Yes, I admit it. For years, I have opened myself up to tracking by various agencies, known and unknown. T-Hoe is infested with On-Star. It's not like we never try to scrub him and keep him clean. He came with this infestation, right off the new car lot. That was back when The Pony and the #1 son were small. Smaller. #1 was not yet driving. The Pony did not possess a cell phone. With cell towers few and far between here in Hillmomba, reception was spotty at best. So I thought nothing of renewing the free year of On-Star when the time came 'round.
One thing I refuse to do is pay by credit card. No sirree, Bob! Not this ol' Hillbilly. I'm not having them take that fee directly from my account just because I forget to mention that I want to drop the service. Besides, I prefer to pay by the year. Wouldn't you know it? Other people must feel the same way. Because there is the option to pay by check as long as you pay it by the year. You'd think that would make the makers of On-Star happy. A whole year's worth of moolah in their account. But no. They still choose to hound the timely payer. Which is moi.
I sent their check a couple of weeks ago. My service does not even end until the end of this month. Yesterday, I received an email thanking me for my renewal. All's right with T-Hoe's world, wouldn't you think? Nope.
This afternoon, I got a telephone call from On-Star. It was some guy in India. Okay. Maybe he was right here, but with a thick Indian accent. I do not mean to poke fun at those to whom English may be a second or third or fourth language. I could understand him as well as Apu on The Simpsons. As far as I could hear him, that is. Because he seemed to be taking a break at a very lively wedding or soccer match or convention of the International Cacophony-philes For World Dissonance. When I heard him say he was calling about a renewal because my On-Star service would soon be expiring, I told him I had sent my check, and already received an email thanking me for my renewal. He said he was sorry, his computer did not yet show my renewal. Too bad, so sad. I wish him well in a job where OSHA should step in and save the employees from future hearing loss. Perhaps he should switch to a safer job, waving those little flashlights on an airport runway without wearing earplugs.
But that's not the major complaint of Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's day. I climbed into T-Hoe for a quick trip to town, and before I was out of the garage, On-Star had cut my air conditioning, cut my radio, and started yakking at me about my service that was about to expire. Uh huh. Such advice, they gave it twice. Then my air conditioner kicked back on, and my radio came back. That's a bit invasive, don't you think?
Yes. I am fully aware that I can be tracked every moment of every day by On-Star. Makes me no nevermind. I am not planning to feed Farmer H to a wood chipper (any time soon), and I am not the culprit storming the pulpit to rob church donation boxes in the tri-county area.
There must be a tiny camera hidden somewhere in T-Hoe's nooks and crannies that I can use to hold up a printout of my thank-you email.
Saturday, June 7, 2014
Friday, June 6, 2014
On The Eve Of The Grand Departure
I have less than 24 hours left with The Pony before he leaves for his summer of learning. He is taking it much better than I. In fact, his demeanor might best be described as giddily gleeful. He has been chatting with others headed for the Missouri Scholars Academy. They have agreed to seek each other out on the first day. That might be kind of hard, what with The Pony not having posted a picture of himself. He says he will tell them to look for the kid in the green shirt from the W.Y.S.E. competition. Something tells me that he might not be the only one of 328 sophomore/juniors to be wearing such a shirt.
The Pony will have to pack in the morning. Farmer H is driving him up there tomorrow. It officially starts on Sunday, but that would be a lot of driving for Farmer H in one day. I will not be making the trip, since I have a feeling that I should not be sitting in T-Hoe for three hours at a stretch. Nor am I up to hiking about the campus to see where the attendees will be attending.
The Pony's last-minute plans have included his last supper, served tonight, of baked boneless chicken breast, Stove Top Stuffing, a salad of lettuce, cheese, ranch dressing and croutons, and fresh strawberries. Tomorrow morning he plans to walk the minipony one last time, and take a dip in Poolio. I will be putting his clothes in appropriate combinations for him to pack in his rolling suitcase. We will have last-minute laundry instructions. His grandma has given him an entire batch of her "Check Mix" in various containers. At least he will be able to buy friends with that magical treat.
I know he will have a blast. He has been anticipating this event since before Christmas, before he even knew that he was accepted. Yes, The Pony is prancing about, chomping at the bit.
Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is a bit more subdued.
The Pony will have to pack in the morning. Farmer H is driving him up there tomorrow. It officially starts on Sunday, but that would be a lot of driving for Farmer H in one day. I will not be making the trip, since I have a feeling that I should not be sitting in T-Hoe for three hours at a stretch. Nor am I up to hiking about the campus to see where the attendees will be attending.
The Pony's last-minute plans have included his last supper, served tonight, of baked boneless chicken breast, Stove Top Stuffing, a salad of lettuce, cheese, ranch dressing and croutons, and fresh strawberries. Tomorrow morning he plans to walk the minipony one last time, and take a dip in Poolio. I will be putting his clothes in appropriate combinations for him to pack in his rolling suitcase. We will have last-minute laundry instructions. His grandma has given him an entire batch of her "Check Mix" in various containers. At least he will be able to buy friends with that magical treat.
I know he will have a blast. He has been anticipating this event since before Christmas, before he even knew that he was accepted. Yes, The Pony is prancing about, chomping at the bit.
Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is a bit more subdued.
Thursday, June 5, 2014
How Many Photos Must A Pony Sit For, Before You Call Him A Licensed Driver?
Perhaps I have mentioned in passing that The Pony is going away for three weeks to attend Missouri Scholars Academy. I might have also let it slip that The Pony is less than interested in practicing his driving so he can get his driver's license.
Imagine The Pony's surprise and delight when he looked at his driver's permit, and saw that it would expire while he was away. "Well, it looks like I can't get my driver's license. My permit expires while I'm gone to MSA. I guess I'll have to take the written test again. That was a piece of cake." He tossed that info out there in a chat room where he communicates with other soon-to-be MSA scholars. Apparently, they are all cut from the same apron-string cloth. "Hey. They say all you have to do is go renew your permit for about a dollar fifty, and it's good for another year." I think he was a bit disappointed in the simplicity.
This morning I called the local license office to see what he needed to do. "Just bring in the unexpired permit, with a document showing his mailing address, and we will renew it."
"He is 16 years old. He doesn't have a utility bill or voter's registration card or paycheck showing his address."
"Well, you can bring yours. That will be good enough."
I was skeptical. They always tell you what to bring, yet when you get there, you don't have the right thing. I fished out a statement from the bank with The Pony's name AND my name, showing the we both lived at 1313 Hillmomba Lane. That's in case they wanted to argue that we had no proof he lived with me, or that I was even his mother. Then I grabbed my latest pay stub, and a notification card from the DOR for the license renewal of T-Hoe. It showed Farmer H's name AND my name. I made sure The Pony had his as-yet unexpired driver's permit in his pocket. We were loaded for bear.
We hit the license office before the Flintstones' bird sounded the whistle for lunchtime at Slate Rock and Gravel Company. I commanded The Pony to snatch a number, and we parked our keisters on a couple of uncomfortable maroon plastic chairs. We were behind a bus driver trying to license a bus, which apparently is kind of complicated, because the clerk took all his paperwork and told him to call the state office, who asked him questions like did he have the personal property tax receipt, necessitating him to explain that schools don't have personal property. Then there was the couple who had to fork over $800-plus, which I assume was sales tax on an automobile. The guy who held us up the longest had a big red portfolio of documentation, which still wasn't good enough, even though we had seen him go out to his truck twice, and call in his wife, and finally just tell the lady he had nothing else.
We passed the time chatting with a Pat-like character who was ageless and sexless, and regaled us with tales of knocking over a moped at the police station when he/she opened his/her car door, because the moped was parked too close, and his/her insurance had to pay hundreds for repair of that piece of crap. An old lady told us how strict Texas is on logging hours of driving when changing a permit for a license. Oh, and that Pat-like character brought up how BAD the new photo system makes people look on their licenses. The Pony smirked.
Our number finally came up. The clerk said the bank statement was good enough ID for The Pony's renewal. I was shocked. Then he had to take an eye test again. AND GET HIS PICTURE TAKEN. Ahem. He had not even curried his forelock today. We were actually on the way to his grandma's house so he could spend the night. Too bad, so sad. Now he has a bad photo for a year. Or until he actually gets his driver's license.
On the way out the door, he said, "It will get here while I'm gone to MSA. I don't think the picture will be too bad." Then he looked at the printout in his hand. In black and white. "Ugh. Not good. The old one was better. But at least it's nowhere NEAR as bad as YOURS!"
Mrs. Hillbilly Mom. Raising the self-esteem of license office photo recipients statewide.
Imagine The Pony's surprise and delight when he looked at his driver's permit, and saw that it would expire while he was away. "Well, it looks like I can't get my driver's license. My permit expires while I'm gone to MSA. I guess I'll have to take the written test again. That was a piece of cake." He tossed that info out there in a chat room where he communicates with other soon-to-be MSA scholars. Apparently, they are all cut from the same apron-string cloth. "Hey. They say all you have to do is go renew your permit for about a dollar fifty, and it's good for another year." I think he was a bit disappointed in the simplicity.
This morning I called the local license office to see what he needed to do. "Just bring in the unexpired permit, with a document showing his mailing address, and we will renew it."
"He is 16 years old. He doesn't have a utility bill or voter's registration card or paycheck showing his address."
"Well, you can bring yours. That will be good enough."
I was skeptical. They always tell you what to bring, yet when you get there, you don't have the right thing. I fished out a statement from the bank with The Pony's name AND my name, showing the we both lived at 1313 Hillmomba Lane. That's in case they wanted to argue that we had no proof he lived with me, or that I was even his mother. Then I grabbed my latest pay stub, and a notification card from the DOR for the license renewal of T-Hoe. It showed Farmer H's name AND my name. I made sure The Pony had his as-yet unexpired driver's permit in his pocket. We were loaded for bear.
We hit the license office before the Flintstones' bird sounded the whistle for lunchtime at Slate Rock and Gravel Company. I commanded The Pony to snatch a number, and we parked our keisters on a couple of uncomfortable maroon plastic chairs. We were behind a bus driver trying to license a bus, which apparently is kind of complicated, because the clerk took all his paperwork and told him to call the state office, who asked him questions like did he have the personal property tax receipt, necessitating him to explain that schools don't have personal property. Then there was the couple who had to fork over $800-plus, which I assume was sales tax on an automobile. The guy who held us up the longest had a big red portfolio of documentation, which still wasn't good enough, even though we had seen him go out to his truck twice, and call in his wife, and finally just tell the lady he had nothing else.
We passed the time chatting with a Pat-like character who was ageless and sexless, and regaled us with tales of knocking over a moped at the police station when he/she opened his/her car door, because the moped was parked too close, and his/her insurance had to pay hundreds for repair of that piece of crap. An old lady told us how strict Texas is on logging hours of driving when changing a permit for a license. Oh, and that Pat-like character brought up how BAD the new photo system makes people look on their licenses. The Pony smirked.
Our number finally came up. The clerk said the bank statement was good enough ID for The Pony's renewal. I was shocked. Then he had to take an eye test again. AND GET HIS PICTURE TAKEN. Ahem. He had not even curried his forelock today. We were actually on the way to his grandma's house so he could spend the night. Too bad, so sad. Now he has a bad photo for a year. Or until he actually gets his driver's license.
On the way out the door, he said, "It will get here while I'm gone to MSA. I don't think the picture will be too bad." Then he looked at the printout in his hand. In black and white. "Ugh. Not good. The old one was better. But at least it's nowhere NEAR as bad as YOURS!"
Mrs. Hillbilly Mom. Raising the self-esteem of license office photo recipients statewide.
Wednesday, June 4, 2014
Lower Than A Dog Is He
Just when I thought I'd never have anything interesting to blog about again...the #1 son came through for me.
You know he has been renting a room from a couple in the vicinity of the casinos. That has nothing to do with the story, other than the fact he is living in the city, and renting from a young couple with a several-months-old baby and a beautiful Husky we'll call Sage. Not his real name. The name has been changed to protect the guilty.
#1 was lamenting about his supper. I told him he had missed meat loaf last night, and that he was missing warmed-up meat loaf tonight. He announced that he was having pizza. Frozen pizza, name brand unknown, not DiGiorno's, the frozen pizza of choice around the Mansion, but a plate-sized, mostly-thin crust pizza with tiny cubes of pepperoni. "Oh," I said. "You must mean Jeno's. It's been around forever. Your grandma used to buy it for my sister, then the future ex-mayor's wife."
"I don't know if that's the brand. But it made me kind of mad the other night. Didn't I tell you about my pizza incident? I had made myself a pizza, and was sitting in front of the big screen on the couch. I had eaten most of my plate-sized pizza, but there was one slice left on my plate. It was sitting on the coffee table by my feet. I was planning to watch a little more big screen, then finish off my pizza. Sage was laying at the foot of the couch."
"OH NO! Tell me you didn't eat Sage!"
"No! He's a beautiful dog. He hangs out with me in the basement. He was just laying there. And then he turned to look at me. Right in the eye. I said, 'Saaaage. Don't you do it.' But he did. He turned his head and grabbed my last slice of pizza in his mouth and ran off! He knew what he was doing. I was so mad!"
"Well, that should tell you your place in the pack. You are below the dog. He obviously saw no problem with stealing your pizza. He has no respect for you. You are lower than a dog."
"Huh."
"Thank goodness you didn't have the baby laying on that plate on the coffee table. Or maybe the baby is also above you in the pack. Probably."
"Well, I'm home from work now. So I'm going to make a pizza. Bye."
"Don't hold it close to your neck."
You know he has been renting a room from a couple in the vicinity of the casinos. That has nothing to do with the story, other than the fact he is living in the city, and renting from a young couple with a several-months-old baby and a beautiful Husky we'll call Sage. Not his real name. The name has been changed to protect the guilty.
#1 was lamenting about his supper. I told him he had missed meat loaf last night, and that he was missing warmed-up meat loaf tonight. He announced that he was having pizza. Frozen pizza, name brand unknown, not DiGiorno's, the frozen pizza of choice around the Mansion, but a plate-sized, mostly-thin crust pizza with tiny cubes of pepperoni. "Oh," I said. "You must mean Jeno's. It's been around forever. Your grandma used to buy it for my sister, then the future ex-mayor's wife."
"I don't know if that's the brand. But it made me kind of mad the other night. Didn't I tell you about my pizza incident? I had made myself a pizza, and was sitting in front of the big screen on the couch. I had eaten most of my plate-sized pizza, but there was one slice left on my plate. It was sitting on the coffee table by my feet. I was planning to watch a little more big screen, then finish off my pizza. Sage was laying at the foot of the couch."
"OH NO! Tell me you didn't eat Sage!"
"No! He's a beautiful dog. He hangs out with me in the basement. He was just laying there. And then he turned to look at me. Right in the eye. I said, 'Saaaage. Don't you do it.' But he did. He turned his head and grabbed my last slice of pizza in his mouth and ran off! He knew what he was doing. I was so mad!"
"Well, that should tell you your place in the pack. You are below the dog. He obviously saw no problem with stealing your pizza. He has no respect for you. You are lower than a dog."
"Huh."
"Thank goodness you didn't have the baby laying on that plate on the coffee table. Or maybe the baby is also above you in the pack. Probably."
"Well, I'm home from work now. So I'm going to make a pizza. Bye."
"Don't hold it close to your neck."
Tuesday, June 3, 2014
Shocking Poolio
Farmer H started getting Poolio ready for the summer a couple weekends ago. Poolio is still not ready for the summer.
The Pony had hoped to get a few lazy days of floating around on an air mattress before shoving off for Missouri Scholars Academy. Now he will just be fish-belly white, with perhaps a hint of farmer's tan from walking the minipony.
This morning as we left for my doctor's appointment, The Pony said, "I'll get the pony out today, but I'm not getting in the pool." I thought he was referring to the overcast weather we were supposed to have in the afternoon. On the way home, the truth came out. "Have you SEEN the pool? It's full of algae."
"You were in it on Sunday."
"It was just cloudy then. This morning it was green."
"That's funny. Your dad bought a bunch of chemicals and put them in last night."
"And your point IS?"
When we got home, I took a look. Poolio was so pitiful that I could not even bring myself to command The Pony to take a picture. That's the thing with Farmer H. He won't simply empty that pool at the beginning of summer and start with fresh well water. No. He tries to keep the same water that's been in Poolio for nigh on five years. Or more. He looks at that water like sourdough starter. Or the grease from that restaurant that deep-fries its hamburgers.
I don't know what's so bad about filling Poolio with fresh water. Don't cost nothin'. The water will have to warm up the same as that buttwater soup that's been under the pool cover all winter. But no. Farmer H tests the water (or so he says), then adds a chemical to balance the imbalance. Which of course goes too far the opposite way. Like how fixing the cloudiness resulted in an overgrowth of algae IN ONE NIGHT! Now he'll add too much of something else, and Poolio will go back to cloudy. I swear. It's like he slaps one cheek, then slaps the other when Poolio's head turns. Again and again and again. Poolio is punch-drunk.
Maybe Poolio will be in swimming shape by Labor Day.
The Pony had hoped to get a few lazy days of floating around on an air mattress before shoving off for Missouri Scholars Academy. Now he will just be fish-belly white, with perhaps a hint of farmer's tan from walking the minipony.
This morning as we left for my doctor's appointment, The Pony said, "I'll get the pony out today, but I'm not getting in the pool." I thought he was referring to the overcast weather we were supposed to have in the afternoon. On the way home, the truth came out. "Have you SEEN the pool? It's full of algae."
"You were in it on Sunday."
"It was just cloudy then. This morning it was green."
"That's funny. Your dad bought a bunch of chemicals and put them in last night."
"And your point IS?"
When we got home, I took a look. Poolio was so pitiful that I could not even bring myself to command The Pony to take a picture. That's the thing with Farmer H. He won't simply empty that pool at the beginning of summer and start with fresh well water. No. He tries to keep the same water that's been in Poolio for nigh on five years. Or more. He looks at that water like sourdough starter. Or the grease from that restaurant that deep-fries its hamburgers.
I don't know what's so bad about filling Poolio with fresh water. Don't cost nothin'. The water will have to warm up the same as that buttwater soup that's been under the pool cover all winter. But no. Farmer H tests the water (or so he says), then adds a chemical to balance the imbalance. Which of course goes too far the opposite way. Like how fixing the cloudiness resulted in an overgrowth of algae IN ONE NIGHT! Now he'll add too much of something else, and Poolio will go back to cloudy. I swear. It's like he slaps one cheek, then slaps the other when Poolio's head turns. Again and again and again. Poolio is punch-drunk.
Maybe Poolio will be in swimming shape by Labor Day.
Monday, June 2, 2014
Getting Back Into The Swing
Whew! I am pooped. Today I went to school for what I thought would be a couple of hours. Just to turn in my stuff and sign the checkout form and be released for the summer, except for the inservice day that I'm not allowed to attend tomorrow. Too bad, so sad. I have the sick days for it.
Imagine my surprise when I was there for three hours. I was shaky and weak by then. This was my first major outing since my recent unfortunate hospitalization. The Pony went with me to be my labor. He put away about a hundred books, hauled out a plethora of bendy-straw towers, tossed a pile of trash papers, and stowed away stuff on top of my cabinets. He's a much better worker than the #1 son used to be. More attention, less backtalk. I'm compensating him with a computer game of his choosing.
I had several well-wishers drop by to see with their own eyes that Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is still kickin'. Nine, to be exact. Considering that we only have twenty, and part of those are travelers who were at Basementia, and others dwell at the opposite end of the hall and didn't even know I came in...I'd say I had a good turnout. Arch Nemesis was my most fervent commiserator. We had a good chat.
I'm glad this day is behind me. Now I'm off to the doctor again tomorrow.
As we came up the gravel road, The Pony looked at the neighbor's horse and seven-year pony. That's the one the #1 son once declared, "How can he still be a pony? He's at least seven years old!" Yeah. Not a genius on the topic of equines, that one. So, my little Pony said, "Aww...that pony is covered with winter fur. He needs somebody to brush him." Let the record show that The Pony had already stated that he did not think he would get our minipony out today, because of the rain clouds and it not being good swimming pool weather when he was done. That's how he spent yesterday afternoon.
When T-Hoe turned into our driveway, The Pony said, "I'm going to take the stuff in, then I'm getting our pony out. I'm not swimming, though." He spent over thirty minutes walking Barry/Red/Boy around on a rope. I'm pretty sure he brushed that little beast again, too.
The minipony is going to miss The Pony when he is gone three weeks to his Missouri Scholars Academy. But he won't miss The Pony nearly as much as I will miss The Pony.
Imagine my surprise when I was there for three hours. I was shaky and weak by then. This was my first major outing since my recent unfortunate hospitalization. The Pony went with me to be my labor. He put away about a hundred books, hauled out a plethora of bendy-straw towers, tossed a pile of trash papers, and stowed away stuff on top of my cabinets. He's a much better worker than the #1 son used to be. More attention, less backtalk. I'm compensating him with a computer game of his choosing.
I had several well-wishers drop by to see with their own eyes that Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is still kickin'. Nine, to be exact. Considering that we only have twenty, and part of those are travelers who were at Basementia, and others dwell at the opposite end of the hall and didn't even know I came in...I'd say I had a good turnout. Arch Nemesis was my most fervent commiserator. We had a good chat.
I'm glad this day is behind me. Now I'm off to the doctor again tomorrow.
As we came up the gravel road, The Pony looked at the neighbor's horse and seven-year pony. That's the one the #1 son once declared, "How can he still be a pony? He's at least seven years old!" Yeah. Not a genius on the topic of equines, that one. So, my little Pony said, "Aww...that pony is covered with winter fur. He needs somebody to brush him." Let the record show that The Pony had already stated that he did not think he would get our minipony out today, because of the rain clouds and it not being good swimming pool weather when he was done. That's how he spent yesterday afternoon.
When T-Hoe turned into our driveway, The Pony said, "I'm going to take the stuff in, then I'm getting our pony out. I'm not swimming, though." He spent over thirty minutes walking Barry/Red/Boy around on a rope. I'm pretty sure he brushed that little beast again, too.
The minipony is going to miss The Pony when he is gone three weeks to his Missouri Scholars Academy. But he won't miss The Pony nearly as much as I will miss The Pony.
Sunday, June 1, 2014
Reports Of My Disappearance Might Have Been Greatly Exaggerated
Farmer H informed me this morning: "I'm going to buy cat food for your cats." Notice there was no mention of my sweet, sweet Juno, who enjoys a dab of cat food every now and then. I thought it better not to bring up her name. Not to ask for the kind of cat food that she prefers. Instead, I tried a redirect. With unexpected consequences.
"MY cats? I don't even like them. Only one, since my favorite was stolen by the neighbors a couple years ago." That was my mostly-white long-haired calico who LOVED me as much as Juno.
"She's probably in the freezer, next to Timmy's mom."
WHAAAAAAT?
Farmer H and several of the neighbors are suspicious. Not that they'd ever say anything, or go knock on the door.
"Nobody has seen her for a couple of years now. That's kind of strange, don't you think?"
"Well, nobody ever went to visit them anyway. The only time you saw her was when they called a cab to go to town. Timmy still calls the cab. Maybe she doesn't feel like going to town. She doesn't need to. She has Timmy."
"Alls I know is, that woman hasn't been seen in years. No funeral. No nothing."
"You wouldn't have been invited to a funeral. You probably didn't even know their last name. Maybe people thought I was in the freezer during those three days I was in the hospital."
It was a bit disconcerting that Farmer H had absolutely no response to that little nugget.
"MY cats? I don't even like them. Only one, since my favorite was stolen by the neighbors a couple years ago." That was my mostly-white long-haired calico who LOVED me as much as Juno.
"She's probably in the freezer, next to Timmy's mom."
WHAAAAAAT?
Farmer H and several of the neighbors are suspicious. Not that they'd ever say anything, or go knock on the door.
"Nobody has seen her for a couple of years now. That's kind of strange, don't you think?"
"Well, nobody ever went to visit them anyway. The only time you saw her was when they called a cab to go to town. Timmy still calls the cab. Maybe she doesn't feel like going to town. She doesn't need to. She has Timmy."
"Alls I know is, that woman hasn't been seen in years. No funeral. No nothing."
"You wouldn't have been invited to a funeral. You probably didn't even know their last name. Maybe people thought I was in the freezer during those three days I was in the hospital."
It was a bit disconcerting that Farmer H had absolutely no response to that little nugget.
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