Not The Best Way To Go. EmBARRASSing, In Fact.

It is no secret that Mrs. Hillbilly Mom enjoys a tasty plate of super nachos for lunch every day. Super nachos made by her own hand, taking 30 minutes of preparation originally, which she has now cut down to only 20. With the chips on the side, so they don't become soggy.

7 chips
half a bag of shredded lettuce
4 tbsp queso sauce
4 oz shredded chicken breast
6 tbsp medium salsa
1 small diced onion
1/2 small can black olive slices

CAUTION: there's enough sodium in there to attract a herd of cattle away from their salt lick

Anyhoo...the summer (oh, who are we kidding here, the REST OF MRS. HM'S LIFE) lunch routine involves a trip to the gas station chicken store for a 44 oz Diet Coke, the construction of the super nachos, and an afternoon of dining and drinking with lunch companion New Delly. The Pony acts as waiter, transporting beverages from kitchen to dark basement lair.

A curious side effect of this favored repast is an almost daily bout of...um...shall we put it delicately...uh...indisposedness. I know. SHOCKING! But don't you worry about the air quality in the Mansion. Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is prepared. On the glass top of her college stereo (I'm sure you're all old enough to know what that is), crowding out a large box of wooden matches, perches a collection of candles. Tall candles, short candles, slim candles, fat candles. All in glass holders. Mrs. HM has no shortage of candles, accumulated over the years from Christmases past. A candle is to Mrs. HM's Christmas as a necktie is to a dad's Father's Day. Honeysuckle, Peaches and Cream, Apples and Berries, Sunwashed Poppy, Garden Rain, Peaceful Waters, Rustic Retreat, Pine, Creamy Tahitian Coconut, Sugar Cookie. It's like George and Jerry listing the pies while anticipating a trip to the Bubble Boy's neck of the woods.

It was The Pony who first came up with the idea to light a candle each day. I don't know WHAT he was getting at. But it got to the point that every afternoon, when I left my dark basement lair to visit the NASCAR bathroom next door (to my dark basement lair, of course, not the neighbor's house, which would be pretty impressive, though, holding it until I walked a half mile to stink up somebody else's house), The Pony would say, "Should I light a candle?" And now he jumps up off his gaming couch and trots over there like Secretariat out of the starting gate as soon as he hears me roll my rolly chair back from New Delly.

Let the record show that The Pony is not the most graceful steed in the stable. If he were a fictional equine, he would be more akin to Mary O'hara's Thunderhead than to Flicka's sweet little filly Touch 'n' Go. Only last evening, he said he would "help me" by putting away a just-opened bottle of BBQ sauce, and knocked it over on the kitchen counter, spraying blobs onto the floor.

On Sunday afternoon, I was feeling sated and hydrated, having consumed my tasty super nachos and 22 oz of Diet Coke. Then my stomach began to rumble like Greasers and Socs in the park in unnamed Tulsa, and Sharks and Jets under a highway on the Upper West Side. I pushed back my rolly chair and rounded the corner to the NASCAR bathroom. The Pony was already at the stereo, about equidistant from my lair and his couch.

"Which one should I light today?"

"I don't really care."

I proceeded to do my business, but no sooner had I plopped my ample cheeks upon the throne than I heard a CLINK!

"WHAT WAS THAT? Sweet Gummi Mary! Do NOT burn this house down around me while I'm on the toilet!"

I wonder if I could get a homeowner's insurance discount when The Pony is farmed off to college...