Having not grown up in Hillmomba during Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's formative years, you might not be familiar with a song called The Streak. It was played often during Mrs. HM's high school years, when streaking was a nationwide fad. In fact, there's even a picture in our high school yearbook with a BMOC (that's a big man on campus) posing in a simulated streaking photo, holding a big industrial gray garbage can in front of his (later-revealed to anyone who asked) gym-shorted private area.
Our topic today, sadly, is not about streaking. It's about SCREECHING! Oh, how I wish it was only public nudity, and not public high-decibel spoiled-bratness. I just got to thinking about how a song could be written about The SCREECH. Not by me. I'm no musician. I could do the lyrics, but I'm too lazy, and trying to recover from ear damage.
Seriously! I think that SCREECH damaged my ears! I was fine until I got home, but then, once safely ensconced on my broken rolly chair in front of New Delly in my dark basement lair...I started experiencing vertigo. The room seemed to spin for a moment. Then steady itself. Off and on all evening. I really think the vibrations from the SCREECH upset the equilibrium of my hammer/anvil/stirrup.
It all started in The Devil's Playground. I was minding my own business, pushing my cart/walker with only my right arm, allowing my left arm to swing normally, so as to facilitate the mechanism of my Shaming Bracelet. I can do that in The Devil's Playground, because their carts generally roll in a straight line. Not so in Save A Lot, where they dart from side to side like minnows you might try to catch with your bare hands for sustenance if you were on one of those survival shows.
Yes, there I was, on the condiment aisle, seeking a giant jar of green olives that go so well with my lunchtime pinwheels, the pinwheels themselves being a disappointment, because there was only ONE Chicken Bacon Ranch, causing me to add three Turkey and Cheddar to my cart. I was at the middle of the aisle when I heard the SCREECH. That kid had a healthy set of lungs! It must have been four aisles over, still in the deli/produce area, but I heard it like that little banshee was at my shoulder.
As I continued to shop, that untamed howler monkey continued to SCREECH. Now, there's whining, and there's petulant crying, and there's squealing tantrum nap-time noise. But this was most definitely a SCREECH. Not from a baby, not from a toddler, but from a child who should know better. In fact, the foister upon the world of this human get-out-of-the-swimming-pool-horn darted her cart in front of me from the cereal aisle as I headed back up front.
That SCREECHER was a little girl around 4 years old.
SWEET GUMMI MARY! How are kids supposed to learn what is acceptable in public if they are allowed to do whatever strikes their fancy in public? It only took one time for me to pack up a misbehaving Genius and carry him screaming to our pre-T-Hoe Ford Aerostar Minivan. Left the cart right there in the aisle, and whisked him away, past prying eyes, out to his car seat, where he was buckled in, told that we would do this every time he couldn't behave, and driven home.
Yes. That was very inconvenient for Mrs. HM. But it had to be done. That shot of reality did not need a booster for about 10 years, when Genius got into an argument with The Pony over which fast-food establishment we'd be going to after school, and I drove right past all of them to feed those very apologetic-too-late boys Mom-food back at the Mansion.
I don't know why people are afraid to say NO to their kids these days. I'm not advocating a beating, or emotional abuse. Just set limits and enforce them consistently. Please. So nobody else loses their balance from ear damage caused by the SCREECH.
Or maybe that red-ink-pen plastic lid that I jammed in my right ear to scratch an itch...
Friday, May 11, 2018
Thursday, May 10, 2018
The Latest Info Might Be A Little Hard To Swallow
I asked Farmer H to check on that bird's nest under the back deck. I was worried that something might have eaten the eggs. We have two remaining cats, you know. I'm pretty sure cats will eat birds and bird babies, but I don't know if they eat eggs.
Also, there's no shortage of snakes here in Hillmomba, and one could easily slither up the porch posts and across those boards. They're snakes, by cracky! They can go almost anywhere they choose.
I really wanted to know, short of actually walking around the house myself and up under the deck. The footing is rough. I didn't want to maim myself. That could cut into casino excursions. I asked Farmer H about the nest Tuesday night, but he wasn't going back outside. Wednesday morning I called him, but he was working over at back-creek neighbor Bev's house, on either a surveillance system or a new deck. Later in the afternoon, I sent him a text. And FINALLY, I got my update on the bird's nest.
In Farmer H's textwords: More eggs now
Huh! Don't that just beat all? There were THREE eggs when he sent the original photo on April 25th. And now there are FIVE! I guess somebody wasn't done laying!
Here's the thing. I THINK they are tree swallow eggs, going on their appearance, and that of the nest. I just assumed a little swallow was a brown, nondescript bird that I'd not notice as being out-of-the-ordinary. Yet when I looked up the tree swallow, IT WAS BLUE!
That's right! A tree swallow is a little blue bird with a white belly. Now, I see these little bluebirds all the time, while driving to and from town. In fact, years ago, when Genius was still forced to ride with me because he wasn't old enough for a driver's license, one flitted across the road in front of T-Hoe.
Let the record show that Mrs. HM does not have good luck with birds. She had a robin suicide itself on T-Hoe's front bumper one morning on the way to school. And then there was the unfortunate incident of stepping on a bird carcass under some dried autumn leaves in the teachers' parking lot at Lower Basementia years before that. More than 10 times. Much to the delight of both boys, and the shame of the custodial staff who didn't clean up the leaves (and bird carcass). At the end, the dried bones were hardly cracking any more.
Anyhoo...that one time wit Genius, I said, "Oh, no! I'm afraid I've just killed the Bluebird of Happiness!" Which was an actual fear. That can't be good luck. But Genius found it amusing, and texted it to one of his friends. "Hey! My mom just killed the Bluebird of Happiness." It was never proven.
So, even though I see those little bluebirds all the time, I always thought of them as just that: bluebirds. Like the Missouri state bird, the Eastern Bluebird. But a quick search on that revealed that an Eastern Bluebird has a brownish-orange belly like a robin. And the ones I've been seeing are blue with white bellies.
That's neither here nor there. Sometimes my digression can't be controlled.
Farmer H thinks these eggs belong to a sparrow, because one used to dive at his head every time he got the lawnmower out. But not this year. And sparrows have eggs that may be this light color, except sparrow eggs, no matter what color, have brown speckles on them. And these eggs do not.
The innernets tell me that a tree swallow egg takes 10-21 days to hatch, with 14-18 being the most common. However...incubation may be delayed up to two weeks if the weather is cold. Which it had been until last week, and even then, nights were down to 46 degrees.
Farmer H says that the eggs are new, and bigger than the old eggs. I disagree. They look the same to me, after I compared the pictures side by side. I think a couple more eggs got laid.
I'm going to hope that nothing disturbs the nest. I'll have Farmer H make intermittent checks on it so I can let inquiring minds know if we're having babies. Or not.
Here is a link that shows some nests and baby tree swallows.
And one with tree swallow information.
Also, there's no shortage of snakes here in Hillmomba, and one could easily slither up the porch posts and across those boards. They're snakes, by cracky! They can go almost anywhere they choose.
I really wanted to know, short of actually walking around the house myself and up under the deck. The footing is rough. I didn't want to maim myself. That could cut into casino excursions. I asked Farmer H about the nest Tuesday night, but he wasn't going back outside. Wednesday morning I called him, but he was working over at back-creek neighbor Bev's house, on either a surveillance system or a new deck. Later in the afternoon, I sent him a text. And FINALLY, I got my update on the bird's nest.
In Farmer H's textwords: More eggs now
Huh! Don't that just beat all? There were THREE eggs when he sent the original photo on April 25th. And now there are FIVE! I guess somebody wasn't done laying!
Here's the thing. I THINK they are tree swallow eggs, going on their appearance, and that of the nest. I just assumed a little swallow was a brown, nondescript bird that I'd not notice as being out-of-the-ordinary. Yet when I looked up the tree swallow, IT WAS BLUE!
That's right! A tree swallow is a little blue bird with a white belly. Now, I see these little bluebirds all the time, while driving to and from town. In fact, years ago, when Genius was still forced to ride with me because he wasn't old enough for a driver's license, one flitted across the road in front of T-Hoe.
Let the record show that Mrs. HM does not have good luck with birds. She had a robin suicide itself on T-Hoe's front bumper one morning on the way to school. And then there was the unfortunate incident of stepping on a bird carcass under some dried autumn leaves in the teachers' parking lot at Lower Basementia years before that. More than 10 times. Much to the delight of both boys, and the shame of the custodial staff who didn't clean up the leaves (and bird carcass). At the end, the dried bones were hardly cracking any more.
Anyhoo...that one time wit Genius, I said, "Oh, no! I'm afraid I've just killed the Bluebird of Happiness!" Which was an actual fear. That can't be good luck. But Genius found it amusing, and texted it to one of his friends. "Hey! My mom just killed the Bluebird of Happiness." It was never proven.
So, even though I see those little bluebirds all the time, I always thought of them as just that: bluebirds. Like the Missouri state bird, the Eastern Bluebird. But a quick search on that revealed that an Eastern Bluebird has a brownish-orange belly like a robin. And the ones I've been seeing are blue with white bellies.
That's neither here nor there. Sometimes my digression can't be controlled.
Farmer H thinks these eggs belong to a sparrow, because one used to dive at his head every time he got the lawnmower out. But not this year. And sparrows have eggs that may be this light color, except sparrow eggs, no matter what color, have brown speckles on them. And these eggs do not.
The innernets tell me that a tree swallow egg takes 10-21 days to hatch, with 14-18 being the most common. However...incubation may be delayed up to two weeks if the weather is cold. Which it had been until last week, and even then, nights were down to 46 degrees.
Farmer H says that the eggs are new, and bigger than the old eggs. I disagree. They look the same to me, after I compared the pictures side by side. I think a couple more eggs got laid.
I'm going to hope that nothing disturbs the nest. I'll have Farmer H make intermittent checks on it so I can let inquiring minds know if we're having babies. Or not.
Here is a link that shows some nests and baby tree swallows.
And one with tree swallow information.
Wednesday, May 9, 2018
Just When You Thought It Was Safe To Come Back To The Mansion
Mrs. Hillbilly Mom was on a ladder last night, resetting that number on the Mansion "DAYS WITHOUT AN ACCIDENT" sign to ZERO. Okay. That's not quite true. Mrs. HM would never climb a ladder, because that in itself would result in an accident.
Last evening, Farmer H was gone to a far-off auction, and some trash needed to go out. I'd say he planned it that way, but the trash was all my own, from my dark basement lair, and Farmer H never takes that giant black trash bag up the 13 steps and outside to the dumpster. Besides, I'm not an invalid. It's my own trash, and I'm capable of disposing of it.
I was extra careful, because I was home alone. Not that I set up a pointy-object obstacle course, or superheated the doorknob, in case the Wet Bandits came a-callin'. Nope. I was careful not to fall. Took my cell phone in my pocket in case of an emergency. Didn't even pull the door until it latched, just in case it decided to lock itself. I cautioned the dogs to GET AWAY so I didn't trip on them while walking down the uneven bricks of the front sidewalk.
On the way back in, I confused those poor doggies by heading for the front door. My sweet, sweet Juno was already halfway up the steps of the side porch. Jack dashed ahead of me down the sidewalk, but hesitated just in case I had the urge to head over by the goat pen. That's what I normally do if I'm down on the front sidewalk. Those dogs know my habits.
When Jack saw me turn to go up on the porch, he launched his long body up the steps. I stopped to pet him, putting one hand on the rail to steady myself while I put a foot on the steps.
YOUCH!
I knew what happened before I looked. It's hard to mistake the feeling of a splinter sliding under your skin. Especially on the hand, with all its nerve endings.
Yes, it's just a tiny splinter. You'll probably hurt your eyes looking for it more than it hurt my skin. See? There below my thumb. Here. Let me give you a closeup.
In fact, that almost looks as if the splinter is on the surface. I assure you, it was not. But I DID hold out hope that this splinter was just in that transparent top layer of flesh. So that I could pull it out easily, with no complications. That was not the case.
Under the lights of the master bathroom sink, which are oddly similar to a row of lights above a makeup mirror used by Vegas showgirls (in movies, no first-hand knowledge here)...I used tweezers to remove that splinter. It kind of hurt a little bit. I figured it would, since it burned when I ran cold kitchen sink water over it before the tweezer-wielding.
At least that splinter didn't splinter! I got it all, except that tiny little piece that wasn't attached. Sorry that last pic is out of focus, but it's kind of hard to take a one-handed picture with a phone.
Another dose of cold running water, some blotting with a paper towel, a slathering of triple antibiotic ointment...and I was ready to make my supper.
I expect to make a full recovery, possibly within 24 hours! The wound has already absorbed that ointment, and formed a papery-thin layer of new skin or clear scab over itself. The injury is not in a bad place, and does not hinder blogging or eating. So I'm good to go.
I'm pretty sure Farmer H is trying to kill me, though. That handrail was pretty thirsty for my blood. I believe it's customary tomoisturize seal wood from the elements at least once a year, to prevent this dry splintering effect...
______________________________________________________________________
UPDATE:
Mrs. HM is on the mend!
The wound has covered itself with a film of fresh skin, 18 hours later, and is not noticeable (to me) unless I put pressure on it, like when steadying myself with that hand on the upstairs floor as I walk up the 13 steps from my dark basement lair.
Now I need to show it to Farmer H, and tell him to stop mis-treating his wood.
Last evening, Farmer H was gone to a far-off auction, and some trash needed to go out. I'd say he planned it that way, but the trash was all my own, from my dark basement lair, and Farmer H never takes that giant black trash bag up the 13 steps and outside to the dumpster. Besides, I'm not an invalid. It's my own trash, and I'm capable of disposing of it.
I was extra careful, because I was home alone. Not that I set up a pointy-object obstacle course, or superheated the doorknob, in case the Wet Bandits came a-callin'. Nope. I was careful not to fall. Took my cell phone in my pocket in case of an emergency. Didn't even pull the door until it latched, just in case it decided to lock itself. I cautioned the dogs to GET AWAY so I didn't trip on them while walking down the uneven bricks of the front sidewalk.
On the way back in, I confused those poor doggies by heading for the front door. My sweet, sweet Juno was already halfway up the steps of the side porch. Jack dashed ahead of me down the sidewalk, but hesitated just in case I had the urge to head over by the goat pen. That's what I normally do if I'm down on the front sidewalk. Those dogs know my habits.
When Jack saw me turn to go up on the porch, he launched his long body up the steps. I stopped to pet him, putting one hand on the rail to steady myself while I put a foot on the steps.
YOUCH!
I knew what happened before I looked. It's hard to mistake the feeling of a splinter sliding under your skin. Especially on the hand, with all its nerve endings.
Yes, it's just a tiny splinter. You'll probably hurt your eyes looking for it more than it hurt my skin. See? There below my thumb. Here. Let me give you a closeup.
In fact, that almost looks as if the splinter is on the surface. I assure you, it was not. But I DID hold out hope that this splinter was just in that transparent top layer of flesh. So that I could pull it out easily, with no complications. That was not the case.
Under the lights of the master bathroom sink, which are oddly similar to a row of lights above a makeup mirror used by Vegas showgirls (in movies, no first-hand knowledge here)...I used tweezers to remove that splinter. It kind of hurt a little bit. I figured it would, since it burned when I ran cold kitchen sink water over it before the tweezer-wielding.
At least that splinter didn't splinter! I got it all, except that tiny little piece that wasn't attached. Sorry that last pic is out of focus, but it's kind of hard to take a one-handed picture with a phone.
Another dose of cold running water, some blotting with a paper towel, a slathering of triple antibiotic ointment...and I was ready to make my supper.
I expect to make a full recovery, possibly within 24 hours! The wound has already absorbed that ointment, and formed a papery-thin layer of new skin or clear scab over itself. The injury is not in a bad place, and does not hinder blogging or eating. So I'm good to go.
I'm pretty sure Farmer H is trying to kill me, though. That handrail was pretty thirsty for my blood. I believe it's customary to
______________________________________________________________________
UPDATE:
Mrs. HM is on the mend!
The wound has covered itself with a film of fresh skin, 18 hours later, and is not noticeable (to me) unless I put pressure on it, like when steadying myself with that hand on the upstairs floor as I walk up the 13 steps from my dark basement lair.
Now I need to show it to Farmer H, and tell him to stop mis-treating his wood.
Tuesday, May 8, 2018
Gator Nest Eggs
Farmer H sent me a picture last week. Not of himself. I KNOW what Farmer H looks like. And not of his Goodwill treasures, either. Nope. He sent me a picture of eggs. Not sunny side up. Not deviled, like my sister the ex-mayor's wife once sent me, those eggs all done up to look like baby chicks, requesting them for Thanksgiving Dinner. No, these were WILD eggs that Farmer H sent me.
Nest and all! Isn't it pretty, sitting there (TEMPORARILY) among the junk in the bed of Farmer H's Gator?
Don't be afraid of that green snake. It's actually just a garden hose. Also looks like Farmer H has been violating his dietary restrictions by drinking sugar soda. Unless those are old cans, drunken by HOS (His Oldest Son) or HOS's boy, when they were helping Farmer H move stuff around in his Freight Container Garage. That Gator is one big rolling trash can sometimes, until Farmer H needs the space and bags it up for the dumpster.
The best I can tell, these are the eggs and nest of a tree swallow. The nest has that characteristic shape that I read about, and MOSSES and GRASSES woven into the structure. Let the record show that moss does not grow on the back porch deck rafters. AND, these eggs are the right color, and have pointy ends.
Yes, I'm betting on it being the nest of a tree swallow. Even though Farmer H didn't find the nest in a tree, but up under the back deck of the Mansion, where he stores assorted tools and equipment. Farmer H said he reached up to get his weed eater from where it was hanging in the deck rafters, and this nest was on it. He set it in the back of the Gator so the dogs wouldn't get the eggs while he got the weed eater down. Then he put the next back in the rafters.
I'm hoping the momma bird came back to it. I'll have to ask Farmer H for a status report.
Nest and all! Isn't it pretty, sitting there (TEMPORARILY) among the junk in the bed of Farmer H's Gator?
Don't be afraid of that green snake. It's actually just a garden hose. Also looks like Farmer H has been violating his dietary restrictions by drinking sugar soda. Unless those are old cans, drunken by HOS (His Oldest Son) or HOS's boy, when they were helping Farmer H move stuff around in his Freight Container Garage. That Gator is one big rolling trash can sometimes, until Farmer H needs the space and bags it up for the dumpster.
The best I can tell, these are the eggs and nest of a tree swallow. The nest has that characteristic shape that I read about, and MOSSES and GRASSES woven into the structure. Let the record show that moss does not grow on the back porch deck rafters. AND, these eggs are the right color, and have pointy ends.
Yes, I'm betting on it being the nest of a tree swallow. Even though Farmer H didn't find the nest in a tree, but up under the back deck of the Mansion, where he stores assorted tools and equipment. Farmer H said he reached up to get his weed eater from where it was hanging in the deck rafters, and this nest was on it. He set it in the back of the Gator so the dogs wouldn't get the eggs while he got the weed eater down. Then he put the next back in the rafters.
I'm hoping the momma bird came back to it. I'll have to ask Farmer H for a status report.
Monday, May 7, 2018
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 whenmy 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 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
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...
Sunday, May 6, 2018
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.
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.
Saturday, May 5, 2018
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...
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...
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