Everybody Has an Addiction

Everybody has an additction. Mine is Sonic Cherry Diet Coke.
Well, that's the only one I care to discuss here, anyway. I have
to have it every day. That means I drive 6 miles to get it, because
they won't build a Sonic in my front yard.

I love everything about it. The styrofoam cup to keep it cool,
the crushed ice, the cherry flavoring. Sweet, sweet nectar.

The first sip is a quest for perfection. Have those dear Sonic
soda specialists changed the carbonation cylinder? Do I have
the right amount of fizz, or is it (sob!) flat and watery. Too
much imitation cherry flavor, or just enough? A balance of
ice and soda, or have I been given the cup full of ice with a
dash of soda, usually reserved for Happy Hour 3:00-5:00
half-price time? Or maybe my minimum-wage enabler has
blessed me with all soda and a few crumbs of ice. Either is
as unpleasant as the other. The proper balance must be attained.

I can not describe the disappointment when some part of
my precious daily dose of Sonic Cherry Diet Coke is out of
balance. Once I took a large sip and nearly choked on the
foul liquid, for it was not my beloved elixir, but its unwelcome
cousin, Vanilla Dr. Pepper. How I hate vanilla! I had to drive
back around, wait in line, and demand that they remedy this
atrocious assault on my taste buds.

Last summer, I returned to the Hillbilly Mansion with my
precious boys and my equally precious Large Cherry Diet
Coke. I gave the older boy the key to unlock the door while
I gathered my purse, soda, and a couple of Wal-mart bags.
Upon arriving at the kitchen door, I saw that they had closed
it to keep the cats out, and heard them frolicking as boys are
wont to do: "Imbecile!" "Uh uh. You are. Poopyhead!" I kicked
on the door to get their attention. That wasn't happening. I
grabbed the doorknob, and as I tried to turn it, the lid on my
container of black gold bent, and the whole cup crashed to
the porch. Tears formed as I watched my precious beverage
seep through the cedar boards. No words can describe my
despair. And it had two cherries!

I sent the boys out with a bowl of water to clean up the remains.
I was so distraught that when my Hillbilly Husband arrived home,
he volunteered to drive to town and get me another one. No, I
was having none of that. It was not the same.

Each new day dawns bright and full of hope, with the promise
of my afternoon Sonic Cherry Diet Coke.

Hillbilly Mom's Movie Challenge v 7.0

It's Saturday, and time for this week's movie challenge. Answers
will be posted Wednesday, July 13. This will be the last movie
challenge for a while, because I am too lazy to type in the quotes.
I might try a new kind of challenge next Saturday. Stay tuned.
Good luck on this week's quotes:

1. "He looks somewhat like a mouse."

2. "Eddie says after the baby comes, I can quit one of my night jobs."

3. "It's my special award. Fra..gi...le."

4. "Seven years of college down the drain!"

5. "I can understand if you don't want to do this anymore."
"What?"
"The babysitting."
"There's no baby to sit."

6. "Kevin, you are what the French call 'le incompetant'."

7. "It's always cold. It's from a glacier."

8. "What's a handon?"
"You know what a handon is. I taught you last night."

9. "How you get all that action, without any equipment, is
beeeyooond me."

10. "You two are gonna dry up in some filthy lesbo lockdown--
with BAD lighting. I don't have to kill you to kill you."

Betty Tales

Guess what. Nothing interesting going on here. So you get another
"Betty" story. She certainly could tell a tale.

Betty was a South St. Louis girl. Some of you will know instantly
what that entails. She was outspoken on any subject, and kind of
loud and rowdy, and had a good time anywhere she went. She was
about 5 feet tall and 3 feet wide, which didn't bother her most of
the time.

One Friday night she told Bob and I that she was pissed off at some
kids outside the town's only grocery store. She said, "I came out and
these little kids were sitting in a car laughing at me. Oh....and they
weren't just laughing. One little sucker stuck his arm out the window
and pointed at me. I'd had enough. I stopped my cart and turned to
them and said, 'HEY! I KNOW I'm fat!' And that kid shut up."

Another time, we had travelled 20 miles up I-44 to the Wal-mart,
because Hooterville didn't have one back then. This was so long
ago it was just a regular little Wal-mart, not the Supercenter of today.
Hey, it was payday, and that's what we did on payday--went to
Wal-mart, Shop N Save, and Golden Corral. (Teachers really lead
glamorous lives, kids. Look into it.) Bob and I were in line behind
Betty, and heard her ask the cashier if they had any Pepsi. It was
on sale, and she wanted to stock up, but didn't see any . "Um...
no...we ran out. But we have Diet Pepsi over there." Betty said,
"No. I don't want Diet Pepsi. I might accidently lose a pound."
The cashier looked kind of embarrassed.

Winter rolled around, and Betty asked Bob and I if we'd ever
been sledding on Art Hill. It's by the St. Louis Art Museum, and
the St. Louis news stations send a reporter there for the first big
snow, to show all the city people riding sleds or cardboard or
whatever down the hill. There's a lake at the bottom, and it's kind
of a pretty scene. Bob and I said no, but we'd seen it on TV.

Betty said, "I went there a few years ago, and I got really upset.
My friend and I were riding this sled and she could not steer it
right. She just would not listen to me. A bunch of people were
there, and it was crowded, and the hill was getting packed down
and icy. So we go down the hill, and she doesn't turn it, and we
go off into the lake. It was freezing. I had on this down jacket,
and it got soaked and was all heavy, and some firemen had to
rescue us. They pulled my friend out. This fireman reached out
his hand to pull me out, but I guess I was kind of heavy with
that down jacket, cause the fireman pulled on my arm and said,
'Ohhhh F***!' and that really made me mad! A fireman shouldn't
make fun of someone, especially if it's me."

Something to Talk About

Maybe I should have titled this post "Nothing to Talk About." I have
waited all day for an idea to hit me, but it hasn't. Several cars almost
did, but no ideas. After the 3rd car pulled out in front of us today,
#1 son said, "Mom, don't you wish all cars were like bumper cars?"
Still, he couldn't give me anything good to talk about.

Then a few minutes ago I got to thinking about times I was speechless,
which are few and far between. I thought of how I really do talk too
much, especially at times I should not. Good thing faculty meetings
don't have bouncers.

Back in the day when I taught at my haunted school, we had most
of our meetings in the library. I made the mistake of sitting by my
friend "Betty" at the coaches' table. Now one of these choices alone
would have been bad enough, because all those other coaches were
men, and not very well-behaved. And just the act of sitting by Betty
made certain that I would get into trouble.

Betty taught 4th grade. I'm sure you all know what a bar-fly is. Well,
Betty was a lounge-fly. Every chance she got, she hung out in the
teachers' lounge. Now we have to be politically correct and call it
the teachers' workroom, but back then we were allowed to lounge.
I never hung out there because it was a long walk from the gym, I
didn't smoke (yes, teachers were allowed to SMOKE on SCHOOL
GROUNDS back then. Told you I was old!) and I didn't have a lot
to gossip about, being isolated down in the gym with one other teacher.

I had to go ask Betty something about our middle school girls'
basketball uniforms, way up past the lounge in the elementary
building. She had her classroom set up so that kids were facing
away from her desk, which was right by the door. I knocked and
she said, "Come on in." She was sitting at her desk with a compact,
applying lipstick. One of the boys turned around when I came in.
Betty told him, "You don't need to be turning around to see what I'm
doing, Herman. I'm going to the lounge in a few minutes and I don't
want to look like a dog." Those elementary teachers were an odd,
bunch, and Betty was their ringleader.

Getting back to the meeting. The men talked about playing golf.
One read the sports section. Betty was bored and started
commenting on people's clothes. We were being told that we
couldn't wear denim because somebody had complained to the
school board that we dressed too casually. Betty raised her hand
and said, "So your mean that Bob over there can wear his $10
polyester Wal-mart pants, but Fran can't wear her $75 denim
dress?" Yes, that's what they meant.

Betty snorted and then the secretary of CTA stood up to read
minutes from their last meeting. She was at the table right in front
of us. She looked kind of like Big Bird, but with gray hair. She
read off a stenographer's notebook. Betty snorted again and
whispered something to me. I couldn't hear, and had to ask her
twice to repeat it. Finally she whisper-shouted: "HER BUTT'S
HAVING LUNCH." I looked at Big Bird's white cotton pants,
and indeed, they were jammed up in her butt-crack. That got
me started laughing, and then Betty started laughing, and Betty's
friend Wilma, sitting at the end of Big Bird's table gave us the
stink-eye and mouthed "behave!" That made us laugh harder,
until the tears ran down our cheeks because we were trying
to laugh silently, and Wilma started laughing, and the whole
room that had been looking at Big Bird was now watching us.
The men just threw up their hands like "not our problem--we
we just sitting here listening." Just when were thought we had
stopped, one of us would look at the other, or at Wilma, and
it would start again. Whew, was I tired at the end of that
meeting!

We didn't get in trouble, but my principal, who was also athletic
director, came back to our table and said, "I want some of
whatever you two had before this meeting."

Big Blogger Challenge #13 Letter From Camp Blog

It's down to 3 of us left in the cyberhouse at the Big Blogger contest
at Rants of a Rebecca. This week Bec has challenged us to write a
letter from Camp Blog to Mommy and Daddy. Here we go:

Dear Mom and Pop,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Answers to Movie Challenge #6

The winner of this week's movie contest is Rebecca, with 8
right. Other results were le laquet and deadpanann with 1, and
thanks for tryin' Alexandrialeigh with 0. This week was kind of
hard. The clue that this was rerun season meant that I have used
these movies before, just with different quotes. This Saturday will
be different movies again.

Here are the answers:

1. "Earlier today, I heard that a young girl had fallen down a well.
I had hoped it was you." Strother Martin, the horse-trader, to
Kim Darby in True Grit.

2. "How many fingers am I holding up?" "Orange."
Diane Weist to the "Mathmagician" in Little Man Tate, after he
had fallen off a horse and hit his head.

3. "Who'd wanna rape you that you ain't already f****d?"
Cher to Meryl Streep, in Silkwood, arguing over Cher losing her
key and wanting the door left unlocked.

4. "Receptionist? Dark hair? Talks like she's chewing her face?"
Christina Applegate to Joanna Cassidy in Don't Tell Mom the
Babysitter's Dead.

5. "They mostly come at night. Mostly."
"Newt" to Sigourney Weaver in Aliens.

6. "Plug it up! Plug it up!
Girls in the locker room to Sissy Spacek in Carrie.

7. "Piedmont, South Dakota. Tell anyone, and I'll have to kill you."
Maria Bello to Piper Perabo in Coyote Ugly.

8. "Don't let The Man get you down."
Rory Cochrane in Empire Records. A couple of you guessed
Office Space for this one. It may be there, too, but I haven't seen
it all the way through.

9. "Kill him. Kill him a lot."
Paul Reubens in Buffy the Vampire Slayer.

10. "See, here's how it works. The train moves, not the station."
Jon Lovitz to "Marla Hooch" in A League of Their Own.

Holiday at the Hillbilly Mansion

One time my sister asked, "Dad, when is the Fourth of July?"
(I know. But we still claim her.) Dad told her "Between the
third and the fifth of July." Then she understood why we were
laughing at her.

I'm so glad we had that revolution thingy so we can have a day
off work to BBQ. What? That's not what it was about? Those
triangle-hat people didn't say "It'll be done in a minute" and that's
how they got the name "minutemen?" Have I told you that I'm not
very good with history? Most of what I know is from helping
6th-12th graders with it every day. (No, people, I have not
forgotten what this day is really about. I am not insulting the people
who have fought for our freedom. #2 stepson has been back from
his year in Iraq for a couple months now, and says he wants to
return. So I don't need no lecturin' on my patriotism, thank you.)

Not much of a celebration went on here at the Hillbilly Mansion
this year. Hillbilly Husband was on the back porch BBQing, which
is his major talent. We are not the party people we were before
we had kids. Well, the kids we have together, anyway, because
I don't remember the older boys slowing us down one bit back
in the day when I first met HH.

In past years we have driven to town to pick up Hillbilly Grandma
and Hillbilly Great-Grandma and take them to a city fireworks
display. We'd pack a cooler of soda and snacks for the kids, which
they would demolish in the first 5 minutes, then wander around
asking "Is it time yet?"

HH took #1 son on a winery tour yesterday. I know. But I
didn't want to go. They came back around 2:00 and proceeded
to the barn to burn some cardboard. No recycling for us rednecks--
release that carbon back into the atmosphere! Right after he lit a
big pile, the wind kicked up and #1 hightailed it to the house. HH
had to stay and put out a "little fire" as he called it. Then the rain
poured down. Lucky the BBQ area is on the porch.

#2 son was excited to smell that I was making "doubled eggs."
I don't much like that peeled-egg smell myself. He tried to help
me peel some potatoes, but decided they were too slimy. #1
was a big help with the potatoes and chopping onions. I felt like
Tom Sawyer. "Now I can't let just anybody peel these taters.
What'll ya give me if I let you do my work for me?"

We set off fireworks around 9:00. We had two minor casualties.
#2 son grabbed the glowing ember end of a punk, and was
carrying on about how he had a number two degree burn like
he got a Hillbilly Grandma's from making Rice Krispie treats.
(That is his name for a 2nd degree burn.) #1 son made fun of
him until karma taught him the lesson of "Who's the biggest
crybaby now?" by dropping a spark on his neck while he was
cavorting with a sparkler. You would have thought the kid
needed a skin graft, the way he squalled. It didn't even leave
a mark. I know, because he insisted "Here, Mom. Use the
light of my camera." (Holds camera to the back of his neck.)
"Can you see it?" He was sorely disappointed that little brother
won the game of "Who gets more sympathy for being hurt?"

The kids did not beg for as many fireworks this year, what with
one being preoccupied with driving, and the other with GameBoy.
HH always buys some after the 4th and keeps a few fireworks
for later, since we live at the corner of nowhere and Hooterville,
and can set them off any time. The dog and cats don't like it much,
but I don't like them running laps around the porch at night. I
guess we're even.

It Really IS All About ME

This is one of the Mysteries of My Universe, but there wasn't room
for it. So it gets its own post. Put on your steel-toed boots, cause
we're goin' for a ride, and I don't want to run over any toes. I am
about to violate the first rule of blog ettiquette: Don't talk about
blog ettiquette. It is uncharacteristic of me to complain (to those
of you who know me personally: Pick yourself up off the floor and
reattach your a$$), but I can not help myself.

Why are some people, as my Hillbilly Mama would say, "Just not
nice?"

Several weeks ago, I was reading one of my daily blogs, and they
were discussing a topic I had posted on a while back. It was very
general, and I added my opinion to the comments. There were
already comments in the teens or twenties, and I did not feel like I
was intruding on any personal discussion. But apparently I had
crashed the popular kids' party, because when I went there the next
day, one of them had posted a kind of snotty comment ridiculing
my redneck lifestyle, and the blog owner joined in. So you know
what? I can get that treatment in real life, and don't need it from the
blog world. So I haven't been back, and removed it from my links.
If you don't want to play nice with me, I'll take my blog and go home.
Oh, I see them around the blogosphere, posting comments in other
places, pretending to be Nicey McNicerton, but I know they're not.

I will not say who it is, because my Hillbilly Mama taught me that
if you can't say anything nice, just put it in your blog. So I did, and
I brought all of you back to 7th grade with me, because "childish"
is my middle name. I am as bad as those crybabies on Survivor
and Big Brother, whining because somebody lied to them. Imagine
the nerve of some people, putting their own opinions in their own
blogs!

Now I'm sure you are thinking: But Hillbilly Mom, aren't you
being not nice by criticizing them in your blog? Yep. They can
do whatever they want in their blogs, and if I don't like it I don't
have to read it. So I won't. I played nice for weeks, and didn't
bring it up until this stuff really started griping my gizzard. Now
that it's out, I feel better.

I can say what I want, because here it is all about me, you know?
I am backing my large GMME MEkon down my driveway at
#1 ME Avenue, cruising up to the Main Street of MEville,
listening to K-ME on the radio, pulling into Sonic for a large
cherry diet ME, with a side order of cheese-ME and as a
special treat in the bag, a peppermMEnt, then hanging a left
to get on ME Boulevard, swinging past the ME factory where
they make plaques of my inspirational sayings such as "People
Piss ME Off," down past the fields of soyMEans, and up the
on-ramp to the MEway that is my life, taking all of you along
for the ride. Oh, enough about ME already. Rant over.

Mysteries of My Universe Part 2

Here are some more questions that have been traipsing through
my head while I should be cleaning up the old Hillbilly Mansion:

When was I elected Disposer-of-Rotten-Fruit? It must have been
soon after my appointment as Thrower-Awayer-of-Empty-Soda-
Cans, and it is hindering my duties as Chief-Picker-Upper-of-
Dirty-Underwear-Lying-on-the-Floor-or-Couch, but is much
more prestigious than my lifetime term as Sniffer-of-Milk-to-See-
if-it-is-Still-Good. Hmm...solved the when, but what makes me
more qualified for this position than the other 3 people in this house?

Do waitresses really think that hovering over your table to snatch
plates that they deem you are finished with, and vacuuming under
your table while you are eating and it is only 12:45 in the afternoon
will get them a better tip?

Why do our cats eat the fish food, the dog eat the cat food, and
a rogue raccoon bend up the handles and remove the lid of a large
plastic trash can to eat the dog food?

How can I let my 7-year-old run free for days, barely paying any
attention to him, and he is fine--yet he is with Hillbilly Grandma
from 6:00 p.m. to 10:00 a.m., and comes home with a knot on
his forehead (he owes HG a flashlight), a scratch on his right cheek,
a deeper scratch on his left shoulder, and a scrape on his left ankle?

Who does that doctor's receptionist think she is, telling me "You
can have a seat, Maam," when I am signing in my name like I am
supposed to and then never call me back up to verifiy insurance
information or take my $20 copay so that after I finally see the
doctor at 12:50 for an 11:00 appointment and the next-appointment-
scheduler-girl doesn't want my check I have to pry open her little
glass window and leave my check totally unattended in her
hermetically sealed little corner of the universe until her lunch
break is over?

Where does Hillbilly Husband get the idea that he can rinse his
plate with food still left on it even though we don't have a garbage
disposal and the imitation crab meat from his Wal-mart Seafood
Salad is too big to go down the drain and that means that I will
have to pick up that wet (gag) food and throw it in the wastebasket?

Enough mysteries already. I feel a rant coming on for tomorrow.