Limpin' on three toes
Strikin' a pain pose
Showin' The Pony what he's done now
Tellin' ya mister,
'Bout my huge blister
And all he can do is look and say, "Wow!"
Woe is Mrs. Hillbilly Mom. The Pony, rather than being her savior, her right-hand man, her go-to guy, her helpmate...was lax in his duties on Monday.
That's right. On Monday. A key day in the Hillbilly family workweek, what with Mrs. Hillbilly Mom having parking lot duty before and after school, with little time to log on 50-eleven times to get her lessons prepped before heading off to duty. We try to leave a little early on Mondays. TRY.
The Pony has taken to lingering abed. Sure, it's taken him all year to develop a case of senioritis. The #1 son had it from the first day of his freshman year. But Mrs. HM had hopes for The Pony. Until the past two months, he was always quick to jump out of bed when called. But now that he has the new puppy to feed before we leave, he's been slacking.
Let the record show that we left at our regular late time on Monday. Not the early time. I could not find The Pony's lunch bag in any of the places he is wont to toss it. Most often on one of the living room couches. But I did find his OLD lunch bag that we use in a pinch. Then I forgot to put in a plate for him to warm his chicken strip, because I was befuddled by the change in routine.
The Pony drug himself out of bed like the losing entry in a tractor pull. He mosied around like time was not of the essence. Fed the pup. May or may not have taken his medicine. So he took one on the way out the door just in case. I had to remind him to grab his lunch off the cutting block. As we started past EmBee, down the blacktop county road, I blathered about how I was glad this would leave me with only two Monday duties left.
"I hate these Monday duties. The only good thing is that there are a lot of Monday holidays. My knees will be hurting by the time I get back from the parking lot this afternoon. At least I have my other shoes to change into. Don't forget to carry them in. We're running late."
Let the record show that every Friday, I bring home my comfortable old worn shoes to wear for our trek to The Devil's Playground. But this week, I was in a hurry (because it was the first weekend of the month, and nobody wants to get there after the churchy crowd doubles the Playground population). I wore my regular shoes.
When we pulled into the school parking lot, I reminded The Pony to grab the bag with my shoes. He said, "I don't see them."
"WHAT? They were right there! On that folded down seat beside you! I saw them when I went to town Saturday."
"Huh. They're not here. I don't remember taking them in the house."
"I have looked! But I don't see them."
"Great. Now I have one pair of shoes for all day. I'll be a cripple by the time my duty day is over."
Off went The Pony. I looked a bit more in the back for my shoes. Old Mother Hubbard's dog found more than I did. What a way to start the week. My feet hurt already just thinking about it. When 5th hour rolled around, I took my brown leather Propet shoes out of the cabinet. Not my choice to be traipsing around in for any length of time. They make my feet sweat. To make matters worse, they eat my socks.
When the final bell rang, I quickly stepped out of my Propets and back into my gray-and-orange mesh New Balance. Sweet Gummi Mary! My sock was in a wad, and I had no time to straighten it out. Just-dismissed students behind the wheels of one-ton machines wait for no Hillbilly. That sock wad bothered me all the way back to my room.
"Pony. My sock is in a wad. I have to fix it. That does not happen with MY OLD SHOES!"
Tuesday morning, The Pony found my old shoes, inside the house, in the kitchen. We took them along for school. But by afternoon, when I took them off again and put my gray shoes back on, I still felt a sock wad. Or not. Because when I bent down to straighten it, I felt SOMETHING under the sock. Like a pea. Or more like a marble. Upon cranking back in the La-Z-Boy back at the Mansion, and removing my sock, I was afraid to look.
The Pony said, "Yeah. You have a blister. It's right between two toes. It's a big one. When I get them, they really hurt. So I pop them."
"No. I always use a needle dipped in alcohol, poked through the edge, so that blister water can flow out. Then it still stays covered with that flap of skin."
"I'll do that for you!"
"No. You won't. The way you fumble things, you might poke that needle straight in, like I'm a pin cushion. No, no, no."
So now I have a marble-sized blister between the little piggies that had roast beef and had none, right where the toes hook onto the foot. Very awkward.
I guess I'll let nature take its course. It may open up, or it may reabsorb. In the meantime, Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is hobblin'.
At least The Pony's lack of paper plate did not leave him with a blister. His lunchtime teacher had extra. If only she'd had a pair of old New Balance for me.