Giving The Generator, The Finger

Yesterday I promised you two stories. Hillbilly Mom never
forgets a promise. Even though she is displaced from her
lovely Mansion in the capital of Hillmomba, she keeps on
bringing the whining. She is committed. She should be
committed, according to some.

The first story concerns our generator. The generator which
would have come in handy for our 49-hours-and-counting
power outage. Oh, we used to have a generator...until HH
TRADED IT to the LandStealer for some work on his barn
lean-to last summer. It does not seem like such a good deal
NOW, does it, HH? But you are the one sleeping in the cold
basement of the Mansion, inhaling kerosene heater fumes.

The second story was about our trip to the ER yesterday.
It is kind of a roundabout story, as is the trademark of
most Hillbilly Mom stories. Try to follow along, will you?

When we left off, the HM entourage was finally sheltered
at my Hillbilly Mama's house. HH dumped us, took off in
my large SUV, and said he was going to get the Veteran to
help him trim some trees that were blocking the roads in
our neighborhood. We soaked up some heat, watched some
TV, and decided to have the Hillbilly Mama drive us out to
the Mansion to pick up the large SUV. HH could make do
with his 4WD truck.

This was a 10-12 mile drive, but it took 40 minutes this
time, since the trees were out of the roads, but everybody
and their grandpa-dad were out trying to buy generators
and kerosene and propane and food. When we arrived, HH
was nowhere to be found, and my large SUV was gone!
Which kind of sucked, because that is why we made the
trip. Deciding to make lemonade of this big sour lemon, I
loaded up the contents of the deep freeze and packed some
clothes. HH called while we were there. He was at work
30 miles away with my large SUV. Thanks, HH, for not
answering all my calls, and for not telling us you were
going to work instead of trimming fallen trees.

Upon arriving back at Chez My Mama, the #1 son was
heard to say, "Grandma, I don't like it when you're like
this. You look depressed." Upon further investigation, it
was discovered that Grandma had a large red throbbing
pinky-finger. It seems she had a hangnail that went bad,
and now had a raging infection. She asked, "What should
I do with this, put some antibiotic ointment on it?" Duh!
Within 10 minutes I was loading her into her own small
SUV, which of course I made her drive, because DUH, it
was her car, and that's the way we do things in these here
parts.

We drove right back halfway to the Mansion, to the ER.
After 90 minutes, she was declared to have paronychia,
which I'm sure there are very colorful pictures of if you
will only google it. She has declined having her pinky-finger
photographed for blog purposes. She had to soak it in some
solution for about 20 minutes, then got a gauze bandage, a
pencillin pill, and a prescription for the next day when the
pharmacy opened. She declared that she felt better already.
While the boys drove me crazy in the waiting room, nurses
kept popping out asking, "Are you with someone?" No. We
only came in here to use it as a warming center during the
never-ending power outage. What I really said was, "We're
with the finger." They knew exactly what I meant.

I am hoping she is on the mend. We really need to be waited
on hand and pinky-finger and foot. That's the kind of free-
loaders we are.