As much as I am enjoying my summer of H, I must bring this series to a premature close. There are more pressing subjects that must be addressed. For instance, PEOPLE PISS ME OFF!
I had to make a trek to The Devil's Playground today. Perhaps you are familiar with The Devil's nether regions. His parking areas have large striped crosswalks at both entrances. Plus six stop signs to allow those well-dressed people of The Playground to move freely about the lot.
There I was, one of the best-dressed people in the place, exiting with my two boxes of Tide, the boxes of which have been redesigned once again and contain no plastic handle on top, pushing my cart in which rested my bags thoughtfully packed by one of The Devil's handmaidens to contain all heavy items in a single sack, when it happened.
I looked left before entering the crossing zone. An older model white Chrysler boat of a car was about 100 feet away, by the garden center, approaching the stop sign about 50 feet from me. I dipped my cart wheels into the crossing. Knowing that car had to stop, I took two steps.
THAT FREAKIN' FREAK GUNNED HIS GARGANTUAN VEHICLE AND WAS ON ME FASTER THAN YOU CAN SAY "SWEET GUMMI MARY!"
I did not flinch. I do not suffer pissers gladly, as evidenced by my response to that drunken frat boy at the casino who pulled my literal crank. The time I might or might not have been heard to say, "F*** you! You f***ing m*****f***er!"
I continued to wheel my bounty across the stripes, giving the driver a taste of Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's evil eye. He had the audacity to sneer, "Problem?" over his window elbow, encased in a white button-down shirt with the cuff rolled up to his forearm.
I spat over my shoulder, "Stop sign!" and proceeded on my merry way. He had no response, other than to drive across the people zone, onto the sidewalk-sale concrete area between the doors, and park.
I kid you not. That dude parked his car on the freakin' sidewalk area where the Brinks truck parks, and where the police park when there's a kerfuffle over the greeter checking somebody's receipt.
How stupid of me to assume that such a scofflaw would obey a stop sign. Apparently he is immune to all rules of the road. He was too high-class to be a good ol' boy, and too low-class to be a Walton. The car was not good enough for one of their executives. I'm presuming he was a city dude passing through Hillmomba, or an insurance salesman.
I have a feeling that upon leaving Hillmomba, his plans included driving north to Kathy's Kampground, where he would ask for a site with all the plug-ins, then sleep in his car, smear feces on the walls of the bathroom, unload illegal wood from his trunk, catch a stray dog and take it swimming in the pool, then squeeze some poop out of the dog in Kathy's yard, and drive over her flowers as he left in the middle of the night without paying, making sure not to stop at the stop sign. Because I'm psychic like that.
People piss me off.
Tuesday, June 7, 2011
Monday, June 6, 2011
Day 4 of H-cation: The Ill Wind
What I won't miss during the current H-cation...
Day 4 of H-cation:
4. The Ill Wind
Nights are a bit more restful during my staycation. And not only because the early-rising sheet thief is away. I can sleep without gale-force winds sucking the air from my lungs.
On a normal night, Farmer H slaps on his breather and glides the jet stream to dreamland. I, on the other hand, fight for breath. I would prefer my own air source, rather than the recycled gases of Farmer H. Is that too much to ask? That I be allowed to inhale and expel the life-sustaining 21% oxygen, 78% nitrogen mixture as nature intended? Without the backwash of extra carbon dioxide from Farmer H's breather? I think not.
I can only lay on my side with my back to him for so long. There comes a time when I must roll over and expose myself to the vapor trail emitted from Farmer H's lungs by way of the breather. I've tried making a barrier of the blanket, since it is already pulled up higher than my head. That does not work. A blanket wall is wont to collapse on my face and smother me more than re-breathed air. The most workable solution that I've found, when the wind comes whistling down the mattress, is a small wall comprised of a folded hand towel. I prop it on the side of my face, and it redirects the breather exhaust stream up and over my face. I don't feel it. I don't have to suck in the straight exhalation of Farmer H. I get a small pocket of room air over my mouth and nose. At least long enough to go to sleep, before the wall comes tumbling down.
And now, for the more indelicate matter of the second ill wind...let's just say that I was introduced to it on my first mini-vacation to Branson with Farmer H, who announced proudly, "Let me show you my Dutch Oven."
Day 4 of H-cation:
4. The Ill Wind
Nights are a bit more restful during my staycation. And not only because the early-rising sheet thief is away. I can sleep without gale-force winds sucking the air from my lungs.
On a normal night, Farmer H slaps on his breather and glides the jet stream to dreamland. I, on the other hand, fight for breath. I would prefer my own air source, rather than the recycled gases of Farmer H. Is that too much to ask? That I be allowed to inhale and expel the life-sustaining 21% oxygen, 78% nitrogen mixture as nature intended? Without the backwash of extra carbon dioxide from Farmer H's breather? I think not.
I can only lay on my side with my back to him for so long. There comes a time when I must roll over and expose myself to the vapor trail emitted from Farmer H's lungs by way of the breather. I've tried making a barrier of the blanket, since it is already pulled up higher than my head. That does not work. A blanket wall is wont to collapse on my face and smother me more than re-breathed air. The most workable solution that I've found, when the wind comes whistling down the mattress, is a small wall comprised of a folded hand towel. I prop it on the side of my face, and it redirects the breather exhaust stream up and over my face. I don't feel it. I don't have to suck in the straight exhalation of Farmer H. I get a small pocket of room air over my mouth and nose. At least long enough to go to sleep, before the wall comes tumbling down.
And now, for the more indelicate matter of the second ill wind...let's just say that I was introduced to it on my first mini-vacation to Branson with Farmer H, who announced proudly, "Let me show you my Dutch Oven."
Sunday, June 5, 2011
Day 3 of H-cation: The Velcro Technique
What I won't miss during the current H-cation...
Day 3 of H-cation:
3. The Velcro Technique
There is a disturbing situation that befalls me whenever Farmer H is in the house. The Mansion is not big enough for the two of us.
Oh, I realize that he's attracted to me. Why wouldn't he be, what with me putting out all that honey to attract his inner fly, my magnetic personality, my gravitational pull, my rainbow and unicorn outlook on life?
No matter where I am, there's Farmer H. Perhaps at one time, I might have likened him to The Sidler, that Seinfeld dude at Elaine's work who appeared out of nowhere, startling everybody, until she gave him a box of Tic Tacs to act as a cat bell.
If I beat him up (by arising early, not by physical abuse), Farmer H will find me, just as I'm about to hear a news story I've been waiting on for 55 minutes, and plop down as close as possible, talking a blue streak like we're long-lost kin, separated at birth.
If I stand at Frig to fill a cup with ice, in comes Farmer H with a bottle of Mountain Dew that must be put into Frig at that very instant, not by walking around the other side of the cutting block unencumbered, but by rooting his shoulder between me and the ice dispenser, reaching over to the refrigerator side.
If I am washing dishes (by hand, HELLO, I still don't have one of those newfangled contraptions called a dishwasher) and running a trickle of hot water for instant rinsing, Farmer H invades my space to crank the faucet to fill his plastic water bottle for tomorrow, changing the hot water to cold, necessitating a 90-second re-heating period.
If I am at the counter, carving some edible items for supper, Farmer H needs matches or silverware from the cabinets in front of me.
If I lay down for ten minutes while supper is cooking, Farmer H finds me to chat.
If I take or make a phone call, Farmer H appears and butts in with vital information that is apparently a matter of national security.
If I have watched an entire show to see who is voted off, eliminated, nominated for eviction, fired, etc...Farmer H chooses that time to make an entrance from, or exit to, Poolio, all the while bellowing various trivial facts he's learned while on the internet at work that day.
Ahh...my hooks are flapping freely in the breeze, enjoying a respite from those clingy loops.
Day 3 of H-cation:
3. The Velcro Technique
There is a disturbing situation that befalls me whenever Farmer H is in the house. The Mansion is not big enough for the two of us.
Oh, I realize that he's attracted to me. Why wouldn't he be, what with me putting out all that honey to attract his inner fly, my magnetic personality, my gravitational pull, my rainbow and unicorn outlook on life?
No matter where I am, there's Farmer H. Perhaps at one time, I might have likened him to The Sidler, that Seinfeld dude at Elaine's work who appeared out of nowhere, startling everybody, until she gave him a box of Tic Tacs to act as a cat bell.
If I beat him up (by arising early, not by physical abuse), Farmer H will find me, just as I'm about to hear a news story I've been waiting on for 55 minutes, and plop down as close as possible, talking a blue streak like we're long-lost kin, separated at birth.
If I stand at Frig to fill a cup with ice, in comes Farmer H with a bottle of Mountain Dew that must be put into Frig at that very instant, not by walking around the other side of the cutting block unencumbered, but by rooting his shoulder between me and the ice dispenser, reaching over to the refrigerator side.
If I am washing dishes (by hand, HELLO, I still don't have one of those newfangled contraptions called a dishwasher) and running a trickle of hot water for instant rinsing, Farmer H invades my space to crank the faucet to fill his plastic water bottle for tomorrow, changing the hot water to cold, necessitating a 90-second re-heating period.
If I am at the counter, carving some edible items for supper, Farmer H needs matches or silverware from the cabinets in front of me.
If I lay down for ten minutes while supper is cooking, Farmer H finds me to chat.
If I take or make a phone call, Farmer H appears and butts in with vital information that is apparently a matter of national security.
If I have watched an entire show to see who is voted off, eliminated, nominated for eviction, fired, etc...Farmer H chooses that time to make an entrance from, or exit to, Poolio, all the while bellowing various trivial facts he's learned while on the internet at work that day.
Ahh...my hooks are flapping freely in the breeze, enjoying a respite from those clingy loops.
Saturday, June 4, 2011
Day 2 of H-cation: Early Morning Riser
What I won't miss during the current H-cation...
Day 2 of H-cation:
2. The Early Morning Riser
Don't confuse this with the Pure Prairie League song, Early Morning Riser. I love that song. Even though the lyrics are a bit creepy, what with the lovin' like a sister, lovin' like a brother thing going on.
No, I'm talking about Farmer H on the weekends, when he decides he's going to rise before the seven roosters start crowing. It's kind of like the if mama ain't happy, ain't nobody happy scenario. If Farmer H is up, everybody's up. That's a fact, Jack. Farmer H employs two main methods of waking me. With the boys, he's not so subtle. He stomps into their rooms, pounds on the wall, and demands that they get up.
The first rude awakening is the Bed Bounce. Farmer H dresses himself funny, then sits on the edge of the bed to put on his work boots. Never mind that there are perfectly good chairs and couches in the next room that could support his rump during this task. He jounces and bounces the mattress, supposedly while he's yanking the laces of the shoes. I don't know why else I would be flung into the air like a rail-thin camper by an obese counselor dropping from an eagle-aerie height onto a rainbow-striped inflatable air pillow tied to the dock at a mountain lake. Or like a toddler launched by tweens in a school carnival moonwalk jump gone bad.
If I play good possum, and bite my tongue to hold back the bitter bile which might spew forth in a predawn tongue-lashing, Farmer H has a backup tactic. He tromps onto the back porch, fills a measuring 2-cup plastic container with dry dog food, and flings it into two separate flat metal dog dishes, with the force a teenage boy would fling those tissue balls of gunpowder sold on the 4th of July as Snap 'n' Pops onto concrete or pavement.
Yes. I will be busy not-missing the Early Morning Riser wake-up calls this week.
Day 2 of H-cation:
2. The Early Morning Riser
Don't confuse this with the Pure Prairie League song, Early Morning Riser. I love that song. Even though the lyrics are a bit creepy, what with the lovin' like a sister, lovin' like a brother thing going on.
No, I'm talking about Farmer H on the weekends, when he decides he's going to rise before the seven roosters start crowing. It's kind of like the if mama ain't happy, ain't nobody happy scenario. If Farmer H is up, everybody's up. That's a fact, Jack. Farmer H employs two main methods of waking me. With the boys, he's not so subtle. He stomps into their rooms, pounds on the wall, and demands that they get up.
The first rude awakening is the Bed Bounce. Farmer H dresses himself funny, then sits on the edge of the bed to put on his work boots. Never mind that there are perfectly good chairs and couches in the next room that could support his rump during this task. He jounces and bounces the mattress, supposedly while he's yanking the laces of the shoes. I don't know why else I would be flung into the air like a rail-thin camper by an obese counselor dropping from an eagle-aerie height onto a rainbow-striped inflatable air pillow tied to the dock at a mountain lake. Or like a toddler launched by tweens in a school carnival moonwalk jump gone bad.
If I play good possum, and bite my tongue to hold back the bitter bile which might spew forth in a predawn tongue-lashing, Farmer H has a backup tactic. He tromps onto the back porch, fills a measuring 2-cup plastic container with dry dog food, and flings it into two separate flat metal dog dishes, with the force a teenage boy would fling those tissue balls of gunpowder sold on the 4th of July as Snap 'n' Pops onto concrete or pavement.
Yes. I will be busy not-missing the Early Morning Riser wake-up calls this week.
Friday, June 3, 2011
Eight Things I Won't Miss While Farmer H Is Away
Not quite the 12 Days of Christmas, but the 8 Day of H-cation will have to do. Don't get greedy and think I'm going to share all eight items at once. Not likely. I'm going to drag them out. In a torturous manner. Over eight days, perhaps.
Day 1 of H-cation: What I Won't Miss.
1. The Sheet Thief
I will not miss trying to turn in, only to discover that I am going to be sleeping on a sliver of sheet and mattress cover. We have fitted sheets. And a fitted mattress cover. How Bedmate H can usurp both every night before I get to bed is beyooooond me. Sometimes, I can tug on my edge, and gain a little ground so that I don't have to lay on a humped-up elasticky border. Other nights, I am not so successful.
Bedmate H prefers to surround himself with sheet. We're talkin' the bottom sheet. He would drape himself in sheet if it was socially acceptable. Bedmate H rolls himself into the center like a giant, overstuffed, living/breathing taquito. A humongous, XXXL, behemoth of a taquito. He spins himself around a longitudinal axis, like a crocodile rolling to drown its prey.
I am going to sleep soundly tonight, on top of the fitted sheet. There will be no deep, red indentation in my flesh when I arise to start the day.
Day 1 of H-cation: What I Won't Miss.
1. The Sheet Thief
I will not miss trying to turn in, only to discover that I am going to be sleeping on a sliver of sheet and mattress cover. We have fitted sheets. And a fitted mattress cover. How Bedmate H can usurp both every night before I get to bed is beyooooond me. Sometimes, I can tug on my edge, and gain a little ground so that I don't have to lay on a humped-up elasticky border. Other nights, I am not so successful.
Bedmate H prefers to surround himself with sheet. We're talkin' the bottom sheet. He would drape himself in sheet if it was socially acceptable. Bedmate H rolls himself into the center like a giant, overstuffed, living/breathing taquito. A humongous, XXXL, behemoth of a taquito. He spins himself around a longitudinal axis, like a crocodile rolling to drown its prey.
I am going to sleep soundly tonight, on top of the fitted sheet. There will be no deep, red indentation in my flesh when I arise to start the day.
Thursday, June 2, 2011
A Vacation Of Sorts
Farmer H and the boys are off for a tour of the upper midwest on Friday. They plan to visit the Black Hills of South Dakota, Mount Rushmore, Garden of the Gods, and Pike's Peak. I've been there, done that. So I will be remaining at the Mansion on a staycation. My mom may join me for a regular old-fashioned hen-fest. Plans are still up in the air on the details.
Farmer H says that they will be taking the train to the top of Pike's Peak. He says he can not drive up there while looking over the side. Considering Farmer H's penchant for sweaving, I think the train is a good idea. My dad drove us up and down The Peak. I remember many switchbacks, and cars out of commission due to overheated brakes. It didn't bother me then, but now I would get all lightheaded like during the opening credits of The Shining.
I packed for The Pony, but Gummi Mary only knows what the #1 son will cram in a bag. I anticipate laundry overtime when they return. Farmer H has plugged in his car fridge, which supposedly operates on car battery power. The last time we took it on a trip, it did not cool our beverages. It was like a needy, power-hungry, upright trunk for storing cans of liquid refreshment. Farmer H declared that you must put COLD cans in the car fridge. Which kind of defeats the purpose, if you ask me. Couldn't you just do that with a regular cooler? Put cold cans in it, and expect them to stay cold? For much less expense? I advised Farmer H to take some soda in the motel overnight, and put it in the mini-fridge. His idea was just to buy it cold at convenience stores along the way. For quadruple the price, of course. That man does not have a penny-pinching bone in his body. Except for the time he advised the dentist just to pull my molar instead of doing a root canal. I still point to the gaping gum-hole when I want to make a point.
My plans include doing as I darn well please, eating meals whenever I feel like it, answering to no one, reading, writing, turning the TV up as loud as I want, sleeping without breather exhaust being force-fed to my lungs, missing my boys, and worrying about the safe return of my family from their tour of Tornado Alley.
I might be lacking blog material.
Farmer H says that they will be taking the train to the top of Pike's Peak. He says he can not drive up there while looking over the side. Considering Farmer H's penchant for sweaving, I think the train is a good idea. My dad drove us up and down The Peak. I remember many switchbacks, and cars out of commission due to overheated brakes. It didn't bother me then, but now I would get all lightheaded like during the opening credits of The Shining.
I packed for The Pony, but Gummi Mary only knows what the #1 son will cram in a bag. I anticipate laundry overtime when they return. Farmer H has plugged in his car fridge, which supposedly operates on car battery power. The last time we took it on a trip, it did not cool our beverages. It was like a needy, power-hungry, upright trunk for storing cans of liquid refreshment. Farmer H declared that you must put COLD cans in the car fridge. Which kind of defeats the purpose, if you ask me. Couldn't you just do that with a regular cooler? Put cold cans in it, and expect them to stay cold? For much less expense? I advised Farmer H to take some soda in the motel overnight, and put it in the mini-fridge. His idea was just to buy it cold at convenience stores along the way. For quadruple the price, of course. That man does not have a penny-pinching bone in his body. Except for the time he advised the dentist just to pull my molar instead of doing a root canal. I still point to the gaping gum-hole when I want to make a point.
My plans include doing as I darn well please, eating meals whenever I feel like it, answering to no one, reading, writing, turning the TV up as loud as I want, sleeping without breather exhaust being force-fed to my lungs, missing my boys, and worrying about the safe return of my family from their tour of Tornado Alley.
I might be lacking blog material.
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
Putting The Cart Before The Pony
Today was officially my last day of school. The kids were done last Friday, but teachers had two days to serve because of excess snow days. Like that's our fault. We could have opted for eight hours of tutoring instead, to be completed by the end of next school year, but who wants that hanging over her head? Not Mrs. Hillbilly Mom, that's for sure. My time after school is to get my own work done. Tutoring can be done by those who choose to participate on career ladder. From the cadre of cohorts I observed up and down the hall, the majority of faculty shared my opinion.
The Pony spent the morning with his grandma, and I had a myriad of chores awaiting his arrival. First, we loaded several bags of trash onto a heavy cart. The Pony then commenced a wild ride to the dumpster. Not one to follow the rampish contours of the blacktop parking lot, The Pony slalomed that ill-steering cart down the grade with all the grace of a pig on ice. On the return trip, he thoroughly rammed both the outer and inner double doors. Note-to-self: Mr. Pony may require a special driving tutor.
Always one to mix business with pleasure, The Pony pulled down the projector screen to watch Ice Age while he worked. He climbed on chairs to stack science project boards on top of my cabinets. He stacked paper trays out of harm's way on top of the cabinets. He removed and rolled up butcher paper window blockers and stowed them on the cabinets. He cleaned out his snack drawer in the file cabinet. He poured out water bottles and trashed the plastic. He packed up DVDs. He carried bags to the car. And he finished watching Ice Age four minutes before release time.
He's an efficient little critter. If not a good driver.
The Pony spent the morning with his grandma, and I had a myriad of chores awaiting his arrival. First, we loaded several bags of trash onto a heavy cart. The Pony then commenced a wild ride to the dumpster. Not one to follow the rampish contours of the blacktop parking lot, The Pony slalomed that ill-steering cart down the grade with all the grace of a pig on ice. On the return trip, he thoroughly rammed both the outer and inner double doors. Note-to-self: Mr. Pony may require a special driving tutor.
Always one to mix business with pleasure, The Pony pulled down the projector screen to watch Ice Age while he worked. He climbed on chairs to stack science project boards on top of my cabinets. He stacked paper trays out of harm's way on top of the cabinets. He removed and rolled up butcher paper window blockers and stowed them on the cabinets. He cleaned out his snack drawer in the file cabinet. He poured out water bottles and trashed the plastic. He packed up DVDs. He carried bags to the car. And he finished watching Ice Age four minutes before release time.
He's an efficient little critter. If not a good driver.
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