Simmering Rage 2c: The Hamburger

Last week I needed Farmer H to carry in groceries. I was having an especially bad knee day. He said he'd be home by 5:00. He was going out to the middler of nowhere to fix the door for Nick and Bev, our former Backcreek Neighbors.

Of course he was not back. I called from the parking lot of 10Box before I left, to say I'd be home in 10 minutes. He was not even to Sis-Town yet.

"I should be there pretty soon. Just leave it in the car. That won't hurt it. I'll bring it in when I get there. It ain't but 40-somthing degrees."

"It's 52, and I have your ice cream and hamburger."

"Well. You could just take the ice cream."

Which is what I did. I also had some cheese. Can't remember what else cold. And two bags with cans for making chili after our beans were gone. But I didn't want to carry in four pounds of hamburger. That's heavy for someone who can't walk without grabbing onto stuff for balance.

I got home and took in Farmer H's precious Drumsticks. I thought he'd be there in about 10-15 minutes. I went ahead and changed clothes. Got the beans out of FRIG II to start warming. It actually took Farmer H 25 minutes, because he made another stop. A story which will probably appear on my not-so-secret blog. Anyhoo... I was coming out of the bathroom in my comfy clothes when I hear Farmer H putting the groceries down on the cutting block.

"I don't need all these cans here! Just set the bags along the wall, on the floor. I'll be using them tomorrow morning when I make the chili."

He did, and I put other things away. Like the bread and bananas and cheese and oatmeal and protein bars. Something was missing. 

"Where's the hamburger?"

"HAMBURGER? I didn't see no hamburger."

"It was in a bag on the back seat. Right by the bags with the cheese and the oatmeal."

"Huh. I guess I'll go out and look..."

Yeah. He came back with the four-pound tray of hamburger. Good thing I noticed. But that's not the only issue with the hamburger. Bear with the roundabout tale that brought my rage to a simmer...

That's not hamburger. That's beans. The last of the beans. And a pan of juice. You'll understand their significant contribution to my building simmer.

"The beans are warm. This is the last of them. Make sure you leave me half. Because the past two nights, you've had beans stacked about two inches above the rim of the bowl!"

"I did not! I had a corn muffin broken up in the bottom of the bowl."

"I know that. But it wouldn't give you a towering pile of beans in the middle of your bowl."

"You said I could have what I wanted. That you like the juice."

"I DO like the juice. And I said I could get more beans out of the big pan. Which I did. But this is all that's left. I don't want just juice."

"Look. I've got juice!"

"Yes. But that's also a lot of beans. And you're still dipping. I don't care if you have NO juice. Just leave me half the beans."

"I am. There's a whole bowl of beans in there for you."

"We'll see when I'm ready to eat."

Just as I suspected, when I dipped out my beans, there was barely half a bowl. Sure, I had juice to add. But as for beans, just a half bowl. The simmer was about to grow to a roiling boil the next evening, when Farmer H dipped his chili.

Once again, he had a towering bowl of chili. I had browned 2/3 of that 4-pound pack of hamburger to add to six cans of assorted beans in the chili. I daresay that if I'd set out the big pot to warm up, Farmer H would have had all the hamburger in his bowl.

A disagreement ensued, and the next night, I was in sole charge of dishing up the chili. Sometimes, you gotta look out for yourself before you reach the boiling point.

Simmering Rage 2b: The Tire, The Cane, And The Hamburger

On Thursday, I had to go by the title office for Farmer H, to drop off some forms (which I had to fill out!) regarding the recent deal to sell HIS LAND. I did not want to do this. I hate this stuff. And Farmer H had already signed the other papers, meaning I had to go without him.

At least it was Errand Day, and The Pony agreed to accompany me. I said I was planning to bring my cane. There's a step to get through their threshold, and without an appointment, I was afraid I might have to sit in the outer chairs to wait. They are armless, and I might need my cane for balance getting up and down.

Temps were in the 30s. I dressed in three layers. I just can't stand the cold. Must be my lack of a thyroid. The garage is especially cold, and I shiver before T-Hoe's heat starts to work about two miles down the road. I went out and put the papers, and some ham and beans and corn muffins for The Pony, into T-Hoe's passenger side.

I turned to A-Cad, to get my cane out of the back seat. I almost ripped my arm off! The door was locked! What in the Not-Heaven??? We don't lock our vehicles out here. Farmer H always said, "If a prisoner escapes, he'll head to the highway to catch a ride, not out here in the woods to steal a car. But if he does, it'll be unlocked for him to hotwire, and he won't need to break into the house for keys!" More Farmer H logic.

Anyhoo... I was a bit upset, because I was not wanting to waste any time, to get to town and get that paperwork done before errands and the dropping temperatures before Friday's storm. I really wanted my cane. Lucky for me, I have the spare key for A-Cad in my purse. So I fished it out and tried the clicker to unlock the doors. 

NOTHING.

I tried that clicker several times. It was deader than a doornail. I suppose it needs a new battery. I put the key in the front door lock, and got it open. I used the button on the armrest to unlock all the doors. I hobbled to the back door again. Found my cane. Saw no reason for the doors being locked. Just a few pocketknives and some mini flashlights in packages. I closed the back door. Hobbled to the front. Tried locking all the doors with the armrest button. The alarm started sounding. I couldn't stop it with the clicker. Dead, you know. So I had to lean in and put the key in the ignition and start A-Cad, which shut off the alarm. Then I had to leave all the doors unlocked. What's the use of only locking the driver's door with a key? 

You can bet Farmer H got an earful when he came home. To which he replied, "Huh."

Simmering Rage 2a: The Tire Air, The Cane, And The Hamburger

My rage is percolating like 1970s diner coffee! So many ways that Farmer H has found to raise my ire. Without even trying, I think!

This week I kept getting a warning when I start T-Hoe to check my left front tire pressure. I do. It's 26 pounds. Should be 35. I know that cold weather has an effect on tire inflation. By the time I get home from town, it's up to 29. The warning goes off. But it still should be 35. The right front tire has a couple more pounds than the left. I don't know about the back, because the sensors don't work. Surprise.

Anyhoo... We had a day in the upper 40s, and I told Farmer H he should put some air in my tires before the REALLY cold weather got here on Friday. He said he would. But then he wouldn't, when I reminded him on Thursday evening.

"It'll be fine. You won't be going anywhere."

"I will on Tuesday, maybe, if the roads get cleared. Or a couple days later. I don't want to drive on a flat tire."

"It won't be flat. I don't know if I have any air in the compressor."

The compressor that sits in the garage between T-Hoe and A-Cad, a shin-knocker out to get me if I walk down the middle to get something out of A-Cad, or get in when Farmer H backs in so I don't have to walk across the moss and the gravel on the carport to get in A-Cad for a trip. The compressor that Farmer H takes to the BARn to fill with air from his big compressor that he traded from a former neighbor.

"Well, I don't want to have a flat tire, or be trapped at home when I can get out."

"It'll be fine. If nothin' else, I'll drive it to town and put air in it."

"On FLAT TIRES?"

"They won't be flat, HM. They'll be fine."

So he sayeth, so it must be...

Simmering Rage 1: The Generator

Mrs. HM's rage is simmering like a pot of chili on the stove. Which I just happen to have cooking right now, due to four days of single digit, -20 wind chill weather rolling in last night. Dangerous cold. With 9-12 inches of snow in Hillmomba's forecast.

Farmer H DID bring in the packs of soda from T-Hoe's rear last night. But said he'll still be getting out and about. That he'll be fine going to his SUS2.5. And that I'll be fine here.

"HM. We have gas. We have a generator."

"But will it start?"

"Yes, HM."

"So you got a battery for it?"

"No. But I can jump it with the car."

"YOU'VE HAD SIX WEEKS TO GET A BATTERY! Since the last time when it didn't work."

"I've been busy, HM."

"What's the point of having a generator if it won't start?"

"It WILL start, if I jump it with the car battery."

Which took over a half hour last time, if I remember correctly. And I can't imagine Farmer H standing outside dealing with it at -20 degrees. He should have gone out that week and bought a new battery. And this storm has been in the forecast for five days. During which I've been telling Farmer H to make sure we have gas to run the generator. Assuming that the battery had been replaced.

Can you feel the simmer? It might be the only thing keeping me warm. 

The Knock At The Door

Errand Day started out all cattywompus this week. I was already planning my town trip to start two hours early, because Farmer H sprung a surprise document-completing and signing on me. Dumped three pages of forms on the kitchen table Wednesday evening, saying I need to take them by the title office on Thursday, and go in to sign paperwork for the sale of HIS LAND. That's a lot of trouble for $1200. Of course Farmer H had already signed his name, but due to the inconvenience of our marriage, I also had to appear in person and sign. At least I have my helper Pony to assist me in and out.

I had to bake another dozen corn muffins in time for them to cool before leaving. I was taking some ham and beans to The Pony, who LOVES corn muffins. We would have had enough, but Farmer H eats three per meal, while I have one. So we'd be short for our last night of the beans if I took The Pony enough to enjoy.

Then I spied SilverRedO driving across the front yard shortly before 8:00. And heard Farmer H come in the basement door. I didn't know if he had Old Buddy with him. I don't like surprise guests. So I was cautious going about my regular routines.

I got a load of laundry done, the beans for that evening put into a smaller pot, baked the muffins, washed the dishes, and wrote Genius's weekly letter.

THEN THERE WAS A KNOCK AT THE DOOR!

I'd heard Jack thumping around on the porch, as if frolicking, and wondered if another animal had come along. But no. It turned out to be the door knocker. It took me a few minutes to get there. 

It was a guy in a hard hat and work vest. Looked like the actor Steve Zahn. He said he was with a tree-trimming business. Yes. I understood. There have been two vehicles parked in assorted places along the county blacktop road. They have a seat for the driver, and a long thing that looks like a torpedo, with a circular saw at the end. They trim limbs along the power lines. Hopefully we won't lose our power with this upcoming snowstorm!

Anyhoo... he explained what they doing, and asked how much of the land was ours. I told him down to the tall stump. "I know exactly what you're talking about!" He asked if anything was buried under the lines. Not that I know of. And if Farmer H minded if they sprayed herbicide in a 15 foot radius around the poles. Nope. I was pretty sure he didn't. I later called Farmer H to make sure. Not that I was going to go find this guy and tell him. Farmer H was all for it.

I don't like things upsetting my routine. But this guy was nice enough. And he let little Jack jump up on him, and petted him. It's hard to dislike a dog lover.

It's Not A Gas, Gas, Gas

Time for Mrs. HM to complain again. Well. There's really not an off-season for her complaining. Specifically, it's time to complain about BILLING PRACTICES from her utility companies.

Here it is, January 21, and I've not received the gas bill for the flip house. You may recall my more recent complaints, which may have been here, or on my not-so-secret blog, about how we are expected to READ OUR OWN METER! Farmer H has done that at least twice now. And I've sent in the numbers in a timely manner. As for paying the gas bill, I've been doing the "guest pay" online. I don't want an account. It's a flip house! Temporary. No need for all of our info to be lolling about the cloud waiting to be hacked.

Anyhoo... at least we've been getting the bill. Late for return mailing, of course. Thus the "guest pay." The last one was due December 26. We got it December 17. No way would a payment make it through the holiday mail, with a weekend in there to boot, on time. 

Now I still don't have the bill. You may recall that most often, if Mrs. HM doesn't get a bill, she doesn't pay, because she doesn't know something is due! But with the flip house, I'm always recording expenditures, and keeping track of The Pony's half of our investment. So I see when the last bill was paid, and know around the time the utilities are due. 

I went online and paid that gas bill on January 18. I was lucky that I had the last bill, with the account number, and their system popped up the current amount due. (Three dollars less than December, woohoo!) Still, I have not yet received a bill. Which I keep for our tax records.

How will I know when to read our own meter again?

It's Not Her, It's Me

Since my $200 winner a couple weeks ago, the scratchers have not been kind. Especially the scratchers from the Gas Station Chicken Store. I can't blame Fave and her unlucky thumb. Even Steven must think the Gas Station Chicken Store is due for an even-ing. I've not been shut out, but having only one winner a day, for $5, is not doing my scratcher bankroll any FAVEors.

I told Fave on Sunday, "It's not you. It's me." The tickets I gave her on Thursday were all losers. I don't buy them at the GSCS, because that might look suspicious if she had a big winner from the place she works. Not that there's any way to cheat, other than scanning a winner for somebody, and telling them it's a loser, and keeping it. People in other cities have been caught doing that.

Anyhoo... further proof that I am the problem is Farmer H. It was so cold on Monday that I didn't want to get out. Farmer H agreed to pick up some crossword scratchers for me, from two different places. AND, when he decided he was going back to town when the HVAC Guy left, he said he could also get me a couple from the gas station near his SUS2.5, where he goes for a soda and to play the fake slot machines.

Well! Bravo for Farmer H! I had a $20 winner from that gas station. And a $15 winner from the Casey's by the GSCS. AND a $10 and $40 winner from the School-Turn Casey's over by the flip house. All together, I won $85 on the crossword tickets Farmer H got for me!

Which definitely proves it's ME having the losing streak. Thanks, Farmer H. It's a sad day when he is luckier than Mrs. HM. Though good for my scratcher bankroll.