Perhaps I've mentioned that The Pony prefers to ride in the T-Hoe seat behind me. None of that front-seat business for him. At first, I thought he was simply avoiding conflict with the #1 son over who got to ride beside me. Silly me. I'm not THAT much in demand as a traveling companion. Even when #1 was stuck with me as his hauler, he jammed in his earphones and pretended that he couldn't hear me. Until The Pony and I grew complacent, and let slip a few disparaging remarks concerning the #1 who can't be mocked.
These days, it's mostly just The Pony and me tooling down the back roads. And he still insists on riding behind me. I suppose it's to discourage conversation. I'm sure it's not a subtle comment on my driving style.
This afternoon we were almost home. The Pony had just picked up the mail. I heard a guttural utter, then a loud, long SNIFF. Because The Pony is not a cocaine addict, nor an eight-year-old in the throes of a head cold, I knew something was up.
"Did you just expel some gas?"
"Nooooo."
"Then what's that sniffing all about? It sounds like you farted, and you're trying to get a whiff. Or suck it all in through your nostrils before I notice."
"Nooooo...I'm trying to get in a good breath before I start to smell it. Ooh! Too late!"
"I'm not even breathing through my nose. I'm letting it out." I rolled down my window, and the opposite window in the back seat. Trying to create a cross flow to blow the smell out.
"Hey! It's gone. You can roll up the windows now."
"I don't think so. You might be trying to trick me. Just because it's gone back there doesn't mean that it hasn't climbed into the front seat with me. It's probably riding shotgun right now. Waiting to switch the radio station when I'm preoccupied with keeping this thing wheel-side down. Hey! It's HOT out there. I'm taking my chances." I rolled up the windows to enjoy my 68-degree air conditioning.
But I still didn't breathe through my nose.
Friday, September 7, 2012
Thursday, September 6, 2012
The Strange Case Of TMI and TLI
You think you know your offspring...
For the first time since he started driving to school, the #1 son popped into my room after the final bell. He needed to kill some time until the baseball game, where he was supposed to take pictures for the yearbook. Within five minutes, the game was cancelled due to a big ol' lightning and wind storm on the radar.
I asked #1 if he would stop by the Dollar Store and pick up some Drano for me on his way home. He takes a faster route. I had another stop to make, and I wanted us both home before that storm made its way to the Mansion. You'd think a kid could pick up some Drano. Or simply say, "I don't feel like running your errands." But no. My kid had a detailed reason to decline.
"I can't buy Drano! I'm not 18 yet."
"Funny how they never card me when I buy Drano."
"They won't sell it to me. You can make meth out of Drano."
Now I've heard it all. I know they watch the watchamacallit in cold and sinus pills. That The Devil moved them behind the pharmacy counter and narcs out anybody who tries to buy too much. But Drano is a new one. The last time I checked, it was still on the shelf by the toilet cleaner. But the bigger question here is how does #1 know the ingredient list for the meth recipe? My only consolation is that a kid who tries to sleep twenty hours a day is not using meth. And has precious little time to run a business. Oh, and he's always begging for money. So he's not yet using his powers for evil.
The Pony also surprised me this afternoon. We hustled out to T-Hoe when the first fat raindrops started to fall. I asked The Pony to show me where there's a penny ensconced in the blacktop of the parking lot. He told me about it two days ago, but in all these years of parking in the same spot, I've never seen it.
"Here it is, Mom."
"I never would have seen that. It might be a dime."
"No. It's a penny. I saw the Temple of Lincoln."
Sweet Gummi Mary! What are they teaching my boys in history class? The Temple of Lincoln, indeed! The Pony can spout out all means of statistics on the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World, Greek and Roman history and mythology, Egyptian pharaohs, and Mayan civilization...but he thinks we built a temple for Lincoln?
The village really needs to put forth a more concerted effort in the raising of my children.
For the first time since he started driving to school, the #1 son popped into my room after the final bell. He needed to kill some time until the baseball game, where he was supposed to take pictures for the yearbook. Within five minutes, the game was cancelled due to a big ol' lightning and wind storm on the radar.
I asked #1 if he would stop by the Dollar Store and pick up some Drano for me on his way home. He takes a faster route. I had another stop to make, and I wanted us both home before that storm made its way to the Mansion. You'd think a kid could pick up some Drano. Or simply say, "I don't feel like running your errands." But no. My kid had a detailed reason to decline.
"I can't buy Drano! I'm not 18 yet."
"Funny how they never card me when I buy Drano."
"They won't sell it to me. You can make meth out of Drano."
Now I've heard it all. I know they watch the watchamacallit in cold and sinus pills. That The Devil moved them behind the pharmacy counter and narcs out anybody who tries to buy too much. But Drano is a new one. The last time I checked, it was still on the shelf by the toilet cleaner. But the bigger question here is how does #1 know the ingredient list for the meth recipe? My only consolation is that a kid who tries to sleep twenty hours a day is not using meth. And has precious little time to run a business. Oh, and he's always begging for money. So he's not yet using his powers for evil.
The Pony also surprised me this afternoon. We hustled out to T-Hoe when the first fat raindrops started to fall. I asked The Pony to show me where there's a penny ensconced in the blacktop of the parking lot. He told me about it two days ago, but in all these years of parking in the same spot, I've never seen it.
"Here it is, Mom."
"I never would have seen that. It might be a dime."
"No. It's a penny. I saw the Temple of Lincoln."
Sweet Gummi Mary! What are they teaching my boys in history class? The Temple of Lincoln, indeed! The Pony can spout out all means of statistics on the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World, Greek and Roman history and mythology, Egyptian pharaohs, and Mayan civilization...but he thinks we built a temple for Lincoln?
The village really needs to put forth a more concerted effort in the raising of my children.
Wednesday, September 5, 2012
Round And Round She Goes
I have an issue.
I know you are shaking your head, looking sideways at each other, muttering, "How uncharacteristic of Mrs. Hillbilly Mom to have an issue. It must be the blue moon last month that set her off."
Let me assure you that I did not go looking for an issue. No more than I would go looking for a Harvestman in my basement NASCAR toilet. Issues find me. There I'll be, minding my own old-lady bidness, when here comes an issue careening out of nowhere, bearing down on me with the speed of a hungry lioness on the savanna, just itching to sink its glistening pointy issue teeth into my rumpus. It's a wonder I have enough buttocks left to sit on.
Today the issue found me at the roundabout. Yes. The wizards of the Hillmomban Highway Department decided that in place of the old stoplight that guaranteed Mrs. Hillbilly Mom safe crossing from her road over the interstate, Hillmomba needed a pretzelly, acreage-gobbling exchange to confuse all non-native Hillmombans and torment the regular folks. Access ramps and exit ramps over a half mile long, weaving amongst each other like the strands of a poorly-woven wicker basket, or tufts of hair in a Whoville coiffure. And there are TWO! Two roundabouts which I must navigate daily. FOUR total! I might as well move to Europe.
The thing about a roundabout is that once you're in, you're in. You can drive round and round and never leave. It's a roundabout, see? You can go around as many times as you'd like. It's the Hotel California of roadway interchanges.
The second thing about a roundabout is that in place of jamming on your brakes to come to a halt at an intersection, you have a chance to never stop at all. I know, right? It's like a lottery for your brakes. Just pay attention to the yield signs. Oh, yes. You must yield to any vehicles already coming around the roundabout. They may keep going in front of you, or they may veer off before they get to you. You never know. Because signals are not used in roundabouts. That's what makes them so advanced, I suppose. So progressive.
This afternoon, some dude in a blue uniform shirt thought he could barrel off the exit ramp at 75 mph and not yield. Or stop. I kept going, of course. Because I was in the roundabout. I had the right-of-way. He had a yield sign, after all. Those are legal and binding, aren't they? That dude jammed on his brakes and slid to a stop. His red face complemented his blue uniform shirt. It was either law enforcement or corrections officer.
Those guys really need an outlet for their anger.
I know you are shaking your head, looking sideways at each other, muttering, "How uncharacteristic of Mrs. Hillbilly Mom to have an issue. It must be the blue moon last month that set her off."
Let me assure you that I did not go looking for an issue. No more than I would go looking for a Harvestman in my basement NASCAR toilet. Issues find me. There I'll be, minding my own old-lady bidness, when here comes an issue careening out of nowhere, bearing down on me with the speed of a hungry lioness on the savanna, just itching to sink its glistening pointy issue teeth into my rumpus. It's a wonder I have enough buttocks left to sit on.
Today the issue found me at the roundabout. Yes. The wizards of the Hillmomban Highway Department decided that in place of the old stoplight that guaranteed Mrs. Hillbilly Mom safe crossing from her road over the interstate, Hillmomba needed a pretzelly, acreage-gobbling exchange to confuse all non-native Hillmombans and torment the regular folks. Access ramps and exit ramps over a half mile long, weaving amongst each other like the strands of a poorly-woven wicker basket, or tufts of hair in a Whoville coiffure. And there are TWO! Two roundabouts which I must navigate daily. FOUR total! I might as well move to Europe.
The thing about a roundabout is that once you're in, you're in. You can drive round and round and never leave. It's a roundabout, see? You can go around as many times as you'd like. It's the Hotel California of roadway interchanges.
The second thing about a roundabout is that in place of jamming on your brakes to come to a halt at an intersection, you have a chance to never stop at all. I know, right? It's like a lottery for your brakes. Just pay attention to the yield signs. Oh, yes. You must yield to any vehicles already coming around the roundabout. They may keep going in front of you, or they may veer off before they get to you. You never know. Because signals are not used in roundabouts. That's what makes them so advanced, I suppose. So progressive.
This afternoon, some dude in a blue uniform shirt thought he could barrel off the exit ramp at 75 mph and not yield. Or stop. I kept going, of course. Because I was in the roundabout. I had the right-of-way. He had a yield sign, after all. Those are legal and binding, aren't they? That dude jammed on his brakes and slid to a stop. His red face complemented his blue uniform shirt. It was either law enforcement or corrections officer.
Those guys really need an outlet for their anger.
Tuesday, September 4, 2012
A Perilous Potion
Over the long weekend, I treated myself to three 44 oz. Diet Cokes. Not all at one time, of course. One each day. I jumped right back into the routine. It's like riding a bicycle. You never forget how to enjoy a 44ozDC.
Along with the consumption of this delectable elixir come certain side effects. Alertness. Euphoria. Bladderbloating. Lucky for me, the NASCAR bathroom is right next to my office. A hop and a skip, really. But Monday there was a jump.
I estimate that I was on my third trip across the black-and-white-checkered tiles that so emulate a finish flag. I had just arisen from the throne, my current business done, when I saw my predicament. As I reached for the lever to flush away a portion of my 44ozDC, there was movement just under the rim.
A DADDY LONG-LEGS WAS REACHING OUT TWO LENGTHY LIMBS, FEELING OUT THE SITUATION UP TOP!
My heart fluttered in my throat. Three times, I had plopped my nether regions down on that seat! Three times, but for the grace of Sweet Gummi Mary, Even Steven, and Accumulated Karma, I was seconds and centimeters away from that creepy crawly critter climbing onto my exposed flesh. Please shudder with me at the thought.
It could have been worse, I suppose. Just ask Beulah Balbricker from Porky's II: The Next Day. That poor sweet gym teacher had to contend with a SNAKE in the toilet, put there by Tommy Turner. They had kind of a history, Beulah and Tommy, ever since she grabbed his...but I digress.
The daddy long-legs appearance was my own fault. I had seen him lurking behind the door a few days ago. He wasn't bothering me. Not like some wayward field mouse or slithery centipede making rustling noises in my office. So I let him be. We observed a somewhat shaky truce. He stayed behind the door, and I pretended he was not there. He broke his part of the bargain.
Oh, how he had lured me into a false sense of security. How could a creature called a Harvestman be bad? He doesn't even have venom like his spidery kin. A Harvestman. A hard-working sort, toiling in the fields, wiping the sweat from his brow and red neck with a dripping dark-blue bandana, salt of the earth, just trying to get by, not meaning harm to anyone.
Of course, I doubt you would want a harmless Harvestman peering at you from inside your toilet, either. Especially after you had just exposed your tender parts to him three times. Mr. Harvestman must have sensed my embarrassment. He ducked back inside the indoor outhouse. I forced my shaky legs to carry me back to my keyboard.
The thing with a 44ozDC is that it's a gift that keeps on giving. All to soon, I was rushing back to the varmint hole. I saw Mr. Harvestman take a quick peek. I grabbed two squares of toilet paper and knocked him into the bowl proper. And drowned him with a deluge. One quick flush, and the nightmare was over.
I imagine Mr. Harvestman is doing the backstroke in the septic tank right about now.
Along with the consumption of this delectable elixir come certain side effects. Alertness. Euphoria. Bladderbloating. Lucky for me, the NASCAR bathroom is right next to my office. A hop and a skip, really. But Monday there was a jump.
I estimate that I was on my third trip across the black-and-white-checkered tiles that so emulate a finish flag. I had just arisen from the throne, my current business done, when I saw my predicament. As I reached for the lever to flush away a portion of my 44ozDC, there was movement just under the rim.
A DADDY LONG-LEGS WAS REACHING OUT TWO LENGTHY LIMBS, FEELING OUT THE SITUATION UP TOP!
My heart fluttered in my throat. Three times, I had plopped my nether regions down on that seat! Three times, but for the grace of Sweet Gummi Mary, Even Steven, and Accumulated Karma, I was seconds and centimeters away from that creepy crawly critter climbing onto my exposed flesh. Please shudder with me at the thought.
It could have been worse, I suppose. Just ask Beulah Balbricker from Porky's II: The Next Day. That poor sweet gym teacher had to contend with a SNAKE in the toilet, put there by Tommy Turner. They had kind of a history, Beulah and Tommy, ever since she grabbed his...but I digress.
The daddy long-legs appearance was my own fault. I had seen him lurking behind the door a few days ago. He wasn't bothering me. Not like some wayward field mouse or slithery centipede making rustling noises in my office. So I let him be. We observed a somewhat shaky truce. He stayed behind the door, and I pretended he was not there. He broke his part of the bargain.
Oh, how he had lured me into a false sense of security. How could a creature called a Harvestman be bad? He doesn't even have venom like his spidery kin. A Harvestman. A hard-working sort, toiling in the fields, wiping the sweat from his brow and red neck with a dripping dark-blue bandana, salt of the earth, just trying to get by, not meaning harm to anyone.
Of course, I doubt you would want a harmless Harvestman peering at you from inside your toilet, either. Especially after you had just exposed your tender parts to him three times. Mr. Harvestman must have sensed my embarrassment. He ducked back inside the indoor outhouse. I forced my shaky legs to carry me back to my keyboard.
The thing with a 44ozDC is that it's a gift that keeps on giving. All to soon, I was rushing back to the varmint hole. I saw Mr. Harvestman take a quick peek. I grabbed two squares of toilet paper and knocked him into the bowl proper. And drowned him with a deluge. One quick flush, and the nightmare was over.
I imagine Mr. Harvestman is doing the backstroke in the septic tank right about now.
Monday, September 3, 2012
Killer Chickens Of Hillmomba
I sat down at the big living room window this morning. The one that looks out on the front yard of the Mansion. There's no window seat or furniture arrangement highlighting our eye on the world. It's not like this is the Palace of Versailles. It's the Hillbilly Mansion, for cryin' out loud. Which means that I plopped my ample posterior down on the end of a coffee table with part of the surface peeled away from a sticky-mouse-pad faux pas by the #1 son. Not that this is the preferred seat. It happens to abut my laptop, Sheba, perched upon a wooden TV tray, the better to soak up satellite rays for my Sprint connect card internet dealybobber.
As I logged on to begin my day at 7:30 a.m., I noticed a commotion along the treeline. The treeline previously hidden by the fifth-wheel camper that sat in the front yard for twelve years before we gave it away. Let it not be said that the Hillbilly family is not charitable. These are not the actual woods woods. They're in the back of the Mansion. This is a stand of trees that surround the three sinkholes that run from the Mansion to the road an eighth of a mile away. Perhaps we should have had a geological survey assessment before having Farmer H's friend the sometimes felon frame up the Mansion and get it under roof in two days. Nah. That's what folks with common sense would do.
The commotion was caused by a black half-grown chicken. One of the new batch of sixteen, not the newest batch of five, which were happily cheep cheep cheeping with their momma in the goat pen. This dark adolescent fowl was running from a mob. Not an angry mob with pitchforks and torches, but an excited mob, with robbery in mind.
That black chicken scurried along the trees with a mouse in her beak. She veered into the open, ran toward the house, turned to my left at the rusty upturned antique metal washtub, darted past the lilac bush, crossed the brief expanse of grass next to the upended-brick-enclosed bed of lava rock, and disappeared under the rose bush. The mob followed. They soon vanished as well, so I'm thinking the skilled hunter hauled her deceased prey past the downspout and around the corner, where she shimmied through an opening in the lattice to an underporch lair.
Who knew that chickens killed mice? Not me! There was nary a cat or dog to be seen. The white fur of the mouse belly at first made me think this killer was carrying a piece of trash. A torn paper plate, perhaps. But when she came closer, I saw the dangling feet and tail. The head was not evident. It had either been pecked off, or was hanging under the beak behind the body.
I told Farmer H that he needs to keep a chicken or two in the garage. They'll show those lazy cats what mice are for.
As I logged on to begin my day at 7:30 a.m., I noticed a commotion along the treeline. The treeline previously hidden by the fifth-wheel camper that sat in the front yard for twelve years before we gave it away. Let it not be said that the Hillbilly family is not charitable. These are not the actual woods woods. They're in the back of the Mansion. This is a stand of trees that surround the three sinkholes that run from the Mansion to the road an eighth of a mile away. Perhaps we should have had a geological survey assessment before having Farmer H's friend the sometimes felon frame up the Mansion and get it under roof in two days. Nah. That's what folks with common sense would do.
The commotion was caused by a black half-grown chicken. One of the new batch of sixteen, not the newest batch of five, which were happily cheep cheep cheeping with their momma in the goat pen. This dark adolescent fowl was running from a mob. Not an angry mob with pitchforks and torches, but an excited mob, with robbery in mind.
That black chicken scurried along the trees with a mouse in her beak. She veered into the open, ran toward the house, turned to my left at the rusty upturned antique metal washtub, darted past the lilac bush, crossed the brief expanse of grass next to the upended-brick-enclosed bed of lava rock, and disappeared under the rose bush. The mob followed. They soon vanished as well, so I'm thinking the skilled hunter hauled her deceased prey past the downspout and around the corner, where she shimmied through an opening in the lattice to an underporch lair.
Who knew that chickens killed mice? Not me! There was nary a cat or dog to be seen. The white fur of the mouse belly at first made me think this killer was carrying a piece of trash. A torn paper plate, perhaps. But when she came closer, I saw the dangling feet and tail. The head was not evident. It had either been pecked off, or was hanging under the beak behind the body.
I told Farmer H that he needs to keep a chicken or two in the garage. They'll show those lazy cats what mice are for.
Sunday, September 2, 2012
It's A Cultural Thing
They've gone and done it again.
These rowdy Hillmombans take things too far. Shooting at stop signs is prohibited in our rural nation, but apprehension and prosecution of the marksmen is a Sisyphean task. We law-abiding citizens barely blink an eye anymore at the ventilated traffic signs. Likewise, it is not uncommon for such markers to list drunkenly to one side. That's what happened to our new stop sign that replaced the shot-up stop sign.
Yesterday, Stoppy was leaning even further. Like he had a case of the spins, or needed to regurgitate the last evening's liquid courage without soiling his shiny unileg. Imagine our surprise this morning, upon heading to town for The Pony's overnight sojourn with his grandma, when we observed the absence of Stoppy.
He was gone. Gone with the Rowdies. Headed for parts unknown. But most definitely for parts. Only Hillmomban Rowdies would think to steal stop signs for scrap metal. I hope they have the foresight to melt Stoppy down to his molten beginnings, then allow him to re-congeal before trying to garner cash for his carcass.
Then again...I am sure the Rowdies have contacts who will purchase Stoppy in all his red shining glory.
These rowdy Hillmombans take things too far. Shooting at stop signs is prohibited in our rural nation, but apprehension and prosecution of the marksmen is a Sisyphean task. We law-abiding citizens barely blink an eye anymore at the ventilated traffic signs. Likewise, it is not uncommon for such markers to list drunkenly to one side. That's what happened to our new stop sign that replaced the shot-up stop sign.
Yesterday, Stoppy was leaning even further. Like he had a case of the spins, or needed to regurgitate the last evening's liquid courage without soiling his shiny unileg. Imagine our surprise this morning, upon heading to town for The Pony's overnight sojourn with his grandma, when we observed the absence of Stoppy.
He was gone. Gone with the Rowdies. Headed for parts unknown. But most definitely for parts. Only Hillmomban Rowdies would think to steal stop signs for scrap metal. I hope they have the foresight to melt Stoppy down to his molten beginnings, then allow him to re-congeal before trying to garner cash for his carcass.
Then again...I am sure the Rowdies have contacts who will purchase Stoppy in all his red shining glory.
Saturday, September 1, 2012
A Plague Of Stingers And Strikers
You might recall that I had an unwelcome visitor in my classroom last week. A possum-playing scorpion who took my breath away when he had the nerve to start walking and flaunting his stinger when I attempted to scoop up his old dead self on a scrap of paper. Never trust a dead scorpion.
Friday, Arch Nemesis had her own close encounter. With a six-inch serpent. I don't think he was playing possum, though. Archie called for reinforcements to evict her intruder. I only learned about it at the lunch table. Didn't even know it was her until I asked. Because, you see, when you overhear a discussion of a snake in the building, it behooves you to ascertain the proximity of said snake to your own classroom. Which in this case was across the hall and two doors down. Too close for comfort.
The snake charmer declared that while he didn't know exactly what kind of snake he charmed, he was almost positive that it wasn't poisonous. That even though it had markings like a copperhead, it was most likely not one, but rather a harmless garden variety small snake. Oh, and he didn't notice if it had a triangular head or not.
Call me crazy, but I would prefer that my snake charmer deal more in absolutes.
Friday, Arch Nemesis had her own close encounter. With a six-inch serpent. I don't think he was playing possum, though. Archie called for reinforcements to evict her intruder. I only learned about it at the lunch table. Didn't even know it was her until I asked. Because, you see, when you overhear a discussion of a snake in the building, it behooves you to ascertain the proximity of said snake to your own classroom. Which in this case was across the hall and two doors down. Too close for comfort.
The snake charmer declared that while he didn't know exactly what kind of snake he charmed, he was almost positive that it wasn't poisonous. That even though it had markings like a copperhead, it was most likely not one, but rather a harmless garden variety small snake. Oh, and he didn't notice if it had a triangular head or not.
Call me crazy, but I would prefer that my snake charmer deal more in absolutes.
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