Oh, the weather outside is frightful.
But to The Pony it's just delightful.
School's the only place he has to go.
And the temperature and road conditions and highway department and most likely the Newmentia emergency phone tree and automated system will say...heavens no, heavens no, heavens no.
It's not good, folks. Hillmomba has frozen over. Even the main roads are not completely clear. I have not ventured out behind the wheel of T-Hoe since Thursday morning when it all started. I don't see how we can have school on Monday. There, there, my little Pony. It's going to be okay.
This storm has thrown a monkey wrench smack dab in the middle of my Christmas shopping. How is FedEx supposed to drive up this icy gravel hill, when they don't even much like to drive up the dry gravel hill, and have lied on numerous occasions about attempted delivery?
Oh, then there's the post office issue. They've lost another package. I know. Who would have ever seen THAT one coming? Perhaps you remember the package I tried to get at the main hub on Thursday. The one that was available there at 8:10 a.m. when I called, yet allegedly already out to the dead-mouse-smelling post office at 9:00 a.m. The one that had still not arrived at the stinky rodent establishment as of 11:50 a.m. on Saturday. So...stay with me here...the package was out for delivery Wednesday, too big for EmBee's mouth, taken back to the hub with a card left in its place, allegedly on its way to the mousestinkorium Thursday morning, and now GONE! Gone, baby, gone. Something is fishy in that dead-mouse-smelling post office.
I don't even know what's in that package. I think the #1 son said he was expecting something he had ordered. If he was expecting it last Saturday, and it was out for delivery on Wednesday, and has now vanished...that sounds about like the proper timeline. The sender's name is Cable. That's what it looks like on the card. I have not ordered anything from Cable. We do not have cable TV, we have satellite. It's highly likely that what the #1 son ordered was a cable. But the whole thing makes no sense to me. It's not like I order from Amazon and the sender is listed as Book.
The USPS needs to get its act together. Santa will not be amused. It's not nice to fool Mrs. Hillbilly Mom.
Sunday, December 8, 2013
Saturday, December 7, 2013
He Can't Win For Being Married To Mrs. Hillbilly Mom
Don't stow away that wood chipper just yet. The salad days of Farmer H's heroism are fini. Farmer H is done resting on his laurels. A new transgression was committed just this afternoon. Seems a leopard really can't change his spots.
Oh, sure. Farmer H was well on his way to Mother-Teresa-dom when he volunteered to drive me to town for the grocery shopping. Even though he wanted to use my T-Hoe. Okay. It's our trusty 4WD vehicle. So I guess he gets a pass on that. I even tried to hold my tongue when he did not put T-Hoe in 4WD mode to slide down and up our narrow twisting ice-packed gravel hills, preferring instead to leave on the Auto4WD. It's like thinking enough is as good as a feast. Not for Mrs. Hillbilly Mom! She's a glutton for feasting AND four-wheeling.
I even tried to give Farmer H a pass on his car alarm faux pas. Did he not accompany me into Save A Lot voluntarily? And carry the heavy box of chili-makings because I scolded him for wanting to set it on top of the box containing my fragile Chex Mix makings? Just because the entire patronage of the Subway sandwich shop, Dollar Store, and laundromat stared at the two of us standing behind a black Tahoe that was flashing and honking to beat the band was no reason to throw Farmer H into the wood chipper. After telling him three times that yes, he must have locked the doors, and that he needed to put the key in the ignition to stop the alarm, then click twice to allow T-Hoe's hatch to open...things were again all right with Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's world.
I didn't even mind that Farmer H had to stop at Casey's General Store for a pee break. Or that he we arrived at the unstinky post office four minutes too late to deal with an issue (yep, you got another eyeful comin' on the crooked postal service). And I'm sure many men park the vehicle over halfway up The Devil's Playground's parking aisle and allow their beloved wifey to walk like a wobbly new-born fawn across the wide expanse of three-inch-thick sleet clumps that were broken, not plowed, by the snow-removal service. Losing him inside the Playground because he did not rendezvous as instructed also did not make Mrs. Hillbilly Mom blow her stack like a Flintstone's quarry whistle. Some would have seen the insistence to wheel everything out and load it himself and pick up the little woman beside the door as sweet. Even though the lady protested too much, and was proved right when Farmer H almost plowed down a young couple who thought they were safe on the sidewalk. He did not take kindly to the decree that never again should he do her that favor.
The final straw that broke Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's knees was the attitude of put-uponness that emanated from Farmer H on the whole way home. Specifically, his passive-aggressive refusal to put on his seatbelt, which resulted in T-Hoe pinging a warning every five minutes for the entire drive back to the Mansion. Did you know that the Hillbilly home is more than a few five minutes from The Devil's Playground?
One step forward and three drives back. That's the state of Farmer H's hero status at the present time. We'll see what develops when he hauls us to my only niece's baby shower tonight.
The wood chipper is in the wings.
Oh, sure. Farmer H was well on his way to Mother-Teresa-dom when he volunteered to drive me to town for the grocery shopping. Even though he wanted to use my T-Hoe. Okay. It's our trusty 4WD vehicle. So I guess he gets a pass on that. I even tried to hold my tongue when he did not put T-Hoe in 4WD mode to slide down and up our narrow twisting ice-packed gravel hills, preferring instead to leave on the Auto4WD. It's like thinking enough is as good as a feast. Not for Mrs. Hillbilly Mom! She's a glutton for feasting AND four-wheeling.
I even tried to give Farmer H a pass on his car alarm faux pas. Did he not accompany me into Save A Lot voluntarily? And carry the heavy box of chili-makings because I scolded him for wanting to set it on top of the box containing my fragile Chex Mix makings? Just because the entire patronage of the Subway sandwich shop, Dollar Store, and laundromat stared at the two of us standing behind a black Tahoe that was flashing and honking to beat the band was no reason to throw Farmer H into the wood chipper. After telling him three times that yes, he must have locked the doors, and that he needed to put the key in the ignition to stop the alarm, then click twice to allow T-Hoe's hatch to open...things were again all right with Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's world.
I didn't even mind that Farmer H had to stop at Casey's General Store for a pee break. Or that he we arrived at the unstinky post office four minutes too late to deal with an issue (yep, you got another eyeful comin' on the crooked postal service). And I'm sure many men park the vehicle over halfway up The Devil's Playground's parking aisle and allow their beloved wifey to walk like a wobbly new-born fawn across the wide expanse of three-inch-thick sleet clumps that were broken, not plowed, by the snow-removal service. Losing him inside the Playground because he did not rendezvous as instructed also did not make Mrs. Hillbilly Mom blow her stack like a Flintstone's quarry whistle. Some would have seen the insistence to wheel everything out and load it himself and pick up the little woman beside the door as sweet. Even though the lady protested too much, and was proved right when Farmer H almost plowed down a young couple who thought they were safe on the sidewalk. He did not take kindly to the decree that never again should he do her that favor.
The final straw that broke Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's knees was the attitude of put-uponness that emanated from Farmer H on the whole way home. Specifically, his passive-aggressive refusal to put on his seatbelt, which resulted in T-Hoe pinging a warning every five minutes for the entire drive back to the Mansion. Did you know that the Hillbilly home is more than a few five minutes from The Devil's Playground?
One step forward and three drives back. That's the state of Farmer H's hero status at the present time. We'll see what develops when he hauls us to my only niece's baby shower tonight.
The wood chipper is in the wings.
Friday, December 6, 2013
Farmer H Replaces His Heart With His Brain
Farmer H has been driving his $1000 Caravan to work in the snow. It's front-wheel drive, and he put snow tires on it two winters ago. Never mind that it has no speedometer, or that we've spent more on insurance for it than the price of a brand-new Caravan. It gets him to work and back. His Ford F250 extended cab 4WD has been having issues. Besides, he doesn't have it loaded down with firewood for traction. So the $1000 Caravan it is.
Not being a frequent listener to the voice of reason, Farmer H insists on taking a shortcut to and from the highway. The shortcut saves him about ten miles and 15 minutes each way. I suppose he thinks he's some grand explorer forging a trail north and south.
Last night he was following a passenger car on the ice-then-snow-packed back road. At the big hill in the middle of nowhere, the car had issues. It slid off the road. As he passed by, he saw that it was a young woman in the car. He wanted to stop and help, but for one moment in time, he considered the facts. He was in a $1000 Caravan going up an ice-then-snow-packed two-lane blacktop hill. There was no shoulder to pull off. He might not have been able to get his $1000 Caravan moving again. He couldn't pull her car out. The best he could have done was offer her a ride. Hmm...young woman. Old goat Farmer H. She may or may not have accepted. A MODoT truck came down the hill as he was going up. It did not stop to help. A pickup truck was behind Farmer H, but he crested the hill and did not see if it stopped.
"I wanted to stop. But then I thought, 'No. I can't really help her.' I hate that I went on by."
"You can't save everybody. I'm sure she had a cell phone."
"Yeah. And that truck might have stopped. He had 4WD."
I feel bad for that young woman, and for Farmer H. He's always been a helper. That one time he jumped a fence near his old workplace at Tower Grove and Vandeventer, and knocked an attacking dog off a 4-year-old boy and called 911. He came home covered in blood.
Farmer H is not getting any younger. It's time to let someone else be the hero.
Not being a frequent listener to the voice of reason, Farmer H insists on taking a shortcut to and from the highway. The shortcut saves him about ten miles and 15 minutes each way. I suppose he thinks he's some grand explorer forging a trail north and south.
Last night he was following a passenger car on the ice-then-snow-packed back road. At the big hill in the middle of nowhere, the car had issues. It slid off the road. As he passed by, he saw that it was a young woman in the car. He wanted to stop and help, but for one moment in time, he considered the facts. He was in a $1000 Caravan going up an ice-then-snow-packed two-lane blacktop hill. There was no shoulder to pull off. He might not have been able to get his $1000 Caravan moving again. He couldn't pull her car out. The best he could have done was offer her a ride. Hmm...young woman. Old goat Farmer H. She may or may not have accepted. A MODoT truck came down the hill as he was going up. It did not stop to help. A pickup truck was behind Farmer H, but he crested the hill and did not see if it stopped.
"I wanted to stop. But then I thought, 'No. I can't really help her.' I hate that I went on by."
"You can't save everybody. I'm sure she had a cell phone."
"Yeah. And that truck might have stopped. He had 4WD."
I feel bad for that young woman, and for Farmer H. He's always been a helper. That one time he jumped a fence near his old workplace at Tower Grove and Vandeventer, and knocked an attacking dog off a 4-year-old boy and called 911. He came home covered in blood.
Farmer H is not getting any younger. It's time to let someone else be the hero.
Thursday, December 5, 2013
Blind Without A Package
No. That's not the title of my racy new novel about a visually-challenged eunuch. It's the story of my last 12 hours.
Well, it's official. I am out of work. And furthermore, I have no class.
SNOW DAY! Yippee! I got showered and dressed this morning. The Pony had been up a half hour. We were in the middle of our morning routine when the phone rang. Oh, yessss! The landline and cell phone automated calls came before the faculty phone tree call. I think that's because the branch above me lives right across from Newmentia, and is a late riser. Anyhoo...I passed on my info to the branch below me, who has kids in school, so no doubt also got her automated calls first as well.
Yeah, Mabel. Were you watching the news for that sweet scroll to near the end of the list, and squeal with delight when our name came up? C'mon. I know you were! Old habits die hard. I'm sure you did not miss driving to Newmentia, only to be dismissed early, and being chauffeured home by our noble custodians. Nor did you miss hopping on the bus for a ride to school. This much I know for sure.
Of course I had business that needed tending. My new revised bifocals were in. And I had a package to be picked up after noon at the dead-mouse-smelling post office. The sleet arrived early today, my friends. Early. Like old people showing up for dinner at 4:00 for the all-you-can-eat buffet.
I called the normal-smelling post office in the next town. The main hub. Could I pick up my package there before noon? The man took my address and put me on hold. He came back and said that I could. This was at 8:10. The Pony and I showed up at 9:00. NO PACKAGE FOR YOU! That's what a counter lady told The Pony. That it had already left. I said he was being shined. That a man said we could pick it up.
"Uh. Maybe so. But she went to the back room to look. And she even called the person who took it. So I think that theory is wrong."
Hmpf. The route driver brings it back to the hub after it won't fit in the box. Then a truck takes it to the dead-mouse-smelling post office around 10:30 or 11:00 the next day. We used to pass those two trucks all summer when we were out gallivanting on the lake road. Funny how on a sleety day, they left a couple of hours early. Which would make one think that the package would arrive at the deceased-rodent-aroma facility before noon. One would think. But no. It was not there at 10:30. Somewhere in Hillmomba is a big white elephant poker game of packages, run by ne'er-do-well USPS employees.
Oh, but that wasn't the best of the bad news. My newest bifocals were still unusable. I swear I'm on one of those pranking shows. The worker probably makes $100 each time she gives me the wrong prescription and I don't clock her.
The weather was really bad by the time we headed home from our two failed vital missions. At least we took my mom a carton of milk so she could have cornbread with the beans and ham she cooked this morning. I can't believe she was not prepared for this storm.
Oh. Don't hate me because I'm blind without a package. Hate me because I AM OFF WORK AGAIN ON FRIDAY!
Well, it's official. I am out of work. And furthermore, I have no class.
SNOW DAY! Yippee! I got showered and dressed this morning. The Pony had been up a half hour. We were in the middle of our morning routine when the phone rang. Oh, yessss! The landline and cell phone automated calls came before the faculty phone tree call. I think that's because the branch above me lives right across from Newmentia, and is a late riser. Anyhoo...I passed on my info to the branch below me, who has kids in school, so no doubt also got her automated calls first as well.
Yeah, Mabel. Were you watching the news for that sweet scroll to near the end of the list, and squeal with delight when our name came up? C'mon. I know you were! Old habits die hard. I'm sure you did not miss driving to Newmentia, only to be dismissed early, and being chauffeured home by our noble custodians. Nor did you miss hopping on the bus for a ride to school. This much I know for sure.
Of course I had business that needed tending. My new revised bifocals were in. And I had a package to be picked up after noon at the dead-mouse-smelling post office. The sleet arrived early today, my friends. Early. Like old people showing up for dinner at 4:00 for the all-you-can-eat buffet.
I called the normal-smelling post office in the next town. The main hub. Could I pick up my package there before noon? The man took my address and put me on hold. He came back and said that I could. This was at 8:10. The Pony and I showed up at 9:00. NO PACKAGE FOR YOU! That's what a counter lady told The Pony. That it had already left. I said he was being shined. That a man said we could pick it up.
"Uh. Maybe so. But she went to the back room to look. And she even called the person who took it. So I think that theory is wrong."
Hmpf. The route driver brings it back to the hub after it won't fit in the box. Then a truck takes it to the dead-mouse-smelling post office around 10:30 or 11:00 the next day. We used to pass those two trucks all summer when we were out gallivanting on the lake road. Funny how on a sleety day, they left a couple of hours early. Which would make one think that the package would arrive at the deceased-rodent-aroma facility before noon. One would think. But no. It was not there at 10:30. Somewhere in Hillmomba is a big white elephant poker game of packages, run by ne'er-do-well USPS employees.
Oh, but that wasn't the best of the bad news. My newest bifocals were still unusable. I swear I'm on one of those pranking shows. The worker probably makes $100 each time she gives me the wrong prescription and I don't clock her.
The weather was really bad by the time we headed home from our two failed vital missions. At least we took my mom a carton of milk so she could have cornbread with the beans and ham she cooked this morning. I can't believe she was not prepared for this storm.
Oh. Don't hate me because I'm blind without a package. Hate me because I AM OFF WORK AGAIN ON FRIDAY!
Wednesday, December 4, 2013
Second-Guessing The Guessers
T'was the night before Christmas, and all through the house...WAIT! No t'wasn't! T'was the night before a forecast sleet and snow storm, and all through the Mansion, two creatures were stirring, betting a king's ransom, that we will have a day off on Friday, and perhaps get out early Thursday.
So what if I had a test planned for Friday? I don't think the students will mind. Of course, Hillbilly's Law decreed that we would get a card to pick up a package at the dead-mouse-smelling post office tomorrow after 12:00, and a phone message that my belated bifocals are ready at the Charlatans Optical Delusions Emporium and Professional Prevaricators Shoppe. This might not sound like an issue for city folk, who bebop hither and yon, erranding all the live-long day. But here in Hillmomba, one establishment is on the equivalent of Michigan's U.P., while the other is on the little finger side of The Mitten. You must go around your elbow to get past the thumb.
"But Mrs. Hillbilly Mom," you say. "You will have the whole of your half-day for travel if you get out early." Indeed. But the reason we will be getting out is because the roads have grown treacherous. Such a conundrum. Pick up the items before they are rendered unobtainable by a four-day deep freeze, or risk life and fish-belly-white age-spotted limb to snatch up the two preciouses before we are snowed in? If only there was a wise man such asKing Solomon Newman on hand to suggest cutting those items in half, we'd find out if fetching them was more important to Mrs. Hillbilly Mom than riding The Pony home safely.
The Universe. Conspiring again.
Perhaps this great storm will go the way of all the others forecast by those idolized meteorology diploma-holders, and not show its bashful head.
Time will tell. I'm still setting my alarm. The fact that Thursday is my duty day skews the odds. And not in my favor.
So what if I had a test planned for Friday? I don't think the students will mind. Of course, Hillbilly's Law decreed that we would get a card to pick up a package at the dead-mouse-smelling post office tomorrow after 12:00, and a phone message that my belated bifocals are ready at the Charlatans Optical Delusions Emporium and Professional Prevaricators Shoppe. This might not sound like an issue for city folk, who bebop hither and yon, erranding all the live-long day. But here in Hillmomba, one establishment is on the equivalent of Michigan's U.P., while the other is on the little finger side of The Mitten. You must go around your elbow to get past the thumb.
"But Mrs. Hillbilly Mom," you say. "You will have the whole of your half-day for travel if you get out early." Indeed. But the reason we will be getting out is because the roads have grown treacherous. Such a conundrum. Pick up the items before they are rendered unobtainable by a four-day deep freeze, or risk life and fish-belly-white age-spotted limb to snatch up the two preciouses before we are snowed in? If only there was a wise man such as
The Universe. Conspiring again.
Perhaps this great storm will go the way of all the others forecast by those idolized meteorology diploma-holders, and not show its bashful head.
Time will tell. I'm still setting my alarm. The fact that Thursday is my duty day skews the odds. And not in my favor.
Tuesday, December 3, 2013
An Open Letter To The Newmentia Lost-My-Book Association
Greetings, Newmentia Lost-My-Book Association:
It has come to my attention that your society is growing by leaps and bounds. I feel that it is only fair that I receive a cut of your membership fees. After all, without Mrs. Hillbilly Mom, and her textbooks, the Newmentia Lost-My-Book club would never have been granted a charter.
Rumors abound that the NLMBA does not require a membership fee. That the only criteria to join is a statement of "I lost my book." And not even three times, like Inman and Ada in Cold Mountain saying, "I marry you, I marry you, I marry you," to obtain wedship.
I am unsure of the goals of the NLMBA. Is it an honor to join? A rite of passage, perhaps? A means of gaining status above the My Book Is Falling Apart Club? How am I to proceed when a new member blurts out, as soon as I get within three steps of my desk to take roll: "I lost my book."
Do you think I will congratulate you? Pass out pink or blue bubblegum cigars? Slap you on the back and say, "It's about time!" Give you the secret handshake? Or commiserate with you. "You poor thing. Don't worry your pretty little head. It was only a textbook." Maybe I should apply a cold wet rag to your forehead. "There, there. You'll be feeling better soon." I can't kiss that boo-boo, but I can announce, "Lost your book? Well, I guess you can't do any homework or take any tests from now on." Right. Like that's going to happen.
I find it interesting that when I counter your, "I lost my book," with my own, "That's seventy-nine dollars to get another one," you suddenly suppose that perhaps your book is at home under the bed.
Surely you didn't think that I'd go to the cabinet and hand you a new one. That would be throwing good money after bad. You already proved that you cannot hold onto a book. A simple task, really, because all you have to do is carry it from your locker to the classroom and back every day. Let's not pretend that you take it out of the building. All my work is turned in the same class period it is assigned. And I don't mean to be cruel, but if people took their books home to study for tests, I would have way more 100s than I've seen to date.
Books do not grow on trees. I do not have multiple copies for each student. They are not disposable. One student, one book. Please do not have the audacity to suggest that grading you the same as every other student is unfair, because you do not have a book. And that idea that I need to tell the principal, so he can see if anybody else has your book, is not a working plan. I have already performed multiple book checks each quarter. Your paper Jimmy Hoffa is never coming back, and is possibly living it up with Amelia Earhart, Bigfoot, and those Alcatraz escapees on D.B. Cooper's dime.
At least have the dignity to turn the Newmentia Lost-My-Book Association into a secret society. The less I hear of it, the better.
Signed,
Mrs. Hillbilly Mom
It has come to my attention that your society is growing by leaps and bounds. I feel that it is only fair that I receive a cut of your membership fees. After all, without Mrs. Hillbilly Mom, and her textbooks, the Newmentia Lost-My-Book club would never have been granted a charter.
Rumors abound that the NLMBA does not require a membership fee. That the only criteria to join is a statement of "I lost my book." And not even three times, like Inman and Ada in Cold Mountain saying, "I marry you, I marry you, I marry you," to obtain wedship.
I am unsure of the goals of the NLMBA. Is it an honor to join? A rite of passage, perhaps? A means of gaining status above the My Book Is Falling Apart Club? How am I to proceed when a new member blurts out, as soon as I get within three steps of my desk to take roll: "I lost my book."
Do you think I will congratulate you? Pass out pink or blue bubblegum cigars? Slap you on the back and say, "It's about time!" Give you the secret handshake? Or commiserate with you. "You poor thing. Don't worry your pretty little head. It was only a textbook." Maybe I should apply a cold wet rag to your forehead. "There, there. You'll be feeling better soon." I can't kiss that boo-boo, but I can announce, "Lost your book? Well, I guess you can't do any homework or take any tests from now on." Right. Like that's going to happen.
I find it interesting that when I counter your, "I lost my book," with my own, "That's seventy-nine dollars to get another one," you suddenly suppose that perhaps your book is at home under the bed.
Surely you didn't think that I'd go to the cabinet and hand you a new one. That would be throwing good money after bad. You already proved that you cannot hold onto a book. A simple task, really, because all you have to do is carry it from your locker to the classroom and back every day. Let's not pretend that you take it out of the building. All my work is turned in the same class period it is assigned. And I don't mean to be cruel, but if people took their books home to study for tests, I would have way more 100s than I've seen to date.
Books do not grow on trees. I do not have multiple copies for each student. They are not disposable. One student, one book. Please do not have the audacity to suggest that grading you the same as every other student is unfair, because you do not have a book. And that idea that I need to tell the principal, so he can see if anybody else has your book, is not a working plan. I have already performed multiple book checks each quarter. Your paper Jimmy Hoffa is never coming back, and is possibly living it up with Amelia Earhart, Bigfoot, and those Alcatraz escapees on D.B. Cooper's dime.
At least have the dignity to turn the Newmentia Lost-My-Book Association into a secret society. The less I hear of it, the better.
Signed,
Mrs. Hillbilly Mom
Monday, December 2, 2013
One Blind Louse
Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is not a happy camper. In fact, she is a cantankerous camper. A blind cantankerous camper. It has been three weeks since she consulted with her optometrist, and forked over a pretty penny breathtaking tens of thousands of pennies for two new sets of lenses. Not even whole glasses. Lenses. Not frames. As of this typing, Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is still without bifocals.
Let's try a little experiament, shall we? Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is going to take off her two year old bifocals to finish this little entry. Good luck.
It's bad enought that the Glasses Wench took my newest set of frames in the latest attempt to make things right. At least I could seeout of the far part of those glasses. Now I am wearing my two year old bifocals so ca I can see at school to do my swork. Unfortunately, I cannot see the screen upon which my projector projects my textbook dvd. I have to take the bifocals off ofor that.
Did I mention tha tmy old bifocals are not quite square? Nowhere near as square as Mrs. Hillbilly Mom. One earpiece is about an inch higher than the other. So I suppose I tilt my head to compensate. My neck is stiffing me every day.
Oh, and did you know that sometimes a sign of wearing the wrong prescription of bifocals gives you a headache? It's true. Like Thenksgiving Say, when I sat for hours peeling boiled eggs for my world-famous deviled eggs. Of course another sign of wering the wrong bifocals is when you can't see a freakin' think unless its 12 inches in front of your face. Any other distnace, and it seems like what you're looking at is under water in one of shose big jars on a convenience styore counter, with a shot glass in the bottom for you to try and drop a quarter in, counting on the fact that your'e not a sciene teacher who knows about refraction of light wabes in water.
I wnat my bifocals, BY CRACKY!
Let's try a little experiament, shall we? Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is going to take off her two year old bifocals to finish this little entry. Good luck.
It's bad enought that the Glasses Wench took my newest set of frames in the latest attempt to make things right. At least I could seeout of the far part of those glasses. Now I am wearing my two year old bifocals so ca I can see at school to do my swork. Unfortunately, I cannot see the screen upon which my projector projects my textbook dvd. I have to take the bifocals off ofor that.
Did I mention tha tmy old bifocals are not quite square? Nowhere near as square as Mrs. Hillbilly Mom. One earpiece is about an inch higher than the other. So I suppose I tilt my head to compensate. My neck is stiffing me every day.
Oh, and did you know that sometimes a sign of wearing the wrong prescription of bifocals gives you a headache? It's true. Like Thenksgiving Say, when I sat for hours peeling boiled eggs for my world-famous deviled eggs. Of course another sign of wering the wrong bifocals is when you can't see a freakin' think unless its 12 inches in front of your face. Any other distnace, and it seems like what you're looking at is under water in one of shose big jars on a convenience styore counter, with a shot glass in the bottom for you to try and drop a quarter in, counting on the fact that your'e not a sciene teacher who knows about refraction of light wabes in water.
I wnat my bifocals, BY CRACKY!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)