Saturday, February 25, 2006

Hillbilly Mom's Hip Happenin' Adventure

People piss me off! Have I mentioned that before? That is my motto.
My friends at school hear it at least once a week. Now, for my blog
friends from the Land Down Under, I do not mean they piss me off
by getting me drunk. We are not talking about sweet, sweet
inebriation, but about a state of rage. I am not a sociable person.
I do not like chit-chat, I do not like butt-kissing, I do not like snobs,
I do not like people on a power trip who run over me, I do not like
Wal*mart cart return boys who ram 100 carts into me.

Yes! That's what happened to me today! I usually push an empty
cart into Wal*mart. I do it to be nice, because I'm that kind of gal.
I do not do it to use as a walker, contrary to some people's opinion.
Today, I had to run in Wal*mart to buy a birthday party gift for #2
son. He was bowling, so I got to go alone. The cart-return boy had
just cleaned out all the carts in the parking lot. He had about 100
of them hooked onto that red mechanical pusher thingie. I stepped
through the doors, and an old lady was getting a cart off the end of
the line. By old, I mean at least a year older than me. She fumbled
and bumbled, and finally pulled it loose. Then she stood in the way.
I crowded into her personal space, and she moved over a bit in
front of the next two rows of carts. I tried to get one loose, but
it was stuck by the child seatbelt thingie to the next cart.

WHAM!!!! The entire line of carts crashed into my right hip. I
staggered, but I didn't go down. That boy had rammed that whole
train of carts into me at about 10 miles per hour. I KNOW he
could see me. They have a big open door with clear plastic strips
hanging outside the cart area. Crack-smoking old-lady-bashing
young whippersnapper! He came running in and said, "Oh." I was
in NO mood to be nice to him. I said, "Thanks for that." Kind of
sarcastically, you know. (I know my teaching buddy Mabel is
thinking 'How uncharacteristic of Hillbilly Mom!' Right, Mabel?)
The woman in front of me had turned to say "Oh, my" when I got
rammed. Hmpf! She was not spared my rage. "Well, I couldn't
GO anywhere!" She wheeled off, using her cart as a walker.

I could have fallen to the floor and screamed, "YOU BROKE
MY HIP! CALL THE AMBULANCE! I could have been
living mighty high on Wal*mart's hog for a couple of years. The
greeter saw the whole thing, but she looked like a bit of a crack-
head herself. What happened to the OLD greeters? These durn
teenagers will just not help you when the cart-boy has broken
your hip. Anyhoo...I did not go into such histrionics because in
that split second, I thought: What if my large pain and suffering
settlement has a trickle-down effect on the Wal*mart family,
and Redneck Diva's husband loses his job with Wal*mart, and
has to stay home and help her in her daycare business? She
would absolutely send FITTY to chop me up and put me in
a 55-gallon barrel! So I struggled like an Olympic skater to stay
on my feet. Hillbilly Mom is not a petite woman, my friends. To
ram her and knock her over takes some doin'. Lucky for her
that her hips have natural padding to protect them from carts.

From the Wal*mart House Of Ramming The Aged, I proceeded
to get my hair cut. My lovely lady-mullet had not been pruned
since sometime in December. That means I have chopped at
the bangs twice, while the hanging split-ends grew unchecked.
Can you say "OH SO PRETTY"?

My hairdresser has moved up the street half a block, and she's
sold her business to a lady who has worked there for a long
time. The name has changed, but everything else is pretty much
the same. We fell right back to chatting as if I hadn't been away
for two months. My hairdresser looks like Redneck Diva, but
without the pirate do-rag. She looks like pictures of Redneck
Diva, anyway. For all I know, Diva could be a 50-year-old
man who has glommed onto someone's flicker photos, and is
passing himself off as a redneck diva. Though it would be hard
to make up such stories as her yellow-jacket nest and her snake
in the window and her hauntings.

Anyhoo, after my haircut, my hairdresser was going to wet it
and dry it and perhaps give it a semblance of style, but I told
her not to bother, I was just going to Save-A-Lot. And as you
all know, people at Save-A-Lot truly appreciate my OH SO
PRETTINESS. I first stopped by the automatic car wash to
clean up the large SUV, which meant I had to get out and fold
in a mirror because #1 son wasn't riding shotgun to do it for me.

Then I did my Save-A-Lot thing. Nobody commented on my
OH SO PRETTINESS, though one old lady almost rammed
me with her cart as I was grabbing a bag of lettuce. See there,
people, it doesn't pay to shop for the healthy foods. She saw
me coming, speeded up, went behind me, and as I turned
around, she said, "I thought you were going to do that." Well
now, you freakin' psychic, why did you speed up to get in that
position, huh? Huh? I played nice, and said, "A guy at Wal*mart
just rammed 100 carts into my side. This was nothing." She
gave me that look like I give the crazies, and went on about
her shopping. As did I.

When I got home, I looked in the mirror to admire my new
haircut. Well. Ahem. I looked like a Moe. Not to be confused
with a 'mo, like on Will&Grace...not that there's anything wrong
with that. No, I looked like the Moe of Three Stooges fame.
Only NOT SO PRETTY. I had straight-across bangs with no
part, and the bottom was a straggly mess that stuck out like
wheat grass in one of those health-food-drinks places where
they take scissors and cut off the top of the wheat grass. Only
my hair wasn't green, and it was upside down compared to the
ends of the wheat grass. Other than that, it was exactly the same.
I tried not to blame my hairdresser. But "Wind Pisses Me Off"
is not such a catchy personal motto.

Continuing with my irritations, lets jump back to my doctor's
appointment yesterday. I got off the elevator on the 4th floor
(hillbilly skyscraper) and heard a baby screaming. I thought
it must be in the gyno office across from the elevators. Nope.
Way down the hall in MY doctor's waiting room was a
screaming 5-year-old child. She was earsplitting. I could not
hear the receptionist asking me about the co-pay. I sat down
and took out my book (one of 3, because one day I waited
2 hours to get called to an exam room). Screaming Mimi kept
it up. I tried to tune her out, what with being there to check
my blood pressure. Mimi screamed "Mama! Mama!" about
468 times. Her teenage sister told her "Be quiet." She really
tried. The sister, not Mimi. The people in the reception area,
behind the window, were rolling their eyes. A nurse from
another office came out. "What's the matter? If I gave you
a sucker, could you quiet down?" Mimi nodded. She got
her sucker, opened it, licked it, and started screaming at the
top of her lungs again. A nurse came out of my doctor's office.
"Would she like to come in with her mother?" The sister replied,
"No. She was in there and got in trouble, and had to come out
here." In the meantime, Mimi was beating the crap out of her
big sister, who tried to ignore it. After about 20 minutes of
this, her mother and younger sister came out. She shut up and
walked along licking her sucker. The big sis told the mom, "I
swear, if I could have drug her to the bathroom, I woulda..."
I couldn't hear the rest. I felt sorry for the sis. Apparently, Mimi
had been kicking little sis in the exam room, and was banished
to the waiting room. It was sooo peaceful after she left. My
blood pressure was lower than it has been in the last several
check-ups. I guess it peaked with Screaming Mimi.

Which brings me to the next person who pissed me off: the
nurse. She was not my favorite, who is oh so calm. She was
not my second-favorite, who is a comedian (the one who
called in the wrong lady at my Hillbilly Mama's appointment
the other day). She was a feisty, birdy-acting nurse. Like one
of those head-bobber thingies you put on the edge of a glass. She
took me WAY to the end of the rat-maze of exam rooms without
even leaving a bread-crumb trail. I've been lost in there before. It
was traumatic. All the while we were traipsing through the corridors,
she was shouting, "Who has the large blood pressure cuff?"
Nobody fessed up. She put me in the room, took temp and
pulse, wrote out refills on prescriptions, and then went off to
bellow, "Who's got the large blood pressure cuff?" I looked up,
and saw that she'd put me in the old-people room. There was a
poster of osteoporosis, and another showing the most common
sites of bone breakage in hip fractures. Gimme a break! Not
literally. If this was the novel of my life, I believe that hip poster
would be foreshadowing for the Wal*mart adventure.

Meanwhile, I could still hear, "Who has the large blood pressure
cuff?" Geez, lady. I've had my blood pressure taken with a normal
cuff before. It's not like the parademics had to cut out the side off
my house and transport me in a whale sling to get me to the office.
You just weighed me on the regular scale, you didn't have to take
me two miles up the highway to the Sale Barn to weigh me on the
livestock scales. I am a woman, not an animal! Do I not curse you
when you turn your back? Enough of the LARGE blood pressure
cuff already! So there, are you happy now, Nursie? My blood
pressure was normal. Gotcha! That'll learn ya to mess with
Hillbilly Mom!

Whew! Now I feel much better. But my Wal*mart hip hurts a little.


Blogger Chickadee said...

Good grief you've had more bad crap happen to you at the Wallyworld. I think you're cursed. You better start shopping at Tar-jey.

10:47 PM  
Blogger MamaKBear said...

I've almost been run over by those cart boys myself! They must have all gotten their cart-drivin' licenses out of Cracker Jack boxes.

11:02 PM  
Blogger Hillbilly Mom said...

It's 10 minutes to Wal*mart, 30 to Target. My kids' ears can't take the extra 20 minutes of my car-singing.

I think it is a sport with them.

1:52 PM  
Blogger Redneck Diva said...

Thanks for thinking of us when you decided in that moment to not sue Wal*Mart. From what I hear, they'll take back used tires, used motor oil and pay for busted windshields - if you yell enough. Those things alone may be enough to send Mr. Diva to the employment line, but I guarantee that he'd rather artificially inseminate earthworms than work with me in the babysitting business.

When I was pregnant with Kady the nurse HATED me for some reason and would always make a huge production out in the hall hollering for the large BP cuff or the extra large gowns. Geez, woman, I was pregnant, I was supposed to be fat! I was never so glad to have a baby in my life, just to not have to see her or her smug doctor again.

And I assure you that I am not a 50-year old man pretending to be a piratey redneck. Although, if you ask my sister I'm a 46 year old lesbian (not that there's anything wrong with that). That Tater's always good for a laugh. ha. ha. ha. (read those ha's like Ben Stein talks) But I did have a dream that I was a hairdresser the other night....strange eh?

4:37 PM  
Blogger Hillbilly Mom said...

I've got to look out for a redneck sistah! I had a friend who was an insurance adjuster for State Farm. He would go to the town, buy a camera at Wal*mart, use it all day, take out the film, and return the camera.

I saw some earthworm guy on Dirty Jobs. It was a dirty job. Go figure!

As for the rest...I think you must be living my life after I live it. And IF you were a hairdresser, would everyone leaving your shop be wearing a red pirate do-rag? Methinks they would. Just because you looove the word "METHINKS".

6:08 PM  

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