Monday, December 14, 2015

I Was Lucky To Get Out Of There With Two Breasts!

Woe is Mrs. Hillbilly Mom. It's getting harder and harder to find good gas station chicken in Hillmomba.

A couple weeks ago I stopped by to pick up an eight-piece box and a small mashed potato with gravy. For Farmer H, the potatoes. Mrs. HM does not like gravy on her spuds. The owner was there. Not the guy owner. His wife. She's not-heaven on wheels! The guy is as nice as the day is long. A daylight-savings-time day! He shuffles around, pouring buckets of ice in the 44 oz Diet Coke dispensing machine. Unpacking fifths of alcohol. Ringing up customers when the shop is busy. Always a kind word. He knows the regulars. Remembers their families and vocations. Her? Not so much.

Every time the wife owner is there, the staff are walking on eggshells. They almost forget how to walk, she flusters them so much. She's snippy. Condescending. She makes ME nervous. Wifezilla got all over the new chicken cooker/dispenser. Because she overfilled my mashed potatoes and gravy. Grabbed that little Styrofoam container, sneered at it, dropped it in the trash, and told Newbie to make me another one. I felt SO bad for her. The next attempt had a tiny spot of gravy on the outside. About the size of a sweat bee. Newbie said she was sorry, she would wipe it off, the gravy was on her gloves. Wifezilla barked at her to "GET ANOTHER ONE UNTIL YOU GET IT RIGHT! AND TAKE OFF THOSE GLOVES AND PUT ON NEW ONES!"

Wifezilla busied herself turning around the paper sacks, which had been stacked with the opening out instead of the creased bottom. I caught Newbie's eye and told her it was okay. I didn't mind a spot of gravy. Oops! Wifezilla almost caught me fraternizing.

So...Sunday afternoon I went in for my only 44 oz Diet Coke of the week, what with that trip to visit the #1 son at college on Saturday. I wanted some chicken as well, and two corn dogs for The Pony. He and Farmer H had done the Devil's Playground shopping for me while I stayed home to make a batch of Chex Mix.

I know it was off-peak hours for chicken. The day got away from me. I had to fill T-Hoe's tank with gas from my regular GAS gas station, because Farmer H parked it in the garage after our college outing without informing me that we had less than a quarter tank remaining. Not good for a trip to town, a trip to school on duty day, and a trip to The Pony's appointment in bill-paying town after.

Yes, I knew it was not a good chicken time. But I was shocked to find not only NO corn dogs, but only two breasts, three legs, and four wings in the entire chicken display. You can't even build a proper chicken out of those parts. So I said to the regular jolly chicken cooker/dispenser, "Looks like I'm having two breasts."

She explained that the owner has told them to cut back on how much they make. And that they can't make corn dogs after 4:00 unless the customer asks for them in the store. And that the lunch crowd cleans out the chicken case, and workers are not supposed to make more until 2:30, and it takes a while to fry.

I didn't bother to ask which owner that order came from.

I was thankful to be holding my two breasts in my hands as I went out the door.

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More housekeeping. Gotta keep this place looking spiffy.
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2 comments:

Sioux said...

What's with the garbelly-gloop? A secret code?

Hillbilly Mom said...

Sioux,
Around Hillmomba, we say "garbledigoop." Perhaps you type with a city accent, Madam.

Yes, a secret code. That's the ticket! Mrs. HM is a spy. An operative. With a pointy nose and a black hat and raincoat. Versus another spy. An arch nemesis or sorts. Naw.

That is an attempt at getting a blog-stealer off my case. At this juncture, it seems to have worked. No more publishing all of Mrs. Hillbilly Mom's words of wisdom on a stealer site.