterday in Mrs. Hillbilly Mom’s classroom. Make that two.

I was passing back papers as soon as the bell rang. That’s my MO. I have them sorted in the order of my seating chart, and carry them to the hall as I supervise runners and PDAers, then pass them out when the bell rings and I enter the classroom. That gives the pupils something to do during the 30 seconds that I need to take attendance, then we go over the answers before moving on.

I handed a stack of seven papers to a lad. I do it every single day. He knows he’s the one who starts the passing chain. Seven papers. Not a stack of 20 reams. Seven papers. Not too heavy. Laddy had his trapper/keeper on top of his desk. He was fiddling with something, perhaps his pencil, and reached as I was laying them on the trapper. Mrs. Hillbilly Mom waits for no pencil. Her schedule must be maintained. In the process of the handoff, the stack of papers slipped. Three of them fell to the floor right beside Laddy’s desk.

Let the record show that in years past, pupils were eager to help. Eager to nab any fallen educational accouterments. Like a toy poodle on a dropped chocolate-covered peanut. Like Red-Bull-fortified ball boys at Wimbledon. Center Court. If Mrs. Hillbilly Mom so much as knocked a paperclip off her desk, four or five of her pupils were after it like Super Bowl players on a fumble.

More recently, pupils do not respond. Sure, I could ask somebody to pick it up. Please. And they would. But not spontaneously, for the joy of helping. You’d think they were all mini Ponies, not caring one whit about helping others. And even The Pony would pick up something for a teacher! Or any adult. These current pupils knock a pencil off their desk, and look to Mrs. Hillbilly Mom as she walks by, as if expecting HER to pick up the pencil for THEM!

Let the record further show that Mrs. Hillbilly Mom HAS picked up items for pupils. But she prefers not to. First of all, she does not want to expose pupils seated nearby to a close-up view of her ample buttocks. Nor does she want to give a peep show down her shirt. Because unlike The Pony, Mrs. HM does not top-button the collar of her shirt like she’s trying to keep hazardous material out. And…Mrs. HM, a Rubenesque specimen, only clothed, is not particularly fond of bending over.

It’s not just the picking-up portion of common faculty/pupil etiquette that has gone the way of the dodo bird. It is customary, whence returning from an absence, for the pupil to get a slip from the office to present to each teacher for initialing. That way, we know if the absence was excused, and whether to give makeup work. It is customary for a student to bring that slip to the desk at the beginning of the class period, have it signed, and receive the work. Routine, you know. Nowadays, a student will wave that absentee slip like a NASCAR finish line flag as the teacher walks past on the way to her desk. Sometimes, I will stop and sign. But that means using the pupil’s pencil, no doubt laden with the prevalent virus at the time. The pupil is still expected to come to the desk for the work. But no. Only yesterday, a lass remained at her desk. I went to the back corner of the room to my control center, fished her paper out of the absent stack, and started all the way back to the opposite corner to deliver it.

“I’ll meet you halfway,” Lassie said. As if SHE was doing ME a favor!

Mrs. Hillbilly Mom’s retirement looms on the horizon.

It’s the end of the school as we know it. And I feel fine.

So Popular An Attraction, It's Almost Impossible To Get A Seat

Bathroom time is at a premium in Newmentia. A one-seater for female faculty is not facility-using-friendly for the 11 faculty and support staff who must share it at this end of the hall. Not to mention the others from Western Newmentia who happen to be running copies and decide to partake of our privy. There are four minutes between classes. Not enough time for 11+ womenfolks to do their business. Just two days ago, Italian Chandelier came off the throne, threw open the door, saw us waiting, and said, “At the Newmentia faculty women’s restroom, you’re always third in line.” Yeah. On a good day.

Yesterday was not a good day. I hoofed it up the hall, hoping to grab some prime water-closet real estate, only to find Sweet Alabama Beige standing in front of my desired destination, her hand on the door handle. She was having a discussion with The Professor.

[Pardon me while we stop to trash The Professor, the only teacher whom, in a variety of courses, has ever stymied my boys. They have never been able to earn an A. Oh, the occasional A- has slipped through, probably an oversight on The Professor’s part. And it IS true that Newmentia has an elevated 11-point grading scale, with a 93% being necessary for an A-, and a 97% for an A. But still. If a Commended National Merit Scholar and a National Merit Scholar Semifinalist (so far) cannot earn an A, who in this Newsweek Top 500 School can? It seems to me that an A must at least be attainable. Faculty who dish out too many Fs are encouraged to review their methods and curriculum. So, too, should those whose educational currency is the incredible unattainable A.]

Anyhoo, now that I’m refreshed from my soap box sojourn…I was standing outside the faculty workroom door, looking in at the not-quite-animated discussion. Knowing that Sweet Alabama Beige (bless her heart!) is not one to end conversations succinctly, but is wont to explore all options before putting the brakes on her vocabularic vehicle, I abandoned all hope before I entered there. Not gonna happen. No way was Sweet Alabama Beige going put that confab to bed and take care of her business within four minutes. AND there was the matter of The Professor. Merely chatting, or waiting for a turn? Nobody knows.

That is one of the perks of being retired, I suppose. Using your own bathroom whenever the urge strikes, and not standing in line, or having somebody thumping on the door the minute you descend onto the throne.

Have you heard? I will be sitting blissfully on my own toilet in a mere FOUR MONTHS!

Mrs. HM Would Probably Make An Exemplary Undercover Agent

Newmentia was having a meeting yesterday after hours. A meeting for a select few faculty involved with teaching the upperclassmen, to determine ways to provide motivation and preparation to the junior class, which will be taking the state-required A-C-T test in April. The meeting date had been set last week at our First Monday meeting.

Mrs. Hillbilly Mom rushed through her final bell tasks. Recorded scores from the assignments she had just graded. Grabbed some paper out of her printer tray for note-taking. Snatched up her brainstormed ideas that were required for the meeting. Looked through her desk drawer for the materials she had used last year to prepare last year’s testees (heh, heh, I said TESTEES!). Then off she went, making a quick stop by the faculty women’s restroom, and hoping she would not be the last one to arrive.

Upon entering the library, Mrs. HM encountered a colleague not summoned to the A-C-T meeting, carrying out a stack of boxes. Also the librarian. It was her lair, after all. As she rounded the corner of the counter, Mrs. HM saw that she was not the last one to arrive. Out of the seven teachers summoned, she was the FIRST to arrive.

“Oh, I’m glad to see I’m not late!” Mrs. HM said to Lib.

“For what?”

“The meeting. The meeting for A-C-T ideas.”

“Oh. That meeting was canceled.” Lib knows a lot for being shut away in her own peaceful lair all day.

“Canceled? Nobody told me it was canceled. I didn’t get an email. Or a call. Nobody said anything to me. Just at lunch, I asked where we were meeting, and was told the library.”

“Well, the man in charge was called away for a family matter. Sweet Alabama Beige said she was letting everybody know.”

“Oh. I guess she meant everybody but me.”

That’s right. Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is an afterthought. A tagalong. Not even a fifth wheel, but one of those undersized donut spares in the bottom of the trunk. No A-C-T love for Mrs. HM. She’s out of the loop. Not a card-carrying member of the A-C-T club. And after all she does for Newmentia!

They shall rue the day Mrs. Hillbilly Mom retires. She will be sorely missed.

IF anybody notices that she’s gone.

 

The Newmentia Lunch Time Think Tank Strolls Down The Boulevard Of Broken Bones

Discussion at the Semi Weekly Meeting of the Newmentia Lunch Time Think Tank turned to maimed children last week. Maimed children of the faculty. It all started when a kid walked by and somebody said she was getting around quite well, what with having a vestigial organ removed over the Christmas break.

“Yeah. She had been complaining for a week that her stomach was hurting. Then she had to have emergency surgery. Her dad had told her to suck it up.”

“Well, you just never know with kids. My sister thought her toddler was just wanting to climb in bed with them every night. The kid came in saying her arm hurt. ‘Oh, you’ll be fine in the morning. Let’s go back to your crib.’ Come to find out the next day, she had fallen while climbing out of her crib, and broke her collar bone.” Jewels was first to jump into the discussion.

“When my son was little, I put him down for a nap when he had a broken arm. I thought he was just being cranky.” Very Special still had three other sons. So I guess one was expendable.

“We did the same thing. My son broke his wrist, and my husband said, ‘If it’s broken, it will still be broken tomorrow. Let’s wait and see how it feels in a day or two.’” Poster Boarder is unflappable.

“I think I told you about my boy. He said he thought his arm was broke. He was just in elementary. We had tickets to the Cardinals game that night. I said, ‘We can go to the ER, or we can go to the game. There’s not time to do both.' Usually, you can hand a kid a bat, and tell him to hold it with his arm straight out. If it’s broke, they can’t do it. My boy couldn’t do it. But he said, ‘Let’s go to the game.’ The next day, I took him to the ER, and it was broke.’” Sports Fan let the kid decide.

“Wow. Now I don’t feel so bad about the first time The Pony broke his elbow, running down the hall here after school. I was going to the dentist, and I had already rescheduled the appointment twice. The Pony was crying that it hurt, so I told him we’d see how it felt after my appointment. That appointment was 40 minutes away. My Mom drove us up there. She gave The Pony a can of Diet Coke out of her cooler to hold on his arm, while it was laying on the armrest. Genius had a fit because he wanted to DRINK the Diet Coke. We called Farmer H to meet us after the appointment, and he took The Pony to the ER. Where X-rays showed that he had broken the end off his ulna, and the fragment was laying alongside the rest of the ulna, with a gap where that piece should have been. So I’m a model mom, really, for getting her offspring to the ER within four or five hours of his maiming.”

I think that deserves a plaque. I can add my other titles as well. Model Mom. Master Teacher. Almost a Mother Teresa.