Wednesday, June 29, 2016

This Is Why We Can't Have Nacho Things

Sometimes Mrs. Hillbilly Mom outsmarts herself.

Saturday, I was planning to stop by Save A Lot after picking up T-Hoe from the shop, for some shredded lettuce and other makin's for my delicious Super Nachos. Since we'd been out of town state for four days, there were a couple of things I needed. But I was SO HOT from T-Hoe's faulty air conditioner that I could not bear it.

Sunday, I decided to grab a few Nacho-makin's at The Devil's Playground when The Pony and I did the shopping. I won't get my salsa there, but I can get the rest of the stuff. Besides, I had a stockpile of salsa. I picked up the shredded lettuce. Some queso sauce. Frozen Tyson pulled chicken breast. Already had chips. Already had sliced black olives. As I was walking down the onion/tomato aisle for some grape tomatoes for salads, I glanced at the onions. I normally don't get my onions from The Devil. In the past, they have left a bad taste in my mouth. Same with the potatoes. I end up throwing them away. More money down another rathole.

But there they were. White onions. The exact same kind I get at Save A Lot. Same blue net bag. About five onions per bag. It would be silly to make a trip to Save A Lot just for onions. And I really wanted more onions. I backed up (without beeping) to grab a bag of onions.

Once we got home and put everything away, I set to making my Super Nachos for lunch. I sliced open that net bag, and picked an onion. Huh. I tried another one.

THIS is why I don't buy my onions at The Devil's Playground:


His onions, just like The Devil himself, are rotten to the core.

Two out of five onions. ROTTEN! So far. I have only cut into three of them. Looks like I'll be making a trip to Save A Lot sooner than I planned.

Tuesday, June 28, 2016

The Universe Is Filled With Apologists Who Delight In Shining Mrs. Hillbilly Mom On, And Giving Her The Runaround

So...we put T-Hoe in the auto hospital while we were cavorting and farting through Oklahoma for four days. The plan was to get the hail damage (suffered on the way home from a special award assembly at a Newmentia school board meeting back in May) fixed with the insurance money. However, the local dealer's service department wanted more money than what was allowed by the adjuster, so Farmer H said he would take it elsewhere.

T-Hoe was also due to get his tire pressure sensors replaced, and his backup beeper beeping again. Maybe a couple of other things, but I can't remember. The amount quoted by the service department was over $500. Farmer H agreed, and told them to fix T-Hoe. We picked him up Saturday morning, and even though the air conditioner barely worked, I was satisfied with his rejuvenation.

I'd been having issues with the air conditioner off and on. Meaning that sometimes it was off. And sometimes it was on. You never knew when it would start pumping out regular air during a cooling session. I figured it was cycling and trying to stay at the temperature I had set, first getting too cold, then adjusting. But Saturday was REALLY hot. And so was I, trying to drive T-Hoe home. I made a trip out by the bank, leaving him running while I was in line. I even tried putting the windows down to let a gush of heat out, after T-Hoe had been sitting on the blacktop lot for four days. Then I tried the RECIRCULATE button. Still no good. I was dripping sweat when I got back to the Mansion.

I told Farmer H, and he picked up a can of Freon, found his gauges, and charged up my trusty T-Hoe on Sunday. Said the air was running at 48 degrees, maybe, and at 42 after the charge. I don't know. I don't listen to him much. But I do know that when I set T-Hoe on 68 degrees, he blew cool air after that. Mission accomplished. Even though Farmer H at first had said maybe they turned off the air while working on him, or that they set him on a higher temperature. PUH LEASE! As if I'm not smart enough to check those things before driving around for an hour dripping sweat, looking like a heat exhaustion victim.

I was also pleased when I got T-Hoe home on Saturday, when I put him in reverse inside the garage, and heard my backup beeper again! Also on Sunday, when The Pony and I backed out, over by the drop-off on the carport, and he beeped a different tune. But not so much when I got back from the gas station chicken store Monday, because putting T-Hoe in reverse in the garage did not give me a beep.

This morning as I left the garage for the dead-mouse-smelling post office to buy stamps, I did NOT hear a beep. Nary a one. AND the dash told me SERVICE PARK ASSIST.

Well! You can imagine how I immediately set to texting Farmer H, and told him that T-Hoe's beeper was dead, and that we needed to dig our money out of that rathole at the local dealer where we had so trustingly poured it.

Farmer H responded, "Ok they didn't find anything just cleaned connection and said it was working now,"

Are you freakin' kidding me? We paid for them to clean the connections so it would work for two-and-a-half days before going back to being broken like it has been for two years? I reminded Farmer H that the beeper worked great until I took it to his recommended quack service department next to Save A Lot for that noise in the rear end, which they took apart, and also found nothing there, but did work on the front end to fix the noise. AND how I had seen on the innernets that sometimes a 2008 Tahoe has trouble with the beeper if you mess with something when taking apart the rear end.

Something's gotta give. If an authorized dealer's service department can't find out what's wrong with your car's beeper, then WHO CAN? Mrs. Hillbilly Mom, apparently, with only the use of a New Delly and the innernets.

According to Farmer H, the service department didn't take apart T-Hoe's rear end because once they cleaned the sensors, they worked.

Why do I feel like my own personal live-in mechanic is giving me the runaround? And what was all that money for?

I'd better not find one insert from The Good Feet Store stuffed in Farmer H's shoes!

Monday, June 27, 2016

The Gall Of The Fartin' King

Let the record show that you have not lived until you've traveled to Oklahoma, 10 hours going and 10 hours coming, trapped in a 2016 GMC Acadia (crimson red, with dark cashmere leather seats), with Farmer H and The Pony. Only slightly more unpleasant would be traveling from Illinois to California with Clark Griswold, taking the tribe cross-country in the Family Truckster (for a few miles with deceased Aunt Edna strapped to the roof) to visit Wally World.

The methane expelled by my two travel companions would no doubt have powered the family A-Cad for at least a quarter of the trip, had we only possessed the technology to convert from our gasoline engine. They did not even make a pretense of blaming each other. "Nope! That was mine!" Almost as if an award (possibly a LEG LAMP) would be bestowed upon the biggest stinker at the end of the trip.

On the way back, barely three hours into the drive, we stopped for sustenance for both ourselves and A-Cad, at a truckstop McDonalds. Two double cheeseburger meals were split among the three of us, choosing to consume our meal on the road rather than eat up precious time sitting in the "restaurant." I find it hard to type that word in regards to McDonalds.

Looking back, I saw that The Pony had put his fries between his legs. ON MY DARK CASHMERE LEATHER SEAT! No siree, Bob! That was not happening on MY watch!

"Pony! At least put something down to catch the salt and greasy crumbs that fall out of the fry box! Here. Pony. Um...put this napkin between you legs. Heh, heh. I never thought I'd be saying THAT to you."

The Pony complied, with a snort. He strapped on the ol' feedbag and was finished with his meal before Farmer H and I had even cracked open a cheeseburger each. Of course, I had to wait until Farmer H was fed, him trying to argue with the Garmin over the route, and drive with one eye, and feed himself with one hand. At least I propped up his fries with a napkin already underneath, and unwrapped his cheeseburger so that half was still encased in the paper. No ketchup drips on MY dark cashmere interior!

I was in between picking up Farmer H's fry box and preparing his burger when I glanced back at The Pony. He had a guilty look on his face, and he was peering between his legs.

"What! Did you spill fries on my leather seat?"

"Nooo..."

"Why are you looking down? Are ya poopin'?"

Farmer H must insert himself into any interaction he overhears. To show his superiority. His control of the situation. To make sure everyone knows he's the king of the castle. The arbiter of the Acadia. Even if it means taking his eye off the road, to turn and give Mrs. Hillbilly Mom the stinkeye.

"You are SO rude and crude!"

Said the Fart King.

Sunday, June 26, 2016

As I Lay Frying

In case you haven't heard, the Hillbilly family just returned from four days in Oklahoma. It wasn't as hot as Missi-freakin-ssippi in July that year we took the #1 son to basketball camp. But it was close.

We were supposed to pick up The Pony at his dorm at 3:00. We even read the website again, and sent him a text to make sure that it was 3:00. Not 3:30. You don't want your kid standing around in 99-degree heat for a half hour while you play longer at the Indian casino. Yes, The Pony verified, it was 3:00.

We left that casino with plenty of time, in case we ran into traffic. It was only a 15-minute drive. And we made sure to leave at 2:00. We had planned to eat at the food court, but Farmer H was antsy to be at the campus and find a place to park. Which could be difficult with 400 future students being released from that freshman orientation camp.

We had driven 10 minutes, and were already back in Norman proper when we got the text from The Pony. "Bumped back to 3:15 or so now. Then I'll need to repack." Okay. So now Farmer H and I had over an hour to kill in 99-degree heat. So he decided that we should go ahead and have lunch. We didn't want anything major. So Farmer H decided on Sonic. Perhaps you've heard of Sonic. Where you sit in your car to eat. In 99-degree heat. At least my burger was delicious, even if they did seem to have infused my Diet Cherry Coke with VANILLA! I hate vanilla. So I ate the cherry, and only drank half of it. Pity, really. It's been a long time since I had a Sonic Diet Cherry Coke. At least it was only a medium that was ruined. Not a 44 oz.

On to the campus. Just so happened that a car was backing out of a PRIME parking spot. It was only 4 spaces down from the fire plug where we dropped off The Pony. I sent him a text with the location to find us. "Not out of closing yet." This was at 3:20.

We sat. And we sat. In the hot car. Mercifully, the day was overcast. Yet I lay frying. Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's mother's side of the family could never take the heat. My mom was a redhead, you know. Fair and freckled of skin. The heat gave her a flushed face. Me too. And my sister the ex-mayor's wife. Once my face gets hot, it stays lit up like a Christmas tree. I told Farmer H, "I might as well be a drinker, because my face makes me look like one."

At 3:24, another communication from The Pony. "Ceremony just ending. Ten, fifteen minutes maybe?" I sent one back. "We won't leave." Which may have been a mistake.

At 3:33, "Packing."

We watched other parents wander around, standing under a tree, waiting to nab their kids and take them to where the car was parked. A female campus policeman came by, with her tablet out, eyeing our license plate. She told a woman that she was okay for now, until pickup. Farmer H asked if we needed to move. "No. I saw the out of state plates. I figured you were a visitor. Usually if we don't get a name when we run the plates, we know it's a visitor, and we don't ticket them."

At 3:50, The Pony returned. So now it had been almost 2 hours since Mrs. Hillbilly Mom last went to the bathroom at the casino, in preparation for her 10-hour drive home.

Let the record show that soda-drinking Farmer H stopped at a convenience store for the bathroom, and to buy more soda for the start of the trip. Mrs. HM's face remained lit up like a lush for the entire ride home.

Thank the Gummi Mary, at least A-Cad has a great air-conditioning system.

Saturday, June 25, 2016

Farmer H Wants The $50 Pot

Farmer H is an odd fellow. There we were, sitting in the car, waiting for The Pony to be dismissed from his freshman orientation camp, when Farmer H declared, "That pot is fifty dollars! If I was home, I'd call that lady and tell her I'd be right over."

Let the record show that Farmer H sometimes leaves out the finer details. So I had to ask what he was looking at, and why he needed the $50 pot. Turns out he was looking up some buy/sell/trade Facebook local thingy on his phone. He saw a cast iron pot that he would have LOVED to possess for the low, low price of $10.

"You bet I'd pay ten dollars for a fifty-dollar Griswald pot! Huh. So would Steve. He just sent her a message: 'I'll be right over to get it.'"

"Griswold? Like the Chevy Chase family in Vacation?"

"Yeah. Griswald. A Griswald cast iron pot. They're worth a lot. You don't hardly see them."

When The Pony got into the car, and we went up the road a ways, I told him, "Your father wants the fifty-dollar pot."

Let the record show that The Pony barely raised his eyebrow. I guess he knows us only too well.

This reminds me of the time my mom was embarrassed that she was asked for ID at the Devil's Playground pharmacy when she went to pick up my niece's allergy medicine. "They looked at me like they thought I was going to make The Meth."

Hillbilly people problems.

Friday, June 24, 2016

Is It Too Much To Ask?

We have been staying at a Holiday Inn Express. From my last experience with that chain, I expected more.

This one is only a year old. It's in tip-top shape. The service, however, is not. Yes, Mrs. Hillbilly Mom is a tough customer. But I don't think I am asking for too much. I just want the basics one would assume one was ENTITLED TO when paying a premium price for a suite at a Holiday Inn Express. Yes, Mrs. Hillbilly Mom has issues. Here are a few things that irked her during the stay.

No bedding and no pillow for the pull-out couch The Pony was destined to sleep on the first night. Farmer H said he would pick them up at the front desk when we returned from supper. I told him No Siree, Bob! The guest does not traipse through the lobby carrying his own forgotten-by-the-housekeeper bedding.

Barely enough toilet paper to spare a square. Both rolls on the bathroom holders were almost spent when we checked in. I know it is not cost effective to put a brand-new roll of TP in every bathroom every day. But we had hardly any. And we reserved this room for three nights! The girl at the front desk gave Farmer H the side-eye when he asked for bedding for the pull-out couch (we DID book for three people) and toilet paper on our way out for supper.

Still no pillow. Even though we returned to find bedding for the couch, there was no pillow. So Farmer H donated one of his. The other HI Express suite we stayed at had the bedding in the closet, pillow included.

Only two shampoos in the bathroom. The standard is a little bottle of shampoo, a little bottle of conditioner, and a little bottle of lotion. So...Mrs. HM had hair with the texture of straw all day on Wednesday, with added straw texture provided by the wind sweeping down the plain.

Stingy with the plastic cups. Believe me, I don't want glass glasses! Remember when you used to get them at hotels? Then 60 Minutes ran that segment on how housekeeping uses other people's dirty butt-towels to wipe them clean and put a little cardboard bonnet on them like they're fresh. Anyhoo...we had a total of six plastic cups when we checked in Tuesday evening, to last 3 people Tuesday/Wednesday/Thursday/Friday. No more plastic cups have been left, even though we keep using them.

Substandard Breakfast Buffet. A free breakfast should at least be an edible breakfast. The Pony was disappointed due to the pancake machine proclaiming it was overheated. So he had no pancakes. He also had no biscuit, because Farmer H took the last one, and no more were brought out, even though there was another 90 minutes left of the free breakfast. Of course we did not sit there the entire 90 minutes, but you would think 30 minutes would be enough time to fetch some biscuits. Same with the cinnamon rolls, which The Pony also wanted, but they were old, and the ones that were sitting there saying they were ready were not put in the serving section. Poor Pony had to eat EGGS! Which, I don't know how they managed, were cold in some bites and lukewarm in others.

Today, we were starting to run low on our only full roll of toilet paper. I told Farmer H he needed to ask for more. He did not want to do so, but when he was down at the pool, he found four rolls stacked in the bathroom and brought one back! Also, after the room was cleaned today, we had our lotion and conditioner and more shampoo.

Not sure we'll stay here again.

Thursday, June 23, 2016

The Universe Conspires For Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's Own Good

Mrs. Hillbilly Mom and Farmer H dodged a bullet this morning. Okay. Technically, we dodged a flaming semi truck.

The plan was to head to a casino a few miles south of Norman. We went there yesterday for a couple hours, and after a not-quite-satisfying free breakfast at Holiday Inn Express, we hit the road. The road, however, was not particularly open to being hit. Just before our turn-off to get on I-35, I saw two helicopters hovering over the highway.

"Look. Two helicopters. I hope there wasn't an accident. Maybe they're delivering heavy equipment to that road construction crew. But they act like they're news copters."

"We'll find out." Farmer H turned A-Cad onto the approach to I-35 South. Huh. Nothing much was moving. It was slow yesterday due to the construction. But at 10:15 this morning, nothing was moving.

Let the record show that Mrs. HM prefers to get an early start on her gambling. But Farmer H is not as addicted as she. He even set his alarm LATER this morning. For 7:30 a.m. Then I had to wait an hour after taking my thyroid meds before we could go to breakfast. Farmer H lingered over his biscuit and gravy, sausage links, scrambled eggs, and orange juice. He even went back to the free buffet for breakfast dessert, which was a big cinnamon roll, even though he's not supposed to have sweets. It was after 9:30 when we left for the casino.

We never arrived. Once we saw that line waiting to clover-leaf their way onto I-35 South, I said, "Forget it!" and Farmer H took the other lane to get off on a side street and go back into Norman. After a detour to the Museum of Natural History, we tried again. Along with attempting an alternate route, which did not exist unless we went 30 miles out of our way.

Once we ate lunch and went back to the hotel, I hooked up my free high-speed internet and saw that there had been a wreck on a bridge involving a semi truck. Then it burst into flames. The highway was closed at 9:20 this morning. Nobody suffered serious injury, but the highway department had to clear the truck, and then hazmat crews had to finish the cleanup. The traffic report said the cleanup was expected to stretch into the evening rush hour.

Sometimes, the universe thwarts Mrs. HM for a reason.