Ain't No Party Like A Swine Flu Party

Today's public safety advice: Do Not Hold a Swine Flu Party. No matter how much you want your young 'un to contract the swine flu at your convenience, do not invite yourself to visit those who are currently suffering from this affliction. In addition, do not host a swine flu party if you are one of the 'lucky ones' to succumb to the porcine plague. Swine flu is nothing to sneeze at.

When The Pony was just shy of a year old, there was a smattering of Chicken Pox at his daycare. This was when the Chicken Pox vaccine had just come out, and his doctor had advised that he COULD get the shot at a cost of $100, or I could take him to the county health center to get it for free, or if my job was flexible, I could let nature take its course and see if he came down with the Chicken Pox when he was good and ready. He further added that there was not enough data yet to prove the the vaccine would definitely make The Pony immune from the Chicken Pox for life. So I opted to let nature take its course.

Secret Spy H was out of the country for his job, lounging about in Wales, soaking up the cuisine and wallowing in a tiny bathtub. My mom came out to stay with me, what with the Mansion being in the middle of nowhere, and me having a preschooler and an infant to deal with. Upon picking up The Pony from daycare, I noticed a few spots on his arms. The daycare lady and I crossed our fingers for Chicken Pox. It had been just long enough for the exposure to take. I showed my mom, who was also pleased, and I tucked him into bed that night with visions of pox dancing in my head.

Around midnight I woke up. Every time that happens, I go check on the kids. That's because I figure there was some reason that I woke up. And I'm obsessive compulsive. I went to check on The Pony, and I didn't recognize him. Oh, he was in his bed all right. But his face was swollen until he was unrecognizable. Seems those pox were not Chicken Pox at all, but a manifestation of his newly-acquired amoxicillin allergy. I woke my mom, who woke the #1 son, and we all hauled our butts to the new local emergency facility. It was only 10 minutes and five miles away. They took The Pony right in, asked about his recent medication history, which was that sweet, sweet, pink amoxicillin for an ear infection, and got to work. That meant that they spent about 30 minutes trying to start an IV in my bawling, bloated, baby boy. I don't fault the nurses. They were not shy about complaining how the doctors never listen to them, that they can't get an IV going in these little ones, and an injection would work just as well, and it could have been done all ready. And that's the route they finally took, after the foreign doctor saw that his method was not working. After about 4 hours cooling our heels in the new facility, The Pony was good to go. He got the Chicken Pox later that school year, from his brother, who brought it home from preschool. So much for the then-new Chicken Pox vaccine.

So the lesson here is: Be careful what you wish for. What you think is going to be a mild case of swine flu might turn out to be something you don't want, and you may not know it until it's too late, unless you are a light sleeper. Or something like that.

The Following Is A Public Safety Announcement

In keeping with my dedication to public safety, such as yesterday's idea to outlaw texting while scooter-riding, today I turn my attention to roadwalkers. Roadwalkers. Not streetwalkers. They are an entirely different danger to public health. No, I mean roadwalkers, those people who think it is their right to stroll down the pavement, cars be darned.

Signs should be posted along the roadways, banning pavement walkers. Just like NO THROUGH TRUCKS, these signs could proclaim: NO ROADWALKERS. Think of the jobs that would create! Maybe South Carolina has some stimulus money laying around that they're not going to use, what with fewer governor trips to Argentina now. That would pay people to put up the signs that a new sign factory can produce.

This roadwalking is becoming a hot issue. Just today, on my way to the doctor's office, I saw TWO roadwalkers. The first, a female, was out for a workout. She of the sports bra and earphones who can no longer afford a gym membership, apparently, because times are tough all over. No more climate-controlled treadmill for her. She's gotta hoof it like the dark ages. Except that maybe she should walk FACING traffic so she knows when a T-Hoe on a mission is bearing down on her. That 15-foot mowed grassy right-of-way might be a good place to walk when traffic is coming from both directions and meeting right at the point you are walking, necessitating the T-Hoe in your lane to come to a halt until the motorcycle in the other lane passes by. Did you not hear about the drunk walking home on New Year's Eve who was knocked in the head by a passenger-side mirror? Be glad that Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is neither drunk nor a state representative nor one to leave the scene of an accident after pocketing the evidence of your cell phone knocked loose by the collision.

Roadwalker Part Deux was a male in a straw hat and no shirt (we are truly midwestern fashion plates here in Hillmomba) who at least had the good sense to walk facing traffic. But he still lacked enough sense to step off the pavement on the hilly winding narrow blacktop county road where he had three cars backed up until Mrs. HM passed in the opposite direction so they could give him a wide berth. If only you had been on my side of the road, my #1 son was prepared to shove your shoulder and shout, "Step off, Dude!"

People. If there is no sidewalk, then perhaps you are not meant to be walking along that road. I know the price of gas is high. I know that you can no longer ride your scooter and text, due to the law I passed yesterday. But walk yourself to the library and read this blog and realize that you are part of the problem. You are not a precious little tow-headed two-year-old that people want to indulge and protect. They will crack your noggin like a rotten jack-o-lantern and not give two hoots about it. Roads are for cars. Sidewalks are for people.

Don't even get me started on the bicycle riders on the sidewalks.

HM Is Part Of The Solution

Here's the problem with America today: cell phones. An entire generation is growing up with their nose in a phone. What's the deal with texting? Why not just punch in the goshdarn numbers and TALK to the person already? Oh. I know why. Because that would draw attention to you while you are doing something you are not supposed to be doing. Like students in a classroom. Workers on the job. Uh huh. That's what's wrong with America today.

As I left The Devil's Playground after my usual Sunday morning steambath, I spied a young man driving down the road toward me on a cute little orange scooter. Texting. I kid you not. The dude was shirtless, driving the scooter with one hand, laughing to himself and texting. He was one of my students from last year. That means he had ridden that scooter a good five miles to get to that point. Shirtless. Helmetless. Texting.

I call for the government to protect us from ourselves. Pass a law against riding motorcycles and scooters while texting. I can't text while teaching. That's not even quite as dangerous as riding a two-wheeled motor vehicle with one hand and no eyes. Newsflash! My entire generation survived without constant contact with the outside world. We were able to educate ourselves and work a 40+ hour week without an electronic umbilical cord tethering us to our families and friends.

MAKE IT STOP!

Scatterbrain Saturday 6/27/09

Hey! Did you hear that Michael Jackson died?

The water in Poolio is hot enough to boil reptile eggs. HH and the boys say it is comfortable, yet when I put my hand in the water, it feels like bathwater. Only warmer. I think draining out a third of the water and running in some cold, cold well water would be in order... but I'm not the one swimming in Poolio.

One of my favorite movies was on TV last week: The Bad Seed. I was flipping through the channels and caught the part where that handyman tells Rhoda, "Then they're gonna fry you in the electric chair. They have a little blue chair for the little boys, and a little pink chair for the little girls." The #1 son went up to his room to watch it to the end, even though he's seen it before. And it's in black and white.

I am bored with summer. But that does NOT mean that I'm ready to head back to school in six weeks. As in AUGUST 10 !!!!!

HM Is On A Roll

Let me eat cake. Or at least let me eat Hawaiian Rolls. They are as sweet as cake. Really. They might as well be saved for dessert. They are soft and squishy and OH SO SWEET. I don't know what they have to do with Hawaii. I doubt that they were served at the White House on Luau Night. But if they were, I want to make sure that the record shows I WAS NOT INVITED, and I did not fly in a chef from Hawaii to bake my rolls, but instead I bought my own Hawaiian Rolls at The Devil's Playground with my hard-earned money that comes from leaving no child behind.

Don't call NBC. I'm not preempting an NFL game at a crucial moment, but I must talk about Heidi. Not that spoiled ignorant chick on I'm A Celebrity, Get Me Out of Here, the one married to that freak Spencer who needs a knot jerked in his tail. No, I mean HEIDI, the movie. And the book. This roll talk makes me think of Heidi, because she saved her rolls from her playdate in town so she could give them to Peter's grandmother, who was blind with no teeth, and would truly appreciate the purloined pieces of Heidi's dinner that would no doubt be as hard as rocks with staleness by the time they got back up the mountain. That's always what I remember about Heidi. Maybe I had a starving childhood. That Ricola commercial on the mountainside with the dudes blowing those freakishly long horns also makes me think of Alps/Heidi/rolls.

Be careful what you call for. There's a restaurant in southern Missouri called the Throwed Roll Restaurant. At least that's what we call it. The real name is Lambert's. I think they have two locations. They've been featured on the Travel Channel and probably on the Food Network. I've only been there one time. Before I went there, I had a boss at the Unemployment Office who was all incensed and suing the Roll Throwers because they ruined her good blouse. Turns out that she held up her hands for a roll, and the guy threw it to her. Imagine that! You'd never expect THAT to happen when you go to the Throwed Roll Restaurant. Anyhoo... she was not an extremely coordinated woman, and thus missed catching the roll, and it bounced off her blouse in all its buttery goodness, and left a stain, and even though she complained to the manager, he did not want to pay to have her blouse cleaned and replaced if the stain remained. Go figure. I suppose once you set that precedent, you would be buying a buttload of blouses every day.

Note to Self: never take your eye off the roll.

Some People Can't Handle The Truth

Since the #1 son has apparently recovered from his noggin-bustin' wood-floor gym-echoing head injury, we went outside this morning before it got too hot so he could practice a bit. It was already 8:30, but the boy is a late sleeper.

As I was feeding him the ball, I saw several small tumbleweeds rolling across the patio. No so much tumbleweeds as tumblefeathers. Black and fluffy tumblefeathers. "Hey, where did all these feathers come from?" The #1 son stated matter-of-factly, "Oh, the dogs killed a bird. It's all over the front porch." That did not sound right to me. "These don't look like bird feathers. They're black. Are both black pants roosters by the pen?" That put The Pony into a panic. He had been sitting in the shade on a log, reading a book until we needed him to stand in as defense to get elbowed and shoved. "Where? What bird? I'm going to check on the roosters." He came back quickly. "There's only one. But I'm putting on my glasses to go look again." That boy loves him some chickens.

Of course there was still only one rooster by the pen. The Pony went up on the porch to investigate the piles of feathers. He came back and sat down on his log. "The other rooster is on the porch." He put his nose in his book again. Which was just too much suspense for me. "Is it alive?" The Pony didn't look up. "Yes. It's on the back porch now." Which was probably not a good thing, because Grizzly was laying on the front porch, napping, with chicken feathers all around him. I said we would take him back to the pen. Of course we couldn't put him IN the pen, because Survivor the main rooster would attack him. First of all, though, we had to catch a chicken. I will be the first to admit that my chicken-catching skills are not first-rate. In the arena of chicken-catching, I would be sitting way down at the end of the bench. I asked The Pony if the rooster was OK. "Well, he's missing all of his feathers on his back, but I don't know if he has teeth marks."

I found that rooster sitting in the corner by the kitchen door. He didn't run away. I think he was in shock. One of his pants legs was gone as well as the back feathers. Noticing those enormous feet, I did not particularly want to pick him up. I despise a floggin' rooster. I sent The Pony around the house and in through the front door to get a towel. Then I dropped the towel over the rooster. He tried to get away at a slow walk, but I pinned him against the kitchen door and scooped him up. The feet were covered, and the wings, but the head was free. I tried to be the chicken-whisperer and sooth that savage beast. Poor, pitiful thing turned his head toward me and laid it on my chest. I took him out to the OLD chicken coop, which is not inside the pen, and set him inside the open picture window area. He just sat there. His buddy, the other bachelor black pants rooster, started walking around there after I left, stretching his neck and crowing, looking at his pal sitting in that coop.

Farmer H came in from mowing the barn field, and I told him that his dogs had got another chicken, and that The Pony and I put him in the coop. Farmer H said, "I know. He's dead. The coons got him." Which just goes to show you how much Farmer H listens to me, or his need for an industrial-strength hearing aid. "You mean just now? They got in the coop and killed him?" Farmer H explained to me, like I was a slow child, "Nooo. Last night. They killed him last night. There's feathers all over the porch." Like we have coons laying around the porch at night instead of three dogs. "Did you see the body?" Farmer H sighed. "No. I haven't found it yet." I don't know why I haven't snatched out all my hair since meeting Farmer H, as this kind of conversation is a daily thing. "That's because the body is very much alive and sitting out there in the old chicken coop where I just put it 30 minutes ago!" Farmer H started out the front door. "Oh. You found it? Where was it?"

Farmer H the animal group-dynamics genius took that poor rooster and tossed him into the chicken pen. Where Survivor attacked him. Farmer H had to enter the pen to intervene, and moved the victim to an old camper shell get-up that housed the rabbits when they first came to us from the auction.

I hope the coons don't get him again.

Nothing To Read Here

I don't have much to write about tonight. The #1 son got knocked down playing basketball at open gym, and I am a bit worried about him. I heard the thump all the way across the gym. The thump that I thought was his elbow hitting the floor, but was actually his head, I fear. He tells me it was his tailbone, but there seems to be padding around that. I don't think it would thump. He said his tailbone hit first, then his head. It's a wood floor in that gym.

Right after it happened, he was dizzy, but continued to play another 5-10 minutes. Then he went to get a drink and was replaced. He played another hour after that game. When we got home, he wanted to sleep, but he does that every afternoon anyway. I only let him sleep 45 minutes. When he woke up, he had a headache, but reported that it went away when he drank a Dr. Pepper. There is no knot on his head that I can feel, but he says he can feel one.

I am in a quandary about taking him to get it checked out by professionals. He says I am obsessing. I say I am going to wake him every couple of hours tonight.

That boy sure has a hard head.