Let’s Hope The Patient Does Not Die, Even Though The Operation Is A Success

The #1 son is moving home for the summer on Friday evening. On Sunday he will be moving out. He finished finals today, and starts a summer job on Monday. He will be working at a computer engineering firm, doing whatever computer engineers do. For $20 per hour. Not too shabby for a teenager.

Of course, while his work computer is being engineered, my home computer will be slowly wasting away Hillmombaville. Decomposing. I, myself, will be stewing in my own juices. Which are surprisingly similar to the ingredients of Diet Coke. I cannot live without my internet. I am an addict. Don’t try to intervene me. I’m not ready. I need that apron string, that umbilical cord that connects me to cyberspace.

Don’t make me walk into a hotel conference room and see everyone teary-eyed, holding tissues and letters to read to me. I will not go to treatment today. Undortunately, I might be forced to go cold turkey.

My Shiba is quite ill. Something is wrong with her XPCOM. Some kind of .dll file is corrupt. Aren’t they all? Dr. #1 says he cannot see the patient by a remote viewing. He suggests taking a dose of Internet Explorer and calling him tomorrow. When he will make a house call to check Shiba for a case of Firefox.

Please keep my patient in your thoughts.

If Farmer H Designed A Mattress, It Would Be A Farmers Moody-Rest

Just when I was certain Farmer H was trying to kill me…he goes and accuses me of trying to kill HIM! Can you believe that audacity of that man? Like I would need to expend any effort, what with him doing such a good job of it himself. 

The whole kerfuffle started when I climbed into bed. It’s a new adventure every night. I feel like a National Geographic explorer. What will it be this time, craggy terrain with mountain peaks? Barren steppe? A humid jungle of clinging vines?

Last night, it was the jungle. My pillow stack was not too disrupted. I found the corner of Grandma’s quilt and the corner of the flannel sheet, and matched them up, and folded them back. It goes without saying (but Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is a loquacious sort), that the edge lay across part of Farmer H. It’s only a queen-size mattress, you know. I inserted myself into the marital bed, reached for that corner, and pulled the sheet/quilt combo over myself. 

Farmer H began caterwauling like the most proficient caterwauler that ever caterwauled. “Yoowwww!”

“What’s wrong with you?” 

“You about ripped my arm off!”

Hyperbole, thy name is Farmer H. Was there a heavy stump wrapped in Grandma’s quilt that thumped onto my chest? Was arterial blood spurting into the air, raining down on me like a gusher in a Texas oil field? I think not. The room was dark, certainly, but my other four senses were heightened. Like my BS detector. 

To hear Farmer H carry on, one would have thought I was ripping him limb from limb. And whacking him severely about the head, shoulders, and genital region with the purloined appendages. Which I most certainly did not do. My energy was needed elsewhere. 

Perhaps I’ve mentioned off-handedly (heh, heh, a little dismemberment funny) how Farmer H prefers the weighty quilt of my grandma to a gossamer comforter from the insurance salvage store where I once worked. And he prefers the toasty flannel sheets to the smooth cool cotton sheets that are so soothing to a slumberer in a 74-degree bedroom. Do you have any clue how flannel sheets and 100% cotton jammies interact with each other? LIKE VELCRO!

I could not situate myself upon the sheets. Part of the problem was that roughly two feet of sheet stretched above my head, while my feet cooled their heels as naked as the day I came into the world. I could not maneuver the sheet down. I thrashed like a Tasmanian devil caught under a throw net. Twisted myself up in those sheets like a Scotch Removable Clear Mounting Square wrapped in a strip of flypaper. Entangled myself tighter than a cocklebur in a minipony’s flowing mane. I was tireder when I woke up than when I went to bed. 

Once I had unintentionally swaddled myself into submission, I tried to count sheep leaping over a pastoral pasture fence. My imaginary sheep snagged their wool on an imaginary thorn tree, and hung suspended like so many plump white curly fruit sagging toward the ground. Not conducive to counting. 

Farmer H is not conducive to ZZZZs.

The Whiny Little Princess Of Denial

Farmer H is royalty, you know. At first, he fancied himself king. King of Denial, I say.

The Pony let it slip that he and Farmer H stopped for ice cream Sunday after mowing my mom's yard. Hmpf! Don't think I'm bitter because it was Mother's Day, and I had no ice cream. It's not like they were doing the Eddie Murphy dance and singing, "You ain't got no ice cream!" No. They were quite secretive. I only found out because today I asked The Pony if he wanted to stop by Dairy Queen on the way home and try the Blizzard of the Month, Strawberry Shortcake. The Pony said, "Sure. Dad and I stopped for ice cream on the way home after mowing Grandma's yard."

"Oh. Where did you stop?" I knew it wasn't Dairy Queen, because that is not on their way, and Dairy Queen does not have sugar-free ice cream. Farmer H must avoid sugar and excess carbs.

"The custard place. Where we went last week." While Farmer H was away on business for three days, The Pony and I did indeed stop for custard. Just to see if the shop was open for the summer, you know. And we were rewarding ourselves after The Pony had an optometrist visit. The custard place has sugar-free custard, so Farmer H can partake.

"Oh. Did you have a chocolate sundae again?"

"No. I had a cone."

"Did Dad have the sugar-free?"

"No. I don't know. He had what I had."

"WHAT? He can't have that! What did you have?"

"The twist. Chocolate and vanilla."

"And Dad didn't ask for sugar-free?"

"No. I didn't hear him ask for that. And it came out the same machine as mine."

So I gathered up my pitchfork and flaming torch, and set out on a witch-hunt. Farmer H blundered into my kitchen trap forthwith. "I hear you had ice cream the other day."

"Yeesss. We stopped on the way back from your mom's."

"What did you have?"

"The twist cone. What I always have. I can have that. It's custard." He looked at me like I was as simpleminded as Pangle, the Ethan Supplee character in Cold Mountain.

"You can't have that!"

"Oh. It's frozen yogurt I can have."

"No...it's anything sugar-free you can have. How hard is that to remember. You can't have sugar. It has nothing to do with custard or yogurt. It's the SUGAR!"

"I get it all the time. The twist cone."

"You have to ask for the sugar-free! They always have the twist in sugar-free. And sometimes something special for the week. But they're not going to give everybody who asks for twist a sugar-free version! You have to ask for it."

"Oh."

I don't know how that man has managed to live this long. Thank the Gummi Mary he has that breather to keep him oxygenated while I'm sleeping and unable to tell him to breathe in, breathe out.

Setting The Trap

I'm still pretty sure Farmer H is trying to kill me.

Since that T-Hoe passenger-seat plot did not work to blind-spot me and cause a crash with oncoming traffic, Farmer H has moved on to more subtle tactics. Like a slow, lingering death from blood poisoning, perhaps.

It's no secret that I keep odd hours. It is not unusual for Mrs. Hillbilly Mom to toss in a load of laundry at 2:00 a.m., and transfer it from washer to dryer at 5:00. Nor is it a secret that while Farmer H tromps round the Mansion in his crusty clodhoppers, Mrs. HM pitter-patters about in her stylish red Crocs until bedtime, when she prances barefoot from room to room. Including the cold gray tile of the laundry room.

In the wee hours this morning, as I dumped in a load of assorted colored togs, I noticed a pebble on the laundry room floor in front of the washer. Darn that Farmer H. More droppings from his Jed Clampett boots. I made a mental note to sidestep that crippler when I returned for the dryer.

Guess what? Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is not good at reading mental notes at 5:00 a.m. I padded my bare feet right up to the washer, and screamed in pain. That rock was under my heel. Check that. That rock was IN my heel.

THAT ROCK WAS A NAIL!

Uh huh. It's true. Farmer H set a trap to impale my sole. Possibly give me a case of lock-jaw. Except the joke's on him, because Mrs. Hillbilly Mom has had a tetanus shot within the last ten years. Two in the last 13 years. First there was that biting chipmunk incident, then that case of the fishing-pole-holding nails in the garage ripping the flesh from my forearm like that town ripped the bones from the back of Bruce Springsteen. Darn that Farmer H. Darn him all to heck! And I AM quoting Alex the lion in Madagascar.

That might actually be a screw with the end broken off. AND STILL IN MY FOOT. Maybe.

Yeah. It's becoming clearer. Farmer H in the laundry room with a short nail.

A MiniPony, By Any Other Name

The minipony has a name! Yes, like the pine trees linin' the windin' road, like the singin' bird and the croakin' toad, like Jim Croce himself...our tiny equine has a name.

It's Barry.

That's right. Barry. I was hoping for something more regal. More fitting for such a fine hunk of horseflesh. More...horsey. It's not even Berry. It's Barry.

According to Farmer H, Barry's previous owner named him after a man who used to raise horses, but had recently died. Yep. He wasn't even named because he LOOKED like a guy named Barry.

Farmer H continues to call him Red. The Pony, now knowing his name, does not use it. "I call him Pony. Or Boy." I guess there's a certain symmetry to that. Says Mrs. Hillbilly Mom, stealing a line from The Big Chill, to once again show off her knowledge of obscure movie quotes.

We have no new pictures of Barry, so I'll leave you an old picture to see if you think he fits his newly-discovered name.

Poor little guy. It's like we are leaving him a blank baby book. I'll try to get some more pictures. Now that The Pony brushes his minipony a couple times a week, he's not looking so disheveled. Not so rock-starrish.

If Farmer H was up-to-date on his Ozark Mountain Daredevils lyrics, he might say:
"It's your good luck to know an old horse-trader like me."

We'll Leave The Seat Up For You

I'm pretty sure Farmer H is trying to kill me.

He's not obvious about it. Mostly he just chips away at my belief that I am the one actually in control of this Mansion, family, and relationship. But every now and then, he tosses a big monkey wrench into my life plan. Puts a Jeff-Goldblum-size fly in my ointment. A bee with the wingspan of a 747 in my bonnet.

This morning he took my T-Hoe to town for an oil change. Not that T-Hoe needed it, what with the Change Engine Oil Soon light having glared at me for slightly over a week. Farmer H was gone longer than expected. Upon return, he claimed the first place he went to had an hour wait, so he went to The Devil's Playground, where he also waited, but used his time to buy light bulbs.

Around 11:30, I gathered up my 44 oz. cup and took off for liquid provision to get me through the day. As I turned to back out of the garage, I was blinded by the back passenger seat. We keep it folded down. Otherwise, you can't see what's coming down the pike about to kill you. Since I have hours of garage-backing under my belt, I continued. I toyed with the idea of leaving the seat up until I got to the gas station chicken store for my 44 oz. Diet Coke. At the end of the driveway, I thought twice. I had no Pony to tell me if the coast was clear. I got out and folded down the seat. First I had to jam that headrest from its maximum height back into the seatback.

Upon return, fueled by the bravado of a barrel of caffeine that would soon be coursing through my veins, I interrogated Farmer H.

"Did you have someone in my car? Is that why you took so long?"

"Have someone in your car? No. I didn't have anyone in your car."

"Did you put the seat up?"

"It must have been those oil changers! They did it. I put the seat back!"

"Not my driver's seat. The back passenger seat. I can't see with it up. It blocks the entire back side window."

"I might have put it up. But I bet it was those oil changers. They vacuumed the whole car."

"Did you put up that headrest for a tall person?"

"No. I didn't touch the headrest. It wasn't me."

So...I am left with the image of that valet parker from Ferris Bueller's Day Off. Did the oil changers take my T-Hoe for a joyride, then do backwards donuts in The Devil's parking lot to get my mileage back in kilter? Did Farmer H hire himself out as a chauffeur for some extra Goodwill cash? I can't believe that car vacuumers would not return things to the way they found them.

I'm pretty sure Farmer H is trying to kill me. He may not even realize it. Perhaps it's subconscious. Seats don't set themselves upright and hoist their headrests unmolested.

Another Illuminated One Bites The Dust

Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is in the double-dark.

Perhaps you haven't heard how Farmer H replaced the recessed floodlight in the living room ceiling with a bathroom floodlight half its size. There's a reason for that. You can't handle the truth. If you knew the hardship this puts on Mrs. Hillbilly Mom when she sits down in the La-Z-Boy to write bills, balance the checkbook, or read her tabloids...you would weep in commiseration.

Today I arrived home from work without my pack-mule Pony. He is spending the night with his grandma. I had to haul in assorted school bags and lunch bags and bubba cup o' ice water and prescription refills and the mail and my purse. I really miss that little fellow.

I paused mid-pack to parcel out some cat kibble for my sweet, sweet Juno. The unworthy Ann also enjoyed a token few nuggets. Once I had dumped everything on the kitchen counter, I reached to turn on the under-cabinet fluorescent lights. Snap crackle pop. The lengthy light bulb nearest the kitchen door commenced to fightin'. He blinked like a fiend, and emitted buzzy noises like a bug zapper. The flashes of light were virtually seizure-inducing.

When Farmer H got home, he took that over-excited light bulb out. He carried it down the basement steps. Not to torture it in his workshop chamber, but to compare it with spare light bulbs he has on a shelf in his shop.

Apparently, Farmer H has spares of the kinds of bulbs we don't need. He will be hunting for the necessities at The Devil's Playground tomorrow.

I am not holding my breath.