Redneck Review

In The Beginning...

2011-07-28T21:12:00.001-05:00

This is where it all started. Just an update post to save this little blog from destruction.

Moving Day

2005-10-26T00:01:00.000-05:00

I've moved! Come visit me at the Hillbilly Mansion.

The link is hillbillymansion.blogspot.com

See you there!

Middle of Nowhere

2005-10-25T16:18:00.000-05:00

I can see how you might have trouble finding my new place. Here
are a few sights you might see along the way. Out on the county
road, they have markers for how deep the water gets. A white
one and a rust one. They are marked up to 3 feet. The problem is,
the water goes higher than the markers sometimes. So if you don't
know the road, you might not know how that bridge dips down
in the middle. One time I got almost 3/4 the way across, and I
could feel my large SUV start to creep. I gassed that sucker and
got up out of there. That was mighty scary. There are three other
ways to get to where I'm going, but when it's that high, I have to
go about 20 minutes out of my way. The biggest problem we
usually have with this bridge is the debris left when the water goes
down. Like giant tree trunks lying across the bridge. That, and
backing up in a large SUV when you get close enough to see that
the water is too deep to cross.

This is on our private gravel
road, past the sign that says
"No trespassing." It works
most of the time. We have
to buy rock and maintain this
road ourselves. Not me, but
all of us who live out here.
As you can see, it's fall now.

In the winter, we sometimes
have trouble getting up and
down this hill. Part of the trouble
is the abandoned cars left by
the people who don't drive
large SUVs. They can't make
it, and end up stuck in the road.
That makes it hard to get our
large SUVs past them. People!
If you're going to live in the middle of nowhere, get a car that can
get you in and out! Like a large SUV.

That barn at the top of the hill is not our BARn. We are not there
yet. Because we are only on the edge of nowhere, not yet in the
middle. And I think I'll stop here, in case "Fitty" thinks he can find
me and stuff my dismembered parts into a 55-gallon barrel. Or
several 55-gallon barrels.

On Wednesday, I'll be moved into my new blog home. Come
visit me at the Hillbilly Mansion. You can click the link, or go to
http://hillbillymansion.blogspot.com. I will leave this site here, but
will be posting on the new one. So if you're a regular guest, you
might want to update the link. Or not.

Let's Have a Housewarming Party!

2005-10-24T18:42:00.000-05:00

Oh, did I mention I'm moving? Not far. I'm still on Blogger. I just
wanted a fresh start. I don't know why. I've changed templates
a couple times, but it's not the same as A NEW BLOG. I'll leave
my address at the bottom of this post.

Housewarming parties always annoy me. That's why I'm throwing
myself one. Nothing is more redneck than saying, "Hey, y'all, I've
got a new house. Buy me some gifts and I'll let you gave a party
there!" I appreciate the comments from my blogfriends. I will
answer those here now. Why respond in the comments when you
can make a whole post out of it, I always say. Maybe that's why
people look at me funny.

Babs, you are correct. People do come and go here quickly. Like
within 5 seconds. Oh. that's not what you meant? Yes, it does seem
that blogs have a short shelf life. I have worked in schools where
people came and went quickly, too. It usually means there's an
administrative problem. BLOGGER, do you hear me?

Misha, you were indeed one of my firsts. I think I found you on
that "recently updated" blogs thingy, and left you a comment. See,
people, what happens when you are polite? You make a mean
spinach dip, you say? Now you've gone and reminded me of a
dip story. And it was at a housewarming party, no less, with a
new friend who had included me in her social circle.

Long story medium (it's the best I can do), my new friend Karen
took me to a housewarming party at Indian Hills Lake in Cuba,
Missouri. Also along were her friends Wanda and Jim (definitely
not a couple). As the night wore on, maybe some alcohol was
consumed, and maybe someone called the science teacher
into the bathroom to show him her boobs, and maybe someone
ditched our group to pursue a math teacher whom she later married.
Anyhoo, around about midnight, Karen and I ended up at the
kitchen table eating a bowl of dip that Jim had brought. This dip
doesn't sound so good on screen, but it was something like
Braunschweiger mixed with mayonnaise. I know there had
to be more to it, but at the time, it seemed quite delicious. We
dipped crackers into the bowl to scoop it out. Karen and I might
have been double-dipping, because Seinfeld had not yet created
his show, and us rednecks didn't know no better. In comes
Jim, who sits down to gossip with us. Next thing I know, Jim
grabs the bowl of dip, snaps the Tupperware lid in place, burps
it, and says, "That's enough, B****es! This is going to be my
lunch tomorrow." We were incensed! The nerve of that...that...
JIM! Karen and I were best buddies after that bonding experience.
We lived to torment Jim.

Alas, Misha, I doubt there will be pictures of hot country boys
at my new home. Unless you count my Sonic guy. And you know
the saying, "Hotness is in the tastebuds of the free Sonic Cherry
Diet Coke drinker."

Rebecca, yes, I do plan to load everything on a truck and haul
the whole thing across town. My Hillbilly Husband did that with
a shed he built. He had a flatbed car-towing truck to load it with
a winch and drive it to town. Then when we built our house here,
he loaded it up again to bring it back. Excuse me a minute...sluurrp.
Ahhhhhh....Sonic Cherry Diet Coke...sweet, sweet nectar. Now
what was I saying? Oh, yes. We will look like the Beverly Hillbillies
bringing Granny's shack to Beverly Hills.

Mrs. Coach, you certainly may rummage through my stuff. I am
hoping to leave behind one ceramic rooster that my HH picked
up somewhere. I think he had it before we were married. He
would set it on the kitchen windowsill, and I would put it under
the kitchen sink. This went on for a long time, until I let it stay
out for two days in a row. He thought he'd won, and forgot to
check. Forgot until we moved to the new house, 7 years later,
and he said, "Have you seen my chicken?" We had a kid by this
time, and he knew the proper place for a ceramic rooster was
under the kitchen sink. Unfortunately, he didn't know that there
are some secrets we'd like to keep from Daddy. Now it's on
top of my kitchen cabinets with the world's largest Coke bottle
collection. May I offer anyone a beverage?

MamaKBear, I've dropped in on you several times. I'm just
not very talkative when I meet new people. After I get to know
them well, they can't shut me up. I won't go strainin' myself in
the move. That's what you have young'uns for--to do the heavy
liftin' and bring you the remote and the phone.

Mabel, my teaching-buddy-without-a-blog, I'm sorry I slighted
you. Yes, you do exist. I know you're the rightful owner of the
winner's title of the "What do you think it is?" post. But while
you were snoozin', you were losin', and Dave was winning.
You can still comment, you know, even without a blog. It won't
matter anyway, though, because Rebecca's back, and she wins
every contest. Just ask her. Oh, I forgot. You don't have a blog!
OK, now who have I made madder, Mabel or Rebecca?

If you want to start a feud with me, you can find me at my new
home, the Hillbilly Mansion. Y'all come visit, y'hear? If you need
specific directions, it is http://hillbillymansion.blogspot.com.

I'll Be Moving Soon

2005-10-23T16:20:00.000-05:00

I am going to start a new blog. Just because I can. It's getting hard to
find things around this here blog. Too much junk that I just don't want
to throw away, you know. So I'll do what any self-respecting redneck
would do when the house gets dirty--move.

I'm not skipping out on the rent. I pay my free rent every month. I am
not hiding from anyone. I just wanted a new place to clutter up like
this one.

It seems like only April when I moved in here. Oh. It was April. One
of the first people to welcome me was Misha. Which was kind of
funny to me, because she welcomed me from way down under in
Australia. So did Rebecca, who entered me in her Big Blogger
contest without my knowledge. I soon came to expect such things from
Rebecca. Somehow I stumbled onto Redneck Diva (sorry if that left
a mark), and I have been looking over my shoulder for "Fitty" ever
since. I can't remember how I found DeadpanAnn, but I claim to know
her from back in the day when she was still unemployed and living in
her mother's basement. You've come a long way, Baby. Oh, I forgot
that you gave up the smoking thing. Rachel found me in the early days,
and look what she's made of herself. I think she's on her third blog that
I know of. She's much more political than I am, and also politically
incorrect sometimes. That makes me start hee-hawing. Sometimes
she uses a little alias. I won't blow her cover. I think I did that a while
back. These are the people on my blogroll that I can count on to visit
me every week or so. Regular company that I don't have to pick up
the house for. I know others visit me daily, but they are not as vocal.
You don't think they are scared of me, do you?

There are some who drop in every now and then. I visited them daily
in the summer, when I was a slacker. Now that school has started
again, I don't make it quite every day, but I try. I glommed onto them
by kidnapping them from other people's blogrolls. I have others that
I've bookmarked but haven't rolled yet. I'll fit them in sometime,
after I'm finished unpacking.

I'm going to miss a few things around the old homestead. Walk with
me. We'll take a reminiscing little stroll around the grounds. I will get
you my new address tomorrow, unless you are the stalker type and
can find it on your own. It's not that hard, really. Even I could do it.

What Do YOU Think?

2005-10-22T19:44:00.000-05:00

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

2005-10-21T19:40:00.000-05:00

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

2005-10-20T18:16:00.000-05:00

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!!!

2005-10-19T19:05:00.000-05:00

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

2005-10-18T20:23:00.000-05:00

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

2005-10-17T19:36:00.000-05:00

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!!!

2005-10-16T15:10:00.000-05:00

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.

Is That a Panther?

2005-10-15T14:56:00.000-05:00

Naaawwww...no panther. Just our black cat, Stockings, who has
never forgiven us for referring to him as "she" until we took her to
be spayed, and the vet said, "Uh...do you mind if we neuter this one
stead of spay him?" OK, so I'm not good at sexing cats. Wouldn't
you be more worried if I was? I'm not as bad as my friend Mabel,
who still calls her cat, Lovey, "she", even though she knows he is a
boy. And I didn't name this cat "Stockings," either. #1 son did that.
It's the name of Bill Clinton's cat, isn't it? That's OK. I have no
problem with my man Bill.

The point of this picture is that our Hillbilly Fishpond has some major
design flaws, and I'm all about pointing out the flaws if they're not mine.
Aside from the brackish green/brown water, we have the fake turtle,
fake owl, fake sunflower, fake bunny, and large seashell. I approve of
the river rock, and the big flat rocks that my Hillbilly Husband and #1
son hauled from the creek in numerous trips. I am neutral on the plants.
I just do not agree with HH's mixing of the fake species. There are too
many in such a small space.

But the real point is that I do not always agree with my HH. I have read
several blogs where the husband and wife never fight! Where is this
strange land? I know, maybe they don't want to show their bad sides
on the blog. It just seems unreal.

Don't these men leave their skidmarked underwear on the floor? Don't
they leave a melted drop of ice cream on the counter every night after
the woman has cleaned up? Don't they find her chocolate Easter bunny
in the fridge in June and help themselves? Don't they make a scene about
babysitting their own kids? Not that my HH does any of these, mind you.
It is information I have gathered over the years.

And what about her? Doesn't she nag him to take out the trash? Harp
at him to put in a lightbulb higher than 40 watts? Demand that he stay
out of strip clubs? Snore like a freight train until he wants to put a pillow
over her face?

I find it hard to believe that any marriage can be as perfect as some of
these I read about in Blogland. Why, Mother Teresa herself would've
liked to kick her husband to the curb every once in a while. Maybe that
is not a good example, what with Mother Teresa being a nun and all,
and not having a husband, unless you count God, which we certainly
must count God, and even though I am not a religious person, I think it
would be a serious relationship faux pas to kick God to the curb,
because that is kind of disrespectful, and you never know when that
lightning bolt just might shoot down out of the sky to make you mind
your manners.

Now don't go getting paranoid if you're on my blogroll and think this
is about you. I know some of you have issues every now and then,
because you share it with us. And that is much more refreshing than
sweeping it under the rug (how come the woman has to do the sweeping,
huh?) and more entertaining for me to read. Which is a must, because
this IS all about ME, you know. I think I might have mentioned that just
one time.

I don't get along with HH all the time. But I know how to pick my battles.
So he can decorate that Hillbilly Fishpond any old way he wants, and he
can leave the fake Christmas tree in a box by the pool table all year. But
when I think something is important, you can bet that I'll come out the winner.

Loose Ends

2005-10-14T20:19:00.000-05:00

I have a few loose ends to tie up this week. I'd like you to think I'm
gonna wrap 'em up real purty and tie 'em with a big red bow, but let
me warn you now, I've been known to wrap Christmas presents in
wallpaper. Hey, it was cheap. I used to work in an insurance salvage
store, and you can't get much cheaper than "free." Or much cheaper
than "me."

Well, OK, maybe you can, because I just thought of this friend we
used to have when my Future Hillbilly Husband and I lived in separate
apartments together. This friend lived in FHH's building. They were
all a little strange over there, what with FHH shooting his boy's pellet
gun up through the ceiling into his neighbor's apartment, and that 40
year old man and his wife who worked at a children's home 7 days
on and 7 days off who liked to wear a SPEEDO in the pool, which
was I must say a kind of anatomy lesson for the little girl whose parents
also lived in that building with their 1970s model Oldsmobile with a
peeling vinyl top that the carwash peeled all the way off and they were
going to sue the carwash. And I haven't even mentioned the insurance
adjuster who was almost my boyfriend who spent the day not doing
his adjusting and latched onto an 18 year old girlfriend who was still
in high school which is in my opinion just oh, so wrong because she's
a KID, you fool, and why would her parents approve of her dating
a 30-something man, and all he had to say for himself was "Her skin
is so sooooft," to which FHH replied, "Yeah, BABY soft." But I digress.

The cheap friend lived with his wife, who was so sweet you could go
into a diabetic coma just talking to her (and if diabetic coma means
you don't get enough sugar, I am sorry, because I don't have time to
look up my medical facts what with all this digressing and run-on
sentences). They had cute little accents, him hailing from Dolly Partonland,
and her growing up in Bill Clintonland. So one night we planned a night
on the town chock full of supper and bowling, FHH and me and Cheapy
and the Sweet Little Woman. Our first clue that something was amiss was
when, on the way to the restaurant, Cheapy said, "FHH, could you drive
through that ATM? I don't have any money with me." So we did, and
Cheapy told SLW to put the card in and "Take out $20, Baby, because
you have to eat lunch out at school this week." ????? Since when did $20
buy supper and bowling and a week of lunches at the junior college nursing
program? I am not THAT old.

So we had supper and hightailed it to the bowling alley, where FHH
ordered up a pitcher of beer. He asked Cheapy if he was having any,
and he said, "No, I don't think I will tonight." When we visited Cheapy's
apartment, there was no shortage of THE BOOZE, so I though maybe
he had a big day tomorrow, or was a little under the weather. We bowled
and gossiped, and FHH saw some friends on the next lane because he
knows everybody in two counties. The friends got ready to leave, and
they had a half-full pitcher of beer left (or as I would say, half-empty,
because that's the kind of gal I am). The friends said, "Hey, do you want
that beer? We are leaving and don't want it." And before FHH could say
yes or no or thank you very much, Cheapy bellowed, "Baby, go get me a
glass." So he had turned us down because he was afraid FHH would
expect him to buy the next pitcher, I guess. Which is my point. He was
cheaper than me.

Now, getting back to the loose ends (I swear, I just never know where
this blog will take me when I sit down with no idea what I'm going to
write about) I must first mention the Bad Boy who shot two people last
Sunday, but more importantly, caused our school buildings to be on
lockdown all week (because it IS all about ME, you know, and this
was kind of inconvenient for me). He has not been caught, but we will
not be on lockdown next week. Which I guess is bad news and good
news.

Next, I have gotten through to a few of my Do-Nots, because they
came in with work to do and actually did it today. Yeah, 1st quarter
ends next Wednesday, so it's too little too late right now, but maybe
they can salvage their semester grades if they buckle down and stick
with it.

We are not rushing the paperwork to buy back our rightful land from
the Land-Stealer, since he is intent on throwing that Halloween party
on it. He did haul all the cedar logs onto his land 50 feet away. He
also has a big horse trailer parked there. #1 son exclaimed, "Oh, great!
He can't afford to pay for the land, but he can put air conditioning in
his horse trailer!" Uh...Son...I think he borrowed the horse trailer, since
we haven't seen it parked over there. In fact, I think he might be hauling
the cedar logs in it.

And in more important news, the Sonic guy I am having my fling with
gave me a great discount today. I ordered my usual poison, a large
Sonic Cherry Diet Coke, and the voice told me, "That will be one o
eight." It was happy hour, half-price time. I drove to the window, and
there was my man. He looked at me, looked at my money, and said,
"Just a minute." He punched something into the register, and said, "I
didn't know it was you. Forget about it." WooHoo! Nothing's better
than a Sonic Cherry Diet Coke unless it is a FREE Sonic Cherry Diet
Coke from the Sonic Hillbilly Mom Admirer! Seriously, I think he
knows a student from our school who is in my friend Mabel's class.
Anyhoooo...I loves me my FREE Sonic Cherry Diet Coke!

Do-Not Village

2005-10-13T18:49:00.000-05:00

I told my teaching buddy, Mabel, that I was going to put a sign over
my classroom door. "Do-Not Village." That is because the students
DO NOT do anything. Well, that's not quite true. They do a lot of
squabbling, farting, talking, excuse-making, forgetting, annoying,
borrowing, whining, wasting, and opinion-spouting. But they DO NOT
do anything like hmmm...let's see...errrr...HOMEWORK!!!

DO NOT get me wrong. I like these kids. They are the kind I prefer
to "teach," not the preppy smart kids. I like them just fine if I am not
responsible for making them pass. But I have issues with some of
their behaviors. Once I've had them a couple of years, they get broken
in quite nicely. It's mostly the new ones who give me fits. They are
not bad, evil kids. They have not adapted to the ways of Hillbilly Mom.

I am particular about my stuff. I like things a certain way. They are
not picking up the cues. So here is a list of my peeves:

HILLBILLY MOM'S DO-NOT LIST

DO NOT...tell me your paper is in your locker, at home, already
turned in, in your other purse/pants, on your kitchen table, in another
book, in the dog's stomach, in the trash because your mom threw it
away, being copied by another student, not necessary because you
have a homework pass, too late to do now because the teacher
doesn't take late work, on your computer but your printer broke/
ran out of ink. I have heard it ALL before. I am not as stupid as
you'd like me to be.

DO NOT...come to class without pencil and/or paper. This is freakin'
SCHOOL! You might need those things occasionally. Like for doing
WORK. For which you get credit. Credits which add up so you can
GRADUATE. I have to buy these things that I am giving you so you
don't have an excuse for not doing work. I am Mrs.Hillbilly Mom,
NOT YOUR MOM!

DO NOT...wad up 5 tissues to blow your nose. One will be sufficient.
I also pay for the Puffs With Aloe. And especially do not toss them into
the air and snatch them like you are a world-class juggler. They are tissues.
Not toys. And do not complain if your glasses get smeared. Read the box.
They have l-o-t-i-o-n, people. That will leave a film on your glasses. We
also have paper towels in the closet. Use them. If you continue to abuse
the tissues, I will not buy anymore, and will force you to use a roll of the
school toilet paper, which is nigh to see-through in quality.

DO NOT...use the GermX for hair gel. You will go up in flames when
you light a cigarette later. And while we're at it, do not use the GermX
at all unless you get ink on your hands or you have just blown your nose
or coughed. Not to smell the fragrance, not to say "Ooo, it makes my
my hands so smoooooth," not as an excuse to get out of your seat, and
not because "Hey...free GermX!" I buy the GermX so I can clean off
your viruses after you come up to my desk hacking and sneezing and
touching my stapler and tape and eraser and calculators.

DO NOT...look at me like I am speaking Swahili after I explain where
to find an answer, give you three examples from real life, give up and
flat-out tell you the answer, and refrain from smacking you when you
ask, "But what do I put?" I am here to help you. Not do-it-for-you. Pay
attention, or don't bother to ask. Other people can make better use of
my time.

DO NOT...ask me how old you have to be to drop out. I am not going
to beg you to stay. It's like the skinny girl saying, "Oh...I'm so fat." She
just does it so others will give her attention by saying, "No, you're thin."
You have flat-out told me you're dropping out. Don't expect me to waste
time helping you if others need me. If you really want the help, then shut
up about your dropping-out fantasy. My time is valuable, believe it or not.
I have a better success rate helping people who want the help instead of
those who are fighting it.

DO NOT...brag about how much school you missed last year, or how
you started a food fight, or how nobody in your family ever graduated,
or how much you drank over the weekend, or how you're going to
kick somebody's a$$, or how you're planning a big party while your
parents are gone, or 'let it slip' that you smoke. What do you think I'm
going to say, "You're so cool?" No. I'm not. That stuff isn't cool. Tell
somebody who'll be impressed. Do not bring that attitude into my
classroom. I want to say, "You don't have to be such a loser."
But I won't.

Those are just the major DO NOTS. I'll do some minor ones later in
the year, when they are getting on my last nerve.

A Mining We Will Go

2005-10-12T19:03:00.000-05:00

What do you think of this, Redneck Diva? Does it look scary enough
for you? Too bad, because there ain't no spooky tours. You can go
in the museum part, which is located around back, during the daytime.
Still, I think this old lead mine could be a gold mine at Halloween.
Take people on a night-time tour. OOOoooooOOOoo. Scared yet?

Judging by the looks of the place, this may not be a good idea. This
poor mine has been a Missouri State Historic Site for about 20 years
now. Have they fixed it up? Naawww. The museum tours used to be
free. You can see a couple pieces of the old equipment they used
underground. There are, of course, some minerals. Duh! It's called
the Mineral Museum. You can sit on some wooden pews and watch
a movie made in the 1950s of mining the lead and how they separated
it. Oh, the pews sit in the old shower room. Kind of cool.

This mine was operated by the St. Joe Lead Company. This is the county
that lead built. Both of my grandpas worked in the mines, and an uncle.
Much of the land people own was bought from the St. Joe Lead Company.
And most of the deeds read "surface rights only." One of my uncles bought
70 acres at a price of $60 per acre back in the 1960s. He used it to run a
Christmas tree farm, then sold the business to my cousin, and sold off the
land at $1000 per acre. Now, land in that area will bring $7500 per acre
if you sell it in 3-acre tracts. That now concludes our little lesson on land
speculating. And our bit of a history lesson. History is not my friend. I do
not like it and never have. Because all my history teachers were football
coaches. Boo hoo, poor me. This also concludes my pity party.

I really just liked that picture of the mine. I pulled over to the shoulder of
the road so #1 son could take it. Some stupid yahoo honked at us. Hey!
I signaled when I cut across two lanes in front of him. Sheesh! Who does
he think he is, the Redneck Miss Manners of Highway Etiquette? What's
the hurry, Bubba--gotta stop by the Wal-mart for some Sudafed to cook
up a batch of crystal meth? I will be the one to do the honking on the
highway, thank you very much, because, you see, it's all about ME!

********************************************************

I heard a commotion upstairs. Seems that #1 son went to get some water
and drug the pitcher forward without removing my lunch for tomorrow
from the shelf. So... my Redneck Tupperware aka a Country Crock
margarine container of leftover Hunan Chicken took a swan dive from
the top shelf and spilled its guts on the kitchen floor. Oh, the bad luck...
my Hillbilly Husband was the witness, and had to clean it up. I don't
think I will eat it, because I have a sneaking suspicion that he may have
scooped it back into the container out of spite.

I will leave you with your bonus Redneckism for the day. My Hillbilly
Mama told me she had enclosed a scavenged part of a computer for
#1 son in a vanilla envelope.

Lockdown, Shmockdown!

2005-10-11T18:06:00.000-05:00

Well, the bad boy referenced in yesterday's post has not been caught.
Today was another lockdown day, but not of the double-secret variety.
The counselor came to tell me at the end of 1st hour. A fat lot of good
that did me, because even though I locked the door and closed it, I
forgot to close it after 2nd hour started. Thank goodness, Orange Coat
Girl asked, "Uh...Mrs.Hillbilly Mom....aren't we supposed to be on
lockdown?" Ooops!!!

And gosh darn the bad luck, a kid at another district in our county
took a gun to school, and shot it into the bathroom ceiling. So there
was some confusion as to why we were locked down, some people
on the outside thinking we had a gun-toter. Nope. Not us.

Today I did a little studying for the U.S.Constitution test, which is a
good thing in itself, but not so good because this kid studying it is a
senior, and customarily you take it your freshman year. But...you
can't graduate until you pass it. We have until May. I think we can
do it. I also did a little states & capitals, some polar molecule
properties, a bit of perimeter and area, some bar graphs and
line graphs, described simple machines in the students' own words,
and changed fractions to decimals the old-fashioned way--by long
division. Ho hum. I am getting kinda sleepy.

I learned that someone's locker got TPed, that someone's neighbor
sleeps with his butt in the window that is right by where she waits for
the bus, that someone's uncle's date took him to an underground skating
rink in the Festus area (where to his surprise, everyone was a devil-
worshipper, so he pretended to be, too), that someone's brother likes
to wear eyeliner and bras, and that when informed of such, two people
in the class will shout in unison: "What is he, a dragon queen?" Oh...
the sheltered existence that is the midwest.

I also checked over a few similes, my two favorites being 'As skinny
as a toothpick on a diet' and 'As ugly as a turtle without a shell.'
HooRah, 6th grade, you rock!

On the home front, we are in the midst of processing our loan to buy
the property usurped by the Land-Stealer. Funny thing, the Land-
Stealer seemed almost disappointed when my Hillbilly Husband told
him we would have things done by Friday. He hemmed and hawed,
and said, "So soon? Uh....we thought we might have a Halloween
Party over there. And, uh, you probably wouldn't want us to have
a party there after you bought it." Uh, that's right, Einstein. Now the
funny thing is, he wanted the money NOW, and then he wants a party
there. They freakin' live right across from us. And the land is right
beside us. Why do they want a party on vacant land when their
7 acres with a house is about, oh, 50 FEET AWAY!!! I do not
even pretend to understand these people. It must be the crystal meth
a-talkin'. So now we'll wait until HH gets back from Germany and
not rush the whole land aquisition thingy.

Tomorrow we have an early out for a teachers' inservice day. What
rumors will fly about that? Maybe the bad boy will be caught, and
the kids can roam the halls freely again. Tune in tomorrow.

Bad Boys, Bad Boys...

2005-10-10T18:36:00.000-05:00

First cat out of the bag this morning, (It's an expression, people. I don't
put cats in bags.), my students tell me there has been a shooting. Not
at school, mind you. Over the weekend. What I am telling you is strictly
heresay from my students.

It seems that a former student had robbed a family twice, taking money
and a 4-wheeler. The family was pressing charges. According to one
of my students, the father of the family told the kid, "Next time you
come to rob us, I'm going to shoot you." So the kid broke into the
house and shot the mom and the dad. Whether for revenge or to do
unto them first is up for debate. Their kid was not home at the time.
Both victims survived, and identified the shooter. The police were
looking for him. Again, this is just heresay.

The point I am making is that one of my students mouthed off, "They
deserved to get shot." Oh, yeah. That went over really well. The word
'riot' comes to mind. The others shouted at him, "WHAT? HOW CAN
YOU SAY SOMETHING LIKE THAT?"

To which I joined in to keep the burning-rags-on-ends-of-sticks mob
from tearing him limb-from-limb, "What do you mean by that? How
did they deserve to be shot? What were they doing wrong? Can
you see now why you can't get along with anyone? That is a very
disturbing statement that you made. You need to watch what you
say. Think before you say something. How will it affect the people
you are saying it to?"

I don't think he got the message. He mumbled in his passive-agressive
low-talker way, but did not spout off to the class again. The angry
mob was pacified because I stepped in on their behalf. And speaking
of -halfs, 43% of this class has a relative in jail. And even they didn't
think it is OK to break into a family's house and shoot them, just
because they threatened to shoot you first.

Sooo...We were on lockdown because the perpetrator had not
been apprehended. Apparently, it was a double-secret lockdown,
because I did not hear a word of it. I found out when I could not
get into my second building except through the front door by the
office. At the start of 6th hour, a fellow teacher said, "Wait a
minute, you need to see this." I closed my classroom door with
my students inside and me in the hall. The teacher showed me a
picture of the alleged shooter. I opened the door and went into
my classroom. My students were staring at me open-mouthed.
"How'd you DO that?"

"Well, there's this newfangled invention called a door-handle,
and if you turn it, voila! The door opens and you may enter!"

"Nooo! The door was locked."

"Nooo! It wasn't."

"Well, it's supposed to be. We're on lockdown. Haven't you
heard what happened?"

"If it will make you feel safer, I will lock the door. Yes, I have
heard people talk about what happened. There's no need to
discuss it." So I locked the magical door-handle thingy, and
they were satisfied.

My own kids said they did not get to go outside all day for
recess, and nobody was allowed to enter or leave the building.

Ahh...behold the life that is Hillbilly Mom's. In other news, a middle
school student announced out of the blue, "My mom gave my brother
a thousand dollars because he graduated from high school." And
another little urchin asked, "Do we all get a thousand dollars when
we graduate?" Uh, honey, let's work on the 'graduate' part before
we count our thousand dollars before it is hatched, mmmmkay?

And that concludes our Redneck News for Monday, October 10.
Have a pleasant tomorrow.

Procrastinating 101

2005-10-09T20:36:00.000-05:00

I am quite qualified to teach this class. I put things off. I always have.
I think that's a characteristic of Aquarians. I think. I'm going to look
it up one of these days.

Right now I should be laying out the boys' clothes for school tomorrow,
and packing part of the lunches, and doing a load of laundry. Nawww...
here I sit, blogging a post that I could have done earlier today. But I
didn't have a subject in mind. And I asked Hillbilly Husband to bring
me a Sonic Cherry Diet Coke when he went to buy some insulation
for his BARn and a tire for #1 son's car. Oh, he brought me a soda.
It was not my beloved Cherry Diet Coke. It was a Strawberry Diet
Coke, which was just plain nasty. It was all I could do to drink the
whole thing. That threw me off my schedule.

I spent part of the day reading an autobiography of Dolly Parton. Did
you know she is worth $110 million? She made $8 million from one
song alone: "I Will Always Love You," recorded by Whitney Houston.
Here's a little joke from the book that made me laugh out loud. Seems
that once Dolly got rich, she hired a decorator for her home. He put
in some Buddha statues. Dolly's mother came for a visit. Dolly had to
go somewhere, and when she came home, the Buddhas were on the
front lawn. Her mama said, "I won't have no child of mine worshipping
false idols." Dolly's husband, Carl, said, "Your mama's right. I'll just
put them in the barn." (They had every intention of bringing them back
once Mama left).

Dolly told Carl that they would humor her, because she was her mama,
and you have to honor you mother and father, it says so in the Bible.
She also told Carl that the groundhog foot her mama wore around her
neck on a little chain was as offensive to her as the Buddhas were to
Mama. She had mentioned it before, but Mama told her: "Your Daddy
killed this groundhog and I cooked it for supper. Daddy said it was the
best groundhog I ever cooked. We had such a good time later that
evening that I wear this to remember it by."

So Dolly went in to cook supper, and her mama was sitting at the table
watching when Carl came in. He was wearing a heavy chain with 2-inch
links that hung down to his knees. And at the bottom, with the chain
running in and out of the eye sockets, was the skull of a cow. Nobody
said anything about it. They ate supper and Carl wore it all night. It was
their private joke and a way to get to Mama.

But I digress. What was this post about? Ah, yes...procrastination. I
went through the boys' backpacks, and found a survey about school
climate. One for the parent, and one for the child. Like a 2nd grader
knows how to answer one of those. So I asked #2 son the questions
in his own language, and filled in his answers. I said, "Do the kids bring
weapons to school? You know, things that could hurt you, like guns
or knives...?" And #2 replied, "Well, Sydney brought that alligator
head with the teeth still in it!" I guess that was a "yes."

And that's all, folks. All I've got time for tonight. #1 son is hollering
for me to come sit with him while he falls asleep. Big baby. I will get
there in a minute...

The Land-Stealer and the Bomb Squad

2005-10-08T19:15:00.000-05:00

Don't you think that would make a good title for a country song?
Sorry to disappoint you, but I will not be writing a song today, and
the two things are not actually related. I know, I know, you are
accustomed to disappointment here if you are a regular visitor.
Now lift up your head and stop stubbing your toe in the dirt. I
have a story to tell you.

A while back, I mentioned that our neighbor stole some land from
us. Or rather, he bought land that we had been planning to buy.
For 16 years. Hey, we were getting around to it. It's right next to
our BARn. You can't have just anybody build next to your beautifully
landscaped BARn, you know.

So Wednesday night, #1 son checks his computer, and says, "Hey,
I have three messages on this program I just set up." What? He
had hijacked the incoming messages from our answering machine
to his computer. Oh, and he doesn't check his computer every
night. Lucky for us, all three messages were from Wednesday.

It was our neighbor's wife. "Hey, ha ha, uh, it's me, Neighbor's
Wife. Uh, the contract on our house fell through, and, uh, we
wondered if you'd still be interested in that land. Give us a call."

So I called my Hillbilly Husband who was still at work waiting
for the bomb squad, and he said to call back RIGHT NOW
and tell them he'd call them tomorrow. Suddenly land is selling
like crystal meth at a Hell's Angels reunion, in HH's opinion.

We have since negotiated a deal on the land and are set to
start the paperwork on Tuesday. Of course, the Land-Stealer,
as #1 son calls him, is making a fortune off of us. I knew that's
what he was up to. His story is that he bought a semi truck to
go into the trucking business, and what with the price of gas
now, he can hardly make his payment, and they are having
trouble selling their house. As you can see, HH and the Land-
Stealer are not exactly Trumps at the negotiation table.

Now, to the bomb squad....HH called from work Wednesday
evening to say he might not be home until 11:30-midnight. Seems
they had an OHSA walk-through of the plant, and found some
crystalized picric acid.

According to HH, this is like having nitroglycerin sitting around
in your plant. It is highly explosive. They sent home all the workers,
and the boss and HH remained. The bomb disposal squad was
called in from St. Louis. When the main bomb guy (MBG) arrived,
he climbed out of the car and said, "Fellas, I was out to dinner when
I got the call. I have had a couple drinks." Which I guess was his
story and he's stickin' to it, cause HH said he reeked of alcohol.

The MBG looked at the jar of picric acid, and said, "That's not
a lot. I can pick up that jar, but I'm not going to open it, because
there might be crystals around the lid." He put on his flack jacket
and put the jar in a 5-gallon bucket. They sent in the robot bomb
handler thing to pick up the bucket and take it outside. There, they
had dug a hole to put it in. They put some dynamite on top, and
blew it up. HH said the flames shot 15 feet into the air, and there
was a big KABOOM like at a commercial fireworks show.

Supposedly, picric acid can last 30-40 years if it stays wet. They
have had it in the plant no longer than 7 years. The MBG said
they get called to schools a lot for it. He said he was glad the news
people hadn't got wind of it, because then they'd have to tell them
what they wanted to them to hear. "Never tell them the truth. They
are on the internet in minutes, looking it up. Then they sensationalize
it. You make up something not as dangerous to tell them."

Hmm...now I will wonder when I watch the news.

A Spooky Teacher's Tale

2005-10-07T19:07:00.000-05:00

My 7th graders have been in a tizzy over the antics of one of their
teachers. Let's call him Mr. A. Here is their tale of terror:

Did you know that Mr. A went in the gym and tried to talk to
something? He went in about 8:15 one night, and stood on the
bulldog in the center circle. He had a recording thing with him.

Mr. A said, "Is there someone here who wants to communicate
with me?" Then he held out the recording thing. He didn't hear
anything. Next he said, "If you want to communicate, give me
some kind of sign. Anything will do. Show me something." He
didn't see or hear anything.

When Mr. A got home, he loaded the sound on his computer
to listen to it. After he asked if somebody wanted to communicate,
he heard a kind of whispery sound but couldn't tell the words.
When he said "Give me a sign," there was a high screechy sound.
He burned it to a CD, and played it for our class.

Do you think he's serious, or is he like Mr. B? You know, how
he makes up that clown story every year?

Oh, and Mr. A has a picture from when we had that assembly to
sing the National Anthem. There is the head of a woman behind
him. And she is frowning like she looks really mad.

*******************************************************

I haven't seen Mr. A, so I don't know what he's up to. We are
in different buildings. I was believing it until the picture. I think
maybe Mr. A got Photoshop and was playing around.

Today the kids said Mr. A told them it was a Halloween prank.
He told them:

Couldn't you tell that picture was a fake?

So the CD was a fake, too?

No, that was real.

NO IT WASN'T!

Okay, it wasn't. If that's what you want to believe...

They are very confused. The kid who went to the haunted
Blackwell House said Mr. A is looking in the wrong place.
He says he knows some kids who went down to the basement
cafeteria and took pictures, and when they were developed,
they had orbs of light near them in some pictures. This was about
6-7 years ago. He said, "Remember, we had funerals in the gym
for two students and that teacher that got murdered by a former
student." Yeah, that's right. Who knows? I never got those vibes
from that gym, and I used to coach in it.

Nope, but I sure got vibes from this gym. Here's even a picture
of it, but it's just an illusion in this photo. And from my own house.
Booooo! It's that time of year again.

A Kid's Spooky Tale

2005-10-06T17:53:00.000-05:00

My 7th grade students have been all a-buzz with tales of a teacher
looking for ghosts in the gym. I'll tell that one tomorrow. I asked
one of the older kids if this teacher has been telling them the same
thing, but he said no.

However...this kid had his own tale of terror, which I would like
to steal from him (hey, he doesn't know I have a blog) and share
with you now. I will put myself in his place, so I may tell it in
first person. And now...The Blackwell Mansion:

***************************************************

A bunch of us wanted to go to this haunted house in Blackwell.
A murder happened there, and everybody says it's on public
land, and people go there all the time. My mother said I couldn't
go. I told here there was no such thing as ghosts anyway. She
said that wasn't what she was worried about--at one "haunted
hospital," a crazy guy hid out and killed people who came in
looking for ghosts.

We told my mom we were going riding around in town. Then
we went to Blackwell. Some of the guys took their paintball
guns in case some maniac was there to kill us. Cause I figure
that if I'm trying to kill somebody and he shoots me with a
paintball gun, I'll run off and quit trying to kill him, cause it
hurts. About 8 of us went.

It was dark, and we had some trouble finding the house. We
had to park by the road, and walk down a trail. I was at the
back of the group. A rabbit jumped out and they jumped. I
picked up a big rock and chucked it over in the woods. They
screamed and ran past me. I said, "Hey guys! It was me! Stop!
I won't do it again." They came back.

We found the house and went in. We were there about an hour
and a half, taking pictures. Then we went to another little building.
We came out of there, and I was stepping over a fence when I
looked up and saw a man holding a shotgun in my face. I thought
I'm going to die! My buddy was right next to me. The guy saw him
and pointed the shotgun at him. I took off running as fast as I could
to the truck. We had left Youknowwho there because, well, he's
in a wheelchair you know, and we were afraid he'd get stuck. So
he says he'd been trying to text message us "GET OUT. GET OUT
NOW!" but we couldn't get service down there.

There was another guy with a pistol. They marched everyone up
to the truck and said, "What are you doing on our land? We called
the police, and you're waiting until they get here." We sat in the
back of the truck and almost cried. Some of us were praying. We
didn't want those guys to shoot us. We didn't know who to call for
bail. We couldn't call our parents. We saw the police lights, and
those guys threw their guns in their truck.

The police took all our IDs and wrote down the information. Then
he started to question us. "What are you boys doing here? Do y'all
believe in ghosts? Are you robbers? Have you been drinking? Do
you have any girls here?"

We told him no to everything. Then he said, "This looks mighty
suspicious. Eight guys all alone out here in the dark." I turned to
my friend and said, "Hey, I think that cop just called us gay." But
I said it so he couldn't hear me. The cop asked the guys if they
wanted to press charges, but they said no. They were afraid we
would tell about their guns, I guess. The shotgun guy said, "No.
I have all their information if I change my mind."

Now I'm kind of scared, because there's a crazy guy with a shotgun
who knows my name and address and social security number.
And you know the worst part of it? We were at the wrong house.
That was not the haunted house. We walked around in some guy's
house taking pictures for an hour and a half.

***************************************************

I asked him why they didn't just admit that they were looking for ghosts,
and he said they thought they'd get in trouble. They had told the cop
they were on "public land" and he laughed and said, "Don't tell me that!"

He said he would check into the story the kids were telling about the
teacher ghosthunting. Maybe I will have more information to put with
that story tomorrow.

No Cheese For You!

2005-10-05T22:20:00.000-05:00

Whatever you do, don't ever feed me cheese after 10:00 pm. No,
I don't turn into an evil gremlin like that Stripe character who spat
on precious little Gizmo while he was tooting his Christmas horn.
I have bizarre dreams. You may not be able to handle the dreams.
Read at your own risk.

It happened Monday night. I had some running around to do
after school. We had some unexpected visitors and phone calls.
Supper as we know it did not happen. I had stuffed the kids full
of Sonic while in town, so Hillbilly Husband and I made do with
what we could find. Part of my supper was some Oberle cheese.
Do y'all know what that is? It is a soft, garlicky long stick of cheese,
made in Ste. Genevieve, Missouri. I googled it to see if maybe
it might be found outside of this area, and gosh darn, wouldn't
you know it, the first thing to pop up was something from April
about Listeria in Oberle sausage. So maybe I did have some bad
cheese. You'll have to be the judge if you dare read about this
dream.

I made the mistake of not wanting my slices of Oberle cheese
with my hearts of romaine, shredded cheese, tomato, and
sunflower seed salad. It sat on my desk for a couple of hours.
OK, 3 1/2 hours. I thought it was fine. It's cheese, right? That
stuff is cured or already spoiled or something.

So around 10:10, I returned to the computer. Mmm...cheeeese.
I felt like Homer Simpson. I took a bite. It was kind of soft,
but tasted fine. About an hour later, I felt queasy. Maybe I
should have said no to the cheese.

I had the oddest dream. I haven't been remembering them lately.
What good fortune to remember this:

I was in a limo, going to some big awards show. It was like the
Emmys, or the Oscars. My parents were with me. I was the
guest of honor. So we get there, photographers all around, we
go up the steps, dressed to the nines. Up some more steps was
Lily Tomlin. She had her hair done up in an Audrey Hepburn kind
of twist. Or a Jennifer Love Hewitt playing Audrey Hepburn kind
of twist. She was in a long white evening gown. I couldn't see if she
was wearing comfortable shoes. Because that seemed important to
me, right after I saw a big banner proclaiming THE GAY AWARDS.

What? Why was I guest of honor? It seemed like they were
humoring me, like I was part of the Make-A-Wish Foundation.
Hey, people. I'm not sick! Oh, I had to get a thyroid ultrasound,
but I ain't kickin' it yet. And I don't recall this being my wish, either.
Not that there's anything wrong with that.

So they whisked me behind the scenes while TV cut to a commercial.
There I saw some chick that I don't watch on TV. Someone like
Mariska Hargitay, who last year wore some green dress to an
awards show, and whoever won asked her to come up on stage,
and there she stood like a giant 5th wheel in a green dress during the
thank-you speech. Not a 5th wheel camper. She's not that big. A
5th wheel like someone totally unnecessary. Like an extra actress
on stage while a winning actress gives a thank-you speech. Well,
this Mariska kind of chick was acting up with another chick, like
kissing with a gigantic open mouth. They thought it was hilarious to
do that while TV was on commercial. The other chick looked like
Britney Spears, only pretty, without her eyes too far on the sides
of her head. Some kind of blond in a ponytail.

That embarrassed me, so I went to another backstage area. Oh,
my! Was that ever a mistake! Here was another blond girl in a
fancy shmancy dress, and she saw me and my parents and pulled
up her dress to reveal, er, shall we say, a very manly part. And
very large. It looked like the fake one on Marky Mark in Boogie
Nights, if I had ever watched that movie, which maybe just maybe
I have, because hey, it has Burt Reynolds and Julianne Moore and
Don Cheadle and John C. Reilly. And my mom was cheering at
it! The manly part on the blond chick, not the movie Boogie Nights.

After that 'part,' my 5:00 am alarm woke me. I was still kind of
queasy, though if from the cheese or the dream I am not sure. I took
a shower, packed the boys' lunches, and took a short nap in the
recliner while HH took his shower. Well, it was intended to be
a short nap, but my Hillbilly Mama woke me with a call at 6:05,
which is my emergency plan and I ask her to do it every morning.
I did not ask her how she enjoyed my special award honor the
night before, as I was worried about my other dream from which
she had awakened me.

I was worried about my friend Brian. Except I don't have a friend
Brian. He looked like that guy Jason from the Sci-Fi show
Ghosthunters, but his name was clearly Brian. The only person
I can think of named Brian is from the blog An Audience of One.
They both look kind of similar, I guess. So this Brian was a teacher
AND a bus driver at my middle school, and he had been called in to
a meeting in the Superintendent's building. Because it was the first of
the month, and they had to let fired teachers know. Except that happens
in April, but anyhoo, Brian must have been fired and was ashamed
to tell anyone, because he was standing with me on bus duty while
I wondered, "Who's driving your bus?" I had also been called in,
and had gotten a glowing recommendation. By that I mean the
principal had told me, "Well, for some reason they want to keep you."
Okaaaaaay. I don't have to worry. I have tenure. And I haven't done
anything stupid like pretend I'm dying so I can be the guest of honor
at THE GAY AWARDS.

So I am not going to eat warm cheese after 10:00 pm anymore,
because this is just weirding me out. I will have to look it up in my
Dream Dictionary, which I keep at school for entertainment
purposes only. Hey, any book you can get a kid to read is a good
book.

This is about the weirdest dream I've had, after that one where I
stabbed a woman in the back 57 times and got on a schoolbus to
ride to a bar where I planned to sit and drink until they caught me.
But nobody ever caught me, so we had a good ol' party. And I
didn't even eat warm cheese for that one.

So, Alexandrialeigh, don't worry so much about your dream of
dating that hairy Robin Williams. It could have been worse. Or
maybe not, because now that I think of it, I would rather be the
guest of honor at THE GAY AWARDS as long as I wasn't dying
than be on a date with Robin Williams, because I was almost
physically ill when I saw his naked hairiness in the movie Moscow
on the Hudson with Maria Conchita Alonso, who now has some
kind of nervous twitch, most probably from being so near to a
naked hairy Robin Williams.

If you made it through this whole crazy post, congratulations to
you! Not many people have been commenting lately, so there,
take that! See what happens when you let me run wild? There's
nobody to restrain my craziness, and my two loyal readers must
put up with this nonsense. Sorry Mabel. Sorry Bean. If you had
your own blogs, maybe I could be stopped. Or not. Bwahahaha!

Ask Hillbilly Mom

2005-10-04T18:15:00.000-05:00

Good gracious! The things my students come up with these days!

Yesterday, I knew I was in for a bumpy ride when one asked me:

Can you get a shot to make you give milk, like for a baby? I don't
want to, but my friend and I are having an argument. She doesn't
want to, either, but she says you can't.

I guess it's possible. You can get a shot to stop it. It's regulated
by a hormone. Prolactin, I think.

Can you drink alcohol at a football game? My friend says you
can, that at another school they were drinking it.

I don't think that sounds right. Drug-free schools and all that.
And if it could be done, you could bet the school would do
it at the concession stand to make money.

Can you smoke at a football game?

Same thing. Nicotine is a drug. They probably have a designated
smoking area.

She said they were sitting in the bleachers smoking. Not her,
but some other people.

Maybe they didn't get caught.

Have you ever been to the bathroom there?

Uh, no. Not since I went to school there many years ago. You
had to go inside then.

Well, they have them outside, and they don't have a main door,
they have plywood doors, and it's like in a shack. I went in, and
you could see my head when I sat on the toilet, so I just pretended
to go. Then I had to go all night, and I kept walking back, but I
couldn't go because of those plywood doors. Then I didn't want
my ex-boyfriend's parents to think I was drinking or something,
because I kept going back to the bathroom.

Hmmm...

My friend thought I shouldn't sit by them. She said I was stalking
him. I just thought it would be nice to sit by them. And do you
know, they list the player's weight in the program? That's none
of anybody's business. It's embarrassing.

They do that for football. And wrestling. Same as they list height
for basketball. They don't do it to embarrass them.

Well, my ex-boyfriend's said 275.

That's not that much for a football player. You want them to be
big. So they can knock people down and not get hurt.

Do you remember Blankety Blank?

He can't even take care of himself. If he falls over, he could die.
And his mom isn't even home with him. She's off running around.

I heard she's a lesbian. She's sleeping with some woman.

Unh uh. She's sleeping with Whack Whackety. That's where she's
running around to.

Hey, hey! Tra la la! Mmmmmmmm. Too much information! I
don't want to hear that!

Oh, okay. My friend got mad at me because I wouldn't go in
and pay for her gas. I told her, "No. I will go in and pay for my
own gas when I get my license." She made my little sister go in
and pay. Then she was mad and driving really crazy. But I didn't
tell her that, because then she would have been madder. I just
wanted to get home. It's one thing if she wants to kill me, but
she had my little sister in the car. That's just not right.

Maybe it's time to get another friend.

Intervention Audience

2005-10-03T19:33:00.000-05:00

I watched this show last night on A & E called "Intervention." I have
seen parts of it before, but it's not something I plan my schedule
around. Here is my problem with this show. Who exactly is the target
audience? Are they looking for addicts who want to change? Family
who has an addict they want to change? Why would you watch
something that reminds you of your personal heartaches? And I
can't exactly picture addicts sitting around watching the show.

I know I joked about having an addiction to Sonic Cherry Diet Coke.
I don't consume drugs. I don't drink. But when I watch this show, I
watch it to see the people before they get help. To watch them take
drugs. And I don't think, "Oh, that's terrible! How can they do that?"
I think, "Man, I bet that's some good stuff. I bet they feel good right
now." Kind of sick, isn't it? Do you think this show makes some
people get high? Do you think it gives them that little push that they
might not have had if they were watching, oh, I don't know, perhaps
Everybody Loves Raymond?

There is nothing glamorous about the way it is depicted. In fact, the
subjects of the show think they are being filmed for a documentary.
This 24-year-old guy went to visit his dad and 4-year-old half-brother,
and after he left he held up a baggie of powdered Demerol. He said
he took the capsules out of the medicine cabinet and one-by-one
poured out 40 mg of Demerol, leaving 10 mg and replacing the rest
with salt. That is just wrong. But when he licked his finger and dipped
it in the baggie, I thought, "Ooh, that's gonna be goooood." I know.
I'm sick. I'm an addict. What's up with that? Think about people who
dabble in this stuff. Couldn't a show like this push them over the
edge? Assuming they watch it, if they're not already out getting high.

Oh, I teared up a little when the families told the addicts how much
they were loved, and how they were hurting everyone. But still, I was
thinking, "I wonder if he's gonna get high one last time before he
arrives at rehab."

It's not like this is a novelty for me. I have been around the getting
high scene. I went to college, for cryin' out loud! What is my
fascination? Do you think I have a problem? Do you think I need
an intervention? Am I the only person who watches that show to
see people get high?

I have had a stressful day. I am off to feed my other addiction:
Little Chocolate Donuts.

May I Help You Find Something?

2005-10-02T13:36:00.000-05:00

Here are some 5-seconds-or-less visitors to my blog. I can't imagine
they would have stayed longer. I don't believe I have what they're
looking for. I might have some explainin' to do.

swimming in high heels - I do not recommend it. The water will run
out of your blue plastic Wal-mart pool.

lateral meniscus hurts after mowing lawn - Duh! Then don't mow
the lawn!

neo nazi haircut the boys will come a'runnin' - But you may not
want to meet these boys.

train made from 55 gallon barrels lawnmower - Pick a hobby and
stick with it, "Fitty." You can pull the train, you can stuff victims in
55 gallon barrels, or you can torture your meniscus with a lawnmower!
Don't spread yourself so thin.

middle school math sponge activities - I swear I had nothing to do
with this. It sounds so....WRONG!

dill molestation - Dill. Not just for pickles anymore.

hot hunky hung mature gay truck drivers - What have I been blogging
about? I did not know I reached this audience!

sinkhole repair hicksville - Gosh! Can you call people to come fix
your sinkholes out in Hicksville?

hillbilly party - YeeHaw! I'll whittle a few more corncob pipes, shove
a possum in the oven, and shovel out the outhouse. We'll have us a
hoedown!

4 wheelers for kids - It's my charity. Like Toys for Tots. 4-wheelers
for MY kids.

redneck party ideas - Cause the hillbilly party wasn't good enough
for 'em.

what hillbilly looks like - Oh, c'mon. We're not as elusive as Bigfoot!

what kid of clothes did puritans have - Uh, maybe you meant kind of
clothes? Are you planning a Puritan party?

hedgeapples to feed horses - I don't think hedgeapples are good for
horses.

redneck fashion - Don't get your hopes up. Apparently, we dress like
Puritans.

movie quotes all the way with a red hot poker - If you didn't like my
movie contest, you could have said so. No need to jab me with that
poker.

hillbilly kevin - Hey, he's my neighbor.

hot mom's hung son - No no no lalalalala mmmmmmm I can't hear you!

beaver diva - Is there something one of you is not telling me, DIVA?

hedgeapple fruit trash - What are you saying? Do they live in trailers?

lea thompson duct tape gag - Uh, Ms. Lea Thompson, actress, do you
have a bodyguard? Because you might want to check into that.

This is just from August and September. Who knows what the future
holds?

Circus of the Absurd

2005-10-01T14:59:00.000-05:00

How Redneck do you have to be to wear this to Thanksgiving dinner?
I think the house would have wheels on it. Now don't you trailer trash
people go getting your panties up your butt (Oh, you already do. They're
called thongs!). I spent my first 12 formative years in a home on wheels,
so I'm allowed to use the TT words. Now you might notice that this offer
is an exclusive. Don't go buyin' no cheap knockoffs of the Turkey Table
Hat. The inventors at Collections, Etc. might go all crazed crystal meth
addict on your a$.

Actually, this photo was just to snag your interest. We will now return
you to your regular programming, which is of course all about ME!
ME ME ME! ME stuffed into a chicken stuffed into a duck stuffed
into a turkey. I call it momturducken. With a side of greenMEEEEn
Funyun casserole, and a MEcan pie for dessert. The beverage would
be Cherry Vanilla Diet Dr. ME. No, I'm not serious. I can't stand
that stuff. It would of course be Cherry Diet ME, or Classic ME.
Guess who's not coming to dinner at my Thanksgiving table? That's
right. All of you!

So getting back to my tales of working for the state unemployment
office....I was out of my element. I am from Redneckland, all white
people all the time. We are all pretty similar. Except for that Nub
guy who pushes himself around in a little red wagon. Dadblastit!
There I go again! That was on Burt Reynolds' TV show, Evening
Shade. I mean Big Larry, the 500 lb. guy who walks all over town
hitching rides in the back of pickup trucks. Imagine if he didn't get
all that exercise walking!

My job in South St. Louis was an eye-opener! They had different
kinds of people working there! There must have been 4 (count 'em,
4!) Black people! (Well, it was South St. Louis, after all, which is
not so very different from Redneckland). There was a Little Person,
and a woman with an oxygen tank, and an albino, and a closeted
gay man (that's what the workers told me, anyway), and some
Catholics, and a Lutheran, and I think even a Jewish person. Plus
two women who wore sensible shoes, but I didn't get any other
vibes from them, so they must have just been Midwesterners with
comfortable feet. Now comes the Circus of the Absurd part. It wasn't
that great diversity that made the work environment strange. It was the
actions of the people.

My cronies in the unemployment claims department were not so
crazy, as I knew the method to their madness. Familiarity breeds
understanding of their coping methods. Alice would do anything to
be in control, so she was our ringmaster. Shirley was the sad clown,
always nervousing (thanks, Cowboy, from Big Brother 5, for that
new word) that she had punched something into the CRT that couldn't
be fixed. Paul was the magician who always fixed it. Cliff the temp was
the Slowest Man On Earth. Eileen the temp was the Oldest Living
B****. Bob, the albino claims supervisor, was the driver of the clown
car, miraculously coming up with workers to move the crowd when it
seemed there were not enough workers scheduled. Larry, the supervisor
of the technicians, was the lion tamer, keeping the tantrums to a minimum.

The Job Service side of the office was certifiably nuts. They didn't
have enough work to do. Nobody came to the unemployment office
to look for work! So they spent the day sitting in each other's cubicles
talking about us. Carol, the oxygen tank lady, was like the bearded
woman. She scared everyone, because they didn't want to turn out
like her. Jane the Little Person wasn't nuts, but people treated her
as if she would break, and tried to do things for her that she would
rather have done herself. Pat the employment service technician
belonged under the Big Top. Word had it that in the downtown
office, she threw a pencil at another worker in a disagreement.
She lived alone and played Nintendo and walked about a mile
home from K-Mart with a blue hard-plastic kiddie pool on her
head for her cats to swim in. Go figure. Diana, the job counselor,
wore two different shoes to work. (No, Mabel, she didn't have
foot surgery. She got dressed in the dark). Shirley pointed this
out to Diana after lunch, and Diana said, "I wish you hadn't told
me. Now I'll be self-conscious the rest of the day." Lois was
divorced, but her ex-husband lived in the upstairs of her house.
Lois had connections, because she used to work with Kathleen
Madigan, the comedian. Gina and Cynthia were the two popular
girls who got their way. They put the sign-in book away at 8:00 am
on the dot, but would get it back out if one of their buddies was
late. They were like corrupt ticket-takers, skimming the till.

I was constantly amazed at what people could get away with.
Joyce, the 60-something claims tech that worked in the cubicle
next to me, seemed on the surface to be a nice little grandmotherly
woman. She wore a wig, but nobody would ask why. Her shoes
matched her purse. Her fingernails matched her pastel sweater/
skirt sets. She was calm, very genteel, and called everybody
"honey." Then one day she finished taking an appeal in person
from a Middle Eastern guy, turned to me, and said, "Typical
Sand N****r." What?!!!!!!!!!!!!! I was speechless. These
people were much more racist than the Rednecks I was used
to. Their excuse was "You haven't been around them like we
have. You don't know what they're like." Which was just hard
to take from people who are supposedly smarter than average,
because you have to get a pretty good score on the merit test
to be interviewed and hired. It's not like I was working with
a bunch of 8th grade dropouts who had never been out of
Hooterville.

Speaking of Hooterville, I eventually got a transfer from that
office to one that was two blocks from my house in Redneckland.
I worked there until a big reorganization that made the claims
all automated, done by phone. But it left Job Service people
working, in a job where nobody ever came to see them. Hey,
I could have taken a transfer to the downtown St. Louis office,
or to Springfield, but by then I had my #1 son, and didn't want
to drive or move.

And yeah, I drew unemployment for 26 weeks. Because I could.

Part 2-Politics in the Unemployment Office

2005-09-30T19:47:00.000-05:00

All the people that worked with me at the Unemployment Office
had to take a state merit test to get the job. They call the people
with the highest scores. So nobody there was dumb. I did not
especially want people to know that I had been teaching for several
years before I took this job.

Apparently good ol' Bob, my supervisor had told everyone about
me before I reported for work. Because I would overhear Alice
and her crony Eileen the temp saying things like "well, she has a
degree" while they were looking at me over the tops of their half-
glasses. Now I wasn't puttin' on airs. I would have preferred they
didn't know. Alice would dump a day's worth of PI folders on me,
and say, "I don't have time, could you file these for me?" I didn't
mind. I figured she had been there longer, and I could stand to pay
some dues. These things were filed by SS#, so you had to put them
all in order, then find the file drawer where they went. That little
plan backfired when Bob started paying me overtime to do the
filing when I waited after work for my Hillbilly Husband to pick
me up. So then Alice would answer the phones after the receptionist
of the day came off the desk, and transfer all the calls to me. Or to
Shirley, because she started the same day I did. Or to Paul, because
she flat-out didn't like him. We played along with this little game. The
trick was to be really friendly with the caller, and offer to look up
his claim on the CRT. The longer you were on the line, the fewer
calls you had to take.

We got a new guy named Judd who told everyone he had 3 degrees.
We were not impressed. In fact, Alice said, "Then why are you
working here?" Judd lived at home with his mother, even though
he was in his mid-30s. He looked kind of like that TV guy
Christopher Lowell. He once accused me of telling him to "get off
his f***ing a$$ and call some G**d*** PIs." That went all the way
to the office manager, on a day I was on vacation. Filthy coward!
That is not my style, as anybody who knows me personally would
attest. I prefer to snipe about people behind their backs, and avoid
confrontation. So they put a note in my file because of the complaint,
while the little liar got away with it. The claims supervisor, Al, said
he believed me completely, but that they had to do something due
to Judd's complaint. I think they were afraid Judd would pull the
gay card and make a big stink. His motive was to get out of doing
PIs, because he was a claims technician, but everyone started training
by doing PIs. This did not go over well with my carpool driver, Paul
who was the type who would have said such a thing to Judd if he had
been working with him that day. Alice put aside her dislike for Paul
and agreed, and vowed to "fix that little prick."

Claims technicians made a little more money, and their main duty
was to adjudicate claims. That means they called the employer and
the claimant, and decided which one was telling the truth, and whether
the claimant got unemployment with no DQ, or if there were a certain
number of weeks penalty before he could get it. Within 6 months, they
had an opening in that department, and Bob promoted me.

My new boss was Larry, who looked like a flesh & blood Ned Flanders.
He was very calm, and had a good idea of what was really going on.
We had a couple of prima donnas in that department. Larry kept them
in line. Our desks were at the back of the office, behind the claims
deputies. We wore headsets because we were on the phone all day.
Each morning we got a list of calls to make during certain time periods.
We had to pull the file, call, and write determinations. Our name went
on the decisions, so some claimants would call and ask to talk to
specific people. They were usually irate because they had been DQed.
You had to explain how that decision was reached, and tell them they
could file an appeal. Much of the day was spent waiting for employers
to call back. We left the headsets on, because you never knew when
you would get a call, and you could just plug in to any phone that was
close. The receptionists knew not to give general calls to people wearing
the headsets, because they were on calls that day.

Judd sat right in front of me. He always wore his headset, even on days
when his duty was mail, or purging files, or filing appeals. Alice had
waited for her revenge, and as soon as he finished his training with the
deputies, she gave all calls to him after the receptionist left. He answered
them the first couple of days. Then he complained to Larry. Larry told
him that was part of his job. Then the rest of us started getting calls, while
Judd didn't. I went up front to consult Alice, who by this time was nice to
me because I did my job well. Alice said, "I am sending them to him.
Why doesn't he pick up?" The call would go back to the front desk, and
some of the Job Service people would intercept them, and look back
at who wasn't talking, and send the call to us. When several of us got
calls specifically asking for "Judd," we knew he was not answering.
Alice called Larry, who walked over to Judd's cubicle and turned up
the volume on his phone. "You've got to keep this where you can
hear it. You're missing calls." Judd acted like how did that happen?
Then the next day he did the same thing. This time, Alice hollered
across the office: "I think Judd needs to turn his phone up!" Larry
went in again, and he was not happy. He sternly told Judd that the
phone volume was not to be turned down, consider that a warning.
Judd was really pissy after that. He would try to go file or make
copies, but he would have to run back to his phone, because Alice
still sent them. She would even tell callers, "Let me transfer you to
our technician, Judd. He will be happy to help you." Then if a call
went back, they would say they were on hold for Judd. Alice was
a freakin' genius. If she was on your side.

Tomorrow, I might explain what a United Nations of Misfits this
office was. Or I might do something completely different. Depends
on the buzz I get from my Sonic Cherry Diet Coke.

The Unemployment Office

2005-09-29T18:14:00.000-05:00

No, don't worry about me. I haven't been fired. Redneck Diva left
a comment yesterday to leave my work at work. Bossy little vixen,
isn't she? Anyone who has ever been a teacher knows that is impossible.
It is kind of a stressful job. In fact, I got fed up with it one time, paid
off my car and my house (hey, it was a $17, 900 house) and quit.
That's right. I couldn't take the heat, so I jumped out of the kitchen
and into the fire. That's the kind of thing my Hillbilly Mama would say.
She kind of mixes things up. Like that movie, Death Becomes Her,
was referred to as She Looks Good Dead. But I digress.

I quit. We didn't have the two boy young 'uns yet, just my Hillbilly
Husband's boys on the weekends. I figured I could find any old kind
of job that was better than driving 60 miles one-way to work, and
bringing home stuff that kept me up until 11:30-12:00. I landed a
job at Casey's General Store for 6 weeks, but that's another story.

I took some state merit tests, and was called for an interview with
the Missouri Division of Employment Security. It is really the
unemployment office, but we weren't allowed to call it that. They
hired me, and guess what! It was in St. Louis. A 60 mile drive one-
way. I started thinking this was not such a good idea, since I was
making about $2000 a year less.

Once I got to working, I loved it. THE WORK DID NOT COME
HOME WITH ME! When work was over, I didn't think about it
until 8:00 the next morning. Not even 7:59. I didn't mind the drive.
HH and I rode together and he would drop me off. He worked a
few miles away. When he took a job closer to home, I found a work
buddy to ride with.

I should not have liked this job. It was back in the day when Old
Bush ruled the land. Since so many people were out of work, with
not many good jobs to be had, Old Bush gave the masses extended
unemployment. That meant they got another 13 weeks of benefits
after their original 26. Those union guys were in deadbeat heaven.
They had to make ONE contact per week looking for work--their
union hall. The others knew how to play the game, which was plain
to see when their job search was in alphabetical order. They just
looked in the yellow pages and wrote down employers and phone
numbers. Remember George Costanza and Vandelay Industries?
It was like that, without the private office for that woman worker.
Out attitudes were pretty much like hers, though.

My job was to take PIs or to take new claims. We alternated by
how the supervisor assigned us. Usually 3 deputies (my title, not
law enforcement) and 2 temps would take the PIs, or personal
interviews. To do this, we'd take a work search log out of the
basket at the reception desk, call the person's name, and take
them to our cubicle. There we would punch in the SS# on a CRT,
review the work search log, update the file, and send them on
their way for another 4 weeks. The key was to listen and see if
they'd disqualify themselves by admitting to working for cash one
day, or being home sick. The sure way to start a riot was to pull
the PIs from the top of the rack, not the bottom. People had to
wait over an hour, sometimes two, thanks to Old Bush. We could
do a PI in about 5 minutes.

Taking new claims required calling a number, like waiting in a
bakery. Some people came in for a number, went to the bar
across the street, and called in every so often to see what number
we were on. New claims could suck the life right out of you,
especially an interstate claim. They were not on computer. You
had to use at least 4 forms, sometimes more, depending on the
state. Each one was different. We had a file of all 49 other states.
The Illinois claims were breaking our backs. We were on South
Broadway, a hop skip and a jump from Illinois. People had the
right to file in any office, though the claim was based on the state
where wages were paid. They liked ours, because they said we
were nicer than the downtown office on Washington Ave. We
had a worker, Alice, who would tell the Illinois people: "If you
were smart, you would go file this in Illinois. They can do it on
their computer and it will be faster." She was right. It could be
2-3 weeks faster. Of course they did not want to say: "I'm not
smart, so I want you to do it." Alice held the record for getting
rid of Illinois claims.

We had a temp, Cliff, who was ex-Army. He was very professional
and very thorough. One day Cliff called a number, and the guy
jumped up and begged to trade with anyone. A guy 20 numbers
behind traded, and the original guy still got out ahead of Cliff's
claimant. Cliff liked to take a nap on his 15 minute break. Under
the table in the break room. He would lie down, set his watch
alarm, and cross his hands over his chest like a corpse. It was
quite unnerving if you didn't know Cliff had gone into the break
room ahead of you. Our supervisor, Bob, was the closest thing
to a friend that Cliff had. Bob was ex-Air Force, and admired
Cliff's work. Paul, my ride, was also ex-Air Force and told Bob:
"I'd do great work too, if I only talked to 7 claimants a day."

The penalty for being good at your job was that you got stuck
doing PIs on Mondays and Tuesdays. The people who had
worked there longer took to dragging their feet, so they got
to do new claims. Our best team was Paul, Shirley, me, and
our temp Lynnette. We usually got stuck with Cliff, but we
worked around him. Throw anyone else into our mix, and
it was ON! Oh, you want to be slow? I'll be slower. You've
only called 3 people? I'll wait until you catch up. Pity the poor
unemployed fool who came in on a day someone wasn't
pulling their weight. Good ol' Bob came to help us sometimes.
He was that kind of guy. He was also kind of albino, but that
was beside the point. He was from Minnesota, for crying out
loud. He didn't need melanin.

We lived for break time, when the smokers would light up
outside on the picnic table in the parking lot, and the non-
smokers would walk a block to the 7-11, being careful to
avoid the guy who pushed a lamp up and down the sidewalk
in a grocery cart. 7-11 had coffee, and Big Gulps, and banana
Slurpees. Not to mention Little Debbie cakes sold individually
for $.25. Our drawers were full of snacks. We were pretty
good about it, though Shirley swore that when she worked
downtown, a woman opened her drawer one day and took
out a slice of watermelon and started eating it.

We did not have any security guards at our office, but they did
downtown. We had a guy who worked for Probation and Parole,
and you could tell some of his clients. He had to get stern with
them. "Look, Buddy, it's 98 degrees outside and you have on
a jacket. Unless you just dislocated your shoulder, I'd say you
have a gun in there. You ever bring that back in my office, I will
report you." Because he was that kind of guy. He gave them a
chance. We never had any claimants go ballistic.

Tomorrow: office politics at the unemployment office. Please
come back and read it. I'm like Sominex. Read Hillbilly Mom
and SLEEEEEP.

Hillbilly Mutant Turtle Mom

2005-09-28T19:03:00.000-05:00

This is what my students think of me. I'm stylin' in my American
flag contacts and my imitation Dracula choker. Observe the rosy
glow in my cheeks that comes from wiggling my way into my
designer faux pineapple turtle shell. I know how to accessorize
too, what with my jet-black cape and my green-apple toenail
polish on my hooves. Cause I ain't got turtle feet no more--I had
the cosmetic surgery to remove those ugly claws. When I save
up more of my hard-earned moolah, I'm going to have that
unsightly green stump removed from my rump.

This is a picture that a student gave me. It had "To Mrs. Hillbilly
Mom, From So-and-So, Happy Halloween." So maybe it isn't
really an artist's rendering of moi. But you know, it's all about
ME ME ME, so I just assumed...And you know that when you
assume, you make an a$$ out of you and me.

What else do you know? Let's have a little test, shall we?
Let me answer for you: "Yes! Please! Give us a little test!"
Oh, all right, since you insist. Did you know that....

A rabbit with a hole in its head will sit in the road until a policeman
picks it up and puts it to the side?
Parking spaces marked "visitor" are for the teacher who gets to
school latest?
When disagreeing with allowing religious activities to be held at
school, it is proper to start the statement with: I am not a devil-
worshipper, but...?
Just because you have a secretary does not mean you are more
important than the rest of the help?
Pickles are made from cucumbers!
Black electrical tape holding the lens in your glasses is not a good
look on picture day?
If people stop talking when you enter the teachers' workroom, it
does not necessarily mean they are planning a surprise party for you?
Telling the teacher he is going to Hell because he is Catholic is not
considered polite?
Every now and then, a discussion of someone setting oneself
ablaze is hilariously funny, though a bit politically incorrect?
Slowing down to the speed limit because a kid in a 1970s model
Datsun is tailgating you will make him swerve wildly back and forth?
A Burger King soda left in the car overnight will leak out of its cup
and leave a stain on the floor mat, but the kid who left it will not
believe you and say: "Let's fill it with water and leave it in the sink,
and if the water has gone down in the morning, that means it did
leak out in the car" ?
The kid will never know if you pour the water out after he has gone
to sleep?

Put your names on your papers and bring them to my desk. Find
something to do quietly until everyone is finished.

Witness Protection Program

2005-09-27T19:04:00.000-05:00

This is how my Hillbilly Husband takes a picture. No worries about
my kid being identified by "Fitty," the 55-gallon barrel killer. I barely
recognize him myself, except for the unstylish black shoes with white
socks.

This is #1 son. He belongs in the Kleptomaniac Protection Program.
I don't know where this kid stashes things. We have searched the
house numerous times. Somewhere there is a treasure trove of our
missing items.

What does the kid take? Would it be, oh, I don't know....money, or
candy, or porn (not that we have any)? NO! Here is what has
disappeared, one by one, over the past couple of years:

12 pencil sharpeners
40 pencils
8 pairs of scissors
17 rolls of tape
5 fingernail/toenail clippers

Pencil Sharpeners-We started with the little plastic kind that you hold
over a wastebasket and turn your pencil to peel off shavings. Then
when those disappeared, we got the kind with a clear plastic flip thingy
to dump when it was full. Next was a kind like schools have, with a
handle, and a suction cup to hold it on a counter. Then came the battery
kind where you stick the pencil in and it grinds itself. The latest version
are the small kind that are see-through plastic, and you push the pencil
in the hole and it grinds. My Hillbilly Mama even bought each boy one.
Now they are both gone, plus the one I bought to keep on the homework
desk.

Pencils-He must eat them. Or he thinks they are disposable. We finally
get one sharpened, and then it's gone. Then HH has to whittle one with
his pocket knife.

Scissors-Every year I buy each boy one for school. They bring them
home at the end of the year, and they're gone. Also, my orange-handled
Fiskars (2 pair) are gone. Even the one I've had since before I married
HH. And my heavy steel black-handled scissors, and my imitation black-
handled Wal-mart counterfeit Fiskars. The ones in the kitchen drawer
are AWOL. What's the kid doing, performing surgery?

Tape-Heaven help you if you need to tape something around the
Hillbilly Mansion. I buy a 4-pack of Scotch tape, and all that is left
is the cardboard holder. I had to glue wrapping on a birthday party
gift. Santa gets discouraged when he's got a lot of wrapping to do
at 3:00 am. Is #1 son making a mummy on the sly?

Fingernail/Toenail Clippers-Eeewww! This is not normal. Not to gross
you out, but nobody else could have taken them. HH and I do our
clipping in the master bathroom, with our feet propped on the big
triangle bathtub. We clip #2 son's nails. This is done by commanding:
"Go get the clippers! Now take them back!" #1 clips as the mood
strikes him. Or when I say, "That is nasty. Look at your big ol'
woman-fingernails." He leaves the clippers lying around until we
command him to put them away. So now he must be hiding them.
In the last 2 months, we have lost 2 giant toenail clippers, 2 regular
fingernail clippers, and a pair of baby fingernail clippers with little
balloons painted on them. All we have left is a plain pair of tiny baby
fingernail clippers.

This kid is 10 years old. He is headed for a life of crime. Oh, not the
good stuff, like embezzling a fortune. The petty stuff. White collar
crime. Pilfering staples and paperclips and post-its and pens from
work. Hardly worth the effort, boy. If you do the crime, make sure
crime pays.

DISCLAIMER: Do not steal. It is wrong. It is very wrong. Even if you
get A LOT of money. Do not do it. You will get caught. You will have
to go to trial and have a bunch of freaking idiots on the jury.

EEEEEEEWWWWWWW!!!!

2005-09-26T18:40:00.000-05:00

We had quite a shock this evening as I was preparing supper. By that
I mean I was eating the pepperoni off #2 son's Little Caesar's $5.00
pizza while he ran down to the basement fridge to fetch a mini Sierra
Mist. The boy returned empty-handed.

Where is your soda? (Gotta get all the food groups, you know.)
I couldn't get one loose from the ring thing. Oh, and there is a giant
worm down there.
What?
A big worm. It is by the TV.
#1! Go get your brother a soda. You were supposed to take them
loose from the plastic, so now you have to get it for him.

This got no argument from #1 son. Verrrrry unusual. No doubt, he
wanted to see the worm. He ran down and got the soda.

Hey! There's no giant worm down here!
Yes there is. Look on the rug by the TV.
EEEEEEEEEEEEE!
Is it like a fishing worm?
No. It is shiny.
Does it have legs?
I don't know.
Is it slimy?
No, just shiny. It is crawling.

He came running up the steps, squealing like a little girl. Then he
grabbed his camera and took off back to the basement. Nerd.
He snapped a pic and brought it to me, because I refused to go
down there or even look.

I called my Hillbilly Husband, who had just left work for the 40
minute drive home. He would know what to do.

Is it a snake?
What!
Is it moving? You better watch it or it'll get away.

No way was I watching that thing for 40 minutes. I got a glass
sun-tea jug. #1 said, "That won't fit."
I got a glass soup bowl.

Can't you get a plastic one?
Yeah. If you want it to get away!
Get the glass one!
It's a good thing you didn't step on it. Then you would get the heart
and the colon and the organs all over your foot.

#1 took the bowl and trapped the worm. Then he said it was moving.
Nobody would go back downstairs. We could see the bowl through
the stairwell. HH got home and his buddy, Buddy, called. "Get off the
freakin' phone! You can call him back!"

HH picked up the worm with his bare hands. That's what he is good
for. Buggy things and cleaning up vomit. He held it in his palm. "It's
just a rolie-polie bug." MY A$$! It was a rolie-polie bug four inches
long, curled up like one of those big colorful lollipops on a wooden
stick. Only he was battleship gray. And probably not so tasty.

HH waltzed him around the kitchen, near my food, and then took
him out to the porch to set him free. What's this world coming to?
Climb into the handbaskets, people, for the long slow ride to HELL.
Can we not even kill a BUG anymore?

Here he is in all his glory, crawling across our 2 x 6 porch
boards. So he can come back in, I guess.

I know it is a millipede. This is as good as any textbook photo.
Props to my 10-year-old photographer. So I know it's not a
bug, it's an arthropod. I used to teach science for cryin'
out loud! These things are creepy. I do not want them in
my house. There is a mysterious case of the open basement
door that I have yet to investigate. I will keep you posted.

Hillbilly Momfeld's Breezeway

2005-09-25T16:20:00.000-05:00

Time for a picture. I have been boring myself to sleep lately. I don't
have anything to talk about, so I will go on and on about nothing. I
fancy myself to be the Seinfeld of the blog world. A blog about
nothing. Alas, I am not talented enough to claim that title. So I shall
call myself Hillbilly Momfeld.

This is a picture of our breezeway, between the side porch and the
garage. I took this photo because it was raining, but you can't really
see it. What you can see is all the junk my Hillbilly Husband has
accumulated on that potter's bench or whatever he calls it. I call it
a junk collector. Let's see what's on it, shall we?

The first thing I notice is the cat. She is not a permanent fixture. She
only appears when she hears people. Because to her, that means
FOOD. Notice that she is right next to 3 jugs of Meow Mix. We
buy the giant bags and pour it in those jugs so we can demand that
#1 son feed them. Normally, these jugs are in the garage. I guess
we are running a self-serve food bar now.

On top of the extra shelves to collect more junk are two cannisters
of fish food. These are for the overgrown goldfish in our hillbilly
fishpond. The cats like to eat the fish food, so they knock them
off all the time. That allows the neighbor's dog to run off with them.

Next we have an empty goldfish bowl with blue rocks. There are
3 stacks of empty flower pots. The big white thingy is a rotisserie
that my grandma gave us for Christmas 3 years ago that didn't
work. I think Grandma was a re-gifter. HH fixed it, and we use
it on occasion to roast Save-A-Lot cornish hens, which HH calls
"little chickens." Our yellow and white bad cooler is at the end.
A redneck can never have too many coolers. That's why we keep
them even if the lid is broken and the inside is cracked.

The bottom level has 2 Power Wheels batteries that do not work.
Duh. Our kids are 7 and 10, their Power Wheels Jeep days are long
gone. I think maybe we could get rid of the nonworking batteries.

Down there by the black tuxedo-looking cat, there is a cannister of
some type of cleaner. HH brought it home from work. I guess he is
waiting for one of the kids or animals to eat it. He is not very safety-
conscious. That blue flower pot was in the fishpond holding the
pump. Which must mean that the pump is not working now.

The long troughs are for feeding the cats. Four eat out of one, and
the anti-social long-haired white calico inappropriately named "Snuggles"
dines alone from the other one. That box with a hole in it is our cathouse.
I know. HH said he wanted to build a cathouse. Imagine my relief when
this is what he came up with.

Hanging from the porch ceiling is a twisty-thingy my grandma gave
us that is made from a 2-liter soda bottle. It is one of 3. Hmm...
Anybody into numerology? I am afraid to find out what all these
2s and 3s are about.

That tiger cat in the foreground was the runt of the litter. Then one
day he started eating. He wouldn't leave until he ate the last crumb.
He grew and grew, and now he is the bully. His name is Simba,
and he has a face full of scars from trying to bully Snuggles, who
is not from his litter, and is having none of it.

The brick sidewalk is made of bricks from the road behind our
old house. The city put in a blacktop road, and HH and our backyard
neighbor told them to pile up the bricks in our yards. We hauled
them out here, and HH built this brick sidewalk at the side and front
of the house. Problem is, they grow moss and are quite slippery.
These have moss. They are on the north side of the house. I never
believed that thing about moss growing on the north side of a tree,
either. The front sidewalk does not grow moss. Go figure.

Lastly, we have part of HH's rock garden. He had to buy a couple
truckloads of lava rock for the base. Then he scavenged some rocks
from my grandma, who belongs to a rock club. He has some petrified
wood and some fossils, and, well, just a bunch of rocks.

The big puddles on the porch and sidewalk are from the rain. Not
because the 5 cats and 1 dog got together for one big circle-pee.

Oh, and lest I forget--the Christmas lights stay up all year long. (Ha!
My mind was wandering and I typed 'all year wrong.') Yep. It's
not a redneck house without the permanent Christmas lights.

There now. Aren't you nice and snoozy and ready for bed? Oh, I hope
no one was reading this at work. Yeah. Hillbilly Momfeld. You could
bottle me and sell me as a sleep aid.

When To Give Up

2005-09-24T16:03:00.000-05:00

Here's another post that could be controversial. Depends which
side of the educational fence you are on. And I don't mind one bit
to end a sentence with a preposition, or start a sentence with and.
Or use sentence fragments. But that's not what this post is about.

At our Inservice yesterday, we got into a discussion of how much
we should try to help the kids who don't respond or make any effort.
We talked about a plan to hold middle school kids accountable for
their grades. They don't have the joy of learning found in elementary
kids, and we can't hold credits over their heads like we do with the
high school kids.

The sample plan is an afterschool program for kids failing two or
more core classes. They would have to go twice a week, from 3:00
to 5:00. One teacher would supervise. Core teachers would come
in for 30 minutes each day. Transportation home would be provided.
Those who don't show up as scheduled would receive in-school
suspension. Sounds good, right? But we were asked to play the
Devil's Advocates. To think of arguments why this program might
not fly.

Devil One pointed out that teachers should not have to stay after
school to raise other people's children. It has become a never-ending
task. We feed them breakfast, lunch, and supper. When are we
supposed to raise our families? Our kids go to bed at 8:00 pm. If
we work until 5:00, then we have to drive home, make supper,
check homework, give baths, etc. Why should we have to take
time away from our own kids? Many people entered teaching not
only to help kids, but to have time to raise their own families.

Devil Two said that the program would entail a lot of teacher hours
for the same few kids who are always going to refuse to do work.
As an example, suppose this was a military operation. Why should
we risk 25 men to save two? Especially when the two may not even
want to be saved, and if saving them was virtually impossible. What
if the odds that the two coming back to the world and leading lives
productive to society were almost zero? Why risk all that manpower?

Devil Three asked how many kids we have who would rather be
at school than at home. At school they would get attention. At home,
there may not even be anyone else there. Would some kids continue
to fail just so they could get attention after school?

Devil Four said that the teacher would be nuts by 5:00, what with
having 3 grade levels and 4 subject areas, which means possibly
12 different lessons to help with. (Hey, I do that every day. And
we all know I'm looney. But you get used to it.)

Devil Five questioned that since no late work is accepted, how
can students progress without a foundation in the subject (such as
math or language) when the teacher will be too busy to give remedial
tutoring?

Devil Six pointed out that this task should not be wished on your
worst enemy. It will be like a detention camp, because the kids will
be the ones who refuse to work in the normal classroom setting. Why
would they be good after school with one teacher, and all of their
trouble-making cronies to entertain?

Devil Seven said that it is unfair to expect teachers to do this for no
compensation. A few are on Career Ladder, and can use the hours.
Others have not taught long enough to be on Career Ladder. Why
should they have to do it for free?

Devil Eight pointed out that we already have programs to help the
kids who are behind. It is not our fault they do not respond. We
had tutoring 4 days a week after school last year, but the kids didn't
come. Teachers offer bonus work regularly, but the kids won't do
it. Why should we give them another chance that they won't take
advantage of?

Devil Nine asked if the school board would support the decision
if the student who had to attend on a game night was a star athlete.

Devil Ten asked if the teachers who gave a higher percentage of
failing grades would be questioned about their teaching methods.
What if the teachers lowered their standards, just so they wouldn't
have so many kids failing, so they wouldn't have to stay after to help?

Devil Eleven said, "I will do it if everyone else agrees that we should.
I would never refuse to do my part of the job, because it means that
another one of my colleagues would have to take up my slack."

So where should we draw the line? We can not save every student.
Society can not rehabilitate every criminal. A certain percentage are
just not going to fit into the mold. At what point should we cut our
losses and concentrate on the borderline kids who will make an
effort? How much more grease should we put on these squeaky
wheels? How many chances should they get? How many man-
hours should we devote to them?

As you can see, some good points were made. We are very good
at being Devils.

Who Is Special?

2005-09-23T21:26:00.000-05:00

Here is one where I will step on some educational toes. Put on your
steel-toed boots, baby. I've worked myself into a rant.

We had a Teachers' Inservice Day today, with a guest speaker on
Special Education. She was very good. She believed in what she
was saying. She was a great advocate for the kids. She knew the
law. She raised some questions with me.

I have been a regular classroom teacher. I have taught elementary
PE through high school physics. And that was just in one school.
I have had my share of Special Education students. I have taught
PE to autistic students. One had no idea what she was doing, but
she was game. As long as she could sing her little song, she would
let us help her bat in softball, and fit in pretty well. This was 6th
grade, and the other students were very protective of her.

In the same school, I had an autistic 2nd grade boy. He functioned
a little better, but had great trouble with transitions. And he always
wore brown pointy-toed cowboy boots. Many a day my shins were
kicked by those boots, because he wouldn't want to come in from
PE. He would cry or scream like someone was murdering him while
kicking away at me. He had no aide (excuse me, paraprofessional,
with him). I had no choice but to pull him down the hall like a water-
skier. Hey, he had ahold of my arm, trying to pull me back outside. I
couldn't leave him or the other kids alone, so when we went in, he got
a ride down the hall powered by the SS Hillbilly Mom. I'm sure there
was a better way to handle it, but I did not know of one.

I also taught middle school science at another school, and had
seven BD students mainstreamed into my 7th hour class. Yeah,
7th hour. Most of them had never even had science before. That
is what gets left out, what with the reading and math and special
classes and all. But I had to have them all together so the self-
contained BD teacher could get her prep time. Sucked to be me.
Or the other students in that 7th hour science class.

So here is my gripe. At what point do we worry about the other
kids? The average kid who needs a fair shot at the teacher's
attention. Our speaker pointed out that some of her kids function
on the level of a 1- or 2-year-old. Someone asked why they are
allowed to go to school. Shouldn't they be functioning at the level
of a 5-year-old to attend? Nope. They have the legal right to attend
if they are chronologically 5 years old. She said she has kindergarten
and first grade. Only 4 of her 12 students are potty-trained. That
is one of her main goals for them, to be able to use the bathroom
by themselves by the time they get to high school.

I know parents want what is best for their kid. Our speaker said
she had an IEP meeting with 27 people present. About 7 of them
were lawyers. People know their rights, she told us. But at what
point do their rights infringe on others rights?

Here is my gripe. I have a kid who is gifted. Oh, but our school
had to cut out the gifted teacher due to budget problems. So for
four years now, no one has been tested for the gifted class. They
offered an after-school program for gifted, and my boy went two
days a week. But now they have only 2 students who were tested
and identified as gifted. So they are letting students into the after-
school program who have been recommended by their teachers.
My boy wants none of that. He says if they are letting anyone in,
it will not mean anything.

More of my gripe...How much do we spend on the other end of
the spectrum? We have Title I Reading and Title I Math. We have
MR and LD and BD and At-Risk and IEPs and 504s for others
who don't fit neatly into those categories. We have an after-school
remedial program that even serves supper. But where is the money
to help MY kid? Why should he be kept working at the level of the
"average" students? I have never told him his IQ, but it is definitely
above average. I will mention it a little later. I don't want him to see
it if he walks in while I'm typing this. When he was 9, he was reading
at 11th grade ninth month level. But they didn't have any books at the
elementary library for him. So he read 4th grade books for his
STAR Reader or Accelerated Reader or whatever it was that
they take computerized tests on. Sorry I don't know that elementary
reading program lingo. But he was consistently in the 99th percentile
and was not challenged at all.

Lucky for me he's a self-motivated kid. He was constantly on his
computer at home (when he wasn't taking it apart) looking up
stuff like the space-time continuum or reading technical computer
stuff. I got him subscriptions to computer magazines. But don't
you think that when a kid tests at one forty-eight, he should get
some type of special help to reach his potential? Maybe you don't.
But I do.

So don't go boohooing how these other kids need inclusion and
mainstreaming and least restrictive environment, or remediation to
get their test scores up, while leaving MY child to his own devices
to educate himself when he must be dying a slow death of
boredom on the inside while the school days slip away without
anybody shedding one little tear about helping him achieve his
potential. Is it fair to help one end of the spectrum but not the
other? Oh, but life isn't fair, is it?

He doesn't want me to make a big deal about this. He says, "Mom,
that will just make them take it out on me. Don't say anything."

Yeah, we have No Child Left Behind. Why can't we have
No Child Kept Behind.

These People Are Nuts

2005-09-22T17:54:00.000-05:00

I have had some odd encounters in the last few days. Let the games
begin, shall we?

Exhibit A: My Hillbilly Mama.
She does everything for me. She changed her plans so she could
pick up my kids and take them to the doctor on Monday and Tuesday.
She is keeping them all day tomorrow because school is out for an
inservice day. Today, she had to do my sister's dirty work...pick up
medicine for her 16-year-old daughter. The doctor told her it is over-
the-counter medicine, but that they might question her.

So why am I saying she's nuts? She called me at my lunchtime (have
I mentioned that it's at 10 freakin' 40 am?) and said she has never
been so embarrassed. She had to pick up some Drixoral at Walmart.
They demanded her driver's license. They may or may not have taken
a picture. She was kind of flustered. "I don't look very good today.
I haven't fixed my hair and it's all frizzy. I must look like one of those
people who makes the meth."

Exhibit B: Student
If I don't do any work at all and move, will the school send my missing
work to the new school?
No. But they will send your grades of 0% with your transcripts.
Oh. Why would they need that?
Because they average them with the work you won't do there.
Well, my brother did it, and that's the only way he graduated. They
never asked for his records.
That sounds odd. I have never heard of a school that doesn't want the
records and credits from the previous school.
If I move to another country, will they ask for my transcripts?
I don't know. Depends on the country, I guess.
(Note: never, ever, ask the country, because the answer will always,
always be "Amsterdam.")

Exhibit C: Student
Do you know those speed bumps over at the elementary school?
Yes, I am familiar with them. I drop my kids off there every day.
Well, my bus driver goes over them too fast, and it bounces us
around. I think it broke my rib.
I don't think the bus could have bounced enough to break your rib.
One time, I was riding a 4-wheeler too fast, and I knocked some
ribs out of place.
I don't think ribs can come out of place. They are attached.
Well, the doctor said they were out of place, and he stood behind
me and reached his arms around my arms, and popped them back
in place.
Maybe that was a chiropractor adjusting a spinal disc.
No, it was my ribs that popped out of place.

Exhibit D: Student
My grandpa had something wrong with his eyes one time. They
kept getting red and swelling shut. His doctor said he might have
Cat's Eye.
What is Cat's Eye?
It's when you have a lot of cats, and a piece of cat hair gets stuck
up under your eyelid, and you don't even know it's there.

Exhibit E: Student
Hey, do you know so-and-so?
Yes, I know who she is.
She's quitting school in two weeks.
Thanks for sharing.
On the last day, she's going to start a food fight during lunch.
Good to know.
Don't tell Mrs. Hillbilly Mom, stupid!
Too late. I've already got the secret information.

Bwahaha! Give them enough rope....

Sorry, Hillbilly Mama, for calling you "nuts." It is not referred to as
the meth, Mom. It is methamphetamine, or just meth. Not the meth.
Maybe tomorrow we will have a lesson about the pot. And if Sis
tells you she needs you to buy some cigarette papers for her son,
just say no.

My New Enemy

2005-09-21T20:27:00.000-05:00

I have now let SBC off the hook for telling me nothing was wrong
with my phone and dragging out repairs for 2 weeks. They came
back a couple Saturdays ago and buried my new phone line in
its shallow grave. There were two guys who did it. They were
not wearing shirts. It was a good look for them.

My new enemy is UPS. The Unqualified People Shipping company.
With the little brown truck. Every time I get a package through them,
it is crushed and has been opened. WTF? At first, I thought maybe
Amazon recycled their used boxes. But that does not explain why
every package has been opened and taped back together. And not
very well, I might add. I could do a better job if I was snooping in
people's stuff. What gives? Only two things have ever been missing
in the last 5 years. One DVD never arrived at all, and the other had
a book missing from the box.

Here is the latest pain in my a$$. It has been crushed and it has
been opened. I took several pictures in case I get into a dispute
with Walmart.com. You're dying to know what's in it, aren't you?
Should I make you wait until Christmas? Oh, OK. It's a scale.
Not an everyday spring scale. A $60 electronic scale. I do not
claim to be an expert on scales, but I do not think an electronic
scale should be subjected to such rough treatment. I haven't
opened it yet. There may not even be scales inside. It may be
that "Fitty" has given up on the 55-gallon barrels and is now
shipping body parts through UPS.

See, the whole reason for this scale is that we have a regular
spring scale, but it is not quite accurate. That is because my
hillbilly children see a spring scale, and think: Hey, a trampoline!
Watch me! Listen to it rattle! This is like that hammer thing at
the Labor Day Picnic! You know, the one where you hit it as
hard as you can, and see how high that thing goes! Look! I can
make myself weigh over 100! Shhh...here comes Mom! Get
off! Act like we weren't doing anything! And that is why this
scale is accurate within 12-15 pounds. It depends on where you
set it, and which way you lean.

These Unqualified People Shipping need to perfect their thieving
techniques. At least take off the whole piece of tape and replace
it. Don't try to sneak a peek and then drape the tape back almost
where it goes. Helloooo! I can see where you've ripped off the
cardboard with the tape. Try slitting the tape with a box cutter,
and then taping over it. That won't be as obvious.

I think I will order some honey bees. Do you think they would
escape if the box was opened?

Jeepers, Creepers, Shut Up About Them Peepers!

2005-09-20T19:12:00.000-05:00

Yesterday was quite a day. At 10:30 the elementary school nurse
called to tell me that #1 son had been sitting outside her office for
30 minutes complaining that his eye hurt. Fine. I can't just jump up
and go get him. I had to wait until lunch, which I might or might not
have mentioned before, comes at 10 freakin' 40 am.

My Hillbilly Mama, our emergency plan, our personal shopper,
our surrogate caregiver, our indispensable go-to gal, had driven
to another county with her old lady friend to get a load of wood.
Because apparently the wood in our county isn't good enough for
them. And it is worth spending more on gas than on the price of
the wood.

So I had to pick up my own child from school, and bring him with
me for an hour, and then HM could get him and take him to the
doctor. After much squirting of the orange drops and rolling back
of the upper eyelid, the doctor discovered that there wasn't really
anything wrong. No scratched cornea. No conjunctivitis. But just
in case, she would give him two prescriptions: an antibiotic, and
an antihistamine. One is 3 drops four times a day. That means I
get to drive to the elementary during my lunch and torture the boy.

Oh, I might not have mentioned that I saw #1's eye was swelled
halfway shut when I took him to school. But hey, it wasn't red,
and it wasn't crusty. I thought maybe he whacked it on my fist, or
had something in it. And he did say that it felt like something was
in it. I figured the nurse could take a look at it. And when I accosted
her getting out of her car that morning, I said that if she needed to
send him home, I'd take him now, or need to know by 9:30.

Well, this morning, #2 son got up with a very small corner of his
eye looking kind of bloodshot. Since he hadn't been on a bender
the night before, I thought he must have rubbed it. I took him to
school, and it looked OK. What did stupid Hillbilly Mom tell the
boy? Let's say it together now: "Don't rub your eye." Of course,
the minute he climbed out of the car, he was rubbing a knuckle
into the eye socket.

That's right. The nurse called at 10:15 today about #2. Seems
that both eyes are red. Did I notice it this morning? You bet I
did. But I have duty selling tickets at the Middle School volleyball
game after school, and I can't be taking off to run him to the doctor.
Hillbilly Mama pulled through for me. She got him an appointment
after school, and picked him up. HooRah! Hillbilly Mama! I don't
know what I'd do without you. Probably raise my own family.

The doctor said #2 has an allergic reaction. The cure? Eyedrops.
So now I have whiny watery-eyed kids. I preferred them swollen
and red, without the whining.

Two doctor's visits: $40. Three prescriptions: $58. The assistance
of my Hillbilly Mama: a value far above rubies or pearls. In fact, I
could almost forgive her for only filling half of my pain prescription
when I had knee surgery. Almost.

Emmy and Some Stuff

2005-09-19T18:14:00.000-05:00

I am a sucker for an awards show, so I camped out in front of the
Emmys for 4 hours last night. What's with the E! pre-show? That
Giuliana chick was cramping Kathy Griffin's style. Is that heifer
Star Jones so pissed off at Kathy that she can't even say, "Back
to you, Kathy?" I only saw an hour of this, so maybe I'm wrong.
I used to like Star Jones, but now she's messin' with my Kathy
Griffin, who is much funnier, and doesn't take herself so seriously.

I don't watch a lot of TV shows that were nominated, so I didn't
really care who won. But here are some opinions and comments.

How much did Doris Roberts pay someone to make this the
"Everybody Loves Doris" show? From the beginning, they had
her on camera dancing with an Earth, Wind, or Fire. They kept
cutting to her reactions.When she took her grandsons on stage
to accept her award, I thought she was drunk on her a$. She
slurred her words. Then I thought, well, maybe she just happened
to have some dental work done on the evening of the Emmys,
because hey, I have liked Doris Roberts since back in the day
when she was Mildred on Remington Steele. I called my Hillbilly
Mama on commercials to snark. I told her Doris looked drunk
to me, and she said, "Oh, my." Well, lo and behold, later when
the whole Raymond crew was up on stage, Ray made some
comment and ol' Doris replied, "That's because I've been drunk
since the wrap party." Told ya so, told ya so, told ya told ya
told ya so! (Doing Grace's dance.) Art immitates life. Ray knew
for 10 years she was a lush, and worked it into his routine.

I was very disturbed that not only did the guest appearance
Emmy winners not get to accept and give their thanks on the
program--they were expected to present awards to others.
That is just so wrong. My poor Ray Liotta deserved better.
Ray Liotta. The man who never ages. Who walks like something
is stuck to his leg.

Also disturbing was that Jeffersons "Movin' on Up" song sung
by Macy Gray. What's up with that? She didn't just look drunk.
She looked stoned out of her mind. Now, I am not a Macy Gray
fan, and don't know much about her. Does she always look like
that? That is one song that I would think the two people singing
it would look at each other. Nope. She looked down, or off to
the side. That Gary CSI guy grabbed her by the wrist near the
end. Then as soon as it was over, Macy yanked free and stalked
off. What's the deal? Am I the only one who noticed this?

And my final gripe...Why did they have to annouce "Felicity
Huffman is married to Emmy winner William H. Macy" when
she won? So what are they insinuating, that she couldn't have
won if she wasn't married to him? Have they announced something
like this for anybody else? I thought it was demeaning. It took
away her glory for winning.

Good job, Ellen. Let her host the Oscars. At least she is funny.
But what do I know, I liked David Letterman when he hosted.
The most unfunny guy who has ever hosted has to be Billy Crystal.
I do not think he is one little bit funny. I couldn't stand him on
Saturday Night Live (the pitiful years) and I can't stand him now.

And now, here is my favorite bit of Emmy-related trivia. Years
ago, Susan Lucci hosted Saturday Night Live. It was like her
13th Emmy nomination, and she had lost. The whole cast and
crew tried not to talk to her about it. Yet everywhere she turned
were the Emmy statues. David Spade was using them as cob-
holders to eat corn-on-the-cob. Kevin Nealon had one on a
gold chain around his neck. A crew member was using one to
hammer something with. Jan Hooks used one to prop up a short
leg on her make-up table. Susan Lucci was a good sport about
it. It was hilarious. Maybe you can see it on one of the E! reruns
of SNL. I think it was in the early 1990s.

And there you have it, my review of the Emmys. Because I am
so very qualified to comment on the entertainment industry.
All hail Hillbilly Mom, Redneck Connoisseurr of all things TV!

Sunday Shopping

2005-09-18T15:04:00.000-05:00

Today's shopping trip was not too eventful. #1 son and I took off
for Wal-mart, leaving #2 under the not-so-watchful eye of Hillbilly
Husband. The kid was wearing jeans, flip-flops, and no shirt when
I left. It was 62 degrees. (Fahrenheit, Rebecca. We are not on the
surface of the sun, just in the northern hemisphere.) That kid has a
fashion style all his own.

We found some carpet remnants for $6.99. They will be good for
the boys to sit on playing GameCube this winter, on the cold tile
floor of the basement. Then we browsed the CDs for some old
country music, because I watched CMT last night, the 100 Greatest
Duets or some such thing. That always puts me in the mood for some
old country music. We got a little Loretta Lynn, Conway Twitty,
and George Jones.

The grocery shopping part wasn't so much fun. It becomes tedious
after doing it every week for my whole freakin' life. I really hate
Wal-mart.

We made a detour to Hillbilly Mama's house so #1 could fix her
computer. The connection had come loose between the monitor
and whatever it hooks to. HM wasn't there. She's a good church-
goin' woman. We hung around until she got home so #1 could show
her his new haircut. He had to buy some spray gel at Wal-mart so
he can stand it up in front.

#1 son went to a little girl's birthday party yesterday. She was 11.
He was the only boy invited. She's had a crush on him since
first grade. At Thanksgiving that year, the teacher had them
stand up and say something they were thankful for. She stood up
and said, "I'm thankful that I'm in love with #1." He denies it now.
I told him I hoped there really was a party, because his invitation
was written in pencil on a folded piece of notebook paper. He
said he had a good time, except when the girls put ice down his
shirt. I said it was a button-down shirt, didn't the ice just fall out
the bottom? Oh, no, he said. He was wearing his GameBoy belt
(fanny-pack) and the ice got stuck. Sucks to be a nerd sometimes,
I guess.

Next we were off to Sonic. I could tell by the voice at the drive-thru
that my boy-man was working. I ordered a Large Cherry Diet Coke
and a large cup of ice. He repeated the order back, and said "That'll
be $1.50." What? It's supposed to be $1.83. I thought maybe he
misunderstood, and was giving me a medium soda. But then again,
I remembered how he always gives me special treatment, what with
wanting to get some and all. We pulled up to the window, and he
reached out his hand for the money. I gave him a dollar and five dimes.
He shook his head and said, "You always want to give me too much
money! It was $1.07." He gave me back the change. Then he gave
me a Large Cherry Diet Coke, and a Route 44 cup of ice. Yep. He's
still burning with the "gotta-get-me-some-Hillbilly-Mom-itis" fever.
It probably didn't help matters that we had put in the Conway Twitty
CD, and were playing "I'd Just Love to Lay You Down." Anyhoo,
this little interaction just made my day. And I saved about a dollar.

Can't beat that with a stick--a little flirtin' and a little savin' go a long
way with an old hillbilly hag.

What's For Lunch?

2005-09-17T14:58:00.000-05:00

Back in the day, on this old TV show, HeeHaw, the audience would
shout: "Hey, Grandpa! What's for supper?" Grandpa would shout
the menu back to them. Come on. Fess up. Some of you have heard
of HeeHaw, haven't you?

Lunch with Hillbilly Mom was a veritable smorgasbord today. My
Hillbilly Husband took #1 son to a birthday party, and #2 son to
his bowling league. I was left to scrounge some leftovers for lunch,
as they would be eating elsewhere. What'd I have? A piece of
roast beast that my Hillbilly Mama prepared for us on Wednesday.
It's still good, isn't it? This is only Saturday. I keep thinking of Homer
Simpson digging his beloved sub sandwich out of the garbage, even
though its toxicity made him hallucinate. He couldn't bear to part with
it--he stroked it like a long-lost puppy.

Also on the menu was a slice of leftover Casey's cheese pizza. Casey's
makes the best pizza--for a convenience store, that is. Then there was
a green bean bacon roll-up thingy on a toothpick. My HM made this,
too. You take some green beans and roll 4 or 5 of them in a piece of
bacon and then I believe you roll it in brown sugar and then soak it
overnight in melted butter. Then you bake it and serve it hot. That can't
be the real recipe, because the melted butter would become unmelted
and then it would be one big beany bacony blob. But it is pretty tasty.
In keeping with the cuisine of my redneck motherland, nothing can be
too greasy or too fatty. Sure, we eat vegetables--if you soak them in
sugar and butter and wrap them in bacon. Oh, and let's not forget my
dessert: a fun-size Baby Ruth. So I am kind of full right now.

I didn't have to eat leftovers for lunch. I did run to town for a quick
stop at Save-A-Lot for some baby wipes, the miracle cleaner of
shoe soles (lots of that red rock on the playground) and white boards
(blackboards are so 10-minutes-ago) and believe it or not, even babies'
butts. No, I don't have a baby's butt to clean, but one of my students
pointed that out as I was cleaning the board and extolling the value
of a good baby wipe. While I was at the store, I also picked up some
bread and cheese and Little Debbie Cosmic Brownies (the breakfast
of champions) and bananas and ham-for-lunches and bread and
salsa and lettuce and Juicy Fruit and Winterfresh gum. So I could
have picked up something for lunch.

I went to Sonic to feed my Large Cherry Diet Coke addiction. I could
have picked up something there. After 10 minutes in line, I was starting
to wish I had. Because I was really hungry. Why? Because it was 1:08
pm, and my school lunchtime is 10:53 am. Oh, and it is actually 10
freakin' 40 am, because our clocks are set 13 minutes ahead of time
in the real world, due to bus issues. But don't y'all worry about me.
I'm not going to waste away. I could live for a couple years on my
fat stores.

The Sonic Large Cherry Diet Coke started some issues. It was not
my regular Sonic guy making the soda today. On Wednesday, he
rubbed his finger across my palm when he gave me my 17 cents
change. I am not making this up. That kid has a bad case of "gotta-
get-me-some-Hillbilly-Mom-itis." Today it was the kind of homely
girl who is really nice, but doesn't make such good soda. She
tried to make up for it the other day by putting in 6 cherries, but it
wasn't the same. Today the cups had some kind of funk on the outside.
I didn't notice it until I was home. It was not the usual condensation,
but something more sinister and slimy. I'm hoping that maybe she
just sneezed or something before picking up the cups. I don't want
to think it was anything worse. I noticed it right after preparing my
lunch. Maybe it was some fat on my hands from slicing the roast
beast or picking up the green bean roll-up. Maybe.

Oh, and did I tell you? When I took my green bean roll-up out of
the microwave, there was a long black hair on the plate. My HM
has red hair, so she was off the hook. And she hasn't mentioned
clubbing with Fabio anymore, so I don't think it came from her
house. That would leave only me as the hair donor. I didn't freak
out. Hey, I had just washed my hair this morning. It is clean.

Are you gagging yet? I really wasn't planning to make you sick.
But sometimes things just don't turn out the way we planned, now
do they? Bon appetite!

The Orange Coat Girl Soliloquy

2005-09-16T18:00:00.000-05:00

Hello? Yoohoo? Anybody? Or hellleeeewwwww! If you are a Seinfeld
fan, you will recognize Jerry's belly-button-man hello. If not, this will
just confirm your belief that I am off my rocker.

I seem to be setting the world on fire lately. Looks like I have the same
effect on y'all as I have on my students. SNORE! OK, so I know my
regular commenters have been busy this week. Rebecca has gone on
a trip, and is not rubbing butter on her stomach and soaking it up with
waffles. Redneck Diva appears to have her hands full of young'uns, and
extricating her mom's hand from a knothole in her sister's closet shelf.
Deadpanann has learned why teachers need the summer off (and if
you're not a teacher, let me tell you--it's because we put in more hours
during the school year than someone working a 40-hour-week all year
long). Rachy must be maxing out on coffee and cigarettes, or busy
snorting red wine out of her nose. That's OK, guys. I know I have not
been the best comment buddy since school started up again.

You can't get rid of me that easily. I know people are still reading,
because a little stat-counter told me so. And they're not all those 5-
seconds-or-less people, either. So I will keep spreading my hillbilly
redneckiness for your blogging pleasure.

My students have been giving me good stuff this week. Don't get me
wrong. I really like my students, as much as they are going to cause
me to require a last-nerve transplant. I do not want to appear to be
making fun of them. I am just trying to point out the absurdities in
their outlooks on life.

Today Orange Coat Girl (it's an endearing little name we gave her
at the teachers' lunch table a couple of years ago) told me she had
a dilemma. No, not really, because she wouldn't know a dilemma
if it bit her on the butt. But she would say "Owww! Something bit
me on the butt!" Anyhoo, OCG said, "Mrs. Hillbilly Mom, my
friend says that at Pizza Hut, they cheat you out of hours and don't
pay you because they don't have a time clock. They just write it
down on a card."

OK, so I had to extract a few teeth to find out what this had to
do with OCG. She went on. "I am thinking about applying there,
because they are going to build a new store, and you have to be
18 to work there, because they are going to serve beer." Time out.
I couldn't squeeze it into her soliloquy, but Pizza Hut serves beer
now, and you have to be 21 to carry it to the table. I don't drink
it, mind you, but I know all about it. I have a friend who drinks it,
you see.

So then OCG goes on to say that by the time that new Pizza Hut
is built, she will be 18, and what if they cheat her on her paycheck?
Who should she complain to? So I know the kid wants an answer,
and I tell her to call down to Job Service, which is technically the
Missouri Division of Employment Security, more commonly called
the Unemployment Office, where I worked for 5 years, and they
should have a phone number she can call. Someone like maybe the
Department of Labor. I can't remember for sure, because I was
too busy with my job of denying people's unemployment benefits.

What I don't have time to point out, because the bell rang, is that
she has some more pressing priorities first, before these what ifs:

1. Get your credits so you can graduate
2. See if that new Pizza Hut gets built
3. Apply for a job
4. Get hired
5. Work the hours you are scheduled
6. See IF they cheat you on your paycheck
7. Ask to discuss it with the supervisor or manager
8. Complain to the Department of Labor

Kids! Can't live with 'em...but you can get some good blog material
from 'em.

Lunchtime Stories

2005-09-15T17:43:00.000-05:00

I have the same lunch shift I've had for 7 years now. The freshman
lunch. My dinner companions change, depending on scheduling.
This year I have been removed from all my friends (oops! I just
typed "fiends") and I have lunch with 4 men. Oh, there's another
woman, but she only comes out for duty week, and eats during
another lunch shift with her "fiends." So it's me and the boys.

Today the topic turned to how we had a storm last night, and
Mr. X didn't want to oversleep, even though his alarm has a
battery back-up. Then Mr. W said, "Hey, I've been late a couple
of times because of car accidents. One time I had to call and say
Hey, I'm gonna be a little late, there's a woman in a bush at
the end of my road."

Mr. W looked both ways before pulling out onto the main road,
and saw that woman. He jumped out and ran over, and said,
"Hey, Ma'am...you're lying in a bush." He said at first he was
afraid she might pull a gun and ask for his money and his keys.
He figured since he only had two dollars, it wouldn't matter that
much. She just laid there. Then the ambulance people came, and
started going through her purse and her clothes. He left then. He
wanted no part of that. They said she had some kind of drug
overdose. He didn't know how she got into the bush.

That reminded Mr. Y of a time when the weather was really hot,
and an 80-something neighbor had been out mowing the yard
with a riding mower. Mr. Y drove by later that afternoon and
noticed that Neighbor was not riding the mower. He was lying
on his side on the ground. "Oh, no!" thought Mr. Y. "He's had a
stroke or something!" Mr. Y jumped out and ran over to see if he
could help. Like if he could save the guy's life. Just as he got to
Neighbor, the guy rolled over and said, "What the **** are you
doing?" Seems that Neighbor was checking the belt on his mower.

Good Samaritans. I didn't have a story to share.

Unintentional Joke of the Day

2005-09-14T18:19:00.000-05:00

You may have noticed: I do not suffer fools gladly. Five minutes into
class today, these kids were already dissecting my last nerve. I'd told
them to bring the Language I vocabulary words to show me, even if
they were done. The reason being, last time they told me they were
done, yet nobody turned them in to the teacher.

Out of 5 kids, one said, "No, I haven't done them. But I have the word
list." This kid was at that moment doing algebra, so he was off the hook.
The other 4 Language I kids sat idle, declaring that they were caught up
with their work. They had all "left it in their lockers." So I took the word
list from honest lazy kid, and gave it to one of the lying lazy kids, and said,
"Write down the first few, and get to work on them. Give the list to one
of the others."

This kid fiddled about, and then needed a dictionary. We have been in
school for 4 weeks now. He's seen where I keep the dictionaries. He
was absolutely sucking the energy right out of me. I needed that energy
to help someone with American History, my least favorite subject next
to World History. Or maybe Economics. Pilgrims/Puritans/Separatists/
Quakers/Massachusetts/Rhode Island/Pennsylvania/Connecticut. I hate
history. Been there, done that. Why dwell in the past?

"Go get one out of the cabinet," I told him. He meandered over to the
wrong cabinet, where I had leaned my umbrella against the door. He
yanked it open, and guess what...let me answer for you: the umbrella
crashed to the floor. I guess he thought that the law of gravity was
temporarily suspended, what with him about to do some actual work.
"No. Not that cabinet." I looked at some of the older kids in the class.
"Why do I feel like I am babysitting actual babies?" I asked them. One
of the actual babies said, "Because you are."

About this time, the kid opened the correct cabinet, and peered onto
every shelf except the one right in front of him that harbored the
dictionaries. "Wheeerrrrre?" he whined.

"Right there behind the baby wipes!" I barked. Yeah. I really do have
a box of baby wipes in that closet. For cleaning my white board. We
had a good laugh at the timing of the baby statements.

Will I Pass?

2005-09-13T19:10:00.000-05:00

Be afraid. Be very afraid for your future. The future that is the youth
of America. When you are old and feeble and demented in a nursing
home, these are the people who will be wiping your butt. Here are
some some of today's conversations...

If I don't do anything all year, will I pass?
No.
Will they hold me back?
This is high school. They don't hold you back.
You mean I will go on and be a sophomore?
You can call yourself anything you want. You can spend four years
doing nothing, and call yourself a senior. But you will still have zero
credits, and must have 24 to graduate.
Will they send me back to 8th grade?
Nooooo...They already sent you over here. They don't want you back.
Good. I did nothing all last year, too.
That's nothing to brag about.
I think when I get to16, I'll quit.
It's good to have a goal in life.
?????????????????????????
Your mom ain't gonna let you quit.
No. But if I move with my other mom and dad, I can.

Sorry, I know it is my job to keep these kids in school, but I just
can't play that game where they want you to beg them not to drop
out. I would rather spend my time helping those who respond and
make an effort.

*************************************************

Are your sinuses in your nose?
No. They're around your cheeks and forehead.
I didn't think so, but there's this know-it-all girl in my class, and
she said I shouldn't pierce my friend's nose because it would mess
up her sinuses.
Didn't you do your own root canal with a paperclip?
Yeah, I got tired of that temporary filling breaking off. It didn't hurt.
I guess the root was dead already. I picked it out.
So now you're branching off into piercings?
Well, my friend went to this guy to get some not really common
piercings, if you know what I mean, and he kept making comments,
and he also pierced her lip and blood poured out all over and he
said it was normal, and it isn't. And then, she found out he was, like,
her boyfriend's stepdad. And he wasn't even licensed!
As opposed to you.
Well, I know what I'm doing.

**************************************************

And then he said I have 30% less brain than everyone else.
Who said that?
The doctor. I went to get tested for ADHD yesterday.
I have ADHD.
You do? I've had it for years. What medicine do you take?
I don't take medicine for it. I just have it.

OK, what is going on around here? Can people still get money for
having kids with some kind of medical problem or learning disability?
Because if I remember right, they used to get a Social Security
disability check for that. So way too many people wanted their kids
tested, and wanted them to have something wrong, so they coached
them on how to act. I thought this had stopped.

Sorry, now I don't have time for the crook and the broken window
and the hit list story. Maybe another day.

Revenge

2005-09-12T20:02:00.000-05:00

Have any of you been to Rebecca's site and seen how she stole
my soul for profit?

It has been said that revenge is a dish best served cold. I prefer
to serve up my revenge piping hot, on a cheap paper plate so
that the grease leaks through, with side orders of boiled possum,
creamed-corn casserole, peas, and deep-fried MUSHROOMS.
Eat up, Bec. This one's for you.

A little bird told me that Rebecca has certain wishes. A little bird
that was kind of pissed off because he was used as a crash dummy
in an experiment designed by the wicked, twisted mind of Rebecca,
and penned by her own evil hand.

That's him on the left. With his pitiful shattered beak, he whispered
the true desires of Rebecca to me, in his last dying breath:

Rebecca wants...her bike back. And she's not getting it. I dismantled
it and buried the evidence in a 55-gallon barrel.

Rebecca wants...to be seen as a normal person, despite her...
life of crime cheating hardware stores out of lumber for her
giant bed.

Rebecca wants...to do 30 things. 28 of them are to embarrass
Hillbilly Mom. Another is to become a MUSHROOM taster
on the "Mushroom or Toadstool: You Be the Judge" reality show.
Lastly, she would like to be hired as an aloe vera tester, because
she just can't get enough of that stuff.

Rebecca wants...to have you over for dinner. That's the good news.
The bad news is that she would like you to bring a nice Chianti and
some fava beans.

Rebecca wants...to be a hacker, but English is a big stumbling block
for her. She might be trying to say she wants to be a hooker. Or
someone who chops up bodies to put in 55-gallon barrels. In any
case, she does not need a block to stumble over, her feet will do.

Rebecca wants...to know what foreigners think about chopsticks.
OK, it will speak for the foreigners: Stop calling us foreigners or
we will jam those chopsticks where the sun don't shine.

Rebecca wants...to make something of herself, but all she knows
how to do is dress well and throw a great party. If by dressing
well you mean wearing size 13 shoes and by throwing a party
you mean eating a whole pizza while rebuilding a giant bed with
lumber that you ripped off from Idiots R Us by distracting the
salesman by dressing so well.

Rebecca wants...the money for a cell phone and a pool. Because
with a cell phone she will look cool, and we all know that cell phones
go with pools like mushrooms go with aloe vera.

Rebecca wants...to buy some cushions, so they go shopping providing
she walks at least 10 yards behind. In case she hits that stumbling block.

Rebecca wants...to run across the minefield successfully, then she would
know where the mines are so she can avoid them. But if she has run
across successfully, why would she need to avoid them? That is why
Rebecca is not allowed to teach Logic courses at university.

Shh...don't tell anyone Bec's secrets. Look what happened to Mr. Birdie.
And that was before he told. I think Mr. Google should join the Witness
Protection Program immediately.

And don't tell her that it is STILL OOOONNNNNNN!!!!! My revenge
has not yet reached its zenith. Oh, you may think you'll be reading about
my boy young 'uns, or my Hillbilly Husband...but then WHAM! It's all
about Rebecca! Bwah ha ha.....

"I'm not so sure you really had pneumonia."

2005-09-11T22:53:00.000-05:00

This is what Hillbilly Husband's doctor quacked at him this morning.
Not his real doctor--he was off for the weekend. The doctor who is
in the same practice as HH's doctor, who was covering rounds
for him.

So now, according to all the different doctors, HH must have just
spent 4 days in the hospital for a case of gout. He has had gout
before, and never went to the hospital.

So...he had pneumonia according to a blood test 3 weeks ago. The
doctor forgot to call him and tell him. HH had knee pain and called
the doctor, who told him about the pneumonia, and treated him for
a week with two different antibiotics. AND sent him for an MRI of
the knee. HH's knee quit hurting, but his foot swelled up. He couldn't
walk 10 feet without getting nauseous and short of breath and wheezing.

HH was admitted to the hospital, told he had cellulitis in the foot, and
pneumonia that was not responding to treatment. He was pumped
full of antibiotics, given breathing treatments every 4 hours, told he
had a bone infection in the foot. Or gout.

Now he has nothing but gout, but hasn't been put on a gout diet.
WHAT ARE THESE PEOPLE DOING?????

HH is supposed to come home tomorrow. He finally started feeling
better today. I told him that doctor must not want to be a part of
the untreated pneumonia malpractice suit, so he is denying that HH
ever had it to begin with.

Oh, and for the knee that doesn't hurt anymore? HH has an appointment
with an orthopedic surgeon for Tuesday. He might as well go to a
fortune teller. The diagnosis might be more accurate.

Bad Samaritan

2005-09-11T20:01:00.000-05:00

I am a Bad Samaritan. I should be locked up with Jerry and George
and Elaine and Kramer. I saw an accident and I did not stop to help.
Let me try to justify myself. It is a case of mememeitsallaboutme,
but I will try to explain. Travel back in time with me to yesterday...

We headed to town for the boys' bowling league, and then to visit
Invalid Hillbilly Husband at the hospital. As we were on the blacktop
county road, about a quarter-mile from the state road, two 4-wheelers
came whipping out of a new gravel road and onto my side. I had
time to slow down, and the kids yanked the 4-wheelers back onto
their lane. They revved them and sped past us up the hill, side by
side. I told my kids: "No good can come of that. They're going to
get killed driving around like that on this road." It has hills and curves,
and all the cars (except me, of course) drive right in the middle, hills
be darned, because that is what country people do. I am constantly
harping at HH to "get on your own side" because I have had a bad
car wreck (like there's such thing as a good car wreck) and I am a
paranoid driver.

Today the boys and I were headed to town to visit HH in the hospital.
He was expecting us between 1:00 and 2:00. I came to the part of
the road that is kind of an "S" shape, a 90 degree turn left, then about
100 yards, and a 90 degree turn right. You can see people coming,
because there are fields on each side. We turned left, and saw the
two 4-wheelers come up over the hill headed down toward our next
curve. They were racing, two kids on one, a single kid on the other.
They were about 14-15 years old. I slowed down, because they
were going to round the curve before we got to it. The single kid
took the lead. He rounded the turn, but he was going too fast. His
yellow 4-wheeler started to tip up on two wheels. Next thing I know,
he ran off the road alongside a barbed-wire fence. Ouch! The top
two wires twisted. He had his arm between them. That is about all
I could see, because by then I was past him into the curve. The last
I saw, he was twisting at the wire with his other hand. His buddies
had pulled off beside him. #1 son said "Here comes two other kids."
They were coming through the field, one 4-wheeler and one motorcycle.

Now here's the bad part. I didn't stop to pull that kid out of the
fence. I figured his buddies could go right back home and get the
parents. They were about a quarter-mile from where they sped
out in front of us yesterday. At that rate of speed, they would have
been home in less than a minute. I figured one could stay with the
kid, and the other could ride home. Or their two friends could go.

I know this is bad. I feel guilty. If that kid had been gushing neck
blood, or if he had been alone, or if he had been out in the sticks,
or if my kids weren't with me, or if we hadn't been going to the
hospital to see HH, I probably would have stopped. But I didn't.
And now I feel guilty.

But it IS all about ME. I didn't want to get tied up with someone
else's problem. If I called 911, and they sent an ambulance, and
the people had no insurance, they would have to pay out of pocket.
If I moved something on that kid, I could have done more damage.
I am not trained in first aid.

A van passed us going that way before we were even to the kids'
driveway. Maybe they stopped. Maybe not. There is an emergency
room 3 miles from where that happened. I imagine the kid's family
would have just loaded him up and taken him there, rather than
calling an ambulance, which could have been at the other end of
the county, down by HH's hospital.

And have you heard? 4-wheelers are not street legal. Why would
parents let their kids race them on blacktop county roads? I do
hate to see any kid get hurt. I work with kids like this every day.
They are risk-takers. But they are not invincible. I believe everything
happens for a reason. Maybe this was a wake-up call to these kids
or their parents not to let them race around on the roads. Maybe
it will keep them from being hid head-on by a car. Who knows?
Maybe it will teach me to stop at an accident where I'm really
needed.

Don't think I never help people. Last year I stopped near where
these kids now have their driveway, because a couple of old
geezers had tried to turn around in their Cadillac with a T-turn
and got it stuck across the road with the tail-end in a ditch. I let
them use my cell phone to call a tow truck. We sat there with
them until the tow truck came. I have picked up a co-worker
and his then-family twice and driven them home and to a car
repair shop when they broke down between the high school
and elementary. But I just couldn't stop today. It was not on
my agenda.

OK, tell me what a heartless ***** I am. #1 son said on the way
home from the hospital: "I bet he's still there in the fence. Maybe
now you will stop." Low blow, kid. He wasn't there. About 10
feet of fence was torn up. HH said he was going to tell the cow-
getting-out-guy what happened to his fence. He has enough
trouble keeping those beasts in with good fence. About 4 times
a year, his cows are out wandering on the road. He had just
replaced that section 2 years ago. It sucks to be the cow-getting-
out-guy. It really sucks to be the barbed-wire-surfing-4-wheeler-
kid.

And today it sucks to be Hillbilly Mom. Because I should have
stopped.

Homegirl and Uncle Joe

2005-09-10T11:43:00.000-05:00

Well, it seems as if Rebecca is up to her old tricks of making me
look foolish. Oh, all right. I can do that pretty well myself without
any help from the land of Beclakia. Since Beclakia has no taxes,
Rebecca is raising revenue by selling my soul on a T-shirt.

This is not such a big deal, I suppose, for what she could have
done. But there comes a time when I have to make my stand.

I forgave her for this:

I forgave her for allowing a cheese sandwich and a sheep-on-
a-unicycle to get more votes than me in the Big Blogger Final.

And I forgave her for declaring herself the winner of every redneck
contest I cooked up. But now, Rebecky, IT IS OOOONNNN!!!!
Beware.

Speaking of scary mail-order images, here is one I found while
browsing for some mail-order hillbilly Christmas gift ideas:

This is not my Uncle Joe. I found him in the Miles Kimball
catalog. My apologies in advance to the family of the real
Uncle Joe. That said, let the snarking begin.

Is this creepy, or what? Didn't Uncle Joe have a better
picture to remember him by? He reminds me of Montgomery
Burns, Homer Simpson's boss, with hair. And what's with
that suit? Is the hanger still in it? Cause it doesn't hang very
flatteringly on Uncle Joe's shoulders.

And how about that expression on his face? The real Uncle
Joe may have been a moral, churchgoing saint. But this photo
makes him look like some butt-pinching perv who just won
a backstage pass to the Hicksville Blue-Ribbon Hiney Contest.
Say it ain't so, Joe.

Don't even think about it, Rebecca. Step away from Photoshop.
NOW! Do not compound your crime and attract the redneck
wrath of Hillbilly Mom. Just Say No! I am warning you. No more.
Vengeance will be mine.

Quackety Quack

2005-09-09T22:58:00.000-05:00

Day 2 of Hillbilly Husband's hospital stay. Now they think the cellulitis
is gout. Go figure. HH has had gout before. Says this does not feel
the same. Now his doctor is more concerned about the pneumonia.
They still tell him it looks like he will get to go home on Monday.

HH said they wrapped up his foot last night, and it felt a lot better.
Then this morning, the foot doctor intern came back with someone
even less important than herself, who had never seen a "cellulitis
foot," so they cut it open. HH's words. He meant the wrap, not the
foot. Then they left it. Of course it swelled, and started to hurt again.
I told HH to ask them to wrap it again. He said he did, but the nurses
said they are only allowed to give him the antibiotics, the breathing
treatment, and the pain meds--it's hands-off the foot. The foot doctor
must approve. HH said the foot doctor was coming tonight. I asked
if he was sure, since she was there and cut off the bandage. HH said
yes, the REAL foot doctor, not the intern. I had to leave with the
whiney kids, and told HH to ask the nurses if they could call the
foot doctor about the wrap, since nobody was going to do it if he
didn't stick up for himself. About 2 hours later, he reported that the
foot intern had come back and wrapped it, and it felt better. HH said
she said she had not planned to come back until tomorrow--the real
foot doctor was not coming at all. He had looked at the x-rays and
thought it was gout. These people need to get their act together.

****************************************************

On a lighter note, my students gave me a good laugh again today.
One of them brought up a girl from my class a couple years ago,
who always had a good story to tell. One morning, she told us she
almost got dog-bitten the night before. During supper, she kind of
smarted off to her dad, and he yelled at her, and she said, "I'm
going for a walk!" She left the house and started down the road.
She passed a neighbor's house, and the dog started following her.
"I looked back, and here he came. I walked a little faster, because
they usually keep him tied up. He went faster. I started to run, and
he chased me. I was really starting to panic." Someone asked her,
"How did you get away." And she replied, "After I threw that
hot dog I had been carrying, he left me alone." Duh.

Another group started talking about Mrs. A. They had complained
earlier in the year that she was selling water to her students for a
dollar a bottle. They were outraged. A bottle of water should only
cost $.50, they said. I told them they didn't have to buy it. One
said, "I don't. I bring my own. It's just the idea of it. She is making
too much money off the kids. I know it is for her club, but that isn't
right. Why does she have to be so greedy? She is making $18.00
profit off a case of water. She should only be making $6.00"
(Hey! They've been doing math!!!)

Today another one said, "Just do like my friend. She says she steals
it. She just goes to the refrigerator and takes one. A lot of other
people do, too." Because apparently, two wrongs make a right.

If it walks like a duck, and quacks like a duck...

2005-09-08T22:37:00.000-05:00

...it's a quack redneck doctor! Hillbilly Husband is in a local redneck
hospital tonight. It wasn't so much the pneumonia that went untreated
for 2 weeks because the doctor's receptionist "forgot" to call him
with the results of his blood test, or the torn cartilage in his knee
that mysteriously stopped hurting on Wednesday. It was the new
pain in his foot, which turned out to be cellulitis. A foot specialist
told him he will be in the hospital until Monday, unless there are
complications.

This foot lady told HH that she did not see any signs of injury to
the skin that could have led to cellulitis. He asked if it could be
related to the pneumonia. She said it was possible, but sometimes
they never find out what caused it. Hmm....sounds quacky to me.

My Hillbilly Mama said HH is in the better of the two local hospitals.
I hope so. He had been there an hour and a half and still had no
IV or antibiotics or pain meds when I saw him. The phlebotomist
came in and said, "Ya don't got diabetes, do ya? You're supposed
to be in Bed One. You're Mr. Somethingorother, aren't you?" She
was looking for some other guy. Then she said, "Oh, I guess he went
home." Don't they need to keep track of that kind of stuff? I called
back to later to give them information on HH's prescriptions, and a
petulant nurse said, "This is Kim. Hold on." Then I was cut off. Ain't
my phone now, folks.

HH said he picked up his little plastic jug urinal thingy, and when he
took off the lid, there was some yellow liquid in it. He called the
nurse, who was a male RN, who said, "You've got to be kidding."
HH said he wished. HH said Man-nurse left the room " with a
murdering look that you say I have sometimes." (Fitty? Do you
live in these here parts?)

HH also said Man-nurse tried twice to get the IV in, and had a
girly-nurse try it, and finally they got it in somewhere. They told
him maybe it was because of the pain. Do your veins clench up
when you're in pain? That's a new one for me. Cause don't they
usually just pop it in where it's just a vein under the skin, not go
drillin' down deep in some tense muscle?

#1 son found out after school that HH was in the hospital. On
the way over there, he said, "I'm not trying to be mean or anything,
but if Dad isn't OK, are you going to look for someone else?"
I said, "Let's let the body get cold first, then we'll think about
that." Now don't everybody go calling 1-800-BAD-MOM.
It was a joke. #1 can take a joke.

#2 son waited all of 2 minutes of visiting HH, and said, "Can't
we go now?" Good gracious, them boy young 'uns loves their
Daddy! HH took it pretty well. And on the way home, #1 even
said, "Mom, as long as Dad's in the hospital, can you not mock
him? As soon as he gets out, we'll need to do it again, though."

So I am glad that HH called the doctor again, and hounded them
until they would see him about that foot thingy, because this morning
it looked normal. No swelling, no redness. Nothing. Except he said
the pain was excruciating. By the time I saw him this afternoon, that
foot was puffy and red and hot. Good thing he didn't go yesterday
when there was nothing to see, or no doubt they would have sent
him home again to wait out another weekend.

Quack...quack...quack.

Be Considerate!

2005-09-07T19:00:00.000-05:00

I do not tolerate whiny people well. Today my students and I had
a little conversation:

She made me stop running in the hall. I can't get another tardy.
Then you shouldn't be late.
I've got 8. One more and I get kicked out for two days.
Then be on time.
Mr. Y gives a tardy if you don't turn in your homework. That's not fair.
Then turn in your homework.
Well, he knows we'll forget it sometimes. Why can't he be considerate?
He's making you be responsible.
Nobody likes him anyway.
His job is not to be liked. It's to make sure you learn Language I.
Hey, that's what he told us!
Why should he take late work? What if all 140 students did that?
Should he have to take time to look up the assignments on computer
and enter them for everyone? Why don't you be considerate?
Well, I had mine done but it was in my locker, and he gave me a tardy.
It's a shame you already had 7 others, isn't it?
Why can't we get a petition to get a teacher fired? We got in trouble
last year when we tried it with Mr. Z.
Hmm...I don't know...could it be...because you used school time and
disrupted learning?
I don't know why they kick us out for tardies or missing too many days.
Last year I missed a lot!
That's nothing to be proud of.
They tell us we have to be here, and then they kick us out. But if you
say you're going to drop out, they beg you to stay. How much sense
does that make?
A school has to have rules. It's called school, not Do Whatever You
Feel Like Whenever You Want To Do It Place.
I don't know why we can't.
Because then we would graduate people who can't hold a job because
they can't get up and go to work if they don't want to.
Well, it's not fair to give tardies for not having your work.
Didn't he tell you this the first day?
Yeah, he talked all about it.
Then why should it be a problem unless you plan on not turning in
your work? That's pretty much what you're saying, isn't it? I've heard
enough about how everything isn't fair. Be on time, turn in work, and
you won't have to worry about it!

MAN! Some people just don't get it!

HH, Drinking Teacher, and the Accidental Kiss

2005-09-06T18:55:00.000-05:00

No, these three things are not related, but they are what I have to
talk about today.

My Hillbilly Husband got a reprieve from the hospital admission.
He still has pneumonia, but he got a shot in the butt and an $8.00
inhaler, and a stay of admission until Thursday. And also two days
off from work. Well, I'll be working, so he'll have to find new guests
for his pity party.

HH got his knee report from the radiologist. A torn cartilage. WooHoo!
Ain't I smart? I diagnosed it. Well, I had one myself twice. And I
might as well mention that I thought it was the medial meniscus, but
it is the lateral meniscus. Well, I always say, a meniscus is a meniscus.
He goes next Tuesday to see an orthopedic surgeon about it.

Next on the agenda...third hour today one of my older students said,
out of the blue, "I saw Mr. X at the Labor Day Picnic, and he was
drinking beer. He had one of those pitchers, carrying it around."
Okaaayyy. What am I supposed to say to that? I mean, teachers
have lives too, you know. It was not a school event, but in the city
park of a neighboring town. I just kind of shrugged, and said, "A lot
of people go to the Labor Day Picnic."

Here is what I wanted to say. I don't doubt that Mr. X has been
known to drink a beer. I DO doubt that he was walking around
with a pitcher, because Mr. X is known for being....how you say...
CHEAP! He is the guy who brings a loaf of white bread to the
Thanksgiving potluck dinner. But thank goodness he doesn't
bring that icky creamed corn and cornmeal mush milky slushy
casserole that I bit into and wanted to spit out. (I think I just
threw up a little bit in my mouth. Sorry, Mabel, I know your buddy
brought one of those TWO corny casseroles, but it was the worst
thing I ever tasted, and that includes the cold mushy peas that my dad
forced me to eat when I was 8, four hours after supper, sitting in the
dark kitchen of our 50-foot trailer home, until it was bedtime and I had
to eat them before I could get up from the table. It's not child abuse,
people, just redneck child-rearin').

And the final story, which I think wins the prize for the most
interesting student statement today, even over the beer-drinking:
"Oh, I kissed him by accident one time in fifth grade!"

Yeah, right. I don't buy it. Kissing by accident. Here's the story.
It seems this little girl hated this boy who sat in front of her. She
was going "blah, blah, blah" and making faces at the back of
his head while he was griping about her to the boy in front of
him. He must have been tipped off that she was making faces
at him behind his head, because he whirled around quickly to
catch her, saying "Would you just knock it off?!" When he did,
his open mouth hit her flapping tongue, and they "kissed." Oh,
the horror! They both started spitting and choking and all the
other kids had a good laugh. Now that I believe.

That Ain't No Way to Treat Hillbilly Mom

2005-09-05T16:26:00.000-05:00

Yesterday I promised to out Hillbilly Husband as a worse caretaker
of me when I'm sick than I am of him when he's sick. Did you follow
that? Here is a short history of his imaginary crimes. Let's start with
something big, shall we?

Delivering the #1 Son. The day I went into labor, HH had driven
me all over creation and back in a 1980 Chevy Silverado that needed
shocks. This was apparent to me every time we hit a bump, which was
often, because we were driving around the South 40 of my grandma's
Christmas tree farm, trying to pick out a tree. We had HH's two boys
with us. They were 14 and 13 then, and four of us were crammed into
the cab of that pick-up truck. But I was forgiving...hey, it was December
11...Christmas was a-comin'.

That evening, HH took the boys back to their mom's house, and
went to visit his 80-year-old friend. No matter that I told him I wasn't
feeling too well. HH said, "I visit him every Sunday. It's just right up
the street. You know the number. " (1994. Before cell phones in
Redneckland). I remember well. I was watching The Simpsons. It
came on at 6:00 pm. By 6:20, I was having contractions 5 minutes
apart. I called HH. He said, "I just got here. I'll be there in a few
minutes." This guy lived half a mile from us. HH got home after 7:00.
I was standing up, leaning over the back of the couch, because it
hurt to sit or stand. I told HH my bag was packed, and I was ready
to go. He said, "OK, I'll be right there." I went into the kitchen for
a drink, (No, silly. Water.) because I didn't know when they'd let
me have water at the hospital. I had to stop to lean on the kitchen
table, and I heard water running. HH was taking a shower! He
finally came out after about 20 minutes, and said he wanted to be
clean, because we might be there a while. He had to grab a few
things. He was packing a bag, because he said it looked like he'd
have to stay overnight. He packed candy bars and deodorant and
some other shoes. By now the contractions were 3 minutes apart.
HH's response: "You're not the first woman ever to have a baby."
Comforting, huh?

It was a 30 minute ride to the hospital, then we had to go through
admitting, then they had to do a fetal monitor, then they said, "Oh,
you're in labor all right. You are 7 cm dilated. It won't do any good
to call in the anaesthsiologist. By the time he gets here, it will be too
late for an epidural." Okaaaayyyy. By this time it was 11:30 pm.
So they put me in a labor room, and wouldn't you know it, stubborn
old #1 wouldn't move, so they hooked me up to a pitocin drip, which
gives you, like, ubercontractions....with no painkillers. Along about
2:00 am, the sour-faced grim spinster-looking labor nurse called the
doctor and said she kind of thought I might need something, so he
authorized a shot of stadol, which I'm sure is like morphine safe for
labor or something, and old Nursie gave me half a hypodermic of it.
She said, "You might need the other half later." Darn tootin'! I needed
it about 1 minute later, but she made me wait a couple hours for it.
She and HH looked at each other over my head, in that let's just
humor her, she's wacked out of her mind look. Was HH helping
me breathe, holding my hand, wiping my brow? No. He sat in a
rocking chair, eating a Milky Way, asking Nursie if she could turn
up the heat, he was kind of cold, even wearing his jacket. Oh, don't
mind me, dripping buckets of sweat, all not-meant-to-be-seen parts
of me blowin' in the wind. We must make sure HH is comfy. Which
he must have been, because not long after that, he drifted off to sleep.
I must say his snores were particularly annoying while trying to push
out his big bowling-ball-headed baby who we came to find out was
face-up. Which means his skull had been grinding on my spine all
night instead of his malleable little face, thus explaining the
excruciating pain they all thought I was faking. HH still denies any
wrongdoing in this scenario. He says, "I knew we had plenty of time.
You didn't feel anything after that shot, anyway." I beg to differ.

The Week of Bed Rest. The next time I needed any help from
HH was 3 years later, when I was 6 months pregnant with #2. I had
a kidney infection, which caused premature contractions. The doctor
said he wanted me on a week of bed rest.

Oh, I had high hopes that HH would take care of me. He acted like
he was going to. He took a week off from work. And he told his boss
it was to take care of me, because I was on bed rest. Duh...it was
November, known in Redneckland as "Deer Season." HH would get
up in the morning and say he'd be back pretty soon. Then I wouldn't
see him until around 5:00 pm. Let's not forget that I had almost-3-year-
old #1 to look after. No, he was not potty-trained. It took a threat from
Christmas-tree-farm Santa a month later to achieve that. So I would lie
on the couch and have #1 bring me things I needed. I managed pretty
well. The worst part is that HH expected supper on the table when he
came home. I mentioned the whole week of bed rest thing to him, and
I believe his exact words were: "I don't think the doctor meant that you
can't stand up for a half hour to cook and do the dishes."

The Vasectomy. #2 son was due February 28. Along about the end
of January, HH tells me he's having a vasectomy on Friday. What?!?
I thought this was something you have to discuss with your partner.
Oh, HH assured me, he told the doctor he had discussed it with me.
Except he hadn't. And it wasn't so much the vasectomy that bothered
me as the timing. Now not only was I ready to deliver #2, but I had to
take care of Big Baby and #1. Because you know, ladies, that HH had
to be waited on hand and foot after his "surgery," which was just a little
snip, for gosh sakes, and you'd have thought he was dying from how he
carried on. Oh, and let's not forget that he couldn't lift anything, so that
left me getting #1 in and out of his car seat in the 2nd seat of a Ford
Aerostar van. And into a grocery cart so I could do the shopping and
not leave #1 home for HH to look after. And carry in the groceries.
Yep, it's perfectly OK for an 8-months-pregnant woman to lift a
30-pounder. That may be why #2 came two weeks early. He wanted
in on the "wait on me hand and foot" action. The best part of this
whole ordeal was being able to tell Whiny McWhinerson: "You're
not the first man ever to have a vasectomy."

The Gallstones. The only other time I needed HH was my gallstone
surgery. Well, he didn't actually do the surgery. He didn't actually do
much of anything. I had to stay in the hospital 4 days to get some enzyme
level down low enough so they could operate. HH came to visit me for
about an hour each morning and evening. Aside from that, he was free
to roam the countryside, because my Hillbilly Mama was worried to
death about him watching his own kids, who were 4 and 1. She took
on that duty, and he got off scott-free. He felt no guilt. I wasn't the
first woman ever to have her gallbladder removed, you know.

Babysitting the Big Baby

2005-09-04T16:47:00.000-05:00

For any of you who have the misguided notion that I am a nice person,
please read no further. Your dreams will be shattered.

For those of you who know me as the self-centered, sarcastic b****
that I really am, please pull forward as I hack up my dearly beloved
Hillbilly Husband.

Disclaimer: I really love my husband, but sometimes he gets on my last
frayed nerve. Times like this call for drastic action. So I blog about him.

I am sorry that HH has pneumonia. I am sorry that he has what I believe
to be a torn cartilage in his knee. He had an MRI Friday night. I guess
we'll check on that in two weeks, whether the quack calls us or not. I
am doing what I can to keep him comfortable (not screaming at us).
That said, let the trashing begin.

I think HH must be getting a little better from the pneumonia, because
he is joining in his redneck games again. On Friday, he was kind of
lethargic and wheezy and weak. He got the antibiotics for the pneumonia
and some $45 prescription for the cough. He hadn't been coughing much,
but it had a rattle, like #1 son did when he had pnuemonia a couple years
ago. HH told me he takes the antibiotic once a day, and the gold--I mean
cough medicine--every 12 hours.

HH is a grown man, so I didn't think I needed to read about his medicine.
I though the cough medicine was some kind of pill to help him cough up
the fluid in his lungs. I asked him about it, like didn't he have to drink a
full glass of water with it, etc. No. So I went and found it. It is a bottle of
cough medicine. It says "Take every 12 hours as needed for cough." What?
$45 freaking dollars for regular cough medicine? And that's WITH insurance.
That is the co-pay! Give me a break! It's not even an expectorant. And
HH thinks he is supposed to take it every 12 hours. I guess if I want to
keep him stoned, I can give it to him, oh...maybe every 6 hours.

This morning he is just moaning and whining and carrying on. I asked him
if it hurt more than Friday when he came home from work early.

Right now it's a 9 out of 10 (Hey, there's that pain scale again.)

Is it worse than your kidney stone down in Branson?

No. That was a 14.

You're missing the concept. It only goes to 10. So this is a 5, since
the kidney stone was a 10?

Whatever. You think I can't take pain.

(I know you can't take pain. I am just trying to figure out how
serious this is.)

Finally, I asked him if he wanted me to take him to the emergency
room. But I pointed out that there are only two things they could do:
operate, or give him pain meds. I know they will not operate on
him with pneumonia, or in the ER, or on the Sunday of Labor Day
Weekend. Knee surgery is elective. He already has pain medicine
left over from his December 23 neck surgery to put a titanium plate
in his vertebrae. He has two kinds, as a matter of fact. Generic
vicodin and generic darvocet. One of them makes him nauseous.
But he can't remember which one. I know you're supposed to throw
out any unused medication, but hey, you never know when you
might need a good painkiller. The fake vicodin even had a refill left
on it, but alas, June 23 has passed. As you can see, drug seekers
or drug abusers we're not.

After all this moaning and groaning, he had not taken anything for
pain. Not even a tylenol. So he took a pain pill, skipping the dose
of gold--I mean cough medicine--this morning. It must have been
the right one, because instead of retching, he was snoring with his
mouth open in the recliner while we all tiptoed around him.

Yesterday, I asked if he wanted me to fix him some breakfast.
HH said, "If you want to." Oh, no he didn't!!! I can not stand
this. Say yes or no! Of course I DON"T WANT TO ! That
is extra work for me. I would rather he said, "Yes, I would
like you to buy a cow and milk it, drive down to Florida for
some oranges to squeeze for my juice, learn what crepes are
so you can whip some up, fatten a young hog to butcher and
cure the bacon, go back to that cow and churn some fresh
butter to put on the fluffy buttermilk bicuits you are about
to bake." But don't freaking tell me, "If you want to." Arrrrgh!

I might have more patience with him if it hadn't been for the time
he swore he was having a stroke, because the pain from the kids
talking to him cut right through his brain. Diagnosis: ear infection.

Or the time he knew he had epiglottitis and was going to choke
to death when his airway closed up, so he went to the emergency
room. Diagnosis: viral sore throat. (Not even any antibiotics for it!)

Then there was the septic infection in his knee that was going to
kill him if they didn't drain it out or amputate his leg. Diagnosis:
Housemaid's Knee.

So maybe you can understand why I am a bit skeptical of the
claims made by HH, the man who cried stroke, epiglottitis, and
septic infection.

OK. I feel a little better now. Yes, I am a heartless b**** to
complain about my poor HH when he's sick. But wait until
tomorrow. I will dish enough dirt on how HH treats me when
I am sick to fill a shallow grave.

My New Phone Line

2005-09-03T13:30:00.000-05:00

Take a look at my new phone line. He's right purty, ain't he?
But doesn't he at least belong in a shallow grave? As you can
see, he runs right beside #1 son's $300-car-cruising-route.

Here's the scoop. Hillbilly Husband stayed home from work
due to his pneumonia and pre-MRI knee. (Please, please, please,
let him tell me he put on pants by 2:30 pm for the telephone man).
So he found out that there was indeed a problem with the outside
phone line. Everything was not just fine, as the SBC reps kept
telling me after "running a check."

First cat out of the bag (as HH likes to say), Phone Man found
out that there was a break in the line. HH immediately confessed,
"You should know that my son cut through the line when putting in
an electric line for me, and I spliced it with regular wire, not phone
wire." Everybody make a Note to Self: If I ever commit a crime,
do not ask HH to give me an alibi. This was HH's 24 year old son,
not our 10 year old. And it happened 2 years ago, with no phone
problems until now.

The line was cut through completely in a spot under some gravel,
which is where #1 son parks his $300 car between rides.
Apparently, the constant driving over the gravel caused the rocks
to sever the telephone line, even though HH had enclosed it in metal
conduit. It is really the fault of SBC, who originally ran the phone line
there, and buried it about 2 inches at the deepest, and left it on the top
of the ground in other spots. When HH decided to pour 3 loads of
gravel there, he enclosed it in metal conduit.

So HH tells the Phone Man that he has been wanting to disc his
field in front of the barn, but was afraid to because of that phone
wire. Phone Man said that he might as well run new wire instead
of splicing the old one to get cut again. So instead of running the
shortest way as the crow flies, he ran it across our front field by
the gravel road, and down the sinkhole line. Picture the old phone
line as the hypotenuse of a right triangle, and the new one as the
two sides. Or not. I know Mabel will get it, even if nobody else
does.

Shh....HH was not really planning to disc the field. He wanted
the phone line to run straight down from the road, not meander
across the property. Phone Man said that within a week, they
should be back with a trencher to bury Mr.Phone Line in a
shallow grave. Then I will be able to rest in peace that my
internet service will remain intact, and #1 son can go back to
driving his car.

I'm Baaaaaack!

2005-09-02T23:11:00.000-05:00

I know what was wrong with my telephone...but I'll never teeeeeellllll.
Sure I will. Tomorrow. Maybe I can get a picture of my new phone
line.

I spent from 4:30 until 9:00 on this wonderful holiday Friday night
taking Hillbilly Husband to get an MRI. These medical people must
have been taking lessons in bad customer service from SBC. His
appointment was for 5:45. He got in at 6:45. Then it took an hour
for the MRI. Oh, and it was in the Festus/Crystal City area, which
is a 45 minute drive for us.

I topped off the gas tank by spending $ 42.97 for 14 gallons of gas.
We arrived home to a spectacular light show courtesy of Hillbilly
Mama's Chevy Blazer. It was parked in the yard with the flashers
going mad. I wondered if it had been doing this for 4 hours straight.
HM said about 20 minutes before we got home, she had been
digging in her purse for her keys, and must have set it off. She lost
the keys at the doctor's office Monday when she took #1 to see
if his arm was broken. She found them on a waiting room chair
when they came out of the exam room. Good thing "Fitty" is after
Redneck Diva, or HM might be inside a barrel right now.

So...#1's arm may or may not be broken. Doctor said to give it
two weeks, and if it still has a bone sticking out on the side, come
back and he'll x-ray it. HH has what I believe to be a torn medial
meniscus. Hey, I haven't been to med school, but I watch ER.
Oh, and he has pneumonia which he was x-rayed and tested for
two weeks ago, but his doctor's nurse "forgot" to call with the
results. Here a quack, there a quack, Redneckland is full of
quack quacks.

SBC. Chant With Me

2005-09-01T18:06:00.000-05:00

SBC. Sucks Big C..... Well, I just can't go there. But feel free to
chant if you agree. Here's my saga:

Aug 30 Report static on line since Aug 26. SBC says it will be fixed
by Sept 1, 8:00 pm. Leave Hillbilly Mama's number if questions.

Aug 31 SBC message: Line was checked and no problems detected.
Still have static, even on their message.
Call back and tell SBC problem is outside the house, we checked it.
SBC says they won't come alone with a loose dog in the yard.
I said the line was clear for now, but static comes and goes. If it is still
clear in a.m., I will call and cancel repair. Hillbilly Mama on call to
drive out and babysit dog.

Sept 1 Static again. Hillbilly Mama waits home for 2nd day in case
they need her. 3:50 SBC calls Hillbilly Husband (home early from
work) and asks if line is clear. HH can't make a decision, so tells them
to call back at 4:00 for me. 4:15, I call SBC. They say ticket was
cleared since no problem on line. I said no, still have static. SBC is
sorry, they'll have to put in another repair ticket for Sept 2 by 8:00
p.m. Oh, and they may not be able to call Hillbilly Mama, because
"many of our repairmen don't carry cell phones in the field."

All right, you lame excuse for a phone company! It is ooooonnnnnnn!!!

Let me tell you people something...I live in the freakin' country. A dog
in the yard? It is 10 acres. That dog could be anywhere in a 4 square
mile area. He doesn't even bark! My brother-in-law used to work as
a meter-reader for Union Electric (that's before he became mayor).
Do you know how he dealt with dogs? A Louisville Slugger, baby!
He wasn't afraid of any dogs.

OK. What kind of a phone company has employees who can't be
reached "in the field?" It's a phone company! They can't give their
employees cell phones? Here's an idea...they just plug that equipment
into any telephone thingy they find, and they can call in. Isn't that a
novel idea?

I can't go on. It is too bizarre. A phone company that can't reach its
employees during the day. And I pay for it. Time to get out the tin
cans and twine again.

This and That

2005-08-31T18:32:00.000-05:00

Tin Can Phone
SBC left a message on my phone that they ran a check and everything
was fine. I could hardly hear it through the static. Go figure. Hillbilly
Husband took a phone outside and plugged it in and same old static.
This proves the problem is not inside the house. It is in the phone
line that the good people of SBC ran from a pole by the gravel road
down through the field by our barn, across a stand of trees to the old
Hillbilly Mansion. It is buried in a shallow grave about 2 inches deep
and 400 feet long. I will be calling SBC again tonight if I can make
a connection, or I will go out on the porch with the cell phone, since
it does not get good reception in the house. I must be living in a vortex
of bad phone service. I can blog if I take 45 minutes to get to the
new post screen, and then another 15 minutes trying to reconnect
and publish. Get your act together, SBC! This happened before the
hurricane. In good weather.

Back in the day, my Hillbilly Dad worked for Southwestern Bell.
That was before they were declared a monopoly and had to break
up into a jillion Baby Bells. The service was better back then, in my
opinion. It wasn't broke, and when they fixed it (meaning the giant
phone company) we ended up with higher bills and poorer service.
Bah, humbug.

Student Question of the Day
"Do you take this desk to the other building with you?" This is a
large wooden desk, about 4 feet x 2.5 feet. Lay off the crack, girlie!
"Uh, yes. I hoist it onto my shoulder, carry it down 2 flights of stairs,
heave it onto the roof of my SUV, haul it home with me, then the
next morning I lug it into the high school building, use it for 3 hours,
have my strongest boys carry it back to the SUV, then schlepp it
back up the stairs just in time for your class." And to think you just
asked a couple days ago: "Do teachers ever have to do any work?"

Horn Tooting
#1 son is not exactly a wallflower. He wants to be in the Tech Club,
which appears to meet after school one day a week, and might
get to work on computer equipment in the elementary building. It
is only open to 4th and 5th graders. He just started 5th. To apply,
each student must have a letter of recommendation from a parent
or a teacher.

Apparently, I am not good enough, even though I am a parent and
a teacher. He has a glowing letter from the elementary librarian,
who seems to be one of the main people in charge of all things tech
in that building. But was this good enough for my son? Noooo!
Nothing would do but he had to ask the Superintendent of Schools
for a recommendation for 5th grade Tech Club.

I tried to discourage him. "You already have a great recommendation.
You only need one. He is a busy man. You can't just walk in and talk
to him. You have to make an appointment with his secretary." Next
thing I know, I'm putting #2 son into the hot hot hot SUV and turn
around and see that #1 has gone into the Superintendent building.
I went in to find him chatting with one of the secretaries, who told
him that someone was already in the office, but she would give Mr.
Superintendent his message. #1 reminded her "I need it by 3:00 pm
Friday." Man....that kid has guts!

And he fixed my printing problem at the high school that the techies
there had messed up last week. From a company we contract our
computer stuff to. The guy in charge told #1 last year..."I can't wait
until you're old enough to come work for us." To which #1 replied,
"I will be your competition." Guts, I tell you!

Disabled

2005-08-30T23:56:00.000-05:00

My tin can and twine phone system has been giving me fits since
last Friday. I can not connect most of the time. More when my
technology improves.

Another Day in Paradise

2005-08-29T22:39:00.000-05:00

We are back into the school routine. I know, because I am busy
answering questions.

How do you change Kelvin to Celcius? Subtract 273.

How do you make a graph? Time on the x-axis, temp. on the y-axis,
label the graph and each axis.

Why won't your computer open my report on this disk? Hmm...that's
a mystery of the universe. Could be because you didn't save in RTF,
but in Word 6.0, which we don't have, and we can't get the dialogue
box to select "All files."

Why can't I breathe? My chest has hurt since I sat on top of my
brother's girlfriend's car and she hit the gas and I fell over and hit
my back on the spoiler. Uh...you just answered your own question.

What are SI units? That's a French term, abbreviated, for scientific unit.

Can you help me with these 15 questions for Dating & Marriage?
Well, I can, but then wouldn't that be me doing your homework?

Can you tell him to sit somewhere else? No. He has as much right
to sit there as you. And you are more annoying than him, anyway.

Why are all these wrong? Let's see...math answers with no work
shown. Last year she caught you writing in answers as she read
them off. Why do you think?

Can you get some hunting magazines for us to read? Sure, because
at least you will be reading.

Can I use your calculator? Green or purple?

Do you have a stapler? Uh, yeah. I'm a teacher. They tend to provide
me with things like that.

What is loess? Fine-grained, windblown sediment.

Can I get a drink? Yes. You came in, finished your work, brought it
to me to check, and didn't have to be told.

Can you read some more from "Freak the Mighty?" Certainly. Fine
literature soothes the savage middle school beast.

Why isn't "exclamination" in the dictionary? Oh, I don't know, maybe
because IT'S NOT A WORD? Or maybe it's what the doctor does
when a mollusk feels all cold and sweaty.

Do teachers ever have to do any work? Nope. We are here purely
for your entertainment pleasure.

Isn't a tangent one of those things kind of like an orange? No. It's
one of those things kind of like my last nerve fraying when you
ask these cutesy questions.

My nose is bleeding. Go to the bathroom. Will I get a tardy?
No. Leaking body fluids take precedence over hallway etiquette.

What gets ink out of shorts? Yo Mama.

Can I get a drink? No. All you brought to class was a dismantled
ink pen, and you sat on the floor, and took off your shoes. No
drink for you!

What is 3 times 8? A clue that it's time to learn your multiplication
tables that you should have learned in 4th grade.

Can I use her calculator? Absolutely not. Calculators are not
permitted in middle school.

How long do we have left in here? Too long for both of us.

I just missed my bus...what should I do? Uh...close your eyes and
click your heels?

Did bus 5 leave yet? Are you sure? Yes and yes. I have duty. I can
not leave until the last bus is gone. I am positive. Why didn't you
get on? We have 3 duty teachers. Why were you alone in a class
using the computer? Did you think someone would come to notify
you personally, so you didn't have to wait in the gym with the rest
of second round? Are you related to that chick over there clicking
her heels? She missed first round due to lollygagging in the hall.

This was an easy day. I really did answer some actual questions,
with actual answers and not smart-alecky ones.

Big Fat Beaver

2005-08-28T19:33:00.000-05:00

No, silly. The animal. I wanted a catchy title. But I don't think I really
want the people who would Google this. Be careful what you wish
for, huh?

Yesterday was shopping day, and I saw some odd things, even for
Redneckland. First cat out of the bag (as my Hillbilly Husband likes
to say) I had to do some of the grocery shopping. Now, I can't just
go to one store. My children prefer Save-a-Lot brand fruit roll-ups
to take in their school lunches. And I am parital to their baby wipes
(for cleaning my white-boards at school) and their shedded "Mexican
4-Cheese Blend." It ain't free, Redneck Diva, but it's the next best thing.
After that, I had to fill up the gas tank, give Wal-mart all my money,
withdraw some cash (from the real bank, not the 1st National Bank
of Hillbilly aka a sock buried in the backyard), pay the house payment,
and pick up my Sonic Large Cherry Diet Coke. Here begins the
adventure:

A 100 Year Old Cashier. As I pushed my cart up to the Save-A-Lot
check-out counter, I saw that they had a new cashier. And I don't
mean new as in a sweet young thing just off the turnip truck. This gal's
truck had been around the globe a few times. She looked about 100.
She was older than the people I saw at the jury duty orientation. I
think the last cash register she could recall was a pencil nub sharpened
with a pocket knife that you lick (the nub, not the knife) and then write
on a piece of white butcher paper and do your cipherin'. Seriously. A
woman this old should not have to work. I felt bad for her. She gave it
a good try. I hope she makes it. What a sad state of our economy that
tomorrow's corpses have to stand all day just to make prescription and
gas money.

DeMolay Boys Pumping Gas For Tips. I pulled into Casey's for gas,
and saw that it was crawling with what looked to be 15-16 year old
boys. No. I do this at work. Please please please let them leave NOW.
I thought some group was on a road trip, and had stopped their caravan
for gas, soda, and beef jerky. Before my door was even open, a young
Stepford lad had popped up and asked if he could pump my gas for tips,
as part of his DeMolay group's activity. I told him no thanks, I preferred
to pump my own.

Now don't get me wrong--these young men were very polite. But they
had that pent-up nerd energy. They stood and talked about ambition, not
frivolous things. Remember Tom Cruise and the "Future Enterprisers"
in Risky Business, who designed the "Message Minder" thingy? I think
DeMolay is something like that. They are a service organization for young
men, "helping develop civic awareness, personal responsibility, and
leadership skills." At least that's what their website says. I knew some
guys in high school who were in it, and they were the nerdiest of the
nerds. They called it "Dumble-A."

I applaud their efforts. They are the kind of people we want running
the country and changing our diapers when we are old. But who gave
them this pump gas for tips idea? What is the main thing people
complain about around here? The price of gas. I spent $56, and the
guy behind me spent $74. Why would anyone want to give these boys
money to pump gas? They would be better off going door-to-door
and offering to mow lawns or open pickle jars or program VCRs.

Big Fat Beaver. There it was, running along the sewer-creek in the
neighborhood of my boys' old daycare. It was so fat, it waddled as
it ran. The rolls of fat rippled under its sleek pelt. I wish I knew the
smart guy who thought "If I skin that thing, I bet it'd make a good hat!"
I guess we owe part of our country's settlement to him and those odd
French people who wanted to be stylin' in beaver hats, so our little area
of the country got explored.

A Man Driving a Motorized Kid's Scooter in the Road. It was a
red scooter. The kind with a wheel in the front, a wheel in the back,
and a long thing in between to stand on. It had handlebars for steering.
Normally, the kid pushes with one foot to ride it around. This one had
a motor. The guy stood on it with both feet and gunned the throttle
on the handlebar. I guess he gave his gas money to the DeMolay boys,
and had to downsize. I wanted to stop and tell that fool to stay out of
the road, because he wouldn't even make a dent if I ran over him. But
I didn't, because I had bigger fish to fry. Not really. I don't cook fish.
It is just an expression.

A Man Hammering a Mailbox With a Hammer. I don't think it was a
rage thing, though he did look disgusted. And what better to hammer
something with than a hammer? Around here, mailboxes have short
life-spans, what with those good ol' redneck boys driving around beating
the snot out of them in rousing games of mailbox baseball. Watch that
movie Stand By Me if you don't know what I'm talking about. This one
was kind of in town, which makes it unusual. It was on the outer road,
where a whole gaggle of oglers could have seen the dastardly crime
while speeding through the red light out on the highway.

It is a felony, you know, to tamper with the U.S. mail. I tried to report
some kids one time, who kept bragging about their mailbox shenanigans.
Sadly, I was given the run-around because I called the postmaster in
my county, but the crimes were in a neighboring county, and I didn't
have the phone number for their postmaster, and hey, I can't spend
my entire prep hour all week trying to prosecute some juvenile delinquents.

A Mouse in My Mailbox. No, this is not a female version of pickle in
your pocket. Though if it catches on, I will take full credit. I stopped
to pick up the mail as I returned home from a hard day of shopping.
Our mailbox is on the county road, with about 10 others, in a wooden
case that someone out here built to discourage the local mailbox baseball
league.

I stepped out of the car and walked around to the mailboxes. Something
scurried out of the little cubby our box is in, up over the top of the wooden
case, and down a 2 x 4 that is bracing the whole shebang because the
frustrated batters now have taken to ramming the whole monstrosity with
their pick-up trucks.

Eek! It was a mouse, about six inches long, not including the tail. Please
tell me mice get this big. There was no mistaking this thing for a squirrel.
HH tells me it was a rat. #1 son says, "That sounds like the size of the rat
Genius (his cat) was eating over at the barn the other day."

It was in the cubby, next to our pipe mailbox (I'll get you a picture in a
few days), in some shredded paper. The paper that the day before had
been a rolled-up ad paper that nobody wants but someone keeps stuffing
in our mailboxes. They can't do that. It is a federal crime, you know.
The local newspaper won't even deliver to your mailbox if you have a
subscription--you have to put up a yellow plastic paper holder. I told
HH he needs to get rid of those papers, so Mr. Mouse Rat can't shred
them for a nest. On the way out to supper last night, we stopped and HH
reached in...and threw the papers over into the woods behind the
mailboxes. That's redneck recycling.

"Lately I've gone a lot of places, and seen a lot of things I didn't need to see..."

2005-08-27T19:15:00.000-05:00

I'm sure you all recognized that as a lyric to the Ozark Mountain
Daredevils' "Followin' the Way That I Feel." What! You didn't?
Then go get yourself some Ozark Mountain Daredevils songs.
There may be a quiz coming up.

Saturday is Hillbilly Mom shopping day. Me and about 3000 other
people here in Redneckland. Hillbilly Mama volunteered to watch
the boy young'uns so I could get done quicker. Shopping without
the kids. You know what that means...car tunes! Yes, it was time
once again for the Hillbilly Mom sing-along with music in the car.
What poured out of my speakers at max volume today?

Bring Your Sorrow Over Here...Jason Morphew
I Think I've Found A Way...Katie Bell
Odysseus Now...Katie Bell
Sharp Cutting Wings...Lucinda Williams
We Close Our Eyes...Susanna Hoffs
Way Down Deep...Vern Gosdin
Perfect Fingers...Tami Greer
Romeo and Juliet...Dire Straits
This is the Day...The The
Till I Hear It From You...The Gin Blossoms
Sand and Water...Beth Nielson Chapman
Talking to My Angel...Melissa Etheridge
Polaroids...Shawn Colvin
Infinity...Bryony Atkinson and Inara George
Baby, Now That I've Found You...Allison Krauss
Night...Feisty

I doubt you normal people recognize any of these. They are mostly
from various bad-movie soundtracks.

Sorry, Rebecca, I would not dream of singing any of them on an
audioblog. No...really...I couldn't. Even though I feel like I owe
you one for all the hard work you did perfecting my challenge...

So...what did I see on my shopping spree that I didn't need to see?

A 100 Year Old Cashier
Demolay Boys Pumping Gas For Tips
Big Fat Beaver
A Man Driving A Motorized Kid's Scooter in the Road
A Man Hammering a Mailbox With A Hammer
A Mouse in My Mailbox

Welcome to my life, people. I know you are dying to hear about
these sights, but I will have to put that off until tomorrow. This post
would be way too long.

The Famous Author

2005-08-27T00:01:00.000-05:00

Hillbilly Husband is in Connecticut to fix a machine and visit with
his company's big boss. He called tonight to check in. It went a
little something like this:

I'm at the bottom of Connecticut. You know, that little part that
sticks out? I am overlooking the New England Sound. I can see
across to the lights of New York, and what's that island just off
of New York?

You mean Manhattan?

Yeah, I guess. The place where everybody goes for the summer.

No, that would be the Hamptons. Long Island.

Yeah, whatever.

My boss lives two doors down from some famous author lady.
Betty something. I can't think of it now.

Hmm...you mean like famous for her writing now? Or did she write
classic literature? Or poetry? How old is she? Does she live by him,
or just her house is by his?

She just died. I think she was born in the 1930s.

You're not giving me much to go on.

I know. I don't know that kind of stuff. I'll have to ask him again.

Thirty minutes later #2 son answered the phone. Hey, Dad is back
at his motel.

Ask him about that author lady.

Oh. Mom, it was Katherine Hepburn.

Only at my house, people, is Katherine Hepburn best known for
her writing. And her nickname "Betty." Nice of HH to shave 30
years off her age, because she was born in 1903. And only at my
house does "just died" mean 2 years ago she died.

We won't even get into our geography issues.

Odds & Ends

2005-08-26T00:30:00.000-05:00

Nothing much interesting to blog about here in Redneckland. But
have I ever let that stop me before? Let me answer for you: NO.

Hillbilly Husband left Wednesday for Connecticut. He's doing
some such thing to a machine. I don't really listen when he talks
to me about work. Shh...Don't tell him. It will be our little secret.
He should return Saturday, so the kids and I are making the most
of our freedom.

#1 son removed the epidermis from his elbow on Tuesday in a
kickball competition on the school outdoor basketball court. It will
not stay covered with Scooby Doo and Fairly Odd Parents band-
aids. I also apply a thick layer of Neosporin (or at least the Wal-mart
version of Neosporin, which I believe is called Triple Antibiotic
Ointment). Today it is finally looking better. More pink, less green.

#2 son has learned some sign language in 2nd grade. He proudly
showed me how to sign "stop talking." Do you think he was trying
to tell me something?

My school computers did not take kindly to the changing of the
server this summer. I can find my HS class rosters on the MS
computer. But no MS rosters anywhere. I can not change my
home page. It reverts to that blasted MSN on all 3 computers,
no matter how many times I try to reset.

I have been calculating area and volume of circles and cones and
cylinders for 3 hours each day. And explaining how to describe
an experiment to see if ants prefer honey or butter. And telling the
purposes of the 1st and 2nd Continental Congresses. And explaining
why the U.S. entered WWI. And diagramming subject/verb thingies.
And explaining the differences among Pilgrims/Puritans/Quakers.
And scratching my head over Economics, because it is just so abstract
that I have to read the book and question the students on "...and then
what did he tell you to do?"

I have also been blessed with lunch duty this week. The 9th grade
lunch shift. I didn't have to watch the weather to know there was
a storm moving in. These kids stirred themselves into a frenzy. Do
not doubt Deadpanann when she likens her students to ferrets on
crack. I suppose the hillbilly version would be weasels on meth.
If I could only bottle this energy and use it instead of gasoline, I
might win a Nobel Prize. It is kind of hard to fit the kids into the
gas tanks, though. OK, so I'm still ironing out the bugs on this plan.

But really, nothing interesting is happening. You will be the first to
know if it does.

Crackpot Theory

2005-08-25T00:02:00.000-05:00

I am not the only person who believes we did not land on the moon.
My reasons come from a show I saw on network TV, people. I think
it was called Conspiracy Theory, and had a different agenda each
week. This was four or five years ago. I might or might not have an
illegal copy on videotape.

Can you recall the technology we had in the 1960s? When a computer
took up a whole building? Are we to believe that NASA sent men to
the moon and brought them back, numerous times? Why didn't any
other countries manage to do that? Remember the space race? Why
didn't Russia put men on the moon? They were neck and neck with
us in the rocket department. Why not the Japanese? I hear they're
pretty technology-friendly.

In no particular order, here are some of the questions raised by
that TV show:

The lunar lander thingy was very unstable. We even crashed one
on earth trying to land it. When it set down on the moon, there was
no blast crater from the blast that slowed its descent. There was no
moon dust on the landing feet. Wouldn't you think it would kick up
a big cloud of moon dust while landing, that would settle on the
landing feet? The jumping-around astronauts kicked up little puffs
of dust with their feet.

Why did one of the astronauts say, "It looks like the high desert of
the United States" when they first landed. Why would they bring up
something like that unless they were afraid people would think they
faked it in the high desert of the United States?

The U.S. flag blows in the wind. Uh...there is not an atmosphere on
the moon, so no wind.

The rocks in the pictures show different light sources for their shadows.
The sun should have been the only light source. The only shadows
should have been on the side of the rocks opposite the sun, not on
the sides.

The astronauts run and jump like in slow motion, but they do not jump
higher than they could on Earth. Hello! Their weight is one-sixth of
what it is on Earth. Why no Michael Jordan jumps, boys? If you speed
up the film, it looks like the way men on Earth would run in a spacesuit.

There are no stars in the background of those beautiful pictures we
took. And how did we get such great pictures? The astronauts could
not look through the camera very well, what with the bulky spacesuit
helmets. What about those crosshair things in the pictures? Some of
them are behind part of the objects in the photo. Hmm...doctored
photos, anyone? Astronauts and equipment superimposed on a
background?

The films of the astronauts riding in the Lunar Rover, and walking
around on the surface were taken in the exact same place on
supposedly different days. The films can be superimposed on
each other and line up exactly, right down to the same rocks
and shadows. We are told these were taken in two completely
different areas.

The noise of the engines would have been to loud to hear the
astronauts talking to each other while taking off and landing
on the moon's surface.

The mathematical chance of us sending someone to the moon and
returning them safely to Earth during the time of the alleged moon
landings was 0.0017 %.

Why all the secrecy around Area 51? Satellite photos show large
buildings such as movie sound stages. Have you ever seen the old
movie Capricorn One? It's about a fake Mars mission. Is it possible
that our government faked the moon landing to cut costs, and to
win the space race? We could have launched the astronauts into
orbit, then sent footage of the "moon movie" to the networks. Why
haven't we been back to the moon?

The only thing that foils my theory is that I do not see how so many
people could keep this secret for so long. I want explanations for
all these inconsistencies, people! I want to know that we really
went to the moon, not to a movie soundstage in the high desert of
the United States, with movie lighting and professional photographers.

I checked out this site, but I was still not convinced. Just label me
one of those stupid hoax believers.

No New Tricks

2005-08-24T00:02:00.000-05:00

As some of you might have guessed from my previous posts, I am
not technology-friendly. This old dog is not very accepting of new
tricks. I put off getting one of those new-fangled DVD players for
a long time. Middle school kids would offer to bring a movie for
a Christmas party, and I would tell them, "But my TV only plays
tapes." Oh, that didn't bother them. "I can bring in my DVD player
and hook it up." The h*** you say! When my then-7-year-old
child promised to hook it up if I would get one, I knew it was
time to give in.

Down through history, I would have been one of the doubters.
Sail to America? (OK, so it probably wasn't named America
yet, cause we were trying to get to India to spice up our lives,
and that map-maker hadn't named my country after himself yet.)
I would not have gone. What if the ship went over the edge of
the world? Then where would I be? Hanging by my fingernails,
gasping, in the waterfall at the edge of the world, still with no
spices!

So maybe they kidnapped me and made me go. "Hey, Hillbilly
Mom, look at this red juicy plant thingy! Try a bite. They're
great!" Uh...no. Everybody knows tomatoes are poisonous.

"Let's move out west! There's free land and gold and buffalo
as far as the eye can see." No, thank you. I prefer to keep
my hair on my head. I don't want to live in a dirt house and
sweep the dirt that falls off my dirt ceiling off of my dirt floor
and out the door into the dirt.

Why would anybody need a bank? Are they too lazy to dig
a hole in the backyard and bury their money like everyone
else? I swear...the way some people put on airs.

Telephone? Is that like a really long string and a bunch of tin
cans? What was wrong with the Pony Express?

Vaccinations? You want to do what with that needle? Stick
some disease in me so I can make antibodies against it just
in case I ever get exposed to it? I think I'll take that chance.

Send a man to the moon? And bring him back safely? How
can you do that when the technology to run a future calculator
takes up an entire room? What are you, a movie producer?
(We'll discuss my moon landing propaganda another time.)

Cook food without heat? That radiation might give me cancer.
How can something cook from the inside first? With no heat?

CDs? That will never catch on. It's gonna be pretty hard
to carry those things around and try to play them in the
car or on a Walkman. That would be like carting a 45 rpm
record around with you. You'll need to strap a record-player
on your back and get a long extension cord.

Information Superhighway? What is that creepy little commercial
girl talking about? Will we ride on the big big bus and zoom
around to different libraries until we get our fill of book-learnin' ?

And don't get me started on MP3s and picture phones and
missions to Mars. It is boggling my mind. Must. Stop. Now.

I'm in the Dog House Now

2005-08-23T00:02:00.000-05:00

I am in trouble. Seems I left out somebody important from my faculty
in the Department of Beclakian Education. Shame on me. It was only
my bestest friend who is an actual teacher in the very same building
where I spend my working life for 174 contracted days. Leave it to
me to ignore the obvious. Why would I consider putting an actual
teacher on my Department of Education? Duh! I know I selected
Deadpanann, but I found her back in the day, when she was just a
basement blogger, not a teacher yet. I didn't consider the real live
co-worker kept in captivity in my actual school building.

I didn't know she would feel left out. Honest. She doesn't have a blog.
But she is my faithfulest reader. (I do know how to spell, but I like to
create my own words.) So I am sorry, bestest buddy. I will call you
"Mabel." We both know who that really is, and I am not saying you
are a Mabel, mind you, but that is a name I associate with you. So I
am adding Mabel to my faculty, and she is going to teach the following:

Hot to Trot: a model for anger management
Bring Me a Hall Pass (Or Ya Gotta Sing to My Class)
March 14: Three hundred fourteen ideas for Pi Day
Scaling the Slippery Slope: you must rise before you can run
The Day I Met Wernher von Braun
I Scream, You Scream, We All Scream for Unit Multipliers

Sorry to give you so many preps, Mabes, but you know you've
done it before. And you'd better show up at 7:20 am for tutoring,
too, or you're gonna lose a good thing. Do you think Sonic Diet
Cherry Cokes grow on trees in Beclakia? Think again. You must
earn your keep.

So here's to you, Mabel, for fighting the good fight. For writing up
those lovebirds who dare to kiss at your end of the hallway. For
giving me my favorite all-time gift: scratch-off lottery tickets. For
giving me a rubber doorstop that lasted two years before somebody
stole it even though it had my name written on the side in Wite-Out.
For tracking down your VCR cable (and we both know who took
it). For making me laugh with comments such as "And there he was
on my stepping stones, wearing his fancy women's shoes!" For
slicing those odd-numbered answers out of the back of the textbook.
For setting your expectations high, and not taking any guff from the
enablers of those not-working-to-potential students. My hat is off
to you. My pointy-headed sweat-stained hillbilly straw hat. Now
you gotta look at my unstylish hair. Be careful what you wish for.

Can anybody guess the actual subject that Mabel teaches? Anybody?
Be specific. Put on your thinking caps. You can have hat-hair, too.

Outcast Island

2005-08-22T00:02:00.000-05:00

Even though I appointed myself Minister of Education in Beclakia,
I am not likely to remain a citizen in good standing. I'm not bad,
I'm just not a model citizen. Actually, I'm not even a normal citizen.

I am one of those odd folks who would be shipped off to an island
in the center of Beclakia, on a slow boat with long oars, paddled
by a stubble-bearded Popeye-looking old man named "Nub" wearing
a beret and a black-and-white striped shirt, who calls women "girly"
and men "partner."

There I would be left with the other human oddities to marinate in
our "socially unacceptableness" until the government needs us for
testing the medical vending machines. We would simmer in our
collective juices of absurdity, until a winner rose to the top, to be
crowned with a pineapple-stem crown.

You know people like us. The woman who wears an old pair of
panty-hose wrapped around her neck as a winter scarf. The neighbor
who steals your newspaper from the front porch and leaves in its
place a dead bird propped on its wings so it is "looking" at you.
The guy who drives the lawnmower around town, getting a DUI.
The woman with a streamer of toilet paper hanging like a tail out
of the waistband of her pants. The man who talks to himself and
replies. The boy who says, "And then my sister turned up pregnant.
She don't want 'im. I hope she gives me the baby so I can raise 'im
up right." The woman who goes about her daily business with a pair
of panties hanging out her jeans leg like a used fabric softener sheet.
The audio-visual helper who says, "Let 'er eat!" every time you are
about to start a film or a tape or your car. The woman who wears
pants under a dress. The man who blows up the bread sack like a
balloon because air is a good insulator. The woman who boxes up
trash thrown out on her road and mails it back to the rightful owner.
The guy who saves his clipped toenails in an old Vlasic pickle jar.
Okaaay...I think you know what I mean.

We would be kept on Outcast Island, allowed to fly the Beclakian
flag, but only permitted to listen to one song: "It Goes Like It Goes,"
recorded by Emperor Rebecca. This would help us concentrate on
our job of translating Beclakian classics into the national dialect
(which Rebecca has decided is a mixture of Beat Poetry, Horse Race
calling, and Oprah Winfrey). Thus, "It was a dark and stormy night..."
would become:

Girlfriend,
that Stedman horse
is moving up on the inside,
his thundering hooves
glistening black,
slicing nocturnal,
carving the cobwebs
from my brain.
What was I thinking
when I bet all my money
on him?
You go girl!
The prize is under your seat.

As you can see, it is not an easy life for us misfits on Outcast Island.

WooHoo! Here it is!

2005-08-21T10:40:00.000-05:00

Well, well, look who finally showed up. No, it's not the original
message, but his poorer country cousin. You see, the original
explained how I can't call from in the house, because our tin-can-
and-twine phone system only gets reception in certain areas. We
must be the people that the "Can you hear me now?" ad campaign
was designed for.

I don't know for sure when Mr. Audio appeared, but the time stamp
is the time I called it in. I didn't check right away, because I had to
go to Wal-mart and deposit what was left of my summer paychecks.
When I got back around 1:30 pm, there he was, like the telephone
man waiting in the driveway because you left after he didn't show up
during the 4-hour time slot he promised.

Rebecca left me a comment on how she put sound on her blog.
All Hail Rebecca, Emperor of Beclakia! Careful, Rebecca, you
are scaring the freaks. Now it was right neighborly for her to offer
to assist the technologically challenged. I consulted with the resident
10-year-old computer guru who I keep on retainer, and he spouted
out a bunch of mumbo-jumbo about why Bec's method wouldn't
work for me. It went a little something like this: I don't have the thingy
I need to convert a file to mp3. My computer would save it as a wav
file, and I would have to buy something to change it, and "those things
are not exactly cheap." Then he said that since I do not have my own
server, I would have to leave my computer continuously online for
anyone else to be able to hear the audio file. Tomorrow I am going
to check with the hospital to see if they sent me home with the wrong
baby.

Now, for all I know, this is something the kid made up to mess with
me. It might be something like storks bringing babies and leaving
them under cabbage leaves. I would not know the difference. I can
barely use the cell phone. He has to show me how to get my voice
mail. Every time. I don't even like that phone. Why do you need a
phone that takes pictures? Won't a camera do that just as well? And
it is too small. I always drop it and the battery thing pops out. When
I try to hold it and talk, my fingers hit something on the side that puts
it on speaker or camera or "scrub your kitchen sink" or some such
feature. I want an old-fashioned cell phone, like on Seinfeld back in
1992, when it was as big as a shoe box.

Technology. Can't live with it, can't blog without it.

Audio Blogging?

2005-08-20T15:38:00.000-05:00

I gave it a try. I really did. And it was very easy. Now I know why.
Do you see an audio post here? Me neither.

I went to Audioblogger. I registered. It was very simple. I followed
the instructions. I even had my resident 10-year-old computer genius
looking over my shoulder. I went out on the porch to call in my audio
post on my cell phone. That's because it was not an 800 number, and
because my cell phone doesn't work very well in the house.

I dialed, put in my phone # and password #, stated my message after
the tone, hit the pound key as instructed, and VOILA! Nothing. I
phoned in my audioblog at 9:55 am central daylight time. It is now
3:38 pm central daylight time. So after 5 and a half hours, I don't
know where my audioblog is. Have you seen him? If you do, tell
him to come home for supper. No wonder it was so easy--because
I got nuthin', folks.

I did some Googling, and found out that over 24 hours had elapsed
before some people had their first audioblogs show up. And that
must mean I am one of them, because often I hear people say,
"Some people" as they look at me intently.

I may give it one more try. Or not. I can not let it interfere with my
Big Brother TV-time tonight. Even if my audio post magically appears
later, audioblogging is not for me. I need instant gratification, baby!

Minister of Education

2005-08-20T00:02:00.000-05:00

It looks like Rebecca has started her own country, the Nation of
Beclakia. Hurry on over, she's offering a 2-for-1 deal on citizenship.
I have decided to immigrate there and appoint myself Minister of
Education. I will educate the adults, not the kids.

My Department of Beclakian Education will need a faculty. So I
am appointing the following people to instruct the new Beclakians
in Hillbilly Education. I'll bet a Sonic Large Cherry Diet Coke that
Rebecca did not know the citizens of her country would turn out
to be hillbillies. Here are my faculty, and what they will teach:

Kristin: Half-naked Posing, History of 55-gallon Barrel Killers,
Free Cheese Smorgasbord, Gambling. Kristin will also be directing
Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat, our school play.

Miss Ann: Which Wine Goes With Hot Dogs, How Not to Start
a Lawnmower, Which Came First: the Ferret or the Crack..

Rachy: Internet Research for Bizarre Yet Compelling Items,
Why Possums "Playing Possum" Do Not Make Good Pets.

Raehan: Art Appreciation: emphasis on poker-playing-dogs-on-
black-velvet. How Much Sleep Do You Really Need?

Alexandrialeigh: Landlords, the Law, and You

Bert: Cooking Critters: things normal people won't eat (cats, chitlins,
coon, chicken feet). Bert will also serve as principal, as he is a
no-nonsense kind of guy.

Babs: Why We Should Get Rid of this Hillbilly School and Educate
Ourselves.

Karen: Sugar Beets: the New White Meat. Cell Phone: Don't Leave
Home Without It: especially if you are driving on a road with ruts.

Misha: Psychology of the EMO, Dancing ala Mosh Girl.

Melina: Relationships 101.

Hmm...it looks like we are lacking in a few areas. I might have to
rethink this education thing. No math, no language, no science.
Oh, yeah. It's Hillbilly Educatioin. We're fine.

The school uniform will be overalls, with shirts and shoes being
optional. There will be breaks at 10:00, 2:00, and 4:00 for corn-cob
pipe smoking. The school song is John Denver's "Thank God I'm
a Country Boy." Lunch will be provided, providing somebody runs
over a critter on the way to school. Students must drink the milk in
little cartons, or Miss Ann will smack them. Even if you bring some
moonshine from home, you must still drink the milk.

I think that just about covers it. I will be teaching a class in audio-
blogging tomorrow, if I can get some tutoring in it from a 10-year-
old boy. If not, there will be NO tuition refunds, people. So don't
even think about it. Read my lips: NO REFUNDS!

I'm so lonesome, I could cry.

2005-08-19T00:02:00.000-05:00

Thursday was the first day of school for the kids. This is
Little Bear, #2 son's favorite companion. Not just at bedtime.
He carries Little Bear to sit in the living room and watch TV,
propped on a pillow beside him. He takes Little Bear with
us to Wal-mart, but I insist that he remains in the car (the
bear, not the boy, because I'm pretty sure there are laws
about that kind of stuff). Little Bear lays on his shoulder
while he plays GameBoy.

Little Bear is looking kind of haggard. He has been rolled on
and slobbered over for only 6 months. He came attached to
a box of Valentine candy that Hillbilly Husband gave me.
The box laid around for a while with just those one or two
pieces that nobody likes, but you don't want to throw away.
#2 son timidly asked, "Mom, if you don't mind, could I sleep
with your bear one night? I will take really good care of him."
So I cut him off the Valentine box with a steak knife (the bear,
not the boy, because I'm pretty sure there are laws about that
kind of stuff), and deposited him in the waiting arms of my
just-turned-7-year-old son. The next morning he brought the
bear back and said, "I could take care of him for a while if you
want me to." So I told him he could adopt my little bear, and
that's what he named him.

I have seen Little Bear riding on the armrest of the car. I
have seen him in a seat by himself. The most touching thing
was one morning after dropping the kids off at school, I
had to get something out of the back, and saw that #2 had
buckled Little Bear into his seat belt. Every morning when
he got out, he said, "I know you will take good care of
Little Bear while I am at school."

This summer they were inseparable. #2 walks through the
house with Little Bear on his shoulder. He can do almost
anything without putting down the bear, though he does
leave him out of the bathroom. "I wouldn't want him to fall
in the toooiiiiiiillllllllet," he says with his funny little drawl.

So Little Bear looked quite forlorn the first day of school,
what with his worn-out little face, sitting alone in the car.

I guess he's better than an imaginary friend.

My Affair

2005-08-18T00:02:00.000-05:00

I think I am having a fling with the Sonic boy. (Shhh...don't tell my
Hillbilly Husband.) Those of you who have been reading my blog
all summer might recall that I have an addiction: Sonic Large Cherry
Diet Coke.

There is a kid at Sonic who seems to favor me when I go through
the drive-thru. I have been cutting back with school about to start,
and getting a medium instead of a large. The other day this kid took
my order, and repeated it back: a medium cherry diet Coke, and a
large cup of ice. I love the ice--gotta have extra. So I drove around,
and he gave me a large soda and large ice, and only charged me the
price of a medium. Believe me, going there every day, I've got the
prices memorized. He grinned, and told me to have a really nice day.
He's about 18 or 19, tall, kind of chubby, stubbly whiskers. But he
seems to like this old hillbilly lady.

Wednesday, I ordered medium and large cherry diet Cokes, and
a large ice. My Hillbilly Mama was babysitting for me, and she
wanted a large. I drove around, and my suitor gave me the medium
and large sodas, and a Route 44 ice. But he only charged me for the
sodas and a large ice. There is a $0.15 difference, you know. Again,
he was very friendly. He knows the way to Hillbilly Mom's heart is
though her cherry diet Coke. He makes the best ones, too. Just
enough ice, cherry, and soda. Now that school has started, we've
got to stop meeting like this.

Top Ten Tuesday: Back-to-School Edition

2005-08-17T00:02:00.000-05:00

Top Ten Tuesday was brought to me by Redneck Diva, by way
of April. I'm glad, too, because what I wanted to write about was
too long, and now I have a shorter way to gripe. So here it is:

Top Ten Things I Hate About Going Back To School

1. A two-hour-and-forty-minute meeting

2. No Sonic Large Cherry Diet Coke

3. My aching feet

4. The mother of all headaches

5. No afternoon nap

6. Parents who show up at 5:30 for the 6:00 to 8:00 Open House

7. Fellow teachers who hog the copy machine

8. No time to work in rooms because we have MEETINGS
every day for 3 days

9. People who are standing in the hall talking at 8:21 at the
6:00 to 8:00 Open House.

10. Parents who come to pick up their child's schedule at 1:20,
(which is prime no-meeting work time), drop in to chat with the
teacher, and stay until 2:40, instead of coming to the 6:00 to 8:00
Open House.

Rebecca's Challenge

2005-08-15T20:05:00.000-05:00

In the comments to my August 14 post Hidden Talent, Rebecca
said she was up for a challenge. I do plan to follow through on
her suggestion to put my whiney ol' hillbilly voice on an audioblog
for you, but it might have to wait until the weekend.

Rebecca has volunteered to sing a song of my choosing. Be careful
what you volunteer for, I always say. No need to make it easy. So
here it is, Rebecca. I challenge you to sing the second verse to "It Goes
Like It Goes," the 1980 Academy Award winning theme song to the
1979 classic movie, Norma Rae, directed by Martin Ritt, and starring
Sally Field. You know, the movie that proved we like her, we really
like her.

"It Goes Like It Goes" goes a little something like this:

Ain't no miracle bein' born
People doin' it everyday
Ain't no miracle growing old
People just roll that way.

So it goes like it goes and the river flows
And time it rolls right on
And maybe what's good gets a little bit better
And maybe what's bad gets gone

Bless the child of the workin' man
She knows too soon who she is
And bless the hands of a workin' man
He knows his soul is his

So it goes like it goes and the river flows
And time it rolls right on
And maybe what's good gets a little bit better
And maybe what's bad gets gone

Now I know you might be tempted, Rebecca, to sing the whole thing.
But the problem is that my computer will time out, and I will not get to
hear it. So just sing the part I've highlighted for you. That is my favorite
part. Of course, I don't know where you can find this if you haven't
seen Norma Rae. But you know movies, so I think you have seen
Norma Rae. Anyway, the music and lyrics are by David Shire and
Norman Gimbel. It was sung by Jennifer Warnes. Good luck. Oh,
and you don't have to sing a capella. You can even have Norma Rae
playing in the background if you'd like.

Hillbilly Mom Wants...

2005-08-15T00:02:00.000-05:00

I've been Googling again. A while back we found out what I am...
now let's see what I want. If you want to try this for yourself, just
go to Google and type in "(your name) wants." Let's see if you
can help me with my wish list:

Hillbilly Mom wants...a good old patagonian tooth fish. Yeah,
doesn't everybody? And no young ones or toothless ones,
either, you cheap ********!

Hillbilly Mom wants...to pull a Quint and bonk one over the head,
but the water is too choppy. And we wouldn't want bonk anything
over the head in choppy water, because I guess that would hurt
worse than a regular calm-water head-bonking.

Hillbilly Mom wants...to lay a smackdown on Susie. I mean
business, Susie, and don't think that just because you have the
same name as my Toe Story Susie that I will cut you any slack.
Count your lucky stars, girly, because if this water wasn't so
choppy I'd have bonked you on the head by now.

Hillbilly Mom wants...you to know she loves cats and does very
well with household pets. She can fry them up in a pan, roast them
slowly over hot coals, freeze them to make pet pops, liquefy them
in a blender for smoothies, or use Bert's recipe for a good casserole.

Hillbilly Mom wants...in, and Lester wants out. OK, Lester, I know
you don't like me, but could you be a little less obvious about it?

Hillbilly Mom wants...to find a way to say, "No, Sattar, Iraq is not
my country." Just in case some guy named Sattar finds his way to
the Hillbilly Mansion and asks me if I am from Iraq.

Hillbilly Mom wants...the tarp, the blanket, and the parachute for
Ego Ego. Yes, I want it all for me me me me me!

Hillbilly Mom wants...to know if you like toes, in general. Or
specifically, for that matter, the ones with long black hairs growing
out of them that you would need to use tweezers to pick up if
someone chopped off a toe and you had to put it in a baggie with ice.

Hillbilly Mom wants...to know if you and Billy can come back over
tonight. Oh, the **** with you, I just want Billy. HILL Billy.

Hillbilly Mom wants...to lose weight, but her daughter Kimberly doesn't
--she's thin as a rake, anyway. Well let's see how you feel about that,
Miss Kimberly, when I'm a-draggin' you through the just-cut wet grass
and you get all clogged up with mulch and can't lift your spindly little
rake bone arms and legs any more.

Hillbilly Mom wants...to place a picture on the wall that is 228 inches
long. Which is too **** big because that is the same as 19 feet, people!

Hillbilly Mom wants...to tour the apartment and make sure I'm not
living in a rat hole, and she mentioned something about giving me a
credit card to...pay people to say I don't actually live in a rathole,
and to get fake bushy tails for any rats I see so I can pretend they
are cute little squirrels.

Hillbilly Mom wants...us to have monthly dance parties at the Literary
Cafe. So people will think we read and are smart and cultured, but
really we will be line dancing like a bunch of tobacco-chewin' yahoos
on a Friday night.

Hillbilly Mom wants...to move the toilet across the hall, working out
the details to...see if it is a good idea, what with some people not
wanting to take a dump in the hall with no running water and everyone
watching from the living room.

Hillbilly Mom wants...to know how many pillows there will be, and
Gen says, "500"...which seems to be a bit excessive to me, even
though we are using them as padding on the roof in case the Space
Shuttle falls on the Hillbilly Mansion.

Hillbilly Mom wants...to stop playing Rosie secretary and go home,
so Rosie lets her be a coming attraction by singing The Awful Truth
as Mrs. Dracula. And doesn't that make you want a little snort of
whatever we'd been into earlier in the evening?

Hillbilly Mom wants...to put her hands on Mona's shoulders and
steer her like a bumper car in fun. But not steer her like a bumper
car in anger, that would be just wrong. And if I wasn't so cheap,
I could go steer an actual bumper car, and stop this embarrassing
charade, and send Mona to a chiropractor to fix her back that is
sore from me riding the bumper autoMonabile.

Hidden Talent

2005-08-14T00:02:00.001-05:00

I am an accomplished car singer. That's OK...I'll wait for your applause
to taper off. Now don't think that means I am a talented car singer--it's
something that I do any time I'm driving. My students say, "Hey, Mrs.
Hillbilly Mom, didn't you see me wave at you this morning over by the
middle school?" Well, no, kids. I was in the middle of a concert and
couldn't be distracted. I tell them, "Oh, I don't pay much attention to
who's in the other cars. I sing along with the music sometimes." By the
looks they give each other, I think maybe they have noticed.

I prefer to be alone in my SUV echo chamber. I sound really good
when it's cranked. Most of the time I have to make do with my boys
as passengers. I don't say audience, because one lives in the Pokemon
land called his head, and the other says things like "Can't you turn that
down--I can't even hear my music through these headphones!"

I am really good with Fleetwood Mac. Stevie, Lindsay, and Christine,
I blend really well with y'all. Say You Love Me, guys. I could have
replaced any of you who didn't want to go on tour. OK, so I am not
as freaky as Stevie. And then there's the little matter of not being able
to play keyboards or guitar. But hey, it took two guitarists to replace
Lindsay anyway. I'm So Afraid that secretly you're all hissing "Go
Your Own Way," but really, I Don't Want to Know. Give me a chance
if you reunite. I will even sing your songs from Tusk, the double album
that nobody but me likes. Hey, I have my Dreams.

Oh, I know that I'm not a very good singer anywhere but the car. I
would never sing karaoke, or even sing in the car with real passengers
other than my kids. I don't sing in front of my Hillbilly Husband, either.
Sometimes even my car serenades leave something to be desired.

No matter how hard I try, I can not blend with you, Shery Crow. I
don't care how many times you tell me "C'mon, C'mon--It's So Easy,"
I just can't walk that Diamond Road with you. It's a shame, too, you
being a good ol' southern Missouri gal and all. Picture this: I actually
blend better with Kid Rock than with you. Glad you did that song
with him.

And Liz Phair, don't think your music is safe from my mealy-mouthed
mutilation. The blend is great, but I've got to get the hang of that odd
phrasing you use, cause sometimes I have to take a breath.

Now that you are sufficiently tranquilized from my boring story today,
mosey on over to Misha's. Seems that work dealt her a road trip, and
she's looking for ONE (I repeat ONE) song from everybody to put
on CD for the trip. That means ONE, people. Don't make me come
over there! And maybe, just maybe, that's where I got the idea for
this car music post.

"Toe Story" aka "I Toe You So"

2005-08-13T00:02:00.000-05:00

Again, I have nothing to blog about. But that's never stopped me
before. I was thinking about school starting Monday, and then I
read a few blogs. I ended up at Rachy's place, and she had a
toe blog as one of her items posted today. I, too, have a toe story.

A few years ago I only had 4 students in my third period class.
They came in one day, sat down, and shuffled their books around
(to find some work to do before I started grilling them on what
assignments might be missing when I checked with their teachers).

'Susie' said, "I'm really tired today. I spent all last night at the
emergency room." We all leaned forward. The work could wait.

"Dad was outside chopping wood. Mom and I heard a scream,
so we ran outside. Dad had hit his foot with the axe, and cut off
his big toe, right through the shoe. Mom hollered at me--'Susie,
run in the house and get a baggie and some towels!' I ran in. The
baggie was to put the toe in. Mom wrapped the towels around
Dad's foot, and told me to put the toe in the bag. I said, 'Uh-uuhh.'
Mom told me 'Just do it!' but I couldn't. It had big black hairs
growing out of it. I didn't want to touch it. But Mom kept telling
me we needed the toe."

"I went back in the house and got a pair of tweezers and picked
up the toe by those hairs and put it in the baggie. Then Mom
said to get some ice to put in it, and we put Dad in the car and
took him to the emergency room. There was blood all over the
towels."

"When we got there, they took him in and said they were glad
we brought the toe. It took them a long time, but they sewed
it back on."

We were all on the edges of our seats, hanging on to every
word. "So he's still at the hospital?" I asked.

"No, they let him come home. They gave him some pain medicine."

"They let him come home last night? Didn't they want to observe
him after the surgery?" I couldn't believe they didn't watch him
closer--even though this was a hick-town hospital.

"No. They just stitched it back on in the emergency room. He
said the pain medicine worked really good. But then last night
he was supposed to keep it propped up, but he wanted some
more ice to put in his soda. He got up to walk to the kitchen,
and he hit his toe on the leg of the table."

"Owwww!" we all said together.

"Yeah, it hurt him a lot, because when he hit it, his toe popped
off, and we had to put it back on with duct tape."

The room was silent. We looked at each other. "Hey...you're
making that up," I told Susie.

"Yeah. First hour believed me, too."

She really had me reeled in. I was buying every minute of it
until the part about where they sewed the toe on in the emergency
room. I watch ER. I know that you need a specialist and an
operating room to hook up the nerves and blood vessels again.

But she told such a good story.

Like a Squirrel on a Wire

2005-08-12T00:02:00.000-05:00

I have nothing to blog about today. It's back-to-school time. The
air has that back-to-school smell in the mornings. A few years
ago, before I had to drive my kids to school with me every day,
I could enjoy the sights along the way. I didn't have to bend my
arm backwards to give someone a tissue, or dig in my purse for
nacho money, or try to sign some permission form at a stop sign.

This one morning I noticed movement on a telephone wire on
the road near school. I looked up and saw a little squirrel. Aww,
how cute! I thought. Gee, he sure is a little squirrel. He must
be about half-grown. He's got good balance to run along
that wire. Hey, what's with his tail--he doesn't have any fur
on it. Maybe young squirrels don't grow that bushy tail until
later.

All this happened in a couple of seconds. The road curved,
and I had to pay more attention to my driving. And in that
split second when I looked back down to the road, the horror
of it hit me. That was a rat. And while it was small for a
squirrel, it was big for a rat. This is the country. We don't
have any giant city rats. In fact, it was the first rat I had ever
seen. No, this was no cute little field mouse with the Mickey
ears. It was a rat. And it ran along the wire in the direction
of school.

The hair on the back of my neck stood up, because it was
kind of creepy to watch a cute little squirrel turn into a rat.
I never saw it again, but I spread the word to my fellow
teachers that a rat was running along the telephone line toward
school. They had a good laugh at me, and asked if I needed
glasses.

Teachers. Not as compassionate as you might think.

"Don't you ever buy a new one and pay on time, when you can get a used one for a dime...

2005-08-11T00:02:00.000-05:00

...a book's no good 'til someone's turned a page." Did any of you
recognize these lyrics? Any Ozark Mountain Daredevil fans out
there? I didn't think so.

Wednesday we loaded up 23 pairs of jeans, 7 pairs of shoes,
10 shirts, a camouflage hooded sweatshirt (size 12 mo.--yeah,
we're rednecks), and 2 shirt/pants/vest/tie outfits and headed to
town to pick up Hillbilly Grandma for an outing to the new
Goodwill store. After dumping--DONATING--these items, of
course we had to shop. #2 son bought 2 Pokemon tapes and a
Pokemon CD for $8.00. He thought it was a bargain, because
he didn't have these.

#1 son wanted to buy a $12.00 computer, but I talked him out of
it. He is saving for a laptop, and doing odd jobs (such that a 10-year-
old can do). My haircutter hired him Monday for 2 hours of computer
lessons, and paid him $10.00. He was thrilled. He had not expected
to be paid anything but snacks while working. He decided that he
has already taken our other computers apart enough that he didn't
need that one. The parts alone would have been worth it. Keyboard,
mouse, speakers, monitor--even if the main thingy didn't work, this
would have been worth $12.00. But we don't have room for all the
clutter, since he still has parts of an old computer #2 son's teacher
gave us last year, and it would have been HIS money, so he decided
against it. And in case you're worried about buying something like this
there, the Goodwill people say if you buy something electronic and it
doesn't work, you can bring it back and pick something else.

After our shopping spree, we headed to Ci Ci's Pizza. I don't like
their pizza, except for the Taco Pizza. Ole'! They put one out just
as we were going through the line. That's my karma for taking the
kids somewhere they wanted to go. I am mad at Ci Ci's, because
they no longer have cheese on their salad bar. What's a salad
without some shredded cheese? And they no longer have (look
away, Rebecca, look away!) mushrooms for salad fixin's, either.
But they did have some sweet banana pepper rings, so I will
remain neutral in this restaurant review, and not give them a
thumbs down.

Then, minor trauma: #2 son had eaten his fill of noodles with
red and white sauce, and those breadstick things, and went off
to the arcade room. #1 son soon followed. Next we heard a
scream, followed by another scream. That could only mean one
thing. My kids were involved. A little blond boy about 4 came
running out of the game room. Next came #1, who marched
right up to that kid's family and said, "Uh...in case you're
wondering...he grabbed the air hockey puck and put it in the
goal." The first scream had been #2 son, who lost the game.
The second scream was the little boy, who was scared by
the first scream.

Next came #2, crying to me, because that made him lose. I
told him that the little boy didn't know any better, that he was
too little to understand. The boy's grandma came over and
said, "Awww, honey, we'll make it right." She gave him a
dollar to play another game. He didn't want to take it, and
turned away from her. I said it was OK, she didn't have to
give him money. Then she gave it to #1, who persuaded #2
to play again, and #2 took three quarters out of his pocket
and asked #1 to give it back to the grandma. So everything
was settled.

After this excursion, we took Hillbilly Grandma back home,
and returned to our Hillbilly Mansion to find that we had
no internet connection. !!! I called and found out that lightning
had struck across the street from the local office of our
internet provider. Quick-thinking #1 son called Hillbilly
Grandma to get her dial-up number, and we mooched off
of her service. Of course he knew her sign-in and password
--he set the whole thing up for her.

Two days left of my summer vacation. But who's counting?

Ready For School?

2005-08-10T00:02:00.000-05:00

Monday I have to go back to work. But I really have to go back
to work now. Monday, I will sit in meetings all day. Oh, they say
we will have time to get our rooms ready. But if you have two
rooms and two sets of meetings and two of everything in the world,
it takes longer.

I took #1 son to school with me this morning to hook up all of my
equipment. The first building was great--they had even hooked up
the computers already. We spent about 2 hours there, loading
stuff on the computer (him) and putting stuff back on the walls (me).
We don't have to take it down, but it usually falls down if I don't.
And you never know when they might just decide to touch up the
paint. Nothing was missing. All systems go at this location.

The other building took a little more work, and I will have to return.
We spent an hour. #1 son hooked up my computers. I rearranged
the desks to my usual pattern. I put all of the drawers back in my
desk. We take them out so the desks can be moved more easily
out into the hall so the floor can be waxed. I must say that both
buildings looked great. The custodians have done a great job.
I will need to hang my maps back on the wall, and put back the
things that fell off ( I left the things up here). All that was missing
was my power strip that I bought myself last year. I gained a
wooden door stop. I'll have to find out who that belongs to.
Last year my rubber door stop disappeared, even though I had
written my name on it with Wite-Out. Much better than the year
I lost my TV/VCR, 3-hole punch, and stapler (they were returned),
and 24 student desks and chairs from the other building, which
were given to a different building and replaced with carved-up
desks from the cast-off room in the basement.

Now all I will have to do next week is to attend the district-wide,
high school, and middle school meetings on Monday, run copies of
my class rules and course description, write dates in the gradebooks,
fill out lesson plan books, look over class rosters, get my record-
keeping stuff organized for each class, go to open house at both
buildings Tuesday night (and make a sign for each building of the
times I will be at each location, go to Wal-mart to get my purchase
order stuff, pick up the Attendance, Discipline, Incentive policies and
the technology agreement forms for the first day of school Thursday,
make sure my printer will print, pay off someone to do my after-
school bus duties and game duties, find my end-of-year inventories
to update, make substitute folders, and I'm all ready for another
year. Ya gotta love it!

A Jury of Your Peers

2005-08-09T00:02:00.000-05:00

Oh, people...you don't want to have your jury composed of the
folks I had jury orientation with. Me excluded, of course, since
I would make the perfect decision every time.

The judge told us that a computer program selects the jury pool,
based on eligible residents of the county. That means they have
to be 21 years old. So out of that 240 people who were sent a
jury letter, you would expect about the same amount of people
in each age group. No. I am no spring chicken, but the vast
majority of juror prospects were definitely my elders.

I saw one boy with a fresh military haircut who looked about 21.
There was a girl who appeared to be in her early twenties. About
20 people looked like they were thirty-something. Hmm...forties...
about 50 people. This leaves the rest of them, about two-thirds of
all the future jurors, in their 50's, 60's, and 70's. Not that there's
anything wrong with that. They have a lot of life experience to base
their opinions on. But the way I figure it, there should have been
about 40 people in each age group.

Age was not the only problem. The letter that was sent out clearly
stated that this was ORIENTATION. It said to complete the form,
and bring it to the courthouse at the specified time to find out what
was required for jury duty.

Here are some conversations I heard from the rows in front and
behind me.
***************************************************
"Why do we have to sit so close?"

"They said we'll know by 9:00. I guess they're expecting a crowd."

"Yeah. After we're done, they're gonna move all these pews against
the wall and we're having a dance."
***************************************************
"I have to go to the bathroom. Is anybody allowed to go to the
bathroom? Ma'am? Are there any bathrooms on this floor?"

Deputy Gal: "Right through those doors and turn left. You can go
now."

(It was 8:45. Why didn't she just go downstairs before she came up
to the court room?)
****************************************************
"I got called one other time when I lived in the city. I told the judge
I couldn't do it because I didn't drive"

"Did that work?"

"He asked to see my drivers' license. Then he said I could drive,
so that excuse wouldn't work. But I never got called."
**************************************************
There were two older men and a woman with a cane sitting up front,
in one of the jury boxes by the door to the judges' chambers. I
assumed they had letters from a doctor, since the deputy at the
door had been asking as people went in. Some folks behind me
thought this was a trial.

"Which one do you think is the criminal?"

"Not the lady. She looks grouchy. I bet she's the court stenographer."

"I think it's that one by the wall. I think he did it, too."

"That other one must be his lawyer. He sure didn't dress up."
*************************************************
"How long do you think this trial will last?"

"I don't know. I hope we're out of here by 2:00."
*************************************************
Spindly, the frail old lady who rode in the elevator with me, said,
"I didn't fill out that paper. Do you think I should fill it out?"

"Yes. It said to fill it out and bring it."

"Well, I don't have a pen."

"We need one of those clipboards." (I told Deputy Gal.)
*************************************************
"It's gonna take a long time for them to interview all of us."

"They won't call us in separately. They ask 'Does anybody here
have someone in the system?' and then we raise our hands."

"Oh, and they count the hands?"

"Yeah. Then they might ask 'Who has something against plea
bargaining?'"

"What's plea bargaining?"

"When you give them some choices."
*************************************************
Yikes! There needs to be a common sense test to see who can
qualify for jury duty. I don't even want to know what the other
17 rows were talking about.

Civic Duty

2005-08-08T00:02:00.000-05:00

Saturday morning I had the pleasure of traveling to the county
courthouse for jury duty orientation. First time ever. My sister has
done it three times, and has never been called for a trial. I hope I
am so lucky. I don't like things to interrupt my routine. That would
mean I had to write out understandable lesson plans, and turn
my students over to a substitute, who would spoil them, and then
I would have to train them all over again. My students would
miss me. Seriously, my students like me. What's not to like?

My official letter said to be at the 3rd floor of the courthouse
by 9:00 am SHARP. It was capitalized like that. Being the anal-
retentive goody-two-shoes suck-up that I am, I arrived around
8:10. There were already about 10 cars there. Those people
went in, but I waited until 8:30 to make my grand entrance.
I rode up in the elevator with a spindly, fragile, little lady about
70 years old. "I've never done anything like this," she said. I
don't know if she meant ride in an elevator, go to the courthouse,
talk to a hillbilly mom, or leave her little shack with 47 cats.

We entered the courtroom, and were directed where to sit
by a female sheriff's deputy, who looked and talked like
comedian Kathleen Madigan. (Kathleen, I know things didn't
work out last summer on Last Comic Standing, but I think
you should play it safe and stay in St. Louis. Do not go south
of Lindbergh. There are no streetlights beyond that point.)
Deputy Gal performed her seating job like a rent-a-cop parking
cars at the County Fair. All she needed was a flashlight with a
long red thingy on the end. She made the second row scooch
over to make room for us. "Seven to a bench," she commanded.
WooHoo! I got the end! Thanks, Spindly, for showing up the
same time as I did.

People straggled in. Deputy Gal filled 3 rows on our side, then
3 rows on the side by the door. That's when the creep arrived.
He looked like Hannibal Lecter, but without the charm--and
without the hockey mask. He was wearing a plain dark-blue
t-shirt tucked into gray slacks, with a black belt, and gray
Wal-mart tennis shoes. He was short. His graying hair was
combed straight back from his forehead, and greased with
some type of product. Probably fat rendered from the people
he had eaten and made lampshades and garments out of.

Hannibal stepped in the door and sat down on the end. Oh,
no no. He was supposed to move down next to the first lady
in that row. Deputy Gal said, "Please move down, sir. We need
seven to a row." He gave her a look like he wanted to eat her
liver with some pinto beans and a nice warm can of Busch. He
walked over and left about 2 feet between himself and that lady.
Hannibal squinted at Deputy Gal's chest. "Where's your badge?"
She was not at all flustered. "It's broken, but I have a name tag.
Tracy Jones." (She gave her real name as far as I know, but I
can't recall it.) Hannibal took out a pen, licked the end, and
wrote it on his jury summons letter. More people came in.
Deputy Gal said, "Let's move on down. Seven to a row. "
Hannibal wouldn't move. They only got six in that row.

After everyone arrived, all seats were full, plus the jury boxes,
and some chairs up front for the "alleged" criminals and lawyers.
People stood all around the walls of the room, and down the
middle aisle. Somebody said there were supposed to be 240
people. A man deputy said, "You fellas who are like me, and like
to wear the cap--you really need to take that off in here. Any of
you men who feel uncomfortable sitting while a woman stands,
feel free to give her your seat." One man did. Deputy said, "Take
it, Ma'am. This doesn't happen very often."

The two circuit court judges, one man and one woman, came out
and explained the procedure for being called for a case, and how
to check if it was still scheduled, and how it is virtually impossible
to be excused unless the doctor says you can not serve. Then we
were given a pamphlet, and set free around 9:20.

Tomorrow: Be very afraid if you have these people on your jury.

#4 Official Answers What Would Rednecks Do?

2005-08-08T00:01:00.000-05:00

The question this week was: What would Rednecks do with the
old cabinets made out of paneling when they remodel their house?

The answers this week were all compatible with the Redneck
lifestyle. Misha comes out the big winner, with three (count 'em)
three solutions to the problem.Scoring was:

Misha: 3
build a cubby house for the kids
use as firewood
build a dog kennel

Babs: 1
decorate the den in a faux-cabinet look

Michele: 2
panel the outside of the pick-up
woodgrain dashboard interior

Rebecca: 2
patio funiture for BBQs
can't have two kitchens in a trailer house

Thanks for playing. All of your ideas could work for the general
Redneck population. Some are not plausible, though, for the
hardcore Rednecks. For example:

Cubby for the kids? Why, when you have a perfectly good
sinkhole available?

Build a dog kennel? I believe the hardcore Rednecks call that
a chain and a metal spike.

Decorate the den in a faux-cabinet look? Not unless those
hardcore Rednecks are puttin' on airs. The "den" is called a
"family room," and is mainly unfinished and filled with junk
that you don't want to put anywhere else. And a "faux" is
what you send Ol' Blue after so you can getcha a tail to tie
to your pick-up truck's antenna.

Use it on the side of the pickup? If the pickup has sides.

Woodgrain look for the dashboard? If your truck isn't full of
old swimming pool parts.

Patio furniture? Most BBQs are "BYOLC" (bring your own
lawn chair), many of which collapse after a few too many
cans of beer in Bubba's tummy.

Official Answers:
Use some of them as storage cabinets in the toolshed that
you build on a skid and haul to town for the back yard.
(My teacher-friend-without-a-blog was very close to this
one, as she emailed me: "put the cabinets in the barn."

The rest of the paneling cabinets shall be officially disposed
of in the big sinkhole (not to be confused with the clubhouse
sinkhole).

#4 What Would Rednecks Do?

2005-08-07T00:02:00.000-05:00

You and your Redneck spouse (or "common law" Redneck spouse)
have decided to remodel your little shack. (It could happen!) When
you tear out the kitchen cabinets that are made of wood-grain
paneling, what do you do with them?

There may be more than one correct answer. The "official answer"
will be posted on Monday, August 8.

This will be the end of the Redneck Quiz for awhile.
It has become tiresome.