That's So Outrageous!

I am incensed. Not in a good way, like...um...maybe when some people were in college, and...um...put a towel down by the crack at the bottom of the door, and...um...lit some sandalwood incense. Nope. I am spittin' mad. INCENSED! HH has been up to his shenanigans again. Last Saturday, he told me that on Friday night, he had promised the #1 son that his buddy could come out. Thanks for the advance notice.

It's not the friend--he's the pick of the litter. I went to high school with his mom. He's polite and respectful and not too wild or loud. The stipulation was that the kids stay outside. Yeah. Like that's going to happen. If it was winter, they would demand to stay out the whole four hours in 40-below temperatures. But no. The temperature was 88 degrees. They were in the house SIX times in four hours. Go figure. Riding 4-wheelers, shooting the BB guns, playing laser tag, remote-controlling boats around Poolio, putting corn in HH's deer feeder, playing in the creek, visiting the A-frame and the MiniMansion, and throwing old apples off the back deck were not enough activities to keep them outside.

But even THAT is not the bone I am picking today. It is the bone of AGEism. I don't tell students my age. I let them jump to their own conclusions. Most of them arrive at a calculation WAY below my true age. OK, so a lot of them are not real good at math. That's fine with me. The #1 son knows my true age. He does not reveal it. He and his cronies will be in my class the year after next. I do not need them asking me about my Jitterbug and HoverRound. #1 has told me how old his closest cronies think I am. He is amazed. But he doesn't set the record straight. He knows who butters his noodles.

Just yesterday, the #1 son let it slip that my dear HH had begun an age discussion with The Visitor. It all started when The Visitor said, "I think your mom knows my mom." Which is true. She was a freshman when I was a senior. That's THREE years apart, people. Now here's where HH inserts his stubby foot (I hate feet. Especially when one of them always crosses over to my edge of the bed and touches MY feet, and I can't get away from it) into his big fat mouth. "I don't think so. Your mom would have just been starting Kindergarten when Hillbilly Mom was a senior. WHAT ? ? ? I swear that man has Alzheimer's. That would be, like, TWELVE years difference! And then The Visitor gave his estimate of his mom's age, which I know for a gosh-darn fact is not freakin' true, because I have the YEARBOOK, by cracky, with our pictures in it, and you can't tell me The Visitor's mom was so scathingly brilliant that she was skipped five grades. No way, no how.

I blew a gasket upon receipt of this knowledge of HH's release of incorrect classified information. The #1 son thought it was funny. "Call Dad! Call him NOW, and tell him how mad you are! I knew that wasn't right, but he kept saying, 'No, your mom is a lot younger than Hillbilly Mom. I don't think they knew each other in school.' He thinks you just know each other from working together now. I told him no, Mom. I thought she was in your sister-the-mayor's-wife's class. She's six years younger than you, isn't she? I tried to tell him!"

Thanks, but no thanks. Don't defend me anymore, kid. For the record, my sister is 18 months younger than me. She was a sophomore when I was a senior. People at work who know her think she is my older sister. Well, two of them did, anyway. So what is up with putting Mrs. Hillbilly Mom in the grave before her time? I told them tonight, "You've already got me dead and buried, and have used me for a gallon of fossil fuel to put in your gas tank. I will thank you kindly to refrain from discussing my chronology amongst your peers." Because that's how we teacher-people talk in private, and that's why our kids grow up to be great big nerds just like us.

HH needs to keep his mouth closed. Permanently. I wonder of lockjaw is highly overrated. I need to do some internet research before I invest in rusty nails.