Homegirl and Uncle Joe

Well, it seems as if Rebecca is up to her old tricks of making me
look foolish. Oh, all right. I can do that pretty well myself without
any help from the land of Beclakia. Since Beclakia has no taxes,
Rebecca is raising revenue by selling my soul on a T-shirt.

This is not such a big deal, I suppose, for what she could have
done. But there comes a time when I have to make my stand.

I forgave her for this:
















I forgave her for allowing a cheese sandwich and a sheep-on-
a-unicycle to get more votes than me in the Big Blogger Final.

And I forgave her for declaring herself the winner of every redneck
contest I cooked up. But now, Rebecky, IT IS OOOONNNN!!!!
Beware.

Speaking of scary mail-order images, here is one I found while
browsing for some mail-order hillbilly Christmas gift ideas:


















This is not my Uncle Joe. I found him in the Miles Kimball
catalog. My apologies in advance to the family of the real
Uncle Joe. That said, let the snarking begin.

Is this creepy, or what? Didn't Uncle Joe have a better
picture to remember him by? He reminds me of Montgomery
Burns, Homer Simpson's boss, with hair. And what's with
that suit? Is the hanger still in it? Cause it doesn't hang very
flatteringly on Uncle Joe's shoulders.

And how about that expression on his face? The real Uncle
Joe may have been a moral, churchgoing saint. But this photo
makes him look like some butt-pinching perv who just won
a backstage pass to the Hicksville Blue-Ribbon Hiney Contest.
Say it ain't so, Joe.

Don't even think about it, Rebecca. Step away from Photoshop.
NOW! Do not compound your crime and attract the redneck
wrath of Hillbilly Mom. Just Say No! I am warning you. No more.
Vengeance will be mine.

Quackety Quack

Day 2 of Hillbilly Husband's hospital stay. Now they think the cellulitis
is gout. Go figure. HH has had gout before. Says this does not feel
the same. Now his doctor is more concerned about the pneumonia.
They still tell him it looks like he will get to go home on Monday.

HH said they wrapped up his foot last night, and it felt a lot better.
Then this morning, the foot doctor intern came back with someone
even less important than herself, who had never seen a "cellulitis
foot," so they cut it open. HH's words. He meant the wrap, not the
foot. Then they left it. Of course it swelled, and started to hurt again.
I told HH to ask them to wrap it again. He said he did, but the nurses
said they are only allowed to give him the antibiotics, the breathing
treatment, and the pain meds--it's hands-off the foot. The foot doctor
must approve. HH said the foot doctor was coming tonight. I asked
if he was sure, since she was there and cut off the bandage. HH said
yes, the REAL foot doctor, not the intern. I had to leave with the
whiney kids, and told HH to ask the nurses if they could call the
foot doctor about the wrap, since nobody was going to do it if he
didn't stick up for himself. About 2 hours later, he reported that the
foot intern had come back and wrapped it, and it felt better. HH said
she said she had not planned to come back until tomorrow--the real
foot doctor was not coming at all. He had looked at the x-rays and
thought it was gout. These people need to get their act together.

****************************************************

On a lighter note, my students gave me a good laugh again today.
One of them brought up a girl from my class a couple years ago,
who always had a good story to tell. One morning, she told us she
almost got dog-bitten the night before. During supper, she kind of
smarted off to her dad, and he yelled at her, and she said, "I'm
going for a walk!" She left the house and started down the road.
She passed a neighbor's house, and the dog started following her.
"I looked back, and here he came. I walked a little faster, because
they usually keep him tied up. He went faster. I started to run, and
he chased me. I was really starting to panic." Someone asked her,
"How did you get away." And she replied, "After I threw that
hot dog I had been carrying, he left me alone." Duh.

Another group started talking about Mrs. A. They had complained
earlier in the year that she was selling water to her students for a
dollar a bottle. They were outraged. A bottle of water should only
cost $.50, they said. I told them they didn't have to buy it. One
said, "I don't. I bring my own. It's just the idea of it. She is making
too much money off the kids. I know it is for her club, but that isn't
right. Why does she have to be so greedy? She is making $18.00
profit off a case of water. She should only be making $6.00"
(Hey! They've been doing math!!!)

Today another one said, "Just do like my friend. She says she steals
it. She just goes to the refrigerator and takes one. A lot of other
people do, too." Because apparently, two wrongs make a right.

If it walks like a duck, and quacks like a duck...

...it's a quack redneck doctor! Hillbilly Husband is in a local redneck
hospital tonight. It wasn't so much the pneumonia that went untreated
for 2 weeks because the doctor's receptionist "forgot" to call him
with the results of his blood test, or the torn cartilage in his knee
that mysteriously stopped hurting on Wednesday. It was the new
pain in his foot, which turned out to be cellulitis. A foot specialist
told him he will be in the hospital until Monday, unless there are
complications.

This foot lady told HH that she did not see any signs of injury to
the skin that could have led to cellulitis. He asked if it could be
related to the pneumonia. She said it was possible, but sometimes
they never find out what caused it. Hmm....sounds quacky to me.

My Hillbilly Mama said HH is in the better of the two local hospitals.
I hope so. He had been there an hour and a half and still had no
IV or antibiotics or pain meds when I saw him. The phlebotomist
came in and said, "Ya don't got diabetes, do ya? You're supposed
to be in Bed One. You're Mr. Somethingorother, aren't you?" She
was looking for some other guy. Then she said, "Oh, I guess he went
home." Don't they need to keep track of that kind of stuff? I called
back to later to give them information on HH's prescriptions, and a
petulant nurse said, "This is Kim. Hold on." Then I was cut off. Ain't
my phone now, folks.

HH said he picked up his little plastic jug urinal thingy, and when he
took off the lid, there was some yellow liquid in it. He called the
nurse, who was a male RN, who said, "You've got to be kidding."
HH said he wished. HH said Man-nurse left the room " with a
murdering look that you say I have sometimes." (Fitty? Do you
live in these here parts?)

HH also said Man-nurse tried twice to get the IV in, and had a
girly-nurse try it, and finally they got it in somewhere. They told
him maybe it was because of the pain. Do your veins clench up
when you're in pain? That's a new one for me. Cause don't they
usually just pop it in where it's just a vein under the skin, not go
drillin' down deep in some tense muscle?

#1 son found out after school that HH was in the hospital. On
the way over there, he said, "I'm not trying to be mean or anything,
but if Dad isn't OK, are you going to look for someone else?"
I said, "Let's let the body get cold first, then we'll think about
that." Now don't everybody go calling 1-800-BAD-MOM.
It was a joke. #1 can take a joke.

#2 son waited all of 2 minutes of visiting HH, and said, "Can't
we go now?" Good gracious, them boy young 'uns loves their
Daddy! HH took it pretty well. And on the way home, #1 even
said, "Mom, as long as Dad's in the hospital, can you not mock
him? As soon as he gets out, we'll need to do it again, though."

So I am glad that HH called the doctor again, and hounded them
until they would see him about that foot thingy, because this morning
it looked normal. No swelling, no redness. Nothing. Except he said
the pain was excruciating. By the time I saw him this afternoon, that
foot was puffy and red and hot. Good thing he didn't go yesterday
when there was nothing to see, or no doubt they would have sent
him home again to wait out another weekend.

Quack...quack...quack.

Be Considerate!

I do not tolerate whiny people well. Today my students and I had
a little conversation:

She made me stop running in the hall. I can't get another tardy.
Then you shouldn't be late.
I've got 8. One more and I get kicked out for two days.
Then be on time.
Mr. Y gives a tardy if you don't turn in your homework. That's not fair.
Then turn in your homework.
Well, he knows we'll forget it sometimes. Why can't he be considerate?
He's making you be responsible.
Nobody likes him anyway.
His job is not to be liked. It's to make sure you learn Language I.
Hey, that's what he told us!
Why should he take late work? What if all 140 students did that?
Should he have to take time to look up the assignments on computer
and enter them for everyone? Why don't you be considerate?
Well, I had mine done but it was in my locker, and he gave me a tardy.
It's a shame you already had 7 others, isn't it?
Why can't we get a petition to get a teacher fired? We got in trouble
last year when we tried it with Mr. Z.
Hmm...I don't know...could it be...because you used school time and
disrupted learning?
I don't know why they kick us out for tardies or missing too many days.
Last year I missed a lot!
That's nothing to be proud of.
They tell us we have to be here, and then they kick us out. But if you
say you're going to drop out, they beg you to stay. How much sense
does that make?
A school has to have rules. It's called school, not Do Whatever You
Feel Like Whenever You Want To Do It Place.
I don't know why we can't.
Because then we would graduate people who can't hold a job because
they can't get up and go to work if they don't want to.
Well, it's not fair to give tardies for not having your work.
Didn't he tell you this the first day?
Yeah, he talked all about it.
Then why should it be a problem unless you plan on not turning in
your work? That's pretty much what you're saying, isn't it? I've heard
enough about how everything isn't fair. Be on time, turn in work, and
you won't have to worry about it!

MAN! Some people just don't get it!

HH, Drinking Teacher, and the Accidental Kiss

No, these three things are not related, but they are what I have to
talk about today.

My Hillbilly Husband got a reprieve from the hospital admission.
He still has pneumonia, but he got a shot in the butt and an $8.00
inhaler, and a stay of admission until Thursday. And also two days
off from work. Well, I'll be working, so he'll have to find new guests
for his pity party.

HH got his knee report from the radiologist. A torn cartilage. WooHoo!
Ain't I smart? I diagnosed it. Well, I had one myself twice. And I
might as well mention that I thought it was the medial meniscus, but
it is the lateral meniscus. Well, I always say, a meniscus is a meniscus.
He goes next Tuesday to see an orthopedic surgeon about it.

Next on the agenda...third hour today one of my older students said,
out of the blue, "I saw Mr. X at the Labor Day Picnic, and he was
drinking beer. He had one of those pitchers, carrying it around."
Okaaayyy. What am I supposed to say to that? I mean, teachers
have lives too, you know. It was not a school event, but in the city
park of a neighboring town. I just kind of shrugged, and said, "A lot
of people go to the Labor Day Picnic."

Here is what I wanted to say. I don't doubt that Mr. X has been
known to drink a beer. I DO doubt that he was walking around
with a pitcher, because Mr. X is known for being....how you say...
CHEAP! He is the guy who brings a loaf of white bread to the
Thanksgiving potluck dinner. But thank goodness he doesn't
bring that icky creamed corn and cornmeal mush milky slushy
casserole that I bit into and wanted to spit out. (I think I just
threw up a little bit in my mouth. Sorry, Mabel, I know your buddy
brought one of those TWO corny casseroles, but it was the worst
thing I ever tasted, and that includes the cold mushy peas that my dad
forced me to eat when I was 8, four hours after supper, sitting in the
dark kitchen of our 50-foot trailer home, until it was bedtime and I had
to eat them before I could get up from the table. It's not child abuse,
people, just redneck child-rearin').

And the final story, which I think wins the prize for the most
interesting student statement today, even over the beer-drinking:
"Oh, I kissed him by accident one time in fifth grade!"

Yeah, right. I don't buy it. Kissing by accident. Here's the story.
It seems this little girl hated this boy who sat in front of her. She
was going "blah, blah, blah" and making faces at the back of
his head while he was griping about her to the boy in front of
him. He must have been tipped off that she was making faces
at him behind his head, because he whirled around quickly to
catch her, saying "Would you just knock it off?!" When he did,
his open mouth hit her flapping tongue, and they "kissed." Oh,
the horror! They both started spitting and choking and all the
other kids had a good laugh. Now that I believe.

That Ain't No Way to Treat Hillbilly Mom

Yesterday I promised to out Hillbilly Husband as a worse caretaker
of me when I'm sick than I am of him when he's sick. Did you follow
that? Here is a short history of his imaginary crimes. Let's start with
something big, shall we?

Delivering the #1 Son. The day I went into labor, HH had driven
me all over creation and back in a 1980 Chevy Silverado that needed
shocks. This was apparent to me every time we hit a bump, which was
often, because we were driving around the South 40 of my grandma's
Christmas tree farm, trying to pick out a tree. We had HH's two boys
with us. They were 14 and 13 then, and four of us were crammed into
the cab of that pick-up truck. But I was forgiving...hey, it was December
11...Christmas was a-comin'.

That evening, HH took the boys back to their mom's house, and
went to visit his 80-year-old friend. No matter that I told him I wasn't
feeling too well. HH said, "I visit him every Sunday. It's just right up
the street. You know the number. " (1994. Before cell phones in
Redneckland). I remember well. I was watching The Simpsons. It
came on at 6:00 pm. By 6:20, I was having contractions 5 minutes
apart. I called HH. He said, "I just got here. I'll be there in a few
minutes." This guy lived half a mile from us. HH got home after 7:00.
I was standing up, leaning over the back of the couch, because it
hurt to sit or stand. I told HH my bag was packed, and I was ready
to go. He said, "OK, I'll be right there." I went into the kitchen for
a drink, (No, silly. Water.) because I didn't know when they'd let
me have water at the hospital. I had to stop to lean on the kitchen
table, and I heard water running. HH was taking a shower! He
finally came out after about 20 minutes, and said he wanted to be
clean, because we might be there a while. He had to grab a few
things. He was packing a bag, because he said it looked like he'd
have to stay overnight. He packed candy bars and deodorant and
some other shoes. By now the contractions were 3 minutes apart.
HH's response: "You're not the first woman ever to have a baby."
Comforting, huh?

It was a 30 minute ride to the hospital, then we had to go through
admitting, then they had to do a fetal monitor, then they said, "Oh,
you're in labor all right. You are 7 cm dilated. It won't do any good
to call in the anaesthsiologist. By the time he gets here, it will be too
late for an epidural." Okaaaayyyy. By this time it was 11:30 pm.
So they put me in a labor room, and wouldn't you know it, stubborn
old #1 wouldn't move, so they hooked me up to a pitocin drip, which
gives you, like, ubercontractions....with no painkillers. Along about
2:00 am, the sour-faced grim spinster-looking labor nurse called the
doctor and said she kind of thought I might need something, so he
authorized a shot of stadol, which I'm sure is like morphine safe for
labor or something, and old Nursie gave me half a hypodermic of it.
She said, "You might need the other half later." Darn tootin'! I needed
it about 1 minute later, but she made me wait a couple hours for it.
She and HH looked at each other over my head, in that let's just
humor her, she's wacked out of her mind look. Was HH helping
me breathe, holding my hand, wiping my brow? No. He sat in a
rocking chair, eating a Milky Way, asking Nursie if she could turn
up the heat, he was kind of cold, even wearing his jacket. Oh, don't
mind me, dripping buckets of sweat, all not-meant-to-be-seen parts
of me blowin' in the wind. We must make sure HH is comfy. Which
he must have been, because not long after that, he drifted off to sleep.
I must say his snores were particularly annoying while trying to push
out his big bowling-ball-headed baby who we came to find out was
face-up. Which means his skull had been grinding on my spine all
night instead of his malleable little face, thus explaining the
excruciating pain they all thought I was faking. HH still denies any
wrongdoing in this scenario. He says, "I knew we had plenty of time.
You didn't feel anything after that shot, anyway." I beg to differ.

The Week of Bed Rest. The next time I needed any help from
HH was 3 years later, when I was 6 months pregnant with #2. I had
a kidney infection, which caused premature contractions. The doctor
said he wanted me on a week of bed rest.

Oh, I had high hopes that HH would take care of me. He acted like
he was going to. He took a week off from work. And he told his boss
it was to take care of me, because I was on bed rest. Duh...it was
November, known in Redneckland as "Deer Season." HH would get
up in the morning and say he'd be back pretty soon. Then I wouldn't
see him until around 5:00 pm. Let's not forget that I had almost-3-year-
old #1 to look after. No, he was not potty-trained. It took a threat from
Christmas-tree-farm Santa a month later to achieve that. So I would lie
on the couch and have #1 bring me things I needed. I managed pretty
well. The worst part is that HH expected supper on the table when he
came home. I mentioned the whole week of bed rest thing to him, and
I believe his exact words were: "I don't think the doctor meant that you
can't stand up for a half hour to cook and do the dishes."

The Vasectomy. #2 son was due February 28. Along about the end
of January, HH tells me he's having a vasectomy on Friday. What?!?
I thought this was something you have to discuss with your partner.
Oh, HH assured me, he told the doctor he had discussed it with me.
Except he hadn't. And it wasn't so much the vasectomy that bothered
me as the timing. Now not only was I ready to deliver #2, but I had to
take care of Big Baby and #1. Because you know, ladies, that HH had
to be waited on hand and foot after his "surgery," which was just a little
snip, for gosh sakes, and you'd have thought he was dying from how he
carried on. Oh, and let's not forget that he couldn't lift anything, so that
left me getting #1 in and out of his car seat in the 2nd seat of a Ford
Aerostar van. And into a grocery cart so I could do the shopping and
not leave #1 home for HH to look after. And carry in the groceries.
Yep, it's perfectly OK for an 8-months-pregnant woman to lift a
30-pounder. That may be why #2 came two weeks early. He wanted
in on the "wait on me hand and foot" action. The best part of this
whole ordeal was being able to tell Whiny McWhinerson: "You're
not the first man ever to have a vasectomy."

The Gallstones. The only other time I needed HH was my gallstone
surgery. Well, he didn't actually do the surgery. He didn't actually do
much of anything. I had to stay in the hospital 4 days to get some enzyme
level down low enough so they could operate. HH came to visit me for
about an hour each morning and evening. Aside from that, he was free
to roam the countryside, because my Hillbilly Mama was worried to
death about him watching his own kids, who were 4 and 1. She took
on that duty, and he got off scott-free. He felt no guilt. I wasn't the
first woman ever to have her gallbladder removed, you know.

Babysitting the Big Baby

For any of you who have the misguided notion that I am a nice person,
please read no further. Your dreams will be shattered.

For those of you who know me as the self-centered, sarcastic b****
that I really am, please pull forward as I hack up my dearly beloved
Hillbilly Husband.

Disclaimer: I really love my husband, but sometimes he gets on my last
frayed nerve. Times like this call for drastic action. So I blog about him.

I am sorry that HH has pneumonia. I am sorry that he has what I believe
to be a torn cartilage in his knee. He had an MRI Friday night. I guess
we'll check on that in two weeks, whether the quack calls us or not. I
am doing what I can to keep him comfortable (not screaming at us).
That said, let the trashing begin.

I think HH must be getting a little better from the pneumonia, because
he is joining in his redneck games again. On Friday, he was kind of
lethargic and wheezy and weak. He got the antibiotics for the pneumonia
and some $45 prescription for the cough. He hadn't been coughing much,
but it had a rattle, like #1 son did when he had pnuemonia a couple years
ago. HH told me he takes the antibiotic once a day, and the gold--I mean
cough medicine--every 12 hours.

HH is a grown man, so I didn't think I needed to read about his medicine.
I though the cough medicine was some kind of pill to help him cough up
the fluid in his lungs. I asked him about it, like didn't he have to drink a
full glass of water with it, etc. No. So I went and found it. It is a bottle of
cough medicine. It says "Take every 12 hours as needed for cough." What?
$45 freaking dollars for regular cough medicine? And that's WITH insurance.
That is the co-pay! Give me a break! It's not even an expectorant. And
HH thinks he is supposed to take it every 12 hours. I guess if I want to
keep him stoned, I can give it to him, oh...maybe every 6 hours.

This morning he is just moaning and whining and carrying on. I asked him
if it hurt more than Friday when he came home from work early.

Right now it's a 9 out of 10 (Hey, there's that pain scale again.)

Is it worse than your kidney stone down in Branson?

No. That was a 14.

You're missing the concept. It only goes to 10. So this is a 5, since
the kidney stone was a 10?

Whatever. You think I can't take pain.

(I know you can't take pain. I am just trying to figure out how
serious this is.)

Finally, I asked him if he wanted me to take him to the emergency
room. But I pointed out that there are only two things they could do:
operate, or give him pain meds. I know they will not operate on
him with pneumonia, or in the ER, or on the Sunday of Labor Day
Weekend. Knee surgery is elective. He already has pain medicine
left over from his December 23 neck surgery to put a titanium plate
in his vertebrae. He has two kinds, as a matter of fact. Generic
vicodin and generic darvocet. One of them makes him nauseous.
But he can't remember which one. I know you're supposed to throw
out any unused medication, but hey, you never know when you
might need a good painkiller. The fake vicodin even had a refill left
on it, but alas, June 23 has passed. As you can see, drug seekers
or drug abusers we're not.

After all this moaning and groaning, he had not taken anything for
pain. Not even a tylenol. So he took a pain pill, skipping the dose
of gold--I mean cough medicine--this morning. It must have been
the right one, because instead of retching, he was snoring with his
mouth open in the recliner while we all tiptoed around him.

Yesterday, I asked if he wanted me to fix him some breakfast.
HH said, "If you want to." Oh, no he didn't!!! I can not stand
this. Say yes or no! Of course I DON"T WANT TO ! That
is extra work for me. I would rather he said, "Yes, I would
like you to buy a cow and milk it, drive down to Florida for
some oranges to squeeze for my juice, learn what crepes are
so you can whip some up, fatten a young hog to butcher and
cure the bacon, go back to that cow and churn some fresh
butter to put on the fluffy buttermilk bicuits you are about
to bake." But don't freaking tell me, "If you want to." Arrrrgh!

I might have more patience with him if it hadn't been for the time
he swore he was having a stroke, because the pain from the kids
talking to him cut right through his brain. Diagnosis: ear infection.

Or the time he knew he had epiglottitis and was going to choke
to death when his airway closed up, so he went to the emergency
room. Diagnosis: viral sore throat. (Not even any antibiotics for it!)

Then there was the septic infection in his knee that was going to
kill him if they didn't drain it out or amputate his leg. Diagnosis:
Housemaid's Knee.

So maybe you can understand why I am a bit skeptical of the
claims made by HH, the man who cried stroke, epiglottitis, and
septic infection.

OK. I feel a little better now. Yes, I am a heartless b**** to
complain about my poor HH when he's sick. But wait until
tomorrow. I will dish enough dirt on how HH treats me when
I am sick to fill a shallow grave.