Thursday morning, I was lazing around organizing the piles of easy-won lottery cash that I will be squandering on Farmer H for his gambling stake during Casinopalooza (which I am probably participating in as you read this). The time was around 9:45 a.m. I sat in the La-Z-Boy with my purse, all kicked back, watching some $10,000 Pyramid (with Grant Goodeve!) on the Game Show Network. Ol' Grant was pretty sharp. He won that lady $10,000. I would have been jealous, except for the fact that I won $100 three days in a row on scratcher tickets.
I had the front shades open, gazing out at the beautiful sunny day, temps already in the upper 50s. My Sweet, Sweet Juno usually walks under the window, looking in, wagging her tail. She knows I'm in there. She hears the TV on. I talk to her. I turn on the light so she can see me waving my arms to pinpoint my location. Poor Juno. She might as well be the test tube baby of Stevie Wonder and Ray Charles, because she never looks in my direction, but happily wags her tail while gazing lovingly at the empty couch on the other side of the room.
I like to look out and see what Puppy Jack is dragging around the yard. There was that China Bird Flu facemask thingy last week, on the day he got sick. Then a couple days ago, he had a huge stick, almost as long as one of those mysterious cedar-log-pyramid posts from the goat pen. Jack pranced proudly (if slowly) toward Juno with his treasure. She gave him the side-eye. Like he was a about to ram her with a jousting pole. He did not have much control. One morning he had a dead squirrel, but Copper the neighbor dog took it away from him. It's hard out there for a pup.
Anyhoo...there I was, counting out the money. Nope! Not eating bread and honey. No blackbird came along and snipped off my nose. I was not wearing a visor and cranking an adding machine. I was not up to my armpits in gold doubloons spilling out a treasure chest. I did not have a double-monocle perched on my beak like Scrooge McDuck. I was simply putting twenties in stacks, to ration Farmer H's disposable cash so he can't dispose of it all at once.
What's that? Out front...on the road that goes in front of the Mansion. Out by where the dumpster sat, and the metal post where our address hangs. A white sedan. Huh. That's odd. I think I've seen it go by. Not the small white compact car. A bigger one. What in the Not-Heaven were they doing? Why would they stop in front of the Mansion. Huh.
Let the record show that Mrs. Hillbilly Mom does NOT put up with such tomfoolery. If some criminal element is going to stake out her Mansion for a future robbery, or a place to dump a headless corpse, they're gonna know that Mrs. Hillbilly Mom KNOWS about it, by cracky!
I went to the door, my hair a bedhead bird's nest, in my blue pajama pants printed with stars and moons, and my purple-striped cotton campshirt, with no shoes or undergarments...and flung open that front door with the bad knob. Uh huh. Just as I thought! When Mrs. HM reared her ugly head, that car decided it was time to move along. Sometimes things get a little creepy in Hillmomba.
But maybe they were just admiring our new decorative rock, topped with driftwood, out by the picket fence.