What Do YOU Think?

Here are a couple of photos, courtesy of my 10-year-old son.
We were out and about today, with Hillbilly Husband gone to
Germany for 6 days.

Do you know what this is? I'm not going to tell you. Now, anyway.
I'll bet Dave in Ardmore has a clue. This picture was taken in the
middle of the town where I grew up. It's a part of our history.

Need another look? Try this.
















It's quite large, as you can see. Don't go guessing things like:

It's a tree.
It's a flagpole.
It's a truck.

You know that's not what I'm talking about. It's not nice to try to
fool Hillbilly Mom. I teach middle school, remember? You can't
get away with guesses like this, no more than I will believe that
Canada is a state, Illinois is a city in Missouri, or Alaska is located
down by Hawaii in the Specific Ocean.

If you were hoping I'd say "Let me answer for you," hope some more.
I'll tell you tomorrow, if Dave doesn't tell you in the comments. Dave,
if you're reading, give a few others a chance to take a guess. But don't
give them long, because here at Hillbilly Mom's place, if you snooze,
you lose. Kind of like seeing some rolls of burlap at the Goodwill Store
and buying one, then deciding that you have to go back for more because
even though you don't know what to do with that burlap, you can't pass
up such a good price. But wouldn't you know it--when you go back
later in the afternoon, all the burlap has been bought. No burlap for you!

If you don't know what it is, there is no penalty for guessing. Within
reason, that is. Don't guess that it's a giant Bigfoot turd or something
frivolous. So...any guesses? Anybody...anybody? Bueller...?


OK, I can see from the response that all of you are dying to know. I'll
put the answer in the comments. The statue of limitations has run out.
(Don't you hate it when people say "statue"?)

I See Slow People

I have issues with slow people. Not mentally slow. They can't help it.
I mean people who waste time. MY time.

I went to a different Walmart today, to pick up a prison suit for my
#1 son's Halloween costume. I wasn't embarrassed or hiding his
identity or anything--it was the Walmart in the town where I had
my doctor's appointment. #1 son wasn't going to dress up this year,
but his school is having a sock hop party, and he has to go in costume.
Yeah, that'll make the girls come a-runnin'. A zebra-striped convict
uniform. O Boyfriend, Where Art Thou? We had a discussion at
the school lunch table a couple years ago about how any man can get
a woman. In prison awaiting the death sentence for killing your
other three wives? There's a woman out there just dying to marry you.

I went to a regular checkout line, because I refuse to scan my own
Walmart merchandise. That self-checkout took away a person's
job! I might have gone through the 20-items-or-less line, but I had
about 19-21 items, and was too lazy to count. Big mistake. I picked
the lane presided over by Methuselah's anemic great-grandma.

I had time to peruse the last-minute-junk-food shelves. I resisted
for a while, but my innards started to rumble. Yep. One innard flicks
the other innard on the ear, and he responds by giving the first
innard a titty-twister. Next thing I know, they're flailing around on
the floor. Innard One has a stapler that is opened, leaving a zipper
track down Innard Two's spine. Innard Two retaliates by biting
Innard One in the "private area." Oh, wait a minute...that was a fight
that we had at school a few years back. My gut was just growling.

What did I choose from the junk food shelf? Is chocolate my dark
master? No, that would be the portly fellow, George, on Seinfeld.
A Slim Jim, perhaps? Nope. I don't like the way that guy said,
"Eat me!" in their commercials. I succumbed to the temptation of
the pork rinds. What's that you say? Yes, I am aware that they are
deep-fried pig skins. And the problem with that would be...? Did
you forget, I am Hillbilly Mom? I am no stranger to the pork rind.

Several years ago, we had a whole lunch shift consumed with the
low-carb trend. You never saw so many people eating pork rinds
and cheese and ranch dressing and sugar-free Jello. It was bad
enough when one would snatch a soda out of another's hand and
scream, "What are you doing? That's a real soda! I just save you
from drinking one million billion carbs!" I knew the end of the world
was coming when one told the others how to make pork rind pancakes.
Yes, there is the edge of insanity, and then there is the abyss. That is
just wrong, people. Do not make pork rind pancakes. Get off the
Atkins, and eat some fruits and vegetables. Snap out of it!

I consumed my porcine epidermis snack as I continued on my errands.
Next, I stopped to fill the belly of my SUV beast. $2.48 per gallon
for super unleaded, people. Read it and weep. Of course, the pump
I pulled in to had a plastic bag over the handle. The regular unleaded
was $2.52 per gallon. Go figure. I refused to buy it, and waited for
the guy ahead of me to finish and pay so I could use his pump.
Another error in judgement.

Goober went in to pay, and I would say it took him 10 minutes. Did
he buy Milwaukee's Best, or Powerball tickets, or Skoal...something
worthwhile? Let me answer for you: "NO!" He stood around talking to
the cashier. They must have been reminiscing about the Molasses-
Chugging Festival last January. I think Goober's beard grew two
inches while I waited. Bad enough to not wait and pay $50.60 for
half a tank of gas.


I was in a hurry to get to Sonic before 5:00. You know what happens
at 5:00, don't you? Happy Hour ends, and drinks are full price again.
I made it with 4 minutes to spare. I had to have my fix of Cherry Diet
Coke. Cheap. And though I was 5-deep in the drive-thru lane, the
little Sonic girl came running out to me with my beverages. Ya
gotta love the Sonic. It's not for slow people.

On the Home Front

Let's see where the blog takes us today, shall we? Let me answer for
you: "Yes, Hillbilly Mom, I've always wanted to know what it's like to
be a lower-middle-class redneck teacher in the midwest with two kids
and a Hillbilly Husband and no talent. Tell us more about your life.
Oh, please!" Be careful what you wish for, people.

HH is on his way to Germany as I write this. At least on his way from
Detroit to the Netherlands, and from there to Germany. It's a work
thing. We are not world travelers. He had some odd-looking stuff in
his luggage, including a couple coils of plastic air hose. He said he
couldn't put them in his carry-on luggage, because they might think
he was planning to strangle someone. No, that would be me. And
why would he want to put that in his carry-on? Maybe he has some
secret life that I don't know about. A glamorous drug smuggler, a
paid assassin? Nawwww. He can barely remember to breathe in
and breathe out.

#1 son is excited to have a part in the school Christmas play.
Every year he has tried out, and has been rejected while the same
kids get parts year after year. In K, 1, and 2 he was in tears on the
day they were announced. Of course, that made me cry. One year
his friend, who had had a part every year, took #1 to the teacher
and said, "Mrs. Teacher, I want #1 to have my part, because I've
been in it every year." And she replied, "Just because you give up
your part doesn't mean #1 will get it." Are you crying yet, because
I'm about to. He's a good kid, a model student (OK, a teacher's
pet). Just ask my friend Mabel, she knows him. So I don't know
what the deal is. He's never been in trouble. He is an A student.
So I was very proud that he got a part, and then he said, "I think
I only got it because I was the only one to try out for that part."
Hey, take what you can get, kid. A reindeer with 2 lines is better
than no part at all.

#2 son has been in trouble on the bus for switching seats. Some
of my high school kids have been talking to him, and he's been
giving them the "fish-eye." I can't explain it. He rolls his eyes and
kind of crosses them, and he looks like a fish. Yep, my spawn
are mighty attractive. I told him not to talk to the big kids, they
are up to no good. The only reason a big kid talks to little kids
on the bus is to tease them. I don't think he buys into it--he gave
me the fish-eye.

On the work front, I have a substitute tomorrow afternoon due
to a doctor's appointment. It seems kind of unremarkable, but
for 3 of the 7 years I have been teaching here, I have had perfect
attendance. "Oooh, Hillbilly Mom, did you get a certificate and
your name in the paper?" Well, since you've asked...NO. But
I got an extra $150 check in the summer. WooHoo!

Now don't think I'm unappreciative of that stipend. They don't
have to give me nuthin'. My friend Mabel tells me not to worry
about it, that when I retire, nobody is going to say, "Remember
when Hillbilly Mom came to school with a 104 degree fever?
Remember when Hillbilly Mom didn't miss a day for 5 years in
a row?" No, she says, they will say: "Who's Hillbilly Mom?"
She's quite an ego-booster, that Mabel.

I Rock!!!

Apparently, I rock. Or I am a rock. This is what a student gave me.
I must be talented. When I play, the music takes form and floats into
the air. Look! You can see it! I think I also have psychoactive
properties. Note the floating dismembered heads. I don't know
if I ooze it, or if you smoke me/lick me/inject me/snort me, but I
am some powerful stuff!

I have a few issues with this artist's rendering. Oh, he's got my body
type correct, but I do not wear my shades in the classroom, and I
do have hair. He's got me playing a left-handed guitar, which is OK,
because I can write with either hand, so I guess I could master the
left-handed guitar as well.

I promise that I did not steal this from another teacher and insert my
name. Really. I had to cover up my real name, silly, because of "Fitty,"
the 55-gallon barrel killer who stalks people like Redneck Diva, who
give too much information in their blogs. So I covered my real name
of Anastasia Beaverhausen--oops! That is Karen on Will&Grace.
And it's not Buck Naked, either. That is George on Seinfeld. I can
not tell you my name, in case one day it shall live in infamy.
















If you don't think I rock, I'LL POKE YOU! Well, not really. She
said this pic wasn't all about me, but we know that it is. I have this
mini-fridge in my room, from when I used to sell soda after school
as a fundraiser. There's good money in them there sodas. I bought
3 computers, 2 TVs, 2 DVD players, a VCR, 2 tables, and a lot
of pizza as rewards, all in about 4 years' time. Now I can't sell it,
but I still have the fridge. I put a frowny face on it that says, "Grrr...
Leave me alone!" so the kids wouldn't peep in it while I was out
in the hall supervising. The kid says that is what inspired this pic.

In any case, I think it's best that you leave me "alown," cause I got
me some sharp pointy sticks to do my talkin' for me. It's good to
see that my hair has grown out and that I have slimmed down. But
I am not greedy! How dare she! And I do have a nose, contrary
to what both little Rembrandts show.

Maybe I should save these, along with my Hillbilly Mutant Turtle
Mom pic, and convert one of my Hillbilly Husband's 4 workshops
into an art gallery. There would still be just as much work being
done in the workshops, which is NONE! I could have a showing,
and serve moonshine, and braised-possum-on-a-toothpick, with
canapes of bacon-cheddar EZ Cheese (from the spray can) on
Ritz Crackers, and Philadelphia brand chive-flavored cream cheese
on Club Crackers with a slice of Buddig ham. Mmmm....don't that
get the saliva flowin'? Sounds like a classic redneck art show to me.

Substitute Subject

This is very sad. I have no life. I have spent about an hour trying to
post 2 pictures, and nothing will work. This stupid blogger photo
thingy does nothing. I tried Hello! Goodbye, Hello, because you
are not working either. I am spittin' mad. I demand to get my money's
worth from Blogger. What's that? It's free? ...never mind.

What can I talk about now? How about substitutes? They are not
as good as the real thing.

If you don't have milk for your cereal, you can substitute
water. I don't recommend it, though.

No milk for the mac & cheese? Put in extra butter...well, actually,
margarine, which is already a substitute for butter.

Did the screw fall out of your glasses? Try one of those little gold
safety pins.

Out of cat food? They'll eat those fish food pellets, and like them.

No syrup for your Bisquick pancakes? Mix the batter with some
fruit salad and the juice, then serve the finished product with sugar
sprinkled on top.

Make-up not permitted? Try some mercurochrome on the lips,
burnt matches for eyeliner, pinch your cheeks for rouge, and use
flour for powder. That's what Dolly Parton did, and her mama
asked her, "What you gonna do if you sweat, break out in biscuits?"

Exhaust pipe falling off your car? Duct tape it, and support it with
a bent coat hanger. It will last about 10 seconds until the duct tape
melts, and the roar of the muffler returns.

Can't find a rest stop on the highway? Substitute a McDonalds cup
---while you're driving, and you're a woman. An acquaintance says
this is hard to explain when the police pull you over.

No sled? Chain an old car hood to a Jeep and ride on it. The chance
of being decapitated is higher than with an actual sled.

No braces? Bend a paperclip and jam it around your teeth. That's
what my students do.

Need a winter scarf? An old lady in Redneckland was spotted wearing
an old pair of pantyhose wrapped around her neck. No, it was not me.

No respect? Wave a pointy stick. Actually, that was going to be today's
subject. Maybe I can try again tomorrow.

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!

He MOCKS Us!!!

He MOCKS us! The Land-Stealer has moved his ill-gotten lumber
to his own land, and stored it where we can see it from our front
porch! Well, we can see it if we use the zoom on #1 son's camera.
Otherwise, it just looks like this:















As you can see, we are training the boy young 'un to join our hillbilly
militia. Just in case a feud breaks out and all. Since the Land-Stealer
has said he doesn't want to give up the property until after he has a
Halloween party on it, I think he plans to harvest more cedar. He will
probably trim it bald, and then scoop up the topsoil to sell it, too. People
do that around here, you know. They hire a dozer to scrape up the soil,
load it into dump trucks, and sell it. That's your SOIL, people! It's not
growing back for oh, I don't know, maybe millions of years! So we
might be buying a nice 10-acre rock.

#1 son can't be bothered with that thought. He is shooting his Red Ryder
BB gun, 50th anniversary edition. Yeah, I've told him, "You'll shoot your
eye out, kid."















Funny thing is, he's left-handed, but aims with his right eye and shoots
right-handed. Maybe that's why he's shooting at a target he put on the
other side of the tree. I have given up making any sense of what he does.

I have also given up blogging about anything that is interesting. Bear with
me. I will come up with something brilliant one of these days. It's like that
saying, "The sun even shines on a dog's a$$ some days." Well, I never
did understand that saying anyway. But if you stick with me, some day
the sun is going to shine on my a$$, or else I'm going to have a really
interesting post. One or the other. You'll just have to wait to find out.