If You See Something, Blog Something

Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is doing her bit for homeland security. Or maybe she's just letting her paranoia flag fly. There's something strange in the neighborhood, and that something ain't gonna abscond with Mrs. HM and get away with it!

There I was, tooling along in my T-Hoe, after mailing my OnStar bill for A-Cad, and an order for Farmer H's special Case Collector Knife, at the main post office. Somewhere between there and Waterside Mart, I came upon a slow driver. It's not like he pulled out in front of me. You know how you're rolling at the speed limit or one mph under, and you have to brake? It was like that. Some gray crew cab Dodge Ram pickup. I don't notice the make and model of vehicles like Farmer H, but it had the Dodge Ram ram head on the tailgate.

Okay, no big deal. Except I kept having to brake T-Hoe. He's not used to driving 20 mph. The speed limit along there is 30 mph. Sometimes people drive too slow for my tastes. But what ya gonna do? Nothing. Except slow down to their speed, and allow one car length for every 10 mph that they're driving. So I kept T-Hoe at least 2 car-lengths back. For safety, you know. Sometimes a little more, because this truck ran off the side of the road a couple times. Almost sideswiped a Jeep mail truck parked in front of a house. Almost flattened some orange cones that were marking a work zone.

Sometimes when drivers look at stuff, their car steers that direction. But there were several OTHER times this truck ran off with nothing to look at. Then it would veer back onto the road. Huh. I swear that driver was looking in his rearview mirror at ME. That's what caused the veer! It was 11:30 in the A.M. I don't think he was drunk. Yet. It looked like an old man in a cap. I kept my distance. Of two car lengths. It's not like he was tapping the brakes like you do for a tailgater. Because I wasn't tailgating. He was deliberately (I guess) driving 10 mph under the speed limit. In fact, when we crossed into a new speed zone, of 35 mph, the truck increased speed to 25 mph.

At the 4-way stop by Waterside Mart, a little gray sedan had gotten between me and Ram. It was definitely tailgating, which didn't cause Ram's speed to increase one iota. Then that sedan made a right turn, and I was again behind my pace car/truck. I'm used to this stuff. It's not like Hillmomba's drivers are going to win any awards

When I got to the center turn lane just past the frozen custard stand, and in front of the auto parts store, I put on my left blinker and made my left turn. I could see Ram continuing. But not! He signaled a right turn, and went into the little plaza where we got Genius's first cell phone. There are 7 or 8 businesses there that come and go. At one time there was a donut shop, and a uniform store. I don't really know what's in there now. I just figured Ram had an errand there.

As I made my next right turn to head towards The Devil's Playground, on a parallel street, I could see that Ram had merely gone in one entrance of that plaza, and was coming out the other. Continuing in the same direction. WHO DOES THAT? Who pulls off and then gets right back on the road going the same way? That is when my paranoia kicked in I got a little suspicious of Ram's motives. What if he was looking in his mirror, saw me turn, and was planning to follow me?

An elderly woman out and about cannot be too careful these days. It pays to be aware of your surroundings and weirdos. You never know when somebody might call you over to ask directions, then try to snatch the purse that you don't carry, and drive off. So I sat for a moment behind the wheel of T-Hoe, after parking in one of my favorite spots on the grocery side of The Devil's Playground. It's about halfway up the row, next to a cart return. Nobody can park too close to me and prevent the driver's door from opening all the way.

I'll be ding-dang-donged! Here came Ram onto the Devil's parking lot! Why in the Not-Heaven hadn't he used the same entrance as me, if he was planning all along to go here? The one he came in is all congested, with pharmacy traffic and the Pizza Hut on the corner, and a gas station. Yet there he was, driving down the aisle at the pharmacy door end of The Devil's Playground. Really slow. And he DIDN'T PARK! He passed several decent parking spots. It was almost as if he was looking for something. Or someone...

OH CRAP! He was heading for my end of the store. That's it! I'm not gonna take it! I'm getting a picture of him, just in case it's the last thing on my phone! So my survivors can track my killer!

Ram came up the aisle in front of me. And then down the aisle where I was parked! My heart was pounding like garbage cans in STOMP! Let the record show that he bypassed SEVERAL parking spots closer to the store than mine! There are three of them right there in the picture. The store door is by that dark blue paint. I got a picture of him going the other way down my aisle, showing his license plate number, but since I survived, I'm not posting that!

Ram went up the next aisle over behind me. Again, bypassing several good spots. Then he parked. Almost equal to the space I was in, maybe one or two closer down his aisle. I had to turn around to see him. He sat there a moment. Longer than necessary. I swear I saw him look at me, but that might just be my vivid imagination. Then he took off his sunglasses. Put them over the visor. Took of his hat. Put it back on. Got out, and walked inside.

Aha! That's what I was waiting for! I wanted to see what this dude looked like. An older man. Maybe late 60s. In a blue plaid shirt and dark brown Dickies work pants. Who wears dark brown Dickies? At least I was forearmed, in case I encountered him inside. I hoped to remain anonymous, but I'm sure he could tell me from my red-and-white stripped shirt. Why, oh why, hadn't I worn a solid-color shirt today?

Anyhoo...I did my shopping and paid without incident. When I came out, I thought I saw that the Ram had moved closer. Even though there was a dude just sitting behind the wheel...I saw that the license plate was different.

Come to think of it, Ram might have been sitting in the Subway restaurant just inside the store, and watching me as I walked by the entrance to The Devil's Playground...

There Ain't One, So A Gift Isn't Needed

If there was a Son's Day, I think I've found the perfect gift for Genius.

The inspiration came to me while standing in line at Orb K. They have a cardboard display of metal insulated cups. I read them as was waiting on my put-upon clerk--

WAIT! I must stop to share my opinion of this clerky behavior! I don't think a clerk on the clock should sigh heavily when you hand her winners and ask for more scratch-off tickets. Especially when you do it politely, as in, "I'd like to trade these in, please, on some more tickets." Especially when that clerk sits down on two stacked red plastic containers that are (or were) full of new merchandise for weekly stocking. Especially with the custom right there, within sigh-detecting range. Sweet Gummi Mary! You don't have to act like you're diving to the bottom of the Marianas Trench without an oxygen tank! You're bending over to tear off some tickets, while sitting down on some convenient containers that aren't there the other 6 days of the week.

OKAY! Got that out of my system.

The cups had some clever, alcohol-related phrases on them. I immediately thought of Genius. Probably not a good sign, but he DOES have a good-paying job, and he's punctual and proficient in his work. Perhaps he'll get out of the college-boy mentality by year's end.

Anyhoo...my favorite choice for Genius, if there WAS a Son's Day, would be the silver metal cup with black writing that said, "Shut Up, Liver! You're Fine." A close second was the one proclaiming, "I Have Mixed Drinks About Feelings." Heh, heh. I thought that was clever.

We all know there is no Son's Day. Because EVERY DAY is Son's Day!

At least that's the comparable explanation, judging from what my mom used to tell us when we asked why there wasn't a Kid's Day.

Hillbilly People Problems

On the way to town Friday, I had a maddening itch between my shoulder blades. This is a common affliction, which I attribute to my skin drying out after my daily shower. I'm not one to slather moisturizer between my own shoulder blades. In fact, this discomfort has plagued me for years, always seeming to strike while I'm driving. So much so that I had requested a BACK SCRATCHER as a gift. Birthday, Mother's Day, Christmas...didn't matter to me. It was a standard gift option, given to the three men of the house, back when two of them were mere boys.

I finally got my extra back scratcher. Oh, I have another one! It's my indoor back scratcher. I've had it for years. I think maybe Farmer H gave it to me? He professes that he got it at a tool show, and passed it on to me. The facts escape me, but it's wooden and red, with its curved fingers now losing their paint. I scratch a lot.

Anyhoo...I got my second back scratcher, my portable one, within the last year or two. I don't remember where it came from, either. Maybe one of the boys got it for me, but maybe I snagged it for myself. I seem to remember taking the initiative, but I also remember unwrapping a long thin Christmas present. And Farmer H takes credit for THIS one, too. Never let him carry a big salad you have paid for, people (who have seen the BIG SALAD episode of Seinfeld).

The main point is that I keep my backup back scratcher in T-Hoe. For just those moments when I get that itch between my shoulder blades on the way to town. I keep it handy, within arm's reach. Which happens to be jammed down in the seat-back pocket of the shotgun seat.

AHH! Such a good scratch was enjoyed. I don't care if people saw me. I don't care that they thought. It's not like I took off my shirt! I just jammed those wooden fingers down the collar and went at it. Itch scratched.

The problem occurred when I tried to put the scratcher back. To encase it for future use in its sheath, the pocket on the back of T-Hoe's passenger seat. It would not go! Keep in mind that I was driving at the time. It's relatively easy to grab a back scratcher out of Tahoe seat pocket and scratch, but impossibly difficult to return that back scratcher to the seat pocket when you're finished!

Especially if you have two programs from your son Genius's college graduation stored in that seat pocket for perpetuity.

Graduation was in December. It might be time to clean out T-Hoe...

Hillbilly People Solutions

Farmer H may be retired, but that doesn't mean he is no longer on call. He had just plopped down in the La-Z-Boy this evening, with his pre-auction supper plate, a delicious platter of two hot dogs wrapped in biscuits, and some frozen curly fries, when his phone rang. It was HOS (His Oldest Son).

HOS had some questions about a water heater. Not HIS water heater, mind you, but the water heater of an old lady who's a relative or acquaintance of one of his cousins. That's how we do things around Hillmomba. We don't call repairmen. We call relatives of relatives of relatives.

HOS described the problem. The water heater had been shutting itself off, but not tripping the breaker. He described the wires. Red and blue and yellow. Their relative positions. THEN noted that there'd just been a buzzing sound, and smoke was coming from around the yellow wire.

Farmer H suggested that HOS send him a picture, because thinking through it, he couldn't figure out what was amiss. Not in those words, of course. "Send me a picture. I cain't tell what's wrong." He was perplexed by the video that came in. "Huh. I cain't keep it on my screen long enough to tell what's going on. And I can't blow it up. He needs to send me a picture." So he sent HOS a text asking for a picture. And got two.

After a detailed analysis in which he talked out loud, and took about two minutes, Farmer H called HOS and said there was nothing hooked up wrong. That it was probably a bad thermostat, even though HOS had insisted that it was a NEW water heater, that had been doing this for two weeks. Farmer H's suggestion was to TURN OFF THE POWER, remove a couple of those wires he named by color, and test the thermostat with some fancy electrical gewgaw to see if it showed ZERO or a number. A ZERO would mean a bad thermostat, which would need to be replaced.

We've had the same water heater for over 15 years. At least. Every time I suggest we need a new one because the water isn't getting hot, Farmer H drags the water heater out the basement door, and shovels a bunch of white powdery gunk out of its innards. Calcium deposits (Hillmomba is noted for its hard water). Then it works again.

Something tells me Farmer H might end up looking at this water heater as a favor to HOS. Maybe not. He might have better things to do with his endless leisure time.

What A Dangerous, Dangerous World It Can Be

Last night at 8:07, I got a text from The Pony. I don't hear from him often, unless I initiate the text conversation. And right now he has finals coming up, so I try to leave him alone.

"Oh, so you know now, there's a tornado thing (the more severe one) for Norman right now. I'm down in the storm shelter."

Let the record show that The Pony is living in university apartments at OU. He is 11.6 miles from Moore, Oklahoma, which had an E5 tornado pass through it on May 20, 2013. That tornado had 210 mph winds. It killed 24 people, and injured 377. So a tornado warning in Norman, Oklahoma, is not something you pooh-pooh.

"I'm glad you're sheltered. Dad said it looked like you were getting bad weather, and it's headed toward Genius later. Stay calm. You've done all that you can do by getting to the shelter."

"Yeah. It was the lower thing for awhile, then I moved down to the shelter when my meteorology friends suggested it. I'm calm, other than just the large number of people."

"Well, it's not like you can choose some of them to kick out to perish, like on that Simpsons episode."

"I know I know."

At 8:59, I got another text.

"The tornado warning is over, it's just flooding now, and I'm on the 3rd floor."

"That's a relief. Are you back in your apartment already?"

"Yeah. About five minutes ago they lifted it, and the shelter is close by. I just had to run through this rain for a bit."

Having been there, I can tell that this picture was taken from right outside The Pony's apartment door, on the landing, looking down at the parking lot.

"You won't melt."

"Yeah. Unlike some people."

"I hope you are not referring to ME!"

"Nope."

So...The Pony was fine. But you NEVER stop worrying about your babies. Even when they're 20 years old. Or in their 50s, judging by my mom's actions.

Jeezers, Sneezers, Listen To Your Geezers

Another reason I enjoy going to the casino is that I usually have several stories to tell by the time I leave. Last Saturday was no different.

Farmer H always stops at the restroom on the way down that long promenade area. I use the regular one inside the casino before cashing out, but Farmer H always waits until the last minute. I stand outside and wait, watching the people go by.

On this day, there was an old man sitting on one of the leather-padded benches. Beside him was a boy of 5 or 6. I imagine the kid was sitting with his grandpa. That would be an odd combination if they came to the casino for gambling, but I assumed they were there for a wedding. The event center was open, and silver and gold Mylar balloons were entwined and decorating the pillars. Not that these two were dressed for a wedding, but standards are pretty lax these days.

Farmer H joined me again, and we started down the long hall toward the doors that led to the covered walkway that led to the parking lot. A lot of younger-than-normal people were coming in, headed toward the casino. It might have been because we were leaving later than usual. It was almost 5:00. We're used to being with the elderly. Our own kind. The afternoon gamblers, not the Saturday-night-out crowd.

One thing about those egregious Millennials...they're not gonna yield to ANYBODY! Not a foot, not an inch, not a micrometer would they yield. They have to be the generational champions of playing chicken. And here came a slew of them, striding up the wide carpeted promenade. They were walking at least four abreast. Taking up the entire cushy carpet, forcing Farmer H and I off onto the tile near the wall. Me, for sure. I think Farmer H had one foot on the cushy carpet, and one foot on the tile. He was trying not to be displaced, and had to lean-lunge towards me to avoid colliding with a Millennial shoulder. We were shunted closer to the Gramps & Young 'un duo.

I was directly in front of the Old Man and the Wee when that little dude SNEEZED. If he had been sneezing a dart, I would have been the bullseye! You've seen slow motion action of a sneeze, right? How billions of particles spray into the air? I felt them on my arm. I immediately stopped breathing. That's my teacher training, you know! Stop breathing until well past the snot cloud. My lungs were on fire, burning like those of a diver with an empty tank trying to surface.

I'd say I made it a good six steps past the scene of the slime before I had to inhale or faint dead away. What hurt worse than my lungs was the fact that I was UNABLE TO COMPLAIN while holding my breath!

"GASP! Did you SEE that? I swear, that kid sneezed when I got directly in front of him! Not even a hand over his mouth!"

It surely is the end of the world as we know it. Those younger generations are going to do themselves in, colliding with one another while walking in opposite directions, and blasting each other with viruses.

Even Though Her Head Was Bare, Everyone Could See That This Little Gal Had An A$$HAT

Coming out of Orb K on Saturday evening, I could tell it was prom night somewhere in Hillmomba. This was the third dressed-up couple I'd seen.They were entering as I was leaving.

Since I believe in following the unwritten laws of Hillmomban society...I keep right as I'm entering or exiting. Just like our traffic lanes. Keep right. It looked like this couple also obeyed such laws. So I didn't for an instant think the dude would hold the door open for me. Not because it was obvious that he was a Millennial or the generation which comes right after them. But because I was on the RIGHT side, going out my door, and he was on his own right side, coming in the other door. But sometimes, folks will see you coming out, and step back, holding that door for you to walk out.

Dude was all done up for prom. Fresh haircut, the sides razored, wearing a white tux jacket. His gal was in a shiny, royal-blue, long dress with a bejeweled silver halter kind of top. Her sandy hair was swept up on one side.

Dude did not open the door and stand back for me. No big deal. I wasn't expecting it. What I DIDN'T expect was the dickish behavior Dude showed his date.

HE WENT IN AHEAD OF HIS DATE, AND DIDN'T EVEN POP THAT DOOR OPEN EXTRA FAR FOR HER TO SLIP IN AFTER HIM. HE LET THAT DOOR SLAM RIGHT IN HER FACE.

I felt kind of bad for that little gal. Her date seemed like a real prima donna. And I don't mean that Dude was a chief female singer in an opera company. I mean that he was:

A very temperamental person with an inflated view of his own talent or importance.