We just got home from the Top Ten Percent Academic Banquet, so there's not much to report tonight. Both boys have a headache, I am tired from staying in town, and it's nearly HH's bedtime.
I asked MOM to look at my tick bite this afternoon, and she said it looked like a pimple with a black spot in the middle. That means it was either the tick head or the scab from that crater she left in my flesh from ripping off the tick. No target-y rash to report. Even that softball-sized thing on my side did not have a target-y shape, so I'm guessing I dodged the lime disease bullet this time. I think that side bite came from a tick that I dislodged by scratching, and it then climbed up to my neck.
I blame those darn chickens. It happened the weekend MOM and I were in the chicken pen tending to HH's folly.
Thursday, May 7, 2009
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
Oh, The Horror!
There is a fifth dimension beyond that which is known to man. It is a dimension as vast as space and as timeless as infinity. It is the middle ground between light and shadow, between science and superstition, and it lies between the pit of HM's fears and the summit of her knowledge. This is the dimension of imagination. It is an area which we call the Hillbilly Mansion.
Two weeks ago, Mrs. Hillbilly Mom was injured by a recliner. The resulting broken neck laid her up for a good (or BAD, according to her) two weeks. The neck injury happened on a Wednesday night. On Friday, her sons and her Hillbilly Husband left on a trip to St. Joseph for the state youth bowling tournament. That left HM in charge of feeding and watering HH's precious auction chickens and bunnies. It also left HM driving the $1000 Caravan.
In severe pain from the neck wound, HM did what any spoiled adult child would do, and called her loyal mother to whine. MOM commiserated like a champ, and as a bonus, offered to come out and help with the animal chores. For three days she did almost everything animal for HM. Plus, she brought Hot & Sour Soup to help cure the cold that HM came down with on Saturday. Darn that HH and his nighttime breather! Too bad, so sad that HH was wheezing his way around St. Joseph, sick as a dog. HM's virus was annoying, but the mildest of the viruses HM has had all year. It was mainly a snot event, then a run-of-the-mill coughing event. Not at all like the disease that HM had last fall that lasted six weeks.
Mrs. HM was hurtin' for certain from that broken neck. It was all she could do to get through a day with ibuprofen, BenGay, TheraGesic, and 2- and 4-year-old fake vicodin. Adding insult to HM's injuries was a bite on her left side, at waistband level. The origin of the bite was unknown. But the thing swelled up and itched until it was the size of softball. It didn't poof out like a 3D softball, but that's how big around it was. HM finally asked MOM to draw a circle around the edge with a black ink pen to see if it was getting larger every day, thus necessitating a trip to the doctor. Why go unnecessarily with a broken neck and a cold and a vermin bite when that waiting room was probably chock full of swine flu carriers?
Luckily, the next day after the black ink drawing, HM's bite remained the same size, and the day after, the redness began to recede. That brings us to the fourth ailment to befall HM. There was an irritation on the back of her broken neck, at about the 7 o'clock position. It had been there for several days before HM had the strength to even think about it. Once the cold was reduced to the loose cough stage, and the broken neck was moving again and merely aching instead of stabbing HM with pain, and her softball bite shrank, HM began to tentatively finger that new neck distraction.
Being the type who occasionally gets some little skin tag thingies on her neck around the collar area, HM presumed this was one of them. Sometimes a hair or a shirt threat will irritate the skin tag, or get wrapped around it, in which case the little thingy will itch and move about and eventually dry up from lack of blood supply and fall off. Ain't that a pretty picture?
HM scratched that area every now and then, and started to wonder why this one was not progressing as other skin tag thingies had in the past. The little doo-dad would move back and forth on that thin stalk of skin, but it didn't seem to be getting drier and smaller as they do before they fall off. To make HM even more concerned, this one had a rounded bump under it. It felt like a thingy a few years ago that HM's doctor thought might be a basal cell carcinoma. The itch was the same, and it had a little bump. Thank the Gummi Mary, that past incident turned out to be nothing to worry about. The name of it is long forgotten, but the biopsy results showed that it was not a carcinoma. MOM has had three or four carcinomas carved off her neck and nose and forehead, being of the fair, freckled redhead variety. So HM chose to consult her about that troublesome neck thingy that could not be seen in the mirror. This consultation just happened on Monday night at MOM's house, while waiting for The Pony's sixth grade orientation to start.
HM asked MOM to look at her neck.
There's this thingy on the back of my neck that I'm worried about.
Let me see.
I want to know if it looks like something I should see the doctor for.
How long has it been there?
Since right after HH and the boys got back from bowling. I thought it was one of those skin tags ready to fall off, but it has a bump under it.
Lift up your hair.
OK.
You'll have to turn so I have the light.
Do you see it?
Yes.
Does it look like a carcinoma?
Oh...it's got a dark...I think...it looks like a tick.
A FREAKIN' TICK ON THE BACK OF MY NECK FOR OVER A WEEK!!!! OVER A WEEK THAT I HAD BEEN TOUCHING IT AND WIGGLING IT TO SEE IF IT WAS READY TO DROP OFF!!! OH, THE HORROR!!!
I squealed with revulsion. MOM was a trouper. She got out her 10-year-old bottle of Bactine. I forbade her to put that on me. I asked for alcohol. Alcohol doesn't get old...it just evaporates, right? She put some on my new best friend. He kicked his legs. All six of them. She put on more. He would not back out. That's because HM is the tastiest of hosts, I presume. I told MOM to yank it out. She wanted to get tweezers, but I said that would squeeze all the contents of the tick's intestinal tract into my flesh. MOM grabbed the tick with her fingers. It hurt. It felt like she was skinning me. I told her to do it fast. MOM yanked really hard. Nothing happened except and explosion of pain. She yanked again. More pain. But she had the tick.
Do you want to see it?
NO, I don't want to see it! Get rid of it!
All right. I'll smash it...
No! Go flush it down the toilet! Then it can't get on me again.
All right. It's gone.
Did you get the head out?
I think so.
Was the head on the tick?
I couldn't see it. But there's no black speck on your neck.
How do you know you could see it? It felt like you ripped out my spine.
Well...there's kind of a hole there where he came out.
Maybe the head is deeper.
Uh...it's a pretty good size hole.
Just get some of that triple antibiotic ointment and a bandaid.
Here.
Hey! I have that stuff at home. It's not in that kind of tube any more.
Well, I'll just make a list of medicine and go to Walmart and restock.
Seriously, let me look at the expiration date.
I can never read those things.
Do you want to guess?
No, not really.
It expired in June 2007.
Oh. Well, that's not very old.
Just put it on me.
Now I must monitor myself for signs of Lyme Disease. And a reaction to medicine from Ye Olde Expired Medicine Shoppe.
Two weeks ago, Mrs. Hillbilly Mom was injured by a recliner. The resulting broken neck laid her up for a good (or BAD, according to her) two weeks. The neck injury happened on a Wednesday night. On Friday, her sons and her Hillbilly Husband left on a trip to St. Joseph for the state youth bowling tournament. That left HM in charge of feeding and watering HH's precious auction chickens and bunnies. It also left HM driving the $1000 Caravan.
In severe pain from the neck wound, HM did what any spoiled adult child would do, and called her loyal mother to whine. MOM commiserated like a champ, and as a bonus, offered to come out and help with the animal chores. For three days she did almost everything animal for HM. Plus, she brought Hot & Sour Soup to help cure the cold that HM came down with on Saturday. Darn that HH and his nighttime breather! Too bad, so sad that HH was wheezing his way around St. Joseph, sick as a dog. HM's virus was annoying, but the mildest of the viruses HM has had all year. It was mainly a snot event, then a run-of-the-mill coughing event. Not at all like the disease that HM had last fall that lasted six weeks.
Mrs. HM was hurtin' for certain from that broken neck. It was all she could do to get through a day with ibuprofen, BenGay, TheraGesic, and 2- and 4-year-old fake vicodin. Adding insult to HM's injuries was a bite on her left side, at waistband level. The origin of the bite was unknown. But the thing swelled up and itched until it was the size of softball. It didn't poof out like a 3D softball, but that's how big around it was. HM finally asked MOM to draw a circle around the edge with a black ink pen to see if it was getting larger every day, thus necessitating a trip to the doctor. Why go unnecessarily with a broken neck and a cold and a vermin bite when that waiting room was probably chock full of swine flu carriers?
Luckily, the next day after the black ink drawing, HM's bite remained the same size, and the day after, the redness began to recede. That brings us to the fourth ailment to befall HM. There was an irritation on the back of her broken neck, at about the 7 o'clock position. It had been there for several days before HM had the strength to even think about it. Once the cold was reduced to the loose cough stage, and the broken neck was moving again and merely aching instead of stabbing HM with pain, and her softball bite shrank, HM began to tentatively finger that new neck distraction.
Being the type who occasionally gets some little skin tag thingies on her neck around the collar area, HM presumed this was one of them. Sometimes a hair or a shirt threat will irritate the skin tag, or get wrapped around it, in which case the little thingy will itch and move about and eventually dry up from lack of blood supply and fall off. Ain't that a pretty picture?
HM scratched that area every now and then, and started to wonder why this one was not progressing as other skin tag thingies had in the past. The little doo-dad would move back and forth on that thin stalk of skin, but it didn't seem to be getting drier and smaller as they do before they fall off. To make HM even more concerned, this one had a rounded bump under it. It felt like a thingy a few years ago that HM's doctor thought might be a basal cell carcinoma. The itch was the same, and it had a little bump. Thank the Gummi Mary, that past incident turned out to be nothing to worry about. The name of it is long forgotten, but the biopsy results showed that it was not a carcinoma. MOM has had three or four carcinomas carved off her neck and nose and forehead, being of the fair, freckled redhead variety. So HM chose to consult her about that troublesome neck thingy that could not be seen in the mirror. This consultation just happened on Monday night at MOM's house, while waiting for The Pony's sixth grade orientation to start.
HM asked MOM to look at her neck.
There's this thingy on the back of my neck that I'm worried about.
Let me see.
I want to know if it looks like something I should see the doctor for.
How long has it been there?
Since right after HH and the boys got back from bowling. I thought it was one of those skin tags ready to fall off, but it has a bump under it.
Lift up your hair.
OK.
You'll have to turn so I have the light.
Do you see it?
Yes.
Does it look like a carcinoma?
Oh...it's got a dark...I think...it looks like a tick.
A FREAKIN' TICK ON THE BACK OF MY NECK FOR OVER A WEEK!!!! OVER A WEEK THAT I HAD BEEN TOUCHING IT AND WIGGLING IT TO SEE IF IT WAS READY TO DROP OFF!!! OH, THE HORROR!!!
I squealed with revulsion. MOM was a trouper. She got out her 10-year-old bottle of Bactine. I forbade her to put that on me. I asked for alcohol. Alcohol doesn't get old...it just evaporates, right? She put some on my new best friend. He kicked his legs. All six of them. She put on more. He would not back out. That's because HM is the tastiest of hosts, I presume. I told MOM to yank it out. She wanted to get tweezers, but I said that would squeeze all the contents of the tick's intestinal tract into my flesh. MOM grabbed the tick with her fingers. It hurt. It felt like she was skinning me. I told her to do it fast. MOM yanked really hard. Nothing happened except and explosion of pain. She yanked again. More pain. But she had the tick.
Do you want to see it?
NO, I don't want to see it! Get rid of it!
All right. I'll smash it...
No! Go flush it down the toilet! Then it can't get on me again.
All right. It's gone.
Did you get the head out?
I think so.
Was the head on the tick?
I couldn't see it. But there's no black speck on your neck.
How do you know you could see it? It felt like you ripped out my spine.
Well...there's kind of a hole there where he came out.
Maybe the head is deeper.
Uh...it's a pretty good size hole.
Just get some of that triple antibiotic ointment and a bandaid.
Here.
Hey! I have that stuff at home. It's not in that kind of tube any more.
Well, I'll just make a list of medicine and go to Walmart and restock.
Seriously, let me look at the expiration date.
I can never read those things.
Do you want to guess?
No, not really.
It expired in June 2007.
Oh. Well, that's not very old.
Just put it on me.
Now I must monitor myself for signs of Lyme Disease. And a reaction to medicine from Ye Olde Expired Medicine Shoppe.
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
Grab A Saddle
Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is hot to trot. And not in a Mine That Bird kind of way.I've got a burr under my saddle, and you're going to hear about it. That's why I have a blog.
I went to the bank after school to deposit my paycheck, and a reimbursement check that HH's company gave him for taking a salesman out to lunch. How lunch could cost $87.92, I'll never know. Maybe they flew a guy down from St. Louis to make them pizza. Anyhoo, my bank has an ATM lane, a commercial lane, and two regular lanes at their drive-thru. There was a truck in the commercial lane, and two cars in the next regular customer lane. I pulled in behind the two cars, even though the third lane was empty, because I need to make a sharp right turn upon exiting. That way, I can go down an alley by a church, and pull out onto the road without the blind spot the regular exit includes. And forget about making a left out of that exit, which is the way I needed to go. I had to explain this to the #1 son, as he was harping at me to get in the empty lane.
After waiting five minutes, with no movement, I backed up and pulled over to the ATM. I wanted to get some cash anyway, and had planned on circling back through the ATM after making my deposit. I got my cash, went up through the alley, and came back to get in line. I decided to try the empty lane, throwing caution to the wind and deciding I could back up a couple times to make my sharp right to exit. The second car must have had the same idea, because that chick gunned it in reverse and jumped into the empty lane ahead of me. I pulled in behind her. We waited another 10 minutes. #1 was harping to turn on T-Hoe because he was having a heat stroke or suffocating or some such minor ailment. I refused to burn gas to run the air conditioning. The hold-up car got her little plastic cannister of monetary goods back through the tube. Thinking she must now be leaving, I backed up and pulled back into the second lane. No dice. #1 said she was taking everything out of it and reading it. Meanwhile, the car in the third lane finished the transaction and pulled out.
I started up T-Hoe and moved back to the third lane. I sat there another two or three minutes after tubing in my checks. Did the teller greet me by apologizing for my wait? NO. She said, "How are you?" I understand it's their standard greeting. I resisted my urge to say, "Fifteen minutes older than when I pulled into this line." Instead, I merely said, "Fine." That's my standard reply. No need to tell her about my recently broken neck or my hacking cough for which I could not scam some sweet, sweet Histinex. This was a business transaction.
After having her way with my money, Teller said, "Thanks. Have a nice day." Any other time, I might have replied standardly, "Thanks. You too." But today I just wasn't feeling it. Nobody should have to wait 15 minutes in a bank with two lanes and three cars. No. It should not happen. I waited for my cannister of receipts, but it was not forthcoming. Then Teller repeated, in a sing-songy kind of way, "THANKS. Have a nice DAAAAYYYYY."
Oh, you can bet this set Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's tongue to wagging. "THANKS." Teller hit the button to send out the cannister then, because I heard the tube start humming. Again, this did not please me. How dare she withhold my receipt until I responded to her flippant prompting. HOW DARE SHE! It set me off. Just like that little Drunky Frat Boy Dude at the casino that time. You remember, the one who pulled my crank. I could hold my tongue no longer.
"Oh, so now we have to RESPOND? Some people need to mind their own business. And I don't care WHAT people think of me!" See, you mess with The Mom, you get the mouth. By then, the cannister was there. I extracted my receipt and left. About two minutes later, I told the #1 son, "I wish I would have grabbed that cannister, waved at her, and coughed all over it. I might have even oinked a couple of times." Even The Pony thought she was rude. Sweet Gummi Mary, people! Since when do drive-up bank tellers lecture the world on etiquette? Sometimes, silence is golden. If you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all, unless a snotty bank teller gives you attitude. Do not goad people who are already ticked-off by your service. What does she do for a hobby, poke rabid dogs with pointy sticks?
Now I am truly incensed. A call to the manager would no doubt do no good. What am I going to complain about, that a teller told me to have a nice day? Unless you heard her, that plan won't work. I've had some sort of trouble at that bank the last three or four times I've been there. I've already closed a savings account there. It's to the point of closing out checking and opening an account somewhere else.
How dare that little whippersnapper play passive-aggressive with Mrs. Hillbilly Mom! One does not speak to customers in that manner, especially after they have waited 15 minutes for a teller. If I had that kind of time to burn, I would have gone inside, even at the inconvenience of dragging my annoying children with me. For all Teller knew, I had to rush to the bedside of my great-granny who had only hours to live. For all Teller knew, I was lapsing into a diabetic coma and needed to seek medical attention. For all Teller knew, I had to pick up my young son at daycare, or he would be left alone on a bus. HOW DARE SHE play the have-a-nice-day card on me!
I have students in my tech class who are not particularly fond of me. But when I drive through McDonald's (only the best for my young 'uns), they are polite and professional. They need to hold on to their jobs. This little teller must have been living in her momma's house, laying her rude little head to sleep on the frilly pillow of her pink princess bed every night. Or else she wouldn't have been so cheeky. I know enough to smile and fake politeness to parents who are annoying. Then I blog about it later. Teller should have known better. And besides, my only crime was to not respond to her 'Thanks. Have a nice day.' Off with my head!
Young people today need a stern lecture on The Customer Is Always Right, says Mrs. Hillbilly Mom, shaking her cane, stamping her orthopedic-shoe-clad foot, adjusting her shawl with her liver-spotted hand, as she waits for her son to come visit and play a game of Yahtzee.
I went to the bank after school to deposit my paycheck, and a reimbursement check that HH's company gave him for taking a salesman out to lunch. How lunch could cost $87.92, I'll never know. Maybe they flew a guy down from St. Louis to make them pizza. Anyhoo, my bank has an ATM lane, a commercial lane, and two regular lanes at their drive-thru. There was a truck in the commercial lane, and two cars in the next regular customer lane. I pulled in behind the two cars, even though the third lane was empty, because I need to make a sharp right turn upon exiting. That way, I can go down an alley by a church, and pull out onto the road without the blind spot the regular exit includes. And forget about making a left out of that exit, which is the way I needed to go. I had to explain this to the #1 son, as he was harping at me to get in the empty lane.
After waiting five minutes, with no movement, I backed up and pulled over to the ATM. I wanted to get some cash anyway, and had planned on circling back through the ATM after making my deposit. I got my cash, went up through the alley, and came back to get in line. I decided to try the empty lane, throwing caution to the wind and deciding I could back up a couple times to make my sharp right to exit. The second car must have had the same idea, because that chick gunned it in reverse and jumped into the empty lane ahead of me. I pulled in behind her. We waited another 10 minutes. #1 was harping to turn on T-Hoe because he was having a heat stroke or suffocating or some such minor ailment. I refused to burn gas to run the air conditioning. The hold-up car got her little plastic cannister of monetary goods back through the tube. Thinking she must now be leaving, I backed up and pulled back into the second lane. No dice. #1 said she was taking everything out of it and reading it. Meanwhile, the car in the third lane finished the transaction and pulled out.
I started up T-Hoe and moved back to the third lane. I sat there another two or three minutes after tubing in my checks. Did the teller greet me by apologizing for my wait? NO. She said, "How are you?" I understand it's their standard greeting. I resisted my urge to say, "Fifteen minutes older than when I pulled into this line." Instead, I merely said, "Fine." That's my standard reply. No need to tell her about my recently broken neck or my hacking cough for which I could not scam some sweet, sweet Histinex. This was a business transaction.
After having her way with my money, Teller said, "Thanks. Have a nice day." Any other time, I might have replied standardly, "Thanks. You too." But today I just wasn't feeling it. Nobody should have to wait 15 minutes in a bank with two lanes and three cars. No. It should not happen. I waited for my cannister of receipts, but it was not forthcoming. Then Teller repeated, in a sing-songy kind of way, "THANKS. Have a nice DAAAAYYYYY."
Oh, you can bet this set Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's tongue to wagging. "THANKS." Teller hit the button to send out the cannister then, because I heard the tube start humming. Again, this did not please me. How dare she withhold my receipt until I responded to her flippant prompting. HOW DARE SHE! It set me off. Just like that little Drunky Frat Boy Dude at the casino that time. You remember, the one who pulled my crank. I could hold my tongue no longer.
"Oh, so now we have to RESPOND? Some people need to mind their own business. And I don't care WHAT people think of me!" See, you mess with The Mom, you get the mouth. By then, the cannister was there. I extracted my receipt and left. About two minutes later, I told the #1 son, "I wish I would have grabbed that cannister, waved at her, and coughed all over it. I might have even oinked a couple of times." Even The Pony thought she was rude. Sweet Gummi Mary, people! Since when do drive-up bank tellers lecture the world on etiquette? Sometimes, silence is golden. If you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all, unless a snotty bank teller gives you attitude. Do not goad people who are already ticked-off by your service. What does she do for a hobby, poke rabid dogs with pointy sticks?
Now I am truly incensed. A call to the manager would no doubt do no good. What am I going to complain about, that a teller told me to have a nice day? Unless you heard her, that plan won't work. I've had some sort of trouble at that bank the last three or four times I've been there. I've already closed a savings account there. It's to the point of closing out checking and opening an account somewhere else.
How dare that little whippersnapper play passive-aggressive with Mrs. Hillbilly Mom! One does not speak to customers in that manner, especially after they have waited 15 minutes for a teller. If I had that kind of time to burn, I would have gone inside, even at the inconvenience of dragging my annoying children with me. For all Teller knew, I had to rush to the bedside of my great-granny who had only hours to live. For all Teller knew, I was lapsing into a diabetic coma and needed to seek medical attention. For all Teller knew, I had to pick up my young son at daycare, or he would be left alone on a bus. HOW DARE SHE play the have-a-nice-day card on me!
I have students in my tech class who are not particularly fond of me. But when I drive through McDonald's (only the best for my young 'uns), they are polite and professional. They need to hold on to their jobs. This little teller must have been living in her momma's house, laying her rude little head to sleep on the frilly pillow of her pink princess bed every night. Or else she wouldn't have been so cheeky. I know enough to smile and fake politeness to parents who are annoying. Then I blog about it later. Teller should have known better. And besides, my only crime was to not respond to her 'Thanks. Have a nice day.' Off with my head!
Young people today need a stern lecture on The Customer Is Always Right, says Mrs. Hillbilly Mom, shaking her cane, stamping her orthopedic-shoe-clad foot, adjusting her shawl with her liver-spotted hand, as she waits for her son to come visit and play a game of Yahtzee.
Monday, May 4, 2009
Bloody Saturday
Saturday afternoon, HH took the boys to the school carnival. When they were younger, we always went to the parade. They loved to pick up the candy that was thrown by the participants. You can't beat free road candy. It didn't hurt that most people in the parade knew Mrs. Hillbilly Mom, and her young'uns always had a healthy dose of unhealthy candy slung their way. This year, neither of them wanted to go to the parade. HH and the #1 son had just returned with the new used 4-wheeler, and wanted more than an hour to try it out.
The Pony did not even want to go back for the carnival, but #1 cajoled him, and I threatened him, and HH sat in the $1000 Caravan waiting for whoever came out of the Mansion. That's just the kind of hands-on father he is. HH let his chickens out of the pen and sat in the van. The Pony is famous for begging #1 to go to cartoon movies with him, but forgets that #1 expects reciprocation. After two threats, a few silent tears, and some ill will, The Pony sat his butt in the van.
Turns out that #1 did not even enter the gym to play carnival games. He spent the afternoon down on the concrete basketball court by the bus barn, hooping it up with his cronies. The Pony later admitted to having a good enough time. That was after the INCIDENT.
As they drove down the driveway upon returning home, they noticed a commotion in the front yard. A white chicken lay limp in the too-long grass that HH should have spent the day cutting. The three dogs were tossing something amongst them in a canine keep-away contest. That something was red. That something was The Pony's beloved rooster, Survivor!
I was not-so-blissfully unaware of the carnage, sitting in the basement with neck pain, watching the Kentucky Derby. The Pony came in and sat quietly on the couch upstairs. Figuring he was just mad about me forcing him to go play carnival games, I called him down to watch the race. He was subdued, but that is his manner when he is not happy. I asked him where HH and #1 were, and what they did at carnival, and he gave one-word answers. When Mine That Bird won the Run for the Roses, The Pony went back upstairs.
The #1 son came in. "Those dogs killed another chicken. We came home and saw them tossing Survivor around. I ran at them, and they dropped him. Dad came to pick him up, and Survivor jumped up and ran into the woods. He was just playing dead. The dogs and I chased him over to the barn and cornered him, and Dad picked him up and put him in the pen. He lost some feathers. I TOLD Dad not to leave those chickens out while we went to town!"
The Pony perked up. "Survivor is alive?" That made his day. Twice before bed, he went out to the pen to check on Survivor, who seems to be doing OK, except that he hasn't crowed since the incident. Darn that HH! He acted like it was no big deal. Since HH can't see the forest for the trees, I casually mentioned, "All you have to do when you let the chickens out of the pen is put the dogs inside the pen." HH said, "Hmm..."
Farmer H wants some goats. Am I the only one who sees anything wrong with that?
The Pony did not even want to go back for the carnival, but #1 cajoled him, and I threatened him, and HH sat in the $1000 Caravan waiting for whoever came out of the Mansion. That's just the kind of hands-on father he is. HH let his chickens out of the pen and sat in the van. The Pony is famous for begging #1 to go to cartoon movies with him, but forgets that #1 expects reciprocation. After two threats, a few silent tears, and some ill will, The Pony sat his butt in the van.
Turns out that #1 did not even enter the gym to play carnival games. He spent the afternoon down on the concrete basketball court by the bus barn, hooping it up with his cronies. The Pony later admitted to having a good enough time. That was after the INCIDENT.
As they drove down the driveway upon returning home, they noticed a commotion in the front yard. A white chicken lay limp in the too-long grass that HH should have spent the day cutting. The three dogs were tossing something amongst them in a canine keep-away contest. That something was red. That something was The Pony's beloved rooster, Survivor!
I was not-so-blissfully unaware of the carnage, sitting in the basement with neck pain, watching the Kentucky Derby. The Pony came in and sat quietly on the couch upstairs. Figuring he was just mad about me forcing him to go play carnival games, I called him down to watch the race. He was subdued, but that is his manner when he is not happy. I asked him where HH and #1 were, and what they did at carnival, and he gave one-word answers. When Mine That Bird won the Run for the Roses, The Pony went back upstairs.
The #1 son came in. "Those dogs killed another chicken. We came home and saw them tossing Survivor around. I ran at them, and they dropped him. Dad came to pick him up, and Survivor jumped up and ran into the woods. He was just playing dead. The dogs and I chased him over to the barn and cornered him, and Dad picked him up and put him in the pen. He lost some feathers. I TOLD Dad not to leave those chickens out while we went to town!"
The Pony perked up. "Survivor is alive?" That made his day. Twice before bed, he went out to the pen to check on Survivor, who seems to be doing OK, except that he hasn't crowed since the incident. Darn that HH! He acted like it was no big deal. Since HH can't see the forest for the trees, I casually mentioned, "All you have to do when you let the chickens out of the pen is put the dogs inside the pen." HH said, "Hmm..."
Farmer H wants some goats. Am I the only one who sees anything wrong with that?
Sunday, May 3, 2009
Farmer H: The Saga Continues
Farmer H arose bright and early on Saturday, in order to pick up a new used 4-wheeler purchased with the tax refund money. I guess it is Hillbilly Christmas here in Hillmomba. Farmer H paraded through the Mansion as usual in just his underwear. And believe me, we count that as a good thing, considering how he used to come in from the Free Hairwad Hot Tub with them slung over his shoulder. Sorry. I'm sure that can be classified as too much information.
Farmer H plopped down in the neckbreaking recliner and proceeded to put on his socks and shoes, then his pants. Yes. There IS something terribly wrong with that scenario, having to do with HH's tiny little baby feet and their workboots that could be dangled from a car's rearview mirror. Farmer H stood up to pull up his pants, which, this being Saturday and him being Farmer H, were overalls. "Would you look at that?" Farmer H asked. Though I hoped it was a rhetorical question, knowing that Farmer H has no concept of rhetorical, I forsook my better judgment and looked. Farmer H had put his overalls on backwards. Since he could not hook the straps to the bib part on his back, he took the overalls off OVER HIS BOOTS and turned them around and put them back on OVER HIS BOOTS.
The #1 son dressed himself with no problem and joined Farmer H in hooking up the trailer. This 4-wheeler purchase came three days after I casually mentioned to Farmer H that we could afford X amount of money toward a 4-wheeler. Not one to let grass grow under his feet, Farmer H took off early on Friday (no doubt because I carelessly let it slip that we had an early out from school that day) and ended up at the local cycle shop. He called us as we were returning to town from bill-paying and cake-buying and dining out. The Hillbilly family is doing their part to stimulate the economy.
In the pouring rain, the #1 son and I stood under umbrellas looking at the Kawasaki that Farmer H had described. The #1 son said it would suit our purposes. It's not a pretty thing. Army green is good enough for patrolling the grounds of the Mansion. It looks just like our old Yamaha. We hadn't been standing there two minutes when Farmer H and the salesman came out. I nodded to Farmer H, and the boy and I left to take my mom back home. I was quite worried in letting Farmer H work a deal, fearing that not only would he pay more than the sticker price, but that we would somehow end up trading in my T-Hoe. I called Farmer H and instructed him to try and get the guy to throw in a helmet, as the #1 son's head is too big for his old one.
Farmer H got the guy to knock 20% off the price, and a promise of a free $50 helmet or $50 off a new helmet. Not a bad day's work for Farmer H. Of course, when they went to pick it up, Farmer H told #1 to go pick out a helmet. When he came back with one, the salesman said, "Well, he picked a good one. That's a $139 helmet." Still, he took off the $50. You can't really put a price on your boy's noggin. I don't so much worry about him falling off or hitting a tree, but about a truck hitting him when he rides down to get the mail.
They returned home and got down to the business of breaking in that new used vehicle. Farmer H rode the old 4-wheeler. The one with the royal blue milk crate affixed to the front, the milk crate that Farmer H used to put The Pony in to ride him around, much to my horror. The #1 son has claimed this new 4-wheeler as his own, which doesn't bother me a bit, me not being inclined to ride a 4-wheeler. The Pony still has the little lime green Mongoose that needs spark plugs, and then there's the Scout that needs brakes. If we wanted, we could have a regular Hillbilly parade of off-road vehicles.
Now Farmer H is making mental plans to build a 4-wheeler garage. As soon as he gets his creek barn done.
Farmer H plopped down in the neckbreaking recliner and proceeded to put on his socks and shoes, then his pants. Yes. There IS something terribly wrong with that scenario, having to do with HH's tiny little baby feet and their workboots that could be dangled from a car's rearview mirror. Farmer H stood up to pull up his pants, which, this being Saturday and him being Farmer H, were overalls. "Would you look at that?" Farmer H asked. Though I hoped it was a rhetorical question, knowing that Farmer H has no concept of rhetorical, I forsook my better judgment and looked. Farmer H had put his overalls on backwards. Since he could not hook the straps to the bib part on his back, he took the overalls off OVER HIS BOOTS and turned them around and put them back on OVER HIS BOOTS.
The #1 son dressed himself with no problem and joined Farmer H in hooking up the trailer. This 4-wheeler purchase came three days after I casually mentioned to Farmer H that we could afford X amount of money toward a 4-wheeler. Not one to let grass grow under his feet, Farmer H took off early on Friday (no doubt because I carelessly let it slip that we had an early out from school that day) and ended up at the local cycle shop. He called us as we were returning to town from bill-paying and cake-buying and dining out. The Hillbilly family is doing their part to stimulate the economy.
In the pouring rain, the #1 son and I stood under umbrellas looking at the Kawasaki that Farmer H had described. The #1 son said it would suit our purposes. It's not a pretty thing. Army green is good enough for patrolling the grounds of the Mansion. It looks just like our old Yamaha. We hadn't been standing there two minutes when Farmer H and the salesman came out. I nodded to Farmer H, and the boy and I left to take my mom back home. I was quite worried in letting Farmer H work a deal, fearing that not only would he pay more than the sticker price, but that we would somehow end up trading in my T-Hoe. I called Farmer H and instructed him to try and get the guy to throw in a helmet, as the #1 son's head is too big for his old one.
Farmer H got the guy to knock 20% off the price, and a promise of a free $50 helmet or $50 off a new helmet. Not a bad day's work for Farmer H. Of course, when they went to pick it up, Farmer H told #1 to go pick out a helmet. When he came back with one, the salesman said, "Well, he picked a good one. That's a $139 helmet." Still, he took off the $50. You can't really put a price on your boy's noggin. I don't so much worry about him falling off or hitting a tree, but about a truck hitting him when he rides down to get the mail.
They returned home and got down to the business of breaking in that new used vehicle. Farmer H rode the old 4-wheeler. The one with the royal blue milk crate affixed to the front, the milk crate that Farmer H used to put The Pony in to ride him around, much to my horror. The #1 son has claimed this new 4-wheeler as his own, which doesn't bother me a bit, me not being inclined to ride a 4-wheeler. The Pony still has the little lime green Mongoose that needs spark plugs, and then there's the Scout that needs brakes. If we wanted, we could have a regular Hillbilly parade of off-road vehicles.
Now Farmer H is making mental plans to build a 4-wheeler garage. As soon as he gets his creek barn done.
Saturday, May 2, 2009
Poor Poor Pitiful Me
Nothing is funny.
My neck still hurts. Not so much my neck as my entire right shoulder. And lung. I think the lung problem occurred after lunch yesterday, when I left the cafeteria early to have a coughing fit, and hacked up a piece of lung into my wastebasket.
The doctor's office will not call in my sweet, sweet Histinex, but rather a codeine concoction which does not work for me. It stops my cough for about two hours, and during those two hours I feel like I can't breathe. Then the cough comes back with a vengeance, to expel all that lung snot that has been accumulating for two hours. My sweet, sweet Histinex would never do me like that. Sweet, sweet Histinex dries up that snot, stops the cough for about four hours, and lets me breathe.
This week, I have slept an average of three hours per night. That is not enough.
I can not find a position in which I am comfortable. Not sitting, not standing, not lying down, not reclining. I can either cough or have shoulder pain. HH and the boys still see me as their personal servant. Yet no matter how badly I perform my servantly duties, they refuse to fire me.
Can somebody play the world's smallest violin for me?
My neck still hurts. Not so much my neck as my entire right shoulder. And lung. I think the lung problem occurred after lunch yesterday, when I left the cafeteria early to have a coughing fit, and hacked up a piece of lung into my wastebasket.
The doctor's office will not call in my sweet, sweet Histinex, but rather a codeine concoction which does not work for me. It stops my cough for about two hours, and during those two hours I feel like I can't breathe. Then the cough comes back with a vengeance, to expel all that lung snot that has been accumulating for two hours. My sweet, sweet Histinex would never do me like that. Sweet, sweet Histinex dries up that snot, stops the cough for about four hours, and lets me breathe.
This week, I have slept an average of three hours per night. That is not enough.
I can not find a position in which I am comfortable. Not sitting, not standing, not lying down, not reclining. I can either cough or have shoulder pain. HH and the boys still see me as their personal servant. Yet no matter how badly I perform my servantly duties, they refuse to fire me.
Can somebody play the world's smallest violin for me?
Friday, May 1, 2009
Life Lessons From Hillbilly Mom
There are 14 days of school left. When the countdown gets this low, you must beware. Do not eat the cafeteria food. They are cooking up the surplus items that are left from the whole year. We are having corn every day. It smells good when they cook it. But it since it didn't taste good earlier in the year, it is doubtful that is tastes good now. The menus promise exotic vegetables such as peas, and carrots. Not a single pea has crossed that serving line all year. Maybe some carrots did once. We used to get mashed potatoes a couple times a month. That was months ago. Then we alternated corn and green beans. Mr. S holds the record on getting stems in his green beans. It's like the cooks save them for him. Since the corn-only decree, no stems for Mr. S. But don't you worry about Mr. S, since he was the proud recipient of a chunk of cob in his corn. At least that's what we deduced it to be. It wasn't corn, and it wasn't bug.
Another thing to be wary of is student behavior. They have grown comfortable. Their britches have grown too small. Common sense flies out the window. The window which you are not allowed to open if you are on the road side of the building, unless you are uber-vigilant about turning off the air conditioning, because patrons call and question why windows are open in an air-conditioned school, even though it may be in the 60s outside, and you just want fresh air to rid your room of the smoked-fart smell.
Today I had to teach two students a life lesson. As in: don't taunt Mrs. Hillbilly Mom.
I handed back some papers first hour, and made the explicit command, "If you don't want it, throw it away. DO NOT put it in the desk or on the floor." Because that's what they do, you see. They desire to live in filth. Or rather, they desire ME to live in filth, since they are free to leave after 50 minutes, and I must remain. Of course one little smarty-butt left his on the floor beside his desk. The desk that is closest to MY desk. I checked his schedule and saw that he had Mr. S during 4th hour. At lunch, I requested the presence of Trasher in my room for a portion of 4th hour. Mr. S agreed. Apparently, he did not tip off Trasher as to what the visit was about. Trasher came in, saying, "Mr. S said you wanted to see me." Perhaps he was expecting a pony.
Oh, yes. I wanted to see him. To see him recognize the error of his ways. I pointed to his desk. "Pick up your paper and throw it away. I am not going to pick up your trash. I am not your personal custodian." Keep in mind that Trasher was now out of his element. Out of his class who understands his position in the pecking order. He went to pick it up, as the 4th hour class hooted at him. He did not take it well. He mouthed something back, which was hooted at even louder, as his words held no power with this group. As he left, I said, "That wouldn't have been necessary if you hadn't thrown your trash on my floor. Let that be a life lesson."
Call me cruel if you must, but I didn't create the situation. Trasher's behavior did. I am not a touchy-feely I'm OK you're OK everybody's a winner kind of gal. Tough love, baby. All actions have consequences. Some are not pretty. Besides, if I had really wanted to decimate Trasher, I would have called him into 5th hour, into my class of techies, instead of into a class of his peers.
The second life lesson was dealt to fEMO. She's a slip-of-a-girl EMO. First of all, she was tardy, and came in making excuses, which does no good, really, other than to make me certainly unlikely to forget to mark her tardy. Then she said her finger was hurt because she caught it in her locker, so I sent her to the nurse, and she returned with an ice pack, and commenced to talk about it, interrupting our lesson of Waking the Baby Mammoth. It was on National Geographic Sunday, and I had promised to show it to the class. All of this was still no cause for the life lesson.
Perhaps I have mentioned that students are not to touch my stuff. This includes the four cabinets on the side of the room. There are two cabinets that students may open to get supplies, once they have asked permission for some specific item. It's not a thrift store. There are two other cabinets which students are NOT allowed to open. They know this. It is where I keep my personal items such as keys, phone, purse, reward items, advisory files, teacher edition texts, etc. Nobody ever opens them. They know better.
After I turned off the Baby Mammoth, I prepared for the bell by kicking my doorstop into the alcove and propping open my classroom door. It took about 5 seconds. As I turned and entered the classroom again, there was fEMO. She had the door of my cabinet open. The one with my phone and keys and, today, my checkbook. She was saying, "...how you open your locker like this?" The cabinet door was wide open, with all my valuables plain to see. I don't advertise that this is where I keep my personal valuables. The lock does not work.
As you might imagine, Mrs. Hillbilly Mom took issue with this behavior. "Close that door. You know that you are not allowed to open that." I pushed the door closed, as fEMO was just looking at me and huffing in an EMO sort of way. "I was just telling them, like, how I opened my locker like this..." AND SHE OPENED IT AGAIN. Needless to say, but I will say it anyway, Mrs. Hillbilly Mom went ballistic. "Don't EVER do that again! I am tired of you people getting into my stuff. I don't come down the hall and open your locker whenever I want, and tell Mr. S and Mrs. MathCrony to look. Stay away from my stuff." Oh, but this was not enough of a red flag for fEMO. "I didn't do anything wrong. I was just showing..." I most certainly had had enough. "Are you going to continue? Because this is not a discussion. You might as well stop now, because I guarantee you, I WILL WIN."
At least she had enough sense to stop then. Perhaps spending the first semester in alternative school had taught her another life lesson.
Another thing to be wary of is student behavior. They have grown comfortable. Their britches have grown too small. Common sense flies out the window. The window which you are not allowed to open if you are on the road side of the building, unless you are uber-vigilant about turning off the air conditioning, because patrons call and question why windows are open in an air-conditioned school, even though it may be in the 60s outside, and you just want fresh air to rid your room of the smoked-fart smell.
Today I had to teach two students a life lesson. As in: don't taunt Mrs. Hillbilly Mom.
I handed back some papers first hour, and made the explicit command, "If you don't want it, throw it away. DO NOT put it in the desk or on the floor." Because that's what they do, you see. They desire to live in filth. Or rather, they desire ME to live in filth, since they are free to leave after 50 minutes, and I must remain. Of course one little smarty-butt left his on the floor beside his desk. The desk that is closest to MY desk. I checked his schedule and saw that he had Mr. S during 4th hour. At lunch, I requested the presence of Trasher in my room for a portion of 4th hour. Mr. S agreed. Apparently, he did not tip off Trasher as to what the visit was about. Trasher came in, saying, "Mr. S said you wanted to see me." Perhaps he was expecting a pony.
Oh, yes. I wanted to see him. To see him recognize the error of his ways. I pointed to his desk. "Pick up your paper and throw it away. I am not going to pick up your trash. I am not your personal custodian." Keep in mind that Trasher was now out of his element. Out of his class who understands his position in the pecking order. He went to pick it up, as the 4th hour class hooted at him. He did not take it well. He mouthed something back, which was hooted at even louder, as his words held no power with this group. As he left, I said, "That wouldn't have been necessary if you hadn't thrown your trash on my floor. Let that be a life lesson."
Call me cruel if you must, but I didn't create the situation. Trasher's behavior did. I am not a touchy-feely I'm OK you're OK everybody's a winner kind of gal. Tough love, baby. All actions have consequences. Some are not pretty. Besides, if I had really wanted to decimate Trasher, I would have called him into 5th hour, into my class of techies, instead of into a class of his peers.
The second life lesson was dealt to fEMO. She's a slip-of-a-girl EMO. First of all, she was tardy, and came in making excuses, which does no good, really, other than to make me certainly unlikely to forget to mark her tardy. Then she said her finger was hurt because she caught it in her locker, so I sent her to the nurse, and she returned with an ice pack, and commenced to talk about it, interrupting our lesson of Waking the Baby Mammoth. It was on National Geographic Sunday, and I had promised to show it to the class. All of this was still no cause for the life lesson.
Perhaps I have mentioned that students are not to touch my stuff. This includes the four cabinets on the side of the room. There are two cabinets that students may open to get supplies, once they have asked permission for some specific item. It's not a thrift store. There are two other cabinets which students are NOT allowed to open. They know this. It is where I keep my personal items such as keys, phone, purse, reward items, advisory files, teacher edition texts, etc. Nobody ever opens them. They know better.
After I turned off the Baby Mammoth, I prepared for the bell by kicking my doorstop into the alcove and propping open my classroom door. It took about 5 seconds. As I turned and entered the classroom again, there was fEMO. She had the door of my cabinet open. The one with my phone and keys and, today, my checkbook. She was saying, "...how you open your locker like this?" The cabinet door was wide open, with all my valuables plain to see. I don't advertise that this is where I keep my personal valuables. The lock does not work.
As you might imagine, Mrs. Hillbilly Mom took issue with this behavior. "Close that door. You know that you are not allowed to open that." I pushed the door closed, as fEMO was just looking at me and huffing in an EMO sort of way. "I was just telling them, like, how I opened my locker like this..." AND SHE OPENED IT AGAIN. Needless to say, but I will say it anyway, Mrs. Hillbilly Mom went ballistic. "Don't EVER do that again! I am tired of you people getting into my stuff. I don't come down the hall and open your locker whenever I want, and tell Mr. S and Mrs. MathCrony to look. Stay away from my stuff." Oh, but this was not enough of a red flag for fEMO. "I didn't do anything wrong. I was just showing..." I most certainly had had enough. "Are you going to continue? Because this is not a discussion. You might as well stop now, because I guarantee you, I WILL WIN."
At least she had enough sense to stop then. Perhaps spending the first semester in alternative school had taught her another life lesson.
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