My name is Mrs. Hillbilly Mom, and I am a lady of the night.
I just wanted to tell you here first, before you heard it somewhere else. Yes. I'm a lady of the night. Not to be confused with a lady of the evening. LAWS, NO! As Tom Cullen would say, "M-O-O-N. That spells 'Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is not a prostitute. She would starve to death if she relied on work as a working girl to pay for her extravagant lifestyle. Actually, she would starve to death if her lifestyle consisted of living in a van down by the river, eating government cheese. Because government cheese doesn't deliver itself, you know. It takes money to go pick up that government cheese. Money that Mrs. Hillbilly Mom would not have, because nobody would pay her for her services. Not when they can get the milk for free without dealing with that old cow.'" Tom Cullen has grown quite loquacious and vociferous since returning to the Free Zone after visiting Vegas.
I am a lady of the night. Not a creature of the night. That would be Rocky, from his Horror Picture Show. Do not come visit me wearing lingerie, throw toast, toilet paper, or hot dogs at me, put a newspaper over my head, shine a flashlight in my eyes, or command me to "toucha toucha toucha tooouuuuch you!" No creature. Lady.
I am a lady of the night. I always have been. During my recent 23-day sojourn from work, my old habits returned. None of this early to bed, early to rise gobbledygook for Mrs. Hillbilly Mom. She does not go to bed with the chickens. Somebody's got to stand watch until the witching hour. Just because Mrs. Hillbilly Mom sometimes stands watch while laying on her back in the blue recliner in front of the big-screen TV in her basement lair...do not underestimate the watch-standing abilities of Mrs. Hillbilly Mom.
I stay up late. I get up late. That's how my circadian rhythm marches. So it's no big deal to me that I go to bed at 3:00 a.m. and arise at 9:00. Don't cost nothin'. I do not have young children who need supervision and nourishment. My boys are fenders now. For themselves. Farmer H is perfectly capable of pushing an alarm button five times on snooze, and getting himself showered and dressed.
Oh, the agony as this day dawned, day 24 since I was released for the Christmas holiday, dawned at the crack of 4:50 a.m. Sweet Gummi Mary! That's not even two hours after bedtime! It's inhumane! Cruel! Unusual! Punishment!
I might turn in a bit earlier tonight.