Ain't That A Shot In The Head

Twice this week, I got home after 9:00. I don't like it. It's for the birds. It's even after the cows come home. I'm a night owl, but that's ME time. Not school time. I begrudge that place the precious 1-2 hours a night it drains from me. It's a load of crap. Crap! CRAP, I say! OK, that's a bit dramatic, even for Mrs. Hillbilly Mom. My son saw a t-shirt with the 'crap' saying on it. I don't think so, son. I'm not in a mood to leave work to pick you up to go home and find another shirt. I'm an insider, you know. You can't slip one by me. But you can try. Just like that one kid who had the Christmas spirit and wore his "I've got a big package for you" t-shirt.

Sometimes, I am a bit dense. I took a look at the winning Christmas door (not mine, thank you very much). It was some saying about not spreading the Christmas staph. And it had pictures of numerous faculty on a tree, including Mabel. Each teacher had a single red dot on his/her forehead. "Oh, dear me," thought Mrs. Hillbilly Mom. "Some scofflaw has defaced the winning door! It looks like each one has been shot in the head. I'm surprised this hasn't been taken down. That 'hit list' mentality is something we do not want to encourage." Yes, leave it to Mrs. Hillbilly Mom to jump to the worst case scenario. Perhaps they all could have been turned into Indians (dot, not feather). Hey! It could happen. And then my 2nd cousin explained to me that the red dot represented 'staph'. Never mind. Don't worry, Mabel. You haven't been killed instantly. You're dying a slow, painful death. Which is probably fitting for such a CHEATER, which I believe was a word written quite close to your photo. At least you didn't cry over your own image. Oh, Christmas time. It's such a hurtful season, don't you find it?

And now, a bit about The Pony's program. I stumbled in on rehearsal after Mabel tricked me to the gym. There he sat, on the front row of risers, in his own world. He spotted us and waved. He is so tender-hearted, that boy. At the program, he marched out and climbed up on the back row. That was a first. Then we lost sight of him. And he reappeared on the bottom row. When it was over, I asked him why he was moved. He wouldn't answer until we were halfway home and I threatened to take away his reading and computer and TV. I'm cold-hearted, you know. I thought he was playing me. He got that clammy look when I asked about it. Clammy, as in 'clammed up', never gonna talk. He gets that way instead of having a fit like his brother. Almost in tears, he said, "What do you want to know?" I asked why he was moved. Did he clobber someone? Voice trembling, he replied, "Well, I was on the back row, and Mrs. Music Teacher said she couldn't see me, and she moved me and left someone the same size as me on the back row!" Sob! My poor little Pony had his feelings hurt. He IS one of the smallest in his class. And the therapy lady told him every week how weak he was. I felt his pain, but not much. Get over it already! At least he wasn't in trouble.

I don't mean to be mean about other people's kids, but there was one little soloist who should have had the mic turned off. Oh, the pain! My dog howls better than that at 2:00 a.m. She couldn't carry a tune in a bucket. With a lid on it. And she belted it out LOUD. The guy in front of me looked at his buddy and rolled his eyes. I almost had tears in mine from the pain. It finally ended, and I felt a whoosh as the crowd sighed with relief. And I'll be Gummi Maryed if they didn't sing the same gosh-darn song as a reprise! That music teacher is sadistic. Or deaf.

One more half-day until Christmas vacation. The school year is almost over, you know.