Redefining Normal

As much as I'd like to tell you I've always embraced the flight of my freak flag, the truth is I've strived for normal. My goal has always been to look normal, act normal, anything to shield the world from my own little internal shit storm.

You get up, go to work, get your paycheck, pay your bills, go home and go to bed. Rinse and repeat, Monday through Friday, add a little partying on the weekend and voila! Somewhere along the way, you find a significant other, go forth and multiply, grow old together, sit around farting and scratching until one of you dies... you know.. life. 

I'd already given up on most of "normal." I no longer need or want a significant other and my breeding days have long past. I was trying, however, to hold on to the working part of normal, at least to some degree. I've accepted that it's going to be damned near impossible for me to find a regular job, less than an hour from here, which, unless they're going to pay me a doctor's salary with my G.E.D., isn't going to work. 

I was determined to find a work-at-home customer service job like I had before, but companies with positions available either require newer computers or faster internet, two things I can't do anything about right now. I've applied to a total of about 8, I've been through three interviews and offered two jobs, but there always seemed to be a roadblock. 

When you keep running in to a brick wall, it's time to change lanes. 

In the meantime, I've been struggling with my sleep schedule. It's not insomnia. I can sleep, usually right around 8 hours a day, but not at night. Today I was up at 4 p.m. I have taken all kinds of crap to try to make myself go to sleep earlier. I've stressed out to the point of crying, because how can you find a job, working a set schedule, when you can't get up? 

So, I've been thinking about normal. Is it abnormal to sleep all day, coming to life just as everyone else is settling in for the night? 

Probably.

Is it worth getting in a wad over? Absolutely not. 

Since throwing my hands up and admitting defeat over the work-at-home, slave to the phone job, I've been exploring a freelance writing career. I had to finally admit that the phone thing wasn't going to work anyway, with Fat Kitty soaring across the room like one of the Flying Wallendas, landing on the back of my chair and chewing on my hair every five minutes or Ayla spotting a hiker out of the kitchen window and going all Cujo.

I may not have kids, but I don't have a "quiet office environment" either. 

 I've been writing for one company, off and on, for a few years. The pay has been, well, terrible. There was no way I could make a living wage from it, but I was recently offered a few, more profitable opportunities from them. 

It's a sign ya'll.

I've also applied to another company that provides blog posts to large companies, whose forte' may be more nuts and bolts than a flair with words. I've been through a multi-leveled approval process and am currently waiting for news on the final step. The pay is good and writing blog posts? I can do that.

At least, that's what ya'll keep telling me.

I've also got an application in with a company that does internet research for corporate accounts. Again, I went through several testing steps and am currently waiting for the final word on the last step. I have no idea how it pays, but getting in seems pretty competitive, so fingers crossed.  

Most importantly, what better job for a middle-aged-vampire-hillbilly? Write all night, sleep all day. I always have been kind of a night owl anyway.

Admittedly, I think the problems I was having with... as T.A. and I call it... The Beetis... is what got my sleep all kittywampus. Slowly, it's getting back to normal. Well, normal for me. 

But wait, there's more!

In addition to all those plans, I've got a new blog in the works. I played around with some "blog for profit" type formats before, but I was still an inmate at The Cubicle Asylum then and didn't really have time to do it properly. I'm planning a Gypsy/Boho Style site, I'll let you know when I get it up and running. 

I know, ya'll are over there like... "Mahala has a new idea every two weeks. IT'S GETTING TIRING AS HELL."

I know ya'll. I know. 

But my unemployment runs out in September. Something's gotta work.

Anywho, ya'll have an awesometastic, booty kicking, chocolate lickin' weekend. We'll talk again soon.

Later Taters!

The Truth About Chickens

Awww! Aren't they precious?

It's that time of year ya'll. The big hardware/farm supply chain starts tempting you with bins of tiny, fuzzy, cheeping bundles of adorable. They convince you the little darlings will have to have the $600 chicken condo to be happy, special nesting boxes, fancy feeders and heat lamps. Suddenly that $2 chicken requires a small loan to get started. 

And I fall for it every year. 

We only have one chicken left from the first batch I brought home two years ago. Ayla got a hold of one of them, then we lost four to the summer heat, but Cordelia is still out there, laying one beautiful blue egg a day.

A few weeks ago, T.A. came home with 6 more babies, 2 Ameraucana , 2 Golden Comets and 2 Black Laced Wyandottes. One of the Comets only made it a day and four of the others are growing ridiculously fast. One of the Wyandottes is half the size of the rest. She seems healthy and was only slightly smaller than the others when we brought them home, but now it's very obvious. 

Her name is Little Bit.

If you're thinking about getting your own hens, there are some things they won't tell you on all those fancy "chicken blogs." 

You know the ones I mean.

They have Amish built coops with staircases and red checkered curtains on the nesting boxes. They feed their "girls" out of Grandma's antique candy dish with their home grown, ground and mixed chicken feed. They post pictures of baby chicks wearing little tutus made from cupcake liners.

Mahala is going to tell you the truth about chickens. 

First of all, those cute little fluffy balls of peepiness? They'll stay that way for about a minute. Soon they morph into needy, teen aged velociraptor thingies, flying around and squirting butt juice all over that fancy assed coop... or in my case, the spare bathroom. 

Of course, when they start flying around it's time to move them outside, provided it's warm enough, which it is, but I can't move my demon spawn velociraptors cute little chicky chicky babies out to the coop just yet.

That would be too easy.

The other night, I went out to check on Cordelia. It had been raining buckets for the past two days and while I knew she had plenty of food and water, I wanted to take her some treats and visit a while. 

She gets a little lonely.

I opened the gate on the coop (not a fancy Amish wonder, an old chain link dog lot. This ain't Hollywood ya'll,) and immediately noticed that there was a problem. The tarp covering the lot had split, right down the middle and was hanging down on both sides.

Well shit.

As I stood there, bewildered, in cupcake pj pants, flip flops and a tank top, trying to figure out what the hell I was going to do, the skies opened up. The rain began slowly, building up to a behemoth of a gully washer. Cordelia was scurrying around my feet, bitching about the lack of appropriate accommodations, threatening to call PETA. 

"You have a house, (an old dog house, but it's dry!) Why don't you go in it? There are chickens in Mexico that don't even have fine lookin' houses like you do and you never hear them bitching and complaining!" 

Cordelia was not amused. 

I knew that there was a spare tarp laying around somewhere and I'd found the zip ties I'd lost last year on my last cleaning spree, so I told Cordelia to stay put while I ran in the house to find them. 

Before I go on, I can hear you over there, shaking your head, rolling your eyes, being all Judgey McJudgeypants. I KNOW a tarp is like.. the worst possible thing to use to cover the coop. I KNOW okay? It was just supposed to be temporary. It will be covered with fence THIS WEEKEND. 

Anywho...

By the time I got back out there, Cordelia's courtyard was covered in about 3 inches of mud. I really need to invest in some rubber boots.. but ya know.. this is the holler, we work with what we have.

These are kinda cool. They're called  Buffy Boots. Cordelia is named after a Buffy the Vampire Slayer character. See what I did there? I crack myself up. Get yours for only $39.99!

If you're familiar with how tarps don't work, you know that water will tend to gather in places and cause big, bulging tarp babies. Normally, when it's been raining a lot, I'll go out there and periodically jab at the tarp babies from underneath with the garden rake and cause a tarp baby waterfall. If you don't, the water gets all swampy and stinky. 

I know of swampy. I used to live by the Great Dismal Swamp. I hadn't poked the water babies in a while. The odor was hurl inducing. It's really hard to tell which way the swamp water is going to come gushing down. 

I got soaked.

It wasn't easy, but I eventually got the new tarp secured. I had mud and chicken shit between my toes, I wreaked of swamp. The evil, go-to-hell look I gave T.A. when I went inside and she asked me, "What's for supper?" would have turned most people to stone. She'd just gotten up, she wasn't aware of the danger she'd put herself in.

Although Cordelia will be nice and dry for a while, I don't want to move the babies out to the coop until I get the top covered with fencing, so in the meantime, they're still in the spare bathroom. I was going to feed them earlier, opened the bathroom door and got swarmed. They, all five, flew into me and attached themselves to my shirt. 

I was wearing chickens. 

They love me. What can I say. 

So the next time you see those tempting bins of cute little chicky-chicky babies, just remember me, standing in the rain, chicken shit between my toes and the smell of swamp emanating from my body. Fight the urge. Just go buy some eggs.

We'll talk again soon!

Later Taters!!

End of Times

Have you noticed that society seems obsessed with the end of civilization?

Historically, there have always been people claiming the end was near, that we needed to get our sins in check and prepare for the end of the world, but this is something different.

I find myself obsessed with every t.v. show involving a catastrophic blow to society, whether it be a global zombie infestation, bird flu epidemic or natural disaster. The common thread with all theses scenarios, is a breakdown of societal structures, leaving behind a livable earth and enough survivors to start over.

But why? I started to wonder if I had some weird mental disorder, a morbid obsession with mass destruction. Then I realized, it's not just me. The end of the world is big business right now. You can find countless books written by survivalists, freeze dried foods by the 5 gallon bucket, even information on home defense for those who want to start construction on their fortified compound.

I think I know why.

You need only look around you. On the news, politicians are performing like circus clowns, twirling about to the calliope, willing to say or do anything, as long as they can keep the spotlight on them.

On social media, people are arguing over which bathroom other people should use, conjuring up images of masked pedophiles lurking in the next stall, waiting to peek at Little Precious. They're threatening boycotts, organizing campaigns and creating an atmosphere of hatred, all because some of those circus clowns triggered their mama bear instincts with imagined threats to their cubs.

Families are struggling to survive, no matter how hard they work, basic needs aren't met.

Nothing makes sense.

In this age of technology, what is the one thing you do when your device goes kittywampus?

You hit the reset button. Turn it off, turn it back on.

The world needs a reset button. Tear it down and start over. That's why we love shows like The Walking Dead .

When there is no money, the rich have no power. When you're taking a dump out in the woods, using poison oak for toilet paper, it no longer matters what sex you are. If there's no electricity, there aren't circus clowns screaming at us, "Listen to me or your child will die!!!!"

Don't get me wrong. I'd never make it without civilization. Just come by my house when the internet's been down for an hour. It's not a pretty sight. As for killing zombies, I gross out if I have to touch dirty dish water. I'm pretty sure the level of anxiety I'd have after scraping twice-dead zombie guts off the floor would be catastrophic.

I'm hopeful, but not very, that it doesn't come to that. In the meantime, I'm trying to stay away from national news. It messes with my happy place. I'd rather watch hunky men and bad-ass women stab the undead between the eyes.. or goopy eye sockets.. whatever.

Anywho... we'll talk again soon, kay? Ya'll have a good one.

Later Taters!

Learning to Chill by Quoting Bobby Singer

It's Friday night in Frog Pond Holler, late for those of us who've reached a certain age. This is a good time to look back on the past week and take a look at what's been going on.

I filed my taxes yesterday, just my federal. After finding out I owed over $1800, I decided I'd wait a day or two before tackling my state taxes.

A body needs to digest.

Also yesterday, I found out that I'd missed the boat on that work-from-home customer service job. On Tuesday, when I plugged up the landline in preparation for the training session, there was no signal. The jack I used last time is dead. I could have used my cell for the training, but in the testing of lines and phone jacks, swapping cords and jiggling plugs, I somehow managed to break the internet.

I called customer support. They had me reset the modem, restart my computer, unplug stuff behind the desk and under the bed. I was contorting my body into positions that were not intended for human beings to be in unless they happen to be masters of the Kama Sutra.

And I so am not.

We finally got the innerwebs back up and running, but I missed the training session completely. Yesterday I logged on and found that I'd already missed most of the training and that there wasn't any way I was going to catch up.

Plus, I still don't know if I can get the phone to work.

I may have freaked out, just a smidge. I really wished I hadn't paid them $65 for a background check. I went kind of nuts, scouring the internet for a similar type job, that didn't require a landline. My desk looked like a crime scene, tissues strewn everywhere, spilled coffee, ink pens that had been flung in aggravation.

I eventually got over it, though. I had to just walk away from the computer,  take a few deep breaths and remind myself of what's important.

When the crap starts hitting the fan over stuff I can do absolutely nothing about, I remember this scene from Supernatural.



This is my favorite and absolutely the most gut-wrenching episode of the series, especially if you're a mother of daughters. Or a daughter. Or HAVE A FREAKIN' SOUL. When Bobby (played by Jim Beaver, on whom I may have a bit of a crush) asks Dean, "What do we do next," it reminds me to stop freaking out, get my shit together and keep going.

Anywho, so today I focused on writing articles. I've written about applying for disability, Vinyasa yoga, dog treats and substance abuse. They take me longer than they should, but I try to get the absolute best score possible. Hopefully, that will lead to better paying opportunities. Articles will keep me afloat until my first unemployment check comes the week after next. Then I'll have a little bit of wiggle room to explore other options.

Having a spaz attack doesn't solve anything.

This weekend is the big trail thingie in town. I'll try to remember to charge my camera (It's a Samsung WB1100F in Red that I bought when I cashed in my 401K,) before I hit the hay so I can bore ya'll with pictures of freaky hiker hippies next week.

I know ya'll can't wait.

As for now, Sammy's asleep on my leopard print jammy bottoms and I still need to jump (gently) in the shower.

We'll talk again soon.

Later Taters!

Take a Walk on the Wild Side

Me and T.A. went for another nature hike on Sunday. I don't know what possesses us to go, ain't neither one of us in any kinda shape to heaving our fat asses up and down the mountain.

It did give me a chance to test out my new camera. Ya'll knew I was going to splurge and buy something JUST for me.

We both survived... after lots of wheezing, groaning and rest stops.

More shots on Flickr!

Later Taters!

The Light at the End of the Tunnel

I've got time for a quick update, details coming soon!

The German invasion of The Cubicle Asylum was successful. There was one German, the CEO of the new company. A tall, somewhat attractive older man, with a kind smile who likes his coffee strong and his people to work hard and be happy.

The new crew also brought Gorilla Head in sales. He was here for two days and will return on Monday. During his brief visit, he hacked phlegm, churned snot and gagged all over my office. The saving grace of disinfectant spray delivered me from getting the full fledged crud.

The GM's office is now occupied by a little gnome of a feller, a pudgy, happy little man who is, bless his heart, doing his best to figure out how in the hell we did business for so long with so little to work with.

They have all made lots of promises. Time will tell if they follow through.

No more does Twatwaffle screech down the hall, constantly clicking her pen in frustration or breathe down my neck. She was not part of the deal. She was offered a position with the new company, but opted to stay with the tyrannical bastids that ruled over us for the past 20 years.

Our 401K accounts were frozen as of August 16th, so the current stock market craziness hasn't effected our stash and... I'm cashing in. It looks like by this time next week, my house will be paid off, the back taxes will be taken care of and.. maybe.. I'll have enough left to get a riding lawn mower.

This means, I'll be able to afford heating oil for the winter and I'll be able to like.. actually pay my bills. I'll be able to live on what I make. By "live," I mean, buying groceries and not constantly worrying about the electricity or the water being cut off.

I feel like there is hope and at the same time, I'm afraid to be happy.

I'll work on that.

I PROMISE there will be more details soon. I have to tell you about TW's latest family drama, stuff I heard from Gorilla Head's former assistant and back at the trailer, new critters!

We'll talk soon ya'll.

Later Taters!

Springtime in the Holler

Lawd ya'll, The Asylum is driving me nutso. The head engineer is pretending to be the sales manager and doing chit that we're not supposed to do, then dumping it in my lap to take care of and the GM is running up and down the hall clicking her pen and showing her ass.

In other words, it's business as usual at The Asylum.

Back on the home front, it's been a wild couple of weeks. I've had to make several extra trips to and from Big City, between Ma (who has gone completely 'round the bend again,) mammograms and checkups. I'm looking forward to the weekend when I (hopefully) won't have to leave the house. My grass is already high enough to camouflage Sasquatch. It's going to take me three days to wrangle my little mower through it all. I've got tree limbs hanging over the fence, one sticking directly in my chimney (probably not a good thing) and butt load of branches and crap to pick up.

And that's just outside.

Frog Pond Holler is buzzing with new life. The hippies have come out of their winter hibernation, smelling of ripe sweat and patchouli. The hillfolk have made their way down off the mountain for supplies after the long winter and the tourists have started trickling in.

The little grocery in the middle of town has started selling soft serve ice cream and burgers, giving the Grab and Go (and go and go) serious competition. The manager also makes a different variety of pudding every day. It's like banana pudding, but with strawberries, pineapple or Oreos. He only makes small batches,  so when there's pudding in the case, word flies around town and we all do the fat girl waddle down there to get some before the tourists snatch it up.

He's killin' my blood sugar.

Anywho, I guess I'd better get to it. I've already gone off on two people today and I've got a meeting in a bit. I'd better do some actual work first.

Ya'll have a good one.

Later Taters!!

The Fate of RiRi Nibblett

Let's get caught up on some stuff, kay?

The Asylum

It's business as usual at the crazy place. Twatwaffle's reign of terror and ignorance continues. We still don't have enough help, we're busier than a one legged man in an ass kickin' contest and angry sales reps are insulting me and my work ethic daily. The old me, the good salesperson me, would be understanding of their issues, work overtime to resolve them, take their verbal abuse. But now that I don't give five fecks if I get fired tomorrow, I just tell them, "Hey, I know it sucks. This is just how the company I work for chooses to do business."

There are limits to how much verbal abuse a person can take.

TW did decide to put Thelma back in charge of entering orders, which is fine, except that Thelma is the production control department. Thelma is also answering my phone, handling what she can, then paging me for the rest. Kat, the secretary for both plants, is also the HR liaison. Our actual HR person works at the other plant. Kat also helps Thelma with the overflow of production tasks. In TW's wisdom, she has now decided that Kat will process all the return paperwork, credit memos and miscellaneous clerical duties of the sales department, leaving me free to handle problems, quotes, new customers, reports and so on.

So I have help, but not really. The other day, when I laid a new order on Thelma's desk, she said, "Why don't I just do all your work? Is that what you want?" 

This, on a day when I was already pretty close to being fed up anyway,  I told her, "Would you? Would you really? Cuz I'd love to say eff it and go to the house."

Tiny, the Senior Engineer, spent half of yesterday loading trucks.  I had to manage the switchboard and take my own calls because Thelma and Lulu left at 10 and Kat took the day off. Thelma had to cover shipping on Thursday so that Squatch could be off.

We sent two flat bed trailers full of stuff, $300K worth to Utah last week. It's scary as hell when you consider we're doing business, flying by the seat of our pants. 

Last week we had a sales rep call and ask to be taken off our rep list because the service sucked so bad.  Six months ago, I would have been calling him and trying to smooth things over, anything to salvage a 20 year relationship. Instead, when TW gave me the news, I just shrugged and said, "Oh well. Expect more of that."

Back at the Trailer

I've re-thought the whole wood stove thing. The fact that we have a trailer and not an actual house makes it uber complicated to safely install a wood stove. There would be a lot of ripping shit out and buying expensive insulated pipe, not counting the cost of the actual stove. I've decided that instead, if I have enough of a tax refund, I'll admit defeat and get the oil tank filled. I can't afford to keep running electric heaters 24/7 when it gets really cold. If we use the fireplace, maybe I can make a tank of oil last longer. When Ma was here she ran the heat wide open all time, but me and TA tend to run more on the warm side. Our fireplace has a blower, but not much of one. I've got one of those little metal turbo fans, maybe I can just sit that in front of it and circulate the warmth a little better.

When The Amazon came home from job #2 at the Frog Pond Holler library today, an old Cutlass pulled in behind her, gray and rusted, the type of vehicle you expect crap to start falling off of every time it hits a pot hole. Driving the car was none other than RiRi Niblett, her hubby and their month old baby girl. Ya'll may remember RiRi, one of TA's school chums. RiRi got married about a year ago to Little Al, one of the guys from the plant. He's four foot nothing, spent his whole life on the backside of Loreli mountain, has about four teeth and is well in to his fifties. This is the same little feller that I may or may not have mentioned previously, let everyone at The Asylum know he was lookin' for him a woman with a big butt and that I'd suit his fancy. 

This is the dating pool I have to choose from. This is why I'll be forever alone.

I was later told, by Martha down at the campground store, that I should have went for it. She said she used to date him (she to possesses a sizable derriere and bodacious tattas) and that he was.. and this is a direct quote, "hung like a stallion."

Considering I have to see this man every Monday through Friday, this was information I could have lived without. 

Anywho, RiRi and Little Al came to look at the Blazer TA totaled when she rear ended the local state trooper. I don't know what kind of dealings went on between TA and Little Al, but he handed her a wad of cash and she handed him the title. I played with the baby, a month old and just 7 pounds, while I took note of RiRi and TA standing side by side. RiRi had no front teeth before she'd even turned 30, married to a man as old as her daddy, probably destined to popping out babies for the next decade. As much as I bitch about TA, at that I moment I was both proud, that my daughter was going to use her tax refund to take the GRE so she can go on to get her Masters and saddened by RiRi's fate. 

In Other News

Aunt Flo is still here and I'm whining like a 12 year old girl in gym class. I know ya'll care, I am the Queen of TMI. 

I haven't had colchicine in like.. a month. The fevers have started back, low grade, just enough to grace me with a nagging headache. The aches and pains.. Rice Krisy joints.. are a given. For a couple of years I've been getting colchicine from the manufacturer for free, but when I sent in my application for this year, it was denied, citing the health care act as the reason. There's insurance available to me, so I should be able to get it elsewhere. 

I have drug coverage, but it has a $300 deductible. The prescription costs almost that much. Even after I pay the deductible, I'd still have to pay $75 for a month's supply. I asked around on the FMF board to see what other people do and found that most of them order it from other countries. My first attempt was from Mexico, but their website seemed kinda shady and made me nervous, so I used a Canadian company recommended by some of the other board members. Apparently, you don't need a prescription to get colchicine from some countries, it's a common OTC drug. I paid $56 for 300 pills, a 100 day supply. I tracked it this morning, it's coming from India. 

I hope it works. I can afford less than $20 a month. 

I've got shit to do people. I can't be lying around whining all the damn time.

Wrappin' it Up

We're under four different weather advisories for the next three days in the holler. I made a gas station run earlier so I've got a carton of smokes and a bottle of wine. I'm ready for whatever happens.. or most likely does not. 

I'm meeting Ma at the doctor in Big City on Wednesday, so I'm taking off work that day. An extra day off from the madness at The Asylum for a couple of hours of madness with Ma. 

As for the rest of the weekend, I'll probably lay around and try to muster as much sympathy as I can from TA, for my aches and pains and what we've started calling, "The Granny Rag." Yeah I know, it's gross, I don't care. My granny was still having babies after she had grandchildren, so I must have inherited my fertility from her.

I found a website with the local paper archives back to 1912. I've found pictures of my Papaw and my dad in their tobacco field, the wedding announcement of Pappaw and his first wife from 1930 and mention of her with her darling little twins.. my aunts Irlene and Irene. I'll be digging around in there while I whine.. and wine. 

Ya'll have a good weekend. We'll talk again soon. 

Later Taters!

Oddfellows and Uncle Jim

Good Gawd ya'll. It's colder than a witches tit in a brass brassiere in the holler today, yet it was 61° on Sunday.

Craziness.

I spent most of last weekend lying in bed, watching America Unearthed on Netflix. I was slothful and unproductive due to an unscheduled visit by Old Aunt Flo. She showed up Saturday morning, I hadn't seen her since October and it had been a year before that.

Why won't that bitch just die already?

Anywho, because my brain gets stuck on a topic and kicks in to high gear, spinning out of control, I was Googling ghost stories from the holler, pre-Colombian inhabitants of Western North Carolina, examining Google Earth maps of my property to figure out where the stream bed was, looking up the old Oddfellows Cemetery (which is up on top of a mountain off a dirt road back in the woods) and checking prices on metal detectors.

My crazy. When it gets stuck on something, it's turbo charged.

I've never been to the old cemetery, but it wasn't too many years ago that Ma rode in the back of my Uncle Donald's pickup to go visit Great Uncle Jim's grave. He was an attorney and the original owner of our land.. after the Indians. That's really all I know about him, other than he died in front of the art deco styled S & K's Cafeteria in Big City, a fact pointed out to both T.A. and I every stinking time Ma drove by it.

As for the Oddfellows Cemetary, what the sam hill it's doing in the holler of all places is beyond me. I can't find any reference to a chapter anywhere near here. If ya'll could see where it is.. literally up a dirt road where you have to have four wheel drive to get in and damn near on top of a mountain. Ma used to say they had to carry the bodies up there in a horse and wagon, long after the invention of motor vehicles, because it was the only way to get there.

Anywho.. The Oddfellows were or are one of those lodgey dodgey organizations with secret ceremonies and shady affiliations. There isn't a wealth of information on them that I can find, it looks to me they mostly still exist in the U.K.

It's one of those stories I like to dig around in and speculate upon the possibilities of ancient conspiracy theories and keep myself entertained for weeks.

So I really want to go to the cemetery. When Ma went up there last, she took some pictures of an old grave stone with weird lettering. Of course now I can't find the picture, so I have to go up there and see what it was. Perhaps I'll do a little YouTubing of the adventure. Whatcha think?

As for now, I gotta get my nose to the grindstone. Ya'll have a great weekend. We'll talk again soon!

Later Taters!

Being Poor... It's the American Way in 2015

Lawd ya'll. It's been the week from the firey burny place. I'm glad it's almost over. There ain't enough gas station wine in the holler to wash away the bullhockey I've put up with the past five days.

Anywho...

About Wednesday-ish I found myself flat busted broke. No moolah, no smokes and groceries were getting pretty scarce. I knew if I could make it til Wednesday, I could safely write a bouncy check at the Pump N Go or the Grab N Go (and go and go) and it wouldn't clear before pay day (which is today, so yay and don't despair.) However, I was out of checks.

Dilemna.

I ordered checks last week, but they still hadn't made it here by Wednesday morning. I got a text from T.A. that morning, letting me know there was, however, a refund check from the auto insurance for $225.00.

SWEET BABY JESUS!!

I rushed home at lunch, grabbed the check and noticed it was made out to all three of us, me, Ma and T.A. My experience as a bank teller told me that there was no way in hell I'd ever get the damned thing cashed. If I deposited it in my online banking account, there would be a 7 day hold.

SHIT SHIT SHIT.

So, I forged Ma's name (don't judge,) signed my name and passed it to T.A. for her signature and headed down to the Frog Pond Holler Savings and Loan. The bank manager there grew up with my uncle, the Sasquatch Ginger and knows the whole damn family. He's also Uncle Mullet's dead wife's uncle.

We're all kin in the holler.

He took one look at the check and said, "I don't know what you're going to do with that.  I can't cash it."

Dude... I was nicotine fittin' like Courtney Love in rehab.

Then he was like... "Wait, is your account here still active?"

"Umm.. I think so?"

"C'mon back, let's see." So I followed him back to his little brown office with the plastic plants (not even the good silk kind) and he started one-finger typing. "You have .87 cents! I can let you deposit it."

"Can I have like.. $50 out of it?" I think he saw the desperation in my eyes. "I can do that!"

So after I got home, I dug out my old Miss Piggy checks (I don't have a debit card for that account anymore,) and we were good 'til payday (yay! Today!)

Being poor is hard. You have to be crafty. And scrappy. And willing to accept humiliation.

Working full time at a job that drives you over the psycho edge on a daily basis and still being poor? That's unAmerican.

Anywho... better get back to it. Ya'll have a good one. We'll talk again soon.

Later Taters!

(If you don't mind, remember sharing is caring! Tell your friends.. The Bitch is Back in Town)

Poker Machines, Peppermint Twatwaffle and Insecurities

It's cooler in the holler today, but still too warm to turn off the ac. I tried to get things accomplished this weekend, but my heart just isn't in it. 

The fall blehs are setting in.

Since the washing machine has been disassembled, I took stuff to the laundromat. I finally decided that washing and drying clothes for $3 a load really wasn't that bad, considering what a pain in the ass it is to do it by hand. I still haven't found, nor bothered to look for, the washing machine leak. I don't feel like fooling with it. 

I know that I'm not an idiot and that it shouldn't be that difficult to find what's leaking. The parts aren't expensive and there are plenty of places online to find repair instructions, but something stops me. My mind races, tells me I'm stupid, tells me I'll break it, blah blah blah. It's the norm these days.

The same goes for my latest, greatest, make-money-online-so-I-can-work-from-home adventure. I know what needs to be done. I know what to do. I have AWESOME ideas. But it sits there, unfinished. What if I make someone mad? What if I do something wrong? What if?

I've gone back to taking a fourth of a pill every morning at work to try to keep myself in check, like I did back when Bossholio was there. This time, my boss is the last thing causing me anxiety, it's just the whole place in general. The sales department is stressful in itself but the work doesn't bother me. I've worked in fast paced restaurants, busy convenience stores, little head shops at risk of getting raided (okay that was a long time ago) and I thrived on it. I think it was because in most of those situations I was either working alone or in charge. Now I take orders that won't ship on time because purchasing didn't order the parts or engineering isn't doing their part fast enough. I can't answer emails for the phone ringing, we're missing sales because quotes aren't done and while all this is going on, Sparkles is answering lists of stupid questions from corporate instead of doing what he needs to. 

The GM works for two hours, then goes down to the store in town to play the poker machines. His car is usually still there when we come back from lunch at one. He's supposed to be on his way to the other plant, an hour away. His secretary/HR liason (we don't have an actual HR person on site) sits and reads romance novels all day. The senior engineer sits at his desk and naps two or three times a day. The Groper texts his woman/wife/whatever the hell that whole relationship is, that he no longer lives with but still shares a vehicle with, all day long, to the point that he actually did get taken in the office and slapped on the wrist. Now he only does it when the GM isn't there, which isn't hard. Thelma openly texts her kids at college, shops Craigslist and comes in and leaves when ever the fuck she feels like it. The office notice that says, "cellphones are forbidden during work hours" is located directly across from her desk. Peppermint Twatwaffle stays on her cell with her kids, who are grown ass adults, all day long, while stomping around like a Clydesdale in her three inch heels, dressed like a bar fly and hollerin' up and down the hall like a sailor on leave. She is supposed to be the plant manager.

While this is going on, Me and Lulu (she's the cost accountant) stay at our desks because if we're caught talking to each other in the hall, we're called down. The GM actually told us we were like "them hooker women" he used to see on the streets in Italy when he was in the navy. We obediently turn the ringers on our phones off and keep them hidden from view. If we speak to each other it's in hushed voices over the office phone, lest we be accused of lollygagging. 

The only thing saving my job is my ability to keep my mouth shut and that's just not possible without chemical intervention.

Anywho, I'm gonna run back to town and get my clothes out of the dryer before dark. Ya'll have a good one.

Later Taters!

OMG I ALMOST DIED

I had a hellish week at The Asylum. Sparkles didn't get back into town until Thursday and it was busier than a one legged hillbilly in an ass kicking contest. I mean.. it wasn't the kind of hellish I used to have when Bossholio was there, but between having to socialize with the CEO (who only remembers my name because he once caught me walking around with a lime green sticky note, with the world "REJECT" attached to my forehead, compliments of Lulu) and being short a person, it was a challenge to keep up. By five on Friday I had a serious case of fry brain. I started my second shift at the "let's buy things off the t.v. or maybe just call and bitch at people because we already spent all our money on stretchy pants" channel with limited mental resources and by the time I finished THAT shift, I was toast.

I think that's why I love that zombie show so much, I can relate to the brain dead on a personal level. 

I got up sorta early on Saturday morning, after going back to sleep like three times. Mayhaps I was a tad bit tired. The plan was to color my hair, hop in the truck and head to Big City to visit Ma, pick up some grub from the healthy food grocery and stop at the big chain drug store with initials for a name. Let's call it The Gimics and Drugs Store.. or for short, The GD Store. I was in search of both wrinkle cream and diet pills. 

The GD Store ended up being my first stop. I had a coupon for $2 off skin care and I'd been reading up about Retinal ever since I had the TWENTY FREAKIN' MINUTE phone call the other night from a customer who wasn't even buying anything but went on and on about the importance of using Retinal on your face. (Remember, my calls are supposed to be under 210 seconds. She had me in deep doodoo.)

The particular formulation I wanted to try wasn't sold at WallyWorld, nor did The GD Store have it in their house brand. 

Dammit. 

So anyways, I scored the wrinkle, dark spot, been beaten with an ugly stick since birth cream and headed over to the fatty fatty two by four aisle. I'd been doing research on the innerwebs, trying to find something without any stimulants that would help block the absorption carbs or help curb the craving for carbs. 

Hunger isn't my problem. I just eat. I've been really concerned since taking the second job that with my sitting at a desk for 8 hours a day then coming home and sitting for three more hours at night, I was going to end up having to cut a new front door before long. 

After much reading, I'd come up with a few possibilities. There's a new product on the market made from white kidney bean extract that blocks carbs from being absorbed but it's nearly impossible to find. I also found several articles on taking supplemental magnesium. Apparently, a magnesium deficiency will cause a craving for carby things AND is fairly common among those of us with... as TA and I refer to it around the house.. The Betiss. (We differentiate between the two as the Fat People Betiss, type 2 and the GaGa Betis, type 1 or.. born that way. We are fully aware that we ain't right.) The B vitamins were mentioned a bit and there were studies involving Zinc, Chromium and a exotic African fruit too, so I didn't really know what I was looking for. I just knew I needed something. 

Down at the GD Store they keep all diet related crap locked in a cabinet with a big ass red button that says, "press for service." Now, being a woman of ample bee-hind and a pretty active anxiety disorder, seeing a button like that strikes fear in my quivering heart. I tried to read labels through the glass, but I wasn't having much luck. Eventually, a youngish employee walked up and asked if I needed help. I quietly asked, "If I hit this button, will an automated announcement blare over the intercom like, "FATTY NEEDS ASSISTANCE ON AISLE 6, FATTY NEEDS ASSISTANCE ON AISLE 6?"

She looked at me like she wanted to laugh, but I'd broken out in a sweat by this point and I was probably a little scary looking. "Oh no ma'am, it just lets us know to bring a key."

"And how does it let you know?"

"An alarm rings in the back," she stated confidently.

An alarm? Really? I just looked at her. 

"Would you like me to go get the key?"

"Could you?" 

She scurried off, probably thankful to get away from me. Soon a tiny blonde bimbette returned with the key. She unlocked the cabinet and while I stooped to read the labels on the bottles, she stood over me with her arms crossed and watched me like a hawk, her baby blues boring a hole in the back of my head. 

After the 15 most uncomfortable seconds of my life I put the box back in the case and turned to her, "You know what? Never mind. Thanks anyway." I turned and left as she heaved a sigh and rolled her eyes. 

I took my wrinkle cream and got the hell out of Dodgeola. 

I stopped at the auto parts place for wiper blades. Mine were so old they had a big strip hanging off them, waving to everyone I passed. 

I'd gone back and forth changing my mind about going to visit Ma at Shady Pines. It had been snowing ginormous fluffy flakes in the holler when I left and at first I thought I'd better hurry and get back home. But the weather in Big City, while colder than a witches tit was pretty clear.I decided I'd go spend a few minutes with Ma before getting groceries. I took the back roads through a residential neighborhood with huge houses and a park with a lake where all the high fallootin' folks exercise their designer pooches. As I passed the lake, the car in front of me stopped suddenly behind the turning vehicle in front of her. I eased on Jolene's brakes... I pumped the brakes.. I swerved onto the grass, between two trees and wooden posts lining the park to avoid the car in front of me and stood up on the brake pedal... straight for a tree. When I stopped I was alongside the turning car, even with the front of her little car. The Bitch looked at me, flipped me off and cussed me out, looking like a demon possessed valley girl.  

EXCUSE ME I JUST RISKED DEATH TO KEEP FROM KILLING YOU. NO I'M FINE REALLY. YOU'RE WELCOME. 

I sat there for a minute. My chest hurt. I couldn't breathe. I kept looking at the tree. I tried the brake pedal. It kinda went floppity flop. Floppity flop is not a good thing when it comes to brake pedals. I was barely out of the road, I was afraid to move my truck because I obviously had no brakes. I called 911. As I explained what had happened, I started bawling like a crazy person. The dispatcher seemed confused. Here's some crazy old woman WHO IS FINE yet bawling AND SHE DIDN'T EVEN HIT ANYTHING. She was able to find my location by my cellphone, because I was not being very helpful. She was extremely patient and kind with my breakdown. 

Yes, this is the tree. It was almost the last thing I saw. 

However, it was over a half hour before an officer decided to stop by.

Luckily, TA was killing time in Big City, waiting to go visit Boy Wonder when he got off work. I texted her then called her, still blubbering. She was there, from the other side of town before the popo ever showed up. 

She used her uber phone to find a wrecker, who was going to charge $150 to tow me back to Frog Pond Holler. The police eventually did show and she was like.. well.. you're okay, you're out of the road and you've got a wrecker on the way. You'll be fine. I was like.. yeah.. NOW I AM. 

I spent entirely too much time at the side of the highway in 26° weather, raccoon eyes and limping from wearing my old shoes because Yoda PEED in my fricken tenny shoes. 

I think I did some damn fine driving to keep from hitting a tree, a post or one mouthy little bitch while standing up on the brake pedal, trying to stop Jolene while flying towards a tree and having a nervous breakdown. All those years of watching the Dukes of Hazard paid off. 

When the rollback got there and pulled Jolene up on his truck, he got to looking and said, "Ya know, here's your problem. It's the brake line. It's busted. That part don't cost hardly nothing, how about I just take you over to "sounds like Sire Boned." "

After some advanced calculations, I decided that it would probably be more cost efficient to do that. I had no clue who was going to fix it when I got back to town anyway. 

So off we went to Sire Boned. 

And I'll have to finish later.. there's more to the story, but I need a shower and to color my hair. And I need a ride to Big City.

Ya'll hang in there. I'll have more soon. 

Later Taters!!!

Divine Intervention and Walking Dead Girl

It's been a week full of snot churning, belly aching and hacking up assorted vital organs around the Mahala house. The Amazon was kind enough to bring home a bug, one that I skillfully avoided for almost a week before waking up Saturday morning feeling like an extra on the set of The Walking Dead. I called in sick yesterday, to a boss who told me to please take care of myself and feel better, which almost made me weep after 7 years of Bossholio. I drug myself in to the office this morning. I felt like I had magical powers as I walked down the hall and watched everyone magically move out of my path, like I was spewing plague mist out of my eyes like lasers.

It didn't go well.

I felt kinda guilty for taking the chance that I'd infect everyone else, but my desk is piled high.

I'm pretty sure I have the flu.

I ended up leaving at 4 to give myself time to recover before starting a shift taking calls from 6-9. In the meantime, I developed a hellacious headache.. you know.. the kind you get when you've been hacking unproductively for hours and you feel like your left temple is bulging out like something from The Elephant Man.

Anywho, all systems at the Taking-Calls-But-Not-Porn company were clusterfucked into the 12th dimension, someone took the phone off the hook at the Call-This-Number-24-7-If-You-Need-Help line and the Send-An-Email-If-You-Can't-Get-Through page was crashed. I finally got into the We-Can-Try-To-Help chatroom, which, as you can imagine, was flooded with people having issues. Unfortunately, I was pretty sure the whole reason I couldn't get in was not because of the known issues, it was because my THREE passwords had expired yesterday and although I'd reset them, I'd written them down and with my throbbing eyeball, I'd gotten them mixed up and proceeded to get myself locked out. This can only be fixed by calling the line that no one was answering because, I'm pretty sure, all 600 or so operators were calling because of the fore mentioned clusterfuckery.

After about an hour and a half I decided it was Fuck this Shit o'clock and I logged off, puked for thirty minutes then settled in on the couch.

I'm feeling much better at the moment.

~*~

If you're my Facebook bud, you know I bought fishy last weekend. His name is Ludwig Von Beta-toven. He lives in a 2.5 gallon little tank with some gothic church ruins on top of the t.v. I am a dork. I've learned to embrace it.

~*~

About three weeks ago, The Big Headed German called to congratulate me on paying off the first of my 401K loans. I had taken it out to make the down payment on Jolene when I was desperate for a vehicle and broke. It meant another $25 a pay check.

Right after Christmas I got another call, this one from a collection agency. That credit card company that pissed me off when my world went all kittwampus had apparently decided we needed to end our relationship. At first I got defensive, but then I was like.. okay look, shit happens, I did the best I could. What do I need to do to fix this? So Kathy, the nice lady at the collection agency offered me a settlement for $2500. WHAT a coinkidink. That was about how much that 401K loan was for. I told her I'd look into it and get right back to her. The most I could get was $2300, but I couldn't apply until x number of days had passed, after January 1st. I called Kathy back and she said she could make $2300 work IF I could secure the funds by January 7th, because on that day my account would cycle (apparently credit card accounts get Aunt Flo.)

I got the loan approved and a check in hand by the 6th.

I don't care what ya'll say, that right there was some Divine Intervention.

~*~

Anywho, I reckon I'm going to try it again tomorrow, so I should go see if I've got some clean pants to wear.   If not, I'm might just find some stuffed in a corner somewhere, hit it with the lint roller and some febreeze and take my chances. It's not like anyone's gonna get close enough to smell me anyway.

Ya'll take care. We'll talk again soon.

Later Taters!!

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Mahala's State of the Holler Address

I have a feeling this is going to turn into a huge, babbling mess, but that's never stopped me before.. so here goes.

My recent absence from the blogosphere, Twitter, Facebook, etc has been due to an array of life's little complications, the main two being a sudden avalanche of work at the Asylum and the destruction of my netbook charger by Pupzilla.

Seriously, when do they outgrow the need to gnaw every remote, charger and battery in the house?

I ordered a new one online and it came Friday. Hoo-ray.

Speaking of the Asylum, PG will be retiring at the end of the month. He was the purchasing manager since way before I got there and had recently taken over as the plant superintendent. It didn't take him long to figure out that it just wasn't worth driving all the way from Sevierville (the land O' Dolly) to load trucks and get bitched at, so he's cruising along on his wife's insurance and leading the life of leisure, looking forward to a future career as a Wally World greeter. He's also a pervert and likes to talk to Lulu's boobs, so no one's really heartbroken over his leaving.

The rumor was that the Cutie Patootie would be taking his place, news which tickled the flippen chit out of me and Lulu. The Cutie Patootie is our age, fun to work with and he smells REALLY nice, all important qualities to have when being considered for a management position. At least where me and Lulu are concerned. We were giddy with the prospect of having the Cutie Patootie back at the Asylum with us, but alas, it wasn't to be. Instead, PG will be replaced by someone that is sure to rattle a few cages. The official announcement was made earlier this week. Bossholio, Jasper and a few other select knuckledraggers will now be answering to...

A WOMAN.

I'M SO EXCITED!! I MAY TINKLE MY GRANNY PANTIES!!

Seriously. This is going to be SO DAMN AWESOME.

I've never met the new plant super, but I've heard she's a no-shit-taking kinda gal.

Meanwhile, back at the trailer...

Since I checked in last, I've spent one whole night at the E.R. with Ma. After it became painfully obvious that the Hee-Haw clinic's efforts to refer her to a mental health specialist were half-assed and getting us no where, I loaded her up in The Amazon's truck and hauled her to the hospital, with the intention of giving her a short vacay at the nut hut which would hopefully result in some extended care options. We were there for about 12 hours. She was evaluated, questioned, x-rayed and examined. We spent about an hour with a psychiatrist around 4 a.m. when we were told the nut hut had a waiting list and I really just needed to take her back home and call doctors myself instead of waiting for the clinic to refer her. I swear to you, he actually said it was "crazy" for me to expect them to handle it.

BECAUSE OBVIOUSLY EVERYTHING IS MY F(&&%#@$ FAULT.

And for the record, while we were there, the woman who had been searching the house for "the baby" for two days, insisted that there was a house full of people partying there the night before and who's been meeting Romeo in the middle of the night when he sneaks in the house regularly, was suddenly completely sane.

It was then that I decided, I just don't care anymore. She can walk around and either be or play crazy all she wants. The next time she goes out in the middle of the highway with her walker and someone calls the law, they'll just have to take her somewhere. I don't know what else to do.

In the meantime, I set out to find a psychiatrist who will take medicare, a feat everyone told me would be nearly impossible. I made two phone calls. TWO. I found a psychiatric office in Big City that has two nurse practioners who take medicare.

Easy peasy, lemon squeezy. Her appointment is next month. In the meantime, I just tell her I don't wanna hear her made up crap when she starts babbling nonsense. It might not be what I should do, but ya know, she pretty much treated me like crap my whole life. I've mustered all the compassion I'm capable of.

Since we're on the subject of health care in America or rather, the screwed up state thereof, I went to get my colchicine refilled last weekend and was told Wally World didn't have enough to fill my prescription. I had mentioned before that it was being taken off the market and I'd be forced to buy the same drug from a "brand name" manufacturer once that happened. Well, to have my 90 day supply filled with the new supplier, the cost would be $541 vs. the $12 I'd paid before.

Okay, maybe that's not the exact amount. After her mouth formed the words "five hundred" my eyes kinda glazed over with shock and I may have yelled "GOOD GAWD ALMIGHTY!" right there at the drop off window at the Wally World pharmacy.

Luckily they had about 10 days worth of the old, non FDA approved stuff left, so I took that instead. When I got home, I went to the Colcrys website and found that you can make up to six times the national poverty level and still be  eligible for a discount. After entering our family income and household size, it was determined that I could get it for free.

Which is awesome.. and sort of sad at the same time. I got Dr. Sexypants to fill out some forms and mailed them in, along with proof of income and I've got my fingers crossed that I'll get it before I run out of the old stuff.

I'm thankful I can get it for free, but when they can offer that big a discount to people making WAY more than I do, it makes you wonder if they're not just sticking it to the insurance companies like crazy if they're charging them over $500.

Just a thought.

Let's see.. what else? Well, It's hotter 'n demon snot here in the south, but I figure most of ya'll know that already. My grass is butthole deep to a heifer and I can't get to the garden at all. It looks way too snakey out there. If there's ever a break in the heat (less than 100 would be great tvm) I'll at least cut a path to the tomatoes. The garden has pretty much completely gotten away from me. Next year's will definitely be smaller and there will be way less zucchini. Once I get the tomatoes harvested, I'll probably just till it all up and start over next year. I got myself way in over my head.

Live and learn.

All the critters are fat and sassy, spending most of their time soaking up the a.c. The Amazon is still working at the call center for the pretend bank. I've been stuck at home most of the time, sharing my truck while she waits for payday so she can buy a new fuel pump for her Blazer. It's business as usual here in Frog Pond Holler.

I hope ya'll are having an awesome summer, free of boob sweat and skeeters. We'll talk again soon.

Later Taters!!

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I'm Trapped in Bizzaro World

Lawd have mercy ya'll. We've got lots to cover, so strap yourself in and grab some liquid refreshment. It's gonna be a long, bumpy ride.

The Amazon ended up not buying Dubya's old property. She was approved (on her own, mind you) for 85% of the asking price, but there was some horsechit about the selling real estate company not accepting the financing. I thought, the bank cuts a check, they get their money. Apparently I don't know jack squat. After it was suggested that I just have our property refinanced to pay for it, I said effit. More debt for me was not in my game plan.

In gardening news: One end of my garden is all weeds, but the other end is full of zucchini and beans. It seems the seeds I bought from someone on Etsy were of the mutant, hughnormous variety. There are zucchini as big around as your arm. I suspect they're actually leftovers from some shady government experiment in world domination. You could use them as lethal weapon.

No tomatoes yet, but there are plenty of blooms. The green beans seem unusually large as well. The cucumber vines have taken over everything else and are covered in blooms. I'm a little afraid.

I was off from The Asylum from last Thursday until yesterday. I cleaned carpets, moved furniture, evicted one dog crate doubling as an end table, scrubbed the kitchen floor and got my license and tags renewed.

I'm all legal and crap. Broke. But legal.

I'm supposed to get my new license in the mail. I fear the photo.

I took Ma back to the doctor last week. I told him she was hearing things, talking to people who weren't there, seeing things. I HOPED he'd ship her to the home suggest it was time for a nursing facility. Instead?

"Let's get her an appointment with a psychiatrist."

*blink*

I think I've already been down this road. Last time, they sent her to a non licensed therapist who couldn't prescribe medication.

What good does it do to sit down and talk about your problems when you're in another world?

Anywho... that was last Tuesday and I've still not heard back from the service handling her referral. Yesterday she was waiting to babysit a 4 ½ month old. Then she was going to fix it some tea, because it had intestinal problems. Later, she called me in her room to take care of Michael. He'd made a mess of himself and she couldn't get in there to clean him up. She demanded that I go get him cleaned up.

Apparently I'm the maid now. Or the nurse.

And? Who the fluck is Michael? She had an old crackhead /drunk boyfriend named Michael and he did make a mess of himself quite regularly. I also have a cousin named Michael (his real name is Damien, like from The Omen, but it freaked the family out so much that they refused to call him by his first name) and I've got a one legged uncle named Michael (at least that's what I've always been told. I found out his namesake, a son, is actually named Miguel when he was arrested for having sex with a high school student a couple of years ago.. so my one legged uncle might actually be Miguel.)

Confused yet?

Thelma suggested I have her committed. That would mean that Thelma's hubby, the town cop, would come get her and take her to the nuthut in the police car. After some discussion, we decided I could just take her to the E.R. and have the same result, without involving the PoPo.

Lawsy.

I know ya'll are sick of hearing about it. I know you're sitting there going, "Oh My God would you just take her to the home already!!!"

I don't blame you. Really.

But seriously, you take batshit crazy to the doctor and tell him she's hearing voices and talking to people who aren't there you assume he'd have enough sense to DO SOMETHING.

Maybe they have an extra bed for him.

Hopefully The Amazon can make room in her suddenly very busy social schedule so that we can use her vehicle on her day off tomorrow. Ma says she can't get in and out of Jolene, although after watching her take off across the road with her walker the other day, I doubt that's true.

So we'll see.

In the meantime, life goes on.

Ya'll have a good one. We'll talk again soon. If I don't beat Ma to the nuthut.

Later Taters!

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This Little Piggy Went Wee Wee Wee!!

It's barely 8:30 and I've already mouthed off at Bossholio. Oh, it's going to be a good day. I can feel it.

When I'm trying to be helpful by assisting you in correcting your error, it's probably not a good idea to blatantly ignore me, actually turning your head while I'm in mid sentence and starting a conversation with someone else.

I just might get pissed off.

Anywho...

So far we've harvested some radishes, some salad greens and two HUGE zucchini from the garden. I've got little, tiny green beans and cucumbers starting to grow, with two rows of carrots starting to get pretty tall.

I'M SO EXCITED.

Sorry. Give me a moment to contain myself......

There are still more weeds than veggies, but I've already figured out a few changes for next year. Live and learn.

I whipped up another batch of laundry detergent this weekend. It takes like.. a minute and it's way cheap.

Homemade Laundry Soap (Powdered)

1 cup Borax
1 cup Washing Soda
1 bar of soap (grated)

Mix it up. Add 2 tablespoons per normal wash. That's it! Easy peasy lemon squeezy. There are specific brands of bar soap made just for washing clothes, but they're made from pig fat and aside from the poor piggies giving their lives for my laundry, I'm kinda grossed out by the idea of wearing delicate underthings that have been soaking in pork grease, so I use Ivory soap.

There is another recipe that makes five gallon buckets of liquid that involves cooking the grated bar soap in water and mixing, etc. that ends up being WAY cheaper, but I don't have that kind of time to invest, nor do I have anywhere to store ginormous buckets of liquid.

With all my critters, that's just asking for disaster.

Between the homemade laundry detergent, the new front-porch-clotheline, my gardening adventures and newly formed courage while communing with nature, Lulu has been tossing the "H" word around a lot. We laugh about it, I don't mind. Lulu's been at war with her organic gardener neighbors since I've known her and she threatens that as long as I don't start acting like them, we're still okay.

As for now, I reckon I should get to work. I need to get as much done as I can because I may have to slap Bossholio around later and if that happens, he'll probably have to leave early to keep from embarrassing himself by crying in front of all the menfolk.

Ya'll have an awesome Humpday. We can do this.

Later Taters!

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Sexy Latinos, Pregnant Cravings and Why I Shouldn't Leave the House

My plans for yesterday were simple. Sleep in a little, drive to Big City for my doctor's appointment, then zip over to Wally World for groceries. I took a half a vacation day, giving myself plenty of time to get foodage then drive back to the holler and drop it all off for The Amazon to put away.

Easy peasy, lemon squeazy, right?

If you think that's true, this is probably your first time here.

Things got off to a rocky start when this happened:

Yes, those are my actual, unfabulous, unmanicured nails
and actual N.C. highway patrol flashing blue lights.
And yes, my Crackberry is purple. Don't judge me.

Okay so, I knew my tags were expired and had been for a while. Like, since April. Of 2010.

Don't look at me like that.

But then, when poor little Opie Taylor Trooper looked at my license and said, "Have you got another license ma'am? This one is expired," I nearly crapped a Llama.

It was news to me, but my license had only been dead since December of last year, so it wasn't REALLY that bad.. I guess. Sorta.

Opie Taylor Trooper felt bad for me. I figure I must have reminded him of a crazy old aunt who only leaves the house once a month to buy cat food for her 16 furry roomates and to pick up refills on her crazy pills. He even tried to give me the opportunity to lie. "Has the vehicle been sitting for a while? Is that why the tags were dead?"

I just sighed, cast my gaze downward and shook my head. "No sir. I got the taxes caught up when I got my tax refund. I just haven't gotten around to getting my tags."

After he printed my two page ticket, he explained how to get my fine reduced and who to talk to. Bless his heart.

That little misadventure, all $198.00 worth, made me late for my appointment with Dr. H. When I had to sit in the waiting room an unusually long time, I figured it was my fault for showing up five minutes after my appointment, but then I had to sit for another thirty minutes in the exam room. Finally, Dr. H came flying in the door, apologizing for leaving me sitting there. "Another patient showed up early for her physical and it kind of threw everything off. I could have made her wait but, she was already naked, wrapped in a tissue gown... and she's old so.. you know," she explained.

I assured her it was okay, although I knew there was no way in hell I was going to have time to stop and pick up groceries now, not and make it back to work in the holler by one o'clock.

Dr. H was all excited by my weight loss. When I told her that I was disappointed that I was still 5lbs away from the goal I'd set for myself for my followup visit, she made me look back at the numbers from 18 months ago, gave me a few "atta girls" and encouraged me to keep going. She did wag her finger at me a little for not checking my blood sugar every day. I was like.. "Oh, do I need to do that?"

Thank goodness they've gone to laptops. If they still used clipboards, I probably would have gotten a smack to the head.

They took some blood and made me pee in a cup. I already had the results back on the blood work this morning. In February, my "Average Estimated Glucose" was 160. Now it's 117.

I reckon that's pretty good, right?

While I'm on the subject, with modern medical technology that includes lasers, body scanning, facial reconstruction, boob jobs and morning after pills, why the crap can't they come up with a better way to perform tests on tinkle than handing you a cup and a wet wipe and sending you to the potty? And seriously, is anyone able to hit the cup the first time without having to wave it around under there like a wee-wee divining rod? I've developed quite a talent for peeing up my own arm.

By the time I finished up with my lab work, down in the basement, where they put the crappy doctors and newbie nurses, I barely had time to hit a drive-thru and high tail it back to Frog Pond Holler. Bossholio, PG and the GM's secretary seemed glad to see me, me and Lulu had made appointments on the same day and Thelma is out of town. What I mean is, they had to spend four hours alone in the office without anyone who actually knew how to do anything, other than read romance novels, surf porn and pitch hissy fits.

I was kinda afraid Bossholio was gonna try to kiss me. It was skeery ya'll.

After I put in four hours at the Asylum, I had to drive all the way back to Wally World to get those groceries, two prescriptions and some more finger pokey things. ("Finger Pokey Things" is high fallootin' diabetes medical terminology, for those of you who aren't familiar.) I was pleased to find that the cute pharmacist was working. He's kinda dark skinned with a hint of an accent, a trace of something Latin flavored I think. He gives me the warm fuzzies. As luck would have it, when the cashier scanned my little bag o' drugs, something funky popped up on the computer.

I was not surprised.

I didn't mind though, I got to stand there and look old, worn out, poked, prodded and bewildered alluring while the cashier got Dr. Druggy McCutiepants to fix it.

It's all sort of a blur after that. I'd been on the run all day and I was running out of steam. It took all the self control I could muster to keep from grabbing a child out of a cart as she tried to climb out, while either Grandma or Ms. KindaLateInLifeToHaveAKidButI'mNotJudging stood RIGHT THERE, blocking the whole aisle with her cart and reading the fine print on a box of crackers.

I didn't say anything, but only because I didn't have enough oomph left to get into a Granny Throwdown by the saltines.

But then? When I was almost done, I met a very pregnant HoooonnnnEEEEEE, in her very, very short dress, which I strongly suspect was actually a not-THAT-long maternity top, and her Bubbahubby who we'll call Slopehead Neandersaurus.

HoooonnnnEEEEEE was holding a small box of fruity flavored tea bags that probably cost around $2. I know her name because as Slopehead tried to move on, he became annoyed with HoooonnnnEEEEEE and announced loudly, "HoooonnnnEEEEEE... you have TEA at HOME!" It was obvious that Slopehead wanted to make absolutely certain that the people way over in the frozen foods knew that HE was the master of his single wide and that HE controlled the purse strings.

I watched as HoooonnnnEEEEEE stood there with her perfectly coiffed hair, manicured nails and swollen tummy, holding the little box of tea between her two delicate, dainty hands, quietly negotiating as Slopehead stood beside her, patting her on the shoulder in a patronizingly false display of affection.

I couldn't even hear her. I was RIGHT there. She never looked at him.

He eventually "let" her put the tea in the cart. "Well okay HoooonnnnEEEEEE, I guess you can get it."

I damned near bit my tongue clean off.

Here's the thing. Being a condescending bully does not prove your manhood. It proves your lack thereof. And? If you can't afford to let your very pregnant significant other add a $2 box of tea to your cart containing a gallon of milk and a bag of Dorritos, then maybe you'd better consider taking your trifling ass down to the Mickey D's for a second job because you're going to have an extra mouth to feed soon and about a month from now? That $2 box of tea is gonna sound like a steal of a deal.

And I'm sorry but why the hell is HoooonnnnEEEEEE even walking around Wally World? She was obviously fixin' to squirt little Slopey Jr.out her vajayjay ANY DAMNED MINUTE. It was hurting me just to LOOK at her. She had that preggers outie bellybutton thing going on, her back was all arched and FOR THE LUVA MONKEES, SHE JUST WANTED SOME DAMNED TEA. If I'd had any cash on me, I would have given it to her and told her to buy herself some tea and some Reece cups, then call her mom, her dad, and uncle or SOMEONE to help her get away from this Jerky McNuckledragger before it's too late.

You know what? I hope she has a girl. A spoiled, rotten little Daddy's girl that wraps him so far around her finger that he can kiss his own bee-hind. I hope she bleeds him for every dollar he makes before she runs off at 16, getting a job rocking a stripper pole, leaving him a broken and pathetic shadow of his former self. And then? I hope HoooonnnnEEEEEE does some growing up, gets herself a degree online and runs off to be a strong, independent woman who can buy her OWN damned tea, never having to ask anyone else FOR ONE DAMNED THING EVER AGAIN.

And I hope he ends up living in an old cardboard box down at the overpass. The side of the box will say "Liptons."

I think I need some Midol.

We'll talk again soon.

Later Taters.

Frequent Rider Miles on The Crazy Train. I Haz Them.

This has nothing to do with my post. I just really want an effin' donut. 

I woke up this morning to the sound of someone knocking, dogs barking and muffled voices. I assumed Ma had gotten up and woke up The Amazon then shuffled back to bed, so I didn't get in any hurry. As you know, once you're awake, the need to tinkle outweighs any ideas of going back to sleep, so I wallered out of bed to find The Amazon gone and the front door standing wide open.

And Yoda wasn't barking. Which was weird.

I thought it was The Rapture, a week and a day late. That is, until I looked out the door and saw the ambulance across the road (formerly the Dubya estate) over at Crazy Dave's house. Bubbles' brother was leading Ma over to the truck and The Amazon was standing there in her pjs with Yoda on a leash.

The Rapture would have been way more logical.

Apparently Ma thought the town had called to tell her they were going to burn the house down and she needed to leave or get fined. Apparently she's more afraid of being fined than dying in a horrendous house fire. She also had the presence of mind to save Yoda, but the rest of us are on our own.

All her vitals checked out and although she fell up Dave's steps and landed on his porch, she seemed physically okay. Ma couldn't understand why Crazy Dave and his wife wouldn't open the door and let her in. If it had been her, she reasoned, she would have let THEM in. Which is true. She would welcome Sasquatch in the front door and offer to fix it dinner.

She's been having a bad spell ever since her brother in law died. Yesterday she angrily explained that she was NOT going to be hypnotized.

*blink*

Hopefully she'll pass out in an hour or so and sleep through til tomorrow. That's usually how these episodes end. Then? We're having a talk about signing papers and seeing lawyers.

Thank goodness tomorrow is a holiday. I still need to mow and weed and.. ya know.. stuff. I laid around and whined about my Rice Krispy joints all day yesterday, but it's better today. I've been taking a sleeping spell lately too, which might be why I was hurting. Who effin knows anymore? When FMF and "The Sugar" (as we say down here) meet Aunt Flo, my body just kinda goes into a big clusterfucked state of WTH????

That's my diagnosis anyway.

I hope all is quiet down your way, if quiet is what you need. Ya'll take care and we'll talk again soon.

Later Taters!