Is it wrong of me to find my own flesh-and-blood's appendages off-putting? Is that frowned on? Because if it is, I won't dwell on it here. Huh. No responses. So I guess I am at liberty to spout off about my offspring's flippers.
Okay, it's The Pony's feet we're talking about. I can't even imagine calling them hooves. That would bring to mind Mary O'Hara's description of Flicka's filly, Touch and Go, with her hooves so dainty they would fit in a teacup. Not my Pony. His feet would not fit in a violin case. They are long, flexible flappers. He flaunts them relentlessly.
The Pony does not like to wear shoes. I told him tonight he would be that hippie guy on Discovery Channel's Dual Survival. The dude who won't wear shoes. Who walks through snow and rocks and pine needles barefoot. The only time I saw him with shoes was in the desert, when he sawed open a deceased cow and used its hide for soles. The Pony scoffed. We both know he would never put soles on his feet.
I simply don't like feet. Even on my own son. They don't stink. That's because they get so much air they practically make their own Febreze. His toes are long and grippy. Any time I ask him to hand me something, like the TV remote, he says, "With my feet?" We both know the answer to that. He picks up my couch blanket and repositions it on the arm by using his feet. He picks up his food wrappers and puts them in the trash bag by using his feet. When we go somewhere, he puts on his Adidas slides. Then takes them off in T-Hoe.
Today we went bill-paying, and my mom rode along. I had The Pony put my 44 oz. Diet Coke refill cup in the back, so it didn't get smashed before I could fill it with my magical elixir. After Mom got out, I asked for the cup. The Pony carefully handed it to me.
"I knew I would be pushing it if I used my feet."
Indeed. He then proceeded to prop one on the side of the shotgun seat. That's because he rides behind me, you know. So there was that hairy long toeful flipper staring at my side-face the whole way home. It was all I could do to stay on the road.
I think The Pony was smiling smugly the whole way. I refused to give him the satisfaction of a wretch or gag. But I deserve a gold medal world record for stifling.
Friday, May 31, 2013
Thursday, May 30, 2013
CSI: Special Burners Unit
Encyclopedia Brown here. I've found another clue. Yep. I'm taking time off from Mystery Inc. to work solo for a while. OK, I'm not really Encyclopedia Brown. I'm still Hillbilly Mom. But I DID solve another mystery.
Several weeks ago, I noticed that the stove burner drip bowl thingies on my stove had turned from silver to black. My first clue was when I looked at them after stirring something because they sent a cloud of smoke and a charbroiled stench into the atmosphere of my kitchen. It's hard to put one over on Mrs. Hillbilly Mom when she's boiling food over a burner, rather than heating it in the microwave or warming it in the oven.
My first attempts at solving this mystery were not successful. I ruled out my own actions, because the two burners on the right side of the stove were involved. Sweet Gummi Mary! We all know that Mrs. Hillbilly Mom would never prepare more than one dish at a time. I could not possibly have despoiled two silver stove burner drip bowl thingies simultaneously. Besides, I always notice if something boils over. I am the one who cleans the stove. I nip that drip in the bud, the moment it occurs.
The usual interrogation tactics did not work this time. That being the loud, accusatory statement of, "I don't know what you people have done to my burners, but they're certainly a mess!" This is usually followed by a response of, "Quit calling us you people! We didn't do it. When do we ever cook? Alls I did was..." Generally, this is followed by a confession of frying bacon, flipping a quesadilla, or pouring half a bottle of vegetable oil in a nonstick skillet to fry an egg. No confession was forthcoming. Only a complaint about the you people.
I tried to slip in a pointed question here and there, but my leads had dried up. I started trying to think of how I might have made two of the exact same messes, one on the big front burner, and one on the small back burner. I rarely use that front big burner. It has a habit of trying to spontaneously combust my clothing if I lean over to reach something in the cabinet above the stove.
This evening, as I was waiting for a mixture of water, milk, and I Can't Believe It's Not Butter to boil on the small back burner so I could dump in a packet of Afredo Noodles, I offhandedly stated, "I sure wish I knew what burned up under those burners." And the #1 son appeared, wasting ice from the freezer door of Frig, dropping it on the floor before spilling his Crystal Light fruit punch.
"I think it might have been that frosting that I made. Remember when we had that project to make a cake out of a poster board of our book, and I used the Crisco and confectioner's sugar to make Lord of the Flies? I think some of it flew onto the burners."
Aha! I DO remember him complaining that his frosting was too runny, and wanting to know how to thicken it up. He must have flung it from the mixing bowl onto the stove, and not bothered to clean it up. Or not known how to pop that burner coil loose and wipe out the silver stove burner drip bowl thingies. He's only planning on a career as an engineer, you know. So he can't be expected to look at a gadget like that and see where it comes apart. That's a skill possessed only by crime scene investigators like Encyclopedia Brown, Mystery Inc. members, AND MRS. HILLBILLY MOM.
Several weeks ago, I noticed that the stove burner drip bowl thingies on my stove had turned from silver to black. My first clue was when I looked at them after stirring something because they sent a cloud of smoke and a charbroiled stench into the atmosphere of my kitchen. It's hard to put one over on Mrs. Hillbilly Mom when she's boiling food over a burner, rather than heating it in the microwave or warming it in the oven.
My first attempts at solving this mystery were not successful. I ruled out my own actions, because the two burners on the right side of the stove were involved. Sweet Gummi Mary! We all know that Mrs. Hillbilly Mom would never prepare more than one dish at a time. I could not possibly have despoiled two silver stove burner drip bowl thingies simultaneously. Besides, I always notice if something boils over. I am the one who cleans the stove. I nip that drip in the bud, the moment it occurs.
The usual interrogation tactics did not work this time. That being the loud, accusatory statement of, "I don't know what you people have done to my burners, but they're certainly a mess!" This is usually followed by a response of, "Quit calling us you people! We didn't do it. When do we ever cook? Alls I did was..." Generally, this is followed by a confession of frying bacon, flipping a quesadilla, or pouring half a bottle of vegetable oil in a nonstick skillet to fry an egg. No confession was forthcoming. Only a complaint about the you people.
I tried to slip in a pointed question here and there, but my leads had dried up. I started trying to think of how I might have made two of the exact same messes, one on the big front burner, and one on the small back burner. I rarely use that front big burner. It has a habit of trying to spontaneously combust my clothing if I lean over to reach something in the cabinet above the stove.
This evening, as I was waiting for a mixture of water, milk, and I Can't Believe It's Not Butter to boil on the small back burner so I could dump in a packet of Afredo Noodles, I offhandedly stated, "I sure wish I knew what burned up under those burners." And the #1 son appeared, wasting ice from the freezer door of Frig, dropping it on the floor before spilling his Crystal Light fruit punch.
"I think it might have been that frosting that I made. Remember when we had that project to make a cake out of a poster board of our book, and I used the Crisco and confectioner's sugar to make Lord of the Flies? I think some of it flew onto the burners."
Aha! I DO remember him complaining that his frosting was too runny, and wanting to know how to thicken it up. He must have flung it from the mixing bowl onto the stove, and not bothered to clean it up. Or not known how to pop that burner coil loose and wipe out the silver stove burner drip bowl thingies. He's only planning on a career as an engineer, you know. So he can't be expected to look at a gadget like that and see where it comes apart. That's a skill possessed only by crime scene investigators like Encyclopedia Brown, Mystery Inc. members, AND MRS. HILLBILLY MOM.
Wednesday, May 29, 2013
Mrs. Hillbilly Mom Is Dreamy
And so it begins. The school dreams. You'd think summer vacation would make one immune to job-related issues. Even in dreams. But no.
Way back when I was a coach, I used to have dreams of my players breaking into my townhouse in the middle of the night, stomping up the steps, accosting me as I lay snoozing, and demanding to know the starting lineup. I could see how this was related to the stresses of competition. How I wanted to do the right thing, but was worried that it would be the wrong thing. And perhaps that the players were not 100% behind my lineup choices.
Early this morning, I had a dream that I was getting ready for work. I was already dressed, putting the finishing touches on my hair (HA! Like THAT has ever happened!), and caught my reflection in the mirror. Apparently my new shampoo had stripped the color from my hair. On one side. Yes, the dreamy Mrs. Hillbilly Mom was sporting half a dark-brown head, and half a...HOT-PINK head!
There I was, in a quandary. I probably had time to color my hair and get to school on time. But that would mean taking a shower and getting dressed all over again. Or I could just glop on the color while dressed for work, and hope I didn't spoil my clothes. Or I could do nothing. I kept turning my head, and if the light hit just right, half my head looked gray instead of pink. I decided to risk it. Go as I was. Even though I know the school has a rule about colored hair for students. It must be a natural hair color. Not necessarily natural to that particular student, but a color that occurs on human heads in nature.
I took off for my dream job. Which was the same as my regular job. I had one major worry. Was I afraid the school administrator would chastise me for having half a head of pink hair? No, I was not. I figured the school would be so glad I showed up and didn't cost them a substitute that they would make up some crazy new rule on the spot, to accommodate illegally coiffed faculty.
My fear was that the students would compliment me all day on my cutting-edge coiffure.
Warning: If you get all scientific and/or New Age-y and consult multiple resources to analyze this dream, I DO NOT want to know the results. I am freaky enough with my subconscious half-pink noggin.
Way back when I was a coach, I used to have dreams of my players breaking into my townhouse in the middle of the night, stomping up the steps, accosting me as I lay snoozing, and demanding to know the starting lineup. I could see how this was related to the stresses of competition. How I wanted to do the right thing, but was worried that it would be the wrong thing. And perhaps that the players were not 100% behind my lineup choices.
Early this morning, I had a dream that I was getting ready for work. I was already dressed, putting the finishing touches on my hair (HA! Like THAT has ever happened!), and caught my reflection in the mirror. Apparently my new shampoo had stripped the color from my hair. On one side. Yes, the dreamy Mrs. Hillbilly Mom was sporting half a dark-brown head, and half a...HOT-PINK head!
There I was, in a quandary. I probably had time to color my hair and get to school on time. But that would mean taking a shower and getting dressed all over again. Or I could just glop on the color while dressed for work, and hope I didn't spoil my clothes. Or I could do nothing. I kept turning my head, and if the light hit just right, half my head looked gray instead of pink. I decided to risk it. Go as I was. Even though I know the school has a rule about colored hair for students. It must be a natural hair color. Not necessarily natural to that particular student, but a color that occurs on human heads in nature.
I took off for my dream job. Which was the same as my regular job. I had one major worry. Was I afraid the school administrator would chastise me for having half a head of pink hair? No, I was not. I figured the school would be so glad I showed up and didn't cost them a substitute that they would make up some crazy new rule on the spot, to accommodate illegally coiffed faculty.
My fear was that the students would compliment me all day on my cutting-edge coiffure.
Warning: If you get all scientific and/or New Age-y and consult multiple resources to analyze this dream, I DO NOT want to know the results. I am freaky enough with my subconscious half-pink noggin.
Tuesday, May 28, 2013
Why Do I Always Have To Be The One?
The innards of Frig are like one giant teetering Whoville contraption. You'd think I'd learn to clean out my shiny Frigidaire before heading to town for the weekly shopping. Sadly, I have not.
Every clerk in Hillmomba liked shopping day a lot
But Hillbilly Mom of Hillmomba assuredly did not
HM hated shopping, like a festering lesion
Old foodstuffs remaining in Frig were the reason
Other folks in the Mansion must not have been bright
To keep foods that they knew had long lost their delight
HM did not think she should clean out it all
When others' chore tallies were hideously small
I alone possess that innate talent for determining the unwritten expiration date of unmarked foodstuffs. Farmer H would eat leftover barbecue for two weeks, or until it grew a furry green coat. The #1 son once called me to ask if he could still make a bologna sandwich for his lunch, because there was just one green spot on the top slice. And The Pony never opens Frig, because he only eats three foods, none of which reside inside a refrigerator. The demand for industrial diamonds could lessen if only Farmer H would find a way to market that single piece of pizza he leaves in the whole box jammed into Frig's upper palate. Yes. It's that hard. I'm surprised the dogs are not in need of dental implants after breaking off their very canines trying to ingest petrified pizza.
The dogs love shopping day. Not because we buy them treats. But because they are the benefactors of Frig's indigestion. If not for me sorting through the remnants, my guys would soon turn our kitchen into an episode of Hoarders. They would be the ones declaring, "Huh...March 2011? It doesn't smell bad. There's no mold on it. I thought I might use it one of these days."
Don't get me started on the milk (which HM does not drink) that begins to grow chunks. How unable-to-make-a-decision do you have to be to take it out, smell it, declare, "That's no good," and put it back in Frig?
Somebody needs a rap across the big ol' bear paws with a wooden spoon.
Every clerk in Hillmomba liked shopping day a lot
But Hillbilly Mom of Hillmomba assuredly did not
HM hated shopping, like a festering lesion
Old foodstuffs remaining in Frig were the reason
Other folks in the Mansion must not have been bright
To keep foods that they knew had long lost their delight
HM did not think she should clean out it all
When others' chore tallies were hideously small
I alone possess that innate talent for determining the unwritten expiration date of unmarked foodstuffs. Farmer H would eat leftover barbecue for two weeks, or until it grew a furry green coat. The #1 son once called me to ask if he could still make a bologna sandwich for his lunch, because there was just one green spot on the top slice. And The Pony never opens Frig, because he only eats three foods, none of which reside inside a refrigerator. The demand for industrial diamonds could lessen if only Farmer H would find a way to market that single piece of pizza he leaves in the whole box jammed into Frig's upper palate. Yes. It's that hard. I'm surprised the dogs are not in need of dental implants after breaking off their very canines trying to ingest petrified pizza.
The dogs love shopping day. Not because we buy them treats. But because they are the benefactors of Frig's indigestion. If not for me sorting through the remnants, my guys would soon turn our kitchen into an episode of Hoarders. They would be the ones declaring, "Huh...March 2011? It doesn't smell bad. There's no mold on it. I thought I might use it one of these days."
Don't get me started on the milk (which HM does not drink) that begins to grow chunks. How unable-to-make-a-decision do you have to be to take it out, smell it, declare, "That's no good," and put it back in Frig?
Somebody needs a rap across the big ol' bear paws with a wooden spoon.
Monday, May 27, 2013
Like A Leopard Cannot Change Its Spots
My sweet dog Juno is a little imp. She thinks I can't see her when she shoots into the garage as I open the door while piloting T-Hoe down the driveway. She scampers in and runs to the front, where she grabs a mouthful of dry cat food from the large roasting pan that feeds the felines. She disappears as soon as she chomps on that clandestine bite. Or so she thinks.
Cars have windows, you know. I see her enter. The garage door tells me she's leaving. I press the opener, in this case the closer, and it starts its descent. BUT THEN IT STOPS! And starts back up. That means a toddler, of which we have zero, or a cat or dog, of which we have seven, has ventured under the door while it is going down. Some kind of extra-smart sensor prevents a catastrophe. Or a toddlostrophe. Or in this case, a dogostrophe.
Silly Juno. She must be rolling under that door, reaching back for her fedora at the last minute like Indiana Jones. Little does she know her secret is out. Surely she realizes this behavior is frowned on. Why else would she scoot around to the front of the garage, to the people door where I will come out, smiling with her border collie genes, twinkling her hazel eyes, panting like her mouth did not just chew up cat food a few seconds earlier?
A couple of times I've caught her red-tongued. Trapped her in the garage by shutting the door as soon as T-Hoe clears the entry portal. Then Juno stands by the people door. Acting like she just ran in to see me. Even though I can see her chewing. I must admit that I barely chastise her. Hardly a "tsk tsk" escapes my lips.
Female dogs will be female dogs.
Cars have windows, you know. I see her enter. The garage door tells me she's leaving. I press the opener, in this case the closer, and it starts its descent. BUT THEN IT STOPS! And starts back up. That means a toddler, of which we have zero, or a cat or dog, of which we have seven, has ventured under the door while it is going down. Some kind of extra-smart sensor prevents a catastrophe. Or a toddlostrophe. Or in this case, a dogostrophe.
Silly Juno. She must be rolling under that door, reaching back for her fedora at the last minute like Indiana Jones. Little does she know her secret is out. Surely she realizes this behavior is frowned on. Why else would she scoot around to the front of the garage, to the people door where I will come out, smiling with her border collie genes, twinkling her hazel eyes, panting like her mouth did not just chew up cat food a few seconds earlier?
A couple of times I've caught her red-tongued. Trapped her in the garage by shutting the door as soon as T-Hoe clears the entry portal. Then Juno stands by the people door. Acting like she just ran in to see me. Even though I can see her chewing. I must admit that I barely chastise her. Hardly a "tsk tsk" escapes my lips.
Female dogs will be female dogs.
Sunday, May 26, 2013
The Week After, And Still Nothing To Show For It
Farmer H is a-grillin' on the back porch. The Pony is a-chillin' on the basement couch. The #1 son is a-millin' around at a graduation party for a classmate. And Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is a-willin' a story to jump fully-formed from the three fragments she has saved in her documents file. Let's just say that three of the four Hillbilly family -illin's have been successful in their endeavors.
Life seriously gets in the way of living. The best intentions are frittered away piecemeal, a laundry load here, a sink of dishes there, a trip to town for the requisite 44 oz Diet Coke, forty-five minutes of prepping vegetables to go with the barbecue, an interlude of Arrested Development with a college-bound boy who will not lay on the couch this way again.
I am in dire need of a cast-iron summer schedule starting next week. An allotted time for everything, and everything done in its allotted time.
The first thing penciled in will be the Diet Coke procurement run.
Life seriously gets in the way of living. The best intentions are frittered away piecemeal, a laundry load here, a sink of dishes there, a trip to town for the requisite 44 oz Diet Coke, forty-five minutes of prepping vegetables to go with the barbecue, an interlude of Arrested Development with a college-bound boy who will not lay on the couch this way again.
I am in dire need of a cast-iron summer schedule starting next week. An allotted time for everything, and everything done in its allotted time.
The first thing penciled in will be the Diet Coke procurement run.
Saturday, May 25, 2013
Even The Elderly Are Tethered To Technology
I called my mom to check in this morning. Because she's been worried about me, of course. That Farmer H breather-borne virus that kicked my butt for two weeks near the end of school, then moved its greeny-gray tendrils straight to my sinuses for another ten days, has apparently taken up residence in my right ear. I suspect it was making me feverish, thus the five days of sweltering I endured at 74 degrees. Shh...I turned it down to 73 for a couple of nights, just to be able to sleep. Now I am unsteady, with varying degrees of dizziness throughout the day. When I lay my head down to sleep, the whole room spins! So it must be in my inner ear.
But enough about me. Mom was having a much worse day. At only 8:45 a.m.! Of course she asked about me first. She's selfless like that. When she snatched the phone up before the second ring, I feared that something was amiss.
"Were you asleep?"
"Oh, no! I'm just sitting here with nothing to do. My cable went off during the Cardinals game last night. And your nephew came out to leave a graduation card for #1, and found out I had a computer virus."
"What do you mean, HE found out you had a computer virus?"
"It was before the Cardinals game. We were looking up something about the Cardinals. The computer wasn't even on. He sat down, and said, 'Hey, Grandma! You have a virus. And it says something about child pr0n.' Goodness! That had me worried."
"Funny how that popped up when he was there."
"I was standing right behind him. I saw it. My FoxFire doesn't come up. Just that box saying I have a virus, and child pr0n."
"Have you been clicking on pop ups? Or opening emails from people you don't know?"
"Oh, no! I always put them straight in the wastebasket."
"It's probably an ad that wants you to buy a virus program. Was it McAfee? Or Norton? They're the two big ones. I get one from McAfee all the time."
"No...that doesn't sound familiar. But it did say it would cost $99.00."
"That's it. You clicked on it and it gave you a virus. There was no child pr0n. It just wanted you to panic and try to get rid of it, and make you click."
"Well, I figure I'll have to get a new computer."
"No you won't. The #1 son can fix that. Even if he has to wipe your hard drive and start over. It will be fine. I'll tell him when he gets up."
"Oh, that would be great. I'll pay him five dollars."
"You don't have to do that. But it will almost pay for his gas to town."
"Well, I can give him more."
"You don't have to give him anything. You've given him enough. And you were just thinking you needed a whole new computer."
"I'm relieved it can be fixed. I'm just sitting here. I called the cable, and the girl told me a lot of people are out. She said they are working on it, and asked if I wanted her to call me when it's back on. So I said yes. No need to keep turning it on and being disappointed. I've been listening to KMOX radio since last night when I wanted to hear how the game ended."
"Don't you have anything to read?"
"Oh! I could read some more about Regis in his book you gave me for Christmas."
"Or some of the Entertainment Weekly magazines I sent."
"Yes, that's right. I have plenty I can do."
The #1 son got up around 9:00. He grudgingly said he'd go see if he could get Grandma back online. Even though Farmer H had his truck, putting new tires on it, and he'd have to drive the $1000 Caravan. I called my mom back to tell her the good news.
"Is he on his way now? Will he be here any minute?"
"Well, he grabbed the keys, but he doesn't have shoes on yet. It will be at least 20 minutes."
"Okay. I'll be looking for him."
I called back around 10:00 to see if her problem was fixed. Again, she snatched up that phone like a new mother with a crying infant.
"Did he fix it?"
"Yes. Just now. I haven't been on it yet, but he's got it working again. I thought maybe you were the cable girl, telling my my cable is back on."
"I'll quit calling so I don't get your hopes up. You know, you could just turn your TV on every now and then, instead of waiting by the phone. She may not call. What if everybody said they wanted a phone call? You may be way down on the list."
"Well, I guess I could try that. But she said she would call."
We hung up. Five minutes later, my phone rang. Mom was laughing.
"You're not going to believe this! My cable was ON! You were right. I don't know how long it's been fixed, but I was waiting for that phone call."
"I'm glad you can get on with your day now."
"Yes. I'm going to town."
Thank the Gummi Mary, Mom was done waiting, so she could go to town.
But enough about me. Mom was having a much worse day. At only 8:45 a.m.! Of course she asked about me first. She's selfless like that. When she snatched the phone up before the second ring, I feared that something was amiss.
"Were you asleep?"
"Oh, no! I'm just sitting here with nothing to do. My cable went off during the Cardinals game last night. And your nephew came out to leave a graduation card for #1, and found out I had a computer virus."
"What do you mean, HE found out you had a computer virus?"
"It was before the Cardinals game. We were looking up something about the Cardinals. The computer wasn't even on. He sat down, and said, 'Hey, Grandma! You have a virus. And it says something about child pr0n.' Goodness! That had me worried."
"Funny how that popped up when he was there."
"I was standing right behind him. I saw it. My FoxFire doesn't come up. Just that box saying I have a virus, and child pr0n."
"Have you been clicking on pop ups? Or opening emails from people you don't know?"
"Oh, no! I always put them straight in the wastebasket."
"It's probably an ad that wants you to buy a virus program. Was it McAfee? Or Norton? They're the two big ones. I get one from McAfee all the time."
"No...that doesn't sound familiar. But it did say it would cost $99.00."
"That's it. You clicked on it and it gave you a virus. There was no child pr0n. It just wanted you to panic and try to get rid of it, and make you click."
"Well, I figure I'll have to get a new computer."
"No you won't. The #1 son can fix that. Even if he has to wipe your hard drive and start over. It will be fine. I'll tell him when he gets up."
"Oh, that would be great. I'll pay him five dollars."
"You don't have to do that. But it will almost pay for his gas to town."
"Well, I can give him more."
"You don't have to give him anything. You've given him enough. And you were just thinking you needed a whole new computer."
"I'm relieved it can be fixed. I'm just sitting here. I called the cable, and the girl told me a lot of people are out. She said they are working on it, and asked if I wanted her to call me when it's back on. So I said yes. No need to keep turning it on and being disappointed. I've been listening to KMOX radio since last night when I wanted to hear how the game ended."
"Don't you have anything to read?"
"Oh! I could read some more about Regis in his book you gave me for Christmas."
"Or some of the Entertainment Weekly magazines I sent."
"Yes, that's right. I have plenty I can do."
The #1 son got up around 9:00. He grudgingly said he'd go see if he could get Grandma back online. Even though Farmer H had his truck, putting new tires on it, and he'd have to drive the $1000 Caravan. I called my mom back to tell her the good news.
"Is he on his way now? Will he be here any minute?"
"Well, he grabbed the keys, but he doesn't have shoes on yet. It will be at least 20 minutes."
"Okay. I'll be looking for him."
I called back around 10:00 to see if her problem was fixed. Again, she snatched up that phone like a new mother with a crying infant.
"Did he fix it?"
"Yes. Just now. I haven't been on it yet, but he's got it working again. I thought maybe you were the cable girl, telling my my cable is back on."
"I'll quit calling so I don't get your hopes up. You know, you could just turn your TV on every now and then, instead of waiting by the phone. She may not call. What if everybody said they wanted a phone call? You may be way down on the list."
"Well, I guess I could try that. But she said she would call."
We hung up. Five minutes later, my phone rang. Mom was laughing.
"You're not going to believe this! My cable was ON! You were right. I don't know how long it's been fixed, but I was waiting for that phone call."
"I'm glad you can get on with your day now."
"Yes. I'm going to town."
Thank the Gummi Mary, Mom was done waiting, so she could go to town.
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