Somewhere, Somebody Is Typing Up A Blog Post About Mrs. Hillbilly Mom Tonight

Mrs. Hillbilly Mom just about blew a gasket in the checkout line at The Devil's Playground this morning.

My favorite line has been closed for two weeks. The one down on the end, where they have now put a corral of self-service checkouts. Oh, my line is still there. But it has no checker. It's dark. So I go on down to the middle checkouts, and pick the one with people with the least-full carts. Or people without kids grabbing at things and gooning at me like I have two heads.

Today I found myself behind my sister the ex-mayor's wife's best friend and neighbor. We chatted to pass five minutes. Then the one customer ahead of her was done. She moved up and put out that rubber divider thingy. She didn't have much at all. I had a good 3/4 of the conveyor open to fill with my stuff. I had most of it out, only a loaf of french bread, a bag of wheat rolls, two bags of broccoli/cauliflower/carrots, and a bag of celery left in the top child-seat portion of my cart. I turned to put them on, and

THERE WAS A RUBBER DIVIDER THINGY RIGHT BEHIND MY GROCERIES!

A rude dude behind me had somehow snared that divider, which is usually up by The Devil's Handmaiden, her neglecting to bump it down, and had plopped it at the end of my order and was piling his items on that conveyor. Except it WASN'T the end of my order! I still had a loaf of french bread, a bag of wheat rolls, two bags of broccoli/cauliflower/carrots, and a bag of celery to fit on there.

I grabbed that rubber divider thingy, mumbled, "I really wasn't done putting my stuff on yet," and shoved all his stuff back from whence it had come. To create room for my loaf of french bread, bag of wheat rolls, two bags of broccoli/cauliflower/carrots, and bag of celery.

I moved up by the carousel, so TDH could scan the two four-packs of strawberry water we bought for Farmer H, and the 12-roll pack of Charmin Ultra Strong that were in the cart. I picked up the bags as The Devil's Handmaiden filled them, and put them in the cart.

Rude Dude encroached on my personal space. On my consumer space. He was already past that card-scanner doodad. I was planning how to strong-arm him back away when TDH said, "That will be $101.42." I reached into my shirt pocket for my debit card, and

MY POCKET WAS AS BARE AS OLD MOTHER HUBBARD'S CUPBOARD!

Well. Except for my shopping list on half a note card (The Pony having the other half, like that turtledove necklace in Home Alone 2: Lost in New York), and my pen.

"Oh! I forgot my card in the car. My son will run get it. PONY! Here are the keys. Run get my checkbook out of the car. It will just take a minute. We're parked on the end." Yes. We had a prime parking spot. And The Pony was only feet away playing a killing game in the game room. So it was no big deal. The checker didn't even have time to hang a new stack of bags on an arm of her carousel.

Okay. It took more than a minute. But less than two. The Pony galloped up with my checkbook, and I withdrew that debit card in one slick motion. I had to elbow Rude Dude out of my way to scan it. He was really annoying. He kept standing there, his nose in my business and my PIN entry. So I scanned the wrong side of the card. Just to mess with him. Because having to wait for me to get my card wasn't enough punishment. "Oh. It's not working. Hm. Maybe that was the wrong side." I scanned it the right way. I could feel waves of pissed-offedness emanating from his pores. Too bad, so sad.

It was the perfect day to forget one's debit card! Even Steven was looking out for Mrs. Hillbilly Mom  this morning.

More A Trick Than A Treat

Nary a trick-or-treater here in the dark woods of Hillmomba. Nothing spooky. Nothing eerie. So I'll tell you a story about a former coaching co-worker and his shenanigans with his athletes at his annual Halloween party. No. Not like that.

We'll just call him Coach. Times were simpler then. Coaches could interact with their players, and nobody would look askance. Coach held his party in his home, with his wife and twin daughters on the premises. He set up some elaborate scenarios to gross out the girls of his basketball team. Having spent a year being his assistant, Mrs. Hillbilly Mom was privy (heh, heh, I said PRIVY!) to his trade secrets.

Coach swore the upperclassmen to secrecy. The joke was on the rookies, who blindly followed their leaders. Literally. Coach blindfolded the rookies, and the upperclassmen led them by the hand to various parts of the house. Perhaps to feel the eyeballs of the newly dead (peeled grapes in a bowl). Or find a key at the bottom of a can of worms (spaghetti noodles). But the most outrageous stunt was saved for the end. Each new member of the team had to kneel and "kiss the ring of King Tut."

Coach used his college ring. He put it on his finger like a normal ring-wearer. The upperclassman would tow the rookie into the room and instruct her to kneel. Coach stated, in a pompous manner, "You may now kiss the ring of King Tut." Coach put his hand on an ottoman, and the upperclassman guided the rookie's head over his hand so she could lean and kiss the ring. Then they left, and another pair entered. After all had kissed the ring, Coach announced that they would walk into the living room single file and receive their initiation award. It was a certificate that they had survived Coach's Halloween party.

As the unblindfolded girls filed into the living room, they were greeted by the sight of Coach, sitting in a chair, with his bare foot propped on the ottoman, and his college ring on his second toe, the little piggy that stayed home.

Yeah. It was awesome. Especially if you like to hear adolescent girls retch and squeal.

Consuelo Would Never Let Marcus Welby Treat Mrs. Hillbilly Mom This Way

Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is careening down the road less traveled, quickly approaching the precipice overlooking the abyss of medical patient difficultness. She is thisclose to drawing eyebrows on her face with a Sharpie, to make sure all around her know she is angry.

After being left cooling her heels in the waiting room for over an hour this morning at her regular 6-month doctor's appointment, then insulted at the scale, nearly having an arm amputated by the blood pressure cuff because the nurse was distractedly talking about herself, stood up by the doctor for 15 minutes after he had already entered the exam room and made a quick exit to discuss billing procedures...Mrs. HM was mad as Not-Heaven, and not going to take it anymore. She decided to speak her mind.

Of course you know that didn't go well.

Here's the thing. Doc handed me the lab results and made his exit right after saying, "Your sugar's a little high." Well. On the lab results, it showed a fasting blood sugar of 105. I was under the impression that it was supposed to be between 80 and 100. That's what was on the lab sheet for normal values. Farmer H told me after his appointment that his doctor wants it between 90 and 120. Maybe that's just for him, because he's diabetic. Even though Farmer H swears that it's what his doctor wants in general, for anybody.

Anyhoo...105 does not seem all that high. Especially after reading last week that my thyroid med, levothyroxine, raises blood sugar! I spent my idle time stewing over this bit of info. Seems that it can raise the blood sugar level 10-15 points. Or milligrams per deciliter, or whatever they measure it in.

So...when Doc came back, I asked about it. Told him jokingly I knew it was true, because I read it on the internet. Even though it's in the side effects sheet they enclose with that medication. Doc pooh-poohed that information I handed him on a silver platter. He launched into a lecture on how the pancreas works secreting insulin, as if Mrs. HM, the biology teacher, had never heard of that.

That's the thing. Doc is a really good doctor when you're actually sick. But on regular checkups, he's kind of dismissive. You'd think he could operate better than an hour behind schedule, what with brushing off his patients' inquiries like that. Also, if I remember correctly, at my last appointment in April, that fasting blood sugar level was 110, and Doc commented, "That's barely out of range." So now that it was lower, he had to harp. What's up with that?

Anyhoo...Mrs. HM was so mad that she went right to Sonic after her appointment. It was, after all, 12:05 when she left the office. Past Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's regular school lunch time of 10:53. Her pancreas was getting angry, what with holding it its insulin for an extra hour and eight minutes. Yes, Mrs. HM went right to Sonic, ordered the hamburger combo with tater tots and a cherry Diet Coke, and drove on about her errands, popping a tater tot and sucking ketchup from a foil packet.

I guess I showed him!

The Phantom Of The Semi-Weekly Meeting Of The Newmentia Lunch Time Think Tank

We have a mystery, my friends. A mystery that has stumped the brainiacs of the Newmentia Lunch Time Think Tank.

It all started when I sat down at the teacher lunch table. I hope that is not particularly telling. Tomato-Squirter, on my left, turned up her snoot and started sniffing.

"I smell something. And it's not good."

I held my just-microwaved pizza toward her. The cheese slice from Pizza Hut, not the sausage slice from Casey's. "Is it this? Is it my pizza?"

"No. It's not that. At first I thought it was The Woodsman's chicken sandwich. But that's not it."

"Is it my salad?" Biz fancies herself an exotic eater.

"No. That's not it."

"Maybe it's your broccoli. I can smell that."

"No. My broccoli has nacho cheese on it. I don't know why. But even that's not it."

The man in charge and I looked at each other. "I don't smell anything." Said in unison. Neither did The Woodsman smell anything."

"You guys of course don't smell it. Girls smell better than guys." A round of smirks. "No. Really. It's a proven fact. There's research."

"I guess we're like dogs. We have extra smell sensors. We read about how dogs smell in class."

"I'm not sure I like being compared to a dog. But we do smell better."

Still. Nobody could figure it out. Until I re-entered my classroom after some kids from the Misbehavior Table next to us at lunch had exited.

I can't wait to tell the other Think-Tankers that I solved the mystery of the phantom smell!

Are There No Public Toilets In The Afterlife?

This morning I finished making the lunches, took my medicine, and headed for the shower. Wait. What was that? A noise. From the end of the Mansion by The Pony's bedroom. It sounded like water running. It WAS! I stepped out of the kitchen, past the ice-making grunts of Frig II, and heard it more clearly.

The water was running in the boys' bathroom, as if the toilet tank was filling.

I supposed The Pony had gotten up to use the bathroom while I was making lunches. Even though he never gets up that early. I went on to the shower at the other end of the Mansion. When I came out for my morning chair nap, I woke Farmer H.

"Did you get up to go to the bathroom while I was making lunches?"

"No."

"You didn't go in the boys' bathroom?"

"No. I don't think so. Why would I go in there?"

"Sometimes you do. If I'm in ours. Or if I'm about to get ready."

"No. I didn't get up. Why?"

"I heard the water running in their toilet. I guess it was The Pony."

I went to the La-Z-Boy. Farmer H got in the shower. As I was trying to nod off, I heard the water running again. In the toilet tank. I turned my head. The door was wide open at the dark end of the house. Nobody was in there. Ten minutes later, it happened again. Farmer H came out of our bedroom to leave for work.

"You might want to check that toilet. I think there's something wrong with it."

"Huh." Farmer H went in there. "I don't hear anything." He jiggled the handle. Then he got his whole-grain waffle out of the freezer and put it in the toaster. I heard him go out the laundry room door to feed the dogs. The minute he went out, that toilet started running again. As soon as I hear him come in, I hollered.

"It's doing it again! The toilet is running!"

"Huh. I guess it is. I hear it now." Farmer H suddenly seemed more enthusiastic about seeking a solution to the problem. He went in and turned on the light, removed the lid to the tank. I heard him rattle the change in his pocket and take out his multi-tool knife thingy. I heard some knifey sounds on metal. Then he came back out. "I don't know what it is, but I adjusted the float. I'll check it again tonight. It won't hurt anything."

Indeed. He didn't believe me until he heard it with his own faulty ears. Like I would be lying about something like that.

I don't know what's going on around this place.

There Are None So Out Of Touch As He Who Doesn't Drive Much

Sweet Gummi Mary!

Yesterday morning, I casually mentioned, over my shoulder to The Pony, riding in the back seat of T-Hoe on the way to school, that rain was expected for today. And that I would need my windshield wiped down before leaving the next morning. He's done it before, with a shop towel and Windex. With questionable results. But still. It gets that film off the inside of the glass so the glare isn't as bad. I told him to try a dry paper towel this time.

This morning, on the way out the door, I reminded him. "Get two paper towels (gotta be specific with The Pony) to wipe my window. Stand on the running board. You only have to do my side."

It was dark on the porch. The Pony went ahead of me to turn on the garage light so I could see to get down the steps. I stopped to pet my sweet, sweet Juno. She's especially loving in the mornings, even though she knows no cat kibble will be forthcoming until the evening. I turned to step into the garage, and saw The Pony.

WIPING THE OUTSIDE OF MY WINDSHIELD!

"NO! Why would I need the OUTSIDE wiped? The rain will clean that off. I meant the INSIDE glass. Where the film gives me a foggy glare."

"Well. You didn't SAY so. I just thought you wanted your windshield cleaned. And THAT'S your windshield."

Some days. I just don't know. How is he going to survive when he is pried from the nest?

If It's Not One Thing, It's A Hundred And Forty-Eight Others

Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is concerned that employees of the world might soon be performing their duties like TV meteorologists. You remember meteorologists, don’t you? The folks on TV who cry doom about approaching mega snowstorms, or freezing rain that will bring down power lines. So dire is the immediate future that teachers not only count on a day off, they fear they will miss a month of school and have to make it up during summer vacation. The citizens of Hillmomba flock to The Devil’s Playground and buy the shelves bare. Especially the shelves of bread and milk.

And then nothing happens. Yet when the meteorologists say the forecast is clear, abandon hope all ye teachers who watch weather here, you’ll never get a day off this winter, so get those lesson plans updated…the storm of the century hits, and 21 school days are lost.

Uh huh. We’re talking about shoddy workmanship in the workplace.

Last month, Mrs. Hillbilly Mom never received her credit card bill. She had to call and request a duplicate statement. Then she had to call and pay by phone using her debit card. THIS month, Mrs. Hillbilly Mom got her SPRINT bill, wrote out a check, enclosed it in the provided envelope, and mailed it two weeks before the due date. Uh huh. Mailed it on Monday, October 12.

Yesterday, Mrs. HM took time to balance her checkbook, as she does every Sunday.For the past year, Mrs. HM's automated bank phone has been a bit unpunctual. Whereas it used to update daily, it now seems as if the records are only updated on Fridays.

All transactions for last week, and the week before, had cleared. Except the SPRINT check. Mrs. HM checked her SPRINT bill. Due by October 25th. That very day! So she called the SPRINT automated line, just in case they had received the check, but the bank hadn't recorded its clearance. Nope. So Mrs. HM paid with her debit card by automated phone. TWO WEEKS! Surely the Pony Express could do better than that! Her own Pony, without a driver's license, could have gotten it there in two weeks.

"But Mrs. HM," you say. "Why not switch to paperless billing?"

"DO YOU WORK FOR SPRINT?" screams Mrs. Hillbilly Mom. Because that's what their automated phone line kept asking her. She had to refuse TWICE! And here's a perfect example of why she refused.

The bank's automated line said we had a debit charge of $74.42. Nobody admitted to it. Not Farmer H. Not the #1 son. And especially not The Pony. Farmer H allowed that he made a purchase of $72.94 near that date. Even brought out the receipt. From Lowe's. The automation only said the charge came from a home supply store. That narrows it down to about ten stores that are frequented by Farmer H.

That meant Mrs. HM had to talk to a person. After waiting on hold with extra-loud classical music for six minutes. The person confirmed the amount of $74.42. From Lowe's. Nothing for $72.94, nothing else from Lowe's in the time frame of Farmer H's receipt. Huh. We all could have sworn that Farmer H fudged those numbers. But no. There was the receipt in my hand, showing a charge of $72.94, of which the bank had no record.

Somehow, the Hillbilly bank account was ripped off for $1.48.

Farmer H brainstormed. Lightning flashed. Thunder roared. And then he came up with an explanation. "That was them batteries I ordered online, to be delivered to the store. I do a lot of business online for work. Sometimes, a company will charge 2% if you use a card instead of a purchase order. That would be $1.46." Farmer H is a wizard at doing math in his head.

Let the record show that nowhere on the receipt did that 2% show up. Or the $1.46. It's close enough to $1.48 to let it go.

Now I'm off to check PayPal to see why they sent me an email thanking me for my charitable donation.

MRS. HILLBILLY MOM DID NOT MAKE A DONATION!