Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is hot to trot!
That's a Mabel expression for you. You remember Mabel, my best ol' ex-teaching buddy? That's her expression for a state of high pissed-off-edness. Not like when the Casey's clerk comes out to accuse you of being a drive-off while your little Pony is inside paying for your gas. Not like when your husband's doctor's office calls and leaves a message for him to bring money to pay his bill at his next appointment. No. Hot to trot is for major flare-ups.
Sweet Gummi Mary! Mrs. Hillbilly Mom could have been responsible for one iota of global warming, so hot to trot was she. Here's how it went down.
Mrs. HM was piloting T-Hoe up the outer road past The Devil's Playground on the way home from school today. After cresting the hill beside the cemetery where her dad is buried, Mrs. HM was greeted by the fine how-do-you-do sight of...
It's true! Roadwalkers in her lane, and a big truck loaded with rock from the quarry in the oncoming lane. So Mrs. HM did what any person on bloodthinners who doesn't want to spend her Forever Vacation years in prison would do, and STOPPED IN THE MIDDLE OF THE ROAD. Not so much the middle of the road as her own lane of the road. She had to. Those Roadwalkers weren't budging. People act so entitled these days. Whatever happened to cars' rights? Huh? Used to be roads were for cars, not for people!
They were a threesome of good ol' boys. Okay. Not so much boys as a good ol' gray-haired grampy, a good ol' middle-aged man, and a good ol' chubby gal. One of them carried a Devil's Playground bag. So the grampy was walking backwards, I suppose to tell the other two that there was a car bearing down on them. Not that any of the three moved. I'm surprised T-Hoe's tires didn't squeal. I'm surprised my dad didn't stop revolving in his grave long enough to shake his fist and holler, "You Good Ol's get ON MY LAWN!" Except he was on my left under his smooth green grass, and the Good Ol's were on my right. But I know my dad would have done it for me if it was logistically possible.
The Good Ol's could have stepped their privileged tootsies off onto 12 feet of green grass, no more than ankle high, no ditch, no trash. But they didn't. Because they thought they owned the road my taxes pay for. So I own it. And even if they own a little bit of it with their Devil's tax, they don't get to use it without a car. So decrees Mrs. Hillbilly Mom.
Mrs. HM waited for the rock truck to pass. Then she pulled out into the middle of the road, right on the yellow line, and gunned T-Hoe like a teenage ne'er-do-well from a 1950s movie.
I hope the Good Ol's sensed my displeasure.