I was flipping through my America's Top 150 channels Thursday night, because nothing was on after a most satisfying hour of watching little punks become prisoners' biatches on Beyond Scared Straight. And as luck would have it, I happened upon one of the grand biatches of all time. Funny how the past comes back to piss you off.
Because I don't want any accidental googling to lead that grand biatch to the Mansion, I must speak in code. For my own protection.
The show was on The Travel Channel. It was one of the Paradise shows, like BBQ or Breakfast or Sandwich. You know what I'm talkin' about. This one was about a sweet dessert that is often served up at diners, sometimes a la mode. The minute I clicked on it, I recognized the face and voice.
It has been 18 years since the displeasure of our acquaintance. All the way back to my days working with the unemployment office, the trying days of that great disaster when the rivers climbed out of their banks, rendering my base office uninhabitable. I was farmed out to a more southern outpost, nearer to home, to assist with federal disaster claims.
In case you've never worked for a government agency, you can't begin to wrap your head around the trappings of bureaucracy that must be endured on a daily basis. Three of us were farmed out like county jail landscapers to do the bidding of the southern outpost. That meant that we did not get a computer or desk, but only a flat surface upon which to pile our stacks of claim forms, along with several pencils, and access to a copier. A computer would have been superfluous anyway, as all federal disaster claims were paper only.
Keep in mind that we did not make the rivers climb out of their banks. We did not sell people property on a flood plain. We were assigned to assist those whose livelihood or homes were adversely affected when sitting under several feet of water. The extent of our help was to fill out the paperwork, affix required documentation, and mail it off to Uncle Sam. Approval and disapproval were not items in our toolbox.
The grand biatch stormed my table when her number was called. Stormed it like a decorated veteran of D-Day, and demanded that I do something to remedy her problem. That being the ownership of a restaurant about to be swept away any moment, a restaurant noted for its flaky round desserts, operating under the name of The Azure Great Horned Avian. Or simpler words that have the same meaning. The grand biatch I will call NotGummi.
NotGummi treated me like an indentured servant. No fine how-do-you-do. She flounced to my table, slammed her papers down, and demanded monetary compensation for the three days she had been without customers because of the imminent rush of river through a sandbag wall. I explained the procedure to NotGummi. That all I could do was fill out her claim and send it in. That was not good enough for NotGummi. "DON'T YOU KNOW WHO I AM???"
It's not like she was a celebrity anywhere but her own mind. But because I had her paperwork, and because of the shirt she was wearing to advertise The Azure Great Horned Avian, I did know. And I shall never forget what a grand biatch she was. It's not my fault she did not bring the correct paperwork. I told her I would set the claim aside, and she could come right back to me when she had those papers. Not good enough.
NotGummi ranted about how she had been feeding the National Guard for free because she had no customers and her food was going to spoil. Like that would make her claim process faster. Like she wasn't going to report that as a loss for tax purposes. Never mind that the National Guard was there building the sandbag wall that eventually saved her restaurant.
So I was not enamored of grand biatch NotGummi as she bragged about her flaky pastries on The Travel Channel. She will never be more than a sow's ear, no matter how much she tries to appear a silk purse for the TV viewers.
Friday, January 21, 2011
Thursday, January 20, 2011
Some Days, You Are Lucky To Get The Laotian Phlebotomist
I went to the doctor Tuesday afternoon for a regular six-month visit to check on whether my blood pressure meds are killing me. At least that's what I think the reason is for the six-month visit.
This was not a pleasant experience. If my doctor visit was a cruise, Gilligan would be the captain. You heard me. Gilligan. Not the Skipper. Except that the sitcom of my life isn't going into syndication, I didn't drink out of a coconut shell, and I managed to return home.
Here's the thing: they call you in to check on your blood pressure, but only after they have extracted the very last ounce of patience from your meager stockpile of good will. Join me, if you will, on my very own three-hour tour.
It's never a good sign when you arrive at 3:45 for your 4:00 appointment, and have to park in the next to last row of the hospital parking lot. Or that the aged trolley driver did not even bother to cruise by and offer you a ride to the front door. Perhaps he could not see that far.
I signed in at the far window, the one on the opposite end of the clinic from the parking lot, and waited to be called for my insurance information. You know, that ratty letter saying I really do have insurance, but just not a card like any other reputable insurance company besides Anthem Blue Cross would provide their clients by the date the insurance takes effect. Thank the Gummi Mary, that is my secondary insurance through Farmer H.
While I waited 35 minutes to be called to that window, I was swarmed by every germ-toting toddler in a tri-county area. You see, that window is by the 'playroom' consisting of a little table and some coloring pages. The dude ahead of me didn't have his insurance card or driver's license, and sent his wife out to the car to get it. I'm thinking she bopped on over to Buffalo Wild Wings for a snack just to show him who was boss, because she could have hiked to the Newmentia parking lot in the time she was gone. A dudette who came in after me could not find her license after the window returned it. She was tripping, looking under all the chairs, lifting them, turning her coat inside out, asking the window girls, etc. I thought she was going to pick me up and shake me to see if her license might be expelled from one of my body cavities.
After I was certified as being insured and not an impostor, I trekked back to the first window and chose a row of two chairs, facing down the corridor, so people wouldn't hark their phlegm in my direction. Wouldn't you know it, a hick in the corner was coughing up a lung every ten seconds. He should go into the lung donor business, really. Then he took a phone call and told the caller, "Yeah, we're here in the doctor's office. We brought the kids for their check-up." Uh huh. He wasn't even there to put an end to his Typhoid Barry business.
I soon had enough of inhaling those lingering microbes, and moved to a seat with my back to the wall when some lucky dogs got called into the inner sanctum. That lasted all of five minutes, during which a PA came striding down the corridor announcing that both elevators were down, and they needed the special vehicle they use to carry wheelchair people down the steps. I took it for granted that she meant down as in broken, not down as in jumbled piles of metal fragments embedded in the concrete foundation of the building. Did I mention we were on the fourth floor?
My new seat buddies arrived, a teen mom with a toddler and a basket baby, plus her mother. They cooed at the baby while the toddler stood in front of me and stared and coughed. I held my breath as long as I could, then turned sideways to try to sneak a breath. Mercifully, they were called in forthwith.
Shortly after 5:00, I was chosen to receive my long-awaited medical care. First on the agenda was a stop at the scale, followed by a walk to an exam room, upon which I was told to sit down, and a blood pressure cuff ensnared my arm. It came as no surprise to me that my pressure was up. A whopping 138/90, which some years back was nearly borderline hypertension. Anyhoo, it wasn't enough to change my meds. I am confident that in another six months it will be back to the 120/80 that it had been for the past several visits.
Doc did not bother to share my lab results, tried to foist a sleep apnea study upon me, or a cortisone shot in my knee, but I declined both at this juncture. He did, however, send me downstairs to the lab I had just been to on Saturday, to give them more blood for a thyroid test, which had not been ordered six months ago. As an extra bonus, he promised a tetanus booster, after tiring of my story of the garage-nail flesh-ripping incident.
I had to ask for that tetanus booster, though, because his nurses, Tweedle Dum and Tweedle Dee, came to route me out of that exam room with nary a syringe between them. And they proceeded to quiz me, like people just waltz in there willy-nilly and wait for hours and then try to scam a tetanus booster all in the name of hypochondria. "Well, who are you to need a tetanus shot? What's that all about? Doc didn't write that on the order." I showed them my flesh wound, and Tweedle Dum said, "I'm going to get it right now!" She met Doc in the hall, who verified that indeed, I was supposed to receive the magical lock-jaw preventer, as I wasn't yet old enough to put out to pasture from neglect.
Seeking advice from these wise Tweedles, I said, "So the elevators are down. Why do the stairs have a sign that says, Stairs End at Second Floor?" Tweedle Dum said, "Oh, they'll tell you where to go when you get there." So either there are talking steps, or a sign, or a stairwell attendant for just such occasions. Because she went on to say that the elevators break at least twice a week.
The office gal who gave me the lab order said that the elevators were fixed. I waited until another family went down, then pushed the button, and when that same elevator came back to get me, I took my chances. It was the longest elevator ride ever.
Are you tired yet? Because I was getting might tired of forking over that ratty insurance letter and getting the stink-eye from the staff. The lab people were not behind their frosted window, so I set my paperwork on the computer mouse, thinking it would be discovered. After they called four numbers, I told them I had put my paperwork in, but nobody was there to give me a number. They called me next. At least all the numbered people had been in that waiting room before me. Because I could not squeeze out one more ounce of bitterness.
Just before the Laotian-looking phlebotomist plunged her needle into my tied-off vein, a male phlebotomist with a cart full of blood and pointy things popped in to ask if she would give the OR a try, because after umpteen sticks, he still couldn't find a vein in that patient.
Suddenly, it didn't suck so bad to be Mrs. Hillbilly Mom.
This was not a pleasant experience. If my doctor visit was a cruise, Gilligan would be the captain. You heard me. Gilligan. Not the Skipper. Except that the sitcom of my life isn't going into syndication, I didn't drink out of a coconut shell, and I managed to return home.
Here's the thing: they call you in to check on your blood pressure, but only after they have extracted the very last ounce of patience from your meager stockpile of good will. Join me, if you will, on my very own three-hour tour.
It's never a good sign when you arrive at 3:45 for your 4:00 appointment, and have to park in the next to last row of the hospital parking lot. Or that the aged trolley driver did not even bother to cruise by and offer you a ride to the front door. Perhaps he could not see that far.
I signed in at the far window, the one on the opposite end of the clinic from the parking lot, and waited to be called for my insurance information. You know, that ratty letter saying I really do have insurance, but just not a card like any other reputable insurance company besides Anthem Blue Cross would provide their clients by the date the insurance takes effect. Thank the Gummi Mary, that is my secondary insurance through Farmer H.
While I waited 35 minutes to be called to that window, I was swarmed by every germ-toting toddler in a tri-county area. You see, that window is by the 'playroom' consisting of a little table and some coloring pages. The dude ahead of me didn't have his insurance card or driver's license, and sent his wife out to the car to get it. I'm thinking she bopped on over to Buffalo Wild Wings for a snack just to show him who was boss, because she could have hiked to the Newmentia parking lot in the time she was gone. A dudette who came in after me could not find her license after the window returned it. She was tripping, looking under all the chairs, lifting them, turning her coat inside out, asking the window girls, etc. I thought she was going to pick me up and shake me to see if her license might be expelled from one of my body cavities.
After I was certified as being insured and not an impostor, I trekked back to the first window and chose a row of two chairs, facing down the corridor, so people wouldn't hark their phlegm in my direction. Wouldn't you know it, a hick in the corner was coughing up a lung every ten seconds. He should go into the lung donor business, really. Then he took a phone call and told the caller, "Yeah, we're here in the doctor's office. We brought the kids for their check-up." Uh huh. He wasn't even there to put an end to his Typhoid Barry business.
I soon had enough of inhaling those lingering microbes, and moved to a seat with my back to the wall when some lucky dogs got called into the inner sanctum. That lasted all of five minutes, during which a PA came striding down the corridor announcing that both elevators were down, and they needed the special vehicle they use to carry wheelchair people down the steps. I took it for granted that she meant down as in broken, not down as in jumbled piles of metal fragments embedded in the concrete foundation of the building. Did I mention we were on the fourth floor?
My new seat buddies arrived, a teen mom with a toddler and a basket baby, plus her mother. They cooed at the baby while the toddler stood in front of me and stared and coughed. I held my breath as long as I could, then turned sideways to try to sneak a breath. Mercifully, they were called in forthwith.
Shortly after 5:00, I was chosen to receive my long-awaited medical care. First on the agenda was a stop at the scale, followed by a walk to an exam room, upon which I was told to sit down, and a blood pressure cuff ensnared my arm. It came as no surprise to me that my pressure was up. A whopping 138/90, which some years back was nearly borderline hypertension. Anyhoo, it wasn't enough to change my meds. I am confident that in another six months it will be back to the 120/80 that it had been for the past several visits.
Doc did not bother to share my lab results, tried to foist a sleep apnea study upon me, or a cortisone shot in my knee, but I declined both at this juncture. He did, however, send me downstairs to the lab I had just been to on Saturday, to give them more blood for a thyroid test, which had not been ordered six months ago. As an extra bonus, he promised a tetanus booster, after tiring of my story of the garage-nail flesh-ripping incident.
I had to ask for that tetanus booster, though, because his nurses, Tweedle Dum and Tweedle Dee, came to route me out of that exam room with nary a syringe between them. And they proceeded to quiz me, like people just waltz in there willy-nilly and wait for hours and then try to scam a tetanus booster all in the name of hypochondria. "Well, who are you to need a tetanus shot? What's that all about? Doc didn't write that on the order." I showed them my flesh wound, and Tweedle Dum said, "I'm going to get it right now!" She met Doc in the hall, who verified that indeed, I was supposed to receive the magical lock-jaw preventer, as I wasn't yet old enough to put out to pasture from neglect.
Seeking advice from these wise Tweedles, I said, "So the elevators are down. Why do the stairs have a sign that says, Stairs End at Second Floor?" Tweedle Dum said, "Oh, they'll tell you where to go when you get there." So either there are talking steps, or a sign, or a stairwell attendant for just such occasions. Because she went on to say that the elevators break at least twice a week.
The office gal who gave me the lab order said that the elevators were fixed. I waited until another family went down, then pushed the button, and when that same elevator came back to get me, I took my chances. It was the longest elevator ride ever.
Are you tired yet? Because I was getting might tired of forking over that ratty insurance letter and getting the stink-eye from the staff. The lab people were not behind their frosted window, so I set my paperwork on the computer mouse, thinking it would be discovered. After they called four numbers, I told them I had put my paperwork in, but nobody was there to give me a number. They called me next. At least all the numbered people had been in that waiting room before me. Because I could not squeeze out one more ounce of bitterness.
Just before the Laotian-looking phlebotomist plunged her needle into my tied-off vein, a male phlebotomist with a cart full of blood and pointy things popped in to ask if she would give the OR a try, because after umpteen sticks, he still couldn't find a vein in that patient.
Suddenly, it didn't suck so bad to be Mrs. Hillbilly Mom.
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
I Ain't Buyin' What You're Sellin'
Enough is enough. I am tired of the bank calling Farmer H. There is no need for it. It is harassment of the first order.
Last night at 8 freakin' 30, the phone rang. Of course I had The Pony screening my calls. He looked at the phone display doodad and hollered, "It's the bank." Normally, I would let it ring. Because we don't need to talk to the stinkin' bank. They call at odd times when Farmer H is not available, and only want to talk to him. WTF? My name is on that account as well. I'm thinking it might have something to do with that Christopher Reeve insurance that Farmer H has had for some time.
With Farmer H cooling his scruffy heels right upstairs in the La-Z-Boy, I figured now would be the time to put an end to it. The bank used to hound us with phone messages, urging Farmer H to call them back. When he did, they said it was nothing much, really, no problem with the account (which is why he returned the call in the first place), but that they had some amazing services to offer.
Last night, I picked up the phone. A foreigner (and by that I mean a girl with a thick accent such as you might hear if you try to call Compaq computer support) inquired: "Farmer H Hillbilly?" Um. NO. I do not remotely sound like a man. Especially not like curmudgeony Farmer H. I do not have a raspy smoker's voice like Suzanne Pleshette, former TV wife Emily to Bob Newhart's Bob Hartley.
If you can not tell a woman's voice from a man's, or you do not recognize that Farmer is a man's name, by cracky, then you do not need to be making service calls for a financial institution. I don't care if you were born and raised here and got your accent from your FOB parents, you do NOT need to be annoying people at 8 freakin' 30 at night. Period.
I held the phone away from my ear (okay, so maybe it was closer to my mouth) and hollered for The Pony to holler for his dad to pick up the phone. And then a terrible coincidence occurred. Just after I heard Farmer H flap shut the leg shelf of the La-Z-Boy, my thumb slipped on the ancient clunky early Seinfeld type phone receiver, and cut off the call.
I'm sure they'll call back.
Just so you know: FOB stands for Fresh Off the Boat. There is a hilarious blog called My Mom is a FOB. It appears that they just released a book of their greatest hits.
Last night at 8 freakin' 30, the phone rang. Of course I had The Pony screening my calls. He looked at the phone display doodad and hollered, "It's the bank." Normally, I would let it ring. Because we don't need to talk to the stinkin' bank. They call at odd times when Farmer H is not available, and only want to talk to him. WTF? My name is on that account as well. I'm thinking it might have something to do with that Christopher Reeve insurance that Farmer H has had for some time.
With Farmer H cooling his scruffy heels right upstairs in the La-Z-Boy, I figured now would be the time to put an end to it. The bank used to hound us with phone messages, urging Farmer H to call them back. When he did, they said it was nothing much, really, no problem with the account (which is why he returned the call in the first place), but that they had some amazing services to offer.
Last night, I picked up the phone. A foreigner (and by that I mean a girl with a thick accent such as you might hear if you try to call Compaq computer support) inquired: "Farmer H Hillbilly?" Um. NO. I do not remotely sound like a man. Especially not like curmudgeony Farmer H. I do not have a raspy smoker's voice like Suzanne Pleshette, former TV wife Emily to Bob Newhart's Bob Hartley.
If you can not tell a woman's voice from a man's, or you do not recognize that Farmer is a man's name, by cracky, then you do not need to be making service calls for a financial institution. I don't care if you were born and raised here and got your accent from your FOB parents, you do NOT need to be annoying people at 8 freakin' 30 at night. Period.
I held the phone away from my ear (okay, so maybe it was closer to my mouth) and hollered for The Pony to holler for his dad to pick up the phone. And then a terrible coincidence occurred. Just after I heard Farmer H flap shut the leg shelf of the La-Z-Boy, my thumb slipped on the ancient clunky early Seinfeld type phone receiver, and cut off the call.
I'm sure they'll call back.
Just so you know: FOB stands for Fresh Off the Boat. There is a hilarious blog called My Mom is a FOB. It appears that they just released a book of their greatest hits.
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
What A Racket
Well, the ice/snow/rain/mix storm that was heralded for Sunday night into Monday morning ending Tuesday did not materialize this week. Surprise.
Monday afternoon, the forecast charlatans started calling for a SIGNIFICANT snowstorm Wednesday night into Thursday. FOUR INCHES OF SNOW, and MAYBE MORE in some areas. Ho hum. And they expect me to buy that one, too? A weather advisory was also posted Monday afternoon for Thursday, due to that SIGNIFICANT winter storm that had not even shown up in the seven-day forecast Monday morning.
So let's get this straight. Nobody saw that SIGNIFICANT snowpocalypse on the horizon a mere three days away, but they sure saw the imaginary ice/snow/rain/mix storm when it was five days out. I call shenanigans!
Farmer H says he wishes I had become a weather forecaster instead of a teacher. Because I would only have to be right 50 % of the time. Or less. Dear, befuddled Farmer H! He does not see that I am just naturally right near 99 % of the time, without even trying. And I'm not talkin' weather. For that, you just need to stick your head out the door and then backtrack and spin all the previous forecasts so people will think this is what you've been saying all along.
I suppose I'll have to rush to Save A Lot for bread and milk on Wednesday evening.
Monday afternoon, the forecast charlatans started calling for a SIGNIFICANT snowstorm Wednesday night into Thursday. FOUR INCHES OF SNOW, and MAYBE MORE in some areas. Ho hum. And they expect me to buy that one, too? A weather advisory was also posted Monday afternoon for Thursday, due to that SIGNIFICANT winter storm that had not even shown up in the seven-day forecast Monday morning.
So let's get this straight. Nobody saw that SIGNIFICANT snowpocalypse on the horizon a mere three days away, but they sure saw the imaginary ice/snow/rain/mix storm when it was five days out. I call shenanigans!
Farmer H says he wishes I had become a weather forecaster instead of a teacher. Because I would only have to be right 50 % of the time. Or less. Dear, befuddled Farmer H! He does not see that I am just naturally right near 99 % of the time, without even trying. And I'm not talkin' weather. For that, you just need to stick your head out the door and then backtrack and spin all the previous forecasts so people will think this is what you've been saying all along.
I suppose I'll have to rush to Save A Lot for bread and milk on Wednesday evening.
Monday, January 17, 2011
My Pretty Little Pony Liars
The Pony watched Pretty Little Liars with me tonight. For the second week in a row. Or to be more precise, The Pony laid on the couch playing computer games on his laptop while I usurped the big screen to watch my show.
During commercials, I made it my business to torment The Pony.
*******************************************************
Don't you like this show? Everybody has a secret.
Ehhhh.
Come on. I know you're secretly watching it behind that laptop.
No, not really.
I bet all the kids at school are watching it.
Actually, just the girls.
Uh huh. So you've heard all about it.
Arrgghh.
You can go to school tomorrow, and say, "Last night, on Pretty Little Liars..."
Uh. NO!
Why not? It's good to have a subject to discuss with the girls.
No.
You could start out with, "Every Monday night, I watch Pretty Little Liars with my mom."
I can't hear you! (His elbows stuck out from behind the laptop screen, like they would if he had his hands over his ears.)
And then you could say, "I love that show! I can't wait until it's on every week."
Aarrgghhh!
You'll have to be careful, though, or the girls will look at you as best friend material, and not as a future husband.
Stop it! I'm not listening!
Or you could just pick up your phone at Academic Team practice, and say, "Oh, no! I hate it when 'A' sends me a text!"
Uh, no. Not funny.
********************************************************
My Little Pony. Still a kid and still tangled up in my apron strings. There's so little time left.
During commercials, I made it my business to torment The Pony.
*******************************************************
Don't you like this show? Everybody has a secret.
Ehhhh.
Come on. I know you're secretly watching it behind that laptop.
No, not really.
I bet all the kids at school are watching it.
Actually, just the girls.
Uh huh. So you've heard all about it.
Arrgghh.
You can go to school tomorrow, and say, "Last night, on Pretty Little Liars..."
Uh. NO!
Why not? It's good to have a subject to discuss with the girls.
No.
You could start out with, "Every Monday night, I watch Pretty Little Liars with my mom."
I can't hear you! (His elbows stuck out from behind the laptop screen, like they would if he had his hands over his ears.)
And then you could say, "I love that show! I can't wait until it's on every week."
Aarrgghhh!
You'll have to be careful, though, or the girls will look at you as best friend material, and not as a future husband.
Stop it! I'm not listening!
Or you could just pick up your phone at Academic Team practice, and say, "Oh, no! I hate it when 'A' sends me a text!"
Uh, no. Not funny.
********************************************************
My Little Pony. Still a kid and still tangled up in my apron strings. There's so little time left.
Sunday, January 16, 2011
Who Knows What Evil Lurks In The Hearts Of Beagles
Tank the Beavil.
That's my new name for our beagle. Because he is evil. I should have known when I found him on the porch that morning with the devil.
This afternoon, I tossed some old hot dog buns to the chickens. They're natural-born peckers, you know. Our custodian told me that. I think he and Farmer H are on the same wavelength. They've know each other for quite some time. Anyhoo, I broke the buns in small sections and flung them off the porch.
Farmer H's pets (and by that I mean his favorite animals), the goats, were busy eating my rose bushes. The buns caught their rectangular-pupiled amber eyes, and they charged in amongst the chickens for a snack. There was plenty to go around for our fowl and caprine friends. Then the big bad canine crashed the party.
Tank decided that he MUST have some delicious dry bread, the gourmet snack of beagles, apparently. He charged at Nellie, the long-haired white goat with a penchant for trapping her head in the fence. Tank was all snarly and lip-curled and vicious, so Nellie, head uncharacteristically unencumbered, turned tail and trotted for the goat pen. That was not good enough for the Tank the Beavil. He jumped up and sank his teeth into Nellie's left side, just behind her four-chambered stomach. Nellie hauled him along for a good 15 feet before he dropped off.
That darn Beavil needs a sound thrashing. Farmer H checked on Nellie, and thank the Gummi Mary, it looks as if Tank only gnashed his fangs on a mouthful of hair. I've told Farmer H all along that I think Tank is his chicken-killer, not Ann the shepherd. Ann ends up with the spoils because she is bigger, but she is not the leader.
Today's vocabulary lesson: the word capricious comes from the word caprine, and pertains to goat-like qualities.
That's my new name for our beagle. Because he is evil. I should have known when I found him on the porch that morning with the devil.
This afternoon, I tossed some old hot dog buns to the chickens. They're natural-born peckers, you know. Our custodian told me that. I think he and Farmer H are on the same wavelength. They've know each other for quite some time. Anyhoo, I broke the buns in small sections and flung them off the porch.
Farmer H's pets (and by that I mean his favorite animals), the goats, were busy eating my rose bushes. The buns caught their rectangular-pupiled amber eyes, and they charged in amongst the chickens for a snack. There was plenty to go around for our fowl and caprine friends. Then the big bad canine crashed the party.
Tank decided that he MUST have some delicious dry bread, the gourmet snack of beagles, apparently. He charged at Nellie, the long-haired white goat with a penchant for trapping her head in the fence. Tank was all snarly and lip-curled and vicious, so Nellie, head uncharacteristically unencumbered, turned tail and trotted for the goat pen. That was not good enough for the Tank the Beavil. He jumped up and sank his teeth into Nellie's left side, just behind her four-chambered stomach. Nellie hauled him along for a good 15 feet before he dropped off.
That darn Beavil needs a sound thrashing. Farmer H checked on Nellie, and thank the Gummi Mary, it looks as if Tank only gnashed his fangs on a mouthful of hair. I've told Farmer H all along that I think Tank is his chicken-killer, not Ann the shepherd. Ann ends up with the spoils because she is bigger, but she is not the leader.
Today's vocabulary lesson: the word capricious comes from the word caprine, and pertains to goat-like qualities.
Saturday, January 15, 2011
Dr. Hillbilly Mom Makes A Diagnosis
It's official. I have turned into my mother.
We have a multitude of remote-control gadgetry lolling about on various end tables and TV trays-serving-as-end-tables. The #1 son is in charge of all things electronic. I believe he is so in love with technology that he would rather host umpteen infrared flapdoodles than streamline our lazy man's attention deficit order-givers with a couple of universal remotes.
The zapper for the living room TV has been sluggish of late. It might take two or three pushes to turn the power ON, or a couple stabs to adjust the volume. He's not like Satellite Remote, who has a bad ZERO button, which must be depressed like the weight of the world concentrated in a thumb.
Because Satellite Remote has his innards restrained with a couple of strips of Scotch Magic Tape, I can pretty much gauge when the last battery change occurred. Not that I'm psychic or anything, but Nervous Tic H has a habit of picking at the sticky adhesive while watching his How To Murder Your Wife shows on TrueTV. Judging by the raggedyness of the gut-checkers, I can sense when Satellite Remote is in need of a power boost.
TV Remote is the red-headed stepchild of the Hillbilly clicker family. (Don't go hatin'. My mother, sister, and nephew have red hair. And I have raised a stepchild or two who held me in high regard.) TV Remote is used as an afterthought, once in the morning, once at night, and sometimes for volume if we want to punish Satellite Remote for his ZERO shenanigans by ignoring him.
Yesterday, I pried open the belly of TV Remote, perchance to deduce what ailed him. It was obvious. His batteries were stamped MAR 2004. YET HE LIVES! So I sealed him back up to click until the bitter end. Or until my next trip to The Devil's Playground.
I need to go check the dates on my Ranch Dressing.
We have a multitude of remote-control gadgetry lolling about on various end tables and TV trays-serving-as-end-tables. The #1 son is in charge of all things electronic. I believe he is so in love with technology that he would rather host umpteen infrared flapdoodles than streamline our lazy man's attention deficit order-givers with a couple of universal remotes.
The zapper for the living room TV has been sluggish of late. It might take two or three pushes to turn the power ON, or a couple stabs to adjust the volume. He's not like Satellite Remote, who has a bad ZERO button, which must be depressed like the weight of the world concentrated in a thumb.
Because Satellite Remote has his innards restrained with a couple of strips of Scotch Magic Tape, I can pretty much gauge when the last battery change occurred. Not that I'm psychic or anything, but Nervous Tic H has a habit of picking at the sticky adhesive while watching his How To Murder Your Wife shows on TrueTV. Judging by the raggedyness of the gut-checkers, I can sense when Satellite Remote is in need of a power boost.
TV Remote is the red-headed stepchild of the Hillbilly clicker family. (Don't go hatin'. My mother, sister, and nephew have red hair. And I have raised a stepchild or two who held me in high regard.) TV Remote is used as an afterthought, once in the morning, once at night, and sometimes for volume if we want to punish Satellite Remote for his ZERO shenanigans by ignoring him.
Yesterday, I pried open the belly of TV Remote, perchance to deduce what ailed him. It was obvious. His batteries were stamped MAR 2004. YET HE LIVES! So I sealed him back up to click until the bitter end. Or until my next trip to The Devil's Playground.
I need to go check the dates on my Ranch Dressing.
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