YIKES! Mrs. HM Narrowly Avoids A Fryin'!

You know how sometimes, you can't see the forest for the trees, or the nose on your face even though it is plain to everybody else? Today, Mrs. Hillbilly Mom was upset because she could not drive through the forest and over her nose. UNTIL she saw the trees and her face.

I was on the way to the bank to get our weekly cash allowance out of the ATM. I was almost there. Beside the church whose steeple was struck by lighting and caught on fire. Already had my right turn signal on. I saw some burly dudes in glowing green shirts, and white trucks. They were there last week, working on some project, but not in the way. I thought nothing of it until I was right up to the turn into the bank parking lot.

A white work truck was parked ACROSS the entrance!

Ain't THAT a fine how-do-you-do? I let out that UH! sigh that happens when I am not getting what my Royal Entitledness desires, and switched off my blinker, going past and turning into the exit road. An oncoming car was in the center turn lane, wanting to go in the entrance, too. I looped up past the drive-thru lanes and into the alley, then down to the back of the bank parking lot for the ATM. I was looking out front, incensed that the white work truck might have moved to let that other car in. That's when I saw it.

That's an electric wire, I think. Pretty sure electricity, and not phone. Farmer H would know, but he hasn't seen the picture and he's working late. I stopped before my view was obscured by the building. Those worker guys standing by their truck had their heads only about a foot below that wire. I suppose that truck was their way of keeping people like me in tall T-Hoes from driving into it.

Not sure what caused this. They had orange markings sprayed on the grass in the right-of-way, and were going to dig it up, I guess. You'd think if they were just replacing the pole, they'd choose another method and another time. And if the problem with the wire, they'd have a man-lift, not pull the pole down. As far as I know, we're not going underground with the utilities here in Hillmomba.

Is this a sign of the Apopadopalyspe?

I'm A Giver, I'll Deliver, Just Don't Make Me Bitter...Learn To Listen Or I'm Done

A couple of weeks ago I was sitting in my LIGHTED basement lair one evening, minding my own business, pecking away at New Delly's keyboard like a dad-blasted guinea (one of two in Farmer H's menagerie) in a frenzy to eat the feed before the chickens...when the phone rang. We still have a landline, you know. This is Hillmomba, by cracky! We're lucky we don't have that crank phone on top of an electric pole like Oliver Wendell Douglas and his wife Lisa, so that we have to slide open the closet door that will fall to the floor, and step outside and climb every time it rings.

I have a Panasonic (circa the #1 son's middle school years) on my desk. It is part of a set of four, three of which still work. Its screen showed that the call was from the University of Oklahoma. I figured it was probably a nuisance call, but you can't be too sure. Which of YOU would let it ring, and listen to the message, if YOU had a son like The Pony attending the University of Oklahoma?

Of course I answered, and a little gal said she was calling on behalf of the University of Oklahoma to ensure that they could continue special programs that benefit my student.

"First of all, I would like to update your contact information. We don't have an email address for you on file."

"That's funny. I get emails from OU all the time. I just got one yesterday."

"Oh. Uh. Can you give that to me?"

"No. I would rather you contact me by mail."

"Well, we're having a pledge drive tonight--"

"Send me something in the mail, and I'll look at it."

"Has your student mentioned the student union? The Union Board offers many activities--"

"Yes. My son has enjoyed some of the Union Board activities."

"Oh, great! Can I put you down for a donation? Most people are giving $500."

"No. Not tonight. Send it to me in the mail."

"Mail. Sure. Okay. You know, OU offers tutoring sessions free of charge--"

"My son is a National Merit Scholar. He HAS mentioned the tutoring program, but I don't think he has used it."

"Oh, National Merit. You must be so proud! I know that's a big deal here--"

"Yes. We are proud that he was recruited by OU. He loves it there."

"So can I put you down for a $350 donation?"

"No. Not tonight. Send me something in the mail."

"What is your student studying?"

"Chemical engineering."

"Oh, we have a great engineering department! Does a $100 donation sound like something I could put you down for?"

"No. Not tonight. Send me something in the mail."

"Have you heard about our College Abroad program? You student--"

"Yes. My son is considering that program next summer."

"Great! How about I put you down for a $50 donation?"

"No. Not tonight. Send me something in the mail. I'll look at it then. Goodbye."

You see, Mrs. Hillbilly Mom does not begrudge a college using, perhaps, volunteers from sororities or fraternities, or students who need to complete public service for some infraction, as solicitors of donations. She doesn't even mind them reading from a script. And she is not against donating, because it would not break her Diet Coke/Scratch-Off Ticket Bank to kick a little cash their way, although she is more likely to do so after graduation. However...

Please teach these young whippersnappers to actually LISTEN to the response, and vary from the script as need be. Otherwise, they run the risk of alienating the deep pockets of future benefactors.

I feel like OU is grooming the next generation of car salesmen.

The Mrs.Hillbilly Mom Greeting Card Co

I went to the main post office this morning in an attempt to get The Pony's mail delivered to Oklahoma in a time span shorter than 8 business days. You'd think the Pony Express could do better than the dead mouse smelling post office lately. We'll see if this helps. Since the main post office is the hub for the dead mouse smelling post office, the trip might have been futile.

Or not. Because at least I saw a sight that gave me a glimmer of an idea.

The picture did not turn out very well, because I was standing in a deep shade that could have sucked the light away from a black hole in a universe-all tug-o-war. There was this thin little tree growing up from a big shrubby bush:

I tried to get in closer. Deeper into the oppressive shade. But it didn't help my hand-me-down phone camera very much.

In fact, it didn't help at all. But that little tree made me think. If I'd only had a good picture, I could imagine a greeting card. Several greeting cards. Uplifting messages. Like these:

You don't have to fit in.

You are one of a kind.

Dare to stand out in a crowd.

March to your own drummer.

Reach for the stars.

Rise above.

Do your own thing.

Dare to be different.

One day you'll find your niche.

Family is not always genetic. Surround yourself with YOUR family.

Yeah. They leave a little to be desired. But so does the picture.

What caption would YOU put with this little tree?

Just When You Thought It Was Safe To Go Back In The Basement...

Tonight I was sitting here in front of New Delly, in my LIGHTED basement lair, when I heard a noise. I don't like hearing noises when I'm down here alone. And this one was insistent. Not simply that soda-opening CLICK like The Pony and I heard all the time, he saying it sounded like it was in my office, me (from the office) saying it sounded like it was out in the basement where he was. No, this noise was hard to ignore.

At first I thought that Farmer H had come down the steps and was collecting the empty soda cans that The Pony had bagged up before he moved off to college. Yeah. We're not in any hurry to clean up our hoard. That had to be it. The noise was like cans being moved and crushed. Kind of a clicking and popping sound. I was sure it was Farmer H.

"What are you doing?"

No answer.

"Are you down here?"

No answer.

"Hey! Are you down here?"

No answer.

"What's going on?"

No answer.

I got up from my rolly chair. I was kind of scared. SOMETHING was out there. In the basement. Over by the steps. I know that's where a Devil's Playground bag of Coke cans sits on the floor beside the blue chair nobody sits in. I know that, because the other night, around 3:00 a.m., I accidentally kicked it when going to turn off the light on a stand that my mom gave us.

"Heeyyyeeeyyy? What's going on? Is something out here?"

Whatever it was didn't have the common decency to stop! It kept rustling. I was imagining a rat or a possum had somehow gotten in, and was going to town on those Coke cans. I stepped into the doorway of my office, which doesn't have a door, because I never wanted one until now this very moment. I can't run very fast. And that rustler was right by my way out.

"Heeyyyeeeyyy...?"

I didn't sound very confident. Not at all big and bad. Not like I could kick the butt of a rodent. But the rustling stopped!

"Huh?" Farmer H called from upstairs.

"Are you doing something?"

"No. I'm not doing anything."

"You're not making a noise with something?"

"Oh. I'm just opening this shock collar I got for Jack."

Occams Razor. Most times, hoofbeats are just a horse. Not a zebra. And most times, a can-rustling rodent is just Farmer H opening the plastic encasing a shock collar.

Whoa, NeighLay! A Hillbilly Mom Ain't Safe In An Acre Full Of Critters!

Every afternoon, Mrs. Hillbilly Mom takes a walk. Which is different from the hike that Farmer H sometimes suggests she take. If suggests means yells at the top of his lungs, and hike means a trip to the netherworld without veering left nor right.

A couple of days ago, her faithful companion, Puppy Jack, darted across the gravel road again and barked at the neighbors' horses. They gave him their bemused expression, and went back to mouthing the remains of a round bale of hay. Jack did not heed my calls to return to our yard. UNTIL...two of the neighbor dogs ran up their driveway. Then he scampered back.

I will admit that I was afraid. One of the dogs was the big black-with-tan bobtail that got Juno down in our yard and bit her. The other was a loose-skinned boxer. They (thank the Gummi Mary!) stood at the end of their driveway and barked. I think more at me than at Jack. I barely glanced as they ran up, because I wanted to see WHICH dog would be the instrument of my death, and I didn't want to meet their gaze and challenge them. I went back down to the garage, and put Puppy Jack away. My Sweet, Sweet Juno made herself scarce. I continued my walk until I made my three laps. You can't let the terror-dogs win.

Yesterday Jack behaved himself and stayed in our yard when I scolded him. Oh, don't think he didn't PLAN on going over to bark at the three horses. He started his rabbit-leaping, but I hollered, "JACK! NO!" He's usually good the day after he's been put in the garage and missed our walkies.

Today, Jack ran ahead of me, putting his head down in the hole he's dug out by the end of the driveway. THEN he perked up and started across. "JACK! NO!" He DID stop. But started barking his fool head off. Then I saw it. A horse was loose! It was outside the fence, standing in the neighbors' driveway. I turned around immediately and called for Jack. He came running, so proud to be a good dog that he jumped up against me, and pranced along on his hind feet.

As soon as I got to the garage, I lured Jack in with some cat kibble. No way was I going to have Jack chasing a LOOSE HORSE! You never know. It could get hurt. It could hurt me. It could get hit by a car. It could hurt the car. I continued my walk. On the next-to-last lap (I did 4 today), that horse made the whuh whuh whuh whuh sound, and galloped down its own driveway. Then the terror-dogs started going crazy. I couldn't see them, but I could hear them. AND the neighbor lady came home a half hour early, and stopped her car halfway down her driveway. I guess she doesn't have a horse-catcher mounted on her bumper.

On my last trip up the driveway, I saw Neighbor Lady (let's call her NeighLay) walking through the horse pasture, inspecting the fence. I didn't want her to think I had let it out! I HAD been walking back down my own driveway when she got home.

"I see you had a horse loose. I just saw it about 15 minutes ago when I came up to get the dumpster."

"Yes. She's a tricky one."

"I put my little dog away in the garage. I know he comes over and barks at them, and I didn't want it to get hurt."

"I'm not worried about my horses. They don't spook easy. I'm more worried about your dog."

"We're getting a shock collar. He has Little Dog Syndrome. He's always after something."

Juno had come up through our yard while I was walking, and crept closer and closer to the road, head down, hackles raised. That is very unlike my Sweet, Sweet Juno, who is a timid sort unless she sees something from afar. Then she'll bark, and sometimes run up to it. But has a force-field kind of distance where she stops.

And then, as if in a horror movie, four dogs filtered out of the cedar trees in the neighbor field, and came to the edge of the road, silent, looking at me. I swear. It was like the canine version of Miss Peregrine's Home for Peculiar Children. There was the black-with-tan bobtail, the loose-skinned boxer, a little buff-colored fluffy thing wearing a baby-blue sweatshirt, and a funny-looking cur with a face like a boxer, but mottled with white, and not as big. I could hear the killer poodle barking down by the house.

NeighLay spoke sharply to the black-with-tan bobtail. "You go lay down!" And it did. I told her that was the only one that scared me, because it had gotten Juno down twice in our own yard, biting her, until Farmer H intervened. "She's a rescue dog. They couldn't place her. She's afraid of people. When people went to pet her, she turned to look at the wall. If she's bothering your dogs, you let me know."

Huh. I can tell you ONE thing. THIS people is afraid of HER. But I didn't say that.

"What kind is it?"

"Mixed, but we know she's got some Rott in her."

"That's the one I see over here most often. But not since last Saturday. I never see your poodle anymore."

"We have a pen for him in the back yard. But this one goes crazy in a pen. She's not right."

WOOHOO! You ain't a-woofin', lady!

"Now this one right here, you should NEVER see." NeighLay pointed to the fluffy thing in the sweatshirt. "She isn't supposed to be out."

"I know my little dog comes over and barks at the horses. But we ARE trying to stop him."

"That little...HOUND?"

"Yeah. He's half heeler and half dachshund, and all stubborn. I shot him with my old BB gun because he was chasing a chicken. We used to have 30, but now we're down to 6. Something keeps killing them, but we don't find the bodies." Let the record show that I know for a fact her poodle and bobtail killed several of them, and took the bodies home. We even found one at the end of their driveway where they put their dumpster. But I didn't mention it, and neither did she. "A guy at work told Farmer H yesterday that it might be a fox. They kill and take the chicken with them."

"Well, you can't have anything like that if you live in the country." (I suppose chickens are for city people?) "We used to have ducks, and something killed them all. Ate the heads off, and left the bodies." (Okay. That's really creepy.) "You know, a paintball gun might be the thing to shoot a dog with. It doesn't hurt the dog, and the owner sees the paint and knows their dog has been somewhere he shouldn't."

"Yeah. That's what Farmer H talks about, but he doesn't have a CO2 cartridge for the paintball gun."

I don't know if NeighLay ever found her horse hole, but I went walking back to the Mansion, and called Juno along with me. She's a good dog.

I guess I'll know that Jack has been a bad boy if he comes home sporting purple paint spots. That's the color WE use, anyway.

I Think These Bank Tellers Have A Future At The Dead Mouse Smelling Post Office

Monday I made a trip to the bank to deposit money in the #1 son's account. He's planning a trip to the west coast over the Christmas break, and asked if this could be his Christmas gift. I guess he has all the expensive lenses he needs now for his camera. Anyhoo...he had the go-ahead to reserve his tickets while they are cheap, to be reimbursed by the Bank of Mom and Dad.

I turned into the bank parking lot and drove around back to the drive-thru lanes. There are four. The one by the building is only for traffic leaving the ATM in the wall of the bank. The second one is for commercial business. The third one is the one I prefer, because I can make a right turn as I exit, into an alley, to come out at a street where I can see both ways to make a left. The fourth drive-thru lane is the farthest right, and requires a sharp turn and some backing up to hit the alley.

But on Monday, the third drive-thru lane was roped off! Not so much ROPED off as blocked by an 18-inch wide strand of what appeared to be industrial-strength maroon crepe paper. (That's CREEP paper, as pronounced by The Pony. Last year.) It was tied to a roof support pole on each side. I knew better than to drive through it like the captain of a high school football team bursting through the spirit paper at homecoming.

I did my deposit business in the fourth drive-thru lane, and finessed T-Hoe into the alley, and looped back through the parking lot of the church next door (notable for its steeple being struck by lightning a couple years ago, causing a fire, and if I ever go back from the future, I'll be sure to tell Doc Brown about it) to use the ATM to take out our weekly cash allowance. There was a truck ahead of me, so I waited a car-length back, as is the polite custom, for it to finish. Only took a minute. I pulled up, perhaps the most perfect distance away from the wall ever, and put in my debit card.

NOT AVAILABLE AT THIS TIME

Sweet Gummi Mary! Now I would have to come back. Quite a drive from the Mansion, since we picked this bank when we lived in my $17,000 house in town, and kept it, because it has only been bought out by a bigger bank twice in 26 years. If only I'd known, I could have taken out my money while at the drive-thru. OR...I could go inside to do my business. I always hate that. I'd rather not know all the problems the other customers are having while I stand politely by the door, a line backing up behind me. It's not a very big bank.

I looped around again through the alley and church lot, and parked in one of the eight spaces out front. I took in a check to show my account number. I had my debit card in my pocket. I figured I could use a counter withdrawal slip, since I only had deposit slips with me. There must have been 10 employees inside. One was working the drive-thru lanes. One was working a teller window. And the rest were not doing anything worth paying them for, that I could tell.

There was one man ahead of me. He was speaking in a kind of heated manner, so I didn't feel the least bit guilty about overhearing him.

"Yeah! Since THURSDAY NIGHT! I tried to tell her about it, but she didn't want to hear it. She said that was impossible. I don't care what she said, it happened to me! By the time I got her to understand that, she said I would have to come in here and deal with it. I'm not blaming anybody. Accidents can happen. But ones are NOT supposed to come out of the ATM! I should have had two more twenties. NOT ONES! The machine isn't even loaded with them! I understand. Somebody who filled the ATM wasn't thinking when they counted out the money, and put a couple ones in there instead of twenties. I understand it's just a mistake. I tried to tell the lady that. You could have gotten them in a bundle that came in from another bank, or a business. Then I said, "I want my two twenties, and I want $36 for my trouble. And she said, 'What do you mean by that?' And I said, 'What do you charge me if I'm overdrawn?' And she said, '$36.' And I said, 'Uh huh. And that's what I'm charging YOU for messing up.' She really got a kick out of that. But she didn't give me $36."

They gave the guy his money and he left. One of the tellers kept telling me, "Sorry for your wait. We'll be with you in just a minute." But she didn't make a move to open a window. Another not-worker talked to the thirty-six-dollar-guy-teller, then that teller called me over. I told her that I had planned to use the ATM, but that it wasn't working, and I needed to withdraw XXX dollars.

"Here's a check with my account number on it. I can fill out a counter deposit slip."

"Oh, I can do that. Let's see the check. Do you have a driver's license? I'll need to see ID."

"I didn't bring it in. I can go out and get it."

"Please. Because I don't think I've ever helped you before."

"No. Because I usually use the ATM, which isn't working, or the drive-thru, where I already went once. To the one that's open."

I don't fault her for asking for ID. Even though they never ask me for it at the drive-thru. If I was going to rip off a bank by using stolen checks or debit cards, I certain wouldn't go inside. Would YOU? Didn't think so.

I came back with my glorious driver's license photo, and Teller counted out my money. LOUDLY. Another guy had come in, and they opened up a teller window for him (while my gal slapped a CLOSED sign up on the counter), and I could feel him looking at me while my Teller counted out, "Twenty/forty/sixty/eighty/ONE, twenty/forty/sixty/eighty/TWO..." It's like she was the announcer at Madison Square Garden.

And THEN do you know what she said, as I left with a final parting shot of, "Will your ATM be fixed soon? I only use it once a week, but is it going to take a while to fix?"

"Oh. It's just out of money. I'm going to fill it now."

SWEET GUMMI MARY! That was the teller who must have put ONES into the ATM instead of TWENTIES!

Isn't pretty much the only thing bank tellers DO is COUNT MONEY all day long? My old college roommate Bean worked in a bank for a couple of years after she graduated, and said that was the worst thing about it: all you did was count money all day long.

I don't for one minute think that was an accident!

A Case Of Right-Staken Identity

Yesterday I only had a few items to grab in The Devil's Playground. A few, meaning half a cart rather than a whole cart full. I had my list, starting from the deli. I used to start at the back with The Pony, but times and my shopping habits have changed, since I can't send him ranging far and wide to fetch things. Now I have to make a big loop.

I was halfway done when a lady passed me by the open freezer containing the corn dogs (which I don't buy anymore, lacking The Pony to feed them to), and said, "Are you Hillbilly Mom?" I admitted to it right away. She didn't look familiar to me. But at least she had the name right, unlike that woman who insisted that my name was Jane, and told the Devil's Handmaiden that I was lying to her, pretending I wasn't.

But...people have called me Hillbilly Mom before, too, and then come to find out they say, "Yeah. How long have you been back from Alaska?" Um. Where I HAVE been, FORTY YEARS AGO! But try to convince somebody that when you are the name they are calling, and you've been where they inquired about. They don't want to hear that you're not THAT Hillbilly Mom. So I waited. To see who this lady really thought I was.

"I used to babysit you!"

"Oh, no! You look younger than I do!"

"When you lived on [REDACTED] Street! Your mom and dad would go out and leave you with me. Not all the time! Just every now and then."

"Oh. I'm sorry. I don't remember. I know they used to talk about living on [REDACTED] Street. My earliest memory is from my grandma and grandpa's house down by the river, next to their gas station. I was only about 2, and I fell on a cactus, and they had to pull out all the needles."

"Ooh. That's too bad! I knew your other grandma and grandpa. And all your uncles! They were crazy! They used to come over when we were kids, and we'd go down and play in the basement. The youngest one (Auntie Gambler's husband) used to jump out and scare me. He thought that was the funniest thing. And this one time, he hid in a big box. I knew he was in there. So I took a broom and started beating that box until he came out. They were really a lot of fun, that family."

We talked a bit more. She telling stories that I will relay to my favorite gambling aunt at our next lunch date, me nodding. Then I went on with my shopping. I was completing my loop, coming back up to the front, when I'll be ding dang donged if I didn't run into her again at the end of the soup aisle. Of course we had to talk some more. She said she forgot to tell me her name, and that she'd been at Mom's funeral, but she didn't come up to me because she didn't want to bother me, and she figured I would be overwhelmed with other stuff. Rightly so.

I hope Auntie Gambler remembers who she was.