Can You Really Trust A Weatherman?

I am hunkered down in my basement lair, apathetically awaiting Icepocalypse '11. So far, the predicted freezing rain that was due to strike at 6:00 this morning has not materialized. Several school districts around us canceled classes this morning, but not Newmentia.

The boys and I had no trouble getting to school, with the temp hovering at 30 degrees. Upon arrival, the faculty was told that feeding time would be moved up from 10:53 to 10:00, just in case there was a need for early dismissal. People. Schools don't do anything just in case. That was an early out proclamation, signed, sealed, and delivered.

At 9:10, the gray skies parted and a deluge rained down upon Newmentia. An actual deluge, liquid in state, which promptly melted the salt pellets that had been sown some ten minutes earlier. The precipitation ceased within minutes. The only harm done was the stirring of GetOutEarlyFever in those excitable adolescents.

Lunch came and went. The altered schedule upset my standing time slot for riding the wild porcelain bronc. I snuck out for a clandestine rendezvous with the fractious white steed, and happened upon a bus driver talking on his cell phone. Always one to keep an ear open for pertinent information, I overheard that a head honcho was trying to reach a lesser honcho to finalize plans for a 12:00 dismissal. Yee haw!

I kept this special secret from my class. That's because I value life an limb. Especially mine. But at 11:15, the #1 son waltzed in (not so much waltzed, in a Viennese threestep manner, but more like tromped insouciantly through my classroom) bellowing, "Drivers can leave now! I could leave, but you made me ride to school with you!"

To get rid of him, I told him to take T-Hoe to Basementia and bring back The Pony. That would save us 15 minutes of waiting for his bus to arrive. #1 changed his demeanor like Sybil in a fast-forward video. He grabbed the keys and left. I hastily called Basementia to make it official, and not some weird kind of sibling abduction.

They returned in 25 minutes. #1 dropped of The Pony in my room like a bedbug-infested mattress at the town dump. Except the rats were sitting semi-quietly in desks instead of roaming willy-nilly in search of toes to gnaw off. #1 announced that he was going to class.

But we had not seen the last of #1. He came back ten minutes later, asking to borrow a game. I have no games. This is an institution of learning, not a Milton Bradley factory. #1 rummaged through my cabinets, shouted, "Aha! You were lying! I found dominoes!" and stormed out the door. In my defense, we use those dominoes to build rows for toppling, and thus determine rates of speed depending on the gaps between dominoes.

Five minutes later, #1 was back to put away the dominoes. I swear, sometimes that boy is like a ferret on crack.

After the long-awaited early dismissal, we topped of T-Hoe's gas tank, and stopped by The Devil's Playground for some necessities such as toilet paper, mini-flashlights, Zyrtec, and sugar-free chocolate pudding. I didn't glance at the milk cooler, but I will vouch for the fact that the bread and egg shelves were empty.

Ice formed on the back of T-Hoe's mirrors, but the windshield and roads remained unfrozen. We saw an owl, a hawk, and a white-tailed hawk all within one square mile. Who knew that avians find good hunting right before an epic ice storm? The county road to Hillmomba was also clear, but trees had a coating of ice that was unseen in Newmentialand.

Farmer H just called to report that his plant is shutting down for the night shift and all day tomorrow. We're going to be one great big freakin' happy family. If Newmentia cancels for tomorrow.

Bring on the Icepocalypse.

Meet My New Friends

Imagine my surprise when I groggily slid open the frosted glass door Saturday morning, and beheld my new Shower Buddy: the toilet plunger. He is not a fellow I prefer to share a shower with. I know where he's been. And it ain't in the land of unicorns and rainbows. It makes me no nevermind that he was lurking at the far back corner of the double stall, like some Who's That Lady kitchen mop stalker. Anywhere inside the shower enclosure is too close. I gave him the old heave-ho, and set his jets to cooling on the heater vent. Right where Plumber H deposits him after a bout of plunging The Pony's manure. That little dude really needs more roughage.

Yes, I am sure the Shower Buddy surprise was part of Domestic God H's plan to drive me crazier. He's always hooking me up with new friends.

The Eternal Bulb mocks me in the wee hours of the morning, when I wake up in my basement recliner and ascend the stairs to H-Land. For some reason, Helen Keller H does not notice that the range hood light remains on long after he has partaken of the fare lovingly left on the stovetop for those evenings he is out playing with his goats at suppertime. You would think that a man so obsessed with turning off lights and TVs when leaving the room would click that beacon off. But no. Like a snack scarfed over the kitchen counter has no calories, the Eternal Bulb uses no electricity.

Perpetual Aluminum Foil is the Siamese twin of Eternal Bulb. Though I suppose, to be politically correct, I should call it a conjoined twin, or a Thailand twin. But I wouldn't want it confused with any of those Thailand Cats with their pretty blue eyes and seal point markings. I digress. Tightwad Skinflint Cheapskate H apparently thinks Reynolds Wrap is reusable to infinity. Sure, I can warm some garlic toast on it, then get another using for leftover pizza, and score a trifecta with fish sticks. But by the time charred, crumbled coatings are fused to Mr. Reynolds, he has worn out his welcome. T/S/C H would have him remain as a permanent guest, like Norman's mama at the Bates Motel.

I am never without a date to join me for the morning news after my 5:30 nap in the La-Z-Boy. Companion Can perches near the remotes, on the plastic lid of a Hot & Sour Soup container that moonlights as a coaster. Hey! Don't act shocked. Have you forgotten that we're the Hillbilly family, by cracky? King Of His Castle H sees no reason to pick up after himself. That's why he's got Mrs. HM. Every now and then, he deems it necessary to remind her of her official duties. Last week when The Pony and I arrived home an hour after King H and Prince #1, and I asked why he waited an hour instead of tossing the supper he knew we were having into the oven, he said, slowly, as if to a foreigner who magically understands English if it is spoken loud enough and slowly enough: "Because that's what a mom does--fixes the supper for the family."

This afternoon, Survivalist H waltzed in smelling like my newest chum, Captain Kerosene Heater. We're expecting an ice storm. At least that's what the weathermen tell us.

Meat. It's What's For Dinner.

Several days ago, KSDK in St. Louis broadcast breaking news about a fire at a meat market in St. Libory, Illinois. The reporter mentioned that while no people were injured, twenty hogs perished in the fire. Like that was a tragedy. I find it ironic. Maybe. I'm still not real clear on that whole irony issue. But the fact is that some hogs died. Hogs that would have been butchered if they lived, because, HELLO this is a freakin' meat market! I guess some people will boohoo that the hogs died in the fire. Because they're so much more dead than if they were stunned and bled in order to make delicious bacon and ham.

Likewise, I can't understand how people decide that it's okay to eat Bossy and Billy and Miss Prissy and Porky and Bugs and Thumper and Donald, but not okay to eat Spot and Fluff and Mr. Ed.

And even though I have five cats, I find the following T-shirt amusing: I love cats. I just can't eat a whole one by myself.

The Time Has Come

The time has come, Mrs. Hillbilly Mom said, to talk of many things: of chews and chips and soothing naps--of cabbages, and zings.

First cat out of the bag this morning, I nailed two young tobacco chewers. It's really not very smart to come in tardy, together, more than one day this week. Especially if your friend gives me the high sign behind your back right after I say, "You know, it really makes me suspicious when two guys come in late because they're in the bathroom together. It makes me think you're up to something. And I will find out." So when your buddy points to his bottom lip, my suspicions are confirmed.

Furthermore, if you're going to pack a big wad of tobaccy in your lower lip pouch, and proceed to swallow that delicious nicotine kool-aid for the next 45 minutes, with your adolescent adam's apple bobbing to beat the band every ten seconds, don't think Mrs. Hillbilly Mom won't notice. And for future reference, when Mrs. HM says, "I've got to run a few copies, I'll be right back," that means she is hoofing it up to the office to tell on you in person, since you might actually catch a clue if she picked up the classroom phone and called about your predicament, thus giving you time to swallow your tasty lip candy and destroy the evidence.

In the chip department, I partake of tasty Sun Chips every day at lunch. It makes me no nevermind that the date on my filing cabinet stash of Sun Chips is Oct 4, 2010. They are crunchy to the last drop, and I shall eat them until they're gone.

Last night, I did not post. My Hillbilly Mansion porch light was on, but nobody was home upstairs. I fell asleep in my basement recliner around 8:30, and woke up at 12:30. From there, I hurried off to bed, where I proceeded to toss and turn for an hour and a half.

This morning after 2nd hour, the hall STANK like a park port-a-potty on Labor Day evening. We are used to the stench after 5th hour. The official statement is that the grease trap is backed up, and we just need to turn on every faucet and flush the drains. Every day. But this morning the stench was atrocious. The smell was either rotting feces or cooking cabbage. Since we never have cabbage, I'm putting my money where my mouth will never go, and that is on the rotting feces. But two teachers did agree: after 3rd hour, the smell was identifiable as cooking corn. Which I did not eat at lunch, what with the plethora of expired Sun Chips calling my name.

I showed my class a National Geographic video today. It's a regular lesson we do about how man impacts the environment. This video is about polar bear migration in Churchill, Manitoba. In one part, the polar bears, on their migration through town, forage at the dump. The narrator explains how the bears have never seen fire in their natural habitat, and some learn the hard way that fire is hot. This is over a picture of a young polar bear rooting around for scraps, and sticking his nose in some flames. He grunts and runs away. And one of my little screen talkers spouted, "I've done that." I laughed out loud when another student said, "What, eat at the dump?"

There's no time for me to follow up with whether the sea is boiling hot, or whether pigs have wings. That must be a topic for another evening, because Gold Rush Alaska is coming on, and I aim to be there when those DoNots hit the motherlode.

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.

We Love Our Students, But Not In A Pervy Way

We have had an influx of new students this week and last at Newmentia. Normally, we get a new kid about every three months, or maybe four. The three we gained in the last two days don't seem like anything to write home about.

The girl, I will excuse for not showing up for class during lunch time, and spending an hour in the library. Sure, most kids would know that their schedule has a class every period, not a free time in the library block. And perhaps, if unsure about where they should be, would just pop into the office and ask. It's your first day, you know. Nobody would begrudge you an escort to class. It's not like Newmentia is a maze of outbuildings and ivy-covered stone walls and secret dungeons. It's ONE long hallway. You can see from one end to the other. The office is in the middle, right across from the open cafeteria. Floor plans don't get much simpler than that.

Today's dude I don't know well enough yet to criticize. But I will give him credit for sitting at the end of a lunch table, alone, instead of with the rabble-rousers who usually glom onto the new kid before New Kid knows what hit him. You know. The Sex Club.

Yesterday's new kid apparently crafted a masterpiece on SciMathCrony's desk. An uncommissioned work of art, if you will. And when called on his creative faux pas, just snorted and said, "So?" Which earned him an audience with Mr. Principal, who requested that Mr. Clean find some scrubbing supplies. But Mr. Clean takes his job seriously, and magically erased the classic graphic. Mr. Principal bemoaned young Rembrandt's fate, and Mr. Clean announced the most scathingly brilliant idea: "Let him clean all of the classroom desks." And that was that.

We won't go into the old new student who decided that he was not going to do anything. Not only decided, but voiced to one and all. Including Mr. Principal. Who was having none of that. You can't enjoy the show if you don't buy a ticket, so DoNot was dispatched homeward to do nothing without an audience.

We really do appreciate our homegrown students. They would never try such shenanigans. I can't imagine what those other schools must be like, for students to think this outlandish behavior is acceptable.

Some Nights, I Got Nothin'

I have written two posts and scrapped them both. My crazy is just not flowing tonight. So I must sit in the recliner and watch TV.

This five-day work week is going to wear me down like the heel of a mailman's shoe.