I Am Josephine's Anger: A Drama In Real Life

WooHoo! We almost saw some fisticuffs this afternoon on the parking lot of The Devil's Playground! Here's how it went down.

The Pony and I got a late start due to the delivery of our new Frig. So the after-church crowd was there. The parking lot was full up to the last five or six spaces in each row. We found a decent slot off to the side of the grocery end, and had no issues ourselves. It was on the way out that the drama reared it's ugly fists.

We went cruising in T-Hoe down the main drag. That's because it's a shortcut to get to Burger King across the road for The Pony's late lunch. Mrs. Hillbilly Mom, of course, stops at all crosswalks and stop signs. It was at the second one that the issue occurred.

A green car driven by a blond lady was coming at us from the other direction. She turned in front of me. She had time. But she stopped. STOPPED! Right in the roadway. Blocking me.

"Oh. I see what she's doing. She's waiting for that car to back out." Indeed. It was a slot second from the end. Near the pharmacy entrance. So she waited. Backed up, even, to give that leaving car room to get out. But she still blocked. Me. As long as I could see her intentions, I was fine. But then...just as she started to pull forward and take that space, A MAN IN A BLACK SPORTS CAR PULLED THROUGH FROM THE OTHER SIDE!

Uh huh. That's dirty pool. He could see she was headed for that spot. That she had been waiting. And his spot was perfectly good. Mere feet farther away than the new one. So the green car blond lady backed up again. Motioned for Black Car Guy to come on through. Because isn't that what one would think? That a person that close was probably just on the way out, without backing up. Because he had a perfectly good spot. But no.

Black car guy refused to pull on through. He motioned his hands at Green Car Blond. I don't know what his signals meant. I think he was waving her on by. Like, "You'll never get this spot away from me, Girlie!" He was an older man. With tinted windows.

Green Car Blond flipped up her palms. Like, "WTF? Why are you doing this to me?"

Black Car Guy kept motioning.

Green Car Blond finally gave up. And got out of my way. I wasn't even motioning to her. As we went by that aisle, I saw her pull a U-turn and get into a spot three from the end, in the aisle across from Black Car Guy.

"Pony! We need to circle around! I want to see what happens. I bet that lady goes over to the black car and gives him a piece of her mind!"

"Nah. We don't need to do that. That's what we did the last time. It took twenty minutes."

"Yeah. But it was great. Until that policeman made the guy going the RIGHT way back up, and let the wrong-way guy go through. I want the good guy to win this time. Wait! What are you doing? Are you hiding back there?"

"No. I'm banging my head on the seat."

Apparently, The Pony is not concerned about a drama in real life.

I Have A Little Liar That Goes Round And Round With Me

I may be known as The Five-Dollar Daughter, but my mom now has a title of her own: The Habitual Liar.

I called her that today. She was laughing and snorting over a bottle of water that she SWORE was her fifth one since yesterday, when her trash bag revealed only three empties. She must stay hydrated, and has never had a love affair with water. "I just don't like the taste," she says. Only now she declares that she got used to drinking water in the hospital. And swears that she has been drinking 80 ounces a day since she got home Thursday evening. Au contraire. In two days, she drank 60 plus ounces. according to her wastebasket and the barely-touched bottle from which she was swigging.

And another thing. Yesterday Mom told me that she has no trouble getting up from the toilet, because she used the towel rack. Farmer H had a fit when I told him. "That will pull out of the wall and she'll fall. She was told specifically when they discharged her from the hospital that she could not use a towel rack to pull herself up. In fact, I went into her bathroom, and tested it, and reminded her that she can reach the sink and use that to pull herself up. She tried it, and agreed."

This morning on the phone, I again reminded Mom that she should not use the towel rack. That they would not have discharged her if she had told them that was her plan.

"Nobody ever told me not to use that towel rack. It's just SO CONVENIENT! It's not going to pull out of the wall. It's sturdy."

"You should let Farmer H put you a pull-bar on the wall. Make sure it is anchored and won't come out."

"We'll see."

So, later, at her house, when Farmer H got there and mentioned how he could put in a pull-bar like a towel rack for her to grasp, so she wouldn't be in danger off falling if that came loose, Mom denied it all.

"What? I never pull on that towel rack. Is that what it is? I didn't even notice it. It's so high. It would be awkward to try and get up using that."

PUH LEASE! There is not an Oscar in your future, Mom. You're like that kid years ago who got called to the principal's office and was told to dump out the contents of his book bag, and a bottle of Jack Daniel's rolled out. The kid who jumped back in shock and hollered, "How did THAT get in my bag?"

I will be listening closely to see if you start ending your sentences with "Yeah. That's the ticket!"

There's Likely More Joy In Mudville Right Now Than In Hillmomba

Do you think Santa can fit a side-by-side refrigerator in his sleigh for Mrs. Hillbilly Mom?

And furthermore, do you think Santa can fit it in his bag? And carry it? And get it down the chimney that the Mansion does not have? And can he do this by tomorrow morning?

Yeah. I didn't think so either.

Frig passed away after a short illness, succumbed to a fever of 60 degrees.

Don't worry. Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is not one of those people who vow to never own another Frig because the loss is simply too devastating to go through again. Nope. She can't wait until the stores open tomorrow, to pick out Frig's replacement.

Life's a biotch, then your Frig goes on the fritz, then he dies.

Can He Hear It Now?

When The Pony and I got home yesterday, we were greeted by a loud roar. Sounded like a 747 was readying for takeoff in the Mansion kitchen.

"It was doing that when I brought the stuff in. Really. I didn't do anything to it."

"You didn't prance through here and shake the kitchen floor? Bump the side? Try to get some ice, and bang on the icemaker?"

"No. Nothing. It was just doing that!"

"Call your dad."

"Dad? There's something wrong with the freezer. It's making a noise."

"THAT noise."

"What do you mean you can't hear it? Listen."

"Still? Here." The Pony opened Frig's freezer door and put his phone inside. Closed the door. "There. THAT should let him hear it."

"Get that phone out before it freezes!"

"Dad? He heard a little something that time. What should we do?"

"He says not to do anything. He'll look at it when he gets home."

Of course by the time Farmer H got home, Frig was on his best behavior. I heard it last night after Farmer H went to bed. When I went upstairs, Frig feigned innocence. But this morning, oh, THIS MORNING Frig was in full voice. Louder than even last evening. I thought I was going to need those runway flashlight-wavers' ear muffs to protect my tympanic membranes. I woke Farmer H when I got out of the shower.

"Do you hear that?"

"I don't hear anything. I've got my breather going."

"There. Hear it now?"

"No. I don't hear anything."

"Whatever."

I could not squeeze in my recliner nap. The noise was deafening. The Pony got up.

"I heard it last night. I started again when I was in bed. Not this loud."

Farmer H finally opened Frig's door to get his sausage-egg-cheese muffin. And admitted, "That DOES sound a little loud."

So you know what he did, that mechanical genius of mine? He started tap tap tapping on the ice maker inside Frig. As you might imagine, that did not work. Farmer H said it has something to do with a fan not kicking on. He'll have to take it apart. Getting a new icemaker won't help. Also, he assured us that nothign will catch on fire. The worst that can happen is that Frig shorts out, and the whole kit 'n' kaboodle of fridge and freezer would lose power.

I am just not seeing the benefits I imagined when I carefully selected Farmer H from millions of applicants who wished to share my life.

How Do You Solve A Problem Like My Rear?

Mrs. Hillbilly Mom has a problem.

STICKY BUNS!

Oh, not the bakery treat! Who would have a problem with THAT? No. Sadly, Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's sticky bun problem is not appetizing in the least.

I have a sneaking suspicion that the substitute custodial staff is mopping the toilet seat in the faculty women's restroom. You heard me! Something is sticky in the state of seatmark.

Here's the deal. Twice in the last two weeks, I have entered the faculty women's restroom to the strong scent of cleaning supplies. Sure, that would have been a shocker in itself back in the days when we had our old custodial staff. But now, the facilities are cleaned on a regular basis. Just not in this manner. I wonder if anybody else has had this issue. I will have to conduct an informal survey of the women faculty.

It's not as if the toilet seat is wet. I would surely notice that. No, the seat looks normal. There's a little bit of moisture on the floor. Like it was mopped, but the mop water hasn't evaporated yet. The seat is white. Appears dry. But there are sometimes spots like on crystal removed from a dishwasher when Cascade was not the detergent. Not that I know anything about crystal. Or dishwashers. But I watch TV commercials.

The problem is that when I place my rumpus on that seat, it STICKS. That's right. When I go to get up, it's like Flick trying to get his tongue off the frozen flagpole in A Christmas Story. That's NOT right! Buttocks should not stick to a toilet seat. Don't tell me to line it with toilet paper every time. Do you know how many women faculty are queued up outside that door at any given between-class-period time? We have four minutes. For ten of us at our end of the hall.

I don't know what else it could be. Surely my fellow faculty are not dripping and befouling the seat. If this were the case, it would happen consistently. Not every now and then when we have a substitute custodial staff.

I don't know about you, but Mrs. Hillbilly Mom does not need a Lysol astringent to make her feel fresh.

Oh, The Conclusions To Which We Jump, When Our Spouse Is Begging For A Kick In The Rump

Farmer H stopped by the hospital to visit Mom on the way home from work. She's had an eventful day, what with three full meals, therapy, and six visitors. Not to mention the clown car convention of hard-of-hearing loud-talkers that pulls into the roommate station several times a day. Mom called me on her cell phone this evening.

"Hello?"

Silence.

"Hello?"

"Hello? It's me. Mom."

"Yeah. My phone announces your name after the second ring. But nobody was there when I said hello."

"Sometimes, it's kind of hard to hear here. If you know what I mean."

"WHAT? Is there a TRAIN in your room? I swear, I hear a train."

"No...but you see what I mean?"

"Yes."

"I got out of here today for therapy. Some of the old people down there are starting to talk to me. 'Oh! HM's Mom! Come over here and sit with us.' It's nice to have a group of people to get together with. It breaks up the day. And gets me out of this room."

I sense that a counseling session from #1 Son, RA Extraordinaire, might be in order.

"Did you dance today?"

"No...was I supposed to dance?"

"Well, the therapy girl said on Saturday that she might have you dancing by Monday."

"Oh. She was there. I did hold onto her hands. She had me put my right foot out. And then my left foot out."

"Did you shake it all about? MOM! Did you do the Hokey Pokey?"

"I don't think so. But she wanted to see how well I could move each foot."

Mom thinks they may be springing her on Thursday after her doctor's appointment in the city. Farmer H and I don't think so. Her insurance will pay for two weeks, so I think they'll hang onto their cash cow until then. Especially since Mom is so popular there.

Farmer H says she is getting around great with her walker, and that he and my sister the ex-mayor's wife shouldn't have any trouble taking her to the doctor on Thursday.

"You know, I almost bought her a walker at the auction Saturday night."

"You are NOT buying my mom a walker at the auction!"

"I don't know why not. It was only twelve dollars."

"My mom is not getting a used walker!"

"Her insurance will pay for one. But the physical therapist thinks she should probably have one on each floor."

"I thought she was walking up and down stairs already."

"She is. But she holds the handrail. Then she uses the walker. She doesn't use the walker on the stairs. I can't believe how cheap they sell walkers at the auction. Sometimes I think about buying them and donating them to people who give stuff to people who can't afford it."

"NO! You'll be like that episode of Seinfeld, where they gave Kramer's old girlfriend a used wheelchair, and it didn't have any brakes!"

Funny how my life is like a show about nothing.

If It's Not One Thing, It's A Bother

Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is fit to be tied. She is hot to trot. And not in a good way. BLOGGER has commandeered her blog, forcing CAPTCHA upon Mrs. HM like...um...we won't go there, but what I had in mind was like a former TV pudding spokesman forcing himself upon half the population, apparently.

Yeah. Since when does BLOGGER get to decide who needs protection? Even in the settings, it clearly shows that Mrs. Hillbilly Mom does NOT want word verification. No CAPTCHA for you! And even though I set it again for NO, and saved, and logged out, and back in...STILL the unwanted guest is here.

I can tell you one thing, CAPTCHA! The kitchen is closed, you'll be doing your own laundry, no more clean towels, and you might find all your belongings on the front lawn come morning.

Anybody got any ideas on how to proceed with eviction?