Wednesday, January 26, 2011

Back In The Saddle

Join Mrs. Hillbilly Mom for a day on the range in the wilds of Newmentia.

The morning started with a roundup of wild paperclips. They are wily varmints. Never around when you want one, but lounging where mischief is lurking, ready to pounce. Like on the lid of the copier, just itching to dive down into the ol' Kyocera innards and bungle up the works. I corralled tens of paperclips from my throw-away pile of make-up work from last semester. Herded them right into my flat desk drawer, into a little compartment between quarters and Pink Pets.

Next on the agenda was a death-defying ride on the wildest of all broncs--the toilet in the women's faculty restroom. Something is afoot with that little filly. Her saddle is not cinched tight enough. You'd think she bloats her belly to avoid a snug fit. For the past week or so, you take life and limb into your own hands when you try to mount her during the four-minute interlude between classes. A good twist of the screwdriver should cure her of what ails us. But we have no hands willing to attempt her taming. No toilet-whisperer among us.

The chuck wagon dished up a platter of what appeared to be catfish sticks. They were rough and misshapen, not at all like the breaded bread of regular, machine-cut fish sticks. This skeptical buckaroo did not partake of the fancy fare. Nor of the apple brown betty that was swimming in a yellow fluid that may or may not have been clarified butter. Emphasis on the NOT.

Without even an afternoon siesta, I circled the computers in the lab for a bout of science project research. A wayward li'l dogie appeared on the horizon. "Can I come in here and work on my project for another class? It's not done, and my teacher said I could if you say it's OK." The last thing I needed was this little heifer getting my herd all riled up. But the quickest way to get rid of her was to agree. "If you can find a computer. But not near me. And I'm not going to help you." Because, you see, the project for MY class was also not finished, not even begun, not even a twinkle in the eye of Li'l Dogie. And what was the first thing out of her mouth? "What do I do, just turn on a computer?" Which earned the response, "You are not my responsibility." And blissfully, she faded into the herd.

Alas, Mrs. Hillbilly Mom must ride off into the sunset now, since her hurried post has wended its way to nowhere.


Kathy's Klothesline said...

I do not partake of food I do not recognize either, as it might require more visits on the loose toilet seat! Some days it would better to skip entirely .......

Mommy Needs a Xanax said...

The school is buying miscut catfish to save $$. We do it all the time. You can get them super cheap if you order directly from the catfish plant. They're just as good as the ones the Mexican fillet-ers didn't screw up. Remember me talking about the hombres that lived right down the dusty path from me in Yazoo Shiddy? They lived in a cinder block building in the middle of a cotton field and walked to and from work at Simmons Catfish every day, rain or shine, to get those yummy catfish pieces onto your plastic school lunch tray.

Watch out so that slidey toilet seat doesn't pinch your butt cheek. That'll leave a mark.

Hillbilly Mom said...

And you would avoid the bucking toilet even more if I had told you how the toilet paper hangs above your head, and threatens to strangle you every time you try to make it spare a square. In fact, it has no squares. It's like a rope. A noose of toilet paper. A worker's comp accident waiting to happen.

Mommy Ann,
I'm glad you could fill me in on the catfish chunks. I already knew not to make the cooks mad at me.