Hillbilly Mansion One

From Redneck To Hillbilly

2011-07-28T21:13:00.001-05:00

The blog where I went from a redneck to a hillbilly. Updating to keep this blog alive.

Fiddle Dee Dee

2006-07-26T13:45:00.000-05:00

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

2006-07-25T01:08:00.000-05:00

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...

2006-07-24T00:16:00.000-05:00

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

2006-07-23T16:15:00.000-05:00

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

2006-07-22T16:36:00.000-05:00

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

2006-07-21T09:53:00.000-05:00

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

2006-07-20T19:02:00.000-05:00

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

2006-07-19T22:22:00.000-05:00

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

2006-07-18T18:22:00.000-05:00

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

2006-07-17T16:29:00.000-05:00

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

2006-07-16T16:09:00.000-05:00

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

2006-07-15T19:29:00.000-05:00

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

2006-07-14T15:22:00.000-05:00

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

2006-07-13T15:24:00.000-05:00

"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

2006-07-12T19:36:00.000-05:00

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

2006-07-11T15:11:00.000-05:00

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

2006-07-10T13:49:00.000-05:00

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

2006-07-09T20:16:00.000-05:00

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

2006-07-08T16:04:00.000-05:00

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...

2006-07-07T11:50:00.000-05:00

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

The Return of Hillbilly Mom

2006-07-06T18:33:00.000-05:00

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.

A Hot Time at the Mansion

2006-07-05T10:07:00.000-05:00

Last night was the annual Hillbilly Mansion Firework Extravaganza.
My Hillbilly Mama and Grandma came out to watch HH set
explosives aflame in the driveway. We had our chairs lined up
behind the garage. I told HH I didn't want stuff falling on me
like last year, because my knee is hurt and I can't run away.
HH said, "Nothing's going to fall on you!" Can you see where
this story is headed?

HH parked the Scout beside the driveway. He had all the fireworks
in the back, and had custom-measured various lengths of pipe that
he and #1 son cut off in the BARn. The pipes were stuck into the
ground for rocket-launching. HH acted like he was some kind of
professional fireworks technician.

All went well for about the first 20 minutes. Then HH got out a
Roman Candle. When I was a kid, my hillbilly parents used to
let me hold these and shoot them off. I got a ball of flame that
backfired and burned my stomach, but hey, it was just a minor
flesh wound, and the practice continued. HH would not let the
kids do this, which was just as well. He lit the end, and shook
the tube, and a red ball of flame burst out and shot directly into
the cedar tree next to the driveway. A green one followed.
Amid shouts of "Hey! Raise it up!" and "Way to go Dad! Burn
down the cedar tree why don't you?" HH adjusted his grip,
and shot the flaming balls into the air. No harm done.

The next mishap was a fountain that went crazy, and shot
blazing debris out the bottom instead of straight up. One such
glowing orb shot under my Hillbilly Mama's small SUV, which
was parked a good 50 feet away, next to the house. It went
right under, leaving a trail of smoke. Of course she and the
#1 son ran to it to see if the gas tank had been set on fire.
Duh! I bet she goes outside to look for tornadoes, too. HH
had his nose out of joint over that one, like he was insulted
that she dare think her car had been damaged by his fireworks.
He's a professional, you know.

Next...some multi-shot thingy tipped over, and shot popping,
flaming thingies out into the front field, and bounced one off
the black plastic trash can HH was standing by, right next to
...the Scout full of fireworks. Geez! You'd think he learned
his lesson the time he worked for the city, and an errant
firework set the city truck-bed full of fireworks off. It was
a short fireworks display that year. But we couldn't have
HH walking more than 10 feet to select his next weapon of
mass destruction, now could we?

While waiting for HH to set up his next item, something whacked
me on the shoulder. I screamed that I'd been hit by one of his
missiles, but HH declared that I hadn't. #1 son came to my
rescue, and shone the light of his video camera on the object:
a 3-inch piece of rocket. He carried it around to show all.
I was unable to do my Told-You-So dance due to my hurt
knee, but the victory was still sweet.

The piece de resistance came near the end of the exhibition. HH
was fiddling with some rocket in a pipe, and I shouted, "You'd
better go put out that fire in Kevin's field!" Which HH responded
to with "Huh? What fire? There's no fire!" When I kept shouting
and pointing, he humored me by walking about 10 steps to see
where I was pointing. To give him credit, he probably couldn't
see me pointing in the dark, but I think if your wife screams
about putting out a fire in the neighbor's field, perhaps you should
take it more seriously, guys. By the time he fiddled and faddled
and said, "I don't see a fire" the blaze was about 5 feet across,
and getting bigger by the minute. I told #1 to run fetch a bucket
of water. My Hillbilly Mama got a towel out of her charred SUV
to beat out the flames, and HH tried to crawl through the decrepit
barbed wire fence that makes good neighbors. This was not the
LandStealer neighbor. It was the poaching-deer-and-turkey-on-
our-land neighbor whose daughter had set the woods on fire
burning trash a few years ago. I guess we're even now. Maybe
Smokey The Bear should pay us all a visit. Anyhoo...HH got
through the fence and tried stomping out the flames. It probably
didn't help that he was wearing sandals. Note to self, HH. And
it also didn't help that the neighbors never mow and never bale,
and their 'grass' was 3 feet high. HH finally got it stomped out,
and dumped the water on it for good measure when I insisted.
It took too long to get the water because we have about a
quarter-mile of hose hooked up to the faucet from filling the pool.
#1 gave HH a piece of his mind about that, too. I'm not so sure
HH enjoyed himself as much as in previous years.

Now I'm exhausted from reliving the whole experience. I must
grab my borrowed cane and hobble upstairs.

Hillbillies and fireworks. Perhaps not a match made in heaven.

Greetings From Hillbilly Mom's House of Pain

2006-07-04T14:11:00.000-05:00

Stop that! It's not a new hillbilly S & M venture. It means I am in
my mansion, hurting. Hurting OH SO BADLY. Yet I still know
how to use an adverb, if not proper sentence structure.

I have managed to injure my knee, though I don't know how. Do
not suggest old age. I had surgery on this knee twice in the last
century. I know there is a fragment of cartilage jammed in there.
That's why it hurts. This has happened before, though it is usually
jammed on the side, and now it's jammed right in the middle.
It normally runs its course in 4 or 5 days. The swelling goes
down, and the piece moves on to float the lazy river of my
synovial fluid until the next attack.

I am trying to be a good hillbilly and conform to the ICE therapy.
Which of course is ice, compression, elevation. Actually, I am
doing fairly well with the IE, but not the C, because I hate those
elastic wrap thingies that never stay where you want them to
unless you fasten them tight as a tourniquet, which I really think
is frowned upon in medical circles unless you are bleeding from
the femoral artery or some such tragedy.

It is OH SO PAINFUL to sit, get up, lie down, walk, etc.
So I have taken some medication without my name on the
prescription. Please don't compare me to Rush Limbaugh.
My Hillbilly Mama had some hydrocodone left from her
dental emergency, and passed it on to me. She's my supplier.
I think that's the same ingredient that's in my sweet, sweet,
Histinex. And in the fake Vicodin that I had after my surgery
where I woke up in the middle of the operation. Ahh...
Good times. But this stuff is making me nauseous. For one
hour of pain relief, I get 3 1/2 hours of nausea. So far. I
haven't decided if it's worth it yet. Hillbilly Mom doesn't
miss many meals.

I hate it when this happens. I hate the grindy feeling of the innards
of my knee when I stand up. I hate the sudden weakness that
signals me to grab onto something before that leg collapses.
I hate the dragging of the leg through the house to do my chores.
I hate the lack of sympathy from my Hillbilly Husband, who has
had the same thing happen to him, except that I waited on him
hand and foot, and he had crutches and his own prescription of
pain medicine, and MRIs, and laid in bed whining that he was
dying, and eventually had surgery.

Now that I've vented, and made it into a post so I don't have to
think up a real topic to blog about today, I am feeling very much
the same. Who knew? I thought that was supposed to make you
feel better. I am now going upstairs to prop some ice on my
elevated knee, perhaps shed a few tears from the intense pain,
contemplate whether another illegal dose of painkiller is worth
the nausea, and enjoy the peace while the rest of the family is
in the pool. If I start up the steps right now, I just might make
it by Friday.

Big Blogger 2 Mystery

2006-07-03T16:09:00.000-05:00

A crime has been committed at the Big Blogger 2 cyberhouse.
I don't know what it was, but I love a good mystery. Unless I am
the only one that is tricked, because then my ego couldn't take it.

Anybody can try to solve the mystery. In fact, for every guess,
Big Blogger will give us another clue. Put on your thinking caps.
You have one, don't you? I have two, a giant pink flamingo, also
known a the Royal Crown of Hillmomba, and my Coors Light
bat tab. That's why I'm so smart. Two thinking caps. But enough
about me. Not really, there's never enough about me, but I must
go on with what I have to say. No guess is too outrageous. It will
give us a clue, people! Pitch in. Here's what we know, courtesy
of Big Blogger herself:

Last night, someone broke into the Cyberhouse and undertook a
crime. That person was Big Blogger. The crime? Well that is
something for you all to work out.

You have until Wednesday to work out what it is I have done
in the house. Your clues are;

It is a revenge crime.
It is a simple, but diabolical crime.
It is a crime that will have all of the Cyberhousemates
pointing the finger of blame at each other.
This crime will get your day off to a bad start.

The first Cyberhousemate to work out what the crime is, will get
a 20% increase on their overall votes. If someone who is not a
Cyberhousemate works out what it is I have done, they get to
nominate which Cyberhousemate gets a 10% increase in their
total number of votes.

Each time somone leaves a comment, suggesting what it is I have
done, I will leave another clue.

Visit the Big Blogger 2 official site. Take a guess. Don't cost nothin'!
And if you care to vote for who should not be eliminated from the
cyberhouse this week, cast a vote by scrolling down to Elimination
#8. Thanks to those of you who already voted for me. I'm almost
certain that Alaska vote came from Lessa. Thanks, buddy! The
others, hmm...looks like maybe the Okies have taken up the cause.
Is that an insult to you guys, calling you Okies? Cause I don't want
to be politically incorrect, because Mrs. Coach might not buy us all
a free round of Sweet Beavers, and Redneck Diva would not share
Carlos the Cabana Boy with me, and Stacie would admit the truth
about my creek rocks, even though I know she has been trying to
spare my feelings all this time. The other vote looks like it could be
from the Bean in Kansas City, but I think she's been too busy with
living her stranger-than-fiction life than to vote for me, in which case
it could be the St. Louis area, which could mean JustLinda, though
she has been busy trying to impress her nanny,
and using pop rocks and pr0n on her husband's birthday. Or
Colleen, but she has been on vacation. Shh...don't tell anybody.
Then again, it could be my buddy Mabel, who has gone missing
again. I am tempted to give myself a vote just to see where it lands
on the map. If I get desperate, I will. To vote, or look at the map,
go to Big Blogger 2 and scroll down to the Nomination #8 post.

Because I love a mystery so much, I am getting this done in time
to watch my precious Treasure Hunters show tonight. Last week,
I even knew that code from Lewis and Clark, though the show
didn't let us figure out the code for ourselves. I wasn't even
wearing my thinking caps. Of course, we here in Missouri get
a big dose of Lewis and Clark during 5th grade, so my #1 son
had a book I'd gotten him with lots of good junk in it, including
that code President Jefferson sent them.

I must go solve some mysteries. But not in a Scooby Doo way.

Hillbilly Mansion Library 2

2006-07-02T16:42:00.000-05:00

A new shipment of books has arrived at the Hillbilly Mansion
Library. They were ordered by special request of some weirdos
who searched for things allegedly found in my blog. Get out your
library cards, folks. There might be a stampede at the check-out
desk.

teachers calling in sick...a collection of excuses used by those
wacky professionals when they couldn't face another day of work.
"A skunk is outside my house and will spray if I open the door."
"My wife is gone for the day, and I must use this time to rent some
pr0n to watch before she gets back." And many more.

plantar wart and pickle juice...a children's book about two lifelong
friends. Plantar Wart, the grounded, no-nonsense down-to-earth
soul, and Pickle Juice, his sometimes sweet, sometimes sour buddy
who's his bread and butter. Keep in step with them through their
adventures with the podiatrist next door, and go on a picnic with
this odd couple. The kids will love them.

nudes I shot myself...an autobiography from within prison walls.
Hear one man's story of his rampage in a nudist colony.

tampon eater...the story of the world's worse known case of pica.
A woman's journey to take recycling to the limit, it ended with
the birth of her first child, and OH SO MANY disposable diapers,
OH SO LITTLE time.

letourneau's secret milk codes...how Mary Kay communicated
with Vili while the whole 6th grade remained unaware. A must
for budding pedophiles, a step by step directive on how to get
the boy of your dreams.

grooming issues...comb your hair with a fork? Wear black socks
with sandals? Rip the sheets with your toenails? Have so much
back hair that people at the beach think you're wearing a sweater?
This book's for you!

worms that come out of dog's butts...a pictorial diary of every
squirmy thing that crawled from the author's pet's anus in one
year. Methinks he needs to get a life. And a new dog.

hill billy pets game...not so much a game as a cookbook. Learn
how to stew up Ol' Betsy, Rover, Puff, and others when they
have outgrown their cuteness.

red polka dot dress fashion faux-pas...the tale of one boy's
shunning at the Senior Prom. Who knew? Now we all do.
Guys, don't wear a red polka dot dress to prom.

histinex good times and histinex pain...boxed set of two memoirs
of a bi-polar author addicted to sweet, sweet histinex. Ooh, it
hurts so good!

satanists don't wear gold...but the devil wears Prada! Just kidding.
Heartwrenching story of a young disciple of Satan who must make
a choice: follow her heart, or give up the bling?

mary washed jesus and wrapped him in...hot off the press book
of religious-themed mad-libs, just in time for summer and those
jaunts to the beach. Make up your own hilarious Bible Stories!

Happy reading! Make sure you return them on time.

Big Blogger 2 - Task 10 - Teenage Summer

2006-07-01T16:28:00.000-05:00

Time for a new assignment for Big Blogger 2. This week, it is a tale
from the summer we were 13. Big Blogger says:

This week, it is time to go back, way back for some. Back to the
summer of your youth, the summer when it all began to change.

Thirteen's My Lucky Number!
It's Going To Be A Teenage Summer.

Yes, it is time to dust off the old memories and remember back to
the time you had your first summer as a teenager. Back to the time
when you were too cool to hang with kids, but not teen enough to
drive a car. Back to the days when you were 13 going on 30.
Now I know for some this is going back a long time ago, and
memories may be fading, but don't let the truth get in the way of
a good story.

This is quite a task, because I fear it is ME Big Blogger mentions
as being so very old. Better old than dead, I say!

Well, the summer I was 13, my hillbilly family was living in our
new house we had built just outside of town. It was my first
summer there, and I had nothing to do except fight with my
sister. There were no other kids who lived near us. My favorite
torment for my dear sister involved asking her to put on her
silver sandals, and then telling her she had boy toes. That made
her thumping mad, so I had to say it from the hall, and then
take off. She had pictures of Donny Osmond and David Cassidy
all over her walls, which also irritated me. I didn't have anything
on my walls. I had a large bookcase full of paperbacks, and the
only things she read were the captions to her idols' pictures.

That may have been the summer I read The Exorcist, and nearly
scared myself to death. I would feel something lie beside me in
the bed at night, and thinking it was my loving sister, or my caring
Mom, I'd reach my arm out to see who it was AND NO
ONE WAS THERE. Then I would awake mid-morning to a
dark shadow on the wall. EEEEEEE! I slept with the lights on
for a few nights. And to this day, I refuse to watch the movie.

I started my staying up late habits back then. The rest of the
family went to bed, but I stayed up to watch reruns of THE
AVENGERS. John Steed and Emma Peel were OH SO COOL.
I would arise around 10:00 or 11:00, and go out to lie in the sun
on the patio where lizards darted past my head on the way to
the metal cleanout trapdoor near the bottom of the brick fireplace.
I had to come in the house by 1:00 to watch One Life to Live,
followed by General Hospital. I lived for those shows.

The main event I remember from that time is a bunking party,
the hip way of saying 'sleepover' back in my day. It was at my
friend Marsha's house in a nearby town. We went to school
together, and she had invited 4 or 5 of us to spend the night.
A couple of the girls were not really my crowd, what with being
cheerleaders and OH SO POPULAR. Marsha and I and the
others were kind of middle of the road. Not so popular, but not
skanks or anything. Her dad worked with my dad.

The night of the big slumber party, we scurried down Marsha's
kitchen steps to her rec room. It wasn't very big, but we were
left alone. We talked about gossipy things, and listened to the
radio: American Pie, Stairway to Heaven, Ben, Baby I'm a
Want You, Knock Three Times, Proud Mary, Me and Bobby
McGee, What's Goin' On, Maggie May, Uncle Albert/Admiral
Halsey, Get It On, Joy to the World, One Bad Apple, How
Can You Mend a Broken Heart, Indian Reservation, My Sweet
Lord, Gypsies Tramps and Thieves, I Woke Up in Love This
Morning, She's a Lady, The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down,
Peace Train, I Am Woman, Cherish, If, Kiss an Angel Good
Morning, I Never Promised You a Rose Garden, Help Me
Make It Through the Night. Yeah. We had one kick-a$$ radio
station...pop and country!

Then somebody not me decided we should have a seance.
Uh uh. Not me. I didn't join in. They tried to contact JFK.
He had better things to do. I think they were trying to reach
somebody's grandma when we heard the thumping. It was over
our heads.Of course we all squealed like the schoolgirls we were,
and ran upstairs to safety. Only nobody was home. I can't believe
Marsha's parents left us unattended! Marsha, Marsha, Marsha!
Perhaps they had left her older brother and sister to watch us.
So much for that idea. They were old enough to drive, and
shared a sweet, cherry red Chevy Malibu. They were long gone,
cruising the municipal parking lot.

While we were in the kitchen, the thumping continued. It was
coming from the front door. Brave Marsha grabbed one of the
populars by the arm and dragged her to the door, where they
found a couple of popular boys who had dropped in to crash
the bunking party. Somehow, they had gotten wind of the
shindig. I don't know how they got there. They had come from
a baseball game, and were dirty and wearing cleats. The field
was on the other side of town, and they lived in a different area
than Marsha. She invited them in.

Marsha, Marsha, Marsha! Thirteen year old boys are like vampires.
NEVER invite them in. Once they're in, you can't get rid of them.
And they think they can come in whenever they please. One sat
on top of the TV, swinging his feet. I was mesmerized. I waited
for the cleats to smash the picture tube. You might have guessed
by now that I was kind of a goody-goody. I was nervous. This
was OH SO WRONG in so many ways. Hey! I'd read those teen
pregnancy books like My Darling, My Hamburger! After a while,
Marsha told the boys they needed to leave. They said they thought
they'd stay a while longer. The populars were no help. They were
giggling little imbeciles. Finally, they pushed the boys out the door,
and locked it. The boys proceeded to circle the house, thumping on
windows, trying to break in, for about a half hour. I was exhausted
from the stress.

The rest of the night, I had trouble sleeping. I heard everyone else
sleeping, but I figured JFK might take time out of his busy afterlife
and drop by, and I would be the only one awake, and what did I
have to say to JFK, because I am really not a political person.

The next morning, we pretended that we had stayed in the rec
room all night. Nobody squealed on the boy invasion. I learned
that the popular people are not any more fun than regular people.
And that sometimes, thirteen year olds need to be protected from
themselves.

Perhaps that story was not as exciting as you had anticipated.
You are forgetting that I am old, I've led a sheltered life, and the
times were different then.

The good stuff didn't start until the Coors can costume years.

Show Me Some Votey Love

2006-06-30T17:44:00.000-05:00

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

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

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

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

Cyberhousemates

A Farewell to Boobs

2006-06-30T14:58:00.000-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Imported Worms and a Mystery Man

2006-06-29T15:51:00.000-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

What I'm Doing This Summer

2006-06-28T18:49:00.000-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Big Blogger 2 - Task 9 - Bumper Stickers

2006-06-27T10:47:00.000-05:00

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

What Big Blogger wants to see is:

One political sticker
One comical sticker

How about...

George Bush: Proof That Any DoNot Can Be President

and...

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

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

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

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

Big Blogger 2 Inmates

What About the Children?

2006-06-26T16:12:00.000-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

NO MINK COAT FOR YOU!

HM Watches TV

2006-06-25T19:16:00.000-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Some people have too darn much money.

Hillbilly Mom To The Rescue

2006-06-24T18:56:00.000-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

I wish HH had an IQ of almost 100.

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

Let's Talk Medicine

2006-06-23T15:26:00.000-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

New Bagging Method Discovered

2006-06-22T18:25:00.000-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Allergy Tick Heat Fire

2006-06-21T18:04:00.000-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2006-06-20T14:21:00.000-05:00

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

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

I KNOW WHAT YOU DID LAST BLOG

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Big Blogger 2 Cyberhousemates

College Clip Chicken Chip

2006-06-19T16:55:00.000-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

HM, Archaeology Woman, Retired

2006-06-18T15:47:00.000-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

HM, Archaeology Woman (Not So Much)

2006-06-17T16:48:00.000-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hillbilly Mom, Archaeology Woman

2006-06-16T20:01:00.000-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Elite New Army

2006-06-15T19:20:00.000-05:00

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

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

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

1. The season opened today.

2. There is no limit.

3. They taste just like chicken.

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

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

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

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

HH's buddy, Buddy.

Seems like a plan to me.

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

A-Hunting We Will Go

2006-06-14T14:06:00.000-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Don't Worry, Clarice.

2006-06-13T16:31:00.000-05:00

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

THE VISITOR arrived.

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

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

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

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

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

Big Blogger 2, Task 7, Sideshow Slyshow

2006-06-12T18:56:00.000-05:00

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

SIDESHOW SLYSHOW

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

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

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

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

Bobbing For Fish

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

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

The carcass of Mr. Kickball.

A horse's a$$.

An authentic Hillbilly Mom
T-Shirt.

A House-Possum.

Hillbilly Mom's old outhouse.

The Royal Crown of Beclakia.
Nerdish citizen not included.

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

The other Cyberhouse Contestants:

Insomnia Intruder Instructions Inhumane

2006-06-11T15:02:00.000-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Iceberg of Know-Nots

2006-06-10T19:18:00.000-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Our Pets Have Issues

2006-06-09T18:44:00.000-05:00

The wasted end to a wasted day. The boys and I went down by
the mailboxes, where they threw rocks in the creek. WooHoo!
That's my exciting life. Eat your hearts out. I need a new recipe for
my Food Network show anyway. Braised hearts of envious blog
readers, in a horseradish sauce, served on a tower of garlic
mashed potatoes, with those little Chinese-food peas-in-a-pod
thingies on the side. OK, blending flavors is not my strong point.
By the end of the day, I'd say mine make as much sense as Bobby
Flay's recipes. Wink, wink. Cause ya know what I think about him.

Our boy poopie, Cubby, is forlorn. His precious Ann is missing.
Oh, we know she is missing. We are responsible. It was time for
her unfortunate 'operation', and she spent the night shut up in the
garage. Then this morning, she was spirited away to the vet, where
she will remain until Saturday afternoon. By 'spirited away', I mean
dragged on a leash out the garage door, and stuffed into a pet
carrier while peeing herself. My Hillbilly Husband is not known
for his patience.

Ann could not have food or drink after 10:00 p.m., so HH had
the idea to move my large SUV out of the garage, and park his
precious Scout sideways, and tie her to the trailer hitch with a
leash. I expressed my doubts as to this plan. #1 son and I even
went out to to check on her at 8:30, because to HH, no food
or drink after 10:00 p.m. means he made the poor poopie go
without her supper at 6:00, and shut her up at 8:00. We found
her running around the garage, having chewed through her leash.
We picked up all manner of things she would get into overnight.
Boxes of cardboard boxes waiting to be burned, fishing poles
with tasty handles and pointy hooks, wooden baseball bats, the
Scout with its foam rubber seats, plastic jugs with chewy hoses
used to mix pesticides, and an axe with a wooden handle.

She wimpered through the night, and Cubby set to wailing for
her. This morning, HH got out there before we did, and we
found her hiding behind the 4-wheeler, refusing to come out.
I know HH yelled at her, because last night every time we
checked, she was running around the garage, and came right
to us. We had to move the 4-wheeler to get to her. I'm sure
the yelling was due to the cat door. The cat door which I'd
asked HH, "Won't she get her head stuck in the cat door if
she tries to get out?" Nawww. She had chewed the plastic
stuff around the sides. I hope she didn't eat much, because
I'm pretty sure that 'no food' also means 'no plastic'. The vet
is keeping her overnight because we don't want her on the
dirty garage floor overnight, and if we leave her out, Cubby
will wrestle her stitches right out of her. They're rough, those
two, like a couple of wild animals.

This morning, HH threw a handful of fish food into our redneck
fish pond. The water is so green, the fish need little white canes
to find their way around. Our stupid cat was prowling around,
and our piggy tan-striped cat came running up out of the woods,
and our main cat, the orange-striped one, jumped down there
from the porch. HH said, "I think that dern dog has eaten our
fish." The goldfish that he bought from Wal*Mart for about $.50
apiece, and fed them like pigs headed for market. Now they are
about a foot long. I told him "I told you so" because I had wanted
to get rid of those poopies. They caught Cubby standing in the fish
pond the other day. Not as bad as the neighbor's Black Lab, who
swam in it daily, and even removed the pump for us and left it in
the front yard.

Anyhoo...I told HH maybe those cats were the ones eating the
fish, since they insist on drinking from that fish pond, (or from the
chlorinated pool water). They are always crouched around the
edge, watching, waiting. Just like this morning. Then we say why.
The piggy cat leaned over so far we thought he'd done gone
a-swimmin'. But no. He leaned over to eat the fish food pellets
right off the top of the water. Yeah. Cats so lazy they won't fish.
They steal the food right out of the fishes' mouths. Lazy bums.

They'd better at least bring me a frog, or a lizard without a tail,
or one of those cute baby moles. The rabbit with its legs eaten
off, I can do without.

Hillbilly Mom is Cookin'

2006-06-08T19:35:00.000-05:00

I am pitching my own cooking show to the Food Network. It will
be called "Homemade Vittles With Hillbilly Mom." Each week,
I will be cooking the same meal. We'll be having BBQ Pork Steaks
with Onions, Cauliflower/Broccoli/Cheese/Potato/Banana Pepper
Bowl, Oreo Cake, and a choice of Sonic Cherry Diet Coke or a
tart, delicious Bullfrog. Which probably isn't a real name, but one
made up by my cronies back in the days I dressed as a can of
Coors Light. It consists of equal parts vodka, frozen limeade, and
ice. All are crushed together in a blender, and the drink is as good
as any Sonic Slush. Better, even.

Let me describe my special menu:

BBQ Pork Steaks: Boil the pork steaks until they are a nice gray
color, and the foamy fat rises to the top. Then discard the water,
and lay those chops on a bed of sliced Vidalia onions coated with
a layer of BBQ sauce. Not that nasty Maul's of Kansas City kind.
The sweet stuff. Like Save-A-Lot brand Original, or Honey BBQ.
Put a layer of sauce on the boiled pork steaks, too. Bake them at
oh...I don't know...maybe 300 degrees for about...umm...30 or 45
minutes. The onions should get all soft and sweet, and the pork
steaks should maybe get a little burnt sauce around the edges where
you've left the fat that didn't boil away. Mmm...because hillbillies
can never get enough pork fat.

Cauliflower/Broccoli/Cheese/Potato/Banana Pepper Bowl:
No, it's not like KFC's Potato Bowl thingy. That just looks like
garbage to me. Mine is OH SO TASTY. I'm not so good at
measuring, so here's about what you'll need. Enough to fit it in
a bowl. Start with a medium baking potato, such as a Russet.
Wash it, because you're going to eat the nutritious skin. Poke
it so it won't explode in your microwave, where you'll be cooking
it for about 5 minutes. Put some cauliflower and broccoli florets
in the bowl, remembering you have to leave room for that potato.
Cover the bowl with plastic wrap. I still haven't forgiven the
Handi-Wrap company for going out of business. I have not yet
found another plastic wrap that I like. Glad Wrap is too clingy.
My sister and Hillbilly Mama have me using some generic stuff,
which will do for wrapping freezer goods, but is not so good at
the microwaving. It blows up like a balloon, then pops and clings
to the food. Anyhoo, microwave that cauliflower and broccoli
for about 3 minutes, just until it is soft but not mushy. Take it out
and put about 3 slices of a Velveeta-type cheese on it. I prefer
the Save-A-Lot brand, which I think is called Marvella. For you
guys not in the U.S., this is not real cheese. It's like a processed
cheese food type of thingy. But it's OH SO GOOD for melting
on things. By now, you have the cauliflower and broccoli with
layers of cheese, then you slice that baked potato in half and lay
it face down on the cheese. This will make it all melty. While it's
doing its business, chop up some banana pepper rings. Maybe
you call it something else, but it's those sweet yellow pepper
rings that you can buy in a jar and put on sandwiches. Or in this
case, you sprinkle the pieces on top of the potato, then slice it
up and stir the whole bowl of stuff until it's kind of gluey and
mushy. But it's tasty. Though not real healthy due to the cheese.
But it's a way to get hillbillies to eat 4 different vegetables.
Without deep-frying them. The vegetables, not the hillbillies.

Oreo Cake: This really is good, even though it comes from a box.
Just ask my teaching buddy, Mabel. Which would be easier if
Mabel would get herself a blog, and if BLOGGER was actually
working, but anyhoo, you'll have to believe it's good. Mabel has
caught people sneaking in to get the last piece.

Duncan Hines Devil's Food Cake Mix
Eggs, oil, water as listed on the cake mix
1 package Oreos (NOT Double-Stuff)
2 Tubs of Vanilla Frosting

Cut Oreos in half with a sharp knife, so you have half-circles
You will need about 24-30 halves.
Put rest of Oreos in a bowl and chop them up to about dime size
with a fork.
Spray two 8-9 inch cake pans with non-stick cooking spray.
Turn on oven according to cake mix directions.
Mix the cake according to package directions.
Fold chopped Oreos into the batter.
Pour into cake pans.
Bake according to cake mix directions.
Cool on a rack for about 30 minutes.
Remove cakes from pans, let sit on rack another 30 minutes.
Put bottom layer on cake plate and ice with vanilla frosting.
Place top layer on, ice with vanilla frosting.
Put Oreos halves around bottom of cake in a circle, sticking
cut sides to the icing.
Stand 5-6 half-Oreos in center on top of cake like a star
Sprinkle fine Oreo crumbs on top of cake.
Cake is best left uncovered or refrigerated, as it will become
soggy if covered at room temperature.

People will not tire of watching me prepare the same meal each
week, because my hilarious wit will keep them enthralled. I will
have a different guest each week. First will be Bobby Flay, that
lush, who will bring in some of his viewers to kick off my show.
I'll pour ol' Bobby so full of Bullfrogs that he will think my food
is good. Until it's processed, salty goodness fells him with a
heart attack.

Other weeks, I will have a guest chef prepare my meal. If the
guest is entertaining, and can hold an audience, they will be invited
back to prepare their own specialty. For example, Redneck Diva
might do an episode called "I'm Cookin' With Cheese." Cazzie
could do one called "I'll Show You My Buns if You'll Show Me
Yours." Stewed Hamm...well, aside from stewing some ham, he
could whip up some tasty Booberrylicious concoctions. Rebecca
could teach us the history of Jaffle.

Yes. I think the Food Network should not take us lightly. Look at
what they put on. Big freakin' deal that Rachael Ray can add up to
$40. It takes her all the live-long day! It's not like she's cashing in
lottery tickets or anything. And that Ham on the Street guy...I can
see why he's on the street. I did used to like that Bobby Flay show
years ago...Grillin' and Chillin'. He had some redneck guy that
did the grillin', which of course left Bobby time for chillin'. Which in
his case meant getting hammered by the end of the show. Why has
nobody else ever noticed this? He always looks drunk by the end.

So there you have it. My plans for the summer. I'm sure that's
enough time to get my own show and become a star.

I can't explain why it took Emeril so long.

This BLOGGER is Driving Me Crazy

2006-06-07T19:34:00.000-05:00

Say it with me: "This BLOGGER is driving me crazy!" Like Jerry,
George, Elaine, and Kramer all tried saying: "These pretzels are
making me thirsty!" Everybody add a personal touch. There. Now
I feel better.

I've been trying to get to BLOGGER since 1:15 this afternoon.
Well, not continuously, because that would mean I have no life,
wouldn't it? So I gave up after about 15 minutes of finagling, and
went to Television Without Pity to read old ER recaps. Which
still means I don't have a life.

The boys and I went to town for a few groceries and the daily
Sonic Cherry Diet Coke. Swimming in the Mansion pool went
swimmingly, and lunch was had by all. Then I settled down in
my dark, cool, basement lair for a little blog time. But noooo!
I tried again around 3:00. Nope. I gave up and watched some
Maury. It was cheating boyfriends caught on tape. Too much
drama. I made an appointment to get our girl poopie spayed.
She's really not gonna like me now. We'll do the boy when we
can catch him. I filled out #1 son's summer College For Kids
registration. 4 days late. I'm sure they'll let him in. He wants
to take Boats, Planes, and Trains. I hope it's not like that John
Candy movie.

I made supper. I drove back to town to mail that pesky College
For Kids app. I also took along a piece of leftover pizza, and a
pair of shorts for my Hillbilly Mama to repair. She is a wizard
with a needle. I bought gas, Powerball, and some scratch-off
tickets. I'm still Even Steven. We won exactly what was spent
on the tickets. When you're hot, you're hot, baby!

About those shorts. #1 son put them on this morning, fresh out
of the Wal*Mart bag. They are like black mesh basketball shorts,
reversible to plain gray. He wore the gray side, because it matched
the shirt I laid out. While at Save-A-Lot, he bought a Twix bar.
Only my son could make a melty mess of a Twix bar. They are
usually not so crumbly. He sat in it. He wallowed in it. When we
stopped for him to get the mail, he climbed out and looked at his
seat.

"Oopsie! Looks like I got some chocolate on the seat, Mumsey."
I don't know why he calls me that. I don't particularly like it. I
told him to get a tissue and wipe it up. "Oooh. It's liquid." I gave
him some Sonic ice (that stuff is fantastic) and told him to scrub
it some more. #2 boy popped his head over the seat and said,
"Hey! It looks like poooooop!" It did.

As #1 was bending over to get the mail, prancing around like a
schoolgirl because there's a bird on a nest at the back of the box
and it usually flies out and startles him, I saw his shorts. Up in the
crotchy-leggy part, he had a blob of melted Twix. "Hey! I can
see where you soiled yourself!" He protested that he didn't really
soil himself as you would imagine from the expression "soil
yourself". When we got home, he jumped out and started trying
to look at his own butt. He grabbed on the shorts and pulled
them around, and ripped out the stitching on part of the butt.
Fie on you, Wal*Mart! Can't you get better craftmanship out
of your underage overseas sweatshop labor? I expect more for
my $5 shorts. Anyhoo, not only did he soil himself, he split his
pants. Though he would argue, "Not like splitting my pants!"

All this exictement, and uncooperative BLOGGER too! What
a life Hillbilly Mom leads! And now, I must go watch a new
ghostly scary show on the SCI-FI channel, in place of where
Ghosthunters used to be on the schedule.

Don't hate me because I'm OH SO PRETTY. Hate me because
I'm Even Steven.

A Family of Morons

2006-06-06T16:43:00.000-05:00

OK. So we already know that HH belongs to this family. But today,
the boys and I got our a$$es handed to us on the stupidity platter.
It all started when we ventured to town for the daily Sonic Cherry
Diet Coke. I had decided to cash in part of our lottery winnings.

I chose the big tickets because they were cluttering up my purse.
I counted it up, and I told #1 son, "We have $50 worth to cash in
today, but we're not spending it all. So don't start begging. My
children don't fall far from the gambling tree...perhaps I should
curb their scratching. Nawww. They also like to nickel and dime
me with convenience store drinks or hot dogs or candy or toys.
Hey! They're allowed to have Sonic's wholesome goodness...it's
just the asking for stuff they see at the spur of the moment that gets
to me.The boundaries were set. I handed #1 the tickets. I said,
"Count it again to make sure." Because I was planning what tickets
I was going to buy with the spoils.

#1 son, our resident genius, counted. "That's $60, Mom." Well.
I thought I could count to 50 or 60 by 5s and 10s. I told him to
do it again. "Yep. It's $60 all right!" OK. I stand corrected.

We drove to town to claim our fortune. We waited in line behind
other gamblers cashing in tickets. This little gas station recently
sold a $300,000 winning ticket. In the past, they've had other
big winners. Perhaps they just promote it more. Anyhoo, we
stepped up for our turn. I handed the minimum-wage worker
our stash of $60 worth of winners. She scanned them. And said,
"Seventy-five dollars." Both boys' eyes widened. !!!! We were
pleased. And yet, we felt kind of dumb.

We got into the large SUV, and #1 said, "Imagine how many
winners we've thrown away because we can't count." I certainly
hope not. I don't know how we could have counted so badly.
Good thing they have that bar-code thingy that tells how much
they're really worth.

We proceeded to Country Mart, to buy tickets from their machine.
Between the convenience store and Country Mart, we bought 10
tickets. I had my list of odds, and my choices. I cautioned the kids
on the way to town: "Remember, we won more than our share by
the odds yesterday, so don't be surprised if we don't win today.
It all evens out."

I gave each boy 5 tickets to scratch. Little #2 has lottery fever.
He went at it. Again, I warned him, "Don't be disappointed if you
don't get a winner today." Next thing I know, he's shouting, "I've
got a winner!" It turned out to be $10. He went on scratching.
That boy had winners on 4 of his 5 tickets. #1 had one winner.
We had a variety today, with tickets costing from $10, 5, 3, 2,
and 1. We only won back half as much as we spent today, but
we're still ahead, and have a chunk of our $75 left. And we also
have $50 worth of tickets still to cash in.

I think.

HH and #1 son are gone to Lowes to get lumber for the 'deck'
that HH is building between the pool and the hot tub. It is triangle-
shaped, and has room for about two chairs. He said, "I've got to
get that lumber tonight. It's supposed to rain, and I don't want it
to get wet." Because a deck between a pool and hot tub is going
to remain dry for eternity, I suppose. Forget that part of our back
porch is rotting away because he has only treated the cedar twice
in 8 years. By cracky, we're a-gonna have us a dry deck, though!

While they're gone, I think I will search for a Mensa application.

Money, Money, Everywhere!

2006-06-05T17:17:00.000-05:00

Well, not everywhere. Just a little in my bank account. And pocket.

Today was payday. Teacher summer checks payday. WooHoo!
That means I went to school to pick up 6 (count 'em) SIX
paychecks. Didja know that? That teachers work for a certain
amount of contracted days, like 178 or some such number, and the
year's salary is spread over 12 months? So even when you're not
actually teaching during the summer, you still get your allotted pay.
Our school pays it out in 6 checks, because we get paid twice a
month. Some schools only pay once a month. Some might even
mail out the checks at the regular payday. It's been so long since
I taught at a different school that I can't remember.

Now, this getting paid your summer money all in one shot can
be both a blessing and a curse, depending on how you handle
your personal finances. When I was single (and had a life), I
paid 3 months of car payments, rent, insurance, savings, etc.
That way, I knew the main bills were taken care of, and how
much money I had to last me until the beginning of September,
the next payday. It worked out well.

After I married my Hillbilly Husband, I made the mistake of putting
that money in the checking account and paying bills on the regular
monthly schedule. Not such a good idea. Because even though I
control the checkbook strings around the Hillbilly Household, HH
saw all that money in the account and thought "Wow! Free money!
Must spend!" Yes, he sound's like Homer Simpson on occasion.
By the middle of August, I was a-wishin' for a payday, and trying
to make ends meet. It wasn't too bad, since HH got paid weekly
back then. The next year, he switched employers, and was paid by
the month, on the last Friday of each month. So it wasn't always
the same date, sometimes it was 4 weeks between, sometimes 5.

I do not like worrying about the money just before school starts.
Especially now that we have growing boys to clothe, and school
supplies, and every now and then I even get a new item or two
for the new school year. So I had to make a change with the pay
situation in the summer. I have to put that money in savings, and
only take out a regular paycheck on a regular payday, the 5th
and the 20th. That way, HH does not see a big balance and think
"Wow! I need to go on vacation! I need to buy lumber for the
BARn! I need to buy myself a new Scout! I need a new lawn-
mower! I need to trick out my pimp car! I need a new knife for
my collection!" It has been working for a few years now.

While at school to pick up my check, I ran into Mr. G, my old
lunch buddy, and had to talk a while. He's already been to
Branson this summer, and bought a speedboat. Branson! Ya
hear me, Stewed Hamm? Branson! Hillbilly Heaven!

After that 45-minute adventure, I heard Wal*Mart calling to me.
But first, I had to check on my new room, which I might have
mentioned is in Lower Basementia. Nope. Nothing has been
moved yet. I made a trip to the bank, stopped at 7-11 for a
couple scratch-off lottery tickets, because hey! I had SIX
paychecks to deposit! Now don't go thinkin' I'm spending
the Mansion payment or taking food out of my young 'uns'
mouths by squandering my hard-earned moolah on the lottery.
Nobody around here is missing any meals, I guarantee. I have
streaks of good luck with the lottery. Just ask Mabel, if you
can find her, because one year she gave me some tickets for
my birthday in February, and I played on the spoils for well into
the fall. Mabel rocks! And I'm still playing on the $16 I won
off the last $10 of tickets she gave me!

Since I had $62 worth of winners waiting to be cashed in, I
did not think twice about dropping $17 on three tickets. Upon
scratching them, I found that I had a $15 winner. HooRah!
Then the itch to scratch was upon me again, so I stopped and
spent another $15 on two more tickets. I have been buying the
$10 and $5 tickets, because the odds of winning are 1 in 3.21
as opposed to about 1 in 4.85 on the dollar and two-dollar
tickets. Something like that. They all have a little bit different
odds. I also check the trusty internet (try it!) molottery.com,
to see which games are new, and which still have big prizes left.
This system is working so far, because when my children were
brought home later by my Hillbilly Mama, and I let them scratch,
one had a $5 winner, and one had a $15 winner. So lets see...
I spent $32 on tickets today, and won $35. I ain't exactly gettin'
rich at it, but it's fun. I'm like Jerry Seinfeld on the episode where
he was Even Steven. Now I have $97 worth of tickets to cash in.

Don't worry. I'm not going to put it back into tickets all at once.
I only get a few at a time. I have to be feelin' lucky before I'll buy
them. I'm psychic, you know. And one lesson I've learned is never,
ever buy tickets when HH is along. Because we've never won so
much as a ticket when he's with us. Every party has its pooper,
and our pooper is HH.

Should I tell you what tickets win for me? Or should I keep it to
myself? More for me, haha! Well, I guess it won't matter...most
of you can not come to Missouri to buy our scratch-off tickets.
Perhaps Colleen could steal my fortune, but perhaps she doesn't
even play the scratch-offs. Ohh...poor Stew of Hammistan...he
could have purchased some when he was in Branson. IF he hadn't
been so busy...umm...how you say...HATING BRANSON!
You snooze, you lose, Stews! One of these days you'll take
ol' Hillbilly Mom's advice.

OK, shh...here are the games I play until some new ones start:
Lifetime Riches, Harley Davidson Ticket to Ride, and Solid
Gold. Eat your hearts out, suckers! It's time for another
heart-eating party at the Mansion. My kids gotta eat.

Big Blogger 2, Task #6, Urban Legend

2006-06-04T18:23:00.000-05:00

This week, we have a guest Big Blogger, Rachy, who commands
us to create an urban legend. She says:

"There are a lot of Urban Legends out there, but not enough. This
week you have to come up with your own Urban Legend, which
has to be plausible at the least. Now Big Blogger does know quite
a few Urban Legends, so don't think you can pull a fast one on me
by just copying and pasting something from a website."

I have been thinking about the things that piss me off, and I've come
up with an Urban Legend called....

THE COMFORTER

Urban Legends abound in Hillbilly Mom's neck of the woods.
We have the mysterious hook-armed lunatic who terrorizes daters
parked on Lovers' Lane. We have the psycho who telephones
the babysitter over and over, until the police tell her the call is
coming from within the house. We have the fried rat found in the
bucket of KFC. We have the dead mouse discovered in a bottle
of Pepsi. We have the old lady who dried her wet poodle in a
microwave. In America's Heartland, there are many tales of
unexplained encounters with odd creatures. We have BigFoot,
from Redneck Diva's Oklahoma stomping grounds, and MoMo,
the Missouri Monster, from HM's home state. But this legend is
not about them. It is about the lesser-known, but more widespread,
critter: THE COMFORTER.

The creepiest thing about THE COMFORTER is that he is a
shape-shifter. He can change form...man, woman, young, old...
you never know where THE COMFORTER will pop up next.

THE COMFORTER seeks out those who do not want comforting.
He gloms onto them, touching, probing, seeking contact where it
is unwanted. He is the bearded principal with nicotine-stained teeth
and coffee breath, who rubs your back and breathes into your face.
She is the hugger who won't take "No, I'm fine" for an answer, and
wraps her tentacle-like arms around you, squeezing the very life
out of you. He is the schoolbus driver who drapes his arm around
your shoulder, exuding his tobacco-y, motor oily essence into your
pores, leering, "Hey, gal...how ya doin'?". She is the college friend
who comes home with you for a visit, and in the middle of the night
wheedles, "Come down here on the floor and lay with me." He is
your best friend's boyfriend, who says, "Spend the night with me.
You can have the bed." She is the close-talker who almost touches
your nose with hers in conversation. He is the 8th grade boy who
slides down the bleacher to sit next to you, his thigh pressing
against your own. She is the girl at the bowling alley who squats
down in front of you, rests rests her elbows across your knees,
lays her chin on her arms, and says, "Do you remember your score
last game?" He is the 9th grade boy at the winter dance who sits on
your lap, wraps his arm around your neck, and whispers,
"Somebody's been drinking." She is the girl who follows you into
the girls' bathroom, and kneels between your legs at the toilet.
Comforting you.

You never know when THE COMFORTER might appear. But
you can bet it will be at a time you don't want to be touched.
Do you say, "Eeewww!" and back away, thus hurting THE
COMFORTER's feelings? Or do you endure it, feeling violated
for eternity? Can you just say 'No' to THE COMFORTER?
Oh H*LL NO!

THE COMFORTER thinks he is doing a good deed. He thinks
he is sensitive and caring. He does not know you abhor his touch.
He thinks he is giving you the gift of comfort, yet he is scarring
you for life. THE COMFORTER lives for close personal contact.
As a child, his favorite Milton Bradley game was Feely Meely.
He even hums a little disco ditty that he made up about himself, to
the tune of Donna Summer's The Wanderer. Only his version is
called 'The Comforter.'

Woke up this morning
crawled from underneath your bed.
You tried to sneak out on me,
but I followed you instead.
You started feeling bad,
so I stepped in to be kind
'cause I'm the Comforter.
Oh yes, I'm the Comforter.

I follow you at all times.
Oh, that really blows your mind.
But I don't give a hoot what you think
or you do...
I know I'll get to you,
It takes so little time...
Cause I'm the Comforter.
I'm the Comforter.

Cause I'm the Comforter.
I pop up anywhere.
Cause I'm the Comforter.
I cause the folks to stare.
Cause I'm the Comforter.
All the time.
Cause I'm the Comforter...
I'm the Comforter.

Beware...THE COMFORTER!

Big Blogger 2 Cyberhousemates

Cool Kids, Cold Pool

2006-06-03T18:22:00.000-05:00

Today marked the grand opening of the Mansion Swimming Pool.
Air temp: 84 degrees. Water temp: 69 degrees. The boys tried
to pretend it wasn't cold. This was around 11:00 a.m. They could
have waited until the entire pool was in the sun around noon, but
#1 son and HH had free tickets to a Cardinals' game. In the new
stadium. The last time HH had free tickets, he contracted Type A
Influenza. Ahh..yes. I remember it like it was yesterday.

We have to watch the little shaver closely. The water comes up to
his chin, and he can get off balance and go under. He must be on
a floatie or wear a life jacket unless HH is in the pool with him.
He actually looks like the big guy in this photo, stretched out on
last year's floatie.

It's now 8:00 p.m. (not in the picture), and HH has gotten in the
pool with them for swim number two. They didn't last long, as it
is all in the shade now, and they were shivering. Good thing we
have the free hairwad hot tub right beside the pool. That's where
they are right now, and my house is blissfully quiet. It won't be
long until they drag their waterlogged selves in the house, though.

This pool kind of takes up the whole back yard. I suppose it's
less lawn for HH to mow. We don't really use the back yard for
anything. We grill on the back porch, and have a picnic table in
the side yard. Because the 5th-wheel camper is in the front yard.

Last night, HH and #1 found a copperhead lurking under the edge
of the free hairwad hot tub. HH killed it. He said it was about 18
inches long. I've heard they mate for life, and I'm waiting for the
other snake to drop. I don't know if that's true. I think Buddy is
the one who told us that, and he is not a reliable source of info.
HH has plans for a small deck, and I shudder to think of what
monstrosity he will design. He always asks for my input, then
does exactly as he pleases. At least I get to say "I told you so."

That's all the news from the Mansion. I must now go retrieve
the soakers from the free hairwad hot tub, before they have heat
stroke. They're a bit lacking in the common sense department.

The Hillbilly Mansion Library

2006-06-02T16:40:00.000-05:00

Since my mail-order catalog is showing profit, I am branching out:
The Hillbilly Mansion Library. For a $5.00 fee, you can get your
very own liberry card, and borrow books from the Mansion. Here
are some of my recently requested titles:

teach beta fish to jump...A great how-to book for beginning
animal torturers. This trick involves a 16v battery, two wires,
and a beta fish swimming happily in his bowl of water. If he
survives, he will soon be asking "How high?" when he sees
you bring out the battery. A must-read for future serial killers.

audio nobody likes me worms...An autobiographical account of
an Irish lad with a case of the pinworms. Though he regards them
as pets, his classmates would rather not see the creeping things
peeping out his bum. A real tearjerker. This one's a book on
tape. Not tapeworms.

trying to cure the seven year lyrics...The story of a woman who
can not get a certain little ditty out of her head for seven years.
The tune? There's a hole in the bucket, Dear Diva, Dear Diva...
Yes, the author is our very own Redneck Diva. I always knew
she'd make good. Last I heard, she was avoiding book signings
like a Fitty Reunion, because she was afraid those lyrics would
start up again.

if you give a teacher a muffin...Intriguing slice of life about teacher
lunch-table antics. You'll discover what really happens if you give
a teacher a muffin. For starters, the teacher wonders why the
muffins have letters drawn on the tops in red Magic Marker, and
why the student said, "Be sure to take the one with the 'K' on it."
Follow one teacher's journey through h*ll and back, all because
of one little muffin.

big boob lesbians...A racy little romp behind the scenes at a home
for outlandishly endowed wymyn-lovahhhs. Though sometimes
short on plot, the author makes up for it with lavish descriptions
of rugs, carpets, curtains, and comfortable shoes.

hillbilly overalls don't...A collection of fashion faux pas of the
hillbilly variety. It may come as a surprise to some that hillbilly
overalls don't : wash themselves...fit all...flatter big-boobed
lesbians...make good attire for a date at the drive-in...appear
to be sexy to non-hillbillies...keep you warm in the winter...
make you look intelligent.

redneck cartoons wife beater...Cartoons with a wife-beating
theme. Need we specify 'redneck'? I think not. These wacky
hubbies really give their gals a thrashin'! You'll snort right out
loud on this bone-crunching tour through Fist City. Not for the
politically correct reader, or anyone with a weak constitution.

what to do when you're coughing up chunks of snot...Who
knew there were so many interesting ways to pass the time
when you're heaving some heavy mucous? #26 Blog about it.
#51 Pretend you're Bluto in Animal House. #88 Make a
collage. #109 Spit it onto a paper plate and see if an image
of the Snotty Mary appears. Quick read.

facts about vicks vaprub...It starts out with the startling fact
that the label actually says "Vicks VapoRub". Not vaprub.
Did you know that some folks actually used to tell their kids
to swallow this stuff, to work on unstuffing them from the
inside-out? It's true. Some even lived to tell the tale.

ugly hillbilly woman...by Anonymous. Some say this book's real
author was a young girl from the hills who lost her true love due
to a misunderstanding at a dance at the town square. She thought
her dance partner was making fun of her wooden leg, when he
mistakenly thought she was making fun of his wooden eye. Others
say the true author was a hillbilly gal with a harelip. In any case,
it makes for a light (if depressing) summer read.

If you'd like to check these titles, or inquire about a specific book,
you know where to find me. Sorry, Cazzie, that I did not have the
manual you requested. I believe it's been out of print since 1950.

HM's Mail-Order Catalog

2006-06-01T16:37:00.000-05:00

I am starting my own mail-order business. My stats show that
people are jonesing for some odd stuff. I figure I might as well
make a profit, so I'll be sending out a catalog. Want to get on
my mailing list? Check out what I have to offer:

dalmation tongues...guaranteed to hit the spot. Need some exotic
finger foods for your next party? Our tongues are the talk of the
town.

socks for dropsy...a special sock, designed to hold up your foot
so you don't trip over it. It's a sock, it's a cast...it's two garments
in one. Note: argyle has been discontinued.

hillbilly wig...for those who don't want to spend the money on a
quality wig, we offer the hillbilly wig, with an elastic chin-strap to
fit any size head. You won't be flippin' you wig with our product!

hillbilly women sitting on porch pictures...tired of the dogs playing
poker, the velvet Elvis? Spice up your decor with these lovely
works of Art. Art is well-known around these here parts for his
natural, unposed subjects. Specify with or without corncob pipe.

pitchers of moms spanking kids butts...these are hard to find,
indeed. It is hard to fit the moms and the kids into the pitchers...
not to mention leaving enough room to swing those spanking arms.
Note: moms and kids may drown if pitchers are filled with liquid.

maths mansion six flat worms...not five, not seven, but SIX flat
worms. They can measure you for a new suit of clothes. Note:
inch worms only. Metric worms are out of stock. (Actually, we
never had them, because this is the United States, doggone it!)

be a maid in a mansion kids game...teach your girl young 'uns
and your sissy-boys, too, that they can strive to be a rich man's
maid. It beats livin' in a van down by the river, eating cheese
and selling meth.

transplant of gender lesbian to a guy photo...you can keep it in
your wallet if you don't have a cat photo. Good conversation
piece for picking up women.

the whacker...c'mon...everybody has someone in his life who
needs a good 'ol tooth-rattling whackin'. This is just what you
need. Comes in iron or wood. Handy for hiding under the seat
when you must drive through Redneckland without a police escort.

homemade coke popsicles...because we all know how those
confounded meth popsicles that you buy from that van down by
the river fall off the stick. Disclaimer: coke may or may not be cut
with baking soda or talcum powder or confectioners' sugar.

funny hillbilly gadget...we don't know what it is, or what it does,
but you are guaranteed to laugh your a$$ off. Because it's a funny
hillbilly gadget.

handbag tour eiffel...we talk pretty one day. Take this handbag
on your tour of France. Make those Frenchies jealous. Hey, now!
No kissing!

freshmen magazine blue plastic inflatable chair...because a red
chair just won't do when you're a freshman. Parents, know what
your college young 'uns are a-blowin'. This chair comes with a
tiny pin-hole that causes the chair to deflate every 24 hours. The
kids will be plumb tuckered out from all the chair-inflatin', which
will keep them from a-blowin' something less desirable, like big
fat chickens.

highlighters made from wax...some people call them 'crayons',
but we've found we can make more money if they are called
'wax highlighters'. And it's all about the almighty dollar here at
the Hillbilly Mansion, folks.

georgia hillbilly mullets...we're not saying how we got the latest
shipment, but we guarantee these mullets came right off the pointy
heads of Georgia hillbillies. Please specify your choice of 'Hatfield'
or 'McCoy' style.

Prices are negotiable. We will barter with you, Redneck Diva.
In the past, I've seen that you had a

hobble skirt for sissy boy-girl
screaming butt monkeys
dead mouse in the wall
redneck bra
toothless redneck woman pictures
deflated on the couch pot head
stuffed bear brownie outfit
picher of women being slaves to husband

I think I could find buyers for that collection. Make me an offer.
I will deal with you. I see that you have new shipments coming
in every day.

And remember folks, caveat emptor!

No Camping Here

2006-05-31T18:58:00.000-05:00

Hillbilly Mom is not a happy camper. In fact, Hillbilly Mom is not
a camper at all, even though she has a 5th-wheel camper parked
in her front yard. It is all part of the image, like the Christmas lights
that adorn the Mansion year round.

Today, I went to give my Hillbilly Mama a birthday card and a
cake. The boys stayed with her to party, and I continued to run
errands, such as paying for the Mansion, buying Powerball tickets,
and picking up prescriptions.

I would get better service from the local meth dealers than I do
from my pharmacy. Last month, they charged me $45 for a
prescription that is usually $25. When I questioned it, they said
my insurance list of preferred drugs had changed. I believed them.
Then today, I saw that they had charged me $25 as usual. They
could not explain it...could not look it up on their computer
because, oh, wouldn't you know, it locked up and logged off.

Did I mention that this happened while they were trying to give
me a $92.25 CREDIT on my debit card? Seems they had filled
my prescription wrong, for 90 pills instead of 30. Not to mention
that the 30 pills usually cost, yes, $25. So why do 3 times that
many not cost $75? What's with the $92.25?

The kindly old lady had to come off her lunch break to help them
correct the problem, and they ended up giving me cash, because,
oh, the computer said my debit card was INVALID and wouldn't
give me credit. Funny how it wasn't invalid when they charged me
$170.25 for the 4 prescriptions I picked up. Now I fear they have
messed up my debit card.

Oh, and when I said, "Well, I still need 30 of those pills" like it said
on the prescription I renewed, they said, "That'll be $34.25." What?
I refused to pay until the little guy asked the pharmacy tech if my
insurance had changed the amount. She said, "Oh. I didn't know
she had insurance." DUH! They used the insurance on the other
3 prescriptions!

It is a miracle that they haven't killed me with the wrong pills. And
it's not even the good stuff, like fake Vicodin or real Histinex! It's
just boring blood pressure stuff and #1 son's Zyrtec for his allergies,
and medicine for my goiter. Heh heh. I know there's one of you
that likes that word. Goiter. Goiter, goiter, goiter!

Sooo...now I'll have to watch my bank statement that I get in 30
days, and see how much they really charged me. And when I call
in my refill, they'll probably tell me "NO, YOU GOT 90 PILLS
LAST TIME." Which they did on a different prescription two
months ago.

I know. This was confusing. But I know what I'm talking about.
I doggone near needed some extra blood pressure medicine after
30 minutes of trying to straighten this out.

Don't ever be insured on two policies, people. Because it seems
like you are punished by paying way more than the people who
get their meds for free. The kids at school say they have no
trouble at all getting their prescriptions and doctors and oh, yes...
ER visits for free. And they take advantage of it too, going to the
ER if they need a doctor's excuse so they don't get kicked out
for missing too many days.

I am fixing up my handbasket.

Truckload of Hot Cabana Boys

2006-05-30T16:28:00.000-05:00

Eat your heart out, Redneck Diva. I had a truckload of hot cabana
boys at my house all afternoon. They got down and dirty in my
backyard. My actual backyard. That is not a euphemism such as
'back door'. Though I did spend about 20 minutes with one of
them at my back door.

They had their shirts off. They glistened with sweat. One stepped
on his hose, it was so long. And one of them kept putting the hose
in his mouth. (I was about to check his wallet for cat pictures.)
They brought toys. They really dug it. They hooked me up and
turned me on, but alas, left before I'd had my fill.

Yep. A truckload of hot cabana boys. Count 'em.

ONE....

TWO...

THREE hot cabana boys!

OK, so they all three rode out here in a truck pulling a flatbed
trailer with a little Bobcat and all their pool-installing tools. They
were hot. It was about 98 degrees. Fahrenheit, people. We
do not live on the surface of the sun.

We live in Hot Cabanaboy Land. Enjoy, Diva.

I now present to you...The Hillbilly Mansion Pool!

21 feet of summertime fun. The ladder is on order, but it should
be here around Thursday. It will take that long to fill this monster
with our dinky little garden hose. It will take until the weekend
for that 58-degree well-water to warm up enough that the kids
don't get hypothermia. Hmm...I believe it is almost WINTER
in some parts of the world right now. You people can eat your
hearts out, too. We'll have a Good Old-Fashioned Heart-Eating
Party here at the Mansion. I'll supply the Ranch Dressing.

Perhaps you should check the expiration date.

Big Blogger 2, Task 5B, Superhero

2006-05-29T15:30:00.000-05:00

Task B: Superhero!
Big Blogger says,
"Each Cyberhousemate has to reinvent themself into a Superhero.
Yes, it is time to wear your underpants on the outside, and prove
that capes are fashionable. Name yourself, let us know what your
super powers are, and your crime fighting motto.As we all know,
every Superhero needs a sidekick, so pick someone else from the
Cyberhouse to be your ward, and explain how they help you in
your fight against evil."

I've been debating this week about my Superhero identity. I've
been through several.

I could have been The Cherry Diet Coke-Wh*re, with a cape
made of Sonic napkins, flinging cherries at the eyes of evildoers.
I could subdue them with giant onion rings dropped over their
heads, pinning their arms to their sides. I could torture them with
straws up the nose (or elsewhere). But no.

I could have been Coors Can Girl, smiling people to death, no
special costume needed (since I already have one). But no.

I could have been Lovely Green Jeannie, making the world a
safer place by banning all criminals from wearing green shirts.
Again, no special costume would be required of me. But no.

I could have been Smirking Ornaments-in-Hair Girl, so scary
that criminals would run screaming when they saw me. But no.

I could have been Ye Olde Expired Food Purveyor, killing
criminals slowly with outdated goodies like Ranch Dressing
and Kraft Macaroni & Cheese. But no.

Drumroll, please.....

My Superhero name is:
The RAVEN.

Because I'm a ravin' lunatic.

Don't mess with me. I'll swoop
down and drag you away to
my nest and read you bad
poetry until you're sorry.

Or wiiiillllll I?

Will folks mess with you if you know The RAVEN? Nevermore!
Here is a little POEm I wrote for my Superhero:

Do not mess with me, you people, I will mess you up severely.
People piss me off a lot, and I can't take it now, you see.
I will pick you up, and flapping my great wings I'll take you, crapping,
To the Hellmouth for some napping, napping for eternity.
"That will serve you right," I mutter. "Napping for eternity.
That'll learn ya. Hear my plea."

Meet my sidekick: she is Cazzie! She's a cleaner, dresses snazzy.
She will help me get you, Spazzy! We can do it. Yes we can.
We won't take no sh*t from you guys. We can see through all of your lies.
Like Cherry Diet Cokes HM buys, buys from her sweet Sonic man.
Every day she purchases those Cokes from her sweet Sonic man.
RAVEN, Cazzie, have a plan.

Cazzie sweeps them up and RAVEN pops a FittyMaid for savin'
Bad boys, mad boys 'til the Hellmouth blazes up through its trapdoor.
RAVEN empties out the Fitty. For those dudes it's kinda sh*tty.
Sure as HM's OH SO PRETTY, they are doomed we know fer shore.
Dudes are cast into the Hellmouth. We will see those dudes no more.
Mess with RAVEN? Nevermore!

Superhero: The RAVEN
Super Power: Bad Poetry, with a little help from the Hellmouth.
Sidekick: Cazzie the Cool Cleaner!
Motto: "People Piss Me Off" (Was there ever any doubt?)
Not evicted yet: Priceless.

Big Blogger 2 Learn it. Live it. Love it.

Big Blogger 2, Task 5A, Letter Home

2006-05-28T15:48:00.000-05:00

Our Big Blogger 2 challenge this week has two parts. I am only
doing Task A today, because it is a bit long. Task B will appear
later this week.

Task A: Letter Home.
Big Blogger says...
"Seeing as though you have all been inside the Cyberhouse for a
while now, it is time to write a letter home to your loved ones.
Remember back to your days of school camp,when saying
anything bad about the camp would mean detention, so you had to
be creative in hiding your disdain at the place, the people you were
with, and just at life in general."

Letter Home from Camp Cyberhouse

Dear Mom and Pop,
I am writing to let you know things are fine here at the Cyberhouse.
Big Blogger is taking good care of me. A few people have already
gone home. Big Blogger says they were homesick and missed their
mommies and daddies too much. All I know is, one minute they
were here, and the next minute they were gone. Picture it: one
morning, sitting in the Cyberkitchen, humming a little tune, happily
typing for food, and the next morning...VANISHED! Every day I
check the back of the Scorn Flakes box for their pictures.

The food is OK. We have unlimited amounts of Scorn Flakes and
Cut-Up Cow. We don't have milk here. Big Blogger says that
Cazzie's Cool Cleaner is more nutritious, and we can get it for free.
Who knew? We went and bought a cow, and now we don't get
the milk for free anymore. What's up with that?

The kitchen here is open all day, but we're not supposed to go in
there. Every time I hear a noise and think I can enter, this other
camper, Redneck Diva, squeals and says "OCCUPIED!" She
plays with the Cabana Boy, Carlos, quite a bit. I caught him one
day rubbing the Wesson Oil on her Tinkerbell. I think they had a
very special meal planned that night. I don't have a chance in a
Hellmouth with Carlos. Diva is sooo cool. She has that piratey,
unibooby, free-cheesy thing going on. I'm not nearly so exotic.
Diva has a big FittyMaid container of toys that she won't let
anyone play with except Carlos. I feel kind of left out sometimes,
but she swears we are Redneck sisters, and hums a little Dolly
tune for me, and promises that we'll go to Branson when we
get out. That makes it all better.

I do like this one guy, Lantern. He's real bright. He knows a lot of
technical stuff, and he lets me sit in the recliner with him. One day,
he even agreed when I proclaimed myself to be OH SO PRETTY.
As long as we don't listen to 'that rotten little whore' Olivia Newton
John, Lantern is a lot of fun. He is a gentleman, and only says
'boobie' about 20 times a day. I think he only says it to point out
that Diva just has one, instead of the usual two. You can't put
much over on Lantern. When I leave the house, he has agreed to
escort me, to protect me from that evil Mark. We hear him outside
the Cyberhouse every night, howling "Bwahahahahaha". Some
nights, he even pounds on that pretty yellow door.

The other Cyberhousemates are nice. Cazzie is cool. She's a
cleaner. She likes to hang out in the toilet, but to each her own.
She is agreeable and gets on well with everybody. I think she
knows she could kill us and make it look like an accident, what
with her vast store of medical knowledge. She's definitely one I
want on my side. She made us a Boston Bun, which was neither
from Boston, nor a bun. We discussed it amongst ourselves.

Stewed Hamm is a an outgoing little rascal. He gave up his sweet,
sweet Booberry Cereal while he's in the Cyberhouse, so he's kinda
detoxin' like that Shane on Survivor. He has even built himself a
tropical paradise in the back yard. You say 'Tiki', I say 'tacky'
(if ya know what I mean...;). Hammy's talents are Monkeybars
(feet on the ground) and Abe Vigoda trivia. I do know one thing.
Don't ever, ever, mess with his box of Kleenex.
He freakin' LOOOVES it.

Scottage is one of the dudes I don't know very well. He knows
a lot about the big wide world, so I kinda keep my mouth shut
around him. I don't wanna look ignert. He was on the radio the
other night, but I couldn't tune in. Something about my dial-up.
Scottage is a cool guy. He redesigned our basement rec room,
and brought in Van Halen. He even tried to set me up with David
Lee Roth, but I declined. I am on the lookout, lest Scottage
try to initiate some harmless hazing for the Cyberhousemates.

Rachy hasn't checked in yet. She was waylaid by a bug, and is
fighting it in hospital. That Rachy is a sh*t-disturber, for sure. She
would really stir things up in here. The only thing I can remember
that has stumped her so far is a little cuddly kitten. Yep. That ol'
Niles messed with her keyboard one time, and Rachy couldn't type
for sh*t. It was like reading secret code. I'm looking forward to her
release, but not to her competition. Cause I'm a lazy kind of gal.
Rachy would give Scottage some good debates. She's also very
knowledgeable about world affairs. And she likes wine, too.
Copious amounts.

Big Blogger has been keeping us busy with various tasks. I want
to stay as long as I can, but I know sometimes campers disappear,
and then there's an extra sheep on a unicycle pedaling around.
Keep sending the money, cause you never know when I might
have to bribe someone, or pay them to be my friend. I'm working
on my PEOPLE PISS ME OFF issues, and so far, I have not
gotten into any fights. When you come to visit, please bring me
a Sonic Cherry Diet Coke. Until then, I will think of y'all every
evening when we're gathered around the Hellmouth, roasting the
mini marshmallows out of the Scorn Flakes.

Summertime...And the ReRuns Are Easy

2006-05-27T13:16:00.000-05:00

Our Big Blogger 2 assignments this week are to write a letter home
from the Cyberhouse, and to make ourselves into superheroes.
While I am polishing up my entries for this year, let's take a walk
back to yesteryear, and my classic entries. Back then, it was just
a letter from camp, not necessarily from the Cyberhouse.

So without further ado...I present Last Year's Big Blogger Entries:

Wednesday, July 06, 2005
Big Blogger Challenge #13 Letter From Camp Blog
It's down to 3 of us left in the cyberhouse at the Big Blogger
contest at Rants of a Rebecca. This week Bec has challenged
us to write a letter from Camp Blog to Mommy and Daddy.
Here we go:

Dear Mom and Pop,

I didn't want to take time away from blogging to write to you, but
they said we have to or else lose internet access. I am having as
good a time as I can, what with being around all these people.

There was a little problem with accommodations. Way more
bloggers showed up than was expected. Somebody said they
must be from Lurkyville. Some people just stumbled in and said
they didn't know how they got here, but they are going to stay.
And then a bunch of 25 year-old-women turned out to be
45 year-old-men. I guess they read the registration form wrong.
They seem to be getting along fine with the other boys, though.

Some people have decorated their cabins all fancy-schmancy,
and some just kind of have a bare-bones motif that is similar
to a lot of others. I don't really care, because I am just interested
in what they have to say. Sometimes you can hardly talk to those
fancy ones, because they are soooo busy beautifying things.

We have all kinds of activites here. The other day we were going
to a neighboring camp to learn how to put pictures on our blogs,
but it took so long to load the bus that we cancelled the trip.

It's kind of hard for me to remember other campers' names.
They have their blog name and their url name and their email
name and their real name. Man....I bet it took a long time for
their mamas to sew that into their underwear.

The first day we had a workshop on humor. To get warmed
up, we rolled on the floor and laughed. Next, we did the same
thing until our a$$es fell off. After a$$ reattachment lessons,
we practiced drawing snowmen cartoons. Next week we're
supposed to learn how to snark. I don't know what that is,
but it sounds like fun.

There's this one guy, Mitch, who won't keep his big mouth shut.
Day and night, he keeps flapping his lips. I am afraid to say
anything to him, because he says he's going to tell. He looks
like he would, too, that jaw-jacking ol' redheaded pecker.

They don't feed us very well. Everyday, breakfast, lunch, and
supper, all we get is something called Jaffle. I know, it baffles
me too. It looks like a grilled cheese sandwich, but that ain't
cheese. Every meal it has a different filling. The best day was
when they made us each eat a large pizza.

The other campers are really funny, and always up to some
kind of trick. All one of them does is talk about cats, and
others argue over breakfast cereal. Some run businesses
that have funny names. I have heard a lot of them say "If I
ran this camp, I would...." We find underwear in unusual
places, like hanging off a sign by the RR tracks, or up on
the roof. This leads to some tales of quite embarrassing
moments. Some campers have been stalking others, and
then writing odes to them, or posting their pictures on
billboards. Some of them actually pretend to be superheroes
or children's TV characters. What a wacky bunch. This one
time....at blog camp, this girl said she put her mouse---oops!
They're calling us to come and comment on something.
Gotta go. See you when I get home.

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

Wednesday, June 22, 2005
"Undies on the Outside" BB Challenge v 11
Hmmm....Rebecca's week wasn't very long this time. Here's my
new Big Blogger challenge: pick a superhero who can save the
world, and choose a sidekick from the former members of the
Cyberhouse. I choose to create my own superhero identity,
so here goes....

Here is the logo I will use for
my newly created superhero,
SNIPE.

Beware, evildoers!

I am the incredibly sharp-tongued superhero, "SNIPE." Oh, no,
folks...you don't want to come a-huntin' me. I can wither people
with a single scathing comment from my finely-honed tongue.
Nobody is safe: world leaders, evil-doers (OK, some are one
and the same), candy-from-baby-stealers, prep-insulting-stoner-
students, my-poo-don't-stink snobs, bosses-from-hell, and even
the lowest-of-all-life-forms, the plagiarizer, are not safe in my
world.

I will seek you out and embarrass you to death. Got a skeleton
in the closet? I'll drag him out for Snipe & Tell. Did you pee the
bed? Pick your nose? Forget to flush? Wear raggedy stained
underwear to the ER? Leave toilet paper flapping out of your
pants? Make out with someone (gasp) unpopular? Never make
out at all? Drink from the milk jug? Put an empty Little Debbie
snack cake box back in the pantry? "Borrow" from petty cash?
I will find out, and you will pay!!!!!

My illustrious sidekick is "Mosha." After drinking 7 bottles of
wine, she becomes a kick-a$$ skank-dancer. She also gives
free lessons in kickboxing computers, and chopping potatoes
with an axe, though she will never ever become a prostitute
because that will give her Parkinson's Disease or Multiple Sclerosis.
This distracts the bad guys while I question their so-called best
friends to get the dirt. And believe me, they do tell, as long as
they start out by saying, "Don't tell anybody I told you this, but..."

Once I have their deep dark secrets, it is curtains for the villains.
I mince no words, though my tongue is so sharp it can mince
onions or other odiferous and cruciferous vegetables. I am quite
suited to the job, because as everyone who knows me well is
aware: people piss me off! All day. Every day.

Trouble With My Crack

2006-05-26T16:08:00.000-05:00

No, not that crack, silly people! I'm having trouble procuring the
Hillbilly Mom crack: Sonic Cherry Diet Coke. Ohhh...how I long
for the salad days last summer. The days I had my Sonic lovaahhh,
my Sonic man-boy, to look out for me. To hook me up.

Alas, those days are long gone. I see him sometimes, but he seems
to be in a managerial role. They have a little yayhoo working the
window. The boy doesn't seem quite right. He's nice enough...he
just seems to have short-term memory loss. Which is not a good
thing for working the drive-thru window.

The boy has been giving me a Route 44 Cherry Diet Coke for
$1.07. That is waaayyy too cheap. It should be $1.71. I thought
maybe it was a special, because he did that for about a week.
Imagine my surprise yesterday when I also ordered a large cup
of ice. From $1.07, my price jumped to $2.13. Man! That is one
expensive cup of ice. A whole bag is only $1.07. Not only does
he have money-taking issues, he has order-taking issues.

On Wednesday, I waited and waited at the drive-thru.

Welcome to Sonic. How may I help you?
A Route 44 Cherry Diet Coke.
A Route 44 Cherry Vanilla Diet Coke. Will that be all?
No vanilla!
Do you want vanilla?
No. A Cherry Diet Coke.
With vanilla?
No! Only a Cherry Diet Coke.
A Diet Coke with Cherry?
Yes.
That will be $1.07. Please pull around.

Thursday was not much better.

Welcome to Sonic. How may I help you?
A Route 44 Cherry Diet Coke and a large cup of ice.
A Route 44 Cherry Coke and a cup of ice?
No. A Cherry DIET Coke.
A Route 44 Cherry Diet Coke. And you wanted ice? What size?
Large. Large cup of ice.
A Route 44 Cherry Diet Coke and a large cup of ice?
Yes.
That will be $2.13. Please pull around.

What is this guy's problem? I detest vanilla!!! Where did he get
vanilla? And I detest real Coke when I'm expecting diet. It is
OH SO SWEET. How can anybody drink a Route 44 barrel
of real soda? I make my co-pilot, #1 son, he of the passenger
seat tilted for a space-shuttle launch, taste it. Before we leave the
parking lot. I have had to drive back around several times. Now
I just go to a 'bay' as they call it, and make a carhop correct
their error for no tip. That'll learn 'em. The wrath of the carhop.

Cherry. Diet. Coke. It's not rocket science.
It's crack.

Dead Bird Live Pony

2006-05-25T20:52:00.000-05:00

No. That was not the supper menu at the Mansion tonight.

I was reading akaMonty's tale of a day in her life, and it gave
me the most scathingly brilliant idea! Oops! That was Hayley
Mills in The Trouble With Angels. But it really did remind me
of days in my life. Go check it out. Don't cost nothin'.

The picture of Sammy the Squirrel looks OH SO MUCH like a
bird that we had at the middle school. Every day, my boys rode
the bus over there from their elementary so they could ride home
with me. As we walked out to the parking lot, #2 son always
tightrope-walked along a concrete wall, then jumped down into
the parking lot. Except he wanted to grab onto my arm to break
the fall.

During autumn, leaves had begun to cover the blacktop. One day,
as I walked to the jumping-off area, I felt a 'CRUNCH' beneath
my foot. "EEEWWW! What was that?" #2 son, ever the scientist,
ran over and kicked away some leaves. "That's a DEAD BIRD,
Mom! You crushed its bones!" Yeah, blame Hillbilly Mom for all
things dead on a parking lot. "Oh, honey...I'm sure it was dead
before I stepped on it." He walked on to the car, yelling over his
shoulder, "You mean before you CRUSHED ITS BONES!"
#2 son jumped down from the wall and poked at the corpse with
his toe. "Mom stepped on a dead bird! Mom stepped on a dead
bird!" He was practically singing it.

Every day they had to remind me. They yelled to any colleagues
in the parking lot, "Mom stepped on a dead bird." As the seasons
passed, the bird remained. I can't believe people living around
the school had no cats to carry home such a prized gift. The bird
went through the stages of decomposure. By spring, mostly bones
and some feathers were left. It still had its birdy shape, but was
dry and leathery. And then one day it was gone, the skin and
bones ground to dust, powdered down into the blacktop surface.

And even this year, about twice a week, the kids had to say,
"Hey Mom! Remember the time you stepped on that dead bird?"
Ahh...good times.

The other memory was sparked by the pony picture. Yesterday,
as we returned from town with my precious Sonic Cherry Diet
Coke, we passed the neighbor's barn. Their pony was lying out
back. It was around 1:00.

I hope Pony is all right. They don't usually lie down like that.
Oh, Mom. According to you, he has been a pony for the
last three years!
Umm...yeah. What are you saying?
He can't be a PONY for three years! It's like Dad and the goats.
What do you think a pony is?
A baby horse.
No. That would be a foal, or a colt, or a filly. A pony is more like
a smaller version of a horse. They don't get any bigger.
Oh.
Dad did say he was getting three baby goats from his friend to
eat the brush.
That was a couple years ago. They probably died of old age
by now.

I won't even go into my Sonic Cherry Diet Coke issues today.

Hillbilly Mom Smells!

2006-05-24T16:01:00.000-05:00

That title didn't turn out quite like I had planned. I can smell again!
Cazzie left me a comment that yellow chunks of snot mean a
bacterial infection, so I called my doctor for some antibiotics.
Because I always rely on blog comments for my healthcare needs.
I am now the proud owner of an Azithromax 5-day pill pack, and
am on the road to recovery.

I am also a confirmed liar now. About two hours after posting my
bon voyage to the Poopies, my Hillbilly Husband and oldest son
declared their misplaced love for them, and their banishment was
rescinded. HH wanted to keep Ann. His reason: she and her
timid brother, Cubby, chased the neighbor's Lab down into the
woods, under the fence, and back to his trailer home next door.
They were baying like he was a fox and they were the hounds.
#1 son says, "She comes to ME, Mom. I want to keep her."

This did not set well with me, as I was already in the process of
getting rid of them. I'd done my research on the shelter, picked
out their replacements. AND, two miles from home, HH had
called and said he saw 4 beagle pups that had been dumped at
a neighbor's driveway. So I thought the signs were good that is
was time for the Poopies to go. But nooooo!

#2 son is not happy. He would much rather have a puppy than
a Poopie. HH says to call and make Ann's spaying appointment,
and drag her to the vet. He says we might as well keep Cubby,
that we don't have to get him neutered right away. I know I can't
drag them both to the vet on the same trip. #1 son says Ann
would miss Cubby too much if we gave him away. That is true.
She can't stand to have him out of her sight. #1 trapped Ann
this morning on the porch, and I fed her part of an old hot dog.
Only the best grub for my Poopies! Hey! It was all-beef. She had
to share with Grizzly, but Cubby laid by the telephone line's
shallow grave and watched. After about 4 bites, he ran under
the porch. Ann got up and went after him. She herded him back
to the yard, then came back for more of her delicious snack.

One thing I'll say for those Poopies is that they're territorial. They
do not allow intruders onto the grounds of the Mansion. Four-
legged intruders, anyway. I have been searching for creatures
that look like them, and the best I can tell, they are a Black Lab,
Black German Shepherd mix. Their fur is so black it is almost
blue. It is kind of long and stiff, not short and sleek like a Lab.
The ears are going to be pointy like a shepherd, but are not pointy
enough. They have a touch of tan fur behind their shoulders and
around their neck, and between their toes, like a shepherd. They
are FULL of energy, like those annoying Labs our neighbor has
had who carry off our ceramic rabbits, squirrels, and turtles, and
who ripped the pump from the Redneck Fish Pond after taking a
dip amongst the giant goldfish.

Here are some pictures to compare. Perhaps you can tell if they
look like the shepherd/lab mix.

Here are our Poopies when
they found us. They looked
like little bear cubs.

Here are some 4 week old
German Shepherd pups.
They have the different
coloring, but their faces
look the same.

Another German Shepherd
puppy. Black.

Our wet Ann, with her ears
down, afraid of tonight's
thunderstorm. So afraid,
she came to us.

A black German Shepherd

Anyhoo, they don't look like Lab puppies, and they don't look
like Chows. Thank the Gummi Mary! Someone told me Chows
have black tongues. My poopies have black spots on their tongues.
Which I read on the good ol' internet that German Shepherds can
have...black spots on their tongues.

We are keeping the yappy little freeloaders. I am not a traitor
any longer.

Bon Voyage, Dear Poopies

2006-05-23T15:49:00.000-05:00

I think we've decided. The Poopies are going away. I will miss their
barking. Though 9 times out of 10 it is at nothing but their sheer joy
of living the wild life and having regular food tossed at them twice a
day, the other 1 time it is keeping the neighbor dog off our porch.

My Hillbilly Husband still wants to keep Ann. He likes her bark.
#1 son wants to keep her, too. But even though she will come to
him once or twice a day, she still skitters away and taunts him.
We had thought of keeping her, giving Cubby away, and adopting
a new puppy. We are concerned that she may be too rough with
a puppy. She is still a child herself.

We are taking them to an animal shelter in a nearby town. I don't
think we have to pay to leave them there. We will even throw in
collars and leashes. We certainly haven't been able to use them.

If we adopt another animal, as our plan goes right now, there is a
$100 fee for dogs, and a $75 fee for cats. That's a lot of money,
HH says, for something you could get free out of a cardboard box
at the front door of Wal*Mart. Still, the shelter makes sure they
have their shots and neutering before you can pick them up. That
is included in the fee, and you don't have to take them to the vet
and pick them up.

We have to fill out an adoption questionnaire, and an adoption
agreement form. They want to know where you plan to keep the
pet, how long it will be left alone, who is your vet, can they come
for a home visit, how many kids, teenagers, senior citizens, etc.
are in your family. And you have to agree that you won't use it for
medical research, and that it will be used for no other purpose
than a pet. I guess they mean no uses such as: target practice,
dinner, 'dating', soccer ball, fur coat, etc. Not that we would, of
course. It's a lot of paperwork for something you could get for
free out of a cardboard at the front door of Wal*Mart.

I checked their website for dogs available for adoption. They
had some cute 'dalmation' puppies (9 of them!) that looked like
they were part dalmation and part beagle. That's because they
were white with little black spots, and some had a large black
splotch on the middle of the back, with black ears and eyes, and
white-tipped black tails. They were much cuter than this sounds.
However, I don't know how long ago that website was updated,
so they could be grown by now. Maybe it's a bait & switch, just
to get you to come in and look at the puppies. Then they try to
give you a St. Bernard or Newfoundland or some such thing.

Anyhoo, that's the plan at this time. We'll see what develops.

Why do I feel like such a traitor?

Hillbilly Mom Has No Taste

2006-05-22T15:53:00.000-05:00

I have no taste. That does not mean that I need to be deep-fried
on a stick, rolled in sugar, doused with liquer and set aflame, aged
in a crock buried in the sand, sprinkled with hot sauce, simmered
in garlic, dipped in chocolate, set aside in a barrel of brine, baked
with sage stuffed in my body cavities, or simmered in a crockpot
of sauce for three days.

I have no taste. That does not mean I do not know how to dress
myself or decorate my Mansion. Speaking as an OH SO PRETTY
hillbilly icon, I heartily recommend my everyday ensemble of my
Lovely Green Jeannie shirt layered under gunmetal gray sweats,
which are covered by a cardboard Coors Light poster held up by
black suspenders. I accessorize that with an inverted visor covered
in tinfoil, adorned by a black cardboard bat. My fashionable lady-
mullet with stray tendrils plastered across my cheeks, showing just
a hint of gray at the roots, and sporting Christmas tree ornaments
galore, accents the outfit quite nicely. As far as my Mansion goes,
who can forget my Redneck Lamp, or my Redneck Bathroom, or
my John Deere nook inside my BARn? Not many people, I'm sure.
They kind of stick with you.

No, I mean I have no sense of taste. Or smell. But to say "Hillbilly
Mom has no smell" would be stretching the truth just a bit. Since
I caught this not-Type A Influenza on Thursday, May 11, I have
been quite miserable. And now I can't taste or smell. It's gone on
for about 4 days now. I am tired of it. I have tried to smell with my
antennae and taste with my feet, but that only seems to work for
butterflies. And I get some funny looks at McDonalds. Hillbilly
Mom is not an animal. If you bite me, do I not scream
"WHY THE #*%& DID YOU BITE ME!!!"? Yes. I do.

Last night, as I tried to eat my leftover Terrible Tater from lunch
on Saturday, I even chugged down three packets of hot sauce from
Taco Bell. Because sometimes, salsa will clear up my head when
it's stuffy, and I had that sauce just sitting there daring me to open
the package and suck some out. Umm...no taste. No head-clearing.
But today my tongue has some painful little bumps and a whitish
coating. Oh, well. I'm not using it for anything anyway, since I
CAN'T TASTE ANYTHING!

My head is stuffy. It is putting a real crimp in my car-singing. I
sound like my head is in a bucket. I can not sleep at night for the
wheezing and coughing. When I cough, I get a sharp shooting
pain in my forehead, just above my right eye. I am sure it is an
anuerysm waiting to burst. But as my Hillbilly Husband (the
Typhoid Mary who gave this to me) would say, "You ain't the
first woman ever to have an aneurysm." Every now and then
the stuffy head tricks me by turning on a dripping faucet out
one nostril. I turn my head a certain way, and it gushes out.
Other times, I have to struggle to blow thick yellow mucous
from my nose. Am I getting too graphic?

I am thinking about going to the doctor. Just thinking about it,
because he will charge me $20 and say, "You have a virus."
I thought I would be over it by now. I have even tried Mucinex
for the last two days. It does make the yellow mucous easier to
cough up and blow out. I can't seem to catch my breath, what
with the gunk taking up oxygen space in my lungs. Even my sweet,
sweet Histinex does not help anymore. And HH had some of that
Phenergan stuff that Redneck Diva raves about...does nothing
for me. Nada. Couldn't even tell that I took it.

My Hillbilly Mama told me to get some Peppermint Schnapps.
She said my Hillbilly Grandma used to swear by it...that is really
broke up her cough and helped her get well. Yeah. It made her
not care if she ever got well, more likely. But while I will chug
my sweet, sweet Histinex, I do not intend to imbibe demon
alcohol for a cold. If I ever start that, it will be for a good time,
not for an antidote.

I do have my standards to uphold.

Poopies Problem

2006-05-21T17:29:00.000-05:00

We have a problem here at the Mansion. A problem with the
poopies. It seems like only 3 months ago that they arrived, on a
dark and stormy night in the dead of winter. Well, as winter as it
got here this year. It was actually pretty mild. We took them in.
We built them a house. We fed them. We gave them as much
attention as we could, what with it being winter, and dark by
5:00 p.m., and having homework and supper and baths and
bedtime. We gave them their worm medicine. We took them
to the vet for shots. We gave them baths with prescription anti-
fungal shampoo. We bought them squeaky chew toys, and
bouncy balls to play with. We gave them dog treats. Did they
appreciate it? H*LL NO!!!

How did they respond? They hid in their house every time we
walked by. They ate the food we poured into their bottomless
stomachs. They ate Grizzly's food. They took over Grizzly's
new house. They tore up HH's new pillow. OK, so it was
really Grizzly's pillow. Grizzly is the one who's gotten the short
end of the rawhide chew bone. They galloped around the porch
several times every night, from 12:00 to 4:00 a.m. They tore up
whatever wasn't nailed down. They dug up the telephone wire
in its shallow grave. 3 TIMES. They dragged deer skulls and
unidentified gooey dead things with livers hanging out onto the
porch. We have tried to pet them, to play with them. How did
they return the favor? Like this:

Every time we go out, they
act like we're going to beat
them. We have never, ever,
even ONE time laid a hand
on them, except to try and
pet them. This one is Ann,
the female. She is top dog.
She even bosses Grizzly.

She is a barker, which I like. She runs the neighbor's dog off the
porch when he comes scrounging for food. She also shoves the
other dogs out of the way so she gets the most food. She is the
leader of the pack. Sometimes, #1 son can lure her close enough
to pet her. He managed to get that red collar on her.

This is our usual view of the
poopies. They retreat as we
advance. They are not pets.
They are uninvited guests who
have worn out their welcome.
And that is our dilemma. I
want pets. I don't want free-
loaders.

I can not see spending more money on these wild dogs who have
decided to eat and sleep here. We have already spent over $200
on their vet bills. Not to mention their house and their food and
their toys. It is time to have them spayed/neutered. I do not want
to waste this money. I want to take them to the Humane Society
and trade them for two puppies that will bond with us. The money
will be better spent on shots and operations for new puppies.
Puppies that will be pets.

These poopies are only about
half grown. They are going to
be big. We can not get them to
walk on a leash. They are not
easy to catch. I can not imagine
trying to get them to the vet for
shots. IF we can catch them, I
will have shove them in a pet

carrier, which means that we will have to buy a bigger one. I will
have to DRAG them on their bellies into the vet's office. How will
that look? Of course, I am only concerned about ME. They will
make me look like a bad dog-mama. So what if they lose a little
skin off their bellies with the draggin'. It's appearances I'm worried
about, people.

It is OH SO ANNOYING to
try to pet these 'pets', and have
them back away. It ain't ever
gonna happen. We have tried
for three months to make it
work. I am tired of trying and
seeing no progress. HH wants
to give away Cubby, the male,

and have Ann spayed. He says that will calm her down, and she
will settle down without Cubby to run around with. I don't think
that will make much difference. Even the boys want to get rid of
them and start over with new puppies.

Grizzly came from the Humane Society. He has been a loyal pet.
He is good with the kids, and appreciates all we do for him. His
worst trait is that he tries to run into the house during storms. He
is a big fraidy-cat of a dog.

Don't go hatin' on Hillbilly Mom because she wants to abandon
her furry children. The Humane Society is a no-kill shelter. They
won't come to a bad end. If they stay here, running wild, some
yayhoo neighbor is going to shoot them. They really are annoying,
chewing and digging and skulking around like wild hyenas--but
without the laughing. They don't bite...they're not bad with kids...
they don't kill chickens...they just want to do their own thing and
eat up our food.

Is it so wrong to want a dog that will kiss your a$$ and be a pet?

Pool Plane Flu Ghost

2006-05-20T18:55:00.000-05:00

Today we bought a swimming pool. It cost the tax refund and the
Bonus of Christmas Future. This ain't no Wal*Mart pool! It's a
21-foot round above-ground something-or-other. It's supposed
to be installed next week or the next. I am not a fan of the pool,
but since my Hillbilly Husband really wanted it, and the kids of
course wanted it, I loosened the purse strings and gave in. They'd
better be in it all day every day, until their skin is wrinkly and fish-
belly white. It's a lot of money for something to play in 3 months
a year. Just think of how much fun I could have gambling with
that money!

My #2 son flew his styrofoam airplane up onto the roof this
morning, just before we left to go pool-shopping. HH told him,
"Don't worry. It'll blow down." When we returned, it was not
on the roof. "See, I told you. Now, where is it?" And #1 son
replied, "Hey! Cubby still has part of it in his mouth!" I have
issues with those Poopies. I swear, I am going to write a post
all about them as soon as I get a recent picture. Hillbilly Mom
is not pleased.

HH is recovering from his flu. Actually, he never even coughed
or sneezed. That Tamiflu must be a miracle drug. I have been
sicker than him. He does have a problem with the cellulitis, but
the doctor said it was slowly healing, and gave him another 10
days antibiotic refill in case he needs it.

Not much else worth reporting...so I'll go on. I suppose I'll
return to my regularly scheduled bedroom soon. HH is no longer
contagious, and I have coughed up just about all the lung tissue
I can spare. #1 son, who has not slept in his bedroom for about
two years now, wants me out. "Hey, do you think you can sleep
on the top bunk?" Great Googley Moogley! That boy must get
his lack of common sense from HH. I am not about to sleep on
the top bunk. He won't even want the room, once I'm gone.

I do not enjoy sleeping there. It is the formerly haunted bedroom.
The one which used to be 10 degrees colder than the rest of the
house, winter, spring, summer, fall. It was not a heating or cooling
issue. It was colder year-round. A couple nights ago, I was putting
#2 son back to bed in his room across the hall. I'd found him
sitting up in bed, wide awake, at 2:00 a.m. I sent him to the toilet,
and tucked him in. He left on the bathroom light, which is at the
end of the hall, between the bedrooms. As I was looking at little
#2 in his bed, a shadow went across the bathroom door. Like
someone was walking around in the bathroom. EEEEEE! I don't
know what it was. I tried to tell myself it was a piece of my lovely
lady-mullet. Not walking around in the bathroom, silly! Swinging
across my cheek by my eye, looking like a shadow in the light.
Nope. All hair was tucked behind my ear.

I turned off the bathroom light and went to bed. Of course I
heard talking. I don't know what it was. All TVs were off. I tried
to tell myself it was HH in our bedroom at the other end of the
house, talking in his sleep. I hope that's what it was. Though I've
never heard him all the way across the house. I kept my eyes
closed, and my appendages under the blanket, so I was fine.

I really must get a life.

Big Blogger 2 Task #4 Interior Design

2006-05-19T13:35:00.000-05:00

For our Big Blogger 2 task this week, we each have to make over
a room in the Cyberhouse. We can let our imaginations run wild.
I have chosen a bedroom. I shall call it

The Hillbmomba Slumber Cavern

I am a creature of the dark. I would like one of our Cyberhouse
bedrooms to reflect my personal style. It will have all the ambience
of an Ozark cave. We are safe from any calamity that might befall
the rest of the house. Fire? Not to worry...the HSC will not burn.
Earthquake? Its solid bedrock walls and floor will not crumble.
Hurricane? Tornado? Nuclear war? We are in the safest place
in the world.

The HSC needs no heating or air conditioning. Its temperature
stays a comfortable 57 degrees F (13 degrees C) year round.
If this is a bit chilly for you, I will loan you one of my bobcat fur
robes, or your can snuggle under a woolly mammoth bedspread.

The walls are a delight for the eyes. You may gaze at primitive
cave paintings, some classy Vargas nudes (on loan from Mark),
selections from the Christian Coigny collection (on loan from
Lanternlight), or something from the Victor Gilbert Gallery
(thanks to Cazzie).

A stream runs through the HSC, with blind albino cave fish to
hunt for sport, and as a source of food. Each Cyberhousemate
may choose a fish for a pet. The pets will not be hunted or eaten.
An added feature of the stream is 'panning for gems.' We will
use the money from any gems found, along with the money from
the sale of bat guano to the make-up industry, and paid tours for
tourists, to make the Cyberhouse self-supporting. Six-packs of
Sump Cola and Coors Light can be cooled in the stream, leaving
room in the refrigerator for milk for the Scorn Flakes. Thank the
Gummi Mary that the Cut-Up Cow can store itself.

The bats will be housed in a separate branch of the cave. An
added value of the bats is their sale at Halloween. You never
know when somebody may need one to decorate the pop-top
hat of her Coors Light costume.

The entire HSC will be handicap accessible, so I can share my
bedroom with Rachy when she is sprung from the big house.
I will attach a long wire for a satellite receiver to perch on top
of the HSC so that Rachy, Mark, Scottage, Stewed Hamm, and
Lantern can get their daily dose of world affairs. Diva, Cazzie,
and I...meh. WE delight in making those around us happy. Who
cares what is happening outside the Cyberhouse? Not us.

And now we come to my favorite feature of the HSC:
The Hellmouth. Behold...in all its glory:

The Hellmouth's function is threefold. First of all, it is for those
people who PISS ME OFF! Beware, pissers! Into the Hellmouth
with you! My nerves are shot from living in the Cyberhouse. I
tolerate no disrespect. You will be banished to the Hellmouth
until you see the error of your ways. Now don't go worryin'
about the pissers. They will not be harmed. There's a rim around
the Hellmouth for them to sit and dangle their feet over the abyss.
It's more like Hell's outer waiting room, complete with screaming,
unattended 2-year-olds on crack, farting old men, the occasional
waist-boobed old lady, and a fellow called 'Nub' who pushes
himself around town in a little red wagon. Oops! That was a
character on that old Burt Reynolds TV series, Evening Shade.
Leave Nub out of the Hellmouth.

Secondly, the Hellmouth is nature's incinerator. Big Blogger has
requested that we pick up the place, due to a recent build-up of
rubbish. All we (and by 'we', I mean Cazzie, she of the cleaner)
have to do is sweep the trash over the edge of the Hellmouth,
and VOILA! Trash gone. Pissers, make sure you're wearing
your hardhats.

The third function of the Hellmouth is atmosphere. By leaving
open the trapdoor to the Hellmouth, we get a warm glow, much
like a fireplace. And we don't have to stoke it with wood. (This
warm glow also sets the mood for romantic liasons, should any
of the Cyberhousemates decide they need a little somethin'
somethin' before they are booted out. Thank the Gummi Mary
for Mark's product.) The rest of the HSC lighting comes from
lamps on hardhats, which are issued at the door. Of course,
Lanterlight is always prepared for a visit to the HSC.

I must make a note-to-self to put a little barrier around the
Hellmouth when Rachy moves in. It wouldn't do for her to
get a wheel off in that thing. I am afraid I would rather do
my time in the Hellmouth itself than to listen to her chastising.
Though I'm sure it would be quite colorful. That gal is a
regular spitfire, she is!

So there you have it, the newly-remodeled Big Blogger 2
Cyberhouse bedroom. Enjoy.

Housemates

Search Party Sickos

2006-05-18T16:16:00.000-05:00

Move along. Nothing to say here.

Ohhhh...if you insist. First day of summer vacation, and I am bored.
Nothing much happened today. My #1 son built a semi truck and
a gooseneck trailer out of Legos. My #2 son beat me at a game of
pool. Hey! I knocked in the 8-ball. I don't like those rules. I could
have whooped him good except for that doggone 8-ball.

For inspiration, I have turned to my keyword search list. It is a bit
disturbing. Some people just ain't right in the head. For example...

best pranks feces...that is never a good prank, ya hear me? We had
a kid at school a few years ago who played a little feces prank.
He dropped a log in the basement bathroom (yeah, the one right
next to my new classroom in Lower Basementia) and took it back
upstairs to another boy's locker. He opened a Social Studies book,
inserted his little surprise, and slammed the book shut. Eeewww.
You know, he had to carry that thing upstairs. He said, "Well, I
put it on a piece of toilet paper." Oh, of course.

puppy chow methamphetamine manufacturing...what? There's a
new ingredient? This person even spelled it right.

health benefits of refried jeans...do you eat them? Wear them?
I, too, would like to know the health benefits.

fitties camp prices...Fitty has his own camp? Who knew?

fentanyl patch feline removal cat leg...aagghhh! What have you
got planned, home surgery for Puss-Puss?

shooting the bull chewing the fat...here now! I'm sure there's
enough fat to go around. No need to be hasty.

air gun poison dart game frogs...I'm sure every kid would like to
have one. Have you tried that American Inventors show?

stump crutching with peg leg woman...I don't know about this.
Maybe you should join up with the guy looking for gaping
buttholes girls and throw a party.

cape girardeau county unattended bed and breakfast...hatching
a little robbery plan, are we?

hillbilly lying by pond...is there something you'd like to confess,
before the body is found?

southern hillbilly saying, romantic, sweet...sorry. There is no
such thing.

hillbilly boobs and balancing soda on her boob...we know where
you came from!

I'd rather set my hair on fire...than read my blog? The h*ll you say!

iron deficiency children sucking on metal...oh, so regular children
won't do?

sardine cans cartoon mice curl up in to go to bed...I sold them on
e-bay last week. Move along.

cat cry mice sing nyah nyah nyah cartoon kitten kidnapped...good
headline. I hope you find the perpetrator.

get in that kitchen and rattle them pots and pans, and look pretty...
I hate it when people tell me what to do.

at least show me as I really am, breathtaking not butt ugly...why
did you arrive here? Have you seen my Coors Light picture?

why don't satanists wear gold...I don't know, why? This is a riddle,
isn't it?

I was drunk the day my ma got out of prison...thanks for sharing.

michael ontkean harry hamlin kissing...umm, not here. Try Redneck
Diva. I hear she has Heath and Jake kissing over there.

final jeopardy answer for april 14, 2006...I'm not that psychic and
I'm not that smart. Not to be confused with 'You're not that pretty
and you're not that special', which is what Luka told Abby on ER,
causing them to break up, and driving Abby into the arms of that
Little Lord Fauntleroy, Gamma's boy, fentanyl-shooting, Carter.

See. You should have moved along. Really.

School's Out!

2006-05-17T14:58:00.000-05:00

Schoooooool's out. For. The summer!

No more pencils
No more books
No more teacher's dirty looks

Well we got no class
And we got no principles
And we got no innocence
We can't even think of a word that rhymes

And that's just us teachers! I guess the kids feel the same way,
huh, Mr. Alice Cooper?

I finished packing up my classroom for the move to Lower
Basementia next year. I suppose I'll survive. There will be
fewer people to PISS ME OFF down there. Nobody will
know what's going on in my classroom except the teacher
next door. I won't tell if she won't tell.

I hauled home a buttload of stuff. I have to come up with some
type of course plan for next year. I will have 5 preparations:
9th grade math, 9th grade communication arts, 8th grade math,
7th grade math, and 7th grade communication arts. It's not like
I'm teaching brain surgery or rocket science. It will just be time
consuming to get things ready this first year. The good news is,
I have all summer. The bad news is, I have to use my summer
vacation time to do it. Is anyone playing the world's smallest
violin for me yet? HEY! I want someone to play the world's
biggest violin. I think it's that one in Branson, with the end
sticking out of the wall, it's so big.

My boys have had one day off. They're not bored yet. My
Hillbilly Husband is home all week with the flu, and a new
ailment. It is cellulitis. He had it last fall when he had pneumonia,
and spent 5 days in the hospital. He goes back to the doctor
on Friday morning to see what they're going to do about it.
His brother called him from Las Vegas yesterday, and said he
had cellulitis last year, and spent 4 weeks in the hospital on IV
antibiotics, and missed another 5 weeks of work. They sent him
home with an IV, and a visiting nurse had to come change it.
He said the doctors were afraid the infection would get into his
bone. Does that sound right, Cazzie? Kim? You nurse-type
people? They had an aunt who had some odd bone disease
years ago, and they are wondering if there might be some genetic
factor in this susceptibility to cellulitis. HH's was in the other leg
last year. Both times, it has started in his knee, and moved down
into the foot. His brother said he banged his leg on something,
and cut it, too. HH has never had a cut or open sore. The doctors
can't figure out how he is getting the infection.

That's just like HH, timing his illnesses to coincide with my time
off. I do not like him underfoot. He messes with our routine.
In other words, he thinks it is ALL ABOUT HIM! I don't know
where he got that idea. Certainly not from me. I will grudgingly
admit that he cleaned one of the bathrooms while I was at school
Monday. It even looked good. He did a load of his own laundry
on Tuesday. Today he made the bed. This debilitating illness
thingy seems to agree with him.

I mentioned that he made the bed...the bed I have not slept in
since Friday night, because, hey, HH has THE FLU. I have been
sleeping in #1 son's bed. Here now! It's not like that! The boy
sleeps on the basement couch. Of course, the second night, he
said, "Mom, can you sleep in my TOP bunk?" Um...NO! He has
not slept in that bedroom for almost two years. But now that I
want to sleep in there, he has to have it back. No dice, kid.
Maybe by the weekend. Then he won't want it anymore.

But let's get back to ME. I have not caught the flu, but the sore
throat that HH accused of giving him the flu has now moved down
into my chest, and is suffocating me. Even my sweet, sweet Histinex
does not help. Right now, I have a washcloth coated with Vicks
VapoRub pasted onto my chest. WooHoo! I bet HH wants me to
come back to bed tonight! Oh, and for you rowdies who read
Rachy's and Rebecca's blogs, that washcloth is covering part of
my b**bies. But we don't need no discussion of that here! So
simmer down, and save your comments for the Big Blogger 2
cyberhouse.

That's about all the news fit to blog from here at the Mansion.
This afternoon, we all went out back and shot the BB guns at a
chunk of styrofoam from my Hillbilly Mama's new computer
monitor. That was the high point of the day. It's going to be a
slow summer around these parts.

Promises Made

2006-05-16T17:43:00.000-05:00

All right, Redneck Diva. You can quit
yer harpin'. Here I am in all my glory.
Who's sorry now, huh? I will visit you
in your nightmares. No meek Hillbilly
Mom directing the band. Nope. This
is why I don't drink, kids.

It seemed like a good idea at the time.
From what I remember, that is. A
friend of mine happened upon these
free posters that a bar was giving
away as a promotion. The posters
were shaped like beer labels. The
Rocky Mountain Spring Water one
caught my eye.

I was in the market for a Halloween
costume, and my little hillbilly brain
put two and two together and got:

"Go as a can of Coors Light!" Of course, the can was not big
enough to cover Hillbilly Mom's naughty bits, so she improvised
with the classic gray sweatpant ensemble.

No self-respecting beer can is complete without its pop-top,
so I devised a pull-tab from an upside down visor and some
Reynolds Wrap. Oh, and notice the stylish bat glued to my
pop-top. It WAS Halloween, people. I had to accessorize.

As you can see, Hillbilly Mom has a good time wherever she
goes. Be it under a Christmas tree wearing her Lovely Green
Jeannie shirt, or in a basement apartment dressed as a can of
beer. This was in an era before People Pissed Me Off.

You notice that I am not actually drinking Coors Light. The
identity of my beverage shall remain a secret. Though enough
clues have been posted in the distant past that a loyal, detail-
oriented, stalker of Hillbilly Mom might be able to guess it.

In retrospect, it was perhaps not the best costume idea. Hey!
At least I didn't dress as Custer, with a mustache made of my
dead grandmother's hair, like someone at that party did. I
could never dress that way now. I would have to be the entire
six-pack. Age (much like HH) has not been kind to Hillbilly Mom.

So, Diva, did it meet your expectations? Are you still cackling
about it? Oops! DOGGONE! I forgot you don't like chickens.