Saturday morning, I awoke to find Farmer H buried under the quilt my grandma stitched for our marriage bed.
I knew there was a reason my feet were hanging out. Well, the main reason being that I want them to hang out, so I don't get foot cramps during the night from the weight of a heavy freakin' quilt pressing down upon them. But normally, the quilt is there just in case I want to cover my feet. Not so Saturday morning. I did, however, have a plethora of quilt yardage with which to make myself a burka, a turban, a cowl-neck quilt sweater, a comfy shawl, an executioner's hood (though in white), a poncho, and a surgical drape suited for stitching a large facial gash. My feet, on the other hand, were experiencing a bout of high-water quilt-positioning.
Oh, yes. We left Farmer H buried under the quilt. If you visit the Mansion regularly, you might remember that Farmer H is attached to his breather all night. Some may call it a CPAP machine, but to me, it will always be a breather. Though I am somewhat ignorant of the workings of the breather, I am pretty sure that being buried under a quilt is not a condition desired for efficient operation.
I pulled back the quilt and exposed the giant noggin of Farmer H. He sputtered and twitched and blinked like a mole dug up by hounds in the front yard. "What are you doing?" I think that's what he said. He sounded more like Charlie Brown's teacher, what with that clear muzzle of the breather strapped across his nose and mouth. I told him that he needed to keep his head out. Then I left him there in bed while I went about my Saturday morning chores.
When I came back to get towels from the bathroom, there was Farmer H, again buried under the quilt. I rescued him once more. Criminy! I'm responsible for him, you see, having saved his life already the first time. He mouthed me in his muffled way, and flopped over so as not to see the sight of his life-saver. I hoofed it back to the laundry room and threw in the towels. You can expose Farmer H to oxygen, but you can't make him breathe.
After folding socks, boys' underwear, and washcloths, and delegating The Pony to put them away, I was joined by Farmer H in the living room. He commenced a lecture for our benefit, on the finer points of operation of his breather. How it was a pressurized system. That oxygen was forced into his orifices through that mask, no matter what conditions were around his head. Farmer H copped a little attitude about my rescue. In his opinion, I should have left him alone. He does that all the time, seals himself under the quilt. And he is fine. The oxygen comes from that little machine that pumps it through the hose into the mask. Don't I have any concept of what a pressurized system is all about? I should. Because I'm a science teacher. It doesn't matter what is on the outside of his head, because the oxygen doesn't come from there.
In my defense, I mounted a counter-argument. First of all, I asked Farmer H how his carbon dioxide got out of the mask. And if he could take that pressurized system anywhere and still receive his precious oxygen. Because he might as well become the first man to go deep-sea diving with a CPAP mask, or perhaps he could do a space walk from the International Space Station to tout the oxygen-pumping capabilities of that unbelievably efficient CPAP muzzle.
And furthermore, I inquired as to whether Farmer H understood the concept of soup being a liquid, and as such, an entity that should NOT be piled to three times the height of the soup bowl.
To which Farmer H rebutted: "That depends on how solid the liquid is."
Sunday, February 13, 2011
Saturday, February 12, 2011
Out Of The Fingers Of Babes
I mentioned on Friday that the boys and I went to lunch with my mom, sister, and niece. We don't get together very often, even though we live within 10 miles of each other. Thanksgiving, Christmas, and Easter are out main social scenes.
To appreciate the beauty of the story I'm about to tell, you must understand that my sister and I led a very sheltered life. Bear Grylls himself could not provide us with better shelter. Swearing was not permitted in our home, or by people around us. We never spoke the words butt, or pee, or fart, or poop. Those were bad words, by cracky! My mom and dad would not even say the word beer. Oh, they imbibed, all right. During the dog days of summer, with an evening Cardinals game on TV, ideally pitched by Bob Gibson, my dad could be heard, once a year, hollering from the family room upstairs to the kitchen to my mother, "Hey, Mom. Would you like to split a cold one?" That's it. They shared one beer, once a year. The other five sat in the refrigerator until they were thrown out.
After our Pizza Hut buffet feast, as we sat reminiscing about dropping the #1 son on his head, (twice), my 21-year-old niece remembered an incident from her early elementary years. Please note that My Sister, The Former-Mayor's Wife, is a kindergarten teacher. So anything extraordinary that her children accomplished was immediately brought to her attention by her colleagues.
Niece explained how she really liked her teacher that year. They bonded. She wanted to be just like Teacher. So she did what any infatuated little girl with free time would do, and drew a picture for Teacher. The little artist rendered a masterpiece of herself and Teacher holding hands. Teacher was big, and Niece was little. They wore identical dresses and carried matching purses. To show off her mad spelling skillz, Niece had labeled the picture before presenting it to Teacher. An arrow pointed to her head, and was labeled head. Another arrow pointed to her arm, and was labeled arm. The last arrow pointed to her leg.
It was labeled tits.
To appreciate the beauty of the story I'm about to tell, you must understand that my sister and I led a very sheltered life. Bear Grylls himself could not provide us with better shelter. Swearing was not permitted in our home, or by people around us. We never spoke the words butt, or pee, or fart, or poop. Those were bad words, by cracky! My mom and dad would not even say the word beer. Oh, they imbibed, all right. During the dog days of summer, with an evening Cardinals game on TV, ideally pitched by Bob Gibson, my dad could be heard, once a year, hollering from the family room upstairs to the kitchen to my mother, "Hey, Mom. Would you like to split a cold one?" That's it. They shared one beer, once a year. The other five sat in the refrigerator until they were thrown out.
After our Pizza Hut buffet feast, as we sat reminiscing about dropping the #1 son on his head, (twice), my 21-year-old niece remembered an incident from her early elementary years. Please note that My Sister, The Former-Mayor's Wife, is a kindergarten teacher. So anything extraordinary that her children accomplished was immediately brought to her attention by her colleagues.
Niece explained how she really liked her teacher that year. They bonded. She wanted to be just like Teacher. So she did what any infatuated little girl with free time would do, and drew a picture for Teacher. The little artist rendered a masterpiece of herself and Teacher holding hands. Teacher was big, and Niece was little. They wore identical dresses and carried matching purses. To show off her mad spelling skillz, Niece had labeled the picture before presenting it to Teacher. An arrow pointed to her head, and was labeled head. Another arrow pointed to her arm, and was labeled arm. The last arrow pointed to her leg.
It was labeled tits.
Mining The Mansion
It's official. My new blog has been launched. Just last night, I broke a bottle of sparkling apple cider across her hull, and watched her slip into the stormy sea of hopes and dreams. You can follow her voyages here. If it interests you, link it or follow it, because within a week I plan to remove any clues pointing to her existence from the Mansion blog.
The Mansion will remain open. Long live the Mansion. She has served me well, and I will tend her needs as she limps into old age. Besides, she is chock full of gems that will fuel my new venture.
The Mansion will remain open. Long live the Mansion. She has served me well, and I will tend her needs as she limps into old age. Besides, she is chock full of gems that will fuel my new venture.
Friday, February 11, 2011
Another Year Older And The Secret's Not Kept
The boys and I met my mom, sister, and niece today in celebration of my birthday. It was an outing to Pizza Hut for their lunch buffet. A good time was had by all, except for one little fly in the ointment.
My mother revealed my age to the entire clientele of the local Pizza Hut.
Hold on a minute. I need to catch my breath. Whew! Had I known that was a condition of the free meal, I might not have attended. Oh, it's not like the waitresses come around singing Happy Birthday and give you a free pizza or anything. My mom, the big spender, gave me a hefty cash gift, and picked up the tab for all of us. She's a peach. But she just can't hold her knowledge.
In her defense, Mom didn't KNOW I would object to her telling my age. That's her story, and she's stickin' to it. You see, she was unattended at the buffet, having sat with her purse until the rest of us returned with our plates piled high to begin the feeding frenzy. And whom should appear but my old hairdresser. And unlike the hairdressers of the TV commercials of yesteryear, my hairdresser did not know for sure how old I was. So she asked. Which is not really a polite thing to ask about a lady, but then again, I'm not often accused of being much of a lady.
She is not my hairdresser anymore. Not for asking my age. She chucked it all and started herself a catering business. In fact, she had two events tonight, neither of which being a birthday party for me, and she said that since they had been cooking so hard already this morning, the only thing to do when they got hungry was to come to Pizza Hut for the buffet. You didn't expect her to eat her own cooking, did you?
Anyhoo, according to Mom, Cater/Cutter met her at the buffet and asked, "How old IS Hillbilly Mom, anyway? I know she's older than ME!" Funny how Cater/Cutter was so familiar with Mom, who just happened to have been her 4th grade teacher back in the day. And because Mom can't stand up to an inquisition, she caved and blurted out my age. To hear mom tell it, "Well, a mother has to know her child's age, so there was no way out of it." I told her to make a note-to-self for the future: That information is not for public disclosure.
Because a lady reveals nothing (it's true. Just check out the charm-school scene in A League of Their Own), I will not divulge my age here on my anonymous blog. Let's just use the age my students think I am...35. Cater/Cutter came to the table and started jawing about how long it had been since she'd seen us, and how she hoped I had a happy 35th birthday. I cringed and glanced over my shoulder to see if anybody was there that knew me. My sister's sister-in-law had come in with her husband, who sometimes subs at Newmentia, and plays Trivia in the same circles as I. So of course she came over later, and congratulated me on being 35. "Jack and I were just taking about that."
Throughout the meal, my 35-ness was constantly brought up. "Oh, you didn't hear me? No wonder. You're 35 now." After so many swipes at my agedness, I declared that if I wasn't so eager to get my money's worth on that free meal, I would have just left. My niece said, "Well, it seems like somebody at this table doesn't have a sense of humor." And I said, "I had a very good sense of humor in my youth, all the way up to the age of 34."
My sister gave me a birthday card with a hairy man wearing cut-off jeans shorts that showed a wide acreage of butt-cheek. She's so thoughtful. Then she wanted to get me a family photo frame for my desk at school, so I could put a son on each side, and that card in the middle, so my students would think it was Husband H. She needs to moonlight as a stand-up comedian.
We told stories about all the embarrassing things the kids used to do. It was all fun and games until the #1 son found out that not only did his cousin drop him on his head in Grandma's mossy creek when he was a baby and she was 5, but that I had inadvertently left him sitting on the bathroom counter at the tender age of 6 months, and he somehow toppled off onto his head when I turned around to throw away a Q-tip. They're bad for you, you know--those Q-tips. And apparently so are childhood strolls with your cousin in a mossy creek.
We won't even go into the pretend-cooking episode when Niece and #1 put a pan of random ingredients in Grandma's oven, and it started to smoke.
I certainly hope they both reach the ripe old age of 35.
My mother revealed my age to the entire clientele of the local Pizza Hut.
Hold on a minute. I need to catch my breath. Whew! Had I known that was a condition of the free meal, I might not have attended. Oh, it's not like the waitresses come around singing Happy Birthday and give you a free pizza or anything. My mom, the big spender, gave me a hefty cash gift, and picked up the tab for all of us. She's a peach. But she just can't hold her knowledge.
In her defense, Mom didn't KNOW I would object to her telling my age. That's her story, and she's stickin' to it. You see, she was unattended at the buffet, having sat with her purse until the rest of us returned with our plates piled high to begin the feeding frenzy. And whom should appear but my old hairdresser. And unlike the hairdressers of the TV commercials of yesteryear, my hairdresser did not know for sure how old I was. So she asked. Which is not really a polite thing to ask about a lady, but then again, I'm not often accused of being much of a lady.
She is not my hairdresser anymore. Not for asking my age. She chucked it all and started herself a catering business. In fact, she had two events tonight, neither of which being a birthday party for me, and she said that since they had been cooking so hard already this morning, the only thing to do when they got hungry was to come to Pizza Hut for the buffet. You didn't expect her to eat her own cooking, did you?
Anyhoo, according to Mom, Cater/Cutter met her at the buffet and asked, "How old IS Hillbilly Mom, anyway? I know she's older than ME!" Funny how Cater/Cutter was so familiar with Mom, who just happened to have been her 4th grade teacher back in the day. And because Mom can't stand up to an inquisition, she caved and blurted out my age. To hear mom tell it, "Well, a mother has to know her child's age, so there was no way out of it." I told her to make a note-to-self for the future: That information is not for public disclosure.
Because a lady reveals nothing (it's true. Just check out the charm-school scene in A League of Their Own), I will not divulge my age here on my anonymous blog. Let's just use the age my students think I am...35. Cater/Cutter came to the table and started jawing about how long it had been since she'd seen us, and how she hoped I had a happy 35th birthday. I cringed and glanced over my shoulder to see if anybody was there that knew me. My sister's sister-in-law had come in with her husband, who sometimes subs at Newmentia, and plays Trivia in the same circles as I. So of course she came over later, and congratulated me on being 35. "Jack and I were just taking about that."
Throughout the meal, my 35-ness was constantly brought up. "Oh, you didn't hear me? No wonder. You're 35 now." After so many swipes at my agedness, I declared that if I wasn't so eager to get my money's worth on that free meal, I would have just left. My niece said, "Well, it seems like somebody at this table doesn't have a sense of humor." And I said, "I had a very good sense of humor in my youth, all the way up to the age of 34."
My sister gave me a birthday card with a hairy man wearing cut-off jeans shorts that showed a wide acreage of butt-cheek. She's so thoughtful. Then she wanted to get me a family photo frame for my desk at school, so I could put a son on each side, and that card in the middle, so my students would think it was Husband H. She needs to moonlight as a stand-up comedian.
We told stories about all the embarrassing things the kids used to do. It was all fun and games until the #1 son found out that not only did his cousin drop him on his head in Grandma's mossy creek when he was a baby and she was 5, but that I had inadvertently left him sitting on the bathroom counter at the tender age of 6 months, and he somehow toppled off onto his head when I turned around to throw away a Q-tip. They're bad for you, you know--those Q-tips. And apparently so are childhood strolls with your cousin in a mossy creek.
We won't even go into the pretend-cooking episode when Niece and #1 put a pan of random ingredients in Grandma's oven, and it started to smoke.
I certainly hope they both reach the ripe old age of 35.
Thursday, February 10, 2011
You Don't Have To Be Cool To Rule My World
Top 5 Things That Ruled HM's World This Week
1. SNOW DAYS-a special teacher's treat, a nice little birthday surprise for Hillbilly Mom, as good as a beaded pink $3 change purse and box of Sno-Caps all wrapped up with a pretty red bow. Okay. I take that back. It's better, because my change purse was rolled up in a plastic bag from The Devil's Playground.
2. My beloved T-Hoe and his 4wd. Sometimes we don't see eye-to-headlight. But when it comes down to the nitty-gritty, T-Hoe pulls his weight. I didn't necessarily want to get out in the middle of The Great Icepocalypse of 2011, but I was secure in the knowledge that I could get out.
3. Hot Wing Dip-a tasty treat for those who were blessed with the proper chromosomes for watching the Super Bowl, while those of us not so blessed toiled in the kitchen. But I must say, that dip got better with age. I finished the last of it tonight for supper, and it was spectacular. I'm not so much a fan of using it as a dip as I am of eating it as a main course, with a couple of Honey Wheat Hawaiian Rolls on the side. And of course a carbonated beverage to put out the fire if I get a bite with too much Frank's Red Hot Buffalo Wings Sauce.
4. The Middle-the only sitcom on my TV-watching schedule for the past year. I know it is a rip-off of Malcolm in the Middle, but I laugh myself silly at the Heck family shenanigans. My favorite episode so far involved Axl and his failure at parenting his fake baby, and Sue and Brick putting a hole in the wall into which they accidentally dropped a screwdriver and a boiled egg. Check it out Tuesdays at 7:00 central on ABC.
5. When Pigs Fly-a new blog I discovered from somebody else's blog. Check it out if you like to laugh at the thought of people actually ordering the Pajama Jeans as seen on TV.
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
Thank The Gummi Mary, I Don't Have Mansion Fever
I arose this morning at the usual 4:50. A quick look out the door revealed very fine snow flurries. I did not count my chickens, because I have been disappointed before when they do not hatch.
I made The Pony's lunch and laid out his clothes. I made my lunch. I showered. I woke Worker H. I took a quick look at the forecast. Depending on which liar I believed, we were getting either a trace of snow, or three inches. I kicked back in my recliner, under my afghan blankie, because I am a master teacher and a master napper.
At 5:45, my phone rang with the automated message that Newmentia would not be in session today. Whew! I was starting to worry. Only one of the big three had canceled. The way it works around here, our little Newmentia waits to see if the big three are calling off. Then we do, too. It's like they all wait for each other to blink. But this morning, only one biggie called off. My Sister, the Former Mayor's Wife, works at one of the big three that did not call off.
At 8:00, the news channel started scrolling the fact that Sis's school and the remaining biggie were both dismissing at 9:30. Do you understand that? 9:30! That meant they had to transport all those kids home in the middle of the snow. When roads were not clear. When the wind chill was 4 degrees. AND...that will not count as a day of attendance. It better not. We had to get out that early one time, and ours didn't count. But the time we started feeding lunches at 9:30 and let out at 11:00, it counted.
Sis's biggie had already canceled for Thursday by 2:00 today. I guess they learned their lesson. We have about two and a half inches of snow at the Mansion. My mom, in town in Sis's district, said she had 3-4 inches. Now all of the local schools have called off for Thursday. I think it has something to do with the temperature falling to 7 degrees or lower tonight. And Worker H says the county roads are very slippery. That this stuff is even hard to walk on.
We have 15 days to make up. I think we have only been in session for 11 days since Christmas break. That's OK. I don't have any plans for this summer.
I made The Pony's lunch and laid out his clothes. I made my lunch. I showered. I woke Worker H. I took a quick look at the forecast. Depending on which liar I believed, we were getting either a trace of snow, or three inches. I kicked back in my recliner, under my afghan blankie, because I am a master teacher and a master napper.
At 5:45, my phone rang with the automated message that Newmentia would not be in session today. Whew! I was starting to worry. Only one of the big three had canceled. The way it works around here, our little Newmentia waits to see if the big three are calling off. Then we do, too. It's like they all wait for each other to blink. But this morning, only one biggie called off. My Sister, the Former Mayor's Wife, works at one of the big three that did not call off.
At 8:00, the news channel started scrolling the fact that Sis's school and the remaining biggie were both dismissing at 9:30. Do you understand that? 9:30! That meant they had to transport all those kids home in the middle of the snow. When roads were not clear. When the wind chill was 4 degrees. AND...that will not count as a day of attendance. It better not. We had to get out that early one time, and ours didn't count. But the time we started feeding lunches at 9:30 and let out at 11:00, it counted.
Sis's biggie had already canceled for Thursday by 2:00 today. I guess they learned their lesson. We have about two and a half inches of snow at the Mansion. My mom, in town in Sis's district, said she had 3-4 inches. Now all of the local schools have called off for Thursday. I think it has something to do with the temperature falling to 7 degrees or lower tonight. And Worker H says the county roads are very slippery. That this stuff is even hard to walk on.
We have 15 days to make up. I think we have only been in session for 11 days since Christmas break. That's OK. I don't have any plans for this summer.
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
Setting The Stage For A Battle Of Wills
Woe is one Mrs. H. Mom, who returned home to the Mansion at 5:45 p.m., after a hard day toiling in the salt mines teaching freshmen how to switch amongst Fahrenheit, Celsius, and Kelvin temperatures, and who stayed after work to work for an extra two hours and four minutes (but who's counting) while waiting for The Pony to be released from Academic Team practice, only to find Mr. H. Husband lolling about in the La-Z-Boy awaiting sustenance.
Like a baby bird with its mouth open, though nowhere nearly as cute and fuzzy, HH was gasping his last gasp, sure to expire within the hour if HM did not hunt, catch, eat, and regurgitate a snake into his mouth on the spot.
Shame on Mrs. HM for asking to see the weather as soon as she crossed the threshold. Could she not observe that the King of the Mansion was watching All in the Family? How dare she interrupt a forty-year-old sitcom for the current weather forecast! How could the King not understand that weather is the bread and butter of school teachers in early February?
King HH decreed that he had already SEEN the weather, so there was no need for Mrs. HM to see it. After all, it was the same forecast that had been broadcast for the past two days [he said], thus no further inquiries were necessary. Forgetting the fact that the King himself had phoned HM at 4:15 to ask, "Is it snowing?" After much verbal sparring and mental arm-wrestling, Mrs. HM wrested control of the TV from the King. Who declared that he was done with All in the Family, done, done, done, and was headed to town anyway, and would warm up his own supper when he returned.
Mrs. HM dared start an inquisition into the reason for this town pilgrimage, to which King HH snarled, "To get you a birthday card!" Well, then. We all can see that this is one from the heart. Such a selfless ruler, our King HH.
I'm betting that he returns with an empty Little Caesar's box. But then, I'm cynical like that.
Like a baby bird with its mouth open, though nowhere nearly as cute and fuzzy, HH was gasping his last gasp, sure to expire within the hour if HM did not hunt, catch, eat, and regurgitate a snake into his mouth on the spot.
Shame on Mrs. HM for asking to see the weather as soon as she crossed the threshold. Could she not observe that the King of the Mansion was watching All in the Family? How dare she interrupt a forty-year-old sitcom for the current weather forecast! How could the King not understand that weather is the bread and butter of school teachers in early February?
King HH decreed that he had already SEEN the weather, so there was no need for Mrs. HM to see it. After all, it was the same forecast that had been broadcast for the past two days [he said], thus no further inquiries were necessary. Forgetting the fact that the King himself had phoned HM at 4:15 to ask, "Is it snowing?" After much verbal sparring and mental arm-wrestling, Mrs. HM wrested control of the TV from the King. Who declared that he was done with All in the Family, done, done, done, and was headed to town anyway, and would warm up his own supper when he returned.
Mrs. HM dared start an inquisition into the reason for this town pilgrimage, to which King HH snarled, "To get you a birthday card!" Well, then. We all can see that this is one from the heart. Such a selfless ruler, our King HH.
I'm betting that he returns with an empty Little Caesar's box. But then, I'm cynical like that.
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