HH Has Left the Building
A boring little day here at the mansion. Nothing much to do, except
relax, since my Hillbilly Husband has been gone since Monday to
North Carolina. Arden, between Hendersonville and Ashville.
Something about a machine for work, for $250,000, that is
$450,000 new. He used to go there for something called a Normac.
I don't know what it does. It's a grinder, or a wrapper, or some
such thing for steel bands or sawblades. As you can see, HH is
good at keeping trade secrets.
It has been nice to go to bed when I want, with no nagging that I
should have joined him at 9:00 p.m. I'm not trying to start a swap
or anything, but he seems to be on my buddy Mabel's snooze
timetable. Also, no breathing on me, and no FEET on me. I don't
like feet. Stubby, hairy-toed feet on my leg. EEEEEE! It's a thing
I have. And...no thumping and banging in the bathroom at 5:30 a.m.
while I'm trying to finish my morning nap.
It's been a few years since HH went to North Carolina. Last time,
he came back with some moonshine in a Mountain Dew bottle.
How appropriate. I chewed him out for putting it in the refrigerator,
cause that stuff's like crack for hillbilly kids. Not that I have any
crack. Or that I'd waste it on my kids if I did.
I asked HH if he was bringing any moonshine back in his carry-on
this time. He looked at me like I was crazy. "I'm shipping it with
the machine." Oh...excuuuuse meeeee! Guess he didn't want to
be accused of trying to blow up a plane.
HH just called. He says he has severe thunderstorm warnings
until 2:00 a.m. I told him he should stay up awhile. "Nawww,"
he said. "I'm on the second floor of three floors. It'll blow the
top one off first." I also told him maybe he should sleep in some
kind of pants, in case he has to run out. "No. They can see me
in my underwear. That's no problem." For HIM. They might be
traumatized for life.
This evening, I had made sure the boys had supper, and that
#2 son took his bubble bath in the big tub (I think it makes him
feel OH SO PRETTY). I did a load of laundry, and finally made
it down to my office sanctuary. Only to hear #2 shout, "There's
someone at the door!" The boys have been trained not to answer
the door, since the time HH and I were still in bed, and they
opened it to a travelling book salesman who had no business
being in our private little colony, and who was harder to get rid
of than 8th grade boys at a free soda line on Field Day.
I drug myself away from the computer and my supper of leftover
BBQ hamburger and baked beans. It was Buddy, HH's friend,
returning a bottle of BBQ sauce that he'd borrowed Thursday
night. Wow! That's the first thing he's returned since he brought
back our round picnic table that he had for 3 years, driving it
down the gravel road hanging from the boom pole on his tractor.
We chit-chatted a minute, and as he left, I looked down and
saw that I had a baked bean on my boob. A baked bean. On
my boob. I kind of let myself go when HH is gone. I am just
PRETTY. Not OH SO PRETTY. No, I didn't eat it. I flicked
it off my boob onto the recycled brick sidewalk that HH made
in front of the mansion.
I think I'll leave you with that poignant image of Hillbilly Mom,
all alone on the front porch, flicking a baked bean off her boob.
relax, since my Hillbilly Husband has been gone since Monday to
North Carolina. Arden, between Hendersonville and Ashville.
Something about a machine for work, for $250,000, that is
$450,000 new. He used to go there for something called a Normac.
I don't know what it does. It's a grinder, or a wrapper, or some
such thing for steel bands or sawblades. As you can see, HH is
good at keeping trade secrets.
It has been nice to go to bed when I want, with no nagging that I
should have joined him at 9:00 p.m. I'm not trying to start a swap
or anything, but he seems to be on my buddy Mabel's snooze
timetable. Also, no breathing on me, and no FEET on me. I don't
like feet. Stubby, hairy-toed feet on my leg. EEEEEE! It's a thing
I have. And...no thumping and banging in the bathroom at 5:30 a.m.
while I'm trying to finish my morning nap.
It's been a few years since HH went to North Carolina. Last time,
he came back with some moonshine in a Mountain Dew bottle.
How appropriate. I chewed him out for putting it in the refrigerator,
cause that stuff's like crack for hillbilly kids. Not that I have any
crack. Or that I'd waste it on my kids if I did.
I asked HH if he was bringing any moonshine back in his carry-on
this time. He looked at me like I was crazy. "I'm shipping it with
the machine." Oh...excuuuuse meeeee! Guess he didn't want to
be accused of trying to blow up a plane.
HH just called. He says he has severe thunderstorm warnings
until 2:00 a.m. I told him he should stay up awhile. "Nawww,"
he said. "I'm on the second floor of three floors. It'll blow the
top one off first." I also told him maybe he should sleep in some
kind of pants, in case he has to run out. "No. They can see me
in my underwear. That's no problem." For HIM. They might be
traumatized for life.
This evening, I had made sure the boys had supper, and that
#2 son took his bubble bath in the big tub (I think it makes him
feel OH SO PRETTY). I did a load of laundry, and finally made
it down to my office sanctuary. Only to hear #2 shout, "There's
someone at the door!" The boys have been trained not to answer
the door, since the time HH and I were still in bed, and they
opened it to a travelling book salesman who had no business
being in our private little colony, and who was harder to get rid
of than 8th grade boys at a free soda line on Field Day.
I drug myself away from the computer and my supper of leftover
BBQ hamburger and baked beans. It was Buddy, HH's friend,
returning a bottle of BBQ sauce that he'd borrowed Thursday
night. Wow! That's the first thing he's returned since he brought
back our round picnic table that he had for 3 years, driving it
down the gravel road hanging from the boom pole on his tractor.
We chit-chatted a minute, and as he left, I looked down and
saw that I had a baked bean on my boob. A baked bean. On
my boob. I kind of let myself go when HH is gone. I am just
PRETTY. Not OH SO PRETTY. No, I didn't eat it. I flicked
it off my boob onto the recycled brick sidewalk that HH made
in front of the mansion.
I think I'll leave you with that poignant image of Hillbilly Mom,
all alone on the front porch, flicking a baked bean off her boob.
posted by Hillbilly Mom at 6:45 PM
5 Comments:
Hi Hillbilly Mom,
So you were drugged at your computer, and had a baked bean on your boobie?
I really shouldn't comment, not after the photos I put on Rachy's site.
HooRoo
Rebecca
He looked at me like I was crazy. "I'm shipping it with the machine."
Bet ya it will be more than a Mountain Dew bottle.
That's the first thing he's returned since he brought
back our round picnic table that he had for 3 years
Perhaps he's taken a shine to the OH SO PRETTY one :-)
Bec,
It must be that crack from the refrigerator. That darned baked bean wouldn't let go.
I am familiar with your posting on Rachy's site. I did not see any baked beans there. I can not go into detail about it on my blog bloggety blog.
Lantern,
The machine hasn't arrived yet. There's probably a jug with 'X X X' marked on the side. I hope it's not in a barrel. A 55-gallon barrel...
Buddy has a new woman of his own. The last OH SO PRETTY thing Buddy said to me was years ago, when he tossed me a package of ground beef and said, "Hey, pat out some hamburgers for us."
Confucious say, "Baked bean on boob is better than booger hanging out of nose."
Diva,
WHAT? I had a booger hanging out of my nose, too? Have you sent Fitty to spy on me? Were you REALLY in Springfield? I won't be giving you my 'boob bean' recipe if you keep stalking! I know you want to alter it to the 'uniboob bean' when I'm not paying attention. But that's better than the 'waistboob bean'. That could be a diet dish, cause everyone would get nauseous looking at it.
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