At Home With The Family Of Morons

We didn't have school today. Which meant my boys honored their unspoken pact to drive me crazy. It started with a sound. A sound much like I heard last week, when I thought #1 son was launching a rocket in the front yard, but it turned out that he was sitting on the toilet. Ahem. That kind of sound.

It was so reminiscent of last week's gas-passing that my #2 son, safely ensconced at his computer playing Civilization 3, just an arm's lenth away from me, said matter-of-factly, "#1 has launched another rocket." Which has become our little euphemism for a fart. A loud, long, echoing fart.

This was the pick of the litter as farts go. I was sure the boy was flying around the room like a rapidly-deflating balloon. I hollered from my office, "What are you DOING?" He laughed an evil laugh. The next thing I knew, he was standing right behind me. And I heard it again. The rocketish rumble, and the evil laugh. I told him he was nasty, and to get away from me and stop it NOW, right now, this instant, or I was taking away his Lappy for the rest of the day. He continued to laugh. I get sooo much respect from my young 'uns.

Then the boy spilt his little secret. "Mom. I was not really farting. Look. I have this straw down my sleeve, and I blow in it, and it makes my armpit sound like a fart. Listen. BRAAAAPPPPP! See? And it's not really a fart, just air in my armpit. Then you lean down like you're tying your shoe, and you hide the straw like this. I learned that at school yesterday when The Boy Who Was Born In A Truck did it with a piece of inkpen to Ms Homeroom Teacher. We all thought it was a fart. The kids laughed, and she told him to STOP IT. Then he showed us how to do it. Isn't it cool?" He grinned, like a kid who had just invented a robot capable of completing 6th grade homework.

He practiced his newly-acquired skill for the rest of the morning. I mean from 10:30 until 12:30. I called both boys up to the kitchen for lunch. As I put the finishing touches on #1's sandwich, #2 finished his Circus Os and milk (the Save-A-Lot version of Froot Loops), and began to taunt #1 and his fart straw. "Moooo oooom! #2 won't let go of the end of my fart straw! It's plugged up! I can't fart! Make him stop it. NOW!" #2 giggled his fiendish giggle, fueled by the sugary Circus Os. I had had enough. "STOP PLUGGING YOUR BROTHER'S FART HOLE!"

Both boys stopped their scuffling and looked at me. #1 said, "I bet that's something you never thought you'd be saying to your kids, huh, Mom?" I agreed. "And I never thought that one of my kids would be telling me that the other kid "...has a butt hole", either," I told them. #2 remembered his little butt hole faux pas from December. "What I meant was...he had a butt hole, in his pants!" Yeah. Like that makes it better.

I suppose you mothers of daughters are putting the finishing touches on the Easter bonnets right about now. Perhaps sitting down to a tea party, or playing My Little Pony, or having a Barbie furniture and clothing auction like my sister-the-mayor's-wife used to do with her girl young 'un. Shed a little tear for us mothers of boys. One single tear will do. A tear that runs down one cheek, and then your little princess pats you on the shoulder and wipes it away with a Kleenex and compassion.

Please. A single tear.

And while I'm making demands, go to writeinthethickofit.blogspot.com and read some stories. Place a vote. Because I said so. Don't make me plug your fart hole!

Brush With Greatness: Wernher von Braun

You are in for a treat tonight. We have the guest blogger,
NotImaginary Mabel. She told me her story, so it will be
like a Drama in Real Life from Readers Digest. Only
longer, probably, because Mrs. Hillbilly Mom never
condenses anything. Sorry if I have taken some poetic
license, Mabel. I should have recorded your quotes on
a super-secret voice-activated thingy instead of standing
in the doorway with one ear on my DoNots.
Here, now, is Mabel's Story.

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

Mabel's Story

I will never forget the day I met Wernher von Braun.
At the time, I was just a schoolgirl, and did not realize
how important he was. I thought he was just a friend of
our family friend.

I lived in Belleville, Illinois, with my parents. Their friends,
Charlotte and Bill, worked at Scott Air Force base. Being
Civil Service workers, they received a transfer to England.
The assignment was supposed to last two years, but
'Chuck' and Bill did not like their life in England. It was
not the standard of living to which they were accustomed.
They heated with COAL, by cracky! (OK. The by cracky
comment is mine, not Mabel's.)

Chuck and Bill left before their assignment ended. They
returned to the states, and stayed in our home. I can still
remember the day they came back. We had about 3 feet
of snow, and my dad put chains on the tires of his panel
van, and went to get steaks and ribs so he could BBQ for
them. He put on boots and went outside to grill.

Because they left England early, Chuck and Bill did not
get their jobs back at Scott Air Force Base. They were
transferred to Huntsville, Alabama. Chuck was brilliant.
She worked in a cubicle right next to Wernher von Braun.
I don't know the job title, since it was a Civil Service job.
It would have been something like a G4 or some number.
I don't know if she waw a mathematician, or chemist, or
rocket scientist, or exactly what, just that Chuck was
brilliant, and worked on rockets with Wernher von Braun.

That summer, our family was invited to Huntsville to spend
some time with Chuck and Bill. Chuck got us top security
clearance. We had a tour of the building, and got to see
the test firing of a rocket. They did not launch any rockets
from Huntsville, but the tests made the ground shake all the
way in town. We got to go in the place where they made
astronauts weightless, too. I don't know how, but I
remember sitting in a chair that made me feel weightless,
and picking up a suitcase that also felt weightless.

It was on this tour and the rocket test that I met Wernher
von Braun. As I said, I did not know how important he
was. He seemed like a regular guy. He shook my hand.
I will never forget that rocket test. I want to watch a
Space Shuttle launch if I ever have the opportunity.

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

From here, Mabel and I debated the merits of the U.S.
space program a bit, me being the skeptic who thinks the
moon landings never happened. Mabel disagreed. She is
more of the opinion that we landed on the moon, but that
the Space Shuttle docking is a conundrum. That's fine.
We have agreed to disagree on other things before this
minor issue concerning the history of our great nation.

Hope you have enjoyed the VERY REAL guest blogger,
my pal Mabel.

Now get on over to writeinthethickofit.blogspot.com for
some readin' of the writin' people like me submitted to
Redneck Diva's writing challenge this week. Pick the one
you like best, and give it a votey-thingy.

Where, oh where, has my little dog gone?

Doggone! (As Redneck Diva taught me last summer.)

This morning, we could not find our little Beagle, Tank.
He was not on the porch with the big dogs. He didn't
come running to eat when HH doled out the food at
5:30 a.m. (The Devil's Playground brand dogfood that
has not killed any pets yet.) He didn't come running last
night at 9:00 p.m. when I went to the garage to get a
math paper. The doggie Ann came a-runnin', whining
at me for going into the forbidden garage. But there
was no sign of clumsy little Tank.

This morning, we prepared to toss the dogs a treat to
keep Tank on the porch, out from under the tires of
the Large SUV, off the street (OK, gravel road, I'm
puttin' on airs like I live on a paved street), and just
basically out of harm's way until we got out of sight.
But there was no Tank to bribe.

#1 son called HH to see if he had seen Tank. Not since
last night. HH said he was probably in his little house,
asleep. Which I didn't believe for a minute, because
that house is in his PEN, which even with the door open
is still a PEN, and I didn't think Tank would want to go
back to the PEN. Every time I see him sleeping, he is
curled up behind the doggie Ann, with his chin resting
on her butt.

#1 did not speak all the way to school. I was afraid the
pup had caught his collar on a fallen limb, or that the
doggie Ann had chewed the collar plumb off him and
somebody was holding him hostage, thinking "Hmm...
purebred Beagle pup. Think I'll keep him."

At school, I told the not-imaginary Mabel of our plight.
She suggested a prayer to St. Francis of Assisi, patron
saint of animals/pets. I also mentioned it to one of my
classes, which was perhaps not such a scathingly
brilliant idea, since a student who does not even drive
commented, "Oh. I thought I ran over a Bugle last night."

Every time I had a minute without chastising DoNots, my
thoughts turned to my little Beagle. I thought of his soft,
soft, muzzle area (he's shore got a purty mouth), his white
legs with their brown freckles, the thin white stripe down
his little nose, the way he falls off the porch when he gets
too close to the side, the way his back legs take off
running before his front legs, causing him to scoot several
feet on his shoulder. Sigh. I missed that little pup.

I worried about what to do if he was still gone. We rushed
home after school. I use that term loosely, what with a
stop for a Powerball ticket, the requisite Sonic stop (y'all
know what for), a stop at the day-old bread store for
some hoagie rolls (not because I'm thrifty, but because
it's waaaayyyy quicker than The Devil's Playground, or
Ye Olde Expired Food Shoppe, and because Save-A-
Lot does not have hoagie rolls), and of course a stop at
Save-A-Lot. Then we had to stop for the mail.

As we came up the driveway, #1 hollered, "There he is!
In the front yard! Stop! I'm getting out!" Those two ran
to greet each other like long-lost lovers. Well, not exactly,
because one of them is a dog, and they are both male,
and well, the one is OH SO WRONG, but the other
is OK, not that there's anything wrong with that, but it's
not exactly what I would wish for my boy.

Then we saw it. Near the front sidewalk made of bricks
that HH salvaged from a brick street that used to run
behind our old house. It was plump and white, with red
accents. I hollered out the window to #1 son, "Is that
what I think it is?" He looked. "Uhh...I'm afraid it is."
I told him to run take a closer look. #2 son wanted out
to investigate. By that time, we had HH on the phone.
He demanded to know what it was. Because, people...
it looked like a chicken. A dead chicken. A dead,
bloated white chicken with a big red comb, or some
blood on its head.

I parked the LSUV in the medium-sized garage. #1 son
came running in. "Well...we were right. It's a chicken...
or a duck...or something. Let me get it." With that, he
ran back to the front yard. I didn't have time to scream
"NOOOOO!" #1 came running back into the garage
with it. One look, and I told him to return it to the front
yard habitat. We have no idea where it came from.
I blame the doggie Ann. But possession is 9/10 of the
law, so Tank is the one whose face will appear on the
wanted posters, coming soon to a Post Office near you.





























Whew! That was kind of a long story for that payoff, huh?

Now I'm off to check out writeinthethickofit.blogspot.com.
It's later than you think. Diva is posting the new edition of
stories for her writing challenge later tonight. OK, that's not
a good sentence. She's posting them later tonight. Her
challenge is every week. Go read some stories. Vote.
Don't feel beholden to vote for me. Vote for the one you
like best. Visit it every week. Don't cost nothin'.

LET ME CLARIFY THAT. The new stories will be
posted after 8:00 on THURSDAY night. You see, I'm a
bit confused, what with posting at night, and many of you
don't read it until the next day, and, well, it will be on
THURSDAY night. Sorry for discombobulating anyone.

Even Your Mom Slacker Parasite

Hey, that kid I loaned $10 for food on his band trip, who
paid me back $5 yesterday...paid me the other $5 today.
See? It's like pulling a thorn out of a lion's paw. The lion
will bring you ten dollars in two installments. That's a good
ol' Hillbilly Mom fable. She's Even Steven, you know.

On the other side of the coin, Mrs. Hillbilly Mom became
fed-up with a long-time DoNot this morning. Every word
out of somebody's mouth, he had to make the smart-butt
comment: "Your mom." After the eleventy-eighth time of
hearing this time-wasting, totally inappropriate attempt at
humor, Mrs. Hillbilly Mom interjected: "Oh. Your mom.
She's going to come sit by you at the mandatory after-
school tutoring you were sentenced to yesterday?" He
did not much think that was funny.

There was bad weather forecast for this afternoon. I told
the #1 son that it was too bad I had bus duty after school.
Just our luck, the school might apply the new policy of
not sending kids home during a weather warning. Oh, the
bad luck of those late-bus kids, what with me and the
#1 son's science fair sponsor having duty today. Are we
the take-charge kind of teacher who will not let one hair
on a kid's head be harmed? The kind you know will take
care of you, even laying down his own life to protect you?
Nope. We are the clock-watching, half-a$$ed-is-good-
enough, slacker kind of teacher. Thank the Gummi Mary
that the storm hit about 5 minutes after we left. Because
all would have perished if they depended on us to lead
them out of harm's way.

On the home front, I found a TICK on my leg yesterday.
Yes. A parasite. At least he didn't pee on my leg and
tell me it was raining. That sucker had a death grip on
my flesh. I could NOT get him loose. I tried alcohol.
Twice. For the tick, not for me, though I could have used
a good snort of some spirits when I saw him brazenly
sucking the lifeforce out of my flesh. I mean the rubbing
alcohol stuff, the kind that will make you blind if you drink
it, so I'm told. It works when HH puts it on the boys. Not
for this tick. Hillbilly Mom's blood must be extra-sweet,
with all that dissolved Sonic Cherry Diet Coke flowing
through her veins. I finally had to grab that pest with
tweezers to yank his head out. I know you're not
supposed to do that, like it allegedly squeezes all the
tick toxins into you, like...umm...that Lyme Disease
bacterial stuff. What was I supposed to do, leave him
there to bloat up, like some kind of fluid-filled brooch,
to be the envy of all with my verminy faux-gem jewelry?

To add insult to my injury, I am the only one of the family
with a tick. Unlike Tom Sawyer on a slow day at school,
I was not looking upon that tick as an asset. I have not
been off the porch or sidewalk. I have not so much dipped
a big toe into the lawn. The boys and HH spent all day
Saturday and Sunday down in the woods at the Mini-
Mansion. They sat in the woods and listened for turkeys.
They shot the BB guns. They played with the dogs. They
were USDA Prime tick-bait, by cracky! But I got the
tick. I've been Stevened again, and need some Evening.

Perhaps I should adjust my karma. Your mama is so not
fat that nobody can even think of any jokes about her.

Three Mine Vices

Let's talk about Hillbilly Mom's vices. I know you think I
am perfect, and so do I. But there are a few thingies that
probably need correcting. The preposition-ending sentence
vice is not what this post is about. The alleged gambling
addiction...it ain't broke, so we ain't fixin' it. For brevity
(Ha, ha, what's that, asked Mrs. Hillbilly Mom), we shall
limit this vice-fest to the workplace.

Let's start with money-lending. I know I should not lend
money to students. Most of the time, I don't, because I
don't like begging in a dog, or a person. But if I see a kid
who wants something, something reasonable, and it looks
like the kid won't get it unless I cough up some cash, I
break my own rule.

For instance, there was the recent book fair, and kids
who wanted a fancy pencil. They did not ask. One had
a dollar, and needed tax. I told him he could go to my
room and get the pennies out of my desk. Nobody likes
pennies. They are the red-headed stepchild of the money
family. (No offense to any red-headed stepchildren who
may be reading.) And then I loaned the kid money for
that book, and he paid me back the next day. Friday,
a student was going to the band contest, where they
would stop on the way home that evening to get some
food. He had forgotten to bring money. I only knew
because I asked if they were leaving before lunch. He
said, "No, we eat lunch here, but we're stopping for
supper on the way home. DANG! I forgot to ask my
mom for some money. I guess my friends will give me
a few fries or something if they don't want them." He's
a good kid. Always polite. He's the kid who loaned
another kid the shoes off his feet on lab day in Science,
so the kid wouldn't have to take an 'F'. Karma, baby.
I had a $10 bill in my pocket. I told him, "Here. I'll loan
you so you can have supper." These kids are bottomless
pits. They are always hungry. And he's a good kid. Today,
he came to me before school. "I wanted to pay you back,
but I only have $5 right now. Some people owe me
money, and I'm going to collect it so I can give you the
rest." I took the $5, and told him not to worry. As long
as I got it by the last day of school, I'm OK with it.

Moving slowly along to another Mrs. HM vice...I don't
really care if a student asks to go to the bathroom. Hey!
My classroom is right next to the bathrooms. Location,
location, location. They are not going to bother anyone.
There are no classrooms between mine and the bathrooms.
As long as it's not in the middle of my lesson, I don't care.
Also, I will send them to get assignments that they have
'left' in their lockers. That's part of my class, seeing that
they don't neglect homework. I always write them a pass.
I don't let them go to the gym, or to talk to another student,
or to another teacher's classroom. Library, yes. Computer
lab, no. The philosophy of Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is: The Less,
The Merrier. A few minutes of peace while one of them
is gone. Yes!

Yet another vice...I don't give a lot of homework. In fact,
I don't give any homework. The reason for that now is
that my At-Risk class is to help the student understand the
work. I want them doing my Math in my classroom, so I
can help them if they don't get it. But I also did this when
I taught Science. I have time to present my lesson. I make
sure there is time to start on the assignment. I have been
known to say, "Since most of you are not finished, we'll
work on this some more tomorrow." Because I have seen
these kids copying work in the gym before school, heard
them talk about copying on the bus, seen them take
someone else's paper home with them to copy, heard
them say their mom did it for them, etc. It's been that way
in every school where I've taught. Oh, I turn them in when
I catch them. That is called 'CHEATING'. It is in the
discipline policy that we read to them at the beginning
of every school year. If they do my work in class, I see
that they are doing their own work. I even let them work
in partners sometimes, because at least they will discuss
the material, not just copy an answer out of the book.
That's why I don't give homework, even though I should.

Great Googley Moogley! How time flies when we're
discussing Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's vices! I'd better stop
for now.

Is longwindedness in telling my boring stories considered
a vice?

Tax Time Tale

This is a four-day week for us, as next week will be. It's
our Spring Break. WooHoo! We get a Friday and a
Monday. A four-day weekend! Yeah. I'm not really
that excited. I was typing sarcastically.

I will be mailing the taxes tomorrow. Really. I plan to put
them in an envelope later tonight. Really. I don't have much
time left. This one time...at our old house...(thought I was
going to say 'Band Camp', didn't you?)...I mailed the taxes
on Friday, April 13. Which should have been a warning
sign right there. But nooo...I was stickin' it to Uncle Sam.
Actually, to Cousin Mo, because it was the first year we
owed money to the state. So I held onto those taxes as
long as I could, almost. Good thing I didn't wait until the
very last moment and mail them Saturday the 14th.
Because on Saturday the 14th, I went to the front porch,
took the mail out of the box, and saw our state and
federal tax returns. They had been returned to sender,
with postage due. Yeah. The freakin' envelopes were so
fat with forms that I should have put TWO stamps on
each. I rushed the two blocks to the Post Office and
mailed them again. That'll learn me to procrastinate.

Yesterday, #2 son and I made an excursion to the local
grocery store. Not the Save-A-Lot. We hit it, too, but I
needed some sweet banana pepper rings, and some
sandwich roll bread thingies. I did not want to go all the
way to The Devil's Playground because a big storm was
coming. But not really, because the weather guys were
about as accurate with that as with the snowstorms this
winter. Anyhoo...we went into the store which I detest,
because you HAVE to read the expiration dates on
everything, or you might just end up with some four-
year-old ranch dressing.

Our change from two packs of sandwich rolls and the
peppers was $13.13. Which kind of freaked me out,
because even though I'm Even Steven, I don't like to
tempt fate. It's not like I would live at 1313 Mockingbird
Lane or anything. So I didn't want to leave the store with
that (no doubt due to my undiagnosed case of OCD).
I bought the weekly Powerball tickets for myself and
my mom. The young 'un cried for scratch-off tickets.

I tried to reason with the kid. I haven't been buying them
for about the last month or 6 weeks because we were in
a slump. I only buy them when we're on a roll. He looked
so pitiful that I agreed to $2. He could have one $2 ticket,
or two $1 tickets. This store has a big ol' scratchers
vending machine. The boy made his choices. I put in the
two dollars, and hit the first choice. Nothing came out.
The boy squatted down and looked up the slot thingy.
"It's stuck. I can see it." But he couldn't reach it. I pushed
the button for his second choice, thinking it may knock
the other one loose. Nope. But it did come out. We had
to get a store worker to crack open the machine for our
$1 ticket. Which of course was a loser, along with the
other one. I tried to tell him. When Hillbilly Mom does
not want to buy a scratcher, you know she's had a bad
feeling about it. I haven't checked the Powerball tickets
yet. I am not optimistic. But it was only $2, so it ain't
like I bet the farm.

Now, it's only a matter of waiting to be Stevened out.

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'.