My Hillbilly Mama's Common Sense Faux Pas

Great Googley Moogley! My teaching pal, Mabel, had a fit that I
didn't have my post up before her bedtime last night. Hey, Mabel,
make a Note to Self: "It's Not All About Me. It's About Hillbilly
Mom." I explained to her that stupid free Blogger was down. It's
down again now for me. But I will try and try to get this out.
CHILL, Mabel.

I am concerned about my Hillbilly Mama. She had a man doing
some work on her plumbing. The last time that happened, she
used a guy that people at her church recommended. He asked
her for a blank check to go to the lumberyard. She refused. She
drove him to the lumberyard, and paid for the lumber herself.
HooRah! HMama, you outsmarted that weasel.

Then he replaced the silver stopper in her white sink with a blue
aluminum stopper. I guess that was his payback.

This recent man noticed the large.metal safe she has standing in
her family room. I mean large. My Hillbilly Dad bought it from
Southwestern Bell Telephone, where he worked, when they
were going to throw it away. It is on wheels, and stands about
4 feet high. It's a monster.

The workman wanted to know if she'd sell it. She said no. He
asked if he could see inside it. She said yes. WHAAAAAT!!!
What was she thinking? That rascal just wanted to see what
valuables she had in it, I'm sure. Now don't go saying I only
see the bad in people. Do YOU think it was appropriate to
ask a little old lady to look inside her safe? I didn't think so.
I chewed her out for it.

My HMama answered that she showed him she only has her
important papers in the safe. She told him, "I just keep my
papers here. I have safe-deposit boxes for my other things.
Oh, and here's my pistol that I keep handy." She really does
keep a pistol in her safe. We're Hillbillies, remember? I guess
he got the message. Don't mess with Hillbilly Mama.

Now, I don't think she could ever shoot anybody with it. Her
reaction in an emergency is to take a sharp inhale, with sound.
It does not lend itself to words. It is just like a big sucking
sound, and she freezes. Like when #1 son choked on an orange
slice that she let him suck on when he was a 6-month-old. Not
a real orange slice--the gummy candy with sugar coating. She
held it, and let him suck on the sugar. Only he sucked half that
orange slice right into his trachea. His eyes got real big, panic-
like. She made that sound, which stirred me up off the couch
to flip him over my forearm and WHACK him on the back.
It worked. That orange slice flew across the room, and he
started to cry. I shudder to think what would have happened
if I wasn't there.

Anyhoo, my point is that if somebody broke in to rob my HMama,
she would suck in air and not do a durn thing. And what good is
a gun if it's in the safe? Or what good is a safe if you leave it on
the last number of the combination so you can get it open easier?

I thought she was careful. When she goes up to the mailbox, or
to pick up the paper, she carries her phone with her. She calls
when she arrives home after a visit so I know she made it in the
house. If she is talking to me on the phone, and her doorbell
rings, she carries the phone with her so an intruder will know
that somebody is aware if her murders her. She says "we" on
her answering machine. If somebody comes to her door needing
help, she takes the phone and phone book out on the porch to
them. I THOUGHT she would know better than to open her
safe for somebody. Thank goodness the crown jewels are not
on her premises.

And while I'm ragging on my poor old HMama, I must add that
she has one very annoying habit. When she wants to convey that
she hasn't been to town all day, she says: "I haven't been off the
place." SNAP OUT OF IT!!! You live in a split-level house
built in 1970, with harvest gold appliances, and a pink and black
tile bathroom! It is not SOUTHFORK! It is not TARA! You do
not have a Back 40! You have a state highway in your backyard,
and an outer road in your front yard! Stop acting like you're a
ranch owner!

OK, here's another tale at my poor old HMama's expense. She
has a friend who brings her treats every so often. They used to
teach together, and her friend brings her a meal of pork chops,
or meat loaf, or some other home-cooked stuff every couple of
weeks. She doesn't want to be a bother, so she hangs it on the
door handle in a Wal-mart sack. The meal is in a foam tray like
carryouts at a restaurant. Well, one Saturday she brought some
homemade cinnamon rolls while my HMama was OFF THE
PLACE! She left them, wrapped individually in foil, in a bag on
the front porch. She rang the doorbell and left, as she always
did, thinking my HMama would come up and open the door
and bring then in.

My HMama arrived home, and called me. She said Friend had
left her some cinnamon rolls, and they smelled SO PRETTY
(oops! That's ME)...they smelled SO GOOD, but she was
afraid to eat them. Of course I asked why, since she ate all
the other stuff Friend always brought. "Well, when I got home,
one was out of the bag, laying on the porch. The foil was peeled
back, and a couple of bites were gone. I'm afraid that stray dog
got into it, or maybe that ground squirrel that lives under the
porch." WHOA, HMama! Do you really think an animal took it
out of the bag, unwrapped part of it, took a couple bites, and
then walked off and left it? I DON'T THINK SO! Maybe it
was a two-legged stray. Animals would have shaken the bag
around, chewed into it, wrapper and all, and scattered it over
the yard. I don't know about her. But the thought of someone
eating it was more creepy than an animal.

OK, now you don't all have to tell me how you have a pet that
is smart enough to take a bite of cinnamon roll. I worked with
a lady at the unemployment office who had 3 Yorkshire Terriers.
One of the little Yorkies was actually a "terror" instead of a
terrier. One morning my friend set her purse on the kitchen table,
with her sandwich for lunch in a baggie down inside the purse.
She was sidetracked for a moment, and when she returned to
the kitchen, there was that little terror, sitting in the middle of
the kitchen table, chewing on the sandwich. The purse was not
messed up, and the baggie had been opened, not chewed through.
But that was in the city, people! Not in the sticks, where there
are no sophisticated Yorkies running wild.