There Are Tooters, There Are Darn Tooters, And There Are Explosive Diarrhears

No. Mrs. Hillbilly Mom ain't braggin'.

Let the record show that she created the most exquisite seven-layer-salad ever whipped up in a Hillbilly Mansion for the Thanksgiving feast. Here's the evidence:

Okay. So that's not the ACTUAL Thanksgiving seven-layer-salad. That's the seven-layer-salad made three days after Thanksgiving. Because the original was just SO good!

Let the record further show that you may not count exactly seven layers in this delicious salad. That's because of the lighting. Yeah. Perhaps not. Mrs. HM took some liberties with her seven-layer-salad. So it might have nine layers. But it has seven ingredients! Even if the boiled eggs were put in two different layers, and the peas, too. Oh, and maybe Mrs. HM didn't concentrate so much on getting an even spread of each layer all the way to the edge of the bowl. Because a salad is for eating, right? Not for admiring. It's not like that salad is going to be around long enough to hang in an art gallery. This one barely escaped the fork long enough to have this picture snapped.

Mmm. Seven-layer-salad.

You know the thing with seven-layer-salads? They have a lot of peas. Normally, Mrs. HM hates peas. That's because her daddy made her sit at the kitchen table in their trailer-house when she was only a little future Mrs. Hillbilly Mom, sit at that kitchen table in the dark, even after the opening audience questions from the Carol Burnett show, until she ate all of the peas on her plate from supper at 5:00. She just really didn't like peas. And you know what? They taste even worse after they've been cooling on your plate for four hours.

Anyhoo...Mrs. HM can only stand peas if they're cold and fresh, like in a seven-layer-salad. Or if they're cooked inside a pot pie. And funny thing is, Mrs. HM also made a turkey pot pie with her leftover bird. So for supper last night (and tonight) she and Farmer H enjoyed a double dose of peas. When they normally go for 11 months or more without eating any peas at all.

Perhaps Mrs. Hillbilly Mom and Farmer H should tear a page out of The Pony's first-day-of-school playbook...when he wore two pairs of underwear.

Which is a whole 'nother story.

At The Hillbilly Mansion, We Play More Jenga Before 6:00 A.M. Than Most People Play All Day

Behold, in all its glory, the wastebasket under the kitchen counter where Mrs. Hillbilly Mom’s dishwasher would go IF she had a dishwasher. Uh huh.

The house was prepared for a dishwasher when Farmer H built it. The plumbing is in place. Yet 17 years after move-in, the Mansion is still without a dishwasher. Except through the courtesy of Mrs. HM’s two hands, that is. I suppose Farmer H does not see the need for such a contraption, since he never lacks for surfaces upon which to feed from, or utensils to grasp with his meat hooks to shovel tasty tidbits into his pie hole.

The trash is not Mrs. Hillbilly Mom’s responsibility. Not in the basket, not on the floor, not in T-Hoe. Because, you see, if it WAS her duty, you would NOT see such a Mount Trashyfest gracing the Mansion kitchen, perhaps tempting mountain climbers to scale its lofty heights. Woe would be those who nearly perished crossing the Discarded Sock Face, or, who, but for a well-placed crampon, would have slid off the Strawberry Water Plastic Field. Not such a great view for those who reached the summit. However…if they desired a Nature Valley granola bar, they could have tossed their wrappers down into the paper plate crevasses of Mount Trashyfest.

No, trash is not Mrs. HM’s responsibility. It was first the duty of the #1 son. When he absconded for college, trash was passed down to The Pony. He usually remembers to take it to the end of the driveway by Thursday morning at 7:00. But sometimes he must be reminded to take it out. It’s not deliberate denial as with #1.

On Thursday, Farmer H took it upon himself to take the dumpster to the end of the driveway. I have no idea why it had to be done at 9:00 a.m. Trash pickup was going to be a day late because of the holiday. As you may remember, Thursday was Thanksgiving. Mrs. Hillbilly Mom was makin’ trash all day, in preparations for the 5:00 o'clock feast. So helpful was Farmer H with this unexpected task that he bought himself TWO more trips up to the end of the driveway to add two more trash bags to the dumpster. Silly Farmer.

At least he rode up there three times in his Gator. It's not like he was getting any exercise.

The Bad, The Good, The Promising, And The Ugly

Never enough time to shop for the Thanksgiving meal, prepare it, pack up leftovers, wash dishes, use leftovers, wash containers, cook a new meal from the leftovers...

WHERE HAS MY FOUR-DAY WEEKEND GONE?

Let's not even talk about my five-day weekend. Jury duty was canceled for Monday. CANCELED! Which I found out Wednesday afternoon at the stroke of 4:00. Necessitating a call to my secretary so she could call my sub so she can enjoy her five-day weekend! Oh, and let's not dwell on the fact that it took me 30 minutes to figure out how to text a colleague who had agreed to trade parking lot duties with me for Monday.

In other news, Mrs. Hillbilly Mom has dipped her great toe into the stream of holiday shopping this evening. More to do, even from a list, but time is sorely lacking. She might be able to scam a few bargains tomorrow on cyber Monday, but not as many as if she had been OFF FOR JURY DUTY and not chosen. A fifty minute planning period is not a lot of time for strolling the virtual aisles to choose just the right gift for each person.

One good blip on Mrs. HM's radar was the statement from the #1 son's college. It is supposed to come on the 25th of each month, but showed up yesterday in her inbox. Seems that the Hillbilly family owes a grand total of -$5,342.67 for Spring 2016! Uh huh. #1 is doing an internship or some such -ship where he works and gets credit for the semester. So we are wondering if his scholarship money will apply to the following semester, or will be issued in check form as previous overages. Such a problem to have.

The Pony is applying for a scholarship that needs lots of documentation and a letter from his counselor. In true Pony fashion (of the past year), the deadline is Friday. He has his parts done, but must rush the counselor's office first thing tomorrow. AND he needs copies of any time he has had newspaper articles written about him. The problem there is that it's limited to 10 pages. But they can be front and back! AND the whole packet needs to be dropped off at a local establishment for the scholarship sponsor. Which is a kind of bar setting. Hope Mrs. Hillbilly Mom and The Pony don't make the front page in this endeavor!

Farmer H volunteered to make the assault on The Devil's Playground this morning. Remembering how much extra work his help usually costs her, Mrs. HM politely declined the offer. He DID rinse out the bowl from the 7-layer salad without permission and without warning. A fact discovered by Mrs. HM when she returned from dealing with the Devil and discovered her sink was clogged with particles of lettuce and green onion. AND Farmer H determined over the course of the afternoon that his creekside cabin has a leak in the roof, as does one of his shanties, the Fishing Lair. He assumes it is just a leak through a nail hole on the roof of each structure. But you know what happens when we assume. I don't know how to lock up my retirement nest egg rocks so Farmer H doesn't sell them out from under me to make repairs.

Even Steven gets me comin' and goin', folks.

How Farmer H Goes About Impressing An Impressionable Guest

Thanksgiving dinner was to be an event during which the Hillbilly family put their best foot forward.

It was the first such holiday meal hostessed by Mrs. Hillbilly Mom. The #1 son was bringing along a friend from college. We picked up some clutter. Farmer H vacuumed and mopped and dusted. Probably in that order, unfortunately. Because every time I opened the microwave door (with TWO round drawer-pull handles!) I was rewarded with a bevy of dust bunnies raining from above. I figure Farmer H used that telescoping-handle round brushy duster, no Lemon Pledge, and swiped at the decorative rail along the top of cabinets. Thank the Gummi Mary, I did enough opening and closing to harvest all those bunnies so that none hopped into the food I had set out buffet style on top of the stove.

#1 said he would rather we used real dishes and glasses rather than Styrofoam trays and red Solo cups. I even bought napkins. Paper, sure. But we don't exactly have the linen kind with fancy carved holders. And still better than a select-a-size paper towel.

You might see where this is heading already...

It's not like we don our gay apparel and dine all formal-like. No suits and ties. No dresses. The Pony was in shorts and Adidas slides. But they were zip-fly, plaid shorts, with a navy blue collared polo shirt. It's not like he was in mesh athletic shorts and a t-shirt with the sleeves cut out. Farmer H, however, had been better-dressed for the opening night of the annual holiday basketball tournament than what he wore to the dinner table.

I looked up to see Farmer H uncapping those four two-liter soda bottles, and noticed his attire. "Um. What's that on your t-shirt?"

"I don't know. Water, maybe. From carrying the sodas."

"You drove them from your BARn refrigerator in the Gator. I don't know where water would have come from."

"I don't know then."

"You look like a bum who just rolled out of the gutter." Let the record show that Farmer H had on jeans and a cream-colored t-shirt with some kind of logo in red on the left side of his chest. I think the shirt was actually supposed to be cream-colored. I hope so. And there were splotches that looked wet from the chest area to his belly.

"Whatever."

As we sat down to eat, I saw with horror that Friend was using a select-a-size paper towel to wipe his mouth.

"Um. I thought The Pony gave everybody a napkin when he set the table." I turned to my right to glare at The Pony."

"I DID!"

"Oh, I gave him that. I didn't know if you wanted us to use these." #1 pointed to the triangle-folded napkin under his knife and spoon. Stop it. We're not exactly the Vanderbilts.

"That's okay. I have a whole package. Right there on the stool under the cuckoo clock."

Somehow, between talking of Friend's family and how the only embarrassing thing they could say about him was that he rolls his napkin (and perhaps select-a-size paper towel) up in a ball...and truly embarrassing tales of #1's childhood antics...talk turned to strip clubs. Okay. So perhaps I was the one who brought it up. All I remember is that we were talking about embarrassing things involving faculty and pupils.

"Remember that strip club out here on the highway? You won't, #1, because you weren't born yet. But your dad went there one time with a guy from our apartment complex. And some teachers went there, and were trying to go unnoticed, when a pupil who was a senior came strutting out to do her pole dance! They got out of there as quick as they could. They figured they wouldn't say anything about her, and she wouldn't say anything about them. It was not a classy place."

"It was a hole in the wall! Not like the Playboy Club. They had one of them at South County. Did you know that, #1?"

"No. How would I know that?"

"I knew that. When I was a kid and we went to the mall, we drove past it."

"Yeah. There's a Toys'R'Us there now." Farmer H is a keeper of history.

"Huh. It's gone downhill, then."

"Pony!"

"Well, it has!"

"I remember going there with my buddy. You had to have a key, and he had one."

#1 looked at me, eyebrow raised. I nodded. Now we were going to hear about Farmer H's Playboy Club experience. No stopping that train once it's left the station.

"Yeah, we went in and sat down at a table. I was really impressed. It was nice. And I noticed they had laid out candy for us. I was thinking, 'This is classy.' I picked up that piece of candy and peeled off the wrapper and took a bite. That's when I realized that it was butter. But I had to act like I knew what I was doing, so I ate the whole thing."

I'm pretty sure Friend will remember this Thanksgiving dinner for a long time.

This Is Why We Do Not Buy Soda In Two-Liter Bottles

Oh, dear.

Just as all the dishes were being set out for buffet-style Thanksgiving feasting, I announced that the feeders could get their beverages. The Mansion is not a full-service restaurant, you know. I will commend the four dudes for not stampeding like they were running with the bulls in Pamplona. No elbows were thrown, in spite of the dangerously high level of testosterone filling the kitchen.

A raggedy line was formed in front of Frig II, to fill up with ice. I had assigned that duty to The Pony, but the #1 son and his college friend must have felt sorry for him, or else did not want his hands on their glasses. So the three guys were icing up, and I was setting out the last-minute deviled eggs and veggie/dip tray and seven-layer salad when I heard it.

PSSSST...PSSSST....PSSSST...PSS--

"WHAT ARE YOU DOING?"

That was not a rhetorical question. Farmer H was standing across the kitchen counter from me, opening the two-liter bottles of soda. ALL FOUR OF THEM!

The #1 son caught my eye and rolled his. The Pony snorted. Friend looked uncomfortable.

"I'm opening the soda, HM. So we can pour it."

"Do you really think you need to open all four bottles? Maybe we're not going to drink every kind." Sweet Gummi Mary! You'd think we were ten-year-olds at CiCi's Pizza making suicides.

"There's nothing wrong with opening them."

"They'll go flat."

"They won't go flat. There. I'll drink the Diet Mountain Dew. I like Diet Mountain Dew."

"I know. You drink it all the time. So why did you open the Diet A&W Root Beer?"

"I didn't. I stopped."

"Yeah, Mom. He stopped." I really didn't need #1 taking sides. Unless he was on MY side.

"Then why is it all foamy on top?"

"Let me check the lid. Yep. He opened it all right."

"That doesn't matter, HM. I'll drink it. And it doesn't have to be cold." The look on the other four of us did not seem to matter.

"Uh huh. Just so you know, I caught him keeping a bottle of real Coke, which he's not supposed to have, sitting on the floor under the window. It had been there since Christmas at Grandma's house. And it was about 1/3 full."

"I can't believe he said he wants the Sprite left over to mix with his bourbon. That's just wrong."

"He doesn't have bourbon! He has that Jack Daniels that I bought him in the gift box with the honeybee flask."

"At our college house, we bought 10-year-old bourbon that came with glasses."

"Says the expert who drinks his margaritas out of a tumbler."

"Anyway, you don't mix whiskey with Sprite."

"Especially when you're not even supposed to have the Sprite!"

Yeah. Farmer H was taking liberties with the two-liters. At least no alcohol made an appearance.

That I know of.

Mrs. Hillbilly Mom Needs A Hidden Camera

Sweet Gummi Mary! If Mrs. Hillbilly Mom didn’t know better, she would swear that the ghost of Cus has returned to haunt her classroom! Except for the fact that Cus is very much alive, and working at Basementia. No moonlighting for Cus.

Between the time Mrs. HM left her room at 3:30 on Friday, and returned at 7:30 a.m. on Monday…a 32 oz. foam cup of once-carbonated cola-looking beverage from McDonald’s found its way into her wastebasket, along with a used paper plate, and a strip of blue cellophane packaging.

Here’s the thing. Mrs. HM did not put that trash there. All the other trash of the day, such as used Puffs With Lotion and discarded graded papers that Mrs. HM’s students are not wont to hang on their very own Frig IIs, was gone. So obviously, the trash had been dumped at the end of the day Friday.

In addition, the back row of desks was off by half a tile. That’s right. Moved too far back by half a tile. They are always aligned on the tile seams, you know. If the last class of the day is remiss in doing so, The Pony straightens them. Very strange. All aligned, but on the wrong crack.

What could possibly explain such phenomena? Obviously, somebody with a master key was inside the perimeter. Doubtful that it was a custodian’s child. A custodian would not leave trash after dumping. They are resentful if they clean a room at the end of sixth period, and then seventh period students dare to throw anything away. And what about the desks? It was obviously an insider. One, perhaps, with a group of students, one of whom clamored that Mrs. Hillbilly Mom would freak out if the desks were not aligned properly.

All that comes to mind is the cheeryellers. They decorated the building before Monday morning. Perhaps Mrs. HM’s room was used as a staging area. It IS closest to the gym and cafeteria.

Still. Nobody is putting anything over on Mrs. Hillbilly Mom.

My Arm Is Kind Of Sore From Grabbing That Climbing-In Handle By T-Hoe's Shotgun Seat

We had to stop by The Devil’s Playground on Tuesday afternoon for some last-minute feast preparation items. Let the record show that The Pony has been volunteering to drive lately. Must have something to do with wanting to escape my clutches and attend college. Even though he was set to take the wheel last Friday, and changed his mind as we walked out of the school building to T-Hoe. As we exited the Playground, The Pony again volunteered.

“Okay. Do you want me to get you off the lot? They’re kind of busy today.”

“Yeah. It’s hard for me to back out.”

“Me too, with that backup beeper broken for a year and a half now.”

So…I wove through the wayward walkers, jammed on the brakes for the pull-out people, and swung T-Hoe into the old Sonic driveway to switch over. The Pony did not want to adjust the seat. I have it all the way back. Farmer H pulls it forward until his belly butts up against the wheel. We have the controls set for each of us.

“Go ahead, Pony. You can move the seat closer. It will go right back when I push my button.”

“No. I’ll hunch forward anyway. It’s fine. Now let me see where everything is. Blinker. Mirrors. Okay. I’m ready.”

Let the record show that T-Hoe is a large SUV. Bigger than The Pony’s little Ford Ranger. Bigger than the Chevy Blazer that Farmer H took over from my mom. So The Pony was really out of his comfort zone with all those horses under the hood. He has driven me twice before. Maybe once.

Upon making a left from the Sonic lot onto the outer road, The Pony gassed T-Hoe aggressively. Even though he does not like to drive fast.

“Watch it there.”

“Yeah. I’m just getting used to this car.”

“The speed limit is 30 along here. Um. Twenty is fine.”

“Uh huh. And after the bridge here, it’s 45. Okay. That guy is on his own side.”

We tooled along at 30 mph. Slower up the hills.

“Okay. Watch your speed here. We’re starting downhill. PUT YOUR FOOT ON THE BRAKE! This curve will eat you up.”

“It’s on the brake. I’ve got it.”

We made it to the new section of road behind the high school where The Pony would attend if I didn’t bring him to Newmentia with me.

“The speed limit here it 30.”

“I know.”

“You don’t have to go 20. It’s straight. A smooth road.”

“Yes. But there’s a tailgater behind me, and I’m teaching him a lesson.”

“Do as I say, not as I do. I at least go the speed limit when I teach people a lesson.”

“Okay.”

“Here’s the roundabout. Do you know what to watch for?”

“Uh huh.”

“I guess that guy went on around?”

“No. He’s still behind us.”

“Wishing he was never born, I imagine.”

We made it past the prison. Across the bridge over the big river.

“Hey! They patched that deep hole today. Great timing. You didn’t have to swerve or knock a tire off the rim. Good. You have your signal on. Slow down a little! Now, make your turn. WHOA! Hit the brake!”

“I was just turning like you said.”

“You know you can use your brake during a turn…”

“Oh. Good to know.”

“Seriously. You didn’t know that?”

“I did not. Is that why you keep grabbing the OH-BEEP handle?”

“Heh, heh. Well…kind of. It just takes practice. You’ll get the hang of it.”

Maybe his dad needs to spend more time with this driving practice.