Between The Devil And The Livestock Auction

I told Annoying Underfoot H to go to The Devil...and he did! Personal Shopper H is at this very moment traipsing through the labyrinth of The Devil's Playground, picking from a list I gave him. I hope this turns out better than the last time I sent him to the store with a list, way back before we built the Mansion, when he lost the list, and came home with $35 worth of cookies and ice cream and other snacks, because he couldn't remember exactly what was on the list.

It's the least he can do for me, really, after returning from the livestock auction last week with 17 new chickens. Seriously. Seventeen. Which he neglected to tell me about until I heard a new little rooster trying to crow. Believe me, I must have some spectacular hearing to notice that little twerp out of the other 11 roosters that we have.

What's that?
A rooster.
I know. But it's new.
What do you mean?
He can't even crow.
Well, I got a little rooster.
There are two like that.
One is a hen. I had to take the pair.
You have enough roosters.
But look how pretty they are.

Then I noticed him tending to the cage that once held the six striped-like-a-chipmunk chicks, who have since been moved to a larger pen. A pen where Chicken Pimp H also put the remaining hens, because those 11 roosters have worn all the feathers off their backs.

What's in there.
Some chicks.
Where did they come from.
The auction.
You told me you weren't going to buy any more.
Well, they were only 85 cents apiece. I couldn't pass that up.
You promised.
I only got 11. (since then, I found out from The Pony it was 15)
You promised.
They had the cutest little donkey for $45.
Where is he?
I didn't buy him because I knew you'd be mad.
Yep.
You would love that little donkey.
We have too many animals.
He could go in the goat pen.
Get rid of the goats. Seven is too many.
I could get rid of some goats to get a couple of donkeys.
Get rid of all the goats and get one donkey.
I will keep two goats. Maybe three.
Not if you want a donkey.
I might take some roosters to sell.
You will take some roosters to sell. And those rabbits.
Yeah. The rabbits aren't doing anything but sitting in a cage.
Neither are the chickens.
They eat bugs.

It's no use trying to argue with a hoarder.

Still Stewing In My Own Juices

I still have something stuck in my craw. The bone of contention, the thorn in my side, the wad in my panties, the bug up my butt, the fly in my ointment, the rain on my parade, the yank on my chain, my kettle of fish, my can of worms, my sticky wicket, the issue which I am willing to touch with a 10-foot pole is the unauthorized abduction of my school laptop.

Yeah. I know it's not my property. I know the user can't use my log-on and get into my stuff. I realize that my school laptop was returned after school, on a day when I was not even there to use it. But that doesn't make it right, by the unwritten tenets of Hillmomban society.

I feel violated, victimized, taken advantage of. It's as if my leg was peed upon and a pre-recorded weather report told me it was raining. It's like a bully kicked sand in my face and then gave me an atomic wedgie just before gracing me with a titty-twister while bending my arm behind my back. I feel like Charlie Brown after Lucy held the football.

Something is rotten in the kingdom of Hillmomba. And it ain't Mrs. Hillbilly Mom. Imagine, if you will, that Mrs. HM waltzed into the classroom of Mr. S and took his school laptop for the day, without asking permission, never intending for him to find out. Then imagine what would happen to Mrs. HM if Mr. S complained to a superior. Uh huh. Mrs. HM would get a butt-chewin'.

Things don't work that way if the victim is Mrs. HM. So it is a waste of time to bring up the issue. That dog won't hunt. Mrs. HM doesn't have a leg to stand on. Toughen up, buttercup. This squeaky wheel won't get any grease. Some laptop stealers are more equal than others. The proof is in the pudding. Mrs. Hillbilly Mom will be the one who doesn't work and play well with others. Mrs. HM brought it all upon herself by flaunting her laptopness in a manner which Arch Nemesis could not resist. Mrs. HM should know to take her laptop off the dock and cover it with its own special case and put it out of sight under lock and key surrounded by a moat teeming with snapping alligators in the event that she will be out of her classroom. That succulent laptop must not be exposed to the lascivious leers of laptop-stealing addicts jonesin' for an extra portable internet connection.

Hey! Teacher! Leave laptops alone!

Reports Of My Death Have Been Greatly Exaggerated

My body isn't even cold yet, and people are pilfering my belongings. I'd be spinning in my own grave if I was actually dead.

Perhaps I've mentioned how I am somewhat...um...how you say...protective of my classroom accoutrements. Don't mess with my stuff. That means my school-issued furniture and electronics and my personal electronics such as TV/VCR/DVD/microwave/refriderator/printer, etc. And whatever you do, don't touch the stuff on my desk.

I was absent today for a trip to Barnes-Jewish Hospital for my pre-surgery workup. My loving mother, my right hand, my indispensable child-care backup, went to pick up the boys after school. Upon walking into my classroom to wait for The Pony, she surprised the son of Arch Nemesis. He was standing at my desk, "going through things," as she put it. Granted, I had stashed away my two teacher's edition texts, and my old red gradebook, and my list of who's getting what awards, because I expect anarchy when a sub presides. But you don't expect grave robbers after school, especially when the corpse isn't even dead. According to my mom, Young Arch looked startled. She said, "Oh. What are YOU doing here?" And he said he had come to return Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's laptop. Screeeech! Hear that needle gouging vinyl? What laptop? And why?

Young Arch then scurried down the hall. My mom noticed that he was empty-handed. Which begs the question, How could he be returning a laptop if he didn't have a laptop? Mom said he was looking through a stack of movies. That's about all I left on my desk. Along with a written assignment, and the sub folder. The sub folder, which may or may not contain notes written about specific class behavior while I was gone.

Young Arch returned a few moments later with my laptop, and plugged it into the dock. He said his mom, Arch Nemesis, had needed it for a presentation, because no other laptops could be found. Give me a freakin' break already! We have at least two carts of laptops. I did not know that we had to cannibalize the equipment of absent teachers to pull off a presentation that had been scheduled for a month. It's not like I held a vital piece of lab equipment. It was my school laptop. The one checked out to me, just like the one she has checked out to her. Why was another one needed? Did Arch use it herself, or did a student use it?

Am I off base here, to be so incensed that something school-belonging to me was taken without my permission? I don't want to make a big deal of it if we consider all school equipment to be fair game for all school employees. But I don't want to be taken advantage of, either. Because once you let that big German Shepherd pee on you while you're wagging your tail at the end of your own driveway, you'll always be perceived as submissive. Just ask my dog Grizzly.

How's Your Mom And Them?

Yesterday, I had to tell a boy to quiet down. Twice. He's not a bad kid. Just a loud talker. He wasn't even doing it to needle me or get attention. He just has a loud voice.

At the choir concert last night, I saw his family walk past me to sit down front. Talker spied me a few moments later and came over to talk. Duh. He's TALKER, by cracky! I said, "Hey, Talker, how's your mom? I saw her come in. Maybe I should go down and have a chat with her." I had no intention of doing so. I was just teasing Talker.

Talker became even more animated. "My mom is in perfect health. She's doing just fine. There is no need for that!"

Kids crack me up.

Ma Meh Me Mo Moo

In case you were never in choir (or as my students of several years ago pronounced it, chore), that is a standard warm-up from back in the day. Which is one of the main reasons I only took one year of choir. That, and the fact that I am not really a very good singer except along with the radio in T-Hoe.

That's where I am tonight, at a choir concert. Or a chore, in my opinion.

I'm hoping to skip the athletic banquet on Friday. But don't worry about Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's social life. I can still make the band concert on Sunday. That's something I can relate to. I was not only band president...I was also a member. And if you don't get that reference, it is obvious that you don't need the Hair Club For Men, and I have wasted my time channeling Sy Sperling.

Rest assured that I am thinking of you as this bold, fresh piece of blogging posts itself.

Why Johnny Can't Run

Is is just me, or is there something inherently wrong with the announcement, "All students going to the cadaver lab today should meet in the cafeteria."

Does that not sound like there are cadavers in the cafeteria? Doesn't it make you wonder exactly what (or whom) you will be eating today in your school lunch?

Speaking of the cafeteria...I have a recently-adopted pet peeve with this entity. I know it's the end of the year, and all school lunch programs operate at a deficit, and we mustn't be wasteful with Uncle Sam's coffers. But that does not give us the right to poison the future of tomorrow! Let them eat baloney, I say! Not as punishment, mind you, though that is a cool fantasy. No, let them eat baloney because it is more nutritious than the decayed slop that is being force-fed to public school youths as summer nears.

Two kids walked past the teacher table today, and were overheard telling the cooks, "Mine has mold on it." Uh huh. That was the packaged dessert Apple Filled Jammer Sticks. According to the Missouri state DESE website, the Jammer Sticks will store for a year frozen. Just thaw and serve. So why are these Jammer Sticks moldy? Did we get them in May of 2009, and hoard them until now? Or did we get them, thaw them, and keep passing them out day after day if we didn't use all that were thawed on the first day? How old, exactly, are these Jammer Sticks? Can no cook find an expiration date and use common sense? It's not like they're actually cooking anything. Heck, they're probably not even thawing anything. Just re-warming day after day after day after day.

That's how the old coach got a moldy hamburger back in ought-two. Contrary to popular belief and state law that no food should be kept and re-served the next day, the cooks had been keeping the hamburgers overnight. For many nights, apparently. Coach took the lid off his burger to apply condiments, and found MOLD! That right there would have sent Girly Girly Man H into spasms. He has a thing about MOLD. He can't even touch a bag of moldy bread to throw it out. But this was worse. The MEAT had mold on it. MEAT! How freakin' old does meat have to be to grow MOLD? Not just any meat, right off the steer. SCHOOL MEAT. MEAT that has been processed to the nth degree. If your school meat is growing mold, something's rotten in Hillmomba!

Back then, Coach returned his tray to the lunch line and told the cooks that he had moldy meat. You would think something like that would be a shock to their system. But no. One of them said, "Oh, I thought we picked all the moldy ones out of that bag." Uh huh. That's what cooks do instead of cook. They pick moldy burgers out of the bag. They were really polite. "Here. We'll give you two more." Coach didn't want two more. Coach didn't want one more. Coach didn't want school meat any more. Period. There was no pacifying him, even when the cook said, "You know, some mold is good for you. Think of penicillin."

Those Apple-Jammer kids today were hungry, hungry adolescents. They took the proffered Apple Filled Jammer Stick like a strung-out junky takes crack. That's the thing. The government guidelines say that ketchup is a vegetable. That Apple Filled Jammer Sticks are part of a nutritious school lunch. I beg to differ. No doubt the Jammer Stick is filled with demon high-fructose corn syrup. Even though the bill of lading doodad called nutritional information just lists 'starch'.

That's why kids are fat. They eat free government school breakfast, free government school lunch, and free government school dinner. Yes. Dinner. Have you not heard of a 21st Century Grant? We have one here in Hillmomba. It's one more program for taking care of kids whose parents, it is assumed, will not. Why should they even try, if the government will raise their kids for them? So Johnny is shuttled off to school every morning to be fattened and babysat from 7:30 a.m. until 5:00 p.m., at which time he will be bused home to lay on the couch and decompress while watching TV until bedtime, if he has one.

That, my friends, is why Johnny can't run.

Pinching The Sweet Red Penny

I have turned into my mother. How fitting, on Mother's Day.

Actually, I turned into her last night, and informed her of my transformation this morning. She is quite proud. She of depression-era parents, raised by a lead miner who shopped at the company store, who became distraught when one of my mom's three brothers threw her shoe out the window of the moving car as a prank. Oh, how they searched the roadside for that shoe. But it was not to be found. So my mom had just one shoe until her daddy could afford another pair.

Maybe that explains my mom's...um...how you say...thriftiness. Perhaps it's the reason she washes styrofoam cups and plastic knives and forks, sometimes rinses out zip-lock bags, and puts half her entree on a roll and wraps it in a napkin and stuffs it in her purse. Or maybe she's a latent hoarder. But last night, I did her proud.

After the weekly sortie to The Devil's Playground, I stopped at Sonic to feed my Diet Coke with Lime addiction. It being Sonic Happy Hour, I also sprung for a Sprite for The Pony, who additionally requested two corn dogs. I can't say 'no' to The Pony. He wanted some ketchup, which they never throw in the bag with corn dogs, because let's face it: normal people eat mustard on their corn dogs. The Sonic dude gave me a heapin' handful of ketchup packets on request, and The Pony dumped the unused ones in the sack.

Throwing away The Pony's leavings after putting up the groceries, I could not bring myself to toss the plethora of ketchup packets. Never mind that I have two plastic cups full o' ketchup in my minifridge at school, thanks to my mom's generosity, and a stuffed zip-lock bag of them in the door of Frig which need to be trashcanized.

So I did what any good daughter of a daughter of depression-era parents would do, and got out my bottle of Save-A-Lot ketchup. I took off the lid, ripped open a dozen foil ketchup packets printed with the Sonic logo, and squeezed that free ketchup down into the bottle. It raised the level of ketchupy goodness about an inch. That's half a serving for The Pony.

Never let it be said that Mrs. Hillbilly Mom can't pinch a penny with the best of them.