Nothing of interest to report today. Move along.
Tomorrow's itinerary includes a trip to town to buy shoes for the #1 son (baby needs a new pair of shoes--mama needs another gambling trip). I will also shop for a phone for myself. My 5-year-old brick, as my son calls it, has now started acting up. It will stop working intermittently. Like when I am talking to someone, it goes dead for several seconds at a time. I might miss some crucial information. The boy is trying to talk me into a new iPhone, but I do not need the bells and whistles, nor the increased $10 per month it will cost me. I would be a candidate for the Jitterbug, except that it does not work in our area. Don't think I have been shopping for one. It shows on the commercial. There's a tiny blank area in the middle of the country where it won't work. That's us. And anyway, I think the Jitterbug looks like a toilet seat.
HH and #1 are gone to the Cardinals' game tonight. HH the Miser took a collapsible cooler of soda. Last time, they took cans, which were disallowed. The guy offered to let HH go in and buy cups of ice to pour it in. But no. HH walked all the way back to the car, which he parks way down the street and not in a parking garage, but in a lot, and poured the canned soda into bottles. You don't want to know where the bottles came from. But I'm going to tell you. They were HH's empty Mountain Dew 20 oz. bottles that he tosses over his shoulder to accumulate on the floorboard. #1 was mortified. HH said, "Well, I didn't want to waste the soda." The boy told him, "Duh. We could have just put the cans in the car and drank them another day."
I saw another good movie last night. I think it was on the Sundance channel. Not that the acting was good, or that there weren't holes in the plot big enough to run the Mississippi River through. But it was gripping, and I couldn't surf away from it. I tried once, in the first 10 minute, and wouldn't you know it, a main character disappeared, and I don't know the mechanism of departure. That'll learn me. The name of it was The Favor. It starred nobody I had ever heard of. There was no action. But I was entranced. It was about a guy raising a troubled teenage boy who was not his son.
Here's a treat for you. I'm listening to part of my Time-Life collection of 70s music. This one happens to be One-Hit Wonders. Let me share the QUEUE, as my Windows Media Center calls it. What's with Windows Media Center? Is it British, or perhaps Canadian? Nobody here in Missouri talks that way. And that's a fact, Jack.
70s One-Hit Wonders Queue
Play That Funky Music...Wild Cherry
My Maria...W. Stevenson
One Toke Over The Line...Brewer & Shipley
Afternoon Delight...Starland Vocal Band
Life Is A Rock...Reunion
I Can Help...Billy Swan
Beach Baby...First Class
O-O-H Child...The Five Stairsteps
Precious And Few...Climax
Brother Louie...Stories
Put Your Hand In The Hand...Ocean
Please Come To Boston...Dave Loggins
No extra charge for the time travel.
Monday, June 30, 2008
Saturday, June 28, 2008
Take, Take Me Home
continued from yesterday...
When you last left Hillbilly Mom, she and 23 cohorts were being held hostage at the casino by Ebony and Ivory, drivers of the short bus.
Since Ivory had told us "Two forty-five" as the departure time when we disembarked onto his little blue stepstool, we believed him. After all, that's what it said on the mailer we got concerning the new route for the Old People Gambling Bus. So like all good old people, we met out front at 2:30. That's how it worked with the other drivers. We loaded the bus, and LEFT when he told us. Ebony and Ivory must have gotten their wires crossed. I stopped gambling at 2:20. I was out front at 2:30. So were most of the other risk-takers from the short bus. We waited. And waited. At 2:45, Ebony pulled up to the OTHER door, the one where we were not waiting, and Ivory got out his stepstool. We followed the lead cow to the short bus, and got on. Twenty of us got on. After a head count and a recount of his precious clipboard, Ivory stated that we were missing four people. He asked us who they were. One lady volunteered that her landlady and the landlady's son were missing. Another said the guy in front of her was gone. That's all we could think of. The rowdies in the back seat asked if we could leave them.
When we rode the Husky bus, we left two people.
It's not like we're kids. We were told when to be here.
Who do they think they are?
I'd like to be gambling right now, too.
If they have a problem, they'll just have to walk home.
That's really inconsiderate to the rest of us.
Leave them!
Ebony said that we couldn't leave until 3:00. At 2:55, the landlady duo came out, followed by a guy who seemed simple. They received a cold reception. Ivory tried to decide if he had miscounted. Then one white-hair said, "Hey! Aren't we missing that guy who got on with you?" The simple guy kind of nodded. But he didn't speak up. Rowdiest said, "I hated to leave my machine. I just hit it big at 2:20. I know it was going to pay more." I told her that the missing guy had sat down to play it when she left, and was at this very moment collecting his giant jackpot. She shuddered. At 2:59, the bald guy in the green Hawaiian shirt came walking toward the bus. "He isn't in a very big hurry, is he?" "Why should he be...he still has one minute left!" The guy across from me mumbled, "You almost had to walk home, Bub." But not loud enough for Bub to hear it distinctly. Old people can be so cruel.
Ebony ripped out of the parking lot like he was getting a bonus for each minute he was under schedule. He ran the first stop sign. I can't say any of us were surprised. We held on for dear life down Harrah's slalomy entrance/exit road. Ebony hit I-270, and made a bee-line for the next-to-fastest lane. Our bodies swayed back and forth in a sideways sine wave, like a 24-ducky pull toy at the hand of an inebriated toddler. Every couple of minutes, a car on our right side lane would honk, and Ivory would say, "Here comes another one." I was seated right under the emergency exit. You better believe that I had those instructions memorized in case I needed to blow the hatch. In addition, my window was an emergency exit. LIFT BOTH HANDLES AND PUSH OUT, it assured me. I turned to the rowdies. "We'll be the first ones out." They knew what I was talkin' about. Every so often, we hit a bump and caught some air.
I looked two seats in front of me, and saw Bub sleeping with his bald head resting against the window. I told the rowdies. Rowdiest proclaimed, "Well, he'll be black and blue tomorrow! I hit my head, and I was just sitting here." Rowdier said, "I don't know HOW he can sleep." I told her he was tired. He must have fallen asleep with his head on the slot machine, right after winning that big jackpot, and that's why he was late for the bus.
The next thing I saw froze the blood in my veins. By now, we were on a two-lane highway. We were fast overtaking a yellow behemoth of a highway department vehicle being towed on a low-belly trailer, with flags announcing OVERSIZE LOAD. Sweet Gummi Mary! We were all going to die! I warned the back seat. Rowdiest closed her eyes and started praying. Rowdier held her breath. We squeaked by. I don't know by how much. I couldn't watch. Rowdiest grew bold after her near-death experience. She said, "My ring tone is a police siren." Rowdier told her, "Don't you dare. It will scare him. He might stop right in the middle of the fast lane." Rowdiest took no heed. I'm guessing that her favorite movie is The Year of Living Dangerously. She set off that ring tone. You could hear the crack of arthritic necks throughout the bus. Rowdiest held up her phone so they wouldn't panic. Then she switched it to a fire engine. My aunt said, "Is there a fire truck coming?" She's a bit slow. Everybody heard it but Ebony. It must have been the rush of air at 100 mph that kept the sound from making it all the way to the front.
Ebony pulled onto the exit ramp to let off the one lady from the last/first stop. I told her, "At least YOU arrived in one piece." The guy across from me said, "Not so fast. You aren't to your truck yet." At the top of the exit ramp, a small SUV had stopped at the stop sign. A guy got out of the passenger seat, went to the back, and took something out. FOOL! He had no idea we were driving the bus from Speed. I say that, because I don't think we drove under 50 mph the whole way from Harrah's to that exit. At the turn-in to the commuter parking lot, two young fools were standing in the middle of the road on their Razors. I mean the metal scooter-type Razors, not the phones, which would be kind of pointless, not to mention having a different spelling. They skedaddled right into the weeds of the right-of-way when they saw us careening at them. After we dropped off Rowdy, and pulled back on the road, Rowdier said, "I wonder if she kissed the ground."
We made it to my stop in about 10 minutes. That's 15 miles in 10 minutes, on a Holiday tour bus. Let's just say we made good time. My mom was there to take me home, because HH and the boys had my new LSUV at a family reunion picnic. HH's family.
After my mom got back to her house, she called me. "I was waiting at the stoplight on the outer road [the one where Rudy Giuliani, the inflatable rat, sits each day] and I heard a 'roar'. I looked over at the highway, and a short bus flew by. I think it was your bus going back to the city. It went so fast I couldn't see the driver."
That was him. I have no doubt.
When you last left Hillbilly Mom, she and 23 cohorts were being held hostage at the casino by Ebony and Ivory, drivers of the short bus.
Since Ivory had told us "Two forty-five" as the departure time when we disembarked onto his little blue stepstool, we believed him. After all, that's what it said on the mailer we got concerning the new route for the Old People Gambling Bus. So like all good old people, we met out front at 2:30. That's how it worked with the other drivers. We loaded the bus, and LEFT when he told us. Ebony and Ivory must have gotten their wires crossed. I stopped gambling at 2:20. I was out front at 2:30. So were most of the other risk-takers from the short bus. We waited. And waited. At 2:45, Ebony pulled up to the OTHER door, the one where we were not waiting, and Ivory got out his stepstool. We followed the lead cow to the short bus, and got on. Twenty of us got on. After a head count and a recount of his precious clipboard, Ivory stated that we were missing four people. He asked us who they were. One lady volunteered that her landlady and the landlady's son were missing. Another said the guy in front of her was gone. That's all we could think of. The rowdies in the back seat asked if we could leave them.
When we rode the Husky bus, we left two people.
It's not like we're kids. We were told when to be here.
Who do they think they are?
I'd like to be gambling right now, too.
If they have a problem, they'll just have to walk home.
That's really inconsiderate to the rest of us.
Leave them!
Ebony said that we couldn't leave until 3:00. At 2:55, the landlady duo came out, followed by a guy who seemed simple. They received a cold reception. Ivory tried to decide if he had miscounted. Then one white-hair said, "Hey! Aren't we missing that guy who got on with you?" The simple guy kind of nodded. But he didn't speak up. Rowdiest said, "I hated to leave my machine. I just hit it big at 2:20. I know it was going to pay more." I told her that the missing guy had sat down to play it when she left, and was at this very moment collecting his giant jackpot. She shuddered. At 2:59, the bald guy in the green Hawaiian shirt came walking toward the bus. "He isn't in a very big hurry, is he?" "Why should he be...he still has one minute left!" The guy across from me mumbled, "You almost had to walk home, Bub." But not loud enough for Bub to hear it distinctly. Old people can be so cruel.
Ebony ripped out of the parking lot like he was getting a bonus for each minute he was under schedule. He ran the first stop sign. I can't say any of us were surprised. We held on for dear life down Harrah's slalomy entrance/exit road. Ebony hit I-270, and made a bee-line for the next-to-fastest lane. Our bodies swayed back and forth in a sideways sine wave, like a 24-ducky pull toy at the hand of an inebriated toddler. Every couple of minutes, a car on our right side lane would honk, and Ivory would say, "Here comes another one." I was seated right under the emergency exit. You better believe that I had those instructions memorized in case I needed to blow the hatch. In addition, my window was an emergency exit. LIFT BOTH HANDLES AND PUSH OUT, it assured me. I turned to the rowdies. "We'll be the first ones out." They knew what I was talkin' about. Every so often, we hit a bump and caught some air.
I looked two seats in front of me, and saw Bub sleeping with his bald head resting against the window. I told the rowdies. Rowdiest proclaimed, "Well, he'll be black and blue tomorrow! I hit my head, and I was just sitting here." Rowdier said, "I don't know HOW he can sleep." I told her he was tired. He must have fallen asleep with his head on the slot machine, right after winning that big jackpot, and that's why he was late for the bus.
The next thing I saw froze the blood in my veins. By now, we were on a two-lane highway. We were fast overtaking a yellow behemoth of a highway department vehicle being towed on a low-belly trailer, with flags announcing OVERSIZE LOAD. Sweet Gummi Mary! We were all going to die! I warned the back seat. Rowdiest closed her eyes and started praying. Rowdier held her breath. We squeaked by. I don't know by how much. I couldn't watch. Rowdiest grew bold after her near-death experience. She said, "My ring tone is a police siren." Rowdier told her, "Don't you dare. It will scare him. He might stop right in the middle of the fast lane." Rowdiest took no heed. I'm guessing that her favorite movie is The Year of Living Dangerously. She set off that ring tone. You could hear the crack of arthritic necks throughout the bus. Rowdiest held up her phone so they wouldn't panic. Then she switched it to a fire engine. My aunt said, "Is there a fire truck coming?" She's a bit slow. Everybody heard it but Ebony. It must have been the rush of air at 100 mph that kept the sound from making it all the way to the front.
Ebony pulled onto the exit ramp to let off the one lady from the last/first stop. I told her, "At least YOU arrived in one piece." The guy across from me said, "Not so fast. You aren't to your truck yet." At the top of the exit ramp, a small SUV had stopped at the stop sign. A guy got out of the passenger seat, went to the back, and took something out. FOOL! He had no idea we were driving the bus from Speed. I say that, because I don't think we drove under 50 mph the whole way from Harrah's to that exit. At the turn-in to the commuter parking lot, two young fools were standing in the middle of the road on their Razors. I mean the metal scooter-type Razors, not the phones, which would be kind of pointless, not to mention having a different spelling. They skedaddled right into the weeds of the right-of-way when they saw us careening at them. After we dropped off Rowdy, and pulled back on the road, Rowdier said, "I wonder if she kissed the ground."
We made it to my stop in about 10 minutes. That's 15 miles in 10 minutes, on a Holiday tour bus. Let's just say we made good time. My mom was there to take me home, because HH and the boys had my new LSUV at a family reunion picnic. HH's family.
After my mom got back to her house, she called me. "I was waiting at the stoplight on the outer road [the one where Rudy Giuliani, the inflatable rat, sits each day] and I heard a 'roar'. I looked over at the highway, and a short bus flew by. I think it was your bus going back to the city. It went so fast I couldn't see the driver."
That was him. I have no doubt.
HM Rides The Short Bus
Yes! I'm happy to report that I rode the short bus today. I'm even happier to report that I survived. I need to print some T-shirts for that: I Rode the Short Bus and I Survived! I know I could sell 23 of them. The short bus, you see, was today's Old People Gambling Bus to the casino. We had a new driver again. I don't think we're that bad. I don't know why they have to keep replacing the driver. It's not like we mutiny, or dance topless in the aisle, or start a fire in the trash can in the back. Oops! That trash can stunt was my HH, when he went to Vo-Tech in high school, and there was no heat on the bus. That scathingly brilliant idea earned him 3 days suspension. But we're not talking about HH--we're talking about ME, and how I survived the express horizontal escalator to H*ll.
When I got on with three other people at my stop, I saw that the short bus was crowded as all get-out. And I wished some of those folks would get out, but NO, they insisted on riding the whole way to the casino. Go figure. I knew I was in for a bad trip when I counted 23 people on that 30-passenger bus, with one stop left to make, and I WAS NOT THE YOUNGEST! How dare the young people ride our bus! One was two years younger than me, and another had the gall to be born FIVE years before me. Ungrateful whippersnappers! Usually, we pick up 8 or 9 people from the northern stops. But...the route was changed after June 16, and they combined two stops, and made the folks drive out to the interstate. So thank the Gummi Mary, we only picked up one lady at the last stop. We were over 10 minutes late already.
We had 2 drivers this time. A black one and a white one. Ebony and ivory. Salt and pepper. Cookie and cream. Night and day. To be perfectly honest, only ONE of them drove. The white guy rode shotgun, and hopped out with the step-stool. He also held reign over the sign-in clipboard, which was a scary spectre, what with him swaying down the aisle and harping that we stole his pen. Criminy, they're ten-for-a-dollar at The Devil's Playground. At first, the ladies behind me were wishing this dude would drive. That's before they saw him walk. We were so crowded that there were four ladies on the last seat behind me. The conversation went a little like this...
Why are there two drivers?
Is that one new?
Maybe he is being trained and he's just riding along.
Well, I wish HE would drive. This swaying is making me seasick.
Whoa!
She just said, "At least he hasn't run off on those noisy bumpy things."
Stop saying that! It's a jinx. Now he'll do it again.
What? Oh, here it is.
Your pen? I gave it to you when you came to get the clipboard.
There. It fell off. Pass this up.
Yeah, we don't want him walking back here again.
I'm glad he's not driving. He can't even walk straight.
He walks like he's drunk.
Do you think it's because we're moving?
Well, we are whipping back and forth like a carnival ride.
To make matters worse, we encountered road construction. I blame the traffic jam on MODoT. They put up signs (heh, heh, first I wrote 'sighs') on each side of the highway that only said, "Road work ahead." Then, at the actual work site, after traffic crawled along for ten minutes, another sign said, "Right lane closed." Duh. Maybe the first sign should have told them 'abandon hope, all ye who enter the right lane'. That might have kept people from packing that right lane and having to wedge their way in front of us. Oh, and I think some people went up the exit ramp and came right back down the entrance ramp to merge in and skip ahead of about 50 cars. Anyhoo, this little roadblock cost us 20 minutes. This is where it gets dicier. That driver put the pedal to the metal. I was afraid to look out. Our heads were whipping side-to-side like bows on a kite tail. We were supposed to arrive at Harrah's at 10:15. We got there at 10:30. I have no idea how we made up that extra 15 minutes of the 30 we were running late. Of course, it didn't help us, because neither Ebony nor Ivory had our free money vouchers. We had to mill about on the sidewalk until one of the geniuses decided we could wait inside the air-conditioned casino. Then Ebony brought the lady to us, and instead of passing out the vouchers, she made us stand in line while she scanned them one at a time for us to step up individually and scan our player cards. There went the 15 minutes we had saved.
The gambling itself was a bit anticlimactic compared to the ride there AND BACK. Oh, yes. There's more. But let's get my gambling out of the way first. I always lose a bit, or break even. Today, I am the proud winner of $45! Yeah, I know. Now I can pay for that new LSUV I just bought. I was really hyped about my winnings, until I remembered that I had two free $15 vouchers, plus the $5 voucher from the bus, and that I spent $9 on lunch. Which leaves me with a grand total of ONE DOLLAR in winnings. Que sera, sera. It is what it is.
I went in the other side of Harrah's today. The part that is not the Mardi Gras casino. It might be the Island, but I forget. It is the dirtier, more run-down side. Instead of playing one game, I flitted from slot to slot. I was rewarded with a 3X/3X/7, which garnered me about $60. Don't you be proud of Mrs. Hillbilly Mom. While she didn't play that away, she DID continue to play, which frittered her bankroll to $67 in the hole by lunch time. That's another bone I have to pick. Those grill workers are slower than molasses in January. But at least they spoke English in this one, not like the one out on the main walkway area. Oh, and then I stood in line 10 minutes at a freakin' cashier, just to get my free $5. I had precious little time left to lose the rest of my money. I was planning to cash out and go to the bathroom to count my money at 2:20. At 2:10, I was down over $100. Pretty far over, methinks, but I hadn't counted in a bit. I went to a progressive Red, White, and Blue quarter machine. I had a $6.50 ticket I had cashed out. I put it in, and pushed max coins twice. I noticed that my machine had no sound, no ding-dingety. I pushed max coins again, and hit 4X/double bar/4X. Whoop-ti-doo! That counter thingy went up to 1020 credits! I cashed out $255 on that silent machine. While I was glad to reduce my debt and enter the win column, I couldn't help but feel a bit cheated that my one-armed bandit was mute. Nobody turned to stare at me while my credit counter was going wild. But I'll take it.
I will have to save the return trip until tomorrow.
TO BE CONTINUED...
When I got on with three other people at my stop, I saw that the short bus was crowded as all get-out. And I wished some of those folks would get out, but NO, they insisted on riding the whole way to the casino. Go figure. I knew I was in for a bad trip when I counted 23 people on that 30-passenger bus, with one stop left to make, and I WAS NOT THE YOUNGEST! How dare the young people ride our bus! One was two years younger than me, and another had the gall to be born FIVE years before me. Ungrateful whippersnappers! Usually, we pick up 8 or 9 people from the northern stops. But...the route was changed after June 16, and they combined two stops, and made the folks drive out to the interstate. So thank the Gummi Mary, we only picked up one lady at the last stop. We were over 10 minutes late already.
We had 2 drivers this time. A black one and a white one. Ebony and ivory. Salt and pepper. Cookie and cream. Night and day. To be perfectly honest, only ONE of them drove. The white guy rode shotgun, and hopped out with the step-stool. He also held reign over the sign-in clipboard, which was a scary spectre, what with him swaying down the aisle and harping that we stole his pen. Criminy, they're ten-for-a-dollar at The Devil's Playground. At first, the ladies behind me were wishing this dude would drive. That's before they saw him walk. We were so crowded that there were four ladies on the last seat behind me. The conversation went a little like this...
Why are there two drivers?
Is that one new?
Maybe he is being trained and he's just riding along.
Well, I wish HE would drive. This swaying is making me seasick.
Whoa!
She just said, "At least he hasn't run off on those noisy bumpy things."
Stop saying that! It's a jinx. Now he'll do it again.
What? Oh, here it is.
Your pen? I gave it to you when you came to get the clipboard.
There. It fell off. Pass this up.
Yeah, we don't want him walking back here again.
I'm glad he's not driving. He can't even walk straight.
He walks like he's drunk.
Do you think it's because we're moving?
Well, we are whipping back and forth like a carnival ride.
To make matters worse, we encountered road construction. I blame the traffic jam on MODoT. They put up signs (heh, heh, first I wrote 'sighs') on each side of the highway that only said, "Road work ahead." Then, at the actual work site, after traffic crawled along for ten minutes, another sign said, "Right lane closed." Duh. Maybe the first sign should have told them 'abandon hope, all ye who enter the right lane'. That might have kept people from packing that right lane and having to wedge their way in front of us. Oh, and I think some people went up the exit ramp and came right back down the entrance ramp to merge in and skip ahead of about 50 cars. Anyhoo, this little roadblock cost us 20 minutes. This is where it gets dicier. That driver put the pedal to the metal. I was afraid to look out. Our heads were whipping side-to-side like bows on a kite tail. We were supposed to arrive at Harrah's at 10:15. We got there at 10:30. I have no idea how we made up that extra 15 minutes of the 30 we were running late. Of course, it didn't help us, because neither Ebony nor Ivory had our free money vouchers. We had to mill about on the sidewalk until one of the geniuses decided we could wait inside the air-conditioned casino. Then Ebony brought the lady to us, and instead of passing out the vouchers, she made us stand in line while she scanned them one at a time for us to step up individually and scan our player cards. There went the 15 minutes we had saved.
The gambling itself was a bit anticlimactic compared to the ride there AND BACK. Oh, yes. There's more. But let's get my gambling out of the way first. I always lose a bit, or break even. Today, I am the proud winner of $45! Yeah, I know. Now I can pay for that new LSUV I just bought. I was really hyped about my winnings, until I remembered that I had two free $15 vouchers, plus the $5 voucher from the bus, and that I spent $9 on lunch. Which leaves me with a grand total of ONE DOLLAR in winnings. Que sera, sera. It is what it is.
I went in the other side of Harrah's today. The part that is not the Mardi Gras casino. It might be the Island, but I forget. It is the dirtier, more run-down side. Instead of playing one game, I flitted from slot to slot. I was rewarded with a 3X/3X/7, which garnered me about $60. Don't you be proud of Mrs. Hillbilly Mom. While she didn't play that away, she DID continue to play, which frittered her bankroll to $67 in the hole by lunch time. That's another bone I have to pick. Those grill workers are slower than molasses in January. But at least they spoke English in this one, not like the one out on the main walkway area. Oh, and then I stood in line 10 minutes at a freakin' cashier, just to get my free $5. I had precious little time left to lose the rest of my money. I was planning to cash out and go to the bathroom to count my money at 2:20. At 2:10, I was down over $100. Pretty far over, methinks, but I hadn't counted in a bit. I went to a progressive Red, White, and Blue quarter machine. I had a $6.50 ticket I had cashed out. I put it in, and pushed max coins twice. I noticed that my machine had no sound, no ding-dingety. I pushed max coins again, and hit 4X/double bar/4X. Whoop-ti-doo! That counter thingy went up to 1020 credits! I cashed out $255 on that silent machine. While I was glad to reduce my debt and enter the win column, I couldn't help but feel a bit cheated that my one-armed bandit was mute. Nobody turned to stare at me while my credit counter was going wild. But I'll take it.
I will have to save the return trip until tomorrow.
TO BE CONTINUED...
Friday, June 27, 2008
A-Fishin' We Did Go
The Hillbilly Family went fishing this morning. We had planned the trip the night before, if by planning, I mean not loading the poles in the truck, not having any bait, and not setting an alarm. I woke HH, who loaded the truck, and I woke the boys and told them what to wear. It would be my first time using my new pink-and-black Shakespeare Ladyfish rod and reel that HH got me for Christmas. Except that he forgot that he got if for me, and several days after Christmas, he said, "DOH! #1, go get your mom that present that I put over in the BARn."
Since HH had not thought out the bait issue, it was decided that we would make a trip to town for some worms from Casey's. HH thought the store by the lake would not be open. DUH! What convenience store in the middle of nowhere is not open at 7:00 a.m.? The hicks need their coffee and soda and donuts on the way to work, people. So instead of just taking the country roads out past our house, we drove to town for worms. It never entered HH's mind to dig for worms somewhere on our 20 acres, even though when we lived in town, I was awakened many a day by strange men digging in the ditch by our driveway. Only the best store-bought worms for this Hillbilly family to feed to the fish.
I offered HH $20 of the vacation money for the use of his truck for the fishing trip. He snapped that right up. It took him all of 3 minutes to pump that $20 worth of gas. I imagine that gave us about 50 miles, what with the appetite of the truck, and the lead foot of HH. The boys clamored for a donut, but neither would go in with HH. He returned with a white-rosting donut for The Pony, a chocolate-frosting donut for the #1 son, and a cinnamon roll and Diet Coke for himself. It seems that children don't have a thirst early in the morning after eating donuts. HH had offered to get me something, but I had already eaten to take my medicine.
We got about 5 miles up the highway, on our alternate route to the lake, and I asked, "Where's the worms?" HH looked at me. Uh huh. A trip to town just to get worms, and HH forgot the worms. "It's almost 8:00. I'm sure that little store will be open." Indeed, there were about 7 cars there when we pulled in to the little store at 7:50. While we waited for HH to purchase the gourmet worms, a mosquito buzzed its way to the inside of my window. The #1 son, sitting behind me in the club part of the club cab, quickly dispatched it with a 'THWAK' of a stuffed Dracula doll. Of course he argued that it was not 'Dracula', but rather 'The Phantom of the Mask' or some such label on the stuffed, caped, masked, bug-thwakking fellow. The Pony had won it in a grabber machine last year, and HH wouldn't let him throw it away. It went where all unwanted toys go to die: Club Ford.
We staked out our regular fishing spot on the dam of a small pond within the lake development. The #1 son caught a nice 18-inch catfish within the first 5 minutes of our arrival. I, on the other hand, had one nibble in 90 minutes. I can hardly tell the rest. The sting of injustice is lurking just behind my steely hazel eyes. I asked the boy to take my pole around the pond and have HH put another hunk of worm on the hook. (Shhh...when I was without an HH, I used to bait my hook by myself. Now, I have an HH, and I'm not letting him go to waste). I told #1, "I just got a little bite right there. The first one all day. If you want to throw your line in, I will watch it while you take my pole." He agreed. He cast in---"HEY! I've got another one!" And he reeled in the 16-inch catfish that was rightfully mine. I almost cried. He took his fish so HH could remove it, leaving me sitting with my worm skin to practice casting where my fish had once been.
#1 came back with his freshly-baited hook and the worm box. Using my thumbnail, I severed a fat wiggley front end from a thin wiggly back end, and baited my own hook. I left my newly-fishless location, and walked down to the shallower end of the pond. Since I'd had no luck with a bobber, without a bobber, or letting the worm lie on the bottom, I cast in and reeled back immediately at a moderate pace. On the second cast, I caught a 10-inch catfish. I'd been hoping for a bass, but any fish was better than no fish. It was not received with much enthusiasm. Even HH said, "Do you want to keep him?" Of course I didn't. We tossed him back, as we did the other two before we left. The Pony caught a 4-inch bluegill, also not a keeper, and that was the meager sum of the fishing trip.
I don't mean to brag, but I have 8 fat nightcrawlers on the top shelf of my refrigerator.
Since HH had not thought out the bait issue, it was decided that we would make a trip to town for some worms from Casey's. HH thought the store by the lake would not be open. DUH! What convenience store in the middle of nowhere is not open at 7:00 a.m.? The hicks need their coffee and soda and donuts on the way to work, people. So instead of just taking the country roads out past our house, we drove to town for worms. It never entered HH's mind to dig for worms somewhere on our 20 acres, even though when we lived in town, I was awakened many a day by strange men digging in the ditch by our driveway. Only the best store-bought worms for this Hillbilly family to feed to the fish.
I offered HH $20 of the vacation money for the use of his truck for the fishing trip. He snapped that right up. It took him all of 3 minutes to pump that $20 worth of gas. I imagine that gave us about 50 miles, what with the appetite of the truck, and the lead foot of HH. The boys clamored for a donut, but neither would go in with HH. He returned with a white-rosting donut for The Pony, a chocolate-frosting donut for the #1 son, and a cinnamon roll and Diet Coke for himself. It seems that children don't have a thirst early in the morning after eating donuts. HH had offered to get me something, but I had already eaten to take my medicine.
We got about 5 miles up the highway, on our alternate route to the lake, and I asked, "Where's the worms?" HH looked at me. Uh huh. A trip to town just to get worms, and HH forgot the worms. "It's almost 8:00. I'm sure that little store will be open." Indeed, there were about 7 cars there when we pulled in to the little store at 7:50. While we waited for HH to purchase the gourmet worms, a mosquito buzzed its way to the inside of my window. The #1 son, sitting behind me in the club part of the club cab, quickly dispatched it with a 'THWAK' of a stuffed Dracula doll. Of course he argued that it was not 'Dracula', but rather 'The Phantom of the Mask' or some such label on the stuffed, caped, masked, bug-thwakking fellow. The Pony had won it in a grabber machine last year, and HH wouldn't let him throw it away. It went where all unwanted toys go to die: Club Ford.
We staked out our regular fishing spot on the dam of a small pond within the lake development. The #1 son caught a nice 18-inch catfish within the first 5 minutes of our arrival. I, on the other hand, had one nibble in 90 minutes. I can hardly tell the rest. The sting of injustice is lurking just behind my steely hazel eyes. I asked the boy to take my pole around the pond and have HH put another hunk of worm on the hook. (Shhh...when I was without an HH, I used to bait my hook by myself. Now, I have an HH, and I'm not letting him go to waste). I told #1, "I just got a little bite right there. The first one all day. If you want to throw your line in, I will watch it while you take my pole." He agreed. He cast in---"HEY! I've got another one!" And he reeled in the 16-inch catfish that was rightfully mine. I almost cried. He took his fish so HH could remove it, leaving me sitting with my worm skin to practice casting where my fish had once been.
#1 came back with his freshly-baited hook and the worm box. Using my thumbnail, I severed a fat wiggley front end from a thin wiggly back end, and baited my own hook. I left my newly-fishless location, and walked down to the shallower end of the pond. Since I'd had no luck with a bobber, without a bobber, or letting the worm lie on the bottom, I cast in and reeled back immediately at a moderate pace. On the second cast, I caught a 10-inch catfish. I'd been hoping for a bass, but any fish was better than no fish. It was not received with much enthusiasm. Even HH said, "Do you want to keep him?" Of course I didn't. We tossed him back, as we did the other two before we left. The Pony caught a 4-inch bluegill, also not a keeper, and that was the meager sum of the fishing trip.
I don't mean to brag, but I have 8 fat nightcrawlers on the top shelf of my refrigerator.
Thursday, June 26, 2008
Random Thought Thursday 6-26-08
Aha! Thursday didn't get away from me this time!
The boys and I are going to see Get Smart this afternoon. HH and the #1 son saw it last night. Go figure. The boy wants to see it again. It's vacation, by cracky. I can shell out four bucks a ticket on vacation.
A new bridge is being put in on the county road by our mailbox. They have been clearing trees, and are set to start on the Monday after July 4th. That means we will have to go out a different road, which will add about 4 miles to my daily drive. I hope they hurry up with it.
The guy who put the first mastodon skeleton found on display, calling it the "Missouri Leviathon", had assembled the skeleton wrong. Some foreign guy saw it, and determined that it was really a mastodon. Oh, and they used to think that man did not exist at the same time as the mastodons, but somebody found an arrow tip lying against a mastodon bone. Or DID he? I'm a bit skeptical if this is the only evidence. Who's to say that somebody didn't fudge just a little bit on the location of that arrow tip? In case you are saying to yourself, "WTF's a mastodon?" it's a critter like a non-woolly mammoth.
I am riding the Old People Gambling Bus again on Saturday. My aunt and I are taking my grandma. She is 91 years old. I hope she makes the trip OK. It was her idea.
HH has created himself a regular Squatter's Village down by the creek. I will try to get pictures of his settlement in the next few days.
The boys and I are going to see Get Smart this afternoon. HH and the #1 son saw it last night. Go figure. The boy wants to see it again. It's vacation, by cracky. I can shell out four bucks a ticket on vacation.
A new bridge is being put in on the county road by our mailbox. They have been clearing trees, and are set to start on the Monday after July 4th. That means we will have to go out a different road, which will add about 4 miles to my daily drive. I hope they hurry up with it.
The guy who put the first mastodon skeleton found on display, calling it the "Missouri Leviathon", had assembled the skeleton wrong. Some foreign guy saw it, and determined that it was really a mastodon. Oh, and they used to think that man did not exist at the same time as the mastodons, but somebody found an arrow tip lying against a mastodon bone. Or DID he? I'm a bit skeptical if this is the only evidence. Who's to say that somebody didn't fudge just a little bit on the location of that arrow tip? In case you are saying to yourself, "WTF's a mastodon?" it's a critter like a non-woolly mammoth.
I am riding the Old People Gambling Bus again on Saturday. My aunt and I are taking my grandma. She is 91 years old. I hope she makes the trip OK. It was her idea.
HH has created himself a regular Squatter's Village down by the creek. I will try to get pictures of his settlement in the next few days.
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
HM's Phoney Faux Pas
Yesterday, on the way to Mastodon State Park, I had the most scathingly brilliant idea of calling OldLoverFromTheStreetLastNight to see why she hadn't called about bringing her young child to experience the joys of Poolio. When last we spoke, it was agreed that she would call one morning and come out in the afternoon. Since then, she has dropped off the face of Hillmomba.
I gave my phone to the #1 son, since he had only put in her home number. He said he could find her cell number in 'received calls'. He put in the number, and I called. After 5 or 6 rings, it said, "The party you are calling does not have a voice mailbox set up." Then I looked at the number I had called, and told the boy that did not look right. He said, "Oh!" and I knew he had made a mistake. He put in the right number. I tried it twice, but it went immediately to voice mail. The boy told me I had no signal. When I did, I said I would try her home number. I selected that entry my boy had programmed into the phone. It started ringing. I tried to turn up the volume, because my family has no respect for a momversation-in-progress. When I heard the phone was picked up, the conversation went a little something like this:
OldLoverFromTheStreetLastNight!
Hey!
What are you doing?
Not much. What have you been up to?
Wondering why you didn't call me last week to come swimming!
Oh. Well...I forgot. I've been busy tearing out my kitchen floor.
Why are you doing that?
We're selling the house.
What? Why are you selling the house? Is it because the neighbors are a$$holes?
Naw. I'm only going to be at HillbillyMom'sSchool one more year.
You're kidding! How come?
We're moving to southeast Missouri. I'm going to look down there.
All through this exchange, something didn't seem quite right. OldLoverFromTheStreetLastNight sounded really, really tired. I thought that maybe I had woken her up. But it was 10:00 a.m. I didn't think she could sleep that late with a 4-year-old in the house. I thought maybe she was mad at me and didn't really want to come out to frolic in Poolio. And what did she mean, she would only be at school one more year? She has been gone for two years, and has subbed a couple of times. Her child has called the neighbors 'a$holes' like her daddy does, but aside from them being suspects in the disappearance of Fred-the-cat, I didn't think they were a reason to move. And the house had just been remodeled a couple years ago.
Then, it dawned on me. I was not speaking to OldLoverFromTheStreetLastNight, but instead I was speaking to my Lower Basementia Buddy!!! How freakin' embarrassing!!!
Hey! I'm sorry! I thought you were OldLoverFromTheStreetLastNight! That's why I called you that at the beginning. My boy told me this was her number, and I dialed it.
Well, I wanted to know why I hadn't been invited out to swim!
I was just talking about that poolside just the other day. I told the #1 son, "LBB and Sonny could come down and swim. You boys could ride the 4-wheelers."
Sure. We'll do that sometime. I didn't remember telling you I would call last week, but I thought maybe I forgot, so I should just admit to it.
Let us know. We'll be home the rest of the summer.
Well, I'm in southeast Missouri now, so I'm going to let you go.
OK. We're on the way to Mastodon State Park. I'll call you later. If I get the right number.
I gave up on calling OldLoverFromTheStreetLastNight. What with my track record and all. It appears that when I went to adjust the volume, it popped the call up to the previous number on my list. The #1 son was off the hook. Never mind that he had actually given me the wrong number the time before. Thank goodness I wasn't calling anyone whose opinion matters to me.
That would have been really embarrassing.
I gave my phone to the #1 son, since he had only put in her home number. He said he could find her cell number in 'received calls'. He put in the number, and I called. After 5 or 6 rings, it said, "The party you are calling does not have a voice mailbox set up." Then I looked at the number I had called, and told the boy that did not look right. He said, "Oh!" and I knew he had made a mistake. He put in the right number. I tried it twice, but it went immediately to voice mail. The boy told me I had no signal. When I did, I said I would try her home number. I selected that entry my boy had programmed into the phone. It started ringing. I tried to turn up the volume, because my family has no respect for a momversation-in-progress. When I heard the phone was picked up, the conversation went a little something like this:
OldLoverFromTheStreetLastNight!
Hey!
What are you doing?
Not much. What have you been up to?
Wondering why you didn't call me last week to come swimming!
Oh. Well...I forgot. I've been busy tearing out my kitchen floor.
Why are you doing that?
We're selling the house.
What? Why are you selling the house? Is it because the neighbors are a$$holes?
Naw. I'm only going to be at HillbillyMom'sSchool one more year.
You're kidding! How come?
We're moving to southeast Missouri. I'm going to look down there.
All through this exchange, something didn't seem quite right. OldLoverFromTheStreetLastNight sounded really, really tired. I thought that maybe I had woken her up. But it was 10:00 a.m. I didn't think she could sleep that late with a 4-year-old in the house. I thought maybe she was mad at me and didn't really want to come out to frolic in Poolio. And what did she mean, she would only be at school one more year? She has been gone for two years, and has subbed a couple of times. Her child has called the neighbors 'a$holes' like her daddy does, but aside from them being suspects in the disappearance of Fred-the-cat, I didn't think they were a reason to move. And the house had just been remodeled a couple years ago.
Then, it dawned on me. I was not speaking to OldLoverFromTheStreetLastNight, but instead I was speaking to my Lower Basementia Buddy!!! How freakin' embarrassing!!!
Hey! I'm sorry! I thought you were OldLoverFromTheStreetLastNight! That's why I called you that at the beginning. My boy told me this was her number, and I dialed it.
Well, I wanted to know why I hadn't been invited out to swim!
I was just talking about that poolside just the other day. I told the #1 son, "LBB and Sonny could come down and swim. You boys could ride the 4-wheelers."
Sure. We'll do that sometime. I didn't remember telling you I would call last week, but I thought maybe I forgot, so I should just admit to it.
Let us know. We'll be home the rest of the summer.
Well, I'm in southeast Missouri now, so I'm going to let you go.
OK. We're on the way to Mastodon State Park. I'll call you later. If I get the right number.
I gave up on calling OldLoverFromTheStreetLastNight. What with my track record and all. It appears that when I went to adjust the volume, it popped the call up to the previous number on my list. The #1 son was off the hook. Never mind that he had actually given me the wrong number the time before. Thank goodness I wasn't calling anyone whose opinion matters to me.
That would have been really embarrassing.
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
Here She Is
Introducing, in all her glory,
the new Hillbilly Family LSUV.
See how she sparkles, see how she shines!
Oh, and there's no black hole where the
license plate goes. In the original photo,
some criminal could zoom in and read
five numbers, so the boy chopped it out.
Her guts are a bit fancified for my tastes,
but you can't walk away from a
sweetheart of a deal.
I asked the boy to take pictures of
the inside, outside, and the back.
Meaning, to show how much room
there is inside, back to the 3rd seat.
Obviously, the #1 son has depicted what is
important to HIM, and chose to show you
the controls to his wireless head-phoned
radio and DVD player and air conditioner.
He didn't even show the seats that fold up
at the push of a button. I swear, this vehicle
is right out of Get Smart.
And thank the Gummi Mary, the underline
thingy went away. I don't know how to fix it,
and don't want to take the time. Just so you
know, I wasn't doing it on purpose to put on
airs about showing off my new gas guzzler.
the new Hillbilly Family LSUV.
See how she sparkles, see how she shines!
Oh, and there's no black hole where the
license plate goes. In the original photo,
some criminal could zoom in and read
five numbers, so the boy chopped it out.
Her guts are a bit fancified for my tastes,
but you can't walk away from a
sweetheart of a deal.
I asked the boy to take pictures of
the inside, outside, and the back.
Meaning, to show how much room
there is inside, back to the 3rd seat.
Obviously, the #1 son has depicted what is
important to HIM, and chose to show you
the controls to his wireless head-phoned
radio and DVD player and air conditioner.
He didn't even show the seats that fold up
at the push of a button. I swear, this vehicle
is right out of Get Smart.
And thank the Gummi Mary, the underline
thingy went away. I don't know how to fix it,
and don't want to take the time. Just so you
know, I wasn't doing it on purpose to put on
airs about showing off my new gas guzzler.
Buying The Car
continued...
I left you with the basics of my car deal:
$50,820 new (sticker price)
$36,995 as dealer demo with 5,700 miles
$ 4,600 offered for our trade-in (2001 Yukon, 99,900 miles)
______
$32,395 difference. No way, no how. I had to put on my bargaining hat.
Which brings us back to the Chevy dealership and my mad negotiating skillz. First of all, our salesman (lets call him Ron) came back with that offer of $4600 on our trade-in. Gimme a break. I know nobody wants a gas hog, but HELLO, we were also taking a gas hog off their hands. And the dealer in a town south of us had a 1999 short Yukon for sale for $12,900. I was not about to let them make a potential $8000 off my 2001 long Yukon trade-in. That's just greedy. Ron kept insisting that it was the Kelley Blue Book value for our trade-in in 'fair' condition. I was ready for this, because I heard the guy in the next cubicle trying to pull this on an old man. I had told HH while Ron was out 'talking to the manager' about our trade that he would say it was in 'fair' condition. "Well," HH said at Ron's offer, "our car is in 'good' condition, not 'fair'." Ron said, "I don't know how you can say that. It will need new tires." HH looked at me. I took the printout out of my purse. "Right here in the Kelley Blue Book description, it says what is 'good' and what is 'fair' condition." HH read the part about the tires. Ron said, "Let me see that." Like he didn't know what we were talking about. "Hmm. I wasn't aware of that." Hee hee. They are like putty in my hands, these salesmen. Then Ron had the nerve to offer to 'split the difference' between the 'fair' and 'good' trade-in prices. Poor Ron. He still had no inkling of what he was up against. And to give him credit, he was a pleasant fellow, and easy to deal with.
I told Ron that I did not care what arbitrary value he assigned to our trade-in, but that I was a 'difference buyer', and only cared about what price I would actually be paying. And that his $32,395 value was totally unacceptable. Ron came down about $500. That was child's play. I told him my figure was far lower than that. Ron left to see if his manager could call back the 'buyer' he had for our trade-in, and cut a different deal. After much back and forth arguing and reasoning, Ron got the figure down to $30,000 difference. Goodness no! M-O-O-N! That spells, "I wasn't born yesterday, Ron. I know my way around a car dealership." But my partner in this crime, HH, was tiring. He seemed ready to cave. I gave him the stink-eye. Ron said, "Well, what figure are you looking at?" I told him, "I'd like to trade for $27,000 difference. If we can't agree to that, we have another one in St. Louis that we're going to look at on Monday morning. If that doesn't work out, we can stop back here, since it's on our way home." (Which was no bluff, it was an actual 2007 Yukon Denali, white, that the boss's wife had at the lake when the salesman told us about it. HH told him we were ready to buy THAT DAY if we found a car we liked, and the salesman even called to see if they could bring it in. But it was at the lake until Monday morning.) Ron didn't like that very much at all, that leaving business. He was off like a shot to ask about the $27,000.
I knew that I would not get the $27,000. Perhaps if gas was under $3.00 a gallon, I could have. If I had thought it possible, I would have low-balled at around $25,000, and worked back to it. But let's be reasonable, peeps. Nobody wants the gas guzzlers. They may have trouble unloading our 2001 Yukon, even though it is leather and loaded. It does have nearly 100,000 miles on it, you know. I figured at the $27,000, I was giving them exactly what they wanted for that Tahoe, and getting a trade-in value of $10,000 for our 2001. Or they might slice it differently, and say our trade-in was $4600, and we got $5400 off the price of the Tahoe marked $36,995. (In case my numbers haven't put you to sleep, I'm rounding the price of that new car to $37,000).
Ron came back saying that there was no way I was getting the $27,000 difference, and that the deal would not work on Monday, because his boss had a buyer that wanted to take our trade-in to auction, and the condition was that he pick it up TODAY. Uh huh. They always plan to take the trade-in to auction, because there's so much wrong with it that it won't possibly sell off the lot, even though I could have driven it for another year or two if we didn't want a new car. Not to mention that it was now 4:15 on Saturday, and the dealer closed at 5:00. Ron split some differences and made a couple more trips back to the boss, and came up with a figure of $28,832 difference. He said that was the bottom line. I told him that was still too much.
HH was almost crying. The only thing we've bought NEW is that Toyota. But he sucked it up, and said, "Well, it's been nice talking to you. We might be back Monday. It just depends." Then Ron was almost crying. "How about if you tell me the absolute lowest figure you could buy this car for TODAY?" HH and I had predetermined this on one of Ron's trips to the office. It had to be $28,000, or we would walk. HH took the scrap of paper where Ron had been crossing out and writing in figures, and covered up the 832, leaving $28---. Ron kind of gasped. He said he would go ask the boss. HH kept telling me, "It's up to you." But you could tell he REALLY, REALLY wanted this Tahoe, even though he thought it was a Yukon Denali. I had to be the voice of reason, and tell him that if our little plan didn't work, we could come back Monday morning at 9:00. Nobody was going to buy it before then. They were closing, by cracky. HH agreed.
Here came Ron, with his boss, the manager. I'll call him 'Bill', because he looked like a Bill. He was jolly and nice. Bill took Ron's chair, while Ron stood in the door of the cube. Bill explained that this Tahoe had already been marked down so much that he couldn't do any better. Nobody wanted these big cars like our trade-in. He had to stay in business. I explained that we were buying a big car from him. That it was a 2008, but it was time for the 2009s to come out. And that after all, it was actually USED, since it had 5700 miles on it. And that when we set out today, we were looking for a 2006 or 2007, and we'd found a 2007 with 36,000 miles on it that we planned on driving Monday morning.
Bill asked me to justify my figure of $28,000. "Well, Bill, I figure that's giving you the exact price you're asking for your Tahoe, and giving me $9000 for my trade-in. I know you can sell it for $15,000 like it says in your own Kelley Blue Book for retail value. I don't begrudge you that $6000 profit off my trade-in. I don't even mind coming up from the original difference of $27,000 that I had intended to hold out for. That $1000 is a gift for you. You have a business to run." I really did say that, except for maybe the word 'begrudge'. Bill laughed. He said, "Things don't work that way in the real world. We may not be able to sell your trade-in to get our money back." I said, "In MY fantasy world, you'll be making $6000 off my car, plus that $1000 I gave you as a gift. I would like to trade for $28,000, and I think you will still be making a good profit." Bill said, "I'd like to know where you justify that $10,000 that I should give you for your trade-in." I told him that in Edmunds, the trade-in value was $8890 in 'good' condition, which is almost $9000, and I knew that he could make well over a $1000 profit on it, so I rounded up to $10,000.
Bill wanted to split the difference of the offer on the table, and make a deal for $28,416. I told him no, it had to be $28,000. Bill fiddled some more, said he didn't count our towing package, or some such thing, and got it to $28,199. I insisted on $28,000. Just imagine if a dealer sells 10 cars a day, and he sucks $199 extra out of each buyer. It doesn't seem like much in the big picture of an individual buying a car, but that is $1990 extra in a day for the dealer. These guys nickel and dime you until you give up. You have to be ready to walk. Which we did several months ago over that red car I really wanted at a different dealer. But Ron and Bill were working with us, not insulting us like that other dealer. Bill said, "I can go to $28,143. You have been very logical in your figures. Can't you see, I am the only one compromising? Why can't you take the deal? Is that $143 going to keep you from buying this car?" That's when Benedict Arnold (I mean HH) stuck the knife in my back. "I'll give you the $143!" Ron had to chime in, "See? He'll give you the $143!" I looked at Ron, standing in the doorway. I explained calmly, like he was simple, "You apparently don't know who gives him his money." Bill, wisely, remained silent. I gave HH the double stink-eye. "Are you working for Bill? Because I think now would be a good time for you to check on the boys." HH agreed, and left the cubicle.
I told Bill, "I appreciate you being the one to do the compromising. I understand that you have a business to run. I am sorry, but I can't do the deal unless it is $28,000. If we can't agree, then there are no hard feelings. I have enjoyed negotiating with you, and we may or may not be back on Monday, after we drive that other car. Thank you for your time." Bill said, "Don't be sorry. You know what you want. This deal may not be available on Monday. But let me ask you why you would let $143 stand in the way of buying this car. What is the reasoning behind that? Your husband is ready to take the deal." I said, "There is no logical reason. I am just hard-headed. And if anybody knows that, it is my husband. I want the deal at $28,000, and I still think you will make a good profit at that amount. If we can't agree, then we can't agree." I told him how I like negotiating, and how Toyota would not even give me a hat after dealing with me.
HH came back in the cubicle. Bill looked at Ron. "My time is worth more than this $143, and I've already spent a lot of time on this deal. Find a way to justify that $143 in the trade-in, and we'll write this deal for $28,000. But understand, she gets nothing else." It was all good-natured. We shook hands, and Bill and Ron went back to the office while we waited for the business guy to draw up the papers. In the meantime, HH reported that the boys had spent $7 on snacks in the waiting room. We milled around in the showroom, looking at new cars we didn't want. Bill yelled out of the office, "You drive a hard bargain." I went to the door. "Well, you know, Bill, my boys spent $7 on snacks while we were waiting. Can we re-write that deal for $27,993?" Bill said "NO!"
Go figure.
So there you have it. We have a $50,820 2008 Chevy Tahoe (less 5700 miles, but with full manufacturer's warranty) sitting in our garage, that we purchased for $28,000 and an old Yukon.
It was a sweetheart of a deal.
I left you with the basics of my car deal:
$50,820 new (sticker price)
$36,995 as dealer demo with 5,700 miles
$ 4,600 offered for our trade-in (2001 Yukon, 99,900 miles)
______
$32,395 difference. No way, no how. I had to put on my bargaining hat.
Which brings us back to the Chevy dealership and my mad negotiating skillz. First of all, our salesman (lets call him Ron) came back with that offer of $4600 on our trade-in. Gimme a break. I know nobody wants a gas hog, but HELLO, we were also taking a gas hog off their hands. And the dealer in a town south of us had a 1999 short Yukon for sale for $12,900. I was not about to let them make a potential $8000 off my 2001 long Yukon trade-in. That's just greedy. Ron kept insisting that it was the Kelley Blue Book value for our trade-in in 'fair' condition. I was ready for this, because I heard the guy in the next cubicle trying to pull this on an old man. I had told HH while Ron was out 'talking to the manager' about our trade that he would say it was in 'fair' condition. "Well," HH said at Ron's offer, "our car is in 'good' condition, not 'fair'." Ron said, "I don't know how you can say that. It will need new tires." HH looked at me. I took the printout out of my purse. "Right here in the Kelley Blue Book description, it says what is 'good' and what is 'fair' condition." HH read the part about the tires. Ron said, "Let me see that." Like he didn't know what we were talking about. "Hmm. I wasn't aware of that." Hee hee. They are like putty in my hands, these salesmen. Then Ron had the nerve to offer to 'split the difference' between the 'fair' and 'good' trade-in prices. Poor Ron. He still had no inkling of what he was up against. And to give him credit, he was a pleasant fellow, and easy to deal with.
I told Ron that I did not care what arbitrary value he assigned to our trade-in, but that I was a 'difference buyer', and only cared about what price I would actually be paying. And that his $32,395 value was totally unacceptable. Ron came down about $500. That was child's play. I told him my figure was far lower than that. Ron left to see if his manager could call back the 'buyer' he had for our trade-in, and cut a different deal. After much back and forth arguing and reasoning, Ron got the figure down to $30,000 difference. Goodness no! M-O-O-N! That spells, "I wasn't born yesterday, Ron. I know my way around a car dealership." But my partner in this crime, HH, was tiring. He seemed ready to cave. I gave him the stink-eye. Ron said, "Well, what figure are you looking at?" I told him, "I'd like to trade for $27,000 difference. If we can't agree to that, we have another one in St. Louis that we're going to look at on Monday morning. If that doesn't work out, we can stop back here, since it's on our way home." (Which was no bluff, it was an actual 2007 Yukon Denali, white, that the boss's wife had at the lake when the salesman told us about it. HH told him we were ready to buy THAT DAY if we found a car we liked, and the salesman even called to see if they could bring it in. But it was at the lake until Monday morning.) Ron didn't like that very much at all, that leaving business. He was off like a shot to ask about the $27,000.
I knew that I would not get the $27,000. Perhaps if gas was under $3.00 a gallon, I could have. If I had thought it possible, I would have low-balled at around $25,000, and worked back to it. But let's be reasonable, peeps. Nobody wants the gas guzzlers. They may have trouble unloading our 2001 Yukon, even though it is leather and loaded. It does have nearly 100,000 miles on it, you know. I figured at the $27,000, I was giving them exactly what they wanted for that Tahoe, and getting a trade-in value of $10,000 for our 2001. Or they might slice it differently, and say our trade-in was $4600, and we got $5400 off the price of the Tahoe marked $36,995. (In case my numbers haven't put you to sleep, I'm rounding the price of that new car to $37,000).
Ron came back saying that there was no way I was getting the $27,000 difference, and that the deal would not work on Monday, because his boss had a buyer that wanted to take our trade-in to auction, and the condition was that he pick it up TODAY. Uh huh. They always plan to take the trade-in to auction, because there's so much wrong with it that it won't possibly sell off the lot, even though I could have driven it for another year or two if we didn't want a new car. Not to mention that it was now 4:15 on Saturday, and the dealer closed at 5:00. Ron split some differences and made a couple more trips back to the boss, and came up with a figure of $28,832 difference. He said that was the bottom line. I told him that was still too much.
HH was almost crying. The only thing we've bought NEW is that Toyota. But he sucked it up, and said, "Well, it's been nice talking to you. We might be back Monday. It just depends." Then Ron was almost crying. "How about if you tell me the absolute lowest figure you could buy this car for TODAY?" HH and I had predetermined this on one of Ron's trips to the office. It had to be $28,000, or we would walk. HH took the scrap of paper where Ron had been crossing out and writing in figures, and covered up the 832, leaving $28---. Ron kind of gasped. He said he would go ask the boss. HH kept telling me, "It's up to you." But you could tell he REALLY, REALLY wanted this Tahoe, even though he thought it was a Yukon Denali. I had to be the voice of reason, and tell him that if our little plan didn't work, we could come back Monday morning at 9:00. Nobody was going to buy it before then. They were closing, by cracky. HH agreed.
Here came Ron, with his boss, the manager. I'll call him 'Bill', because he looked like a Bill. He was jolly and nice. Bill took Ron's chair, while Ron stood in the door of the cube. Bill explained that this Tahoe had already been marked down so much that he couldn't do any better. Nobody wanted these big cars like our trade-in. He had to stay in business. I explained that we were buying a big car from him. That it was a 2008, but it was time for the 2009s to come out. And that after all, it was actually USED, since it had 5700 miles on it. And that when we set out today, we were looking for a 2006 or 2007, and we'd found a 2007 with 36,000 miles on it that we planned on driving Monday morning.
Bill asked me to justify my figure of $28,000. "Well, Bill, I figure that's giving you the exact price you're asking for your Tahoe, and giving me $9000 for my trade-in. I know you can sell it for $15,000 like it says in your own Kelley Blue Book for retail value. I don't begrudge you that $6000 profit off my trade-in. I don't even mind coming up from the original difference of $27,000 that I had intended to hold out for. That $1000 is a gift for you. You have a business to run." I really did say that, except for maybe the word 'begrudge'. Bill laughed. He said, "Things don't work that way in the real world. We may not be able to sell your trade-in to get our money back." I said, "In MY fantasy world, you'll be making $6000 off my car, plus that $1000 I gave you as a gift. I would like to trade for $28,000, and I think you will still be making a good profit." Bill said, "I'd like to know where you justify that $10,000 that I should give you for your trade-in." I told him that in Edmunds, the trade-in value was $8890 in 'good' condition, which is almost $9000, and I knew that he could make well over a $1000 profit on it, so I rounded up to $10,000.
Bill wanted to split the difference of the offer on the table, and make a deal for $28,416. I told him no, it had to be $28,000. Bill fiddled some more, said he didn't count our towing package, or some such thing, and got it to $28,199. I insisted on $28,000. Just imagine if a dealer sells 10 cars a day, and he sucks $199 extra out of each buyer. It doesn't seem like much in the big picture of an individual buying a car, but that is $1990 extra in a day for the dealer. These guys nickel and dime you until you give up. You have to be ready to walk. Which we did several months ago over that red car I really wanted at a different dealer. But Ron and Bill were working with us, not insulting us like that other dealer. Bill said, "I can go to $28,143. You have been very logical in your figures. Can't you see, I am the only one compromising? Why can't you take the deal? Is that $143 going to keep you from buying this car?" That's when Benedict Arnold (I mean HH) stuck the knife in my back. "I'll give you the $143!" Ron had to chime in, "See? He'll give you the $143!" I looked at Ron, standing in the doorway. I explained calmly, like he was simple, "You apparently don't know who gives him his money." Bill, wisely, remained silent. I gave HH the double stink-eye. "Are you working for Bill? Because I think now would be a good time for you to check on the boys." HH agreed, and left the cubicle.
I told Bill, "I appreciate you being the one to do the compromising. I understand that you have a business to run. I am sorry, but I can't do the deal unless it is $28,000. If we can't agree, then there are no hard feelings. I have enjoyed negotiating with you, and we may or may not be back on Monday, after we drive that other car. Thank you for your time." Bill said, "Don't be sorry. You know what you want. This deal may not be available on Monday. But let me ask you why you would let $143 stand in the way of buying this car. What is the reasoning behind that? Your husband is ready to take the deal." I said, "There is no logical reason. I am just hard-headed. And if anybody knows that, it is my husband. I want the deal at $28,000, and I still think you will make a good profit at that amount. If we can't agree, then we can't agree." I told him how I like negotiating, and how Toyota would not even give me a hat after dealing with me.
HH came back in the cubicle. Bill looked at Ron. "My time is worth more than this $143, and I've already spent a lot of time on this deal. Find a way to justify that $143 in the trade-in, and we'll write this deal for $28,000. But understand, she gets nothing else." It was all good-natured. We shook hands, and Bill and Ron went back to the office while we waited for the business guy to draw up the papers. In the meantime, HH reported that the boys had spent $7 on snacks in the waiting room. We milled around in the showroom, looking at new cars we didn't want. Bill yelled out of the office, "You drive a hard bargain." I went to the door. "Well, you know, Bill, my boys spent $7 on snacks while we were waiting. Can we re-write that deal for $27,993?" Bill said "NO!"
Go figure.
So there you have it. We have a $50,820 2008 Chevy Tahoe (less 5700 miles, but with full manufacturer's warranty) sitting in our garage, that we purchased for $28,000 and an old Yukon.
It was a sweetheart of a deal.
Monday, June 23, 2008
Anatomy Of A Car Deal
Ahem. I mis-spoke. Don't hold it against me in November.
It seems that the LSUV I purchased on Saturday was not a Yukon Denali. Who knew? Not ME. To be fair, the #1 son says that HH thought the same thing. Not that it matters to us. It's not like we bought a used Le Car and thought it was a fancy Yukon Denali. After all, we had been to 7 dealers, and looked at a Cadillac Escalade, Ford Expedition, Yukon Denali, and a Chrysler Somethingreallyugly.
The #1 son took pictures today on his Happy Sunshine Garget-wannabe of an iPhone. Too bad he did not put them on my desktop as instructed. Hopefully tomorrow, there WILL be pictures. But that will have to wait until we return from our day trip to Chuck E. Cheese and Mastodon State Park.
What we REALLY bought was a black Chevy Tahoe. C'mon, peeps. It's an honest mistake. Remember how the Chevy Suburban and the GMC Yukon used to be identical? We do. We had two Suburbans before we got our Yukon. So I'm not as stupid as I seem. Here's the scoop on my scathingly brilliant car-buying experience...
This lovely 2008 Tahoe has a price tag on the window of $50,820. I will brag that I got it for considerable less than that, no thanks to HH. That's because nobody wants a Tahoe except me. Psst...they use a lot of gas, in case you're not in on the secret. But I have to have one to ford the creeks and haul me up the frozen hills in the winter. Here's the basics.
$50,820 new.
$36,995 as dealer demo with 5,700 miles
$ 4,600 offered for our trade-in of a 2001 GMC Yukon XL SLE with 99,900 miles
______
$32,395 was the difference. No way, no how. I had to put on my bargaining hat.
You want to know, don't you, what price I wrangled for this behemoth? Let me first tell you that I used to buy my own cars before I had an HH. In fact, the first car we bought after we were married, I went ALONE to the Toyota dealer, and bought it myself. I took a book along to read while the salesman played that 'Let me run this offer by my boss' game. I was prepared to stay all day. To get inside his little salesman head and show that his tactics didn't fool or intimidate me. So when he would have me initial an offer and say he'd be right back, I said, "That's OK. I brought a book." With that, I would open up Stephen King's The Stand. The hardcover unabridged edition. I did not go for that 'split the difference' crap, either. I only changed by about $25 at a time. The guy had to do a lot of checking. We reached a deal early in the afternoon. When I went back to pick up my Toyota, I casually asked if they would throw in a cap for my husband. HH said he always got a dealer cap when he bought a car. It's free advertising for them, you know. The Toyota folks were not quite so giving. In fact, the manager said, "With the price you got on this car, lady, you're not getting a cap." Oh well. It was HH who wanted the cap, not me.
That's just a little foreshadowing, to get your car-buying juices flowing. I am saving the lengthy tale of the actual deal until Tuesday. The deal in which I lay the smack down on the sellers.
TO BE CONTINUED...
It seems that the LSUV I purchased on Saturday was not a Yukon Denali. Who knew? Not ME. To be fair, the #1 son says that HH thought the same thing. Not that it matters to us. It's not like we bought a used Le Car and thought it was a fancy Yukon Denali. After all, we had been to 7 dealers, and looked at a Cadillac Escalade, Ford Expedition, Yukon Denali, and a Chrysler Somethingreallyugly.
The #1 son took pictures today on his Happy Sunshine Garget-wannabe of an iPhone. Too bad he did not put them on my desktop as instructed. Hopefully tomorrow, there WILL be pictures. But that will have to wait until we return from our day trip to Chuck E. Cheese and Mastodon State Park.
What we REALLY bought was a black Chevy Tahoe. C'mon, peeps. It's an honest mistake. Remember how the Chevy Suburban and the GMC Yukon used to be identical? We do. We had two Suburbans before we got our Yukon. So I'm not as stupid as I seem. Here's the scoop on my scathingly brilliant car-buying experience...
This lovely 2008 Tahoe has a price tag on the window of $50,820. I will brag that I got it for considerable less than that, no thanks to HH. That's because nobody wants a Tahoe except me. Psst...they use a lot of gas, in case you're not in on the secret. But I have to have one to ford the creeks and haul me up the frozen hills in the winter. Here's the basics.
$50,820 new.
$36,995 as dealer demo with 5,700 miles
$ 4,600 offered for our trade-in of a 2001 GMC Yukon XL SLE with 99,900 miles
______
$32,395 was the difference. No way, no how. I had to put on my bargaining hat.
You want to know, don't you, what price I wrangled for this behemoth? Let me first tell you that I used to buy my own cars before I had an HH. In fact, the first car we bought after we were married, I went ALONE to the Toyota dealer, and bought it myself. I took a book along to read while the salesman played that 'Let me run this offer by my boss' game. I was prepared to stay all day. To get inside his little salesman head and show that his tactics didn't fool or intimidate me. So when he would have me initial an offer and say he'd be right back, I said, "That's OK. I brought a book." With that, I would open up Stephen King's The Stand. The hardcover unabridged edition. I did not go for that 'split the difference' crap, either. I only changed by about $25 at a time. The guy had to do a lot of checking. We reached a deal early in the afternoon. When I went back to pick up my Toyota, I casually asked if they would throw in a cap for my husband. HH said he always got a dealer cap when he bought a car. It's free advertising for them, you know. The Toyota folks were not quite so giving. In fact, the manager said, "With the price you got on this car, lady, you're not getting a cap." Oh well. It was HH who wanted the cap, not me.
That's just a little foreshadowing, to get your car-buying juices flowing. I am saving the lengthy tale of the actual deal until Tuesday. The deal in which I lay the smack down on the sellers.
TO BE CONTINUED...
Sunday, June 22, 2008
Road Trip
That picture and car-buying tale will have to wait. We called a road trip today to break in the new LSUV. That would involve the casino for me and my aunt, and a go-kart extravaganza for the boys. All 3 of them.
Let me leave you with this image: 2008 Yukon Denali, Black.
Mabel knows what I'm talkin' about.
Let me leave you with this image: 2008 Yukon Denali, Black.
Mabel knows what I'm talkin' about.
Saturday, June 21, 2008
Wheeler Dealer
We spent the last 8 hours buying a new LSUV. It's a done deal. It's sleeping in the garage right now. More tomorrow, and maybe a picture.
Friday, June 20, 2008
Random Thought Thriday 6-20-08
Oops! I did it again. Missed Random Thought Thursday by a day. Better late than never.
HH is a giant baby. He has taken off next week for vacation, and demands that we spend every waking moment with him. That means he expects us to go to bed at 9:00, and get up at 6:00. That ain't gonna happen. Just tonight, he made us go out to eat, refused to go to CiCi's Pizza (the boys' choice), held us hostage for 90 more minutes to look at new cars, then tossed a tantrum when we said we don't want to spend every minute doing what HE commands. Now he is busy sitting in his recliner in his underwear, watching Bear Grylls survive. Please note that if we asked him to watch a show with us any other time, he would say, "I can't sit in this house. I'm going to my cabin."
Let's rip HH some more. We got the electric bills today. Yes, there are two. One is for the BARn. It was half of what is was last month. The #1 son had tattled that HH ran the air conditioner over there, even when he was at work. HH denied it. So this time, I said I was glad he turned off his air conditioner. And HH responded, "Well, it wasn't the air conditioner as much as the lights." Yeah, he had been leaving the lights on 24/7, because he said they take so long to come on when he is 'in and out' of the BARn. I told him I would buy him a miner's lamp to wear on his big ol' bowling ball head.
But there's MORE. HH said The Pony is stubborn and hard-headed because he 'gets it from his mother'. He went on to tell the #1 son, "You know, babies get the most genes from the mother." Duh. "Then why do we even need YOU?" I asked him. He did not have an answer. Go figure.
Yesterday morning, at 5:55, HH woke me to let me know that the dogs had ripped open a trash bag from the dumpster, and that #1 needed to pick it up from the back yard. Just a cotton-pickin' minute. I didn't doubt that there was trash there. The part I doubted was that OUR dogs did it. The #1 son forgot the trash last week. So we had twice as much in our dumpster. It is not a small thing. It has two wheels, and the boy has to push it up the 1/8 mile driveway to be picked up. The thing is, he took it up the night before so he wouldn't forget. So I figured it was the neighborhood dogs who drug it out. That dumpster sits right by the garage. If our dogs wanted to get into mischief, it was there for them all week. Why wait until they have to go up the driveway to get it? And besides, our dogs never go in the back yard. They would have proudly shredded that trash in the front yard, and most likely carried it up on the porch. I looked out around 6:30, and saw Grizzley standing in the driveway by a paper plate, and doggie Ann chewing on something. Thinking I had caught them red-handed with our trash, I started hollering "Bad dog! Bad dog!" Of course they put their tails between their legs and came right up to me on the porch. Ann was still carrying her treasure, swinging it from side-to-side: a very wet little rabbit. I'm not sure if it still had the head. That part might have been half-way down her throat. Then I felt bad for assuming they were in the trash. I still blame the neighbor dogs. Ours went wild around 11:00 that night, barking and running down off the porch. They did the same thing that morning around 7:00 when a neighbor dog stopped to pee on the dumpster. I think HH falsely accused our mutts. When #1 picked up the junk and put it in a new trash bag, I told him to make sure those cinch-sack loopy thingies were shoved in under the lid so the dogs couldn't get hold of them and drag it out.
Today was the first day of summer.
There were a lot of old people going out to supper tonight. Not many young families. I have a theory. Old people don't get out and drive much, so they can still afford to eat.
HH is a giant baby. He has taken off next week for vacation, and demands that we spend every waking moment with him. That means he expects us to go to bed at 9:00, and get up at 6:00. That ain't gonna happen. Just tonight, he made us go out to eat, refused to go to CiCi's Pizza (the boys' choice), held us hostage for 90 more minutes to look at new cars, then tossed a tantrum when we said we don't want to spend every minute doing what HE commands. Now he is busy sitting in his recliner in his underwear, watching Bear Grylls survive. Please note that if we asked him to watch a show with us any other time, he would say, "I can't sit in this house. I'm going to my cabin."
Let's rip HH some more. We got the electric bills today. Yes, there are two. One is for the BARn. It was half of what is was last month. The #1 son had tattled that HH ran the air conditioner over there, even when he was at work. HH denied it. So this time, I said I was glad he turned off his air conditioner. And HH responded, "Well, it wasn't the air conditioner as much as the lights." Yeah, he had been leaving the lights on 24/7, because he said they take so long to come on when he is 'in and out' of the BARn. I told him I would buy him a miner's lamp to wear on his big ol' bowling ball head.
But there's MORE. HH said The Pony is stubborn and hard-headed because he 'gets it from his mother'. He went on to tell the #1 son, "You know, babies get the most genes from the mother." Duh. "Then why do we even need YOU?" I asked him. He did not have an answer. Go figure.
Yesterday morning, at 5:55, HH woke me to let me know that the dogs had ripped open a trash bag from the dumpster, and that #1 needed to pick it up from the back yard. Just a cotton-pickin' minute. I didn't doubt that there was trash there. The part I doubted was that OUR dogs did it. The #1 son forgot the trash last week. So we had twice as much in our dumpster. It is not a small thing. It has two wheels, and the boy has to push it up the 1/8 mile driveway to be picked up. The thing is, he took it up the night before so he wouldn't forget. So I figured it was the neighborhood dogs who drug it out. That dumpster sits right by the garage. If our dogs wanted to get into mischief, it was there for them all week. Why wait until they have to go up the driveway to get it? And besides, our dogs never go in the back yard. They would have proudly shredded that trash in the front yard, and most likely carried it up on the porch. I looked out around 6:30, and saw Grizzley standing in the driveway by a paper plate, and doggie Ann chewing on something. Thinking I had caught them red-handed with our trash, I started hollering "Bad dog! Bad dog!" Of course they put their tails between their legs and came right up to me on the porch. Ann was still carrying her treasure, swinging it from side-to-side: a very wet little rabbit. I'm not sure if it still had the head. That part might have been half-way down her throat. Then I felt bad for assuming they were in the trash. I still blame the neighbor dogs. Ours went wild around 11:00 that night, barking and running down off the porch. They did the same thing that morning around 7:00 when a neighbor dog stopped to pee on the dumpster. I think HH falsely accused our mutts. When #1 picked up the junk and put it in a new trash bag, I told him to make sure those cinch-sack loopy thingies were shoved in under the lid so the dogs couldn't get hold of them and drag it out.
Today was the first day of summer.
There were a lot of old people going out to supper tonight. Not many young families. I have a theory. Old people don't get out and drive much, so they can still afford to eat.
Thursday, June 19, 2008
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.
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.
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
Hillbilly Mom Hosts A Parasite
When it comes to entertaining, I'm not exactly the hostess with the mostest. I do not like to have guests at my Mansion. That's how I roll. I would install a moat if I thought HH could keep it clear of possum carcasses and uninvited salesmen. But this morning, I found myself playing hostess.
The guest was most definitely uninvited. You might even say he was a surprise guest. I compare him to John Belushi, as 'The Thing That Wouldn't Leave', back when SNL was new and funny. My guest infiltrated the Mansion without even knocking--or ringing the broken doorbell. He was my constant companion. I could not shed him. Truth be told, he went to bed with me around 2:30 a.m. Now don't you worry about HH. He's used to doublin' up. Oops. That's a line from the worst-acted movie of all time, 1968's True Grit, the vehicle which reeled in The Duke's Academy Award. I can't say 'OSCAR' without that trademark thingy. The blog police might extradite me to the Academy, where I will be forced to watch a rerun of Billy Crystal hosting the Awards.
I don't want y'all thinkin' I'm some kinky swinger, but...shh...don't let this get out...the Uninvited Guest even showered with me after HH left for work. Then he sat in the big blue recliner with me while we watched Morning Joe. It was then that I realized for the first time that I am really proud of my country. No. Wait a minute. That's Michelle Obama. What I realized was how he had overstayed his welcome. The Uninvited Guest, I mean--not Morning Joe. Joe is welcomed every morning, unless Tiki Barber is on the panel, and then I must turn the channel, because a more untalented morning news show semi-regular I have never seen. Poor Tiki once offered some political insight that a toddler would know. I take that back. A mere fetus could have spouted such a comment, if there was a microphone on his mama's belly, and if he had reached the gestational age where he had vocal cords, and he was precocious. I think Tiki should have stuck with football, the one that brung him, instead of attempting this gig. Or maybe just a sports show, where he is knowledgeable. His talents and my time are wasted when he joins Morning Joe. Give me that misogynist Mike Barnicle any day over Tiki.
Now where was I? Oh, yeah. I leaned forward in HH's big blue recliner to scratch my left ankle, near the lateral malleolus. For those of you who didn't have a college anatomy class, that is the lump three feet above your a$. WHOA! No it isn't! That would be Tom Hanks's head in A League of Their Own. The lateral malleolus (tell 'em, Bean) is the ankle bone on the outside of your ankle, like on the side of the little piggy that went "WEE WEE WEEEEE" all the way home (because somebody said 'don't feed the pig'). See. Wasn't it easier just to say 'lateral malleolus' and let you guys Google it?
So I leaned down to scratch my lateral malleolus, which I had not done last night, because I was in my rolly office chair, the best Christmas gift HH ever gave me, and when I bend over forward, it has a tendency to shoot backwards out from under me like some prize rodeo bronc, which is both embarrassing and uncomfortable. I used my red wooden backscratcher that I keep hanging on the knob of a drawer in the cabinet of my computer triangle. Ahhh...that hit the spot, that red wooden backscratcher that I poked down inside my sock and sawed back and forth, easing my itching with the little pointy wooden bits at the end of each of the four carved wooden 'fingers' of the backscratching hand. Imaging my surprise this morning when I used my own beige fleshy hand with real fingernails that I had just bitten off yesterday, and found, upon scratching that annoying itch, my dishonorable Uninvited Guest, the
TICK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Oh, the horror! I hate a parasite with a passion! Especially if it is on ME!
I could not evict the Uninvited Guest posthaste. I have tried that before, and much pulling and twisting does not hasten the exit, except in those unfortunate guest-ejecting faux pas during which the Uninvited Guest is decapitated, which is an unfortunate scenario for the Guest, but even more worriesome to the host. Having heard that an Uninvited Guest can be smothered by coating him with Vaseline, I did the next best thing, which was to coat him with Triple Antibiotic Ointment from The Devil's Playground. Don't be hatin', peeps. At least I didn't pull the HH trick of holding a lighter on the Uninvited Guest until his legs shriveled, in the hope of getting him to 'back out', though how he can back out with shriveled legs is beyond me.
After five minutes disinfecting under his layer of ointment, the Uninvited Guest was in for a rude awakening. I grabbed a Puffs With Aloe from the kitchen counter, wrapped it around the Uninvited Guest, and removed him from my lateral malleolus with one yank. Let the record show that the Guest made a sort of 'pop' and a crunching noise, which was not at all anticipated. I then flushed him unceremoniously down the toilet.
His days of Uninvited Guesting are over.
The guest was most definitely uninvited. You might even say he was a surprise guest. I compare him to John Belushi, as 'The Thing That Wouldn't Leave', back when SNL was new and funny. My guest infiltrated the Mansion without even knocking--or ringing the broken doorbell. He was my constant companion. I could not shed him. Truth be told, he went to bed with me around 2:30 a.m. Now don't you worry about HH. He's used to doublin' up. Oops. That's a line from the worst-acted movie of all time, 1968's True Grit, the vehicle which reeled in The Duke's Academy Award. I can't say 'OSCAR' without that trademark thingy. The blog police might extradite me to the Academy, where I will be forced to watch a rerun of Billy Crystal hosting the Awards.
I don't want y'all thinkin' I'm some kinky swinger, but...shh...don't let this get out...the Uninvited Guest even showered with me after HH left for work. Then he sat in the big blue recliner with me while we watched Morning Joe. It was then that I realized for the first time that I am really proud of my country. No. Wait a minute. That's Michelle Obama. What I realized was how he had overstayed his welcome. The Uninvited Guest, I mean--not Morning Joe. Joe is welcomed every morning, unless Tiki Barber is on the panel, and then I must turn the channel, because a more untalented morning news show semi-regular I have never seen. Poor Tiki once offered some political insight that a toddler would know. I take that back. A mere fetus could have spouted such a comment, if there was a microphone on his mama's belly, and if he had reached the gestational age where he had vocal cords, and he was precocious. I think Tiki should have stuck with football, the one that brung him, instead of attempting this gig. Or maybe just a sports show, where he is knowledgeable. His talents and my time are wasted when he joins Morning Joe. Give me that misogynist Mike Barnicle any day over Tiki.
Now where was I? Oh, yeah. I leaned forward in HH's big blue recliner to scratch my left ankle, near the lateral malleolus. For those of you who didn't have a college anatomy class, that is the lump three feet above your a$. WHOA! No it isn't! That would be Tom Hanks's head in A League of Their Own. The lateral malleolus (tell 'em, Bean) is the ankle bone on the outside of your ankle, like on the side of the little piggy that went "WEE WEE WEEEEE" all the way home (because somebody said 'don't feed the pig'). See. Wasn't it easier just to say 'lateral malleolus' and let you guys Google it?
So I leaned down to scratch my lateral malleolus, which I had not done last night, because I was in my rolly office chair, the best Christmas gift HH ever gave me, and when I bend over forward, it has a tendency to shoot backwards out from under me like some prize rodeo bronc, which is both embarrassing and uncomfortable. I used my red wooden backscratcher that I keep hanging on the knob of a drawer in the cabinet of my computer triangle. Ahhh...that hit the spot, that red wooden backscratcher that I poked down inside my sock and sawed back and forth, easing my itching with the little pointy wooden bits at the end of each of the four carved wooden 'fingers' of the backscratching hand. Imaging my surprise this morning when I used my own beige fleshy hand with real fingernails that I had just bitten off yesterday, and found, upon scratching that annoying itch, my dishonorable Uninvited Guest, the
TICK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Oh, the horror! I hate a parasite with a passion! Especially if it is on ME!
I could not evict the Uninvited Guest posthaste. I have tried that before, and much pulling and twisting does not hasten the exit, except in those unfortunate guest-ejecting faux pas during which the Uninvited Guest is decapitated, which is an unfortunate scenario for the Guest, but even more worriesome to the host. Having heard that an Uninvited Guest can be smothered by coating him with Vaseline, I did the next best thing, which was to coat him with Triple Antibiotic Ointment from The Devil's Playground. Don't be hatin', peeps. At least I didn't pull the HH trick of holding a lighter on the Uninvited Guest until his legs shriveled, in the hope of getting him to 'back out', though how he can back out with shriveled legs is beyond me.
After five minutes disinfecting under his layer of ointment, the Uninvited Guest was in for a rude awakening. I grabbed a Puffs With Aloe from the kitchen counter, wrapped it around the Uninvited Guest, and removed him from my lateral malleolus with one yank. Let the record show that the Guest made a sort of 'pop' and a crunching noise, which was not at all anticipated. I then flushed him unceremoniously down the toilet.
His days of Uninvited Guesting are over.
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
To Feed Or Not Feed The Pig...THAT Is The Question
Things are a bit boring around the Mansion today. No devil on the porch, no HH faux pas, no WWIII between the young 'uns, nobody at the store proclaiming my SO PRETTY-ness.
I had an argument with the #1 son about the FEED THE PIG commercial. We don't really know what it's about, we just recoil at the creepy pig-nosed guy. Perhaps the advertisers need to re-think this commercial.
I proclaimed that it was feedthepig.org, and it was about saving your money.
The boy professed that it was don'tfeedthepig.org, and it was about not being a pig, so quit buying stuff you don't need.
Then I countered with, "So why does the TV salesman try to sell that big TV but the pig says 'No'?"
#1 said "The pig is trying to buy the big-screen TV, but the guy tells him 'No' because you shouldn't feed the pig. Don'tfeedthepig.org!"
"Well, then, Mr. Smarty Pants, why does the salesman tell the pig NOT to buy the TV? That is a salesman's job--to SELL."
He said, "The PIG is telling the GUY not to buy the TV."
I pointed out that a piggy bank is a symbol for saving, and you should feed the pig. "Why would you have a commercial about not feeding the piggy bank? 'Stop saving now, everybody, and go spend money.' That doesn't make sense, unless you're George Bush."
#1 explained, as if I was simple, that the pig represented a greedy person, not a bank, because he was a person, not a piggy bank.
Because the boy is a true hard-head (and we sure don't know where he gets that trait), I told him, "Look it up. Look it up NOW, on your garget." (Remember, his garget? His 'happy sunshine experience' in trying to buy the fake iPhone from China, before he got an acutal iPhone?) The boy searched for don'tfeedthepig.org. He became strangely silent. Then he went back to eating his Red Delicious apple which he held with both hands like an ear of corn while lying on his back on the couch. "Well? What does it say?" He was not pleased. "Never mind. I give up. There is nothing for 'don'tfeedthepig.org'." I commanded him to recite, "Once again, I stand corrected." That's what he makes ME do when I'm wrong and he's right. He refused.
It appears that the outcome was not quite the 'happy sunshine experience' he had anticipated.
I had an argument with the #1 son about the FEED THE PIG commercial. We don't really know what it's about, we just recoil at the creepy pig-nosed guy. Perhaps the advertisers need to re-think this commercial.
I proclaimed that it was feedthepig.org, and it was about saving your money.
The boy professed that it was don'tfeedthepig.org, and it was about not being a pig, so quit buying stuff you don't need.
Then I countered with, "So why does the TV salesman try to sell that big TV but the pig says 'No'?"
#1 said "The pig is trying to buy the big-screen TV, but the guy tells him 'No' because you shouldn't feed the pig. Don'tfeedthepig.org!"
"Well, then, Mr. Smarty Pants, why does the salesman tell the pig NOT to buy the TV? That is a salesman's job--to SELL."
He said, "The PIG is telling the GUY not to buy the TV."
I pointed out that a piggy bank is a symbol for saving, and you should feed the pig. "Why would you have a commercial about not feeding the piggy bank? 'Stop saving now, everybody, and go spend money.' That doesn't make sense, unless you're George Bush."
#1 explained, as if I was simple, that the pig represented a greedy person, not a bank, because he was a person, not a piggy bank.
Because the boy is a true hard-head (and we sure don't know where he gets that trait), I told him, "Look it up. Look it up NOW, on your garget." (Remember, his garget? His 'happy sunshine experience' in trying to buy the fake iPhone from China, before he got an acutal iPhone?) The boy searched for don'tfeedthepig.org. He became strangely silent. Then he went back to eating his Red Delicious apple which he held with both hands like an ear of corn while lying on his back on the couch. "Well? What does it say?" He was not pleased. "Never mind. I give up. There is nothing for 'don'tfeedthepig.org'." I commanded him to recite, "Once again, I stand corrected." That's what he makes ME do when I'm wrong and he's right. He refused.
It appears that the outcome was not quite the 'happy sunshine experience' he had anticipated.
Sunday, June 15, 2008
Father's Day, Mansion Style
We started the day by telling HH he had to stay in the bedroom until we called him. If only that would work every weekend. We gave him gifts from The Devil's Playground of NASCAR hat/T-shirt combos, some NASCAR Hot-Wheelish cars for his collection in the NASCAR bathroom, a Red Dawn Collector's Edition DVD, and a zippered NASCAR beer-bottle zip-up cooler cup thingy. Not that we're racist or bitter...but we DO cling to our guns, if not religion.
The Pony and I went to The Devil's Playground to do a bit of shopping, in which The Pony bought himself a computer game. I bought some rib-eye steaks, since we were making HH cook his own Father's Day meal. I do not like to buy meat at The Devil's Playground. It's not that great. And they do some funky irradiating thingy that makes it last abnormally long. I prefer to buy my meat at Save-A-Lot, even when there is no crazy lady following me around telling me I am SO PRETTY. Not just any Save-A-Lot, though. Only the one in my town. The one in my mom's town is not so great.
I have issues with the 1000-year old checker. She bagged my bags wrong. Normally, they put two or three items in those flimsy bags, so I have a bazillion to carry in the Mansion when I get home. I hate plastic bags. She put two cans of soup and two cans of Pringles in a bag together. But that's not the issue, that flopping-over, Pringle-breaking bag. No, my issue was my fruit and vegetable bag. And there was only ONE. She stuffed 4 ears of corn, still in its husk with tassels and everything, 4 Red Delicious apples, 3 Granny Smith apples, and a bunch of 7 bananas all in one plastic bag! A regular size bag! Of course, once I herniated myself carrying it in the Mansion, I set it on the table, and a Granny Smith rolled out, went over the edge, and smashed itself against the floor. Granny, I hardly knew ye!
That's all the ranting I have time for. Ice Road Truckers are back, you know.
The Pony and I went to The Devil's Playground to do a bit of shopping, in which The Pony bought himself a computer game. I bought some rib-eye steaks, since we were making HH cook his own Father's Day meal. I do not like to buy meat at The Devil's Playground. It's not that great. And they do some funky irradiating thingy that makes it last abnormally long. I prefer to buy my meat at Save-A-Lot, even when there is no crazy lady following me around telling me I am SO PRETTY. Not just any Save-A-Lot, though. Only the one in my town. The one in my mom's town is not so great.
I have issues with the 1000-year old checker. She bagged my bags wrong. Normally, they put two or three items in those flimsy bags, so I have a bazillion to carry in the Mansion when I get home. I hate plastic bags. She put two cans of soup and two cans of Pringles in a bag together. But that's not the issue, that flopping-over, Pringle-breaking bag. No, my issue was my fruit and vegetable bag. And there was only ONE. She stuffed 4 ears of corn, still in its husk with tassels and everything, 4 Red Delicious apples, 3 Granny Smith apples, and a bunch of 7 bananas all in one plastic bag! A regular size bag! Of course, once I herniated myself carrying it in the Mansion, I set it on the table, and a Granny Smith rolled out, went over the edge, and smashed itself against the floor. Granny, I hardly knew ye!
That's all the ranting I have time for. Ice Road Truckers are back, you know.
Saturday, June 14, 2008
I Am My Own Pharmacist
I have a terrible headache, so this will be brief.
Make that: I HAD a terrible headache. I will still try to be brief. It came on all at once, a severe pain at the top of my nose, between my eyebrows. You know, where the UNI would be, if I had a unibrow. At the same time, my nose started to drip. The Sherlock Holmes part of me says it is a sinus headache. (Make sure you realize I said 'Sherlock Holmes', not 'Surelick Holmes', which is the name of a movie I was once persuaded to see at a little theater called 'The Studio' during my misspent youth. While I'm sure you'd like to hear the rest of THAT story, I'll leave that to your imagination, and my friend Bean's foggy memory. I don't actually remember if Bean was part of that excursion, but it was our mutual acquaintance who resembled tiny singer Paul Williams who organized the trip).
Anyhoo, I don't know why the sudden onset of my noggin pain. I did not make any sudden movements. Are you kidding? I'm Hillbilly Mom, by cracky! The biggest energy-conserver on the planet. IF it is my own energy. The #1 son put on some new anti-perspirant, but I've never reacted to fragrances in that manner. The Mansion air conditioner kicked on, and seemed colder than it has been. So cold, in fact, that I accused HH of changing the filter, a task which the thermostat warns us should be done each month, but which HH thinks he can let slide for about 18 months. HH would only declare that he has changed the filter, and when pressed for a date (which he used to write on the side of the unit, until the #1 son started following him and would read to me, thus proving HH's negligence) that he has changed the filter THIS YEAR. Since it is now June, I'm thinking this is not a good sign.
The pain has abated somewhat, after my self-medicating experiment. If I was working, I would take two ibuprofen and been done with it. The only complaints I have with the ibuprofen is that it takes too long to work (sometimes 90 minutes), that it makes my hands swell up, and that it makes me drowsy. In a hurry to shed the pain, I took a shot of The Pony's liquid Tylenol left over from when he broke his elbow. It's not the good kind, like with a number 3 or 4 after the Tylenol part. It's just the regular stuff that smells like red Kool-Aid. The Pony has also taken it when he gets a headache. It works within 5-10 minutes for him. Since the label said that The Pony should take 2 teaspoons every 4 hours as needed, I figured I could take 4 teaspoons. You know, since The Pony is just a 10-year-old hank of bone and skin, weighing about 70 pounds, and I'm...well...an old hag weighing just a little bit more. Then I threw a Bufferin down my throat for good measure, and chased it with some Coke (the soda, not the recreational drug) to get it all mixin' in my bloodstream. That's because when they gave The Pony his medicines at Children's Hospital, they always made him take them with a sip of soda instead of water. I don't know why, unless the carbonation gets it going faster, or if the sugar spikes the blood sugar level, or if the soda fends off nausea, or what. Perhaps they just thought it was easier to get kids to take medicine with soda.
I am pleased to report that this little remedy kicked that headache's butt within 22 minutes. It has now been 2 hours and 15 minutes without pain in my melon, so I consider it a success.
I've got to get a refill on that magical elixir before October.
Make that: I HAD a terrible headache. I will still try to be brief. It came on all at once, a severe pain at the top of my nose, between my eyebrows. You know, where the UNI would be, if I had a unibrow. At the same time, my nose started to drip. The Sherlock Holmes part of me says it is a sinus headache. (Make sure you realize I said 'Sherlock Holmes', not 'Surelick Holmes', which is the name of a movie I was once persuaded to see at a little theater called 'The Studio' during my misspent youth. While I'm sure you'd like to hear the rest of THAT story, I'll leave that to your imagination, and my friend Bean's foggy memory. I don't actually remember if Bean was part of that excursion, but it was our mutual acquaintance who resembled tiny singer Paul Williams who organized the trip).
Anyhoo, I don't know why the sudden onset of my noggin pain. I did not make any sudden movements. Are you kidding? I'm Hillbilly Mom, by cracky! The biggest energy-conserver on the planet. IF it is my own energy. The #1 son put on some new anti-perspirant, but I've never reacted to fragrances in that manner. The Mansion air conditioner kicked on, and seemed colder than it has been. So cold, in fact, that I accused HH of changing the filter, a task which the thermostat warns us should be done each month, but which HH thinks he can let slide for about 18 months. HH would only declare that he has changed the filter, and when pressed for a date (which he used to write on the side of the unit, until the #1 son started following him and would read to me, thus proving HH's negligence) that he has changed the filter THIS YEAR. Since it is now June, I'm thinking this is not a good sign.
The pain has abated somewhat, after my self-medicating experiment. If I was working, I would take two ibuprofen and been done with it. The only complaints I have with the ibuprofen is that it takes too long to work (sometimes 90 minutes), that it makes my hands swell up, and that it makes me drowsy. In a hurry to shed the pain, I took a shot of The Pony's liquid Tylenol left over from when he broke his elbow. It's not the good kind, like with a number 3 or 4 after the Tylenol part. It's just the regular stuff that smells like red Kool-Aid. The Pony has also taken it when he gets a headache. It works within 5-10 minutes for him. Since the label said that The Pony should take 2 teaspoons every 4 hours as needed, I figured I could take 4 teaspoons. You know, since The Pony is just a 10-year-old hank of bone and skin, weighing about 70 pounds, and I'm...well...an old hag weighing just a little bit more. Then I threw a Bufferin down my throat for good measure, and chased it with some Coke (the soda, not the recreational drug) to get it all mixin' in my bloodstream. That's because when they gave The Pony his medicines at Children's Hospital, they always made him take them with a sip of soda instead of water. I don't know why, unless the carbonation gets it going faster, or if the sugar spikes the blood sugar level, or if the soda fends off nausea, or what. Perhaps they just thought it was easier to get kids to take medicine with soda.
I am pleased to report that this little remedy kicked that headache's butt within 22 minutes. It has now been 2 hours and 15 minutes without pain in my melon, so I consider it a success.
I've got to get a refill on that magical elixir before October.
Friday, June 13, 2008
Blaming The Victim
What kind of namby-pamby nation have we become? You know what I'm talkin' about. We reward every tiny accomplishment of our children. Who needs a kindergarten graduation? Why do all the kids on the soccer team get a trophy, no matter what place the team finishes? Why does everybody get an award instead of just the MVP? What's with having to invite every child in the class if you pass out birthday party invitations? We are not preparing our youth to face the real world! Or ARE we?
Now these kids are growing up and trying to make the real world conform to their experiences. Let's pretend everybody likes everybody else, and life is fair. Don't say anything that 'disrespects' somebody else. Free speech is no longer an option. You are not allowed to have an opinion unless it is the popular opinion held by society. You must not dislike anybody. If you start a club or business, you must let all people participate. You must let boys play on a girls' team if they don't have one of their own. Military academy? Make sure you let in girls. It's getting to the point that churches will have to accept people of different religions into their congregations, and reformulate their religious beliefs in case they are offensive to the new joiners.
You'd better toe the line, too, or we'll sue you! We know our rights, by cracky! Don't mess with us. We'll point the blame on you, and you'll have to defend yourself, or pay up.
Here's the story stuck in my craw today. Mother arrested with daughter for bullying teen. Uh huh. Remember that Missouri woman (poor ol' Missouri) for pretending to be a teenage boy on the internet, and causing that poor girl to commit suicide? Well, here's a new one. Only she's embarrassing the state of Indiana. Seems she drove her 15-year-old daughter and friend to dump some disposable diapers inscribed with naughty sayings into a rival's yard. Yep. There was not even poop in those Pampers. They just had insults written on them. They probably could have been picked up and disposed of in 5 minutes. It's not like the troublemakers took out an ad in the paper, or put up a billboard, or prank-called her 100 times a day, or plotted a Texas cheerleader murder. It was folded diapers dumped in the yard. Oh, and one little detail I forgot to mention...the recipient of the diapers tried to commit suicide. Don't worry. She was a failure. She lives!
Is it just me, or do we need to place some responsibility on the child-raisers of the 'victims' as well as the perpetrators? Sure, it was wrong to write insults on diapers and distribute them in the front yard. But would that make YOU attempt suicide? It would make ME vow revenge. Oops, my upbringing is showing. Seriously...isn't there something else going on if such a prank pushes you over the abyss? Perhaps someone was in need of a diagnosis, or counseling, or medication. Maybe the diaper dumpers actually did this family a favor.
I don't mean to blame the 'victim', but where is this going to end? Boo hoo hoo! Somebody just TeePeed my yard! The whole world is against me. I'm going to kill myself. Mom, make sure you sue whoever did this. They should have to pay for this hate crime.
It seems that we are harming, not building, self-esteem with this 'everybody wins' philosophy. Teach your children that they are losers. But not in a bad way. On MSNBC's Morning Joe the other day, the panel ridiculed Mike Barnicle because he raised his children on the premise that 'There's always going to be somebody better than you.' The rest of the panel, especially Mika Somethingshevsky, were outraged. "That's great. Your kids grew up thinking that they could never be the best." Something like that, it's not an exact quote. And Barnicle IS the guy who said Hillary Clinton 'looked like everyone's first wife standing outside a probate court'. OK, that's kind of sexist, but it's also kind of funny. I forgive him this slight on my gal Hillary, because at least he tried to prepare his kids for life.
Snap out of it, people! We need to toughen up tomorrow's citizens.
Now these kids are growing up and trying to make the real world conform to their experiences. Let's pretend everybody likes everybody else, and life is fair. Don't say anything that 'disrespects' somebody else. Free speech is no longer an option. You are not allowed to have an opinion unless it is the popular opinion held by society. You must not dislike anybody. If you start a club or business, you must let all people participate. You must let boys play on a girls' team if they don't have one of their own. Military academy? Make sure you let in girls. It's getting to the point that churches will have to accept people of different religions into their congregations, and reformulate their religious beliefs in case they are offensive to the new joiners.
You'd better toe the line, too, or we'll sue you! We know our rights, by cracky! Don't mess with us. We'll point the blame on you, and you'll have to defend yourself, or pay up.
Here's the story stuck in my craw today. Mother arrested with daughter for bullying teen. Uh huh. Remember that Missouri woman (poor ol' Missouri) for pretending to be a teenage boy on the internet, and causing that poor girl to commit suicide? Well, here's a new one. Only she's embarrassing the state of Indiana. Seems she drove her 15-year-old daughter and friend to dump some disposable diapers inscribed with naughty sayings into a rival's yard. Yep. There was not even poop in those Pampers. They just had insults written on them. They probably could have been picked up and disposed of in 5 minutes. It's not like the troublemakers took out an ad in the paper, or put up a billboard, or prank-called her 100 times a day, or plotted a Texas cheerleader murder. It was folded diapers dumped in the yard. Oh, and one little detail I forgot to mention...the recipient of the diapers tried to commit suicide. Don't worry. She was a failure. She lives!
Is it just me, or do we need to place some responsibility on the child-raisers of the 'victims' as well as the perpetrators? Sure, it was wrong to write insults on diapers and distribute them in the front yard. But would that make YOU attempt suicide? It would make ME vow revenge. Oops, my upbringing is showing. Seriously...isn't there something else going on if such a prank pushes you over the abyss? Perhaps someone was in need of a diagnosis, or counseling, or medication. Maybe the diaper dumpers actually did this family a favor.
I don't mean to blame the 'victim', but where is this going to end? Boo hoo hoo! Somebody just TeePeed my yard! The whole world is against me. I'm going to kill myself. Mom, make sure you sue whoever did this. They should have to pay for this hate crime.
It seems that we are harming, not building, self-esteem with this 'everybody wins' philosophy. Teach your children that they are losers. But not in a bad way. On MSNBC's Morning Joe the other day, the panel ridiculed Mike Barnicle because he raised his children on the premise that 'There's always going to be somebody better than you.' The rest of the panel, especially Mika Somethingshevsky, were outraged. "That's great. Your kids grew up thinking that they could never be the best." Something like that, it's not an exact quote. And Barnicle IS the guy who said Hillary Clinton 'looked like everyone's first wife standing outside a probate court'. OK, that's kind of sexist, but it's also kind of funny. I forgive him this slight on my gal Hillary, because at least he tried to prepare his kids for life.
Snap out of it, people! We need to toughen up tomorrow's citizens.
Thursday, June 12, 2008
Random Thought Thursday 6-12-08
It's Thursday already. Good thing. I don't really have any lengthy ideas to discuss. Stop that! Stop jumping with glee! I'm right here, you know.
When it rains it pours. Especially in Iowa. And on the Morton Salt box. But that's not what I'm talking about. I go for days with no communication from my posse. But when one calls, they all call. Like last week, when 3 of them called within 90 minutes. Then today, right when I was talking to MyOldLoverFromTheStreetLastNight about bringing her daughter out to swim in Poolio, who should try to call me? Mabel. Uh huh. And after bending her ear for part of the afternoon, my #1 son called me 4 times. Sweet Gummi Mary! How can I be expected to keep this Mansion running with all those distractions?
Kathy Griffin's show starts a new season tonight.
Not only have I been watching 2 hours of ER on TBS every morning...I have been watching 3 hours of ER on ION at night. It's a very special All-Star guest tribute. That's 5 hours a day of ER, people! Somebody needs to get her priorities in order. Good thing the ION mini-marathon was only Monday-Wednesday. I think.
I squeezed in a good movie in 3 partial viewings over 3 different days. When I skimmed through the channels, it popped up and grabbed my attention. It is called Down in the Delta, starring Alfre Woodard and Al Freeman, Jr. and Esther Rolle. The more I watched, the more I wanted to find out the mystery of Nathan, the silver candelabra. It even brought tears to my eyes. Twice.
The #1 son went to school yesterday and today, because the school went to a YMCA camp and a city park swimming pool. Never mind that we have a pool right here at the Mansion. That's what HH said on the subject. I instructed him to put on his chapstick-looking sunscreen every two hours, and not to drown, and not to play the dunking game. I guess one out of three isn't bad. He said his buddy tried to shove him underwater, but it didn't work. I suppose not. My boy is now 5' 10" and 150 lbs. That's a pretty good size 13-year-old. His buddy might be an inch taller, but he's a real twig, kind of spindly, and he couldn't close the deal.
My boy says I'm overprotective and obsessive. I agree. When he got home last night, I made him come downstairs and watch the news with me. That Iowa tornado at the Boy Scout ranch really wrapped its fingers around my cold, cold heart. Boy Scouts. The best Boy Scouts, chosen to attend a leadership camp. Their proud parents sent off their 13- and 14-year-old sons to have a good time, never thinking that it might be the last goodbye. "This," I told my boy, "is why I am so overprotective. You never know what might happen."
Now I have made myself sad again, and I need to go see what time Ms. Griffin can cheer me up. Thank the Gummi Mary, I haven't lost my urge to end sentences with prepositions.
When it rains it pours. Especially in Iowa. And on the Morton Salt box. But that's not what I'm talking about. I go for days with no communication from my posse. But when one calls, they all call. Like last week, when 3 of them called within 90 minutes. Then today, right when I was talking to MyOldLoverFromTheStreetLastNight about bringing her daughter out to swim in Poolio, who should try to call me? Mabel. Uh huh. And after bending her ear for part of the afternoon, my #1 son called me 4 times. Sweet Gummi Mary! How can I be expected to keep this Mansion running with all those distractions?
Kathy Griffin's show starts a new season tonight.
Not only have I been watching 2 hours of ER on TBS every morning...I have been watching 3 hours of ER on ION at night. It's a very special All-Star guest tribute. That's 5 hours a day of ER, people! Somebody needs to get her priorities in order. Good thing the ION mini-marathon was only Monday-Wednesday. I think.
I squeezed in a good movie in 3 partial viewings over 3 different days. When I skimmed through the channels, it popped up and grabbed my attention. It is called Down in the Delta, starring Alfre Woodard and Al Freeman, Jr. and Esther Rolle. The more I watched, the more I wanted to find out the mystery of Nathan, the silver candelabra. It even brought tears to my eyes. Twice.
The #1 son went to school yesterday and today, because the school went to a YMCA camp and a city park swimming pool. Never mind that we have a pool right here at the Mansion. That's what HH said on the subject. I instructed him to put on his chapstick-looking sunscreen every two hours, and not to drown, and not to play the dunking game. I guess one out of three isn't bad. He said his buddy tried to shove him underwater, but it didn't work. I suppose not. My boy is now 5' 10" and 150 lbs. That's a pretty good size 13-year-old. His buddy might be an inch taller, but he's a real twig, kind of spindly, and he couldn't close the deal.
My boy says I'm overprotective and obsessive. I agree. When he got home last night, I made him come downstairs and watch the news with me. That Iowa tornado at the Boy Scout ranch really wrapped its fingers around my cold, cold heart. Boy Scouts. The best Boy Scouts, chosen to attend a leadership camp. Their proud parents sent off their 13- and 14-year-old sons to have a good time, never thinking that it might be the last goodbye. "This," I told my boy, "is why I am so overprotective. You never know what might happen."
Now I have made myself sad again, and I need to go see what time Ms. Griffin can cheer me up. Thank the Gummi Mary, I haven't lost my urge to end sentences with prepositions.
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
Current Events With Mrs. Hillbilly Mom
We are rapidly approaching the year 2012, people. Do you have your handbaskets ready? Because every day, the world goes a little crazier.
Gone are the days when suicidal people could just close the garage door and start the car. The price of gas might even be affecting the way people decide to end their lives. Or the economy is so bad they can't even afford cars. Did you see this? A guy went up with some skydivers to take pictures, and when they all jumped out of the plane, so did he...without a parachute. The police ruled his death a suicide. Apparently, he took pictures of himself on the way down.
The son of Indiana Jones used the f*gg*t word on YouTube, though I'm sure he didn't plan on being on YouTube at the time of slurring. That Shia dude is one bad seed. He has also been arrested for trespassing in a Walgreens, and had a warrant issued for failing to appear in court on illegal smoking charges. Crikey! Lock him up and throw away the key! Three strikes, you know.
Remember last blog, when I told you about the guy who killed his wife by shooting into the wall to install his satellite dish? Even though she was outside, his bullet found her and snuffed her out. I can't find the link right now, but my main horror at this incident was that it happened in MISSOURI. Of course it did, you say. Well, here's a story just to prove that our neighbors to the west are just as dumb. A guy's friend accidentally shot him in the head with a nail gun, nailing his hat on sideways, and not in a fashionable way.
My favorite part is: Med-Act spokesman Jeff Johnson said Chandler remained alert and conscious for the most part, passing out only once when someone mentioned the nail.
That part, and this:
He was scheduled for surgery when his doctor entered his room early and announced he was going to remove the nail using a sterilized screwdriver and claw hammer from the maintenance department.
“I thought he was just trying to scare me,” Chandler said.
Yeah. It reminds me of the SNL recurring sketch 'Appalachian Emergency Room.'
Thank the Gummi Mary, MISSOURI people were able to stay out of the news so far this week.
Gone are the days when suicidal people could just close the garage door and start the car. The price of gas might even be affecting the way people decide to end their lives. Or the economy is so bad they can't even afford cars. Did you see this? A guy went up with some skydivers to take pictures, and when they all jumped out of the plane, so did he...without a parachute. The police ruled his death a suicide. Apparently, he took pictures of himself on the way down.
The son of Indiana Jones used the f*gg*t word on YouTube, though I'm sure he didn't plan on being on YouTube at the time of slurring. That Shia dude is one bad seed. He has also been arrested for trespassing in a Walgreens, and had a warrant issued for failing to appear in court on illegal smoking charges. Crikey! Lock him up and throw away the key! Three strikes, you know.
Remember last blog, when I told you about the guy who killed his wife by shooting into the wall to install his satellite dish? Even though she was outside, his bullet found her and snuffed her out. I can't find the link right now, but my main horror at this incident was that it happened in MISSOURI. Of course it did, you say. Well, here's a story just to prove that our neighbors to the west are just as dumb. A guy's friend accidentally shot him in the head with a nail gun, nailing his hat on sideways, and not in a fashionable way.
My favorite part is: Med-Act spokesman Jeff Johnson said Chandler remained alert and conscious for the most part, passing out only once when someone mentioned the nail.
That part, and this:
He was scheduled for surgery when his doctor entered his room early and announced he was going to remove the nail using a sterilized screwdriver and claw hammer from the maintenance department.
“I thought he was just trying to scare me,” Chandler said.
Yeah. It reminds me of the SNL recurring sketch 'Appalachian Emergency Room.'
Thank the Gummi Mary, MISSOURI people were able to stay out of the news so far this week.
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
Limbs Falling From Cedars
Okay, I'll give you something fresh today. I'll give you an unrecycled story, fresh off the vine. And while you're at it, have a heapin' helping of these round red tomatoes. Or perhaps you would prefer the roma or plum tomatoes. Dig in. Don't cost nothin'. I won't be using them. I'm off my tomato feed lately. Don't think they're from my garden. Ever since the deer ate the baby watermelons, and a giant hornworm ate half of each tender tomato on the vines, we have refused to plant a garden. (There's 3 pictures linked there, people. Be sure to check them out. None of them are my personal hornworm. HH caught him and squeezed him to death until a gush of tomato-seedy slimy poop squirted out of him. That would have been a feast for Bear Grylls. Don't tell PETA, OK?)
Around 11:00 this morning, at the end of a TBS ER episode where Benton breathed a sigh of relief because he didn't really kill the Herlihy baby, I saw a big orange vehicle driving up the gravel road through the prisms of the cut-glassy door-framing tall windows. That's not a very good sentence. It kind of sounds like 'HH shot a possum eating dogfood in his pajamas' kind of sentence. Which is silly, really, because HH doesn't wear pajamas. But anyway, I told The Pony to look out and see what was going on. He reported that it went by the house, and it looked like a highway truck.
As we gathered up our various electronic gadgets that we have to take with us as pacifiers on the 10-minute ride to town, The Pony went back to the door. He heard the dog's tail beating on the front door. When he opened it (the door, not the dog's tail, but don't think that act hasn't crossed his mind), I heard a man say, "Is your mom or dad home?" The Pony came in, all a-fluster, and said, "There's a MAN out there. I thought he was the dog." The man wasn't actually ON the porch, but at the bottom of the steps. He must not have brought his dog-club. C'mon, people. Don't think those fellas don't carry a dog-club. My brother-in-law-the-mayor used to be a meter reader for Union Electric. You can bet HE had a dog-club, and it saved him from a-biting several times. Anyhoo, now that I am being hotlined to PETA, I must pick up the pace of my little story.
The guy was with AmerenUE, the only electric company in town. (I'm being facetious--my dad made a career of working with Southwestern Bell, back in the day, before the telephone business was deregulated, and they had a catchy saying: We May Be The Only Phone Company In Town, But We Try Not To Act Like It. They even had caps and jackets with WMBTOPCITBWTNTALI on them. I can't really complain. That company put food in my mouth and bought me a new color TV to watch One Life to Live when the old one broke and made sure I had a CPO jacket so I was stylish and wouldn't freeze.) So much for making my long story short.
The dude looked kind of like that Hugh guy from Ice Road Truckers, kinda scraggly and red-necky, but without the 'aboot' and 'don't cha know' accent. He said they were wanting to trim some limbs so they don't fall on the lines in the winter. I told him to hack away at the cedars that were already sporting broken limbs. Cedars are the worst, you know. They soak up snow and rain and when it freezes, they can't hold their water. The #1 son had to get the keys and move HH's Ford F250 Extended Cab Long Bed Off-Road-Packaged piece of crap. He drives his Mercedes piece of crap to work, due to the price of gas and the meager allowance that I allow him. He parks his truck in the gravel he poured between the Mansion and the BARn. Not in the garage, because the truck is too long for the garage after HH built in a shelf. Not in the driveway, where HH's pimpin' 1980 copper-colored Olds Toronado sits. No, HH drives his truck through the front yard to park in our little shady patch of woods that the electric line runs through.
That was the excitement for the day. It gave me a flashback to the book salesman. I must be psychic. I picked that intruder story that wasn't even a good story out of the blue, to put on my brand-new blog. And now this. I'm thinkin' I might rerun the Devil post again. You know, the one where I woke up to find the Devil on my front porch? If there are any other stories you would like to share with me while we reminisce in rockers on the front porch while smoking our corn-cob pipes, let me know.
I'm taking requests.
Around 11:00 this morning, at the end of a TBS ER episode where Benton breathed a sigh of relief because he didn't really kill the Herlihy baby, I saw a big orange vehicle driving up the gravel road through the prisms of the cut-glassy door-framing tall windows. That's not a very good sentence. It kind of sounds like 'HH shot a possum eating dogfood in his pajamas' kind of sentence. Which is silly, really, because HH doesn't wear pajamas. But anyway, I told The Pony to look out and see what was going on. He reported that it went by the house, and it looked like a highway truck.
As we gathered up our various electronic gadgets that we have to take with us as pacifiers on the 10-minute ride to town, The Pony went back to the door. He heard the dog's tail beating on the front door. When he opened it (the door, not the dog's tail, but don't think that act hasn't crossed his mind), I heard a man say, "Is your mom or dad home?" The Pony came in, all a-fluster, and said, "There's a MAN out there. I thought he was the dog." The man wasn't actually ON the porch, but at the bottom of the steps. He must not have brought his dog-club. C'mon, people. Don't think those fellas don't carry a dog-club. My brother-in-law-the-mayor used to be a meter reader for Union Electric. You can bet HE had a dog-club, and it saved him from a-biting several times. Anyhoo, now that I am being hotlined to PETA, I must pick up the pace of my little story.
The guy was with AmerenUE, the only electric company in town. (I'm being facetious--my dad made a career of working with Southwestern Bell, back in the day, before the telephone business was deregulated, and they had a catchy saying: We May Be The Only Phone Company In Town, But We Try Not To Act Like It. They even had caps and jackets with WMBTOPCITBWTNTALI on them. I can't really complain. That company put food in my mouth and bought me a new color TV to watch One Life to Live when the old one broke and made sure I had a CPO jacket so I was stylish and wouldn't freeze.) So much for making my long story short.
The dude looked kind of like that Hugh guy from Ice Road Truckers, kinda scraggly and red-necky, but without the 'aboot' and 'don't cha know' accent. He said they were wanting to trim some limbs so they don't fall on the lines in the winter. I told him to hack away at the cedars that were already sporting broken limbs. Cedars are the worst, you know. They soak up snow and rain and when it freezes, they can't hold their water. The #1 son had to get the keys and move HH's Ford F250 Extended Cab Long Bed Off-Road-Packaged piece of crap. He drives his Mercedes piece of crap to work, due to the price of gas and the meager allowance that I allow him. He parks his truck in the gravel he poured between the Mansion and the BARn. Not in the garage, because the truck is too long for the garage after HH built in a shelf. Not in the driveway, where HH's pimpin' 1980 copper-colored Olds Toronado sits. No, HH drives his truck through the front yard to park in our little shady patch of woods that the electric line runs through.
That was the excitement for the day. It gave me a flashback to the book salesman. I must be psychic. I picked that intruder story that wasn't even a good story out of the blue, to put on my brand-new blog. And now this. I'm thinkin' I might rerun the Devil post again. You know, the one where I woke up to find the Devil on my front porch? If there are any other stories you would like to share with me while we reminisce in rockers on the front porch while smoking our corn-cob pipes, let me know.
I'm taking requests.
Monday, June 9, 2008
Hillbilly Mom's Greatest Hits
This week is going to be dedicated to ME. I am bring you my greatest hits from the last four blogs. Don't get all excited. Greatest hits from Hillbilly Mom ain't nothin' to write home about. The Hammster's comments yesterday mentioned 'The Shootist', which is also a John Wayne movie, and in a roundabout way, it reminded me of THIS post from 2005:
***************************************************************
I'm at the bottom of Connecticut. You know, that little part that sticks out? I am overlooking the New England Sound. I can see across to the lights of New York, and what's that island just off
of New York?
You mean Manhattan?
Yeah, I guess. The place where everybody goes for the summer.
No, that would be the Hamptons. Long Island.
Yeah, whatever. My boss lives two doors down from some famous author lady. Betty something. I can't think of it now.
Hmm...you mean like famous for her writing now? Or did she write classic literature? Or poetry? How old is she? Does she live by him, or just her house is by his?
She just died. I think she was born in the 1930s.
You're not giving me much to go on.
I know. I don't know that kind of stuff. I'll have to ask him again.
Thirty minutes later #2 son answered the phone. Hey, Dad is back at his motel.
Ask him about that author lady.
Oh. Mom, it was Katherine Hepburn.
Only at my house, people, is Katherine Hepburn best known for her writing. And her nickname, "Betty." Nice of HH to shave 30 years off her age, because she was born in 1903. And only at my house does "just died" mean 2 years ago she died.
We won't even get into our geography issues.
There. That should satisfy you until tomorrow.
***************************************************************
Saturday, August 27, 2005
The Famous Author
Hillbilly Husband is in Connecticut to fix a machine and visit with his company's big boss. He called tonight to check in. It went a little something like this:I'm at the bottom of Connecticut. You know, that little part that sticks out? I am overlooking the New England Sound. I can see across to the lights of New York, and what's that island just off
of New York?
You mean Manhattan?
Yeah, I guess. The place where everybody goes for the summer.
No, that would be the Hamptons. Long Island.
Yeah, whatever. My boss lives two doors down from some famous author lady. Betty something. I can't think of it now.
Hmm...you mean like famous for her writing now? Or did she write classic literature? Or poetry? How old is she? Does she live by him, or just her house is by his?
She just died. I think she was born in the 1930s.
You're not giving me much to go on.
I know. I don't know that kind of stuff. I'll have to ask him again.
Thirty minutes later #2 son answered the phone. Hey, Dad is back at his motel.
Ask him about that author lady.
Oh. Mom, it was Katherine Hepburn.
Only at my house, people, is Katherine Hepburn best known for her writing. And her nickname, "Betty." Nice of HH to shave 30 years off her age, because she was born in 1903. And only at my house does "just died" mean 2 years ago she died.
We won't even get into our geography issues.
8 Comments:
-
At 10:40 PM,
deadpanann said… -
At 12:07 PM,
Hillbilly Mom said… -
At 3:59 PM,
KarbonKountyMoos said…HH isn't doing bad geographically. I "grew up" (to a point) on Longuyland. Well, in Astoria, Queens. It always amazed me that folks in Queens & Brooklyn would say, "We're going out to the island."
You're already on "the island" - knuckleheads - you're going east...
And here I thought that Katherine Hepburn was a famous dancer. Oh, maybe that was Audrey. -
At 4:15 PM,
Redneck Diva said… -
At 7:06 PM,
Hillbilly Mom said…Babs,
He got back today, and told me that he drove out onto the causeway, which is "just like a big low-water bridge." I guess you can take the redneck out of Missouri, but you can't take the Missouri out of the redneck.
Karen,
But have you been to "New England Sound?"
Diva,
HH is not book-friendly. He wouldn't read a book on a$$-biting if it bit him in the a$$. OK, so maybe that's not a very good example. -
At 7:09 PM,
Hillbilly Mom said…Bec,
I guess you think you're clever, sneaking in while I was busy responding to others. There's one of you in every crowd. Me me me! Stop talking to them and talk to me!
Are you sure you weren't googling "world class car-singers?"
There. That should satisfy you until tomorrow.
Sunday, June 8, 2008
A Blast From My Past
WooHoo! It's Sunday evening, and I don't have to work tomorrow! I loves me some summertime. So much for whipping my new blog home into shape. It can wait, by cracky!
I have run out of scathingly brilliant ideas. The well has run dry. So has the pond in the pasture where the Oreo cows live. They are on our way to town, the Oreo cows. They are black at the head and butt, with a thick white stripe around their belly area. They are double stuff Oreo cows. One was in the road the other day, having rolled under the fence, happily munching grass along where the road's shoulder would be if our roads had a shoulder. Why he couldn't stand in the grass, I don't know. That's one of the perks about living in the middle of nowhere--you never know what you might find when you round that blind curve, or crest a hill. Some days, it's the front end of a dually pick-up truck coming at you. Other days, it's a beast with four stomachs.
Because I have no imagination today, I see no reason to punish you. So I'll treat you to one of my golden oldies. Or moldy oldies. Today, I bring you one from my very first blog, the Redneck Review. You be the judge of whether I have improved over the past 4 blogs. But don't feel like you have to tell me.
******************************************************************
*******************************************************************
I have run out of scathingly brilliant ideas. The well has run dry. So has the pond in the pasture where the Oreo cows live. They are on our way to town, the Oreo cows. They are black at the head and butt, with a thick white stripe around their belly area. They are double stuff Oreo cows. One was in the road the other day, having rolled under the fence, happily munching grass along where the road's shoulder would be if our roads had a shoulder. Why he couldn't stand in the grass, I don't know. That's one of the perks about living in the middle of nowhere--you never know what you might find when you round that blind curve, or crest a hill. Some days, it's the front end of a dually pick-up truck coming at you. Other days, it's a beast with four stomachs.
Because I have no imagination today, I see no reason to punish you. So I'll treat you to one of my golden oldies. Or moldy oldies. Today, I bring you one from my very first blog, the Redneck Review. You be the judge of whether I have improved over the past 4 blogs. But don't feel like you have to tell me.
******************************************************************
Thursday, July 21, 2005
INTRUDER!!! INTRUDER!!!
Sit down, buckle up, and prepare for a rant.
I am a lazy slug in the summer. I stay up until 2:00 or 3:00 am, and
on good days I am up by 9:00 am to watch ER reruns on TBS.
Yesterday was not a good day.
At 9:10 am, #2 son came into my bedroom. He usually sleeps until
10:00. He slept on the living room couch last night, because he can.
We don't care about bedtimes in the summer, and he stays up late.
He was in his pajamas (which he insists on wearing inside-out), and
rubbing his eyes. "There is someone on the porch, and I saw
someone walking in the yard."
WHAT? We live a mile up a gravel road. At the entrance to this
gravel road is a sign about 3 feet by 3 feet that proclaims: Private
Road. Trespassers will be prosecuted. That means, people, that
we don't want your trash dumped on our property. It means that
we pay for our own road upkeep, and don't want you using our
2.5 miles of gravel to cut 7 miles off your daily drive. Our roads
are maintained by our hard-earned dollars, not your county
taxes. And we haven't notice you kicking in your $200 every
winter for gravel and tractor gas. We don't want to adopt your
discarded pets. We don't want to host your underage beer parties,
or to provide the guest of honor for your mailbox-bashing sprees.
So JUST KEEP OUT!!! And that especially means SALESMEN!
And anybody planning to chop me up and put me in a 55-gallon
barrel. (Thank your mama, Redneck Diva, for giving me this
new phobia).
I huffed out of bed, made myself crack-of-the-door presentable,
and traipsed through the living room after #2 son. He put his face
to the glass panel at the side of the door and announced, "He's
still here."
Now what kind of person keeps standing at the door when
nobody answers? He never rang the doorbell--not even once.
And that is the one thing around this house that works. The kids
ring it all the time when they are hankerin' for a trip to spankytown.
#2 said the guy knocked on the door, and that woke him up. So
I guess he had been standing there for at least 5 minutes. He was
probably perusing the yard for kid toys to help his sales pitch.
I opened the door a crack, and there's this kid about 20-25 years
old with a clipboard. "Are you the lady of the house?" Yeah, what
other haggard hag would drag herself to the door to deal with him?
I wanted to say, "No, I am this week's ho. The wife is really ugly."
He started his spiel, "I'm a college student and I'm trying to earn
money..."
"We're not interested." I started to close the door. He took a
step closer and continued. Then I was really ticked, and I said,
"How did you even get in here? This is a private road. We don't
want any salesmen." Then I slammed the door. I guess he left.
I didn't look out to give him another chance.
Last year another guy from this company was here, and the year
before that a different one. They are persistent and don't want to
take "NO!" for an answer. One year I actually went out and
stood on the front porch with one, and when he saw I wasn't
buying anything, he turned to #1 son, who was in 2nd grade.
He started asking him wouldn't he like to read about dinosaurs,
and trains, etc. #1 told him, "No. I'm into computers." The
nerve of that guy, trying to manipulate me into buying something
using my kid! I asked him how he got up in here to solicit on a
private road. He seemed to think it was OK, because a neighbor
had "recommended" us. Then he tried to pump me for information
on the next house up the road from me. No way.
I understand that people have to make a living. That does not
give them the right to make their own rules. Private means
private. I does not mean everybody but you, keep out.
There are plenty of houses in town where you can peddle
your wares. That's one of the reasons we moved out here.
What with the Mormons parking their bicycles in the yard and
wanting to sit a spell, and the Jehovah's Witnesses hawking
the Watchtower, and the van full of kids selling cleaning supplies
one week and magazines the next, and the Sheriff's Deputies
trying to serve warrants on people who didn't live there anymore,
and the traveling health team wanting to suck our child's blood
to test for lead.....I pretty much needed a butler to answer my
door all summer. Now I want my privacy.
Disclaimer: I have nothing against the Mormons or Jehovah's
Witnesses. This is their way of spreading their Word, and
they are just doing what they have to do. And they know the
meaning of the phrase 'Private Road.' My mother used
to invite them in and chat for an hour or so. They stopped
coming back.
I am a lazy slug in the summer. I stay up until 2:00 or 3:00 am, and
on good days I am up by 9:00 am to watch ER reruns on TBS.
Yesterday was not a good day.
At 9:10 am, #2 son came into my bedroom. He usually sleeps until
10:00. He slept on the living room couch last night, because he can.
We don't care about bedtimes in the summer, and he stays up late.
He was in his pajamas (which he insists on wearing inside-out), and
rubbing his eyes. "There is someone on the porch, and I saw
someone walking in the yard."
WHAT? We live a mile up a gravel road. At the entrance to this
gravel road is a sign about 3 feet by 3 feet that proclaims: Private
Road. Trespassers will be prosecuted. That means, people, that
we don't want your trash dumped on our property. It means that
we pay for our own road upkeep, and don't want you using our
2.5 miles of gravel to cut 7 miles off your daily drive. Our roads
are maintained by our hard-earned dollars, not your county
taxes. And we haven't notice you kicking in your $200 every
winter for gravel and tractor gas. We don't want to adopt your
discarded pets. We don't want to host your underage beer parties,
or to provide the guest of honor for your mailbox-bashing sprees.
So JUST KEEP OUT!!! And that especially means SALESMEN!
And anybody planning to chop me up and put me in a 55-gallon
barrel. (Thank your mama, Redneck Diva, for giving me this
new phobia).
I huffed out of bed, made myself crack-of-the-door presentable,
and traipsed through the living room after #2 son. He put his face
to the glass panel at the side of the door and announced, "He's
still here."
Now what kind of person keeps standing at the door when
nobody answers? He never rang the doorbell--not even once.
And that is the one thing around this house that works. The kids
ring it all the time when they are hankerin' for a trip to spankytown.
#2 said the guy knocked on the door, and that woke him up. So
I guess he had been standing there for at least 5 minutes. He was
probably perusing the yard for kid toys to help his sales pitch.
I opened the door a crack, and there's this kid about 20-25 years
old with a clipboard. "Are you the lady of the house?" Yeah, what
other haggard hag would drag herself to the door to deal with him?
I wanted to say, "No, I am this week's ho. The wife is really ugly."
He started his spiel, "I'm a college student and I'm trying to earn
money..."
"We're not interested." I started to close the door. He took a
step closer and continued. Then I was really ticked, and I said,
"How did you even get in here? This is a private road. We don't
want any salesmen." Then I slammed the door. I guess he left.
I didn't look out to give him another chance.
Last year another guy from this company was here, and the year
before that a different one. They are persistent and don't want to
take "NO!" for an answer. One year I actually went out and
stood on the front porch with one, and when he saw I wasn't
buying anything, he turned to #1 son, who was in 2nd grade.
He started asking him wouldn't he like to read about dinosaurs,
and trains, etc. #1 told him, "No. I'm into computers." The
nerve of that guy, trying to manipulate me into buying something
using my kid! I asked him how he got up in here to solicit on a
private road. He seemed to think it was OK, because a neighbor
had "recommended" us. Then he tried to pump me for information
on the next house up the road from me. No way.
I understand that people have to make a living. That does not
give them the right to make their own rules. Private means
private. I does not mean everybody but you, keep out.
There are plenty of houses in town where you can peddle
your wares. That's one of the reasons we moved out here.
What with the Mormons parking their bicycles in the yard and
wanting to sit a spell, and the Jehovah's Witnesses hawking
the Watchtower, and the van full of kids selling cleaning supplies
one week and magazines the next, and the Sheriff's Deputies
trying to serve warrants on people who didn't live there anymore,
and the traveling health team wanting to suck our child's blood
to test for lead.....I pretty much needed a butler to answer my
door all summer. Now I want my privacy.
Disclaimer: I have nothing against the Mormons or Jehovah's
Witnesses. This is their way of spreading their Word, and
they are just doing what they have to do. And they know the
meaning of the phrase 'Private Road.' My mother used
to invite them in and chat for an hour or so. They stopped
coming back.
5 Comments:
-
Salespeople are evil. Yes, they have to make a living somehow, and there are some nice salespeople out there. But more than often we come across the ones who go to great lengths to make a sale. It's ridiculous that even when you politely tell them that you're not interested, they will still keep grilling you about their deal anyway. Jerks.
What you need is a savage dog on your property. I hear they are very effective.
-
Misha,
We adopted out dog from the Humane Society when he was a puppy. He barks at Hillbilly Husband, snakes, turtles, and nothing. When a stranger comes, he wags his tail. Useless fleabag!
Bec,
To throw goldfish water on them, I would have to touch the goldfish water. No thank you. I prefer to keep all of my fingers so I can continue with my mediocre posts.
-
My husband has a psychopathic uncle who has sworn to murder us all before he dies, therefore when strange vehicles come up our 1/10 of a mile driveway, the house goes into panic mode and I start loading my 9mm. Peddlers, solicitors, Jehovah's Witnesses, fruit salesmen and the guy that serves us with 48 hour cut-offs on the electric are met at the door by me, usually in my pajamas, wielding a rather nasty looking handgun. Heh, even when I realize it's not the crazy uncle, I still wield the gun. Strangely, we don't get too many repeat offenders.
-
There's an idea. There is certainly no shortage of guns around this house.
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I find myself saying that something "just" happened when it's been a while. But I guess I'd like to think that when I die it will take more than 2 years before it's exactly as if I had never existed.
God I'm depressed.