I'd Let Him Call Me The Cat's Pajamas If He Wanted To

Hey! Just when you think you've seen it all...

Who needs a new pair of Crocs?

Not me. I'm already nearing my limit of ways to embarrass my offspring. Just last week I was told I cannot use the phrase, "all up in my bidness" anymore. Can you believe it? Tina Fey and Amy Poehler say it. But I'm not allowed. I guess it will go the way of "redonkulous," on the tip of my sharp tongue, ready to be drawn at an inopportune time when somebody needs place-putting.

Just today, I was lamenting my forgetfulness after pulling out of the Save A Lot parking lot. "Darn. I forgot to buy buns. And bacon. I was going to get bacon specifically for #1, because he says he can't afford it at college unless his three roommates chip in with him."

We drove by a Burger King. Two guys were pushing tall metal carts from a whole-grain bread truck toward the back door. "Look, Mom! There are the buns you forgot! I guess you could grab some...of...them."

"Yes! Thanks so much for suggesting that I grab someone's buns on the Burger King parking lot! I can't wait to grab someone's buns. I live for that, bun-grabbing."

"Errrr..."

"What? It was YOUR idea? Do you mean to tell me you don't want me talking about grabbing someone's buns on the Burger King parking lot? I bet if one of your friends said it, you'd think it was hilarious."

"I would. Because they're my friends. They're my age. So it's okay."

"That doesn't seem right. I guess next thing I know, you'll be all right with your friends saying you're all up in their bidness. And it's redonkulous."

"Yeah. Kids can say that. You can't."

Huh. Such a double standard. I suppose his friends will be wearing those Crocs, too.

A Public Brownie Service Announcement

Watchdog Hillbilly Mom here, reporting on the latest scam to siphon your hard-earned dollar from your bead-encrusted change-purse.

Take a gander at the newest product to raise my dander:

Yes, it's none other than our old friend, Little Debbie, trying to fool the geometrically-challenged masses. Santa Brownies, indeed. How cute they are! But how profitable for Little Debbie.

I'm no geometry whiz like my best old teaching buddy Mabel. But I figure that each corner cut off Santa is money in Little Debbie's pocket. Take a regular Little Debbie Cosmic Brownie. Cut off each corner. Spray it with icing. Stamp a face into it. Voila! 28.58% less brownie! Here's how I get my figure. I have not done any measurements, but my naked eye says that it would take 10 of those missing corners to make a Santa Brownie. One for each pointy end, and 8 arranged as four squares to fill in the middle. Again, it might take fewer, but I'm giving Little Debbie the benefit of my sloppy math. That means it would take 14 of those triangle corners to make a full rectangular brownie like the Cosmics.

If you take the 4 missing corners, divided by the 14 corners in a full brownie...Santa has 28.57% less edible goodness, at the very minimum. There are 6 brownies in a box. That means 24 missing corners. At the rate of 14 corners per Santa, you are missing the equivalent of 1.71 brownies per box if you buy Santa instead of Cosmic.

Be a smart shopper. Don't get Little Debbied.

It's About As Long As His...

I know my sweet baboo would do anything for me. Well, except buy me nice Christmas gifts. Or Mother's Day gifts. Or give me a kind word every now and then. But except for those minor issues, he would do anything for me.

Just this morning, in fact, Farmer H offered to go pick up The Pony from Grandma's house. At 9:00 a.m. When The Pony had been promised he could stay until 4:00. And just this morning, Farmer H took off to run around who-knows-where, and returned at 1:00. "Did you bring me a 44 oz Diet Coke," I asked hopefully." As if I even entered my sweet baboo's mind while he was early-morning carousing.

"Oh. No. But I'll get you one when I go to pick up The Pony this afternoon." That would work out just fine. We were planning to use a Casey's Pizza coupon for supper. Enough of the Christmas leftovers already. So I went about my business. Folded some laundry. Puttered around on the computer. Pointedly refused to wash the dishes. No small thanks to my best old ex-teaching buddy Mabel, who called last night and informed me that she had two, TWO dishwashers waiting for installation in her new house. I set Mabel straight from the get-go. "I, too, have TWO dishwashers. They are called, My Left Hand and My Right Hand. So there."

Farmer H laid around the shanty for a while. Watched some football. Probably took a nap in his La-Z-Boy. Then he went to the BARn, the sole purpose to crank up the heat for a larger bill, I'm sure. Then he told me he was leaving to run by The Devil's Playground and exchange a non-fitting mattress pad, and pick up The Pony, and fetch the pizza. He has connections who will sometimes let him use TWO coupons at once.

I ruminated on a blog post. Not this one. Are you kidding? This came right off the seat of my pants, because in 12 minutes I am going to be done with it and watching one of my three Christmas presents, The Heat. I dug out the last two years' tax receipts so the #1 son can stand in line at the license office (home of Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's WORST DRIVER'S LICENSE PHOTO EVER) tomorrow to renew the license on the $1000 Caravan. Went upstairs. Closed the shades. Pointedly ignored the dirty dishes again. And eagerly awaited my pizza and 44 oz Diet Coke.

The guys arrived with the goods. A wonderful Sunday night lay ahead of me. Some blogging, a movie, no school tomorrow, pizza, and a 44 oz Diet Coke. Mmm...

"Did you get my soda?"

"OH! I forgot. I'll go get one right now."

"No. I'm not waiting another hour for it. I'll make one here. I've waited all day. Looking forward to it. If I'd known I wasn't getting one, I'd have made one earlier."

"I'm sorry. I just forgot."

Yeah. That seems to happen a lot when it's something my sweet baboo is asked to do for me.

Hillmomba Crime Watch

Our dear friend EmBee was terrorized again overnight.

I noticed on my way home this afternoon, after dropping The Pony at his Grandma's house to spend the night. I was not really looking for a crime scene. I was checking out all the mailboxes to see if I could ascertain whether the mail had been delivered yet. Folks in town complain to the Hillmomba Daily News that their bills are still being pushed through their mail slots at 9:00 p.m., by carriers wearing headlamps. As I got closer to the Mansion turnoff, I observed the pristine mailboxes of yesterday listing awkwardly. The very mailboxes I had commented about to The Pony several days ago. "You know, these mailboxes won't look this way by the end of the week. Two weeks off for Christmas vacation? The kids will be restless and turn to bashing." Am I psychic, or what?

The most disturbing sight was the newest house on the road, the one with the long driveway, which used to have a mailbox receptacle built like a brick sh--like a brick outhouse. It was actually made of brick, a pretty little thing, brick-enclosed support post, brick U-topped enclosure for the metal mailbox. Now it was crushed. No more U top. The bricks lay askew on the gravel, the metal dome of the crushed mailbox exposed. What hath thugs wrought?

I coasted down the hill toward our mailbox row. There she was. Our dear EmBee. She was whole! Sitting a bit sideways in her broken cubicle, but intact. Even her door was closed primly. Not so her cohorts. Because the thugs could not gain access for proper bashing, due to the individual wood apartments in which our mailboxes reside...they had wrenched the doors open and bent them down under. Not to Australia. Under the wooden floor of the apartments. Oh! The boxmanity!

I pulled the mail from EmBee and patted her on her thick green metal skin. There, there, dear. After stashing the mail in T-Hoe, who was parked in the blacktop roadway proper, I decided to take a photo. Unfortunately, I can't show it, as some addresses are evident. Mrs. Hillbilly Mom ain't havin' no stalker knock on her door.

My smart phone played dumb, and refused to acknowledge the touch of my cold, cold fingertip. I struggled to open the camera feature. What's that? The sound of car wheels on a gravel road. This won't do. What if somebody thinks I'm the one who crushed federal property? Or that I'm stealing mail. Somebody's Clearasil, perhaps. Or two boxes of just-published books. Still. I wanted that photo. The approaching auto stopped. The occupants got out. It was our down-the-hill neighbors. "Look! Look what they've done again!"

"Why do people have to be so destructive? What's a mailbox cost these days, twenty dollars? Even if you have to replace it a couple of times a year, that adds up. Is ours all right? Yeah. Just the door."

"You need to get Farmer H to make you one like ours. Not a scratch."

"Yeah. Farmer H said that one is gonna last. That'll send a vibration up some thug's arm! Hey! Is that our paper, or the free ones?" Mr. Neighbor climbed behind the mailbox apartment house, on the giant rip rap rocks put there by the county highway department due to flooding. "Do you want a free paper?"

"No thanks. You should see the brick mailbox over the hill. They knocked the crap out of it. A bat alone could not do that. They must have used a hammer."

"That guy should prosecute. I wish they could catch these thugs. You'd think the mail carrier would report it. He knows the boxes weren't like this yesterday."

"Yeah. But it's probably half his route."

"I know a guy who used a backhoe and put in a concrete pier. Then he enclosed the post and his mailbox in concrete. And you know what the postmaster told him? 'If somebody runs into that and is injured, YOU are liable.' Yeah. You can't catch a break these days."

"I know. I've tried to turn in kids who bragged about mailbox thuggery. The first post office said the act occurred in another county. So I called them, and gave the names of the people who had poopy underwear stuffed in their box, and the name of the pooper. The post office said I would have to fill out a report. I didn't have time to drive over there and deal with it. You'd think they could have investigated. It's a federal crime, you know. And you can't even set up a game camera, because every car that drives by will trigger it."

"I've thought about putting a red light up in that tree. A red light that shines on the mailboxes. You can bet that they'll see a red light as they come down the hill, and think twice about messing with these mailboxes."

"Yeah. That might work. Let Farmer H know if you need any help."

Neighbors helping neighbors. Hillmomba Crime Watch. These neighbors are more mellow than the ones who would suggest sitting in a truck with a shotgun on Friday and Saturday nights.

So Hurtful, The Holidays

All right, everybody. Tune up your world's smallest violins. You're invited to a pity party for Mrs. Hillbilly Mom. You might want to bring a Totes umbrella, or one of those blue or yellow ponchos sold to tourists at Niagara Falls or Silver Dollar City. Wouldn't want you to catch the grippe if you take a chill while soaked with Mrs. HM's crocodile tears.

Wednesday was Christmas. Did you know that? Well, it was. And on Christmas, it is kind of customary for folks who are related and live under the same roof to exchange gifts. They don't have to be elaborate. Just a token. To show love and caring, or at least the concept of reciprocity.

I went all out. Okay. I went somewhat out. The Pony never could tell me anything he wanted, short of a Kindle Fire HD 8.9 inch thingy, and a certain collector sword that was on backorder, and a Dr. Who pocket watch. But the #1 son had a list. Two, in fact. Of guts for a computer he was planning to build. And a few books on programming, and a poster and soldering set. He got it all. Plus a few more items. Farmer H was showered with a couple of Coca Cola 1/64 truck replicas, plus some glass chickens, a chainsaw sharpener, a hand-chainsaw for the coming apopadopalyspe, and of course a push broom. The Pony was quite pleased with the extra gifts I pulled out of thin air, like a dragon's eye treasure box, and two sweet pocket watches, and a couple of Roman daggers, and a brass Trojan pencil sharpener, and a promissory note for five computer games to download, and five books.

You know where this is heading, right? Do you know what my loving family gave to me? Huh? Drawing a blank? I guess they did, too. Because I got some jelly-stick candy, which I totally like, and some lottery tickets, which I love, and the DVD of The Heat, which I had asked for, and a pair of men's work gloves. Okay. That last one was a mistake. I expressed my liking for them, of course, holding them up, trying them on, flexing my fingers. And I noticed Farmer H looking at me like I'd grown two heads, or like I'd actually cooked something, rather than warming it in the oven or heating it in the microwave.

Farmer H: "Where did you get those?"

HM: "From this package right here with my name on it."

Farmer H: "Oh. That wasn't supposed to be yours. Those belong to #1."

HM: "Look. Right here. 'MOM.' Right there on the package."

#1: "That's okay, Mom. I have these other two pair I just unwrapped. They fit me better."

HM: "Yeah. I bought them for you. I made The Pony try them on."

Farmer H: "I guess you can keep them. But they weren't for you."

Yeah. I'm not all about the material goods. But you would think I might be worth more than jelly sticks, scratch-offs, and The Heat. My sweet Pony had even asked me several days before, "So, you like those pens like that one in your checkbook?" Yes. I do. As well as the little notebooks that I had pointedly mentioned I enjoy so much. Unfortunately, The Pony does not have a driver's license. He must be hauled to and fro by me. Or by Farmer H. Or by #1. I don't blame The Pony. I think his intentions were good.

It didn't help that Farmer H hauled #1 off to his workplace on Tuesday morning, under the auspices of "getting his saw." Heh heh. They couldn't fool ME. I was sure they were picking up a special present. A new office chair, perhaps. Or a dishwasher--my first ever. When they got home, Farmer H told The Pony to run open the basement door in the workshop. That #1 had something to carry in. Uh huh. I was sure my special present was languishing in the workshop until Christmas morning. I made a point not to enter the workshop. I am not a surprise-spoiler. Guess what the surprise was? THERE WAS NO GIFT FOR ME!

Sorry. I'm having a flashback to the Three-Dollar Pink Change Purse/Box of SnoCaps Mother's Day.

No Honor Among Dweebs

I must report a couple of aberrations from the Christmas Day gameplay.

All aberrations occurred during the Poor Man's HedBanz game in which my sister the ex-mayor's wife wrote out characters on 3x5 cards and taped them to our backs. I've been wary of this game ever since she foisted it upon us at one of her Christmas Eve parties, when we were supposed to guess what Christmas entity we were. I happened to be a CANDLE, and was sorely misled by my mom, who replied to my question of, "Do kids like me?" with an "Oh, yes!" There I went down Candy Cane Lane toward Santa's workshop, never to wax correct on my true identity.

It was bad enough that Sis said, after a few people finally guessed their alter egos, "I designed each character to fit the person." Huh. Just because the ex-mayor bears an uncanny resemblance to Dr. Phil, and my nephew who used to golf in high school was slated to be Tiger Woods before leaving early, doesn't mean that Farmer H is a happy clown who doles out burgers, even though Sis saw him as Ronald McDonald. I began to grow worried when I had ascertained that I was male, fictional, related to a holiday, and the holiday was Christmas. "Am I the GRINCH?" No. Of course not. I was Scrooge.

At least I caught on to how the game was played. Poor Farmer H. He could not seem to grasp that he was in commercials. Even though we answered "yes" to his question about being on TV, and told him specifically "no" that he did not have his own show, and was not in a movie. Somebody, I think the ex-mayor, out of exasperation, told Farmer H that he was in commercials. So then Farmer H began asking what he advertised. "Is it alcohol? Cars? Guns?"

To move the game along, the #1 son aka SpiderMan asked Farmer H, "What else is it that people have to have to live?" And Farmer H answered, "Oh! Toothpaste!" I don't know about that man sometimes.

My mom, ELVIS, was also a bit odd in her responses. "Am I famous? Am I alive? (Hmm...no, but some people might disagree). Did I travel across the country? Did people like me? Did I make a lot of money? Was I a good dancer? Did I give speeches? Did I work in an office?" WHAT? Seriously? Who makes a lot of money by being an office worker? I cry shenanigans. But knowing how my mom's mind kind of works, I let it slide. She guessed ELVIS within a couple more questions.

Tonight, Mom could stand the guilt no longer. "You can tell Farmer H this, because your nephew might tell him (Uh, yeah. When they next encounter each other at Easter.), but as he was leaving, he leaned down to tell me "bye", and he whispered in my ear, "You're ELVIS."

I'll be ding dang donged! I am probably the only person in the whole family who has never cheated in one of those games, yet those other losers always scream "CHEATER!" every time I win.

Competitivus For The Rest Of Us

The yearly gamefest after Christmas dinner began with Top the Top. It is a method of torture by which the gameplayer must set a top in motion, then put a connector on its axis, then use a magnetic grabber to set another, smaller top you've started spinning onto the first. It goes three tops high. It is impossible. No wonder the children of the seventies tuned out.

Mrs. Hillbilly Mom did not even try. After all, she misspent her youth trying to attain spinning perfection. No need to relive that frustrating time period.

Several requests were made for Mystery Date, which was in the game closet, but was vetoed by my nephew, who won a date with a dreamy fireman at Thanksgiving. I suppose it was a matter of been there, done that.

A suggestion of Fitzgerald's was made by one, though nobody took up the hue and cry. I have no picture of this one, but it is a card game involving three quarters and adding face values, with the winner taking all the quarters.

From that rejection, we proceeded to a poor man's HedBanz. Once upon a time, we played the actual game, but since it is not part of Hillbilly Mom's childhood board game stable, we had to improvise. That means names were written on paper and taped to the backs of the players.

I actually liked the poor man's version better. Because my niece could not cheat by looking at her reflection in the lenses of the glasses of the myopic. Take THAT, Kim Kardashian/Snow White. I guess you were schooled by SpiderMan, Elvis, the Easter Bunny, Dr. Phil, Scrooge, Rachel Ray, Ronald McDonald, Tiger Woods, Honey Boo Boo, and Elton John!

We're a cut-throat bunch when it comes to gaming.