Hillbilly Mom, The Lesser Babka

I don't get no respect. That is why Basementia Buddy says she is going to start calling me Rodney Dangerfield. At least I think that's the reason. Surely it has nothing to do with my looks. I don't shop at the Tall and Fat Store.

Basementia Buddy's comments came at the end of the very special school board meeting Thursday night, the purpose of which was to honor our students who achieved honors in all things scholarly. The meeting in which the Science Fair presentation team was introduced, and Mrs. Hillbilly Mom was not announced. Having been told by the principal of Newmentia that I was presenting, I went to the podium anyway. And the principal of Basementia hastily included me. I declare! I might as well be freakin' invisible, what with everything I am left out of.

I am the lesser babka. The cinnamon babka, not as worthy as the chocolate babka. Just ask Jerry and Elaine, who were one customer too late for a chocolate babka. Nobody in Seinfeldland appreciates a lesser babka. That's me. An afterthought in the installation of classroom projectors, in the pecking order of computer repair, in the budgeting of supplies, in the handing out of keys to lab equipment, in the doling out of the paychecks...

Oh, did I not mention that I had to search for my check Wednesday like a crack ho looking for a dropped rock on a gravel road? And I don't mean a mineral. Yes, I went to the office upon returning from the Basemetia awards, and was told that Mr. Principal had given them to my Arch Nemesis to pass out. I went back into the Newmentia awards assembly, stood within three feet of Arch Nemesis, talked to CounterPart, left to supervise the parking lot when junior and seniors were dismissed, returned after the bell to send the fresh-off-the-bus Pony to ask Arch Nemesis if she had my check... only to be told that it was in the office.

I haven't had to work that hard for a paycheck since four summers ago at Basementia, when a certain person in charge could not leave well-enough alone, and instead of leaving the envelopes of summer checks in the superintendent's office to be picked up, carried them with him throughout the building, making professionals engage in an unwelcome game of Where's Waldo to claim their hard-earned cash. Really. When you expect to run in and pick up the checks, but instead have to traipse through three buildings while leaving your children unattended in the car (which is illegal here in Missouri), you kind of form an unfavorable opinion of the person making you jump through those hoops, especially when you find him in the gym playing volleyball, and have to wait for a side out, and then hear the message, "I decided to make you work for your paycheck."

I'll be lucky to have a place in line at tonight's graduation procession. My long-term walking partner, Mr. S, will not be there, as he is attending his son's graduation. Who will walk with the lesser babka?