Monday, September 29, 2014

Looky, Looky, Looky At This Ooky, Ooky, Ooky Critter

You know how I have a penchant for discovering all manner of creepy crawlies in and around my classroom? Uh huh. It's a gift. Look what The Pony and I found last week on our way out the end door of Newmentia after school:

He's a handsome one, as worms go. I think he's a hornworm. I do appreciate his hue. Green is, after all, Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's favorite color. Bet you'd never have guessed that. But what I don't appreciate is that he looks suspiciously like that critter that peers around a nice ripe tomato at me the summer we planted a garden.

Yep. I virtually skipped out there to the back yard with a basket on my arm, ready to harvest the beautiful tomatoes we had been letting ripen. I went to pull it off the vine, and my fingers sunk into the back of it like into a suppurating flesh wound. Not that Mrs. HM is in the habit of poking her digits into suppurating flesh wounds all willy-nilly. The that darn tomato hornworm reared its ugly head, just before the screams of Mrs. HM brought Farmer H a-runnin' to the garden to smoosh that tomato horn worm between his thumb and forefinger, right after it tried to take a bite of Farmer thumb. Tomato seeds squirted out like a runny poop rainbow.

Mrs. Hillbilly Mom can appreciate the glory of color and movement in a horn worm, and refrain from grinding it to oblivion beneath the heel of her New Balance. But that doesn't mean she likes him.

He'll probably turn up in my classroom in the near future.

Sunday, September 28, 2014

If I Was Sweet, I Would Be An M&M, Because Of The Protective Candy Coating

The #1 son has long professed that technology is not Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's friend.
Ain't that the truth!

Recently, like yesterday, Mrs. Hillbilly Mom has become quite certain that the following items are also on her non-friendship list:

The shopping cart in Save A Lot whose metal loops are quick to snag a thinned-blood nailbed.

The shower door handle that twangs the side of my wrist like a second funny-bone when my thinned-blood brain causes me to be unawares of my position with eyes closed and water sluicing over my head.

The cheese grater with a thin-blood lust, drawing my knuckles closer and closer as the cheese grows smaller and smaller.

The knife cutting fajita chicken, so quick to confuse soft fresh thin-blooded finger flesh with seasoned cooked de-blooded chicken flesh.

Bubble wrap. Helmet. Butcher's gloves. That special suit that shark-divers wear.

Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is ready to start her day.

Saturday, September 27, 2014

Oh, The NEWmanity!

A major disaster befell Mrs. Hillbilly Mom this morning as she rushed to town for supplies to darken her lovely lady mullet, having no coloring kit in the Mansion, and no tea bags, either, as suggested by a blog buddy who does not mind smelling like a lunch time beverage as long as no silver threads weave through her tasteful coiffure.

Of course on the way back from a brief dance with The Devil, I felt entitled to a giant beverage suitable for sipping all the live-long day. After all, I picked up breakfast for The Pony at Hardee's, and some Sunday supper fixin's for Farmer H at Save A Lot. So it was without guilt that I turned T-Hoe into Voice of the Village for my new favorite elixir, a 52 oz. Hi-C Pink Lemonade Drink.

The Voice of the Village looked unkempt. That's not like them. Along the sidewalk down at the end where I parked was a long table of some sort. And a rack of propane tanks all padlocked in a metal shelf contraption. Past the door, on the other end, were various items on shelves under the window. I figured they were having a fall sidewalk sale. I grabbed my clear 52 ounce refill cup, and 80 cents, and went inside.

REE! REE! REE! Doody-doo-doo, doody-doo-doo!

Something was very rotten in Backroads! The whole place was different. I would not have been shocked to see Rod Serling step out from behind a rack holding a microphone, even though he's been dead all these years. Just inside the double doors, back against the front wall, was a clear donut locker. The snack racks no longer ran diagonally across the natural rock floor. They were side to side. I had a clear path to the soda fountain. AND IT WAS DIFFERENT, TOO!

Gone was the 80-cent refill sign. And the clear 52 ounce cups. And the lids for the 52 ounce cups. In fact, all the cups were different, blue and white foam cups, all the same shape, but in varying sizes, butted out of the round holes along the sides of the soda fountain. But the most shocking difference was the soda fountain itself.


Dang! What's a Hillbilly Mom to do? I filled my 52 ounce clear cup with crushed ice and went to the counter. Nope. I was not buying a bottle of Minute Maid Pink Lemonade. The not-heaven with these folks! Nobody wants their changes! Let them cater to strangers fresh off the interstate. My business will go elsewhere.

Subway across the street has my Hi-C on their soda fountain. Something tells me they will not welcome my 52 ounce clear cup refill attempt. I need to see how much their largest cup costs.

Friday, September 26, 2014

In The Marital Bed, The Peaceful Marital Bed, The Farmer Wreaks Tonight

I woke up last night with a stabbing pain in my neck. It was terrible. Terrible enough to wake me from my three hours of slumber. It was not a dull ache, not a pinch, not a grinding pain, not a twist. It was a stabbing pain.

I reached back to see why my neck was hurting, perhaps to rub that area that felt like it was being skewered with a knitting needle, much like my lower leg sometimes feels like it is being penetrated by a raptor claw. Yes, while laying on my left side, propped on three pillows, snoozing so peacefully only moments before, I reached back with my right hand, to the nape of my neck, and felt...


Yeah. He was apparently sawing logs into his breather under the quilt, while resting his hand, namely his index finger sharpened to a point pointier than a finishing nail, against the back of my neck. Even my lovely lady mullet could not protect me from the pointed probing of Farmer H. Funny how to look at his hands, one would see short stubby fingers, not the entity battering-ramming me in the darkness, an ET the Extraterrestrial index finger honed to a needle-sharp end.

Sometimes I long for the days when Farmer H chugged half a bottle of Nyquil each night to prevent a cough. Even the raptor claw slept.

Thursday, September 25, 2014

In A Manner Of Speaking

So the other day I went to the doctor, which means I had a sub in my classroom. He's great, the one I always ask for. He leaves good comments so I know what goes on while I'm away. This time, he left one that said, "I can't believe you have the two Richards sitting together!"

The next morning, I ran into him in the office, picking up a new sub folder while I was putting mine back. He chuckled. Kind of smirked at me. And shook his head. "I mean it. I can't believe you have the two Richards sitting together."

"Oh, you have to imagine yourself in that room with them every day. And if you notice, Peter is sitting right next to the two Richards. I didn't plan it that way. They're alphabetical. But when I consider the alternative, they are staying right there. This way, I only have to worry about putting out one fire every day, not waiting and watching to see where various conflagrations might pop up. All the fuel is in one place, it's close to the extinguisher, and I smother those flames before they take hold."

He smiled. "You certainly have a point."

Let the record show that Mrs. Hillbilly Mom does not have students named Richard and Peter, and that she is not talking about actual FIRE fire, but rather the shenanigans that kids engage in when their leash is too long and they are out from under the thumb.

There is a method to Mrs. HM's madness.

Wednesday, September 24, 2014

Just Imagine If I Didn't Have Two Insurances

Man the handbaskets! We’re rushing full speed ahead toward the end of civilization as we know it.

Mrs. Hillbilly Mom went to the doctor yesterday to discuss the issue of her blood-thinner medication with her general practitioner. No sense taking a day off work for Mrs. HM and Farmer H so they could drive to the city and hike the equivalent of a Mt. Everest assault to reach the pulmonary specialist’s office and have him deny Mrs. HM her request for a cessation of the thinner. Calling won’t work, because the office is closed during Mrs. HM’s new plan time, and after school is after hours. So the plan was to run the scenario by Doc, who has an inside track to Mr. Embolisms R Us.

So…did Mrs. HM find her genial general practitioner all concerned and empathetic like he has been through her pulmonary embolism/thyroid removal tribulations over the past several years? NO!

It’s like Doc had been taken over by pod people, or replaced with a robot! After waiting 45 minutes past my appointment time, and bantering with the RN for another 15, Doc sat down for a private audience. I admitted that I might have a tendency to blame everything up to and including Farmer H’s chicken-poop stains in the kitchen sink on this Xarelto. But there are too many new afflictions since I started taking it for them to be attributed to chance, or to pre-existing conditions. However…Doc was having none of it. He listened to my laundry list of complaints, then explained, as I to my mother, or as an adult to a toddler, that there were other reasons for what ailed me.

Numb lower leg and three little toes on my left foot hours after taking the medicine?
**I must have sciatica

Sore knees that feel like they’re going to collapse?
**That’s just my weight

Stiff neck that was hard as a rock and brought me nausea and intense pain?
**I must have pinched a nerve

Back spasms when a kid darted in front of me in the cafeteria and I stopped suddenly?
**A function of my pinched nerve in the neck

Feeling of unsteadiness when walking?
**That’s due to the pinched nerve and sciatica

Numbness and tingling in elbow, wrist, and index finger after talking on the phone for five minutes or more?
**That’s carpal tunnel syndrome

Amoeba-like blob in my right eye vision for 30 minutes one night after taking the med?
**Doc did not address this issue

Pain in stomach, nausea, bloated feeling, dark excrement?
**Internal bleeding that WAS due to the medicine

Did Doc caution me to call right away if that happens again? Nope. Good thing I’m semi-medically literate, and had the sense to stop taking that drug for three days. I guess I’ll just have to join the class-action suit against the drug-maker if I don’t die next time. This is so totally unlike Doc that I can only surmise that since he joined the local clinic affiliated with the BJC hospital system, he has been brainwashed by the dark side.

Do you know what he said when I asked if I had to spend an entire year on this medicine that is giving me issues? He said, “That’s the standard of care, HM.” I suppose I am expendable. Everybody coming off pulmonary embolisms gets the same dose and duration of this medicine. One size fits all. *cough* death panels *cough*

I really don’t know what to make of this sudden uncaring attitude. This is the Doc who wept when I was upset about a thyroid test that had been scheduled for a month down the road, and called radiology and sent me down THAT VERY AFTERNOON for a biopsy.

Yet now I am supposed to believe that HE believes that even though these afflictions stop when I go off the Xarelto for a few days, they are something new I developed since May 23rd. I’m kind of a medical marvel, I guess. I am heavier without a change in weight, I have come down with sciatica, a pinched neck nerve, carpal tunnel syndrome, and a vision issue all in the span of the four months since I started taking this medicine.

At this rate, I'm going to end up in a jar on Doc's shelf. But only the kind of jar permitted by the BJC health system, of course.

Tuesday, September 23, 2014

The Tired Get Tireder And The Hateful Get Hatefuler

Farmer H is driving me a little bit crazy.

Yesterday morning, as he was leaving for work, he passed by me all comfortable and warm under a fleece throw, reclined in his La-Z-Boy, trying to catch five or six winks before work. He reached his big paw down onto the top of my head and stroked it like I was Juno. Except that he never pets my sweet, sweet Juno. And he wondered why I took offense to that loving touch. Hmm. Perhaps he's never heard of a woman getting ready for work, combing her hair just so, and preferring for it not to be tousled within an inch of its life so that students might ask, "Do you have a comb?" "Do you know how to use it?" "Do you turn on the light?"

Farmer H also took offense when he leaned in for a kiss, and I turned my head.

"Why won't you even kiss me?"

"I heard you up here sneezing last night. I do NOT want to be sick. It's bad enough that all the students are sick, walking up and down the hall hacking and snorting, right under my nose."

"I'm not a kid. And I'm not sick. I was just sneezing."

This is the guy who objects to the hand towel I lay against the side of my face when I sleep on my back. "What? You can't even LOOK at me?"

"Um. It's 1:30 a.m. It's dark. I have no plans to look at you. Nor do I have plans to inhale those germs your breather is spraying on me."

Uh huh. Guess who missed work today because he was sick? I swear y'all are psychic! YES! It was indeed Farmer H! He was SO sick. "HM. I'm staying in bed. I was up with diarrhea all night, and I feel nauseous."

But here's the rich part. Farmer H can't decide how to complain about me!

Saturday night: "I guess you think that just because you creep in here every night, all quiet, turning the doorknobs easy, that I don't wake up when you come to bed."

"It's no secret when I come to bed. It's always late. I've been that way since I was a kid. I'm not an early bird. I stay up late, and I'd like to sleep late on the weekend. You wake me up every time you move, then you demand that I get up at 6:00 on the weekend."

Last night: "I am so wide awake. You come in here like a bull in a china shop every night, banging things around! How am I supposed to sleep?"

"I thought I was sneaky and quiet. At least you got in a good four hours of sleep before I woke you. Now you can have another four hours. Unlike the four hours total that I will get."

Yeah. Plus he got even MORE sleep because he didn't go in to work today, and I had to take The Pony to school on time before my doctor's appointment, then waste time at my mom's house, then invite her along for the ride, then sit in a waiting room for an hour, then take my mom back home, then go back to school to grade today's work and pick up The Pony.

Even Steven needs to get on the stick and straighten out this inequality. It's not like I can walk by and ruffle Farmer H's hair before work. And no man needs 25 hours of sleep a night.