Monday, December 05, 2005

Fine Kettle of Fish

I hope you weren't hungry. We're not really having fish. Well, the
star of the 2nd grade Christmas program had fish sticks, but that's
really not what this is about.

My teaching friend, Mabel, lodged a complaint this morning that
yesterday's post was just not satisfying, that it left something to be
desired, that it was as welcome as a steaming bowl of cow eyeballs
at an "Eating Strategies for the Perpetually Nauseous" convention.
She just knew that I was sitting around at home, with nothing better
to do, and I was putting off my post until after her bedtime of 8:00.
That's central standard time, people! MABEL!!! Someone needs
to get you a life for Christmas, honey. There is more to life than
reading this drivel. Like watching TV. Oh, I'm sorry...I forgot that
you can't watch TV. I guess you could always watch that "Racing
Stripes" DVD again, trying to forget how that child is going to cry
when she gets a used gift for Christmas.

Read on, Mabel, to the horror that is BLOGGER. Tonight I rushed
home from school, not even going to the bank to deposit my check.
You know I am independently wealthy. Actually, the bank was in
the other direction. I rushed home via the Sonic (for my daily Cherry
Diet Coke), on to the post office to pick up a package (that my
Hillbilly Husband mailed himself from California because it must
contain bombs and guns and pointy things), from there to the
County Mart to order a birthday cake with buttercream icing
(for #1 son's birthday party on Saturday), then to his city-limit
friend's house to drop off an invitation (because a gallon of gas
is more than a stamp, and we must waste as much money as
possible each day), on to his friend a half-mile down the road
from us to give him an invitation (because the U.S. Postal Service
just doesn't give my son his value for his 37 cents).

We hauled in the extra junk food that we had to buy when we
went in the store to order the cake, then I prepared 3 different
meals for supper, threw in a load of laundry, and retired to my
office to type up a nice, leisurely post that was sure to please
Mabel. Only I couldn't access my blog. Or my old blog. Or
BLOGGER home. So I stewed a little while. I surfed over to
Television Without Pity to read a recap of the Amazing Race,
which I had missed the beginning of while dying a slow death
witnessing my son's embarrassing faux pas in an uncharacteristic
lapse of Christmas Program Etiquette. Then I tried some other
BLOGGER blogs, and I could not access them, either. At least
it wasn't just mine that had disappeared. Then I had a brainstorm.
I think sparks actually shot out of my head. Or it could have been
the static electricity when I touched the monitor.

Anyhoo, I thought I'd try to access a TYPEPAD blog, and it
worked. But I still could not get back to mine. Aha! I thought!
The lightbulb went on over my head. But that was just my child
announcing, "I have to go poop." Thanks for sharing, honey. I had
the most scathingly brilliant idea. I would go to Rebecca's blog. She
has her own server, but she is still a BLOGGER blogger. It worked.
I could get to BLOGGER home through her, and so I got the "New
Post" thingy to type this up. But I don't know if I can save it. It's kind
of like people writing up something on a scrap of their underwear
when they know they are going to die, like if they are trapped in
a cave, and the water is rising, and they are almost out of oxygen,
and they say, "By the time you read this, I'll be dead." Kind of
like that, except that I am not about to die, and I am not writing
on my underwear, and I am in my basement and not a cave, and
I have plenty of oxygen, even though it's not the best quality, due
to poopy boy.

So there, Mabel. Are you happy now? You have forced me to make
a post about a post. Like a coffee table book about coffee tables.
You have forced me to use Rebecca like a cheap pair of Wal-mart
shoes that will lose their sole in 3 days. Except that Rebecca won't
lose her soul in 3 days (because she stole my Royal Crown of
Hillmomba, so we know she doesn't have a soul), and she will not
know that I used her, because she hasn't commented in a few days,
which makes me suspicious she has a life and does better things with
her time than you and me.

Maybe you need to get yourself a blog, Mabel, to spread the joys
of higher mathematics throughout the land. Then you would know
the pressure that is blogging. Day in, day out, appeasing the crowd
of 2. I'm sorry. My readership has doubled. I now have a crowd
of 4. So get off my back, will you, Mabel? Don't make me come
down to your end of the hall, leaving my Do-Nots unattended to
demonstrate the theory of Survival of the Fittest. Don't make me
come over there! Don't make me return your Christmas gift that
I bought today at County Mart.

I am typing like a fiend to get this up before your bedtime, Mabel.
And if I lose it to the jaws of BLOGGER, do not even come by
my room tomorrow, or I will dash out, leaving you with gumball
boy and his band of high-maintenance freshmen. That'll learn ya.


Blogger Redneck Diva said...


I am literally laughing out loud, Hillbilly Mom! This post really got me for some reason and I'm wiping away tears with one hand while I type with the other.

Mabel will be proud.

9:24 PM  
Blogger Hillbilly Mom said...

Mabel was quite satisfied this morning. Her Tivo has been broken, and she relied on me for entertainment. Poor thing. She said she spent 30 minutes on this post. Maybe it was because she had to move her lips to read it. You know those math teachers...they are a little bit different.

9:47 PM  

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