I Don't Get No Respect

I am a regular Rodney Dangerfield in Redneckland. Not that I think
I am funny like him. I think I am funny in my own way. Which is good,
because I make myself laugh. Nobody else gets it, but I crack myself
up. I said "crack." Heh, heh, heh. As you can see, it's definitely not
because of my humor. It's because I don't get no respect.

A couple years ago, my Hillbilly Husband and I took the kids to town
trick-or-treating. Because that's what us country folks do--take the
kids to town to beg for candy. I don't take them to the "rich" areas
in hopes of chocolate like some people do. Just to the old daycare
neighborhood, and the Hillbilly Mama and Hillbilly Grandma's houses.
And to the Hillbilly Sister-the-mayor's-wife's house.

So where's the lack of respect, you ask? If you are still reading this
exercise in self-pity. Let me tell you: the trick-or-treaters did not
respect me. I sat in the large SUV (Hey! We need it in the snow
on our mile of gravel road! Respect me, now!) while HH took the
kids door to door. Two middle-school-size kids came up to the car.
They whipped out some soap, and proceeded to draw an apple
and a pumpkin on the window. With me in the car! I don't get no
respect!

Last week our schools were on lockdown because of the bad boy
who shot two people. #2 son tried to go back to my first building
so I could do a little work while waiting for geek #1 to get done
with his math club. I knew the back door would be locked, but
that's where I park. It's closest to my room. Why walk 50 steps
when you can walk 20, I always say. Actually, I have never said
that, but I fantasize about it. So I drive up and pull into the first
parking spot by the door. Another teacher is standing there with
her foot propping it open, talking on her cell phone. I was about
20 feet from her. She looked right at me. I held up my index finger,
the universal signal for, "Hold that door open just a minute, I am
going to get my son out of the car and come in that door before
it locks and I have to go all the way around the building." At least
that's what I think that finger means. It's not the bad finger. My
boys are always tattling on each other, but the ultimate tattle is
that one-time-a-year that one will whisper in my ear that his
brother used the baaaaddd finger! Hmmm...that would be
a good name for a band.

I got #2 son out of the car, turned around, and SLAM! Cruella
de Door had gone back inside, locking us out. I don't get no
respect.

At school today, Mr. X was telling Mr. Y a story about how slow
some kids were at taking the states and capitals test. Out of the
blue, he told Mr. Y, "Hillbilly Mom was valedictorian of her class,
you know." And Mr. Y almost choked on his rectangle of school
pizza and said, "What!" Thanks for being impressed, buddy. I could
have done without the shock. I don't get no respect.

Also today, a student told me about an internet survey she got in
her email. At home. They can't use it at school. She said, "You
probably have never heard of this band...the Blackeyed Peas."
Which I have, I just don't know what they look like, or any of
their songs, but anyhooooo....I said to her, "What are you saying?
That I'm old?" "Uh...no. Just that you might not know the same
music as us." I don't get no respect.

I got her back, though. She said somthing creeped her out. Another
kid said, "It what?" "Creeped me out." So I told her, "Hey, I use
that expression all the time. Welcome to oldwomanhood!" Heh,
heh, heh. I will demand respect!