Sweet Dreams Are Made of This

Come one, come all, to the snooze that never ends. The blog
called Hillbilly Mansion will put you to sleep faster than a
motivational speaker after lunch. It wasn't always so. At one time,
it was moderately entertaining. That time has ended, my friends.
The readers are dropping like pants at a swingers' convention.

I can picture you, struggling to remain conscious. Some fall forward
onto the keyboard, suffering a big ol' unicorn bump to the forehead.
Others slump sideways onto the mouse arm, a puddle of drool
slowly oozing from the speaking orifice. And the most unfortunate
succumb to the wobbly neck, heads finally flopping back, mouths
open so wide you would drown if it rained. Well, if it rained AND
you were computing from outside with no roof over your head,
OR if you perhaps had a big hole in the roof of the computer room,
UNLESS you happened to be a caretaker at one of those star
observatory thingies with the giant roof that opens for the telescope.

I, myself, have been stalking the elusive ZZZZs this week. The virus
thingy I contracted from the young nerds at the Math Contest has
taken quite a toll. I can't lie down to sleep. After 30 minutes, or 5,
my lungs develop a wheezy sound like that squeezy bellows thingy
my old grandma used to fan the coals and get her fireplace roaring.

I have taken to sleeping in a recliner so as not to disturb my Hillbilly
Husband. The loud wheezy sound is enough, not to mention (but I
will) the coughing fits that bounce HH up and down in the bed like
popcorn in an air popper, which is not a good thing, because it is
relatively tastless and not a good snack. Yes, Hillbilly Mama's got
a squeezebox, HH never sleeps at night. And that is not a good
thing either, not a fun kind of squeezebox like in the THE WHO
song. You know...an accordion. What were you thinking?

Last night around 12:01, I arose to retire to my living room boudoir.
I turned on the TV for a minute to entertain myself during a coughing
fit. Next thing I know, it's 4:20 a.m., and my alarm has gone off.
Which means that I didn't even recline, I slept sitting up, and my
neck hurt from my gigantic head sagging over onto my shoulder for
4 hours. Which was actually an OH SO IMPERFECT ending to an
OH SO IMPERFECT day.

"How imperfect was it, Hillbilly Mom?", you ask...YOU, who are
the only one still awake. Let me tell you. At school, I always start
the hacking cough at my second building. It is old, and there must
be some powerfully evil dustbunnies in the ducts. I have to take a
dose of Histinex, the best cough medicine in the world. By 'dose',
I mean 1-2 teaspoons every 4-6 hours. It just gets me through the
afternoon before it wears off. My kindly doctor's office called me
in a prescription so I didn't have to wait 2 hours in the waiting room.

Here's where the imperfect day came about. The pharmacy staff
were OH SO KIND to include a little plastic shot glass--I mean
medicine cup--for measuring the dose. I usually swig it out of Kyle
Crocodile, my green plastic children's medicine spoon. Hey! He
works for the kids, he works for me! But I had this pretty, clear,
new, measuring cup. I poured in the medicine about 5 minutes
before my class was due to start, because I'd been sidetracked
downstairs reading the Ultimate Hamburger Cookbook on the
Books Are Fun display rack. I poured in 1 1/2 teaspoons, the
best I could tell, because it had only numbers 1 and 2, and some
odd markings like 'drams' or some such thingy.

As I swilled the sweet, orangey elixir, I thought Man, this seems
like a lot of medicine! I poured some bottled water into the shot
glass to chase the medicine. As I looked to see if my little glass
was clean, I noticed the measuring mark said TBSP. People!
That is not a teaspoon! It is a tablespoon! To the best I could
figure, I had ingested about 4 teaspoons of the stuff. I just knew
that was a deadly dose, that I was going to keel over stone cold
dead in a few minutes. Was there an antidote? Did I need to call
Poison Control? Could Mr. Yuck talk me down?

I didn't have much time to ponder the worst-case scenarios, due
to the coughing fit that struck me. Even sweet, sweet Histinex
takes about 20 minutes to work. I coughed hard. My eyes bugged
out like one of those squeezy stress dolls when you are stressed
and squeeze it. I had a student one time who had a cow like that,
but when you squeezed it, a brown balloony bubble of fake cow
poo came out its butt. Mabel loved it. She is partial to cows.

Anyhoo, I coughed and coughed and couldn't cough up my lung
snot, and couldn't stop coughing, and I had to run downstairs to
the only women's faculty one-seater bathroom and run in and
expel my sweet, sweet, Histinex and bottled water and lung snot.
Whew! That was not fun. I am like Jerry Seinfeld in that I only
vomit about once every 12 years. I was 5 years early. And I
didn't even get a black-and-white cookie.

I made it back upstairs just in time for my class. Hillbilly Mom
is nothing if not punctual. I looked like a purger from Intervention,
except that I did not store my Histinex/bottled water/lung snot
cocktail in a ziplock bag to dispose of in a neighboring business's
dumpster once a week. I still have a lump thingy that is sore in
the back of my throat. How people can do that vomit thingy
day in and day out is beyooooond me.

That, folks, was my OH SO IMPERFECT day and night.
Sweet dreams.