HM Is Nothing If Not A Master Of The Last Word

Today may be Father's Day for all normal people in Hillmomba. But as you might have gathered by now, the Hillbilly family is not quite normal. We held our Father's Day celebration on Friday. That's because the #1 son and Farmer H were off early Saturday on the way to Missouri Boys State, in Warrensburg. A considerable drive from these parts.

Farmer H raked in some swag. Three cards. A sugar-free Whitman's Sampler from The Pony. (Sweets for the sweet, some might have termed it. Some who don't know Farmer H very well). A leather-bound, metal-cornered book on survivals skills with large, glossy color pictures and diagrams. And a new cell phone, already updated with his personal contacts and apps. Today, he's also getting a lemon-pepper chicken dinner, and an individual-sized sugar-free vanilla layer cake. Which leads us into the real meat and potatoes of this post...

Round 2 With Methuselah's Great Great Grandma, 
aka The Devil's Judgmental Handmaiden

You might recall Round 1, in which Mrs. Hillbilly Mom tangled with MGGG over the price of cake slices purchased for her mother's birthday. And it wasn't Mrs. HM complaining about the prices. Au contraire. She was perfectly willing and able to pay for such high-dollar treats for her mother. No, it was MGGG who witched and moaned over the price. As if she, herself, were treating Mrs. HM's septuagenarian maternal unit to the delectable sweets. Out of her own shallow, devil-lined pocket.

Today, MGGG started in again over the tiny round layer cake purchased with love for Farmer H, father of the two lights of Mrs. HM's life. MGGG growled, "I can't believe someone would pay that price for a little cake." With the someone, namely Mrs. HM, standing right there in front of her, debit card at the ready.

To add salt to the sugary wound, MGGG furthermore professed that the infernal noise of the game room was about to drive her over the deep end. And the customer behind me nodded and proselytized in agreement, horning in on the precious interaction between the current customer, ME, and MGGG. Let the record further show that the only person in the game room was The Pony, driving on the Fast and Furious Drift arcade game for which I give him two dollars every week as a token of gratitude for his help in negotiating the murky, steaming, underworld that is The Devil's Playground.

"That's my son on that game. I take full responsibility for the noise. It's his reward for helping me do the shopping every week."

MGGG and Horner tut-tutted and tried to backtrack. "The one that really drives me crazy is that little riding toy. It plays a Disney song over and over and over until I want to scream," shared MGGG, my new BFF. Horner allowed how that would have to be the worst.

"Maybe next week, I'll tell my son to ride on that one."

Thank you. I'll be there every week.