Tuesday, February 28, 2006

The Poopies Are Growing

Who doesn't love puppies? GRIZZLY, THAT'S WHO!

Grizzly does not like them around him. They make him nervous.
He tiptoes away, and looks down his nose with distain. If you
look closely, Grizzly has just hit Little Ann with a left hook. And
she is STILL trying to french-kiss him! I know it's Little Ann,
because she is more aggressive than timid boy-dog Cubbie.
Grizzly needs to lighten up. He DID get a new pillow and a new
house out of this stray puppy scenario. Grizzly came from the
Humane Society when he was just a pup. They told us he is
half chocolate Lab, and half Beagle. I believe it. You can see
the Beagle in his straight-up tail, and his shape. Those poopies'
tails will beat you to death if you don't watch out. They wag
faster than the camera can capture. The vet thinks they are a
shepherd mix, because of the way their ears stand up. And
she thinks they will be big dogs, because they are growing fast.

We call them the "poopies" around here, because that's all they
do, leave poop on the porch. #2 son is quite impressed. Only
yesterday, he announced, on the way out the kitchen door to
go to school, "I saw a poop like the top of an ice cream cone!"
When we returned from the cardiologist around 8:00 p.m., he
was a bit upset with Grandma. "She swept off the cone poop!"
He pouted for about 5 minutes. Today, he was somewhat
pacified. "Hey, that poop looks like the top of a mountain!"
That boy might have some issues.

Here is Cubbie, climbing up #1 son's leg for a poopie treat. They
are really kind of shy, and scamper away unless food is involved.

This picture reminds me of the legendary snake eating its own tail.
I saw it on an old rerun of The Lost World, one of my favorite
shows. Not the movie...the series with Roxton and Margeurite
and Veronica and Malone and Challenger and the old guy who
was only on there the first season.

Anyhoo, here's the whole point I was going to make about the
poopies: they are too big for their box. They have to crawl in on
their bellies. My Hillbilly Husband is going to give them Grizzly's
old house. I told him to set their box down off the porch for a
couple days, then bring the other house around beside the box,
then after a day or two remove the box. HH had a scathingly
brilliant idea. No, not really. That was Hayley Mills in The
Trouble With Angels. HH's idea was neither scathing nor
brilliant. He said, "We want to get them used to staying in the
dog house. I know! We'll put them in it, and turn it up on its end
so they can't get out. Then they'll get used to staying in it!"

Um...no. They will think, "Last time we got in here, we couldn't
get out! Do not go in that dog house!" I think I've persuaded
HH to see things my way. I'll have to watch him, though. He gets
these funny ideas sometimes. Like when he made the kids a
clubhouse in a sinkhole.

Monday, February 27, 2006

Cardiac, Contest, Coon, and Crime

Yes, it's DoNot day again already. I made it a half-day of work so
I could take my #2 son to a pediatric cardiologist at St. Louis
Children's Hospital. He has been having tachycardia, which is rapid
heartbeat. His regular doctor, who is not a pediatrician, but a
general practitioner, sent him for an EKG and x-rays, and found
pneumonia on Feb. 6. Since then, he has taken his Zithromax (yes,
all of it) and still had the tachycardia, has seen an ER pediatrician
for another EKG and more x-rays, and taken Omnicef (yes, all of it)
for a recurrence of the pneumonia. Today he had yet another EKG,
but the pediatric cardiologist said he is fine, and that a heart rate of
140 is common with pneumonia (though it was 160 the first time).
Anyhoo, today is his last day of the 10-day Omnicef. It apparently
did the trick, because the heart rate is down to 108, and the little
booger is bounding all over the place, and eating me out of house
and home. (The boy, not the heart. It is not some anthropomorphic
organ like that stomach on the "Heartburn Hotel" commercials from
a few years ago.)

CONTEST at A Mischief of Magpies. Thank you all for voting
for me. I think I finished with 71% of the votes. Not that there
were all that many votes, but still...YOU ROCK!

I did learn two things today at my half-day of school. One girl said
her grandma told her she looked like her Aunt Coon. I kid you not.
Aunt Coon. WTF? Who has a name like COON? I did not pursue
the topic.

I had another kid ask me if I had a Band-Aid. To which I gave
my usual smart-a$ reply, "Yes. Why are you taking this survey?"
Then of course he asked if I had one that he could have, because
his brother kicked him in the shin. Again, I kid you not. He had
blood coming out of a raw-looking spot on his shin. He said it
had a burn on it first, then the kick made it bleed. No need for
explainin', kiddo. You've got blood running down your leg. I gave
him two (ahem) plastic adhesive strips, since Hillbilly Mom is all
about the Save-A-Lot merchandise. I did not even ask about the
burn. The kid is 16, for cryin' out loud. Who knows what games
those sibs have been playing?

About 10 minutes later, the kid asked if my Kleenex (yes, an actual
brand name, because I was in a hurry, and bought them for too
much money from Country Mart) had lotion in it.

"No. That would be Puffs With Aloe. I ran out of them last week.These are plain old Kleenex." 
"Oh. Then why do the tissues have little blue spots on them?"
"I don't know. Is this a riddle?"
"No. But it burned when I put it on my burn." 
"Perhaps you've answered your own question."
"No. Really."
"Let's take a look. Nope. It doesn't say anything about it on thebox. It would have to say on the box."

I turned the box over. Not to be used for any purpose other
as a facial tissue, under penalty of federal law. Kind of
like that. I don't have it here to read from. The tissues had some
kind of virucide on them. They were anti-viral tissues. Who knew?

"Well, I guess the Feds will be showing up to take you away. Ihad no knowledge you were using it as a blood dauber. I'm nottaking the fall."

"Hey! Are the Feds coming after me, too? I've been using it towipe my paintbrush?" (Yes, he was working on his art project.)
"Well, that's not in a facial tissue's job description. I guess so."

Tomorrow I will monitor the tissue box more carefully. Methinks.

Sunday, February 26, 2006

3rd Rule of Blog Club: Violated

I am cruisin' for a bruisin'. Achin' for a breakin'. I feel naaaughty.
I am bored. I am about to violate a rule. Back in the day, I was a
bit ticked-off at something somebody said to me. Well, something
somebody typed in response to what I typed in a comment, because
you know, we don't actually know who people really are in the big
blogosphere we call home. Anyhoo, I had an axe to grind, and I
broke the First Rule of Blog Club, which is not to talk about Blog

I am sure at some point, I violated a Second Rule of Blog
Club, which is not to call anybody out on their PERFECT lives
they ramble on about. I can't remember when or where I did that,
but somebody took offense because she said not everybody hates
her husband, and hers does happen to be perfect. OK then. That
post was not about you, and didn't apply to you. If my attitude
upsets you, then don't read my blog. I speak in generalities, not

Now, I am going to violate the Third Rule of Blog Club: Don't
Criticize the Popular Bloggers. Because they are gods, it seems.

First off, don't go thinking it's someone on my blogroll. It isn't. I was
bored, I said, and I went blog-hopping. I might have been 10 or 15
blogs removed from one I visit regularly. You know how it is, you
click on one from their blogroll, then on one from that blogroll, and
so it goes. I've done this before, and noticed some generalities.
Why do commenters have to be such a$-kissers? They never
question anything the populars post. I might find some practices
questionable, but apparently nobody else does. That, or the blog-
owner deletes all comments that don't agree. I don't mean to say
that there are bloggers out there eating fetuses, or making lamps
out of human skin, or something heinous. But people do seem to
justify some odd things by their comments. Do people do this to
get a link? To look cool? To draw traffic to their own blogs? How
many new things can be said after 100 comments? I agree. Right
on. I do the same. What's the point of those comments?

Because I am a spiteful old hag, I am going to pretend I am a
popular blogger. Please read a post from my new blog below.


Sunday, February 26 2006


Yep, it's that time again--time to go harvest the eyeballs out of
the kittens. I had to drive over to the kitten coop, since we put
it on our new farm, The Kitty Ranch. My kids should be OK
for the 5 or 6 hours I'll be gone. I put Augustus in the pet
carrier again, and handcuffed Mortimer to the bedposts. Had
to cuff the legs and arms this time. Who'd a-thunk he could
drag that four-poster bed all the way to the living room. He
is extremely buff for a 5-year-old. As a precaution, I gave
Augustus his grandaddy's pistol in case Mortimer gets loose
and starts poking him with the butcher knife again. Augustus
has darn good aim for a 2-year-old.

Do you think I'm rushing the harvest with these 3-week-old
kittens? I get a better price for the tender eyeballs. Once they've
aged a few more days, they toughen up, and I lose 1 cent per
eyeball. That really adds up. The kids love the harvest season.
All those kittens to play with (and by that I mean dropping
them in the sinkhole, chasing them with 4-wheelers, lining them
up for target practice, seeing whose dog can catch the most,
betting on which one falls off the porch first, etc.)

Tonight I am using some of the fresh eyeballs to make a delectable
chutney to serve with my rack of lamb. Pomegranate, kiwi, pawpaw,
kumquat, and fresh kitten eyeballs. Yum! I can hardly wait. In
fact, I'm going to get started right now. Tomorrow, I'll let you
know how it turned out.

posted by THE SH*T at 2:47 p.m. ....comments 8 sh*tters sh*tting

Great post, Sh*t! I love hearing about your daily life. Can't
wait to hear how that chutney turned out!

My kids love it when I send some fresh kitten eyes with caviar
and toast points in their lunch for Montessori school.
Snooty McSnooterton

There's nothing like fresh kitten eyes to add a burst of flavor.
I like to make my own pizza dough from scratch, then layer
fresh mozzarella, kitten eyes, and sun-dried tomatoes. So simple,
but so DELICIOUS! Baked on my pizza stone in my wood-
burning oven, it is TO DIE FOR!

My Dearhubby loves the smoothie I make him with kitten eyes,
mango, and fresh-squeezed goat's milk! You ROCK, TS!

Um...maybe it's just me, but popping out kittens' eyes is illegal
in my state. Could you substitute some other ingredient? Maybe
those imitation kitten eyes that are made from tofu? Wal*mart
has them in the deli. :)
Voice of Reason

We love the eye-harvesting season too! Nothing like popping
those puppies out with your thumbs and filling a bucket in no
time! Haha! I crack myself up! I referred to kitten eyes as
'puppies'! Haha! Love your blog! I'm adding you to my blogroll.

Great Googley Moogly, where is that ignorant Voice from?
Any fool knows that kitten eyeballs must be popped out with
a silver-plated platinum eye-scoop with a filigreed handle.
What a freak! I bet he's still doing it under the light of a full
moon, and wearing overalls instead of a silk apron! Country

THE SH*T says...
Yeah, I'm gonna block Voice's IP. I don't need his kind of
sh*t here. How dare he discredit me on my own blog!

You're right about Psychophant, A$$munch. Freakin' Hayseed!

DISCLAIMER: This is NOT a real blog entry. It is not intended
to imitate any blogs I have or haven't read. It is a GENERALITY,
people, about how I think some commenters get ridiculous. It is
only MY opinion. Because we know it's ALL ABOUT ME.
(And we also know I'll never get another comment after this
display of naughtiness !!!)

Saturday, February 25, 2006

Hillbilly Mom's Hip Happenin' Adventure

People piss me off! Have I mentioned that before? That is my motto.
My friends at school hear it at least once a week. Now, for my blog
friends from the Land Down Under, I do not mean they piss me off
by getting me drunk. We are not talking about sweet, sweet
inebriation, but about a state of rage. I am not a sociable person.
I do not like chit-chat, I do not like butt-kissing, I do not like snobs,
I do not like people on a power trip who run over me, I do not like
Wal*mart cart return boys who ram 100 carts into me.

Yes! That's what happened to me today! I usually push an empty
cart into Wal*mart. I do it to be nice, because I'm that kind of gal.
I do not do it to use as a walker, contrary to some people's opinion.
Today, I had to run in Wal*mart to buy a birthday party gift for #2
son. He was bowling, so I got to go alone. The cart-return boy had
just cleaned out all the carts in the parking lot. He had about 100
of them hooked onto that red mechanical pusher thingie. I stepped
through the doors, and an old lady was getting a cart off the end of
the line. By old, I mean at least a year older than me. She fumbled
and bumbled, and finally pulled it loose. Then she stood in the way.
I crowded into her personal space, and she moved over a bit in
front of the next two rows of carts. I tried to get one loose, but
it was stuck by the child seatbelt thingie to the next cart.

WHAM!!!! The entire line of carts crashed into my right hip. I
staggered, but I didn't go down. That boy had rammed that whole
train of carts into me at about 10 miles per hour. I KNOW he
could see me. They have a big open door with clear plastic strips
hanging outside the cart area. Crack-smoking old-lady-bashing
young whippersnapper! He came running in and said, "Oh." I was
in NO mood to be nice to him. I said, "Thanks for that." Kind of
sarcastically, you know. (I know my teaching buddy Mabel is
thinking 'How uncharacteristic of Hillbilly Mom!' Right, Mabel?)
The woman in front of me had turned to say "Oh, my" when I got
rammed. Hmpf! She was not spared my rage. "Well, I couldn't
GO anywhere!" She wheeled off, using her cart as a walker.

I could have fallen to the floor and screamed, "YOU BROKE
MY HIP! CALL THE AMBULANCE! I could have been
living mighty high on Wal*mart's hog for a couple of years. The
greeter saw the whole thing, but she looked like a bit of a crack-
head herself. What happened to the OLD greeters? These durn
teenagers will just not help you when the cart-boy has broken
your hip. Anyhoo...I did not go into such histrionics because in
that split second, I thought: What if my large pain and suffering
settlement has a trickle-down effect on the Wal*mart family,
and Redneck Diva's husband loses his job with Wal*mart, and
has to stay home and help her in her daycare business? She
would absolutely send FITTY to chop me up and put me in
a 55-gallon barrel! So I struggled like an Olympic skater to stay
on my feet. Hillbilly Mom is not a petite woman, my friends. To
ram her and knock her over takes some doin'. Lucky for her
that her hips have natural padding to protect them from carts.

From the Wal*mart House Of Ramming The Aged, I proceeded
to get my hair cut. My lovely lady-mullet had not been pruned
since sometime in December. That means I have chopped at
the bangs twice, while the hanging split-ends grew unchecked.
Can you say "OH SO PRETTY"?

My hairdresser has moved up the street half a block, and she's
sold her business to a lady who has worked there for a long
time. The name has changed, but everything else is pretty much
the same. We fell right back to chatting as if I hadn't been away
for two months. My hairdresser looks like Redneck Diva, but
without the pirate do-rag. She looks like pictures of Redneck
Diva, anyway. For all I know, Diva could be a 50-year-old
man who has glommed onto someone's flicker photos, and is
passing himself off as a redneck diva. Though it would be hard
to make up such stories as her yellow-jacket nest and her snake
in the window and her hauntings.

Anyhoo, after my haircut, my hairdresser was going to wet it
and dry it and perhaps give it a semblance of style, but I told
her not to bother, I was just going to Save-A-Lot. And as you
all know, people at Save-A-Lot truly appreciate my OH SO
PRETTINESS. I first stopped by the automatic car wash to
clean up the large SUV, which meant I had to get out and fold
in a mirror because #1 son wasn't riding shotgun to do it for me.

Then I did my Save-A-Lot thing. Nobody commented on my
OH SO PRETTINESS, though one old lady almost rammed
me with her cart as I was grabbing a bag of lettuce. See there,
people, it doesn't pay to shop for the healthy foods. She saw
me coming, speeded up, went behind me, and as I turned
around, she said, "I thought you were going to do that." Well
now, you freakin' psychic, why did you speed up to get in that
position, huh? Huh? I played nice, and said, "A guy at Wal*mart
just rammed 100 carts into my side. This was nothing." She
gave me that look like I give the crazies, and went on about
her shopping. As did I.

When I got home, I looked in the mirror to admire my new
haircut. Well. Ahem. I looked like a Moe. Not to be confused
with a 'mo, like on Will&Grace...not that there's anything wrong
with that. No, I looked like the Moe of Three Stooges fame.
Only NOT SO PRETTY. I had straight-across bangs with no
part, and the bottom was a straggly mess that stuck out like
wheat grass in one of those health-food-drinks places where
they take scissors and cut off the top of the wheat grass. Only
my hair wasn't green, and it was upside down compared to the
ends of the wheat grass. Other than that, it was exactly the same.
I tried not to blame my hairdresser. But "Wind Pisses Me Off"
is not such a catchy personal motto.

Continuing with my irritations, lets jump back to my doctor's
appointment yesterday. I got off the elevator on the 4th floor
(hillbilly skyscraper) and heard a baby screaming. I thought
it must be in the gyno office across from the elevators. Nope.
Way down the hall in MY doctor's waiting room was a
screaming 5-year-old child. She was earsplitting. I could not
hear the receptionist asking me about the co-pay. I sat down
and took out my book (one of 3, because one day I waited
2 hours to get called to an exam room). Screaming Mimi kept
it up. I tried to tune her out, what with being there to check
my blood pressure. Mimi screamed "Mama! Mama!" about
468 times. Her teenage sister told her "Be quiet." She really
tried. The sister, not Mimi. The people in the reception area,
behind the window, were rolling their eyes. A nurse from
another office came out. "What's the matter? If I gave you
a sucker, could you quiet down?" Mimi nodded. She got
her sucker, opened it, licked it, and started screaming at the
top of her lungs again. A nurse came out of my doctor's office.
"Would she like to come in with her mother?" The sister replied,
"No. She was in there and got in trouble, and had to come out
here." In the meantime, Mimi was beating the crap out of her
big sister, who tried to ignore it. After about 20 minutes of
this, her mother and younger sister came out. She shut up and
walked along licking her sucker. The big sis told the mom, "I
swear, if I could have drug her to the bathroom, I woulda..."
I couldn't hear the rest. I felt sorry for the sis. Apparently, Mimi
had been kicking little sis in the exam room, and was banished
to the waiting room. It was sooo peaceful after she left. My
blood pressure was lower than it has been in the last several
check-ups. I guess it peaked with Screaming Mimi.

Which brings me to the next person who pissed me off: the
nurse. She was not my favorite, who is oh so calm. She was
not my second-favorite, who is a comedian (the one who
called in the wrong lady at my Hillbilly Mama's appointment
the other day). She was a feisty, birdy-acting nurse. Like one
of those head-bobber thingies you put on the edge of a glass. She
took me WAY to the end of the rat-maze of exam rooms without
even leaving a bread-crumb trail. I've been lost in there before. It
was traumatic. All the while we were traipsing through the corridors,
she was shouting, "Who has the large blood pressure cuff?"
Nobody fessed up. She put me in the room, took temp and
pulse, wrote out refills on prescriptions, and then went off to
bellow, "Who's got the large blood pressure cuff?" I looked up,
and saw that she'd put me in the old-people room. There was a
poster of osteoporosis, and another showing the most common
sites of bone breakage in hip fractures. Gimme a break! Not
literally. If this was the novel of my life, I believe that hip poster
would be foreshadowing for the Wal*mart adventure.

Meanwhile, I could still hear, "Who has the large blood pressure
cuff?" Geez, lady. I've had my blood pressure taken with a normal
cuff before. It's not like the parademics had to cut out the side off
my house and transport me in a whale sling to get me to the office.
You just weighed me on the regular scale, you didn't have to take
me two miles up the highway to the Sale Barn to weigh me on the
livestock scales. I am a woman, not an animal! Do I not curse you
when you turn your back? Enough of the LARGE blood pressure
cuff already! So there, are you happy now, Nursie? My blood
pressure was normal. Gotcha! That'll learn ya to mess with
Hillbilly Mom!

Whew! Now I feel much better. But my Wal*mart hip hurts a little.

Friday, February 24, 2006

Out of the Mouths of DoNots

Even though we've had a short work week, my students have once
again given me something to talk about. They just don't know it.
Some things I overhear. For example...

"Oh, Beulah...she's your sister, isn't she?"
"My sister AND my cousin."
(Okaaaaayyyy. Now I not only have Grandpa-Dad to use for a
hillbilly inbreeding example, but I also have Sister-Cousin.
Who knew?)

"What were the schools like down there?"
"How would I know?"
"That's where you came from."
"I'm not from Tennessee. I'm from KENTUCKY!"
"Well, it's the same thing. They're just alike."

"They urinated in a water gun and went around spraying it at
the kids building the float."
"What's urinated mean."
"PEE. They peed in it and sprayed people."

Some things, they ASK me...

"Did you hear about that coach who let the kids skip if they gave
him money?"
"No.Where was that?"
"In New York, I think. If they paid him a dollar, they could skip."
"How did they find out?"
"He told on himself. He was making about $300 a day."

"Why would a guy give a girl a brass doorknob?"
"You mean Tom and Becky?"
"Yeah. She wouldn't want a doorknob."
"It was a treasure to Tom. He gave her something he valued."
"That's messed up."

"Do you think I should quit McDonalds?"
"I don't know. Since they put those McChickens on the dollar
menu, haven't they gotten smaller? My 8-year-old took one look
and said, 'Hey! That is smaller than my kidburger.'"
"Haha! You should see those chicken patties. They look like
chicken nuggets!"
"I knew it!"

Some things they tell me...

"That was a good story you read us, but I kept hoping that one
kid would die, and he never did."
"Which one?"
"That Will kid. He was a whiner."
"He had a bullet in his leg."
"Yeah, well, I was tired of him."

"You better watch your smart mouth, little freshman. Don't ever
let Debbie give you a ride."
"Don't worry, I won't. Why not?"
"She might treat you like a cat."
"What's wrong with that?"
"Tell him, Debbie."
"We had this stray cat that kept getting into everything. My mom
said 'Debbie, pick up that cat and let's go for a ride.' I held it on
my lap. We were going about 30 miles an hour, and Mom said,
'Debbie, roll your window down.' I did. Then she said, 'Throw
that cat out.' So I did."

"This morning, I was bobbing my head over to fluff up my hair,
and I hit my head on the bed board."
"That's nothing to be proud of."
"I know. I still have a knot in the middle of my head."

We'll see what next week brings. Some weeks I get good stuff,
some weeks I get great stuff.

Thursday, February 23, 2006

Suckers, Soap, and Strippers

Don't go getting all excited. It's not going to be as good as the title.
Oops! I almost forgot this week's theme...Toot, toot...yeahhh...
beep, beep!
Tonight, that's the warning sound when I back up my
large SUV. Run for your lives! My #1 son loves to point out signs
on the wall of our pharmacy, which show a large SUV backing
into a pole, and the pole snapping in half and falling on the SUV.
Funny thing is, they need a different warning sign, because they'd
only been open about a month when a car drove right through the
front wall. I wonder if the manager bought a round of tranquilizers
for everyone. Oh, and this one time...at the Office Max...I did
back into a pole. But it didn't snap.

Getting back to this week's theme: have I mentioned that I'm in the
Blog of the Week contest at A Mischief of Magpies? And that you
can vote for me here? Oh, I did? Never mind. I seem to be doing
OK at the moment. Until the last-minute voters out-vote me, like
the last-minute bidders on eBay. That's an idea for the future: my
life as an eBay auction. Since I've already done the sitcom and all.

Now, to satisfy the truth-in-titling requirement of the blogging code,
I must get on with this sucker.

I might have mentioned that my children are a bit...how you say...
ODD. My #1 son asked me to buy him a sucker. Oh, not for him,
but to take to school. It seems his class has a little aquarium, and
a beta named "Rex." Well, they used to. Over the 3-day weekend,
Rex jumped out of the aquarium, and on Tuesday morning, the
teacher found him on the floor, in a little puddle of water, deader
than a doornail. I should have known this was a bad omen, this
teacher trying to have a classroom pet. His pet history is a bit
suspect. They are going to try again with a new beta. #1 wanted
a sucker, one of those big-mouthed thingies that cling to the side
of the aquarium and clean it. He also wanted two ghost shrimp.
I paid for them, but I've yet to see them in that giant bag of water
I bought. They're ghosts, you know.

And what did my precious #2 son want from Wal*mart, THE
place to go for suckers and ghost shrimp? He asked for some
soap. I know, not the kind of thing you'd expect a hillbilly
young 'un to ask for. It's the liquid soap in the squirt bottle. We
DO have soap at the mansion. #2 said he wanted it because the
one in the bathroom was almost out, and if we didn't get a new
one, Dad would refill the old one, and he couldn't fill it with water
and squirt it in the bathtub. Always planning ahead, that boy.

Which brings us to the strippers. We don't have THEM at the
Hillbilly Mansion, and they are not pets at school. I was reminded
of a story by Mr. Bates, who had a stripper tale today.

Years ago, when my Hillbilly Husband was just my Hillbilly Friend,
he took one of our friends from our apartment complex to some
strip clubs. When they really wanted to live it up, they went to
East St. Louis. When they were just slumming, they went to a
place on Highway 67 called "Footloose." Let's just say that at
Footloose, they made sure to drink the beer out of a can, not
wanting to touch the glasses. It was a skanky sort of place.

Some teachers at the school where I was working decided to go
out for a wild evening of stripping. They were not regulars to the
scene, and probably had never been to such a place before.
They walked into Footloose, sat in the back, and decided that
they, too, did not want to touch anything in that place. Then the
first girl came out, and SHE WAS A SENIOR AT OUR
SCHOOL. They stayed very quiet, hoping she wouldn't notice
them. When she turned her back, they ran for the door. They
were afraid to see her in the hall the rest of the year.

Let's review today's lesson. Beta fish can become depressed
when left alone for a 3-day weekend. Hillbilly boys regard
soap as a toy. Schools today are preparing their students for
gainful employment in the real world. You may have a quiz on
this at the end of the quarter. Then again, I may have class
outside when we get some good weather. I can't decide.
I guess it's just the duality of my nature.

Wednesday, February 22, 2006

Where the Blog Takes You

Toot, toot...yeahhh...beep, beep! I never tire of the disco. But I'm
not listening to it tonight. I'm warning you that I am posting without
a net. I have no idea what I'm going to say tonight. Beware! Thin
Blog: Read at Your Own Risk. No proofreader on duty.

In case you really don't like me, and haven't voted yet, I am still in
the Blog of the Week contest at A Mischief of Magpies. You can
vote here. You don't have to LIKE me to vote, you know. But you
need to know that Ill Man has outsmarted us hillbillies, and won't let
you vote more than once. For all of you who tried to cheat for me...
HooRah! In Hillmomba, we're all about the results. We don't care
what we had to do to get there. Unless it involves eating some kind
of nasty creamed corn casserole, with mushy, milky cornbread
gruel and kernels of corn that we think at first is a cheese casserole
and after a big bite find out that we are sadly mistaken, and we
can't spit it out on the plate because everyone at the potluck dinner
will see us, including possibly the person who made it and thinks
it is good. Or her best friend we will inadvertently complain about
it to later in the afternoon.

My Hillbilly Husband has been gone on a business trip for the past
two days. Do I miss him? Nawww! It is only TWO days, people.
I can still remember what he looks like. He calls several times a
day. Can I tell that he's gone? Yesssss! How, you ask? (Play along,
even if you didn't).


10. The trash can is returned to the garage the day it is picked up.
HH has issues. The trash is picked up at the end of the 1/10-mile
driveway on Thursday mornings. HH sometimes leaves our little
dumpster up there until Sunday. That is just wrong. #1 son is
much more efficient.
9. The tape is not picked off the satellite remote.
OK, #1 son dropped it and broke it eons ago. We tape the door
of the battery compartment so the batteries don't fall out. SOME-
BODY peels off the tape slowly, over about a week. HH has
always blamed it on #2 son. Funny, it didn't peel off in the summer,
when #2 was home every day with it.
8. No pile of snack wrappers/cans on the TV table.
Does he actually think I'M going to pick them up? OH H*LL NO!
It gives me ammunition to throw at him when I'm mad. Not the
actual trash...the IDEA of it.
7. No squalling cat when the kitchen door opens.
HH does not look down. The cat wants food. Big boot plus cat
tail equals MEOWWW! Every morning.
6. Little chocolate donuts do not disappear.
I buy them for the kids. Expecially sweet #2 boy. He CRIES,
people, when he wakes up to see that his donuts are gone.
5. I am not awakened from my 5:00-6:00 a.m. nap in the recliner
by the slamming of the bathroom cabinets and shower door.
I'm sure he does it on purpose. Never mind that I get up at 4:20
so he can get ready on time. He is evil. Hey! 4:20! Isn't that
Stoner's Holiday? I must rethink that time. I hope it isn't anything
in my subconscious.
4. The dog is heartbroken.
Grizzly love him some HH. After all, HH gave Grizzly that new
3. I am now the bath overseer.
HH's only real child-rearing job. I'm handlin' it.
2. No nasty feet rubbing all over my legs in the bed.
I can not stand HH's feet. They are stubby and hairy, and he
broke his big toe and it sticks straight out, and I do not like them,
1. The bed is OH SO COLD.
Yes. Well. The man is a human furnace. I throw the grandma-quilt
off, he throws it back on me. I have to poke my feet out the end.
HH pulls the quilt up over his head, but he won't suffocate. I have
issues. He makes me hot. But not in THAT way. Enough! You
now know too much about Hillbilly Mom's boudoir.

There. That's where the blog takes you. On a detour in the life
of Hillbilly Mom.

Tuesday, February 21, 2006

The Tongues of Hillbilly Mom

Ola! I am feeling bilingual today. But that's about all I know.
Maybe a few others, like agua, or caliente, or amigo, since some
of my students take Spanish, and the teacher is right next door to
me and is from Spain, and I can hear her through the wall. Maybe
I am quadrilingual, because I know a smidgen of French and shhh...
Japanese. Oh, there are a few scattered words here and there, like
merde and konichiwa and bon jour and chapeau. OK, so the last
two came from watching Madeline ("We love our bread, we love
our butter...but most of all, we love each other." Thank you,
thank you. I have not recited much since that "We, the people, in
order to form a more perfect union, provide for the common
defense...yada, yada, yada" stuff in 9th grade.) But I don't want to
show off.

I am still in the Blog of the Week contest at A Mischief of Magpies.
Last time I checked (two seconds ago) I was in the lead. Toot, toot...
yeahhhh...beep beep! I am not tooting my own horn tonight. I am
actually listening to Donna Summer. I would give you a listen if I
could, but I am just an ignorant hillbilly. I do, however, know that
baloney does not make you horny...unlike my sistah hillbilly, the
esteemed Miss Loretta Lynn, as illustrated in Coal Miner's Daughter.
So now I have everybody wanting to go watch Tommy Lee Jones
and Sissy Spacek with bad dye jobs instead of going here to vote
for me. Thank you to those who have already voted. You ROCK!

Yes, I have been out and about tonight. I snuck by JustLinda's place,
and apparently she's been gone for the weekend. She doesn't know
how close she came to being bushwhacked (begged not to declare
war) by Hillmomba. Shh...don't anybody tell.

I forgot to tell you how I became fluent in the Japanese language.
To be exact, how I know one word of it. When I was in high school,
a friend of a friend hosted a Japanese exchange student. She was
a calm, quiet kind of gal. The FOAF taught her how to drink and
swear. She went on our senior trip to Daytona Beach. She stayed
in our room. I learned an important fact about the Japanese culture.
They do not understand the mechanics of a shower curtain. Someone
had to show her how to work the shower. After she came out, the
next person discovered a floor covered with all of our towels, wet to
the bone. If towels had bones, which they don't, because then they
couldn't wrap around your hair like a turban, and they would crunch
when you sawed them back and forth on your back, and they would
fall off when you tried to wrap them around you and people would
see your dirtypillows (thanks so much Stephen King, for leaving me
with that visual image after reading Carrie), and you would never
be able to find a towel when you needed one because the dogs
would have buried them all...not the little yippy dogs like Yorkies,
but the big ol' Great Dane kind of dogs, and their cousins from the
wrong side of the tracks, the Pit Bulls. Sigh. I had to take a breath.
Getting back to our shower...Little Miss Yoshimura did not know
that a shower curtain is supposed to stay INSIDE the tub. She
carefully put it out. I guess she didn't want it to get wet, ha ha!

It's a wonder Hillmomba has not started a war with all non-hillbilly-
speaking blogs. Who KNOWS how many people I have offended,
just because they don't get the lingo. When I say, "That'll learn
it doesn't really mean that I speak that way. I am a teacher, for
cryin' out loud, not a toothless granny who tells fortunes by rolling
bones (sorry, Hillbilly Icon Dolly Parton, for stealing that character
from your song "These Old Bones.") And I'm not really weeping
at a high decibel level when I say that. Just like "nervous as a
tailed cat in a room full of rockers" or "first cat out
of the bag"
does not mean that we hillbillies abuse felines.

There are also time lines that must be considered. Back in the day,
it was OK to be gay, wear your thongs to the picnic, finger the
fabric before you bought it, toot at your neighbor, lick somebody
to teach him a lesson, collect fairies, laugh at someone's crack,
snowball the kid next door, and eat a weiner or two. Maybe even
do them all in one day. But these words have taken on a different
meaning today.

My 10th graders went into the Beavis and Butthead "heh heh" laugh
when I read from Tom Saywer. Becky Thatcher wanted Tom to
come to her picnic (after she'd made him mad by NOT inviting him).
"Oh, won't you come, Tom? It'll be ever so gay!" The 9th graders
love to ask Mr. S what's for lunch on hot dog day, because they
can make him say "Weiners." Nobody wants anything that's been
fingered, and it must be against the law to collect fairies, because
they are living, breathing homosexuals. If you laugh at someone's
crack, you sure ain't gettin' a share of it, your neighbor will flip you
the bird (he's not really throwing you an avian critter) if you fart at
him, and we won't even GO THERE for the snowballing thingie.

Gosh. I got a little carried away. That's what happens when I sit
down to post without a topic in mind.

Monday, February 20, 2006

I Am Honored Just To Be Nominated...

Toot, toot...beep beep! No, I am not having a Donna Summer
Bad Girls disco flashback. That was last week. I am tooting my
own horn. Get it? Toot, toot...beep beep! Yeah, I know. I AM
hilarious. That's what keeps you coming back. That, and my
hillbilly wisdom.

I am tooting (not to be confused with the farting kind of tooting)
because I have been nominated for Blog of the Week over at
A Mischief of Magpies. Go figure! And go vote. The last time
I was in a contest, a Grilled Cheese Sandwich got more votes
than me. Even after Big Blogger felt sorry for me, and gave me
the sandwich's votes, the new entry of A Sheep on a Unicycle
was beating me for a while. Thank goodness I finished ahead
of that sheep in the end. I guess it's a good thing my blog buddies
voted for me, and not a pack of hillbilly fellas. They might have
preferred that sheep. But I was still a loser. That was back on
my old Redneck Review blog. Now that I am much more
sophisticated, perhaps I shall have a chance. Nawwww! But
check it out anyway. Don't cost nuthin'.

Anyhoo, this is shameless self-promotion. I'll take your vote, and
maybe I'll even call you in the morning. But you know how it is...
my Hillbilly Mama has been sick, so I have to take care of her, and
then I have to give my puppies a bath, because the vet said 'They
could really use a bath', and then I have to get my husband ready
for his business trip to Mississippi. No offense, DeadpanAnn, but
Mississippi ain't no Brazil, that's for sure.

This holiday has worn me out. Saturday was the Chuck E. Cheese/
St. Anthony's ER extravaganza. Sunday was a day of rest. This
morning, I planned to do the shopping and the laundry and clean
up the house (just a little bit). Plans at the Hillbilly Mansion rarely
go as planned.

At 10:00, my Hillbilly Mama called, saying she didn't feel well, and
that her blood pressure and heart rate were up. I told her I was on
my way to town, and I'd come get her to take her to the doctor or
hospital. She called back saying she had an 11:15 appointment if
she could get there on time. By now it was 10:20, and it takes me
25 minutes to get to her house, and 20 minutes to get to the doctor.
I rounded up the kids to take them over to the barn, since my
Hillbilly Husband was working on his 1980 Olds Toronado, putting
in a new fuel pump and compressor and water pump. This is the
car my sister-the-mayor's-wife calls the Pimpmobile. It is copper-
colored, with spoke wheels. I could leave #1 son in the house alone,
or #2 son, but not both, because WWIII might break out.

I dashed to town to find my HMama standing at the end of her
driveway waiting for me. She said she'd only been there for a
minute. We hustled over to the doctor's office, and she signed in
at 11:10. Yes, Hillbilly Mom can drive a mean SUV when the
pressure is on. After giving her insurance info, my HMama said,
"The lady ahead of me was also named Gertrude (*not her actual
name*). I'll have to be careful when they call the name, not to just
jump up." Of course, one minute later, the nurse came out and
called "Gertrude." That other woman grabbed her walker, the lady
with her gathered up her stuff, and they went in. My HMama said,
"I guess they meant her. She was here first." She also asked me if I
would go in with her, which surprised me, but I agreed. I don't like
to think of her getting old and needing someone else to advise her
what to do. A couple minutes later the nurse came back, and again
said, "Gertrude."

We went in. The nurse wanted to weigh her. She said, "Do we
have to? This isn't my regular appointment." The nurse looked
at her kind of funny, and said, "OK. Come on this way." She
put us in an exam room. My HMama can't keep quiet. She is
a talker. She said, "We were afraid we might jump up when
you called that other Gertrude." The nurse looked funny. She
looked at the chart. "Ooohhhh...are you here because of your
blood pressure?" My HMama nodded. "Well, I asked that
other lady, 'Has your blood pressure been up a little bit? Is
your heart racing?' and she said, 'No, not really' and looked
at me funny. I guess I meant to call you, and she came in."

Later, a tech came in to hook up an EKG. Techie said, "I talk too
much when I'm nervous, but I have this story to tell. Last week,
I hooked up a 78-year-old woman for an EKG. I was a little bit
surprised. Her breasts did not sag. They sat up and poked out.
I was amazed. I went home and looked in the mirror, and said,
'Girls, you need to get with the program. I saw a 78-year-old
woman who looks better than you'. Then I came in the next day,
and I overheard the other nurses say something about her. They
said she'd had breast augmentation." My HMama said, "Oh, back
when when she was young?" And the tech said, "In 1997." Man!
That means a 69-year-old woman had breast augmentation. What
was she thinking? Though I am sure Mr. Huggies would not see
anything odd about this, and would most likely put a picture of her
on his blog, if I had a picture of her, because even 78-year-old
pr0n is still pr0n, right Huggies? Not that there's anything wrong
with that.

So, my HMama was normal for her blood pressure and heart rate
at the doctor's office, but he is putting her on a beta blocker and
has scheduled a stress test for her on Thursday. I hope she doesn't
worry about it. I depend on her a lot to help out with my boy
young 'uns, picking them up from school if I have meetings, taking
them to the doctor, keeping them if I have a teacher's work day...
I told her I don't want to run her around so much, but she said
that is what keeps her going, that since my dad died 8 years ago,
the next best thing to having him around is having the kids around.
She has always had excellent health, and I am optimistic that she
will come out of this OK. We are kind of fond of the ol' gal here
at the Hillbilly Mansion.

Sunday, February 19, 2006

New War For Hillmomba?

;) ;) ;) ;) ;) ;) ;) ;) ;) ;) ;) ;) ;) ;) ;) ;) ;) ;) ;) ;) ;) ;) ;) ;) ;) ;)


How's that for a headline? Let's see where it's headed.

On my "Hillbilly Mom Wants Revenge" post, JustLinda left a
comment that "...teachers are SOOO mean." OK Linda, make a
Note To Self, JustSoYouKnow: "Dear Self, calling a teacher 'mean'
is considered grounds for a battle in the teacher's code of conduct."
I'm sure you didn't know that, Linda. And since I AM an educator,
I am tryin' ta learn ya.

JustForAMinute, I'd like to give Linda equal time. About as equal
as she's going to get on MY blog. Anyhoo, I inadvertently (OK,
I flat out on purpose) mentioned that Linda uses fungus medicine
on her foot every night. JustToShow how mean a teacher can really
be. I must live up to my reputation, you know. I really wasn't telling
people anything they couldn't have read at Linda's own blog. Linda's
blog has many more readers than the comments here at the Mansion,
I am sure. Even counting the ones who don't read the comments,
but now have a chance to read it here, on the main page. Read
what, you ask? That Linda uses a fungus medicine on her foot
every night. Are we all up to speed now?

Linda came back to comment that she knows how blog wars get
started. Linda, I don't remember if you were reading me way back
when the Hillmomba-Becklakia conflict began. Probably not during
the original declaration of war, but maybe one of the later battles.
Now it seems that Rebecca is ready to join forces with Hillmomba
to put you down, then resume our little war. I am saving you, Linda.
I don't know why. I JustAm. Maybe I can come up with some good
reasons. I am a creature of logic, and I want to make sure I am
making the right decision.


1) Hillmomba has already committed troops and resources to
fighting the long-running Beclakian conflict. We can not spread
ourselves too thin, or there will be nobody left at home for the
manufacture of our #1 export, crystal meth. Without it, our country
might have to borrow money, and acquire a national debt. We are
cash-on-the-barrelhead hillbillies, and don't want to be beholden to
NOBODY. And we don't want to spread ourselves thin because
then we would be...well...thin, and we might start puttin' on airs,
and then we wouldn't want to be hillbillies no more.

2) Linda can probably muster a stronger army than Hillmomba.
Linda has more readers. Linda has a weapon of mass destruction:
toe fungus. We ain't wantin' none of that. Linda's army would be
more fired up than Hillmomba's, this being their first war and all.
Linda's army would do anything if she promised them Cheddar
Bay biscuits, which are a powerful motivator that Hillbilly Mom
can not match. And above all, Linda has a clever wit, and could
rip a new one for Hillbilly Mom.

3) Linda's nation is too close to Hillmomba. We share the same
geographical area. Beclakia is across the ocean. Linda-Land is in
my back yard. OK, my side yard, to the north, to be specific. By
about 50 miles, to be exact. Hillbilly Mom could not sleep at night,
what with worryin' Linda might launch a sneak attack, and come
a-sneaking through the fence-row, fungus in toe. EEEE! The horror!

4) Hillmomba is really a peace-loving county. We JustWanna
extend the cannabis leaf to Linda, and not worry about the war
no more. Well, really we don't, because Hillbilly Mom is a teacher,
and doesn't know anything about that stuff except that now the
school calls the barkless drug dog for locker inspections, and he
doesn't make a racket and alert the kids to why we're on lockdown,
and HM does not want to imply that Linda has any knowledge of
said illegal substance by offering any to her and her citizens.

5) Hillbilly Mom has no gripe with you today, Linda. Stand aside,
as she takes the reins in her teeth and charges across the meadow
at Rebecca, six-guns a-blazin', and hopes that her faithful horse,
Judy, does not put a foot wrong and trap her under the heavy
horseflesh to be gunned down by Lucky Bec Pepper. Oops!
My mind wandered for a minute to my favorite Academy-Award-
winning movie, True Grit, which has possibly the worst acting of
any movie I've ever seen, but for some reason I like it, I really
like it, even more than people liked Sally Field in Places In The

6) Hillbilly Mom really has no issues with toe fungus. She has a new
stray puppy that has some sort of skin condition that is definitely
not a toe fungus, and probably not ringworm, and she likes him
JustFine, even with the condition and all. Hillbilly Mom JustMight
have a plantar wart on her foot, but maybe not, because JustMaybe
she has been treating the plantar wart she JustMight have with duct
tape like she read about on the internet.

7) Hillbilly Mom does not want Linda to lure away her Minister of
Cheese, MrsCoach2U, because then there would be all that free
cheese to make even more Cheddar Bay biscuits to fortify the

8) There is really nothing to see there.


1) Blog fodder.

OKAAAAY....I think it is clear that a war with Linda is not in the
best interests of Hillmomba at this time. Linda, Hillbilly Mom
apologizes to you for mentioning your TOE FUNGUS. It will
not happen again. And by that, I mean that I will not discuss your
TOE FUNGUS on my blog after this post. Unless I think of
something really funny to say about it. Funny in my mind, because
I crack myself up, but not too many other people. Especially the
ones who have TOE FUNGUS.

Disclaimer: I do not have any issues with the people I declare war
on. I am not mad at anybody. I am not trying to embarrass them.
It is for entertainment purposes only. Which is not to say that it
fake like professional wrestling or that we use a script to pick
pre-determined winner.

Saturday, February 18, 2006

Weekend Report From the Hillbilly Mansion

There are two items of interest to report this weekend. Of interest
to ME, but I don't know about you. One concerns a new possibility
of WAR for Hillmomba, but I'm going to have to put that one off
until Sunday. Don't invade justyet, JustLinda. The other is the health
of Hillmomba's spare heir, #2 son. Let's get right to it. In my winding
kind of Hillbilly Mom fashion.

We took the boy to Chuck E. Cheese today, which we'd been
promising since last weekend for his birthday that was the 15th.
Last night he was pooped out by 7:30, and something just wasn't
right about him. He felt a little warm, but not feverish. I leaned over
the back of the couch to tuck in his Little Bear, and I got a whiff
of BAD BREATH. It was the kind that can sear the eyebrows
right off your face. Just like he smelled when he had pneumonia.
He coughed through the night, the dry, unproductive cough like
when he had pneumonia. This morning I hugged him from behind,
craftily placing my hand over his POUNDING little heart to take
his heart rate. It was 160. He was just standing in front of the TV.
He wasn't running or jumping.

I talked it over with my Hillbilly Husband.

I can't see waiting two more weeks for him to see a cardiologist.

The doctor said if he thought he was really sick, he would have
sent him to the hospital yesterday.

But the doctor also said he looked at the X-rays, and he didn't
have pneumonia. And forgot to call in the antibiotic, and took
5 days to get back to us on the EKG.

Well, he said he'd call a cardioligist Monday, and let us know
if he needs to be seen sooner.

Monday is a holiday.

Not for doctors. His office will be open.

What if they mess up like they did before?

I felt comfortable with what he told me.

I will worry all weekend. Last time I waited until the weekend
was over, and he had pneumonia.

Well, then we can take him to St. Anthony's emergency room
while we're in the city. It's only 5 miles from Chuck E. Cheese.

They might think we're stupid and say nothing is wrong with him.

Well, at least you'll know he's OK for now.

I don't like his breath and that cough. But he doesn't have a fever.

We'll take him and make sure it won't hurt to wait 2 weeks for
the cardiologist.

At Chuck E. Cheese, #2 ran around like one of DeadpanAnn's
ferrets-on-crack. He had a high old time. He ate THREE pieces
of pizza. He was the picture of health. I started to feel foolish,
like an overprotective mother. I asked my Hillbilly Mama what
she thought. "Well, he's eating and he looks OK. But I worried
about him all last night. If nothing else, it will give you piece of
mind. I'll pay for the emergency room cost."

Now let's get one thing straight. We are not paupers. We spent
$178 this morning on those two stray puppies' vet bill, and that
is not even for neutering them. We do not need my HMama to
pay our medical bills. It is not about the money, but about the
boy's health. Should he sit around a germy ER if there is really
nothing wrong with him, or is that tachycardia something that
should not wait two weeks? I do not want to look like a creepy
Munchausen Mom, but I do not want to let something go that
should be taken care of now. Like I wish I had taken him to
the ER that Saturday when he had the cough and fever instead
of waiting until the office visit Monday. And since I am the only
person in the whole freakin' family that can MAKE A DECISION,
I opted to go by the St. Anthony's ER at the risk of looking foolish.

We walked right in, didn't even have to sit down. They hooked
#2 up to a pulse-ox and took a blood pressure and heart rate,
asked him some questions, and within 5 minutes we were sent
back to an exam room. There, they got him a gown that was too
big, hooked up wires for an EKG and monitor, and had a real
live PEDIATRICIAN to see him within 15 minutes. This guy
frightened #2, who had been happily charming the nurses, and
he clammed up and wouldn't talk. The doctor asked him is his
regular doctor was a man or woman, and #2 said, "I don't know."
Now don't go worryin' that this second boy of mine doesn't have
and IQ of almost 100. Don't think that his doctor is PAT, the
impossible-to-discern-gender character from the old Saturday
Night Live show. The boy sometimes sees a man doctor, and
sometimes sees his wife, who is also a doctor, and sometimes
sees their nurse practitioner if they have to work him in. Then,
the ER doc asked #2 if he smoked. The boy would not answer,
but stared straight ahead.

The doctor sat at the foot of the bed, and wrote down the history
on a clipboard. He was very thorough. As he did this, #2 inched
down the bed until his sock feet were near the doctor's clipboard.
He tried to open the clip with his toes. The doctor poked his foot
with a finger. #2 kept trying. The doc kept poking. #2 started to
giggle, and kick his feet a bit. HH, who is not a master of the
details, admonished #2 to stop kicking and giggling so we could
hear the doc. Doc had to point out that he was tickling #2's feet.
That broke the ice, and he went on with the exam. He listened
to heart, lungs, and belly, looked in the ears, nose, and throat, felt
the lymph glands, went through a facial expressions thing to check
the brain function or something, checked pulses in the feet and
groin, and squeezed on the belly. He even smelled the bad breath,
and said it was "not too bad." As HH said when he left the room,
a much more thorough exam than the family practitioner had given.

The ER doc said that this is what he does for a living, all day every
day--treat kids. He said he was not worried about the heart rate
unless it was over 200 resting. It was around 120-130 while we
were there. He said the lungs sounded good, the heart sounded
good, and that he would check on the Zyrtec to see if it increased
heart rate. He came back and asked if it was Zyrtec D or plain
Zyrtec, and surmised it was regular when I told him the dosage.
He said he wanted to get another lung X-ray to see if the heart
was enlarged, because the EKG looked OK. #2 was whisked
away to be weighed, and X-rayed. He was mighty cute in his
floor-length gown and jeans.

The doc came back and asked if we knew where the pneumonia
had showed up in the X-rays. HH pointed and said, "We knew
the lab tech, and she showed us, and it looked like the bottom
part of his left lung." This was news to me, because I was in
charge of #1 son at that X-ray-fest, and didn't crowd into the
booth to see #2's. The doctor said, "Well, come out and let's
take a look." We went to a computer behind the nurses' station,
and saw #2's innards. I was worried, because it looked like his
heart was a misshapen lopsided blob. That's why I'm not a
radiologist or a lab tech. The ER doc pointed. "Here's the right
side of his heart. It has a smooth border, it's the right size..."
He traced the outline of it. "Now here's the left side. Here's the
top...but you can't see the bottom, because there is fluid in the
lung, between the upper and lower part, that is blocking the
heart. He still has pneumonia. We are going to give him a
stronger antibiotic. If that doesn't clear up the tachycardia in
10 days, then you should see a pediatric cardiologist."

Whew! That was good to know. It was a $100 co-pay, but
that is cheaper than the vet bill. I am not going to let my
HMama pay. Or for the $25 co-pay Omnicef antibiotic
suspension-in-a-glass-bottle, either. Let that be a lesson to
all you high-priced doctors. Even though a kid looks and
sounds all right to you, the mama knows the kid, and her

HooRah, St. Anthony's pediatric ER unit! YOU ROCK!
Fast, efficient, thorough care for the helpless little kids.
Keep up the good work. We were in and out in an hour
and thirty minutes, and our boy young 'un is on the mend.
As long as he doesn't turn out allergic to the antibiotic.

Friday, February 17, 2006

My Sick Boy and My Crashes

I am worried about my little #2 son. He had to go back to the
doctor today, after the doctor finally read the EKG results last
Friday. Then we didn't know until Monday that he had to come
back, because even though my Hillbilly Husband called there
Friday at 1:00, they said they didn't know the results, then
at 2:30 left a message on our home phone, which (DUH) we're
not at until after the doctor's office has stopped answering the

Anyhoo, the little feller still has a rapid heartbeat, 144 beats per
minute. The doctor said that he was going to call a cardiologist
and would call us back on Monday. He said he isn't that worried,
or he would send #2 straight to the hospital. He thinks he will
need to see a cardiologist at St. Anthony's Hospital in South
St. Louis. Children's Hospital has a section there now. But then,
the doctor went on to say that if #2 faints, or collapses while he's
IMMEDIATELY. Yeah. That makes me feel comfortable with
this diagnosis.

So...I am going to send a note to school, I guess, telling them he
shouldn't run around on the playground, and that especially he
shouldn't do the mile run in PE. HH took him to the doctor, so
he didn't think to get a doctor's note for school. The appointment
will probably be the week of Feb. 27. On the 20th, HH goes
back to Mississippi, but he could change that if #2 needs to see
the cardiologist. The doctor said it's not that big of a rush.

The poor kid has been going through this since the pneumonia
started on Feb. 3. The doctor said his lungs have cleared up.
The fever is gone. He still has a little cough. I'm hoping it's just
something to do with that pneumonia, and he'll get over it. The
doctor checked his records, and when he was there in December
for pinkeye, his heart was normal. I can't think of anything else
that has happened since then, though he did start on Zyrtec at
the end of January. I might be worrying for nothing, but HE'S
MY BABY! My 8-year-old baby.


In other news, my house is giving ME some episodes of rapid
heartbeat. You know that I hear footsteps over my head in the
area of #2 son's room. Even when #2 son is sleeping on the
living room couch.

Wednesday morning, I was sound asleep in the recliner around
5:30 a.m., right in the middle of my morning nap. I heard a crash,
like a table of books turning over. I awoke with a start. I sounded
like it was right in the living room. I tried to make sense of it.
Maybe it was #2 flopping over on the couch, knocking off some
toy. Nope. He was sound asleep, no toys, carpeted floor. Maybe
it was HH dropping something in the bathroom. Nope. I could
hear him in the shower, it was not the dropped soap sound, and
the noise came from the other side of the house. I went back to
sleep for 20 minutes.

HH left for work. I was in the kitchen getting my breakfast and
medicine. I heard the same sound again. It sounded like it was
#2 on the couch. Again, I went to check on #2. Sound asleep.
Nothing around him but blankets. I returned to the kitchen. I
heard that crash a third time. I was sure it was #1 son down in
the basement, and I hollered to ask why he was up early. No
answer. I went to the living room and leaned over the stair rail,
hollering his name. No answer. Creepy. I have not found any
items disturbed or turned over. I don't know what the crash
was. It was from the center of the house, not out on the porch
with the dogs. I know their thumpings and rattlings.

Last night I heard a little walking over my head around 11:00.
HH had already gone to bed. I went up to see if it was #2.
Nope. Asleep on the couch. (He has been sleeping there since
he was sick, so I can hear him coughing in the night and attend
to him.) I put in a load of laundry and went back downstairs.
I came up at 12:00 and put the clothes in the dryer. I laid out
the boys' clothes. I walked from the kitchen to the living room
to check on #2 before I went to bed, and I HEARD FOOT-
STEPS IN #2's BEDROOM! I was afraid to look, but I looked.
I couldn't see anything but his nightlight glow. I did not go to look
into the room. The hair on the back of my neck stood on end. I
had a shiver. #2 slept peacefully on the couch right next to me,
oblivious to it all. I high-tailed it to bed. Enough of the footsteps,

I do not know what to make of this. I have only once before heard
these things while I was actually upstairs. That was the summer
before last, when I heard footsteps, peeing, and a toilet try to flush.
You know, how the kids hit the handle and it clanks, but they don't
push hard enough to flush? I went to see which boy, and make
him come back to flush, but they were both sound asleep. Creepy.

I have no explanation. I've already told you about my haunted
house on my old Redneck Review blog. It had stopped for a
while, except the footsteps. We used to hear upstairs footsteps
all the time in my Hillbilly Mama's house, from the time we built
it and moved in when I was 12, until my dad died 8 years ago.
Then they just stopped. I told her about my crashes, and she
says she hears them upstairs at her house sometimes, in her
bedroom. Like a picture falls off the wall. But she never finds
anything out of place, either. Thanks, Hillbilly Mama. You've
never mentioned that before. That adds some more creepy to
my life.

#2 used to say his grandpa came to see him at night. He can't
remember him...he was only 2 months old when his grandpa
died. But we have a couple of pictures in the hall, and in #1's
room. #2 was never afraid. He said his grandpa came to make
sure "nobody is doing anything." Whatever that means. And
I could never explain how the cover would be perfectly straight
over #2 in the mornings, like a just-made bed.

Anyhoo...call me crazy, but there are some odd things going on
around here. I used to think people were nuts, until this stuff
actually happened to me. Maybe #2's grandpa is looking for
him, what with him sleeping on the couch for two weeks, and
not in his bed. I can't explain the noises. They are not in the
other parts of the house, but mainly in #2's room. Every now
and then, a packed-away toy will start running, the talking kind.
I do not like that very much, or the footsteps, or the crashes.

I do not like them, Sam-I-Am. I am a logical person. I have a
science background. There must be an explanation, or it makes
me nervous. Stop fooling with me, footsteps! What's next, voices
in my head? Asking myself questions? Calling myself by another
name? Hmm...I'll get back to you.

Thursday, February 16, 2006

Hillbilly Mom Wants Revenge

Is it DoNotDay yet? Hillbilly Mom has issues. Hillbilly Mom wants
revenge. What is stuck in my craw today, you ask? OK, so maybe
some of you don't know what a craw is, but I'm sure you still want
to know my issues. Let me tell you.

I want revenge on the Cadet Teacher who parks between the
buildings, in the space reserved for traveling teachers. You have
been told not to park there, that Cadet Teachers must park down
behind the new building in the gravel lot. Because YOU parked
in that other spot, the traveling teacher who always parks there
had to park out on the street. That, in turn, took up a space that
I could have used. So you got to park right by the door, while I
had to park out back on the gravel. Off with your head! OK, so
perhaps that's going a bit too far. But nothing will happen to you.
And you know it. You'll just get another reminder to park out
back. Maybe next time I'll block you in. Then you'll have to go
admit that you parked there, and I will have to leave class to move
my large SUV, and that means somebody will have to watch my
class for me to go outside. Yes. I think I've found the solution.

I want revenge on the kids who pretend to do their work. That big
ol' F at the end of the quarter does not seem to have any effect on
their logic. "If I SAY I did the work, then that must mean that I
DID do the work. So why is my grade so low?" You, who asked
"Will you help me with my math? I only have 5 problems."
It's a much bigger problem. You do not turn in work. That means
that you do not DO the work. I have only had about one kid in 6
years who actually did the work, and then waited for the teacher
to ask him about it before turning it in. Like he needed to get that
attention, or he wouldn't turn it in.

You, on the other hand, put off work and think I will do it for you.
You are the one who asked for help with science last year. I read
the question, and explained the concept. Imagine that. But you
started to write even though I said, "Wait a minute. Here's what
this question is talking about." Yep. You wrote down the first few
words of my explanation and turned them in. And missed every
question. Then, you had the nerve to tell the teacher that I told
you the wrong answer. Newsflash...that teacher knows that I
taught science more years than she has been teaching. She knew
what you were trying to pull, and told me. Remember? Is it
coming back to you? How I confronted you, and reminded you
how you were supposed to use my explanation to arrive at an
answer? But you copped a pissy attitude, and insisted that I told
you to write down that answer? Then I told you that since I didn't
know enough about 9th grade science, I wouldn't want you to
miss anything else because of my wrong answers, so I would not
help you with science for the rest of the year? Huh? Is it coming
back to you?

So now, the "only 5 problems" turn out to be 5 worksheets of
MAP practice problems, each of which involves numerous steps
to solve. You had not made ONE mark on that paper. And
neither had your cohort who came to my desk looking for free
answers. Let's see now. It was a little triangle inside of a big
triangle, with some missing measurements. You said the teacher
told you something about a proportion, and how to get the answer,
but you did not write it down. You did not know the formula for
area of a triangle. OK, so it's 1/2 base x height. But because you
mentioned a proportion, I don't know what we're getting at. Was
it a ratio used to find the missing side, or did you find the area of
the small triangle first and then use a ration? It was a right triangle.
Did she perhaps use A squared + B squared = C squared to find
the missing dimension? You were clueless. I couldn't help with it.

So I helped you with the deducting and depositing to balance
a checkbook problem, and I helped with the "football is on
the 20 yard line and on the first play the team gains 8 yards..."
and so on for 8 plays. But for the amount of paint needed to
paint the cylindrical water tower, and the volume of oil in a
cylindrical tank, and that other cylinder-related problem, I did
not help. Because you could not even tell me the formula for
area and volume of a cylinder. And that is something that
Hillbilly Mom does not store in her brain. I know it has
something to do with height times the area or circumference
of a circle, so pi is in it somehow, but since I only have an
IQ of almost 100, I do not know this offhand. Because you did
not have any notes, and were not even able to look it up in
the book, I did not help. It is not my homework. I think it is
enough that I showed you how to do 40 percent.

I am tired of pulling teeth to get a response. I am here to help
you understand it, not to do it for you. That will require SOME
input from you. Not just "I don't know." What do you do in
that class for 50 minutes every day? Sure, I could have fiddled
around and figured out the formula. I looked through the book,
but since it wasn't in the index, or in the table of contents, I was
NOT going through it page by page. Mabel, I'm sure your cohort
gave the class the basic tools they needed to complete these
problems. I can only imagine that they were perhaps sleeping,
or staring into space, slack-jawed, dreaming of sticking a Big Red
wrapper on their foreheads to make a big red rectangle. Maybe
I should get those formulas, and trim some triangles and cylinders
out of Big Red wrappers, then calculate the area of red skin on
their noggins. I am not a miracle worker, but I am resourceful.

I want revenge. I want to come to your house while you are
watching Animal Planet and ask you to help me write my
Program Review. Oh...I had some data for the last year, but
I don't know what I did with it. Yes, I will be like Mr. Hand
from Fast Times at Ridgemont High. You waste my time, I'll
waste your time. You use me to do your work, I'll use you to
do my work. That's only fair. And if it's not right, I'll say that
you did it wrong.

I feel much better now that I have a plan. Perhaps I should not
use the term "revenge." I have formulated solutions to my problems.
That's the ticket. Ahh...sweet, sweet solutions.

Wednesday, February 15, 2006

8 for Number 2

Today was my #2 son's 8th birthday. We took him to CiCi's Pizza
per his request. He is going to Chuck E. Cheese on the weekend.
He's such a sweetie.

Being hillbillies, we bought $4 (WooHoo--count 'em--$4 worth)
of Powerball tickets for the $300 million drawing tonight. Of
course we are going to win. #1 son already has it spent. He is
bummed that we'll only get $150 million after taxes. His plans
include a customized laptop, and a Mustang convertible. My
plans include buying land and building apartments so my spawn
will always have income without really having to work. My
Hillbilly Husband says he'll settle for $100,000. Which is good,
because that will be his cut. I can't remember his plans. Something
about customizing his 1980 Oldmobile Toronado pimpmobile.
And that sweet little #2 son...what are his plans? To buy a
dishwasher that will wash the dishes all by itself. All together
now...AWWW! Let's not forget that on Saturday mornings, he
puts my rest before his hunger. I LOVE THAT BOY!

We also had a discussion of the time HH took #1 son to a family
reunion, and bragged to his kin: "And the school says he has an
IQ of almost 100!" I know I've told this story before, but I still
think it is hilarious. Those goobers must have been quite proud
that HH had managed to sire a child who was almost average.
#1 son took an online IQ test the other day when he stayed with
his grandma. He mentioned it on the phone, and I told him they
were not always accurate. He got all mad because after taking
the one adjusted for age, it wanted $7 (!) to give the results. So
then he took an adult IQ test. It told him his IQ was 107. When
he told me, I said, "You know, those tests are HIGHLY
ACCURATE." Then he got kind of mad. "No they're not! You
said they're NOT accurate!" I've really got him going because
I won't tell him his real IQ. And I never will. No good can come
of that bragging little boy knowing such a thing.

And now back to my restaurant review of CiCi's Pizza. That
place gets worse every time we go. So not only do they NOT
have cheese for the salad bar anymore, but they also don't have
mushrooms or broccoli. So my choice was sad-looking-garden-
salad-bagged-lettuce, or Romaine-only-with-no-cheese-or-anything
-else-mixed-in-Caesar-salad. There were not even any bacon bits,
just croutons. So my salad was lettuce with black olives and
green olives (which had NO pimentos in them I might add).

Because of my displeasure with the salad, I was wasteful. I only
ate the part of the pizza with topping. That'll learn 'em. (HEY!
I could use this for an episode of my sitcom!) HH did the same.
We had piles of crusts with only a couple bites eaten off them.
Because don't mess with Hillbilly Mom, CiCi. You won't win.
I will send you flying without a plane. Step off, sistah! I am not
filling up on that crust, because it is OH SO DRY and OH SO

The offspring prefer the noodles over the pizza, though #1 will
grab a couple pieces if they're just cheese. Hey! Maybe I should
have commanded them to make me a cheese pizza, and then
scraped it onto my salad! I'm a genius, I tell you. With an IQ
of almost 100. Anyhoo, CiCi's now only has the squiggly noodles
and not the straight noodles. Thank goodness they still had the
red and the white sauce, because #2 likes them mixed. And he
likes those cheesy breadstick kind of things. Maybe that's where
all the cheese has gone.

Overall, the experience was a 3 on a scale of 5, because at least
the kids ate a plateful, and #2 got his FREE because it WAS his
birthday. And the kids were entertained, and I spent $3 playing
that game where you shoot a ball at some little holes and won
2 small superballs and 3 sticky stretchy creature thingies that I
hate because they leave a greasy mark when the kids fling them
at the walls. Oh yes, do come visit the Hillbilly Mansion. Man.
That was $3 I could have spent on Powerball tickets.

Oh, and when I win...I will still finish out my year teaching the
DoNots. Because I'm that kind of gal.

Tuesday, February 14, 2006

The Sitcom of HM's Life

Let's take a walk down memory lane. Except, it's MY memory, so
I'll give you a piggy-back ride. Stop kicking. This is as fast as I can
go. We're about to visit one of my favorite TV shows: Designing
Women. It's the later years, after Delta Burke was kicked off for
being too fat for TV. Here's Jan Hooks, post-SNL, playing Carlene,
Charlene's little sister. Carlene has just left her car-salesman hubby,
Dwayne Dawber, and has rented her very own apartment in a bad
part of town. Hey, the ladies are having a slumber party. That
Carlene sure knows how to throw a party. Hot dogs off the hibachi,
lawn chairs for furniture, air mattresses to sleep on, leg wrestling
and a phone call to the Queen of England for entertainment. Why,
the gals don't even mind that one of them has to drink out of the
'spit glass' from Carlene's bathroom, or that one of the air mattresses
is actually a blow-up doll from the bargain bin, or that Anthony
Bouvier shows up with Bernice and a Barbie Doll suitcase. Let's
see...where was I going with this memory?

Oh, yeah. Carlene said she had always pictured her life as a sitcom.
She whipped out her guitar, and played the theme song she'd already
written. Which makes me think: My life could be a sitcom.

I already have the kooky husband, and the smart-mouthed children.
Our neighbor the LandStealer is a source of conflict. I've had some
good, entertaining work experiences. I have a wacky friend, Mabel,
and others from way-back-when like Betty, who can be a composite
of several people. My Hillbilly Mama is a thrifty ol' gal. For Sweeps
Month, I can have a flashback to the college year of living with the
lesbians, or the time I applied for a job with the Board of Probation
and Parole, and they asked me about my arrest record as a crack
wh*re. Yep. I have enough material. Let's see what happens in the
first episode, shall we?

The title of my series will be: THAT'LL LEARN YA!


Thanks Giving Week

Hillbilly Mom has issues at work. On the way to school, she sees a
plume of black smoke rising from her teaching town. "I hope it's not
one of my student's homes," she thinks. As she crests the hill, she
sees that the smoke is coming out of her school. The principal says
to move all the kids to the gym, which is in a connecting building.
He tells the teachers with upstairs classrooms to run upstairs and
open their windows--there has been a problem with the furnace.
Hillbilly Mom runs up and opens all her windows. She can hardly
find the door and the stairs to go back down, what with all the
black smoke flowing up the stairwell. It burns her lungs. She gets
back down to find out that they should now go back and CLOSE
the windows. Back she runs, through the black smoke. A volunteer
fireman sets up a big fan at the main door to try to pull the smoke
out of the building.

While waiting 3 hours for the smoke to clear enough to resume
classes while pretending nothing out of the ordinary happened,
HM and her cronies discuss one of their biggest fears: that
something will happen to them at school, and the 16-year-old
volunteer firemen will try to resuscitate them.

Cornelius, the firstborn son, has issues in Kindergarten. His teacher
has given him the choice seat next to the incubator, home of future
baby chicks. She asks each child in turn to tell what they want
Santa to bring them for Christmas. The teacher is a bit taken aback
when Cornelius answers: "A fax machine." Toward the end of the
episode, the baby chicks have hatched. Cornelius is not pleased.
"Don't you like sitting where you can watch them?" HM asks.
"No. I hate it. All day long, it's nothing but CHEEP CHEEP
CHEEP! I can not get anything done! They are SO annoying--
just like those kids." The teacher refers Cornelius to be tested for
the Gifted Program "That's one of the signs of a gifted child," she
tells HM. "All the other kids annoy him so much."

Jebediah, the second-born, has trouble at preschool. "I am worried
that Vicki is going to kill Mike." HM quizzes him. "Now honey, why
would you be afraid your teacher is going to kill her husband?"
"Wellllllll...because she said, 'I'm going to kill Mike if he bought
that pontoon boat!'"

The Hillbilly Husband has injured himself trying to unhook the 5th
wheel camper from the pickup. "I had it all unhooked. I was trying
to get the hitch out of the bed, and it slipped. It landed right on my
big toe. I think it's broke." HM has none of it: "I told you to go get
Buddy to help you unload that thing. Drive yourself to the hospital.
I'm watching the Rams."

Back at school with HM. The faculty is having a pot-luck dinner
for a teacher who is about to retire. It is supposed to be a surprise.
While waiting for Teacher to arrive, first lunch shift digs into the
feast. HM puts what she thinks is a cheesy casserole on her plate.
She steers past the loaf of store-bought bread and the can of corn
warming in its own juices on the stove. She leaves her delicious
Oreo cake alone, so that others might partake of its goodness.
Then they see the sign: "Remember, second lunch shift has to eat,
too." She and her cronies are incensed! "Why didn't they just draw
a big fat pig and label it First Lunch Shift?" It is the start of bad
blood that will last for years.

Teacher walks in, and everyone yells, "Surprise!" Teacher drops
to the floor in a faint. A call is put out to 911. The 16-year-old
volunteer firemen get the call on their pagers, and respond. HM
and her buddy Fran look at each other like, "Oh! The HORROR!"

Later, HM fills in her buddy Mabel on the events of first lunch shift.
"What did you like best?" "I don't know. But I had the WORST
thing I've ever put in my mouth. I wanted to spit it out on my plate.
It was some kind of mushy creamed corn thingy. It almost made
me vomit." "Hmm...my friend Elective Teacher made a corn
casserole." HM waits for the ground to swallow her.

At the end of the episode, just before the credits, issues resolve.

Fran tells HM, "That'll learn ya to retire before you get too old."
HM: "Thank goodness Pignose is going to graduate before I get
that decrepit."

HH tells HM, "That'll learn ya to talk about somebody else's cooking.
HM: "Thank goodness there were two corn casseroles. I pretended
it was the other one that was so bad."

HM tells HH, "That'll learn ya to be so hard-headed and try to do
everything your way."
HH: "Thank goodness I can have surgery and get a pin put in my
big toe to repair the break."

OK, so I don't throw as good a party as Carlene. I may not have
blow-up dolls, but I have the story of the penny-smelling stalker,
the touchy-feeler, the 'I understand Letourneau' gal, the secretary
with an embalming license, french-kissing preschooler...OK, these
may not exactly lend themselves to sitcom plots. And I guess this
is really supposed to be fiction. So I will have to change every-
thing in Episode One.

Since my show will be cancelled after the first episode, I have not
even bothered with a theme song.