Show Me Some Votey Love

This week's eviction from the Big Blogger 2 Cyberhouse is going
to be based on the popular vote. None of that Electoral College
business, if you know what I mean.

Check out the Nomination #8 poll at Big Blogger 2.

Big Blogger has assured me that the Cyberhousemate with the
lowest number of votes will be voted out. And I ALWAYS
trust (!) Big Blogger.

Visit the Cyberhousemates, and make your choice. If I stay in
this week, I promise my readers a one-week free pass from
pissing me off.

Cyberhousemates

• Hillbilly Mansion
• I don't do mornings
• Legless In Perpetuum
• Scotland of the Soul

A Farewell to Boobs

Farewell, Redneck Diva. It seems Big Blogger has spoken. Some-
times, I wish Big Blogger would remain mute, like those darling
mimes that everyone seems to hate. Shh...don't let Big Blogger
hear that. Here is your tribute, dear Diva, for your memorable
time in the Big Blogger 2 house. Grab a hankie, you might tear
up a bit. Nawww... Don't bother.

Let me warn you that this tribute is filled with Diva's very own
search information from her blog. A little StatCounter knowledge
is a dangerous thing. Here's proof.

The Cyberhouse is a bit quieter without the Diva. We used to
while away the hours listening at the knee of the great Diva.
She's from the royal order of red assed gentry, you know...not
those common redneck f*ckers.

She was full of advice. It seems like only yesterday she told
us how to make a waterslide wit things around the house, and
gave us free do-rag sewing instructions. She's OH SO URBAN
sometimes.

Cazzie made lots of 'notes to self' with the homespun first aid tips
the Diva dished out. How to treat blisters from monkey bars was
a good one. But I'm not sure where these blisters were, because
the first thing Diva said was "lay your head on this big brass bed."
The next thing I overheard was "his balls twist girl, pull his balls off."
The final treatment was cortisone cream on penis. The guys didn't
really want to hear about all that. I believe it fell under the category
of Too Much Information. They were especially nervous when
Diva held her daily woody roundup.

Diva bent over backwards to make the guys feel comfortable.
She gave them all horseshoe flattop haircuts, and described for
them in detail the stabbin cabin movie. And if that wasn't enough,
she also told them about her redneckdiva porn star wedding.
By the time she was done, they knew where to go for a good
hickey suck, and where to get don't come knockin van stickers.

Every evening, we crowded around the Diva to hear her do her
impersonation of Forrest Gump's friend, Bubba. Only Diva didn't
talk about shrimp. Diva told us about marsha boobs, wench boob,
boobs falling out on roller coasters, and deodorant under boobs.
She's a regular boob expert, our Diva. I can't thank her enough
for leaving out the waist boobs. I mean leaving them out of the
discussion, silly. Not leaving them out for people to look at.

Now Big Blogger has sent Diva wandering with bandana in a stick.
It might take her a while to walk home. While we're all sorry to
see her go, we're not sorry to lose that mouse smell, or the smell
of old milwaukee beer farts.

Farewell, Redneck Diva. The Cyberhouse is better for having
housed you.

Imported Worms and a Mystery Man

We are going fishing tonight. We haven't been in a couple of years,
what with the #2 son trying to fall in the water on previous outings.
We are not going far. But we are going farther than the creek,
where my Hillbilly Husband takes the boys fishing with baloney and
hot dogs for bait. This is a big event. We even bought nightcrawlers
at Wal*Mart. Real ones, out of a mini-fridge. They are Canadian
Nightcrawlers, whatever that means. It said so on the label. Is there
something I'm missing? Does Canada have better worms than the
U.S.? Who knew? I thought Wal*Mart was all about domestic
products. Except for maybe sweatshop clothing made by Kathie
Lee Gifford's minions. Yes, Wal*Mart has everything. We will have
to go someplace secluded, since HH and I don't have a fishing
license. It's not the money, it's the hassle. I know I could have got
them at Wal*Mart, but it's not so easy when the boys are whining
and poking each other when I'm trying to give all the information.
I'm sure we'll get one during the week that he's off. Shh...don't tell
on us. We are generally law-abiding folks.

On our way to town today, we saw a man walking up our gravel
road by the mailboxes. He was creepy. We don't know why he
was there. This is not a through street, you know. It is about two
and a half miles through here to the next blacktop road. He was
carrying a pair of boots, and limping along with a flannel shirt
over a t-shirt. Hmm...it was already 78 degrees, with about 100%
humidity. Methinks his flannel was not necessary. He looked a
bit unkempt. I thought he was walking on the gravel in sock feet.
He gimped along like he had tender feet. #1 son said he had on
some other boots.

He was really creepy. I thought maybe he was homeless, and
his boots got wet in the thunderstorm we had around midnight.
Or maybe he stole those boots he was carrying because the
boots he stole before were too tight. I told the boys that by
the time we got back, he might be taking a bath in our pool. He
did not have a bow, or a gun, or a fishing pole. It was strange.
We are 5 miles from town. Why was he out here walking? I
sure did not stop to investigate. I'm not such a good Samaritan.
He didn't try to flag me down or anything. You have to be careful
when you're out in the woods in a large SUV and have two
young 'uns with you. And I don't even know what Fitty looks like.

I've stopped to help other people. I've let old people use my cell
phone when they ran their big white Cadillac backwards into a
ditch. We picked up a woman who ran her van off the curve in
a big snow, and drove her home. But I'm not taking any chances
with unkempt boot-carrying pussy-footing bearded men. Nope.
Flip me off and call me Satan's handmaiden, but I ain't a-stoppin'.
There was no sign of him when we came back about two hours
later. Now I'll think he's in the woods watching me. It doesn't
help that someone landed at my blog the other day after searching
for bums and scams in store parking lots,,''ive broken down''.
I suppose I'm just paranoid. Next thing, I'll think he's paparazzi
waiting for the world-renowned Hillbilly Mom to make a grand
entrance.

If he walks up the driveway, I think the poopies would bark at
him. They don't like anything coming into the yard. Unless it's
someone in a car. Then they lounge around in the dirt holes they
dug under the 5th-wheel camper parked in the front yard, like,
"You get this one. I got the black dog that came under the fence
this morning."

Don't hate me because I have 24 imported nightcrawlers and
you don't. Hate me because I am Satan's handmaiden.

What I'm Doing This Summer

We are planning a little trip when my Hillbilly Husband takes some
vacation time. I can't tell you when it is, because then you would
know when I was gone, and since I'm not sure how effective my
Witness Protection identity is, someone who really knows me
could have a heyday here at the Mansion.

They could swim in the pool and the hairwad hot tub, they could
tip over my old outhouse, they could harvest all of my ancient
artifacts from the creek, they could take the Scout for a spin,
they could try to pet the unpettable poopies. I just wouldn't feel
right if I allowed someone to have that much fun.

We are only going to be gone overnight. I don't want to do the
Branson thing this year, because we are not made of money, much
to the disbelief of HH. He is still planning a 3-day trip to Las Vegas
with #1 son, so I guess he needs to be out harvesting those money-
growing trees pretty soon. He's not going to gamble, he's going to
visit his brother. He has some frequent flier miles from all those
business trips he had to put on his personal credit card. According
to #1 son, they have quite a luxury suite lined up for their
accommodations. He is excited about flying, since he's never
been on a plane before.

We are only going to St. Louis. My part of the deal is staying at
a casino overnight. WooHoo! I get more than an hour to gamble.
I don't need no stinkin' money-growing trees. That is one thing I
have taken care of. Every time we have ever gone gambling over
the past 15 years, I have squirrelled away my winnings. HH? He
puts it back in until it is gambled down to nothing. Not Hillbilly
Mom, by cracky! I have a tidy little sum stored away. Perhaps
I should use it for a family vacation...NAWWW! It's not like I
run around buying Scouts and swimming pools all year. It's mine,
I tell you! I saved it. And it's mine to gamble, by cracky!

The boys are excited to stay in a hotel with a mini-fridge and an
ice machine and a snack machine. It doesn't take much to please
the little fellers. They will be taking numerous gaming systems to
pass the time while HH and I take turns going to the casino. They
will also get a trip to Chuck E. Cheese (the good one, Diva, in
South St. Louis), time in the game room of another casino, and
a trip to somewhere we haven't decided. Up for consideration
are: the zoo, Science Center, Bigfoot, Transportation Museum,
art museum, Bass Pro Shop (not the good one in Springfield...
the one in St. Charles), Cahokia Mounds (they've already seen
it). We are currently negotiating the final destination.

That stuff is just for our overnight trip. While at home, we plan
to do some fishing, marshmallow-roasting, swimming, hot-tubbing,
and who knows what. If any good movies open, we're sure to
be there. We saw Garfield: A Tail of Two Kitties yesterday. It
was pretty good, though I don't know if kids needed to hear
the 'fava beans and a nice Chianti' comment, or see a dog try
to eat the balls off Billy Connelly. Still, there was no profanity,
which was amazing, considering they even snuck a bad word
into Cars. Oh, and not to give anything away, but if you're a
Seinfeld fan, you'll recognize Garfield's butler as none other
than Elaine's boss, Mr. Pitt. Not her boss Mr. Peterman, of the
J Peterman Catalog job, but Mr. Pitt, who would not let Elaine
go to Atlantic City with Jerry and George to kill Kramer's
beauty contestant's doves by throwing ice off the balcony,
because she had to buy Mr. Pitt some socks.

Now I'm wound up about that word in Cars. That is not necessary.
It is basically a kids' movie. Can adults not go two hours without
a dose of profanity? I am not a goody-goody, but I don't think
kids need to hear it. It's enough that they hear it on the bus and
at school. And that's just from the driver and the teacher, heh heh.
But seriously folks...there is line in Cars like "Now I'm stuck here
in Hillbilly H*ll." Yeah. It's fine to ridicule hillbillies, huh? Where
is our political correctness? I demand a commercial like that one
for Geico, so my buddy Redneck Diva can say, "I'll have the
roast duck with mango salsa." And I get to say, "I don't have
much of an appetite, thank you." Then I can rail on the writers
of Cars about how hurtful their portrayal of hillbillies is.

Anyhoo...we're taking a one-day vacation. I am very regular
(in the posting of my blog, not necessarily in my digestive
processes, which are not really your business). If I don't have
a new post for a day, don't get all thinkin' some foul play has
befallen me (got that, Mabel?). I will return. I may even try to
trick you and post every day. We'll see.

Big Blogger 2 - Task 9 - Bumper Stickers

This week's Big Blogger 2 challenge is to create bumper stickers.

What Big Blogger wants to see is:

• One political sticker
• One comical sticker

How about...

George Bush: Proof That Any DoNot Can Be President

and...

Kids: Can't Live With 'Em, Can't Eat Without 'Em

In case these do not make sense to you, I sometimes refer to my
students as 'DoNots'. That is because they Do Not do any of
their homework, they Do Not get along with others, and in general,
they Do Not do what is expected of them on a daily basis.

My 11-year-old son is quite disillusioned with Mr. Bush. Back
when he won the election (well, actually, he stole it, but that is
a tale for another day), my boy was younger, but still upset.
"Mom! He was only a C STUDENT!!! And he's PRESIDENT!"
The boy was outraged. His IQ is higher than George's. Really.
OK, so it's like the time HH bragged, "My boy has an IQ of
almost 100!" That could apply to Bush, methinks. I know that
my boy's is well above average, because the school tested him
and put him in gifted class. That was because his kindergarten
teacher referred him, saying that he had all the classic signs.
Perhaps it was when he asked Santa for a fax machine for
Christmas.

The second one is a bumper sticker for teachers. It comes courtesy
of my old teaching buddy, Karen, from my haunted school, who
was obviously in this business only for the big bucks. It's a teacher
kind of thing. We don't really eat kids here. It's just a nasty rumor.
I dare anybody to prove it.


Big Blogger 2 Inmates

• Crash Of Rhinos
• Hillbilly Mansion
• I don't do mornings
• Knockin' On The Golden Door
• Lantern of Light
• Legless In Perpetuum
• Perspectives of a Nomad
• Redneck Diva
• Scotland of the Soul
• Will Type For Food

What About the Children?

No new news from the Mansion. The boys are currently having a
Wrestle Royale in the living room. I hear thumps and squeals. If
I hear crying, I will investigate. Boys will be boys. You know that
old saying: It's all fun and games until the big one splits the little
one's head open and they both lie about it until I find the little one
wrapped up like a burrito in his Winnie-the-Pooh sleeping bag and
blood is pouring from a scalp wound and it takes three paper towels
to soak it up and I casually mention that we may have to go to the
ER for stitches and there might be some questions from the docs
and the big one tells three different stories but I finally get the truth
that it was a game of tug-o-war gone bad with the belt to a red
terry cloth robe and the little one said, "Let go!" so the big one
granted his wish and let go from his position atop the couch without
informing the little one, who sailed backwards and cracked his head
on the wooden stair post.

The kids bought some fireworks the other day, and have made them
last this year, stringing them out to a few every night. We will get
more before the 4th. Last night's big event was putting firecrackers
in a tomato that had a bad spot. It was quite the success. The pets
hate the fireworks, and slink away under the porch or camper,
foregoing their new favorite pastime of rolling on a skinless,
headless rabbit carcass that lies near the left front tire of the truck.

We made a trip to town around noon to mail some bills. I invested
$30 of my $100-big-winner lottery ticket to buy some more tickets.
We only won $25 of it back, but that's still pretty good. I am not
complaining.

I let the kids have fast food, and my large SUV sounded like my
grandpa's hog lot right after he dumped a bucket of corn on the
ground. I'm not sure of the proper eating-fast-food-in-a-large-
SUV etiquette, but I'm pretty sure it would include: Chew with
your mouth closed. My boys are animals. Expensive animals.
But neither of them has a mink coat with 4 sleeves and a hood.

When we got home, #1 son stayed on the porch to pet his striped
yellow cat, Genius. He came in and said, "Mom, I know Genius
loves me, but he was licking my butt while I petted him. He's never
done that before." He then turned around to show me a wet spot
about the size of a baseball on his left hip. "I thought it was his spit,
Mom, but it's really grease from where I sat on a fry in the car."

NO MINK COAT FOR YOU!

HM Watches TV

I have too much idle time. I've been watching bad TV. Now you're
going to read about bad TV.

I was skimming through the channels the other night and stopped
at The Girls Next Door on the E! channel. It is a 'reality' show
about those Playboy girls who live in Hugh Hefner's mansion.
Now I'll really get the weirdos searching for that other mansion.
Anyhoo...I don't know the whole set-up here, but it seems like
that wrinkley, turkey-necked Hef has a harem. Like he's got the
polygamy thing goin' on, but without all the marriage licenses.
Because that's illegal.

Here's the thing: what are these girls thinking? Is Anna Nicole
their idol? Why would young girls want to live there and do what
they have to do to live there? If you know what I mean. What can
be in their backgrounds that makes them want a relationship with
an 80-something-year-old man?

The most outrageous part is that on the show I saw, some of the
girls had gone to visit one's home town. They were in the limo on
the way back to the mansion, wondering who would be sitting
next to Hef on the couch at movie time. One of the girls was
ready to kick her butt, whoever it was. HELLO!!! You already
share him with a gaggle of other gals! What difference does it
make if he's got another one? Idiots!

Next up, the Discovery Health Channel. I just caught the last half
of this, because I was switching to some other show off and on.
It was called something like: Men Having Babies. The title lured
me in. Then I found out it was about a couple of gay guys who
paid a lesbian to have their baby through artificial insemination.
Not that there's anything wrong with that. A kid wanted that bad
should have a decent life. Surely they won't drive a car with it in
their lap, or let it fall out of a high chair and crack its skull.

Apparently, the guys both donated sperm for their petri dish baby,
and the woman was implanted with 3 embryos, because on the
first try, she miscarried two embryos. These guys already had
an adopted toddler, and seemed to take good care of it. They
wanted a child of their own, too. The main caregiver guy had
black hair. He could have been Hispanic, or Italian, or any
ethnic heritage with black hair and dark skin. I couldn't tell.
The other guy was very white, and bald with a fringe of reddish
hair. I don't know which of them got two embryos and which
got one with his DNA.

Here's the shocking part. The baby was born. It had reddish
hair, and was mostly bald, and had the facial features of the
bald redheaded daddy. The families came to the hospital, held
the baby, oohed and ahhed over it. Next, we see them 10 months
later. The baby has a little more red hair, and is still the spittin'
image of the bald white daddy. For the record, the baby's mama
had dark black hair also. Back to the shocker. The darkish daddy
said, "We're so happy to have a child of our own. We still don't
know which one of us is the genetic father, and we like it that way.
We don't want to know. He belongs to both of us." WTF? Is this
guy blind? That baby looked like it fell right out of the redhaired
daddy's butt. I don't see how people can be so blind to the
obvious.

This morning, I took a little trip on the Travel Channel, to Oregon.
The show was something like Vacation Homes. A realtor chooses
three houses for couples to look at, based on what they say they
want. Today's couple was in their 50s, and wanted a secluded
cabin near water. These 'cabins' were $200,000 to $250,000.
That's no cabin! That's a house!

The shocker? These people had a dog that they carried the entire
show. I know its legs worked. I saw it squirm a couple times. It
wasn't a little bitty dog. It looked like a miniature greyhound. Not
much hair, lean, whitish in color. It was calm, not feisty. It was
bigger than a beagle, but thinner, with longer legs. The dog had
a mink coat! Not just a blanket that strapped on its back. It was
a tailored coat, with four 'sleeves' for its legs, and a hood! No
wonder they wouldn't let that poor doggie down. They didn't
want to lose the mink coat. How did that poor thing go to the
bathroom? Did he have to take off his entire coat and freeze,
or did it have a flap like those old red longjohns HH used to
have? I was more interested in the dog than in the cabins.

Some people have too darn much money.

Hillbilly Mom To The Rescue

I just returned from a 2-hour rescue mission to pick up my Hillbilly
Husband and #1 son. It's not like they were abandoned at the top
of Mount Everest without oxygen or a tent. Their car overheated
returning from HH's family reunion. The reunion where he bragged
last year: "That's my boy. He has an IQ of almost 100!" Which I'm
sure impressed some of those people who know what HH is like.
But to me, it's kind of like bragging that you have a 1980 Mercedes
in a pukey yellow color that cost you $3000. Which is precisely
the car that overheated.

That little gem is now abandoned in my Hillbilly Mama's driveway,
awaiting HH's tender loving care tomorrow. He plans to rip out
its radiator and take it to have it repaired. He's handy like that.

There is no other news to report from the Mansion, except that
HH took the pool water to be tested to see what he should have
been adding to it for oh...I don't know...THE PAST 4 WEEKS.
The pool people gave him instructions, and mentioned that our
well water has copper in it. HH told the #1 son that we should
start digging for copper on our land. The boy informed me of
this scam during the rescue, in which we followed HH while he
sped up, slowed down, and stopped to add water to the radiator
so we could yell, "There's more running out the bottom than you
put in!" We sure know how to have a good time.

After dropping off the hideous, smoke-breathing beast (the car,
not HH), I inquired about the copper mine. "Isn't that the kind
of open-pit mining where the crater is about a mile deep, and
you have to grind up all the rock you take out of the crater just
to get a little copper?" To which HH replied, "Yeah. That big
one out in Arizona is only recovering .06 percent copper now."
Like he had those freakin' statistics inside his head. He does
that all the time when I can't check his facts. Like last year when
he was on the east coast on business, and told me he was two
houses down from 'that famous author, Betty, who just died'.
And it turned out to be Katherine Hepburn.

When I nixed the idea of opening up a copper mine in our yard,
he moved on to his next proposal, which is selling rocks off the
land. They are giant rocks that some people actually want in
their yards for landscaping. Go figure. HH thinks the going rate
is $10 a ton. I don't think that's worth tearing up a mile of gravel
road to get the truck and dozer in and out. So far, I am winning.

HH also informed me this morning that those annoying poopies
we have adopted belong to our neighbor. They have a black Lab.
The poopies appear to be German Shepherds. Their baby pictures
confirmed it for me, as well as the vet saying they had Shepherd
in them. I asked HH how the neighbor's male Lab could have
those puppies and the neighbor not even come looking for them
when they disappeared. He replied that their dog is black and
when ours stood next to him last night at the end of the driveway,
(meaning when they chased him off in a yapping frenzy, because
they are OH SO TERRITORIAL, our poopies) they looked just
alike. I'm assuming he meant because our poopies are also black.
Even though their coarse black fur is getting that tan undercoat
that is found in German Shepherds. And their ears are starting to
stand up, all pointy-like, instead of flopping over like a Lab. Then
I asked who the mother would be, and HH said, "That stray that
was always up on our porch." Which was a small yellow spaniel-
looking thing, and not a bit like our poopies. But that's the puzzle
HH put together.

I wish HH had an IQ of almost 100.

I wonder how much copper is in his body...

Let's Talk Medicine

No, not medicine that you take...the field of medicine. That's my
theme for today. I know one of you came here looking for rocks,
Stacie, but not today.

I shall begin with the Splinter Tale. A better version of this can be
found at Redneck Diva's place, she of Abby and the Amazing
Technicolor Childfoot fame. We seem to be living the same life.
Some days she comes out on top, some days I do. I only have my
child's butt to talk about. Sorry, no pictures. I'm pretty sure we have
a law about that sort of thing here in Missouri.

My 8-year-old told me he had a tick on his butt. I looked at it, and
agreed. Then it turned out to be a splinter doing a tick impression.
HH carved it out with alcohol and a Q-Tip. Or diiiiid he???? Let
me answer for you: NO. The next morning, when I took off the
BandAid coated with Triple Antibiotic Ointment (a Wal*Mart
brand) he still had a little black speck...surrounded by some pus.
Not a lot. But enough to watch it so it didn't turn out like that
Thing That Wouldn't Heal on poor little Redneck Abby's heel.

HH dug at it again last night. This time, he called in reinforcements:
the tweezers. I said it looked like the splinter was still there. HH
said it was just the hole where the splinter used to be. He declared
the operation to be a success. The butt declared differently this
morning. It looked a bit better, but there was some pus, and an
annoying little black speck. I slathered it in ointment again. At
noon, I squeezed at it with a tissue until a bunch of skin came off,
the boy screamed, and my Hillbilly Mama declared the wound
to be splinter-free. We'll see what the weekend brings. Hope-
fully, not a trip to the ER to show a doctor my boy's butt.

I will say that I resisted my Hillbilly Mama's home remedy of
strapping a slice of raw bacon on his butt overnight. How's that
for Drawing Salve, Diva? What do you think the doc would have
to say about THAT? We are so going to be persecuted by child
services, aren't we?

This morning, I had a trip to the doctor for a check-up. Does a
person like Hillbilly Mom have an uneventful trip to the doctor?
Need I answer for you? I didn't think so. Driving down our gravel
road, an odd thing happened. A murder of crows (I think that's
the correct term for a buttload of crows) came swooping right up
the road at me. It was just like that scene in Cold Mountain, only
Jude Law wasn't walking along the road, and there was no snow,
and I haven't been leaning backward down a well looking over
my shoulder with a mirror. About a mile further up the county
road, a turkey flew over the trees to cross the road. He must
have excaped from one of Diva's friends' vans. Oh, but that was
not the end of the roadblocks. A large metal gutter-looking thingy
was in (yes, IN) the road by the local high school. And just before
the old rickety rusty bridge, there was a white rack that looked
like it fell off an old Bunny Bread truck.

After a successful run of the obstacle course, I arrived at the
doctor's office, which is on the 4th floor of a building next to
the hospital. There was no parking in my lot of choice, but two
people were walking out, so I circled back. And got stuck behind
the guy in the little golf-cart-thingy who will drive you up to the
door if you are a lazy-butt or have kids who pretend it's a Silver
Dollar City trolley. Because of this guy waiting to pick up a rider,
a usurper circled in the other way and hijacked my new parking
space. Doggone you, trolley-driver! Oooh! That old man who
whipped in there knew I was waiting for that spot. Good thing
I didn't go all Peter Benton on him, like on yesterday's ER on
TBS, where Peter had to drive the beat-up loaner car, and a
prosthesis salesman took his Doctor's Only parking space.
Perhaps it's a good thing I didn't start something, because Peter
Benton got whacked with a home-run swing of a prosthetic leg
for his trouble.

Once inside, I signed in and took my preferred seat, which is
actually in the hallway area, not in the main area with 4 rows of
chairs. As you know, people piss me off. There was absolutely
nobody in my hallway area. UNTIL...a lady got up from the
4-row area, waltzed over, and sat down one chair away from me.
Oh, and the even better news is that someone she knew saw her,
and also came over, and sat across the hallway, which meant that
they SHOUTED to each other for 45 minutes about insulin and
some new pill instead of it. The whole waiting room could not
hear the nurse call people's names. She had to repeat them about
three times, due to the Chatty Cathys. THEN a woman in a
wheelchair rolled over and asked us if we wanted to buy a candy
bar for proceeds to go to Relay For Life. I do not like to be
solicited in a waiting room, and politely declined. Then she asked
the insulin lady, who said, "Oh, I don't think a candy bar is a
good idea, but I will give you a donation." Which I think she only
did because it gave her an excuse to TALK even more. Then the
wheelchair lady parked herself in between the Cathys, and they
shouted over her. I was a bit concerned that my blood pressure
would blow the needle right of that ol' sphygmomanometer when
they called me in.

Thank the Gummi Mary, the loudest Cathy was called in ahead
of me. I must compliment my doctor today. My wait was only
1:45, compared to the usual 2 hours. Good thing I like him, or
I'd take my business elsewhere. After the Cathy left, all I had
to listen two was two ladies who had a bum glucose checker
(they must have been running a special on diabetes today), and
had brought it to exchange for a new one. The one said, "I can't
believe I just got it and it doesn't work. It needs to be returned.
Of course, I didn't pay anything for it, but they need to know so
they don't give it out again."

WTF? I have never gotten anything medical "free". Oh, my no!
I am the one the pharmacy charges an extra $20 on one
prescription, then it takes 40 minutes and an act of Congress
to get my refund the next month when I call them on it. AND,
they treat me like I'm the Devil's handmaiden. Like I'm Nadine
in THE STAND. Or Cruella DeVille in 101 DALMATIONS.
Or Kerry Weaver on ER. I don't get no respect.

Once I made it back the the exam room, where I would linger
for an hour, I reopened my Readers Digest. I always go to
the doctor prepared to wait. I heard men talking. On the main
floor, near the elevators, were three men and a ladder. It was
kind of like that commercial, about how one does the work
while the others watch. I could only see from the feet to the
waist of the one with his head up in the ceiling. It kind of
reminded me of ER again. I thought maybe there were some
men up in the ceiling of the 4th floor, too. Then I saw a guy
swinging along outside the window. A doggone window-
washer!!! I'm glad I wasn't in one of those paper gowns, in
a compromising position. Because the shades are those wide
vertical thingies that mean you might as well not have any
shades, because the light comes in, and you can still see out.
And in.

The doctor finally arrived, and told me my labs were excellent.
Those were his words. My blood pressure was a textbook
120/80, which is good for me, considering the whole reason
I was there was for a check-up because I'm on blood pressure
meds. So for all of you keeping track of my health for me
(MABEL) you can put a smiley face in the logbook.

While there, I mentioned that I've had a hard time getting over
that not-Type A Influenza, and I thought there was still some
such thing going on with my sinuses, since I get headaches
going from the heat to the air conditioning, and I'm stuffed up
and still cough up cloudy whitey-yellowish blobs. He wrote
out a couple prescriptions like for Flonase and stuff. Then I
said that I had a pain in my chest when I coughed, which was
probably just a muscle thingy because I've coughed so much
for the last 6 weeks. I even showed him about where it was,
like where the boob would hook onto the sternum if boobs
were hooked onto anything. He put one finger there and
pushed, and after repairing the shattered window and
resuscitating the window-washer whose heart was stopped
by the shrillness of my scream, the doc said, "Yep. It's a
muscle." Go figure! That man is a freakin' genius.

And now, the credits roll on another episode of "Untold Stories
of Hillbilly Mom's Doctor's Office."

New Bagging Method Discovered

Today, I fired up my large handbasket, knowing full well I was
headed to...Wal*Mart! It was there that I discovered this new
method of bagging groceries. Mind you, I'm not saying it's a
good method, only a new method.

I am no stranger to the bagging phenomenon. I've had plenty of
experience shopping at Save-A-Lot, where you must bag your
own groceries. Normally, I prefer a box there, rather than the
flimsy plastic bags. But I am no stranger to the bag, either. Silly
me. I put my cold foods together, and the boxes together, and
the bread products together, and the fruits and vegetables together,
and the cans together...can you see a pattern? I believe this is the
normal way most people do it.

When I go to Wal*Mart, I pile my things in the cart the way I
expect them to be bagged, and set them out on the checkout
in that order. Heavy stuff first, veggies and bread last.

I must complain to those Wal*Mart smartypantses who used to
advertise: "At Wal*Mart, you're always next in line." Not at any
Wal*Mart I've ever shopped at, by cracky! I was fourth in line.
And at Wal*Mart, you know this is going to take a while, because
nobody leaves Wal*Mart with just a couple of items. The "20 item
or less" checkout should give you that clue. Then, they have the
self-checkouts that take jobs away from little old ladies and high
school kids. So anybody in a regular checkout has a cart piled
full of Wal*Marty goodness.

That was my first problem. A lady two carts in front of me hoisted
an 84-pack or some outrageously large case of Busch beer onto
that conveyor. It broke down. So we had to move over two aisles,
trying to jostle ourselves in the same order so there was no blood-
shed. Oh, and that 84-pack lady was the mother of one of my ex-
students who was kicked out for being under the influence of an
illegal substance on the first day of school several years ago, and
subsequently quit after attending an alternative school. Or so I'm
told by the students. At that student was there in line with her. I
tried not to catch Student's eye, because would you want to be in
the store with your mother buying an 84-pack of beer when you
are old enough that if you'd stayed in school you would have
graduated already? I think not.

Now we get to the new bagging method. When I finally got up to
pile my stuff on the conveyor, I remembered that I'd had this
checker once before, and had vowed never again to get in her
line. But it was too late. I'd been distracted by an 84-pack of
beer. This woman must have tactile issues, or think outside the
box. Every item she picked up, she scanned, then held it up and
looked at it a minute. And I really mean a minute. Like 60 seconds.
Like she couldn't bear to part with it. Then she put it in a bag.

Did she put them in bags like I'd carefully laid them out? If you
guess yes, I'm going to whack you for not paying attention to
this whole boring story. By the time I got my stuff home and
put it away, I'd figured out the method to her madness. It was
not easy, my friends. It was like one of those logic puzzles that
I have trouble with, but my children can do in 2 seconds. You
know, like "The red house had gas but no electric. The blue
house is on the corner. The green house is having a party with
an 84-pack of beer. Where does Fitty's neighbor live?" That
kind of puzzle.

Here is how things were packed. See if you can find the pattern.
Bag 1: two heads of cabbage, a big salad in a round plastic
container, a bag of Italian mix lettuce. Bag 2: two packs of
paper plates, a mini-hot-dog Lunchable, a bag of Sun Chips.
Bag 3: a tall bottle of Suave Wild Watermelon kids' Shampoo,
an oval bottle of L'Oreal Strawberry Smoothie Kids' Shampoo,
a bag of Baked Lays Chips. Bag 4: a jar of olives, two plastic
boxes of strawberries.

OK, Bag 4 was a bit of an abberation for part of the bagging
method. And there were several other bags, but I can't quite
remember all the combinations. Do you have the riddle solved
yet? At first, Bag 1 threw me off. While I would have preferred
my big salad and lettuce to be packed together with some cold
items, I though maybe she said, "Oh. Green leafy things must go
together." But when I saw the others, I knew she couldn't have
had that thought in her head.

Here's what I surmised. All bags had 3 items, unless two were
alike, and then they had 4 items. It seems they all had to have a
smashable item, a round item, a rectangular item. No wonder it
took her so long to sort through my carefully grouped groceries
to fit them into her system. Bag 1: the lettuce got smashed. It was
in a rectangular bag, too. The other stuff was round, with the two
heads of cabbage counting as one item. Bag 2: the Sun Chips got
smashed. The paper plates were round (again, two alike counted
as one), and the Lunchable was in a rectangular box. Bag 3: the
Lays Chips got smashed, the tall shampoo had a large flat top, so
was rectangular, the Suave shampoo bottle is oval. Bag 4: this
was the last bag I put in my cart, so I guess she ran out of stuff for
her system. The strawberries were smashable, and in rectangular
boxes, but there were two alike, and she should have counted them
as one. The jar of olives was round. That darn checker. Those
olives were way up in the bagging order. She had to save them
a long time until those strawberries brought up the rear with the
chips and some buns.

The packing of my chips annoyed me. Because they could have
gone together with some bread. But on top of those other items,
they stuck out the top of the bag, and toppled the bags over,
and got smashed, and you couldn't grab the top of the bag to
carry it.

I hate Wal*Mart. I much prefer Save-A-Lot, but their selection
is limited. Doggone you, Wal*Mart, for driving out the normal
grocery stores! Doggone you, for being cheaper than Country
Mart, and daring to sell food that is not outdated! I hate you,
Wal*Mart, but I will keep coming back. And hating you.

Allergy Tick Heat Fire

There is nothing going on at the Mansion today. No rocks. No
lottery. No cabana boys. No poopies.

We had to get up early to take #1 son to an allergy specialist. He
went in the Spring, and this was a follow-up. I knew it would be
a "Pay your $40 so I can tell you he is fine" kind of visit. It was
supposedly to see if he is allergic to grass pollen. Since the doctor
decided not to do the skin test thingy in May, I don't really think
we needed to go back. He says to bring him back in September
to see about ragweed, but I know he's allergic to ragweed because
he gets snottier around that time, with red eyes. WooHoo! I'm an
allergist! I think I'm going to cancel that appointment, because all
the doctor will do is tell him to keep taking the Zyrtec and add
the Nasonex at night until the flare-up is over. Hmm...I could
have saved a lot of money if I had done HH's cervical disc
surgery at home. Or I could have billed him, and had more
lottery money. Hillbilly Mom, Allergist and Neurosurgeon.

#2 son has been busy this summer with his tick farm. Uh huh.
He raises them on his own blood. Those little parasites eat him
up. I can't stand to pull them out. HH puts alcohol on a paper
towel and holds it over the tick until it lets go. It takes less than
a minute. That's what HH is good at: removing ticks and cleaning
up vomit. He's an all-star. Today's tick fooled them. It was a
splinter, not a tick. Poor kid. He needs to be coated in shrink-
wrap or something. But with a hole to breathe.

It was so hot today that those poopies did not even tear up
anything. They just laid under the truck and weakly wagged
their tails. They had plenty of drinking water. They could have
gone down to romp in the creek. But NOOO! They were too
lazy for that. The cats don't mind the heat at all. They'll even
stay in the garage attic, where it's about 120 degrees.

Right now, HH and the boys have gone to buy fireworks. Because
by cracky, nothing is better on a 100-degree day than lighting
devices that shoot out flames and smoke! Which reminds me,
I have to buy our fire tags for the upcoming year. They expire
June 30. For anybody who doesn't know what that is...if you
live in the middle of nowhere, you have to depend on the rural
fire department to snuff out the blaze if you accidentally set you
property on fire. If you don't buy a fire tag, they will respond,
but will stand by and watch it burn. If it is going to get out of
control and burn other people's property, they will put it out
...and then bill you for the actual cost of fighting the fire. Which
I guarantee you don't want to pay, because it's in the thousands
of dollars. The fire tag is $60 per year, which is not too bad,
except we have land in two different locations. The 10 acres
we just bought from the LandStealer last year should not be
extra, in my opinion, because it adjoins our 10 acres with the
house and barn. There is no limit on what size property you
have for the $60 fire tag.

They have now returned, and the plan is to go get a load of rocks
from the creek. No, not those kind of rocks. River rock to put
around the edge of the pool. Because we're landscapers, by cracky!
I just love that expression. I stole it from Redneck Diva.
I don't think she knows it's missing. Shh...don't tell.

If anything of interest occurs tomorrow, I'll be sure to let you
know. I don't have much hope for it, myself.

Big Blogger 2 - Task 8 - I Know What You Did Last Blog

Our assignment this week was to stalk another Cyberhousemate.
Big Blogger says:

"This week, we are back to a task from last year, and this was a
good one:

I KNOW WHAT YOU DID LAST BLOG

What the Cyberhousemates have to do is stalk (in a fun way)
someone through their blog. We have been watching you, and we
know what you are up to. So pick someone who is in, or has been
in the Cyberhouse, and let us all know what they have been up to."

I have chosen the OH SO STALKABLE Redneck Diva.
The buzz is that her utility room is not very hospitable. And word
on the street is that she's just a big 'ol chicken where fowl are
concerned. Yep. She's not a-crowin' about her fine feathered
friends. She runs with a crowd that full of turkeys. Van turkeys.
And people who throw perfectly good cheesecake out the window
of a moving car. Need I say more?

Oh, but I will. She has been known to enter a casino or two.
Every Monday night. She makes regular pilgrimages to the
Redneck Mecca: Branson, MO. She needn't worry. I keep
a good eye on the place while she's away. That spirit lady who
walks through her house helps me rearrange her cupboards so
the canned goods are not alphabetized. Oh, we always put
them back before she gets home. But we want her to think
something is just not quite like she left it.

Sometimes it's kind of hard to stalk her. She keeps a large
snake in the window so that I can't peep in. And she's using
some kind of Glade Plug-In to repel me. I can't quite put my
finger on it (thank the Gummi Mary!), but I believe it may be
Deceased Meadow Mouse scent.

I have an inkling that she's starting a new work-at-home project.
After unplugging that mouse aroma, I got wind that the state of
Oklahoma might be initiating some legislation to stop home
daycare providers from duct-taping their rugrats to the floor
after dosing them with phenergan. Bummer!

Because I'm all up in her bidness, I have seen future customers
searching for some odd information over at her place. I'm not
sure what kind of business venture this is going to be, but let
me share with you what the pervs are seeking.

Perhaps our dear Diva is going to write an advice column, because
many people write in to tell her things:

i plucked my eyebrows
i found little green bugs in my bathroom
i am fat i am getting fat i am now fat i am chubby
my husband is cracky
you be the bread and i'll be the cheese showing how we care.com
buttmunch remember when people used to say
sports night guns are redneck the world is not really like that
do brown recluses come out in the summer
what is the bug that surfaces every 17 years and sings annoyingly

Perhaps she is inventing a new air freshener, because many of
them seem to be suggesting a particular scent.

dead mouse in the wall
fungus on my neck
yummie and big boobs of mrs. sammie sparks
jello shots mascar parking lot woman camper
smelling panties
uncle buck's crappie pole
dead mouse in washer
fishy crotch

I hope she chooses that new fragrance soon. She should have
plenty of time for this new business venture. Apparently, her
blog well is running dry. Why, just the other day, she cooked
up "Abby and the Amazing Technicolor Childfoot". Poor little
gal. Abby, not Diva. Great Googley Moogley, that woman will
leave no board unsplintered to fabricate a good picture to post.

Here's to you, Diva. The next time you hear Sting sing "I'll be
watching you...", think of me. Every breath you take.

Big Blogger 2 Cyberhousemates

• Crash Of Rhinos
• Hillbilly Mansion
• I don't do mornings
• Knockin' On The Golden Door
• Lantern of Light
• Legless In Perpetuum
• Perspectives of a Nomad
• Redneck Diva
• Scotland of the Soul
• Will Type For Food

College Clip Chicken Chip

No rocks for you, Stacie! I know you said you like them. Now.
Now that you're not going to get any more. Now that I am with-
holding the rocks from you, you can't get enough. Uh huh. I see
how it is. Oh, you'll be beggin' me for some rock photos, mark
my words. But I'm not going to toss them back in the creek. The
creek can get its own rocks. Thanks to Bluejinx, I got the bright
idea of giving them out to all the little Charlie Browns who dare
trick-or-treat at the Mansion.

Sunday morning, HH called me from a flea market. He said,
"Don't take your rocks back to the creek just yet. They have
three boxes of them here labeled 'Indian Tools'. They are selling
from $4 to $20 apiece." Heh heh. Too bad we don't have a
booth at the flea market. But good that I got MY rocks for free.

Today was my boy's first day of college. College For Kids, at the
local junior college. He's taking Boats, Planes, and Trains, and has
been looking forward to it all summer. I gave him my cell phone,
$5, and left him. He's a resourceful little fellow for 11.

The #2 son and I stopped by Great Clips to get him a shaved
head. Last time, HH took him, and not enough was cut. Since
we were the only two customers, I decided to get my lady-mullet
trimmed as well. I did feel a bit guilty about two-timing my regular
haircuttress, the one who looks like Redneck Diva. But without
the pirate do-rag.

A young whippersnapper of a gal took the kid behind a mirrored
wall to commence cutting. Two workers came back from lunch
about then, and an old one called me back. She was way older
than any other Great Clips girls I had ever seen. She looked to be
the same age as me, by cracky! And kind of cranky. Which we all
know is OH SO UNLIKE me. Picture the world's first supermodel,
Janice Dickinson, only not as attractive. And not as friendly. Yeah.
Now that you're done screaming in horror...she was great.

HAGatha was wrinkley, with hair dyed the same shade as mine.
You can bet your bottom dollar that SHE did not yell out, "I see
that you dye your hair" the minute she flung that rubber sheet
thingy around my neck. And she didn't keep trying to sell me
'product' the way that last Great Clipper did, either. HooRah,
HAGatha! You're my cup of tea. Though I doubt that either one
of us drink tea. We seem more like the Coors Light type of gals.
She gave me the best cut I've had in years. She got right down
to it. I was done before the boy young 'un. HAGatha snipped
and clipped and said, "I know you part it there, but I'm just
combing it this way to cut it." She was not gentle, either. She
yanked and pulled and made my hair do as she pleased. It
was great. I hope she's working the next time I take the kids
in. I believe she's an acquired taste.

From there, we drove thru Burger King for a Grilled Chicken
Caesar Salad. Normally, I would compliment this place for the
salad. They put the hot chicken in a separate bag, so it doesn't
make your lettuce all wilty before you get it home. But no. They
made it with iceberg lettuce. To me, that is quite a Caesar Salad
faux pas. It should be made with romaine lettuce, my dear
adolescent minimum-wage workers. Romaine. Not iceberg.
We're not exactly a hotbed of gourmet cuisine.

When I got home and put my salad together, I added some chips
on the side. Oh, not real chips. The pressed potato flake chips
in a can. No, not Pringles. Lay's. They were on sale at Save A Lot.
Here's something you may not know about Lay's chips-in-a-can:
when dropped from a height of oh...I don't know...a computer
desk...they do not break. They bounce. In fact, you could pick
them up and eat them. If you are the kind of person who would
do that sort of thing. For the love of Gummi Mary, people! It's not
a granola bar off the garage floor!

I am making a list, though not checking it twice. I'm not quite as
compulsive as some people. You know who you are. I'm ready
to write my Big Blogger 2 report. HM's the name. Stalking's the
game. Bwahaha! Tune in tomorrow to see who I've been stalking.
As if there's any doubt.

HM, Archaeology Woman, Retired

Here are a couple more photos of those blade/arrowhead thingies.
Their 3D image doesn't translate well with my photography. I put
that granite-looking thing in too, because it is OH SO PRETTY
with that white patch on the end. It is sparkly in the sun. I would
use it for a whacker of some kind, because it's heavy.

I am not going to post my hoe-looking or scraper-shaped or
round flat sandstone collection at this time. I will wait for the next
big rain and see what washes up, or we will get a little spade to dig
in the creek bottom. The bed is big flat rocks, with crevices. I'd like
to dig out the gravel and see what's under it. Hopefully, not a snake.
The water is only about 4 inches deep right now.



















While I was taking the pics, #1 son ran out to get his treasure, that
broken thingy in the middle. It looks like the tip broke off of a
bigger object. It is sharper than that brown one on the left. Even
though its point looks curved, there is a ridge that is sharp. It also
has a pink look to the inside of it, like that white one has on the back.



















That thingy on the bottom right looks like some kind of hatchet to
me. The color never comes out right in the pictures. It is flat on one
side, and kind of triangular on the other.



















I'm not really the color of boiled lobster. It was hot out in the sun.
You can almost see the shape of this thing here.



















OK, I'm done with that. It's not something I'm an expert on, like
the Gummi Mary. Or Sonic Cherry Diet Coke. Or scratch-off
lottery tickets. Which reminds me...I forgot to tell you about the
latest lottery adventure. Since you've been so patient with the rocks
in my head, I'll share it with you.

We have not been winning at lottery. Our stash of $93 in winning
tickets had dwindled to the last $18. I told the boys if we didn't
win something on Friday, we were going to stop buying them for
a while, until our luck changed again. We had been on a streak of
19 tickets without a winner. That'll learn us! We were riding high
after beating the odds with 3 out of 4 winners a couple times.
That's how we amassed our wealth. So out of that string of 19
losers, I had two left to scratch on Friday. It was a $2 Block
Bingo. I hardly ever win at them. $5 was the most I'd won, and
a $2. That was it. But I keep buying them because nobody has
won any of the $30,000 or $25,000, or $10,000 prizes.

You could grow a long gray beard playing these Block Bingo
tickets. You have to scratch off 30 numbers, and check 5
bingo cards. They are tedious. So I got done, and on the 2nd
bingo card, I had all 4 numbers in the box. WooHoo! It was
a $100 winner! Actually, it was $102, but I don't know why.
So of course we are going to buy more tickets. Not all at
once, of course.

That's all the news from the Mansion today. Thanks to Scribalist
for deciphering my rocks. Now I'm off to work on the next task
for Big Blogger 2. I need my binoculars and a pair of shoes that
doesn't squeak. Hmm...who will I chose to visit? That's your
warning, Cyberhousemates. Pull the shades. Lock the doors.
Hillbilly Mom is out and about.

HM, Archaeology Woman (Not So Much)

Heh heh! I've captured your attention. Stay with me...I have more
photos. Next week, y'all can come over and watch home movies
of my children. Wait...WAIT! C'mon back. You don't have to.
What I have today are some more lovely rocks from my creek.
The pictures aren't so good, because we had a cloudy day and
I took them out on the porch.

Scribalist was kind enough to tell me that my first set of rocks are
(drumrolllllllll) rocks from the creek. Yeah. So here are some
more. I'm trying to keep them small so the page will load faster.
If you click on them, they'll get bigger.

This set is some odds and
ends. Two are arrowheads
that one of the older boys
found in the same place I
found my not-treasures.
One popped up out of
some gravel on the creek


bottom when HH drove his tractor across the flat rocks and
stirred it up. I don't know which one. That third one is a mottled
gray, black and white shiny kind of rock, but it looks dull in this
photo. One side is flat, and the other side is humped up, and has
been chipped at. Don't you like my scientific lingo? Here is the
other side:

That one on the bottom left
is really heavy, and the short
one next to it seems like the
stuff you could sharpen a
knife on. That little dude with
the hole in it is very light.



This next batch are heavy and smooth. They're thick, not flat,
except that pointy one in the middle. It has a flat side.

The one on the bottom left
has a hole in the top, which
should be visible in the next
few pictures. It's at a right
angle to the flat sides, so it
was hard to get a picture.





Here are these things flipped
over. They are more round
and triangular, so they're hard
to balance. That middle one
has a groove in it.





Now you can see the hole.
I had to lean them together
to show the third edge.
That bottom left one with
the hole has a thin groove
that runs across under the
hole. I tried a close-up.



You can only see the it
on the right side, if you
enlarge it.







From the fourth side here,
you can see the groove go
all the way across.






Stay with me! Only two more sets of pretty creek rocks to go.
But with multiple views.

This is my flat, pointy, heavy
collection. There I go again
with my scientific lingo.







This is their bad side.
They begged me not to
photograph them from
this angle, but I said,
"Hey! I'm the bad
photographer here!
Deal with it!"



They are actually quite
svelte, these prima donnas,
for being so heavy. I hope
they haven't been up their
anorexia shenanigans again.





This guy on the right is
mad because he thought
he belonged with the
flat heavyweights, not
the clunky triangular
creek rocks who have
been masquerading


as archaic/woodland tools. Hey! He can get his own act when
he can carry himself up here from the creek. I don't want no
more of his lip! And for that little snit fit, I will now show you...


his posterior. Look. He's
blushing. That'll learn
him to mess with me,
by cracky!





And there you have it. Today's lesson in why Hillbilly Mom
should stay out of the creek. Should I toss them all back from
whence they came? Except the arrowheads. Those things didn't
chip themselves while bobbing down the creek.

Advise me, Scribalist. Dump the whole lot? My rock garden
is full already.

And whichever one of you came here this evening looking for
'hillbilly corncob pipe chair on porch', you'll have to come back
another day. My porch is full of creek rocks.

Hillbilly Mom, Archaeology Woman

Here are today's finds from our
creekwalking tour. You may say,
"Whoop-ti-do! HM found some
rocks in the creek! Ain't she
OH SO SPECIAL?" Don't mock
me, people! This is history from


my back yard! I don't know which time period in history, because,
um...that was my worst subject.



Anyhoo, these look to me like
stones that were used to grind
seeds or nuts. The ones I
Googled had bigger holes.
Maybe these stones were used
to sharpen or shape something.


That one on the left, with two, almost three holes, has a little grinder
part there above it that fits the holes exactly. Somebody, please, for
the love of Gummi Mary, tell me you know something about this.

The closest thing I found to these is called an "anvil". It has the
same kind of small shallow holes. My resource is in Adobe and
I don't know how to link it. It says these stones may have been
used to grind ocher as a pigment for use in hides or burial or
marking pottery. Go figure. There is a red ocher pigment that
I think is related to hematite, which is plentiful in these parts.

Other people say these are rocks formed by erosion, but I don't
think so. They have also been called "nutting stones" or "cupstones"
or maybe were used for shaping something.

The smaller one, on the right, fits neatly into a right hand, and the
little hole has a slant to it like the person using the grinding stick
used the left hand to hold the stick.

Whatever they are, they appear human-made to me. I think I'll
keep them. Better in my mansion than in the creek bed.

Elite New Army

Just when I had nothing to write about today, I got an email from
my friend Bean, who kindly offered me this info for my blog:

The Pentagon announced today the formation of a new 500-man
elite fighting unit called the United States Redneck Special Forces
(USRSF).

These Alabama, Arkansas, Georgia, Illinois, Kentucky, Mississippi,
West Virginia, Missouri, Oklahoma, Tennessee, and Texas boys
will be dropped off into Iraq, and have been given only the following
facts about terrorists:

1. The season opened today.

2. There is no limit.

3. They taste just like chicken.

4. They don't like pick-ups, country music, or Jesus.

5. They are directly responsible for the death of Dale Earnhardt.

The Pentagon expects the problem in Iraq to be over by Friday.
Here's a photo of one of the elite Fighting Rednecks.



This picture came with
the email. It looks OH SO
VERY MUCH LIKE...

HH's buddy, Buddy.



Seems like a plan to me.

Personal confidential message to my missing-in-action buddy, Mabel:
Check your email, Mabes.

A-Hunting We Will Go

This morning, the boys and I arose bright and early around 8:30.

I just love summer vacation.
We loaded up the Scout with a
shovel, camera, stick, spare
shoes, phone, metal detector,
and #2 son. Off we went down
to the creek behind the Mansion
to find arrowheads or treasure.


#2 and I got out and walked part of the way, because there are
big rocks in the "road". We didn't mind the bumping. It was the
thought that #1 might turn that contraption over on us. All three
dogs ran along with us, but the cats stayed behind. The poopies
are sometimes not too cat-friendly. The dogs jumped into the
creek ahead of us and ran around. I'm sure it was good for Ann's
pink stitches in her belly.

I was glad I brought my thongs to change into. NO! Not THAT
kind of thongs! The flip flop shoe thingies. I am that old. And it
is so much easier to say and type 'thongs' than 'flip flops'.
I waded up the creek with my
walking stick that #1 broke off
a dead tree. Since HH fell in
the creek the other day, I was
taking precautions. #1 doesn't
know how to drive the tractor
to winch me out if I fall.


We went up past our little A-frame shed that HH used to camp
in with the older boys. Then we went back down the creek to
the part by the new land we got
from the LandStealer. We didn't
find arrowheads or treasure,
but we had a good time. Next
time I will shovel through
the piles of river rock.
The older boy who's in Iraq


now found an arrowhead when he was about 10. He said HH drove
the tractor across the creek, and he spun a giant tractor wheel in the
river rock right in front of the A-frame. What luck. An arrowhead
popped up. That is right across from a spring that feeds the creek.
We might also walk up there and look around.

Do not tell Fitty where we'll be. It's kind of secluded down there.

Don't Worry, Clarice.

It was a peaceful day at the
Mansion. The boys created their
own swirling "lazy river" by
running around the pool a few
times. Then...



THE VISITOR arrived.


He was fairly large for a visitor
of his type. He could have
reached across the deck boards
with his 6-inch wingspan. We
were a bit apprehensive, but
he sat, silent, without a mouth.
















No, he's not a Death's Head Moth. The best I can tell, he's a
Polyphemus Moth. So I'm not going to be murdered and
made into a skin suit for Jame Gumb, but this thing's babies are
going to eat my wooden house. Six of one...half a dozen of the
other, I suppose. Not moths. That's just a saying. I'd freak out
if I saw six of those moths.

He's not as big as the giant green Luna Moth that was perched on
our cedar porch support while the Cabana Boys put in the pool.
I didn't get a picture of him, what with the excitement of the
Cabana Boys and all. Did you know that these moths only live
for seven days, and have no mouthparts? They can't eat. Their
job is to mate, lay eggs, and die. YooHoo...are you still with me?
I seem to have left you at "Cabana Boys".

My Hillbilly Mama was sitting on the deck, watching the boys.
She got up to move a stack of air mattresses, and set them
down right on top of ol' Mothra. I told her she'd better sleep
with one eye open. And then I told her of the MothMan legend.

Yep. Hillbilly Mom. Spreading the love...one person at a time.

Big Blogger 2, Task 7, Sideshow Slyshow

Our Big Blogger 2 challenge this week is to devise a sideshow for
The Cyber Big Top Circus. Here are Big Blogger's instructions:

SIDESHOW SLYSHOW

"Cyberhousemates have to design their own sideshow attraction,
and popping balls into the mouths of head turning clowns has been
done to death. We want attractions that will keep people spending
their money.

To keep you all hyped up, each Cyberhousemate will be given
double rations of Fairyfloss and Dagwood Dogs until the end of
the week."

I don't know exactly what Big Blogger is feeding us, but since I
don't feel like flitting around sprinkling pixie dust and waving a
wand, or cleaning my teeth with a piece of twine, I think the
Fairyfloss is good ol' redneck Cotton Candy. The Dagwood Dog?
Perhaps a Footlong Hot Dog. Anyhoo, enough of this gorging on
food that I can't identify, and on with the show! The Sideshow
Slyshow, that is!


Ahh...a game of skill that people
can't resist:

Bobbing For Fish



Since we installed a new Hillbilly Fish Pond, the old Redneck Fish
Pond has been lying fallow. Now it can travel with the Cyber Big
Top and earn its keep. Stocked with Wal*Mart goldfish that will
grown to amazing proportions if the fish are fed mass quantities of
food thrice a day, the Cyber Big Top Bobbing For Fish game will
provide enough income to support the Cyberhousemates' costly
Cabana-Boy habit. And if it doesn't, those fish can provide dinner.
Disclaimer: Cat pictured in photo is not a part of the game.
No bobbing for cats, and no using of cat to bob for your fish.

Victims...err...CUSTOMERS will pay $2.00 for one bob in the
Fish Pond, or 3 bobs for $5.00. They are not allowed to use their
hands or any other appendages. Only mouth-bobbing is permitted.
Everyone's a winner, folks. Everyone who catches a fish in his
mouth. The fish are marked with various prizes, from small to
extravagant. Some of the items you are playing for are:




The carcass of Mr. Kickball.








A horse's a$$.








An authentic Hillbilly Mom
T-Shirt.








A House-Possum.









Hillbilly Mom's old outhouse.












The Royal Crown of Beclakia.
Nerdish citizen not included.






Good luck to all.
Management reserves the right to substitute prizes if a good prize is won.


The other Cyberhouse Contestants:

• Crash Of Rhinos
• Hillbilly Mansion
• I don't do mornings
• Knockin' On The Golden Door
• Lantern of Light
• Legless In Perpetuum
• Perspectives of a Nomad
• Redneck Diva
• Scotland of the Soul
• Will Type For Food

Insomnia Intruder Instructions Inhumane

No, I'm not practicing my "I" spelling words. I'm not alphabetizing.
I am trying to connect the happenings in my last 24 hours. Though
They're not in any type of order, either.

Last night I couldn't sleep. I watched Saturday Night Live with
Jack Black. I watched some Food Network wedding food shows,
but that just wasn't my cup of tea. No hog jowls or pickled pigs'
feet. Around 3:00 a.m., I went to bed.

But no. That doesn't mean I went to sleep. I heard things. Things,
people. Not the usual dogs-yapping-running-around-the-porch
things. Walking. Around the porch. Pushing on the french doors
to my bedroom. Knocking on the front door. I could take it no
longer. I got up again. I knew the front door wasn't locked. I'd
seen it on my way to bed and forgot to go back and lock it.

Normally, this wouldn't bother me. We live in an isolated area.
There is no thru traffic. It's a private road. But last night, I thought
of how our neighbors down the road had a yard sale for two days.
And people came, people! From a sign out by the county road,
they drove a couple miles, then up the gravel road, then turned to
get to the actual yard sale. So there were strangers out here. And
if they were looky-loo strangers, they would have gone up the
road past my house. There is no outlet. It loops them back around.
Yes. Hillbilly Mom has no outlet. Perhaps that is why she is so
easily PISSED OFF by people.

Then I started thinking about that Richard Ramirez, the Night
Stalker guy. How he randomly picked a house and went in and
killed the whole family. Mr. K loaned me that book. Thanks, Mr.K,
It's the loan that keeps on giving. I also thought how I leave my
purse on the kitchen counter. Even if the intruder didn't want to
murder us in our sleep, he might want a 7-year-old purse. And it
has my winning scratch-off tickets in it!

I went to the front door and peeped out the wavy glass panel.
I couldn't see anybody or anything. I opened the door. There
were those blasted poopies. They were not tussling and barking
as usual. They each had a femur bone of some kind, about 14
inches long. Perhaps they'd found "Fitty's" stash. Or perhaps
Fitty, the 55-Gallon Barrel Killer himself, was lurking around the
corner, having plied my vicious guard dogs with a treat from the
bottom of one of his barrels. The poopies licked my hand and
breathed their bony breath on me, then went back to gnawing.
I guess one of them had wagged a tail and thumped the front
door twice to simulate my knock.

Which brings me to the tale of picking up Ann-dog from her stay
at the vet. We all went, because we went out to lunch, and then
HH was going to put in some steps for my grandma while I took
the dog home. It was 95 degrees. She couldn't loll around in the
pet carrier in the back of the truck all afternoon. HH stepped up
to the counter and announced that he was here to pick up his
dog, that he had brought her in yesterday to be "spay". That is
one of my pet peeves (heh heh, 'pet' peeves). Why can't people
learn the proper usage of this word? HH was as bad as those
people who say they took their dog to be "spaded".

Anyhoo, upon recovering from HH's embarrassing sterilization
faux pas, it was time for another shock when the bill came to
$452.40. Oh, it wasn't that much for the spaying. HH had sprung
for a round of Frontline for all the pets. 3 dogs and 5 cats, people.
A three-month supply. That might cut into my lottery money!

Ann was glad to see us, which she showed by refusing to come
out of the back room, then hunkering on the floor like she was
ready for her thrice-daily beating, then squirming across the
concrete to lick my feet. She didn't want to go out the door, so
#1 son drug her by the leash. Once out of sight of witnesses, she
trotted along to the large SUV like a show-dog on a lead. Her
instructions were: half a pain pill twice a day, keep the area clean
and dry, watch for infection, keep her quiet, and bring her back
to have the stitches removed in 7-10 days. Yeah. Right.

Upon arriving home, we found that Ann had peed herself in the
pet carrier. #1 dropped her leash, and she ran under the camper
(the 5th wheel in the front yard) to greet her long-lost brother,
Cubby. She wallowed around in their dirt hole for a bit, then was
coaxed out to get the leash removed. She galloped around the
yard with Cubby. After her pain med, she wobbled around the
back porch looking for me. I was down by the pool, calling her
name. She stuck her head through the rail, the blue-and-red
braided nylon chew rope that came 'free' with the butt-load of
Frontline hanging from her lips like a limp cigar. She looked
stoned out of her mind. This morning, she disappeared for a
couple hours in a thunderstorm, and turned up soaking wet.
So much for her convalescence instructions.

Around 10:00 this morning, #1 son gave Ann her pain med again.
At 1:00, I found her on the porch, chewing on a rawhide string.
Or so I thought. I went to take it away, because I didn't feel like
footing the bill for exploratory surgery if it became lodged in her
small intestine. Silly me! It wasn't a rawhide string. It was a snake.
A dead snake, with all the meat chewed out of it, about a foot long
if I stretched it out. Which I didn't. I did pick it up, to show HH,
who was around back watching the kids in the pool. He thought
it might be a copperhead, since we kill several of them a year.
That thing stunk! HH determined that it was just a baby black
snake. Though it wasn't black. It had a white belly, and a grayish
green crosshatch pattern on its back. So much for this episode
of "HH, Herpetologist".

Those darn poopies are just animals, I tell you! And the cats, too.
#1 son saw our hateful white long-haired calico eating a lizard by
the barn the other day. "She just played with it a while first, Mom.
She'd act like she was letting it go, then bite it again. Then she ate
it while it was still moving." Today, Cubby had a bloody ear. It
looks like a sliver of skin has been sliced loose. He drug his head
around on the ground for a while. Maybe Ann will lick it for him,
so her doggy saliva can heal it. Cubby was chasing off the big
Black Lab who belongs to the neighbors this morning. It usually
runs away in horror from the commotion, but he might have fought
it. He is very agressive with animals, but won't come near people.
Maybe the poopies took the snake away from the cats, who have
been known to put up a fight for their bounty. One time the cats
had a dead rabbit (bigger than the cats) and fought off Grizzly until
they were good and ready to give it up.

I suppose it's time to stop expecting my animals to be humane to
other animals.

Iceberg of Know-Nots

When it comes to people searching for information who land at my
blog, methinks some are a bit...umm...eccentric. Or perhaps they're
not blessed with Mensa IQs. Not the sharpest tool in the shed. Not
playing with a full deck. Porchlight's on but nobody's home upstairs.
One brick shy of a load. One side dish short of a picnic. One wheel
in the sand. Half a bubble off on a six-inch level. Favorite game is
51-Card Pick-up.

I dedicate this post to them. Please read and learn.

old hillbilly camping photos...this is not camping. This is how
hillbillies live. If they had cameras to take pictures, would they
still be hillbillies? I don't recall Jed and Granny taking pictures
of Jethro and Ellie May out by the cement pond. And they were
RICH hillbillies.

antique fake mantle...if it was a true antique, it would not be fake.
C'mon, shoot for the stars. Get yourself a REAL antique mantle.
Or even a fake mantle. But don't cheapen yourself by trying to
get a fake antique.

hillbilly homemade boat...would you really want to set sail in one
of these contraptions? Perhaps I could steer you toward a nice
Native American dug-out canoe.

hillbilly art arm cast thrown away...what? Somebody threw away
a perfectly good arm cast? Who knew?

fentanyl patch feline remove...whoa, buddy! You let your kitty
remove your fentanyl patch? Don't you have visiting nurses in
your neck of the woods? Or maybe I read that wrong. You're
trying to remove a fentanyl patch from your cat? Wear gloves,
buddy, cause I got a feelin' there's gonna be some squallin' when
the first chunk of fur comes out.

barfing on TV...not recommended. Your TV might not work
after the vomit comet hits it.

sweet dreams are made of this keyboard...wow! That's one
magical keyboard ya got there! Does it fit in a pillowcase?

cackling hillbillies...umm...WE call the cackling variety of hillbillies
"chickens".

sat on a tack...thanks for sharing. Try not to do it again. You may
want to hang out with a different group of "friends".

why am i getting black spots on the cheeks and arms...you might
want to look into this new daily regimen called "a bath". Or use
a good exfoliator.

oompa loompa dress for kids photo...oompa loompas don't wear
dresses, silly. They wear those little overall thingies. Please, for the
love of Gummi Mary, don't tell me you're going to make your child
wear inauthentic oompa loompa garb.

i'm going to miami i'm going to the bed the see as seniorita...well,
you're gonna miss the party, because most people who go to
Miami go to the fair. That's where the seniorita is. Not in bed.

operating room don't want a man...who cares what that infernal
operating room wants? Not me, by cracky! Ever since I woke up
in one, I have no desire to please that heinous place.

That is but the tip of the Iceberg of Know-Nots. I'm sure it will
not melt away in the summer's sweltering heat. We shall revisit it
shortly.