Bowling With Pepsi

Here's a tiny glimpse into Farmer H's psyche.

This morning at 5:30 a.m., when a tender hot-house flower such as Mrs. Hillbilly Mom on her summer vacation should have been snoozing for at least another two, maybe three, hours...Farmer H blurted, "Well, I guess I'll be bowling with Pepsi tonight."

Please put yourself in my comfortable trough in the non-foam memory topper. I struggled to consciousness. Pepsi? We don't drink Pepsi. Why would Farmer H be having Pepsi at bowling? Did that mean he didn't think I'd given him enough allowance to drink a beer? He starts a new league tonight. Is it teetotalers? "What do you mean, bowling with Pepsi?"

"You know. Like old Homer." Yeah. That certainly cleared up the mystery. NOT.

"Homer?"

"When Homer had that little foreign boy and called him Pepsi." Oh. It started coming back. Eighteen years ago when we watched The Simpsons, when they were still on that fledgling new network, FOX, that only came in on UHF, and had two shows, Married With Children and The Simpsons, we saw an episode where Homer took in a Little Brother to spite Bart for going to the Big Brother program for a better dad. They were lounging on chaises on the patio after dark, and the little kid, Pepe said, "I love you, Papa Homer." And Homer said, "I love you too, Pepsi."

So Farmer H was referring to the fact that The Pony refused to bowl with him every Friday night all summer, and there was a kid wanting to bowl who had no adult, and the bowling alley lady hooked up Farmer H with a new partner.

Pepsi.

Farmer H is the reason I am so good at solving mysteries.

It'll Flow Like It Flows

The Shower Head War has outlived its uneasy truce. Farmer H and I have returned to battle.

The main problem lies in the disbursement of water. The *REDACTED shower head, top-of-the-line when first installed in the Mansion That Farmer H Built, was a sight to behold. So many settings, so little hot-water time. We regularly twisted Goldy into alternating spray and pulsating modes. When it comes to my shower, I think of it as a toilet. It should remain in the standard setting, and anybody desiring to alter it for their own personal needs should return it to the neutral state when finished.

Not so Farmer H. He is of the opinion Finders Weepers, Last Users Rulers. Woe is me, upon stepping into the shower and having my skin peeled off by the doubling-as-a-power-washer Goldy. I thought I had broken Farmer H of his Hillmomba-Convention-violating shenanigans. All it took was several times stepping under the newly-adjusted smooth garden hose of revenge setting for him to see the practicality of leaving Goldy in the neutral shower spray of all mankind.

Now we have a new problem. Though recurring. The bloom is off the rose of specialty spray. We're both happy to stand under an even cascade of warm water. But the healthy minerals dissolved in our well water are wreaking havoc with Goldy's pores. No water-softening system for this Mansion. We pull out the gallon jug of vinegar and start slaying Sir Calcium by dissolving his armor. In theory. In all actuality, we each wait for the other to blink.

Farmer H could easily pop Goldy's head off and submerge him in a vinegar drowning pool. I, on the other hand. prefer to bring the drowning pool to Goldy, leaving his head attached. I have no desire to see the inner workings of Goldy's noggin.

Right now we are in the cold war stage. Neither will remedy the problem. We spin Goldy's face 180/360/540/720 trying to get back to our preferred spray pattern. I am not satisfied with a bundle of conjoined streams carving a trough in my tender epidermis. Nor do I enjoy the gap as big as the space between David Letterman's teeth, where no water flows.

I'm thinking about calling Jack Spratt's wife to see how they have balanced their marriage all these years. I have to wait for just the right time. Previously I have caught her mid-platter-lick. She's a tad cranky then.

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*Sorry, had to change that description, not wanting the word "shower" to appear immediately after that word that describes a valuable metal of the yellow color. You never know what people might be Googling right before ending up here at the Mansion.

The Laddering

Farmer H has been hard at work filling Poolio for the summer.

That makes it sound like he is actually expending effort. All he did was round up The Pony and #1 to help him remove the cover over the weekend. Then he ran a hose from the outside spigot and told The Pony to turn it on every morning when he let the goats out of the pen. This afternoon, Farmer H poured in some chemicals.

This is where our opinions diverge. Farmer H has been topping off the same butt-water in Poolio for years. Soon it will be more chemicals than water. I think he should drain Poolio every year, then refill and add chemicals as needed. I don't know why Farmer H is against this tactic. Probably because it's MY idea, not his. It's not like the extra water will cost us anything. We're on a well. The sun heats Poolio. Seems like he could start fresh every year. A full transfusion for Poolio.

I pity The Pony, who will be told to hop down into that water and set the ladder. That young 'un has no body fat to insulate him from the arctic glacial meltwater. Farmer H could submerge his own sea-lion-like body and not pop a goose-bump.

The laddering will most likely be held this weekend, rain permitting.

The Reason, Perhaps, Why Hillbilly Mom Does Not Have Her Own Cooking Show

"What stinks?" The #1 son has always been an inquisitive sort.

"The beginnings of supper."

"That's terrible!"

"It's just something you people spilled on the burner that I was not aware of."

"YOU PEOPLE! You can't call us YOU PEOPLE!"

"I just did. I know that I didn't spill anything on the burner, because as YOU PEOPLE all tell me, I don't ever cook anything. All I do is heat something in the microwave or warm it in the oven. And now that I am actually cooking something, you have the nerve to say, 'What stinks?'"

The Pony came up from the basement. "What's that smell?"

"Your supper."

"Hmm." The Pony went into the kitchen to check out my dinner prep.

"I know! I walked out of my room and it smelled like a dirty diaper." Now #1 finds something to discuss with his brother.

"It DOES smell like a dirty diaper!"

"Oh, I'm so sure I am cooking a dirty diaper. Like I kidnapped a baby and fed it and fed it until I got it to poop, and then took the dirty diaper and threw it in a pot to boil on the front burner."

"Well. That's just what it smells like. A diaper."

"We'll just have to see how it tastes, I guess.

Something tells me that Paula Deen never had this problem.

Sunday Morning Workout, With Hillbilly Mom's Mom

I make it a rule never to discuss politics or religion on my blog. Rules are made to be broken.

We went to church Sunday with my mother. She's a regular. We're those people who only show up on special occasions or holidays, prompting the congregation to tsk-tsk behind their hands about how SOME people only show up for special occasions and holidays. Which of course rubs me the wrong way, and makes me not want to attend any time except for special occasions and holidays.

The main event this week was the awarding of a monogrammed Bible to the #1 son and another recent graduate. It's a nice gesture. #1 spent several years of Sundays in the loft, synchronizing the audio/video components of the sermon, as well as contributing to special programming like Easter and Christmas. Of course, people who only attend church on special occasions and holidays can hardly get up and leave right after their son receives his Bible. So we were there for the long haul. I even commanded The Pony to put away his gaming phone and pay attention.

I had no idea a church service could be so physically demanding!

Don't get me wrong. This was not my first time inside a house of worship. Even if you don't count all those special occasions and holidays. Nope. As a child, I was a regular attendee of not only church, but Sunday school. Mom and Dad didn't go, but I went with my grandparents. Let's not get all hung up on denominations. But I will say that my childhood experiences were in a B church. Make that a 1st B church. It had dark polished pews and a baptismal pool behind the pulpit. I can honestly say that I was never bored during the service. I enjoyed the old-timey hymns and the organ music. I could usually apply the message of the sermon to some part of my short life. There were people to watch, and ladies' clothes to compare to some that might have been worn by Doris Ziffel. You know, Arnold's "mom" on Green Acres.

Church was a peaceful interlude between the hyperactivity of the nursery where my grandparents volunteered, the challenging Sunday school lesson, and the flurry of clothes-changing before sitting down to my mom's Sunday pot roast. We walked in, greeted people, chose our regular pew, and got our sermon on. When it was time to sing, the choir director advised us to turn to page something-or-other in our hymnal. After church, we filed out and shook hands with the preacher on the front steps.

That is not how things go at Mom's church. She attends an M church. Make that a 1st United M church. Maybe it's simply a sign of the changing times, but people did not dress the way I remembered from my childhood. I always wore a dress and shiny shoes. Not shorts and a Cardinals jersey. But I suppose the Big Guy doesn't really care how one is dressed in His house.

Several minutes into organized religion, I understood. This service was like a combination Jane Fonda Workout, advanced Pilates class, Zumba fitness, and Billy Blanks Bootcamp all rolled into one. Richard Simmons would have been sucking air, and his sweaty Oldies would have collapsed. Football players in their first week of two-a-days have not suffered through as many ups and downs as this congregation on any given Sunday.

Mom told me, behind her hand, of course, that only the right side of the congregation responds to the pastor when he asks for an amen, or do we hear him. Yeah. I saw that side of the church. They are younger. The ones on Mom's side are obviously winded from the aerobic workout. Somebody's gonna tear an anterior cruciate if they're not careful. I am still sore today.

I think I can recover in time for Christmas services.

Back Is The New Breast

Cornish game hen is the new gas station chicken. It must be. I've never seen chicken body parts so small. A breast these days is the size of yesterday's thigh. And the thighs are like tiny quail appendages.

Yes, I've been betrayed by my gas station. No longer is a breast a bigger than a man's hand, plump, juicy, hard to devour in one sitting. Now it's a tiny shriveled thing, mostly bone. Hear that? A breast is mostly bone. That is so wrong. Used to be, packages of chicken breast would be labeled "with rib meat." That meant a sliver of bone was on the back side. These gas station imposters are now mostly bone. Ribs. They look for all the world like a back. I'm not keen on eating chicken backs. Not when I'm paying for a breast.

The issue has grown so obvious that a couple weeks ago, my chicken dipper actually put TWO breasts in my bag when I ordered one. Because he knew it was cheating to give me a back and ribs disguised with a thin strip of breast meat on one edge. Yes. It's a sad day when the thigh is bigger than the breast.

Where are they getting these chickens? The ones that work out doing squats across the free range all the live-long day, building up their thighs while their breasts atrophy. My days of touting the gas station chicken are nearing their end. It's not a bargain, and it's not that tasty.

The price and downsizing of progress.

Today Is The First Day Of The Rest Of My Summer Vacation

I celebrated by hosting a thumping sinus headache. Then I consciously avoided doing laundry. I washed dirty dishes deposited on the kitchen counter by the #1 son and Farmer H, both at home yesterday with nothing to do but wait for graduation time. Unlike Mrs. Hillbilly Mom, who went to work as usual, dismissed her students early, checked out after a teacher work day, hurried home behind a red Kubota tractor trying to break the land slow record, rested for sixty minutes, then headed back for the graduation ceremony.

I also consciously avoided cleaning the Mansion. It'll be here the rest of my 11-week sabbatical. No need to be so gung-ho the first day. For some reason, that Loretta Lynn song is playing in my head:

Here in Hillmomba, the sinus is a-thumpin'. The floor needs a scrubbin' and the trash needs a dumpin'. One kid's trombonin' and the other's graduatin' and NONE's on the way.

Oh, gee! I'm glad it's three years 'til this happens again.