Mini-Mansion

Here is the better side of my better half.

HH's new project is a cabin down by the creek, on the
new 10 acres we bought from the LandStealer last
summer.
















The building material consists of pallet lumber. He gets it
from his job. His company buys big rolls of steel, and
machines and thingies to cut it into little pieces of steel
to make saw blades and thingies that butchers use. Or
something like that. The pallet lumber used to be free,
because it saved the company from paying to have it
hauled off. Now I think the employees have to bid on
it, because boo hoo, somebody was afraid they weren't
getting their fair share of pallet lumber. Anyhoo, we
already have an A-frame cabin by the creek behind
the Mansion, and a tool/work shed between the
Mansion and the barn, and a giant L-shaped work
bench in the barn made from pallet lumber. I'm sure
HH has done it to recycle the wood. He's sooo green.















As you can see, the new Mini-Mansion is air-conditioned.
Watch out for that first step.















The Veteran is in town this weekend. I hope he didn't
plan to spend the night in the Mini-Mansion.















Looks like a few more steel shipments are in order before
this abode is finished. I haven't asked, but it looks like
the Mini-Mansion is built on skids. HH likes to think he
can take his Mini-Mansion with him wherever he goes.
It also looks like he's planning a front porch.

I hope HH has built it far enough away from the creek.
It's spring shower season, you know.

A Mini-Mansion is a terrible thing to waste.

Writer Joker Quoter

The new words are up for Redneck Diva's second writing
challenge. You have until Thursday, April 5, to submit
your entry. C'mon, the more the merrier. I think I was
4th out of 6 entrants last week. I suppose I need to step
it up a bit. You can read all of last week's entries at
writeinthethickofit.blogspot.com. If you want to enter
this week, you can submit your entry by email to Diva
at theredneckdiva@gmail.com. She will post it to the
site after the deadline on Thursday, and the voting will
begin. Join us! You can beat me. Don't cost nothin'.

I have another joke for you. Not so much a joke as an
insult: "Your mama is so poor she goes to Kentucky
Fried Chicken and licks other people's fingers."

Oh, and I forgot one of my favorites from yesterday:
"Your mama is so fat that when a bus ran into her, she
hollered, 'Hey! Who threw that rock?'"

Kids these days! They know all the mama insults, but they
don't know common sayings. I asked mine a few, and
here is what they said.

Don't throw the baby...down, it'll get hurt.
Don't throw the baby...ever.
Don't throw the baby...at the wall.
Don't throw the baby...a knife.
Don't throw the baby...out with the trash.

If you lie down with dogs...you'll get licked.
If you lie down with dogs...you'll get bit.
If you lie down with dogs...you'll get ticks.

It's always darkest...in the hall.
It's always darkest...at night.

The squeaky wheel gets the...WD40.
The squeaky wheel gets the...oil.

Oh, a few got ONE of them right. But none knew more
than one. The 8th graders got "If you lie down with
dogs, you'll wake up with fleas." I was proud of them.
I explained, know-it-all-ishly: "That means you turn out
like the company you keep." And a girl said, "Yeah. I
knew that one because yesterday, I watched Judge Judy,
and there was this guy who bought his girlfriend a really
expensive car, and she wouldn't give him any money for
it, and he worked two jobs, but she wouldn't, because
she was deadbeat...and Judge Judy told the guy, 'If you
lay down with dogs, you'll get fleas.' I can't believe I
just saw that yesterday, and now I know the answer
today."

I suppose I could have thrown in another saying if I'd
known that she was getting all her learning at the knee
of Judge Judy.

Don't pee on my leg...

Fat and Taxes

Not much news from the Mansion tonight. On the tax
front, taxes are done, but not mailed. I thought I'd struck
it rich on the state taxes with a $551 refund. But noooo...
I had entered the Social Security withholding, not the
state tax withholding. Once that little error was corrected,
we owe Cousin Mo, or whatever the the state counterpart
of Uncle Sam is called, a grand total of $9. That's TEN
Sonic Happy Hour Cherry Diet Cokes, if you add $0.20.
Oh, the humanity!

The kids at school are still one big wacky pack. My first
hour couldn't quit telling 'Your mom is sooo fat...' jokes.
After yesterday's money-snatching, window-shouting,
tardy-filled day, it was a bit of a relief. One of them had
printed out a LIST of these jokes somewhere. Not in
Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's class, mind you. She is selfish with
her ink cartridges, having paid for them herself.

I listened with one ear, and tried to fill out my requisitions
for next year. Since we haven't chosen a new Physics text,
I'm not sure what I will need for my Physical Science
semester. Anyhoo, this is my class that should have been
begging me for help with work they don't understand,
since none of them are gathering As at a record-setting
pace. But no, they were hooked on the fat mom jokes.
At least they were READING, instead of playing the
'who farted' game.

I must say, some of them were funny. Here is a sampling:

Your mom is sooo fat...
They tie a rope around her waist and use her to clean out
tunnels.
She fell in love, and broke it.
When she gets into the bathtub, the toilet overflows.
They have to grease her to get her out of the bathtub.
Her jeans have a run in them.
The talking scale says, "One person at a time."
After sex, she smokes a ham. (They were afraid to say
that one out loud, but brought it up for me to read silently.)
When she broke her leg, gravy ran out.
She has to use a boomerang to put on her belt.
If she fell into the Grand Canyon, she'd get stuck.
When she goes to the movies, she sits by everyone.
When she sits down on the beach, GreenPeace tries to
rescue her.
She earns money selling shade.
The only time she sees 90210 is on the scale.
If she rode a bicycle across the moon like ET, she
would cause a total eclipse.
When she rides in the back of the bus, it does a
wheelie.
When she was born, the hospital got stretch marks.
By the time she turns all the way around, it's her birthday.

That's all the come to mind at the moment. Which reminds
me of a class yesterday who pointed out how good-natured
one of their classmates is. "He never gets mad, no matter
what you say. The other day I told him, 'Your mom is so
fat, the all-you-can-eat buffet has a restraining order against
her.' And all he did was say, 'Aww...she told me she was
on a diet!'"

That's my DoNots. Always good for a laugh. And anything
else that delays actual schoolwork.

The Crazies Are Among Us

Is it too early for spring fever? My DoNots have gone
absolutely crazy. And I'm just talking about today. Oh,
they do things to irritate me every day. That's their job.
For the most part, they're pretty well behaved. But today
was extraordinary. Would you like to hear more?
Try and stop me, by cracky.

First cat out of the bag (and wouldn't that be a fine way
to start the day, with a giant bag of cats tucked neatly
away in a squirming bag, to be let out one by one to
run squalling down the hall) a girl in my first hour showed
me a $5 bill some guy had given her. She didn't know
why. But that's not the weird part. A boy snatched it out
of her hand and ran into my room, taunting her with it.
Another student went in, and another. It looked like I
was not going to give out a tardy for the first time in
about a week.

I glanced into the room from my hall post, and saw a
student standing at my front window with the top and
bottom windows cranked open, yelling at somebody
in front of the school. Pardon me. This just does not
happen in Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's classroom! I shouted
his full name, and told him to close the windows, sit
down, and to never, ever even think of doing that
again. Which earned me a round of applause from
a teacher standing way up by the cafeteria. Ahem.
Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is not shy about keeping order
in her classroom. Approximately 5 seconds after the
tardy bell rang, another student asked to go to his locker
for his science book. I told him "For a tardy." Because
you can't linger about the hall for 4 minutes after
consuming your OH SO TASTY school breakfast, and
then think you will be permitted to waltz all the way back
down the hall to Mabel territory and get your stuff.
Though methinks the waltzing would be a nice addition
to the streaking, yowling felines being released from the
large economy size bag o' cats.

I had been looking forward to 2nd hour. I have a whole
class of freshmen. That's definitely not the reason I was
looking forward to it. There was an announcement
yesterday that all freshmen should report to the gym
2nd and 4th hour. That's just how it was worded. The
kids started coming to my class. Whoa, Nelly. Or not
Nelly, because I don't have any girls left. We have used
up two of them and they moved to other districts. I sent
a fine young man (really) to the office to see if they should
report to class first for roll. That is the normal procedure,
but it always says so in the announcements. He came
back and said, "Yes. We wait to be called out." So we
settled down for a long spring midmorning, foregoing the
assignment, because hey, they were being called out.
10 minutes passed. Then 15. I sent a different fine young
man (really) to the gym to see if they were ready. He
returned, saying, "The gym is full of us!" Good thing I
sent him. I'd already wasted 15 free minutes of my life.

That's when it started. As the others got up and went,
two remained seated.

Only the health classes are being tested. Not us.
It says right here: ALL freshmen report to the gym
2nd and 4th hour.
But we have health 4th hour. He told us just to go 4th.
That's not what the announcements say.
You'll see. We aren't supposed to go.
GO already!
We don't want to go. We're not supposed to. They'll
send us back. You'll see.
Then go and make them send you back.

Just then a classmember came to get the vocal one.
"They just called your name. Get in there." Heh, heh.
As he went out the door, I called, "I told you so."

In Lower Basementia, I began a lesson with the younger
fry on the addition and subtraction of time. Like converting
seconds to minutes, minutes to hours, hours to days, and
vice versa for subtraction. Hey. These are kids who say
24 - 18 = 14. So you can't overexplain things the first time.
Normally, I explain the concept while standing at the board.
I put up an example. I ask the class what I should do next.
They shout it out, and I write it down. Today, a back-row
dweller said, "Oh, I know that." He stood up, walked up
front, took a piece of chalk from the tray, rubbed out the
first part of my answer, and wrote in his answer. Which
was correct, but I wanted to leave the logical steps on the
board for reference. And, oh yes...who did he think he
was, getting up out of his seat and taking over my board
problem without permission? That has never happened
before. Great Googley Moogley! I must have really
motivated him, y'think? I don't.

During that same class, another boy kept trying to flirt with
one of the girls. Which is nothing too new, except he called
her 'Georgia Sunset', and held up a picture he'd been
carrying around. It was on notebook paper, with a sun and
many rays, and a smiley face in the middle. 'Georgia Sunset'
was written at the bottom. She was not impressed. Funny
thing, he was the only one who didn't do well on the
assignment. Go figure! We had time left over, so I asked
if anyone would like to go over it with him so he would
know what he did wrong. And this little girl who wouldn't
say, "OWW! You're on my FOOT" if you drove your car
over her foot, volunteered.

Something is in the water. Or the air. Or the Georgia sunset.
It just ain't right.

It Lives! The Family of Morons

A while back, I might have mentioned that the Hillbilly
family is not the brightest pack of Dry-Erase Markers on
The Devil's Playground pegboard. We have recently
seen a resurgence of our moronity.

Just last night, as I was standing in the kitchen, cutting
the cheese, I heard a noise. Let it be noted that I was
literally cutting the cheese, a 16 oz. chunk of sharp
cheddar, so that it could be grated using smaller chunks.
I thought the boys were out in the yard. They pooled
their money to buy a rocket thingy that runs on hydrogen.
Before you go thinking that we watched The Astronaut
Farmer a few too many times, let me point out that this
rocket was purchased from The Devil's Playground,
and changes citric acid into hydrogen fuel somehow.
I ain't teachin' chemistry next year for a reason.

Anyhoo, there I stood in the kitchen, placidly cutting the
cheese, when I heard 'ppffffffftttttttt'. Like a toy rocket
that runs on water-and-citric-acid-made hydrogen,
shooting into the air and spraying its chemical goodness
all over my boys and the yard. But my kitchen looks
out the back of the Mansion, so I had no view. I yelled
for #1 son, the idea being that if he didn't answer, he
was surely out front launching his rocket.

The boy answered me. "Yeah?" I asked where he was.
"I thought I just heard your rocket launching out front.
It was loud!" The boy answered me from the direction
of the bathroom, "No, that was just me. I farted."

Moving on to this afternoon...I had bus duty at Basementia.
My boys loitered around the main hall, waiting for me to
finish. Some little sons-of-teachers got off a bus, and went
to the teacher workroom. They often hang out there. Don't
worry, the teachers are long gone as soon as the clock
strikes 3:10. My #1 son started in the teacher workroom.
One of the little kids slammed the door in his face. "Don't
ever come in the teacher's lounge any more!" My boy was
a bit flustered, as he's not used to being told he can't go
somewhere. Especially by a 7-year-old. He related the
story to me. I thought it was kind of funny.

After bus duty and a visit to my aun't office, we went to
the car. Slammer and his buddy were playing around in
the buddy's car. My #2 son passed our car and went
toward them. "Hey! We're parked up here," I told him.
And I heard him tell Slammer, in a threatening manner,
"Don't slam the door in my brother's face again!" I don't
know whether to be proud or concerned. My just-turned-
9-year-old told a 7-year-old to leave his 12-year-old
brother alone.

And now, for the final act in this Moronic Trilogy...
We stopped for a bag of ice on the way home. It was
81 freakin' degrees today. I usually have my coat laying
about in the back of the large SUV, and we wrap the
bag of ice in it for the 10-minute ride home. I have also
cautioned #1 son that when I send him in for ice, he
should wait in line and pay, then go get the ice out of
the cooler. That place is a cooker. They have a counter
where they sell fried chicken and other hot greasy stuff
right by the checkout line. I don't like my bag of ice to
melt into an iceberg that is OH SO HARD to crack
into pieces for my big recycled Sonic foam cup of
ice water that I make every night. The boys call the
bag of ice the 'ice baby', because we wrap it up in a
coat, and I have cautioned #1 not to carry it in his arms
like an infant, because his body heat accelerates the
melting. He complies, holding it by the 'hair'--that tuft
of plastic at the end of the bag.

Out of the convenience store came my son, holding the
ice baby by its topknot. He put it onto the back seat,
on one of his winter coats that he never wore all winter,
and put the other winter coat that he never wore on top
of it. We drove home, and stopped for the mail. #1
became entranced by a cardboard package of two
DVDs from Amazon. I told him it was NewsRadio
Season 5, and Dolly & Friends, the 80s TV show of
Dolly Parton. He grabbed my school keys to try and
saw it open. Lappy, his laptop, clamored for attention
from his resting place atop the dashboard. #1 had to
shove Lappy back from the edge several times.

Coming up the driveway, we saw that Tank, the 4-month-
old Beagle, was alive and kickin'. We have been leaving
him out, hoping that the doggy Ann doesn't dismember
him like a chew toy. #1 got out and called the dogs. I
parked in the garage, and #2 ran to unlock the door. I
went to pet Tank, who prompty peed on the porch. HH
has a fit over porch pee and poop. I rubbed Tank's nose
in it, shouted "NO" and swatted his behind.

Man, can that little dog hold a grudge! He refused to look
at me, or come over to the edge of the porch where I
called him. I petted two cats, plus Ann and Grizzly. #1
picked up Tank and brought him to me. He politely let me
pet him, then trotted off to the end of the front porch and
wouldn't look at me anymore. Just this morning, he was
chewing on my hand and whimpering for more attention.
What an attitude that little dog has!

I opened the back of the car for my phone, which I had
left in my school bag. I got my Sonic Cherry Diet Coke
and my purse and the mail from the front of the LSUV.
We went in the house, washed hands, and read the mail.
#1 got a card from his grandma congratulating him on his
Science Fair win. HH called to report that he had cancelled
his eye doctor appointment, and was on the way home.
I went to change from school clothes to Mansion clothes,
and it hit me. THE ICE BABY!!!!!

We had left the ice baby in the car all that time. Like,
30 minutes. Which is kind of like neglect of an ice baby,
what with the temperature being 81 degrees and all.
#1 son ran out to rescue the baby. He said, "Mom, my
coats are all wet. Look how full of water she is!" So we
took the ice baby out on the back porch deck. #1
dangled her over the rail by her hair, while I stabbed
her bottom three times with a sharp, black-handled
kitchen knife. We let her drain until her liquid essence
stopped flowing. Please don't report us for neglect.
We didn't know any better.

We are a family of morons.

Warning: Product Recall

And now, for a public service announcement from Hillbilly
Mom. Recall warnings have been issued on the following
products.

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

HM's Recall List of Keyword Products

the devil's playground lesson plans esl
Though in high demand from teachers this spring, the
Devil's Playground Lesson Plans book of reproducibles
has been taken off the market. Seems that too many
youngsters were being lost in H*llholes, and the ones
who weren't were clamoring for ice water all the live-
long day. Fearing some explainin' might be in order
after parents noticed their children never returned home
from school, administrators nationwide called special
school board meetings to ban this teacher resource book.
For the record, the 'esl' stands for 'extra special lessons'.

height and blood spatter worksheets
Teachers just can't catch a break. Now their high-interest,
student-centered curriculum is taking a hit. Nothing got
blood pumping like these height and blood spatter
worksheets. Students couldn't get enough of this hands-
on scientific method bell-ringer. Teachers could stand
in the hall for duty (transl. gossip sessions) and return
to find the students happily measuring blood spatter as
instructed. Nothing was better at keeping kids on-task.
Especially since those who weren't on-task were deemed
the donators of blood for the next day's lesson. Because
some Jehovah's Witnesses complained that they don't
like their kids giving away blood that can not be replaced,
the day of the height and blood spatter worksheet is over.

hornet's nest boosterseat commercial
According to the Attorney General's office, makers of
regular boosterseats complained that this commercial
shows exaggerated 'good times' with the hornet's nest
boosterseat. The commercial in question shows toddlers
waving, squealing, wriggling, kicking, and jumping for joy
after riding a few minutes in their new Hornet's Nest
Boosterseat. They furthermore state that the use of the
song 'I Don't Love You Much ' in the background tugs
at the heartstrings of the tail-end Baby Boomers, and
exerts undue influence over them to buy this boosterseat
over a no-frills, no-hornet boosterseat. Don't worry. The
boosterseats are still on the market. Only the commercial
has been recalled. Who knew kids would enjoy sitting on
hornets' nests so much?

talking mirror hm
This mirror has frightened several old ladies to death.
Ladies so old, their social security numbers were 1, 2,
and 3. So old that if this mirror hadn't killed them, and
some wiseguy on the street had told them to act their
ages, they would have dropped dead. The problem
lies in the cranked-up volume of the talking mirror. It
shorts out the hearing aids of the elderly, and gives them
brain spasms leading to death by auditory amplification.
The mirror shouts: "Mirror, mirror, propped against the
back-bedroom wall...who's the OH SO PRETTIEST
one of all?" If you have one of these mirrors, you can get
a replacement volume-control button at Walgreen's.

bone weenus
Get rid of it! It's neither a bone, nor a weenus. Preliminary
tests have pointed to a synthetic, cartilaginous strip of
material that pops out of wireless underwire brassieres
after they have been worn every day for three years.
Scam artists have only recently begun selling them on
eBay as 'bone weenuses'. Don't expect a refund unless
you paid by PayPal.

fat man in a little coat lyrics
Not even an 'explicit lyrics' sticker can keep this song
alive. The recall stems from the terrible loss of fat men
and fabric each time this song gets airplay. Fat men and
coat fabric are terrible things to waste. Please, if you are
near a fat man when this song comes on, for the love of
Gummi Mary, hide all the little coats. It's not a pretty
sight.

story about a little old lady who had stopped at a stop
sign and was slow getting going
This literary gem may seem harmless, but it has caused
more deaths than 4-year-old expired ranch dressing.
Countless readers have keeled over from boredom before
getting even one paragraph into this story. The author
could not be reached for comment. It is believed that she
is sequestered, writing an entry for the next contest at
writeinthethickofit.

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

There you have it, your official recall list.
Learn it. Know it. Live it.

Those Wacky Teachers

Let's talk education. Or to be grammatically correct, which
is something that rarely happens here at the preposition-
ending sentence blog, 'Let's talk about education',
or thereabouts.

I have been doing some research on the internet. Which
means I have been reading Google News. I always find
a search for 'teacher' to be quite eye-opening. For instance,
did you know that the world is full of vampire teachers,
biting teachers, toilet cam teachers, murdering teachers,
and suffocating-your-child-with-office-products teachers?


Item 1: Vampire Stories Teacher Quits
Somewhere in the UK, there is one more unemployed
teacher. Seems that her employers did not look kindly
upon her moonlighting as an author of vampire romance.
She used a pen name, and had warnings on her website
of the explicit content. Unfortunately for her, teachers
are not allowed to have lives when not at school. I'm
supposing the linking of her writing site on her personal
MySpace account was her undoing. That, and the
allegations of some students that she read her work
to them at school. Which I'm not so sure of, since she
was given the equivalent of an honorable discharge,
what with a glowing recommendation after she agreed
to resign.

Item 2: Teacher Chided for Biting Thigh of Wrestler
Who Tried to Give Him a Wedgie
Salem, Oregon, baby! Back in the USofA. Only here
could a teacher become the big bad victim. The highly
unfortunate history teacher was walking down the hall
when a minimum of 6 wrestlers, ranging from 180-215
pounds, grabbed him from behind, and attempted to give
him a wedgie. The athletes pinned him to the ground and
would not let him up. In an attempt to free himself, the
teacher bit one of the wrestlers on the inner thigh, leaving
teeth marks. The student and his family did not pursue a
complaint, but the school officials got wind of the situation
and (gasp) chided the teacher. He was required to write
a public apology to the student, was given two years'
probation for his "neglect of duty", received a reprimand
from the state of Oregon, and was forced to take a class
on appropriate behavior. The students? They were
disciplined by their coach. That's all.

Oh, great Googley Moogley! Where do I begin? How
dare that teacher go walking down the hall, swinging his
butt-cheeks in a 'come wedgie me' manner, just asking
for 6 strapping young lads to pounce on him. How dare
he feel that he was being attacked, and a need to defend
himself before they stuck their fingers or something else
where the sun don't shine. How dare he bite the part of
a student that was within biting range as he was pinned
down by 6 strapping young lads. Methinks that was his
undoing. He dared to bite the 'inner' thigh, which is OH
SO CLOSE to Inappropriateville. So if any of you plan
to become history teachers, make a Note To Self. 'When
attacked from behind by 6 strapping young athletes, let
them do what they want, because they have every right
to pin me down and touch me wherever they please.'

What chance did this guy have? Maybe it's just me, but
I have a feeling that 180-215 pound wrestlers are pretty
good at pinning someone to the ground. Umm...don't
they train for that every day? Wouldn't just ONE of them
be able to pin this guy? And what's with exposing your
'inner thigh' to some guy's teeth? Some guy who is pinned
down and can't move, so that you must squat over his face
to put your nether region in danger. But I digress. For a
brief moment, I forgot that the student-athlete is always
right.


Item 3: Toilet Cam Teacher
Has a good alliterous ring to it, don't it? This occurred
in Canada, which begs the question 'Do y'all need to
get out more?' Don't be offended, dear sweet neighbors
to the north. I'm sure we have plenty of toilets in our
closets down here. Seems this teacher bought a little
hidden camera type thingy to spy on the babysitter for
his twins. He brought it to school to try it out, and put
it in his closet. Next cat out the bag, the camera was
found in the unisex teachers' restroom, hidden in the
toilet tank. When questioned, the teacher admitted
that he bought the camera and brought it to school.
He went to his closet, flung open the door, and was
astounded that it was not there. When asked why his
fingerprints were found on the toilet tank, he reported
that he had removed the lid a couple weeks ago to
fix a flushing problem with the toilet. Gosh! What a
nice guy! No wonder y'all polite Canadians didn't
charge him with a crime. After all, there was no info
from the camera on any of the computers owned by
the teacher. So we know he couldn't have viewed
any co-workers' buttocks on any other computer,
because he said he didn't.

Item 4: Teacher Beats Student To Death
A teacher in India beat a 12-year-old to death for not
doing his homework. The teacher tossed the student's
body down a well. He was caught when he confessed
to the murder. Perhaps a good Note To Self could
have prevented his embarrassing incriminating-myself
faux pas.

Hey! India! Y'all need to take a chill pill and attend
some anger management meetings in Canada

Item 5: Teacher in Sticky Situation After Allegedly
Taping Boys' Mouths Shut
Another case of domestic teacher violence (allegedly),
brings us back to the US. Like you couldn't tell. You
know how incredibly evil 2nd graders can be? Well, this
little devil wouldn't stop whistling, even after the teacher
told him. So she took matters into her own hands and
plugged up his whistle-hole with Scotch tape. Yeah! Free
advertising for you, Scotch-brand tape! But wait!
Whistler's mother didn't complain. It was the mother of
Laughs At Whistler who got her thong in a wad. Her
boy laughed at the tape incident, and got his gob glued
shut for good measure. Not real glue. Tape.
Scotch-brand tape.

Said the student's mama: "I don't believe a teacher should
be able to cut off a child's airway to where he just has to
breathe through his nose." Gosh, woman! Why don't you
just ask for the moon next time? Now we can't require
students to breathe through their noses instead of drooling,
slack jawed, mouth-breathing all the live-long day?

Furthermore..."I was shocked," said Gina, who asked us
not to disclose her last name. "It was like no, not in these
days and times. A teacher is not going to touch your child
and tape them, and basically assault your child." Oh, she
didn't want her last name used, but she mentioned the
name of her son earlier in the interview: DeUndre. Yeah.
Nobody will guess who it is, will they?

Alls I got to say to you, Gina, is "You and DeUndre should
not plan on moving to India any time soon."

Three Stinkin' Words

Here's another little somethin' I took from Redneck Diva.
I hope that gal doesn't go out of the blog business, or I
will be hurtin' for certain to come up with topics to post.

THREE STINKIN' WORDS

01. Where is your cell phone? in my purse
02. Boyfriend/girlfriend? can't you decide?
03. Hair? got enough, thanks
04. Your mother? my saving grace
05. Your father? dead 8 years
06. Your favorite item(s)? books, computer, CDs
07. Your dream last night? rich school conference
08. Your favorite drink? cherry diet Coke
09. Your dream guy/girl? I'll never tell
10. The room you are in? my basement office
11. Your fear? my family dying
12. What do you want to be in 10 years?
above ground, please
13. Who did you hang out with last night? my bratty son
14. What are you not? snobby, gregarious, refined
15. Are you in love? I think so
16. One of your wish list items? what wish list?
17. What time is it? you taking medicine?
18. The last thing you did? watched math contest
19. What are you wearing? that's so pervy
20. Your favorite book? King's 'The Stand'
21. The last thing you ate? turkey/swiss/wheat
22. Your life? quite a ride
23. Your mood? can change quickly
24. Your friends? make me laugh
25. What are you thinking about right now?
gotta finish taxes
26. Your car? dirty silver Yukon
27. What are you doing at this moment? typing, you fool
28. Your summer? shorter this year
29. Your relationship status? married with children
30. What is on your TV screen? dust and fingerprints
31. When is the last time you laughed? 3 hours ago
32. Last time you cried? just last night
33. School? it's my job

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

There. You've had a peep into the dark, twisted world of
Hillbilly Mom. And I didn't even use the terms:

OH SO PRETTY
thank Gummi Mary
thirst for knowledge
sweet, sweet Histinex
I got nothin'
that'll learn ya

That pretty much sums up my overused sayings. The
3-word sayings, anyway. Did I leave any out?
You be the judge.

Writin' and Readin'

Redneck Diva has started her own writing contest. Drop
in and check it out at writeinthethickofit.blogspot.com.
There is something for everybody, no matter what style
of writing you like. She posts new words every week
or two. Anybody can enter, and anybody can vote for
the week's winner. But only ONCE. The current contest
voting closes on Monday, methinks. Then she will post
a new set of words.

In other news, we've had a book fair at school. I took
my classes to browse few minutes each day. Don't cost
nothin'. Not as many wanted to buy as last time, but
last time was near Christmas. The librarian says the
second book fair of the year never sells as much, but
the school gets a bigger cut. She thinks the profits will
be comparable to the first.

Of course my boys bought a lot of books. The librarian
must have thought it was a lot. She gave us three (THREE)
free posters. Can you believe it, Mabel? I know you can't,
but it's true. I bet they were even worth more than $4. If
you know what I mean. And Mabel does, but you don't,
so sorry for the inside joke, but it's a hoot.

One kid in my class didn't have money on the last day.
He browsed all around. As we were getting ready to
leave, he picked up a book and said, "I really wish I
had this one. I've read all the others, and I've been
waiting for this to come out. My mom was supposed
to give me the money this morning, but she never got
up." He paused for a minute, and his eyes widened.
"What if she's dead? Ha, ha. Do you think you could
loan me the money? I'd pay you back tomorrow. She
was going to give it to me anyway." He looked so
hopeful, I couldn't turn him down. OK. I'm a sucker
for a kid wanting a book. And I'm even more of a
sucker for a kid that can make a joke. Even a macabre
joke about a dead momma.

This morning he showed up for class with that book
about 9/10 read already. And he gave me my $6
first thing. I didn't even charge him interest. Mrs.
Hillbilly Mom is getting soft in her old age.

Or else more forgetful.

Steven Is A B*tch

Ahh...the plague of being Even Steven. As I gloated
yesterday, I received a magnificent Christmas-in-March
gift of 4 DoNots Sentenced (to ISS). Now, my flaunting
ways have come back to haunt me.

This morning I was chatting away with a DoNot, and it
hit me. Not the DoNot, though that has happened one
time, which I don't like to remember, and was well on the
way to forgetting, since I don't have that kid, "Mum"
anymore, but I just had to make this stupid joke, and
that's what I get for trying to be all funny and stuff. No.
The DoNot didn't hit me, the following thought did, so
I said it right out loud. "Aren't you supposed to be in ISS
today?" Imagine my HORROR when he said, "No. ISS
was overbooked. Most of us don't have it until Monday."
Oh, the humanity! I was counting on some peace. But NO.
I have been Stevened. On Monday, the other ISSer from
my class will be returning to the general population. There
is no peace in DoNotVille. The mighty DoNot is let out.

But on to more interesting topics, such as ME. Or my
son, actually. He missed school today to attend the big
Science Fair at a community college. He was quite excited
to be going. We're not like some schools, who send a
buttload--I mean busload of entrants. He and his little
partner were the only ones chosen to represent our
Middle School.
.
I'm not saying the partner didn't do any work. He would
have done anything he was asked, but my son is the kind
who must do things himself. I don't know why he wanted
a partner, but it was his choice to go it alone or as a team.
So he had somewhat of a silent partner, who aided in the
actual experiment, and building the apparatus, but was not
in on the writing of the specs, the graphs, the results, the
recommendations, etc. Oh, he knew about them, but my
boy and his trusty Lappy did all the writing here at the
Mansion. Yes. My son has named his laptop. And was
excited over the Science Fair. The nerd doesn't fall far
from the tree.

I called at lunch time to check on him, and he said, "Mom,
we won FIRST PLACE in the 6th grade physics division!
We are being re-judged now for Overall Winner and the
judges are coming. I gotta go!" I'm OH SO PROUD of
him. It's his first time entering the Science Fair. He and his
partner will be splitting the $50 prize. Maybe that'll learn
'im to do a project by himself next year! They did not win
the Overall Winner thingy. That's OK. I told him this
morning not to get his hopes up, because this was his first
project, and they only give a 1st and 2nd place. Now I
won't hear the end of it. The principal wants them to
present their project at the next school board meeting.
He's going to have his picture in the paper. He might be
mentioned in the announcements tomorrow. All the glory
a 6th grader yearns for.

He's fired up for the Math Contest on Saturday.
I hope he doesn't get Stevened.

DoNot Holiday

Well now. My DoNots have been pulling through for me.
I arrived at school this morning with the beginnings of a
headache, made the grand tour of my classroom, stowed
my sandwich in the mini-fridge, taunted the map of the
U.S. which did NOT fall off the wall overnight, logged
on to both computers, wrote the date on the board, laid
out the materials for the day, and proceeded to the
teachers' workroom to check the mail.

And there they were, like Christmas in March, stashed
in my mailbox. Four notices for ISS. And not just any
students, mind you. The livest wires I've got, if you don't
count the one that was sent there last week, and had all
of this week added to his sentence. WooHoo! Peace at
last. A staff member said, "You really have a crew this
year! I couldn't believe it when I saw those papers."
I told her this was nothing compared to 5 years ago. I
had some hard-core looking-for-trouble kids back then.
This year, they are just annoying. Like no-see-ums, only
I can see 'um. And HEAR 'um. They rattle on day after
day. The other kids, who spend all day with them, are
also fed up. The ISSers don't do anything bad enough
in my class to be sent to the office. Thank the Gummi
Mary, they overstepped their boundaries in the lunch
room, with a sub, violated attendance, and slacked a
bit too much. That's what caused each to be sent there.
Bon voyage, my little NotHeads. We'll see you when
you get back.

As an added bonus, a Basementia resident told me a
little story. I will call it fiction, as he is not the most
reliable of sources.

"In elementary, my teacher didn't like me. She was all
the time staring at me, giving me the evil eye. Finally,
one day I said, 'Hey, you got a freakin' problem with
me?' And she sent me to the office! I told the principal
she hated me. He told me I needed to watch my mouth.
Can you believe that?

One day, Mrs. Teacher was at the closet in the back of
the room with Mrs. Next Door Teacher. They were
standing right in the doorway, and Mrs. Teacher took
a drink of beer out of a paper bag. The she handed it
to Mrs. Next Door Teacher, and she took a drink!"

"That's hard to believe, that a teacher would risk her
job just to drink beer where the whole class could see.
How do you know it wasn't root beer? Or water? Or
Gatorade, or juice?"

"It didn't look like root beer to me."

"How could you tell? It was in a paper sack."

"The bottle was glass."

"How do you know, if it was in a paper sack?"

"Because she held it really tight at the top, like it was
glass. And then, one day we were down at the gas
station, and we saw her buy a bottle of beer! She
was telling the clerk, 'I'm going to take this home
drink it.' Then she turned and saw us, and went,
'Oh!' like she was surprised that we caught her."

"How do you know it wasn't for her husband? Maybe
she knew you were there all the time, and knew you
were spreading rumors about her drinking beer in the
closet at the back of the room, so she was pranking
you by saying that to the clerk where you could hear."

"No. She meant it. Teachers aren't supposed to drink
beer!"

"She's over 21, isn't she? And it was after school, so
she wasn't at work. I don't think she broke the law."

"Well, she's not supposed to drink."

Ahh...don't hate me because I lead such a charmed life.
Hate me because I flaunt it.

They Just Don't Get It

Sometimes, my students don't say what they mean. Just
this afternoon, a girl was incensed that a boy took her
stuff.

Mrs. Upstairs Basementia gave me a highlighter, and
Bobby flushed it down the toilet!
What? How did the two of you come to be in the same
bathroom?
Well, we weren't. That's what Johnny told me--that
Bobby flushed it.
Why did you let him look at it?
I didn't. See...he got in my purse.
He got in your purse? He must be really tiny!
Yeah, well he got in my purse and he took it out and...

She didn't get it. But the kid standing by me waiting
for help during our comedy did.

This morning, a boy came in late after getting his driver's
license.

How'd you do?
Passed it.
What was your score?
She took off for my parallel parking.
Couldn't you do it?
I ran into the sidewalk.
You backed onto the sidewalk?
No. I ran into the sidewalk. It was about two feet high,
and I backed into it. There was a 'bump', and I said,
"Oops!" and pulled up into the space.
Is that all?
No. She said I didn't look good enough.
That's an outrage! How dare they grade your driving
on your appearance!
No, she meant that when I pulled out, I didn't look
good enough for traffic.

Nobody got my little joke. They rarely do. Try as I
might to entertain myself throughout the day, the lot
that I have this year don't make the connection. I
suppose that means it takes 3-4 years to develop a
sense of humor compatible with Mrs. Hillbilly Mom.

Or else I've lost my funny.

Out To Get Hillbilly Mom

The gremlins are out to get Mrs. Hillbilly Mom tonight.
She has tried her best to put out a quality post for you.
While it may not be entertaining, it is chock-full of
essential nutrients for preparing your own taxes. Hey!
Wake up! You can skim that part if you must. Just read
the parts where Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is OH SO MAD
because thingies and PEOPLE PISS HER OFF!

Here's a list of them. Because Mrs. Hillbilly Mom
and ten thousand monkeys, typing all night until their
fingers were bloody stubs, could not do justice to the
trials she has been through tonight. Read 'em and weep.
Weep for poor Mrs. Hillbilly Mom, who has taken to
referring to herself in the third person, a la 'Jimmy',
because as we all know, her life is a Seinfeld episode.
Weep, by cracky! Get the cryin' towel! Here they are:

McAfee, the pesky window-peeping security center
Rnaapp, who doesn't respond. Crash! Crash!
irs.gov, where you can never quite find what you need
SBC/AT&T, who doublespeak and double bill
dor.mo.gov, where you always time out
e-file, the Devil's Handmaiden of tax preparation
George Bush-just because


Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is not pleased. She has wasted her
valuable time fiddling about on the internets, trying to find
crucial information. Let's begin with a hot tip from her
blog buddy, Lantern.

Lantern, though not required to file a U.S. Federal Tax
Return himself, has gone above and beyond the call of
blog-buddy duty to inform Mrs. Hillbilly Mom of the
telephone federal excise tax one-time refund. Kudos,
Lantern, on your diggingest dog technique to ferret out
the nickels and dimes Mrs. Hillbilly Mom so vitally needs
to support her gambling habit. This could snag her $60
of HH's hard-earned (HE says) cash. Job well done,
Lantern. Don't hold your breath waitin' for your cut.
But Mrs. Hillbilly Mom will keep looking for more
ancient pictures to post, since the Lovely Green Shirt
Jeannie was not forthcoming on March 17.

After finding some tiny loopholes in the Child Tax Credit
publication, Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is ready to get a discount
for procreating. Only on the U.S. Federal Tax Forms
do you round $100 to the nearest multiple of $1000.
Which means: $1000. And not in a good way, like in
"I won $100, but they are rounding it to $1000!"
Weep. Weep for Mrs. Hillbilly Mom.

And to add insult to injury, Mrs. Hillbilly Mom must
freakin' PAY to e-file her taxes. It isn't enough that people
who don't even EARN as much as Mrs. Hillbilly Mom
PAYS in taxes get HUGE refunds to buy their plasma TVs
and meth ingredients. They also get to e-file FOR FREE.
But Mrs. Hillbilly Mom earns too much for that. Ha ha!
The last laugh is on you, evil IRS minions! Mrs. Hillbilly
Mom refuses to pay to file her taxes! She will do it the
old-fashioned way, with a number two pencil, on your
papery packet of slaughtered trees. She don't need no
rapid refund. Snail mail is just fine for old Hillbilly Mom.

Mrs. Hillbilly Mom would also like to thank her real-life,
real-person teaching buddy, Mabel, who informed her
this morning that the Educator Expense Deduction of
$250 is STILL IN EFFECT this year. Sorry, Mabel,
that Mrs. Hillbilly Mom called for reinforcements to
verify your claim. You see, not being quite so independ-
ently wealthy as Mabel, Mrs. Hillbilly Mom does not
use TurboTax, and TRUSTED the evil 1040 instructions.
Thank the Gummi Mary, Mrs. Hillbilly Mom has friends
in tax places.

You can't be too careful when you're dealing with
Uncle Sam.

This Much Is Certain

Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is OH SO BUSY tonight, my friends.
She is up to her armpits in Form 1040, trying to see what
went so horribly wrong. She MUST have her Child Tax
Credit, or pay the evil IRS. All because her income was
$350 too much. Mrs. Hillbilly Mom blames HH. She is
off to seek Publication 972 on the internets, and try to
salvage her hard-earned moolah. Or HH's half-a$$ed-
earned-moolah. The moolah which supplies her gambling
habit. Wish her luck. Perhaps she will entertain you in
the manner to which you have become accustomed
tomorrow.

Perhaps not.

It depends on your level of satisfaction with your visits
to the Mansion. Some say they have never, ever, been
entertained here. Rotten freeloaders!

Drop in tomorrow to see what's cookin'.

Fantasies, Schmantasies

Some freakish people have been landing at my lovely
Mansion, after searching for some freakish things. The
time has come to put away the freakish things, people!
No good can come of this.

It's almost enough to hurt my tender feelings. My Mansion
is not filled with black mold, staph infections and lice. So
what if HH spotted a rat as big as a shampoo bottle? It
was over by the barn, I tell you!

I do not have wench boob, or moldy pototatoes, or the
recipe for fentanyl. I do not host unsightly pr0n with
pregnant women. I am not a creepy hillbilly who wears
saggy britches and sissy stirrup pants, and lives in
booger county, missouri.

I do not spend my days human toilet training a lesbian
gymnast, telling people with rotten buttholes, "its called
speed stick its not expensive." Nor is there any truth to
the rumor that i accidentally took an extra lisinopril, had
to go to the hillbilly hospital where the doctor left a junior
mint inside after surgery, and found it necessary to hide
arm scars for blood test.

I most certainly have never said to my best buddy, "get
off the table mable, those two dollars are for beer lyrics."
Never.

And I assure you that hm fantasies DO NOT include
being diapered and spanked at church, being chased by a
red suv, a fat man in a little coat, or anthing connected
with butt biting, and especially nothing about butt boogers.

Honest.

That Dirty Rat

Wednesday morning, as I was combing down #2 son's
hair before sending him off to school, he announced, "Dad
went out to the camper to get more cardboard to burn, and
when he picked up a box, he saw a rat as tall as a shampoo
bottle."

Okaayyy. That's how I like to start my day. With a bit of
mystery, a bit of danger. Why was this not mentioned to
me before? Is this an everyday occurrance around the
Mansion? Methinks not. Mehopes not.

It all started because the floor was sticky, with a granular
substance. According to #2, "Well, Dad held the cereal
bag upside down, so it must be cereal sugar. He was
getting out the cardboard." Then he dropped the R bomb.

We burn our cardboard. Hey! We live in the country. It's
no worse for the environment than the big garbage truck
exhaust that would haul it off from our dumpster. I was
sickened that HH had been storing cardboard in the 5th-
wheel camper in the front yard until he decided he had
enough for a burn pile. We don't keep any food in that
camper. I didn't want a rat bigger than the cats getting
into the house. Or even a rat smaller than a cat. We had
a field mouse get in about 5 years ago, and that was bad
enough. HH got a bunch of those sonic sound thingies
and plugged them into the wall. We haven't seen any
such critters since.

When I next saw HH, I quizzed him on the rat matter.
"It wasn't the 5th-wheel," HH said sarcastically. "It was
the cut-off pickup bed with the camper shell that my
oldest #1 son had borrowed and finally brought back."
OK. So maybe it wasn't even OUR rat, maybe it hitched
a ride here. But at least it was in that piece of junk over
by the barn, not in my front yard. And HH doesn't put
cardboard in the 5th-wheel to wait for proper burn
conditions.

Whew. Dodging bullets makes me tired.

No-Conference Day

It's been a long day. No parents showed up to conference
with me. I cleaned out a cabinet in preparation for my new
duties next year. OK, it was only one shelf of a cabinet.
But I still have four-and-a-half months. I think I can do it.

I almost gave away two Math books with reproducibles
to the LD teacher who is going to have to teach more
Math to her students, what with the new requirements.
Then I remembered, 'Oh, I am still teaching a Math class.
Bad idea.' So I copied them instead. Did she revere them,
treat them with the dignity they deserved, and puncture
their carcasses with a three-hole punch and place them
lovingly in a three-ring binder? Let me answer for you:
NO! She took them each to a common folder from the
Devil's Playground, the ten-for-a-dollar back-to-school-
special folders that she stocks up on each fall, shoved
them unceremoniously into a too-tight pocket, and
stashed them in her cabinet. Oh, the humanity!

I will leave you with a sorry sight I witnessed yesterday.
I shudder at the thought of it. But I would like to share
the horror. It was ninth-graders. Two boys who are
cousins. They do things like fart on each other, and
plan to ride bicycles 30 miles to visit one's girlfriend.
They hunt. They ride 4-wheelers. Just everday, normal
kids. They sit next to each other in class. One leaned
over to annoy the other, placing his head on his cousin's
shoulder. And the cousin leaned down and LICKED
HIS NOSE. The lickee hollered, started wiping the
side of his nose like a dog that's been stung by a bee,
and ran to the cabinet. "Mrs. Hillbilly Mom! Can I get
a baby-wipe out of here?" He scrubbed and scrubbed
at his nose. "Eewww! I can't believe you DID that to
me! That is gross!" And the licker replied. "It doesn't
bother me. I'm comfortable with my sexuality."

Heh, heh. I'm still having nightmares.

Read All About It

I just had the most scathingly brilliant idea! Right after I
read the Diva's post yesterday. So I guess she is the one
with the scathingly brilliant idea. I am just the plagiarizer.
A little bit. Go check her out. There are many new things
afoot in her corner of Oklahoma. She tells it better, so I'll
let you read for yourselves. She's even got a writing
contest goin' on. That woman is too ambitious, methinks.
Thanks, Diva, for my inspiration. Feel free to steal the
favor any time. Assuming I can come up with my own idea
in your lifetime. Let's get right to it.

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

Local Woman Held For Questioning

Mrs. Hillbilly Mom, a teacher at NoName School District,
was detained today by local authorities. After 90 minutes
of interrogation, it was determined that she really does
know what she's talking about. This was confirmed by
the other 5 detainees, between bites of candy and bouts
of horn tooting. The Committee to Evaluate the School
released Mrs. Hillbilly Mom and her cronies after they
provided insider knowledge concerning the day-to-day
activities of the educational institution.

Hardworking Dad Denounced By Offspring

The breadwinner of a Blogger Protection Program
family was disowned by his children today. They were
outraged when he brought home sweet & sour chicken
without the sweet & sour. When questioned, Mr. H.
Husband stated: "I guess I won't have any sweet &
sour sauce with my chicken." The patriarch blamed
the culinary omission on the English-as-a-nonexistent-
language workers at a restaurant near his mansion.
The last words he was heard to utter were: "I spent
the last of my cash budget money on that food."

Freak Accident Narrowly Avoided

Witnesses were shocked to see a black Ford truck exit
the Rhodes 101 at the corner of Main St. and Not-Main
St. this afternoon. With no regard for eastbound traffic,
the club cab pickup pulled in front of a white compact car,
across the left turn lane, and halfway into the westbound
lane before stopping. Apparently sensing the error of its
ways, the truck then backed up across the left turn lane,
eastbound lane, and back into the Rhodes 101 lot. Then
pulled right back out, but not as far, and backed up
again. A local, Mrs. Hillbilly Mom, was heard to exclaim
from her Large SUV, "What's that crazy idiot doing?"
Upon closer inspection as to the identity of the crazy
idiot, witnesses discovered that the truck was empty.
Mrs. Hillbilly Mom could not be reached for comment,
as it was nearly the end of half-price Happy Hour at
the nearby Sonic.

Educator Throws in the Pie

Longtime physics teacher Mabel O'Mabel did not hand
out Little Debbie Oatmeal Pies today in recognition of
Pi Day. Having relinquished her physics post to further
mathecate mathematically challenged students, Mabel
bequeathed the crown of Pi Maiden to her successor.
Who was out of town on business. Many a student was
heard to bemoan the sad fate of Pi Day, as their stomachs
rumbled in commiseration.

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

Yes, it was an eventful day. There will be future editions
of the Hillbilly Mom Times as news warrants.

Thanks again to Redneck Diva for the idea. She ROCKS!

Mmm...What's Cooking In The Microwave?

Perhaps I've mentioned that my boy is entering the
science fair at the local community college. It is next
Thursday, a school day, so I can't go. HH is taking
the day off to check it out.

The 10th graders have been learning about the scientific
method in biology class. I used to teach science, and run
the school-wide science fair in one of my other districts.
OK, not the whole school, but K-8, which entailed
approximately 810 students. I attended a workshop in
the city, and pretty much understand what goes on at a
science fair, and how the scientific method works. I
know that ethics is a big deal these days, and that there
are strict guidelines for experimenting with animals. For
example, you can't hypothesize that Cheetos do not give
a rabbit all the nutrients he needs to carry out his daily life
processes, because you will harm the rabbit if you feed
him a diet of only Cheetos.

Nobody is doing this, so don't get your granny panties in a
wad. It's all hypothetical. It's some of that touchy-feely
I'm OK You're OK BS that we have come to call today's
public education.

Imagine my surprise this morning when a student asked me
for help on a worksheet. It was not a teacher-generated
worksheet. It came from some workbook or website. It
had about 15-20 questions concerning the scientific method.
The questions were good. They made the kids think. They
assessed the knowledge they were supposed to be assessing.
They were geared to grab the students' interest.
But at what price?

Here's the problem, to the best of my old-lady, so-old-my-
social-security-number-is-one, so-old-that-if-I-act-my-age-
I'll-die memory. "Bart Simpson has heard that if you put a
hamster in a microwave, he gains strength. Bart has
decided to test this theory. He put 10 hamsters in the
microwave for 10 seconds, and then measured how far
each could move a wall. Bart also tested 10 hamsters
he did not put in a microwave. 8 out of 10 of the
microwaved hamsters showed greater than average
strength. 7 out of 10 of the nonmicrowaved hamsters
showed greater than average strength. What is Bart's
conclusion? What is the independent variable? What is
the dependent variable? What is the control? How
could Bart adjust his experiment to make it better?"

Now, on that last question, I believe the answer they
were fishing for was: Use a larger sample than 10
hamsters. But the student did not grasp this fact.
She said, "Put the hamsters in the microwave for
a whole minute?" When I suggested that the idea
was to increase the number of hamsters, perhaps
to test 50, or 100, she replied: "That's stupid. You
can't fit 100 hamsters in a microwave!"

Maybe I'm being a bit judgmental. She DID know
that the dependent variable was the strength of
the hamsters. That's not always easy for them to
figure out. But I don't think they should be joking
about putting hamsters in a microwave. Because
sure as I would try something like that, a kid would
go home and do it, and say: "Well, Mrs. Hillbilly
Mom gave us a worksheet about it, so I figured
it was a real experiment."

Let's be more realistic. Life isn't all fun and games.
What's wrong with giving them actual experiments
to analyze?

Am I allowed to give my math kids a problem such
as: Mrs. Hillbilly Mom was stabbed, and found
lying on her classroom floor near the whiteboard.
If the height of the blood spatter on the whiteboard
was 3 feet, and the distance from the top drop of the
blood to Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's body was 5 feet, how
far was Mrs. Hillbilly Mom lying from the wall holding
the whiteboard? Hint: Use the Pythagorean Theorem.

I think I might receive a few phone calls about that.
But let's give these kids something they can relate to.
We can't spend all day learning not to end sentences
with prepositions, reading about Mendel and his peas,
and memorizing the amendments to the U.S. Constitution.

Or can we?

A Time, By Any Other Name, Is Still Just As Late

My little meeting after school went about two-and-a-half hours.
That is just a bit too long for me. My poor abandoned children
sat in my classroom, not doing their homework. OK, they were
not actually abandoned, because my mom came in to keep them
company. Or staunch the flow of blood. Hey. That has only been
a problem ONE time. So hang up on that 1-800-BAD-MOM
call, y'hear?

I am kind of exhausted, having slept only four hours last night. I
awoke at 2:30 a.m. with an excruciating headache in the area
above my left eye. Which had not even hurt when I was awake,
but no doubt was demanding equal time after yesterday's post
crediting the right side of my forehead. There. Happy now?
Cause I don't want a repeat tonight. That was brutal. I thought
I was dying. HH slept on, whistling out of his blowhole. I got
up twice to drink some water. Which is of course what you do
when you are dying of excruciating noggin pain. Unless you are
DeadpanAnn, in which case you take a snort of Benadryl. Her
mom swears by it, you know.

I am not in a very festive mood tonight. The rest of the week
does not look any better. So I'm going to whine just a bit more
and retire for the evening. The resetting of the clocks resulted
in my cushion of time to get to Basementia being cut by four
minutes. And of course, I encountered the local police while
I was dashing over there at 15 miles over the speed limit.
Lucky for me, he was heading the other way. I jammed on
the brakes so that he could see in his rearview mirror that
I was repentant, and went on my merry way, unmolested.

I now plan to put my feet up, and perhaps fall asleep in the
recliner. Unmolested, I hope.

A Little Nap Would Be Good

Ho hum. Aren't you all tired from losing that extra hour of sleep?
You domestic readers, anyway. I will not enjoy walking into my
classroom tomorrow morning, and seeing that it is 6:42 a.m.

This is a busy week. Tomorrow is the longer-lasting faculty meeting
in Basementia, so long we are having food. Tuesday is #1 son's
Beta Club induction ceremony at 6:00 p.m., so we will stay in
town to avoid rushing back. Wednesday, I will be interviewed
by a visiting team of somebodies concerning not-Basementia.
Looking forward to that, aren't we, Mabel? Thursday is an early
out for the kids, but Parent Conferences for us until 7:00 p.m.
Now I'm really tired.

I have a pain in my forehead above my right eye. It's about an
inch above where the pain was yesterday, which I thought had
something to do with my sinuses. Unless they are migrating to
meet my lovely lady-mullet, I don't know what besides the
sinuses is causing this pain when I touch my head. It feels like
I smacked it on the door frame of the Large SUV. But I'm sure
I would remember something like that.

My neverending laundry is still not done. Add the federal and
state tax returns to that list. And this uninteresting blog post.
But my 3rd Quarter grades are done and computed, despite
that demon gradebook program that booted me out 7 times
on my quest to complete that mission on Friday morning and
afternoon.

The cash budget experiment is going well. In my opinion, but
not HH's. Seems he had to spend $25 on dogfood this week.
Quit overfeeding the beasts, I say. He feeds them twice a day,
in a big pan for each of them. There is always food left in them,
even after we come home. Which means even the neighbor
dogs have eaten their fill. I will trade him the dogfood for the
kidfood in my budget. Let's see how he likes that.

Yawwnnnn. I am absolutely putting myself to sleep. You know
what that means...time to go operate some heavy machinery
like the washer & dryer and the stove.

See you tomorrow, unless there is a horrible industrial accident.

Fighting Mrs. Freshley

I decree that Mrs. Freshley should be sentenced to a day of basic
math with Mrs. Hillbilly Mom. I can do that. It's MY blog.

Have you met Mrs. Freshley? She bakes little chocolate donuts
for Save-A-Lot. Methinks she also bakes brownies for The Devil's
Playground. She's an off-brand of sugary, chocolatey goodness.

I have issues with her math aptitude. You see, on the label of her
little chocolate donuts, she proclaims that a serving is 4 donuts,
and the amount of servings per package is about 6. C'mon, Mrs.
Freshley! Do you really think people won't count how many
donuts you put in each bag?

OK, maybe normal people don't. But I have to stay on top of
things around my Mansion, what with my probable, undiagnosed
case of OCD. My little son, the crybaby, eats little chocolate
donuts for breakfast each morning. That's when he's not on a
Little Debbie Cosmic Brownie binge. Only the best for my
young 'uns.

The little chocolate donuts have a habit of disappearing from the
pantry. So some mornings, much like Old Mother Hubbard's
dog, my little crybaby has none. Which does not go over too
well first thing in the morning, when we are on a tight timetable
to rush out the door for school.

I admit that I, too, have a bit of a little chocolate donut addiction.
Don't even try an intervention. I'm onto your tricks. But what I
was getting at was that I accused my #1 son of sneaking 11 of
the little chocolate donuts from a brand-new package. He denied
eating any. He blamed HH. HH denied eating any. I knew I didn't
eat them. Where's Judge Judy when you need her? Out in the rain
somewhere, I suppose, accusing passersby of peeing on her leg.

After some tough interrogation techniques, I determined that the
#1 son was the culprit. Sensing that the jig was up, the boy at last
admitted to eating 3 donuts. After further questioning, he copped
to consuming 5 donuts, then 7, then drew the line at 8. That's 8
little chocolate donuts. Which I suppose, once you've admitted
to sneaking 8 little chocolate donuts out of the pantry behind
your sleeping father's head, you might as well spill your guts on
all 11. But he insisted he 'only' ate 8.

Which led to the big Mrs. Freshley's inquisition. I began to count
each new bag. You see, to me, 'about' 6 servings at 4 donuts per
serving amounts to 'about' 24 donuts per package. Do you follow?
Because 6 x 4 = 24, you see. But I found that the last 3 bags of
brand-new donuts I opened contained 18, 18, and 20.

So to me, Mrs. Freshley, it seems as if each bag of your little
chocolate donuts actually contains 'about' 5 servings, not 6.
Because in math, Mrs. Freshley, when you estimate a number,
you round it to the nearest number. If your bags contained 22,
or 24, or, unbelievably, 26 donuts, Mrs. Freshley, I could
accept your claim. But they don't. So stop trying to pee on my
leg, Mrs. Freshley. Stop treating the Save-A-Lot shoppers like
they are Cavemen who can't count little chocolate donuts.

Don't make us start a national ad campaign against you.

Any of you who buy Mrs. Freshley's little chocolate donuts...
perhaps you'd better do a little investigating. We can call in
Geraldo. He hasn't had a story this big since Al Capone's
Vault.

We must not let Mrs. Freshley perpetuate this fraud any longer.

Somewhat Like An Onion, HM Elicits Tears

My boy got off the bus crying today. The first thing I noticed was
the red ears. Though they have dark hair, my boys are lily-white.
The daycare lady used to say they glowed in the dark. What do
you think, Diva? We lived by a large chat pile when the oldest
was born. Perhaps they are radioactive. When they run a fever, or
cry, or get embarrassed, their ears light up like Rudolph's nose.

Anyhoo...this is the little boy, the just-turned-9-year-old. He is still
babied, so at times he acts like one. He was trying NOT to cry,
as he climbed off the bus and entered the halls of Basementia. He
held in the tears until he got to me. He's either a sensitive little soul,
or a good actor. At first I didn't see him. I was in my aunt's office,
and he went down to my room. I thought perhaps he was afraid I
had left him there. Even though I have not even joked about this.
I called him over, and he buried his face in my side. He's not a talker,
this one. So we had to play A Hundred-and-Twenty Questions.

Were you afraid I left you? He shook his head. Nonverbal, this
lad. Always has been. At daycare, unless he was bleeding, she
could never figure out the injury. Did someone hit you? No. Did
someone hurt your feelings? No. Did someone say something to
you? No. Did someone take your stuff? No. Push you? No. Did
you get in trouble on the bus? No. Did you get in trouble at school?
No. Did your teacher say something? No. Did you pee or poop
your pants? No.Will you whisper in my ear and tell me? No.

Tears were rollling down his face now. He turned to the wall, so
as not to be seen, even though I had my arm around him and my
giant old-lady head right next to his. Do you want to go in the
teacher's bathroom and tell me? No. So I told him, "If you can't
whisper it to me now, you'll have to tell me in the car, and your
brother will hear, too." That boy sang like a canary.

He held out his left hand. The pinky finger was a bit swollen, and
a bit purple. Nothing like my mom's FAT RED PINKY FINGER,
though. "Classmate Girl shoved her desk and my finger was in the
middle of her desk and mine." He sobbed. I told him we would fix
him up. In that little-kid, trying-to-get-a-breath, unable-to-stop-crying
way, he huffed, "The person I told to get my stuff while I was in the
bathroom running cold water on it didn't get it." Sob, sob, sob, sob.
"We have to go back to the elementary because I don't have my
lunch bag!"

Okaayyyy. I'm not such an ogre that forgetting a lunch bag should
make the child hysterical. As a matter of fact, we had to go back
to my other building, too, because I had forgotten a book that I
need to inspect over the weekend. It must have been the day of
forgetting things. The minute I logged on to the school website in
Lower Basementia to take roll, a message appeared asking me
to please bring a fellow traveler's plan book with me. Too bad it
was sent 5 minutes after I left that building. I replied, and so did
she, saying that she'd go back and get it during her plan time. Did
I remember that I needed my book, and ask her to get it? Yeah.
When I saw her return, and walk by my window with her plan
book, I remembered. I didn't bother asking.

Oh, and her child was crying in the hall one day, too, after getting
off the bus. He wanted to eat some sweet-and-sour chicken that
was in his lunch the day before. That he had forgotten in her room,
and had sat out overnight, unrefrigerated. She told him it wasn't
any good any more. He heard. "I want to be mean and make you
cry and go hungry. You can't have it."

And you people send your kids off to us every day. So we can
make them cry, too. It's for their own good.

Challenge Time

I am in a hurry tonight. So I will give you a little challenge.
We'll get to that in a minute. First, to add a bit of padding to
the ol' Mansion, I'll give a shout-out to our best substitute.

He will teach the lessons you leave. He will grade papers, even
if you don't ask, as long as you leave an answer key. He expects
the kids to behave, and be respectful. He gets along with all the
teachers. He doesn't steal your pens, or rearrange your furniture,
or take the kids outside for a walk, or leave the class unattended
to go have a smoke on the parking lot or read magazines in the
library. He knows where the teachers park, and never takes a
space away, even if he gets there first. You know who I'm talkin'
about, Mabel. I bet he wouldn't even walk on your stepping stones.
Oh...if the maintenance woman hadn't taken them, and they were
still outside your window. HooRah, Mr. Substitute Man. You rock.

And now, I present the knowledge you've been thirsting for...in fact,
yearning for. Or at least, the challenge I promised. It is from 6th
grade math. Just when you were thinking you are as smart as a
5th grader, I have to challenge you. Good luck.

What fraction is equivalent to 3/4, with the sum of the numerator
and denominator being 84?

Let's see how smart you really are, by cracky!

Book Learnin'

It's time to crack the book again.

Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's Encyclopedia of Common Knowledge.

Location of the Weenus. A 'weenus' is a bone in this part of your
elbow. Isn't it Mrs. Hillbilly Mom? Because a lot of people have
told me that, but That Little Girl Over There doesn't believe me.
She'll believe you, because you're the teacher. So tell her, Mrs.
Hillbilly Mom, what a weenus is.

Free Money For Indians. All you have to do is go to an Indian
Reservation and tell them that you have Indian blood in you. They
will give you a check for $6000, and you will get one every month.
For doing nothing!

Standards of Modern Hillbilly Society. It is OK to think your
stepdad is hot, isn't it, Mrs. Hillbilly Mom? Oh! I'm so embarrased!
That's just eewww! What I meant to say was, It's OK to think
your stepbrother is hot, isn't it? We're only related by marriage,
not blood related. So there shouldn't be anything wrong with it.

Possession is 100% of the Law. Last night, this guy tried to steal
our electric poles. Yeah. The poles that hold electric lines. My
dad saw him out there and ran out and said, "What are you doing?"
and the guy tried to say that the electric company sent him to pick
them up. My dad took his keys and threw them and then punched
the guy's truck and left a big ol' dent in the side. That guy took off.
He can't take our poles. My dad's going to build a garage out of
them. He brought them home. The electric company said he could
have them.

I've Got The Fever. Last night, I was really sick. I had a fever of
one hundred and twelve. That's why I wasn't at school for three
days. What do you mean I would be dead? It was one hundred
and twelve. That's what it said on the thermometer: 101.2.

Where There's Burnt Smoke, There's Fire. Did you hear about
the fire in tech class yesterday? I walked in and smelled burnt
smoke. I thought it was from somebody in class before us, so I
went and started sanding this thing. I kept smelling burnt smoke,
so I quit. Then there was this fire, so I ran away, because I didn't
want to get blamed for it, since I was the last one using the
sander. I didn't set it. But somebody did!

Young Drivers Are Better Than Old Drivers. If two people are
going somewhere, the old person should let the young person
drive, because he's a better driver. Old people cause 30 % of
the accidents, because of slow driving, and running over little
things like cones in the road. Old people should get tested again
to keep their driver's license, starting each year at age 35.
If you see an old person driving, you should get off the road.
Especially if you value your life. People should be able to get
a driver's license before the age of 16. In Africa, 4-year-old
children drive, and they don't have any problems.

The Celebrated Jumping Tick of Calveras County. Ticks can jump.
That's how they get on you. Why do you say they don't? How do
you think you get them? They're not going to sit on a weed and
wait till you walk by! Who told you that? They could be there for
days and nobody would walk by. They sense heat, and come to
you and jump on you. How do you think they get up on your legs?
They jump. To get them out, you hold a match or lighter to them.
They don't like heat. It won't burn you...just the tick.

Always a Borrower and a Lender Be. Can I use your stapler?
I want to staple my pants together so they don't rip any more.
Do you have scissors? Can I use them? I want to take a Kleenex
and cut it up in little squares, smaller and smaller. Clean up? Can't
the janitor do that? Do you have a nickel? No, I don't want it for
free. I will give you five pennies for it. Can I buy a mechanical
pencil? Oh...you want the money for it? I thought I'd get a soda
today. I'll bring you the money on Monday. But I need the pencil
today. C'mon. You know I always pay you back. Hey! You
wouldn't loan ME a pencil! I know. But I only took ONE. That's
nothing, one pencil. Why won't you give me another one? Can I
use your tape? I need to put something up in my locker. Do you
have a safety pin? I don't want to get in trouble if my pants rip.
Yeah! I got in trouble just because my boxers were hanging out
the rip. Like I could help it that the rip kept getting bigger. Do you
have a band-aid? Cool. SpongeBob. Don't you have any air
freshener? It smells like old feet in here. Can I have a bottle of
water? I'm really thirsty. I don't like the water from the drinking
fountain. Do you have any gum? Do you have any cough drops?
You're almost out of Kleenexes. Can I borrow your eraser? Is
it the one that smells like watermelon? I don't know why you
have to find that hall pass. It's just a roll of tape. Like you can't
get another one. Do you have a Sharpie? A permanent marker
is too big. You need to get a Sharpie. Can I use your white-out?
I want to cover up this pink pen where that girl wrote on my
Nikes. Can I get some paper? Do you have any more of those
folders? The last one you gave me wore out.

Ahh...yes. Drink, my friends. Drink deeply from the fountain of
knowledge that you have been thirsting for.

If a sentence ends with a preposition, but nobody knows it's a
preposition, does it still make Hillbilly Mom look uneducated?

A-Mathing We Will Go

I lost my marbles today. Well, not so much marbles as my ability
to do math. Which would have been OK, I suppose, if doing math
was just a hobby, like collecting marbles, and sometimes taking
them to your grandpa's basement and putting a coffee can of water
on the gas burner of that stove he kept down there to boil his work
clothes on, not to eat, silly, but to get them clean, because to the
best of my recollection, he worked in the lead mines, but so did my
other grandpa, although he didn't boil his clothes, but washed them
in an old ringer washer, not him, but my grandma, who was also
good at swinging a chicken and popping its head off, not in the
basement, but just outside, though she didn't have a stove in her
basement to cook marbles, which is what I did, boiled those
suckers for a few minutes, then poured cold water on them,
which caused them to make snap/crackle/pop noises, and whee
doggies, wasn't I lucky that I didn't burn the place down, or have
an eye put out by flying crackling marble glass while I performed
my totally unsupervised marble-cooking act at the tender age of
ten or so, which would surely lead to a DFS intervention these
days, but by cracky, back in the day, a child might as well be
cooking meth for all those agency people cared about them,
what with letting them ride untethered in the back windshield
ledges of automobiles, swing their legs willy-nilly off the tailgates
of pickup trucks traveling down the highway at 75 mph, passing
motorcycle-riders without helmets, on their way to buy cigarette
brands they'd seen advertised on TV.

But doing math is not exactly a hobby for Mrs. Hillbilly Mom,
who is not a real teacher of math, but plays one at school for
three hours each day. So this morning when she first sensed that
she had broken her math bone, it was with a bit of scorn that she
told the students, "Well, I've been showing you this for two years
now...don't you think you would have learned some of it by now?
What do YOU think we should do next." To which a little devil rose
to the challenge, walked to the white board, and said, "Put that there,
and that there, and it will work." And he was right, by cracky! For
Mrs. Hillbilly Mom had forgotten how to do a problem with unit
multipliers, precisely:

Convert 20 meters to feet, using 3 unit multipliers.

Oh, she could get the correct answer, all right. By using 2
unit multipliers, or 4 unit multipliers.It was just the doing it
in the proper manner that was her Achilles' heel. Or perhaps
that was her Achilles' big toe, because it was actually the
second of her math moments this morning in which she could
not perform. The first was in finding the volume and the total
surface area of a solid that had a base shaped like a house.
Mrs. Hillbilly Mom tried to divide that sucker and make two
right triangles out of the roof area, when she should have only
made one regular triangle and used the old standby 'Area =
1/2 Base x Height'. But no. She tried to make it too hard,
and was thankful when Mabel arrived to save the day. As
were the DoNots.

And then, in Lower Basementia, Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's math
impotence reared its ugly head yet again, when she was asked
to use the Pythagorean Theorem to find the missing measure
of a hypoteneuse. Which Mrs. Hillbilly Mom could have done,
in two steps for this evil book-torture problem, except that
Mrs. HM pronounced "One squared plus one squared equals
one, and the square root of one is...well...one." Au contrair!
Seems there has been a new development in the math world,
and Mrs. HM did not receive the memo. One plus one is now
TWO! Who knew? The regular Mathie, that's who, who
bailed out Mrs. HM in place of Mabel.

Which perhaps explains that $600 checkbook faux pas.