If Mrs. Hillbilly Mom Falls In A Basement, And Nobody Is There To Hear Her, Does She Make A Sound?

Perhaps you recall yesterday's post, in which I lovingly poked fun at The Pony for wiping out on the checkerboard (finish flag pattern) tile floor of the NASCAR bathroom.

Even Steven was not amused.

Last night, or early this morning, depending on what hour you choose to call it a night...Mrs. Hillbilly Mom found herself in a sticky wicket. Up a creek without a paddle. Trapezing without a safety net. Jumping out of a plane without a parachute. Tom Pettyesque free, free fallin'!

It all started around 7:30, when The Pony and I settled down to watch the end of Survivor: Pearl Islands. Yeah. It IS about 13 years old. But The Pony never saw it. And it had RUPERT! So he got it for Christmas, and we watched the finale last night. Then The Pony went to take a bath, and I stayed in the recliner watching DVRs of the Shameless marathon, and woke up around 1:25.

Let the record show that Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is no spring chicken. Her joints are creaky. Nor is she a 98-pound weakling. A weakling, perhaps. But considerably more than 98 pounds. To disengage from the basement recliner, Mrs. HM rocks forward and launches herself out over her weak knees. The center of gravity is key, you know, in maintaining one's balance. Because it takes Mrs. HM's joint fluid a few moments to redistribute itself from sitting position to standing position, she must maintain equilibrium until her legs are ready to strike out on their own. She usually grabs the steel support pole near her recliner to steady herself. Until last night. Or early this morning.

As Mrs. Hillbilly Mom launched, the launch platform receded. That is, the recliner scooted backwards on the tile floor as Mrs. HM still had a hand on its arm, propelling herself forward. That meant her center of gravity, centered near her ample buttocks, did not reach its destination over her feet. And, like a third-string pole vaulter who ALMOST reaches the bar, Mrs. HM's forward momentum slowed, paused, and then began accelerating in a BACKWARD direction.

Mrs. HM reached for the support pole. But alas! Her hand fell short by about four inches. The distance her launch platform had scooted in the opposite direction. She spun. But it felt like slowly she turned. Inch by inch. What would become of her? The Pony was in bed above with his door closed. Farmer H was across the house upstairs, his breather whooshing. As in space...in Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's basement, no one can hear you scream.

Faced with the possibility of slamming down onto the tile on her ample buttocks, in front of the scooted recliner...Mrs. HM heaved herself towards that receding blue recliner. A backwards launch. Groping with her other hand, from a sideways orientation, for that elusive support beam. No dice. One arm or the other whacked a red wooden backscratcher from the TV tray that acts as an end table for the remotes and Puffs With Lotion box. It spiraled up and over to land on Mrs. HM's chest area, like a game element of Mousetrap.

If my back began to itch, I was all set. But for the moment, I inventoried my bits and pieces. Nothing broke. Nothing needed fixin'. Just some wrenched muscles and a palpitating heart. I did not bite the tile. But I did look like I was reclining in a sit-up chair. I straightened myself gingerly.

Whew! I waited a good 10 minutes before climbing back out of that bronc that threw me.