Arch Nemesis Pushes The Envelope

Arch Nemesis stopped by yesterday afternoon to share a tale of biological horror with me.

“We’ve been making z0rks. You know, the imaginary offspring of two parents with a specific set of dominant/recessive traits. So I go to hang them on the wall, you know, to see if some of them actually came out looking alike. ‘I’m going to see if we have any twins or triplets,’ I say. Then I go to taping. They were allowed to name them. And I grab this one and its name is Orgie. I stuck it up there, but nobody said anything. Thank goodness O Loud One was absent. Because he would’ve. And that new kid, he looked at it and looked around the room, like ‘What kind of kids ARE there in this school?’ But he didn’t say anything. I was relieved.

Well…I kept Artiste after class. I said, ‘Do you say it orGie?’ You know, with a hard G. And she said, ‘Yeah.’ And I said, ‘Do you know that you can say it another way? OrJie?’ And she said, ‘Yeah. That’s how I say it.’ So I said, ‘You know that means something else.’ And Artiste said, ‘It does? What is that?’ So I said, ‘A BIG NAKED PARTY!’ And she said, ‘OH!’ And I said, ‘How about we put another letter in front of it? Like the first letter of your last name.’ And Artiste said, ‘Yeah.’

So if you hear I had an orgy in my classroom today, I did. But only for a brief time."

Do You Know What’s Bugging Mrs. Hillbilly Mom?

Well, do you? Do you know what’s bugging Mrs. Hillbilly Mom? It’s not a rhetorical question. It’s a real one. I was hoping somebody would know. You there! Quit ducking your head and refusing to make eye contact. I will call on you because of your extraordinary effort not to be called on. Well? What is bugging Mrs. Hillbilly Mom?

I have the itchies. Don’t know what set off my symptoms. I have a bump in the middle of my forehead. One above it near the hairline. One on my left jawline. Another in front of my left ear. And one on the back of my neck. ITCHY!

Don’t make me jump to conclusions. I did not lay down with dogs, so I couldn’t have gotten up with fleas. My Juno contact has been curtailed, what with my unfortunate comings and goings in dress-up clothes this past week. So don’t go blaming my sweet, sweet Juno. I haven’t been around the pupils, what with being off work. I only have two suspects left.

One is actually a multitude of suspects. THE HUGGERS! Let the record show that Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is not a hugger. My best ol’ ex-teaching buddy, Mabel, will attest to that. In a good year, I allow her two hugs. One at Christmas, and one on my birthday. All other hugs are off limits, except for Farmer H every now and then, and my boys when I can catch them. But last week I was wrenched from my no-hug zone by well-wishers. THE NO-HUG ZONE WAS BREACHED!

Who am I to turn down a hug at the funeral home? Bear hugs, token hugs, ear-whispering hugs, side hugs, upper-arm-grasping hugs, pat-pat-patting hugs…a plethora of hugs for the unhuggable. They looked like clean people. Nobody in bib overalls with hay sticking out. Nobody who looked like he lived under a bridge and was contemplating setting fire to some paper towels from a trash can on the steps of a neighborhood bar. So I’m pretty sure my infestation of itchy bumps did not come from THE HUGGERS.

The only other alternative is Farmer H. Did he carry in some insectitude from the livestock? Did I catch a dose in the La-Z-Boy? In the marital bed? I don’t know. I am not getting any new itchies. The old ones have virtually disappeared overnight. But I’d really like to know from whence they came. And what they were. Did I have a case of head lice, and now I’m waiting for the next generation to hatch? Fleas? Scabies? Chicken mites?

Whatever it is, I don’t think I am in danger of being hugged soon by anybody who reads this. The No-Hug Zone has been restored.

A Function Of Farmer H's Driving, Or Mrs. HM's Endowments?

Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is still shaking after three days of riding around in T-Hoe with Farmer H.

No, I am not shaking from fright, from the fear of his infernal sweaving that would no doubt beat an eager young border collie in that AKC agility trial of weaving through 3-foot tall poles. Except Farmer H goes through the motions in T-Hoe without any poles or reason.

I am shaking from the physical execution of Farmer H's driving style. SWEAVING! At a higher-than-necessary rate of speed. Except when he's going slower than necessary. For example, jouncing down our pothole-choked gravel road at 30 mph, jamming my vertebrae into each other, or into the base of my skull. Or puttering along at 20 mph on the smooth paved road in front of the bowling alley, criss-crossing from one edge to another.

It was on our gravel road that I first questioned Farmer H's driving ability.

"Slow down! You are breaking my neck."

"I'm just going up the hill, Val. I didn't make the road."

"This is too fast for all the potholes you're hitting. You're breaking my neck!"

"I'm not going that fast, Val. You'll be fine."

Seriously. Is it me, not him? You be the judge. I'll retain the titles of jury and executioner.

Is it normal for one's bra strap to be jounced right off her shoulder during a Farmer H excursion through the potholes? Because I think not. I never heard tell of any fine city wife having her bra strap jump ship due to the driving of her husband.

As A Neighbor, Mrs. Hillbilly Mom Ranks In The 25th Percentile

Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is not a good neighbor. In fact, she ranks just slightly above a good fence on the Making a Good Neighbor Scale. Here are the specifics.

Friday morning, I had to run to town for some last-minute items before Mom's funeral. Farmer H wanted to put some hard candy in the casket, because Mom was never without a bag of it to hand out at church and ball games and other outings. The Pony had left his #2 pencils at school. We have some old ones at home, but I didn't trust the erasers on them for something as important as the ACT test he would be taking on Saturday morning. So off I went on a quick supply mission. Farmer H and I needed to leave home by 10:00 in order to go through the car wash and meet Sis at 11:00 at the family dinner at the church. It was just after 8:00 when I left home. A trip to town takes 10 to 15 minutes one way.

We thought the weather was going to be nice. Indeed, the sun was shining. But T-Hoe's temperature thingy said it was 22 degrees. The wind sliced right through me, making me wish I had worn my comfy old sweatshirt to the car. My mind was racing with the preparations and the long day ahead as I pulled out onto the county road. The minute I looked in my mirror, I saw a white truck coming at me from the direction of the auto body shop a mile or so the other way. He was gaining quickly until we hit the mailbox hill. I had no trouble on that sheet of leftover ice, but apparently Speedy did. So I was cruising at my normal speed of about 45 mph as I passed the farm of the Cow Lady.

I always look for those twin calves now. But the cows were not in sight in the right-hand field. Oh. There was Cow Lady herself at the end of the driveway, in her long purple robe and pink slippers. She waved. I waved back. You always wave at the Cow Lady. Just as I passed, I had a moment of discomfort. The look on Cow Lady's face was different from the other days I wave to her. I couldn't quite put my finger on it. Maybe she was waving her arm to steer some cows. Was one out? I didn't see a cow at all. Not even in the field across the road. By now I was about a quarter mile past Cow Lady's driveway. Maybe I should turn around. I planned to do so at the rich motel people's rental house. It has a circle drive. DARN! How dare that man coming at me pull his truck in there and stop. Like he owned rented the place! I went on past. Turned around in the rich motel people's gravel driveway. Not their blacktop driveway with the brick pillars. I have some respect.

That Cow Lady must need something, I decided. Now I felt bad. It had been almost two minutes since I passed her. Something must be wrong. As I rounded the sharp curve and saw her again, the white truck man had pulled into her driveway. He was getting out of the truck. A Chevy Blazer had stopped in the road. And behind it, a gray smaller SUV.

"I came back to see if you needed anything," I hollered through my open window.

"I locked myself out," said Cow Lady.

Speedy of the white truck said, "I'll call the sheriff." He got back into his truck and drove down her long driveway towards the house. The Chevy Blazer lady had gotten out, but got back in and pulled into the driveway. I drove on past, and told the gray SUV lady, "She locked herself out." Then I went and turned around again to head to town.

I feel really bad that I let the poor Cow Lady stand there in the 22 degrees and the wind, in her robe, while I figured out what to do. She was going to be okay. There was a man getting her house unlocked, and a woman letting her sit in her car to get warm. And really, I had a time constraint due to my mother's funeral. In my mind, I had done all I could.

But I still feel bad that I didn't do more. That was somebody's mother.

The Journey Of One Simple Man Begins With Nine Muddy Steps

He's at it again. Farmer H is in his element. He had the day off, and set to fiddling about with his $1000 Caravan's brakes, and puttering around the grounds while I took The Pony to his ACT test at 7:30 a.m. That's in the MORNING, you know. On my day off after a stressful week. Of course Farmer H slept in while The Pony and I got ready and took off at the regular school time.

I made a solo run to The Devil's Playground, then I had about an hour to go home and not do the dishes until it was time to go back and pick up The Pony. A duty which, I might add, Farmer H did NOT volunteer for. While at the Mansion, I picked up a card to send to the #1 son. It's one of three Valentines cards he will get over the next three weeks. Hey. You gotta pick out a different card every week, you take anything you can find that hasn't been repeated yet.

Of course after ten minutes of writing the address and a personal note, here comes Farmer H in the Gator. I expect it had something to do with missing his Diet Mountain Dew that was sitting out by the garage, on the edge of the shelf with the cat food pan. However, when I mentioned it after he came in the house, he said, "Oh. I'll go get that." It's like that time he lost half a donut under his chair at Children's Hospital while waiting for The Pony to come back from surgery, then said, "I wondered where that went. I didn't remember eating all of it."

Farmer H went traipsing down the basement steps for some mechanical gewgaw. Then he went out front again. Within ten minutes he was back. This time he exited through the kitchen. I know, because I was in the middle of asking him a question when I heard the kitchen door slam. When I got up to leave so I could pick up The Pony, I saw the tracks of Farmer H across the carpet from the front door, onto the linoleum of the kitchen floor, and around the corner of the cabinet to the back door. I counted NINE blobs of mud. NINE!

Seriously. You could make a new ice cream flavor called Farmer Tracks, except that it would not be a best seller, because probably most people (not withstanding those freaks on My Strange Addiction) do not enjoy the taste of chunky mud.

I backed T-Hoe out of the garage, and called Farmer H. "You left a trail of mud all through the living room and kitchen."

"No I didn't. I didn't go through the kitchen." Said in the manner of, 'Caught you trying to frame me. Take THAT!' As if I, in my shoes that had not touched soil, but only T-Hoe floor, Devil's Playground parking lot and floor, garage floor, sidewalk, and wooden porch...had tracked up the house.

I reminded Farmer H of the slamming kitchen door while I was talking to him. Oh. It all came back to him then. "Oh. I DID go through the kitchen. I'm sorry. I'll clean it up." Darn tootin'.

Madam, (you notice I did not say LADY, or LADIES) and no gentlemen...
I present Exhibit A:

Yeah. His steps are not that long. I think it was just one boot, and he had a step from the other foot in between making his mark. My phone could not capture all NINE markings. But they're there.

Youth May Be Wasted On The Young, But Irony Is Not Wasted On The Ex-Mayor's Wife

Oh, dear. Even Steven may have taken a 17-year holiday, but he returned well-rested, in full strength yesterday at the viewing for my dear sweet mother.

Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is like an elephant. That's what Farmer H told her many years ago, when the #1 son was just a twinkle in Farmer H's good eye. That earned him a roll of toilet paper chucked at his head as he ran from the bedroom. To this day, he swears that he was talking about Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's mind, which is like a steel trap, since elephants are rumored to have good memories. And not, as Mrs. HM assumed, about her size.

Mrs. Hillbilly Mom has not forgotten the funeral of her father all those 17 years ago. How Sis and I stood in the receiving line with Mom, greeting a multitude of well-wishers, in a three-deep, standing room only crowd, my dad having been a 32nd Degree Mason, belonging to two lodges, with a plethora of cronies paying their last respects. As folks moved from one of us to the other, Sis made sure to elaborate, a number of times, when folks said they sometimes forgot which daughter was which: "I have red hair. My sister has black hair. But she colors hers."

Seriously. Is the relationship between Mrs. Hillbilly Mom and L'Oreal any business of funeral-goers? I think not. I did not let on that her comments bothered me. After all, Sis was not valedictorian. If pointing out my doctored, prematurely-white locks made her feel better, then let her disparage my tresses.

So last night, and also earlier in the day, in our travels to the funeral home, bank, and cemetery...people kept commenting that Sis was the older sister. BWAH HA HA HA! I am 18 months her senior. Yet not one person who had not been in either of our high school classes thought I was the oldest. They would shake my hand, and say, "Now you're the youngest, right?" Au contraire. I readily admitted to the length of my teeth. "No, I'm the oldest. Sis it the youngest." They would not let it drop. "OH! I always thought YOU were the youngest!" And I would caution them, "Don't let Sis hear that. I don't think she can handle that right now."

As the family was getting ready to leave at the end of it all, my niece overheard the funeral director, one of a set of twins, say to me, "Now which one of you is the oldest? Sis, isn't it?" Again, I set both of those twins straight. "No. I'm the oldest. But you wouldn't believe how many people asked that today." Niecey piped up, "I KNOW! They just kept saying that my mom was the oldest!" Sis overheard her.

"YES! They ALL thought I was the oldest!"

"I know. Isn't that funny?"

"And this is my REAL hair color!" She held up some locks of her dark auburn hair.

"Well, I guess you'd better start coloring it to look younger."

This is just to say
I have colored
my hair
all these years
while you haven't

And though
you say yours is real
I have
my doubts Sis

I shook hands
with your hairdresser
only she
knows for sure

Something is fishy in Hillmomba. Sis's hair used to be more orange than auburn.

Mrs. Hillbilly Mom Breaks Into The Workplace

Don't despair. Mrs. Hillbilly Mom has not lost her funny. It's waiting a respectable time to make a reappearance.

The universe still conspires against Mrs. Hillbilly Mom. Farmer H and I stopped by Newmentia today so I could put some plans in order. Of course the door keypad would not let me enter. The custodian walked by inside and gave us a nod. And kept going. I continued trying to break in. Finally, Farmer H tried a door a good distance from the keypad, and found it open. No way could I have triggered the entry and sprinted over there.

Once inside, the custodian saw us again and said, "I wondered if you were going to get in."

"Well, the keypad wouldn't take my code. Maybe they changed it and didn't tell me."

"It wouldn't take mine this morning, either."

So much for coming to let us in. Good thing the door was left unlocked.