CeilingReds pharmacy has done it to me again! We can't say that exact word that they did to me here in polite bloggery. And stop grunting like Horshack with his hand in the air waiting for Mr. Kotteeeeer to call on him. Yes, I DID SWITCH PHARMACIES. But you know that evil never dies. Donald Pleasence said that at the and of the original Halloween.
I went to refill my prescriptions at my brand-new pharmacy. They had called last week to get them transferred from CeilingReds. I took in my insurance cards. I have two insurances covering me, you know. Mine and Farmer H's. Both through our employers. You'd think one such as I would have hardly any need to pay for prescriptions, what with those hefty premiums paid on both of us. Especially when people waltz in there all willy-nilly, saying they don't have insurance, and pay one dollar. Not everybody, of course. But I'm sure you've seen it happen. I told the polite little gal that I would pick up my meds tomorrow.
As soon as I got home, the phone was ringing. She said they could not be filled until October 15. I don't know about you, but I am not in the habit of going two months without meds. I'm missing a thyroid, you know. So Little Gal said that CeilingReds said that they gave me a refill for 60 days in April, and another refill for 60 days in May. Seriously? Who does that? Any fool knows that you might as well get 90 if your're getting mass refills, because then you get a tiny sliver of discount. The insurance company is always calling, wanting me to take that 90-day mailorder option. I'm sure they do. Because then if my meds change, I'm stuck with what I already paid for, plus I have to buy something different.
Anyhoo...Little Gal called me about 8 times over the course of the afternoon. My last afternoon, I might add, before school starts on Thursday. I told her I had the receipts. She called back CeilingReds and asked for a fax of their records. Suddenly CeilingReds agreed that indeed, they had given me only 30 days worth during those two months. But not so fast. CORPORATE CeilingReds stood by their declaration that I had been given 60. That's why my insurance was refusing to refill. They said I had too many. Because somewhere down the line, they must have been BILLED for 60. Twice.
It's a freakin' racket, this CeilingReds conglomerate. The left hand doesn't know what the right hand is doing, and it's interfering with my health care.
Darn you, CeilingReds! Darn you all to heck! I wish I had taken my bestest teaching friend Mabel's advice when she switched her pharmacy at the advent of the CeilingReds takeover.
Woe is me.
After two hours of back-and-forth between my new pharmacy, CeilingReds, me, and my primary insurance company, Little Gal called to say that the override people at the insurance stood firm because CeilingReds refused to budge on the 60-days times 2 scenario. HOWEVER, since I am allowed a "vacation" type of override twice within a 180-day period, I can get the next two months filled by using that decree. "Hope you're not going on vacation!" said Little Gal. I appreciate her humor, and her effort. I am not enamored of the insurance company acting like they're doing me a favor.
I think CeilingReds is running a scam of massive proportions in their insurance billing tactics. Who would have known if I hadn't switched pharmacies? After all, CeilingReds declared they gave me 60 days in April, then turned right around and gave me 60 days AGAIN in May. Plus the regular 30-day amounts in June and July. Uh huh. Something's fishy in the CeilingReds aquarium.
There are scammers, there are darned scammers, and there is CeilingReds.
Wednesday, August 14, 2013
Tuesday, August 13, 2013
Be Careful What You Win For
Here's a tale out of school...
On our first day back, at the end of the first mass meeting, we had some prize drawings. The swag was really of no interest to me. I did not want a $25 gift card for restaurants which are an hour away. I did not need any Bath & Body works, though my tablemates may beg to differ. And I had just paid my $10 teacher dues, so that carrot did not lure me to the end of the stick.
Some more talk-talk was fed to us. Emphasizing that the old-style chalkboards and overhead projectors are now obsolete, and that we must roll with the changes. Then a grand prize of sorts was displayed. Have you ever heard of a Microsoft Surface? Me neither. Apparently, it's some sort of iPad or notebook thingy. My sweet Genius is not here to holler upstairs and ask for an explanation (!). I saw the box. I saw the device itself, a sleek black shiny flat thingy the size of a small laptop.
Drumroll, please. NO. Mrs. Hillbilly Mom was not the winner. But the only person in the room with less tech savvy than her WAS. And he was a tablemate!
The winner clasped his hands over his head in victory. He marched up front to receive his special award. Brought it back to our table. And said...
"I'm going to take this back to my room, and write on it with chalk."
On our first day back, at the end of the first mass meeting, we had some prize drawings. The swag was really of no interest to me. I did not want a $25 gift card for restaurants which are an hour away. I did not need any Bath & Body works, though my tablemates may beg to differ. And I had just paid my $10 teacher dues, so that carrot did not lure me to the end of the stick.
Some more talk-talk was fed to us. Emphasizing that the old-style chalkboards and overhead projectors are now obsolete, and that we must roll with the changes. Then a grand prize of sorts was displayed. Have you ever heard of a Microsoft Surface? Me neither. Apparently, it's some sort of iPad or notebook thingy. My sweet Genius is not here to holler upstairs and ask for an explanation (!). I saw the box. I saw the device itself, a sleek black shiny flat thingy the size of a small laptop.
Drumroll, please. NO. Mrs. Hillbilly Mom was not the winner. But the only person in the room with less tech savvy than her WAS. And he was a tablemate!
The winner clasped his hands over his head in victory. He marched up front to receive his special award. Brought it back to our table. And said...
"I'm going to take this back to my room, and write on it with chalk."
Monday, August 12, 2013
Is It Irony, Or Is It Prophecy?
I was feeling blue this morning during my 5:30 a.m. recliner nap. Not only was I returning to work after those lazy hazy days of summer, with my #1 son only two days removed from the Mansion, but I was facing the rest of my career without the camaraderie of my bestest friend, my teaching buddy, Mabel.
Yes, Mabel flew that cuckoo coop this summer. Took a dive like a rat off a sinking ship. Can't say as I blame her, having enough years and having achieved the pinnacle of success in her chosen career. Times, they are a-changin', and the most encouragement we got this morning was a story about eagles reaching middle age and smashing off their beaks then chewing off their talons then ripping out their feathers so they can live another half life. The point was that if we don't adapt to change, we will die. I turned to my table-mates and said, "That was inspiring." Plus it was not really true, but the speaker DID acknowledge that he got it off the internet, so he couldn't verify its validity. I hope he doesn't meet an online boyfriend who's a French model.
Yes, I call poppycock on the eagle allegory. Here's one of my own. As an eagle reaches middle age, he knows how to hunt. He has no problem obtaining food. He has honed his skills so that he gets the best return on his energy expenditure. No way does that eagle suddenly start reinventing his survival wheel. He does not try hunting like a fledgling right out of the nest. Nor does he drop down to the ground and slither up on his prey and swallow it whole like a snake. And he most certainly does not read a book about the new way to feed himself that was just invented by an eagle who never hunted one day in his life.
But we're not here to talk about eagles. We're here to talk about me missing Mabel. I sent her a text telling her I missed her. That a school year without her would be like breakfast missing an ingredient. Little did I know...
They feed us breakfast, you see, on the first day. The entire district comes together for a breakfast buffet, inspirational words, a prize drawing or two, and the down-and-dirty workshops on recognizing abuse, maintaining confidentiality, self-back-patting on our always-above-state-average test results, and the state-of-technology address. Of course I sat on the side of the room that went 4th out of the 4 officially-decreed surges toward the buffet. I hate that. No sooner do I get sat down with my plate than the speechifying starts, and the caterers try to snatch the trash out from under my plastic knife and fork. Even though my plate is full. Not today, though!
My meal consisted of a cold biscuit, a plop of pasty nontasty gravy, a spoon of limp shredded hash browns that were more maggoty-translucent than brown, and a cinnamon roll. Mmm...mmm, getcha some. Like everyone else before us. But not us. Gone were the grapes red and green, the watermelon, the honeydew. Three chunks of cantaloupe and some smiles of kiwifruit sat alone on the fruit dishes. The biscuit bin had two left, but a caterboy walked by and took six out of a ziplock bag and dumped them in. Ice cold. Funny how when Mrs. I'llroastmyownazzbeforeIallowcalculators told that dude the sausage bin was empty, he said, "That's it. There's not any more." Same for the bacon. Of the two tubs that once held scrambled eggs, only one contained yellow matter, some blobs floating in water, interspersed with chopped red peppers.
If our army marched on its stomach, we would have been taken prisoner by hunger, forthwith.
Alas, the three amigos who helm Elementia, Basementia, and Newmentia went through the line after our group. NO GOOP FOR YOU! They had even slimmer pickin's. The caterlady had mentioned several times that they brought twice as much as last year. The ring leader apologized to us underlings. "I hope you all got enough to eat. We must have had more people show up this year." Seriously. How does THAT happen? Hey, everyone! Surprise teachers popping out of the woodwork to join our repast! I know it couldn't have been hobos sneaking in for a good feed. They would have taken one look and hightailed it back to their bean-cans roasting over an open fire. Besides, I did not see a pile of red-bandana-adorned sticks stacked in the corner.
I missed you, Mabel. But you really didn't miss breakfast. What did my innocent text set in motion?
Was it irony, or was it prophecy, that missing-ingredient breakfast?
Yes, Mabel flew that cuckoo coop this summer. Took a dive like a rat off a sinking ship. Can't say as I blame her, having enough years and having achieved the pinnacle of success in her chosen career. Times, they are a-changin', and the most encouragement we got this morning was a story about eagles reaching middle age and smashing off their beaks then chewing off their talons then ripping out their feathers so they can live another half life. The point was that if we don't adapt to change, we will die. I turned to my table-mates and said, "That was inspiring." Plus it was not really true, but the speaker DID acknowledge that he got it off the internet, so he couldn't verify its validity. I hope he doesn't meet an online boyfriend who's a French model.
Yes, I call poppycock on the eagle allegory. Here's one of my own. As an eagle reaches middle age, he knows how to hunt. He has no problem obtaining food. He has honed his skills so that he gets the best return on his energy expenditure. No way does that eagle suddenly start reinventing his survival wheel. He does not try hunting like a fledgling right out of the nest. Nor does he drop down to the ground and slither up on his prey and swallow it whole like a snake. And he most certainly does not read a book about the new way to feed himself that was just invented by an eagle who never hunted one day in his life.
But we're not here to talk about eagles. We're here to talk about me missing Mabel. I sent her a text telling her I missed her. That a school year without her would be like breakfast missing an ingredient. Little did I know...
They feed us breakfast, you see, on the first day. The entire district comes together for a breakfast buffet, inspirational words, a prize drawing or two, and the down-and-dirty workshops on recognizing abuse, maintaining confidentiality, self-back-patting on our always-above-state-average test results, and the state-of-technology address. Of course I sat on the side of the room that went 4th out of the 4 officially-decreed surges toward the buffet. I hate that. No sooner do I get sat down with my plate than the speechifying starts, and the caterers try to snatch the trash out from under my plastic knife and fork. Even though my plate is full. Not today, though!
My meal consisted of a cold biscuit, a plop of pasty nontasty gravy, a spoon of limp shredded hash browns that were more maggoty-translucent than brown, and a cinnamon roll. Mmm...mmm, getcha some. Like everyone else before us. But not us. Gone were the grapes red and green, the watermelon, the honeydew. Three chunks of cantaloupe and some smiles of kiwifruit sat alone on the fruit dishes. The biscuit bin had two left, but a caterboy walked by and took six out of a ziplock bag and dumped them in. Ice cold. Funny how when Mrs. I'llroastmyownazzbeforeIallowcalculators told that dude the sausage bin was empty, he said, "That's it. There's not any more." Same for the bacon. Of the two tubs that once held scrambled eggs, only one contained yellow matter, some blobs floating in water, interspersed with chopped red peppers.
If our army marched on its stomach, we would have been taken prisoner by hunger, forthwith.
Alas, the three amigos who helm Elementia, Basementia, and Newmentia went through the line after our group. NO GOOP FOR YOU! They had even slimmer pickin's. The caterlady had mentioned several times that they brought twice as much as last year. The ring leader apologized to us underlings. "I hope you all got enough to eat. We must have had more people show up this year." Seriously. How does THAT happen? Hey, everyone! Surprise teachers popping out of the woodwork to join our repast! I know it couldn't have been hobos sneaking in for a good feed. They would have taken one look and hightailed it back to their bean-cans roasting over an open fire. Besides, I did not see a pile of red-bandana-adorned sticks stacked in the corner.
I missed you, Mabel. But you really didn't miss breakfast. What did my innocent text set in motion?
Was it irony, or was it prophecy, that missing-ingredient breakfast?
Sunday, August 11, 2013
Don't File That Restraining Order Just Yet
We're approaching hour 36 since the Great Coop Escape, and the entire Hillbilly family is trying to adjust. The Pony must not have realized yet that the #1 son is gone. I have observed no difference in his demeanor. Tomorrow evening, he takes on the dumpster-driving duties to make sure the trash is at the end of the driveway Tuesday morning.
Farmer H is moping around the homestead like that darn blue-headed turkey when Farmer H leaves Hillmomba. He was all excited this morning as he readied items to drive back to college for #1, like a desk chair with executive arms. That boy must have already formed a corporation. Next thing you know, he'll be needing a long table for meetings with his underlings. Farmer H gets teary-eyed when discussing the boy. "I knew I would miss him, but I didn't think I'd miss him THIS much."
I have been teary-eyed 24/2 so far. It comes and goes. Like when The Pony and I came up the driveway yesterday and I saw the open hole where #1's Ford Ranger usually sits. I whimpered, "#1's truck isn't here!" And The Pony said, "But MY truck is." Yeah. A few feet over, and maroon instead of red. It's not quite the same. And furthermore, Farmer H told me all evening yesterday that #1 was going to be emailing me. When he had not by 10:30, I kind of gave up hope, especially after Farmer H yelled at me and said, "Forget it, he's going to text ME with the stuff he needs." Then that thoughtful young man called me! Of course it's because Farmer H told him to, but still, I got to hear his voice. He loves it there and has the coolest roommates ever, and they all have SNACKS! Today I found out that he had sent me a text last evening, which The Pony heard come in on my phone, checked it, and neglected to mention. Farmer H was shocked that I don't immediately go to Messages when I pick up my phone. Why would I? There's a little symbol on the screen if there's a new text. UNLESS SOMEBODY OPENS IT.
My mom wants #1's address so she can send him a card every now and then. I gave her a copy of the floor plan and marked his room. Gave her a printout of pictures of parts of the dorm. Tomorrow she's getting the orientation schedule that I found online and printed. She is very happy that he is close enough get to him in a couple of hours. Not that she ever plans on going there. But she wants a map of the campus.
Yes. We're a family of stalkers.
One of my worst moments was when I went upstairs to bed in the wee hours, and saw that Farmer H had closed #1's bedroom door, and it looked JUST LIKE WHEN HE WAS HOME! But he wasn't...
Today in Save A Lot, the cashier asked when #1 was leaving for college. She's a student at Newmentia herself. So I had to tell her all about it, without shedding a tear. It's good practice, I suppose, for tomorrow when my fellow faculty will be inquiring.
We miss him mightily. The next time I make sandwiches, I might have to throw one on the ground and say, "This is for my sonny who ain't here."
Farmer H is moping around the homestead like that darn blue-headed turkey when Farmer H leaves Hillmomba. He was all excited this morning as he readied items to drive back to college for #1, like a desk chair with executive arms. That boy must have already formed a corporation. Next thing you know, he'll be needing a long table for meetings with his underlings. Farmer H gets teary-eyed when discussing the boy. "I knew I would miss him, but I didn't think I'd miss him THIS much."
I have been teary-eyed 24/2 so far. It comes and goes. Like when The Pony and I came up the driveway yesterday and I saw the open hole where #1's Ford Ranger usually sits. I whimpered, "#1's truck isn't here!" And The Pony said, "But MY truck is." Yeah. A few feet over, and maroon instead of red. It's not quite the same. And furthermore, Farmer H told me all evening yesterday that #1 was going to be emailing me. When he had not by 10:30, I kind of gave up hope, especially after Farmer H yelled at me and said, "Forget it, he's going to text ME with the stuff he needs." Then that thoughtful young man called me! Of course it's because Farmer H told him to, but still, I got to hear his voice. He loves it there and has the coolest roommates ever, and they all have SNACKS! Today I found out that he had sent me a text last evening, which The Pony heard come in on my phone, checked it, and neglected to mention. Farmer H was shocked that I don't immediately go to Messages when I pick up my phone. Why would I? There's a little symbol on the screen if there's a new text. UNLESS SOMEBODY OPENS IT.
My mom wants #1's address so she can send him a card every now and then. I gave her a copy of the floor plan and marked his room. Gave her a printout of pictures of parts of the dorm. Tomorrow she's getting the orientation schedule that I found online and printed. She is very happy that he is close enough get to him in a couple of hours. Not that she ever plans on going there. But she wants a map of the campus.
Yes. We're a family of stalkers.
One of my worst moments was when I went upstairs to bed in the wee hours, and saw that Farmer H had closed #1's bedroom door, and it looked JUST LIKE WHEN HE WAS HOME! But he wasn't...
Today in Save A Lot, the cashier asked when #1 was leaving for college. She's a student at Newmentia herself. So I had to tell her all about it, without shedding a tear. It's good practice, I suppose, for tomorrow when my fellow faculty will be inquiring.
We miss him mightily. The next time I make sandwiches, I might have to throw one on the ground and say, "This is for my sonny who ain't here."
Saturday, August 10, 2013
Jeepers, Keepers! Where'd Ya Get Those Cheepers?
It seems like only yesterday that Rafiki the mandrill was holding the #1 son toward the sky, as a choir warbled about the circle of life. Wait a minute! That was Simba in The Lion King. It's an honest mistake. They both made their appearance in 1994.
But the point is...we may have lost the #1 son this morning as his cherry red Ford Ranger rolled down the driveway on the other side of the wall of tears blocking my irises, but this evening we discovered NINE NEW CHICKS! I'm sure #1 would be so happy to hear that he was replaced at the Mansion by 3/4 of a dozen fine feathered friends. He loves those fowl so! I'm surprised he doesn't carry one around with him as a pet, like The Mudge Boy. Or paint its toenails pink like those wacky rednecks on last season's Redneck Island. Okay. That's not really plausible. He hates the flock.
The Pony made the discovery. Farmer H was reclining in his La-Z-Boy around 5:00, resting up from the big freshman move-in day at #1's institution of higher learning. He sent The Pony as usual to collect the eggs. Imagine the surprise, upon perusing the barren goat pen for wayward hens' eggs, The Pony saw a flurry of movement which turned out to be a hen never before known to sit, with a circle of cheeping satellites that numbered nine chicks of varying fluffnicity.
Farmer H shot out of his recliner like Usain Bolt out of the starting blocks. Like the RoadRunner (beep! beep!) out from under an imminent sky anvil. Like a tiddly pinched by its wink. So much for being exhausted. I'm surprised he doesn't keep a supply of auction cigars to pass out on these occasions. He usually notices which hens are determined to sit, and puts them up with a certain number of eggs where they won't be bothered. Keeps tragedies like The Great Almost-Hatched Egg Massacre from recurring. I'm not sure The Pony has recovered from that one yet. He was a bit younger. Pranced out to the chicken coop every day to see if the chicks were here. And found their pecked, broken-egged, lifeless bodies in a heap. Chicken wars. Nobody wins.
Don't think this is the proud papa protecting his brood. He's only there to eat the corn The Pony tossed to the new mama. These are mutt chickens. Some Ameraucana, some black silkies, some turkens, mostly Heinz 57. It is quite possible that none of those nine chicks have a shred of DNA from either of these two adults. Who knows which crafty hens laid their eggs in this previous non-sitter's nest? We'll have to see how they turn out as they grow up.
We know how the #1 son turned out. He ain't chicken.
But the point is...we may have lost the #1 son this morning as his cherry red Ford Ranger rolled down the driveway on the other side of the wall of tears blocking my irises, but this evening we discovered NINE NEW CHICKS! I'm sure #1 would be so happy to hear that he was replaced at the Mansion by 3/4 of a dozen fine feathered friends. He loves those fowl so! I'm surprised he doesn't carry one around with him as a pet, like The Mudge Boy. Or paint its toenails pink like those wacky rednecks on last season's Redneck Island. Okay. That's not really plausible. He hates the flock.
The Pony made the discovery. Farmer H was reclining in his La-Z-Boy around 5:00, resting up from the big freshman move-in day at #1's institution of higher learning. He sent The Pony as usual to collect the eggs. Imagine the surprise, upon perusing the barren goat pen for wayward hens' eggs, The Pony saw a flurry of movement which turned out to be a hen never before known to sit, with a circle of cheeping satellites that numbered nine chicks of varying fluffnicity.
Farmer H shot out of his recliner like Usain Bolt out of the starting blocks. Like the RoadRunner (beep! beep!) out from under an imminent sky anvil. Like a tiddly pinched by its wink. So much for being exhausted. I'm surprised he doesn't keep a supply of auction cigars to pass out on these occasions. He usually notices which hens are determined to sit, and puts them up with a certain number of eggs where they won't be bothered. Keeps tragedies like The Great Almost-Hatched Egg Massacre from recurring. I'm not sure The Pony has recovered from that one yet. He was a bit younger. Pranced out to the chicken coop every day to see if the chicks were here. And found their pecked, broken-egged, lifeless bodies in a heap. Chicken wars. Nobody wins.
Don't think this is the proud papa protecting his brood. He's only there to eat the corn The Pony tossed to the new mama. These are mutt chickens. Some Ameraucana, some black silkies, some turkens, mostly Heinz 57. It is quite possible that none of those nine chicks have a shred of DNA from either of these two adults. Who knows which crafty hens laid their eggs in this previous non-sitter's nest? We'll have to see how they turn out as they grow up.
We know how the #1 son turned out. He ain't chicken.
Friday, August 9, 2013
On The Eve Of The #1 Son's Coop Flight
We took the #1 son out to dinner tonight. It was the last Hillbilly family supper. Never again will it be the same, our close-knit unit. It will be different when I sit beside him and dodge his steak-cutting elbows as they airplane their way into my personal space. Here's a little secret that I've been keeping from you. I love that boy to pieces.
Even two days ago, when he was packing his box of bedding that we purchased from the college to give them an even higher profit margin. Telling him the function of the various linens. Assuring him that the whitish discoloration on the striped sheet after washing was nothing to worry about, George Costanza, it's not like it appeared on your upper lip when everything was going so well for you. It's not my faulty washing techniques, what with me being a newbie to this laundry business. Sometimes, you get what you pay for. And even though the set was much cheaper than items we could have purchased individually from The Devil's Playground, it is possible that these sets contain factory seconds. Sweet Gummi Mary! Be thankful that I did not get your sheets from an insurance salvage store. I have connections. Yes, I forgive my precious #1 son for making me laugh so hard that I could not speak. I even forgive him for asking if I was having a stroke. I know he was only looking out for my health.
I know he will march off onto that college campus tomorrow and take the world by storm. He's always been a go-getter. Never met a stranger. From the time he was four, walking off through the pitch black path between patches of Hillmomba forest, from the Mansion to the BARn, with only a tiny flashlight, in search of his dad. He has no fear.
His kindergarten teacher knew right away that he was special. Referred him for gifted testing. He was upset because he didn't know the answer to two questions. They were the only two he missed on the whole test. His teacher knew. She stopped by my building after school a couple of times a week. To apologize because she was afraid he was upset by something she had done. And she, a seasoned veteran. I didn't have the heart to tell her he complained about the special table assignment she gave him, right beside the incubator and eventually-hatched chicks. A seat any other kindergartener would have begged for. "All day long, it's CHEEP CHEEP CHEEP! I am so sick of listening to those chicks!"
Yes, he was a teacher-pleaser. Like on the first day of MAP testing in third grade. He jumped out of bed, rubbed his eyes, and ran to get dressed. "I can't believe the day I've been waiting for all my life is finally here!" He had a magnificent public-school career. Always raising the district's scores, fixing the gifted teacher's computer, hooking up audio-visual and computer gadgets, leading the academic team, the math team, the robot team, winning the local science fair every year in his category, earning Best in Fair and a college scholarship his sophomore year. Not to mention all of his honors that I've mentioned most recently over the past couple of year. If our district, comprised of Elementia, Basementia, and Newmentia, had their own school dictionary, the #1 son would be pictured right next to SUCCESS.
I really find it hard to believe that after dinner tonight, during our brief embrace on the Farmer-H-made brick sidewalk between garage and Mansion, when I said I did not want him to go...that #1 did NOT say, "Okay, Mom. I'll stay home and live in your basement." Can you believe it?
Please pardon my bragging. I am so very proud of that boy. Did I mention that I love him to pieces?
Excuse me. I have many, many knots to untie in my apron strings tonight.
Even two days ago, when he was packing his box of bedding that we purchased from the college to give them an even higher profit margin. Telling him the function of the various linens. Assuring him that the whitish discoloration on the striped sheet after washing was nothing to worry about, George Costanza, it's not like it appeared on your upper lip when everything was going so well for you. It's not my faulty washing techniques, what with me being a newbie to this laundry business. Sometimes, you get what you pay for. And even though the set was much cheaper than items we could have purchased individually from The Devil's Playground, it is possible that these sets contain factory seconds. Sweet Gummi Mary! Be thankful that I did not get your sheets from an insurance salvage store. I have connections. Yes, I forgive my precious #1 son for making me laugh so hard that I could not speak. I even forgive him for asking if I was having a stroke. I know he was only looking out for my health.
I know he will march off onto that college campus tomorrow and take the world by storm. He's always been a go-getter. Never met a stranger. From the time he was four, walking off through the pitch black path between patches of Hillmomba forest, from the Mansion to the BARn, with only a tiny flashlight, in search of his dad. He has no fear.
His kindergarten teacher knew right away that he was special. Referred him for gifted testing. He was upset because he didn't know the answer to two questions. They were the only two he missed on the whole test. His teacher knew. She stopped by my building after school a couple of times a week. To apologize because she was afraid he was upset by something she had done. And she, a seasoned veteran. I didn't have the heart to tell her he complained about the special table assignment she gave him, right beside the incubator and eventually-hatched chicks. A seat any other kindergartener would have begged for. "All day long, it's CHEEP CHEEP CHEEP! I am so sick of listening to those chicks!"
Yes, he was a teacher-pleaser. Like on the first day of MAP testing in third grade. He jumped out of bed, rubbed his eyes, and ran to get dressed. "I can't believe the day I've been waiting for all my life is finally here!" He had a magnificent public-school career. Always raising the district's scores, fixing the gifted teacher's computer, hooking up audio-visual and computer gadgets, leading the academic team, the math team, the robot team, winning the local science fair every year in his category, earning Best in Fair and a college scholarship his sophomore year. Not to mention all of his honors that I've mentioned most recently over the past couple of year. If our district, comprised of Elementia, Basementia, and Newmentia, had their own school dictionary, the #1 son would be pictured right next to SUCCESS.
I really find it hard to believe that after dinner tonight, during our brief embrace on the Farmer-H-made brick sidewalk between garage and Mansion, when I said I did not want him to go...that #1 did NOT say, "Okay, Mom. I'll stay home and live in your basement." Can you believe it?
Please pardon my bragging. I am so very proud of that boy. Did I mention that I love him to pieces?
Excuse me. I have many, many knots to untie in my apron strings tonight.
Thursday, August 8, 2013
The Best Laid Plans Of Mom And HM Always Go Awry
I've been bamboozled! Hornswoggled! I am still pulling the wool off my eyes. And to think, this schadenfreude was perpetrated by my dear sweet mother!
Last week, on one of our numerous daily phone calls, Mom announced that she had gotten some Subway coupons in the mail for six-inch sandwiches for $3.50. I told her we didn't go there too often, and that when we did, we got the footlongs on some sort of after-hours deal for five dollars. Mom said, "Oh, I never go there. But that commercial for the pulled pork made it look SO good." I agreed. Who could possibly resist barbecue from a sandwich shop? Not the people who get fried chicken from a gas station, that's for sure!
Last night, Mom mentioned that she had seen the pulled pork commercial again. "Oh, me too. You know, I had one on Sunday. It was fantastic!" You see, I had obviously not picked up Mom's subliminal message. She was dying for a Subway pulled pork sandwich. "The Pony and I are going to school to pick up his schedule on Thursday. If it's not raining too much, maybe you can meet us in town and we'll get one."
"Oh! We'll talk about it in the morning. That would be good."
Here's the deal. We have a Subway in town, across the road from the Voice of the Village where I get my 44 oz. Diet Cokes. Mom also has one in her town five miles away, but nobody likes that one. And Mom never goes there. It's complicated. I told The Pony the plans. "Well, I know Grandma can order from Subway. Hasn't she picked up a sandwich and brought it to school for #1?" Hmm...I think she has. But that would have been with a list of his demands, which she probably handed to the unfriendly people in her store. I know she never gets Subways for herself. The plan was for Mom to walk in with me, where she would see the proper way to order, so she could get one for herself in the future. I had no problem doing this for my loving mother.
Plans in Hillmomba are more accurately called "chaos." Although a D-Day invasion level of detail is related over ten or twelve phone calls spanning a fortnight or more, Even Steven usually flings a monkey wrench into the pristine, fail-safe schedule. I think our problem this time lay in the scant 12-hour turnaround between blueprint and mission.
I tried to call Mom when we left Newmentia. From the parking lot. Because my phone won't work in the building, and there are two giant dead zones on the way out of town and into civilization. Her phone was busy. Come on. She has a call-waiting thingy that tells her another call is coming in. She never hesitates to cut me off like a tipsy bar patron just before closing time. I tried to call the #1 son, who had offhandedly mentioned that he might go visit Grandma in between his morning and afternoon carousing. No answer. Mom again. "The party you are calling cannot take your call at this time." Remember when you got a good old-fashioned busy signal? I could not sit another ten minutes on the school parking lot. Teacher vacation time was a-wastin'. I headed off to the bank.
Mom called back in the dead zone. Twice. Left a voice mail transcribed to text. Those things are hilarious, you know. I put The Pony on the case. Mom offered to do it another day. "I don't HAVE another day! I go back to work Monday." She agreed to meet us at Subway. She really wanted that pulled pork. It would not have been feasible for us to pick her up, take her to Subway, take her back home, then go back past Subway to the Mansion. That would have been a 20-mile detour. A three-hour tour. And you know how those work out.
Sigh. We got there. The Pony said he wasn't hungry for any Subway, and that Grandma was bringing him some Chex mix that she just took out of the oven. Mom hopped out of her small SUV. In SHORTS! And an old T-shirt. With her hair not done. Sweet Gummi Mary! I sensed that my little good deed was not coming off as planned. "I told #1 I would get him a sandwich. Here's his list. And here's money. Is this enough? Is it enough to get one for you, too?" Yeah. Her plan was to sit in the car while I went in and ordered three sandwiches. I hate that. Don't you hate to get behind somebody at Subway ordering more than one thing? It's the never-ending sandwich parade. So tedious.
I did it. Because I love my mom. I had not even planned on getting one for myself today. But I did. Not because she was paying, but because it would have hurt her feelings if I didn't. That poor server. She was all alone at the counter. And it was 12:20. Lunch time.
Fool me once, shame on you. I'll eat a sandwich on your dime. Fool me again, and I'll still love you. You're my MOM, for cryin' out loud!
Last week, on one of our numerous daily phone calls, Mom announced that she had gotten some Subway coupons in the mail for six-inch sandwiches for $3.50. I told her we didn't go there too often, and that when we did, we got the footlongs on some sort of after-hours deal for five dollars. Mom said, "Oh, I never go there. But that commercial for the pulled pork made it look SO good." I agreed. Who could possibly resist barbecue from a sandwich shop? Not the people who get fried chicken from a gas station, that's for sure!
Last night, Mom mentioned that she had seen the pulled pork commercial again. "Oh, me too. You know, I had one on Sunday. It was fantastic!" You see, I had obviously not picked up Mom's subliminal message. She was dying for a Subway pulled pork sandwich. "The Pony and I are going to school to pick up his schedule on Thursday. If it's not raining too much, maybe you can meet us in town and we'll get one."
"Oh! We'll talk about it in the morning. That would be good."
Here's the deal. We have a Subway in town, across the road from the Voice of the Village where I get my 44 oz. Diet Cokes. Mom also has one in her town five miles away, but nobody likes that one. And Mom never goes there. It's complicated. I told The Pony the plans. "Well, I know Grandma can order from Subway. Hasn't she picked up a sandwich and brought it to school for #1?" Hmm...I think she has. But that would have been with a list of his demands, which she probably handed to the unfriendly people in her store. I know she never gets Subways for herself. The plan was for Mom to walk in with me, where she would see the proper way to order, so she could get one for herself in the future. I had no problem doing this for my loving mother.
Plans in Hillmomba are more accurately called "chaos." Although a D-Day invasion level of detail is related over ten or twelve phone calls spanning a fortnight or more, Even Steven usually flings a monkey wrench into the pristine, fail-safe schedule. I think our problem this time lay in the scant 12-hour turnaround between blueprint and mission.
I tried to call Mom when we left Newmentia. From the parking lot. Because my phone won't work in the building, and there are two giant dead zones on the way out of town and into civilization. Her phone was busy. Come on. She has a call-waiting thingy that tells her another call is coming in. She never hesitates to cut me off like a tipsy bar patron just before closing time. I tried to call the #1 son, who had offhandedly mentioned that he might go visit Grandma in between his morning and afternoon carousing. No answer. Mom again. "The party you are calling cannot take your call at this time." Remember when you got a good old-fashioned busy signal? I could not sit another ten minutes on the school parking lot. Teacher vacation time was a-wastin'. I headed off to the bank.
Mom called back in the dead zone. Twice. Left a voice mail transcribed to text. Those things are hilarious, you know. I put The Pony on the case. Mom offered to do it another day. "I don't HAVE another day! I go back to work Monday." She agreed to meet us at Subway. She really wanted that pulled pork. It would not have been feasible for us to pick her up, take her to Subway, take her back home, then go back past Subway to the Mansion. That would have been a 20-mile detour. A three-hour tour. And you know how those work out.
Sigh. We got there. The Pony said he wasn't hungry for any Subway, and that Grandma was bringing him some Chex mix that she just took out of the oven. Mom hopped out of her small SUV. In SHORTS! And an old T-shirt. With her hair not done. Sweet Gummi Mary! I sensed that my little good deed was not coming off as planned. "I told #1 I would get him a sandwich. Here's his list. And here's money. Is this enough? Is it enough to get one for you, too?" Yeah. Her plan was to sit in the car while I went in and ordered three sandwiches. I hate that. Don't you hate to get behind somebody at Subway ordering more than one thing? It's the never-ending sandwich parade. So tedious.
I did it. Because I love my mom. I had not even planned on getting one for myself today. But I did. Not because she was paying, but because it would have hurt her feelings if I didn't. That poor server. She was all alone at the counter. And it was 12:20. Lunch time.
Fool me once, shame on you. I'll eat a sandwich on your dime. Fool me again, and I'll still love you. You're my MOM, for cryin' out loud!
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