Winging It

My head is spinning. And not in a good way. But not in that bad
Exorcist kind of way, either. We had an inservice half-day, and I
am not sure exactly what we did. There was a bunch of talking and
listening and responding and new plans to implement and some
handouts that we highlighted and were in the middle of deciphering,
and then it was time to leave. Mabel, what did you do at your meeting?
I regret that my presence was not permitted there. I hope you were not
saving me a seat at your table, Mabel. That would be as sad as Grizzly
when HH is gone. He waits hopefully, looking...looking...no HH.

I sort of missed the boys on the drive home. It was SO quiet. Except for
my car-singing. That was a thing of beauty. I really can't describe it
adequately. I was singing along with one of those teacher CDs by the
guest speaker we had last month at our professional development. Last
weekend, HH heard them in the car when we went to the movies. He said,
"There's what you oughta do...do what she's doing." Yeah, right. "Well, the
only things stopping me are the facts that I don't play guitar, I don't write
my own songs, and I can't sing. Except for that, I'm sure I'd be good at it."
HH. Always ready to pimp me out for spare change.

Tonight I stopped by Wal*Mart to pick up some chicken wings for supper.
I should have known better than to buy fowl at The Devil's Playground.
They were out of those Honey Dijon Wings, and the Teryaki Wings, with
only Chipotle Wings left in the cooler thingy. Hillbilly Mom is educated,
my friends. She knows that 'chipotle' means 'pepper'. Like those friendly
little yellow sweet banana pepper rings. Yes? NOOOO! They smelled so
good, warming in the oven. Mmmmm. When they left a greasy red stain on
my hands after picking them up to put them on the plate, I sort of wondered
what the deal was. Because it looked like the greasy red stuff that floats to
the top when I put taco seasoning in the hamburger. I took a bite. Woooo
Hoooo! Call the paramedics! Hillbilly Mom does not like the spicy greasy
red stuff. Hot sauce is OK. It is not greasy. It can be controlled. This stuff
could not. I could only eat 7 of them. Hey! I had to give them a chance!

Apparently, the chipotle is a black-sheep relative of the sweet banana
pepper. While Sweet Banana will offer to babysit your children, Chipotle
will see that offer, and raise it with a trip behind the barn to teach them
how to smoke a grapevine. Chipotle likes acid rock, skateboarding,
drag racing, tatoos, and piercings. Sweet Banana enjoys folk songs, dog
shows, bicycles-built-for-two, crew cuts, and helping old ladies across
the street. Do not confuse the two, my friends. Heed my words, or you
will be posting bail for your beloved offspring. Do not let Chipotle into
the house unless you like to live on the edge. Hillbilly Mom prefers to
live in the middle...the middle of nowhere, middle of the road, middle
of the bed, middle of the country. Just middle.

What shall we talk about tomorrow? Teachers armed with guns? Here
now! That wasn't MY idea. Our dear governor gets credit for that one.
Or how about my upcoming Trivia Competition, what the dog chewed
up in the yard, things I throw off the back porch, posts I plan to steal
from Redneck Diva, why Hillbilly Mom hates history, or things that
piss off HM? Pick one. I'm flexible. But tomorrow is my TV night, so
I'll be in a hurry. What tickles your fancy?