Fiddle Dee Dee

I am fiddling. Not fiddling like "Devil went down to Georgia", or
"fiddling while Rome burns", though I suppose there could be
something on fire there, perhaps some flustered villawife popped
a frozen pizza in the oven without removing the cardboard thingy,
though methinks they probably do not have frozen pizza in Rome,
which would be sorta like the Diva and I having some Possum
Helper in our pantries. Pantries, not panties, because that would
be another post entirely. Neither am I "fiddling about", like in the
VINYL album of the rock opera Tommy, which I am the proud
possessor thereof, because that "fiddling about" stuff is against
the law in these here parts.

Changes are afoot. That is what Alexandrialeigh said a while
back, and I was worried that something was wrong with her
foot, but she apparently was OK in the hoof department,
because she was referring to starting another blog with a
different name. But that's not what I'm doing.

After closely inspecting Deadpanann's underwear drawer, I am
going to follow her lead and dump my drivel into another blog.
Not that she had drivel.That is simply a reference to my own
junk. I do not want to move like I did last fall. Too much packing
and unpacking, and then I have to throw myself a housewarming
party, and I haven't even had the Big Blogger 2 afterparty yet.
I think I can do it. It may take me a couple days to get things the
way I like them. I hope not, because it should be something I can
do in 5 minutes or less if it works as planned.

What if is doesn't work, you ask? You skeptics who think I am
not technology-friendly, who doubt my computer IQ, who I
most often refer to as 'those voices in my head'?

I'll think about that tomorrow. After all, tomorrow is another day.

Soap Bank Heifer Ice

I decided to clean the house yesterday morning. I got off to a good
start with folding some laundry and doing the dishes. Then I had to
make a trip to Wal*Mart for some soap. Not because the cleaning
made me dirty, but because I opened the last bar of shower soap
last week, and we are out. HH went to Wal*Mart Sunday evening.
Did he buy soap? Let me answer for you: NO! Why would he buy
anything we NEED?

I also had to go to the bank to deposit some check HH dragged
home. I don't know what it's for. He must have charged something
for work on our credit card, and now they're paying him back.
His car won't drive to the bank, you know. Only mine knows the
way. And wouldn't you know it, both drive-thrus were closed. Hey,
it's a small town, people. The only one open was the commercial
lane, and it had a line. So I had to go inside. I hate that. There are
always 5 tellers on break, and one working. As I drove into the
parking lot, after driving around the block to get back to it since the
drive-thru was busy, a car came in the exit and whipped in front of
my large SUV to take the spot I was headed for. I had to park
beside it. A crazy man got out and went in ahead of me.

I left the kids in the car. OK, so there's this little law against doing
that in Missouri, but I left the car on so they could run the air
conditioning, and that is better than having them whining and
hanging all over me in the bank line. It's not like there were going
to be any policemen around a bank. That's how they get robbed
so easy. Anyhoo...there was one teller working. The crazy guy
had gone off to the desk people who open accounts or just act
busy and high and mighty. They looked a bit panicked. He was
carrying a plastic bag full of something, and talking with a speech
impediment about having free Papa John's pizza coupons for
everybody, how many could he leave? One deskie said she didn't
handle that, and called another deskie over, who asked him what
was going on, and I didn't hear the rest because I got a teller.

It was my lucky day, because a teller magically appeared and
smiled, and I handed her the check and deposit slip. It took all
of 15 seconds to get my receipt. I noticed a "Teller of the Week"
plaque on her booth. Which made me wonder...it was Monday
at 12:23, was she so chipper in 3 1/2 hours of work that they
voted her the honor? #1 son said "Mom, they vote on it at the
end of the day on Friday, and then she gets it all this week." He
talked to me like I was Ralph Wiggums. He of "I eat paste",
Lisa Simpson's future husband.

From the bank, we headed to Wal*Mart for the soap and some
paper plates. I'm hosting the Big Blogger afterparty, you know.
I picked up some ice cream, because what's a party without
ice cream, and some whipped cream because what's ice cream
without whipped cream if you've got some overripe bananas
(sorry Aus-friends, they're like flying ants at the Diva homestead
around these parts) and a jar of cherries just sitting on the kitchen
counter begging "Make a banana split...do it NOW!"

It took about 5 minutes to walk from one side of the store to the
other and gather our scavenger items. It took about 20 minutes
in line. Remember that old slogan "At Wal*Mart, you're always
next in line"? I was next in line...at one of 4 checkouts with a real
live human being. Live may be a bit of an exaggeration. The lady
in front of me only had a couple jugs of some fruit drink and some
soda and water and an extra-large toddler in her cart. I don't
even think they charged her for the toddler. My checker was
older than the hills. Older than me and Mabel put together, with
HH and my mom and my grandma added in.

I told her I'd put the ice cream and whipped cream in one of those
brown freezer bags after she scanned them. The bossy old heifer
told me to open the brown bag and set it in the plastic bag because
that worked well. Duh! I guess she packs her suitcase in a trunk
when she travels. I had more than one brown bag, because I
wanted the stuff in separate bags because I fold them over and
they stay colder. Bossy Lou Heifer put it all in one brown bag.
So I took my other brown bag out, intending to separate the items
in the car. Bossy Lou became agitated. "You could have left that.
I'll use it on the next customer." Hey! Let them get their own free
Wal*Mart freezer bag! She was very cold to me as she hoofed
over my receipt. That's the way the brown bag bounces, Bossy.
Get over it.

After gathering my unattended children from the Wal*Mart game
room (HEY! They only got to in there for the 20 minutes I was
in line--I could see them fighting the whole time I was waiting)
we proceeded to Sonic for a round of corn dogs and Cherry
Diet Cokes. Then we had to go to the Citgo for some ice, and
who buys ice without lottery tickets? Not this ol' hillbilly. I cashed
in $20 worth of winners for that amount in tickets. My little lucky
#2 son won on 3 out of 4 of his tickets for a total of $17. Almost
even Steven, but not quite.

When I got back home after my 3 hour shopping trip, I was not
in a cleaning mood. 3 hours! I could have taken the Gilligan's
Island boat tour for that amount of time. Of course, I'd still be
on that island, but I don't think there was much cleaning to do
there, what with throwing away the coconut shell cups every
time you used them, and not needing to wash clothes because
they either wore the same thing everyday, Gilligan and Skipper,
you know I'm a-talkin' to YOU, or waiting until a new trunk
full of movie star clothes washed up on shore, Ginger.

Maybe I'll try the cleaning thing again today. Maybe not.

And the winner is...

This ain't no Miss Universe post. It's Miss Bloggerverse. And the
winner of Big Blogger 2 is: ME ME ME!!! Toot, toot, yeah...
BEEP BEEP! That's the sound of me tooting my own horn. What
did you expect? Donna Summer singing Bad Girls?

Yes, your very own Hillbilly Mom is the proud winner of Big
Blogger 2! Am I making you sick yet? Are any of you green with
envy? Anybody overindulge in sour grapes? Cause I'm proud as
punch. Not that nasty Hawaiian Punch, with the straw hatted guy
who used to walk up and pummel people in the commercials. The
OH SO DELICIOUS kind of punch served at awards dinners
and baby showers, the orange juice/pineapple juice/orange sherbet
kind of punch. Thank you to all my loyal voters. I couldn't have
done it without y'all!

To my worthy opponent, the rookie Cazzie, and all the other
worthy Cyberhousemates who fell by the wayside, one more
than once, here's to you! I raise my Sonic Cherry Diet Coke
in a toast! HooRah, y'all!

And now, for the dispensing of the winnings...I'm all about the
glory, baby! For my winnings, I will take 3 samples of Australian
coins, plus $1 and $5 paper money. Yes, that's right. I require
3 sets of coins in values of .01, .05, .25, .50, and bills of 1.00
and 5.00. If you have them. For all I know, you could barter
with kangaroo turds, because I am not a world traveler, and
know nothing of history, and am pretty much a poster hillbilly
for the ugly American. The reason I request such moolah is
because I'd like each of my children to have a set, and there
is a student at school who collects coins from other nations.
HH brings us coins from his world travels, and this is a country
we don't have. That's us Mansion folk...taking over the world
one nation's coinage at at time.

The rest of my winnings should go to Cazzie, the runner-up, to
fix up her Big Bus. Were I to have it, I would only put it into
lottery or Sonic Cherry Diet Cokes. It would fritter away in
several months, whereas a Big Bus is forever.

I hope Big Blogger deems these arrangements appropriate. I will
email her with the details, I can't have everybody on the internets
knowing my personal bidness. Let's just say that cash through the
mail is routine in the hillbilly world, but because my mail has been
stolen before, I will have to use an alternate shipping address.
They even stole my bills! Can you believe it? I couldn't either.
In fact, I didn't know it until I had two phone bills and two
electric bills that were 30 days past due. Hey! Do any of you
pay bills you don't get? Didn't think so. They even took my
letter telling me when to report back to work. Lucky for me,
I have my loyal friend, Mabel, to tell me where to go. And when.
Anyhoo...that's been a couple years ago, but I still ain't takin'
no chances with my winnings!

Now, for the best part...AFTERPARTY AT THE MANSION!
Give me some suggestions for entertainment, refreshments, guest
list, how to get rid of the kids and HH. Of course all Cyberhouse-
mates are invited, along with all of our readers. Each person may
bring ONE guest. Don't test me! There won't be enough room if
people bring more than one guest. I only have 20 acres, you know.
You may bring a buddy, a significant other, or somebody famous.
Let's hear what ideas y'all may have. Remember...what happens
at the Mansion stays at the Mansion. As well as any change that
falls out of anyone's pockets, and people who are too drunk to
drive home.

Fish: It's What's Not For Dinner

We could have had fish for supper. Yesterday's fishing trip was
bountiful for HH. #2 son caught 4 little fish. #1 caught 3 little fish.
I caught 1 little fish. HH caught 3 little fish AND a 6-pound blue
catfish. That thing was HUGE. It was as big as #1 son's thigh.
And even though he is only 11, he is the size of a 14-year-old.

HH put it on a stringer and tied it to the dock of the little pond.
We got ready to leave around 8:30. HH had plans to clean the
fish and cut it up and cook it on the grill. Then the plans changed
to let me cook it in the oven. Then I told him it would be 9:30
before we got home and he had the fish ready to cook. Who
wants to eat fish at 10:00 p.m.? Not me. This is the midwest,
baby! We eat supper at 5:00!

HH didn't want to wait until the next day to eat it. He was going
to stuff it in a cooler with some pond water to get it home. Then
he was just going to stuff it in a cooler. The next thing I knew,
he left it on the stringer and tossed it into the truck bed. I told
him no way was he going to drive it home like that. It would die.
HH said, "It's going to die anyway when I cut its head off and
gut it." Still, I didn't want him butchering a fish that died from
lack of oxygen.

HH got out the fish scale and weighed it. 6 pounds. He had
guessed 5 pounds. We didn't have the camera, because he
really wanted a picture of it. HH decided to throw it back in
the pond, to catch again another day.

See how lazy we are? Too lazy to fillet a fish and wrap it in foil
with some onions and potatoes and butter and sprinkle it with
some lemon pepper seasoning and pop it in the oven. That's
how lazy.

The little fish we caught were bluegill. HH used to make me
cook them, after we took the older boys fishing. They liked it.
The guys would be picking bones out of their mouths left and
right, because HH isn't a master fish filleter. Hmm...that "t" in
the word "filleter" is silent. Or else that could sound like kind of
a bad word, methinks. Don't ask. If you don't know it, you don't
need to know it. A middle school student explained it to the old
English teacher we had. She had a thirst for knowledge. She
yearned for it. See. Nobody could guess where that quote was
from the last time I asked. Now you're going to hear it all the
time, until somebody can guess. I even told you who said it
a while back. Y'all listen about as well as my young 'uns!

That is all I've got for now.
I'm going to get started on tomorrow's post.
Because the early bird catches the worm, and even though
I have a refrigerator full of Canadian nightcrawlers because
I forgot them when we went fishing, you can never have too
many worms.

Fishing and a Movie

We are going fishing later. I even bought some more Canadian
nightcrawlers. Last time, we went to a lake in town, and I caught
the most fish. I think I caught 2. And 2 turtles. Tonight we are
going to a bigger lake. We'll see what develops. I've caught a
giant turtle there. HH went to take it off the hook, and it reared
its head and hissed and snapped at him. It was an ugly beast,
about as big as a large pizza pan. HH whacked it on the head with
a stick, and it spit out the hook and bait. Don't call the ASPCA!
That turtle crawled right back into the lake. He's probably twice
that size now. They are evil, those snapping turtles. I hope I don't
catch one tonight.

Yesterday, the boys and I went to see Monster House. It was
great. It was a little bit scary for young kids. My 8-year-old was
shaking in his seat during the basement scene. Still, it was good.
#1 son was in the doghouse because he made me buy the giant
combo of popcorn and soda. It's not the price. I know I have
to cash in some lottery tickets to afford a movie. But he wouldn't
listen. I know we get the medium combo. Medium popcorn and
two medium sodas. The giant things we ended up with only cost
$.23 more, but they were hard to carry and hold. It's free refills
anyway. We could have gotten the children's size, but the price
is still outrageous.

The people across the aisle from us really pissed me off. I know,
that's surprising, huh? They burped throughout the movie. Great
big echoing frat boy burps. They were a middle-aged woman and
what looked like her late-teen daughter. It was disgusting. My
#2 son said, "I think that one was a fart!" He said it kind of loud.
I didn't admonish him. They needed to hear it. It did nothing to
cut down on the amount of burps, though.

The other people pissing me off were the ones who leave during
the movie. I know, kids have to go to the bathroom, and get
refills on their snacks. But they don't have to fling the door open
so wide that it sticks, and then light floods into the theater when
it should be dark and cave-like. And they should know enough
to close the freakin' door when they come back. These were
the adults who went with the kids. But noooo! They didn't seem
to notice their theater-door faux pas. I had to make #2 get up
and close it three times.

I'm sure WE never piss anybody off. #2 likes to talk throughout
the movie. At one point, something almost happened, and I said
to him quietly, "So close." And the animated actor on screen
said, "So close." #2 announced, "You're psychic!" Yes, son.
Yes, I am. No need to announce it to the burpers and door-
flingers. He's the one who, in the middle of Madascar, when the
animals' HELP sign fell apart, shouted, "HELL! It says HELL!"
My mom laughed until she cried. I didn't take her with us to
Monster House.

#1 son didn't sit with us. He sat by himself. I guess he's growing
up. When we got home, there was a message from his girlfriend
on the phone. She was calling from a Super8 Motel. Hoochie!
No, really, she said her power was out, and the family was
staying at the motel. In the background, you could hear her
sister saying, "And I loooove you!" Kids. She hasn't been calling
as much this summer, but I guess she's in training for when school
starts again. 11. It's the new 20.

Nothing else new here. I must go prepare supper before we go
fishing. We are not having fish.

Keep voting for the Big Blogger 2 champion.
Please, for the love of Gummi Mary, vote!

Big Blogger 2 - Task 14 - Miss Bloggerverse

Now, the moment you have all been waiting for: The Final Big
Blogger Challenge. I am running for Miss Bloggerverse. Here
are my instructions, direct from Big Blogger:

Ladies and Gentlemen. After months of Cyberhouse action, it has
come down to this, the final challenge. Our finalists are Hillbilly
Mom of Hillbilly Mansion, and Cazzie of I Don't Do Mornings.
With Big Blogger 2 coming down to having two fine ladies left in
the house, there is only one option for the final challenge.

Miss Bloggerverse

There are three sections to this challenge:

The Swimsuit section.
Find a photo online of what you think is the best swimsuit to show
off your blogging persona and explain your reasons.

The Evening Wear section.
At the Big Blogger after party, what are you going to wear to make
sure everyone notices you as you walk down the red carpet.

The Blogging Section.
Tell us why you should get to wear the crown of Miss Bloggerverse,
and the old standard of World Peace is not acceptable.
This Challenge will end Saturday night. Final votes will be tallied up
and the winner of Big Blogger 2 will be announced Monday.
Good Luck.


My Swimsuit Section

I must have this swimsuit. It truly defines my hillbilly heritage.

















You may recognize my long lost cousin, Jethro Bodine. I haven't
seen him in a coon's age. It seems like only yesterday we were
lying around the Cement Pond, discussing Granny's possum stew.
I love this swimsuit, because it is so versatile. Not only can I
model it on the Miss Bloggerverse runway, but I can use it to
go over Niagara Falls. I can easily store a pickle in my pocket
without somebody making a wisea$ comment about it. I can
gain or lose a few tens of pounds without worrying if my suit
will still fit. The color is easy to accessorize. And it doesn't go
up my crack.

My Evening Gown Section

My choice for the Evening Gown Competition is a bit toned down
from what some might choose. None of that glitz and glamour for
moi. I feel right at home in this classic ensemble.


It makes a particular statement,
methinks. And I can take my
trailer along to the red carpet
as my dressing room. Who
knew it was actually my home
away from the Mansion?

After the ceremonies, we can
have us a high old time in my
trailer. I hope those swanky
police dogs aren't trained in
meth.


I'm going to put a big banner on the side of it. The trailer, not
the evening gown. It will say: If this trailer's a rockin', don't
come a-knockin'. I know. I'm so original. I think I'll print up a
bunch of those for bumper stickers.

My Blogging Section

Why should I wear the crown of Miss Bloggerverse, you ask?
Elementary, my dear Watsons. I look good in crowns.





You've seen me in my
Royal Crown of Hillmomba.









You've seen me in my
Pop Top Coors Light Crown.






I ask you: Have you ever seen a pointy head better suited
for crown-wearing? Methinks not!

I suppose I must answer what I would do for the Bloggerverse
if I were to win Miss Bloggerverse. Since 'World Peace'
is not an option, I must answer: Stricter penalties for parole
violators, Stan. Oh. You say that was already used in Miss
Congeniality? Hmm...great minds think alike. In that case, I'd
like to say that if crowned Miss Bloggerverse, I will do my best
to rid the world of DoNots, and people who piss me off. That's
a kind of selfish, self-serving agenda, you say? What are you
doing talking during my speech? Shut your piehole! What I am
trying to tell you is that the agenda starts with me. ME ME ME!
Was there ever any question? If Hillbilly Mom ain't happy,
ain't nobody happy. So I will begin by cleaning up my little
world. Then we will see where it goes from there.

There you have it. My entry in the Miss Bloggerverse competition.
Voting is at Big Blogger 2. Vote early. Vote often. If you can.

The Oblivion Dinner Party Show

It's time for an episode of my new cooking show. I will be
preparing foods that my audience has requested. By 'requested',
I mean things people were searching for when they arrived at the
Mansion.

First of all, we must determine the oblivion dinner party number of
guests. It doesn't really matter how many, as long as you make
sure they have their nose stuffed up cant taste anything. It also
helps if you choose people who are cold, no taste.

The next order of business is to plan the menu. Don't forget that
your guests will most likely be used to the hillbilly hooch diet. And
while some chefs disagree, it is most commonly accepted that
rabbits are eaten only by hillbillies.

As the guests arrive, offer them a finger food, such as pringles
newton telescope homemade. With this crispy treat, a beverage
is in order. I suggest mountain dew name bottles mabel. Just
because I'd like to give a shout-out to my buddy, Mabel. She
is no stranger to the Pringles Newton telescope, that Mabel. In
fact, she scours the countryside for Pringles cans. It is rumored
that she discards the chips.

We will begin the dinner with individual servings of romaine lettuce
green bug, garnished with hidden valley bottled ranch dressing in the
80s. That is sure to whet their appetites for the ghost shrimp sucker
cocktail.

Our main courses are heavy in protein. Guests may choose from
braised dalmation tongues, roast midnight spank TV calico guinea
pig leg, fried headless chicken 2 years, and a lovely rack of child
butt.

For those guests who are jonesin' for some carbs, they can load
up on coon bottom cheese casserole, imagine virgin mary pancake,
and some black german shepherds 2 bread.

A good host or hostess will be prepared to answer any after-
dinner questions the guests may have. Such as:

What is stuck in my craw?
Where is the location of the toilet in mad monster mansion?
How many calories in hall mentho-lyptus cough drops?
Do you have any slap yo mama seasoning for sale?
How do you cut meth with baking soda?
Can you use sliced velveeta in the hanky panky recipe?
Can you use vicks vaporub liquid in a hot tub?

By following these simple suggestions, I guaranteeee you can
have a dinner party to rival that of Mary Richards, when she
served the Veal Prince Orloff, and Mr. Grant took 3 of the
6 servings for himself, and Rhoda's uninvited boyfriend had to
sit at the little table and eat half of Rhoda's meal. Or perhaps
Ellen's Martha Stewart dinner party, where her stove broke,
and she had to haul the cornish hens in a trashbag to her
upstairs neighbor's apartment for cooking, and Cousin Spence's
date came in full make-up for an episode of Babylon 5, and
Joe from BuyTheBook brought Martha Stewart herself.

I hope you have boned up on your culinary skills this episode.

*****************************************************

And I also hope you continue to vote at Big Blogger 2, until
the contest is officially over and the winner is announced on
Monday!

Lucky Little Devil

I had a wonderful post for you concerning my lottery luck for today.
Then we had a big-a$ storm, and I crashed. As in 'improper
shutdown' kind of crash, with dear sweet Blogger unable to recover
my post after 2 hours.

We had 80 mph winds. When the TV came back on, I watched
the St. Louis footage. It looked like hurricane winds. Siding was
blowing off of houses. Trees were rolling down the street. Freaky.
HH and #1 were at Wal*Mart. They had just started home when
the power went out. HH called to ask if the weather was bad,
because "the sky is black dark here." Duh. He drove right into it
coming home. I told him to get home quick, there was a tornado
coming. Which is pretty much what the news told me, what with
' a strong cell with rotation and winds in excess of 80 mph headed
south at 40 mph.' Yeah. It moved in a freaky direction this time.

According to #1 son, who has some common sense, a tree
blocked the road about a mile and a half from home. HH stopped
and tried to lift it with another man. They couldn't budge it. Then
another man and two teenage boys stopped. The two boys picked
it up and tossed it to the side of the road, and all continued on their
ways. Ahh...the power of youth.

I had taken our standard emergency measures when the power
went off. First, find the flashlight. I have one that hangs under my
computer desk. Gone. That was my fault. The last time the power
went off, I took it into the TV room. I knew right where it was.
Or did. Until my Hillbilly Mama had been to the house to keep
the boys while I went to the doctor with the Cefprozil rash.
Flashlights disappear as fast as scissors around the Mansion.
I grabbed a wall-mounted emergency light and unplugged it to
carry around. HH had a wild hair up his butt a while back and
bought about 10 of the things. They work. Bring #2 son to the
basement. Done, because he had just come down to ask me
something when the power went off. Check the radio for weather.
Hmm...radio was missing, too. Lucky for us the power came
back on. I checked the TV for weather. Open HH's 'safe room',
the concrete room where he stores his treasures. Gave the #2 son
a light plucked out of the wall, and told him if I didn't come back
to go in the safe room. He whimpered a little bit. Bring purse and
money stash and medicines to the basement. Call Hillbilly Mama
to warn her bad weather is headed her way. We were set.

HH and #1 arrived. HH moved the metal chairs off the porch so
they didn't sail through the windows. He came to the basement
and went to look out the back door. He let in poor whimpering
Grizzly, who is deathly afraid of storms. This was the first time
we ever let him in. He was in doggie heaven. He whimpered and
crept around low to the ground, begging to be petted. HH is kind
of soft-hearted once in a blue moon. Grizzly thinks HH is a god.

After looking out the back door some more, HH discovered
that #1's air mattress blew out of the pool. We wondered if the
neighbors over on the back entrance saw it sail by. I personally
think we'll find it...in the front yard, shredded by the poopies.
The poopies we did not let into the house, because Ann pees
when she's nervous.

We weathered the storm. We haven't lost power. Yet. I am
optimistic. It's going to be 102 degrees tomorrow. If it goes off,
we are going to watch every movie that is showing in town.
Because I can't take the heat.

And now for my original post:

Here's the high point. My #2 son is a freakin' wizard at picking
scratch-off tickets. Last week, he won $20 twice on the same
kind of $2 tickets. Today, he whimpered for a different kind, and
it was a $20 winner. Unfortunately, I gave it to the #1 son to
scratch, and #2 got his nose out of joint. So I promised him
another ticket when I stopped for ice.

I told him he could pick out one ticket. Just look in the case, and
tell me the one he wanted most. Of course he chose a $10 ticket.
That was OK. I cashed in the $20 winner. There were two rolls
of the ticket he wanted, so I had to ask him to specify. He didn't
hesitate. "That one." Then below it, he saw another kind. "Mom,
that is another new game." He didn't ask, so I got it for him. And
I got another of the kind we'd just won with.

That lucky little devil won $15 on the ticket he chose, and another
$2 on the extra one I got him. The other one I gave to #1 son to
scratch again. He won $15. In case you prefer not to do the math,
let me break it down for you.

I cashed in $14 of winners and bought the first tickets.
Bought $10 worth of tickets: won $20.
I cashed in that winner.
Bought $19 worth of tickets: won $32.
That's no money out of pocket, resulting in $52 into my pocket.

OK, so I put the $20 back into tickets. We still have $33 to add
to my stash of previous winners to play another day. At this rate,
I could be a millionaire in several thousand years. Every ticket my
#2 son picked out today was a winner. The three I picked out:
losers. Some days you got it, some days you don't.

And while I'm thinking of it, go vote for Big Blogger 2. The
winner will be announced on Monday. I don't know how long
the polls will be open, but PLEASE, for the love of Gummi
Mary, go vote! For me. It's in the sidebar, here. I want to be
Miss Bloggerverse! ME! ME! ME! It's not the money, it's the
glory! I want the crown!

HH Plays the AC

My Hillbilly Husband played the Annoying Card yesterday. That
puts him in the category of people who piss me off!

First cat out of the bag, as he likes to say, though we have never
put a cat in a bag, as the flailing claws tend to discourage us, HH
called me while I was cooking supper to announce that he was
broke. No, not as in you never give me any money and I forgot
to sneak some out of your purse this morning while you were
asleep, much like Kathy Griffin's ex-husband Matt allegedly
did to the tune of $72,000 over a year and a half. No. Broke,
as in my car that you had to come rescue me from when the
radiator cracked and you told me not to drive it to work even
though I paid $175 for a new radiator and installed it myself
has quit running yet again, and I am on the county road and
need a ride home.

This was not the news I wanted to hear as I prepared a culinary
treat of frozen hamburgers with pasteurized processed cheese
spread individually wrapped slices and a squirt of yellow mustard.
I told him he'd have to wait until dinner finished frying, and then
we'd come get him. We. Because everywhere I go, I must drag
my two reluctant sons like so many bloated mangey possums
hanging from my neck. I packed HH's burgers, made the #2 son
grab him half of a leftover root beer from yesterday out of the
fridge, and off we went in the 100 degree heat to pick up the
head of the family.

Was HH ready for us when we pulled up? Let me answer for you,
in case you don't swear: H*LL NO! He motioned for us to pull
over on the wrong side of the road while he went about gathering
his valuables and locking up the car. I declined this offer, shouting
that I would go turn around and come back for him. And a few
other things. Was he ready when we got back? H*LL NO! He
was still standing beside the car, then started gathering his things
and locking up.

Was he grateful for his supper? H*LL NO! Though he ate every
crumb, and drank every last drop of the left-over soda. He did
acknowledge that maybe I had mentioned that he shouldn't drive
that car until he tried it out around home a few times. Especially
on the hottest day of the year. HH took his truck to town for his
oldest boy to come help him hitch up the broken car and tow it
home, and then he took the son back to town to the baseball
field where he'd found him. Meanwhile, the two young sons were
whimpering because they'd planned an evening of swimming. I
couldn't take them out as usual because my Cefprozil rash flares
up in the heat, and I have to stay out of the sun. They finally got
in the pool at 8:30. We have no bedtime here at the mansion.

AND, to flaunt that Annoying Card a little bit more, HH left an
empty cup of strawberry yogurt and a spoon lying on the end
table for me to find this morning, as well as a dryer full of damp
jeans that he'd decided to wash late last night. That story has
already been told...how HH refuses to put his clothing in the
dirty clothes basket, so he does his own laundry. Which was
annoying to start with, but hey, less laundry for me to do. Until
this morning, when I needed the dryer.

So kind, I am. I put his junk on the floor until I was done, then
put it back in the dryer and ran it another cycle. I even folded
them in half and dumped them on his side of the bed, I'm so nice.

I have a whole deck of Annoying Cards. Want to play?

Big Blogger 2 Task 13 Big Blogger, the Musical

This week's Big Blogger task requires us to write a song.
Big Blogger says:

"OK Cyberhousemates, we need the number one hit from
Big Blogger the Musical. So get writing those lyrics."

With apologies to the late, great Jim Croce and his classic
'You Don't Mess Around With Jim', here is my entry:

The school has got its DoNots,
The Save-A-Lot has its bums,
The Cyberhouse has its Hillbilly Mum
She's a gal that's OH SO FUN.
Yeah, she's as smart and psychic as a mom can come,
When she rolls she gathers no moss.
And when the housemates all get together at night
you know they all call HM 'Boss'...just because...
they say

You don't tug on Cazzie's bathroom towels,
You don't ask Big Blogger who'll win,
You don't pull Carlos out of Diva's arms,
And you don't piss off HM.

Well, out of Arkansas there came a country man,
He said "I'm lookin' fer a gal named HM.
I'm a Tiki-lovin' man, my name is Mr. Stewed Hamm,
And my penis thought I'd win.
I'm lookin' for the ruler of Hillmomba
She's wearin' a pop top Coors Light can
And this may sound crummy, but she ain't very funny.
I've come to give her a WHACK." And everybody said "Jack,
don't you know...

You don't turn out Lantern's light,
Don't ask Bec and Big Blogger if they're kin,
You don't play 'skin the cat' with Rachy's little Niles,
And you don't piss off HM.

Well a hush fell over the Cyberhouse
When HM heard who was there
With Diva's Fittymaids,
And Cazzie's bus, Stewie soon was packed up and moved.
Oh he was packed in 'bout a hundred containers,
And shoved onto that bus
And you better believe he was moved a whole lot quicker
Than when he did it himself.

You don't throw paint on Mark's Vargas collection
You don't ask Tim T where he's been
You don't barf all over Scottage's rec room,
And you don't piss off HM.

Yeah...HM's got her royal crown.
Find out what's goin' down
Not hustlin' people in the same Cyberhouse like that
Even if you do want that pink custom-made flamingo hat.

By cracky!

Hope you enjoyed my little ditty. And my song, too.
Don't be afraid to vote every day in the sidebar at
Big Blogger 2.

No News Day

Nothing new here. Nothing to report. No new diseases. The rash
is finally getting a little better. By that, I mean it itches like crazy,
but it is not spreading, and is pink instead of read. Benadryl, take
me away. Darn you, Cefprozil, for not admitting that you were
related to demon penicillin!

The race at Big Blogger 2 is down to Cazzie and me. You can vote
in the sidebar at Big Blogger 2. I don't know if you can vote more
than one time. My Mabel buddy is the one who asks those kind
questions. She is my loyal voter. HooRah, Mabel! You rock!

I really can't come up with anything today. I watched the Vacation
Home Search, and today's couple wanted a vacation home in the
mountains for under $600,000. At least they didn't have a dog in
a mink snowsuit. For that kind of money, I could have HH push
up some mountains and buy a snow-maker. No need to leave the
grounds of the mansion.

I also watched Growing Up Gotti. Talk about someone having too
much money on their hands. That show kind of bothers me.
I can't tell the 3 boys apart. They all look alike now. At least
Carmine used to wear his hair different from the other two. And
that Luigi handyman guy needs a good thrashing. He is not a good
worker. I wonder what goods he has on the family that they keep
using him.

Since I have no life, I'm going to watch some more bad TV.
Because I can. I'll try to have something better to write about
tomorrow. Perhaps my theme song for the Big Blogger house.
That's our next task.

Big Blogger 2 - Task 12 - I'm Not Worthy

We're in the home stretch now. Big Blogger 2 is down to the final
two contestants: MeMeMeMeMe and Cazzie! I am on pins and
needles, which is quite irritating to my itchy and scratchy skin.

Our next task is to tell why our opponent should win Big Blogger 2.
As Big Blogger says:

Hillbilly Mom and Cazzie, here is the first of your tasks for this week.
You have until the next task is published to finish this one, new tasks
will happen every few days. If your task is done on time, you get an
extra 20 votes added to your score. If it is not done on time, you lose
10 votes off your score.

I'm Not Worthy!

I want each of you to tell me why the other person should win Big
Blogger. Be creative, because the best entry gets an extra 10 votes
on their total.

That gets me all fired up. If I can't win Big Blogger, then Cazzie
should win. Oops! There I go, stating the obvious. Maybe I can
pick up some extra work on the local news. Film at 10:00. That's
because we're on Central Daylight Time, and 'Film at 11:00'
would be a big ol' lie, because then you would see the middle of
Leno or Letterman or a rerun of Bernie Mac, and you would
scream, "Where the ^$#*&(^%!@^ is my %#^$&*%* film?"


I heartily endorse my opponent, Cazzie. Because she isn't just
Cazzie, she's Cazzie! She never has an unkind word to say about
the other Cyberhousemates. She willingly shares Diva's Cabana
Boy, Carlos, with others. She lets us use her bathroom, whether
we are customers or not. She always has a smile, and can make
others turn that frown upside down. Cazzie has ample boobs
for when I just need that very special comforting. She visits
others, and even leaves comments. She's a card, that Cazzie!
But not a penis card.

Cazzie just started blogging, and she took to it like a pig in sh*t.
OK, so maybe that's not a very flattering comparison, but you
know what I mean. She's a natural. She posts almost every day,
and shows us pictures of Big Blogger so we can construct our
voodoo dolls with accuracy.

Cazzie is a great dispenser of free medical advice. She is an ER
nurse, which elevates her to a pedestal in the mind of Hillbilly
Mom, because she also must deal with DoNots in a polite and
professional way. Methinks Cazzie does that better than HM.

Cazzie has a passel o' young 'uns to deal with, and appears to be
good at raising them up right. She even got them a pony. Well,
so it's a two-legged pony named Rebecca, but still a pony, which
is more than HM gave her kids. They only got a pet possum, and
he was so busy playin' possum that their daddy threw him down
the sinkhole right next to the well.

Cazzie is always first to post her Big Blogger tasks. She's truly
an eager beaver, which is just about as good as having a penis
card to play in this game. I am sure Cazzie would mention in
fairness to HM that she is 15 hours ahead, and in the same time
zone as Big Blogger. But still, that should take none of Cazzie's
glory away, as HM usually waits several days to mull over the
task and let it marinate in her head, then pours off the marinade
lest if be riddled with E. coli or Salmonella that could give her
readers a nasty case of diarrhea. Which would then make a
mess of Cazzie's pristine bathroom. Still, Cazzie would know
how to treat them with some Imodium or other such miracle
drug, and her bathroom is self-cleaning, so it wouldn't be a
total tragedy.

Cazzie has already made plans for her winning prize money. She
will use it to fix up her BIG BUS so the family can travel the
countryside singing up a storm like the Partridge Family, and
towing their little pony, Rebecca, behind them. Perhaps they will
all dress in pink, with lovely giant bows in their hair. Even the
pony, Rebecca.

Yes, I would like to see Cazzie win Big Blogger 2. Because she
is OH SO WORTHY. And she knows how to use a gun.

That will bring to an end this meeting of the Cazzie Admiration
Society. Refreshments of Boston Bun and Shandy are now being
served downstairs in the multipurpose room.

Itchy and Scratchy, the Sequel

I tried to make a doctor's appointment this morning. Hey! Have
you heard? They can't make appointments for the same day you
call. You have to plan ahead when you are going to be sick or
rashy, and schedule your appointment accordingly. The woman
told me, "I can take your number and have someone call you if
we can work you in." This was at 8:40 a.m. I told her that would
not work for me, as I was going to a funeral and could not have
my phone ring. She seemed truly sorry, but no appointment. I
asked if I could come in and wait. "Sure. Go to the second
window, and we'll see if we have anything."

So I met my buddy Mabel at the funeral home to pay our respects
for one of our teaching buddies, whose mother had passed away
earlier this week. We had been there about an hour when Mabel
kindly informed me that my rash was getting worse. I knew it was
itching more, but couldn't see my own neck, which is where the
most severe rash lies. In fact, it had all run together into one big
red neck. How appropriate.

Even though I'd been planning to stay for the funeral, I cut the
visit short and headed for the doctor. Don't worry about Mabel.
She had adequate companionship.

I went to the doctor's second window, as instructed. People
stared at me, like I didn't know the proper protocol. The woman
behind the window stopped hacking away at her computer, and
said, "Oh, my. I'll see what we have." She told a pleasant little
story about having a reaction to Cymbalta, and breaking out in
a rash. Then one of the nurses who is always entertaining chimed
in as said she, too, had a reaction to Cymbalta. Isn't that a mood
altering drug? Like an antidepressant or something? Why are
these people not happy working for my doctor? Anyhoo...we
chatted about the good times for a few minutes. Then the window
lady asked me if I could see Julie, the nurse practitioner, at 11:15.
It was then 10:00. I said, "Sure. What else am I going to do,
looking like this? I'll wait." She told me I could go back to the
first window to sign in, and she would warn them she had worked
me in. So I did.

At 10:15, they called me back. I knew better than to get excited.
It's usually another hour wait in the exam room. I had brought a
Readers' Digest. Because I have a thirst for knowledge. I yearn
for it. (If anyone can remember what that line is from, I'll post a
picture of myself in a dress. If I can find one). A nurse whose
body must have tolerated Cymbalta, as she was not rashy, took
my vitals. Temperature 98. Blood pressure 120/75. I was relieved
to learn that I was not dying from some mysterious blood infection.
Because I think I would have had a fever if I was. I gave the nurse
the details of my Cefprozil dosage for the sinus infection.

Around 10:30, the nurse practitioner poked her head in the door.
I had never met this one before. She must be new. She looked like
Dr. Susan Lewis on ER, only shorter, and with more than one
facial expression. She inquired, "Stella?" Hmm...I don't know who
Stella was, but I hope she brought a Readers' Digest. "Noooo...
I'm Hillbilly Mom, with the rash." Julie the NP peered at me though
her granny glasses, and said, "Ohh!" C'mon, people. It's not like I
had a football-sized goiter on the side of my neck like Elaine's old
woman on Seinfeld. The one who dated Mohandas Ghandi. The
Mahatma. I just have a bright red neck. And forearms. And
shoulders and back, but I try not to flaunt them to the public. Julie
took the white-coated woman she was towing and left, saying she'd
be back in a few minutes. Ha ha. Like I was going to believe that.

Several stories later, in the midst of Life in These United States,
Julie poked her head back in. "Uhh...we have three people ahead
of you. Your appointment isn't actually until 11:15." Which in
doctor-speak means: 'You'll be lucky to see me by 12:00'. I know
the drill. "That's OK. I didn't really have an appointment. They
worked me in." Julie said she'd be back as soon as she could.
The white-coated stranger remained mute.

I read some more stories, some Humor in Uniform, and scratched
a little bitty bit. Julie returned around 11:30. And the mysterious
white-coated woman. I wish they would at least introduce these
people. Generally, they will tell you if it's a med student, or some-
body in training. She was about as old as me. Yet she didn't need
a walker! Go figure! Anyhoo...Julie was very thorough in going
over the chart, and asking me questions, and looking at the rash
in various places. She said she felt sure it was the Cefzil, which
is what Cefprozil really is, and offered me a shot of Benedryl or
steroid. Hey! Julie! I'm not a doctor, even though I watch them
on ER. Don't be giving ME the choice, like it's a shot of liquor.
Because in that case, I'd say, "Give me one of each." IF I was
a drinking woman, which I'm not. Now.

I asked which was better, and Julie said it didn't make much
difference. I told her I had a 30-minute drive home, so she said
I'd better not have the Benadryl, which could make me sleepy.
You ain't a-woofin', Julie girl. I had it with my Ampicillin reaction,
and the last thing I remember, I sat down in the car and my head
clunked against the window. Don't worry. I wasn't driving that
day. Julie took one more look at my rashy arms, and was a bit
puzzled because one of the blotches had taken the shape of a
line. She said she was going to run it by one of the docs, and
towed white-coat out of there.

After running a few laps around the building, arm-wrestling the
other nurse-practitioner, and having a game of dominoes with
the doc over a Meat Lover's Pizza, Julie and white-coat came
back. Julie had decided on a shot of whatchamacallit, which I
assume was steroidal in nature. She said a nurse was getting it
ready. Just then, a woman hollered from down the hall, "Do we
mix anything with that?" I must have said my "EEEEEEE!" out
loud, because Julie said, "Oh, she means do we add a painkiller."
She then hollered back, "NO. It's just the shot." She made a
note on the chart about CEFZIL ALLERGY and said she
hoped I got to feeling better, and that they'd keep me about
10 minutes after the shot to see if I had a reaction to it. Then
she and white-coat left to find bigger fish to fry.

The nurse came in with my shot and laid the syringe down on
the counter. She also had a companion. I don't know why. Think
of how on-schedule these people could be if they EACH worked
on a patient instead of going in pairs. The nurse looked a bit iffy.
I've seen her there before. She's looks like she's right out of
nursing school, and right out of the most rusty trailer in the mobile
home park, but hey, looks can be deceiving. She said, "It has to
go in your butt." Gosh. My day just got better and better. I asked
her what I would feel like if I had a reaction to the shot. And she
said, "I don't know. Maybe you'll break out in red bumps." Hey,
if I want a laugh I'll watch Last Comic Standing. I asked if it would
hurt, and she said, "I don't know. It's a shot." Duh! She jabbed the
needle in my butt, which did not hurt, but when she pushed that
stuff in, it did. Her companion said, "Well, now I know this burns
when it goes in." Glad to be of service. The shooter put a bandaid
on my butt, and then washed her hands. Bet you're relieved to
hear that part. She told me I could go. I told her they wanted me
to wait 10 minutes to see if I had a reaction to the shot. This was
news to her, but she said OK, and then left and closed the door.

Guess it's a good thing I didn't have a reaction, because nobody
would have known until they needed that room after lunch time.
I read some more, and noticed it had been 20 minutes and nobody
had come to get me. So I opened the door and saw the original
nurse who took my vitals. At least she seemed embarrassed.
"Oh, it's been way longer than 10 minutes. Do you feel OK?"
Yep, let me outta here. I told her I hadn't paid the copay yet,
so she took me up front. The two ladies working at that window
said I didn't have to pay, because the computer showed I had
a credit. That was news to me. A salesman had his whole torso
through the window, and said, "I'll take her credit." I told him
the rash went with it, so he declined.

From there, I headed down the elevator with the Pizza Hut
delivery girl. She said the elevator was taking a long time. I
told her that I'd been there over two hours, and I didn't think
a few more minutes would make a difference. She said she
had another load to bring up, and was in a hurry. I KNEW
they were eating pizza instead of 'consulting'! That little delivery
gal was so pleasant I almost gave her a tip. She didn't even
stare at my red neck.

I don't think the shot has helped me, but it hasn't hurt. I am still
itchy and rashy, but it isn't getting worse. As long as I know it
was due to the medicine, and it will go away in a few days, I'm
OK with the itching. I just didn't want to have something deadly
flare up over the weekend.

The Itchy and Scratchy Show

"Police are calling the discovery of a man's body in a St. Charles
County ditch this morning 'suspicious'." D'ya think? Perhaps I
need to write news copy. Because it seems to me they are simply
stating the obvious. This was on St. Louis KSDK News at Noon.
Gee. They are usually the best of the 3 news stations. At least that
poor Erin Hayes has had a makeover. Though she did overdo it a
bit with the mascara. Her clothes even look like she bought them
instead of picking up a bag at Goodwill. In other news...

I am not having a good day. I woke up with a mysterious rash on
my neck, shoulders, arms, and hands. It's not yet on my trunk.
NO, I'm not an elephant! The medical term for your back, chest,
and stomach area. It was small red spots, which have now puffed
up a little bit, like mosquito bites. The itching is driving me crazy.
I took an over-the-counter benadryl capsule, but I don't know if
that is helping.

The worst itching is in my hands and fingers.Which makes me think
maybe I touched something that caused the rash. I petted Ann the
dog. Maybe she'd been into something. Her fur was wet, like she'd
been running through the weeds. Who knows? I washed the sheets
yesterday, but it was in Tide, which our family has used since I
was a child, and never had problems with. And the rash isn't on my
legs. Maybe it was something with a pillow. I held them with my
chin to put the pillowcases on them. Perhaps 1 out of 5 pillows was
baaaaad.

I am on the 10th day of an antibiotic for a sinus infection. I had 1
pill left out of the 20 in the prescription. Perhaps that's it, though
you would think it would have happened sooner. I'm thinking drug
allergy because these spots are even on the palms of my hands, like
when I had a reaction to ampicillin. Only that was great big running-
together blotches ALL over my body, even inside my mouth, and I
had to go to the ER and get a shot of benadryl in the butt. Oops.
Is that too much information?

What do you think, Cazzie? You know how I depend on the
internet for free medical advice. The antibiotic is Cefprozil 250 mg
tablets. I took them twice a day. I didn't take the last one this
morning, because I figured if I called the doctor, and they called
me back about 8 hours later, they'd say to stop taking them and
see if the rash gets better, and take some benadryl in the meantime
for the itching. That kind of antibiotic isn't in the -cillin family, is it?
I told my doctor of my allergy, and it's in my file, so he wouldn't
deliberately be trying to kill me. Isn't it one of those cephalosporin
kind of thingies? I have taken them before with no problem.

That's the only allergy I know I have, except lanolin, which will
break out my skin anywhere except on my hands. Go figure.
My Hillbilly Mama has a rash on her neck right now because
she was weed-eating, and flung some whitish plant fluid on her
neck. Which is totally gross, and I wish she had spared me the
details. Anyhoo...she said, "Well, honey, maybe it's just something
in the air that you're allergic to." Thanks, Mom. I'll be rushing
home to order myself a plastic bubble off the internet.

My other craziness comes from my Hillbilly Husband. We can't get
rid of him. It has been The Summer of Dad. Like my #1 son said,
because he watches Seinfeld, and they had The Summer of George.
He is coming home early today, because he thinks he has an ear
infection, and the doctor only had a 2:30 appointment. I'm sure they
love him at work. He just returned Monday from a 6-day vacation.
Or maybe, like us, they are happy to get rid of him.

We've been having a thunderstorm, which for some reason cuts off
my dial-up every 5 minutes. Not the electricity. Just my dial-up. The
last time this happened, we had to get a new phone line buried in a
shallow grave, because the old one was cut through. Perhaps they
should have buried it more than ON TOP OF THE FREAKIN'
GROUND, d'ya think? I hope those poopies haven't been diggin up
the new line again. They had made good progress toward China the
last time I checked. It was over a foot deep. I know that's the
deepest spot they buried the new line. By the house, it's only about
3 inches, due to solid rock. You know...the rock HH has plans to
mine copper out of.

I know y'all would love a longer post, but I must stop now so I
can scratch. More on the rash as it develops.

A-Hoarding We Will Go

We are a family of hoarders. Hoarders. Not that other word, like
when my friend Jim the 5th Grade Teacher told the kids if they
didn't turn in homework, he would be a Holy Horror...and one
boy went home and asked his dad, "Can men be wh*res?"

I mean the kind of people who save things like they're goin' out
of style. My Hillbilly Husband hoards everything: old tires, doors,
windows, vinyl siding, cedar siding, pipe, tile, wire, cabinets,
wooden crates, life jackets, rugs, beer and Coke memorabilia.
I'm surprised he wasn't the one running that salvage crew that
picked up Sigourney Weaver's shuttle from the Nostromo in
Aliens. I just looked at the top of my kitchen cabinets to count his
little six-packs of 8 oz. Coke bottles. 20. That's 20 six-packs,
plus about 20 oddball single bottles of various sodas. The Cokes
are full. That's a lot of weight on my cabinets. Some day they might
come crashing down on me as I cook. Hey! It could happen! I
make Chex Mix twice a year. I'll make it any time Redneck Diva
drops in, too.

Which reminds me...while counting the Cokes, I spied HH's
ceramic rooster that I HATE! I thought I had lost it when we
moved. I used to put it under the sink in our old house, but
HH would find it and set it on the windowsill. And there is was,
looking down on me from the end cabinet, right above the sink.
I don't know how long it's been watching me. When the boys
get back from their overnight stay at Grandma's, you can bet
one of them is going chicken-plucking. I'll hide that thing good
this time. I don't know why HH likes the cheap ceramic knick-
knacks. He saved some from my childhood bedroom. One
still had a Woolworth's sticker on the bottom. I think it was
25 cents. Don't worry, Diva. That ol' chicken won't be here
when you show up.

We don't really need the life jackets. We used to have a little bitty
pontoon boat, and HH's two older boys had to wear them out on
the lake. We got one for our #2 son for the pool, because it was
over his head. Now he can tip-toe and get his nose above the
water line, so we've thrown caution to the winds, and let him go
without it. He's fine as long as he keeps his mouth shut. And
there are no waves. He can dogpaddle to the side, too. Out in
the garage, we have about 8 life jackets. We could build our own
raft out of them and go Huck Finn-ing up the Mississippi, I guess.

My boys are also hoarders. #1 son, for instance, hoards dirty
underwear. He's not kinky. He's lazy. I nagged at him back in
April that I couldn't find his underwear in the laundry. I bought
another pack. He never knew what happened to it. Then when
I had the Not-Type A Influenza in May, I slept in his room on
the bottom bunk. He didn't care. He sleeps in the basement.
He came up one morning amidst my coughing fit, and I croaked,
"What's that junk over there by the closet?" He said, "Oh, that's
just the underwear pile." Mystery solved. That boy also hoards
scissors, tape, glue, rulers, pencils, and pens. He's a bit of a
nerd. I can't find these stashes. I have to buy scissors about once
a month, and pencils once a week during school.

The #2 son hoards rocks. Or to hear him tell it, crystals. I suppose
he's going to become a New-Age healer. He picks them up on the
school playground, and I find them in the washer. At least they are
clean. I don't know how he picked up a habit creek rocks like this.

I confess. I, too, am a hoarder. At home, I hoard books. I can't
throw them away. I can't give them away. I loan them out, but I
want them back. I read them over and over. I still have one of my
teaching buddy Mabel's John Grishams. It is sitting high up on the
shelf, looking over my shoulder. The Pelican Brief. He mocks me.
I know how Poe felt about that Raven.

I also hoard dirty dishes on the counter by the sink, and loads and
loads of clean unfolded laundry on top of the dryer. It's a regular
Leaning Tower of Apparel. I think JustLinda has one at her house,
too, unless she sacrificed it to the Nanny gods.

At school, I hoard paper plates and plastic spoons. You don't
understand. It is hard to remember to bring paper plates from
home. I am not an animal. I have spent many a lunch shift eating
off a brown school paper towel. I'm talking the good paper plates,
the plastic red or blue Solo plates. They don't get dirty from a little
ol' sandwich lying on them. I wipe it off each day. Mr. S thinks this
is funny. He volunteers to throw away my trash every day. Cause
that's a perk to having lunch with 5 penises. They are chivalrous
redneck penises. Even if it's my duty week, I know they would
jump to my aid if a fight were to break out. Because redneck guys
are OH SO PROTECTIVE of their womenfolk, if they're not busy
beating them themselves. Anyhoo, Mr. S would reach for my
baggie or wrapper, and would say, "Wait. I'm keeping the plate."
He got a chuckle out of that. The day before Christmas break, I
told him, "Take the plate. I'll start a new one next semester."

If you're looking for some moral or redeeming value to this little
slice of Hillbilly Mom life, there is none. It just means that there's
a lot of junk floating around the mansion.

I vaguely remember threatening Stewed Hamm about negative
campaigning in the Big Blogger 2 voting war, but it was only a
threat, not a promise, and I'll have to put that off until another day.

But since I'm on the subject, VOTE FOR ME again and again if
that voting thingy will let you. If not, meh...I'll survive. I'm not the
first Hillbilly Mom ever to lose Big Blogger.

Errrrr...yes I am.

Friendship Issues

Will somebody please just be friends with JustLinda? Just because?

What gives, people? Why can't adults make new friends? Are we
not worthy of your friendship, Linda and I? Because from her
comments, it looks like many people are in the same boat as
Linda and me. We'd better be careful. Does anybody know
the capacity of this boat? We don't want to sink like the Brown
Family on Treasure Hunters.

Why are adults not interested in making new friends. Is it just me?
And JustLinda? If you move somewhere, people act like they
already have enough friends. Oh, they may humor you, and do
something with you a couple times, but then they fade away. If
you move back to your hometown, guess what? Life went on
without you! People have formed new social circles. You are
left out of the loop.

It's not a matter of waiting for someone to approach you. I
have made the first move to be friendly with people. But then
I wonder if they feel as if they have to be nice to me. Like at
work. I have people I know will accept me if I walk up to sit
at their table. Some of them I feel comfortable calling at home.
A few of them I would feel OK about inviting to my home.
Then there are others who appear to be my friend when it is
just the two of us, but would drop me in a minute if somebody
better came along. And listen to THIS horror story: there was
even a person who was supposed to sit at a table with me at
parent conferences who took her nametag off our assigned
table and moved it to a different table! What's up with that?

I am not a stalker. Nor am I a close-talker, a low-talker, a bore,
a misfit, or a whiner. Except for the fact that most people piss
me off, I am a good friend candidate. Just ask my real-life buddies
Mabel and Bean. Oops! You can't do that because they don't
have blogs. How unfortunate! They are my friends. Really. They
are not, as Rebecca has suggested, imaginary. They can vouch
for my friendship qualifications. Perhaps I need a friendship
resume, with references.

Why is it that adults don't want to make new friends? Have we
just not found the right ones, the ones who are compatible with
us? Is it too much effort? Are they set in their ways? I don't have
the answer. But if you lived next door to me, Linda, Diva, Mrs.,
Ann, Colleen, Lessa, Rebecca, Lantern, and Cazzie...I think we
could have some laughs and be actual friends instead of blogfriends.
Of course, you would all be crammed into a trailer with a yard that
we set on fire each July 4, but I think each of you could be happy
being my neighbor and my friend. I'd even let y'all poach deer and
turkey off my land, and pick up rocks from my creek.

Perhaps I have answered my own question about friendships.

Big Blogger 2 - Task 11 - Position, Position, Position

Or as we say here in the States: Location, Location, Location.
Because 'Position, Position, Position' sounds a bit like the filming
of a How-To Pr0n movie.

Big Blogger (vote, vote, vote some more for me!) has informed us:

This task is all about Position, Position, Position. It is time for you
to Sell, Sell, Sell. The Big Blogger House is Going, Going, oh
bugger this, excuse me while I turn off the echo HTML.

Yes this task is all about real estate, namely the Cyberhouse. You
see, next year the Cyberhouse is moving to a new place. I won't be
giving away details yet; all it means is we have to sell this dump.

So Cyberhousemates, you have to come up with an advertisement
to sell the Big Blogger House. Point out all the good features, and
maybe some of the history of the house. Oh, and one more thing,
your real estate business needs to have a snappy name. I like
snappy names.

The best entry gets to put up their "For Sale" sign in the front yard.

FOR SALE: 4 Room House With Finished Basement

3000 square feet. Kitchen, Living Room, Bedroom, Bathroom.
Don't go thinking this house doesn't have room for you! 10 people
called it home, and not one fight broke out due to overcrowding.

This charmer is a must-sell. With the Circus next door, and a
Tiki Lounge in the back yard, you'll never lack for entertainment.
The kitchen is state-of-the-art, and comes with a built-in Cabana
Boy, Carlos. The kitchen cleans itself, and Carlos does, too. But
he is perfectly willing to let you bathe him if that is what you prefer.

The bathroom is also space-age, with fragrance and never-ending
toilet paper to complement the heated toilet seat. You'll never
want to leave your throne. With unlimited reading material, you
can even earn a law degree while you sh*t. A perfect set-up for
those who are full of it.

The living room is quite an entertainment center. Comfy leather
recliners, big-screen TV, cutting-edge stereo equipment go with
the house. It is rumored that the recliners have those refrigerated
storage sections where you can hoard you Coors Light.

The bedroom is a bit of a throwback to simpler times. Cozy, dark,
and warm, this must-have slumber cavern is complete with its own
Hellmouth. Use it for light, for warmth, for taking out the garbage
(human kind included). You can't go wrong with this one-of-a-kind
bedroom.

The basement is a fully-furnished rec room, sporting a stage for
any bands who may drop in unannounced. Or make your own
kind of music, play your own kind of song, march to the beat of
your very own drummer. Karaoke is also ready and waiting for
those car-singers among us. Rack some balls, do the hustle, play
a little pool on the competition-quality pool table.

The back yard contains the extra bonus Tiki Lounge. Swim in
the pool, soak in the volcano hot tub, shake your booty to the
island drum muzak, or order up some hooch from the Tiki Bar.
There's something for everyone in the backyard Tiki Lounge.

Once you see this house, you'll never leave. I mean that literally.
It's like the Hotel California. Like a Roach Motel. Once guests
check in, they never check out. Oh, you may think they've gone,
but they always turn up again.

Act fast, folks. This one won't stay on the market for long.

This house is ideal for the budding filmmaker who would like
to start a dynasty. Forget Hollywood. Forget Bollywood. Make
your very own Aussiewood with this unique property. Consider
the possibilities! If MTV is not looking for a Real World house,
or doesn't need it for the Real World/Road Rules Challenge,
you can make movies galore here. Think of all the old TV series
being made into movies. And movies being made into movies.

The kitchen could be your own Kitchen Stadium for Iron Chef.
It could start your own food network channel for you. Then
there's the reality show angle, with Who Wants to Win Carlos
For the Night?

The living room can be a set for any romantic comedy with
Sandra Bullock. That gives you about 204 movies to make
right there.

The bedroom can be used for Flintstone movies, or a remake
of One Million Years BC, with Jessica Simpson in the Raquel
Welch role. Its Hellmouth can also be used for disposing of
those OH SO ANNOYING actors who need to go away for
a while. Except you might want to insure them with Lloyds of
London first, because odds are, they won't be coming back.

The bathroom can be a Jetsons set, or adapted for science fiction
movies, or any futuristic drivel the writers crank out.

The basement rec room is for nostalgia, such as Happy Days,
or American Graffiti, or music videos.

The backyard Tiki Lounge? Brady Bunch. Need I say more?
Isn't it time for the Bradys to go back to Hawaii? And there have
only been two Brady Bunch movies. The world is crying for more.

You can't go wrong with this one, folks. The Vargas paintings
and Dogs Playing Poker go with the house. The large bus
parked out front doesn't. But it might be available for a remake
of The Partridge Family.

Loosen up those bottomless pockets, and come to us for all
your real estate needs. We won't steer you wrong.

HILLMOMBA LANDSTEALERS, INC.
We'll do ya OH SO RIGHT. Complimentary moonshine
with every sale. And we'll even throw in a corncob pipe for
the young 'uns!

OH SO ENVIOUS

As you know, I harped at y'all a couple days ago to go vote on
who stays in the Big Blogger 2 Cyberhouse. I'm sure you did,
but I can't check up on you because the poll does not seem to be
working. Anyhoo...that is neither here nor there. I just wanted
you to know I didn't send you on a wild vote chase. The poll was
working earlier.

Oh, I thought I was OH SO COOL, threatening y'all to vote for
me. One of my competitors, Cazzie, has played it cool by staying
on the down-low. None of this stumping for votes from her.
Cazzie is classy. But it is our third competitor, Stewed Hamm,
who takes the cake. No he's not a pastry thief...

Stew is a freakin' genius!!! He has played the penis card!
And I am OH SO ENVIOUS! Who wouldn't vote for a penis?
To paraphrase that: Any Penis Can Get a Vote. Just like my
teaching buddies used to say at the lunch table, "Any man can
get a woman." That was my old lunch table, not the current one
that consists of me and 5 penises. They don't have to say it.
They live it. I meant my old lunch table, the one with 4 women
and 3 penises. Not that any of the women had penises. If they
did, they didn't share that info with me.

But getting back to Stew's penis...He has found a way to get votes
that blows our boats out of the water. He has appealed to the
penised crowd. 'Vote for a fellow penis.' And you know how those
penises stick together! We will just have to concede the penis vote
to Stew. Because he's a freakin' genius, I tell you! Who knew?
He (and his penis) have been flying along under the radar during
the entire Big Blogger 2 contest. And now he has let his penis
flag fly. What a carefully orchestrated symphony he's conducted!
His campaign has climaxed at quite an opportune time. HooRah,
Stew! Way to use your head! Hopefully, Cazzie and I are not
screwed just yet. Let the penises fall where they may, by cracky!
It is ONNNNN!

Well done, Stew. This year's contest has been quite competitive.
I have enjoyed it immensely. I hope you don't take offense that
I used your penis for a post. I was short on ideas, and your
penile plea came to mind. I am also short on time, and I've
cranked this out kind of hurriedly.

I must now go watch the new season of Intervention. I think
tonight there's an alcoholic crackhead. Cheers!

Pizza University

CiCi's Pizza needs to school its employees. Just as McDonald's
has Hamburger University, CiCi's needs Pizza University.

I know that CiCi's pizza is not tasty. That is not the issue. I expect
crust like cardboard, an English-muffin-sized spot in the middle
with sauce, and a baby-handful of toppings. And unless it's that
spinach-cheese thingy, beware of the pizza. It'll hurt your eyes.
It'll hurt your eyes looking for the cheese. OK, so I stole that
joke from the worst-acted movie of all time, True Grit, the one
John Wayne won his Oscar for. Only in that movie, it was an
old bum who told Glen Campbell that the Chicken & Dumplings
would hurt his eyes, looking for the chicken. But I'm not here to
reminisce about one of my favorite movies...today.

For a Saturday night, CiCi's was operating smoothly. It's not that
the employees were not doing their work. They were doing what
they thought was a good job. They greeted the customers, and
shouted, "See-see you later!" when they left. They gave their
names, they asked if you needed anything, they put out the pizza,
they wiped salad dressing and fallen items off the counters,
they swept up the floor, they cleared away empty plates...all
without being intrusive. They did not sit at a table drinking soda,
as I saw them do a while back. They did not shout and joke
with each other while ignoring the customers. I think the oldest
worker there was 20. They seemed to be doing their very best.
The very best they knew how to do.

A Pizza University could change all that. A few special courses,
and that ol' CiCi's Pizza could become a delightful culinary
destination. Hey! It could happen! Here are the course offerings
I suggest for Pizza University:

Sauce Goes All the Way to the Edge
Eureka! We Have Found the Cheese!
Slicing Means All the Way Through the Crust
Noodles Are For Draining
Croutons Want a Spoon
Salad Days: When I Wilt and My Edges Turn Brown, Retire Me
Caesar Is More Than Just Romaine
Lettuce Should Be Smaller Than a 10-Inch Tortilla
Wet Plates the Customer Hates

Just some suggestions, CiCi's. I know I'm expecting a lot for my
all-I-can-eat $4.49. At least the kids who work there are polite
and seem to take the job seriously. Think what they could do if
somebody told them how to do it right.

Hillbilly Mom. Food Critic. Changing the world one fast-food
outlet at a time.

And now, a threat from Hillbilly Mom...

No, not a treat. A threat! What the 'h' were you thinking, that I
was about to give you a treat? It ain't Halloween, people! I'm not
driving y'all to the Dairy Queen for a Mr. Misty. It's a threat, as
in an ultimatum. Like 'Do as I say, or else!' Do what? VOTE!

It is time again to hype Big Blogger 2 . We are down to threeeeee
contestants left in the competition. You can vote at the Eviction #9
post at Big Blogger 2. I won't exactly tell you who to vote for, but
keep in mind that I am a big attention wh*re, and everything's all
about ME, and I do love competing in Big Blogger until the bitter
end. None of this "I'm soooo busy" stuff for ME! I have nothing
better to do. I have no life. I have a hurt knee. My kids don't really
need to eat or wear clean clothes. They're hillbillies! They can run
around in their thermal underwear that they mistakenly think are
pajamas, and they know how to forage for food off the garage
floor. I have a lot of time on my hands. Time to complete any
challenges Big Blogger throws at ME.

I will put links to the other Cyberhousemates at the bottom of
this post. I won't come right out and say VOTE FOR ME. You
are adults. You can make your own decisions. vote. Some other
contestant just might appeal to you more than MOI. for. It takes
all kinds, as they say. ME. But they usually say it about someone
who is a little bit weird, don't you think? The boy who carries a
Barbie lunchbox, or the woman with 157 cats?

I can't stalk you to see how you vote. But I know how many
regular visitors I have, thanks to my StatCounter. I don't mean
the odd lot who drop in looking for gaping b*tthole girls, or
pole suckers, or hillbilly one tooth. I don't expect the day
campers to vote for ME. But by cracky, those of you who
come here every day can make two clicks of a mouse, can't
you? Unless you're like that deflated limp pothead girl lying on
the couch in that public service announcement. Because then
I doubt you would even be reading ME every day, since it
kind of takes effort to get through my longwinded all-about-ME
self-promotional propaganda. So I will expect about a third of
you regulars to have loyalty to someone else, and vote for them
instead of ME. But by cracky, I will expect 2/3 of my regulars
to vote for ME! There will be dire consequences if I am voted
out this week! I don't know what they are, but mark my words,
I will think of something. Perhaps more pictures of rocks from
my creek. Perhaps not.

Don't go getting all frightened of ol' Hillbilly Mom. I can't make
you vote. I can't terrorize you like that freak Michael Keaton in
the old movie Pacific Heights. I can't play Tonya Harding to your
Nancy Kerrigans. I don't even know a Gillooly. I wouldn't know
a Gillooly if he sent a goon to whack ME on the leg with a stick.
I will still love you even if I'm voted out. But I might withhold
that sweet, sweet hillbilly love for a while.

Think about it.

Hillbilly Mom's voting campaign devised by the geniuses who designed the 'butterfly's bag'
and 'calico-colored hamster's kidney snack' campaigns for G4's Midnight Spank.


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

The Return of Hillbilly Mom

Bet you didn't even know I was gone, huh? We are back from our
one-day mini vacation to the city. Oh, the horror!

We began with a trip to Chuck E. Cheese for the young 'uns. The
supposedly good Chuck E. Cheese, Diva! But noooo! It took
25 minutes to get our pizza. That's an outrage! Methinks they were
grinding the flour on a stone wheel in the back. The kids had a good
time. I hobbled around on my locked-up knee in great pain. I was
not in my usual form. I was a bit lame at fending off the under-5 set
at that game where you shove tokens off the edge of the token-cliff.

From there, we drove to Harrah's Casino and checked in. It was
in our room that I committed an embarrassing granite-nightstand-
top faux pas. The nightstand and it's stepsister, the window table,
had lovely gray granite surfaces--with small labels that said: 'New
granite tops. Glue may still be wet. Do not touch'. Jeez, Harrah's
people! What kind of an establishment are you running? Don't you
know that 'Do not touch' means 'See if you can get away with
touching me' in hillbilly? I didn't consciously do it. I was in pain,
you see, from my locked-up knee. I went to plop down on the
bed, and steadied myself by putting a hand on the granite-topped
nightstand. It slid back and bumped into the wall. Not the whole
thing, mind you. Just the top. Lucky for me, my Hillbilly Husband
came to the rescue and slid it back into place. He's a handy kind
of guy.

The boys immediately set upon searching the room for the TV.
#2 son was amazed that it was hidden in a cabinet. They ordered
the unlimitied games package for $4.99/hour. Only two hours. It
was well worth it for the absence of squabbling. I gave HH some
money and allowed him an hour in the casino. Hey! It's all about
me. He was lucky to get that much time. When he returned, I
went out. He had plans to take the boys to Bass Pro Shop and
get some McDonald's supper. Hey! It's cheaper than a buffet
where they won't eat anything.

I had a ball without the kids and HH around. Once I got there,
because I had to hobble with my Grandma's borrowed wooden
cane because of my locked-up knee. #1 son told me, "There are
a lot of people down there with canes, Mom. But they have the
metal kind." Great. Now I'm a Flintstones hillbilly in a Jetson's
world. My cane is OH SO YESTERDAY.

MORE ON THIS STORY LATER. I MUST GO WATCH
BIG BROTHER ALL STARS.

Because I can. And it will take me a while to get to the TV.

AND...I'M BACK AGAIN.

I hobbled down to the casino which was no little distance. I
went into the first one, because I percieved it as less distance
to walk. For those of you not familiar with our local Harrah's,
they have the Mardi Gras Casino and the Island Casino.
I could not play my regular style, which is to flit here and
there, trying out different slots to see which ones will pay me.
Being mobility-challenged, I had to park my big fat butt in
one place, and I chose $1 video poker. It was a good choice
as I was up $53 in the first hour. Did it last...of course not.
Even though I cashed out my winnings, my machine took a
turn for the evil, and gobbled up my money, even though I
played conservatively.

I made a slow, wobbly circuit around the casino, tried some
Deuces Wild, returned to a $.25 Jacks Or Better, and won
back some of what I lost on the Deuces. I went back up to
the room around 9:50 to let HH escape for another hour.
Of course he won $155 on a $1 Triple Cherry machine. Not
really, because he spent $80 to win it, but still, he was ahead
of me. I went back from 11:00 to 3:00, because I could, and
tried the Island Casino.

This was a big mistake. It was like the industrial oven of Hell
in there. I was dripping with sweat. I had some luck on a
Wild Cherry $.25 machine, but foolishly left it to try my
un-luck at video poker. Several different machines later, I
hauled my dragging leg back to the Mardi Gras. There, I
found my lucky machines both occupied, so I settled for a
similar bandit for $1 Jacks Or Better. I hit four 2s, and won
$100, but that still didn't bring me back to even for the night.
Oh well, easy come, easy go, as this was all my winnings
saved from previous gambling outings. Though HH, that
dirty dog, was given money from the family pot.

Upon returning to the room, I discovered that the Island
Casino had been as temperate as Antarctica compared to
the sweltering subtropic inferno of my slumber chamber.
I felt like Elaine, on the Seinfeld where she visits Jerry's
parents in Florida, and they won't turn on the air conditioner.
After a refreshing 2 hours of sleep, the alarm clock went off
at 5:00 a.m. And 5:10, and 5:20, and 5:30. HH cussed it
and yanked on it and asked me if I set it. Yeah, right. Since
when have I been smart enough to work one of those new-
fangled contraptions? I finally got another two hours of
beauty sleep, and arose to gamble another day. HH took
the boys to breakfast, which I skipped in exchange for
two hours of gambling and four generic Fig Newtons off
the hotel carpet, courtesy of #2 son's snack-unpacking
skills. Yum!

I returned to the Mardi Gras, tried some Double Cherry,
Triple Cherry, and Hot Pepper slots, and came up $85
ahead. HooRah, Hot Pepper! From there, I went to my
sweet, sweet video poker. When my time was up, I was
$239 ahead for the morning. That's the good news. The
bad news is that from my losses last night, I came out
with $6 less than I brought. By cracky, that ain't bad!
Eleven hours of gambling for the low, low cost of only
$6. I'm Even Steven, I tell you! Doggone that HH! He
doesn't even like to gamble, and came out ahead.
Go figure!

From the casino, we headed to Grant's Farm. I had told
HH since Monday, from the time my knee was hurt, that
I didn't think I could make it. I had even told him that I
would have cancelled the gambling trip, except that the
room had already been reserved. I thought he listened.
Yesterday, I told him at Chuck E. Cheese. Last night, I
told him in the hotel room. On I-270, I told him again. We
took a look at the crowd and the parking lot, and I told him
I would be better off waiting in the car. He dropped me off,
and the boys and I waited for him about 10 minutes to park
and walk up to the line. I told him in line, "I don't think I can
do this. It's too much walking for me and my unfashionable
cane." And he said, "Well, you never said anything about it
until now! That's been the plan all along." EEEEEEEEEEE!
I almost caned him, right there in line. We got across the road,
where we were funneled into another line for the tram thingy.
I sat down on a bench, and said, "I'll meet you when you come
back." I think it is really unreasonable of him to expect me to
walk all over Grant's Farm with a cane. AND, I still had the
half mile to walk back to the car, because the place where he
said he'd pick me up was marked 'No Passenger Pickup'.
So that put HH in a foul mood the rest of the day, because
I couldn't traipse about the grounds with him, and he had to
take care of his own kids! Oh, the horror!

Anyhoo, we are home now, and not speaking to each other,
which is generally the way all our vacations end up.