Just when I thought the school year was almost over, a huge honkin' tree-branch of truth smacked me right in the face. Our last day of school is May 31. THAT'S ALMOST JUNE!!!
With my sentence stretched out before me, I feel like I'm toiling away in the salt mines. No end in sight. I would rather do my time in Sheriff Joe Arpaio's baloney-sandwich, pink-underwear, tent-city, weather-channel-and-Disney prison.
Don't get me wrong. I like what I do. I'm just not fond of all that we do. Working with the students is fine. It's the drudgery of dragging the #1 son out of bed each morning, making sure The Pony has clothes that match and lunch that he will actually eat, and barreling over over hill and dale in my trusty T-Hoe to get to work with time for all the folderol which insinuates itself into my very being...that defeats me.
I am not so good at jumping through hoops. I don't like filling out forms for this and assignment sheets for that and looking up transfer grades that are, ahem, on the freakin' school computer gradebook system where they could be harvested in one fell swoop instead of sending a minion to interrupt seven different teachers teaching seven different subjects so they can STOP what they are doing and perform a clerical task while their students sit idle, fodder for the devil to supply them with work for their hands.
The dangling carrot of another day off on the weather forecaster's stick of Alberta Clippers does not repulse me. Make snow days while the sun don't shine, I say. Take 'em when you can get 'em. You never know what fate might befall the piper before he has a chance to collect on your debt.
Monday, February 7, 2011
Sunday, February 6, 2011
Something Is Afoot
The mysterious occurrences which plague the Mansion had abated a bit, except for the night-walking. But this week they've been back in full force. I blame myself.
Several nights ago, I fell asleep in my basement recliner. I awoke around 1:00 a.m., and got caught up in an episode of Beyond Scared Straight. There's nothing that pleases Mrs. Hillbilly Mom like hardened criminals giving a comeuppance to spoiled little jackwagons of tender adolescent years. During commercials, I found Celebrity Ghost Stories on the Biography channel, which seems to be free this month on Dish Network.
I know better than to watch that stuff at night. Really. But I was wide awake by then. Snow was pouring down from that unannounced Friday night blizzard that brought us 5 inches. The power had gone off for about 30 seconds around 8:30, just long enough to knock out the furnace and the satellite until they rebooted themselves. The lights came right back on, but my New Delly shut down. Shiba the laptop either stayed on, or the #1 son got her going again upstairs. So I should have known better than to watch a scary show, especially with a chance of the power going off. I've been carrying a little flashlight since the Great Icepocalypse of '11, just for that reason. But I had left it in my office.
Just the night before, The Pony and I had started watching Ghosts Caught on Tape: Fact of Fiction. But it looked too fake for me, so we quit. But not before we started hearing footsteps in The Pony's room upstairs. Usually, they just start around midnight or later.
Sooo...I switched a couple times from the Scared Straight brats to see Barry Williams, that's Greg Brady to me, talking about scattering his father's ashes at sea, and his toddler talking to his dead dad in the bathroom of the boat, and the water running in the sink, and his dead dad's initials appearing on the mirror, and the mist around the crow's nest when Greg took a picture of the flag being lowered for the ceremony. And since that gosh-darned Biography channel blares on the spooky music at the crucial points in every celebrity's ghost story, my heart skipped a beat and I had a vision of the power going off. But no. Only the lamp went off. Twice. And came back on. With a couple of minutes in between the flickerings. Which kind of set the hairs on the back of my neck to waving.
Since I was scared, I had to wait until Scared Straight was over to go upstairs to bed. And then until part-way through another Scared Straight. Because I had been hearing the walking again. I tried to tell myself that it was The Pony going to the bathroom, or the #1 son getting his medicine before bed. That's what I always pretend when there are people in the Mansion with me. It's harder to lie to myself when they're gone somewhere overnight.
I finally went up, and checked on the boys with the help of the 6000-watt hall light. It's the only bulb in the house that Amp Miser H allows to cast some light. He must never turn it on. Anyway, I saw that The Pony had his comforter over his face, so I went in his room and exposed him to life-sustaining oxygen. I could not make out the head of #1 in his room, so I turned on his overhead light. He was fine. I changed clothes in my bathroom on the other end of the Mansion, and went to bed. After about five minutes, I heard a pill bottle fall out of the cabinet and onto the stone countertop. Oh, there was no actual pill bottle falling out of the closed cabinet doors. It was just the sound of one falling. An empty pill bottle.
These sounds on my end of the Mansion are fairly new, just since my grandma died and came back to visit Farmer H while he was winding her cuckoo clock in the kitchen. These noises are mostly in the bathroom. And they're not every night, like the walking at the other end of the house. Then I heard walking in the living room. Again, I told myself it must have been The Pony or #1 coming to ask me something. But nobody came in the bedroom.
The next morning, I did not mention any of this to anybody. Farmer H always made fun of me until the kitchen door came open while he was home alone winding that clock. And it only makes The Pony nervous. And #1 wants to tell about the little white figure he saw going into his bathroom that time. Which I do not want to hear about.
But Saturday morning, #1 got up spoiling for a fight. "Which one of you unplugged my speakers?" The Pony swore that he was asleep. And he never goes into #1's room unless summoned there, because he values his life.
What do you mean, unplug your speakers?
I was listening to my music. And when I woke up this morning, the wire from the back was pulled out and laying on top of the speaker.
Well, I didn't do it. I don't even know what wire you're talking about. I didn't notice anything when I checked on you around 2:30.
Was my music playing?
No.
I turned it on when I went to bed at 12:30.
You went to bed at 12:30? You weren't walking around in the kitchen?
No. I was tired. I went to sleep listening to music.
I'm hoping he just unplugged that speaker in his sleep.
Several nights ago, I fell asleep in my basement recliner. I awoke around 1:00 a.m., and got caught up in an episode of Beyond Scared Straight. There's nothing that pleases Mrs. Hillbilly Mom like hardened criminals giving a comeuppance to spoiled little jackwagons of tender adolescent years. During commercials, I found Celebrity Ghost Stories on the Biography channel, which seems to be free this month on Dish Network.
I know better than to watch that stuff at night. Really. But I was wide awake by then. Snow was pouring down from that unannounced Friday night blizzard that brought us 5 inches. The power had gone off for about 30 seconds around 8:30, just long enough to knock out the furnace and the satellite until they rebooted themselves. The lights came right back on, but my New Delly shut down. Shiba the laptop either stayed on, or the #1 son got her going again upstairs. So I should have known better than to watch a scary show, especially with a chance of the power going off. I've been carrying a little flashlight since the Great Icepocalypse of '11, just for that reason. But I had left it in my office.
Just the night before, The Pony and I had started watching Ghosts Caught on Tape: Fact of Fiction. But it looked too fake for me, so we quit. But not before we started hearing footsteps in The Pony's room upstairs. Usually, they just start around midnight or later.
Sooo...I switched a couple times from the Scared Straight brats to see Barry Williams, that's Greg Brady to me, talking about scattering his father's ashes at sea, and his toddler talking to his dead dad in the bathroom of the boat, and the water running in the sink, and his dead dad's initials appearing on the mirror, and the mist around the crow's nest when Greg took a picture of the flag being lowered for the ceremony. And since that gosh-darned Biography channel blares on the spooky music at the crucial points in every celebrity's ghost story, my heart skipped a beat and I had a vision of the power going off. But no. Only the lamp went off. Twice. And came back on. With a couple of minutes in between the flickerings. Which kind of set the hairs on the back of my neck to waving.
Since I was scared, I had to wait until Scared Straight was over to go upstairs to bed. And then until part-way through another Scared Straight. Because I had been hearing the walking again. I tried to tell myself that it was The Pony going to the bathroom, or the #1 son getting his medicine before bed. That's what I always pretend when there are people in the Mansion with me. It's harder to lie to myself when they're gone somewhere overnight.
I finally went up, and checked on the boys with the help of the 6000-watt hall light. It's the only bulb in the house that Amp Miser H allows to cast some light. He must never turn it on. Anyway, I saw that The Pony had his comforter over his face, so I went in his room and exposed him to life-sustaining oxygen. I could not make out the head of #1 in his room, so I turned on his overhead light. He was fine. I changed clothes in my bathroom on the other end of the Mansion, and went to bed. After about five minutes, I heard a pill bottle fall out of the cabinet and onto the stone countertop. Oh, there was no actual pill bottle falling out of the closed cabinet doors. It was just the sound of one falling. An empty pill bottle.
These sounds on my end of the Mansion are fairly new, just since my grandma died and came back to visit Farmer H while he was winding her cuckoo clock in the kitchen. These noises are mostly in the bathroom. And they're not every night, like the walking at the other end of the house. Then I heard walking in the living room. Again, I told myself it must have been The Pony or #1 coming to ask me something. But nobody came in the bedroom.
The next morning, I did not mention any of this to anybody. Farmer H always made fun of me until the kitchen door came open while he was home alone winding that clock. And it only makes The Pony nervous. And #1 wants to tell about the little white figure he saw going into his bathroom that time. Which I do not want to hear about.
But Saturday morning, #1 got up spoiling for a fight. "Which one of you unplugged my speakers?" The Pony swore that he was asleep. And he never goes into #1's room unless summoned there, because he values his life.
What do you mean, unplug your speakers?
I was listening to my music. And when I woke up this morning, the wire from the back was pulled out and laying on top of the speaker.
Well, I didn't do it. I don't even know what wire you're talking about. I didn't notice anything when I checked on you around 2:30.
Was my music playing?
No.
I turned it on when I went to bed at 12:30.
You went to bed at 12:30? You weren't walking around in the kitchen?
No. I was tired. I went to sleep listening to music.
I'm hoping he just unplugged that speaker in his sleep.
Saturday, February 5, 2011
They Wear Me Out
We awoke this morning to a surprise 5 inches of snow. And more of it raining down from above. Farmer H was off to work, and called to tell me that I was NOT to leave the Mansion, that he was sure the boys' bowling league would be canceled, and that the roads were twice as bad as they were during the Great Icepocalypse of '11.
Funny thing, those meteorologists started harping on the Storm of the Century a full five days or more ahead of the actual fizzler. Scads of National Guard troops were brought in, and 1500 extra electrical utility dudes from out of state. But this new 5 inches? Who knew? Not the meteorologists. Friday morning, they mentioned that there may be a dusting Friday night, but a significant snowstorm was due in here Sunday night into Monday, with measurable precipitation. Which means nothing will happen. Those silly weather people. You've heard of Even Steven? These folks are Opposite Steven.
Soooo...we waited on Farmer H to return this afternoon, in his $1000 Caravan with studded snow tires, which he apparently envisions as some heavy equipment Caterpillar snowplow, big as the dump trucks used on the Mesabi iron range, like in one of my favorite old movies, Wildrose. Farmer H took The Pony and I to The Devil's Playground to do our shopping for Super Bowl snacks. But we took T-Hoe, my four-wheel-drive friend.
I'm not saying I didn't enjoy shopping with my companions, Bump and Log, but they really bring out the least desirable characteristics in each other. Normally, The Pony is a fantastic helper. But Big H makes him all forgetful and fractious. And Passive Aggressive H prefers to stand around and say, "I don't know what you're doing." Even though I spelled it out, read it from my list in T-Hoe in the parking lot, the two items that I wanted Bump and Log to look for. For The Pony's science project.
I was exhausted when we left. The Pony and I are better as a duo.
Funny thing, those meteorologists started harping on the Storm of the Century a full five days or more ahead of the actual fizzler. Scads of National Guard troops were brought in, and 1500 extra electrical utility dudes from out of state. But this new 5 inches? Who knew? Not the meteorologists. Friday morning, they mentioned that there may be a dusting Friday night, but a significant snowstorm was due in here Sunday night into Monday, with measurable precipitation. Which means nothing will happen. Those silly weather people. You've heard of Even Steven? These folks are Opposite Steven.
Soooo...we waited on Farmer H to return this afternoon, in his $1000 Caravan with studded snow tires, which he apparently envisions as some heavy equipment Caterpillar snowplow, big as the dump trucks used on the Mesabi iron range, like in one of my favorite old movies, Wildrose. Farmer H took The Pony and I to The Devil's Playground to do our shopping for Super Bowl snacks. But we took T-Hoe, my four-wheel-drive friend.
I'm not saying I didn't enjoy shopping with my companions, Bump and Log, but they really bring out the least desirable characteristics in each other. Normally, The Pony is a fantastic helper. But Big H makes him all forgetful and fractious. And Passive Aggressive H prefers to stand around and say, "I don't know what you're doing." Even though I spelled it out, read it from my list in T-Hoe in the parking lot, the two items that I wanted Bump and Log to look for. For The Pony's science project.
I was exhausted when we left. The Pony and I are better as a duo.
Friday, February 4, 2011
The Mansion: Winter Vacation Destination
I am as jumpy as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rockers.
There is an uninvited guest in my Mansion. In my basement lair. Two feet to my left, under my office counter, in a space crammed with a paper shredder, a box of school supplies, and some Devil's Playground bags of waiting-to-be-recycled aluminum Diet Coke with Lime cans. Shh...did you hear that?
The last two times an uninvited guest came a-callin', it was Mr. Millipede and Mr. Millipede Jr. That was creepy enough, all those two thousand legs rippling like heads of wheat on the fields of Kansas (shout out to my college buddy, Bean, and my long lost brother, Chad!), where the wind comes whipping down the plains so strong it'll blow the eyebrows right off your face. Sorry, Oklahoma. My personal experience on a trip to Salina trumps your showtune propaganda.
Yesterday, when The Visitor arrived, I called my trusty Pony to investigate. The Visitor would not show his face, but continued to rustle and bustle, even after The Pony gave that box of school supplies a solid kick. So I figured it was another Millipede family member come to call. Icky enough, but somewhat familiar.
This morning, being home from school on our 13th snow day, The Pony lounged about on the basement couch while I wrote out some bills for little things like The Pony's Excellent Elbow Adventure. The I heard him holler, "Hey, Mom! You know that creature in your office? It's a mouse. I just saw him run by the Christmas tree." Like his pulse didn't even raise by one beat per minute. And yes, I'm purposely avoiding the issue of the Christmas tree in our basement on February 4.
We set out on an expedition to rival that of Captain Robert Scott's South Pole quest in order to pick up my paycheck at Newmentia, except that no ponies were harmed, and we all returned alive. I picked up four mousetraps for $1.50 at the Dollar Store, and we were ready for battle.
The #1 son couldn't figure out how to set the instrument of death, nearly severing a finger for his troubles, so he awaited the return of Mouse Exterminator H for counsel. He came sauntering down the stairs with a trap and bait, and insisted on showing me the means of execution.
See? You flip it back and put this pole in that slot.
What in the world is that bait?
Oh. It's a mushroom off the pizza. Dad says mice like mushrooms.
Dad says he's too lazy to get you a piece of cheese.
Anyway, I'm putting it behind the Christmas tree.
Several snaps and exclamations later, the deed was done. The trap was set. And I heard rustling in my counter alcove.
Get another trap and get in here now!
(Pant. Deep breath.)
OK. Where is it? I don't have bait.
It was over here. But now it's under The Pony's desk over there. Use a piece of sausage.
I hear him. I SEE him! He's so tiny! Do we have to kill him?
YES!!!
But he looks so soft.
He'll be really soft by this time tomorrow.
There he goes!
EEEEEEEEE!
You're crazy!
No, I'm not. He ran under the wall into the workshop. MY FOOT WAS RIGHT OVER THAT HOLE ALL DAY!
He's gone. Settle down.
NO! HE'S GOING TO COME BACK AND RUN UP MY LEG!
No, he won't. Where do you want this trap?
Where did you get that sausage?
Off that piece of crust on your plate.
I was going to eat that. I meant that piece there on the plate, not on the crust.
Too late now. Where do you want it?
In that little crack beside the box.
No. I'm going to put it right here along the cabinet base.
NO! It's too close to me!
He won't get it if it's in that opening. Mice run along the walls. That's because they're virtually blind.
He saw good enough to get out there by the Christmas tree.
You're ridiculous. I'm putting it here.
Silly me. I'm sure #1 knows all about the habits of mice. He probably learned it from the Library of Congress website.
There is an uninvited guest in my Mansion. In my basement lair. Two feet to my left, under my office counter, in a space crammed with a paper shredder, a box of school supplies, and some Devil's Playground bags of waiting-to-be-recycled aluminum Diet Coke with Lime cans. Shh...did you hear that?
The last two times an uninvited guest came a-callin', it was Mr. Millipede and Mr. Millipede Jr. That was creepy enough, all those two thousand legs rippling like heads of wheat on the fields of Kansas (shout out to my college buddy, Bean, and my long lost brother, Chad!), where the wind comes whipping down the plains so strong it'll blow the eyebrows right off your face. Sorry, Oklahoma. My personal experience on a trip to Salina trumps your showtune propaganda.
Yesterday, when The Visitor arrived, I called my trusty Pony to investigate. The Visitor would not show his face, but continued to rustle and bustle, even after The Pony gave that box of school supplies a solid kick. So I figured it was another Millipede family member come to call. Icky enough, but somewhat familiar.
This morning, being home from school on our 13th snow day, The Pony lounged about on the basement couch while I wrote out some bills for little things like The Pony's Excellent Elbow Adventure. The I heard him holler, "Hey, Mom! You know that creature in your office? It's a mouse. I just saw him run by the Christmas tree." Like his pulse didn't even raise by one beat per minute. And yes, I'm purposely avoiding the issue of the Christmas tree in our basement on February 4.
We set out on an expedition to rival that of Captain Robert Scott's South Pole quest in order to pick up my paycheck at Newmentia, except that no ponies were harmed, and we all returned alive. I picked up four mousetraps for $1.50 at the Dollar Store, and we were ready for battle.
The #1 son couldn't figure out how to set the instrument of death, nearly severing a finger for his troubles, so he awaited the return of Mouse Exterminator H for counsel. He came sauntering down the stairs with a trap and bait, and insisted on showing me the means of execution.
See? You flip it back and put this pole in that slot.
What in the world is that bait?
Oh. It's a mushroom off the pizza. Dad says mice like mushrooms.
Dad says he's too lazy to get you a piece of cheese.
Anyway, I'm putting it behind the Christmas tree.
Several snaps and exclamations later, the deed was done. The trap was set. And I heard rustling in my counter alcove.
Get another trap and get in here now!
(Pant. Deep breath.)
OK. Where is it? I don't have bait.
It was over here. But now it's under The Pony's desk over there. Use a piece of sausage.
I hear him. I SEE him! He's so tiny! Do we have to kill him?
YES!!!
But he looks so soft.
He'll be really soft by this time tomorrow.
There he goes!
EEEEEEEEE!
You're crazy!
No, I'm not. He ran under the wall into the workshop. MY FOOT WAS RIGHT OVER THAT HOLE ALL DAY!
He's gone. Settle down.
NO! HE'S GOING TO COME BACK AND RUN UP MY LEG!
No, he won't. Where do you want this trap?
Where did you get that sausage?
Off that piece of crust on your plate.
I was going to eat that. I meant that piece there on the plate, not on the crust.
Too late now. Where do you want it?
In that little crack beside the box.
No. I'm going to put it right here along the cabinet base.
NO! It's too close to me!
He won't get it if it's in that opening. Mice run along the walls. That's because they're virtually blind.
He saw good enough to get out there by the Christmas tree.
You're ridiculous. I'm putting it here.
Silly me. I'm sure #1 knows all about the habits of mice. He probably learned it from the Library of Congress website.
Thursday, February 3, 2011
My WTF Moment
I am restless today, my friends. Restless, like an old man trying to send back soup in a deli. Oops! That's an angry old man, according to George Costanza, while relating the tale of how he, as a fake marine biologist, saved a whale by plucking a golf ball out of its blowhole, a golf ball landed there by Kramer, driving golf balls into the ocean for no discernible reason, aside from the fact that he's Kramer, and had 600 Titleists from the driving range in the trunk of his car.
I'm restless. Not angry. Restless from being cooped up in the Mansion since Monday afternoon by the Great Icepocalypse of '11. Restless from fabricating stories out of true life for my little blog, which is going on its sixth year. If Hillbilly Mansion was a child, he'd be in kindergarten by now. Or possibly first grade. And his teachers would be referring him for testing in the gifted program. Or not.
I am in a quandary. On one hand, I would like to turn this blog out, acquire more readers, by hook or by crook, share my insanity with more people, whether they want it or not. On the other hand, I must remain anonymous, deep in the Blogger Protection Program, if I continue to harp on actual events and people in my actual life. Woe is Mrs. Hillbilly Mom.
Would I even have enough material to fill a new blog? Some days, I barely scrape by with a daily post here, where I am comfortable, where I let my lovely lady-mullet down and bellow out my butt when people piss me off. Remember that? It used to be my motto. I've tried to tone it down lately.
I've been lucky so far, keeping my identity hidden. My blog buddy deadpan mean teacher mommy needing a xanax knows what I'm talking about. Sometimes, you've got to recreate yourself in order to have breathing room. And I'm not so keen on leaving comments many places with the blog name of Hillbilly Mom. You know how people react to us bitter prayin' gunclingers lately.
I'm thinking of venturing a little farther afield, shaking off my blog agoraphobia and dipping a gnarled toe into deeper waters. What's the worst that could happen? If I nearly drown, I can wash up here at the Mansion, bedraggled in my Victorian swimsuit, coughing and gasping, flailing my garage-nail-scarred arms, and continue this little hobby that has given me so much pleasure since 2005.
The Mansion will remain open for business. But service may be slow.
I'm restless. Not angry. Restless from being cooped up in the Mansion since Monday afternoon by the Great Icepocalypse of '11. Restless from fabricating stories out of true life for my little blog, which is going on its sixth year. If Hillbilly Mansion was a child, he'd be in kindergarten by now. Or possibly first grade. And his teachers would be referring him for testing in the gifted program. Or not.
I am in a quandary. On one hand, I would like to turn this blog out, acquire more readers, by hook or by crook, share my insanity with more people, whether they want it or not. On the other hand, I must remain anonymous, deep in the Blogger Protection Program, if I continue to harp on actual events and people in my actual life. Woe is Mrs. Hillbilly Mom.
Would I even have enough material to fill a new blog? Some days, I barely scrape by with a daily post here, where I am comfortable, where I let my lovely lady-mullet down and bellow out my butt when people piss me off. Remember that? It used to be my motto. I've tried to tone it down lately.
I've been lucky so far, keeping my identity hidden. My blog buddy deadpan mean teacher mommy needing a xanax knows what I'm talking about. Sometimes, you've got to recreate yourself in order to have breathing room. And I'm not so keen on leaving comments many places with the blog name of Hillbilly Mom. You know how people react to us bitter prayin' gunclingers lately.
I'm thinking of venturing a little farther afield, shaking off my blog agoraphobia and dipping a gnarled toe into deeper waters. What's the worst that could happen? If I nearly drown, I can wash up here at the Mansion, bedraggled in my Victorian swimsuit, coughing and gasping, flailing my garage-nail-scarred arms, and continue this little hobby that has given me so much pleasure since 2005.
The Mansion will remain open for business. But service may be slow.
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
Farmer H Fries It Up
I always thought that when Farmer H got his own TV show, it would be something called One Man's Junk. But those American Pickers kind of beat him to it. Not that Farmer H goes around actively seeking junk, or knows the value of his treasures. Odd items just seem to find him. He's like a magnetic PigPen, sucking in paperwad-shooting guns, Ben Franklin-style spectacles, and roadside linch-pins. Farmer H is a black hole of scrap metal proportions.
Last night, I began to sense a different kind of nationally-televised fame for Farmer H. Icepocalypse '11 gave him a day off from work. That NEVER happens. So he can thank the Gummi Mary that the St. Louis network meteorologists are so incompetent. Those two inches of sleet did little to slow him down. He dug out his Scout, and slid on down to his MiniMansion by the creek before 8:00 a.m. The fact that he had to stick his head out the side of the Scout to drive back up the hill for lunch did not dampen his enthusiasm. He broke out the ice scraper from the $1000 Caravan and was good to go for a ride to the BARn. He and The Pony got started on Pony's science fair project.
By evening, Farmer H was rarin' to whip up a rib-stickin', cattle-drivin', gold-minin' repast for the Mansion inhabitants. His plan was to fry up some bacon, home-grown eggs, potatoes, and onions. I suppose it's the thought that counts.
Farmer H thought that the time to start cooking was 4:15 p.m. I don't even think the Florida buffets for senior citizens open that early. The #1 son and I were smack dab in the middle of Easy A, my Christmas gift that we hadn't watched yet. Farmer H commenced to cookin'.
The meal smelled good enough. The Pony trotted into the kitchen to consume it. #1 said he wanted his eggs fried, and that he would be up as soon as the movie was over. I did not want eggs, so I waited a bit longer. I had every intention of eating some fried potatoes and onions. Until I saw them, and inquired as to their preparation.
You see, Farmer H has a problem. It seems to stem from a fear that something will stick to the nonstick skillet. When he fries eggs, he pours in about a cup of vegetable oil. Heck, when he fries bacon, he pours in a cup of vegetable oil. I picked up a slice of potato and tasted it. It was mushy. I could have squeezed a quart of oil out of it. I asked Farmer H if he used oil to cook the potatoes and onions. "No. I cooked them in bacon grease."
No, thank you. No potatoes and onions for me. If I want bacon grease, I will just pour it into a cup and sip it over the course of the evening.
Is there going to be another season of The Worst Cooks in America?
Last night, I began to sense a different kind of nationally-televised fame for Farmer H. Icepocalypse '11 gave him a day off from work. That NEVER happens. So he can thank the Gummi Mary that the St. Louis network meteorologists are so incompetent. Those two inches of sleet did little to slow him down. He dug out his Scout, and slid on down to his MiniMansion by the creek before 8:00 a.m. The fact that he had to stick his head out the side of the Scout to drive back up the hill for lunch did not dampen his enthusiasm. He broke out the ice scraper from the $1000 Caravan and was good to go for a ride to the BARn. He and The Pony got started on Pony's science fair project.
By evening, Farmer H was rarin' to whip up a rib-stickin', cattle-drivin', gold-minin' repast for the Mansion inhabitants. His plan was to fry up some bacon, home-grown eggs, potatoes, and onions. I suppose it's the thought that counts.
Farmer H thought that the time to start cooking was 4:15 p.m. I don't even think the Florida buffets for senior citizens open that early. The #1 son and I were smack dab in the middle of Easy A, my Christmas gift that we hadn't watched yet. Farmer H commenced to cookin'.
The meal smelled good enough. The Pony trotted into the kitchen to consume it. #1 said he wanted his eggs fried, and that he would be up as soon as the movie was over. I did not want eggs, so I waited a bit longer. I had every intention of eating some fried potatoes and onions. Until I saw them, and inquired as to their preparation.
You see, Farmer H has a problem. It seems to stem from a fear that something will stick to the nonstick skillet. When he fries eggs, he pours in about a cup of vegetable oil. Heck, when he fries bacon, he pours in a cup of vegetable oil. I picked up a slice of potato and tasted it. It was mushy. I could have squeezed a quart of oil out of it. I asked Farmer H if he used oil to cook the potatoes and onions. "No. I cooked them in bacon grease."
No, thank you. No potatoes and onions for me. If I want bacon grease, I will just pour it into a cup and sip it over the course of the evening.
Is there going to be another season of The Worst Cooks in America?
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
A Nerd Is An Easy Thing To Spot
I was lolling about minding my own business on Friday, January 24, trying to watch the opening segment of The View. Not because I enjoy those harpies, but because I loathe them. And I like to shout at the TV. A snow day had given me the opportunity to kick back and verbally abuse Joy and Whoopi. Then the bottom dropped out. Like a needle screeching across a 72 rpm vinyl lp, the #1 son reared his sleepy head. That boy would not shut up.
Hey! Mom. You've got to see this.
I know. I've got to see the beginning of The View.
No. Not that! THIS.
It can wait.
No. It can't.
He shoved his phone under my nose. Or so I wished. Under my nose instead of between my eyes and the television screen. That boy is persistent.
What is this?
It's a hawk.
So?
It's a hawk inside the Library of Congress.
That's very interesting. Birds get inside places all the time. Like the Basementia gym.
But this is a hawk in the Library of Congress!
How did you find this out?
Well, I was just checking the Library of Congress web site...
NERD!!!
Here's the hawk. And the ending.
Hey! Mom. You've got to see this.
I know. I've got to see the beginning of The View.
No. Not that! THIS.
It can wait.
No. It can't.
He shoved his phone under my nose. Or so I wished. Under my nose instead of between my eyes and the television screen. That boy is persistent.
What is this?
It's a hawk.
So?
It's a hawk inside the Library of Congress.
That's very interesting. Birds get inside places all the time. Like the Basementia gym.
But this is a hawk in the Library of Congress!
How did you find this out?
Well, I was just checking the Library of Congress web site...
NERD!!!
Here's the hawk. And the ending.
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