Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is in the double-dark.
Perhaps you haven't heard how Farmer H replaced the recessed floodlight in the living room ceiling with a bathroom floodlight half its size. There's a reason for that. You can't handle the truth. If you knew the hardship this puts on Mrs. Hillbilly Mom when she sits down in the La-Z-Boy to write bills, balance the checkbook, or read her tabloids...you would weep in commiseration.
Today I arrived home from work without my pack-mule Pony. He is spending the night with his grandma. I had to haul in assorted school bags and lunch bags and bubba cup o' ice water and prescription refills and the mail and my purse. I really miss that little fellow.
I paused mid-pack to parcel out some cat kibble for my sweet, sweet Juno. The unworthy Ann also enjoyed a token few nuggets. Once I had dumped everything on the kitchen counter, I reached to turn on the under-cabinet fluorescent lights. Snap crackle pop. The lengthy light bulb nearest the kitchen door commenced to fightin'. He blinked like a fiend, and emitted buzzy noises like a bug zapper. The flashes of light were virtually seizure-inducing.
When Farmer H got home, he took that over-excited light bulb out. He carried it down the basement steps. Not to torture it in his workshop chamber, but to compare it with spare light bulbs he has on a shelf in his shop.
Apparently, Farmer H has spares of the kinds of bulbs we don't need. He will be hunting for the necessities at The Devil's Playground tomorrow.
I am not holding my breath.