I might be a little late in posting tomorrow. Because I will be cooling my heels at parent conferences Thursday night. Or WILL I?
Somebody at school says there's going to be a big earthquake on Thursday. That all the earthquakes since something-something year have occurred at 188-day intervals. He had a bunch of notes that he pulled out for verification. Notes he had made, with dates, counting the days. Pardon me if that sounds vague, but I heard it third-hand.
"I only missed it by two days." A subtle reference to the earthquake in southern Mexico on Tuesday. That was the icebreaker. The conversation-starter. The lead in. The hook to set in your scaly cheek, just before reeling you in. One of my lunch table compatriots fell for it. She must not put much stock in his predictions. Because her eyes were a-rollin' like the wheels on the bus going round and round. She had not heard about the Mexico earthquake. Perhaps her time would be better-served on Google News instead of Angry Birds.
"He says we need to watch out on Thursday. Watch out for that big earthquake."
"How? How are we supposed to be ready for an earthquake? Sit and hold onto something?"
"I don't know. But he was shocked that nobody ever put two and two together and saw that pattern. 'It was right there for the taking,' he said."
"Well, I'm not doing anything different."
It will be interesting to find out if he's validated. Or if we should tell him, "You, Sir, are no Long Island Medium." I don't know if she makes predictions like that. But I guarantee you that he does not see dead people.
Wednesday, March 21, 2012
Tuesday, March 20, 2012
Just Horsin' Around
My little Pony is growing long in the tooth. Tonight is his Freshman Orientation. Yikes! He'll be in high school next year. In my class!
I'm not concerned about The Pony. He's quite tractable. No horsing around from him. He can be let off the lead rope and still plow a straight furrow. He is not one to feel his oats and kick up his heels. He's a work horse, not a show horse. Yet he still ends up in the winner's circle.
The #1 son needs a good snubbing post every now and then. Just to remind him who is boss. He prances through life ears forward, tail high, always ready for adventure. He fights the bit, blows up his belly when the saddle is cinched, nips if you turn your back. At times, you have to show him the whip.
The Pony is content to graze in the home pasture until needed as a beast of burden. He never even needed sacking out. He's as placid as a carnival pony walking in circles with tots on his back. A squeeze to his ribs gets him stepping. To show him the whip would break his spirit.
So different. But of the same bloodline. They are both thoroughbreds to me.
I'm not concerned about The Pony. He's quite tractable. No horsing around from him. He can be let off the lead rope and still plow a straight furrow. He is not one to feel his oats and kick up his heels. He's a work horse, not a show horse. Yet he still ends up in the winner's circle.
The #1 son needs a good snubbing post every now and then. Just to remind him who is boss. He prances through life ears forward, tail high, always ready for adventure. He fights the bit, blows up his belly when the saddle is cinched, nips if you turn your back. At times, you have to show him the whip.
The Pony is content to graze in the home pasture until needed as a beast of burden. He never even needed sacking out. He's as placid as a carnival pony walking in circles with tots on his back. A squeeze to his ribs gets him stepping. To show him the whip would break his spirit.
So different. But of the same bloodline. They are both thoroughbreds to me.
Monday, March 19, 2012
Discharge Papers
Things a Hillbilly recovering from knee surgery CAN DO:
* let the goats out to graze
* work in the BARn
* shop at flea markets and auctions
* ride around in a Gator
* watch his teammates bowl in their league
* feed the livestock
* cook bacon and eggs and wash one pan
Things a Hillbilly recovering from knee surgery CAN'T DO:
* wash last night's dishes
* put supper in the oven to warm
* make the bed
* take out the trash
* straighten the Crocs he kicks asunder
* fold towels and washcloths and socks
* keep goats from eating the lilac bush
I need to have a talk with that orthopedic surgeon concerning his discharge instructions.
* let the goats out to graze
* work in the BARn
* shop at flea markets and auctions
* ride around in a Gator
* watch his teammates bowl in their league
* feed the livestock
* cook bacon and eggs and wash one pan
Things a Hillbilly recovering from knee surgery CAN'T DO:
* wash last night's dishes
* put supper in the oven to warm
* make the bed
* take out the trash
* straighten the Crocs he kicks asunder
* fold towels and washcloths and socks
* keep goats from eating the lilac bush
I need to have a talk with that orthopedic surgeon concerning his discharge instructions.
Sunday, March 18, 2012
Not Too Preppy
Spring has sprung in Hillmomba, totally ignoring its official debut date coming up on Tuesday.
The Pony and I saw two turkeys in the road down by the low-water bridge beside our mailboxes. That's unusual, because we usually see ten or fifteen at a time. I was not close enough to see if either of them had a beard. Perhaps they are bachelors, grabbing a meal on the go. I did not think turkeys eat road kill. And one was standing right over a lumpy pile of something no longer living.
Farmer H said, "He might have been eating poop, if it had corn in it." Yes. He's quite the orator. I'm surprised he is not quoted in the history books. Sad thing is...he was not saying it as a joke. I tried changing the subject by informing him that the woods were crawling with squirrels. That's something we have not had a lot of in the past, rabbits outnumbering them by far. Farmer H was quite pleased about the squirrel count. "Yeah. I've seen a TON of squirrels. That's good!" When pressed to explain why that was good, whether to give the dogs something to chase besides chickens, or to distract predators from our flock, Farmer H stated, "It's food."
Let the record show that we both watch Doomsday Preppers and Doomsday Bunkers. For different reasons, apparently. I have a fondness for post-apocalyptic novels, and so find these preparations quite captivating. Farmer H went out yesterday to lay in a supply of ammunition. "The way times are, anything could happen." For all I know, he's been building a secret bunker down by the creek, and not a log cabin. When I called him on his "food" statement, he asked, "If something happened, wouldn't you eat squirrel?"
"I'd eat the bark off the trees, if the goats had left any. I'm not one to miss a meal."
"See there. Those goats would feed us, too."
"You overfeed all your animals. One goat could feed a middle-eastern family of four for a month."
"It could feed the Hillbilly family for a month."
"You got that right. Because three of us wouldn't eat it."
"Oh, you know you would."
"They're pets. Are we going to eat the cats and dogs, too?"
"If we run out of everything else."
He's a funny guy. I know we could never be Doomsday Preppers. I found evidence of that fact only yesterday. I reached into the bottom of Frig to get a bag of shredded sharp cheddar out of the vegetable bin. I keep it there so we don't have two or more packs open at once. It's not that I'm stocking up, but that I forget what I have on hand when I'm in the store. Somebody had gotten to the cheese. He used it, then put it back. I know, because it was open. And it was molded in one tiny section, even though the label said it was good until mid-June. Which speaks to me as sure as CSI evidence. Somebody reached his hand into the bag to grab some shredded cheese, rather than shaking it out on a plate. He contaminated the cheese as sure as a contaminated wire loop dipped in a petrie dish of agar will cause it to flourish with a colony of bacteria. As we science teachers say.
I can imagine forking over tens of thousands of dollars to lay in stores for the apocalypse, only to have each and every container opened and molested, so that when the poo hits the ventilation device, all we have is mold.
Which is probably edible in some instances.
The Pony and I saw two turkeys in the road down by the low-water bridge beside our mailboxes. That's unusual, because we usually see ten or fifteen at a time. I was not close enough to see if either of them had a beard. Perhaps they are bachelors, grabbing a meal on the go. I did not think turkeys eat road kill. And one was standing right over a lumpy pile of something no longer living.
Farmer H said, "He might have been eating poop, if it had corn in it." Yes. He's quite the orator. I'm surprised he is not quoted in the history books. Sad thing is...he was not saying it as a joke. I tried changing the subject by informing him that the woods were crawling with squirrels. That's something we have not had a lot of in the past, rabbits outnumbering them by far. Farmer H was quite pleased about the squirrel count. "Yeah. I've seen a TON of squirrels. That's good!" When pressed to explain why that was good, whether to give the dogs something to chase besides chickens, or to distract predators from our flock, Farmer H stated, "It's food."
Let the record show that we both watch Doomsday Preppers and Doomsday Bunkers. For different reasons, apparently. I have a fondness for post-apocalyptic novels, and so find these preparations quite captivating. Farmer H went out yesterday to lay in a supply of ammunition. "The way times are, anything could happen." For all I know, he's been building a secret bunker down by the creek, and not a log cabin. When I called him on his "food" statement, he asked, "If something happened, wouldn't you eat squirrel?"
"I'd eat the bark off the trees, if the goats had left any. I'm not one to miss a meal."
"See there. Those goats would feed us, too."
"You overfeed all your animals. One goat could feed a middle-eastern family of four for a month."
"It could feed the Hillbilly family for a month."
"You got that right. Because three of us wouldn't eat it."
"Oh, you know you would."
"They're pets. Are we going to eat the cats and dogs, too?"
"If we run out of everything else."
He's a funny guy. I know we could never be Doomsday Preppers. I found evidence of that fact only yesterday. I reached into the bottom of Frig to get a bag of shredded sharp cheddar out of the vegetable bin. I keep it there so we don't have two or more packs open at once. It's not that I'm stocking up, but that I forget what I have on hand when I'm in the store. Somebody had gotten to the cheese. He used it, then put it back. I know, because it was open. And it was molded in one tiny section, even though the label said it was good until mid-June. Which speaks to me as sure as CSI evidence. Somebody reached his hand into the bag to grab some shredded cheese, rather than shaking it out on a plate. He contaminated the cheese as sure as a contaminated wire loop dipped in a petrie dish of agar will cause it to flourish with a colony of bacteria. As we science teachers say.
I can imagine forking over tens of thousands of dollars to lay in stores for the apocalypse, only to have each and every container opened and molested, so that when the poo hits the ventilation device, all we have is mold.
Which is probably edible in some instances.
Saturday, March 17, 2012
Helicoptering, Pill-Popping, And The Pony
I took The Pony to the urgent care clinic Thursday afternoon. It's ten minutes from home, compared to the thirty-five minutes it would take to get to his regular doctor. Who happened to have his office across the street from the urgent care clinic when the boys first became his patients. His office staff was always a bit snooty, refusing to answer the phone near closing time, and refusing to sign in patients more than 15 minutes late, instead insisting that they reschedule their appointments. Since the move a couple of years ago, it's next to impossible to reach a live person on their office phone.
The only thing that prevents me from seeking a new doctor for them is the fact that the #1 son really likes that doctor. I agree that Doc is a nice guy. But you can't tell me that he doesn't know what's going on out front with his help. And since we all know that the help doesn't want to make an appointment unless it's three months in advance, it's kind of hard to get in to see Doc when they're sick. Another thing we all know is that odds are 10 to 1 that they will be seeing a nurse practitioner, and not Doc himself. So I bypassed all the angst, and took The Pony directly to urgent care.
For the first time ever, we had to wait about five minutes after filling out the paperwork. I accompanied The Pony to his exam room. He is, after all, his father's son, and incapable of giving a complete medical history or relaying treatment instructions back to me.
A paraprofessional took his vitals, then the day's nurse practitioner came in. She gave The Pony the once-over, noted that his temp was 101.4, took a swab for strep, ruled that out, and announced that she would be back in a minute with some Tylenol for his fever. She popped in with two pills in a plastic cup, and darted out again.
The Pony and I looked at the pills. They were two long brown caplets. I noted that they did not look like any Tylenol I had ever seen, or acetaminophen. The Pony snatched up that container and chugged both down with a swig of water from a tiny paper cup. Let the record show that the only pain reliever The Pony is ever allowed to take at home is a single acetaminophen.
The nurse practitioner came back in. I asked what kind of pills she had given him, were they regular strength Tylenol, acetaminophen, etc. She replied that it was ibuprofen. Please simulate a screeching phonograph needle over a vinyl LP in your mind. I don't give The Pony ibuprofen. In fact, I filled out his medical form for school saying that the nurse is allowed to give him acetaminophen, but not ibuprofen. For the simple fact that I have never given it to him, and don't know how it will affect him. The #1 son takes it with no problem. I take it, but it makes my hands swell up. The time for The Pony to be introduced to a new drug is not when he has an illness of unknown origin, and his blood pressure is running a bit high, as professed by the para when she took it twice, and when he's being prescribed a Z-Pack for the yellow phlegm he was coughing up.
Am I being a helicopter parent? Am I smothering The Pony with my controlling ways? Because it's my belief that if a reaction should occur (which did not, thank the Gummi Mary), we would not know if it was caused by the ibuprofen or the azithromycin of the Z-Pack, which he had also never taken before.
Call me crazy, but I am of the opinion that a nurse practitioner should tell you exactly what she's giving you, rather than pull the old bait-and-switch.
The only thing that prevents me from seeking a new doctor for them is the fact that the #1 son really likes that doctor. I agree that Doc is a nice guy. But you can't tell me that he doesn't know what's going on out front with his help. And since we all know that the help doesn't want to make an appointment unless it's three months in advance, it's kind of hard to get in to see Doc when they're sick. Another thing we all know is that odds are 10 to 1 that they will be seeing a nurse practitioner, and not Doc himself. So I bypassed all the angst, and took The Pony directly to urgent care.
For the first time ever, we had to wait about five minutes after filling out the paperwork. I accompanied The Pony to his exam room. He is, after all, his father's son, and incapable of giving a complete medical history or relaying treatment instructions back to me.
A paraprofessional took his vitals, then the day's nurse practitioner came in. She gave The Pony the once-over, noted that his temp was 101.4, took a swab for strep, ruled that out, and announced that she would be back in a minute with some Tylenol for his fever. She popped in with two pills in a plastic cup, and darted out again.
The Pony and I looked at the pills. They were two long brown caplets. I noted that they did not look like any Tylenol I had ever seen, or acetaminophen. The Pony snatched up that container and chugged both down with a swig of water from a tiny paper cup. Let the record show that the only pain reliever The Pony is ever allowed to take at home is a single acetaminophen.
The nurse practitioner came back in. I asked what kind of pills she had given him, were they regular strength Tylenol, acetaminophen, etc. She replied that it was ibuprofen. Please simulate a screeching phonograph needle over a vinyl LP in your mind. I don't give The Pony ibuprofen. In fact, I filled out his medical form for school saying that the nurse is allowed to give him acetaminophen, but not ibuprofen. For the simple fact that I have never given it to him, and don't know how it will affect him. The #1 son takes it with no problem. I take it, but it makes my hands swell up. The time for The Pony to be introduced to a new drug is not when he has an illness of unknown origin, and his blood pressure is running a bit high, as professed by the para when she took it twice, and when he's being prescribed a Z-Pack for the yellow phlegm he was coughing up.
Am I being a helicopter parent? Am I smothering The Pony with my controlling ways? Because it's my belief that if a reaction should occur (which did not, thank the Gummi Mary), we would not know if it was caused by the ibuprofen or the azithromycin of the Z-Pack, which he had also never taken before.
Call me crazy, but I am of the opinion that a nurse practitioner should tell you exactly what she's giving you, rather than pull the old bait-and-switch.
Friday, March 16, 2012
The Oblivious Leading The Delirious
The Pony has been sick as a dog. He's off his feed. Barking morning, noon, and night. I kept him home from school for two days so he could hit the hay whenever he felt played out.
I normally don't let my kids stay home for trivial viruses and headaches and drippy noses. But that 102-degree fever was the kicker. Farmer H was here to tend to him, so I didn't have to expose my mom to Pony germs. He's fourteen, and could probably stay home by himself IF we lived in town, and IF my work was not 30 minutes away, and IF he could reach me by cell phone during the day, and IF he could get an actual person when he called the school office instead of an automated system, and IF there had not been a rash of daytime rural robberies in Hillmomba this month.
Of course, leaving The Pony with Farmer H is pretty much akin to leaving him by himself. With the exception that Farmer H would just choose one of his 30 or more weapons and commence to shootin' at thieves, then ask questions later. It's not like he's a personal chef, or an LPN, or even a childcare professional. But he does have one thing going for him that the others might not: he loves his Pony. So much so that he drove to town this morning (leaving the Pony home alone, of course) and bought him some donuts. And yesterday he scrambled up some of our very own chickens' eggs for The Pony's lunch.
As far as doling out medication, though, he's not on par with Collette Reardon. Remember her? That SNL character of Cheri Oteri, who was never hurtin' for prescription drugs?
Yeah. Even Collette Reardon could have given The Pony his horse pills better than Farmer H. I left an index card with how often he could take what. And the time he last took something. I arrived home to find that The Pony had dosed himself not with a fever-reducer, but only a cough suppressant, had written the time one hour later than when he took it, and arose from his slumber with a fever of 100.9 degrees. According to Farmer H, The Pony had no fever, but was tired, so he took medicine and went to sleep. I don't mean to sound unkind. But it was a case of the Oblivious leading the Delirious.
Perhaps you can understand why I took The Pony to the urgent care clinic after I got off work Thursday, rather than have Farmer H take him to the doctor during the day. I could not fathom Farmer H correctly informing medical staff of The Pony's amoxicillin allergy. After all, he was not the one who had to take him to the ER the first time he had a reaction. To him, it would be a case of, "Well, we just won't give him any more if he breaks out," rather than seeing The Pony in his mind's eye, all bloated and red and unrecognizable, with ER nurses frantically trying to find a vein for an IV for an hour, then confronting the attending doctor over the benefits of a shot rather than an IV for children barely a year old.
Yes. Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is a micro-manager. Because she has to be.
I normally don't let my kids stay home for trivial viruses and headaches and drippy noses. But that 102-degree fever was the kicker. Farmer H was here to tend to him, so I didn't have to expose my mom to Pony germs. He's fourteen, and could probably stay home by himself IF we lived in town, and IF my work was not 30 minutes away, and IF he could reach me by cell phone during the day, and IF he could get an actual person when he called the school office instead of an automated system, and IF there had not been a rash of daytime rural robberies in Hillmomba this month.
Of course, leaving The Pony with Farmer H is pretty much akin to leaving him by himself. With the exception that Farmer H would just choose one of his 30 or more weapons and commence to shootin' at thieves, then ask questions later. It's not like he's a personal chef, or an LPN, or even a childcare professional. But he does have one thing going for him that the others might not: he loves his Pony. So much so that he drove to town this morning (leaving the Pony home alone, of course) and bought him some donuts. And yesterday he scrambled up some of our very own chickens' eggs for The Pony's lunch.
As far as doling out medication, though, he's not on par with Collette Reardon. Remember her? That SNL character of Cheri Oteri, who was never hurtin' for prescription drugs?
Yeah. Even Collette Reardon could have given The Pony his horse pills better than Farmer H. I left an index card with how often he could take what. And the time he last took something. I arrived home to find that The Pony had dosed himself not with a fever-reducer, but only a cough suppressant, had written the time one hour later than when he took it, and arose from his slumber with a fever of 100.9 degrees. According to Farmer H, The Pony had no fever, but was tired, so he took medicine and went to sleep. I don't mean to sound unkind. But it was a case of the Oblivious leading the Delirious.
Perhaps you can understand why I took The Pony to the urgent care clinic after I got off work Thursday, rather than have Farmer H take him to the doctor during the day. I could not fathom Farmer H correctly informing medical staff of The Pony's amoxicillin allergy. After all, he was not the one who had to take him to the ER the first time he had a reaction. To him, it would be a case of, "Well, we just won't give him any more if he breaks out," rather than seeing The Pony in his mind's eye, all bloated and red and unrecognizable, with ER nurses frantically trying to find a vein for an IV for an hour, then confronting the attending doctor over the benefits of a shot rather than an IV for children barely a year old.
Yes. Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is a micro-manager. Because she has to be.
Thursday, March 15, 2012
Neither Fish Nor Fowl
Just when you thought it was safe to go back in the cafeteria...
They served fish. Catfish strips. You'd think they were like fish sticks. Indeed, one week, early in the school year, they were. And another week, they tasted like the catfish we get at the local "kettle" restaurant. It's known for good eatin'! But the very last time the cafeteria served these catfish portions, they tasted fishy! I know! Of all the things kids don't want in their catfish, it's a fishy taste. So I did not eat the school lunch today. Even though the side dish was macaroni and cheese. As all consumers of the cafeteria macaroni and cheese say, "That's the most tasteless macaroni and cheese I ever ate." 300 critics can't be wrong.
According to the #1 son, I made a good decision. "That fish today tasted like crap! Like the smoke that clears after you shoot off fireworks. It was terrible!"
I don't know why he's complainin'. At least he didn't find one with a scale attached.
Disclaimer: As any science aficionado knows, catfish don't have scales. But catfish should not taste fishy, either. So perhaps the food supplier pulled the old switercheroo. No. That would be when you poison your drink and then switch it with the other person's. And we all know there's no drinking or poisoning in school. But...they might have substituted a more economical version of our fine finned friends. Which does not lend itself for an ending with a punch.
They served fish. Catfish strips. You'd think they were like fish sticks. Indeed, one week, early in the school year, they were. And another week, they tasted like the catfish we get at the local "kettle" restaurant. It's known for good eatin'! But the very last time the cafeteria served these catfish portions, they tasted fishy! I know! Of all the things kids don't want in their catfish, it's a fishy taste. So I did not eat the school lunch today. Even though the side dish was macaroni and cheese. As all consumers of the cafeteria macaroni and cheese say, "That's the most tasteless macaroni and cheese I ever ate." 300 critics can't be wrong.
According to the #1 son, I made a good decision. "That fish today tasted like crap! Like the smoke that clears after you shoot off fireworks. It was terrible!"
I don't know why he's complainin'. At least he didn't find one with a scale attached.
Disclaimer: As any science aficionado knows, catfish don't have scales. But catfish should not taste fishy, either. So perhaps the food supplier pulled the old switercheroo. No. That would be when you poison your drink and then switch it with the other person's. And we all know there's no drinking or poisoning in school. But...they might have substituted a more economical version of our fine finned friends. Which does not lend itself for an ending with a punch.
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