Benjamins For Jack

Did I mention that I put HH on a cash diet? I am weaning him
away from the debit card because he was not responsible.
Hiding receipts for two weeks, then writing a stack of them
in the checkbook was starting to PISS ME OFF. So I gave
him cash. I asked how much he needed per week, and then
gave him that plus $20.

I did the same for myself, which has worked out so far, but
it's only Thursday night, and I still have Friday to go, with the
royal sum of $3 left. Hey! That's enough for a Sonic Cherry
Diet Coke! And the allowance starts again on Friday evening,
heh heh. I would have done better, but I had to pay for my
driver's license renewal this week, which set me back $20.
And I had to fork over $12 to HH because he whined about
picking up $12 of Chinese food last night.

That goshdarn HH! Isn't a man supposed to support his family?
Why am I footing the bill for supper? Can he not pay a portion
of it? Oh, and HH does not have to drag two sucking bottomless
pits of buymebuymebuyme young 'uns with him everywhere he
goes. So I don't think I did too bad on my budget.

I am thinking of installing a LoJack on my youngest son. That
boy is never where he's supposed to be. Monday, there was
the heartstopping 'didn't get off the bus here' faux pas. An hour
later, my aunt called me in my STAY-AFTER-THE-FACULTY-
MEETING CONFERENCE WITH MY PRINCIPAL to ask
if I wanted her to drive him from Basementia to my building. I
told her yes. I found him 20 minutes later. I asked if Auntie had
dropped him off at the front door. "Uh huh." I usually park in
the back. He said he thought I had already left, but he went
and sat in my room to see if I was going to come get him. But
yesterday, a teacher in Lower Basementia, on the other side of
the library from me, said, "I could just keep your little #2 son.
That boy is so sweet! When I drove him over there Monday,
he was as cute as could be." WHAT? He didn't tell me she
drove him. I thought my aunt drove him. I guess that boy would
go with anybody. Not that I have any objection to this teacher
bringing him. She is on my 100% trust list. But that boy should
have told me.

Today was the little dude's Book Club after school. I asked him
about it all week. The school reminded the kids yesterday. This
morning we talked about it all the way to school. But at 3:13,
there he was in Lower Basementia, saying, "I forgot about my
Book Club." I had to drive him back over there so he could at
least attend half the meeting.

I want a fancy LoJack. One with a remote control that can
administer a small shock when the boy is not in the expected
location. He's gotta learn somehow.

Anybody got some spare change to donate to the LoJack Fund?

Big Britches

What is the matter with kids these days? I swear, they are getting
too big for their britches. Even those baggy, saggy britches that
they want to wear to act...umm...minorityish, while trying to get
away with mumbling racial slurs to their buddies. Some of these
kids just ain't right in the head. Now don't take this to mean I
don't like them. I do like them. But they have no concept of how
things are in the REAL world. A world where you are not treated
like a valued endangered species.

I have way too many examples to try my case in the court of
Blogger. So I will just limit it to what I heard today.

A kid came in with a big ol' lip-piercing thingy in his bottom lip.
A little birdie told me (actually, it was a little 8th grader) that
this very kid had pierced his lip with a safety pin on her bus
yesterday morning. They thought he was freaky. So today,
he shows up with this piece of hardware, acting all cock-of-
the-walk, whatever that means, but it suits my purpose because
ONE of those words certainly describes his behavior. I asked
him if he was trying to look like that kidnapped-returned boy
who has been in the news lately, whose name I do not want to
use to draw people to this blog because he has had enough
trouble in his young life, and people should just lay off and leave
him alone. The lip kid said, "Noo!" like I was out of line for
making that comparison when HELLO none of these kids wore
that kind of thing or even thought of it until this kid was on the
news.

Another kid chimed in that "I HATE that kid. If I ever see him,
I will beat him to a pulp. I think he ran away, and he LIKED
what that guy did to him, and that's why he stayed and never
told anyone or tried to run away, even though that guy was
at work all the time." So I asked him how he knew so much
about the case, and he said, "Well, I know what I would have
done." I told him none of us know what we would have done
unless it happened to us. He said, "I would have run away."
So I asked how he would know at 11 years old how to get
back home, and what if the police didn't believe his story
and took him back, and his kidnapper was really mad and
decided to kill him instead of taking a chance on getting
caught. And this kid said, "I would have let him kill me. At
least I would have died in peace knowing he never touched
me." I also asked him if he didn't think that kid could have
found a better way to run away than to ride his bike down
a country road and wait for a stranger to kidnap him. Did
he mean that letting a stranger throw him and his bike into
a truck was running away? So he said, "Well, if somebody
came along and offered me a ride, I'd go. If it was just for
the ride, because it might be fun. But if they said they were
kidnapping me, I don't think I'd go." Keep in mind this is from
a kid who was sent to alternative school before we had been
in school a month for telling the principal he could take his
m-f-ing school and shove it up his m-f-ing a$$$ because he
felt he should be able to get up and do what he wanted in the
afterschool program for Fers. According to his friends, anyway.
He went on to tell me that rules are stupid, like wearing a helmet
to ride a motorcycle, or having to be a certain age to drive
or drink. I wonder if he likes the laws that keep adults from
beating the crap out of him.

Another example: I came into my classroom when the bell
rang and found a 9th grader SITTING IN MY CHAIR. If
you have read my little blog very long, you know that is a
federal offense in the land of Hillmomba. I told him to get up
out of my chair and NEVER, EVER, sit in it again. And he
said, "I was only reading the announcements." Like it was
his right to sit there. I gave him the lecture about respecting
people's things, especially the things of one in authority such
as I believe myself to be. He nodded his head sullenly, and
mumbled something to his cousin under his breath, which
was OK by me, because it is an improvement on his tantrum-
throwing behavior earlier in the year when I told him to redo
his paper like the instructions told him to do it, so he crumpled
it and tossed it in the wastebasket and took a victory lap around
the room in a fit of peevishness, but returned to dig the paper
out of the trash and fix it when I told him it was good evidence
to attach to his discipline referral slip. As long as these little
testosterone-charged whippersnappers back down and don't
aim their mini-meltdowns at me, I have won. In a large class,
I would not tolerate it, but in my little group, we are a family
of the most disfunctional type.

Even another example: I explained how to find the range of
a set of numbers in my 9th grade Math class. It is not hard,
as Mabel would attest, IF she had a blog and could prove
that she is not imaginary. Don't forget that the students had
this in the 7th grade and the 8th grade as well. When I gave
out the assignment, they did not know how to do it. I asked
why they didn't ask questions when I gave the example. I
figured they understood it, and I was NOT going over it
again. "But I WAS listening! I just wasn't paying attention."
Too bad. You snooze, you lose. Then one of the non-paying
attentioners asked to go to the library to check out a book.
I don't think so.

"No."
"Why not?"
"Because this is a Math class. You give me a hard time every
day, not paying attention, then wanting to come to my desk
to try and get the answer worked out for you. I do not have
to let you go to the library, and I am not going to."
"Where is ThatGuyWhoSitsOverThere?"
"Oh, he's in the library. I let him go work in his report for his
Civics class. Because he listens to me and is polite."

Heh, heh. I wanted to add that I am not required to be fair,
but I figured that is the kind of statement that would get me
held after a faculty meeting, so I didn't.

Just so we're not beating up on the boys too much, and to be
FAIR, I'll give you an example from the female persuasion.
As they left class yesterday, an 8th grader said that she had
met someone at a party she went to with her grandpa. As
they filed out of the room, another one said, "Eww! Who goes
to a party with their GRANDPA!" Today, they got to talking
about it again.

"I didn't have a choice. I was staying with him, and he went.
It was just to the VFW."
"Did you dress up?"
"NO! It wasn't a date or anything! I just wore jeans and a T-shirt."
"What did he wear?"
"A tuxedo."
"Man! Weren't you out of place?"
"No. Everyone else there was dressed like me. So-and-So was
wearing a flannel shirt and jeans."
"Who's So-and-So?"
"Grandpa's girlfriend."
"Did you dance with anyone?"
"No! They were all old."

Which brings us to the final examples of the day. My kids wrote
a personal experience paragraph. On wrote about the time she
and her family were riding bicycles, and she rode too close to
the basketball goal and knocked herself unconscious for five
minutes. Another wrote about the time he and his dad drove
around after a snowstorm and pulled people out of ditches.
According to him, "It was as cold as a lice box."

I can't wait to see what tomorrow brings.

Hillbilly Mom Goes To Meetin'

Changes are afoot, as AlexandriaLeigh once told her readers.
Silly me. I was afraid something was wrong with her foot. Thank
the Gummi Mary her dainty hooves were just fine. I can not yet
tell you about my changes. NO! It's not the 'change of life'! I
know StewedHamm would pop off with something of that sort
if I didn't beat him to it. No, I will have to make you stew in your
own juices with suspense.

What I can tell you is that I am eagerly awaiting Friday to find
out if I am one of the 20 finalists in the Design Your Own Lottery
Ticket contest with molottery.com. I have some slim hope.
Perhaps a lot of artistic people did not want to go to all that
trouble of designing a ticket and sending it in. Perhaps the ones
who have no life (like me) are not artistic. You never know. As
with the lottery: you can't win if you don't play. The prize is
$200 worth of scratch-off tickets if you make the top 20. I'm
not holding my breath, though.

In other news, we had a faculty meeting today at the building
which is not Basementia. I had instructed my youngest boy to
"Get off the bus at the first building." Did he do it? Would
there be any point to this story if he had? #1 son and I rushed
from Basementia to the meeting. #2 was nowhere to be seen.
He is supposed to sit in my doorway. I rushed on to the meeting
(which they always start without me, go figure, they must not
have gotten the memo that IT'S ALL ABOUT ME). I tossed
#1 the keys to get the phone from the car and call Basementia
to see if #2 arrived there and was unattended. Turns out he
was, but that's tough, little dude, you shoulda listened to your
mama, so sit tight until the meeting is over and we can retrieve
you from Basementia.

Oh, but there's more. The meeting lasted about 30 minutes.
We learned that we're getting a new gradebook system next
year that can be accessed from home (WooHoo!), and that
we should be really, really, really, emphasizing MAP-style
assignments right now in the homestretch toward the March 27
test date, and that we should have filled out our online 'school
climate' surveys for both buildings if we're travelers, and that
there will be school on President's Day, and that club meeting
day and advisory day have changed from Wednesday to
Thursday this week, and that there will be no afterschool
program for Fers this week, and that Progress Report grades
should be updated by 10:00 a.m. Monday (no exceptions),
and that we may be attending school instead of having parent
conferences on March 16, and that there are people coming
to evaluate the school on March 13 14 15, so be on your
best behavior (not so much said as implied), and that there
will be a special meeting of Math and Science teachers on
Tuesday and Wednesday.

That's most of it, but like I said, they started without me, so
I might be missing the most important link, or perhaps they were
just planning a big surprise birthday party for me, but that seems
unlikely since nobody there really likes me except Mabel, and
she had bus duty and got there even later than me, and by the
way, THANKS AGAIN, Mabel, for making sure my boy got
off the bus like he was supposed to, don't you know you are his
keeper on faculty meeting days, because I'm sure I implied that
every other meeting day, but I must have been just too subtle, so
don't worry, I will still buy cookie dough from your fundraiser
even though I refused the magazines this year because they were
so messed up last year, what with taking TOO long to arrive
when all I did was renew them, but thank the Gummi Mary,
Mabel, that we looooves us some fundraiser cookie dough
up in this Mansion.

Just when I breathed a sigh of relieve that the meeting was over,
(much like y'all and that last sentence), and I could fetch my little
8-year-old from big ol' drafty, scary Basementia...the principal
called my name to keep me after the meeting. WHAT? I ran
down my mental checklist of things I shouldn't have done, things
I should have done but didn't, things I said and who might have
narced on me and who would appear more credible (me or them),
and things I have done but couldn't possibly be found out for. It
was a short list. Because generally I'm a good egg, and when I'm
not, I'm very, very, careful about leaving no trail. Right, Mabel?

Whew! It was just for a talking-to about some changes. Not
about anything I have done or not done or said or been caught
at. Including ending sentences with prepositions because I am
currently teaching English and prepositons are not good for
English teachers to end sentences with. I know DeadpanAnn
knows what I'm talkin' about. As for the things we discussed,
I am ambivalent. If you don't know what that means, it pays to
increase your word power, people.

More later as this story develops.

Masters Of Trivia

We are the champions, we are the champions...of the TRIVIA!

Yes, we finally won one. Mabel, let this be a lesson to you. Plus,
we had Chex Mix. It was still good. Nobody kicked the bucket
after consuming it. Our secret weapon pulled this one out. He
earned us 8 (count 'em: eight!) points in the Sports category.
Without this former student, we would have only gotten 2. Oh,
and I redeemed myself from costing us the tying and winning
points last time, because this time I knew that a black-and-white
horse is a piebald. Not a pinto. Not a palomino. Great Googley
Moogley! Have these people never read National Velvet? The
Pie was the star of that story, and that's what he was: a piebald.

Let me fill you in on some of the questions. Some of the ones
that our team missed. No fair googling for the answers. We did
not have that luxury. They will appear at the end, so if you want to
play along, stop reading until you have your answers. I will give
you one from each category. Out of the 100 questions, we won
with a score of 63. That's nothing to brag about, except that
WE WON!!!!

Television: Where did the Jetsons live?
Music: What was the name of Buddy Holly's backup singers?
Sports: How long is the Indianapolis Speedway?
Caricatures: Can't draw it. Could you tell the difference between
Bob Hope and Kelsey Grammer in a creepy drawing? So here's
a bonus History question: Which First Lady was known as the
'Steel Magnolia'?
History: What did Michael Jackson say in his vows to Lisa Marie
Presley instead of "I do" ?
Movies: How many James Bond movies were released during
the writer's lifetime?
Animals: What is the name for a fox's tail?
People: Who said, "Houston, we have a problem" ?
Sound Alikes: Use the sounds of these words to make a common
phrase--'near, though, float.' (may or may not be in proper order)
Miscellaneous: What word can be used to represent an island,
a sweater, and a potato?

We had some issues. The grader graded ours wrong one round.
She forgot to count the age of John Kennedy's assassin within
two years. The right answer was 24. We said 27. Mr. H went
up and told them to take off a point. We don't need to cheat
to win, heh heh. Our main opponents went crybabying up to
complain about their score. I know they got an extra point one
time. The other time didn't work. A 'mandrill' is a monkey. They
answered 'primate' and wanted it counted right. I beg to differ.
Are humans not also classified as primates? Anyhoo, they didn't
get the point. We didn't either. We said it was a bird.

And now, for the correct answers to your little Trivia quiz...
1. Orbit City (se said Sprocket City)
2. The Crickets (we said The Flextones)
3. 2.5 miles (we said 1.5 miles)
4. Rosalynn Carter (I knew, but was voted down in favor of
Eleanor Roosevelt, who was neither steel, nor a flowering tree)
5. "Why not?" (we said "I will")
6. 2 (we said 3)
7. A brush (we said whip)
8. John Glenn (we said Gus Grissom)
9. Ear, Nose, Throat (we said Row Your Boat)
10. Jersey (we disagree, as we've never heard of a jersey potato)

Did you score higher than 63%? Could you have beaten us?

It was an enjoyable evening, though I don't think the 2nd place
team appreciated our stomping and chanting "We Will Rock You",
OR our rendition of "We Are The Champions". Perhaps they are
just not big Queen fans. It is the midwest, after all. We have also
requested that the Band teacher (who sponsored this contest as
a fundraiser) have the winners announced over the intercom at
Basementia every hour all week. I told my Math teacher buddy
that I will frame our answer sheet and hang it on the wall between
our rooms, with a note that a CHAMPION Trivia teamer works
in my room. She said, "And I will RIP IT DOWN!"

I'd better make several.

Gambling: It's Not Just For Derelicts Anymore

Subtitled: The Even Steven Family Goes To The Casino.

The evening started with a trip to Pizza Hut on the way to the city.
That way we could miss rush hour traffic. And have some tasty
pizza. They had a special on a large pan pizza of any kind. $10.
After the waiter took the order, a waitress brought out some
breadsticks. HH and I looked at each other. The kids were
playing Galaga or some such video game. We did not order
any breadsticks. HH told the waiter, "These aren't ours." He
replied, "They are now. It's going to take a while for the pizza."
OK. Free breadsticks.

Upon arrival at Harrah's, we spent 25 minutes circling the
parking garage, stalking pedestrians. We finally got a spot
from a woman and a baby. What the baby was doing at the
casino, I don't know. We checked in. HH took off to gamble.
#2 son ordered the interactive games on the TV for $10 for
a two-hour session. That was at 7:45. At 8:00, he said it
wouldn't work. #1 son, maven of all things electronic, tested
the remote and pronounced it to be not working. It worked
for the channels, but not for the power, or the menu, which
you had to be in to get the games. I told him to call the front
desk. They put him on hold. I was talking to my mom about
her FAT RED PINKY FINGER on the cell phone. At 8:10,
I asked #1 what was going on. "Oh, I'm on hold. She said
she'd check on it and call me back." I told him to hang up
and call back. This time, the minute a guy answere the phone,
he said, "Can you hold, please?" and put #1 on hold again.
At 8:25, I told him to quit holding and call back. The guy
said, "Oh. I'm in the back now. I can check on it." #1 told
him that he'd already been on hold for 25 minutes, and that
his little brother had ordered 2 hours of games that he was
only able to play for 15 minutes. They guy asked him to
hold on. #1 said no, to call him back when it was fixed.
That boy is kinda handy sometimes. Anyhoo...the desk
guy called back at 8:30 and said he reset it. Yep. To play,
you had to order it again. I called HH and told him the issue,
and that he'd better complain tomorrow if they charged for
two 2-hour session, one starting at 7:45, and one starting
at 8:30. He's good at b*tching. Even better than me.

HH returned to the room, and I left for the night. Well, until
2:15 a.m. I was breaking even until around midnight. Then
things went downhill to the tune of $40. I told myself, "I'll
think about it tomorrow. Tomorrow is another day." I also
vowed that I would never go hungry again, but it didn't have
much dramatic impact, what with no technicolor sunset or
bunch of moldy carrots.

#2 son was coughing up a lung, so I gave him some Tylenol
and put him back to bed. HH snored to wake the dead. He
looked like Homer Simpson in the light of the partially-closed
bathroom door. I finally fell asleep from 3:30 to 5:30, then
snuck in another hour of ZZZZZZs for good measure. We
all arose by 7:30 to go to breakfast, which is a tale in itself.

We walked up to the counter to pay for the buffet, and the
foreignish woman said, "That is $63." Myself, I would have
said, "The H*LL you say!" and told her we didn't want it.
HH paid. She explained, "It is the champagne brunch." Hmm..
We found some food and sat down. For a place that opened
at 7:30, they didn't have much of the stuff laid out. HH told
the #2 son: "You're going to EAT!" We knew #1 would fill
some plates. So...a half hour went by. HH was fuming. "I
don't see anybody drinking champagne. But they sure can
charge for it." I explained that at Ameristar, they had Mimosas,
in tall stemmed glasses. He looked all around. He asked the
waitress. "Oh, we can't serve it until 8:00." It was now 8:10.
We were burnin' gambling time. HH told her he wanted some.

I went to stand in line at the waffle maker. #1 watched the
waffle maker leave her post to carve a giant ham haunch.
"Eewww, Mom. How can people eat that? They're cooking
it under the heat lamp. It's steaming!" Perhaps we should
take the children out more. He went back to the table. When
I got there, HH had two glasses of champagne. I use the term
loosely, glasses. They were those plastic thingies that people
use and throw away on New Year's Eve. One was already
empty. In the next 20 minutes, HH had 6 glasses. #1 son
said, "I like how he does it, Mom. He tells her, 'Yes, we'd
like some more,' then he chugs one and puts the empty glass
in front of your plate." That's my HH.

#2 son kept using the paper napkins to blow his nose. He had
a small collection of them on the table against the wall. The
waitress came and took his plate. #1 said, "Did you see her
give his Kleenex pile the evil eye?" I told him, "For the price
your dad paid for this breakfast, I don't care if he squats in
the middle of the floor and takes a poop." Which is perhaps
not the classiest thing to say, but I made my point. HH was
fuming about how the boys had to pay the same price. I know
that a casino is not expected to have a kids' menu, but that
does seem silly, to charge the same price for children who will
not be drinking champagne. Though HH tried to get #1 to
try it. "The reason I don't smoke, boy, is because some guys
made me smoke a whole cigar when I was a kid. I was green
for THREE days!" I suppose he meant for #1 never to drink,
but methinks there might have been a spot of trouble if he
was observed force-feeding champagne to a child. I've heard
that there might even be cameras in those casino places!
I told him not to be ridiculous, that all he had to do was tell
the staff that he wanted his boys' champagne that they paid
for but didn't get to drink. In a to-go cup. Or even a couple
of bottles. I'm surprised he didn't try it.

My morning session was more productive. I should have
stopped after the first 30 minutes, when I was $90 ahead.
But noooo. I didn't heed my own advice. I didn't want to
stop so soon, what with all the trouble we went though for
this outing. I finished $30 ahead, but with last night's losses,
that left me $10 under. Even so, I had a good time. And
the desk clerk took off BOTH game session charges from
our bill, after HH complained. What with that, the discounted
room, and the free breadsticks last night, we were able to
absorb the cost of the breakfast. And a couple bottles of
champagne. It added up to a weekend of Even Stevenly fun.

The End. (I'm off to Trivia)
Hillbilly Mom, living life in the fast lane.

Hillbilly Mom's Night Out

In a couple of hours we will be headed for the casino. WooHoo!
The bag is packed, the snacks are stowed away, the electronic
games are charged, and all we are waiting on is HH.

We ventured to town this morning to get money, Nasonex, gas,
a birth certificate, and AAA batteries. Everything you need for
a casino trip. OK, the birth certificate wasn't necessary. I only
need it to renew my driver's license next week. Darn, I hate that.
It seems like only six years ago that I renewed it. That's because
it was. Missouri ain't right in the head.

Or IS it? Because to get a birth certificate, I had to go to the
County Health Center and pay $15. Yep. A hospital birth
certificate isn't good enough. Missouri has to have one with
the raised, embossed seal of--you guessed it--THE STATE
OF MISSOURI. I don't know what it costs to actually renew
the license, but you can bet the license office will add their fee
into it, too. It's highway robbery, I tell you. And Missouri has
some of the worst highways and bridges in the country. What
are they doing with all this money? Great Googley Moogley!
Do you know how many lottery tickets I could have bought
with that $15? Oh, yeah. The state runs the lottery, too. With
the proceeds allegedly going to education. Heh, heh. I only
gamble to pay my paycheck.

My sister just called to report that my mom is out of surgery.
She has a pin in the end of her FAT RED PINKY FINGER.
She has a brown bandage on it that can't be removed for
10 days. She gets the pin out in 6 weeks. The doctor said
he scraped down to the bone, and that he did not think there
was any infection. He thinks the arthritis was causing the
finger to bend over at the end joint. Hmpf! I suppose arthritis
goes away with antibiotic treatment, and comes back within
two days, getting fatter and redder and spreading up the
finger to the hand and wrist. Who knew? That demon arthritis
must be a tricky feller. Anyhoo...the doctor said he's going to
culture the bone scrapings and see if there's an infection, and
if so, they will know what anitbiotic will knock it out.

My sister-the-mayor's-wife told the mayor, "Surely if I can
get her there and home from the surgery, Hillbilly Mom can
stay with her tonight." To which our mom replied, "Oh, she's
going to the casino!" I don't know what the mayor had to say.
I don't feel bad. I am the one who took her to the ER when
I first saw the FAT RED PINKY FINGER. I am the one
who checked on it every day, and made her go back to the
doctor, and back again, and told her not to settle for the
osteopath who wanted to hack it off within a week of seeing
it. And I don't think she needs anyone to stay with her. She
is very independent. The doctor even said she could drive
if the pain med didn't make her woozy. I figure she will sit
down in her recliner, prop up that pinky, and snooze to the
TV all night. That's what she usually does. It's not like she
had a leg cut off or anything. I asked her before I made the
reservation if she thought she would need me after she got
home, and she said, "No. I'll be fine." She was probably
hoping I wouldn't bring my devil spawn out there to spend
the night, like in the ice storm!

Anyhoo...HH is on the way home. That's all for tonight.
And tomorrow is TRIVIA NIGHT!

FINALLY!

Snow.Day.

WooHoo! We finally got one! There goes President's Day!

I don't think the road is too impassible for me to get out, but I
did skip my Sonic Cherry Diet Coke today. The boys played
outside for about 90 minutes this morning. They let the little
Beagle puppy, Tank, out of his pen. He stuck his nose under
the snow and rooted around. He tried to play with Genius,
the big orange-striped cat. That did not go over well with
Genius. One swat was all it took, and from then on the "You
must be crazy" look was all that was needed to keep Tank
away from him.

There was a moment of panic when a big fat rabbit ran behind
the Mansion and plopped himself on a snowy knoll. The big
dogs and a neighbor dog were on its trail, but they're kind
of like the DoNots of the dog world. We heard Grizzly, who
is at least half-Beagle, over by the barn, baying at something.
Then we heard doggy Ann's yip-yippy bark, and the neighbor
dog's deep bark. When they came rushing through the woods,
Mr. Hippity-Hopper took off. Grizzly was at least on the
trail, running in circles until he narrowed in on where it had
been sitting, then widening out in circles to look for it. The
other two dummies crashed willy-nilly through the underbrush,
and happened to spot it. Tank saw Grizzly and ran for him.
I hollered from the back porch to #1 son to drop the shovel
he was using to build a berm at the bottom of the slide. I
told him to get that dog or else we would never see him
again. HH has taken off his collar, and the backwoods
over-the-creek neighbors would get their hands on Tank
and think, "Hey! Free Beagle puppy!" Poor #1 took off.
He had a bit more trouble moving through the brush than
those dogs. Then they circled around, and he would think
he had Tank, who would then shoot out of his grasp like
a greased pig at a rodeo. After about 10 minutes he caught
the little rascal and carried him back. He passed Tank off
to #2 son, who carried him back to the pen, and once inside,
dropped him from shoulder height. Good thing he's not that
tall. Poor Tank hit the ground with a 'woof' and rolled over
and over on his chubby belly. No wonder the pets avoid
#2. That boy ain't right. We had a little talk about how to
take care of the animals. He ducked his head and said,
"Sorry." I told him you can't really say 'sorry' to a puppy,
and Tank could have been hurt, and how would he like
to be dropped to the ground from my shoulder. I think
I saw him wipe a tear away with his glove as he walked
off. Some lessons are hard to learn.

The next business of the day was to sort through all my casino
offers and chose the ones that apply for tomorrow and
Saturday. Then I packed my gambling purse with HH's
and my Total Rewards Card. And the Ameristar card, but
we're not very loyal to them, we only use them for their game
room and restaurants.

Then I made hot chocolate for the boys, and washed up
three loads of laundry. I tried for two hours to balance the
checkbook, but that was a total waste of time. I used to have
it down to the penny every month. That was in the days before
that demon debit card. HH did much better with an allowance.
Now he whips out that debit card like player's card at a casino.
The problem is that he collects the receipts in his billfold until
he's good and ready to write down the amounts. So...two
weeks after he's purchased gas and dogfood and a pen for
the new puppy and some knick-knack at the antique store...
it shows up in the checkbook. With numbers that are OH SO
AMBIGUOUS. Is it a 4 or a 9? Is it a 1 or a 3? Your guess
is as good as mine, sight unseen. Tonight I told him we are
going cold turkey. He will get an allowance. If he forces me,
I will wrest that debit card out of his grease-stained hands.
Same for me, though. I will pay cash at The Devil's Playground
like I used to. It will be much easier to balance the checkbook.

Snow. Day. The Sequel. Heh, heh. I just got my call. Too
bad HH is a workin' man. We could have taken off early
for the casino tomorrow. I'm sure if I called, Harrah's would
send a short bus for me. They don't know I'm Even Steven
these days. I suppose they have as much hope of taking my
money as I have of taking theirs.

The boys are ready for the excursion. #1 son plans to take
his laptop and use some wireless internet. #2 son has packed
a little silver game case with his GameBoy and DS. It has some
elastic thingies inside to hold games. He looks like he's carrying
a little briefcase. They are both looking forward to some games
on the interactive TV thingy. They even SHARED last time. It
is $10 for a two-hour session. That works out to $2.50 per boy
per hour. I'm a math teacher, you know. And as such, I know
the value of a cheap babysitter. We don't leave them alone in
the room, though. We take turns. Once they (and HH) go to
sleep, I can play as long as I want.

My mom is having her Fat Red Pinky Finger operated on around
2:00 tomorrow. She has to get there by 1:00, the surgery will
take about 30 minutes, and then she has to wait about 30 minutes
in recovery. My sister is taking her. Send some calming thoughts
her way. She is a bit hyped up about it. At least they are not
cutting it off. I told her she'd most likely get some good drugs.
Of course, she's the kind who will suffer and save them for a
time when she 'might really need them.' Which never comes.

I hope nobody drops a Junior Mint into her while the doctor
is operating.

All About Mii

I'm trying to be strong, but I'm not sure if my EGO can take
much more. Even fortified with its narcissistic-personality-
disorder confidence, Hillbilly Mom's EGO is slowly being
worn down until it's just an ego.

My son put a Mii of me into the Wii tonight. If you are not a
proud Wii owner, that is a little personal identity thingy that
you use when you play Wii Sports. They are not lifelike.
They are kinda like those 'man' and 'woman' symbols on
restroom doors. They have no hands, or many details. You
can choose the head and body shapes, hair color, eyebrows,
facial hair, glasses, skin tone, mouth, etc.

#1 son came into my office a few minutes ago.
"Mom, your birthday is the 15th, right?"
Umm...my birthday is February 11.
"No, it's not the 15th. That's your little brother's birthday.
Thanks for being such a loving son to me these past 12 years.
It's good to know how much I'm appreciated."
"Oh, it's the 14th!"
"Nooo..."
"The 12th!"
"Nooo..."
"Mom's birthday is the 11th!" (Now THAT'S the boy who will
haul my oxygen tank through the casino and clip my toenails
when I'm old. Older.)
"Ohhh...yeah."

A few minutes later he was back.
"I just came to see the shape of your face. I forgot what it
looked like."
"That's my boy."
"Well, I know it's egg-shaped, but I didn't remember if the
chin was pointy or rounded."
He turned my head around from the computer screen. Like
an owl might do of it's own volition.
"Now I see."

I am afraid to see what my Mii looks like. I at least hope he
made Mii a woman.

As a special treat for those whose inquiring minds want to know,
I will now update you on my nostril pimply thingy. It is not quite
so painful today. The swelling has gone down a tad. It's still there,
but it doesn't throb with each and every heartbeat, like it's alive.

I have been putting antibiotic ointment up in there, but I don't
know how well it has been working. The directions actually say
For External Use Only, so I feel guilty. The inner lining of the
nostril is not exactly external. What if I am overdosing on that
stuff? It also says Apply 3-4 Times Per Day. I jam that jelly-
like healing junk up in there all the live-long day.

Which of course reminds me of a Seinfeld episode, because
doesn't everything in my life coordinate with a Seinfeld episode?
Yes, by cracky, it does! At my desk in Lower Basementia
this afternoon, I applied some Triple Antibiotic Ointment to
my inflamed mucous membrane. It's OK. There were no kids
present. It was my plan time. My pimple exploratory period.
I scooped a gob of bacteria-fighting jelly onto my finger, and
stuffed it up in there good, coating all around the front edge
where the pain is most severe. For a moment, I forgot that
I have a basement classroom. With two windows that face
another building. And only one of them has been covered
with a hunk from the big roll of black paper. Hey! Two
different administrators have said they were getting me
window shades. I'm not holding my breath.

Anyhoo...I hoped that nobody had seen me with my finger
up my nostril. They might think I was picking my nose, when
actually I was only picking AT my nose. There's a subtle
difference. And of course, this episode in the sitcom of my
life is but a cheap rip-off of Seinfeld's 'The Pick'. You know,
where Jerry is sitting in his car at a stoplight, and the side of
his nose itches, so he reaches up to scratch it, but looks out
the window and sees his girlfriend in the next car, who is
horrified, because from her angle it looks like Jerry has his
whole finger up his nose? That one.

Hillbilly Mom. Plagiarizing life one Seinfeld episode at a time.

How About Some Oldies?

My students this year are an interesting lot. For some reason,
they seem to think I'm old. I don't know how this came about.
My students in past years thought I was happenin'. They hung
onto every word of my boring stories. They liked me, by cracky!
They liked me. Which is not necessarily a recipe for teacher
success, but it doesn't hurt.

Not that the current crop of DoNots doesn't like me. They
tolerate me. They humor me. But the don't worship at my
altar like those DoNots Past. Perhaps it is because in the
past, I had the same kids year after year. You become
attached, or immune, or contemptuous, or whatever familiarity
is breeding in this day and age. And you grow older together.

This year's group is a batch that I haven't had before. We're
getting to know us...getting to know all about us. Learning
exactly...what's our cup of tea. One of these days we might
just burst into song. Anyhoo...these current students do not
hang onto my every word. They are too busy thinking of
what they want to say next. Like I want to listen to them!
Great Googley Moogley! How did things go so wrong?

They continue on the OLD theme. Just today, I started the
morning with, "Remember that really old movie? I can't think
of the name of it, but my mom watches it all the time. It's
about this guy who likes another girl, and his girlfriend kills
herself, but he pushes her down the stairs anyway, and she
won't leave, she hangs around." I had never heard of any
movie like this, but I took a stab at it. "You mean 'Death
Becomes Her'?" "YEAH! That's it!" I have never seen this
movie. Once I saw a commercial for it, back when it was
in theatrical release, which I suppose makes me very old
indeed. I only thought of it because my dad used to say,
"You know that movie...'She Looks Good Dead'?" And
he meant that movie. Yeah. I can be hired as a partner
for game shows. I've got the knack.

Later in the day, as I was ignoring my students, some of
whom were called out of class to order yearbooks because
that's as important as preparing for the MAP, I was entering
grades in the computer when I heard: "When was World War I?"
I stated over my shoulder, "That would be around 1917."
They muttered happily something about being glad that I
could remember it. Surely they didn't believe I was alive back
then...d'ya think?

And to finish the day, one student called another over to read
the side of my desk in Lower Basementia. "Hey! I know who
that is! That's my uncle. Who wrote this about him? Do you
know how OLD he is? How long have you been teaching
here, anyway?" As if. Let me go on. AS IF...I would let kids
write on my desk. AS IF...I have been here as long as the
furniture. AS IF...I had that uncle for a student.

Some mornings it doesn't pay to take your teeth out of that
glass of water on the nightstand.

Souper Pimply Gambling Lawyer

I have several issues simmering on the front burner tonight. That
does not include the pot of vegetable beef soup, which was on
the back burner. I don't know why I make soup. #2 son had to
be threatened to eat five bites or go hungry. HH says he likes
my soup, he just doesn't like the juice. Umm...which I believe
IS THE SOUP. One time I caught him with a bowl piled six
inches high with an entire roast. The roast that I thought was
in the soup. He digs out what he wants and leaves the rest.
So my soup is kind of thick. This doesn't please #1 son, who
when asked how he enjoyed his soup, said, "Well, it was not
so much soup as it was a bowl of assorted vegetables." You
can't please all of the hillbillies any of the time.

The most pressing issue is this horrendously painful pimply-
ingrown-hair-thingy that is up inside my right nostril. I don't
know what it is. I can't see it. I can't feel a definite shape, even
though I've had my hand up in there almost to the elbow. It
has been marinating since Saturday. Each day is more painful
than the next. All I can do is coat the inside of the nostril with
triple-antibiotic ointment. I might be overdosing on it. I don't
want to take a chance on getting a staph infection and having
one of the local doctors tell me he must cut off my nose...
please return in seven days with a decision. Where, oh where,
is StewedHamm when I need him? I forgot how he solved his
nose-pimple thingy. I'm sure he would be a font of information.

Next, I have received a personal invitation from Harrah's to
join them for an evening of gambling on Friday night. Well, I
mean, it's an email with my name on it, for only $59 for a
Friday night, which usually goes for oh...let me see...I'm
thinkin'...about $169. Yeah! I'm a high roller, baby! They
just can't keep from begging me to play. Next thing you
know, Caesar's will be sending a private jet to whisk me
away to Vegas. Baby.

Now that I have sent in my official Design-A-Lottery-Ticket
entry, I am afraid that I might make the top 20. Oh, yeah. I
don't lack in the confidence category. Some say it borders on
narcissistic personality disorder. Go figure! Just because it's
all about me. Anyhoo...the reason I am worried about success
is that on the entry form, you HAVE TO include your date of
birth. And I've heard that it can be used to calculate a person's
true age. And then it will be in the Missouri Lottery news release
items that Hillbilly Mom, 101, of Fake Town, Missouri, is one
of 20 finalists in the contest. I will lie like a rug, people. I will
swear that those lottery people can't count, that they got their
facts wrong. Who are you gonna believe, a math teacher with
narcissistic personality disorder, or the commission that takes
candy from babies, cigarettes from adolescents, fast food from
the obese? I rest my case. Because I also fancy myself to be a
bit of a free-lance lawyer, without any formal law-school
education. A lawyer in the tradition of Perry Mason, not the
Ironside years. Stop objecting. It's MY winning-and-lying-
about-my-age fantasy, not yours.

Excuse me. I have some daydreaming to do.

Roughhousing And The Dead Cat

Last night, the Veteran made an appearance. He spent the late
afternoon hours at the barn shooting bows with the boys. It was
about 10 degrees with the wind chill. Poor little #2 son had red
ears for the rest of the evening, into this morning, what with the
wind slicing through his sock cap. I suppose somebody should
look into sewing hoods onto those camouflage coveralls.

HH took #2 to the movies at 6:00. The Veteran ate a few slices
of the pizza that I had worked so hard to procure, and then
settled down for a heart-to-heart with the #1 son, who has
demonstrated less-than-exemplary behavior over the past
few months. By 'heart-to-heart', I actually mean 'butt-to-head'.
The Veteran sat on #1's head and farted on him, much the
same as #1 does to his little brother. He also showed the
troublemaker a few odd wrestling moves, and sat upon him
while dribbling a long string of saliva from his mouth, just over
#1's face. #1 behaved true-to-form, in that he sniveled and
whined. When he was let up for air, he made a beeline for
the bathroom to hide. When he came out, The Veteran and
I heard him talking to nobody. "I know you're there, waiting
for me! Just because I can't see you, don't think I'm going
to fall for it." Then he ran into the living room and gasped
at the sight of The Veteran sitting right there in plain sight
talking to me. That boy ain't right.

Normally, I would not stand for The Veteran manhandling
his little half-brother in such roughhousing. But that boy
needs to know what it's like to be terrorized by someone
twice your size. He may think it's a joke, but little #2 son
lives in terror every day. One minute he's lying on the couch,
eating a nutritious breakfast of little chocolate donuts, and
the next minute there's a big ol' butt in his face, spewing a
foul gas into the atmosphere.

As The Veteran observed during the bathroom break, "He
doesn't even fight back. He whimpers like a little girl." Indeed.
The boy is a softie. He needs to toughen up and quit using
his superior intelligence to belittle his opponent. Sneering
"Idiot!" at the hulking ape sitting on top of you, pinning both
your arms and attempting to drop drool into your mouth
from 24 inches above is not such an effective defense. He
knew better than to even say it. So he just whimpered, "I
have a headache. I have to go to the bathroom. I can't
feel my legs."

The little shaver fights back. He has a good strategy, what
with his limited height, and what target he can reach to land
the most damage. Not that it's right, or that I want my sons
to be fighters, or practice this stuff on each other. But they've
got to learn to survive, and not to bully those smaller than
themselves. #2 has taken to pummeling his big brother when
provoked. Oh, I stop it, but not in a big hurry. When #1
whines, "He hit me!" I tell him he deserved it, and to quit
farting on his brother, or dripping soup into his ketchup,
or shooting him with the Nerf dart gun, or sitting on him
while he is laying on the couch. Now he has had a taste
of what it is like. There has been only one incident all day
between the two boys, which is quite an improvement. I
don't know how long it will last.

Anyhoo...getting back to The Veteran's visit...He left about
7:10. #1 and I heard a noise. "What is that? It sounds like
something electronic." #1 looked puzzled. "Well, I don't
have anything on. I thinks it's water running somewhere."
The Veteran appeared at the door.

Uhh...does Dad have some tools in here? I think I just killed
one of your cats.
And you think that because...?
I tried to start my truck, and I heard a thump. Then a bunch
of white fur flew out from under it.
Not white fur! That's my favorite cat!
I didn't see the cat. But it must not have any fur left. It knocked
the serpentine belt off my engine.
Maybe it was the retarded cat.
She's gray.
But she has a white stomach.
We need a light and some tools.

I opened the front door for them to walk out, and there sat
the white cat on the front porch. She stood on her hind legs,
which means "Pick me up. Can't you see I'm a person, not
a cat? All these furry creatures annoy me. Come to your
senses woman, and let me into the home where I belong!"
I picked her up and took her into the house for a few minutes.
There was not a mark on her. She stretched out an laid her
head on my shoulder, purring and kneading my exposed
neck skin with her sharp outdoor-cat-survival-weapon claws.

The boys worked on the truck about a half hour. It was nearly
10 below zero by now, what with the wind chill. They came
in to warm up, and The Veteran called his uncle to come help.
"#1 could slide the belt on while I put on tension, but he might
cut off a finger. I don't want him to cut off any fingers right now."
I wonder what grudge he has against his uncle, and exactly
when will be the right time for #1 to cut off a finger. Anyhoo,
he talked the uncle through the various twists and turns to the
hidden Mansion, and they had the thing fixed within five minutes.

"I still can't find a cat. We heard growling under the porch, but
I didn't see any blood anywhere. I just knew I'd killed one of
your cats, and now I'm the a**hole." (An obvious reference to
HH running over the dog's head last summer). We still don't
know what was in his engine. I'm thinking it was that stray cat
that HH taunted with a broom handle, thinking it was our white
cat. It still has seven lives left, I suppose.

The best Seinfeldian reference I can come up with is the one
where George has the tables turned on him. He falls for that
bald model, and then she dumps him because HE is bald. At
least #1 son learned that it's not so funny when the fart is on
YOUR OWN head.

The Even Steven Episode

Today again proved my Seinfeldian connection to be correct.
We'll call this the Even Steven episode of the sitcom of my life.

On Seinfeld, it is when Jerry comes out Even Steven in all he
does. He loses a comedy gig...don't worry. Another club called
and booked him for the same dates. To prove to Elaine that he
was Even Steven, Jerry tossed a twenty-dollar bill out of the
window of his apartment. He put on a jacket to go out--and
found twenty dollars in the pocket. His girlfriend broke up
with him and he told her, "That's OK. I'll get another girlfriend."

Here's how Even Steven works, Hillbilly Mom style. I went to
mail in my entry for the Design-a-Lottery-Ticket Contest. I
would link the lottery site, but then, that may give me too much
competition when you all rushed to mail in your entries by
Feb. 2. Anyhoo...I stopped to put some gas in the Large SUV,
and bought my #2 son a donut, and $7 worth of scratch-off
tickets, and $3 worth of PowerBall tickets. Nope. I didn't
win the $254 million on Wednesday, but that store ain't too
far from these parts. My gas and necessities resulted in
change back of some bills and 72 cents. I dumped the
coins in my pocket instead of into the LSUV change tray.

On the way to Save-A-Lot, the boy scratched the tickets and
uncovered a $10 winner. Aha! Even Steven on the lottery.

We loaded up the cart with some staples and kid delicacies,
and got in line to pay. The bill was $43.72. Aha! Even Steven
on the coinage.

The next stop was, of course, Sonic, because I needed my
Cherry Diet Coke fix for the day. I decided to just pull in
and eat lunch there, because it was already 2:02, and neither
I nor my young'un had eaten since breakfast. The older boy
was with HH in a bowling tournament, so we just let lunch
slide today. As I sat there eating a bacon cheeseburger, and
#2 stabbed at his Cheese Tots with a plastic fork, it hit me.
Where was that cheese pizza I bought for the kids' supper?
I did not remember carrying it out to the car with the two
boxes from Save-A-Lot. I told the boy to crawl over the
third seat and see if it was in the back. "No. You left it on
the counter when you put the stuff in boxes."

Great. Not only was I without a quick supper before the
guys were going to see Night at the Museum, but I was
out $3.50 for a Red Baron Four-Cheese Pizza. Plus tax!
That could buy some lottery tickets, by cracky!

I stopped back at Save-A-Lot on the way home. The pizza
was not on the counter. I looked for the young dark-haired
girl who rang me up, but she was nowhere to be seen. The
worker who always speaks to me was still hosing out the
frozen vegetable bin. There was another young girl working
the checkout. Those 110-year-old checkers must have
bought the farm. I haven't seen them in a couple of weeks.

I went to the SALE frozen bin and picked up another Red
Baron pizza. I took it to the checkout. I told the girl, "I left
my last one on the counter about a half-hour ago." She said,
"Oh, we found it and put it back. Did you buy it?" I showed
her my receipt. "Oh, just take it. You don't have to pay
anything." YEAH. That's what I'm talking about. Pizza lost,
pizza found. Even Steven.

Maybe I'll check out the casino tomorrow.

The Seinfeld Connection

I think that if I try hard enough, I can equate every problem I
encounter with a Seinfeld episode.

Remember when Elaine and George became each other, what
with everything going George's way when he did the opposite
of what he would usually do, and Elaine stopping for Jujyfruit
before leaving the movie theater to visit her soon-to-be-ex
boyfriend in the hospital, and getting kicked out of her apartment,
and causing the demise of Pendant Publishing because she had
a mouthful of Jujyfruit and couldn't tell Mr. Lippman not to shake
hands with the Japanese businessmen after sneezing into his hand?
OK, maybe you don't. But I think I am starting to switch lives
with DeadpanAnn.

I am suddenly experiencing trouble with my credit card being
charged without my approval, and beaurocratic red tape tangles
from insurance companies. Please make it stop! I am afraid to
take my pets to the vet, lest they fiddle and faddle and over-
charge me like Miss Ann's vet(s). I certainly hope she is winning
with lottery tickets and drinking some Sonic Cherry Diet Cokes.

My internet provider has gone bankrupt, I hear, and was taken
over by a new giant many-named provider who I can not find
on the internets. It's kinda like when I worked for unemployment,
and found out that Burger King was really Foodmaker. But what
really bites my butt is that nobody thought to send my three-
month statement of account when the payment was due, and
the very next day they charged my credit card for an amount
the bears no resemblance to the fee I have been paying for
oh...I don't know...SEVEN FREAKIN' YEARS NOW!
Of course this happened on a Thursday night, and when I
discovered it Friday evening, it was too late to contact a real
live person until Monday. The excuse was that even though
they sent everyone an email explaining the takeover, they did
not manage to send out the email statements of account. It
seems that since I had used a credit card to pay my account
ONE TIME in seven years (that's ONCE in 28 payments)
because again, they forgot to send out the emails, that their
database assumed I always paid by credit card, so they
automatically charged my account. Never mind that the first
time this happened, they DISCONNECTED my internet
service, and I found out why by calling them to report that
my service was out.

Don't you think the normal thing to do would be to stop service
if it isn't paid by the due date, NOT COMMIT CREDIT CARD
FRAUD? Or is that just me? Me and Miss Ann.

And now, for the funny business with the doctor. It's not nearly
as much fun as it sounds. Take my word for it. I now know why
medical fees are so sky-high. It's because each time a claim is
filed, it takes no fewer than 25 people to process it.

November 30 I had a routine lab where blood was drawn for a
BMP, which is just the basics, methinks, like checking a car's
oil. I have this every 4 months or so, to monitor my reaction to
my blood pressure medication. I did exactly as instructed by my
insurance, telling the hospital lab that it must be sent to Special
Diagnostic company so the insurance would pay. Here's what
happened. The dates are not that important, so I'm not looking
them up right now.

Nov 30-gave insurance info and doctor's lab order to the admit
office at the hospital so they could send the blood and bill
Special Diagnostic. Had blood drawn by hospital lab and sent.

Got a denial from my primary insurance stating that the services
provided were for a routine test, and thus did not qualify.

Got a denial from my seconday insurance, saying that it was
the primary insurance's responsibility.

Called my insurance rep that we have through work. She said
that the doctor must have coded the lab order wrong, to call
him and have him resubmit it.

Called doctor's office and was told that they had no record of
the lab order, that I would have to call the hospital where they
typed in the info, and by the way, I did not owe the doctor
anything, but in fact was due a refund, and the checks were
being typed up at that moment.

Called the hospital admit office where the info for the lab was
submitted. They had no record, because they just take the
insurance info and the blood, and send them both to Special
Diagnostic, and then purge the info from their system.

Received a bill from Special Diagnostics saying that my primary
insurance company stated that they were not responsible for the
charges

Sent copies of primary and secondary insurance cards, marking
them in RED to label PRIMARY and SECONDARY, so they
could resubmit to the insurance company, as per instructions on
the statement of account forms sent by Special Diagnostics.

Today, JAN 26, received letter from Special Diagnostics stating
that my primary insurance said I had another primary insurance
company at the time of service. Special Diagnostic said it was
MY responsibility to deal with my insurance company and get
the matter straightened out, and oh, by the way, send in payment
of $145.xx in the meantime, and if the insurance cut them a check,
they would refund my money.

I DON'T THINK SO!!! Since this letter just arrived today, I
can not call them until Monday, what do you know about that?
So I will be calling Special Diagnostics to see WHICH insurance
company told them they are not responsible. If it's mine, I will
be calling my insurance rep, who I might add is mighty hard to
track down during her two-hour lunches. Because I really need
to know:

IS IT A ROUTINE FREAKIN' TEST, OR ARE THEY NOT
MY INSURANCE COMPANY?

Because somebody ain't gettin' their stories straight, and who's
going to submit the gosh-darn correct code and make these
scam artists pay for my blood test like they have every other
time it's been done?

If it's my secondary insurance that's been saying these hurtful
things, sniff, sniff...I will ask Special Diagnostic why they did
not resubmit the correct insurance info like they profess to do
on their billing statements. Somebody must be held accountable,
by cracky!

See...a person who pays for two insurance companies should
not have to pay $145 for a test the doctor orders every 4 months.
It's not like I went to the ER so I could get a doctor's excuse for
an illness I don't have so I don't get kicked out of school for an
attendance violation. No. THAT would have been free, courtesy
of my tax dollars.

Now I'm foaming at the mouth. I think I need some new meds.
First, let me quit my job and have HH quit his, and then we
can meet our medical needs without jumping through all these
hoops. There's probably some agency that will provide me
with a lottery ticket fund, too. I'll check into it.

Oh, and that 'refund' the doctor's office was typing up about
a month ago? I got it last week: $60. I have no idea why. All
I ever pay is my $20 copay per office visit. You can bet I
cashed that baby the day after I got it. A few more of those,
and I will be Even Steven.

Thanks for listening, Schmoopies.

A Somber, Stalkerish Hillbilly Mom

We had a tragedy amongst our students today. I don't want to
dwell on it. It didn't happen at school, and it was nobody's fault.
Sometimes things just happen. He was not one of my students,
but one a year ahead of my #1 son. They knew each other.
They had been in gifted classes together through four years
of elementary school. They were not close friends, but had a
connection, being the only two boys amongst the gifties. I did
not know the family, other than to see them picking up their
child when I picked up mine, and occasionally in Wal*Mart.
I can't imagine what they are going through. I hope I never
have to find out.

I am overprotective. Hard to believe, huh? My #2 son brought
home papers last week for an attendance reward party. It was
at a civic center that is about a 30-minute drive from our school.
He's been there before with his dad, and to birthday parties.
But one of us was always there to watch him. "Will you let me
go this time, Mom?" he asked. Which made me feel like a
grinch for not letting him go the last time the school took a
group there. He was only in 1st grade then. That's too small
for nobody to be watching him. He really can't swim, though
he thinks he can. He can push off the side and glide underwater,
but unless he can put his feet on the bottom to stand up for air,
he's in trouble. I let him go. Gotta cut the apron strings sometime.

We got the news of the tragedy at 8:00 this morning, after I'd
already dropped him off. Nothing like that kind of news to
make you worry some more. IF you're kind of overprotective.
All day I worried. What if the lifeguard wasn't watching him?
What if he got held underwater? What if a bigger kid did
something to him? Did they all change clothes together, or
did they separate the big kids from the little kids?

I told one of my classes about his trip.

Oh, I've been there.
He said he was going down the big slide, and getting in the
hot tub or something.
Huh? There's no hot tub. He must mean the whirlpool.
The what?
It's a big whirlpool. When I was about 5, my brother and
his friends put me in the middle and started running around
to make it go even faster. They wouldn't let me out.
A lifeguard stands right by it. It took him about an hour to
get me and my mom out of it.
There's a secret way to get out of it. I'll tell you sometime.
He thinks he can swim. He'll probably go underwater and
try to swim to the side.
If he does that, he'll be sleepin' with the fishes!

Great.
Note To Self: Do not discuss child safety fears with students.

By then, I figured if something had happened to him, they
would have called me. If they had found his body on the
bottom of the pool! I had told him that in case they didn't
get back in time for his bus, I would come looking for him
at his building.

#1 hung around the bus drop-off area after school, tormenting
the duty teachers. I went to talk to my aunt in her office down
the hall. Next thing I know, there's the #1 boy, telling me that
#2 did not get off the bus. "I did not see him get off, and Ms
M on duty says she didn't see him get off either!" I actually
think the boy was a bit worried. After re-starting my heart, I
went out to the hall. My coat and bag were there. Usually, he
sees these and drops anchor to wait for me. I sent #1 down
to the classroom to look for him. Ms M came in and said,
"I didn't see him get off the bus." The next plan was to have
the secretary call his building to see if the bus was late. Oh,
and if it's not enough worrying that he drowned, we have been
getting emails about a local sex offender on house arrest. Just
then, #1 rounded the stairwell from Lower Basementia. And
behind him was #2.

See there? I just validated my fears. If he could get off the bus,
walk 15 feet through the only open door, and down the hall and
steps to Lower Basementia without being seen by two duty
teachers and his brother and the hall lurkers, he could have
easily lain dormant on the bottom of the pool with 100 or so
kids thrashing about. He is just the kind of kid who goes
unnoticed. Whew! I must get some kind of tranquilizer
for these non-incidents. Perhaps my friend Jim knew what he
was talking about when he would look at me in his 'As we all
know, I'm probably an alcoholic' way and say "Take a red!"

On the way home, my little shaver babbled about his excursion.
"One boy lost his trunks." Great. At least it wasn't him. I made
him try on both pairs last night, and gave him the tightester ones.
Then he went on to say, "But one of the teachers found them
just before we left." I'm assuming that the kid lost them after
he'd changed back into his school clothes.

Yes, I'm a bit overprotective. I'm like that lady in I'll Love You
Forever, the book that makes all the elementary teachers cry
when they read it to their students. It's really about a mom
stalking her adult son. I can imagine what that's like.

Hug your kids.

And if you don't have any, hug somebody's kid who won't press
charges, and make sure it's in a non-perverty kind of way.

Pinky And The Bunghole

Let's see if tonight's blogging can improve upon my experience
last night. I am definitely getting what I pay for with Blogger.
After an evening of not letting me post my most brilliant piece
of work in many months (heh, heh, check it out for yourself),
I discovered this morning that Blogger, that little vixen, had
posted my entry twice to make up for the lack of publishing
love last night. Just for spite, I deleted one of them. Ha, ha...
who has the last laugh NOW, Blogger?

I've had an interesting day. Which is what you say when you
can't think of anything nice to say, but don't want to say nothing
at all. Because my mama raised me right. And speaking of my
mama, she went to see a hand specialist today in the BIG CITY
about her FAT RED PINKY FINGER. You know, the FRPF
that one doctor said he couldn't see any infection in, that the
orthopedist said she should see an infections specialist for,
and that the infections specialist said, "It needs to be amputated.
Come see me in one week with your decision" about. The FRPF
that doesn't care if I end my sentences with prepositions.The
FRPF that first manifested itself the eve of the major ice storm,
December 1, 2006, when it went bloating up her hand and
caused her to be not quite herself and I made her drive us
to the ER on a Friday night when only a handful of people
had electricity.

I told her that they must be giving her the runaround because
she's old. Not to hurt her feelings, but you know how doctors
are. They think there is no point in maintaining the geezer's
quality of life if the geezer doesn't kick in a lot of insurance
money. Lucky for my mama, she has regular insurance as
well as that medicare crap. The 'infection specialist' was a
DO, an osteopath, by cracky! As my mama said, "Your
dad would have let me die before he would have let me see
an osteopath." Which perhaps tells you as much about my
father as it does about the osteopath.

Anyhoo...the hand specialist told her there's no need to lose
that finger. He scheduled her for surgery next Friday at his
surgery center, to clean up the infection if it's there. He thinks
it may be some kind of cyst, which another teacher went
through with her adult son, and he had a titanium plate put
into it because the cyst had destroyed the bone and made
it as fragile as eggshell. Only she called it a 'titanic' plate,
which either means that she is a great fan of the movie, or
he had a big ol' honkin' plate put into his finger, or that she
just isn't a scientific-type person. My sister-the-mayor's-wife
took our mama to the doc because I don't like to drive in the
city, and after all, I have been babysitting that FRPF for going
on two months now, and it is her turn. She's also taking
the FRPF to surgery on Groundhog Day. That's Mabel's
son's birthday, you know.

Now for my interesting day...I started it by arguing with a
lad who took it upon himself to tell me that last night on
Dirty Jobs, the guy made a 'bunghole'. To which I replied
that I didn't care to discuss it, because that was not exactly
appropriate language for my classroom. He swore that it
was not a dirty word, to which I replied "Then why did you
bring it up, if not to see what my response would be?"
Then he got all pissy about how he was just trying to give
everybody a laugh and entertain them, to which I replied
"And that is appropriate for my classroom how?" and he
pouted the rest of the hour while the girls rolled their eyes
at him and his buddy knew enough to keep his mouth shut
for just this once.

Then I had to lecture a kid for saying his cousin is "such a
Jew" because that is really not appropriate and he does not
seem to understand, so it may have to go a bit higher than
my authority. His reasoning was that "See, him and me are
not really Jews and nobody in here is a Jew and it's not like
I said the N-word or anything." He's one of your advisees,
Mabel, and I think he needs a talkin'-to. Mentor him please,
and while you're at it, tell him the giant fart he let out in the
middle of his argument was also not appropriate for my
classroom.

Next interesting thing on the horizon was the student who
approached me in the cold moldy hallway of Lower
Basementia to tell me that "Hey, do you know what I did
last hour? I was chewing on my pencil and accidentally
swallowed this thing that clicks the lead down and now it's
stuck in my throat, I can feel it. Do you think it will hurt me?"
Being neither an ear/nose/throat doctor NOR an osteopath,
I declined to give him medical advice, but asked if he'd seen
the nurse. "I went looking, but she wasn't in her office." Silly
boy. That's not where to find her. He should have checked
the main office and the teacher workroom and the cafeteria.
If he could still breathe.

Oh, then I had the bright idea to tell the kids to try to convince
ME to do something as the subject of today's Persuasive
Paragraph assignment. Note To Self: do not let kids suggest
that you do something. Example 1: I am writing to convince
you that you should shave your head and it would look real
funny and people would call you names and you wouldn't catch
lice from anybody and you could wash it easy and that's why
I think you should shave your head. Example 2: I think you
should go home and pour some salt on the table and scratch
it and then sniff it and then tell me if it smells like pepper and
write back and tell me and if you want you can have someone
in your family tape it and sent it to me thanks bye. By this
time, you must be wondering why I even bothered to read
any more, what with the blatant disregard for punctuation
and the topic sentence, five supporting sentences, and
concluding sentence, though one DID include a nice graphic
organizer from which she neglected to include even one shred
of the info in her paragraph. But I forged on to Example 3:
Have you ever thought of moving to the surface of the sun? It
is warm there this time of year. You don't need a stove. You
don't need a lamp. It's not crowded. It's a pretty yellow
color. Maybe you should think about moving to the surface
of the sun.

Technically, it fit the bill.

My students like me. They really like me. Especially if I
shave my head bald, snort salt, and move to a place hotter
than Hell.

"ideas that have not been used yet for a sitcom"

Yeah. Can you believe it? Somebody wants to find out new and
different ideas for sitcoms from MY blog! I'm sure if it was so
easy to google that and find 'new' ideas, they wouldn't be new
for very long. But I have some ideas that will curl their hair! All
from people seaching my blog! Go figure.

Now, here you have them:

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

Ideas That Have Not Been Used Yet For A Sitcom

teepeeing with spoons: Follow the wacky hijinks of a gaggle of
high school misfits as they traipse about the neighborhood,
teepeeing with spoons. Laugh as they get conked on their
pointy little heads every time they throw a spoon up into a
tree. Cry as they walk home, dejected, unable to figure out
what went wrong with their little vandalism plan.

pull his balls: This project was actually in development, but
hit a roadblock when no actor could be persuaded to audition
for the lead role. It is being reworked as a reality show.

prairie farms french onion dip purchasing: The thrills! The spills!
Hidden cameras catch unsuspecting rednecks buying oodles
of Prairie Farms French Onion Dip for their BBQs and parties.
Catch the double-dippers who have no idea they are being
outed by the Dip Cam. Get into the thick of it as the Dip Cam
becomes the first casualty of the Dip Diving Belly Flop contest.
Sponsored by Prairie Farms Dairy.

big thick turds: This project has been shelved, due to limited
audience appeal.

hillbilly carp tournament: Ripped from the annals of The RFD
Channel, this updated look at tournment fishing with hillbillies
is closing the gap on paint-drying as America's favorite
spectator sport. Watch as hillbillies dump cans of corn into
the lake to tempt the elusive carp into their fishing zones.
Watch the hillbillies say, "What the heck..." and toss the
cans in, too. Watch the Native American shed a single tear.
While the culturally ignorant hillbillies chant "Ching chong,
ching chong." Endorsed by Rosie O'Donnell, but not
necessarily The View.

beagle welfare office of missouri: In the tradition of Dinosaurs
and Father of the Pride, we bring you Beagle Welfare Office
of Missouri. Watch unwed Mama Beagle try to get benefits
for her whining whelps. Watch her puppy daddy bawl at her
for being a b*tch with less sex appeal than a hairy hillbilly leg.
All the drama of My Name is Earl, but without the laughs.

history of caesar countertops: Somebody needs to look up
the true meaning of 'sitcom'. Take this one back to the drawing
board, or shop it around to the History Channel or National
Geographic.

skateboarding spawn ranch: Little bittly future skateboarders
are kept in big pools, practicing their up-the-side-of-the-pool-
turn-around-and-go-down thingies. Watch tourists put quarters
in machines to buy candy to toss to the spawn. Watch them
rush to the candy in a feeding frenzy. See which ones get their
tails chewed off in a survival-of-the-fittest-in-real-life moment.

vomit bowl nursing care: Doctor shows, schmoctor shows!
Let the nurses of Vomit Bowl Nursing Care show you the
funny. These angels of mercy dish it up and serve it hot.
When the doctor ain't in, the Florence Nightingales are at
it again. Tune in to see our Cazzie's name as Technical
Adviser.

roadkill picker-upper: Because somebody's gotta do it. See
Cletus strap on his bright orange vest every morning and
head down to I-44 to see what the Daily Special is going
to be. Oh, his wife, Maybelline, just happens to be head
cook at the Throwed-Skillet Restaurant. This one practically
writes itself.

hillbilly & sheep: Will & Grace. Dharma & Greg. Ned & Stacey.
Mork & Mindy. Starsky & Hutch. McMillan & Wife. Now,
TV's newest couple rears their ugly heads. Meet Hillbilly &
Sheep, the cutest couple since Peg & Al Bundy. Hillbilly is a bit
of a Jethro, and was in deep depression after his girlfriend left
him for Richard Simmons. Enter Sheep, a stunning ovine with
a heart of gold and the gift of gab. Watch Hillbilly get into one
scrape after another, only to be bailed out by Sheep, who
mutters his catch phrase at least once per episode:
"You're so baaad!"

dancing poop: OOPS! This one's already been done, hasn't it,
SOUTH PARK?

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

That should tide you over until the mid-season replacements
peter out. Enjoy.

Good night, and good views.

Intervention Comprehension

OK, fellow TV addicts, I have a question for you. Perhaps I'm
addressing the wrong crowd. How about 'heavy drinkers' for
my focus group? I need some info about alcohol.

Last night I watched one of my favorite shows: Intervention. I
think it was a rerun. This alcoholic woman used to be an interior
designer, and lost custody of her three kids, and worked in a
clothing store. She spent all the live-long day drunk. Well, duh!
I suppose that's how she got the 'alcoholic' label. She drank
from 10-15 little bitty bottles of vodka per day.
That they showed.

Here's my question. Wouldn't it have been cheaper to buy a
big ol' honkin' bottle o' vodka than all those cute little bottles
that convenience stores put out by the register to tempt the
alcoholics like Wal*Mart tempts kids with candy in the check-
out line? Even if she liked the little bottles, wouldn't it have
been cheaper to buy a set of 10 or 15 little bottles and then
refill them at home from a big bottle?

I understand that she was chuggin' them left and right while
driving down the road. It would have been hard to swill
from a big bottle while driving. And what's with the camera
man, anyway, to be riding in the car with a woman slurping
vodka at 55 mph? Does he have a death wish? Or was he
imbibing too, just not filming himself?

There's another question coming up. Let me set the stage.
This woman took a cab across town to her 78-year-old
mother's house. She was supposed to drive Mom and her
aunt to a soccer game, but was too stinkin' drunk. While
there, she needed a drink. Now that's a surprise, huh? Her
mom and aunt had outsmarted her, what with locking up
all the liquor, because as Auntie said, "Those people will
find it no matter where you hide it." I suppose the old fogies
need a refresher course in Drinking 101, because apparently
they forgot that wine contains alcohol.

The alky told her relations that she needed to be filmed, so
could they wait out on the porch. Of course they did. They
were genteel southern folk, with a comfy porch, and plenty
to say behind Alky's back. They meant well, though. Bless
her heart. Meanwhile, back in the kitchen, Alky found the
wine, broke off a knife blade trying to open it before she
found the corkscrew, poured a full red Solo cup, chugged
it, then swilled out of the bottle until all gone.

Here's my next question. How much alcohol is in that wine?
Like, how many of those little vodka bottles is the equivalent?
She obviously got drunker, much to the amazement of the
not-so-steel magnolias, who declared in hushed tones:
"She's worse than she was when she got here!" Could
she have kicked the bucket from chugging that much wine,
or is it not so potent? It looked like she drank that bottle in
15-20 minutes.

Anyhoo, I'm not making fun of her, because I know that it's
a disease. In fact, it's one of the few addictions that you can
die from if you withdraw cold turkey. But I just can't figure
out the little bitty bottle issue.

If you know the answers, fill me in. My inquiring mind wants
to know.You don't have to state whether you're a TV addict
or a heavy drinker. I'll pass that judgement myself, heh heh.

It Was Not To Be

TRIVIA WAS CANCELLED!!!

I know you are as disappointed as I was. #1 son and I got there
and paid our money and picked out tables and took sips or our
Sonic sodas and THEY SAID IT WAS CANCELLED.

I suppose it was because of the sleet that started falling the
minute we got into Trivia town. I even parked in front of the
school. That is something I never do. I practically have my
own private entrance at the back door. Anyhoo, as I stepped
out of the Large SUV, my foot slip-slided away from me.
I was not injured, but it made me think that the whole
Triviafest might be cancelled. I even left my Sonic Cherry
Diet Coke in the LSUV. When the bandies took my money,
I figured IT WAS ONNN. Which is what I told my main
competitors when they came barging in. One asked me if
I was ready to get spanked. "Of course. It's Saturday night,
isn't it?" Oh. I think she meant something else.

I sent my boy to the LSUV for my SCDC. Get it? Got it?
Good. I taunted the other teacher team with my handy-
dandy answer-recording sheet, to make sure the volunteers
graded the answers correctly. I gave them one last time.
This time I told them I regretted that I had only brought one
for my team and my boy's team. They were not buyin' it.
One snatched the boy's copy from my hand and said, "I'll
go make us a copy." "OK," I told her. "If you know how
to work that thing." Heh heh. She is a technology teacher.

Next, I taunted them with my Chex Mix. I think that started
to weaken them a bit. Then my aunt arrived and sang the
praises of the Chex Mix. She knew she was getting some,
because she is on the boy's team. We discussed my mom's
BIG FAT PINKY FINGER, which a specialist says needs
to be removed. She is getting a third opinion this week.

Only two others from my team arrived. They reported that
Mabel was suspiciously absent from church that evening.
Then they told me the whole thing was called off, because
the bandies wouldn't take their money. We are rescheduling
for next Saturday. I left our roster and my money marked
'PAID'. It's a fundraiser, you know. For the band. We'll
see what develops Saturday, when the weather again calls
for rain changing to snow.

Mabel, I have good news and bad news and good news.
Most importantly, the Chex Mix is still intact. I paid the entry
money for Boyfriend and Girlfriend, and let the bandies keep
it until Saturday. I will contribute half of that slush fund when
I see you at school tomorrow.

That's all I've got. My battery is running low, what with only
3 hours sleep last night. We've got the Basementia faculty
meeting tomorrow. And the students will be all mad that their
promised 4 inches of snow did not arrive. It will be a long day.

Trivia Pursuits

I will be leaving soon to go to Trivia night at our school. We
are having a bit of trouble with our team. Mr. H and I are the
controlling members. Mabel and her husband are supposed
to play again, but their son will be absent. Mr. S has been
away for four days at the Texas School Book Depository.
That's his story, but perhaps he shouldn't be stickin' to it.
Seriously, he and some other faculty went to some kind of
training in Texas, and his goal was to find a ride to the
Depository. He's not that twisted...he's a History teacher.
Let's see...that puts us at four people, plus we have one
of the paraprofessionals and her husband, which is a good
thing, because that man is as smart as me. Not that I'm
bragging or anything, but I know my way around a Trivia
contest, even though I did cost us two crucial points last
time. Somebody else is going to be the answer-writer this
time, by cracky!

This is where the problem occurs. We have six people. So
we all asked around, and were refused, because like I told
you last time, we're not the pretty, popular crowd. Mabel
took it upon herself to ask a former student and his girlfriend,
a current student in Mabel's class. That was fine by me.
Since we hadn't heard from Mr. H, we figured we could
at least get a sports expert with Boyfriend. Unbeknownst
to us, Mr. H asked the mother of Boyfriend, who is a fellow
faculty member, and who said 'yes' to help out Mr. H.
When Girlfriend returned to school the next day and
accepted the offer, that put us at nine. A team is limited to
eight members.

We have several options. Mabel and her husband may not
show up. That is because he may have to return to his place
of employment before the big snowstorm hits tonight, and
Mabel will not drive in snow. Make that 'Mabel will not
drive in the forecast of snow', because whenever it's on
the news that some frigid precipitation is coming down the
pike, Mabel even rides the school bus to school. Bet you
didn't know that teachers get that privilege, did you? Riding
the school bus free of charge. This job is just full of perks.

I'm a-hopin' Mabel shows, but I will understand if she doesn't.
Which would put our team down to seven. Another option is
to siphon off a member to #1 son's team of 6th graders. My
aunt joined them last Triva match, and they accepted her.
She and Mabel's husband get on quite well. They go waayyy
back, to the days she used to bring him donuts from one of
her gallivanting absences during part of the school day. But...
#1 son says he wants no more adults on his team. He did say
he would take Boyfriend, who is the older brother of one of
his teammates. Of course he would. Boyfriend knows sports.
I told him Boyfriend and Girlfriend come as a pair, and can
not be separated. He said he would also take Extra Faculty
Member, but let's not forget that she's the mother of the 6th
grade crony. I don't think the little crony would be likin' that
one little bit.

The sponsor of the Trivia night says he can use extra people
on his team, too. So we'll see what develops. I think we will
be fine. It's not like the prize is $205 million or anything.

And Mabel, in case you didn't make it, because the school bus
don't run on Saturday nights, and you're sittin' home reading
this while we're giving wrong answers willy-nilly till the cows
come home...I took the last remaining Chex Mix to share with
our team. Just sayin'...

Feng Shui And The Room Invader

This morning got off to a bad start. I had aleady prepared my
breakfast of sausage patty and medication, and was settling
down into the big recliner in the living room of the Mansion
to continue the morning routine. It goes a little somethin' like
this: I pack the lunches, lay out the clothes, wake the devil
(#1 son), wake the angel (#2 son), and sit down for breakfast
and the news. #2 hops out of bed or the couch, gets his own
nutritious breakfast of little chocolate donuts or a Cosmic
Brownie and water, and joins me. Then I eat the sausage,
take the medicine which keeps Mrs. Hillbilly Mom running
on all cylinders without blowing a gasket, and scream at the
devil about 6 times until he gets up and grouches into the
living room to torment us. With just 20 minutes before
departure, he finds his own breakfast of half a box of cereal
and a quart of milk.

This morning, I had just plopped down in the recliner, reclined,
reached for my plate of high-sodium pork byproducts and
pills, and it happened! The paper plate (Hillbilly fine china)
hit my plastic Class of 2006 water cup. It tripped over the
remote controls and crashed to the carpet. Not to be outdone,
three little pills somersaulted after him. The sausage, being a
lazy lie-about, stayed put on the paper plate. I de-reclined.
The first thought was of the pills, because I HATE it when
I lose one of those little boogers in the morning. Wednesday
I had a search and rescue pill party on the kitchen floor. The
runaway was found under the kitchen cabinet, in the midst
of a little barricade of dust bunnies. I still swallowed him.
I ain't proud. And I ain't runnin' out of meds.

Back at Loch Mess, I flipped on the floodlights HH recessed
in the ceiling. There they were. All three, waiting to be rescued.
I grabbed the first one, the biggest one, the Toprol. He slimed
me. I quickly rushed to the kitchen sink and washed his
crumbling remains down my throat. Next, I snatched up
the Lisinopril. Silly, silly, Lisinopril. He's a diuretic. He should
have felt right at home, floating in Loch Mess. I made short
work of his orangy little carcass, too. Then I found the tiny
one, the generic sprite who alternates between orange and
white, three days one, three days the other. He was almost
a goner, but I swallowed his tiny remains, and even licked
the orange residue off my fingers.

That done, I rushed (ha ha) to get towels to mop up Loch
Mess. I stomped like Lucy at the vineyard. I think I got
most of it, though my bare feet begged to differ. The boy
sat calmly, as if this happened every morning. The other boy
got up after only 5 shouts, so perhaps my antics disturbed
his beauty sleep.

I must take a moment to inform you that I blame this whole
bout of trouble on HH. Because I can. Because he doesn't
have a blog, heh heh. It is all his fault, because when he
painted the wall that lovely beigey shade called 'Dune', he
also decided to rearrange the furniture. Now we have a low
table on the left of the big recliner instead of a high table on
the right. And since he plops into that chair every evening, he
shoves it back a couple inches over 3-4 days. So things
are just not quite where you imagine them to be when you
reach for them. So it's HH's fault. I'm sure he has committed
some hideous Feng Shui faux pas. And it's workin' on me.

The drive to school was uneventful. But oh, how I wish the
rest of the morning would have been! After the covert
de-butting of the granny panties, I entered the building to
find my rubber doorstop in the hall. I knew something was
amiss. I do not leave him in the hall. That is just asking for
trouble. Just ask Mabel. She gave me another, darker,
brother of the doorstop when we first moved into that
building. He disappeared. The next one, I wrote my name
on with Wite-Out (hey, that's how they spell it). He, too
disappeared after about a year. The kids tell me he is
living with the business teacher. I'm not taking him back.
This doorstop is a paler version of my ex-doorstop. He
is wearing out, getting a bit of rubber peeled off his back
like a bad sunburn. But I always kick him inside the door
when I leave, and lock him up.

The door was locked, but that didn't fool me. I saw right
away that the chairs were askew. The computer monitor
was on. And somebody not in my class had logged on!
There were mud chunks all over the floor. Aha! They had
come in after my room had been cleaned between 12:00
and 1:00. There was a 'self-esteem' checklist wadded up
in my wastebasket. Hmm...somebody is hurtin' for certain
to throw away a self-esteem survey. My eraser had been
mangled. Somebody had written on my whiteboard with
the purple marker, the only remaining purple marker,
since one disappeared when I had the sub last week.
And...oh, the horror...I hate to relive the moment...
MY BLACK PEN WAS GONE!!!

Those of you who read the Mansion every day know that
Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is a bit anal about the things on her
desk. I still have not recovered. The nerve of some interloper,
to take a pen that does not belong to her, from a room where
she was just a visitor. I am beside myself. I have lost about
6 pens this year due to unannounced sharing of my room.
When I know someone is going to use it, I put out a really
crappy pen, like one the health insurance rep leaves, a big
fat wide-body ugly pen that does not fit right in your hand.
I like a certain type of pen. They don't blot. They are easy
to grip. I buy them myself, people! At Office Max. They are
not school issue. They are not the 100-for-a-dollar Bics.
I hate change. And now I have to use a different-feeling pen,
who writes a little shade off in my gradebook. Fie on you,
you room invader! That ain't right. Oh, I know who it was.
It was not a member of our faculty, but a guest who comes
in once a month or so to meet with a specific group. My
next-door-teacher told me they were LOUD and annoyed
her through the wall. Another teacher told me who it was.
"I even unlocked the door for her. I am shocked that it
happened." Yeah. She's a little bit anal, too.

There is more to tell, but that shall have to wait for another
day, if I can remember it, what with my case of Old Timers'
Disease, as my students refer to it.

Tomorrow I shall tell you of our Trivia team troubles.