My New Phone Line

Take a look at my new phone line. He's right purty, ain't he?
But doesn't he at least belong in a shallow grave? As you can
see, he runs right beside #1 son's $300-car-cruising-route.

Here's the scoop. Hillbilly Husband stayed home from work
due to his pneumonia and pre-MRI knee. (Please, please, please,
let him tell me he put on pants by 2:30 pm for the telephone man).
So he found out that there was indeed a problem with the outside
phone line. Everything was not just fine, as the SBC reps kept
telling me after "running a check."

First cat out of the bag (as HH likes to say), Phone Man found
out that there was a break in the line. HH immediately confessed,
"You should know that my son cut through the line when putting in
an electric line for me, and I spliced it with regular wire, not phone
wire." Everybody make a Note to Self: If I ever commit a crime,
do not ask HH to give me an alibi. This was HH's 24 year old son,
not our 10 year old. And it happened 2 years ago, with no phone
problems until now.

The line was cut through completely in a spot under some gravel,
which is where #1 son parks his $300 car between rides.
Apparently, the constant driving over the gravel caused the rocks
to sever the telephone line, even though HH had enclosed it in metal
conduit. It is really the fault of SBC, who originally ran the phone line
there, and buried it about 2 inches at the deepest, and left it on the top
of the ground in other spots. When HH decided to pour 3 loads of
gravel there, he enclosed it in metal conduit.

So HH tells the Phone Man that he has been wanting to disc his
field in front of the barn, but was afraid to because of that phone
wire. Phone Man said that he might as well run new wire instead
of splicing the old one to get cut again. So instead of running the
shortest way as the crow flies, he ran it across our front field by
the gravel road, and down the sinkhole line. Picture the old phone
line as the hypotenuse of a right triangle, and the new one as the
two sides. Or not. I know Mabel will get it, even if nobody else
does.

Shh....HH was not really planning to disc the field. He wanted
the phone line to run straight down from the road, not meander
across the property. Phone Man said that within a week, they
should be back with a trencher to bury Mr.Phone Line in a
shallow grave. Then I will be able to rest in peace that my
internet service will remain intact, and #1 son can go back to
driving his car.

I'm Baaaaaack!

I know what was wrong with my telephone...but I'll never teeeeeellllll.
Sure I will. Tomorrow. Maybe I can get a picture of my new phone
line.

I spent from 4:30 until 9:00 on this wonderful holiday Friday night
taking Hillbilly Husband to get an MRI. These medical people must
have been taking lessons in bad customer service from SBC. His
appointment was for 5:45. He got in at 6:45. Then it took an hour
for the MRI. Oh, and it was in the Festus/Crystal City area, which
is a 45 minute drive for us.

I topped off the gas tank by spending $ 42.97 for 14 gallons of gas.
We arrived home to a spectacular light show courtesy of Hillbilly
Mama's Chevy Blazer. It was parked in the yard with the flashers
going mad. I wondered if it had been doing this for 4 hours straight.
HM said about 20 minutes before we got home, she had been
digging in her purse for her keys, and must have set it off. She lost
the keys at the doctor's office Monday when she took #1 to see
if his arm was broken. She found them on a waiting room chair
when they came out of the exam room. Good thing "Fitty" is after
Redneck Diva, or HM might be inside a barrel right now.

So...#1's arm may or may not be broken. Doctor said to give it
two weeks, and if it still has a bone sticking out on the side, come
back and he'll x-ray it. HH has what I believe to be a torn medial
meniscus. Hey, I haven't been to med school, but I watch ER.
Oh, and he has pneumonia which he was x-rayed and tested for
two weeks ago, but his doctor's nurse "forgot" to call with the
results. Here a quack, there a quack, Redneckland is full of
quack quacks.

SBC. Chant With Me

SBC. Sucks Big C..... Well, I just can't go there. But feel free to
chant if you agree. Here's my saga:

Aug 30 Report static on line since Aug 26. SBC says it will be fixed
by Sept 1, 8:00 pm. Leave Hillbilly Mama's number if questions.

Aug 31 SBC message: Line was checked and no problems detected.
Still have static, even on their message.
Call back and tell SBC problem is outside the house, we checked it.
SBC says they won't come alone with a loose dog in the yard.
I said the line was clear for now, but static comes and goes. If it is still
clear in a.m., I will call and cancel repair. Hillbilly Mama on call to
drive out and babysit dog.

Sept 1 Static again. Hillbilly Mama waits home for 2nd day in case
they need her. 3:50 SBC calls Hillbilly Husband (home early from
work) and asks if line is clear. HH can't make a decision, so tells them
to call back at 4:00 for me. 4:15, I call SBC. They say ticket was
cleared since no problem on line. I said no, still have static. SBC is
sorry, they'll have to put in another repair ticket for Sept 2 by 8:00
p.m. Oh, and they may not be able to call Hillbilly Mama, because
"many of our repairmen don't carry cell phones in the field."

All right, you lame excuse for a phone company! It is ooooonnnnnnn!!!

Let me tell you people something...I live in the freakin' country. A dog
in the yard? It is 10 acres. That dog could be anywhere in a 4 square
mile area. He doesn't even bark! My brother-in-law used to work as
a meter-reader for Union Electric (that's before he became mayor).
Do you know how he dealt with dogs? A Louisville Slugger, baby!
He wasn't afraid of any dogs.

OK. What kind of a phone company has employees who can't be
reached "in the field?" It's a phone company! They can't give their
employees cell phones? Here's an idea...they just plug that equipment
into any telephone thingy they find, and they can call in. Isn't that a
novel idea?

I can't go on. It is too bizarre. A phone company that can't reach its
employees during the day. And I pay for it. Time to get out the tin
cans and twine again.

This and That

Tin Can Phone
SBC left a message on my phone that they ran a check and everything
was fine. I could hardly hear it through the static. Go figure. Hillbilly
Husband took a phone outside and plugged it in and same old static.
This proves the problem is not inside the house. It is in the phone
line that the good people of SBC ran from a pole by the gravel road
down through the field by our barn, across a stand of trees to the old
Hillbilly Mansion. It is buried in a shallow grave about 2 inches deep
and 400 feet long. I will be calling SBC again tonight if I can make
a connection, or I will go out on the porch with the cell phone, since
it does not get good reception in the house. I must be living in a vortex
of bad phone service. I can blog if I take 45 minutes to get to the
new post screen, and then another 15 minutes trying to reconnect
and publish. Get your act together, SBC! This happened before the
hurricane. In good weather.

Back in the day, my Hillbilly Dad worked for Southwestern Bell.
That was before they were declared a monopoly and had to break
up into a jillion Baby Bells. The service was better back then, in my
opinion. It wasn't broke, and when they fixed it (meaning the giant
phone company) we ended up with higher bills and poorer service.
Bah, humbug.

Student Question of the Day
"Do you take this desk to the other building with you?" This is a
large wooden desk, about 4 feet x 2.5 feet. Lay off the crack, girlie!
"Uh, yes. I hoist it onto my shoulder, carry it down 2 flights of stairs,
heave it onto the roof of my SUV, haul it home with me, then the
next morning I lug it into the high school building, use it for 3 hours,
have my strongest boys carry it back to the SUV, then schlepp it
back up the stairs just in time for your class." And to think you just
asked a couple days ago: "Do teachers ever have to do any work?"

Horn Tooting
#1 son is not exactly a wallflower. He wants to be in the Tech Club,
which appears to meet after school one day a week, and might
get to work on computer equipment in the elementary building. It
is only open to 4th and 5th graders. He just started 5th. To apply,
each student must have a letter of recommendation from a parent
or a teacher.

Apparently, I am not good enough, even though I am a parent and
a teacher. He has a glowing letter from the elementary librarian,
who seems to be one of the main people in charge of all things tech
in that building. But was this good enough for my son? Noooo!
Nothing would do but he had to ask the Superintendent of Schools
for a recommendation for 5th grade Tech Club.

I tried to discourage him. "You already have a great recommendation.
You only need one. He is a busy man. You can't just walk in and talk
to him. You have to make an appointment with his secretary." Next
thing I know, I'm putting #2 son into the hot hot hot SUV and turn
around and see that #1 has gone into the Superintendent building.
I went in to find him chatting with one of the secretaries, who told
him that someone was already in the office, but she would give Mr.
Superintendent his message. #1 reminded her "I need it by 3:00 pm
Friday." Man....that kid has guts!

And he fixed my printing problem at the high school that the techies
there had messed up last week. From a company we contract our
computer stuff to. The guy in charge told #1 last year..."I can't wait
until you're old enough to come work for us." To which #1 replied,
"I will be your competition." Guts, I tell you!

Disabled

My tin can and twine phone system has been giving me fits since
last Friday. I can not connect most of the time. More when my
technology improves.

Another Day in Paradise

We are back into the school routine. I know, because I am busy
answering questions.

How do you change Kelvin to Celcius? Subtract 273.

How do you make a graph? Time on the x-axis, temp. on the y-axis,
label the graph and each axis.

Why won't your computer open my report on this disk? Hmm...that's
a mystery of the universe. Could be because you didn't save in RTF,
but in Word 6.0, which we don't have, and we can't get the dialogue
box to select "All files."

Why can't I breathe? My chest has hurt since I sat on top of my
brother's girlfriend's car and she hit the gas and I fell over and hit
my back on the spoiler. Uh...you just answered your own question.

What are SI units? That's a French term, abbreviated, for scientific unit.

Can you help me with these 15 questions for Dating & Marriage?
Well, I can, but then wouldn't that be me doing your homework?

Can you tell him to sit somewhere else? No. He has as much right
to sit there as you. And you are more annoying than him, anyway.

Why are all these wrong? Let's see...math answers with no work
shown. Last year she caught you writing in answers as she read
them off. Why do you think?

Can you get some hunting magazines for us to read? Sure, because
at least you will be reading.

Can I use your calculator? Green or purple?

Do you have a stapler? Uh, yeah. I'm a teacher. They tend to provide
me with things like that.

What is loess? Fine-grained, windblown sediment.

Can I get a drink? Yes. You came in, finished your work, brought it
to me to check, and didn't have to be told.

Can you read some more from "Freak the Mighty?" Certainly. Fine
literature soothes the savage middle school beast.

Why isn't "exclamination" in the dictionary? Oh, I don't know, maybe
because IT'S NOT A WORD? Or maybe it's what the doctor does
when a mollusk feels all cold and sweaty.

Do teachers ever have to do any work? Nope. We are here purely
for your entertainment pleasure.

Isn't a tangent one of those things kind of like an orange? No. It's
one of those things kind of like my last nerve fraying when you
ask these cutesy questions.

My nose is bleeding. Go to the bathroom. Will I get a tardy?
No. Leaking body fluids take precedence over hallway etiquette.

What gets ink out of shorts? Yo Mama.

Can I get a drink? No. All you brought to class was a dismantled
ink pen, and you sat on the floor, and took off your shoes. No
drink for you!

What is 3 times 8? A clue that it's time to learn your multiplication
tables that you should have learned in 4th grade.

Can I use her calculator? Absolutely not. Calculators are not
permitted in middle school.

How long do we have left in here? Too long for both of us.

I just missed my bus...what should I do? Uh...close your eyes and
click your heels?

Did bus 5 leave yet? Are you sure? Yes and yes. I have duty. I can
not leave until the last bus is gone. I am positive. Why didn't you
get on? We have 3 duty teachers. Why were you alone in a class
using the computer? Did you think someone would come to notify
you personally, so you didn't have to wait in the gym with the rest
of second round? Are you related to that chick over there clicking
her heels? She missed first round due to lollygagging in the hall.

This was an easy day. I really did answer some actual questions,
with actual answers and not smart-alecky ones.

Big Fat Beaver

No, silly. The animal. I wanted a catchy title. But I don't think I really
want the people who would Google this. Be careful what you wish
for, huh?

Yesterday was shopping day, and I saw some odd things, even for
Redneckland. First cat out of the bag (as my Hillbilly Husband likes
to say) I had to do some of the grocery shopping. Now, I can't just
go to one store. My children prefer Save-a-Lot brand fruit roll-ups
to take in their school lunches. And I am parital to their baby wipes
(for cleaning my white-boards at school) and their shedded "Mexican
4-Cheese Blend." It ain't free, Redneck Diva, but it's the next best thing.
After that, I had to fill up the gas tank, give Wal-mart all my money,
withdraw some cash (from the real bank, not the 1st National Bank
of Hillbilly aka a sock buried in the backyard), pay the house payment,
and pick up my Sonic Large Cherry Diet Coke. Here begins the
adventure:

A 100 Year Old Cashier. As I pushed my cart up to the Save-A-Lot
check-out counter, I saw that they had a new cashier. And I don't
mean new as in a sweet young thing just off the turnip truck. This gal's
truck had been around the globe a few times. She looked about 100.
She was older than the people I saw at the jury duty orientation. I
think the last cash register she could recall was a pencil nub sharpened
with a pocket knife that you lick (the nub, not the knife) and then write
on a piece of white butcher paper and do your cipherin'. Seriously. A
woman this old should not have to work. I felt bad for her. She gave it
a good try. I hope she makes it. What a sad state of our economy that
tomorrow's corpses have to stand all day just to make prescription and
gas money.

DeMolay Boys Pumping Gas For Tips. I pulled into Casey's for gas,
and saw that it was crawling with what looked to be 15-16 year old
boys. No. I do this at work. Please please please let them leave NOW.
I thought some group was on a road trip, and had stopped their caravan
for gas, soda, and beef jerky. Before my door was even open, a young
Stepford lad had popped up and asked if he could pump my gas for tips,
as part of his DeMolay group's activity. I told him no thanks, I preferred
to pump my own.

Now don't get me wrong--these young men were very polite. But they
had that pent-up nerd energy. They stood and talked about ambition, not
frivolous things. Remember Tom Cruise and the "Future Enterprisers"
in Risky Business, who designed the "Message Minder" thingy? I think
DeMolay is something like that. They are a service organization for young
men, "helping develop civic awareness, personal responsibility, and
leadership skills." At least that's what their website says. I knew some
guys in high school who were in it, and they were the nerdiest of the
nerds. They called it "Dumble-A."

I applaud their efforts. They are the kind of people we want running
the country and changing our diapers when we are old. But who gave
them this pump gas for tips idea? What is the main thing people
complain about around here? The price of gas. I spent $56, and the
guy behind me spent $74. Why would anyone want to give these boys
money to pump gas? They would be better off going door-to-door
and offering to mow lawns or open pickle jars or program VCRs.

Big Fat Beaver. There it was, running along the sewer-creek in the
neighborhood of my boys' old daycare. It was so fat, it waddled as
it ran. The rolls of fat rippled under its sleek pelt. I wish I knew the
smart guy who thought "If I skin that thing, I bet it'd make a good hat!"
I guess we owe part of our country's settlement to him and those odd
French people who wanted to be stylin' in beaver hats, so our little area
of the country got explored.

A Man Driving a Motorized Kid's Scooter in the Road. It was a
red scooter. The kind with a wheel in the front, a wheel in the back,
and a long thing in between to stand on. It had handlebars for steering.
Normally, the kid pushes with one foot to ride it around. This one had
a motor. The guy stood on it with both feet and gunned the throttle
on the handlebar. I guess he gave his gas money to the DeMolay boys,
and had to downsize. I wanted to stop and tell that fool to stay out of
the road, because he wouldn't even make a dent if I ran over him. But
I didn't, because I had bigger fish to fry. Not really. I don't cook fish.
It is just an expression.

A Man Hammering a Mailbox With a Hammer. I don't think it was a
rage thing, though he did look disgusted. And what better to hammer
something with than a hammer? Around here, mailboxes have short
life-spans, what with those good ol' redneck boys driving around beating
the snot out of them in rousing games of mailbox baseball. Watch that
movie Stand By Me if you don't know what I'm talking about. This one
was kind of in town, which makes it unusual. It was on the outer road,
where a whole gaggle of oglers could have seen the dastardly crime
while speeding through the red light out on the highway.

It is a felony, you know, to tamper with the U.S. mail. I tried to report
some kids one time, who kept bragging about their mailbox shenanigans.
Sadly, I was given the run-around because I called the postmaster in
my county, but the crimes were in a neighboring county, and I didn't
have the phone number for their postmaster, and hey, I can't spend
my entire prep hour all week trying to prosecute some juvenile delinquents.

A Mouse in My Mailbox. No, this is not a female version of pickle in
your pocket. Though if it catches on, I will take full credit. I stopped
to pick up the mail as I returned home from a hard day of shopping.
Our mailbox is on the county road, with about 10 others, in a wooden
case that someone out here built to discourage the local mailbox baseball
league.

I stepped out of the car and walked around to the mailboxes. Something
scurried out of the little cubby our box is in, up over the top of the wooden
case, and down a 2 x 4 that is bracing the whole shebang because the
frustrated batters now have taken to ramming the whole monstrosity with
their pick-up trucks.

Eek! It was a mouse, about six inches long, not including the tail. Please
tell me mice get this big. There was no mistaking this thing for a squirrel.
HH tells me it was a rat. #1 son says, "That sounds like the size of the rat
Genius (his cat) was eating over at the barn the other day."

It was in the cubby, next to our pipe mailbox (I'll get you a picture in a
few days), in some shredded paper. The paper that the day before had
been a rolled-up ad paper that nobody wants but someone keeps stuffing
in our mailboxes. They can't do that. It is a federal crime, you know.
The local newspaper won't even deliver to your mailbox if you have a
subscription--you have to put up a yellow plastic paper holder. I told
HH he needs to get rid of those papers, so Mr. Mouse Rat can't shred
them for a nest. On the way out to supper last night, we stopped and HH
reached in...and threw the papers over into the woods behind the
mailboxes. That's redneck recycling.