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

Sweet Gummi Mary!

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

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

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

WIPING THE OUTSIDE OF MY WINDSHIELD!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

MRS. HILLBILLY MOM DID NOT MAKE A DONATION!

What The Devil Is Going On Here?

A couple weeks ago, The Pony was reading The Exorcist. He found it on my bookshelf that came from my mom's house, my childhood bedroom. Not that I only read paperbacks with a timely movie tie-in, mind you.

This afternoon, Farmer H called The Pony to come help him with the outbuildings. You never know what he needs, but The Pony knows to jump when Farmer H commands. Off he went. I was way behind on my household duties, having returned from The Devil's Playground after 1:00, and prepping vegetables for a chuck roast. I sat down to take a break at 2:55, and saw on my program guide that the movie The Exorcist was coming on at 3:00. I sent a text to The Pony. I figured he was out in the yard by the shantytown, holding a ladder, or feeding roofing material to Farmer H. He did not reply. So I called.

"Did you get my text?"

"Yes."

"Do you want to run in and record it?" We can only program the DVR from the basement TV.

"No. I can't. We're up on mine and #1's property. Supposed to be getting some tin. But a man came by, and Dad is talking to him. So I can't. I didn't know he was going to TALK to someone."

"I'll go down and do it. I'll have to make two trips down there anyway, carrying my soda, and my lunch if I ever get it made."

"That's okay. I don't need it. Don't worry about it. Don't."

Well. I went down to record that movie for him anyway. When are you ever gonna get the chance to watch The Exorcist again? Not that it matters to me. I've never watched it, and have no plans to.

I looked for the remote. It wasn't on the coffee table where The Pony piles his stuff. Oh. On the arm of the couch. Where he lays his head while his muscles are busy atrophying during laptop gaming. I picked it up to record the movie. Wait a minute! Something felt funny. I turned the remote over. The battery cover was gone. Huh. And I thought The Pony was just being nice about not wanting me to go down and record the movie. He obviously had a secret.

When he returned around 3:30, I told The Pony that I was recording The Exorcist.

"Okay."

"So you wanted it?"

"Sure. Why not."

"You want to watch it?"

"Yeah."

"Hey. Where is the missing part of the remote. The door. For the batteries." Silence.

"Oh. It's there."

"WHERE?"

"Downstairs."

"WHERE downstairs? Why are you stalling? Why are you being so shady?"

"Why are YOU being like THIS? It's there."

"No. I looked."

"It's right by the remote. On the couch."

"No. It was not on the arm of the couch with the remote. Did you do something weird with it?"

"No-ooo. Why would you ask that?"

"Because I'm not getting an answer. It seems like you're evading the question."

"I told you. It's on the couch."

"Where?"

"Somewhere. I'll go get it." Thump thump thump (seven more) thump thump thump. "See? It was right here on the cushion."

"Why did you take it off? Do we need batteries?"

"No. Sometimes I just take it off and roll the batteries together while I'm watching. THERE! I snapped it back on."

"You can't just buy one of those, you know. We tried. You have to order it from DISH. We had one that the battery door broke on. And we had to tape them in. What do you know about THAT?"

"Wasn't me. I was too little then."

Something about this story doesn't add up. I hope he wasn't practicing some power ritual!

Invasion Of The Pillow Scratcher

Farmer H is getting on my last nerve. It's in the neck area, on the left side.

Last night, as I was trying to accrue some quality shut-eye, what with the need to arise at 5:00 to get ready to take The Pony to his ACT test, I noticed an object under my pillow. No, it was not a pea. I can see how you might think that, what with Mrs. Hillbilly Mom all dainty and princesslike, the tiniest foreign object detected by the blue-blooded, porcelain-skinned shell that encloses her blithe spirit. No, this was not a pea. It was the ham-hock-like arm of Farmer H!

I swear, that man is like a Hindu deity with 18 arms. Or like the Inspector Gadget that McDonalds handed out disembodied limbs with in their Happy Meals. Extra arms that could snap on as needed. Maybe Farmer H ate way too many Happy Meals during ARM week. Or bought a box of them at the auction.

Okay. Maybe I'm exaggerating a little. Maybe Farmer H is merely like an octopus. Or a squid. Sweet Gummi Mary! He HAS been known to squirt out a bit of unpleasantness when startled. Or when not startled. Or when sound asleep.

WHY must he put that gargantuan arm under my pillow? MY pillow? It would be bad enough just to lay my head on that Giant Sequoia petrified log and contort my cervical vertebrae past the point of no return. But Farmer H adds a special touch all his own. Don't nobody go stealin' Farmer H's move! Even though he is not up to snuff on all his Seinfeld lore, he might try to sue you for using his move.

HE SCRATCHES THE PILLOW!

Yeah. From underneath. It makes a disturbing noise. Farmer H has always had this little peccadillo. Even sitting in his La-Z-Boy, chatting about new tractors, or additional outbuildings, or fantastic auction finds...Farmer H snakes his arm under the side table and scratches the bottom of tabletop. What is up with that? I have almost broken him of the habit in his waking hours. With my special brand of psychological hypnosis: "STOP SCRATCHING THAT TABLE WHILE YOU TALK TO ME!"

The unconscious hours are a bit problematic. Sometimes I jam my own arm up under there and stab his meaty forearm with my fingernails. Sometimes I reach back and pound him on the bicep with my fist, which is not always effective because I cannot contort myself to punch full force. Sometimes I jab him in the belly and say, "Back off! Get your arm out from under my pillow!" Yes. All loving tactics sure to make Farmer H want to remove his flesh-and-bone gun from against my three-tier-pillowed head. Not.

Sometimes, I want to twist a kink in his breather hose. Kind of like cutting off the oxygen to a deep-sea diver. Other times, I want to hack off that arm with a Case Collector Knife.

With my luck, Farmer H would grow another one like a starfish. And that arm would grow a whole new Farmer H! The horror of that scenario is almost too much to contemplate.

Ya Gotta Sit By The Ones What Brung Ya

Mrs. Hillbilly Mom went to have some blood taken today. Which is not saying she went to give some blood. At least she is back in a regular blood-drawing lab within the hospital/clinic building, and not in a fly-by-night storefront set-up that is open odd hours and located across from Arby's. Getting rid of Banishment Well-Being Concern insurance is one of the best things Newmentia ever did.

I actually had an appointment for the blood-letting, and arrived 10 minutes early. Only two ladies were there in the waiting chairs, and from what I gathered, one of them was just a companion. I signed in, foisted my paperwork (defaced by my draftsman-like block letters declaring that since the order was printed in April, my insurance had changed in July, and was now invalid in October), and sat down to wait for a window call-back to provide info.

The waiting hall on the third floor had four groupings of chairs. Six along the wall as you round the corner, an end table, five more chairs, an alcove with three along the short wall, and about eight under the windows that face down the hallway. The ladies were in the five-chair row, so I took the chair across the end table from them. I put my purse in the chair to my left, leaving four more vacant in that section. It's not like we were crowded.

Woe was me. In came a loud family. The dude was old and tall and lanky. Perhaps suffering from a debilitating disease, perhaps just a classic ectomorph. He had long hippy hair and scruffy jeans, and smelled of stale smoke. He signed up at the window as the woman, perhaps his daughter, tried to corral that boy and girl of elementary school age. Woman sat down in the chair on the other side of my purse, and directed the young 'uns to park themselves in the two chairs past her, leaving the one on the end vacant.

I picked up my purse to look for my phone and check the time. They never have a clock in the lab waiting room, you know. Smoky finished signing in and came to sit down.

RIGHT IN MY PURSE'S CHAIR!

Seriously. Was that necessary? Right on top of Mrs. Hillbilly Mom? She overflows her armrest a bit, you know. Anyone with common sense would have taken the empty chair by their family's children. But not Smoky. Maybe he was a chubby chaser. What I know for sure wis that he was a tobacco-product catcher. The waves of old nicotine and second-hand smoke almost knocked me out. My lungs were packing their steamer trunks, ready to catch a slow boat to China, or join the Merchant Marine. What a fine kettle of fish (which would have smelled better than Smoky) this was. Did I remain seated and pretend nothing was amiss? Or get up and go past the waiting ladies to fresher air?

Thank the Gummi Mary, the receptionist called me to the window for my new insurance card! I wrested myself out of that torture contraption awkwardly, because, you see, I had to hold my purse as I grabbed the armrests like parallel bars and hoisted myself up. After forking over the laminated info for perusal, I weighed my options. SCREW THAT! No way was I going back to sit next to Smoky. I went to the very end of the ladies' row, and took that chair. Placing my purse again on my left, vowing NOT to move it unless asked. People are at the lab because they are sick, you know! Except for me, and one of the ladies, who said she was giving blood to test her liver's reaction to her medicines.

I'll be ding-dang-donged! In came a man and woman. They waited at the window as the liver lady was called in. Then they sat IN HER CHAIR and the one by the end table. What is with people? They were right on top of the companion! And here came another man and woman. They looked at my purse, but since it was in the only empty chair in that group, I made no move to move it. I didn't think that gal was going to sit on her man's lap. They went to the alcove. And in came ANOTHER man and woman. It was like Noah's Ark day, two by two. They sat under the windows.

Thank the Gummi Mary, I was called in next. Some of those folks were hacking up sputum.

Mrs. Hillbilly Mom may or may not be a germaphobe. But she is certainly a person pissed off by people.

Small Town Devil's Playground Blues

The Devil's Playground has brought back the self-checkout. They have it configured like a big corral, with a bottleneck to enter and to leave. And there seem to be two of The Devil's Handmaidens and Handmasters assigned to monitor it. The last two visits, I have only seen ONE person using the self checkout.

The #1 son used to make me use it, way back when they were set up like the 30-items-or-less short lanes. He loved that stuff. He would scan it all, and tell me if something went wrong, and go looking for someone to help. Because something always went wrong.

Now that the 30-items-or-less lanes are gone, more people are using the regular registers. And the regular checkers are slower. I did not see a familiar face there. Well, I did. But in a different way.

I waited in line 10 minutes without moving. There was one customer being rung up, one customer with stuff already piled on the conveyor, and me. After those 10 minutes, I huffed my way next door. A customer was at the register, one had her stuff already on the conveyor, and then me. Couldn't be any worse than the line I left. Especially when I saw that Devil's Handmaiden waiting for a supervisor.

My new Devil's Handmaiden was no spring chicken. She looked familiar, but not from The Devil's Playground. She was very slow. I wondered if maybe I'd had her before and vowed never again. Too late. The line moved. Devil's Handmaiden chatted amiably with the customer. Took her time bagging. Was cordial. Inquisitive. I know they're supposed to ask about things they scan. "Oh, is this good? I've never tried that. Did you find everything all right?" You know. To engage the customer. I don't mine remaining unengaged.

Then it was my turn. It had taken so long that The Pony was done spending his two dollars in the game room. He came back to help me put bags in the cart.

"Oh. Is this your youngest?"

"Um. Yes."

Then I knew! The checker was the mom and mom-in-law of our three school secretaries! She used to hang around all the time, volunteering. I guess that didn't pay too well. So we had a good chat while she carefully bagged my stuff. I don't think the customer behind me cared much for our reunion. But I had put in my 20 minutes in line, and it was MY turn now.

Small town Devil's Playground blues. I left in a better mood than I'd started. Wheeling out my cart-walker while answering The Pony's question of, "Who WAS that woman."

Absence Makes The Little Farts Grow Fonder

Kids these days. They don’t know what they want. When they’re in the classroom, they want to be shed of Mrs. Hillbilly Mom. Wash their hands of her, hit the road, Jack, and never look back no more. Yet when they’re OUT of the classroom, they can’t wait to chat up Mrs. Hillbilly Mom. Reunite. Chew the fat.

Monday, for example, when Mrs. HM was using the last four minutes of her plan time to make a pit stop to stave off the urge during the long afternoon. Plus duty. So on this quest to procure relief, who should Mrs. Hillbilly Mom encounter walking out of the little gentleman’s room but Bub. From the class she had the very next hour. Four minutes away.

“Hey, Mrs. Hillbilly Mom!”

“Hey, Bub.”

“I was absent Friday. Do you want to take this now?” He proffered his admit slip like a carrot on a stick.

Let the record show that Mrs. HM continued walking, at a steady pace, towards the teacher workroom, where her final destination, the faculty women’s restroom, is located.

“No. When class starts, bring it to my desk.”

“You don’t want to just take it now?”

“No. It’s not class time now.”

“Did I miss anything Friday?”

“No. Only a video about the inside of a cell and all its parts and how they work together.”

“Was there any work?”

“No.”

“Do we need our book today?”

“Of course.”

“What are we doing?”

“You’ll find out in class. I really don’t want to chat right now. It’s not class time.”

I swear, I thought Bub was going to follow me into the FWR and stand, sharing his gift of gab, while I did my business.

Yes, the pupils flock to Mrs. Hillbilly Mom, like moths to a very large flame, when they have unstructured time. Like before school. I have told several of them, in no uncertain terms, that my room is off limits before first bell. That they belong in the cafeteria until then. Yet every time I step out to make a visit to the teacher workroom shortly before the official day starts, there they are. Sometimes at lockers. Sometimes standing against the wall to my room. And on Mondays, when I have THE DUTY, I come back to find their books already on their desks.

“I’m going to have to start locking my room, I guess, when I’m outside on duty.”

“Why? Oh. Because we put our books in here? We just wanted to be ready.”

Indeed. Yet the minute the bell rings, it’s the opposite.

“Can I go to Mrs./Mr. Anybody Else’s room this hour?”

“How long is this going to take?”

“Can’t we just put our head down and sleep?”

Youth. Wasted on the young.