An Appointment With Destiny, Now With CAKE!

So...here it is, Tuesday afternoon, and I'm sitting in my dark basement lair, off school due to 8 inches of snow, waiting to see if I have another day of reprieve...and the phone rings. I knew it wasn't school. I have caller ID, you know. Only the most modern technology for Mrs. Hillbilly Mom and her land line.

"Hello? May I speak to Mrs. Hillbilly Mom?"

"This is her."

"I'm calling from Dr. Foreigner's office to confirm your appointment tomorrow at 1:30. With cake."

"Oh! Sure. I think I can make it."

"Good. We'll see you then."

Wasn't THAT a fine how-do-you-do!

I knew I had an appointment in the city with the physician who had done a bit of minor surgery on me last fall. To tell you the truth, I am not all that fond of him. He is the kind of guy who does not really seem to think a woman knows anything. Not because he's a doctor. Just like we aren't worthy. Oh, he was entirely competent and knowledgeable about the procedure. But I felt kind of like I was an ungulate, and he was a veterinarian. He did his best to take care of me, but did not want any input from me. He was doing it for my own good.

Yes. I knew I had an appointment. Had I not left my plans upon my desk for Wednesday when I left on Friday, just in case we had a snow day in between, so I wouldn't have to rush and get things together? I swear. I'm never gonna burn these sick days. I have had this appointment since last August. What are the odds?

Anyhoo...now his office was confirming my appointment, and promising CAKE! Just to sweeten the pot, I suppose. Take a dreaded office visit and offer a confectionery carrot on a stick. Come to your appointment, and you can have some cake!

Or...wait...maybe she didn't say cake. Maybe she said cape. Perhaps I was supposed to dress in a certain manner. No superfluous below-the-waist garments. A cape. Drape myself in a cape. That would be kind of drafty, what with the temperature at 17 degrees, and the wind chill in single digits. Surely I wasn't supposed to arrive like Batman. Or Little Red Riding Hood. Or Superman.

Huh. Maybe she said, "With Kate." Yeah. That's the ticket. Maybe someone who works there is named Kate. And she would be doing my exam. Not that condescending doctor. That had to be it. Not as good as CAKE. But better than seeing the doc.

I just hope she didn't say kale.

Alls I know is...I have an appointment.

Mrs. Hillbilly Mom Goes Off The Deep End, And Is Currently In Free Fall

Okay. Here's the warning. The disclaimer. Don't come suing me when you have nightmares. Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is not some socially acceptable horror taler like Stephen K. Nope. She's rough around the edges, like those crusty bunion callouses in the foot-shaver commercials. Nothing pretty here. Nothing tied up, all loose ends accounted for, with a pretty pink bow. No sirree, Bob. Mrs. HM does not write fiction. She tells tales from the trenches. In this case, her bed-wallow. Now is your chance to turn around. If you thought that part about Gage in Pet Semetary was unnerving, you don't want to go here. No need to subject yourself to unnecessary nightmares. Turn back now.

Thing is, it was only a dream for me. Not a nightmare. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

There are some things in this world that can't be understood. Can't be explained. The noises and happenings in the Mansion are some of them. Mrs. HM was always scientific. One who must have evidence to believe. Ghost? Surely you jest. Until the unexplained came a-knockin'. But this vignette is not so much about the unexplained as it is about Mrs. HM's subconscious. Her dream life. Her way of working out grief, perhaps. So whether you believe in the Sweet Hereafter, Eternal Life, Reincarnation, Valhalla, Nothingness, Nirvana, Heaven, Hell, Purgatory, Paradise, The 144,000 Chosen, Non-being, Summerland, or An Infinite Dirt Nap...this revelation has nothing to do with religion. It is one woman's dream from Friday night/Saturday morning, between 2:00 and 3:30 a..m.

Enter at your own risk.

The first part wasn't a dream. The Pony and I were watching our DVR of King of the Nerds. We had started it around 8:20, so we could fast-forward the commercials. The Pony, as always, was on his bargain couch with his laptop open, glancing up at the TV at opportune moments. I was in my blue recliner controlling the fast-forwarding. Between 8:30 and 9:00, we heard a giant THUMP above our heads.

"Um. Yeah. There it is," said The Pony, raising his eyebrows.

Normally, we hear footsteps. But this was a heavy THUMP. Like somebody jumping off the top of a bunk bed. Like somebody just getting used to coming from one dimension to another. Unsure of how much energy was needed. Not understanding the powers of manifestation. Rather than being in the area of #1's bedroom that runs alongside his bed, this THUMP was right in front of his door. Like a step in from the hallway. It was the only noise we heard. No more.

I dreamed about Mom that night. It was one week to the day since we had buried her. After a 2:00 service and a short drive to the cemetery. We were out of there by 3:30. The dream was as follows...

I was sitting at my New Delly in my dark basement lair. It was night time. I thought everyone else had gone to bed. Then I heard a voice. It sounded just like my mom. I knew that there were only guys in my house. I went out of my office and into the main basement area. There was my mom, in the blue recliner, but in the area by the steps where #1's desk is usually parked.

Mom was sitting relaxed in the chair with her right leg crossed over her left, having a casual conversation with Farmer H and the #1 son and The Pony. Her hair was poofy, like when she was in her late 30s, like in one of the old school pictures Sis had at the funeral home, from when Mom taught 4th grade.

In this dream, Mom was obviously not alive, but neither was she a see-through ghost. She had on no clothes, but was not at all concerned or even aware. She had a big "Y" incision closed with big black stitches on her chest. She was gesturing with her hands, like she always talked, saying, "No. That's not what I wanted. See my will." She was not agitated. Just talking matter-of-factly. I joined the group, and stood there at Mom's left, while the guys were kind of behind her chair.

We all talked a while, then Mom said it was time to go. She got up from the recliner and walked toward the steps. I walked along with her, like she used to walk us to the door of her house, and later, to the door of her room at the rehab center. At the foot of the stairs, Mom said, "It's time for me to go." Instead of walking up the steps, she turned right, towards the electric fireplace. And then she kind of turned into a genie-like column of vapor that still had her coloring, and went up the fireplace.

That dream was SO real! When I woke up at 3:30, it was like she had just been there. She was fine. Not alive, but fine. I was SO disappointed as that dream wore off. It was so real.

I couldn't believe that she was gone. Not that I thought she was alive. I just thought she was still in the house, so I could talk to her some more.

Yes. I know it's my way of working out my grief. That's why I just put it here, where my three readers can like it or lump it. I don't expect comments on my craziness.

It's something I had to do.

Laying Out My Plans

I had grand plans today. Plans to get my blog posts done early, and to sit down and enjoy myself in my dark basement lair. Treat myself to a little writing time. I had two brilliant ideas. Now, not so much.

The Pony needed some lunch, so I made him pasta. Then I whipped up a vat of chili, which Farmer H had for HIS lunch. Not the whole thing. That's supposed to be tomorrow's supper. After a brief interlude when laundry called my name, I put together a meat loaf for tonight's supper, and poured some bread mix into the Bread Man. Then I had to wash up all those dishes. And fix my own lunch. It was going on 2:00 by then. The meat loaf had to be put in the oven by 4:30. Then I had to get the mashed potatoes ready.

The supper dishes are going to wait until morning. I deserve a break today.

So...no school tomorrow. Then I have a doctor's appointment Wednesday. I left my plans at school, everything ready, just in case of this scenario. With any luck, we'll get out Wednesday, too, which will solve the problem of getting The Pony to school and getting back in time to pick him up.

Hard to believe this is only our fourth snow day. But you know what is truly amazing? THIS IS MY LUNCH DUTY WEEK!

Tomorrow, I have grand plans.

Farmer H Is Butt-Bitten By Even Steven And Karma (Once On Each Cheek)

Farmer H has a flat tire. Not a spare tire. Everybody knows THAT. But now he has a flat tire on his precious Gator. Uh huh. He sprung it on me over my birthday dinner, which was today and not on my actual birthday.

"I have a flat tire on the Gator."

"Huh. I guess you'll have to keep putting air in it."

"I need a new tire."

"I don't know why. When I had a flat tire on T-Hoe, I had to stop every week for The Pony to put air in it."

"But his one goes all the way flat."

"Mine would have, too, if The Pony didn't put air in it for me."

"I'm going to run by Tractor Supply on the way home to see if they have one."

"Shouldn't you wait six months? That's what I did when I had a tire going flat."

"I need a tire. I've been airing it up every day with my compressor."

"Which is more convenient than stopping by a convenience store if they don't have somebody blocking the air hose, and having your son jump out no matter what the weather, and put in six pounds of air to last you three days."

"I'm getting a tire."

Even Steven and Karma are quite a duo. Tractor Supply was fresh out of Gator tires.

Mrs. Hillbilly Mom Is Having Issues

Can you see fit to send some sympathy Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's way tonight? She has endured a two-day visit from Mr. Murphy. No. He's not related to Aunt Flo. He's not the heir to a flush toilet fortune. Nor the inventor of a bed that folds up into the wall. He's the law Murphy. The one who postulates that whatever can go wrong WILL go wrong.

The most recent prophecy fulfilled concerns Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's supper of a homemade chicken fajita fat burrito. Uh huh. I gathered my ingredients. Laid out foil to wrap my delicious monstrosity. Warmed the tortilla. Chunked up the chicken. Shook on the shredded lettuce. Used a cheese grater on the sharp cheddar, without even losing a millimeter of finger flesh. Spooned generously the mild salsa. Dolloped on the sour cream. Wrapped that fat log in foil to decrease dripping. AND SAW THAT I HAD LEFT OFF THE DICED ONION! Oh, the inhumanity! Nancy Kerrigan herself could not have topped Mrs. Hillbillly Mom's whine of "WHYYYYYYYY?"

I had to put my diced onion in a little bowl to apply with a spoon to each bite. That's a lesser chicken fajita fat burrito right there.

The Pony also endured Mrs. Hillbilly (his) Mom's Murphy wrath. He needed a trimming of The Sideburn. He did so himself, with his shaver, but there was a swatch of hair growing down in front of his ears that he said the shaver wouldn't trim. So I reached for my trusty black-handled fake Fiskars. And came up as empty as Old Mother Hubbard's dog. The #1 son was here over Christmas, you see. And in the last day of his break, when he was no longer deathly ill with a meningitis-mocking headache and stiff neck virus...he felt like working with his photography sometimes-paying hobby. My fake Fiskars are but a gleam in #1's eye.

The Pony ran to fetch the next best thing, a pair of blue-handled fake fake Fiskars. I cut those uneven hairburns to make him presentable. He was going to meet his paramour for an evening of laser tag to celebrate his birthday tomorrow. Alas, only one of his regular friends could go, what with the short notice, the frigid weather, the upcoming snowstorm, weekends with non-custodial parents, and this being Valentine's Day, and one of the friends having his own paramour who had other designs on his time. Do you think The Pony gave a fat rodent's behind? NOT-HEAVEN NO! He was going to meet his paramour. With a tidy little gift bag of Valentine treats that he did not care to share with moi. Our little Pony is growing up.

I would love to regale you with tales of my other Murphyisms. Like how every time I put the diced onion on my chicken fajita fat burrito, it bounces off the top and drops to the counter of my dark basement lair built-in corner desk and then bounces again to the floor, and how I arrived at the mailbox at the same time a guy parked on the wrong side of the road in front of Mailbox Row and proceeded to fetch a package from the package lock-box. And how Mrs. Hillbilly Mom herself had trouble with said box last night. And how as soon as that guy took his package and left, a neighbor pulled up to get her mail, so Mrs. HM had to wait some more, and how all this and a trip to town put her lunch off until 3:00, the lunch she is used to consuming at 10:53 a.m., and how she did not even have a carload of guys to give her a Snickers bar. However, I have no time.

A chicken fajita fat burrito is calling my name.

You Won't See Giada Do THIS!

Oh, dear. Mrs. Hillbilly Mom has been a bit preoccupied this week. Not only did she eat a moldering hot dog at lunch on Wednesday, but she found herself involved in another foody faux pas this evening.

I wanted a meal of soft tacos from Taco Bell. However, once the spoils were ill-gotten from the drive-thru, handed over by a giggling lass who might or might not have done something unspeakable to my order...I remembered that it's Friday. The day Taco Bell makes their tacos with 94.995% shredded lettuce, 4% tortilla, 1% cheese, and 0.005% meaty-looking-worm-protein. So I limited myself to two soft tacos.

That was not enough protein. Mrs. Hillbilly Mom demands balance in her nutrition. So I popped open a tin of sardines in mustard sauce. They're bursting with protein. And calcium, too, from those little bones that crunch between your teeth. When getting a jar of salsa out of Frig II to add to my lettuce tacos, I spied a sad salad purchased at The Devil's Playground mid-week. Darn that Frig II. He has different crannies than the original Frig. I had forgotten all about that chef salad dated 2/13/15. Which was TODAY. So I added that to my menu, taking credit for buying my own big salad. I tossed in some chopped onion that I was adding to my soft tacos. I don't know why I don't just buy tortillas and make them myself. Yes I do. Because that is too much work on a Friday evening after a very trying week at Newmentia.

I shook on some ranch dressing, part from a bottle of lite, part from the real thing. Then crumbled some croutons on top. Good to go. I alternated among my three courses. They were nothing to write home about, nothing to pitch a show about to the Food Network. But filling. In fact, as I was stabbing away at my big salad, I realized that I would not be able to eat the whole thing. A realization that came, in part, when my fork stopped short and nearly dislocated my wrist.

Did you know that The Devil puts his tubs of Marketplace All Natural Buttermilk Ranch Dressing down inside the big salad, to make it look bigger? Uh huh. It's true. I knew that. But in my haste to augment my other two courses, I forgot to root around in there and take out the tub. It did, after all, take up a fourth of the room in the salad tray.

One of these days, Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is going to cook from scratch. Until then, she will have plenty of blog material.

The Unintentional Inadvertent Insensitivity Of The Attendees Of The Semi Weekly Meeting Of The Newmentia Lunch Time Think Tank

I know it was not intentional. A simple social faux pas. Nothing more. Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is a bit sensitive this week, after going through one of life’s greatest stressors last week. It didn’t help Monday when the Newmentia Lunch Time Think Tank not only pointedly ignored Mrs. Hillbilly Mom, but even seemed a bit put out that she dared to reclaim her seat at the table. I’m sure the alleged slight was imagined on my part. But something didn’t seem right. Our chemistry was out of whack.

Don’t think for an instant that Mrs. Hillbilly Mom was a moper. Nope. She pulled up her chair four legs at a time like everybody else, and attempted to join in as permitted. One member of the Think Tank was written up in the local paper, for becoming a big fish in the big pond of technology. The reporter had listed the ages of the students in the accompanying photo, and had then listed Big Fish’s age after his name as well. So they were ribbing him. Mrs. Hillbilly Mom commented that she had seen the article, and the age, but had thought nothing of it, because magazines do that with famous people in the news all the time. Crickets. Like Mrs. Hillbilly Mom had announced that last night she shot a unicorn in her pajamas. It seemed as if they were trying to block me out. Then the hubbub resumed, concerning the new reporter who must not know have known any better.

Tuesday, a Think Tank irregular graced us with his presence, and let it slip that he had a cleaning lady. Well! So did the Big Fish. They then commenced to expounding that the cleaning lady made their wives actually pick up the clutter in order for the house to be cleaned. And that if a cleaning lady could clean the whole house in two-and-a-half hours, surely the wife could find that much time throughout a two-week period to do the same.

From there, talk went to the stuff filling up the house. Like PLANTS FROM THE WIFE’S MOTHER’S FUNERAL! How she refused to get rid of them. How the plants made the house look like a jungle. Those plants served no purpose. It had been YEARS, and the plants needed to go. Never mind that they were thriving. So another Think Tanker jumped in to reveal that she still had plants from her father’s funeral, and it had been 16 years. Yet another Tanker chastised the original Tanker, because how dare he think those plants were worthless. She drives by her last-fall-deceased father’s truck on the way to work every morning, and it brings tears to her eyes. To which Original Tanker replied, “Well, I can understand that. It’s still so fresh to you.”

And there I sat, my slaw-loving mom gone less than a week, listening to them discuss the departed. Like I didn’t exist. How could they not notice this elephant in the room? It’s not like nobody knew about my loss. Five of the seven Think Tankers had been to the funeral home and offered their condolences. And they later got onto a discussion of how they have morals and know what’s right and would act as avengers if anyone was being harmed. Like stopping those twenty football players in the news who beat and raped a coed and put it on Facebook. Okay. So Mrs. Hillbilly Mom was not in the company of twenty football players, and did not need that kind of rescuing. But somebody could have suggested a new topic for discussion.

I’m shocked they didn’t just burst into a round of John Brown’s Body Lies A-Moulderin’ in the Grave. Or a rousing chorus of “The worms crawl in, the worms crawl out, the worms play pinochle on your snout.”

No, Mrs. Hillbilly Mom does not need to be rolled in cotton batting, encased in bubble wrap, and placed on a bed of downy duck feathers. But there are standards of common decency, are there not? It’s not as if they didn’t know, and coincidentally asked how my mom was doing. They knew. And saw nothing wrong with it. I’m a nobody. Don’t mind me.

On the other hand, a special student stopped in the hall to offer her condolences, because she heard that my mom passed away.

Some people could learn a lesson from that special student.