Saturday, July 27, 2019

Mrs. Hillbilly Mom, The Walking Wounder

You know how some people are a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma? That's not me. What I SHOULD be is a gal wrapped in gauze, surrounded by bubble wrap, wearing a straight-jacket. That might protect me from myself.

As you read yesterday, I have somehow started my big toe rotting off by trimming my toenails. Just as that was getting better, another incident befell me on Wednesday. Uh huh. Befell me. These things happen. With no conscious thought or input from my own central nervous system.

Maybe I have a central REALLY nervous system. I was just standing there, in front of the bathroom mirror, picking my hair. Not in a bad-habit kind of way. In a COMBING kind of way. I just use a plastic pick, because it lifts my hair and gives it more body, and doesn't stretch it out like a too-toothy comb. I'm a right-hander, so I finished picking the right side of my head, and then reached across to pick-comb the hair on the left side of my head.


I miscalculated, and instead gouged the skin at the end of my left eyebrow. GOUGED! It really hurt! Some inappropriate language might have accidentally leaked out during my pain fugue. I eventually regained my senses and composure, and managed to dress myself, and arrange my lovely lady-mullet into a socially acceptable display of old-lady tresses.

My injury was forgotten until I returned home, and was slipping into something more comfortable for lolling about my dark basement lair. I looked into the mirror as I was pulling a shirt over my head, and saw a red, scabby line on my left temple, at the end of the eyebrow.

The Man Owner at The Gas Station Chicken Store had probably given me that FREE 44 oz Diet Coke because he thought I'd been in a fight! He felt sorry for me! Or else he thought I was a scrapper, and didn't want to incur my ire after not having Diet Coke for five days.

I really need to be protected from myself.
Gauze and bubble wrap and a straight-jacket should do it.


Sioux Roslawski said...

Milk it for all that it's worth.

Blame Farmer H. Tell people he went after you because you didn't make his "Tower of Soup" fast enough. Or because you tried to stop him from eating a moldy hot dog bun. Or because you looked away when he stepped into the yard with only his tighty-whities adorning his body.

Tell 'em. And then see what kind of free, pity fried chicken and sodas will start flying your way...

Hillbilly Mom said...

Oh, you can bet I'll milk it 'til the cows come home, and then milk it some more! A worker at Country Mart, on her way out to smoke a cigarette while leaning against the front of the store, started talking to me about scratchers today. I'm pretty sure it was a pity conversation, to take my mind off being a battered woman. Too bad she couldn't kick in a freebie, but she DID insist that my purple ticket was going to be a winner, and IT WON $20. If only she could tell me before I buy them...

River said...

and no picks. You're lucky you didn't take out an eye! I hope it heals quickly.

Hillbilly Mom said...

I know! It's so tricky, looking in the mirror and crossing over to the other side of my head.